Live Fire (19 page)

‘What?’ said Montgomery, confused.

Bradshaw gestured at al-Sayed who pressed the sole of his foot behind Montgomery’s left knee. Montgomery stumbled forward and went down on his left knee. ‘Kneel down,’ repeated Bradshaw. ‘And be quiet. If you are not quiet, we will gag you.’

The door opened and Talwar walked in. Like the others he was wearing camouflage fatigues and a checked scarf. He had his glasses on over the scarf and was holding a small digital video camera. ‘Are we ready?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Bradshaw.

‘Ready for what?’ asked Montgomery.

Bradshaw ignored him and kept looking at Talwar. ‘Are you sure that thing’s working?’ he asked. ‘We’ll only get one chance.’

‘Once chance for what?’ asked Montgomery, apprehensively.

‘I’ve tested it half a dozen times and the battery’s fully charged,’ said Talwar.

‘Where is Jamal?’ asked Bradshaw.

‘In the car, outside,’ said Talwar. ‘He’ll call if he sees anything.’

‘Then let’s do it,’ said Bradshaw. He took a pair of impenetrable sunglasses from the top pocket of his fatigues and put them on, then wound the scarf around the bottom of his face. Chaudhry and al-Sayed did the same.

Montgomery swallowed nervously. ‘Look, can we talk about this?’ he said.

The men ignored him. Talwar was looking at the screen of the video camera. He flashed a thumbs-up at Bradshaw.

Bradshaw held up his knife and stared at the camera. ‘We do this in the name of Allah, in the name of Islam,’ he said.

‘Islam?’ said Montgomery. ‘You’re not a Muslim,’ he said accusingly. ‘What do you mean, you’re doing this in the name of Islam?’

‘Why do you think I’m not a Muslim? Because I’m not brown-skinned? Because I’m not a wog? Is that what you mean?’

‘No . . .’ said Montgomery. ‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘I know what you meant, you racist bastard. Christians are white, Muslims are brown and black. That’s what you meant.’ He turned back to the camera and addressed the lens. ‘We want freedom for our brothers who have been unjustly incarcerated. The four brothers who attempted to kill themselves on the Tube on the twenty-first of July 2005 were carrying out the will of Allah, and mortal man has no right to judge them for what they did. The British police are corrupt, the British judiciary are corrupt, and the British Government, from the prime minister down, are corrupt. Now is the time to stem the tide of corruption that has made Britain the yapping lapdog of the United States.’

Al-Sayed and Chaudhry went to stand behind Montgomery. He twisted around to look up at the faces but al-Sayed grabbed his hair and forced him to confront the camera.

‘We want our four brothers released and taken to Stansted airport where there will be a fully fuelled jet waiting for them. These are our demands, and we insist that our demands are taken seriously.’

He turned to Montgomery. The blood had drained from his face and he was biting his lower lip. ‘Simon Montgomery is a member of the corrupt British judiciary responsible for unjustly convicting our brothers and as such we will make an example of him.’

‘Please don’t do this,’ Montgomery mumbled.

‘He will be the first, and there will be others. We will continue to exact our revenge until our brothers are freed.’ He waved the knife above his head. ‘
Allahu akbar!
’ He shouted. ‘
Allahu akbar!
’

Al-Sayed and Chaudhry punched the air and joined in the shouting.

A damp patch spread at the groin of Montgomery’s jumpsuit and urine pooled around his knees. He began to sob and rocked from side to side.

Talwar moved in closer, holding the camera steady with both hands. Al-Sayed pulled back Montgomery’s head, exposing his throat. Tears were streaming down his face and he was groaning like an animal in pain.

‘
Allahu akbar!
’ shouted Bradshaw. His hand was shaking but it was from the adrenalin rush, not because he was concerned about what he was going to do. The life of Simon Montgomery was worth less than that of a dog, or even an insect that crawled on the ground. Unlike animals and insects, Montgomery had had the opportunity to embrace Islam and declare Allah as the one true God, Muhammad His only messenger, but he had worshipped a false god so he deserved to die and burn for ever in the fires of Jahannam.

Bradshaw placed the blade against Montgomery’s neck. Montgomery tried to pull away but al-Sayed kept a tight grip on his hair. Montgomery’s breath was coming in short, sharp gasps and his eyes were wide and staring. There were flecks of white froth at the corners of his mouth and a vein pulsed erratically in his temple. Bradshaw pushed the knife, and blood blossomed around the steel blade. He pushed harder and felt resistance as the blade bit into the cartilage so he pulled it hard across the throat. Blood gushed over his hand. ‘
Allahu akbar!
’ he shouted. Montgomery was thrashing around but al-Sayed kept a tight grip on his hair, pushing his neck against the knife. Bradshaw hacked again at the windpipe and felt the blade bite deep into the cartilage and slice through the neck muscles.

Montgomery gurgled as his windpipe filled with blood, which was sucked down into his chest. His eyes were staring and he was still conscious.

‘
Allahu akbar!
’ screamed al-Sayed. His eyes were as panic-stricken as the victim’s and his legs were shaking. ‘
Allahu akbar!
Kill him! Go on – do it!’

Talwar stepped to the side so that he could see the knife. He was muttering, ‘
Allahu akbar
’, to himself like a mantra.

Bradshaw pulled out the knife and blood spurted from a sliced artery, a thin dark red stream that splattered against the wall, then gradually petered out as if a tap had been turned off. Montgomery’s shoulders shuddered but his eyes were still open. Bradshaw locked eyes with the dying man. ‘
Allahu akbar!
’ Bradshaw growled, and the words sounded like a curse rather than the prayer they were meant to be.

Al-Sayed released his grip on Montgomery’s hair and the man pitched forward. Talwar stepped back, his nose just inches from the video camera’s screen, still muttering to himself.

Now Bradshaw squatted over Montgomery. He could see the ridges of the man’s spine against the orange jumpsuit. Montgomery was still alive despite the gaping wound in his neck and the blood that was pooling around his shoulders. His feet were drumming against the floor and his chest was still heaving.

Bradshaw slid the knife under Montgomery’s neck and, with his left hand, grabbed the man’s hair. He yanked the head back and began to saw with the knife, chanting, ‘
Allahu akbar
,’ as he worked the blade back and forth. He angled the blade up and severed the vertebra’s connection with the skull, then all that was left was muscle and skin, which cut as easily as tender steak. Suddenly there was no resistance and the head came away from the body. The chest made wet slushy sounds as the lungs continued to suck in air.

Bradshaw stood up and waved it in triumph as Talwar moved in for a close-up.

‘
Allahu akbar!
’ screamed Bradshaw, in triumph. ‘Death to all those who refuse to accept Allah as their saviour!’ Montgomery’s blood dripped onto the floor, pitter-pattering like rain.

Shepherd left his Jeep and bike at the villa and caught a baht bus on the nearby road. A middle-aged woman in a black Armani T-shirt was sitting next to the driver and asked Shepherd where he wanted to go. He told her Walking Street and she said it would cost a hundred baht. Shepherd climbed into the back. The baht bus drove to the beach road. The sun had gone down and most of the water-throwing had stopped, but the occasional drunken tourist managed to shoot him with a stream of water from a high-powered water pistol as the bus went by. The path on the beach side of the road was busy with tourist couples walking hand in hand, Thai children playing tag and old Western men ambling along in shorts and flip-flops. A lot of Thai women in their twenties and thirties were sitting on concrete benches trying to make eye contact with any Western man who passed them. They had the tired smiles of working girls who knew they were past their prime, and their cheap clothing and worn footwear suggested they were living from hand to mouth.

The bus dropped him at the pedestrianised road that was Walking Street. It was parallel to the shore, with shops and bars running its full length. A white van was parked at the entrance and behind it was a line of tables at which were sitting several uniformed Thai policemen and Westerners in black polo shirts with
TOURIST POLICE VOLUNTEER
across the back.

The street was packed – bargirls in tight jeans and low-cut tops, overweight middle-aged Westerners with glazed eyes, groups of young men drinking bottled beer, Asian tour groups walking in formation with video cameras at the ready. Outside the go-go bars, girls in short skirts and high heels, and male touts in white shirts and thin black ties, tried to coax the passers-by inside. Shepherd threaded his way through the crowds. On his right were seafood restaurants, with glass tanks of live crabs, lobsters and fish of every description. Diners were choosing their fish and walking onto piers over the sea, where waiters hurried around with trays of beer and buckets of ice. Shepherd took out his mobile phone and sent a text to Jimmy Sharpe, asking him where the Moores were. Thirty seconds later the phone vibrated. ‘Angelwitch. Mickey, Mark, Yates.’

Shepherd scanned the signs advertising bars and restaurants and saw a red ‘Angelwitch’ pointing into a side alley. He headed down it, ignoring the touts. As he approached Angelwitch, a large Thai man bowed and pulled back a curtain. He walked in and immediately his ears were assailed by pounding rock music. A dozen girls in black G-strings and boots were dancing around chrome poles while customers sipped their drinks and stared at the naked flesh on display.

Shepherd saw Yates and the Moore brothers at the far side of the bar, sitting with bottles of beer in front of them. He moved to a seat where he knew Yates would have no problem seeing him and ordered a Singha. It arrived with a paper chit in a beaker, which the waitress put in front of him. A young girl with a tattoo of a crouching panther on her shoulder did a little shimmy down her chrome pole for his benefit and he raised his bottle to her.

Every few minutes he glanced to where Yates was sitting and eventually the other man waved him over. ‘Hey, John, good to see you,’ said Yates. He slapped Shepherd’s back and gestured at the Moores. ‘This is Mickey and this is Mark. Mickey and Mark Moore. The M&Ms they call them.’

‘Not to our faces they don’t,’ said Mickey. ‘How are you doing, John?’

‘Great,’ said Shepherd. ‘John Westlake.’ He shook hands with Mark, then Mickey, and sat down next to Yates.

‘Saw you kicking the arse of that obnoxious Jock,’ said Mark. ‘Gave him a good seeing-to, you did. If he’d come at me with a bottle, I’d have pushed it back in his face.’

The Aerosmith track ended and the dancing girls lined up to leave the stage. A new group slid down the poles from the gantry near the ceiling to take their places. A thin girl with shoulder-length hair and surgically enhanced breasts skipped over to where Mark was sitting and plonked herself on his lap. She put her arms around his neck and began kissing him on the mouth.

‘You drive a Harley too?’ Shepherd asked Mickey.

‘Bloody deathtraps,’ said Mickey. ‘Did Chopper tell you one of our mates is in hospital because of a bike? Got hit by a truck. He’s going to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.’

‘Tel was unlucky,’ said Yates.

‘Yeah, well, if he’d been in a Range Rover and not sitting on a bike he’d have been a hell of a lot luckier,’ said Mickey.

‘What’s the story?’ asked Shepherd.

‘A truck ran him off the road. He almost died. Like Mickey says, he’s not going to walk again. Bloody nightmare. Doctors don’t think he’ll be able to shag, either. That’s the real pisser. Surrounded by sexy girls and he can’t touch them.’

A waitress came over carrying the beaker and chit that Shepherd had left behind. She smiled and placed it in front of him.

‘Do you use Tony’s Gym?’ Shepherd asked Mickey.

‘Yeah, but not as much as I used to,’ said Mickey. ‘Most of the time we go to a kick-boxing place. It’s a better workout.’

Mark broke off from kissing the dancer. ‘Get him to come to Fairtex,’ he said to his brother. ‘He can wear the red-man suit.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Shepherd.

‘They use it for training,’ said Mickey. ‘You get someone to wear the padded suit and then you kick the shit out of them.’

‘You do a lot of kick-boxing, yeah?’ asked Shepherd.

Mickey jerked a thumb at his brother. ‘Mark’s the expert. I just do it to keep fit.’ He noticed the watch on Shepherd’s wrist. ‘That’s a Breitling Emergency, yeah?’

Shepherd held it out so that Mickey could get a better look. ‘You pull out this knob here and it transmits on the emergency frequency that planes use and in theory they send a helicopter to pick you up.’

‘Gold?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Nice. Not sure if I believe the hype about the helicopter rescue, though.’

‘Hopefully I’ll never have to put it to the test.’ He indicated the Rolex on Mickey’s wrist. ‘You like the Daytona, yeah?’

‘It’s a nice watch. My favourite is an old Patek Philippe but that’s too good to wear out here. I’ve a couple of dozen old Rolexes back at my villa and a really nice Cartier that Mark got me one Christmas.’

Mark untangled himself him from the bargirl. ‘Chopper said you’ve rented a place through Dom Windsor,’ he said.

‘From the sound of it I got ripped off. You’ve built your own, right?’

‘Yeah, you should come out and see it some time.’ Mickey finished his drink and banged the glass on the table in front of him. ‘We’re off to go
katoey
-watching, do you want to come?’

‘What’s that?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Come with us and you’ll find out.’ Mark laughed.

They paid their bills, left the bar and started back to Walking Street. Mark and Mickey walked ahead, deep in conversation. Shepherd fell into step with Yates. ‘
Katoey
?’ he asked.