job had simply been to run the exercise and help the police with their anti-terrorist training. What could such an occurrence possibly have to do with him? It was just bad luck that Colin and Paul had got caught up in the middle of something that was too big for them. They were dumb for getting involved.
Blanking it out of his mind, he headed for the nearest junction of the M4, just east of Heathrow, and threaded his way out into the traffic. The rush hour was tailing to a close but it was always busy on this stretch. Within half an hour, however, the spaces between the cars expanded and soon he had his foot flat on the floor, feeling the miles being eaten up beneath his wheels.
No doubt there would be the usual hearty jokes in the mess when he got back to the barracks. The older he got the more the humour grated. It was all very well when you were young but after a while you started to see that there wasn’t much to laugh about in death. Perhaps that was the time to quit.
But as he drove he found his mind flicking back always to the same thing. Not to the bodies of Colin or Paul, the exploded brains on the paving stones and the blood on the wall, nor the body on the landing or in the bedroom, the candlestick clasped pathetically in its small, tight fist. But rather to the empty bedroom with the posters and the untouched make-up jars. Somewhere, if he was right, a young woman had been taken hostage. And although the matter was out of his hands he couldn’t shake off the feeling that somehow he hadn’t heard the last of it. Somehow he knew that he would be involved with it again.
‘Are you sure she can breathe?’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worrying,’ Ceda Bandram said slowly, glowering over his shoulder at Ali Shaffer, who sat sprawled across the back seat. ‘I don’t want to arrive only to find that she’s suffocated.’ He stabbed a finger at Ali. ‘You would be held personally responsible. Remember that.’
Ali sniggered and waved a large, nonchalant paw. ‘I drilled holes in the underside of the boot. A shame considering the newness of the car, but it couldn’t be helped, I suppose. It’ll all be charged to the expense account.’
Bandram stared ahead at the slow-moving traffic. Since the events at the house he had changed into a sweatshirt, slacks and moccasins. The van had been dumped in a lock-up garage that had been hired for the purpose and he estimated it would be a good many weeks before it was discovered. By then they would be several thousand miles away.
The team had split up and were now travelling by separate routes and methods of transport to the next rendezvous and the next leg of their onward journey. For himself, Ali and the driver, there had been a waiting BMW and of course he had ensured that the hostage had been brought with him. Every man in the team had been hand-picked but even so he made a habit of never trusting anyone but himself with the most delicate part of any mission.
The only man whom he had not selected was Ali. There was nothing he could do about it, however. Ali had been forced upon him by the boss. He was another relation, although Ceda had never known much about him. But that was the way with families in Pakistan, complex networks of relatives with every so often the discovery of some hidden black sheep. And Ali was such a cupboard skeleton if ever there was one. Ceda had been disgusted with the evident glee with which Ali had conducted the interrogation at the house. It was not that he was squeamish, but there were ways of doing things. One didn’t have to enjoy the more unpleasant tasks of the business. Some unfortunate things might always be necessary, but maintaining a sense of propriety kept one separated from the beast. In Ceda’s view Ali had crossed that threshold. He glanced back at him again, but Ali was staring happily out of the window humming to himself. His torture of the poor individual at the house seemed to be completely forgotten.
Ceda consoled himself with the thought that there were a great many pitfalls before the team finally reached safety. There would be plenty of opportunities for a fatal accident to befall Ali. Ceda for one would not mourn his loss.
The driver coughed and nodded towards a lay-by. A police car and motorcycle were parked at the roadside, the men scanning the traffic. They had already flagged down two white vans and were attempting to attract the attention of a third. Ceda smiled to himself. He was due to switch vehicles at least once more before the final RV and was confident that even if the police discovered the original van they would be unable to track him in time.
He reached down the side of the seat and pulled out a road map, unfolded it on his lap and began studying the markings he had made earlier. Bored with his humming, Ali leaned forward, crossing his arms on the back of Ceda’s seat and peering over his shoulder to get a look at the map.
‘Where to now, cousin?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘Don’t call me that,’ Ceda said coolly.
Ali shrugged. ‘I thought blood was supposed to be thicker than water?’
‘You ought to know. You’ve seen enough of it.’
‘You didn’t do so bad yourself, you hypocrite. Dropping those two cops like that.’ He shaped his hand like a gun and put it to Ceda’s head, mimicking the shooting. ‘Bang, bang. You’re dead. Nice work. A bit cold and clinical for my liking, but professional. Uncle would approve.’
‘I didn’t do it for Uncle’s approval. In fact I didn’t want to do it at all.’
‘Oh no, of course not. I forgot. You’re the ex-army officer. Death before dishonour, and all that. I’m sorry.’ He sat back with a derisory laugh. ‘You’re full of shit.’
Ceda gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to go for the gun in his belt. The driver glanced nervously across at him and he relaxed. He was responsible for the whole team, not just for himself. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper, and certainly not over a dick-head like Ali.
‘Where’s the next switch?’ the driver asked, keen to divert the conversation away from the rivalry between the two men. It had been evident to most of the team members from the outset but they all knew and trusted Ceda, and were confident that he would see them safely through.
‘Not the next service station but the one after that. The cars have been left in the car park. I’ve got the registration numbers here.’ He patted his breast pocket.
‘It seems such a waste just to ditch the car,’ the driver added, stroking the dashboard lovingly. ‘She’s a beauty.’
Ceda smiled. ‘That’s business. Just be thankful you’re not footing the bill.’
Ali perked up from the rear. ‘Talking of beauties, how do you intend to transfer the cargo?’ He jabbed a thumb at the boot. ‘You can’t just lift her out in full view of everyone.’
‘Don’t worry. That’s been seen to. The car’ll be parked in a nice private spot. No one will see.’
He turned on the radio to cut short any further talk with Ali, pressing the automatic tuning button and watching the digital display purr rapidly through the frequencies. There was some traffic news warning of jams on the M4, and he checked the map to see if it would interfere with their escape.
‘Problem?’ the driver asked.
‘Could be. It’s after the next switch. It could have cleared by the time we get there, but it might be wise to make a detour.’
‘Won’t that confuse the others?’
‘It might, but it’ll be better than getting stuck in a tailback
