Bombproof (22 page)

Tucking the stock against his shoulder, he lowers his cheek to brush against the smooth aluminium. Slowly the front of the restaurant swims into focus in the telescopic sight. He adjusts it, making sure the magnified image is sharp within the cross hairs.

One shot to the head will cut Macbeth’s kite string. The soft nose bullet will core a plug out of his head and shut down his brain and nervous system. He’ll be dead before he hears the shot, before he hits the ground, before he takes another breath.

Bones opens the mini-bar and chooses a soft drink and a can of macadamias. He sits in an armchair, propping his feet on the windowsill. When he finishes the drink, he puts the cans in a plastic bag tied to his waist. He doesn’t want to leave any telltale clues behind, which is why he’s wearing latex gloves on his hands and a hairnet beneath his cap. He’ll burn his clothes afterwards and bury the boots. The rifle will join the fishes.

He’s getting too old for this, but he’s worked too hard to surrender it all now. One shot is all he wants. With Macbeth out of the way he can ride the storm of questions. Take early retirement. Buy himself a boat.

40

Sami has to choose a hostage. He could ask for a volunteer but that’s shirking his responsibilities. None of the people in the restaurant deserve to be involved but Sami can’t change what’s happened or turn back the clock.

He goes to the storeroom to check on the driver, who is sitting on rice sacks with his legs stretched out like he’s trying to sleep.

‘Hold your head still,’ says Sami, gripping a corner of the masking tape between his thumb and forefinger and ripping it off suddenly.

The driver curses in pain and gingerly touches his lips as if surveying the damage. His wrists are still bound. Meanwhile, Sami squats on his haunches near the door.

‘What are you looking at me like that for?’ asks the driver.

Sami smiles apologetically. ‘You ever been inside.’

‘No.’

‘You ever done something you regret?’

‘What is this - twenty questions?’

‘Something really bad.’

The driver shrugs.

‘You got a family?’

‘My mum and dad.’

‘A girlfriend?’

‘You’re a weird prick.’

Sami is silent for a moment. ‘Those things you said to me earlier, my father used to talk to me like that. Treat me like shit. Maybe he felt threatened. Maybe he was just an arsehole. ’

‘Listen, pal, I’m sorry if I offended you. Family values didn’t make a big splash where I came from either.’

‘I’m not a terrorist.’

‘Whatever.’

‘I want you to understand that.’

‘It’s understood.’

Sami rises from his haunches and closes the storeroom door. Lucy is waiting for him outside.

‘Are you going out there?’

‘I can’t stay in here. I’m getting sick of Chinese food.’

‘They’re going to kill you.’

‘I’ll be fine. I need you to come. They won’t shoot me if I have you.’

Lucy searches Sami’s eyes. ‘I don’t want to.’

‘I know.’

‘My mother and father?’

‘They’ll be safe. I’m leaving them behind.’

‘Promise me.’

‘My promises aren’t really legal tender any more.’

Her voice hardens. ‘Promise me.’

‘OK.’

Sami begins by taping Lucy’s hands behind her back and strapping bags of flour around her waist.

‘This doesn’t look much like a bomb,’ she says.

‘Do you know what a bomb looks like?’

‘I’ve seen them on TV.’

‘I’m going to put this hood over your head.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a pillowcase. It’s clean. It came from your bed.’

‘You’ve been in my bedroom?’

‘It’s the only thing I took.’

‘I’m scared. Don’t make me do this.’

‘You’ll be fine. It’s going to be over soon.’

‘Where are you going to take me?’

‘I don’t think you’ll have to go anywhere.’

Sami tears tape from the spool.

‘What are you doing now?’ she asks.

‘I’m taping the barrel of the gun to your head.’

‘Why?’

‘So they know I’m serious.’

‘Does that mean you’ll shoot me?’

‘If anyone shoots, it won’t be me.’

‘But if you do …’

‘I won’t.’

Sami calls the negotiator.

‘My watch has stopped Bob. Time’s up.’

‘I’m working as fast as I can.’

‘You’re trying to delay me. I’m coming out in ten minutes. And listen to me, Bob. I don’t want to see a police car, or a van, or a helicopter, or a bike. And I don’t want any of your men-in-black taking me out JFK style with a bullet from the grassy fucking knoll. Any sign of Old Bill and she dies. I’ve got a bomb strapped to her waist that will cut her in two if you try to take me down.’

‘You don’t need her.’

‘Sure I do.’

‘What about the others?’

‘I’m leaving the rest behind. And I know what you’re thinking, Bob. You think I won’t risk blowing myself up because I bottled it the first time. Well let me tell you something for nothing. I don’t give a shit any more. I’m not a terrorist. Never have been. To me an intifada sounds like an all-you-can eat Mexican meal. So this has nothing to do with religion or politics. I’m a musician, for fuck’s sake. I play guitar. My name is Sami Macbeth and I’ve had a shitty day.’

‘I hear you,’ says Bob. ‘I know you don’t want to hurt anyone. Give it up. Surrender to me.’

‘I’ve still got a shot.’

‘You’ll never get away.’

‘Sure I will. I just opened a fortune cookie. It said I’m going to lead a long and fruitful life.’

41

Ruiz drops back beside the bomb squad truck where blast barricades fan out from the chassis, forming a protective shield around the vehicle. A robot with a mechanical arm is poised at the top of a metal ramp.

Elsewhere Wardour Street is strangely empty. Mesh screens are pulled down over shop windows, which are criss-crossed with blast tape. It’s like a scene from
Day of the Triffids
or one of those end-of-the-world films where Will Smith or Clive Owen get to be heroes.

The Red Emperor is less than a hundred yards south, partly obscured by the red, gold and black painted gates of Chinatown.

A police radio hacks out static as if clearing its throat. Bob Piper is instructing all units to be in position.

‘Target Alpha is coming out. He’s taking a hostage.’

The restaurant door opens a crack. A small figure with a pillowcase covering her head and shoulders comes first. Her hands are bound behind her back and her feet are hobbled like a geisha in training. She stumbles down the lone step.

Macbeth is behind her, dressed in a blue boiler suit and a ski mask. He’s a foot taller and has to crouch to shield his body behind her. The barrel of a gun is pressed to the back of her head.

Bob Piper is watching the same scene on a closed circuit TV with adrenalin singing in his veins. Macbeth has stepped onto the pavement. His hostage is probably the daughter, Lucy, the smallest and easiest to handle.

Piper hears a voice in his earpiece.

‘
Sierra one - I have visual contact. A head shot …
’

‘Does the hostage have anything around her waist?’

‘
Affirmative
.’

Piper studies the screen. Macbeth’s right hand is holding the gun, but his left is behind Lucy. He could be holding her belt or a pressure trigger.

‘
Sierra two - I have visual contact. I can take down target
.’

‘Is Macbeth holding anything in his left hand?’

‘It’s behind the hostage, sir.’

They’re nearing the van. Edging sideways. Macbeth is jumpy. Nervous. Every time he jerks his right arm, Lucy’s head moves. The barrel of the gun must be taped to her head. He’s making sure he doesn’t miss.

Macbeth will likely want Lucy to drive. He’ll have to undo her hands and feet and take off her hood. He also has to open the van door, which will mean taking one hand off the gun or the detonator. That’s the moment.

‘Sierra units: look for the target’s left hand. If he takes it away from the hostage, neutralise him with all necessary force.’

They have reached the van. Macbeth stops suddenly and seems to be shaking his head. He drops to his knees dragging Lucy with him because the gun is taped to her head. Kneeling on the pavement, he begins yanking his right arm, jerking Lucy’s head from side to side like she’s a ventriloquist’s dummy.

It could be an epileptic fit or some sort of seizure. Maybe he’s trying to surrender.

Piper is out of his chair. He leaps from the steps of the Winnebago, landing on heavy boots, and charges towards the restaurant.

‘Hold fire. Hold fire,’ he bellows, almost crushing a two-way radio in his fist.

Macbeth is still on his knees. Lucy is trying to pull herself free.

‘It’s over, Sami,’ yells Piper. ‘Let her go and put your hands in the air.’

Macbeth shakes his head and tries to regain his feet. He’s a stubborn bastard.

Pffft! Pffft!
Two rounds zoom over Piper’s head and there is a hollow
throp
like a watermelon being dropped from a window. Blood sprays across the side of the van and the top of Macbeth’s head seems smaller. Half the ski mask has disappeared. He topples sideways, taking Lucy with him. Her body lands across his chest and her legs kick helplessly at the air.

Piper stops dead, holding his breath. Nothing happens. There is no explosion.

‘Move! Move! Move!’ he yells into the radio. SWAT teams sprint past him, bursting through the doors of the restaurant.

Piper lurches forward towards Lucy. She’s hysterical, twisting and squirming on the ground, trying to get away. He tells her to stay calm, worried about the gun, which is still taped to her neck. The barrel is encased in masking tape, which is wrapped around Macbeth’s fist. Why would he tape his hand to the gun?

Piper pulls the pillowcase from Lucy’s head. Her eyes are wide. She’s terrified. The tape is looped around her neck and across her mouth.

‘You’re safe. It’s over. Try not to move.’

A pair of scissors is found. He reaches under the corner of the tape, carefully snipping it away. ‘Just lie still until the paramedics take a look at you.’

Lucy isn’t listening. She fights to get up. Her clothes are covered in blood and brain and a dark stain has leaked along a crack in the pavement and soaked the knees of her jeans.

‘My parents,’ she blurts out.

Piper looks up. The hostages are being shepherded out of the restaurant. Lucy’s mother and father are clutching each other. Piper lifts Lucy easily and she runs to her parents, hugging them. They huddle together on the footpath with their heads bowed.

A sense of relief floods through Piper. He told his men to hold fire. He told them not to take the shot, but things have worked out OK. Minimal damage, minimal disruption, minimal loss of life; he might even get a commendation.

A voice interrupts this thought.

‘You shot the wrong guy.’

Vincent Ruiz is looking down at the body.

‘We got the bastard holding the gun.’

‘He’s not holding a gun.’

Piper follows his gaze. He wants to tell him it’s bullshit but a buzz-saw blade of uncertainly is already spinning in his chest. Reaching out he begins to unravel the blood-soaked tape, fighting the dead weight of Macbeth’s arms. He peels off the tape, loop by loop, until it lies curled at his feet like the shed skin of a snake.

Even before he finishes, he knows the truth. It’s not a sawn off shotgun or a semi-automatic. It’s a sealant gun used for fixing leaks around windows and shower screens.

Ignoring the brain matter, Piper peels the ski mask over the dead man’s chin and taped mouth.

Why would he tape his own mouth shut?

He uncovers the nostrils and the remaining eye, which is locked open in a vacuous star as though some terrible revelation had been whispered into the dead man’s ear just as a bullet tore through his brain.

A voice shouts from the door of the restaurant. ‘Hey, boss, we got four hostages inside. Where’s the other one?’

Piper rocks back on his heels, unable to focus, staring at the blood on his hands. Right now it feels as though someone has pulled a pin and dropped a grenade down his throat. The loud dull thud is his heart exploding.

42

Perched on the crest of the rooftop, holding onto a chimney-pot, Sami Macbeth watches the scene below with a weird sense that he’s having an out of body experience except it’s not his body lying on the pavement.

The bastards shot me, he thinks. I was on my knees, trying to surrender and they blew my head off.

To be more precise they blew the van driver’s head off, but they thought he was Sami so it’s almost the same as being shot except Sami isn’t the one who’s dead.

And even if the van driver was a complete wanker, which he was, he didn’t deserve to take one in the canister and have his brains decorating the pavement.

Up until this point, Sami’s plan had been perfect. To begin with he made the jump, which was never a certainty. He had climbed out Lucy’s window and scaled the drainpipe onto a narrow bitumen terrace three storeys above Horse and Dolphin Yard. Below him lay a yawning gap. He told himself it was only fourteen feet, but it looked further. It always does when you’re three storeys above the ground.

Sami waited until he heard the yelling, when he knew everyone’s attention was focused on the front door of the restaurant. Then he took a deep breath, made a sign of the cross, and hurled his body across the gap, his arms wheeling like propellers.

For an age he thought he was going to make it easily because he seemed to be going up, instead of down. And then he realised he might not make it at all. He was falling short.

He reached out as he crashed into the wall, hooking his right arm around the bracket of a satellite dish. His hip and shoulder crashed into the bricks and air punched from his lungs. Somehow he managed to cling on through the pain until his head cleared and his chest filled. He scrambled up onto the tiled roof, avoiding the flimsy gutter.