True Colours ss-10

by Stephen Leather

  ‘What do you drive these days? BMW X5?’

  ‘Yeah. But mine’s back in Hereford.’

  ‘We’ve got several in the pool and I’m pretty sure that one of them is already fully armoured.’

  ‘Not sure that I need bomb-proofing,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just the glass and ballistic protection in the doors.’

  ‘When do you need it by?’

  ‘Today?’

  Singh chuckled. ‘Tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Can you have it dropped off? I’ll be in Hampstead.’

  ‘Should be able to do that,’ said Singh. ‘Are you on your old mobile?’

  ‘Yeah, but I’ll be picking up a new one for this job. The legend is Tony Ryan.’

  Singh made a note on his pad. Shepherd gave him the address of the Hampstead flat and Singh wrote that down, too.

  ‘What about the car? Registered to Tony Ryan?’

  ‘Better make it a Met car,’ said Shepherd. ‘As far as anyone knows I’m on secondment from the Met so that’ll add to the legend.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ said Singh. ‘Might cut down on the parking tickets, too.’

  ‘Good point. Can you get a resident’s permit for the car, too, I’ll have to leave it on the street when I’m in Hampstead.’

  Singh made another note on his pad.

  ‘And I need a favour,’ said Shepherd. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the newspaper cutting that Harper had given him. He gave it to Singh and then sat quietly as he read it through. When Singh looked up again, Shepherd leaned across and tapped the face of the man he was sure was Ahmad Khan. ‘I need to identify this man.’

  Singh frowned as he reread the story and caption. ‘He’s not mentioned in the article.’

  ‘He’s not mentioned anywhere,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m fairly certain his name is Ahmad Khan and he’s from Afghanistan. But he could be in the UK under any name or nationality.’ He gestured at the cutting. ‘That was blind luck, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Though as he’s walking along the pavement, it could well be that he lives in that area of London.’

  ‘If he’s hiding, he could be long gone by now.’

  ‘I doubt that he’d be reading the local paper,’ said Shepherd. ‘But the problem is, I have no idea what name he’s using. So here’s my question, starting with what I’ve got — which is that — how do I identify him?’

  ‘You’ve checked the name you have?’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘He’s not on the PNC and he wasn’t issued a visa. Of course, he could be in the country completely illegally and not using any paperwork at all.’

  Singh nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s doubtful,’ he said. ‘Even illegals try to get something, a driving licence or an NHS number, something that they can show to the cops.’

  ‘The thing is, this guy being who he is, I think he’ll be better organised.’

  ‘What do you think he is?’

  Shepherd flashed him a tight smile. ‘I think he’s al-Qaeda,’ he said.

  Singh held up the cutting. ‘Then put this in the system and red-flag it, put everyone on it.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘It never is with you.’

  ‘At this stage, all I want to do is to confirm my suspicions. I haven’t seen this guy face to face for more than ten years. The eye’s a giveaway, but I’m sure he’s not the only Afghan with a dodgy eye. And I don’t want to be responsible for ruining someone’s life on a hunch.’

  Singh put down the cutting and sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Shepherd’s face. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?’ he said quietly.

  ‘That’s why this comes under the heading of a favour,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘He’s definitely al-Qaeda?’

  ‘The last time I saw him was in Pakistan, outside of an al-Qaeda money house. And he shot me. He killed a young SAS captain.’

  Singh whistled softly. ‘I’m starting to wish I hadn’t asked.’

  ‘Maybe we could both forget we had this conversation,’ said Shepherd. He leaned forward to grab the cutting but Singh held it out of his reach. ‘I’m serious, Amar, I shouldn’t have asked you.’

  ‘What else are friends for?’ said Singh. ‘You want to know if it’s definitely him, right?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘OK. That I can probably help you with. But as to what happens after that, I definitely don’t want to know.’

  ‘That’d probably be best,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And it goes without saying that mum’s the word.’

  ‘My lips are sealed,’ said Shepherd.

  Singh grinned. ‘Then let’s have a go,’ he said. ‘Did you run the photograph through the Border Force’s computer?’

  ‘No. Just the name.’

  ‘They’ve started taking photographs and fingerprints of anyone applying for a visa, so I’ll run the picture through their database.’ He wrinkled his nose as he studied the cutting. ‘What I’ll do is scan the picture first and see if we can clean it up, improve the resolution. I can also run a cross-check with the DVLC database and the Identity and Passport Service which will ID him if he has a British passport or driving licence. Don’t suppose you’ve got a photograph or a date of birth?’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘That picture is all I’ve got.’

  ‘I can pass it through the PNC, which will flag him if he’s ever been arrested here, and there’s our own naughty-boys database. And the facial recognition systems at all the airports, of course. Assuming he flew into the country.’

  ‘Any idea how long it’ll take?’

  Singh wrinkled his nose. ‘Increasing the resolution will take the best part of a day. That’s computerised, there’s no way of speeding that up. The cross-checking should be a few hours at most for the databases — the airports will take longer because it involves CCTV. Are you in a hurry?’

  ‘The sooner the better, obviously. I really appreciate this, Amar.’

  Singh held up his hand. ‘It’s no biggie,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a useful test of our facial recognition systems, anyway. We’re always looking for ways to tweak it.’ He looked at his watch. ‘OK, you need to let me get started on your car. I’ll have it and the vests at your place tomorrow.’

  ‘Maybe liaise with the armoury, they’re giving me a Glock.’

  ‘Two birds with one stone.’

  Shepherd woke early, and it took a few seconds lying in the darkness before he remembered where he was. And who he was. He was Tony Ryan, a Metropolitan Police firearms officer, and he was lying in his one-bedroom flat in Hampstead. As flats went it was just about OK, with a bedroom just large enough to take a double bed, a sitting room with a sofa, an armchair, a coffee table and a thirty-two-inch television. The last time he’d used the flat he’d been a journalist and they’d given him the full Sky package, and he was pleased to see that hadn’t changed. When he’d been passing himself off as freelance journalist John Whitehill the flat had been full of art books and news magazines. Whoever had dressed the flat for his Tony Ryan legend had gone much more butch, with photographs of Shepherd with various weapons on the walls and military books lining the shelves. The contents of the wardrobe had changed; Whitehill’s corduroy jackets and check shirts had gone, replaced with dark suits, white shirts and ties for work, and polo shirts and chinos for casual wear. There was no bath in the bathroom, but there was a power shower which more than made up for it, and he wasn’t in the least inconvenienced by the tiny kitchen as cooking was never high up on his agenda.

  The one really good thing about the flat was its proximity to Hampstead Heath. Its near-800 acres of woods and hills were the perfect setting for a run. He’d left his rucksack and boots in Hereford but there were still some of his old clothes from the last time he’d stayed in the flat, tucked away in carrier bags at the bottom of the wardrobe. He found an old pair of trainers, baggy tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt that had once been white but was now a shabby grey
. He pulled them on, let himself out of the flat and went for a run, arriving at the Heath just as dawn broke. There were already plenty of other joggers around, and a fair number of dog-walkers. Shepherd ran a mile at a medium pace to loosen up, then stepped up a gear and ran close to his maximum pace for another mile. He had soon worked up a sweat despite the chill in the air. He dropped to the ground and did fifty sit-ups and fifty press-ups before resuming his run, another two miles at full speed. The lack of a rucksack full of newspaper-wrapped bricks and his old army boots meant that he could run faster than usual. He overtook a tight group of young runners in spandex shorts, tight vests and headbands, then ran up a long slope, maintaining the same pace, enjoying the feel of his muscles starting to burn. At the top of the slope he dropped and did another set of sit-ups and press-ups, and then he headed home.

  He arrived back at the flat an hour after he’d left. He shaved and showered and changed into one of the dark blue suits that the dresser had left, along with a white shirt and a tie of red and dark blue stripes. There was a choice of three pairs of shoes, all black and all with laces, and he choose the pair that looked most comfortable. He had just made himself a bacon sandwich when his Tony Ryan mobile phone rang. It was Mark Whitehouse, one of the MI5 armourers. ‘Delivery for Mr Ryan,’ said the armourer. ‘And I have a very nice X5 for you.’

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Just turning into your street,’ said Whitehouse. ‘Where do you want it?’

  ‘Anywhere you can find a spot,’ said Shepherd. ‘Parking’s tight here at the best of times.’

  Shepherd managed to bolt down his bacon sandwich before his door entryphone buzzed. He pressed the button to open the door downstairs. Whitehouse was with one of the men from the car pool. He introduced himself as Ian McAdam and handed Shepherd the keys to the X5 and asked him to sign a form on a clipboard. ‘All yours,’ said McAdam. ‘There’s a number in the glove compartment to call if you have any problems but she’s only got twenty thousand miles on the clock and we’ve never had any problems with her.’ He was in his twenties, with gelled hair and a small gold earring in his left ear. He nodded at Whitehouse. ‘I’ll wait down with the car — I saw a traffic warden down the road.’

  McAdam headed down the stairs. ‘I’m running him back to Thames House,’ said Whitehouse. He was in his sixties, a former soldier who had been wounded in the Falklands War and who had gone on to serve as one of MI5’s armourers for almost twenty years. He had thinning grey hair and a shabby brown suit. Shepherd realised that he wasn’t wearing his trademark thick-lensed glasses. ‘You lost the spectacles, Mark?’

  Whitehouse grinned. ‘Just had them lasered,’ he said. ‘Brilliant, it is. I can read a book without glasses for the first time in I don’t know how long, and driving is so much easier.’ He was carrying a metal case and he swung it on to Shepherd’s coffee table.

  ‘It’s a fourth-generation Glock 17, but there’s not much I can tell you that you don’t know already,’ he said. He checked the barrel was clear and handed the gun butt-first to Shepherd. Shepherd checked the action and nodded his approval. ‘Three clips, they hold seventeen rounds as you know, but I’ve put fifteen in each to keep the pressure off the spring.’ Shepherd took one of the clips and slotted it home. ‘Miss Button said we didn’t need to go heavy on the ammo, is forty-five rounds enough?’

  ‘More than enough,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And she said a shoulder holster. You prefer leather to nylon, right?’

  ‘You know me too well,’ said Shepherd. Whitehouse grinned and handed Shepherd a dark brown leather shoulder holster. The leather had been recently oiled and it glistened as Shepherd stroked the leather. Whitehouse handed over two leather holsters designed to hold the clips. ‘If you want the spares on your belt,’ he said. He reached into the case and brought out two plastic-wrapped vests. ‘And these are courtesy of Mr Singh,’ he said.

  Shepherd took the packages and ripped one open. He held out a white vest, about the thickness of a pullover. It had sleeves that reached to just above the elbows. He held it against his chest and smiled at the look of contempt on the armourer’s face. ‘You’re not convinced?’ he said.

  ‘Mr Singh swears by them,’ said Whitehouse.

  ‘But you’re not convinced?’

  ‘You know where you are with Kevlar and ceramic plates.’ He reached over and rubbed the vest that Shepherd was holding. ‘This feels like wool.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘I just don’t get it.’

  ‘He says it changes its structure when the bullet hits,’ said Shepherd. ‘Nanotechnology.’

  ‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ said Whitehouse.

  ‘I could put it on now and you could take a shot at me.’ He grinned at the look of surprise on the armourer’s face. ‘Joke,’ he said.

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Whitehouse. ‘But I have to say I’d feel a lot happier if I’d had the chance to run a few tests myself. I look at them and I ask myself if they would really stop a bullet.’

  ‘According to Amar they’ll stop any handgun at close range and an AK-47 from fifty feet,’ said Shepherd. ‘But like you, I’ll believe it when I see it.’ He grinned. ‘Hopefully it won’t come to that.’

  ‘And let’s not forget that if the person who’s shooting at you knows what they’re doing, they’ll probably go for a head shot anyway.’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s the truth.’ He put the vest down and picked up the Glock again. ‘You took a bullet, in the Falklands?’

  ‘Two,’ said the armourer. ‘One in the calf, one grazed my head. According to the lads the second one didn’t count, it was just a flesh wound. But an inch to the left and I wouldn’t be here now.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’m not a great one for war stories, Spider.’

  Shepherd rubbed his shoulder. ‘I’ve just been thinking about the time I got shot, that’s all. You never forget it, right?’

  ‘Every time I get into the shower I see the scar,’ said Whitehouse. ‘The scar in my head is hidden by my hair, but you can see that the hair around it is greyer than the rest. But yeah, you never forget.’

  ‘How bad was it?’

  ‘The wounds? Not too bad. There were plenty that got worse — two hundred and fifty-five of our guys didn’t come back. But the Falklands was nothing like what you went through in Afghanistan. We didn’t have IEDs or ambushes or men pretending to be women, or suicide bombers. At least we were fighting soldiers, even if a lot of them were kids.’

  ‘Do you know who shot you?’

  Whitehouse shrugged. ‘Could have been any one of half a dozen,’ he said. ‘We were coming down this hill towards where the Argies were dug in. It was all about speed, back then, they knew we had to retake the Islands within weeks or we never would. There was no wait and see, it was full steam ahead, lads, and to hell with the bullets. This was the second hill we’d taken and it went pretty much the same way. Their lads were dug in and firing up the hill, we came charging down with as much firepower as we could muster. Then once we got to within about fifty yards of their position they’d just throw down their weapons and surrender. It was weird, Spider. They knew the Geneva Convention meant that you can’t shoot an unarmed man. So as soon as they knew they were beaten they threw their guns down. So you had the ridiculous situation where they would shoot the guy next to you, killing him stone dead, but then they’d drop their gun and you can’t fire back. Bloody stupid, if you ask me. Anyway, I got hit in the leg but that didn’t stop me. Then a round went under my helmet, grazed my head and exited at the back. Hurt like hell but no real damage. There was a lad next to me, only just turned twenty, took a bullet in the face. Just blew his face away. Will Dunbar, his name was. I’d given him some smokes the night before and we’d had a bit of a chinwag. I saw the guy who shot him. He was a young lad, probably a teenager. As soon as Will went down the lad chucked his rifle and put up his hands.’ Whitehouse held up his hand, the thumb and first
finger half an inch apart. ‘I came this close to slotting him, I swear to God. I had a bead on his chest, my finger was tightening on the trigger, there was blood trickling down my neck and I had the full adrenalin rush. Then my sarge starts screaming at me to lower my weapon, that it was over. I was still going to fire but the sarge pushed the barrel down. I tell you, it was the hardest thing I’ve had to do because that kid deserved to die. No question. He shot Will in the face and because it was war that was OK. Then he drops his gun and I have to round him up with the rest of them and he’s now back in Argentina probably with a bloody medal.’

  ‘It’s even weirder out in Afghanistan and Iraq,’ said Shepherd. ‘Over there they don’t have uniforms, they use women and kids as suicide bombers and they fire missiles from mosques. Yet we carry on following the rules of war that are supposed to apply to soldiers in uniform. It’s like fighting with one arm behind your back.’

  ‘Lions led by bloody donkeys,’ said Whitehouse. ‘They should just have let your lot run things out there. Done it as Special Ops instead of putting bodies on the ground.’

  ‘I’m not sure that would have been any better,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can’t defeat an enemy that fights like that. The Yanks should have learned that from Vietnam. And if not from that, the fact that the Russians had to leave Afghanistan with their tail between their legs should have shown them which way the wind was blowing.’

  ‘Shouldn’t have been there in the first place, is that what you mean?’

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘It’s not my call, Mark. I went to Afghanistan because I was told to go. I was eight years old when the Falklands War broke out, but looking back, I can see why we were there. The Argentines invaded British territory. End of. We had every right to do what was necessary to take it back. But you look at Afghanistan and Iraq and you have to ask yourself why British troops were ever sent.’

  ‘You know why. Because Tony Blair was Bush’s lapdog. Did what his master told him to.’ The armourer shrugged. ‘You’re right. At least I knew what I was fighting for.’