Cold Kill dss-3

by Stephen Leather

‘This is a pep talk, is it?’ asked Button.

  Ellis laughed. ‘You don’t need one from me, Charlie,’ she said. ‘I put you forward for the job, remember?’

  ‘Only because I was after yours,’ said Button, only half joking.

  ‘A few years out of the fold will do you the world of good,’ said Ellis. ‘And you’ll be able to take the credit for your successes, which we’re never allowed to do.’

  Button knew she was right: SOCA had been a good career move – if she made a success of it.

  ‘Before you get too settled in, we’ve had a request for your assistance,’ said Ellis.

  ‘We?’

  ‘It came from the DG’s office. Not for you personally but the DG decided you were the perfect candidate.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Your Arab language abilities, as it happens. And your interrogation skills. Oh, and your sex, which makes it even more intriguing.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘They wanted a woman. Ideally a pretty one. I was going to cry sexism when I heard, but there is a method to their madness.’

  ‘Patsy, you’re talking in riddles. Who’s “they”?’

  Poppy nuzzled the back of Button’s legs.

  ‘The Americans. The request came from Homeland Security, which, as you know, now covers a multitude of sins. But it came at the highest level. Actually phoned the DG at home at five o’clock in the morning, and you know how she relishes her beauty sleep. Seems they’ve got someone in their embassy they need interrogating.’

  ‘They’ve got their own Arab speakers, surely?’

  ‘They want some UK involvement, because although the embassy is effectively on American soil it’s still our country. Just about. And apparently the only Arab speakers they have in situ are Muslims, and that’s not what they want.’

  Button looked at her watch. ‘When?’

  ‘Now,’ said Ellis.

  The windows overlooking the garden rattled.

  ‘It’s going to take me a while to get to Grosvenor Square,’ said Button.

  The rattling intensified. The trees at the end of the garden bent over as if they were being pushed down by invisible hands.

  ‘Not as long as you think,’ said Ellis.

  Button heard the whup-whup-whup of the helicopter’s rotor-blades, then saw its shadow flash across the lawn.

  ‘Must be important,’ said Button.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Ellis. ‘Very.’

  Button replaced the receiver and looked down at the Labrador. ‘Your walk will have to wait, Poppy.’

  The dog’s tail beat a tattoo on the carpet.

  ‘You really are a stupid animal,’ said Button. She headed for the kitchen door. She’d phone her husband when she got to Central London. When all was said and done Poppy was his dog.

  Jimmy Sharpe lit a cigarette and blew smoke out of the open window of the Vauxhall Vectra. Shepherd coughed pointedly and Sharpe flashed him a tight, but non-apologetic, smile.

  ‘When did you start smoking?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘When I was twelve,’ said Sharpe.

  They were sitting in the car a short walk from the Uddin brothers’ Edgware Road bureau de change. It was just before eleven o’clock, an hour before Shepherd was due to collect his new passport.

  ‘Haven’t seen you smoke before.’

  ‘Don’t read anything into it,’ said Sharpe. ‘I just felt like a cigarette.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And, Hargrove never allowed smoking on the job.’

  ‘Ah, so while the cat’s away…’

  ‘I just felt like a cigarette.’

  ‘Fine. Makes a change from you farting.’

  ‘Hey, you don’t have to wait in the car,’ said Sharpe. ‘There’s a Starbucks over there. Or you can go sit with the sand jockeys and have a hubble-bubble pipe.’

  ‘Not very politically correct, Razor.’

  ‘Well,’ said Sharpe, ‘take a look round you. Arab cafes, Arab shops, Arab banks and half the shops here have got Arabic signs. You wouldn’t think this was England.’

  ‘You’re Scottish, remember?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They’ve as much right to be here as you.’

  ‘Yeah, but look at them, the way they walk around in their white dresses with those tea-towels on their heads. Making their women wear black from head to foot. I’m Scots, sure, but you don’t see me walking around in my kilt scratching my sporran, do you?’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘I don’t know what my point is.’ He took another long drag on his cigarette. ‘Maybe there is no point.’

  ‘What do you make of Button?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Ah, a loaded question if ever I heard one,’ said Sharpe. ‘Not wearing a wire, are you?’

  ‘You know I’m not, you prat. And I’m serious,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Have you had a run-in with her already?’

  ‘Have you?’

  Sharpe laughed. ‘I love talking to you, Spider. Your defences are never down, are they? You’re always in character.’

  ‘That’s bollocks.’

  ‘Have I ever spoken to the real you in all the years I’ve known you? I get the feeling that all I ever talk to are the roles you’re playing.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  Sharpe narrowed his eyes and puffed at his cigarette. He held the smoke deep in his lungs, then exhaled it in a tight plume through the window.

  ‘Razor, piss off, will you?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’m your back-up, remember? I can’t piss off. If I piss off who’s going to haul your nuts out of the fire if it all goes tits up?’

  ‘Like you did in Paris?’

  ‘Cheap shot. Anyway, Paris worked out all right, considering it was kick, bollock, scramble all the way.’

  ‘I was bundled into the boot of a car at gunpoint,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I could have been killed.’

  ‘Could’ve, would’ve, should’ve,’ said Sharpe. ‘Anyway, what’s that got to do with Charlotte Button?’

  Shepherd tilted his head back and stared up at the car roof. ‘Nothing,’ he said.

  ‘Paris wasn’t even her operation,’ said Sharpe. ‘That was Hargrove, God rest his soul.’

  ‘Why didn’t Joycie join SOCA?’

  Sharpe grinned wolfishly. ‘What did you hear?’

  ‘That he wanted to stay with the Met.’

  ‘That’s the gist of it. He’s moving to the Drugs Squad.’

  ‘Button said she wanted him in the SOCA unit.’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I think his exact words were “I’m fucked if I’m gonna take orders from a tart” – or something like that.’

  ‘Because she’s a woman?’

  ‘Come on, Spider, when was the last time you took orders from one? There’s none in the SAS, right, and precious few in the army. The only time we use women in undercover units is in honey-traps, pretty much.’

  ‘That’s not true, Razor. There’s plenty of women cops around. Good ones, too.’

  Sharpe shook his head. ‘The big villains are all guys. Crime is an XY chromosome business.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean you can’t use women to get close to them.’

  ‘That’s what I said. Honey-traps.’

  ‘Racism and sexism in one day. You’re on a roll.’

  ‘Don’t get me started on religion!’ laughed Sharpe. He flicked the still-burning cigarette butt through the window.

  ‘Racism, sexism and littering,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘No biggie,’ said Sharpe. ‘We’re not cops any more, we’re civil servants, remember? You having second thoughts about Button?’

  ‘Not because she’s a woman,’ said Shepherd. ‘That didn’t even enter the equation.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Her background.’

  ‘You don’t like upper-class, university-educated, Home Counties, riding-to-hou
nds types, then?’

  ‘It’s not about liking. It’s about trusting. It’s about knowing your back’s being watched.’

  ‘You think she should be here today? You’re only collecting the passport. No need for her to be around for that.’

  ‘I don’t need babysitting,’ said Shepherd. He took a deep breath. ‘Okay, let me tell you what I think’s wrong about her. She thinks this is a game. Good against evil, cops against robbers. She’s spent her whole working life in MI5, most of it behind a desk, and when she wasn’t behind a desk I’m damned sure she wasn’t getting her hands dirty. She thinks it’s like some huge game of chess, where she sits there like a grandmaster-’

  ‘Mistress,’ interrupted Sharpe. ‘Grandmistress.’

  ‘Screw you,’ snarled Shepherd. ‘If you don’t want to talk seriously, go fuck yourself.’

  ‘Just trying to ease the tension,’ said Sharpe. ‘Besides, the vision of Charlotte Button in thigh-length boots and a whip was too good to pass up.’

  ‘And what’s that got to do with chess?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll put my hands up. I was focusing more on the mistress aspect.’

  Despite himself Shepherd laughed.

  Sharpe lit another cigarette. ‘You think she’s just an academic, is that it?’ asked Sharpe.

  ‘I think she treats it like a game of chess, and that we’re just pieces she moves around. And if a piece or two have to be sacrificed to win, then so be it.’

  ‘She said that?’

  ‘It’s just my take on it. But she did say it was a game.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She said “The game moves up a notch” when terrorism’s involved. How can anyone call terrorism a game?’

  ‘It’s an expression. Like raising your game. Or living to play another day.’

  ‘That’s what she said. I don’t know, Razor… She’s never fired a gun in anger, never faced a thug with a knife, never walked into a room with half a dozen villains who’d gouge your eyes out if they knew you were a cop. You walked a beat in Glasgow before you were in plain clothes. You’ve been in pubs when fists and bottles were flying, you’ve looked down the barrel of a gun and known that only your ability to bullshit would stop the other guy pulling the trigger. Hargrove had been there, too.’

  ‘Back when dinosaurs walked the earth, maybe,’ said Sharpe. ‘But, yeah, I know what you mean. Hargrove’s old school.’

  ‘She isn’t old school. She’s Oxbridge, fast-track promotion, management courses and human- resources bullshit. I don’t think she even knows what it’s like to be hurt. Maybe the odd manicure injury or a twisted ankle when she was getting to grips with high heels, but she’s never killed anyone.’

  Sharpe coughed and exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Neither have I, truth be told,’ he said. He made a vain attempt to wave the smoke out of the window.

  ‘I didn’t mean it that way. It’s about understanding how the real world works. She’s no idea how violent men can be to each other. The damage they can do. I was shit-scared when they put me in that boot, Razor. Logically, I’d talked myself into believing that they had no reason to hurt me, but on a purely physical level, I was scared. I know the damage a bullet can do.’

  Sharpe scratched his chin. ‘I’ve no reason to defend the woman, but just because she hasn’t been where the bullets are flying doesn’t mean she’s not up to the job. We should at least give her a chance, right?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  ‘Plus she’s got magnificent breasts.’

  ‘Razor…’

  ‘I’m just saying, Hargrove was a great boss, but there wasn’t much in the way of a cleavage, was there?’

  As Button walked away from the helicopter, two marines in flak jackets and helmets brandished M16s and one practically screamed at her to show her identification. Button smiled sweetly and produced her MI5 pass. ‘Charlotte Button,’ she said. ‘I gather I’m expected.’

  The older of the two marines studied the photograph, compared it with her face, nodded grimly, then handed it back to her. ‘Follow me, ma’am,’ he said. He led her away from the helicopter landing area towards a steel door set in a concrete wall. A third marine already had it open.

  As she stepped inside the building, the helicopter’s turbine roared and it clattered up into the afternoon sky. A man was waiting for her in the corridor. He was in his late forties, with short bullet-grey hair and thin lips. He smiled and offered his hand. ‘Richard Yokely,’ he said, with a slight Southern drawl. There was large ring on his right ring finger, and a small gold pin held his dark blue tie in place. ‘Thanks for coming, Ms Button.’

  ‘It’s Charlie,’ said Button.

  ‘Then it’s Richard,’ said Yokely. ‘I’m glad you’re not one to stand on formalities. If you don’t mind, we’ll talk as we walk.’ He headed down the corridor. He was wearing a grey suit and black loafers with tassels, which worried Button. Her mother had once warned her never to trust a man with tassels on his shoes. Her mother had been a housewife, and had never wanted to do anything other than raise her family and keep house for her husband, but she was an astute judge of character and had rarely offered her children bad advice.

  ‘This morning we pulled in a Saudi by the name of Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed,’ said the American. ‘We have reason to believe he’s planning a terrorist incident here in the UK. Under normal circumstances we’d put him on a plane to Guantanamo Bay but there’s a time issue so we want to start the questioning here.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Button, cautiously.

  ‘Now, you’re probably wondering why we wanted you on board,’ said Yokely.

  ‘I’m told you wanted a good-looking female to be part of the interrogation team,’ said Button. ‘In another life, I’d be flattered.’

  ‘You’re a fluent Arabic speaker,’ said Yokely. ‘That’s why you’re here.’ He grinned. ‘But, yes, we wanted a woman because although he’s Western-educated he’s still a Saudi, and Saudi men are somewhat chauvinistic.’

  ‘If you call not allowing women to vote and stoning them for adultery, yes, they can be somewhat chauvinistic,’ said Button.

  Yokely pulled open a fire door and stepped aside to let her go through first. ‘We took the view that a woman – and, dare I say it, an attractive one? – would put him on the wrong foot and keep him there.’

  ‘How’s this going to work?’ asked Button.

  ‘I’d like you to handle the interrogation,’ he said. ‘We’ll have him in an interview room and you’ll be asking the questions. I’ll be in radio contact with you and two of my operatives will be there to assist.’

  ‘With the questioning?’ said Button.

  ‘With the physical side of it,’ said the American. The corridor came to a T-junction and he steered her to the left.

  ‘Physical side?’

  ‘From the intelligence we have, he’s not going to want to talk,’ said Yokely. ‘Of course, you might prove us wrong, in which case I’ll happily eat whatever item of headwear you have available.’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ said Button. ‘If I’m running the interrogation, what exactly will your men be doing?’

  Yokely looked pained. ‘Charlie, the man you’ll be talking to might well be responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people. And may be planning to kill hundreds more. We won’t be using kid gloves. I don’t want you going in there under any illusions. The interrogation is going to be quite robust.’

  ‘Robust?’

  ‘Hard core,’ said Yokely. ‘We’re going to do whatever it takes to get him to talk.’

  ‘Within the law, right?’ said Button, apprehensively.

  Yokely smiled without warmth. ‘Let’s just see how it goes,’ he said.

  ‘And I conduct the interrogation in Arabic?’

  Yokely shook his head. ‘No. English. But show him that you speak Arabic. I want him to know that you understand the way he thinks. You don’t become fluent in a language without understanding a country’s cu
lture.’

  ‘So I’m a Western woman, but one who understands Arab ways?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘If he’s with al-Qaeda, he’s not going to respond to questioning.’

  ‘That’s a distinct possibility,’ said the American. ‘But we should give him the opportunity to co-operate. He knows we’ll never let him go now that we have him so we can offer him a way out. A new identity. Money. Whatever it takes.’

  ‘But again, if he’s al-Qaeda that’s not going to work. They’re fanatics. Most of them are prepared to die for their cause. Their religion promises them eternity in heaven if they die as martyrs.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘So if he won’t talk, and he refuses to be bribed, what then?’

  ‘Then we get robust,’ said Yokely. ‘Don’t worry, my men are experts. You’ll just watch, and learn.’

  ‘What about playing him the Barney song? Isn’t that what you do in Guantanamo Bay?’

  ‘You can mock, Charlie, but it works. It takes time, but exposure to banal music over long periods can bring on disorientation. And disorientation is half the battle. Problem is, we don’t have the time. You can try talking to him, but I think you’ll find that we’ll have no choice other than to get physical.’

  Salik smiled and passed a brand-new UK passport to Shepherd. ‘So, now I suppose I should call you Christopher,’ he said.

  ‘That’s the idea,’ said Shepherd. He opened the passport and examined the photograph and details. It was as perfect as the last passport Salik had given him.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Salik.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can’t sell the house until the court case is over. I might just have to walk away from it.’

  ‘Your fingerprints will always be on file,’ said Salik. ‘If ever you get caught by the police again, they’ll know you’re Tony Corke.’

  ‘I don’t plan to get caught again,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got the money you’ve given me and that’s enough to start over. Spain, maybe. Or France.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe I’ll go and work for Kreshnik.’

  Salik’s smile evaporated. ‘I hope that’s a joke, Tony,’ he said. ‘Kreshnik is a dangerous man.’

  ‘You introduced me to him.’

  ‘No, he said he wanted to meet you. It wasn’t my idea for you to go to Paris, you know that. I do business with him, but at arm’s length. Anyway, he’s happy now. We can do more business together, Tony. You and Matiur and me. We trust each other, and we won’t let each other down. You can make serious money, enough to start a new life anywhere in the world.’