The floor in this room was carpeted with colourful rugs and Daniel noticed a copy of a leather-bound book lying beside the couch. The Koran, he guessed. Was this lad a devotee of the fundamentalists’ interpretation of his religion? Selected for his burning desire to destroy the infidel?

  As if guessing his thoughts, Qasim turned to Daniel.

  ‘Abdul Qahhar is named for a special mission,’ Qasim explained. ‘His name in English means servant of Allah. And, as such an important servant, he requires a bodyguard to protect him once he begins his final journey.’

  The boy, Abdul, said something to the older man and both of them turned to look at Daniel.

  ‘Stand still for a few minutes, my friend. Arms out, yes, like that,’ he added as Daniel complied. ‘Abdul has asked me to search you.’

  Daniel swallowed hard but gave a silent nod.

  Was it a weapon of some sort they’d expected to find on his person? he wondered as Qasim searched his pockets and felt under the waistband of his trousers. Perhaps a mobile phone? But they would find neither, the former cop only too aware of what that might provoke.

  As the old man continued his search, Daniel gazed at Abdul, wondering what link he had to the woman. But there was one thing of which he was now certain.

  This boy was the weapon they were going to use to commit the atrocity Lorimer had warned him about. Or, he would be once they had strapped on the explosives contained in a vest wrapped around his skinny chest.

  ‘He stays here meantime?’ Daniel asked, as Qasim finished his inspection and nodded to Abdul.

  ‘For his own protection.’ Qasim nodded. ‘We must not let another person know he is here. And you will take him into the heart of the city when it is time. Understand?’

  Daniel met Qasim’s eyes and nodded. ‘So long as I get away in time,’ he muttered. ‘Money won’t be any good to me if I’m dead.’

  Qasim threw back his head and laughed. ‘Ah, you do anything for money? No conscience at all? I like that. A strong man with no principles. You will go far, my friend,’ he chuckled. But there was no mirth in the Syrian’s eyes as he regarded Daniel, merely a look of scorn.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  DI Brownlee sat staring at the man across the room.

  ‘You’re serious? A terrorist attack?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘It’s been on the cards a while, the threat of something big happening in the city centre. Only the chief constable, Caroline Flint and I have been made aware of it till now. The security services let us know back in October that there was a strong likelihood that information was being given to a terrorist group from someone inside Police Scotland. But, I’m glad to say that seems not to have been the case.’

  ‘And why tell me now?’ Brownlee failed to keep the irritation out of his voice.

  ‘Because it is linked to the three deaths that your own people are investigating.’

  Brownlee’s expression changed, an understanding light in his eyes.

  ‘That’s why you were turning up at crime scenes? Looking for a bad penny?’

  ‘Something like that. You were never on our list of possible moles, though, I hasten to add,’ Lorimer assured him.

  ‘You hinted there was something big going on,’ Brownlee admitted.

  Lorimer nodded, giving a sigh. ‘We are still no further forward in identifying the source that blew their cover,’ he began.

  ‘The officers that were exposed in the papers?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘We still have some people out there, but I cannot, of course, tell you who they are. Security has to be maintained at every turn if we are to stop this attack and find the woman behind it.’

  ‘A woman?’ Brownlee sat up, astonished.

  ‘Aye, we had intelligence about her right at the start and were led to think it might be one of our own. But she is not a police officer.’

  ‘A civilian working for us?’ Brownlee suggested.

  Lorimer shook his head. ‘Been down that road a while ago. We have a visual description of her that doesn’t match any female on our books.’

  ‘Oh?’ Brownlee raised his eyebrows, evidently curious to know more.

  ‘We’ve traced her to both Derek Carter and Vincent Burns’s homes,’ he said. ‘There’s a forensic link. And we have a good idea that she might have been staying off and on with Burns before his murder.’

  ‘Who on earth … ?’

  ‘No name, just a description. A young Grace Kelly lookalike, one observer told us. Blonde, about thirty or so, medium height, slim, often wears a grey silk scarf over her hair.’

  ‘Like a headscarf?’

  Lorimer nodded. ‘Perhaps. Not an actual hijab, though, from the description. She’s been seen with a couple of Syrian refugees.’

  ‘Why haven’t you picked her up?’ Brownlee frowned.

  That was a good question, of course, and one that was going to be difficult to answer without revealing that the observer he’d mentioned was a civilian who had no right to be involved in this investigation at all.

  ‘Let’s just say that she is adept at disappearing,’ Lorimer murmured. ‘And, before you ask, we do want to apprehend her. If she is the main person behind this terrorist threat, then we have to stop her before it is carried out.’

  ‘Do you know when … ?’

  ‘Christmas Eve,’ he replied. ‘In the middle of George Square.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Brownlee asked, sitting forward now, a serious look on his face.

  ‘My team here at the MIT are turning over everything they can find about Gerald O’Neill. I’d like some of yours to keep an eye on him. See where he goes, who he meets. Manpower is what we are going to need in the next few days,’ he said grimly, casting an eye on the calendar opposite. ‘We have four more days, Graham. Four days to find her and stop this happening.’

  It was not easy to find his way back to the flats without the shadow following him. Mohammad, Daniel guessed, or someone of his build, flitting between doorways, watching his every move. Qasim had promised to give him money but so far nothing had been handed over and Daniel was forced to walk back from the place where he had been shown that secret den all the way to the north of the city, his red Ford still parked in Maryhill. The rain that had threatened earlier was now replaced with hail and even the turned-up collar of his coat could not keep the icy water from trickling down his neck.

  At last he turned to the high flats, a quick glance behind to see if his follower was still there. But the street was empty, pedestrians having no doubt hurried indoors once the violent shower had begun.

  Standing in the lift, Daniel thought about what he had seen. A boy, just a kid, evidently brainwashed to the point where his fanaticism made him believe that his future in Paradise was assured. Where had he come from and what sort of life had he experienced that resulted in such beliefs? Abdul was willing, no, eager, to carry out his task, his Christmas Eve present the destruction of hundreds of so-called infidels. He ought to be disgusted, but all Daniel could feel as the lift doors sighed open was a feeling of pity.

  Qasim did not know that he had a mobile phone, something Daniel had deliberately left in the flat before meeting them today, suspecting correctly that he’d be searched at some point. But now it was imperative that he contact Lorimer to let him know where he had been and what he had discovered.

  ‘That’s me packed, darling.’

  Gerry O’Neill looked up from his perusal of the paper he was reading and made a grunting noise. She’d hung out his summer clothes in their dressing room and Gerry supposed he’d better do something about that before their annual trip across the pond. He shook the paper and dipped his head again, searching for the paragraph that he had been reading.

  The share price index was really all that mattered at this particular moment and the figures were enough to make Gerry O’Neill give an added sniff of satisfaction. They were all fine and dandy here, he thought, sitting back in his recliner chair with a sigh. A couple more days and they’d be heading off to their place in Florida, sunshine instead of this interminable cold.

  He gave a low chuckle. The police could look all they liked but they’d find absolutely nothing. Vincent had seen to that. His sigh changed to a frown. Pity the man couldn’t keep his hands off that woman. His one weakness, O’Neill decided. But Burns had chickened out when she had told him what their plan entailed. Always had been too squeamish for his own good.

  He was the lucky one, he told himself, watching his wife’s retreating figure as she left the lounge. A good woman was above rubies, wasn’t that the saying? Well, he had covered his in gemstones over the years, and deservedly so. She’d stuck with him even when these overseas trips had proved a bit too harrowing for her taste. Never did take to the desert heat, not like … He paused in his thoughts. What did she call herself these days? Shararah. Made her sound like something from a sixties band. ‘Daft name,’ he grumbled, unaware that he had spoken aloud.

  He turned the paper and smoothed down the crease. Pity she’d needed to have this one big event here in Glasgow, all the same. But that was what the money had been all about, the source of it coming from some hidden place in Afghanistan via a couple of oil magnates and then to his own private account. Nice of Vince to have had it filtered through Bryson’s, of course. But in such a way that nobody would ever find it.

  Diane O’Neill sang softly to herself as she tucked the passport into her favourite handbag. Florida, she thought, imagining the villa with its azure blue pool and the friends they would meet once again at the Country Club. Far away from all of this awful stuff about poor Vince.

  Diane’s good humour deserted her for a moment, remembering the painstaking way the police officers had examined their vehicles. What on earth had they expected to find? Just being thorough, Gerry had consoled her. She ran a hand over her newly highlighted hair. Just forget it, he’d advised and so she would. She’d think instead of the fun she would have browsing the duty-free shops at Glasgow Airport. And, if the hints she’d been dropping had found his ear, then that was also a chance for Gerry to fill her stocking with some little things that he knew would make her eyes sparkle on Christmas morning.

  ‘What did you say that name was?’ Lorimer asked.

  ‘Shararah,’ Daniel replied. ‘I’m certain it was a name from the way they were speaking. Does it mean anything to you?’

  Lorimer typed in the word and in moments he had an answer to Daniel’s question.

  ‘It’s an Afghan name,’ he said at last. ‘Means “a woman who is burning like a flame”. I think we may have found our beautiful lady.’

  ‘She’s not Afghani, though,’ Daniel protested. ‘She’s a white woman, I told you that already.’

  ‘And I believe you,’ Lorimer assured him. ‘But I think we need to dig a little further into any woman who may have had a relationship with an Afghan man here in Britain. Or changed their religion.’

  A burning flame, he thought. A woman whose beauty may have lured a man to his death and who had no conscience about the murder of hundreds more.

  ‘Tell me again about the boy. Where exactly is it they are keeping him?’

  It would be fairly easy to take the youngster from that place and question him with the help of a translator but from what Daniel had told him, Lorimer guessed that the fanatical youth would give them absolutely nothing in return for his freedom. No, he decided, he would put it to Mearns and Flint that they continued to search for this woman, Shararah. If they could find her in three days, before Christmas Eve, then her plans would be finished. If not, they’d only be rescuing a lad from his death and putting the two Syrians inside. And somewhere else this woman would be making new plans to create the kind of misery that those bombers wanted.

  ‘Annett and her family have asked me to join them on Christmas Eve,’ Maggie said. ‘Just for a couple of hours. What do you say?’

  Lorimer smiled fondly at his wife. Maggie was so much better now, and he felt a little mean at having insisted she stay off school. Still, Annett had told her as much, hadn’t she? Besides, if he had to hazard a guess, Christmas Eve might well see him in the city centre after finalising the actions for each member of his team.

  ‘That’s kind of them. Will they pick you up?’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie agreed, putting one hand behind her back and crossing her fingers. Bill might not be too pleased to think of her in a crowded place in case she was pushed or shoved in any way but what harm could she come to with the Schmautz family looking out for her?

  David Mearns straightened his bow tie as he looked into the wardrobe mirror.

  ‘You’re still a handsome dog!’ a teasing voice called from his bedroom doorway.

  ‘And look at you,’ Mearns declared, eyeing his daughter with pride. ‘Do a twirl for your old dad.’

  Helena Mearns turned obediently, catching the pale rose silk of her dress then sketching a curtsy.

  ‘Thanks for coming with me this evening, darling. It means a lot,’ Mearns told her.

  ‘Not a problem, Dad,’ the young woman replied with a ready smile. ‘A trip across to Edinburgh sounds fine to me, especially when I get time to spend with you.’

  David Mearns turned back and fiddled with his tie again. He was a lucky man, he thought. It was not every grown-up daughter who would accompany their parent to an evening of classical music, but Helena had assured him there was nothing she’d like more than to hear the programme he’d mentioned. ‘Scheherazade’ was one of his all-time favourite pieces by Rimsky-Korsakov and, thankfully, Helena seemed intrigued by the story behind the music.

  A clever woman weaving a spell over a powerful man, the basis for The Thousand and One Nights tales, of course, but it had chimed with her own particular thoughts about how a woman could manipulate a man for her own ends.

  As they left the rented villa, Helena tucked her hand into her father’s arm, casting a sideways glance at her reflection in the hall mirror. How easy it was for a beautiful woman with youth on her side to make men dance to her will.

  Yes, undoubtedly Scheherazade must have known what that felt like, she decided, stepping into the waiting Mercedes and fastening her seat belt.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  ‘There’s just two more days to go,’ Lorimer told them, looking around the large room where the members of his team were gathered. As well as officers from the MIT, DI Brownlee was there, and Lorimer gave him a nod as he saw him gazing across. Brownlee would be offered the chance to fill a gap when one of his own retired in the new year, he had decided, impressed by the detective inspector’s competence and ready understanding of this tangled web of a case. It was no longer a secret operation between the trio of senior officers and MI6 and Lorimer was thankful for the additional resources from Police Scotland, including his own team.

  Outside it was pitch black, rain thundering down and beating the windowpanes. The previous day had marked the winter solstice, but it would be several more weeks until the season gave any sign of lengthening its hours of daylight. School was officially ended for Maggie and the children across their city, little ones no doubt counting the hours until Santa Claus appeared to fill their Christmas stockings. It was something they would never do, a childless couple like themselves, and occasionally William Lorimer felt a pang of regret for the babies they had lost. Still, if he could prevent this dreadful atrocity from happening, there was the satisfaction of having given something precious to thousands of children, a gift they would hopefully never have to know about.

  He stood in front of the white screen, talking them through the plans to police the area around the square and the security measures that he had agreed with Mearns and Flint. It was not unusual for there to be a police presence at large outdoor gatherings of this sort and the mounted branch in particular had been alerted to what might take place.

  Two more nights, he thought, as the officers left the boardroom. Two days to find the woman, Shararah, and stop her treacherous plan.

  The team were still trawling through every university in the country that specialised in Arabic, in case the mystery woman was some sort of academic, though so far, no name had cropped up. Still, there was the chance that she might have learned the language overseas and returned here under some guise or other.

  Mearns had given a short laugh when he’d been told the name, confessing that he was off to a concert in the Usher Hall to listen to ‘Scheherazade’. Another woman still burning like a flame, at least in Rimsky-Korsakov’s wonderful music, he’d told them.

  Must have gone with his wife, Lorimer decided, a little grumpy that he had no time to spare for taking his own dear Maggie to a show over Christmas. Well, at least she was having a night out soon with Dr Schmautz and her family, the German GP a good friend of Maggie’s. But he wouldn’t brood on things like that right now, there were more pressing concerns on his mind. Like finding every member of this cell. But, what if they couldn’t?

  They might have to let the woman go, he thought bitterly. Round up the boy, Abdul, and cut their losses. Hope that whoever brought the explosives would be caught in time before fixing them to that poor kid’s body.

  ‘Sir, a new report just in.’ David Giles came into the boardroom again and handed over a sheet of paper to Lorimer.

  ‘It’s the third body. The one found beside the burn,’ Giles added helpfully.

  Lorimer scanned the paper and saw what the DS was referring to.

  ‘Identified as an illegal immigrant. Name registered as Latif Karzai. Absconded from the detention centre down south during a major fracas,’ Giles continued.

  Lorimer read on, his frown deepening. ‘Guy strung up … Just a minute, this is the same man the security services mentioned … ’

  Giles nodded. ‘An Afghan man, suspected terrorist. Was due to be sent back and was found like that in his cell. Suspected suicide. Name of Kalil Durani.’

  ‘Durani, yes, that’s him. And, apart from this Latif chap, are there any other known associates mentioned that we might not yet know about?’