Singh gestured at the sky with his can. ‘Satellites,’ he said. ‘The EPIRB has its own GPS, which ascertains its latitude and longitude and transmits that information along with its serial number. The rescue agencies know its position to within a hundred metres or so.’
‘And the satellites are, what, government-owned?’
‘Private,’ said Singh. ‘They’re operated under the Cospas-Sarsat programme, developed by Canada, France, the United States and the former Soviet Union republics. Their satellites orbit the earth about every hundred minutes, so in the worst possible scenario it’d take an hour to pick up an emergency signal. What are you planning, Dan?’
‘I’m just gathering intel at the moment,’ said Shepherd.
‘The Western end is the Sarsat bit. Search and Rescue Satellite-aided Tracking. The Cospas bit is the Russian side. Dunno what it stands for. Basically the satellites receive the signals and relay them to ground stations where the signal is processed to work out where the beacon is. The ground stations pass the information on to the local search-and-rescue authorities.’
‘And that would work anywhere in the world?’
Singh wrinkled his nose. ‘The satellites cover the world, for sure, and the nearest ground station would be able to locate the beacon to within a hundred metres or so. But it depends where the beacon is as to what happens next. If it’s in the English Channel they can send out a lifeboat or a helicopter. If someone’s lost in the Scottish Highlands they can call out the local mountain-rescue team. But if the beacon’s in a jungle in the Congo, who the hell do they call? And Iraq’s a war zone.’
‘What about this other frequency you mentioned?’
‘Yeah, the EPIRBs also put out a signal on a hundred and twenty-one point five megahertz, the aviation distress frequency. Planes all over the world monitor it and can take a bearing. You’ve heard of the Breitling Emergency watch?’
Shepherd shook his head.
‘It’s a watch with a hundred and twenty-one point five megahertz transmitter inside. You activate it by pulling out a wire aerial and every plane within a hundred nautical miles or so picks up the distress call. They radio in to air-traffic control and in theory a coastguard helicopter flies over to you.’
‘Great way to get home if you can’t find a taxi.’
Singh grinned. ‘Yeah, well, it’ll get you a ten grand fine if you haven’t been in a plane crash,’ he said.
‘So, one of those transmitters can be as small as a watch?’
‘Sure. The battery wouldn’t last long transmitting, though. A day maybe.’
‘So it’s not transmitting all the time?’
Singh shook his head. ‘Just when the aerial’s pulled out. Same with the EPIRBs. They only send out a distress signal once they’re activated. Has to be that way because they’d burn through batteries if they were on all the time.’
‘How big are they?’
‘They weigh a couple of pounds or so, the nautical and aviation models.’
‘What about something smaller? Something that can be satellite tracked but small enough to hide?’
‘We don’t have anything that small. Not for satellite tracking. You’d need to talk to the spooks. Or the Yanks.’
‘Could you put out some feelers? It might make fewer waves if the approach comes from you.’
‘What are you planning, Dan? What’s all this about?’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘It’s starting to look like the only way we’re going to get him out is to walk into the lion’s den.’
‘You’re crazy,’ said Singh.
‘You might be right,’ said Shepherd. ‘But keep it to yourself, yeah?’
Shepherd parked his BMW next to the Honda CRV and let himself into the house. Katra was sitting on the sofa, her legs curled up. She put down her magazine. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ she asked.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Shepherd. ‘How’s Liam?’
‘He was in bed by eight,’ she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear.
‘Homework?’
‘All done.’
‘Great,’ said Shepherd. He went through to the kitchen. He had just made himself a mug of coffee when the phone rang. He picked up the receiver.
‘It’s Charlie, I hope this isn’t an inconvenient time to call.’
‘Something wrong?’ he asked.
‘I need to talk to you, Spider.’
‘Now?’
‘Face to face, if possible. Do you mind if I come to your house?’
Shepherd squinted at his watch. It was almost ten o’clock. And she had called on his landline, not his mobile, which meant she knew that he was home. ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘What time?’
‘Now, if that’s okay. I’m outside.’
Shepherd frowned. He hadn’t seen her when he’d parked the car, and he was sure he hadn’t been followed to Ealing. Charlotte Button was full of hidden talents. ‘The kettle’s on,’ he said. ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Tea, please. Anything but Earl Grey.’
‘It’s not exactly the Ritz, and I’ve no cucumber sandwiches,’ he said.
‘Tea will be fine,’ she said, and ended the call.
Shepherd put the receiver on to the cradle. That Button hadn’t said why she wanted to see him was worrying. Something was wrong – and wrong enough for her to be knocking on his door at this time of night.
He switched on the kettle again, put a teabag into a cup and got a bottle of milk from the fridge. Before the kettle had boiled, the doorbell rang. Shepherd went through to the sitting room and asked Katra if she minded going to her room. ‘I’m sorry, it’s business,’ he said.
She hurried upstairs while Shepherd went to the front door. Button was wearing a fawn raincoat with the collar up. She nodded as she stepped across the threshold, but she didn’t say anything. Her eyes were cold and Shepherd knew now that something was very wrong.
‘Go through to the sitting room, on the right,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll get the tea.’
When he carried in the tray, she was sitting on the sofa where Katra had been. She’d taken off her coat and dropped it on the back of the sofa and was sitting with her legs crossed, the upper foot tapping the air. Shepherd placed a cup in front of her, then sat down in an armchair opposite.
He smiled at Button, but his face felt wooden. He had a sudden urge to cough and fought it. His mind was racing. Why was she in his house and why had she needed to see him at such short notice? If it was a work-related issue there would be no need for her to give him the silent treatment.
‘Is there something you want to tell me, Spider?’ she asked eventually. ‘Something you want to get off your chest?’
His mind raced. How much did she know? And how much could he afford to tell her?
Button continued to stare at him, allowing the seconds to tick away with no sign of discomfort other than her tapping foot. It was the same technique that Kathy Gift had used, leaving long silences in the hope that Shepherd would fill them.
Shepherd shrugged. ‘I’m not sure what you want me to say, Charlie.’
She arched an eyebrow. ‘Really?’
‘Everything’s fine. Is this about my biannual review?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Caroline seems to think you’re perfectly fit for undercover work. I’m the one who’s starting to have doubts.’
‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.
‘You are,’ she said, her voice flat and emotionless. ‘Did you think you could go to Dubai without me finding out? And then when you do come back, you rush straight round to Amar.’
‘Have you had me followed?’ said Shepherd.
Button looked at him with undisguised contempt. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she said. ‘I don’t have my people followed. But when one of them starts flying around the world at short notice I think I have the right to know what the hell is going on.’
‘I was on holiday,’ said Shepherd. ‘I applied for the leave. Plus today’s the weekend. It’s Saturday
.’
‘I know what day it is,’ said Button. ‘So what was Dubai about? Shopping? You didn’t come back with any duty-free bags.’
‘So you were at the airport? Spying on me?’
Button snorted softly and didn’t answer. The silence stretched into a minute. Then a second minute. This wasn’t the sort of mind game Kathy Gift had played, Shepherd realised. Button was going to wait for him to speak, no matter how long it took.
‘What do you think I was doing in Dubai?’ he asked quietly.
‘I’m not here to answer your questions,’ she said.
‘Then why are you here? To sack me?’
Button leaned back and folded her arms. ‘Do you want me to sack you? Is that it? Do you have another job lined up?’
Shepherd frowned, confused. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Are you working for Richard Yokely? Is that why you went to Dubai?’
Shepherd’s jaw dropped. It was the last thing he’d expected to hear.
‘I know you met him in Knightsbridge last week. And you’ve met him before. I’m fairly sure he’s offered you a job.’
‘That’s not why I went to Dubai.’
‘But he does want you to work for him?’
Shepherd sighed. ‘He offered me a job while I was still working for Hargrove. I told him no.’
‘You know what he does?’ said Button.
‘He used to be CIA,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now he’s something in Homeland Security.’
‘He kills people, Spider. He’s a government-sanctioned killer. He’s worked in South America, Africa, Afghanistan, Iraq, anywhere where human rights are less accountable than they are here.’
‘I sort of realised that,’ said Shepherd.
‘Then you should sort of realise how dangerous your life could become if you get too close to him.’
‘He promised me protection, actually,’ said Shepherd. ‘The way I remember the conversation, if I got caught in a compromising position his president calls my prime minister and everything’s hunky-dory.’
‘You’d be surprised to learn how many men in British prisons claim that a smooth-talking American with tassels on his shoes told them they were committing murder in the name of national security and that at any moment a phone call from the Prime Minister’s office would secure their release and a medal to boot. Conspiracy theories abound inside. Nobody listens to them. So if he’s promised you a get-out-of-jail-free card, I can assure you it’s not worth whatever it’s printed on. So, what was the Dubai trip about?’
‘Charlie, I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles that I wasn’t going to Dubai for Yokely. He offered me a job but I turned him down.’
‘So it was a coincidence that, shortly after meeting him at the Special Forces Club, you give me some cock-and-bull story about moving house and get on a plane to the Middle East?’
‘I am moving house,’ said Shepherd, defensively.
‘You’ve been gazumped, the sale has practically fallen through,’ said Button. Shepherd opened his mouth to speak but she pointed a warning finger at him. ‘And don’t ask me how I know. It’s my job to know what my operatives are up to. Hargrove might have kept you on a long leash but SOCA is a different set-up. If you so much as fart in the bath, I know about it.’
‘I was just going to say it was a reverse gazumping. My buyer cut his offer. Anyway, it’s all been sorted now and the sale’s gone through. But I guess that’s not the point, is it?’
‘No, it’s not. The point is, how many lies are you going to tell me, Spider?’
Shepherd said nothing.
‘And I need you to explain why you jeopardised an ongoing operation.’
Shepherd opened his mouth to speak, but he could see that Button was in no mood to listen so he closed it again.
‘Did you think that SO13 wouldn’t have the Birmingham mob under surveillance? And did you seriously believe when you put the operation on hold that they wouldn’t immediately call me up to find out what the hell was going on? Ali wanted explosives, and you put him on hold.’ She folded her arms.
‘Charlie . . .’
‘What? Charlie what?’
‘It’s complicated,’ he said.
‘Quadratic equations are complicated. What you did isn’t complicated. I know exactly what you did because a very angry SO13 played me the recording of your chat with Ali. And my former colleagues in Five were more than happy to track your mobile to Dubai. So I know what you did and I know where you were when you did it. What I don’t know is why you’ve thrown away your career.’ She unfolded her arms and pointed a finger at him. ‘You could go to prison for what you did, Spider. You aided and abetted terrorists. What was I supposed to tell SO13?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Well, “I’m sorry” doesn’t cut it,’ said Button. ‘Leaving aside the stupidity and illegality of what you did, have you any idea of the position you’ve put me in? All the established law-enforcement organisations are hell-bent on proving that SOCA is unnecessary because they want to show how indispensable they are. You’ve just handed my head to them on a plate. I’ve hired a maverick who cuts deals with terrorists. Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I see about transferring you to another unit?’
Shepherd could see that Button wasn’t bluffing. She looked at him levelly as she waited for him to speak. She wasn’t playing at giving him the silent treatment: she was giving him the chance to make a choice. He could tell her the truth, or he could lie to her. Shepherd had no doubt that he could look her in the eye and lie. It was what he did for a living. He pretended to be someone he wasn’t, he lied and cheated to get close to people he would ultimately betray, and generally he did it with a clear conscience. Lying was a means to an end, a way of putting bad men behind bars, of achieving justice when conventional policing methods had failed. Lying wasn’t exactly second nature to Shepherd, but he could do it well. Shepherd didn’t believe that Button knew the reason for his trip to Dubai. If she did, she’d have confronted him with it. She was giving him the chance to come clean about what he was doing and why. He could tell her the truth and take the consequences, or he could lie. Either way, his relationship with Charlotte Button would never be the same again.
Button sat quietly, waiting for him to speak. Shepherd had no way of knowing if she had any idea of the struggle he was going through. He wondered if he could trust her. She was a former spook, and she had already made clear that her ultimate aim was to go back to MI5. Shepherd trusted the Major because they’d served together in the SAS. He had trusted Sam Hargrove because Hargrove was a career cop who’d proved his loyalty on numerous occasions. Shepherd wanted to trust Button, but they had virtually no history together. He’d worked for her for less than six months.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If he told her the real reason he was in Dubai, he risked blowing the operation. Geordie would die in the basement, his throat ripped open as demented insurgents swore loyalty to their God. Shepherd couldn’t allow that to happen. But if he lied to Button, she would find out. And then his career would be over. More than that, if she turned him in there was a good chance he’d end up in prison for what he’d done already. He’d kidnapped, threatened, abused and come close to torturing two men. Basharat and Fariq. Two innocent men. He looked deep into her eyes and wondered if he could trust her. If he dared to trust her.
Major Allan Gannon looked up at the arrivals display and frowned. The Emirates flight had landed thirty minutes earlier and Shepherd had no reason to be travelling with luggage.
‘Sometimes there’s a stack of VIPs going through,’ said Muller. ‘Anyone related to the royal family gets special treatment, and most businessmen with any clout can get met airside.’
‘I hope that’s all it is,’ said Gannon. With Halim meeting Shepherd off the plane immigration would be a formality, but Shepherd was still bringing in electronic equipment that might attract attention if it was noticed by Customs.
Passengers continued to walk into the arrivals area. There were haughty Saudis in gleaming white dishdashas, and red and white checked ghutras, followed by their womenfolk, draped from head to foot in black; Western businessmen with wheeled luggage, gold frequent-flyer tags and laptop computer cases; dark-skinned labourers in cheap clothes with plastic suitcases held together by string and insulation tape; British tourists already complaining about the heat.
‘There he is,’ said Muller, but Gannon had already spotted Shepherd walking out of the immigration area, Halim at his side. He waved to him, and Shepherd strode towards them carrying a black holdall, Halim hurrying to keep up. Gannon realised that a woman in her late thirties with dark chestnut hair and brown eyes was walking a few feet behind him, matching his brisk pace. Her brow was furrowed and her lips formed a thin, tight line. She had no luggage, just a small leather bag on a strap over one shoulder. In her left hand she carried a fawn raincoat. She was looking in their direction and it was only when she locked eyes with Gannon that he realised who she was. He cursed under his breath.
‘Who is she?’ asked Muller.
‘A ball-breaker,’ said Gannon. ‘That sound you just heard was the shit hitting the fan.’
‘I’m only a stupid American. You’ll have to spell it out for me,’ said Muller.
‘Charlotte Button,’ said Gannon. ‘Spider’s boss.’
‘Ah,’ said Muller. ‘I might just leave you to it.’
‘I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that, John,’ said Gannon. ‘The fact that she’s here means that she probably knows all she needs to know. She used to work for MI5, but now she heads up SOCA’s undercover unit.’
‘Again, I’m just the stupid Yank here. You don’t mean soccer, the game, I take it?’
‘Sorry, John. The bloody initials become second nature after a while.’ He spelled out the letters. ‘Stands for the Serious Organised Crime Agency. Effectively it’s a British FBI. They target drug traffickers, international fraudsters, the big criminals that local forces can’t touch. Spider works for SOCA’s undercover unit, and Charlotte Button there is his boss.’
‘Nice legs,’ said Muller, approvingly.
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