He tapped out a number. The man who answered didn’t identify himself. He said simply, ‘Yes?’
‘Our meeting for tomorrow is still on schedule?’ asked the Saudi.
‘The following day would be better,’ said the man.
The Saudi ended the call. He finished his coffee and picked up his briefcase, then walked across the street. Between a shop selling bric-a-brac and an off-licence, a door led up to the shabby flats above. There were eight buttons in two rows of four. There had once been paper stickers on the buttons with typed names but now they were all illegible. Someone had written the number ‘2’ on one in pencil. The Saudi pressed it. Almost immediately the door lock buzzed. The Saudi pushed his way in and climbed a set of bare wooden stairs to the second floor. The man he was there to meet had already opened the door. ‘ Allahu akbar,’ he said.
‘ Allahu akbar,’ said the Saudi, and walked into the flat.
The man was a Chechen. He had fought for his own people against the Russians, and in Bosnia. It was while he was fighting Serbs in the former Yugoslavia that he was approached by a representative of a Saudi charity. Two weeks later he was in Pakistan. Initially he was trained in the use of explosives but gradually his instructors realised that Ilyas could be used for greater things. His commitment to the Muslim cause, the fact that he had no living family and hated all things Western made him the perfect candidate to join the ranks of the shahid. They began to groom him to sacrifice his life for the jihad. He was shown videos recorded by shahids who gone to sit in heaven with Allah, then guided through the Koran and shown that there could be no greater glory than to die for Islam.
It was the Saudi who had realised that Ilyas was too valuable to be thrown away on a suicide mission, no matter how important the target. He had fair hair and green eyes, and spoke excellent English, albeit with a strong accent. No one would suspect he wasn’t European until they heard his voice. He was fearless, trained in the use of most arms from pistols to rocket-propelled grenades, a skilled driver and mechanic.
The flat where Ilyas had been staying for the past month was small but clean: a cramped sitting room with a futon and a coffee table, tiny bedroom with a single bed, and a cooking area with a double hotplate, a microwave and fridge. A copy of the Koran lay open on the coffee table.
An orange fluorescent jacket hung over a chair with ‘ NETWORK RAIL ’ on the back. Next to it stood a large blue metal toolbox with patches of rust on the sides.
The Saudi went to the futon and sat down. He placed his briefcase on the coffee table and opened it. Ilyas picked up the Koran and sat with it in his hands as the Saudi got out eight detonators and put them on the table. There were six triggers in the briefcase, which he laid beside the detonators; only four would be needed but the Saudi had included two spares. There were four nine-volt batteries, with enough wiring and connectors to complete four trigger circuits.
Ilyas studied the components and nodded slowly. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘When?’
‘Soon,’ said the Saudi. ‘ Inshallah.’
Shepherd sat holding his mobile phone as the driver of the black cab negotiated the traffic heading south. He had a serious problem and wasn’t sure how to deal with it. He’d only taken the Tony Corke mobile with him to the meeting. It was bugged and Hargrove had been listening to the conversation, assuming he’d been able to hear it through the pea coat. But Shepherd needed to talk to him. If he used the phone to call Hargrove, there’d be a record on the Sim card. He could delete the number afterwards but an electronics expert would be able to retrieve it. If the Albanians checked the phone when he arrived in Paris, they might want to know whom he’d called. Worse, they might even check the phone, and if they discovered the transmitter it would all be over.
Shepherd needed to ditch the phone, but he also needed a replacement. And for that he had to speak to Hargrove. He stared out of the window and cursed. Even if Hargrove had got on the case as soon as he’d heard that the Uddin brothers were sending him to Paris, Shepherd doubted he’d have time to arrange anything like adequate back-up. Once he was on the train it would take just over two and a half hours to get to Paris. Men had to be assigned, briefed and put in position. Surveillance equipment had to be requisitioned. He could talk to Hargrove and the bug would pick it up, but he’d have no idea if Hargrove had heard him. Equipment failed, usually at the worst of times.
Shepherd had just decided he would have to use the mobile when it rang. It was Hargrove. ‘We’re right behind you, Spider,’ said the superintendent.
Shepherd resisted the urge to look out of the rear window. ‘I’ve got to switch phones,’ he said.
‘Sharpe is on his way, on the back of a bike,’ said Hargrove. ‘He’ll be at Waterloo waiting for you. Men’s toilet. Swap phones and remove this number from the Sim card. You’ll be fine.’
Shepherd smiled to himself. Hargrove, as usual, was way ahead of him – he would be a tough act for Button to follow.
‘I’ve already been on to Paris,’ said Hargrove. ‘They’re getting teams in place.’
‘It’ll be tight.’
‘They promised me at least four men and another monitoring CCTV at the station.’
‘Are you going?’ asked Shepherd.
‘We’ll be on the train but we’ll keep our distance.’
‘Thanks. I’ll feel better knowing you’re around.’
‘It’s short notice, but in a way it’ll help the case,’ said Hargrove. ‘The French won’t have time to get audio but they’ll take pictures and hopefully identify the Albanians. That’ll give us a big advantage for when you do the actual run.’
‘Agreed,’ said Shepherd.
‘Is the ticket first or standard?’
‘Standard,’ said Shepherd.
‘In what name?’
‘Peter Devereux,’ said Shepherd. ‘Same as on the passport they’ve given me.’
‘Okay, let me call Eurostar, get myself and Sharpe on board. Be lucky, Spider.’
The superintendent cut the connection. Shepherd bit his lower lip. He hated going into any situation blind. Preparation was everything. Now he was trav elling to a city he’d only ever visited as a tourist and would be questioned by Albanian gangsters. He didn’t know who they were, or anything about their backgrounds, but they had his photograph and there was an outside chance they might know who he was. That was the big unspoken fear in every undercover operative’s heart: that someone out there might know the truth. And if the Albanians did, they’d kill him. Shepherd’s heart was pounding and he took several deep breaths to calm himself. He was worrying about nothing; he hadn’t worked against Albanians before; this was his first case involving counterfeit currency. All they had was a photograph and a legend that would withstand all but the most thorough investigation. Everything would be fine. In eight hours or so he’d be back in London, asleep in his own bed. He flipped off the back cover of his phone, removed the battery and slid out the Sim card. He put the Sim card into his wallet and reassembled the phone.
The taxi dropped Shepherd outside Waterloo station. He gave the driver ten pounds and told him to keep the change. As the man took it, Shepherd remembered that the station toilets weren’t free. ‘Sorry, mate, you couldn’t give me twenty pence, could you?’ he asked sheepishly. ‘I’ve got to take a leak.’
The driver handed him a coin. ‘Have it on me.’ He laughed.
Shepherd walked into the station and headed down the stairs to the lavatories. He put his twenty-pence coin into the slot and pushed through the turnstiles. All the urinals were unoccupied but two men were washing their hands at the line of basins. There was no sign of Sharpe. Shepherd checked his watch. There was half an hour before the train was due to leave and he still had to go through the Immigration and security checks.
He went over to one of the urinals. Two stalls were occupied, red squares showing in their locks. The rest showed green. Unoccupied. Shepherd urinated, whistling softly to himself. The two hand-washers left.
An elderly man with a walking-stick limped over to a urinal. A toilet flushed and one of the doors opened. Shepherd glanced over his shoulder. It was Jimmy Sharpe. Shepherd zipped up his jeans and went to a washbasin. He put his mobile phone beside it and started to wash his hands. Sharpe stood at the adjacent basin and put down an identical phone next to Shepherd’s, nodded curtly and thrust his hands under the tap.
Shepherd shook his hands dry, picked up Sharpe’s phone and left.
He slid his ticket into the automated barrier and showed his passport to a bored officer of the French Police Nationale, then walked through a metal detector. It amazed him that there were no checks by British officials on people leaving the country. Virtually every other country in the world examined the passport of anyone leaving, and often punished those who had overstayed their visas. Not the British. The government seemed to take the view that as long as people were leaving, that was the end of it.
The train was boarding and Shepherd took the escalator to the platform. Carriage number eight, midway down the train, a window-seat facing the rear in a group of four. Two students sat opposite, sharing an iPod and nodding in time to tunes that Shepherd could hear only as an irritating buzz. It looked as if the seat next to him might be empty, but at the last moment a middle-aged woman in a fake-fur coat hurried down the aisle pulling a wheeled suitcase after her. She rammed it under the table, banging Shepherd’s leg.
Shepherd closed his eyes and rested his head against the seat back. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting the Albanians.
The train pulled out of Waterloo. Shepherd asked the middle-aged woman to let him pass so that he could use the toilet and took the opportunity to walk to the front of the train. He hadn’t realised how long the Eurostar was. He counted the number of seats in one carriage and did a quick calculation in his head. More than seven hundred passengers on the train – the equivalent of two full jumbo jets. Virtually every seat was taken and there was no sign of Sharpe or Hargrove. He hoped they’d managed to get on because he didn’t want to be in France with only the French police behind him.
Just before the train went into the tunnel, Shepherd went in search of the buffet car towards the rear. He bought a chicken-salad sandwich and some coffee, then took them back to his seat. As he was unwrapping the sandwich he saw Hargrove walking through the carriage from the rear of the train. They had the briefest eye-contact and then he was gone. Shepherd relaxed a little. At least he was on board. And, presumably, Sharpe was, too.
Shepherd moved along the platform to the Gare du Nord station concourse, his hands in his pockets. He was fairly sure that Hargrove was some way behind him, but he didn’t look round. Ahead, a line of taxi drivers held up handwritten cards, and behind them was a Haagen Dazs outlet, with a scattering of tables. To the left of the ice-cream shop two big men in black leather jackets and blue jeans were staring at him with hard eyes. Shepherd hoped they weren’t part of the French surveillance team because they were as obvious as hell. He kept walking.
The French station was considerably scruffier than its London counterpart, the concourse littered with discarded fast-food wrappings and crushed cigarette packets. An old woman in a brightly coloured headscarf and a long dark coat flashed him a toothless smile and held out a gnarled hand. Shepherd shook his head and walked past.
The two men in leather jackets were heading purposefully towards him. Not surveillance, then. Shepherd stopped and turned to them, head slightly up, lips tight, playing the hard man.
‘You are Tony Corke?’ asked the taller of the two. He had jet-black hair that kept falling across his eyes, a narrow, hooked nose and a pointed chin.
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd, hands deep in his pockets. He wasn’t expecting violence in a public place, but he wasn’t going to offer to shake hands.
‘We are here to meet you,’ said the man. ‘I am Ervin. This is Artur.’ He nodded at his colleague, a heavy-set man with a square jaw and a five o’clock shadow. ‘Our English is not so good. You can speak French?’
‘No,’ lied Shepherd. He wasn’t fluent in the language but he had enough to get by. He didn’t want the Albanians to know that, though.
An old man with a wheeled suitcase that must have weighed more than he did banged into Artur and apologised in a gruff Scottish accent. Artur glared at him.
‘We have an auto outside,’ said Ervin.
‘A car,’ corrected Artur.
‘Yes, a car,’ said Ervin.
‘Nobody said anything about a car,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can talk here.’
‘We are just here to meet you,’ said Ervin.
‘You’ve met me. Now I want to go back to London.’
‘Our boss wants to meet you.’
‘Your boss can come here.’
‘He’s in his apartment. He wants us to take you there.’
‘Look, Salik said I was to come to Paris because you wanted to see me. You’ve seen me. I’m just a sailor and I’m working for Salik, not you.’
‘My boss doesn’t work with people he hasn’t met. He doesn’t trust people until he has looked them in the eye.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I said. In his apartment. Please, come with us.’
Shepherd glared at him. He had no way of knowing how good the French surveillance was – or even if it was in place. For all he knew, the two Albanians might have more than a meeting planned for him. ‘How far away is his apartment?’
‘A few minutes.’
‘Walking?’
Ervin shook his head. ‘We have a car. I said.’
‘No one told me I’d be getting into a car with people I don’t know,’ said Shepherd. ‘Salik didn’t say anything about it. All I had to do was come to Paris so that you could meet me. I’ve done that.’
Artur gripped Shepherd’s left arm above the elbow. Shepherd shook him off. ‘Don’t you touch me!’ he hissed. ‘Don’t you fucking touch me!’
Ervin stepped closer to Shepherd and drew back his leather jacket to reveal the butt of a gun.
‘What? I don’t come with you so you shoot me in front of a hundred witnesses?’ said Shepherd. ‘How stupid are you?’
Ervin put his hand on the butt of the pistol. ‘You think anyone will stop me?’ he said.
‘Probably not, but those guys over there might just come after you.’ Shepherd nodded at four armed men in black overalls and gleaming black boots standing at the entrance to the station. They were Compagnie Republicaine de Securite, the hard men of French law enforcement. They had MAS PA 9mm pistols on their hips and were cradling FAMAS G2 assault rifles. The G2, nicknamed ‘the bugle’ because of its shape, was a fair to middling weapon, but not a patch on the SAS’s MP 5. The French could easily have equipped their own men with the MP 5, but took a chauvinistic pride in building their own, albeit inferior, weapon. But while the weaponry was nothing to write home about, the men of the CRS were as hard as they came.
Ervin took his hand off his gun.
Shepherd knew he had no choice other than to go with the two Albanians. If he refused, the deal would be off. And if they pulled out of the deal, everything he’d done so far would have been a waste of time. There wasn’t enough evidence to put the Uddin brothers behind bars. And it was the Albanians who had forced Rudi Pernaska to carry the cans containing the counterfeit cash. If Shepherd walked away now, the Albanians would remain free. The only way to make them pay was to go with them. Besides, he was Tony Corke, and Tony Corke had nothing to fear from the Albanians. ‘Okay, let’s calm down,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s no need for artillery.’
‘We were told to take you to our boss.’
‘Yeah, I got that. Okay – but I’m on the afternoon train back to London.’
‘We understand that.’
‘So I’ll be back here in time for the train?’
‘Of course,’ said Ervin. He looked at the armed policemen, but they appeared to be more interested in a group of schoolgirls than a potential shoot-out on the station con
course.
‘Okay. Let’s go.’ Shepherd pointed a finger at Artur. ‘But don’t touch me.’
Artur stared at Shepherd, eyes cold and hard. Shepherd stared back.
‘Come on,’ said Ervin. ‘We are wasting time here.’ He said something in Albanian to Artur, who grunted, then headed for the exit. Shepherd and Ervin followed.
‘No hard feelings,’ said Ervin.
‘Not so far,’ said Shepherd. He glanced around but didn’t see Hargrove or Sharpe, or anyone who looked as if they were paying them any attention. Either the French surveillance was top notch or it wasn’t there. ‘What about Salik? Did you put him through this before you did business with him?’
‘We have known him for a long time,’ said Ervin. ‘We have done business many times.’
‘But with me you’ll be able to do much bigger runs, and make a hell of a lot more money,’ said Shepherd.
‘That is why you are here,’ said Ervin.
They walked out of the station and into the main street where passengers queued for taxis. They went past the taxi rank. Shepherd saw Jimmy Sharpe buying a copy of Le Monde from a newsagent and felt more at ease. At least one friendly face was close by. Sharpe flicked the paper under his arm and ran across the road towards a pavement cafe. There was no sign of Hargrove.
‘This way,’ said Ervin. ‘We have a car.’
Shepherd fell into step next to him. Artur stood aside to let them go by, glaring at Shepherd with undisguised hatred, then followed. Shepherd knew he’d made a mistake in insulting Artur, but the alternative would have been to let the Albanian manhandle him and he hadn’t been prepared to allow that. Tony Corke wasn’t an SAS trooper turned undercover cop, but he was a former merchant seaman with a criminal record for violence and it would have been out of character for him to let Artur push him around.
They hurried across the road and away from the cafe where Sharpe had seated himself at a table, then turned down a side-street where a large Mercedes was waiting, engine running.
As they walked up to the rear of the car, the driver got out. He was a stocky man with a scarred left cheek and, like the other two, was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, but with a blue New York Yankees baseball cap.
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