Dead Men ss-5

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Your family okay?’ asked Yokely.

  Shepherd could see that the American’s concern was genuine. ‘They’re fine, thanks. I had two guys looking after them and they took care of things.’

  ‘Permanently?’

  ‘There wasn’t time for kid gloves,’ said Shepherd. ‘And no one will be filing a police report.’

  Yokely took another look at the piece of paper. ‘This isn’t a name I know,’ he said.

  ‘I’m assuming he was recruited locally. Which means that your man could try again. There’s enough fundamentalist nutters in this country for him to choose from. Do you have any idea where he is?’

  ‘I had his phone tracked for a while but he destroyed the Sim card so he’s off the radar again.’

  ‘Photograph? Anything I can work with?’

  Yokely shook his head. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But if I can get the information you want, what then?’

  ‘I’d take care of it.’

  Yokely slipped the piece of paper into his jacket pocket and sipped his coffee. ‘Before, you said you weren’t happy about being proactive,’ he said.

  Shepherd’s jaw tightened. ‘He attacked my family. He has to take the consequences. I haven’t changed my view on assassinating potential terrorists.’

  ‘I don’t remember that being an option,’ he said.

  ‘You chose your words carefully,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I got the implication.’

  ‘Remember when we first met, in the Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge? I ran a moral dilemma past you.’

  ‘Sure. Would I kill a terrorist who was on his way to kill civilians but who wasn’t a threat at the time?’

  ‘Yeah, well, let me give you another. Some scientist in the States has been using it as part of an experiment to see how the brain reacts while it’s making moral decisions.’

  Shepherd sighed. ‘If you must.’

  Yokely ignored the sarcasm. ‘Say you’re standing by a railway line and a runaway wagon’s racing towards you. You’re beside a set of points. If the wagon carries on the way it’s going, it’ll hit six people on the line. They’ll die unless you do something. If you pull the lever that controls the points you can divert the wagon along another line. But there’s a man on the second line. He’ll die if you change the direction of the runaway wagon. What do you do?’

  ‘That’s a no-brainer,’ said Shepherd. ‘You pull the lever. Six lives are more important than one.’

  ‘And ninety-nine per cent of the population would agree with you,’ said Yokely. ‘Now, say you’re standing on a bridge over the line and there’s a runaway wagon heading towards six people. No points this time, but you could throw yourself off the bridge in front of the wagon. Problem is, you’re not big enough to stop the wagon. But standing next to you is a fat guy. More than enough body mass to stop the wagon. Do you throw him off the bridge in front of the wagon to save the lives of the six people on the line?’

  Shepherd smiled. ‘I get it,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a tougher call,isn’t it? Yet the premise is the same. You perform an action that puts six lives ahead of one. But while most people would pull the lever without hesitation, most would not push the guy off the bridge. Why do think that is?’

  ‘Because most people can’t kill up close and personal. Pulling a lever detaches you from the killing, I guess.’

  ‘The physical contact, you mean?’Yokely’s brow furrowed. ‘Maybe that’s it. But you’ve never had a problem with that, have you?’

  ‘I don’t lose sleep over the people I’ve killed,’ said Shepherd. ‘But every time I’ve taken a life, I’ve had right on my side. A moral and legal right. And, more often than not, the people I’ve killed have been trying to kill me.’

  ‘Sure, that makes the dilemma simpler, doesn’t it? If you’re the one standing in the way of the runaway wagon, you’ll do whatever it takes. It’s when you’re on the bridge that your moral code kicks in. But Hassan Salih is a stone-cold killer. If we don’t stop him he’ll kill Charlotte Button, maybe taking out her family as well. And he’ll carry on killing because that’s what he does for a living.’

  ‘I’m losing your metaphor. Is Salih the guy on the bridge or the runaway wagon?’

  ‘He’s the piece of shit that tried to kill your boy and who’s going to kill your boss unless we do something to stop him.’

  ‘You say “we” but you mean me, don’t you?’

  ‘She’s your boss,and it’s your country,’said Yokely. ‘I can’t go around killing people on your turf. It’s only the Russians who do that.’

  ‘So what are we talking about here, Richard? Are we talking about protecting Charlie, or about protecting you?’

  Yokely smiled. ‘Tomato, potato,’ he said.

  Shepherd drove from Belfast airport to Dublin and caught the Stena Line high-speed catamaran to Holyhead. The sea was mirror flat and the crossing took less than two hours. As he drove off the ferry he used his hands-free to call Martin O’Brien. O’Brien sounded out of breath. ‘You’re not having sex, are you, Martin?’ he asked.

  ‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’said O’Brien. ‘Just done a twelve-mile run.’

  ‘How fast?’

  ‘Just over the hour,’ said O’Brien.

  ‘Well done you.’

  ‘And I’ve lost three kilos in the last week.’

  ‘Kudos.’

  ‘Mind you, I’d kill for a burger. What’s up?’

  A Porsche drove past Shepherd at breakneck speed. The driver was barely out of his twenties with a mobile phone pressed to his ear. Shepherd’s natural competitiveness kicked in and he had to fight the urge to stamp on his accelerator and give chase. ‘How’s it going with Charlotte?’

  ‘Bloody hard work,’ said O’Brien. ‘I’ve got four guys in rotation but she’s as slippery as an eel.’

  ‘Yeah, I told you she was shit hot at surveillance.’

  ‘You weren’t wrong. But we haven’t shown out and we haven’t seen anyone else on her tail.’

  ‘Have you spoken to the Bradford boys?’

  ‘Yeah, they said you had a spot of bother in Hereford.’

  ‘They handled it just fine.’

  ‘So, all’s well that ends well, as my old gran used to say.’

  ‘I’m not sure about that, Martin,’ said Shepherd. ‘The guy who went to my house didn’t fit the profile of a professional hitman. A bit young.’

  ‘So there’s more than one?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure, but I’m assuming so. I’m going to pick up a weapon from the major, just in case. And I’d like you to keep an eye on Charlie for a bit longer.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ said O’Brien.

  Shepherd ended the call, then rang Caroline Stockmann and explained that he was back in England for two days. ‘We can meet tomorrow evening, say six o’clock,’ said the psychologist. ‘How about the Stag?’

  ‘In Hereford?’ said Shepherd, surprised. He had assumed she’d want to see him in London.

  ‘Mountains, Muhammad, and all that jazz,’ she said. ‘You’re a busy man and I get a very generous allowance from SOCA.’

  ‘Six it is,’ said Shepherd. ‘Inshallah.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Stockmann. ‘God willing.’

  It was late at night when Shepherd arrived at his house in Hereford. He parked the Audi in the street and let himself in. As he flicked on the light one of the Bradfords put away his gun and grinned. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Didn’t hear you drive up.’

  ‘Hey, my fault for not calling first,’ said Shepherd. ‘And I’m sorry – normally I’m good with faces but I can’t tell you guys apart.’

  ‘I’m Billy, the good-looking one.’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘Everyone asleep?’

  ‘They went up at nine,’ said Billy. ‘Jack’s coming at midnight. I was making a coffee. Do you want one?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. He went upstairs to his son’s room. Liam was asleep, hugging a pillow. Shepherd knelt beside
the bed and brushed the boy’s hair away from his eyes. Liam muttered something but didn’t wake. Shepherd kissed his forehead. ‘Sweet dreams,’ he whispered.

  He went downstairs. Billy had made the coffee and handed him a mug. ‘Everything okay?’ Shepherd asked.

  ‘No problems,’ said Billy.

  ‘Katra and Liam have no idea what went down?’

  ‘Slept through it all. I’ll show you the damage.’ He took Shepherd to the sitting room and showed him the small hole in the sofa. ‘Bullet’s still in there,’ he said. ‘Probably lodged in the frame. I think you can leave it where it is.’ He went to the wall by the fireplace. ‘This one’s a bit more complicated,’ he said. There was a picture on the wall, a pen-and-ink drawing of the clock tower at the old Stirling Lines barracks. Engraved on it were the names of SAS members who had died in action. He moved the picture to reveal a hole that had been gouged in the wall. ‘We dug out the bullet and moved the hook a few inches to the left so that the picture covers the hole but you’ll have to get it patched up,’ said Billy.

  ‘I’ll decorate the room as soon as I have a chance,’ said Shepherd.

  Billy put the picture back and sat in an armchair.

  ‘The guy who came here, Tariq?’

  ‘Tariq Chadhar,’ said Billy.

  ‘What sort of gun did he have?’

  ‘Glock 17 with a silencer.’

  ‘A professional rig,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did he seem like a pro to you?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ said Billy. ‘Nervous as shit, slow reactions, damn near pissed himself. Is there a problem?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was warned there was a pro around, a pro who knew where I lived. But the guy you dealt with doesn’t fit the profile.’

  ‘Jack and I are here as long as you need us, you know that?’

  ‘Thanks, Billy. For everything.’

  Shepherd woke at dawn, pulled on a running vest, a pair of old tracksuit bottoms and two pairs of thick woollen socks. He retrieved his boots and a battered old rucksack from the cupboard under the stairs and carried them into the kitchen. The rucksack was packed with bricks wrapped in newspaper. One of the Bradfords was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of black coffee.

  Shepherd squinted at him. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘Jack?’

  ‘Jack it is,’ said Bradford.

  ‘I’m starting to get it,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’m the good-looking one, right?’

  Shepherd sat down to put on his boots. ‘Actually, Billy’s nose is slightly curved.’

  ‘Yeah, he broke it when he was a kid.’ Bradford grinned. ‘On my tennis racquet, as it happens.’ He nodded at the rucksack. ‘Bricks?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I use old telephone directories. They don’t move around as much.’

  Shepherd pulled on the rucksack. He took a bottle of Evian water from the fridge and left by the front door. He ran for the best part of an hour, keeping at a fast pace. The rucksack banged uncomfortably against his back but he ignored it. He didn’t run for pleasure. He ran to stay fit so that he could do his job properly.

  He had worked up a sweat by the time he let himself in through the front door and went upstairs to shave, shower and change into clean black jeans and a denim shirt. He opened the door to the walk-in wardrobe. There were six drawers, all lockable, on one side. In the top ones, which he never secured, he kept his socks, underwear and ties. He took out his key-ring and unlocked the bottom drawer. Inside, a black case contained his official issue SIG-Sauer semi-automatic, two filled magazines and several boxes of ninemillimetre ammunition. One box was a different brand from the rest. He took it out and relocked the drawer. He slid the box into his pocket and went downstairs.

  Liam was sitting at the kitchen table, studying a maths book and bolting down a bowl of cereal opposite Jack Bradford. ‘How long are you here for,Dad?’he asked,through his breakfast.

  ‘Just today. I’m off to Belfast again tomorrow,’ said Shepherd. ‘And don’t talk with your mouth full.’

  ‘Why are you working in Ireland?’

  ‘It’s Northern Ireland,’ said Shepherd, ‘part of the United Kingdom.’

  ‘But I don’t see why you have to work there,’ said Liam. ‘Don’t they have their own policemen?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ said Shepherd.

  Liam scowled. ‘You always say that when you can’t be bothered to answer my questions,’ he said.

  Shepherd sat down beside his son. ‘Have you studied the Irish situation at school?’he asked. Liam shook his head. ‘Okay, here’s a crash course. Ireland used to be Ireland and everyone was Irish. Then the English took over the country and from the twelfth century we ruled it. Then in nineteen twenty-one the country was divided into the North, run by Westminster, and the South, which was Ireland. That’s the way it is now. Under the law, anyone born in the North, the bit controlled by the British, is both Irish and British. But there’s always been a lot of conflict between the two groups. The Irish Irish, if you like, are mainly Catholics, and the descendants of the British that moved there are mainly Protestant.’

  ‘And the IRA are Catholics, right?’

  ‘They are, but it’s not really about religion. It’s about who runs the country. Over the last few years they’ve hammered out a deal whereby both groups share power so they’ll run the country together.’

  ‘Why do they need you there?’

  Shepherd sat back in his chair. ‘Because Belfast is a relatively small city so everyone knows who the cops are. They needed a fresh face.’

  ‘You’re hardly fresh,’ Liam giggled.

  ‘Less of the cheek,’ said Shepherd. He glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve got to be going.’

  Liam had noticed the plastic Casio wristwatch with its tiny calculator keyboard. ‘That is such a lame watch,’ he said.

  ‘It’s got lots of functions,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It’s a watch,’ said Liam. ‘All it has to do is tell the time.’

  ‘You could say that about your expensive mobile phone,’ Shepherd said. ‘All it needs to do is make calls but you want it to take photographs and videos and play all sorts of stupid games, don’t you?’

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘Tomato, potato,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What?’ said Liam, frowning.

  ‘It’s an expression,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s from an old song.’

  ‘Oh, back in the days when dinosaurs roamed the earth?’

  Shepherd patted his son’s head. ‘Get ready for school. I’ll take you today.’

  The pub Caroline Stockmann had chosen for their meeting was half a mile from Shepherd’s house, and as it was a warm evening he decided to walk.

  When he arrived she was sitting at the bar with a half-drunk pint of beer. Shepherd grinned as they shook hands. ‘What’s so funny?’ she asked, as he sat down next to her.

  ‘I was thinking your glass looked half empty, then wondered if I should pretend I’d thought it was half full, thereby showing a more optimistic frame of mind.’

  Stockmann smiled. She picked up her glass, and drank the rest of the beer. ‘No argument now,’ she said. ‘Empty, plain and simple. So, is everything okay?’

  ‘Peachy keen,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘See, I’ve never understood that expression,’ she said. ‘Why are peaches keen? Lemons are zesty, bananas are bent, but what’s keen about a peach?’

  Shepherd caught a barmaid’s eye. ‘Jameson’s, ice and soda,’ he said, ‘and whatever my friend’s having.’

  ‘You’re in Northern Ireland, I gather,’ said Stockmann.

  ‘Belfast,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Interesting part of the world,’ she said. ‘The enemies of the past now working together to bring about peace.’

  ‘So much for not negotiating with terrorists,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You don’t think that peace is worth any compromise?’ The barmaid brought their drinks, and S
hepherd paid her.

  ‘The IRA, a.k.a. Sinn Fein, wants a united Ireland,’ said Shepherd. ‘Nothing has changed on that front. They laid down their weapons because they sensed that the British Government’s position on Ireland was weakening. But they’re still the same heartless killers they always were. And if things don’t continue to go their way, they’ll buy new weapons.’ He sipped his whiskey and put his glass on the bar. ‘This isn’t supposed to be a political discussion, is it?’ he said. ‘I thought I was here for a psychological assessment?’

  ‘So, what would you like to talk about?’

  Shepherd shrugged carelessly. ‘Have you heard the one about the runaway wagon and the guy standing at the points? If he does nothing, six people die, if he changes the points just one dies.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Stockmann. ‘It’s first-year philosophy material. Then you make it more difficult by bringing in the fat guy on the bridge, right?’

  ‘What’s the right answer?’

  ‘It’s philosophy. There’s no right or wrong answer. What’s interesting is the way in which people consider the options. In the case of changing the points, most decide to sacrifice the one person and reach that decision very quickly. When it comes to pushing the fat guy off the bridge, the decision is more equally split but takes longer to reach.’ She drank some beers. ‘Let me give you another railway one. You’re standing on an electrified railway line, with your leg trapped. You can’t move. The power’s off, so for the moment you’re okay. But down the line a man is about to reconnect the supply. He doesn’t know you’re there, and he doesn’t know that if he reconnects the power you’ll die. Now, you happen to have a sniper’s rifle with one bullet in the chamber.’

  ‘We call them rounds,’ said Shepherd, ‘not bullets.’

  Stockmann grinned. ‘It’s about philosophy, not ammunition,’ she said. ‘Anyway, you have a loaded rifle and you can kill the guy before he reconnects the power and kills you. Are you morally justified in killing him?’

  ‘You do what you have to do to stay alive,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Stockmann. ‘But think about this. If you shoot him, you’ve killed him deliberately. But if he kills you, he’s done it by accident. There’s a world of difference. Do you have the moral right to kill a man who might kill you by accident?’