The man next to him also smiled. ‘Allahu Akbar,’ he echoed. He was the Spotter. He had been with the Sniper for two years. Before that there had been another, but he had been shot by the Americans when the car he was in hadn’t slowed for a roadblock on the outskirts of Baghdad. In a perfect world the Sniper would have chosen to work alone. But the world wasn’t perfect and a sniper always needed a spotter. A sniper could be so focused on his target that he would no longer be aware of what was going on around him. And while the Sniper was concentrating, the Spotter could keep an eye on the wind. A palm frond swaying, a flag fluttering, a column of smoke dissipating gave clues to the direction and strength of the wind. The Spotter would whisper his estimation of its characteristics and the Sniper would adjust his aim accordingly. A good spotter meant the difference between a good shot and a perfect shot, and so far all two hundred and thirty-seven of his shots had been perfect. Two hundred and thirty-seven shots, two hundred and thirty-seven kills.
The Spotter waited by the Sniper’s side to see what he would do next. Sometimes the Sniper would shoot once, then move on. Sometimes he would wait and select a second target. They were on top of a building overlooking the street and it was clear that the soldiers, frantically seeking cover, had no idea where the shot had come from.
The Humvee had stopped but the men inside stayed where they were. The children were running down the street, screaming in terror, but the Iraqi civilians just stood and stared at the dead soldier. The Iraqis knew they had nothing to fear. The Sniper only shot Americans in uniform.
He slotted another round into the breech. He had decided to wait for the second shot. At some point the soldiers would go to retrieve their fallen comrade and that was when he would make his second shot of the day. His second shot and his second kill. He pressed his eye to the rubber cup of the telescopic sight and waited.
Driving into Central London was a pain at the best of times but early evening meant tackling the rush-hour and Shepherd was in no mood to be sitting in traffic. He caught a Central Line train at Ealing Broadway and read the Daily Mail as he headed east. A former general turned military commentator had been given two pages to detail the problems facing the coalition forces in Iraq. His line was that while it had been a mistake to invade Iraq in the first place, it would be an even bigger mistake to pull out before democracy had been established. That would lead to only one thing: all-out civil war in which hundreds of thousands would die. Shepherd wasn’t an expert on military affairs, but he agreed with the former general’s conclusions. He had always felt that invading Iraq had been a huge mistake. Saddam Hussein had been a tyrant, who had maimed and murdered his people, but Shepherd figured that other countries should be left to work out their own problems. If America felt justified in invading Iraq because it disagreed with the way the country was being run, what was to stop China deciding that they could do a better job of running America than the President?
The decision of President Bush Senior to go to war against Iraq to liberate Kuwait had made perfect sense, politically, morally and legally. His son’s motives in invading made less sense to Shepherd, and he was even more bewildered by the British Prime Minister’s decision to commit British troops to the fight. If Shepherd had still been in the SAS when the war had started he would happily have gone to Iraq. He was a soldier and a good soldier obeyed orders, even when they knew that those orders were wrong.
Shepherd left the train at Notting Hill Gate and flagged down a black cab. He had it drop him a couple of hundred yards from the shopping street where Button wanted to meet. He spent fifteen minutes checking he wasn’t being tailed, then headed to the high-class butcher’s whose window was full of organic beef and free-range chickens. On the way he spotted Sharpe, sitting in a coffee shop and pretending to read the Evening Standard. Shepherd slipped in through the door and moved cautiously behind him. He was just about to put a hand on Sharpe’s shoulder when Sharpe spoke without looking around: ‘Don’t play silly buggers,’ he snarled.
‘Just checking you were on the ball. How long have you been here?’
‘An hour,’ said Sharpe. ‘Her Majesty went in fifteen minutes ago.’
‘And you’re waiting for what, exactly?’
Sharpe put down his paper. ‘Always arrive early, you know that.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
‘I’ll take her a tea,’ said Shepherd.
‘You didn’t bring teacher an apple?’
‘I want a coffee so I’ll take her a tea. It’s not brown-nosing. If we were meeting Hargrove in a pub we’d buy him a drink.’ Sam Hargrove had been their boss in the days before their undercover unit had become part of the Serious Organised Crime Agency. He had always preferred to hold his meetings in pubs or at sporting events. Unlike Charlotte Button, who had moved to the unit from MI5, Hargrove had been a career cop with almost thirty years in the job.
Shepherd went to the counter and ordered. ‘I’ll have a latte,’ said Sharpe, at his shoulder.
Shepherd paid, the girl behind the counter slotted the cups into a cardboard tray and Sharpe took it from her. ‘Least I can do is carry them,’ he said.
He followed Shepherd across the road. The door that led to the offices above the shops was between the butcher’s and a florist. There were three brass nameplates at the side of the door and an entryphone with three buttons. Shepherd pressed the middle one and smiled up at the CCTV camera that monitored the entrance. The door buzzed. He went in and climbed up with Sharpe to the second floor.
Charlotte Button had the door open for them. She was wearing a white jacket over a floral dress and looked as if she had just come from a christening. ‘Everything all right?’ she asked.
‘I brought you a tea,’ said Sharpe.
‘Razor, that’s so sweet,’ she said, and took the paper cup from him.
Sharpe looked at Shepherd and winked. Shepherd mouthed an obscenity at him.
The office was lined with filing cabinets and volumes on tax law. There were four desks, one in each corner, and a door leading to another office.
‘Through there,’ she said. The two men stood aside to let her go in first.
A single large oak desk dominated the interior office, with a high-backed executive chair behind it. A large whiteboard stood beside it, with a couple of dozen photographs stuck to it, head-and-shoulder shots and surveillance pictures taken through a long lens. They were all of Asian men in their early twenties to mid-thirties. From the street backgrounds Shepherd decided that they had been taken in the UK, but he couldn’t identify the locations. Sharpe handed him his coffee.
‘This is going to be a joint operation with SO13, the Anti-Terrorist Branch,’ said Button, coming up behind them. ‘They’ve been running a long-term penetration of an Islamic terrorist cell in the Midlands and need a weapons connection. They made an approach to SOCA and, as luck would have it, you two are already up and running. You can continue your covers as May and Lomas.’
She went over to the whiteboard. Five of the photographs were grouped together, head-and-shoulder shots in colour, all the faces staring, unsmiling, at the camera. They appeared to be blown-up passport or driving-licence photographs. ‘These are the five guys you’ll be meeting. One is the Branch’s man, but they’re not prepared to say which.’
‘What?’ said Shepherd.
‘They’re insisting, and I’ve agreed,’ said Button. ‘It’s not that unusual a request. We did similar deals in Northern Ireland all the time. Sass, Army Intelligence, RUC, MI5, everyone wanted to protect their resources.’
‘Yeah, but this isn’t Northern Ireland,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re not going to blow anyone’s cover, are we?’
Sharpe studied the photographs. Under each was a printed label with the man’s name and details of height and weight: Asim, Salman, Ali, Hassan and Fazal. Asim and Salman shared the same family name.
‘I know this is a bit obvious, but can’t you just run checks on these five guys?’ said Sharpe. ‘The new SOCA d
atabase would give you an idea of who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. It’s so packed with information that I hear Santa Claus has started using it.’
‘It’s a matter of trust, Razor,’ said Button. ‘You’re right, of course. If we wanted we could run the names, but I’d assume that the anti-terrorism boys will have already covered for their man. But leaving aside the matter of trust, I see their point of view. If anything goes wrong, the fact that you don’t know who the agent is means he can’t show out.’
‘Which means we can’t protect him,’ said Sharpe.
‘He doesn’t need our protection,’ said Button. ‘All you’re doing is handling the weapons side. They’re Islamic fundamentalists so they won’t be getting into bed with you. We have to respect their wishes. And remember, the day might come when you want to keep your anonymity. This sets a precedent.’
‘When and where?’ asked Shepherd.
‘They’ll make contact tomorrow,’ said Button. ‘They’ll be given the Graham May phone number. Play hard to get – you don’t like dealing with people you don’t know, where did you get the number. You know the drill. You make contact and you go in unwired. Just a meet-and-greet. If they’re not spooked, we use the warehouse again, wired for sound and vision. That’s if they go for it. If they want to choose the turf, run with it. You’ll be the outsiders, so let them make the running.’
‘Do we go armed?’ asked Shepherd.
Button looked pained. ‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘It fits in with our cover. We’re arms dealers.’
‘These guys aren’t professionals, so far as I’m told, just hotheads who want to go out and commit mayhem.’
‘Sounds like they’ve already got enough to charge them with conspiracy,’ said Shepherd.
‘The Branch wants more,’ said Button, ‘and the chance to distance their man. A Muslim undercover agent is like gold these days. They want him away clean before they bust them.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Sharpe.
‘Why, Razor, I’m so glad you approve,’ said Button. ‘Any questions?’
Shepherd tapped the whiteboard. ‘These names, are they real?’
‘They’re the names the Branch gave me with the photographs,’ said Button.
‘If we don’t know them, what’s our connection? Who’s going to make the call?’ said Shepherd.
‘The agent is going to be putting your name forward tomorrow, but on the basis that a friend of his says you might be in a position to supply weapons. One of the gang members will make the call.’
‘So the man who calls won’t necessarily be the agent?’ said Sharpe. Button gave him a withering look and he held up his hands. ‘Just thinking aloud,’ he said.
‘What sort of weapons?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Submachine pistols,’ said Button. ‘The intel suggests they’re planning an attack on a shopping mall.’
‘What the hell are they thinking?’ asked Sharpe.
‘It’s terrorism,’ said Button. ‘They’re probably not thinking about anything other than causing the maximum amount of terror. And shooting families out shopping is as good a way of doing it as any.’
‘And we’re going to supply the weapons, are we?’ asked Shepherd.
‘You make contact and set up a buy. Once the buy is set up we’ll decide how to play it.’
‘We’ll decide, or the Branch?’ asked Shepherd.
‘It’s their operation,’ said Button.
‘That’s my worry,’ said Shepherd. ‘If it’s a SOCA operation, we have control. Suppose they decide we sell the guns, then something goes wrong and people die? Which fan is the shit going to hit? I don’t want it heading in my direction.’
‘Let’s take it one step at a time, Spider. I’ll be watching your back.’
Shepherd hadn’t been working with Charlotte Button long enough to trust her as a matter of course, but she was his boss and he had no choice other than to give her the benefit of the doubt.
‘Okay, then,’ said Button. ‘Give me a call as soon as you have a meet set up. Everything else okay?’
‘No problems here,’ said Sharpe.
‘Everything okay in your life, Spider?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.
‘Nothing on your mind?’
Shepherd wondered if she was getting at something, then decided she was simply checking on his welfare. ‘The sale of my house is taking for ever, but other than that everything’s just fine.’
‘You know what they say, moving house is just about the most stressful thing you can go through. That and bereavement.’ A look of horror passed over her face as she realised what she’d said. She reached out to touch his arm. ‘I’m sorry, I said that without thinking. I’m an idiot.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Caroline Stockmann said the same thing. People can’t tread on eggshells around me for ever. And you’re right, moving house is stressful. But it’s going okay.’ Selling his house had been hard, but it hadn’t come within a million miles of the pain Shepherd had felt when Sue died. He wouldn’t tell Button that, of course. He wouldn’t tell her about the nights he’d cried himself to sleep either, or that the worst moments came when he’d wake up after dreaming about her, only for the memory of her death to hit him again. Each time it happened was like the first. But as the years passed the dreams had become less frequent and the pain had numbed. He would never forget Sue, he had loved her too much for that, but he had meant what he’d said to Button. He didn’t expect people to pussyfoot around him. His wife had died. He had dealt with it and his son had dealt with the loss of his mother. End of story. They were moving on now, and selling the house was part of the process.
‘I won’t be putting any more cases your way until the Branch operation is over,’ she said, ‘so work your move round that.’
‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. He felt a twinge of guilt at not mentioning Geordie’s kidnapping, but at least he hadn’t lied.
‘Oh, and Caroline was impressed with you,’ said Button. ‘Very impressed.’
There were two pots of coffee on the hotplate. One regular and one decaffeinated. Shepherd poured himself a cup of regular. He had never seen the point of removing caffeine from coffee. It made as much sense as taking the alcohol out of whiskey. ‘Get me one, Spider,’ called O’Brien, who was spreading strawberry jam over a croissant. Armstrong and Shortt were sitting at the long table, flicking through the day’s newspapers. Whenever they came across an article about Mitchell they ripped it out and stuck it on one of the whiteboards. An ashtray filled with cigarette butts sat in front of Armstrong.
Shepherd poured coffee for O’Brien and gave it to him. He picked up one of the torn-out articles. It was from the Daily Telegraph, a report on the Foreign Secretary’s reaction to the kidnapping. ‘This is a very, very difficult and very worrying situation,’ said the politician. ‘We remain in touch with his family.’ He had been speaking at a press conference and had been asked if the government would be prepared to pay a ransom for Mitchell’s release. His reply had been emphatic: ‘The government of the United Kingdom does not pay ransoms.’ According to the article’s author, sources close to the Foreign Secretary were convinced that the militant group intended to kill Mitchell, come what may.
The door to the conference room opened and the Major ushered in a tall man with swept-back grey hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. The Major was carrying his sat-phone and his companion had a brown leather document case tucked under one arm. The Major closed the door and put the phone on the floor. ‘This is John Muller,’ he said. ‘He heads up the company Geordie works for.’
Muller shook hands with them all, then took off his jacket and sat down next to the Major at the head of the table. O’Brien poured a mug of coffee for him as he rolled up his shirtsleeves.
‘John’s here to give us a quick briefing on what’s happened over in Iraq,’ said the Major.
Muller stirred his coffee. ‘Geordie was in charge of security for a fifty-
kilometre length of pipeline,’ he said. ‘Most of it was underground. There were a couple of pumping stations, and he also ran security for our personnel. He had about a hundred Iraqis under him, along with a dozen expats, mainly South African. He was driving back to our compound with three Iraqis. They were killed and he was bundled into a vehicle and driven away.’
‘Was Geordie the target, then?’ asked O’Brien.
‘Almost certainly not. They’d just taken one of our executives to the airport and it wasn’t his responsibility. A South African was supposed to do it but he was sick. Geordie was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘He was armed, right?’ said the Major.
‘Of course,’ said Muller. ‘But the abductors blew up my men’s Jeep with an improvised explosive device.’
‘Were they planning to kill them, or was it about taking a hostage?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Personally, I think they were out to kill them. Then they saw Geordie and decided to take him and sell him on to a fundamentalist group. It was opportunistic. If they’d been planning a kidnap from the start, I don’t think they’d have used the IED.’
‘I’m missing something here,’ said Shepherd. ‘Are the guys who took Geordie criminals or fundamentalists?’
‘Almost certainly criminals,’ said Muller. ‘Or at least guys who are motivated by money. They would have sold Geordie on to the fundamentalists.’
‘So why are criminals setting off IEDs?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Because there are bounties on offer,’ said Muller. ‘There’s a whole load of wealthy fundamentalists out there funding the trouble. They’re the same guys who pay off the families of suicide-bombers. The going rate is three thousand dinars if they toss a hand grenade at an infidel. That’s about three dollars. They get two hundred thousand dinars if they fire an RPG and up to a million if they take out a vehicle with an IED. The guys who took Geordie were after the million, but when they saw they had a live foreigner they knew they’d be able to get even more.’
‘But there was no ransom demand after they took him?’ said the Major.
Hot Blood: The Fourth Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Page 9