Dead Men ss-5

by Stephen Leather

  Elaine laughed. ‘You think I’ve been behaving like some crazed vigilante?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I would have thought the police might wonder if there’s a connection.’

  Elaine was astonished. ‘I can’t believe you’d say that, Jamie.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, I’m just saying, cops are cops, wouldn’t they think that you might be involved?’

  ‘Involved in what way?’ she said defensively.

  ‘I don’t know. But you above all people would want them dead, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘There’s a world of difference between wanting someone dead and killing them.’

  ‘Of course there is. If it was me, I’d want the men responsible dead.’ He thought of Amar Singh and Charlotte Button listening to this. And recording everything that was said.

  Elaine’s eyes were brimming with tears. ‘I lost my husband,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘I lost my husband and I lost my son. Yes, the men who ruined my family deserve to suffer and die. But do you think I want to spend the rest of my life behind bars?’

  ‘Elaine, I didn’t say I thought you did anything. I said the police might think that.’

  She put down her glass and got to her feet, a little unsteadily. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Elaine, please, don’t be angry.’

  She glared at him. ‘Why? Are you frightened I might shoot you?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Oh – so first I’m a vigilante, and now I’m silly, am I?’ She swayed a little. ‘I’m going home.’

  ‘Elaine, come on, let me make you a coffee.’

  ‘Now you’re saying I’m drunk? I’m not drunk, Jamie. I’m not drunk, I’m not silly and I’m not a murderer.’ She brushed past him and hurried down the hallway, keeping her left hand on the wall to help her balance. Shepherd hurried after her but she got to the front door ahead of him and let herself out.

  ‘Elaine!’ he called, but she was already running across the lawn to her house.

  Shepherd closed the front door and swore under his breath. He went into the sitting room and peered through the window. Elaine was trying to insert her key into the lock. It took her several attempts and then she was stumbling inside and slamming the door behind her.

  His mobile phone rang. It was Button. ‘You pushed too hard, Spider,’ she said.

  ‘I know. It got away from me, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Is it retrievable?’

  ‘I think so. She was a bit drunk, and that’s probably why she reacted the way she did. I’ll let her sleep on it and see how she feels tomorrow. I don’t think it’s her, Charlie. I really don’t.’

  ‘You found bullets in her attic. And, from what I heard, there’s a lot of anger there. Anger and hatred.’

  ‘But she’s not a killer.’

  ‘And you say that based on what?’

  Shepherd rubbed the back of his neck. ‘On the basis that it takes one to know one,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Elizabeth, you’re worrying about nothing,’ said Kinsella. ‘And keep your voice down. I don’t want the Rottweilers to think we’re arguing.’

  ‘We are arguing, honey,’ said Elizabeth, frostily. ‘A friend of yours has been killed and you don’t seem the least bit concerned.’

  ‘I hardly knew the guy,’ said Kinsella.

  ‘Concerned about us,’ snapped his wife. ‘Us! You and me! I don’t give a shit about him, it’s you and me I’m worried about.’

  ‘That’s what we’ve got the Rottweilers for,’ said Kinsella. ‘They’re not going to let anything happen to me. To us. They can’t afford to.’

  ‘Your friend Lynn had bodyguards, too, remember?’

  ‘He had a couple of IRA heavies, nothing like the protection we’ve got.’

  Elizabeth sighed. ‘You don’t get it, do you? I can’t live like this, Noel. I’m sorry, but I can’t.’

  ‘Your family has always had bodyguards. And with good reason. Don’t give me grief over this.’

  ‘Look, it doesn’t matter how many bodyguards you have or how good the security is. If someone wants to kill you . . .’ She trailed off.

  Kinsella put his arms around her and kissed her on the top of the head. ‘I’m sorry, baby,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t know it would be like this,’ she said.

  ‘Neither did I,’ said Kinsella.

  ‘I thought we could settle down, have children, make a life here.’

  ‘We can, baby. We can.’

  ‘But not like this.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I just want them to catch whoever it is.’

  ‘You and me both,’ said Kinsella. He kissed her again. ‘Let me see what I can do.’

  ‘I want to go home.’

  ‘This is home,’ said Kinsella.

  ‘My home,’ she said. ‘I want to go back to the States.’

  Hassan Salih parked his hire car in the King Edward Court car park in the centre of Windsor. He locked it and headed for Windsor’s main shopping street. The sun was shining and it seemed that every second person was a tourist holding a street map or guidebook. Peascod Street was pedestrianised, lined with shops and building-society offices. Large black tubs containing well-tended trees were dotted along the pavement and baskets of brightly coloured flowers hung from the street-lamps. A group of Etonians sat on a curved metal bench eating ice-cream, their black tailcoats and pinstriped trousers a throwback to an earlier age when the British had an empire and the school’s alumni ran it. An American woman in stretch trousers pointed a digital camera at them and asked if she could take their photograph. They agreed and posed good-naturedly, and before long half a dozen tourists were clustered in front of them, clicking cameras.

  At the top of Peascod Street a black statue of Queen Victoria, holding an orb, gazed severely at the throngs. The sweeping castle,for which Windsor was famous,lowered over her. The royal standard was flying from the solitary flagpole at the top of the main tower, indicating that the sovereign was in residence.

  The estate agent’s was between a coffee shop and a bookstore, glossy photographs of properties for sale and rent in the window. Salih was wearing a dark grey suit he’d bought from a tailor in London’s Savile Row, with a white cotton shirt and nondescript tie. He was carrying a leather briefcase he’d found in Harrods. He had paid for all his purchases with cash.

  There were six desks in the office. Two were unoccupied and a middle-aged woman sat at the one by the door. Salih assumed she was the secretary. A glossy magazine was propped up on her keyboard and she was talking into a headset. Young women sat at two more desks, a blonde with a ponytail and a dyed blonde with pink streaks. Both wore heavy mascara, blue eye-shadow and garish nail polish. The only man in the office was in his early forties with black hair that was greying at the temples. He was wearing a blue pinstriped suit but had hung the jacket over the back of his chair and rolled up his shirtsleeves. There was a small brass plaque on his desk with his name – Graham Pickering. He was talking animatedly into his phone, his left hand jabbing the air.

  Salih waited until Pickering had replaced the receiver, then pushed open the door and went in. The secretary was still talking on her headset and pointed at a chair by the window. Salih ignored her and strode over to Pickering. ‘How do you do?’ he said, and extended his hand. Pickering shook it. ‘I’m looking to buy a house in the area, ideally detached with a garden. I have a twelve-year-old son who likes cricket.’ Salih sat down and put the briefcase on his lap.

  ‘And what sort of budget do you have?’ asked Pickering.

  Salih shrugged, as if money was of no concern to him. ‘Three million. Four, perhaps.’

  Pickering grinned. ‘I’m not sure we could run to a cricket pitch, but we could certainly get you a decent-sized garden for that. Close to Windsor?’

  ‘Please,’ said Salih. ‘Somewhere with character.’

  Pickering stood up and went to a filing
cabinet, pulled open a drawer and searched through a row of pale green files. ‘I’ve a selection of properties in that price range,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you have a look through them and let me know which ones you want to view?’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Salih. ‘Windsor’s a lovely town. We thought our son might go to Eton.’

  ‘It’s a great school,’ said Pickering.

  ‘Do you have children?’

  ‘A daughter.’

  ‘Does she go to Eton?’

  Pickering laughed. ‘It’s for boys,’ he said. ‘Our daughter is away at another boarding-school.’

  There was a pine-framed photograph on Pickering’s desk. Salih turned it to face him. It was a family group – Pickering with a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties and a girl with her mother’s dark brown eyes. ‘You have a lovely family,’ he said. The woman was a few years younger here than she had been in the photograph Merkulov had given him.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Pickering. He went back to his desk and passed Salih a handful of printed brochures. He pointed to one. ‘This is a little above your budget but it’s quite special. There’s a heated pool and an amazing snooker room.’ He opened a drawer and gave Salih a typed form. ‘If you put down your contact details, I’ll send you anything new that comes on to the market. Where are you based?’

  ‘Dubai,’ said Salih, ‘but I have an office in London.’ He took out his wallet and gave Pickering a newly printed business card. ‘The mobile is the best number to use but you can send any information you have to the address there.’ It was an office in Mayfair that would collect any mail and divert phone calls to his pay-as-you-go mobile.

  ‘Excellent, Mr Hassan,’ Pickering said. ‘I’ll jot down the details and we’ll get them on to the computer.’ He began to fill in the form.

  ‘What about you? Where do you live?’ asked Salih, casually.

  ‘A village called Virginia Water,’ said Pickering. ‘Nice area, but I don’t know that there’s much available at the moment. There’s a lot of competition for houses in this area just now. Russian buyers have been snapping up anything that comes on to the market and they’ve got money to burn. There are two very good American schools locally so we get a lot of Americans too. We’ve an office there so I’ll find out if anything’s come on to the books in the last few days. There might be something on the Wentworth estate. Beautiful homes, and they have access to the golf course. Do you play?’

  ‘Not well,’ said Salih. ‘What about your house? Could I persuade you to sell?’

  Pickering looked up. ‘Without seeing it?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ve got good taste,’ said Salih. ‘And I’m sure that as you’re in the business you’ll have chosen well.’

  Pickering chuckled. ‘I do have a beautiful home, it’s true,’ he said, ‘but if I were ever to think of selling it, my wife would kill me.’ He returned to the form.

  Salih nodded at the framed photograph. ‘She doesn’t look dangerous,’ he said.

  ‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ said Pickering. He laughed. ‘I’m joking, of course,’ he said. ‘At least, I think I am.’

  Salih put the brochures into his briefcase, stood up and shook Pickering’s hand. He smiled to himself as he left. He had everything he needed. He knew where Charlotte Button lived, where her husband worked and where her daughter went to school. Now it was just a matter of time.

  Shepherd pressed Elaine’s doorbell and took a step back. He was holding a bunch of flowers he’d bought at a local filling station. He waited for a minute or so, then pressed the bell again, for longer this time. Maybe she was in the shower. He glimpsed movement at the bedroom window, and cursed under his breath. She wasn’t in the shower, she was ignoring him. He’d hoped that after a night’s sleep she’d have calmed down but now it seemed it wasn’t going to be as easy as that. He decided against kneeling down and shouting through the letterbox or leaving the flowers at the door. Better to try later. He hoped he hadn’t blown the investigation.

  Richard Yokely flashed his embassy ID at the marine standing guard at the door to the Secure Communications Room. The soldier’s hands tightened around his M-4 carbine. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but beverages aren’t permitted inside,’ he said.

  Yokely held up his Starbucks cup. ‘My latte isn’t exactly a security threat, son.’

  The marine looked even more uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry, sir. There have been spillages in the past so beverages are now not permitted inside.’

  ‘If I were to promise to be careful with mine, would you let me take it in?’

  ‘Sir, I’m just following the rules, Sir.’ The marine’s voice had gone down an octave.

  Yokely put his face close to the soldier’s. ‘And what if I were to tell you that generally rules don’t apply to me? And that if you continue to be an officious prick I’ll have you transferred to the Iraqi desert where you’ll spend the rest of your military career picking up body parts? What would you say then?’

  The marine’s jaw tightened. ‘Sir, I’d have to say that beverages are not allowed in the Secure Communications Room, Sir.’

  Yokely’s face broke into a grin. ‘Good for you, son,’ he said. ‘Don’t you ever be intimidated by a big swinging dick because he’s got the power of life and death over you.’ He patted the marine’s arm. ‘Without rules, where would we be? Living like savages, right? That’s why we’re in the war against terror, to preserve the rules that make our world such a joyous place to live.’ He handed the cup to the marine. ‘Hold on to that until I come out, will you?’

  Yokely swiped his ID through the card reader. The lock clicked and he went into the windowless room. The concrete walls were double-layered and between the layers a network of wires blocked all radio frequencies. The only communication between the room in the basement of the American embassy and the outside world was through the shielded wires that led from the two computer terminals and the half-dozen phones, most of which were dedicated lines to offices in the United States.

  Yokely swiped his ID through a terminal and typed in a six-digit identifying number. A Homeland Security logo filled the screen. Yokely moved the cursor to click a button marked ‘Video Conferencing’, then tapped in the number of a secure terminal in Washington DC. Thirty seconds later he was looking at Karl Traynor, a senior analyst with the Financial Crimes Enforcement Network. Traynor was in his early forties, with slicked-back hair and was wearing one of his trademark tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbows. He was tapping at his computer keyboard. ‘Testing, testing, one-two-three,’ he said.

  ‘Karl,how’s Washington?’said Yokely. He pressed a button on his keyboard and one of the plasma screens on the wall opposite the door flickered into life to show a larger-than-life image of the analyst.

  ‘Threatening to snow,’ said Traynor. ‘How’s London?’

  ‘Spring has sprung,’ said Yokely. ‘The birds are singing, and all’s well with the world. Well, except for the three hundred home-grown terrorist groups that are actively working to bring about mayhem and destruction.’

  ‘I can never get a decent steak there,’ said Traynor.

  ‘Then you’re not trying,’ said Yokely.

  ‘Aren’t all their cows mad or something?’

  ‘Mad or not, they make great steaks. I need a favour or three, if you’ve got the time.’

  ‘FinCen is here to serve,’ said Traynor. ‘Your wish is my command.’ FinCen collected data under the Bank Secrecy Act and worked with law-enforcement agencies and Financial Intelligence Units around the world to follow money trails that led, hopefully, to the paymasters of terrorism. Much of the agency’s work was the checking of suspicious-activity reports filed by the country’s banks and financial institutions, which were now running at almost three-quarters of a million annually. The vast majority of SARs were false positives and only a very small percentage led to investigations. But once a positive lead had been generated,Traynor and his team were put on the case, following the money trail wi
th the tail-wagging enthusiasm of bloodhounds after an escaped convict. FinCen also had access to the eleven million financial transactions that went through some eight thousand banks in two hundred countries using the SWIFT network. The agency’s supercomputers allowed it to sift through the raw data like prospectors panning for gold.

  ‘I need someone looked at,’said Yokely. ‘He uses a number of aliases, but in the UK he’s known as Hassan Salih. He’s a Palestinian, but is very well travelled. Other names he has used include Shafquat Husain, Asif Iqbal and Majid Jasim.’ Yokely spelled out each name and Traynor wrote them down. ‘I need to know about any large financial transactions he has made over the past twelve months.’

  ‘Large being?’

  ‘Six figures and above.’

  Traynor chuckled. ‘Richard, I know they tell you that size isn’t everything but six figures is not large. Six figures, no matter what the currency, is a drop in the ocean. I don’t even get out of bed for six figures.’

  ‘Remind me again what the total cost of Nine Eleven was,’ said Yokely, drily. ‘A few hours’ flight training, a dozen box-cutters and nineteen first-class tickets, I seem to remember.’

  ‘Actually, we’ve been able to track half a million dollars that was used to fund Nine Eleven,’ said Traynor, ‘but I take your point. So, this Hassan Salih is al-Qaeda?’

  ‘Almost certainly not,’ said Yokely, ‘but it’s quite possible that he’s worked for al-Qaeda members on a freelance basis. A hired gun, you might say. Can you ID any accounts he has?’

  ‘Sure. Give me a day, yeah. You can do me a favour in return. Two, as it happens. Chocolate HobNobs. Two packets.’

  ‘Can’t you get them in Washington?’

  ‘If I could, would I be asking you? Plain, not milk.’

  ‘Your cookies will be in the post.’ Yokely jabbed at a button on the console and the screen went blank. He tapped out a second number. There was a buzz of static, then the screen flickered into life again. This time a balding man in his late forties was grinning at Yokely and waving a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Dean Hepburn was a senior analyst with the National Security Agency. He was based at the NSA’s headquarters in Forte Meade, Maryland, known to the forty thousand or so men and women who worked there as Crypto City. It was practically a small town of fifty buildings half-way between Washington and Baltimore, hidden from prying eyes by acres of woodland. ‘Dean,how are the wife and kids?’asked Yokely.