Cold Kill

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Didn’t Superintendent Hargrove see you regularly?’

  ‘We met occasionally, but he was satisfied with written reports.’

  ‘I’ll need written reports, obviously, but I’ll also want to talk to you face to face.’

  ‘For the grey areas?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Button. ‘A lot of my operatives will be moving into a different league, and I need to know they can take the pressure.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

  ‘Take Dan, for instance. Until now he’s been working on basic criminal cases. He poses as a drug-dealer, a bank robber, a contract killer, and he gathers evidence against criminals. Hardcore, some of them, but the Serious Organised Crime Agency will go after bigger fish. The IRA’s criminal activities, for instance. The Russian Mafia. The Colombians. Al-Qaeda. If I’m putting Dan up against them I need to know he won’t crack under the pressure.’

  Gift raised her eyebrows. ‘He’s tough. He’ll cope.’

  ‘That’s my view, too,’ said Button. She glanced at her watch. ‘I must go,’ she said. She stood up and offered her hand, which Gift shook.

  She left the coffee shop and Gift moved with her coffee to a seat by the window. From there she could look down at the platforms below. Button went down the stairs, then walked away from the trains towards the taxi rank. Gift smiled to herself. She’d caught Charlotte Button in a deliberate lie. She wasn’t there to catch a train. It had been an unnecessary lie, too, because it was of no concern to her where Button was going. Gift wondered why she had lied. Habit, maybe. Instinct. Or because the lie was simpler than the truth, whatever it was. Perhaps the Lancôme lipstick and the mascara weren’t for the office but for a lover. Perhaps there was more to Charlotte Button than met the eye.

  A phone woke Shepherd from a dreamless sleep. It was Tony Corke’s. He squinted at his watch – just after ten o’clock in the morning. He took a couple of deep breaths to clear his head. He was Tony Corke, seaman, with a son he rarely saw and a court case looming. Early mornings and late nights were always the most dangerous times, when he was most likely to let his mask slip. He ran through his legend, ticking all the mental boxes. Dan Shepherd was pushed into the background. His feelings and memories had to be locked away because they might betray him. He took the call. ‘Yeah?’ he said.

  ‘Tony, it’s me. Salik.’

  ‘Hiya, Salik. How’s it going?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Salik. ‘Very well indeed. We have something for you, Tony.’

  ‘Music to my ears,’ said Shepherd. ‘So, where do we meet?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At home,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I’m coming in to London so it’s not a problem.’

  ‘Why don’t you meet us at our office at, say, five o’clock? We can have a chat.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Do you have a pen? I’ll give you the address.’

  Shepherd didn’t need a pen. He knew the address already. It was the bureau de change in Edgware Road.

  Shepherd walked into the pub. Hargrove was standing at the bar, staring at a television set on a shelf close to the ceiling. A cricket match. Shepherd didn’t care for cricket. He wasn’t a big fan of games – never had been, even at school. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy being part of a team: the SAS was all about teamwork. The police, too – even on undercover cases, Shepherd was always part of a team. He just couldn’t understand what was enjoyable about throwing a ball at three pieces of wood. Or hitting one with a piece of metal at the end of a stick and walking after it. He was even less convinced by the pleasure to be had in watching others play. Spending ninety minutes watching two groups of men chasing a ball seemed to Shepherd a total waste of time. But that wasn’t an argument he ever wanted to have with the superintendent, who was a diehard cricket and rugby fan, and always wore cufflinks with a cricket motif.

  ‘Job well done, Spider,’ said Hargrove. ‘Jameson’s and ice?’

  Shepherd nodded. Hargrove ordered it, and another pint of lager for himself. He was wearing a tweed jacket with a red waistcoat, dark trousers and brown brogues: his off-duty uniform. When he was working, he always wore a suit.

  ‘We’ve got all we need to put the Uddin brothers away on currency smuggling, and the French had the Albanians covered at every step of the way,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘Are they arresting them?’

  ‘Not yet. They want confirmation that the euros are coming from the North Koreans.’

  ‘And then what? A strongly worded letter to the ambassador? They can’t put a whole country on trial.’

  ‘This is bigger than one court case, Spider. It’s about dest abilising economies. It’s political.’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘I don’t agree. It’s about profits. The euro economy is – what? Trillions? Trillions upon trillions? A few million isn’t going to hurt economies as big as France and Germany. A few billion could be absorbed without anyone noticing.’

  Their drinks arrived. The superintendent paid with a twenty-pound note and waited until the barman had given him his change before he replied. ‘You might be right.’

  ‘I know I am. They should do Kreshnik now, take him out of circulation.’

  The superintendent sipped his lager. ‘There’s a problem,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Shepherd. ‘He never went near the money.’

  ‘His men did. We might get them to give evidence against him down the line.’

  ‘They’ll have family in Albania and they know what’ll happen if they cross him.’

  ‘Let’s look on the bright side, shall we? His men will be jailed so Kreshnik will have to shut down the operation.’

  ‘And start up a new one.’ Shepherd grimaced. ‘It’s always this way, isn’t it? The little fish get banged up while the sharks live to fight another day. And the really small fish, like Rudi Pernaska, kill themselves in police custody.’

  ‘Spider …’

  ‘I know, I know. I look at the glass and see it’s half empty while others see it’s half full. But the thing is, the glass is half empty. There’s no getting away from it. And the world is a shitty place full of shitty people. And there’s no such thing as fair any more. The meek will never inherit the world, they’ll just get shafted until the end of time.’

  Hargrove raised eyebrows. ‘Rough day?’

  Shepherd smiled thinly. ‘Rough year,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not saying that Kreshnik won’t get his comeuppance eventually, but this time we don’t have enough evidence. Europol have him in their sights, though.’

  ‘I won’t be holding my breath,’ said Shepherd. ‘Their resources are as stretched as ours. That’s always the problem, isn’t it? It costs time and money to nail the big guys, and unless it’s a one hundred per cent sure thing the accountants say it’s not worth committing the resources.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure,’ said Hargrove. ‘Kreshnik’s involved with drugs and if any are ending up in the States the Americans will be on the case and money will be no object.’

  ‘Great. So the plan now is for the Americans to bail us out.’ Shepherd drained his glass. ‘Another?’ he said. Hargrove gestured at his barely touched pint. ‘Well, I need one,’ said Shepherd. He waved at the barman and pointed at his empty glass.

  ‘What’s wrong, Spider?’

  Shepherd sighed. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘The Uddin brothers? Is that it?’

  Shepherd smiled. The superintendent could always tell what was on his mind. That was what made him such a good boss. ‘They’re nice guys and they’re going to go down. They’ll be taken away from their families and banged up with drug-dealers, burglars and child-molesters for bringing in paper.’

  ‘Millions of counterfeit euros, actually,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘Paper,’ repeated Shepherd. ‘They haven’t hurt or killed anyone – it’s as close to a victimless crime as you can get. Yet they go to prison, while lowlifes l
ike Kreshnik live in million-pound apartments in Paris.’

  ‘So, life’s unfair,’ said Hargrove. ‘We know that. But it doesn’t mean we don’t put away people who break the law.’

  Shepherd’s second whiskey and ice arrived and he paid for it, telling the barman to keep the change. ‘Sometimes it looks like we don’t aim high enough.’

  ‘Well, maybe that’ll change with SOCA,’ said Hargrove. ‘I get the feeling that Charlotte Button will choose her own targets. I’ve always been at the beck and call of the various forces who use the unit, but she’s got more autonomy so you might get your wish.’

  ‘Cheers to that,’ said Shepherd, raising his glass. The superintendent clinked his against Shepherd’s and they drank.

  ‘Which brings me to why I’m here,’ said Hargrove. ‘As of today, I’m in my new post. Well, as of yesterday, actually.’

  The news took Shepherd by surprise, even though he had known the move was imminent. ‘Congratulations,’ he said. He heard the bitterness in his voice and forced himself to smile. ‘Seriously, congratulations,’ he said. ‘I’ll miss you.’

  Hargrove nodded. ‘I’ll miss you, too. The new job’s going to be a hell of a lot less exciting than working with you guys.’

  ‘Until the shit hits the fan,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Well, if we do our job right, the shit won’t ever get near the fan.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  ‘Who knows? Anthrax from a plane, a dirty bomb in a con tainer on a freighter, a barge of explosives sailing up the Thames to the Houses of Parliament. We can make all the contingency plans we want, but it’s like the IRA said when they almost blew up Margaret Thatcher in Brighton …’

  ‘The government was lucky, but they have to be lucky all the time,’ said Shepherd. ‘The bad guys only have to be lucky once.’

  ‘Exactly. And al-Qaeda are way more dangerous than the IRA ever was. The IRA would never have brought down a plane or thought about biological weapons. They had limits. Lines they wouldn’t cross. We had some idea of how they thought, how they operated, but al-Qaeda have thrown away the rule book.’ He sipped his lager. ‘Anyway, hopefully we’ll be lucky.’

  ‘Inshallah,’ said Shepherd.

  Hargrove raised an eyebrow.

  ‘God willing,’ explained Shepherd.

  ‘Inshallah,’ said Hargrove. He rapped the bar with his knuckles. ‘Touch wood.’

  ‘So, what do I do now?’ asked Shepherd. ‘I’m working for SOCA as of today?’

  ‘You’re in a transition phase,’ said Hargrove. ‘As always, there’s paperwork and human-resources stuff to work through. But Charlotte Button will phone you later today to finalise the transfer.’

  ‘And what about the Uddin brothers?’

  ‘She’ll take over that operation. Everyone’s keen that we find out who their man is in the Passport Agency.’ He smiled. ‘I’m going to have to stop saying “we”, aren’t I?’

  ‘I’m going to see them this afternoon at five to collect the money. Will you be handling that or Button?’

  Shepherd’s mobile rang. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and grinned. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he said.

  Shepherd popped a piece of gum into his mouth and chewed slowly. He didn’t like turning up to meet his new boss with whiskey on his breath, but Button had said she wanted to see him that afternoon and it had been an order rather than a request. He took a black cab and had it drop him a quarter of a mile from the address she’d given him: a shopping street in Marylebone. He doubted she would pull her tailing trick again, but he didn’t want to take the risk. He spent ten minutes making sure he wasn’t being tailed, then headed for the office where they were to meet. The entrance was between two shops – a high-class butcher and a florist. There were three brass nameplates by the door, and an entryphone with three buttons. The three firms were a solicitor’s, a travel agency and an accountant’s. He pressed the button for the accountant and Charlotte Button’s voice crackled on the intercom. ‘Second floor,’ she said.

  The door buzzed and Shepherd went in. Button was waiting for him on the second floor in an office lined with filing cabinets and volumes on tax law. There were four desks, and a door that led to another office.

  ‘This is very cloak-and-dagger,’ said Shepherd, as Button closed the door.

  ‘I understand Sam Hargrove preferred to meet in pubs or at rugby matches,’ said Button. ‘Hardly my style.’

  ‘There’s always the Ritz,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I can’t start pulling out investigation files in full view of the ladies-who-lunch. We have a number of offices like this so I plan to make full use of them.’

  She took him through to the interior office, which contained a big oak desk and a high-backed executive chair, with two smaller ones facing it. A large whiteboard bore several dozen photographs, head and shoulders shots.

  Button sat down in the big chair and motioned him to a seat. ‘Congratulations on the money run. I gather Europol are happy with the way things went.’

  ‘They’re not busting the Albanian guy who’s running the show,’ said Shepherd, ‘but, yeah, it went well.’

  ‘We’re keen to follow up the Passport Agency angle,’ said Button. ‘We’re not going to pull the Uddin brothers in until we’ve nailed their contact.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m going in to their office today at five to get my money.’

  ‘I’d like you to wear a wire. You’ve established enough trust with them, haven’t you?’

  ‘They’ve not given me a second glance at the last couple of meetings.’

  ‘She slid an envelope across the desk. ‘Give them these details, and we’ll be watching to see who enters them into the system.’

  Shepherd took the envelope. ‘What happens to the money I get?’

  ‘You keep it,’ said Button, and grinned at the surprise on his face. ‘Joke,’ she said. ‘Take it home with you and I’ll arrange to have it collected.’

  ‘So that’s it?’ he said. ‘I’m now employed by SOCA?’

  ‘Welcome aboard,’ she said.

  ‘I thought there’d be more to it. Paperwork and stuff.’

  ‘That’ll be on its way. Your next pay cheque will be from the Met, but after that you’ll be on SOCA’s payroll.’ She smiled. ‘With a pretty hefty increase.’

  ‘Thanks for that,’ he said.

  ‘Someone from Human Resources will talk to you about pensions, holidays and all that stuff. Any prob lems, let me know, but I’m sure there won’t be.’

  ‘Logistics? Vehicles and equipment?’

  ‘I’ll introduce you to our people as and when we need them. But you know Amar Singh from NCIS?’

  ‘He’s been working on the currency case.’

  ‘He’s on our tech team.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  ‘I’ll get him to call you later to arrange the wire.’

  ‘And what about the other undercover operatives?’

  ‘The same applies. As and when you work with other team members, you’ll be introduced. But there’ll be no office parties or group hugs. There might be times when you come up against other members of the team without knowing it.’

  ‘That could be dangerous.’

  ‘On the contrary, it could be a life-saver. The fewer people who know what you do, the fewer people there are who can betray you.’

  ‘What about Jimmy Sharpe?’

  Button nodded. ‘He’s in. First-class operator. You can use him today as back-up.’

  ‘Paul Joyce?’

  ‘Decided he’d prefer to remain with the Met. I wanted him on board – it was his call.’

  Shepherd wanted to run a number of other names by her, but there would be time for that later. ‘What about cases? Do you have some lined up?’

  Button smiled thinly. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘My bosses have given me a list of targets. High-profile villains they regard as priorities. But one step at a time, Spider. We’re hitt
ing the ground running but we’re not rushing into anything. The Uddin brothers and their passports are your priority.’

  ‘It’s a small deal, financially. Ten grand a passport.’

  ‘But a huge deal politically,’ said Button. She stood up and went to the whiteboard. ‘Look at this.’

  Shepherd joined her and stared at the photographs. There were forty in all; most were in colour but a handful were black and white. All but two were men. A few weren’t even photographs but artists’ impressions.

  ‘Let me tell you a story,’ said Button. ‘It goes back to 1992 when the government of Bosnia and Herzegovina held a referendum on independence. The result was a call for independence and separation from Serbia, and the result was civil war, with Bosnian Serbs murdering thousands of Bosnian Muslims. Ethnic-cleansing on a massive scale, just a few hours’ flight from London. Muslim fighters from all over the world, America, Russia and Europe, piled into the former Yugoslavia to help. Now jump ahead a few years. The UN peacekeepers are in, the civil war is over. Money is pouring into Bosnia to pay for reconstruction. Millions of dollars. A big chunk comes from Saudi Arabia. Muslims helping Muslims. Nothing wrong with that. King Fahd puts in $100 million from his own pocket. The Saudi government pours in $450 million, restores water supplies, rebuilds schools and mosques, and takes care of seven thousand orphans. A whole raft of Saudi-funded aid agencies and charities moves in. And that’s where the trouble starts. Move ahead to 2001. The Americans invade Afghanistan a few weeks after the attacks on the World Trade Center. In 2003, they invade Iraq. Elements of the Muslim world see America as the enemy and want revenge. The jihad begins in earnest. Muslim terrorists carry out atrocities around the world. Terror has a new face – Arab men with beards and baggy trousers. The world goes on high alert. Every Arab who gets on to a plane is watched. Every Arab family is regarded with suspicion. Arabs and Asians get stopped more often by the police. Their passports are looked at more closely. It gets harder and harder for Arabs to travel, to apply for visas, to book into hotels, to hire cars. And that’s when we come back to Bosnia.’

  She walked over to a window and looked down at the street below.