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  Naomi Harris, his young sergeant, was just one month into her first deployment with 11 EOD&S Regiment, the army's bomb disposal outfit. An Essex girl, she had spent her first three years' of service over in Afghanistan, dismantling and packing up all the kit the Army had left behind when the fighting men and women had come home. When the opportunity to retrain as a technician in the Explosive Ordnance Disposal and Search Regiment came up, and with it promotion, she jumped at the chance and here she was, just one year later, alongside one of the army's most experienced bomb disposal officers - experience that was soon to be lost to the military, because Jimmy Stewart, at thirty-two years old and with ten years' service behind him, had little more than three more months in uniform before hitting civvy street.

  'You were there at that terrible thing in London weren't you sir? That school in Notting Hill.'

  'Aye, I was.'

  It wasn't something you were likely to forget. Just like Helmand all over again, except the victims weren't young squaddies but innocent little kids. And just like so often out there, his disposal team had arrived too late to do anything about it. Not that it mattered whether it was a Taliban IED or a Palestinian nutter with a white van and two kilos of cheap IRA Semtex, the carnage was just the same. He hoped that girl who did it would be locked away for life. Pity they didn't have the death sentence still.

  'There wasn't any warning, was there sir?'

  Jimmy was beginning to get irritated by Harris's prattling, but he recognised it as an involuntary reaction to her fear. First time in action. He could remember how it felt.

  'No there wasn't. So let's just concentrate on the job in hand, shall we?'

  He hadn't meant for it to sound as harsh as it did. She fell silent for a moment before the nerves got the better of her again.

  'So just remind me again sir, which one's Catholic and which one's Protestant, Rangers or Celtic? I don't really follow football.'

  A broad smile spread across his face. 'Christ sake Harris, that could get you knee-capped over here. Rangers are the Protestants, Celtic the Catholics. The clue's in the colours. Celtic, green, shamrock in the badge and all that.'

  Of course unlike him, Naomi hadn't grown up in a city where the curse of Protestant-Catholic sectarianism was everywhere. How could she be expected to know? And every Glasgow generation were taught the same old tired prejudices, the same stupid songs, The Sash My Father Wore and the Irish rebel songs celebrating an uprising that was nearly a century old. Now here on the streets of Belfast it was back, in its deadliest form. Brainless beyond belief.

  The radio crackled into life. 'EOD 12, are you in position?'

  'Affirmative Control' Jimmy replied. 'How are we doing with the phone sweeps?'

  'Just awaiting the information from Vodaphone. They're the last one. They have given us an ETA of 17.05. Just a few minutes to wait then we can put all the info together and see where we are.'

  'Thanks Control, not too long to wait then. And they're all lined up to do the call blocking once we've had a look?'

  'Affirmative EOD12. Should only take a few minutes to get that implemented, that's what they're telling us.'

  'Ok thanks Control. So just keep us in the loop, will you? Over and out.'

  Thirty years ago, the scene would have been swarming with soldiers, but now security was in the hands of the local police force, the Police Service of Northern Ireland. With still no devolved government sitting in Stormont, the province was once more under direct rule from Westminster and ministers were reluctant to provide any further provocation to dissidents on both sides of the divide by once more having troops on the streets, although looking at the cop's quasi-military garb, it was hard to tell what difference it would make.

  At ten past five there was still no update from Control on the phone scanning. 'Just have to wait,' groaned Jimmy, taking another cigarette from the pack. 'We need to know if there's a phone in that car, 'cause if there is, it's ninety percent certain that's going to be the trigger mechanism, and also, it probably means we're being watched by the bad guys. They'll want to do more than just blow up an old motor, won't they?'

  They only had to wait a few minutes for the report to come through.'EOD12, four devices have been detected within the area in question.'

  'Four? Bloody hell! Probably means some of these half-wit cops have left theirs switched on. Ok Control, we'll just have to assume that one of them is in the suspect vehicle. Let's just get on to the telecoms guys and get them to block all incoming calls to these cells. We can't risk some lowlife setting it off with a nicked Galaxy 10. Over and out.'

  'More waiting sir?'

  'Afraid so sergeant, nothing else for it.'

  After a few minutes she broke the silence. 'Sir, our guys in Didcot are saying that the explosive used in that Notting Hill bomb was Semtex, and it was probably supplied from here. I thought all that stuff was supposed to have been turned in as one of the conditions of that Good Friday agreement?'

  'Aye, and if you believe that you believe in the tooth fairy. They'll have kept a big stash somewhere, you can bet your backside on that. They've probably got a wee e-commerce site on the dark web too, and making a nice living out of it. And they'll still have all the old contacts in Libya and Iran in their wee books, so no problem finding customers.'

  Still there was nothing from Control.

  'So what are you going to do when you leave the army sir, if you don't mind me asking? Any ideas?'

  'Well yeah, got a few ideas kicking around, but not really settled on anything yet,' he replied. 'Maybe have a nice wee holiday, and then I'll start looking around for something.'

  In actual fact, Jimmy Stewart didn't have a clue what he was going to do when he left, but what he did know was that it couldn't come too soon. Then maybe the nightmares and flashbacks might fade or even go away for good. Because the truth was, it was screwing him up, big time. In Afghanistan, OED were always first on the scene after an Improvised Explosive Device had gone off. It was the Taliban's prime modus operandi, and in the early years, even the most amateur of bombs ripped the inadequately-armoured personnel carriers into pieces like coke cans. You never forgot the carnage, the stench of burning flesh, the scattered body parts, the pathetic moans from the mortally wounded and all the time you were thinking - is there another one waiting for me? And now, nearly four years after he had left Helmand, it was starting all over again, right here in the UK. No, he couldn't wait to get out. And maybe he could concentrate on what he really wanted to do. Rebuilding his shattered marriage.

  'OED12, we have confirmation from the telecoms guys. Incoming calls are now blocked.'

  'Right Harris, we're good to go,' Jimmy shouted. 'Let's get the Dragon out the back and get cracking.'

  He prodded a button on the dashboard and with a loud whirring sound, the bottom-hinged tailgate began slowly to descend, forming a steep ramp down to the roadway. A few moments later the Dragon Runner Remote Control Vehicle powered up and began to inch down the ramp under Naomi's remote guidance.

  Her eyes were focused on the bright LCD screen of her control pad. 'The Dragon's on the road now sir. I'll just bring it round to the front, do a few checks and then we can start moving it up to the target.'

  Manipulating the joystick, she spun the Dragon round one-hundred and eighty degrees on its tracks then piloted it forward until it sat directly in front of the Foxhound. With a click on the keypad, the articulated manipulator arm which gave the device its name began slowly to extend, the hydraulic control rams emitting a soft hiss as it achieved its full reach of nearly two metres. At the tip of the extended arm was the dragon's head, fitted with a powerful high-definition video camera with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree field of vision.

  'Good, everything seems to be working ok. So I'm going to prime the Small Explosive charge sir, do you think we'll need that today?'

  'I don't know, we might. Let's just move her up to the target and have a wee nosey with the camera first. Although I doubt whether they woul
d be so stupid to leave the bomb in full view, but you never know our luck. These New IRA lads haven't been doing this for long.'

  It had begun to rain, spraying a fine mist on the pillar-box windscreen of the Foxhound, making visibility even more difficult than it already was. Jimmy narrowed his eyes and peered out along the wide street towards the Peugeot. He caught sight of a young police officer standing in the doorway of a department store, no more than thirty or forty metres away from the suspect car. 'Crikey, he's a bit close,' said Jimmy, shaking his head. 'Sixty metres we said. Bloody amateurs.'

  The silence of the evening was broken suddenly by the shrill wail of a car alarm. It was the Peugeot, its bright hazard warning lights flashing in syncopation with the alarm.

  'Oh-oh,' Jimmy said, 'what's this?'

  After about a minute, the alarm stopped. 'Might be something interfering with the car's electronics sir?' Naomi said enquiringly. 'Like the signal from a radio transmitter?'

  'Aye, might be. Let's get the Dragon up there sharpish.'

  'Ok sir'. She pushed forward the joystick, setting the track-wheeled robot trundling along the roadway. It had only moved a few metres when the car's alarm went off again, and then suddenly a figure came into view on the remote's screen. Horrified, they watched as the young policeman stepped out of the doorway and began walking tentatively towards the car.

  Naomi screamed out a warning. 'Stop! Hell, what is he doing? What is he doing?' Tossing the control pad onto Jimmy's lap, she shouldered open the heavy door and jumped down on to the pavement.

  'Harris,' Jimmy screamed, 'what the hell are you thinking! Get back in the truck, get back into the truck! That's a bloody order!'

  A second later, the still evening was disturbed by the crack of a high velocity rifle. A sound only too familiar to Jimmy Stewart from his service in Afghanistan. Then the bullet smashed into Naomi's face, her head exploding as if in slow-motion, splattering a torrent of blood, flesh and bone against the windscreen of the Foxhound.

  He sat transfixed, paralysed with shock. Please, not another one, please, not another one. And then he started to weep, sobbing inconsolably, the cumulative pain and anguish of loss finally too much to bear. He was still weeping ten minutes later when the backup team finally arrived.

  Chapter 3

  Maggie re-read her summing-up for the fifth or sixth time, tweaking a word here and there, testing a theatrical pause or two at the critical points. This was just for backup, she reminded herself, because if the day panned out as she expected it to, there would be absolutely no need for a defence summary. But best to be prepared, just in case. It had briefly crossed her mind that if the Khan report was to be believed and the identification evidence was really flawed, then maybe Alzahrani was actually innocent as she had claimed, and that maybe her case wasn't so hopeless after all. But this wasn't the time for self-doubt. The plan was good and she was resolved to stick to it.

  She had made the decision, rightly or wrongly, not to tell her client about the existence of Dr Tariq Khan's report. Well, to be honest, she knew it was wrong but she didn't want Alzahrani screwing everything up at the last minute. Ethically a bit suspect, to say the least, but Maggie was not interested in the opinions of a terrorist like Dena Alzahrani. All that mattered was the outcome of the trial. Hopefully, when they had their final meeting this morning she wouldn't do anything stupid like deciding to plead guilty. It was unlikely, because she hadn't said more than two words in any meeting they had had so far.

  Finally satisfied with the summing-up, she gave a thumbs-up to her junior Ricardo Mancini and soon they had gathered up their documents before setting off down Giltspur Street. A few minutes later she was striding across the immense oak-panelled entrance hall of the Central Criminal Court in her wig and flowing robes, trailed by Mancini, who had charge of the several thick buff folders containing the case notes. The beautiful building, more commonly known as the Old Bailey after the street on which it stands, was erected in 1902 on the former site of Newgate gaol. In the early Victorian era the gaol was the scene of the public hangings that were a popular public entertainment. Today, there was to be no hanging, but the interest in this modern-day case was equally intense, the public gallery jam-packed and the press out in force for what was expected to be the final day of the Alzahrani trial.

  On the way, Mancini had still been nagging on about the damn report. 'And you're sure we're good about this Maggie?' he had asked for the fifth or sixth time, as they threaded their way through the buzzing throng of morning commuters. It was evident he was not going to let it go without some resistance. 'This is our last chance, isn't it?'

  'I've told you, just leave it please Ricardo,' she had replied, more than a hint of exasperation creeping into her voice. 'We're making this into more than it really is you know.' You are, was what she meant. Now she was glad she hadn't told him about it until the very last minute possible. He was a nice guy but not very imaginative, and actually, a bit of a prig too. She knew he wouldn't approve of what she had planned, of that she had been certain, and worse still, if he'd known about it from the start, he might well have turned whistleblower and that would really have buggered everything up. So it had definitely been the right decision to keep him in the dark.

  'In the scope of things it's probably not that important,' her words the exact opposite of the truth. It was important, but not because of the actual content of the thing, since she had no idea whether the dramatic conclusions of Khan's report could be trusted or not. No, it was important simply by the fact that it existed at all.

  Generally, she was nervous before the final day of a trial, no matter how weak the case against her or how unconvincing the evidence, but today she was calmness personified. Her opponent Adam Cameron QC was absolutely premier league when it came to advocacy, that was her opinion, with a string of high-profile victories to his credit. Hadn't he made her look stupid in the Hugo Brooks trial, a humiliation she wasn't going to forget in a hurry? If she hadn't considered herself strictly second division before that monumental failure, then she had no option but to face up to that fact in the aftermath. But now, like a minor league football club on an extended cup run, she was playing in the premier division. The only problem was, she was certain the jury had already bought Cameron's version of the case hook, line and sinker. It didn't matter that there was just one piece of evidence, some suspect and grainy video footage that when analysed with the fairy dust that was automatic facial recognition software, had claimed to identify Alzahrani. AFR, as the experts called it, was absolute catnip to judges and juries alike. Couldn't be argued with. Besides which they just didn't like her client, and who could blame them? But that was all going to be irrelevant now once she had enacted her master-plan. At least she hoped so.

  She met Cameron in the entrance hall just as they were preparing to enter the courtroom, where he greeted her with a fake bonhomie that was entirely in keeping with his character. No doubt he had been waiting for her, lurking in the shadows, waiting his opportunity to unsettle his opponent, like a sledging cricketer at the start of an important test match. It was a tired old tactic, but perhaps it revealed he wasn't so confident about the outcome after all. Or maybe he had a secret to hide. We have evidence that the prosecution has had Khan's report since the start of the trial. Perhaps earlier.

  'Maggie darling, I'm surprised you've even bothered to turn up today,' he purred. 'Nothing for you to work with of course, but really, I thought you might have put up at least a bit of a fight. In the interest of justice and all that. At least give the jury something to think about in return for giving up a month of their lives. Put on a bit of a show, eh?'

  'Piss off Adam darling,' she answered, good-humouredly. The smug git wouldn't be laughing in an hour or two if she had anything to do with it.

  'Ha ha, no-one likes a bad loser,' he said, but then, strangely, 'so, no last-minute cats waiting to be pulled out of bags, I hope?'

  Was it her imagination or was there a hint of nervousness and u
ncertainty behind the confident veneer? Damn, that would ruin everything.

  ◆◆◆

  'I'm your barrister, and it is my job to advise you. And my advice is once again, please don't wear your headscarf in court.'

  She didn't expect to get an answer, and she wasn't disappointed. All through her custody and right up to the moment she was charged, Dena Alzahrani had given a brusque 'no comment' to every question she had been asked, and she had been no more forthcoming with Maggie since she had taken on the case. In the witness box, she had simply denied everything, coldly and dispassionately, in a manner guaranteed to get up the noses of even the most liberal-minded juror. And that damn headscarf. Maggie had tried of course, but had realised early in the relationship that her client was going to be immune to any coaching or guidance as to how to behave in court. It was normal for some sort of relationship to be formed between barrister and client, because even the most obtuse defendant knew that their fate was in the hands of their lawyer, and they all wanted to get off -usually. But Alzahrani was different. For a start, they didn't even know her true identity. She'd entered the country on a fake Jordanian passport stamped with a fake student visa, but other than the fact that her accent marked her as Palestinian and that she looked around nineteen or twenty, they knew no more about her.

  'Ok, well it's up to you.'

  Suddenly Alzahrani asked,

  'What do you think will happen to me?' For the first time, Maggie saw fear in her eyes, the mask of defiance finally slipping, albeit briefly. So she is human after all. Ten minutes before we're due back in court. Don't tell me she's going to plead guilty at the last minute. Hell, that's all I need.

  'Well, we will be hoping for the best of course, but I think, honestly, it's highly likely that the jury will find you guilty. You will then be held in custody for several months and then we will come back to the court for sentencing.'