Croft ran over to Henderson. ‘We’ll use the Chinook,’ he said. ‘You and your girlfriend take the Black Hawk. You’ll probably have to refuel over the border.’
Henderson nodded. Croft looked at Shepherd as if he was about to say something but then he appeared to have a change of heart and just shook his head contemptuously before running over to the Chinook. He stood at the rear of the helicopter counting off his men as they approached.
As the final Seal ran up the ramp, Croft clapped him on the shoulder, then he stopped to look at Shepherd. He mouthed an obscenity and gave him the finger, then turned and jogged into the bowels of the helicopter. The ramp at the back slowly rose into place then the turbines roared and the Chinook rose a few feet off the ground. It turned to the east and then sprang forward and leaped into the air.
The remaining Seals were hurrying towards the Black Hawk, bent low as its rotors began to blur.
‘Come on, Dan, I’ve got the feeling that they wouldn’t be heartbroken if we got left behind.’ Henderson slapped Shepherd on the back and the two men ran towards the helicopter, cradling their weapons.
Chaudhry hefted his bike on his shoulder and carried it to his second-floor flat taking care not to mark the wallpaper. There was more than enough room to leave it in the hallway but one of the residents had taken to pushing pins into the tyres of any bike left there overnight as a way of registering displeasure. It was probably the little old lady who lived on the fourth floor. Her name was Mrs Wilkinson and no matter what the time of year she wrapped herself up in a tartan coat and a fur hat. On the rare occasions that she passed him on the stairs she glared at him with open hostility and once he was fairly sure that he’d heard her mutter ‘Paki bastard’. Chaudhry didn’t care; he was twenty-four and over the years he’d heard much worse. Besides, she was in her eighties, born in an era when Britannia truly did rule the waves. He put the bike down in front of the door and fumbled for his keys, but before he could open the lock the door opened. His flatmate, Malik, was standing there, his eyes blazing.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ said Malik.
‘Lectures,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Where do you think?’
Malik stepped to the side and Chaudhry wheeled his bike inside. ‘I’ve been calling you all afternoon.’
‘Yeah, well, I turn my mobile off in lectures,’ said Chaudhry, steering his bike through the narrow hallway. There was a small balcony at the far end of their poky kitchen where they left their bikes.
‘You haven’t heard, have you? You’ve no idea what’s happened?’ Malik was bobbing from side to side like an excited toddler. His first name was Harveer but like many British-born Pakistanis he had adopted a nickname that was easier to remember and everyone other than his immediate family called him Harvey. Chaudhry’s own true name was Manraj, which meant ‘the heart’s king’, but he’d been known as Raj ever since primary school.
‘Heard what?’ said Chaudhry, taking off his safety helmet and putting it on the kitchen table.
‘He’s dead,’ said Malik. ‘He’s fucking well dead. The Sheik. The Americans have killed him. It’s been on the TV all day.’
‘No way!’ said Chaudhry. He took off his grey duffel coat and dropped it on to the back of a wooden chair.
‘Total bloody way,’ said Malik. ‘On every channel, pretty much.’
Chaudhry hurried into their sitting room and dropped down on to the sofa in front of the TV. A blonde newsreader was on the screen. Behind her was a head-and-shoulders photograph of the man himself, his eyes blank, his straggly brown beard streaked with grey, a white skullcap on top of his head: the most hated man in the western world.
‘Navy Seals blew him away,’ said Malik. ‘Shot one of his wives and maybe one of his kids — they’re not sure.’
Chaudhry shook his head in disbelief. ‘It can’t be,’ he said.
‘It’s on all the channels,’ said Malik. ‘Why would they say it if it wasn’t true?’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know. Today. Last night. But he’s dead, Raj. They bloody well killed him.’
‘And it was at the house? The house in Abbottabad?’
Malik nodded enthusiastically. ‘They went in with helicopters. Stormed the compound.’
Chaudhry stared at the television. His whole body was trembling and he clenched his fists, trying to steady himself. ‘That’s not what John said would happen. He said they’d take him out with a Predator. Shoot him from the sky. That’s what John said.’
‘Yeah, well, John’s a British spook and it was the American military who killed him so maybe the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing.’ Malik’s eyes blazed with a fierce excitement. ‘You know what this means, Raj? We did it. You and me. We killed Bin Laden.’
Chaudhry folded his arms to try to stop them trembling.
‘Don’t you get it, Raj? We’re bloody heroes.’
Chaudhry turned and glared at his flatmate. ‘Are you crazy? Talk like this is going to get us killed.’
‘There’s only you and me here,’ said Malik. ‘What’s crawled up your arse and died?’
‘Have you any idea of the danger we’re in? What if anyone finds out it was us?’
‘How would they find out? On TV the Yanks are claiming the credit for the whole thing.’
‘Then let’s leave it that way. No more cracks about heroes, okay? If anyone asks then it’s Americans murdering Muslims and we need to stand up to them blah blah blah. You got that?’
Malik nodded. ‘I hear you, brother.’
‘Where’s the remote? I want to check the other channels. Let’s see what the BBC are saying.’
Malik groped under a cushion, pulled out the remote and tossed it to Chaudhry. ‘You think we should call John?’
‘Let’s wait until he gets in touch with us,’ said Chaudhry, flicking through the channels.
Shepherd’s BlackBerry rang when he was in a black cab a mile from his rented flat in Hampstead. It was Charlotte Button. He took the call.
‘You’re back, then?’ she said.
‘Almost home,’ he said. ‘I’m in a cab.’
‘We need to talk, obviously.’
‘Yeah. Obviously.’
‘Do you want to do it tonight? I can swing by your place.’
‘It’s a mess,’ said Shepherd. ‘But yes, we need to discuss a few things and the sooner the better.’
‘I didn’t know what was going to happen,’ said Button. ‘You know that if I had known I’d have told you.’
‘Yeah, I’m not sure that the fact they kept you in the dark inspires me with confidence,’ said Shepherd, as the taxi pulled up at a red light.
‘Be with you as soon as I can,’ said Button, ending the call.
Shepherd’s flat had been supplied by MI5 as part of his cover. He was a freelance journalist and the flat was in keeping with a journalist’s lifestyle: a cramped one-bedroom flat in a side road off Hampstead High Street. The taxi dropped him outside and Shepherd paid the driver. The taxi drove off just as Shepherd realised that he hadn’t asked for a receipt and he cursed under his breath.
The flat was in a block built during the sixties to fill the gap left when two mews houses were demolished by a stray German bomb during the Second World War. Shepherd’s flat was on the second floor with a small sitting room overlooking the street, a bedroom at the back, a small shower room and a kitchen that wasn’t much bigger than the shower room.
He let himself in, tapped in the burglar alarm code and then dropped his kitbag behind the sofa before taking a quick shower.
He was combing his still-damp hair when the intercom rang and he buzzed Button in. He had the door open for her when she came up the stairs, and as always there was the briefest hesitation when it came to greeting her. A handshake always seemed too formal but she was his boss and a kiss on the cheek always seemed somehow wrong. She made the decision for him, putting her right hand on his arm and pecking him just once on the cheek.
‘Good to see you back in one piece, Spider,’ she said, moving past him into the hallway. She was wearing a black suit and black heels and her chestnut hair was loose, cut short so that it barely touched her shoulders.