Tall Order

by Stephen Leather

  ‘We sent a couple of our guys up to knock on his door first thing this morning but he wasn’t there. They spoke to a neighbour who said they heard a ruckus late at night so they got a warrant and had the lock picked but the flat was empty. There was damage to the security chain, though, as if the door had been forced. But that could have happened at any time. He might just have done a runner. Just a thought, but maybe you could bring your area of expertise into play. Birmingham doesn’t have as much CCTV as London, but you might be able to see when he left and if he was with anyone.’

  ‘I’ll give it a go,’ said Shepherd. ‘Text me the address.’

  ‘Will do,’ Margrave promised.

  Chapter 42

  Ten Years Ago, Dubai

  ‘T hat’s his car,’ said Bardot. A gleaming black Bentley with tinted windows had pulled up in front of the tower block where Mohammed Al-Hashim’s offices were based. Bardot and Yokely were in a white SUV with Dubai plates. Bardot hadn’t said where he’d got the car from but they were both wearing surgical gloves so that they wouldn’t leave prints. Their windows were also heavily tinted so no one could see inside.

  It was a ten-mile drive to the secure compound where Al-Hashim lived, most of it along a six-lane highway. Bardot and Yokely had done the drive three times that afternoon, each time with Gerry McNee following on a high-powered Kawasaki motorcycle. The bike had been stolen to order and false plates had been fitted. Leclerc hadn’t taken part in the rehearsals, he’d been stationed outside the office block to check that the target didn’t surprise them by leaving early.

  Now he was riding pillion, a Glock in an underarm holster. There was no need for a suppressor, not on a bike that would be travelling at close to sixty miles an hour when he took his shot.

  Leclerc and McNee were both wearing full motorcycle leathers and full-face helmets with tinted visors. They were parked by the pavement around the corner from the entrance to the building, engine running.

  ‘Here they come,’ said Leclerc.

  Al-Hashim was wearing the full Saudi gear – a long white thawb that Yokely always thought of as a man dress and a red and white checked keffiyeh headdress. He was carrying a Louis Vuitton briefcase. His bodyguard followed him, a sure sign that the man had not been trained in close protection – a professional bodyguard would have exited the building ahead of his principal. The bodyguard hurried around Al-Hashim and opened the rear door of the Bentley. He was wearing a too-tight suit and it was clear he wasn’t armed.

  Al-Hashim got into the rear seat. The bodyguard closed the door and went to the front of the vehicle to sit by the driver.

  ‘And off we go,’ said Bardot. He put the SUV into gear and edged into the traffic. Yokely checked in the wing mirror. The Bentley was a dozen cars behind them.

  Bardot drove smoothly, following the route to the highway. By the time they turned on to the major road, the Bentley was seven cars behind them. They couldn’t see the bike but that was to be expected: there was no reason for them to be anywhere near the target until the last minute.

  The traffic picked up speed on the highway. Bardot kept one eye on his rear-view mirror. The driver of the Bentley didn’t appear to be interested in switching lanes, which made Bardot’s job easier. All he had to do was to keep in the same lane as the target. It didn’t matter how many cars were between them, not until they reached the section of the road where they had planned to carry out the hit.

  Yokely flinched as a siren kicked into life but he relaxed almost immediately when he saw that it was an ambulance. The ambulance sped past them, lights flashing and siren wailing.

  They had decided the best place for the hit was half a mile before the turn-off that the Bentley was going to use. That was just two miles ahead of them.

  Bardot clicked his tongue. ‘He’s moving.’

  Yokely checked the wing mirror. The Bentley was indicating it wanted to move into the lane on its left. The traffic was heavy and no one was giving any ground so the indicators were on but the Bentley stayed in its lane. Bardot’s fingers were poised on his own turn indicator. They needed to stay in the same lane as the target.

  Eventually a Mercedes slowed, giving the Bentley space to move across. As the Bentley moved, Bardot flicked his turn indicator and edged over. The Porsche to his left initially refused to give way but when he realised Bardot was moving come what may he braked and banged on his horn.

  Yokely kept his eyes on the wing mirror. There were now just three cars between them and the Bentley, including the Porsche. The Porsche driver accelerated and pulled around their SUV. His windows were almost black but Yokely had no doubt that the driver was yelling at them and probably giving them the finger, too. The Porsche continued to accelerate, but then had to brake to avoid a truck ahead of him. The driver was clearly in full-on testosterone mode and he zigzagged impatiently and then broke right, missing the truck by inches.

  ‘Prick,’ said Yokely.

  ‘Yeah, but probably an Emirati prick, which means we have to be careful. Only the Emirati citizens are allowed that degree of tinting and if we have a bust-up with him on the road the cops will automatically side with him.’

  ‘Because we’re foreigners?’

  ‘Because we’re the worst sort of foreigners,’ said Bardot, flashing him a thin smile. ‘White foreigners. There’s nothing they like more than putting one of us behind bars. Any excuse.’

  Yokely checked the wing mirror again. There was a white Toyota just behind their SUV, then a minivan, then the Bentley. A dozen or so cars behind them was the motorbike, gaining on them.

  Yokely looked at the road ahead. They were about half a mile from the killing zone. ‘All good, Michael?’ he said.

  ‘All good,’ said Bardot.

  Overhead signs gave information on the upcoming turn-off. Yokely checked the wing mirror again. There were still two cars between them and the target.

  The Kawasaki was just four cars behind the Bentley. It was coming up on the driver’s side because the traffic was lighter there. But Yokely knew that at the last moment the bike would cross over to the other side so that they would be closer to Al-Hashim. Leclerc was left-handed, which would be an advantage.

  Bardot was breathing slowly and evenly, his eyes flicking between the road ahead and his rear-view mirror. They were almost there. ‘Ready when you are,’ he said.

  Yokely checked the wing mirror again. The bike was now tucked in behind the Bentley. matching its speed. As he watched, the bike eased over to the right side of the Bentley. Leclerc’s hand was moving to unzip his jacket.

  ‘Go for it,’ said Yokely.

  Bardot took his foot off the accelerator and let the speed bleed off. The gap between them and the car in front widened quickly. He looked in his rear-view mirror. The white Toyota didn’t realise that the SUV had slowed until he was almost up against its rear bumper and the driver braked suddenly. The driver of the minivan behind the Toyota was sitting up high so he’d seen the SUV slowing and was already braking. The Bentley slowed just as Leclerc pulled out his Glock and fired at the offside rear window. The glass shattered into a thousand cubes. Leclerc fired twice more and then McNee accelerated and streaked away. Yokely caught a flash of red and black and then they were gone.

  Bardot accelerated. Behind them several cars had collided in panic and there was a blaring of horns and the sound of tyres screeching. Thirty seconds later they were turning off the highway. Job done.

  Chapter 43

  Present Day, London

  T he man was good, no doubt about that. Harper had been keeping a watchful eye out for Button’s bagman and had come up with three possibilities before the middle-aged man in a pinstripe suit and a Burberry raincoat sat down on the bench next to him. For a moment Harper wondered if the guy was gay and wanted to pick him up, but the man just nodded curtly.

  ‘Charlotte sent me,’ he said. There was just a trace of a Newcastle accent.

  ‘Do you always dress like that, or is it a disguise?’ aske
d Harper.

  The man’s face remained impassive and he didn’t answer.

  ‘You look very smart,’ said Harper. He pushed the black nylon kitbag along the bench towards the man. Inside were the two cans of spray paint that he’d used, along with the bloodstained hammer and the Glock. He had taken the magazine out of the weapon, even though the Glock’s trigger safety mechanism was pretty much faultless.

  ‘Have a nice day,’ said the man. He picked up the bag and walked away.

  Harper didn’t bother to watch, just lit a cigarette and headed back to his hotel.

  Chapter 44

  Present Day, London

  S hepherd sipped his coffee as he stared at his screen. The address that Don Margrave had given him for Farooqi was a residential street in the south of Birmingham. Shepherd had gone to Google Earth to take a look at the house and the surrounding area. The house had been divided into flats or bedsits and there was a line of doorbells at the side of the front door. Farooqi had lived in Flat 3. Shepherd sat back and linked his fingers behind his head as he stared at the screen, wondering what he should do next. He called Sergeant Hurry over and showed him what he was looking at.

  ‘Naveed telephoned another Syrian refugee, a guy called Israr Farooqi,’ explained Shepherd. He tapped the location of the house. ‘This is where he lives. Can you see what CCTV feeds are available in the area of the house and patch them through to me?’

  ‘Sure.’ Hurry peered at the screen. ‘Birmingham? Yeah, they’ve got fairly good CCTV coverage and West Midlands Police are usually cooperative. I’ll see what I can do.’

  They were interrupted by Eric Fitzpatrick as he stood up at his workstation. ‘Dan, I’ve got Ali Naveed walking into an Internet café near Ealing Broadway station the morning of the bombing,’ he said excitedly.

  ‘Excellent!’ said Shepherd and hurried over.

  Fitzpatrick sat down and tapped on his computer, transferring the image on his computer to the big screen on the wall. Shepherd smiled when he saw that Naveed was wearing his distinctive Nikes and the same puffa jacket he had had on over the suicide vest. The image was clear enough to make out his features and Eric paused the image just as he stepped across the threshold. ‘He arrived at just before ten in the morning and was there for less than five minutes.’ He played the video on fast-forward and they watched as Naveed left the shop.

  ‘Well done,’ said Shepherd, patting him on the shoulder. ‘Can you give me a printout of him entering, one where his face is clear?’

  Eric nodded. ‘Sure.’

  Shepherd went over to Sergeant Hurry. ‘George, I’m going to pop out to talk to the owner of an Internet café that Naveed visited.’

  ‘Are you sure? I should be passing the intel on to SO15.’

  ‘I know, but we’re going to need to lock down the computer he used, so the sooner the better. I’ll get an MI5 computer forensics guy to meet me there. It’ll just save time.’

  The sergeant nodded. ‘Go for it,’ he said. ‘I should have the Birmingham feeds ready for you by the time you get back.’

  Shepherd headed out and caught a black cab to Ealing. On the way he called Amar Singh, one of MI5’s top technical experts, and explained what he was doing. Singh agreed to meet him at the Internet café.

  It took the cab almost fifty minutes to cross London to Ealing Broadway station. Singh was already on the pavement waiting, as always overdressed in a dark blue Armani suit and well-polished Bally shoes. He had a Cartier watch on his wrist and was carrying a Ted Baker travel bag. Shepherd paid off the driver and shook hands with Singh before taking him along to the Internet café. It was a single room with two dozen computer terminals in four ranks of six. To the left was a counter with a coffee machine, a display case of snacks and sandwiches and a cash register manned by a burly Indian with a sweeping moustache.

  Shepherd smiled. ‘Are you the owner?’

  ‘I’m the owner’s son but it’s a family business so, you know …’ He shrugged. He waved his arm at the computer terminals, most of which weren’t being used. ‘One day all this will be mine.’ He smiled ruefully as if it was the last thing he wanted.

  ‘And your name, sir?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Khan,’ the man replied. ‘Akbar Khan. And who’s asking?’

  Shepherd took out his Metropolitan Police warrant card and showed it to Mr Khan. He’d been issued with the card after joining the Lambeth unit and it was easier to flash it than to explain that he was with MI5. ‘Do you remember this man coming in, on the morning of the fifteenth? At twenty past ten.’ He held out Ali Naveed’s picture.

  Mr Khan squinted at the printout and shrugged. ‘What is he, an asylum seeker?’

  ‘Why would you say that?’

  ‘Because he’s an Arab and he’s young. We get a lot in here, checking up on their asylum applications and talking to their relatives in whatever shithole they’re from. They usually try to haggle about the cost and they never spend on coffee or food. And a lot of them look at porn sites, and watch them with the volume up until we tell them to use headphones.’

  ‘But do you recognise him?’

  Mr Khan laughed harshly. ‘They all look the same to me,’ he said.

  ‘Is there any chance that you would remember which computer he used?’

  Mr Khan shook his head. ‘Like I said, they’re in and out all day and if they don’t give me a problem I don’t pay them any attention.’

  Shepherd pointed up at a CCTV camera in the corner of the room. ‘Please tell me that works?’

  Mr Khan turned to look at it and nodded. ‘Sure it does. And we keep the video for a full year. We had a visit from your child pornography unit last year. That was a bloody asylum seeker, too. He’d been watching child porn and we were almost put out of business. Now we video everything, just in case.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd. ‘So let’s have a look at the footage for the fifteenth, twenty past ten.’

  Mr Khan nodded and turned to a laptop behind him. He tapped on the keys and looked over his shoulder. ‘The fifteenth?’

  ‘Yeah. Twenty past ten.’

  Mr Khan tapped on the keyboard again.

  ‘Do you mind if I have a look?’ asked Shepherd.

  Mr Khan stepped to the side. ‘Sure.’

  Shepherd bent down and looked at the screen. It showed Naveed walking in, handing some money to a man at the counter and then going to sit at a terminal, the one that was furthest from the door.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Shepherd, pointing at the man who had taken Naveed’s money.

  ‘That’s my brother. Akhtar.’

  Shepherd turned to look at the terminal. ‘We’re going to have to take that computer away with us, I’m afraid,’ he said.

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For as long as it takes, unfortunately.’

  Singh was already walking towards the computer, unzipping his bag.

  ‘Don’t you need a warrant or something?’ asked Mr Khan.

  ‘I’ll give you a receipt,’ said Shepherd. ‘And if there is any damage you’ll be reimbursed.’

  Mr Khan wrinkled his nose. ‘It’s all shit anyway,’ he said. ‘The computers are four years old and the keyboards get hammered. We’re trying to get the old man to turn it into a sandwich shop, that’s the way to make real money these days.’

  Singh unplugged the monitor and speakers and put the tower and the keyboard into his bag. Shepherd filled out a receipt for Mr Khan and he and Singh went outside.

  ‘How long do you think it’ll take to find out who Naveed was talking to?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Assuming he was using a draft folder, not long at all,’ said Singh. ‘We know when he was on the computer. It won’t be difficult.’

  ‘Keep me in the loop, yeah?’

  ‘Sure. Anything in particular?’

  ‘I’m just being nosy,’ said Shepherd. ‘How are you getting back?’

  Singh grinned and nodded at a brand new Audi A4 parked down the road. ‘My
new pride and joy,’ he said.

  ‘They pay you too much,’ said Shepherd.

  Singh laughed. ‘Not for what I do,’ he said. ‘And I’d make twice as much in the private sector.’ He walked towards the Audi as Shepherd flagged down a black cab.

  Chapter 45

  Present Day, London

  C harlotte Button had long been a fan of the J Sheekey seafood restaurant in Covent Garden and appreciated the fact that Patsy Ellis had chosen it for their meeting. The fact that it was more than a mile from MI5’s headquarters in Millbank was a bonus. Ellis and Button were old friends but after Button had burned her bridges, eyebrows would be raised if they were seen socialising.

  Ellis had arrived first and had taken a small table tucked away in the corner of one of the more private rooms. There was a bottle of Pinot Grigio in front of her and she was halfway through her first glass. She smiled when she saw Button and stood up. There were dark patches under her eyes and her make-up couldn’t disguise the unhealthy pallor of her skin.

  ‘Charlie, darling.’

  They air-kissed.

  Button sat down and put her Louis Vuitton bag on the floor next to her chair. The maître d’ had taken her coat at the door. She was wearing a blue suit, a close match to the one that Ellis was wearing. They had always had a similar taste in clothes, though it was less a coincidence and more that Ellis had been Button’s mentor at MI5 and she had copied many of the traits that had made her boss such a success in the service.

  A waitress appeared and poured wine into Button’s glass.

  Ellis lifted her glass and toasted Button. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming and thank you for …’ She smiled. ‘You know what for.’

  They clinked glasses and both drank. Button took a sip of the chilled white wine, but Ellis took two large swallows. When she put the glass down, the waitress reappeared and refilled it. Ellis caught Button’s look and she smiled defensively. ‘One glass, darling. And we are celebrating.’