Ervin called to him in Albanian. The driver leaned into the car and popped open the boot.
Shepherd stopped. ‘Now what?’ he asked.
Ervin grinned – and Shepherd realised he’d made a big mistake in turning his back on Artur. He heard a swishing sound, then something hard thumped behind his left ear and everything went black.
When Shepherd came to he was lying in the foetal position in pitch darkness. He could hear muffled street sounds and the floor was vibrating. He was still in the boot of the car and his head ached. He reached up with his right hand as a sharp pain lanced his skull. He cursed and groped around with his hands for something he could use to force his way out, but there was nothing. He was lying on thick carpet that smelt of chemicals. As it was a Mercedes, he was pretty sure there was a spare wheel and a tool-kit under the floor, but he didn’t know how he could get at it in the confined space. Mentally he went through the contents of his pockets. His wallet. The mobile phone. His keys. Loose change. His Peter Devereux passport. Hardly an arsenal, and certainly no match for three men with guns.
He cursed himself for his stupidity. He should have agreed to go with them in the first place: then at least he’d have been travelling in comfort, not locked in the boot. The big question, Shepherd knew, was what they would do next. If it had been a set-up from the start he would be dead as soon as they opened the boot. If they had any sense they’d pump half a dozen bullets into him first chance they got, because if they didn’t he’d come out fighting and a man with nothing to lose could do a hell of a lot of damage. Was he in the boot because he’d been argumentative, or had that been the plan from the start? Shepherd squinted at the luminous dial of his Rolex Submariner. He had only been out for a few minutes, which was another good sign because Artur could probably have hit him a lot harder if he’d wanted to. They hadn’t tied him up either. So, all in all, everything was looking rosy.
The car turned sharply to the left, slowed, then took another sharp left turn. It dipped down and the traffic noises died away. They were in an underground car park. Another good sign. If they’d been going to kill him they’d probably have driven out into the countryside.
The Mercedes slowed to a crawl, turned, and the engine died. Shepherd tensed. He was ninety-five per cent sure that this was going to work out all right, but the adrenaline kicked in, his heart pounded and he started to breathe faster.
The boot clicked. Shepherd grunted, kicked it open with his feet and sprang out, hands up, ready to lash out. Ervin was standing a dozen feet away, his gun aimed at Shepherd’s chest. Artur stood off to the side, even further away, clasping a Glock with both hands, one finger tensed on the trigger. Shepherd stood where he was, breathing heavily. Ervin smiled. ‘Relax, Tony,’ he said.
‘ Relax? You fucking poleaxe me and you tell me to relax?’
‘What are you going to do? Kung fu? Karate? Even Bruce Lee couldn’t block a bullet.’
Shepherd glanced over his shoulder. The driver was standing by the open door of the Mercedes, holding a sawn-off shotgun. He looked back at Ervin. ‘Now what?’ he asked.
Ervin gestured with his gun. ‘We’re here,’ he said. ‘The boss is upstairs.’
Shepherd put a hand to his head, and felt his hair wet with blood. ‘So let’s go.’ He wiped his fingers on his jeans.
Ervin nodded, then spoke to the others in Albanian. Artur put away his gun and the driver slid the sawn-off under the front passenger seat. Ervin stuck his weapon into his trouser belt. ‘First, we must search you,’ said Ervin.
‘For what?’
‘For anything. Please raise your hands.’
Shepherd did as he was told. Ervin moved forward cautiously and went through the pockets of the pea coat. He examined the Nokia mobile and put it into his own jacket pocket, along with Shepherd’s wallet, keys, return ticket and passport.
‘I’ll want those back later,’ said Shepherd.
‘You’ll have them.’ He patted down Shepherd’s jeans to his boots. ‘I’m going to lift your shirt,’ said Ervin.
‘Nice of you to warn me.’
Ervin pulled Shepherd’s shirt out of his jeans and undid the buttons. He lifted the shirt, peered round Shepherd’s waist, then checked his chest.
‘Satisfied?’ asked Shepherd.
Ervin nodded. Shepherd fastened his shirt and tucked it into his jeans. The driver climbed back into the Mercedes and drove off.
‘This way,’ said Ervin. He led Shepherd to a lift and tapped in an access code on a console set into the concrete. A few minutes later the doors opened and Shepherd stepped in, followed by Artur and Ervin. It was austere and functional, lined with stainless steel. The doors hissed shut.
The lift was designed to stop at only two floors – the underground car park and the penthouse. There was no way of knowing how many floors it bypassed, but less than a minute later the doors opened and Shepherd walked out into a hallway with a red thick-pile carpet and gilded wallpaper, which featured rushes and long-legged birds pecking for fish. Ornate candelabra hung from the ceiling. At the far end of the hallway there was a pair of ornate Chinese doors. As Shepherd and the two Albanians walked towards them they opened. Shepherd wasn’t surprised to see that the man standing there to greet them was also wearing a leather jacket and jeans. It seemed to be the standard uniform: Albanian gangster chic.
He grunted at Ervin and held the door open for them. The room they went into was huge with high ceilings, more candelabra, a massive marble fireplace that was almost as tall as Shepherd, and gilt furniture with overstuffed red cushions. There were ornate statues everywhere – dolphins, lions, African warriors holding spears – and a massive plasma-screen television on one wall with huge speakers. Shepherd stood at the window, which looked out over the Seine and the towers of Notre Dame Cathedral. They were right in the centre of Paris and the apartment must have been worth millions of euros.
A door opened at the far end of the room and a small but powerfully built man came in. He had close-cropped grey hair and a square chin, which he thrust up like a boxer eager to get started. He was wearing a salmon-pink polo shirt, cream trousers and pale tan loafers, as if he’d just stepped off a golf course.
‘Nice view,’ said Shepherd.
‘You don’t notice it after a while,’ said the man. ‘I am Kreshnik. My men tell me you did not want to accompany them.’ He had a thick Central European accent but was obviously fluent in English. He waved for Shepherd to sit down on one of the sofas.
Shepherd stayed where he was. ‘Salik said I was to meet you guys in Paris. He didn’t say I was going to be thrown into the boot of a car.’
‘That was because you didn’t go with them willingly,’ said Kreshnik. ‘Now, please, sit down. Can I offer you a drink?’
‘No, thanks,’ said Shepherd, and sat on a large sofa. It was nowhere near as comfortable as it looked.
‘I have a very nice white wine, perfectly chilled.’
‘Fine. Okay, whatever,’ said Shepherd.
Kreshnik clicked his fingers and Artur left the room. He clicked his fingers again, this time at Ervin, who stepped forward and put the contents of Shepherd’s pockets on to the coffee table. Kreshnik flicked through the passport. ‘One of Salik’s?’ he asked.
Shepherd nodded.
Kreshnik put it down, then picked up the wallet and went through it, examining every card and banknote. He looked at both sides of the driving licence, then laid it on top of the wallet. He picked up the mobile and scrolled through the menu. He frowned. ‘There is only one number in the memory?’
‘Yes. Salik’s.’
‘No friends? No family?’
‘I only use it to talk to him.’
Kreshnik’s eyes narrowed as if he was squinting into a bright light. ‘You have no other friends?’
‘It’s a pay-as-you-go mobile. I have another phone I use to call friends. That one’s a business phone. If there’s a problem I can throw it away and there’s no comeback.’
&n
bsp; ‘You are suspicious of Salik?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘I’m suspicious of everyone,’ he said. ‘Especially thugs who whack me on the back of the head and dump me in a car boot. I don’t know, maybe I’m paranoid.’
Kreshnik scrolled through the menu again. ‘No calls made, none received,’ he said.
‘I clear the logs,’ said Shepherd. ‘You never know when some nosy bastard’s going to start searching through it.’
Kreshnik’s face hardened. ‘That would be your British sense of humour, would it?’ he said. ‘I’d be careful with that. Not everyone understands the joke.’
‘I’m just saying that in this business you have to be careful. The cops can trace every call you make. You must know that. You watch every word you say and you keep switching Sim cards. And whenever you can, you use public phones. That’s basic – everyone knows it.’
Kreshnik removed the back of the phone and peered inside, took out the battery, examined it, then reassembled the phone and switched it back on.
He put it down on the coffee table and picked up Shepherd’s keys. ‘These are for your car?’ he said.
Shepherd nodded.
‘What sort?’
‘A Land Rover.’
‘I have a Range Rover,’ said Kreshnik.
‘Nice car,’ said Shepherd. ‘Bit pricy for me.’
Kreshnik weighed the keys in the palm of his right hand. ‘No house keys?’ he said. He had a gold half-sovereign ring on his third finger.
‘I left them in the car.’
‘And the car is where?’
‘In a car park not far from where I met Salik today.’
‘You always do that? Leave your house keys in the car?’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘Habit, when you’re at sea. You don’t clutter your pockets with non-essentials,’ he said. ‘You carry what you need.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Kreshnik. ‘You are a sailor.’ He laid the keys on the table and watched Shepherd with unsmiling eyes.
‘Yes.’
‘My father was a sailor. Were you in the navy?’
‘Merchant navy. Six years. Five on the cross-Channel ferries.’
‘And now?’
‘I go where the money is.’
‘Why did you leave the ferries?’
‘They were cutting back. Competition from the Eurostar.’
Kreshnik held Shepherd’s look. His smile hardened. ‘I do not believe you,’ he said.
Shepherd held his gaze steady. His mind raced. Had he slipped up? ‘I had a bit of legal trouble,’ he said calmly. ‘A fight. I did six months in prison.’
Kreshnik smiled cruelly. ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘I can always spot someone who has been in prison. There is a smell about them. An odour.’
‘I showered this morning,’ said Shepherd.
‘It’s a smell that never leaves,’ said Kreshnik. ‘All the soap in the world won’t get rid of it.’ He grinned. ‘I have never been to prison,’ he said.
‘I’m pleased for you.’
‘Why is it, do you think, that I have never been behind bars?’ asked Kreshnik.
‘You pay off the cops?’ said Shepherd.
The Albanian wagged a finger at Shepherd, but he was smiling. ‘That sense of humour will get you into trouble. We don’t laugh much in Albania, unless we are drunk.’
Arthur returned with two large glasses of white wine on a silver tray. He gave one to Kreshnik, the other to Shepherd. Kreshnik clinked his glass against Shepherd’s, sipped his wine and rolled it round his palate with pursed lips. For a moment Shepherd thought the Albanian was going to spit it out, but he swallowed, smiled and nodded approvingly.
Shepherd drank from his glass then put it on the table.
‘The answer to that question, why I have never been to prison, is that I never do business with people I don’t know,’ said Kreshnik. He picked up the driving licence and waved it in front of Shepherd’s face. ‘Now I know you, Tony Corke, and I know where you live. Your date of birth. I have all the information I need to track you down.’ He slid the driving licence into the back pocket of his golfing trousers.
‘I’ll need that,’ said Shepherd.
‘You can get a replacement,’ said Kreshnik. ‘It’s one of the great things about your country. They issue copies of official documents so quickly.’
‘I don’t know what you’re so worried about,’ said Shepherd. ‘If it wasn’t for me, you’d have lost the consignment you gave that asylum-seeker. I’ve already done you a big favour.’
‘Salik told me you demanded thirty thousand pounds.’
‘It was more of a commission than a demand,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can I ask you a question?’
‘You can ask,’ said the Albanian. ‘Whether I choose to answer or not is up to me.’
‘I get the feeling you’re bigger than Salik. This apartment. The crew you’ve got around you. You’re in the Premier League. Salik, he’s Second Division. Hoping for promotion but still a long way behind you.’
Kreshnik smiled. ‘That is a reasonable assessment.’ His smile widened. ‘You know what my dream is, Tony? To buy a football team in your country one day. Like Roman Abramovich. He bought Chelsea. And that American – he bought Manchester United. I want to do the same. Liverpool is for sale, right?’
‘In England everything is for sale,’ said Shepherd. He leaned forward, fingers interlinked. ‘Look, I might be in a position to do some work for you. Salik told you about my boat, right?’
Kreshnik nodded.
‘Okay, then. I’m running cash for Salik, but I can carry a thousand kilos of anything over the Channel with next to no chance of being caught. I was working with Pepper on his trawler to learn the ropes, but I could see that his boat was a pile of shit. I can put ten men on mine and have them in the UK in under an hour. I can run them from France to Scotland if you wanted.’
‘I don’t run asylum-seekers,’ said Kreshnik. ‘I use them to courier cash, that’s all.’
‘Right. So I’m doing this run for Salik. You must have other customers in the UK. You could use me more often. A thousand kilos a run. That’s a lot of currency.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Or anything else you wanted to take over.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Drugs. Guns. I’m like Federal Express. Door-to-door, guaranteed delivery.’
Kreshnik took another sip of wine, his dark brown eyes fixed on Shepherd. He licked his lips. ‘Let’s see how we get on with this, shall we? Then maybe we’ll talk again.’
The Mercedes stopped in front of the Gare du Nord, close to the taxi rank. Ervin twisted round in the front passenger seat. ‘No hard feelings?’ he asked.
Shepherd grunted. ‘Guess not.’ He nodded at Artur, who was sitting next to him. ‘I’m not so sure about him. I might need stitches in my head.’ He climbed out of the car and slammed the door.
As the Mercedes drove away, Artur made a gun with his fingers and mimed shooting at Shepherd. In return Shepherd gave him a friendly wave.
He walked slowly through the station concourse. He had forty-five minutes before the Eurostar left for London. It was only as he passed through Immigration that he remembered he hadn’t eaten since the sandwich he’d had on his outward journey.
The train was packed, with every seat in standard class taken. Shepherd’s was in a group of four again, the rear-facing window-seat. The three other passengers at the table were Japanese women, chattering in their own language and exchanging their digital cameras with lots of pointing and giggling.
Shepherd folded his arms. He was angry, but couldn’t afford to show it. He was angry with the Albanians, for hitting him over the head and dumping him in the car boot. He was angry with Salik, for forcing him to travel to Paris. He was angry with Kreshnik, for the arrogant way he’d treated him. And angry with the French for not having been anywhere near him when he’d been kidnapped at gunpoint.
He saw Hargrove walking along the aisle. They made eye-contact and Hargrove nodde
d for Shepherd to follow him. Shepherd stood up and gestured to the Japanese woman sitting next to him that he needed to get out. She stood, bowing, and Shepherd followed Hargrove down the carriage.
The superintendent was waiting for him beside an unmarked door. He pushed it open and Shepherd followed him inside. The room was two paces square, with two first-class-sized seats at either side of a small table. Next to one a padded bench seat, with four thick metal hasps, was set into the wall.
‘What’s this?’ asked Shepherd.
‘One of the little secrets of Eurostar,’ said Hargrove. ‘They’re used to transport criminals to and from the Continent. There are two on every train. Immigration use them for deportations to France. Saves all those nasty scenes we used to see with failed asylum-seekers trying to kill themselves on planes or throwing themselves off ferries.’ He nodded at a metal cupboard on the wall next to the ceiling. ‘Guns have to be locked away in transit.’
‘The French cops, right?’
‘They can carry their guns until they’re at the halfway point of the tunnel. Then they have to put them away. Occasionally the UK cops are armed, Special Branch or SO19, but it’s mainly for the French.’
Shepherd sat on the bench and stretched his legs. ‘That could have turned to shit so easily,’ he said.
‘There was nothing we could do without blowing the whole operation.’
‘It wasn’t an operation, it was a disaster. I was unprepared, there was no back-up and no rescue signal.’
‘If there had been an opt-out, would you have given it?’ asked Hargrove.
That was a good question. If he’d not gone with the Albanians, the whole operation would have been blown. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘but it would have been nice to have the option.’
‘And would you have had time?’ said Hargrove. ‘The way Sharpe tells it, they hit you from behind and it was all over before he could do anything.’
‘That’s not the point,’ said Shepherd. ‘The point is that I was unprepared and with no back-up. I was on my own with them for more than two hours and if they’d decided to top me it would have been over anyway.’
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