Cold Kill

by Stephen Leather

‘No, you don’t, Dan. You have a perception, that’s all. Like you noticed I wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. You probably assume I’m not married. But maybe I took off my ring before this meeting.’

  ‘The skin isn’t white where the ring would be.’

  ‘The ring, if there is one, could go on and off as often as the Rolex. Or the pearls.’

  ‘Are you married?’

  She smiled, ignored the question, and finished pouring her tea. ‘Apart from the English Breakfast and the sandwiches, the great thing about the Ritz is that you can be among people but the tables are so far apart you won’t be overheard. Planting any sort of listening device would take a huge amount of effort, and there’s no guarantee that your target would be in range. Most of the people here are tourists so there’s little chance of bumping into someone you know. And the dress code will keep out most of the followers – the ones in the hooded tops and trainers. So, you walk through the Virgin megastore on Oxford Street, wander through Borders, then head here. The contrast will show up all but the most versatile, don’t you think?’

  Shepherd’s stomach lurched. He’d had no inkling that anyone was on his tail. ‘You know surveillance.’

  She added milk to her tea and stirred it slowly. ‘I was trained by the best, Dan, and now I work with the best. The problem is, I can’t trot out my CV to prove to you that I’m the sort of person you’d want to work with. And, frankly, we don’t have time to build up the sort of trust you and Hargrove have established. We have to hit the ground running, so to speak.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘I understand.’

  ‘I know you do,’ she said. ‘So what I’m doing here isn’t playing some silly game, trying to show you what a clever girl I am. I just want you to know that I’m a professional. I’ve run agents in some very dangerous places and I’ve never lost a man or a woman. I’ve never lied to one of my people. And I’ve never asked them to do something I wouldn’t do myself.’

  ‘You had a team on me?’ said Shepherd. He wondered if any of her watchers was still in the vicinity. Wherever they were, they were good.

  ‘No team, Dan,’ said Button. ‘Just little old me.’

  Shepherd sat back and stared at her in disbelief. ‘But you were here when I arrived.’

  ‘I had to run a little, I admit.’ Her smile widened. ‘Remember, all I needed to know was where you went. I knew your ultimate destination and that you were meeting me, so even if I’d lost you I’d have been able to pick you up again.’

  ‘But you didn’t lose me.’

  She smiled. ‘No. I didn’t.’

  ‘All the way from Ealing?’

  ‘You have a nice house. The garden could do with some TLC, though.’

  Shepherd was annoyed with himself. He took pride in his ability to spot a tail, but more than his pride was at stake: his life depended on it. Button was on his side, but there were plenty of men, the odd woman too, who would love to get close to him – close enough to do him harm.

  ‘Now I’ve hurt your feelings,’ she said.

  She offered him a plate of sandwiches and he took one. Egg and watercress. ‘I’m not used to being followed,’ he said.

  ‘If it makes you feel any better, I was never closer than fifty feet.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’ he said, and grinned. ‘Sorry. But if you could tail me so easily, so could others. And they might not have my best interests at heart. Hell’s bells, they could follow me home. I could put my boy at risk.’

  ‘Dan, you were spot on with what you did. But I knew what to expect. An amateur wouldn’t.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Is there anything you’d like to know about me? My background?’

  ‘You were Five, right?’

  ‘Straight from university. Fast-track graduate entry.’

  ‘You applied to be a spy, is that it?’

  ‘Pretty much. The days of university lecturers having a quiet word with likely candidates are long gone. It’s just another branch of the civil service, these days.’

  ‘And you ran surveillance teams?’

  ‘That was part of my work,’ she said. ‘I was in Belfast for a few years.’ She smiled. ‘I didn’t talk like a Brit bastard when I was there, of course, I had more of the Irish in me,’ she said, in a perfect North Belfast accent.

  ‘Counter-terrorism?’

  ‘I wasn’t handing out parking tickets,’ she said.

  ‘And in the UK?’

  ‘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.