Dead Men

by Leather, Stephen

  ‘Okay,’ said Liam.

  ‘Some people like to talk about what they do,’ said Shepherd. ‘They like to tell war stories. I don’t. A lot of what I’ve done is locked away, deep inside, like it’s in a vault. And it’s a big thing for me to open that vault. I did for your mum, and one day I will for you.’

  ‘Dad, I understand. I’m not a kid.’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Now, shall we have another kick-about before we eat those cow brains?’

  ‘Pig brains,’ said Liam. ‘I bet I can get six past you one after the other.’

  Shepherd groaned. ‘I bet you can, too.’

  Joseph McFee blinked as the hood was pulled off his head. He was kneeling opposite a blindingly bright light that was shining into his face. He coughed and spat on the floor. A figure was standing in front of him. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked. He strained against the duct tape that had been wrapped tightly round his wrists.

  The figure walked to the lamp and twisted it so that it was shining at a framed photograph, on a metal table, of a man in his twenties, wearing the uniform of an RUC inspector. There was a half-smile on the subject’s face, as if he was flirting with whoever had taken the shot. Recognition dawned. ‘Robbie Carter,’ McFee said. He knew then that there was no hope. ‘You killed Adrian Dunne? He was a good man.’

  The figure grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, dragging him to his feet.

  ‘We served our time, all of us did,’ said McFee. All he could hear was deep breathing. In and out, slow and controlled. ‘Look, it was Dunne and Lynn killed the peeler. I didn’t even have a gun. I broke down the door and I was there when it happened. That was what they said at the trial and it was the truth. I was there but it wasn’t me who killed him.’

  The sound of the gun was deafening in the confined space and McFee’s left leg felt as though an iron bar had been slammed against it. He fell to the side and staggered, trying to regain his balance. He clamped his teeth together to stop himself screaming. ‘I didn’t kill him,’ said McFee. He winced as pain lanced through his leg. ‘I didn’t even have a gun. I was there but I didn’t kill him.’

  The gun roared again and McFee’s right leg collapsed. He pitched forward. He managed to turn his head just before he hit the floor so he didn’t smash his face, but the fall had knocked the breath out of him.

  He felt rather than heard footsteps as he gasped for breath. He could feel the blood pouring from his shattered knees and his ribs hurt with every breath he took. Not that the pain mattered. He knew that nothing mattered any more. He wanted to beg for his life but he knew there was nothing he could say that would prevent what was about to happen.

  He began to pray. ‘Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name …’ The gun barked again.

  Shepherd heard the rat-tat-tat of an assault rifle being fired on automatic as he pushed open the door to the indoor range. The Major was standing with his back to the door and looked over his shoulder as Shepherd came towards him. ‘Spider, good to see you,’ he said. He lowered the weapon he’d just fired and shook hands.

  Major Allan Gannon was well over six feet tall, with a strong chin and wide shoulders. His nose had been broken at least once. He was wearing camouflage fatigues with Converse sneakers, and a Rolex Submariner on his left wrist. A yellow foam plug nestled in each ear, protection against the deafening gunshots. The metal briefcase that contained the secure satellite phone nicknamed the Almighty stood against the wall. No matter where the Major went he was never far from it. The only people who had access to it were the Prime Minister, the Cabinet Office, and the chiefs of MI5 and MI6. No matter who called, it was never good news.

  ‘Didn’t expect to find you in Hereford,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘They try to keep me nailed to that desk, but I managed to tunnel out,’ laughed the Major. ‘I like the haircut. You joining the Marines?’

  Shepherd ran his hand over his scalp. ‘I was under cover with a gang of heavies who thought that short hair, tattoos and an earring meant you were hard. It’ll grow back.’

  The Major grinned. ‘Yeah, I wish I was hard.’ He showed Shepherd the weapon he had just fired. ‘Seen one of these before?’

  ‘It’s the Heckler MP7, right? They came out just before I left the Regiment.’

  The Major nodded. ‘They call it a Multi-role Personal Defence Weapon, these days.’

  ‘Better than the MP5?’

  ‘I like it,’ said the Major. ‘It’s got a 4.6-by-30-millimetre round, which packs the same punch as an assault rifle, and it’ll cut right through Kevlar body armour at two hundred metres. But it handles like a .22 with hardly any recoil. It’s like a rock during burst fire, even at nine hundred and fifty rounds a minute. NATO was getting fed up with bullets bouncing off body armour so they asked for a new weapon and Heckler came up with this.’ He put it on a table and picked up a second weapon, thinner and longer than the MP7 with a smaller hand-grip. ‘We’re doing a compare and contrast with this,’ he said. ‘Heckler’s UMP. Universale Maschinenpistole.’

  ‘Ja, mein Führer,’ said Shepherd, clicking his heels and bowing. ‘Ve used it ven ve invaded Poland, ja?’

  Gannon handed him the UMP. ‘Now, this one was specifically designed to replace the MP5. It fires from a closed bolt, like the MP5, but is designed for bigger cartridges. Mainly polymer construction, it’s a full pound lighter than the MP5. It comes in three versions. This one is the UMP45 which uses the .45 ACP cartridge. Lots of stopping power.’

  ‘Which is all well and good if you hit the target,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I wouldn’t want bullets like that whizzing around where there’s a risk of collateral damage.’

  ‘Sure, but you have to take into account that, these days, the bad guys all wear body armour,’ said the Major. ‘Even the old double-tap to the chest with an MP5 comes up short if the guy’s got a Kevlar vest. The clever thing about the UMP is that all three versions are the same basic design and can be converted to any of the other calibres by switching the bolt, barrel and magazine. So you can have the nine-by-nineteen-millimetre Parabellum if you prefer it, but you have the option of converting it to take the .45 or the .40 Smith & Wesson cartridge.’

  Shepherd hefted the UMP. It weighed about five pounds, with its twenty-five-round magazine, and didn’t look much different from the MP5 he’d used during his time with the SAS.

  ‘So, how’s business?’ asked the Major.

  ‘Same old,’ said Shepherd. ‘Drugs, mainly. That’s SOCA’s bread and butter.’

  ‘Don’t you feel you’re wasting your time putting drug-dealers away? They’re supplying a need, and presumably for every one you put behind bars there’s another waiting to take his place, right?’

  ‘I just do what I’m told,’ said Shepherd. He sighted at one of the targets down the range, the weapon’s stock fitting snugly against his shoulder.

  ‘You’ve got better things to do than arrest drug-dealers,’ said Gannon. ‘You should come and work for the Increment. Get involved in anti-terrorism. Do something that makes a difference.’ The Increment was the Government’s best-kept secret, and the Major ran it. It consisted of a group of highly trained special-forces soldiers who were used on operations considered too dangerous for Britain’s intelligence agencies. The Major was able to draw on all the resources of the Special Air Service and the Special Boat Service, plus any other experts who might be needed.

  ‘I’m too old to be an action man,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You’re almost ten years younger than me,’ said the Major, ‘and it’s not all jumping out of planes and firing from the hip.’ He indicated a box of earplugs on the table.

  ‘I’m happy with SOCA,’ Shepherd said. ‘It’s challenging, and I get to spend time with Liam too.’ He popped plugs into his ears and worked his jaw as they expanded to fill his ear canals.

  ‘And the lovely Miss Button?’

  ‘Mrs Button,’ said Shepherd. ‘Married with child.’

  ‘Do
n’t get too attached,’ said the Major.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The Major picked up the MP7 and fired a short burst at the terrorist target twenty-five yards away. The tang of cordite in the enclosed space made Shepherd’s eyes water. The Major grinned at the tight grouping in the centre of the dummy’s head. ‘We had some MI5 hotshots down for weapons training last week,’ he said. ‘They weren’t a bad crowd, as it turned out, but they sure as hell couldn’t hold their booze. We took them on a pub crawl and I had a very interesting chat with a young lady who works in Five’s surveillance department.’

  ‘I bet you did,’ said Shepherd. He aimed the UMP at the target next to the Major’s and pulled the trigger. The weapon’s relatively slow rate of fire and the large-calibre rounds meant he had to keep a tight grip as it kicked. Even before he’d finished he knew that several of his shots had gone wide. He grimaced as he put the gun back on the table. ‘Give me the MP5 any day,’ he said.

  The Major slapped him on the back. ‘If that’s any indication of your marksmanship, you’d better stick with an MP3,’ he said. ‘Or, better still, an iPod.’ He handed the MP7 to Shepherd and bowed theatrically towards the targets. ‘Pray try again, m’lord,’ he said, in his best Jeeves impersonation.

  Shepherd raised the weapon to his shoulder. He slipped his finger inside the trigger guard. The weapon had a similar safety feature to the Glock pistol – the trigger was in three sections of which the middle had to be pulled first before the outer sections would move. It helped prevent an accidental discharge. It wasn’t a feature that Shepherd appreciated. It made the trigger less sensitive and Shepherd believed that a man who could accidentally fire a weapon shouldn’t be handling one in the first place. In all his years as an SAS trooper and undercover cop he’d never once fired without meaning to. He loosed a quick burst and smiled at the almost total lack of recoil. There was none of the kicking and bucking he associated with the UMP yet a tight cluster of holes had appeared above the terrorist’s heart. ‘Nice,’ he said.

  ‘And the rounds have enough velocity so that once they’ve punched through body armour they start tumbling,’ said the Major. ‘The ammunition is pretty much exclusive to the gun, the bullet is made of hardened steel and it’s smaller than a ninemillimetre so you can get loads of them in a magazine. It’s a real man-stopper. The German Army’s already using it and the Ministry of Defence police here have already signed up for it.’

  ‘It’s a good gun,’ said Shepherd. ‘I just hope the bad guys don’t start using it.’ He handed it back. ‘What did you hear about Charlie?’ he asked.

  The major raised his eyebrows. ‘What makes you think I heard anything about the lovely Mrs Button?’

  ‘Because I’m a cop and you’re transparent,’ said Shepherd.

  Gannon laughed. ‘Fair point,’ he said. ‘Seems that Charlie’s a bit of a hero with MI5. And they reckon she’ll be back there before long.’

  ‘Office gossip or something more substantial?’

  ‘Substantial gossip, from what I understand. The way my little songbird told it, Charlie was one of several MI5 high-flyers who were seconded to SOCA at its inception. The spooks were worried that SOCA might get ideas above its station, so they wanted their own people on board from the get-go. But it was never a permanent attachment, and my source is guessing that before long she’ll be back in the fold.’

  ‘There’ll be lots of movement back and forth between SOCA and the other agencies,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘She’s a spook,’ said the Major. ‘Graduate entry, dyed-in-the-wool MI5. What I’m saying is, don’t nail your colours to her mast because, come the day, she’ll sail off into the sunset.’

  ‘Leaving me high and dry? You do love your metaphors, don’t you?’

  ‘In your line of work, your boss means everything,’ said the Major.

  ‘I’ve changed bosses before,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘But this is different,’ said the Major. ‘She’s not with SOCA because she wants to put criminals away. She’s there because MI5 sent her. And when they click their fingers, she’ll be back. You want a boss who’s committed, not one who’s plotting her career path.’

  ‘I hear you,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’m just watching your back, Spider, same as always.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t have it any other way,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now, do you want to put the targets back to fifty yards and see who’d be better off with the iPod?’

  The Judge fiddled with the papers in front of him, then peered across the crowded court at the man in the dock, who stared back at him, head held high. The Judge had a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose and looked over the top of them as he addressed the man.

  ‘Noel Marcus Kinsella, you have pleaded guilty to the callous murder of Inspector Robert Carter, a man who was murdered on the orders of the Provisional wing of the Irish Republican Army, for no other reason than that he was a serving police officer.’

  Kinsella folded his arms and stood with his legs shoulder-width apart.

  The Judge spoke slowly. The regular court reporters had perfect shorthand but he knew that most of those in his court were from the British media and usually depended on electronic recording equipment, which was banned in courtrooms, and he didn’t want to be misquoted.

  ‘I therefore sentence you to life imprisonment with a recommendation that you serve a minimum of sixteen years.’ He leant back in his seat. ‘But, as we both know, my recommendation counts for nothing, and neither does the sentence I have imposed on you.’ He gazed coldly at Kinsella. ‘Under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement I have no doubt that you will not serve a single day in prison for the brutal murder of a brave young police officer. While I, like most of the population, are grateful for what the Peace Process has achieved, I have to say that some issues concern me greatly. The murder of Robert Carter is one such. Mr Carter was doing his job, protecting both sides of the community. He was a good father and a loving husband. You were part of a group who decided to murder him, to shoot him in the knees and then the head in front of his wife and young child. You have shown no remorse, and you have made it clear that you are pleading guilty for no other reason than to expedite the process so that you can gain your freedom.’

  The Judge took a deep breath as if steadying himself. ‘Get on with it!’ shouted a man in the public gallery.

  The Judge ignored the interruption. ‘Under the terms of the Good Friday Agreement, a minimum of two years must be served before early release can be considered. But it has been made clear to me that, in your case, you will be freed under the Royal Prerogative of Mercy, which means that you will serve no time.’ The Judge scowled at Kinsella. ‘There is a certain irony in that, considering that you showed Mr Carter not one iota of mercy.’

  The Judge lifted a glass of water to his lips and drank slowly, his eyes continuing to burn into Kinsella’s. He put down the glass, then dabbed his lips with a handkerchief before he went on. ‘The court system is charged with deciding guilt or innocence,’ he said slowly, ‘but we are also charged with apportioning punishment. The murder of a brave young police officer should not go unpunished. Yet that is what is happening here. You have pleaded guilty, but there is no doubt in my mind that you feel no guilt. You deserve to be punished for what you did that evening in nineteen ninety-six, but that will not happen, which disgusts me today. Justice is not being served, but political expediency is.’ He paused again. ‘Take him down,’ he said, shaking his head in disgust.

  Two uniformed prison officers reached for Kinsella, who shook them away. ‘You’re not to touch me,’ he said. He looked at his two lawyers.

  ‘Take him down, but do not restrain him,’ said the Judge.

  The British lawyer stood up. ‘Your Honour, in view of the fact that Mr Kinsella will almost certainly be released later this afternoon, could he simply not walk free from the court now?’ he said, in an upper-class English accent.

  The Judge scowled at h
im. ‘Mr Kinsella can sit in a cell until the paperwork arrives,’ he said. ‘If it was up to me he’d rot in Hell.’

  Kinsella grinned at the Judge. ‘Thank you, your Honour,’ he said. ‘You have a nice day, now.’ He went down the stairs leading to the cells below the court, followed by the two prison officers.

  There were loud cheers from the public gallery and two young men at the front unfurled an Irish flag. Two burly bailiffs moved to grab it but the Judge waved them back. There was nothing to be gained from confronting the demonstrators. He left the room by his private entrance. He had a bottle of malt whisky in his office and intended to make full use of it.

  Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed removed the leather hood from the falcon’s head and studied its inquisitive jet black eyes as he made soft shushing sounds. The few seconds after the hood had been removed were always tense. The bird needed reassurance and to hear the voice of its master. The Saker falcon was beautiful, one of the old man’s favourites. It had a wingspan of more than a metre but he barely felt its weight as it gripped his arm with its curved talons. The Saker generally hunted rodents but the falconer had been training it to take birds in flight and it had proved an able pupil. It cocked its head, then opened its beak and called, ‘Kiy-ee, kiy-ee.’ Othman and the falcon stood in the shade of a large yellow and red umbrella held aloft by Masood.

  ‘Yes,pretty one,’said the old man. ‘It is time to hunt. Time to kill.’ He peered out over the desert dunes. Two white Range Rovers stood to his left, with his falconer, Sandy Macgregor. The old man had met Macgregor while he was staying at the prestigious Gleneagles Hotel in Scotland, and had hired him shortly afterwards. Now Macgregor earned a six-figure salary and a range of expatriate privileges, including a luxurious five-bedroom villa, business-class flights home for himself and his family, and a place at a top international school for his twelve-year-old son. Half a dozen other falcons waited on block perches attached to the rear of one of the Range Rovers. They were still hooded and cocked their heads as they listened intently, knowing that one of their number was about to be flown and that soon it would be their turn. Two of Othman’s bodyguards waited beside them, big men in safari jackets, their heads wrapped in red and white checked shumag scarves, their eyes shielded with impenetrable wraparound Oakley sunglasses. Both men were Americans, former Delta Force soldiers. Othman had no love for America or Americans but, like the Saudi Royal Family, he had come to appreciate that Delta Force produced bodyguards second to none.