Short Range (The Spider Shepherd Thrillers Book 16)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Your pal Sharpe is a pro, I’m sure it’ll go like clockwork,’ said Pritchard. ‘Call me when it’s over.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘If you need time off, take as much as you need,’ said Pritchard.

  ‘To be honest, I prefer to be working,’ said Shepherd. ‘Stops me dwelling on what happened.’

  ‘The Slovenian police have identified Katra and informed the family, so you’ll be contacted soon. They haven’t looked at flight records yet so it looks as if they’re treating it as a local crime. As we thought, they’re not shedding any tears over the death of Žagar or any of his minions. If anything, champagne corks were popping.’

  ‘Good to know,’ said Shepherd sourly.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be flippant. I just wanted to point out that so far you and your boy are below the radar.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Shepherd. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How’s Liam bearing up?’

  ‘Same as me, throwing himself into his work. His CO wasn’t happy about him being late back to base, but it’s all good now.’

  ‘I am so sorry about what happened. For your loss.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There are never any words, are there?’ said Pritchard.

  Shepherd smiled ruefully. No, there weren’t. There were no magic words that would make it any better. Katra was dead and that was the end of it. Nothing anyone could say would make it any easier. ‘I’ll phone you once Dexter and his team are in custody,’ he said, and ended the call.

  He finished his coffee and picked up a dark blue blazer that was hanging over the back of an armchair. He had a Glock 43 in a holster in the small of his back. He wasn’t expecting trouble but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to be prepared for the worst. The Glock 43 was the perfect gun to be carried covertly. It weighed just over twenty ounces fully loaded and the barrel was just over three inches long. The magazine held six 9 mm rounds and one in the chamber made seven. Shepherd put on the blazer and examined himself in the mirrored wardrobe in his bedroom. There was no way the gun could be spotted. He stared at his reflection. It felt strange to be working instead of grieving, but just then that was what he wanted. He didn’t want to sit and think about what had happened to Katra and keeping busy meant that the grief stayed in the back of his mind until he felt he was ready to deal with it. He felt a wave of sadness wash over him and his stomach lurched, so he forced himself to concentrate on the matter in hand. He wasn’t Dan Shepherd, grieving for the woman he loved, he was John Whitehill, journalist, and potential right-wing terrorist.

  He paced up and down, constantly looking at his watch. Eventually his phone buzzed to let him know he had received a message. It was from Dexter: ‘OUTSIDE IN 5 MINS’.

  Shepherd took a last look at his reflection, then let himself out of the flat and went downstairs.

  Dexter arrived in his Mercedes. Roger Moorhouse was sitting in the front passenger seat. He and Dexter were casually dressed in pullovers and jeans. Charlie Palmer was in the back seat wearing a combat jacket with sunglasses perched on top of his head. Shepherd got in next to him. ‘All right, John?’ asked Dexter.

  ‘All good,’ said Shepherd. He looked at the GPS. According to the screen, the farm where they were due to meet Sharpe and Serafino was just over half an hour away.

  The blue Transit van drove slowly down the track towards the farm. Jimmy Sharpe watched from his vantage point in the barn where he had parked his Jaguar, well away from the main farmhouse. The farm was up for auction and had been empty for the past two months, following the death of the owner and his wife in a pile-up on the M25.

  There were six SFOs with him in the barn, standing next to their two grey BMW SUVs. There was a yellow circle the size of a beermat in the windshield of both vehicles indicating that they carried firearms. The officers had Glocks in holsters on their hips. There was no indication that Dexter and his pals would be carrying guns so the police wouldn’t be bothering with their carbines. They would remain locked in the gun safe, between the rear two seats. ‘Right, that’s Vito arriving with the weapons,’ said Sharpe. The plan was for the police to stay out of sight until the transaction had been completed. There were four regular cops with a Mercedes Sprinter van parked in another barn that would be used to transport the prisoners to the nearest police station for processing.

  Sharpe’s phone rang and he took it out of his jacket pocket. It was Julie Bacon calling. He walked away from the SFOs and took the call. ‘Jimmy, they’ve sent Harry a text asking him to do a run today.’

  ‘Bugger,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’m going to be tied up all morning. Can you deal with it?’

  ‘It’s already in hand,’ said Bacon. ‘I’ve arranged surveillance there and back and I’ll be in the safe house waiting for him. I’m not expecting any problems.’

  ‘Good girl,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘That’s sexist, Jimmy.’

  ‘Good person,’ said Sharpe. He chuckled and ended the call. He went over to the SFOs and looked at his watch. ‘The targets should be here within half an hour. We’ll show them the goods, then there’s a chance they’ll want a demonstration, in which case we’ll give them one. Once they’ve said enough for the tape and they’ve produced the money, you guys can move in. The signal again is me saying “good to go”. Just in case the radio packs in, the fall-back signal will be me rubbing the back of my neck with my left hand.’ He showed them the action and the SFO who would be monitoring the radio transmission nodded. Sharpe and Serafino were wired up and Shepherd would be recording on his phone. An NCA photographer was in the attic of the farmhouse and would be videoing everything.

  Sharpe took a head and shoulders shot of Dan Shepherd from his jacket pocket and showed it around. ‘Just so you know, this guy is one of ours and he will be carrying a handgun. He’s not to be arrested, he’ll stay with me.’

  The cops studied the picture and nodded. Sharpe put it away. ‘Right, let’s get to it.’

  Harry Dexter got off the train from Reading at Paddington and took the escalator down to the Bakerloo Line, followed by NCA surveillance officer Andrew Mosley in his businessman garb. As they went down the escalator, Mosley sent a text message – ‘HAVE EYEBALL’ – to Julie Bacon who was running the surveillance operation from the safe house in Reading.

  Mosley followed Harry to Waterloo and took a seat at the opposite end of the platform. Harry played on his iPhone until the teenager arrived with the grey North Face backpack. As usual, the teenager sat down two seats along from Harry and put the backpack down between them. When the next train arrived, the teenager got on and Harry headed for the northbound Bakerloo Line platform. Harry took the Tube back to Paddington where he boarded the next train back to Reading. He was followed on the train by NCA surveillance officer Oliver Tomkinson.

  Harry played with his iPhone all the way to Reading. When the train arrived he walked to the safe house. He paid no attention to Tomkinson, who was walking ahead of him. Following a target by walking ahead of them was an excellent way of keeping close but it was of little use in counter surveillance and Tomkinson completely missed the tough-looking man in a dark overcoat who was following Harry on the other side of the road.

  Harry reached the safe house and rang the bell. Julie Bacon let him into the house, and he helped himself to a Coke from the fridge as she opened the backpack and took samples of the drugs inside.

  ‘Where’s Jimmy?’ asked Harry.

  ‘He’s busy today,’ said Bacon. She finished taking a sample of cannabis, rewrapped the block and put it back into the backpack. ‘There you go,’ she said.

  Harry drank the rest of his Coke and took the backpack from her. ‘When are we going to be done with this?’ he asked.

  ‘Soon,’ said Bacon.

  ‘You always say that,’ groaned Harry.

  ‘It’s true, Harry,’ she said. ‘We’re almost done.’

  ‘D
o you think I’ll get some sort of reward?’ he asked.

  Bacon tilted her head to one side. ‘Reward? Why?’

  ‘For what I’m doing. Helping to catch the bad guys.’

  ‘Harry, your reward is that you don’t face criminal charges for your drug dealing and you go back to living a normal life,’ said Bacon. ‘Frankly, you should be thanking your lucky stars.’

  ‘The thing is, when this is over, I stand to lose money,’ said Harry. ‘When you bust them, I won’t have a job any more.’

  Bacon looked at him in disbelief. ‘Harry, you’re a drugs mule. You’ve been breaking the law. You’re lucky you’re not going to prison.’

  ‘I’m just saying …’

  She held up her hand. ‘I know what you’re saying. Now get that backpack to where it needs to be and then get off home.’

  Harry sighed and shook his head as he walked towards the front door. ‘I never get no respect,’ he said.

  She put a hand on his shoulder and turned him around. ‘Harry, I have the utmost respect for what you’re doing, seriously. And we are truly grateful for the way you’ve helped us. I promise you we are nearly done. It’s only because the Albanians took over from Dancer and Swifty that it’s gone on as long as it has. I want this to be over as much as you do, okay?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Okay.’

  She ruffled his hair. ‘You’re a good lad,’ she said.

  He laughed and shook her off. ‘Don’t mess up my hair,’ he said. She reached for him and gave him a hug and ushered him out of the door.

  Harry walked away from the house and down the pavement. Oliver Tomkinson was a hundred yards ahead of him, on the other side of the road. Neither of them saw the man in the overcoat, following some distance behind, a mobile phone clamped to his ear.

  When Harry reached the house where he was to deliver the drugs, Tomkinson sent a text to Julie Bacon. As he was bent over his smartphone, the man in the overcoat walked by, talking on his. There was a white windowless Mercedes van parked down the road. The man walked up to it, pulled open the driver’s door and climbed in.

  Harry walked around to the back of the house. He took off his backpack and was about to knock when the door opened wide. He stepped back in surprise. It was Stuart Bradley, wearing a black Adidas tracksuit and gleaming white trainers. Bradley smiled showing yellowing teeth and blinked at Harry through the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘How’s it going, Harry?’

  Harry had never liked Bradley, there was something not right about his smile or the look in his eyes. Harry always felt as if Bradley was picturing him naked and the way the man licked his thin lips made Harry’s skin crawl. He held out the backpack but Bradley didn’t take it. Instead he waved for Harry to enter the kitchen.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Harry hesitantly.

  Bradley’s smile widened. ‘Nothing’s wrong, lad. Just get your arse in here.’

  Harry stepped across the threshold and Bradley slammed the door behind him. Harry turned to look at the door. When he turned back, two big men in suits walked out of the hallway. They were the men who had been at the house in Kilburn, the ones who had told him to show them Bradley’s house. Harry’s heart pounded. The men stared at him with cold eyes. One of them bared his teeth like a dog that was about to bite. ‘Who’s been a naughty boy, then?’ growled the man.

  Bradley ripped the backpack from Harry’s hands and disappeared into the hallway. The two men stepped menacingly towards Harry and he backed away, holding up his hands in a vain attempt to protect himself.

  ‘Here they come,’ said Sharpe. He was standing with Serafino at the rear of the Transit van. In the distance, Dexter’s white Mercedes was heading down the track from the main road. Sharpe had been following the car’s progress on his phone, courtesy of the MI5 tracking device. Serafino was wearing a dark blue Ted Baker suit with a floral shirt and gleaming black Bally shoes. Sharpe was also suited and booted and wearing a dark raincoat to better conceal the transmitting device that was taped to his chest. The microphone was in one of the buttons of his suit.

  They had parked the van in the yard of the farm, in front of the single-storey farmhouse. To the left was a vehicle storage area, in which were parked a couple of mud-splattered tractors, and a large storage shed, the door chained and padlocked. The barns and a large white silo were about a hundred yards away and facing the farmhouse was a field that had been ploughed but didn’t appear to have been planted with anything.

  The Mercedes drove into the yard, its tyres crunching on the gravel. Dexter parked and the four men got out. Sharpe and Serafino walked towards them. They all shook hands. ‘You’ve got everything?’ Dexter asked Serafino.

  ‘Of course. Do you have the money?’

  Dexter gestured at the boot of the Mercedes. ‘Counted it twice to be sure,’ he said. He walked over to the rear of the Transit. Serafino went with him and opened the rear doors. The men crowded around, trying to get a look at the boxes inside.

  ‘Guys, come on,’ said Sharpe. ‘Let the dog see the rabbit.’

  The men backed off while Serafino opened one of four metal trunks. Inside, nestled in foam packaging, was a grey rocket launcher. ‘Check it out, Charlie,’ said Dexter, moving to the side.

  Palmer peered into the trunk and nodded. ‘Yeah, that’s an AT4.’

  Dexter patted Serafino on the shoulder. ‘You don’t mind opening up the other three, do you? I’d hate to get home and find out that I’d paid for an empty box.’

  Serafino laughed. He opened up the three other trunks. Each contained a pristine launcher.

  Dexter nodded. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘And what about the grenades?’

  Serafino opened up a square metal trunk. Inside were two dozen olive green spheres the size of a small orange, each with a matt black handle. They were wrapped in bubble wrap. Serafino took one out and unwrapped it.

  Dexter frowned. ‘What sort of grenade is it?’ he asked.

  Serafino grinned. ‘It’s the sort that goes bang when you pull the pin,’ he said. ‘What sort of grenade were you expecting?’

  ‘The ones we saw before had square dimples over them. They were more oval shaped.’

  Serafino laughed. ‘A grenade is a grenade,’ he said. ‘These are L109A1 high-explosive fragmentation grenades, as used by the British Army since 2001. It’s the standard NATO anti-personnel grenade, it weighs 465 grams and has a fuse delay of between three and four seconds. And if you need proof, it has “GREN HAND” written on the side.’

  He held the grenade out. It did indeed have ‘GREN HAND’ stencilled on the side in yellow capital letters.

  Dexter gestured at Palmer. ‘What do you think, Charlie?’

  Palmer took the grenade and looked at it. ‘Yeah, it’s the real thing,’ he said, weighing it in the palm of his hand.

  Dexter took it from him. ‘And it’s what, lethal up to thirty feet?’ asked Dexter. ‘Same as the Serbian ones?’

  ‘Thereabouts,’ said Serafino.

  ‘I want to try it,’ said Dexter.

  ‘You pay for it, you can do what you want with it,’ said Sharpe. ‘But we don’t give away free samples.’

  ‘Where?’

  Sharpe gestured at the neighbouring field. ‘Knock yourself out. Just make sure you’re well away from us.’

  Dexter looked at the grenade in his hand as if he was having second thoughts, then he shrugged and strode over to the field. He walked fifty feet or so away from the vehicles, then stopped. ‘Gary, mate, remember the shrapnel!’ Shepherd shouted at him. ‘Drop to the ground after you’ve thrown it, just in case.’

  ‘Fuck that, I’m going to throw it and run,’ Dexter shouted back.

  Shepherd didn’t bother arguing. Assuming Dexter could throw it fifty feet or so, dropping would be the safest option, but if he ran and didn’t trip he’d be okay. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said.

  Dexter pulled out the pin, drew back his arm and threw it as hard as he could. As soon as he released the grip on the grenade the h
andle flew off. Dexter was already running before the handle hit the ground. Shepherd began counting off the seconds. Two, three, four. The grenade exploded with a dull thump, kicking up a plume of soil. There was a greyish white cloud about twelve feet across that was quickly dispersed by the wind blowing across the field.

  Dexter whooped as he ran over to Moorhouse who clapped him on the back. Dexter was still holding the pin and he showed it to Moorhouse. ‘A souvenir,’ he said.

  ‘You’re a mad bastard, Gary,’ said Moorhouse. The two men walked over to the van, laughing.

  ‘Satisfied?’ asked Serafino, stroking his neatly trimmed beard.

  ‘Hell, yeah,’ said Dexter.

  ‘What about the money?’ asked Sharpe.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jock, we’ve got the cash,’ said Dexter. He nodded at Moorhouse, who went over to the Mercedes and opened the boot. He took out a large padded envelope and brought it over to Dexter. Dexter gestured at Serafino who held out his hand. Moorhouse gave the envelope to Serafino, who opened it and peered inside. There were bundles of fifty-pound notes. Serafino put the envelope on the floor of the van and took out one of the bundles. He flicked through it, then removed one of the banknotes and held it up to the sky. He nodded. ‘All good.’

  ‘Of course it’s all good,’ sneered Dexter. ‘What, you think we’d bring dodgy notes?’

  ‘Always best to check,’ said Serafino.

  ‘Can you guys help us put the gear in the Merc?’ asked Dexter.

  ‘Good to go,’ said Sharpe.

  Dexter looked confused. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’

  His question was answered by the roar of engines as two grey BMW SUVs came screeching out of one of the barns. They were Metropolitan Police ARVs, each with three specialist firearms officers on board.

  ‘What the fuck!’ shouted Dexter.

  ‘Just stay where you are, lads,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s over.’

  ‘Like fuck it’s over,’ said Dexter. He reached into the van and pulled out a grenade from the box.

  The two ARVs came to a halt and the SFOs piled out, aiming their Glocks at their targets. Shepherd continued to play his role and raised his hands in the air. Moorhouse stood rooted to the spot, too shocked to move. Palmer slowly raised his hands. Dexter ripped the bubble wrap from the grenade.