Spider Shepherd 10 - True Colours

by Leather, Stephen

  ‘What happened?’ he asked Shepherd.

  ‘Knife,’ said Shepherd.

  Grechko shivered, knowing how close he had come to meeting the same fate. ‘You saved my life, Tony,’ he said as they headed up the stairs.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Anything you want,’ said Grechko.

  Shepherd stopped and turned to look at the Russian. ‘Anything?’ he said.

  The Russian nodded. ‘Money. Women. A car. Anything. Just name it.’

  Shepherd stared at Grechko, his face a blank mask. ‘You know what I want, Mr Grechko?’

  ‘Just name it,’ repeated Grechko.

  Shepherd nodded slowly. ‘I want to know why he wanted to kill you so badly.’

  Grechko said nothing.

  ‘I want to know what you did to him that made him hate you so much. I want to know what drove him to kill Zakharov, Buryakov and Czernik and to go to such lengths to get to you.’

  Grechko remained silent but stared at Shepherd.

  ‘Must have been something pretty important, yeah?’ Shepherd met Grechko’s gaze and the two men stared at each other for several seconds. When it became clear that Grechko wasn’t going to say anything, Shepherd smiled thinly. ‘That’s what I thought.’ He turned and carried on up the stairs, with Grechko following.

  When they reached the ground floor, Shepherd used his thumb and code to open the door. He held it open for Grechko, who walked out into the hallway and headed for the study. ‘Where is Dmitry?’ Grechko said over his shoulder.

  ‘The security centre,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Send him to me.’

  Shepherd scowled at the retreating figure. ‘Yes, your majesty,’ he muttered. He went back down the stairs to Basement One.

  He heard footsteps below him. ‘Who’s that?’ he shouted.

  ‘Leo,’ shouted Tarasov.

  ‘Is Dmitry still in the control centre?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Tarasov, coming back up the stairs. ‘He managed to get the emergency lights on. Mr Grechko is OK?’

  ‘He’s fine.’

  ‘And the killer?’

  ‘Not so OK,’ said Shepherd. ‘No longer a threat.’

  ‘I’ll check downstairs,’ said Tarasov.

  ‘Be careful, Ivan’s down there,’ said Shepherd. ‘He didn’t make it.’

  Shepherd pushed open the door to Basement One and made his way over to the security centre. Dmitry was in the briefing room, peering into a large metal panel. He looked over when Shepherd came in. ‘What the hell happened?’ he asked, frowning at Shepherd’s wet clothes.

  ‘I went for a swim,’ said Shepherd. He grabbed his jacket and slipped it on over his wet shirt.

  ‘What about Mr Grechko?’

  ‘He’s OK. He’s in the study. He wants to see you.’ He gestured at the fuses and wiring. ‘What’s the story?’

  ‘Some of the fuses have been pulled, that’s how I got the emergency lights on. Some of the circuits have been cut so we’ll need an electrician.’ He straightened up. ‘I can’t work out how he knew exactly what circuits to interfere with.’

  ‘He must have had help.’

  Volkov was sprawled across the table, snoring. ‘Drugged?’ asked Dmitry.

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Shepherd. ‘Alina usually makes the coffee.’

  ‘She was helping him? So why did he kill her?’

  ‘So she couldn’t betray him.’ He nodded at the door. ‘You should go and take care of Grechko. He was a bit shaken up.’

  Popov nodded at the far corner of the room, behind where Volkov was lying. ‘Your mobile phone signal should be back. There’s a jammer over there, a big one. I switched it off.’

  As Popov walked out, Shepherd took out his mobile. He was showing two missed calls from a phone that had withheld its number, and one from Jimmy Sharpe. There was one voicemail message, from Sharpe, and he listened to it. It was short and sweet – ‘Call me back, you bastard.’

  Shepherd went back out into the car parking area as he called him back. ‘I’ve got something on Farzad Sajadi that you might be interested in,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘That case is closed, pretty much,’ said Shepherd. He looked at his watch and realised that he’d missed the RV with Harper, Shortt and McIntyre. They would either have put the operation on hold or gone ahead without him.

  ‘He’s in witness protection,’ said Sharpe.

  It was the last thing that Shepherd had expected to hear. ‘Witness protection?’

  ‘The whole witness protection thing is now under the control of the National Crime Agency, which is why it wasn’t showing up on the PNC,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘A witness to what, Razor? The bastard was in Afghanistan.’

  ‘I haven’t got any details at all,’ said Sharpe. ‘There’s a rock-solid firewall around the database. All I know is that Farzad Sajadi is there. There’s a number you can call where you can speak to a representative, but the problem with that is that all sorts of alarm bells are going to ring.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘It’s not a call I can make, with the best will in the world,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’ve done more than enough.’

  Sharpe gave Shepherd the number and ended the call. Shepherd walked outside and called the number. A woman answered. ‘Good evening,’ she said, then remained silent.

  ‘I was told to call this number for information on an Ahmad Khan,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’ll need your name, position and ID number,’ said the woman. She sounded young and had a Home Counties accent. Shepherd gave her the information. The woman repeated it back to him. ‘And you are enquiring about who?’

  ‘Ahmad Khan. Now using the name Farzad Sajadi.’

  ‘Please stay on this number, someone will call you back shortly,’ said the woman, and the line went dead. Shepherd paced up and down. After a few minutes his mobile rang. The caller was withholding the number. This time it was a man, middle aged and with a Welsh accent. ‘Mr Shepherd?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you confirm your ID number please.’

  Shepherd repeated the number.

  ‘You were asking about Farzad Sajadi aka Ahmad Khan?’

  ‘I need to know what he’s doing with a British passport and why he’s here under two names,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s a limit to what I can tell you, Mr Shepherd.’

  ‘It’s important,’ said Shepherd. He was about to say that it was a matter of life and death but realised how clichéd that would sound.

  ‘I assume it is or you wouldn’t be contacting us,’ said the man. ‘The problem is that I have only a minimum amount of information on my terminal. Most of the information is protected and can only be accessed at a higher level. To protect the principal.’

  ‘He is under witness protection, then?’

  ‘That much I can certainly tell you,’ said the man. ‘He came from Afghanistan in 2003 and we prepared the new identity for him. And for his daughter, too.’

  ‘They have full citizenship? Their passports are genuine?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the man. ‘All his paperwork, and the paperwork of his daughter, is in order.’

  ‘Does it say why?’

  ‘Why?’ repeated the man. ‘I don’t think I follow.’

  ‘He was a Taliban fighter in Afghanistan. How does a man like that get a British passport?’

  ‘I don’t have that information in front of me,’ said the man. ‘What I can tell you is that there are two contact numbers on the file. One is for our own Defence Intelligence and Security Centre and the other is for the Defense Intelligence Agency.’

  ‘The DIA? The Americans?’

  ‘That’s correct. It’s a number in Washington, DC.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason why the DIA would be involved with the relocation of a Taliban fighter to the UK?’

  ‘A Taliban fighter, no. But the relocation
of Afghanis with new identities has been going on for years. Usually with translators or Afghan army officers who have been directly threatened. Some politicians have also been relocated.’

  ‘With new identities?’

  ‘If their lives have been threatened, yes. It doesn’t happen often but when it does it’s because the person concerned has done this country a great service.’

  ‘A service?’

  ‘Risked their lives to save British citizens, for instance.’

  ‘You think that’s what has happened in Khan’s case?’

  ‘I’ve no way of knowing,’ said the man. ‘All I have is the information on the screen in front of me. If you want more information you will have to either contact the two agencies I mentioned, or make an official request. But I can tell you from experience that such information is rarely released. Everything is geared towards maintaining the anonymity and safety of the principals.’

  Shepherd realised he wasn’t going to get anything else from the man so he thanked him and ended the call.

  He tried Harper’s phone and it went through to voicemail. So did Shortt’s. Shepherd cursed. They were almost certainly on their way to the New Forest, with Khan bound and gagged in the back of the van. He looked at his watch and cursed again.

  He hurried back to the control room, knelt down by the side of Podolski’s body, rolled her over and went through her pockets. He pulled out her keys and ran to her bike. The crash helmet was sitting on one of the bike’s mirrors. Shepherd pulled it on. It was a tight fit but wearable. He inserted the key, started the engine and twisted the throttle. The engine roared and he headed for the exit.

  Harper gave the mobile to Shortt. They were driving through a wooded area and according to the milometer they were close to where they needed to turn off. ‘Switch it on and check out the map,’ he said. ‘It’ll show where we need to turn off.’

  Shortt switched on the phone. ‘What about calling Spider?’ he asked.

  ‘Waste of time,’ said Harper. ‘This’ll be over within half an hour. Khan will be dead and buried and we’ll be on our way back to London.’

  Shortt scrolled through the phone’s menu and opened the map application. The map showed the position of the van as a small arrow, and there was a flashing dot to the left of the road some way ahead. ‘I’ve got it,’ he said.

  ‘Let me know when we need to turn off,’ said Harper, checking his rear-view mirror.

  The speedometer flickered at about ninety and Shepherd bent low over the motorbike’s tank to lower his wind resistance. He’d been caught by two speed cameras as he sped west but that didn’t worry him, he was more concerned about being pursued by traffic cops, but so far he’d been lucky. He was moving faster than the van, he was sure of that, because Harper had Khan in the back so he wouldn’t be doing more than the speed limit. There was a chance, just a chance, that he’d get to them before they had an opportunity to pull the trigger. Shepherd didn’t need the GPS to tell him where the grave was, his photographic memory was more than up to the job. The question was whether or not he’d be able to get there in time.

  There was a line of cars ahead of him waiting to overtake a sluggish coach. Shepherd gunned the engine and pulled out into the opposite lane, flashing past the cars and coach, the wind ripping at his clothes, now almost dry after his soaking in the pool.

  A car coming in his direction flashed its lights at him in disapproval but Shepherd wasn’t concerned about what other drivers thought about his speed. All he cared about was getting to the New Forest before Harper put a bullet in Khan’s head.

  Ahmad Khan could barely breathe. The duct tape across his mouth was enough to suffocate him but the sack they’d pulled over his head meant that every breath was an effort. He tried to stay calm and to breathe slowly and evenly because he knew that panic would only increase his oxygen consumption. He began to lose track of time and started counting slowly, marking the minutes with his fingers, but the lack of oxygen made it difficult to concentrate and he began to drift in and out of consciousness. At some point the van began to shake and vibrate and he realised that they had driven off the road and were crossing rough ground. They slowed and the lurching intensified and then they stopped.

  He heard the rear doors being opened and a gruff voice. ‘Get him out.’

  Hands seized his legs and dragged him across the floor of the van, then more hands grabbed his shoulders. He heard feet tramping across vegetation as they carried him, face down. Then he felt a lurch and he flipped over and he was falling. For a second he imagined that he had been thrown over the side of a cliff but then he hit the ground, hard enough to force the air from his lungs. He rolled on to his back. The sack was pulled roughly from his head and he blinked his eyes. They were outside and he was surrounded by trees. He lay there, staring up at the branches above his head, the duct tape across his mouth pulsing in and out in time with his breathing.

  Something moved in front of his face. A water bottle. Evian water. Khan thought he might be hallucinating then he realised that the bottle had been taped to the barrel of a pistol. Khan recognised the gun. A Makarov. A common weapon used by the Taliban, usually after it had been prised from the dead hand of a Russian soldier. It wasn’t a common weapon in England. He stared at the gun, wondering what its significance was. He knew what the significance of the water bottle was. It was a silencer, to deaden the sound of the shot that would take his life.

  The man holding the gun sneered down at him. ‘Do you know who I am, you piece of raghead shit?’ the man snarled.

  Khan shook his head. Maybe they had the wrong man. Maybe this was all some horrible mistake.

  ‘You killed three of my mates and now I’m going to kill you.’

  Khan looked to his left. There was another man there. In his forties. White. Staring at Khan with cold eyes. The man’s face was familiar, but Khan knew very few Westerners. It had to have been in Afghanistan. Which meant that he was a soldier.

  ‘Look at me, you bastard!’ shouted Harper. ‘I’m the one who’s going to put a bullet in your head.’

  Khan looked up at the man again. Three of his friends, he had said. When had Khan killed three men? He had killed many men over the years, which three was he talking about?

  ‘You shot them in the back, you fucking coward. At least you get to see my face.’

  ‘Just do it, Lex,’ said a third man, standing somewhere beyond Khan’s feet. Khan tried to get a look at him but all he could see was a gun. A revolver.

  Khan tried to speak but he could barely breathe and the only sound he could make was a grunt from the back of his throat.

  The man with the Makarov grinned. He was wearing gloves. Black leather gloves.

  ‘The men you killed were friends of mine,’ said the man. ‘I’m going to tell you their names so that they are the last things you think about before you die.’

  Khan blanked out the man’s words. There was only one thing he wanted to think about just then. If he was indeed going to die then he wanted his last thoughts to be of his darling daughter, the light of his life.

  Khan heard the roar of an engine off to his left. Then a flash of light through the trees. His heart leapt as he thought that perhaps rescue was at hand, that somehow the police had found out what was happening and were coming to save him. The engine noise got louder and he realised it was a motorbike and not a car, and then he saw it, bumping across the rough ground.

  The man with the Makarov saw it too and he brought up the gun with both hands and fired.

  The bullet glanced against the side of Shepherd’s crash helmet and ricocheted off to the side. He swung the handlebars to the right but hit the curved root of a beech tree and before he could do anything he was hurtling off the bike, arms flailing. He hit the ground hard but rolled and scrambled behind a tree. He flicked up the visor as a second round thudded into the trunk by his head. ‘It’s me, Spider!’ he screamed at the top of his voice.

  ‘It’s Spider!’ echoed McIntyre,
holding up his hand.

  Harper lowered his gun as Shepherd stepped out from behind the tree. The engine of the bike was still roaring and the air was growing thick with exhaust fumes. Shepherd pulled off the helmet and dropped it on to the ground, then knelt down and twisted the ignition key and pulled it out.

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ said Harper. ‘You gave me a shock there.’

  ‘You might think about identifying your target before pulling the trigger,’ said Shepherd, straightening up.

  ‘Yeah, well, we weren’t expecting you on a bike, were we?’ said Harper. ‘Anyway, you’re here now, better late than never.’

  He walked over to Khan and pointed his gun at the man’s face.

  ‘Put the gun down, Lex,’ said Shepherd, walking towards Harper.

  ‘What, having second thoughts, are you?’

  ‘We’re not shooting him, Lex.’

  Harper continued to point his gun at Khan’s face. Khan stared at Harper, his eyes cold and emotionless as if he didn’t care whether he pulled the trigger or not.

  Shepherd reached into his pocket and took out his Swiss Army knife. He folded out the blade and stepped between Harper and Khan. ‘Spider, mate, I’m slotting him tonight, come what may,’ said Harper quietly.

  ‘He killed Captain Todd,’ said McIntyre. ‘And he shot you, Spider. The bastard deserves to die.’

  ‘Then let’s at least hear his side of the story,’ said Shepherd, kneeling down next to Khan. He used the blade to sever the duct tape at the back of Khan’s head, then pulled it away from his mouth. ‘Did you shoot me?’ he asked Khan.

  Khan shook his head. ‘No, sir, I did not.’

  Shepherd put a hand on Khan’s shoulder. ‘And Captain Todd. Did you kill him?’

  Khan shook his head again. ‘No.’

  ‘Of course he’d say that!’ shouted Harper. ‘He knows we’re going to slot him, Spider. He’d say anything to save his skin.’ He waved the gun at Khan. ‘Get out of the way. If you don’t want to do it, you can leave it to me.’