Cold Kill dss-3

by Stephen Leather

  ‘The National Security Advice Centre, working on serious crime investigations. And then, after 9/11, I moved to International Counter-terrorism Investigations, mainly because of my language skills.’

  ‘You speak Arabic?’

  ‘Fluently. And half a dozen other languages, as it happens.’

  ‘Why would Five want to lose someone like you?’ asked Shepherd. He took a bite of his sandwich.

  ‘They don’t see it as losing me, Dan,’ said Button. ‘They see it as forging a link with a new investigative organisation.’

  ‘So you’ll go back to Five one day?’

  ‘I’m not going to lie to you, Dan. This job is a stepping-stone for me. Sometimes you have to leave an organisation for a while to progress up through it.’

  ‘So, just as I’m getting used to you, you could up and leave?’

  ‘That goes for anyone,’ said Button. ‘Sam Hargrove is moving up. I will, in due course. What about you, Dan? Do you plan to end your days as a DC?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘So, if you stay with the police, you’ll more likely than not be offered a job with another unit when promotion comes. If you agree to switch to SOCA, another opportunity might come up for you elsewhere. So it could be that, just as I’m getting used to you, you’ll be the one who ups and goes.’

  ‘So, if I join SOCA, I could still transfer back to the regular police at some point?’

  ‘If you wanted to. Or there might be other options. Five, for instance. Or Six. Special Branch. Customs investigations. There’s much more movement between the various law-enforcement agencies, these days. Nothing lasts for ever, Dan. That’s the only constant in this world. But enough of what might be and what could be. I’m heading up the SOCA undercover unit, and I hope you’ll be part of it. You’re just the sort of man I need. Your SAS background will be invaluable, and you’ve proved that you’re more than capable of working undercover.’

  ‘And you need a decision from me soon?’

  ‘Sooner rather than later.’

  ‘And if I decline, I stay with the police?’

  ‘It’ll be complicated but, basically, yes. At present you’re employed by the Met but Superintendent Hargrove is answerable to the Home Office and works for the various UK forces on an ad-hoc basis. Under the new regime, SOCA will handle all roving units, but each individual force will have its own undercover unit for local investigations. If you decided not to join us, a space would be found for you on one of the local units. I’m sure the Met would jump at having you. But, Dan, it would be such a waste of your talents – it really would. We’ll be handling all the major undercover investigations, and the local units will be sweeping up the crumbs, nothing more.’

  Shepherd sipped his coffee. What Button was saying made sense. It would be a good career move for him. And although she hadn’t discussed money yet, he was sure there’d be a hike in salary. There was the challenge, too, the opportunity to pit himself against the country’s biggest villains.

  ‘What are your reservations?’ she asked. She picked up a slice of cherry cake and put it on to her plate.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

  ‘But you need time to think it over?’

  ‘I guess I’m like most people,’ he said. ‘Change is always a bit worrying, even if it’s change for the better.’

  ‘It’s going to be a big move for all of us,’ said Button. ‘SOCA is new territory, but it’s much-needed. Crime has gone country-wide, global even, so the way we tackle it has to change. It’s an opportunity for both of us to get in on the ground floor. Frankly, I can see the day coming when the local forces are more involved with crime prevention and motoring offences, and all major crime is investigated by SOCA. Murder, robbery, rape, they’ll all be dealt with by a national team. It makes so much sense.’

  ‘I’m not convinced that just because something is handled nationally makes it more efficient.’

  ‘Trust me, Dan. Most of the corruption in this country is at local level. Members of Parliament are lily-white, compared with the men and women who sit in our town halls. Policing is just too big an issue to be dealt with locally. The town halls can’t even run our schools properly.’ She smiled. ‘Anyway, this isn’t about politics. This is about you doing what you do best. Being a thief-taker. And you’ll be taking a lot more thieves working with me than you will at the Met.’

  ‘What about giving evidence?’ asked Shepherd. ‘The way things are at the moment, we do the work but the local force takes the credit so the undercover operatives don’t have to stand up in court.’

  ‘Same with MI5,’ said Button. ‘And it’ll be the same with SOCA. The undercover unit will be protected. Other officers, from the more visible units, will give evidence under oath. The worst possible scenario for you would be giving evidence in camera or with your identity withheld.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  ‘On a case-by-case basis, as now. You have a weapon signed out to you, don’t you?’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘A SIG-Sauer.’

  ‘I’m a fan of the Glock. But I rarely, if ever, carry one.’

  ‘Mine’s locked away at home most of the time, but there are occasions when I need one at short notice.’

  ‘Nothing will change there,’ said Button.

  ‘I don’t want to be signing forms in triplicate and having to justify every round.’

  ‘I hear you, Dan. Loud and clear.’

  Shepherd sipped his coffee. It was full and rich, possibly the best coffee he’d ever drunk. But he doubted that he’d pay regular visits to the Ritz. Charlotte Button, on the other hand, seemed at home in the opulent surroundings. He wondered if she was meeting all the SOCA recruits there, or if he had been singled out for special treatment. And if she pulled the same surveillance trick on all her interviewees.

  ‘What sort of time-frame are we talking about?’ he asked.

  ‘Weeks rather than months,’ said Button. ‘Because of the long-term nature of undercover work, people will join gradually, as and when they become available. I gather you’re on a counterfeit-currency case at the moment and that you’re co-operating with Europol.’

  ‘It’s a complicated one, and I’m right in the middle of it,’ said Shepherd. ‘Albanian Mafia have been using asylum-seekers to bring in fake euros. The euros are being handled by Bangladeshi money-changers in London. We’re getting ready to bust both ends.’

  ‘How long before it’s wrapped up?’

  ‘A week, maybe.’

  ‘So if you decide you want to come on board, I’ll make sure no further work comes your way.’

  ‘I’ve decided,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And?’ said Button, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘I’m in,’ said Shepherd. He picked up his cup and held it towards her. She smiled and clinked hers against it. ‘I look forward to working with you,’ he said.

  ‘And I with you, Dan,’ she said. ‘Or can I call you Spider now?’

  ‘You know about that?’

  ‘I know everything,’ she said. ‘Except how you got the nickname.’

  Shepherd looked shamefaced. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I ate one once.’

  ‘You ate a spider?’

  ‘A big one.’ He held out his hand, fingers splayed. ‘About that big. When I was doing jungle training with the Sass. Sort of for a bet.’

  Button shuddered. ‘Must have been horrible.’

  ‘Tasted like chicken, actually.’

  Button giggled so much that she spilled tea into her saucer.

  The surveillance van was parked in a side-road off Inverness Terrace, less than half a mile from Paddington station. Shepherd knocked on the back door, which opened immediately. He climbed in and Amar Singh pulled the door closed.

  Hargrove was sitting on a small stool at the far end, pouring coffee from a stainless-steel flask into a plastic cup. ‘Want some?’ he asked, offering the flask.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Hargrove screwed the top back on to the
flask and put it on the floor. ‘Okay, here’s the situation,’ he said. ‘We’re not going to put anyone else into the restaurant, but we’ll be watching everyone who goes in and out. The main restaurant is on the ground floor and there’s another seating area in the basement, but that’s rarely used. The floors above are apartments. There’s a backyard, which leads out to an alley, and we’ll have that covered but, frankly, I don’t see that there’s anything to worry about, do you?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure they trust me,’ said Shepherd. ‘If anything was up I don’t think they’d have suggested a restaurant.’

  Singh handed Shepherd a Nokia mobile. ‘We decided against a recording device, as it’s only the second time you’ve met them.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Shepherd. ‘They patted me down the first time and might well do it again.’ He turned the mobile phone over and examined it.

  ‘Apparently they checked your phone before so it’s unlikely they’ll look at it again. This one functions as a transmitter as well as a phone.’

  Shepherd removed the back cover of his regular phone, took out the battery and slid out the Sim card. He gave the old phone to Hargrove and installed the Sim card in the new one.

  ‘Providing it’s switched on, we’ll hear everything,’ said Singh. ‘Range is practically unlimited. It transmits through the mobile-phone system rather than an independent transmitter. We’ll be recording here. The microphone isn’t great – ideally you’d want it out in front of you but that’s up to you. You don’t want to draw attention to it.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to start teaching you how to suck eggs.’

  ‘We’ll see how it goes,’ said Shepherd. ‘Back-up?’

  ‘I’ve got Sharp and Joyce nearby, but we’ll keep our distance. What’s your rescue phrase?’

  ‘Does anyone have the time?’ said Shepherd.

  Hargrove wrote it down on a piece of paper in capital letters. It was one of Shepherd’s regular phrases. If he used it, Hargrove and his team would move in immediately. ‘Ready?’

  ‘As I’ll ever be,’ said Shepherd. He put the phone into his pocket and climbed out of the van.

  The restaurant where Salik had wanted to meet was in a road off Queensway, which ran parallel to Inverness Terrace. While Inverness Terrace was mainly residential, Queensway was a bustling mix of ethnic restaurants, gift shops and bars, and the pavements were packed with tourists and students looking for a cheap meal or heading for the cinemas in the Whiteleys shopping mall. It was the worst possible area to look for a tail: there were too many people, and too many types – black, white, Asian, Oriental, young, old, male and female, a mass of humanity in which nobody stuck out because everybody was different. The only ones likely to be noticeable were Sharpe and Joyce – middle-class, middle-aged white men in suits.

  There were a dozen tables in the restaurant and the Uddin brothers were sitting in the far corner. A big man in a purple suit tried to steer him towards a small table in the window but Shepherd nodded at the brothers. ‘I’m expected,’ he said. He walked towards their table and Salik got to his feet. He was wearing a grey silk suit and a white shirt with an Asian collar buttoned up to the neck. ‘Tony, good of you to come,’ he said.

  ‘How’s it going?’ said Shepherd.

  Salik’s brother stood up. He was wearing a pale blue suit and a white shirt with a flowery tie.

  ‘You already know my name,’ said Shepherd. ‘Don’t you think it’s time I was told who I’m dealing with?’

  ‘I suppose you are right,’ Salik said. ‘I am Salik. My brother is Matiur.’ Matiur nodded at Shepherd.

  ‘The drive from Dover was okay?’ asked Salik.

  ‘Traffic wasn’t great, but I made it.’

  Salik took out his mobile phone and placed it on the table. It was a new Motorola.

  ‘How do you find it?’ asked Shepherd, indicating the phone and placing his own Nokia in front of him. ‘I’ve always used Nokias.’

  ‘Very reliable,’ said Salik.

  Matiur put his phone on the table too, another Motorola. ‘We have a supplier who gets them in bulk from Hungary,’ he said. ‘We can get you one, if you want. Nokia is a good brand but a phone is a phone. They are all the same.’

  Shepherd smiled and nodded, although his phone was not an ordinary mobile: if it was working properly Hargrove and Singh should be listening to every word of the conversation and, hopefully, recording it.

  ‘You like Indian food?’ asked Salik.

  ‘Sure. I’m a big fan of chicken tikka masala and a pint of Cobra,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s pretty much our national dish, these days, isn’t it?’

  ‘On the phone you said you were as British as roast beef and Yorkshire pudding,’ said Salik, with a sly smile.

  ‘You’ve a good memory.’

  ‘I need it in my business. Let me tell you something, Tony. Chicken tikka masala is British. It was invented here. And Cobra is brewed in the UK. And I’ll tell you something you didn’t know, I’m sure. Every time you’ve had an Indian meal in London, the chances are it was cooked by a Bangladeshi.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We are great cooks,’ Salik went on. ‘We cook better Indian food than the Indians. Most Bangladeshis are Muslim, as are we, but they still have to work in restaurants where alcohol is served. We are an adaptable people, Tony. We have had to adapt to survive.’ A waiter hovered at Salik’s shoulder and he spoke to him in rapid Bengali. The waiter moved away. ‘I have ordered you a Kingfisher,’ Salik said. ‘It is more authentic, but only just.’

  ‘You don’t drink beer?’

  ‘Muslims don’t drink any alcohol,’ said Salik, emphatically.

  ‘I’ve seen Arabs in the West End knocking back champagne like there was no tomorrow,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Then they were not Muslims,’ said Matiur. ‘Or not true Muslims.’

  ‘We have no problem with you partaking,’ said Salik, ‘but alcohol must not pass a true Muslim’s lips. And pork is forbidden, too. That’s why you will never see it in an Indian restaurant. The chef would rather die than prepare it.’

  ‘Do you know much about our country?’ asked Matiur.

  ‘It has the wettest climate in the world,’ said Shepherd, and the two Bangladeshis burst out laughing.

  ‘That is true,’ said Salik. ‘I am sure that when I was a child it rained every day.’

  ‘It is one of the reasons we love this country,’ said Matiur. ‘When it rains, it reminds us of home. And it rains a lot here.’

  The waiter returned with Shepherd’s Kingfisher lager, which he poured into a frosted glass, then placed three glasses of iced water on the table. Salik and Matiur raised one each to toast Shepherd. ‘To our new friend,’ said Salik.

  ‘To a profitable relationship,’ said Matiur. ‘ Inshallah.’

  Shepherd frowned. He knew what the phrase meant, but Tony Corke wouldn’t.

  ‘God willing,’ explained Salik.

  Shepherd nodded. ‘ Inshallah,’ he repeated. He put down his lager, picked up his water glass, and clinked it against the brothers’. ‘ Inshallah,’ he said again.

  The two brothers nodded approvingly and Shepherd knew he’d done the right thing in not accepting the toast with his lager. He sipped his iced water.

  ‘So, what else do you know about Bangladesh?’ asked Salik, as the waiter tried to hand them menus. He spoke briefly to the man, who hurried off. ‘The chef is an old friend. He will take care of us,’ Salik explained. ‘So, you think Bangladesh is part of India, don’t you? Everybody does.’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘It used to be part of Pakistan.’

  Salik looked surprised. ‘You are right. We gained our independence in 1971 after a civil war. Bangladesh means “land of the Bengali people”. We should never have been part of Pakistan. Like the British taking over Northern Ireland.’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘I’m not sure that’s the same thing,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, it is,’ said Salik, seriously. ‘You should
read your history. The Irish are fighting for what we had to fight for thirty years ago.’

  ‘What about you?’ asked Shepherd. ‘When did you come to this country?’

  ‘I was three years old,’ said Salik. ‘My father came over just after I was born, in 1958, and he sent for me and my mother and my three siblings a few years later. He worked as a hotel porter and by the time he died he owned three hotels here in Bayswater and had twenty-four grandchildren.’

  ‘A good life,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘A good life, well lived,’ agreed Salik. ‘I should be as lucky as my father. Inshallah.’

  ‘You have a big family?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Four children,’ said Salik proudly. He took out his wallet and unfolded a flap to reveal small photographs of three boys and a girl, all neat in school uniforms, smiling at the camera with bright eyes.

  ‘Nice kids,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And you, Tony? You have a family?’

  ‘Divorced,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s hard to keep a relationship when you’re at sea.’

  ‘My father spent three years in London while my mother stayed in Bangladesh,’ said Salik. ‘True love never dies.’

  ‘I guess my wife didn’t really love me,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Children?’

  ‘A boy. I don’t see much of him. She moved up north with her new boyfriend.’

  ‘A boy needs his father,’ said Salik. ‘He needs his mother when he is a child but he needs his father to show him how to be a man.’

  ‘No argument there,’ said Shepherd. He picked up his glass and sipped his lager.

  The first dishes arrived, along with an oval stainless-steel plate piled high with rice. ‘Ah, the chef’s speciality,’ said Salik. ‘ Aloo dom. Potato curry. The secret is in the yoghurt he adds. My own wife can’t cook aloo dom as well as he can.’

  Another waiter appeared from the kitchen with a tray of more stainless-steel bowls. Salik pointed at each in turn as they were placed on the table.

  ‘ Doi begun,’ he said. ‘Aubergine in yoghurt. Kanchkolar dom, green banana curry.’ He pointed at another dish. ‘Now this one I doubt you’ll have had before. Shukta – it’s lauo with lentils. One of my favourites. Lauo is bottle gourd. Do you know it? Like melon, but not as sweet. It’s a difficult flavour to describe. Anyway, you fry cubes of lauo with mung beans, then simmer with ginger and turmeric, add peas and a sprinkling of coriander leaves.’ He smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘What the chef here does is to fry mustard seeds in hot oil, then add the cooked vegetables and bring them to the boil again. It’s one of his secrets but I bribed one of the waiters to tell me what he does.’ He laughed.