The Blasphemer by John Ling Page A

first-rate working relationship with her daughter. That had to count for something.
    Deirdre curled her toes.
    Nathan.
    Yes, Maya reminded her so much of him.
     

CHAPTER 21
     
    Paranoia came easily to Devlin. Since leaving the airport, he had been checking, checking and rechecking. Were there cars shadowing his taxi? Or cars trying to look as if they weren’t shadowing his taxi?
    The Saturday traffic on the South-Western Motorway was moderate, and so far, he hadn’t picked up on anything suspicious. No one was accelerating to keep pace with his taxi, and no one was decelerating to maintain a fixed distance.
    He was safe.
    Or was he?
    Devlin couldn’t allow himself to get smug. If he was dealing with covert operators, they wouldn’t give themselves away. Not that easily.
    So he weighed up his options. He could allow the taxi driver to carry on driving. Business as usual. No fuss. Or, for the heck of it, he could take a chance and shake things up a little. But frankly, would tipping his hand this early on be the smart move? Devlin worked out a cost/benefit analysis. Mulled over the pros and the cons.
    ‘Tell me, my friend,’ the taxi driver spoke, dashing Devlin’s thoughts. ‘Do you have Muslim problems in your country?’ The taxi driver was a Sikh, and he wore a turban. He peered at Devlin through his rear-view mirror.
    Devlin blinked and looked back at him. ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘Muslims—do you have problems with them in your country?’
    ‘I’m not sure I follow...’
    ‘Do you have people like this Abraham Khan?’
    Devlin smiled. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know who that is.’
    ‘Serious? You have never heard of Abraham Khan?’
    ‘No, I can’t say I have. Who is he?’
    The taxi driver half-sighed, half-sniggered. ‘A Muslim troublemaker, that’s who he is. He came here as a refugee, you see. Then he starts making fun of Jesus, Muhammad, Buddha, Lord Krishna. Now his own people want to kill him.’
    ‘Sounds serious.’
    ‘That’s what happened last night. A terrorist broke into his home and tried to shoot him. But the police arrived in time, and they stopped it. Hah. What a waste. Now taxpayers like me will have to fork out money to protect that man. Round-the-clock protection, you understand?’
    ‘So… you don’t like him.’
    The taxi driver raised his hand, slicing the air. ‘Of course I don’t like him. The government should send him back to where he came from.’
    Devlin couldn’t help but observe the irony—here was one immigrant insisting that another should be deported. And for what? Exercising his human right to free speech? It was oh-so-tragic how easily people were willing to toss away civil liberties at the first trace of discomfort.
    Devlin shook his head. ‘Surely he doesn’t deserve to die.’
    The taxi driver clucked his tongue. ‘He brought it upon himself. Why should we pay for his stupidity?’
    A deflection, Devlin noted. It’s not my fault if Abraham Khan gets murdered. It’s his fault. Let him die. He deserves to die.
    ‘Which part of India are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Devlin asked.
    ‘I’m not from India. I’m from Punjab. The Pakistani part of Punjab.’ The taxi driver spat out the word Pakistani as if it was poison. ‘Over there, we Sikhs are a tiny minority, and the Muslims lord over us as if we are no better than dirt. I came to New Zealand to escape those bastards, you understand?’
    Devlin nodded, his mind already tuning out as the taxi driver continued to rant. That was only so much bitter vitriol Devlin could take. Turning, he studied the traffic behind him. Were there cars shadowing his taxi? Or cars trying to look as if they weren’t shadowing his taxi?
    To hell with tipping his hand too early. He needed to be sure. He needed to be safe.
    So Devlin took a breath, held it, then allowed himself to crumble into a panicky fit. ‘Oh my God!’ he blurted out, fumbling at the travel pouch he wore around his waist, unzipping its