Dead Men

by Leather, Stephen

  ‘Is he a member of the Royal Family?’

  ‘Would that be a problem?’

  ‘I do not trust the royals,’ said Salih. ‘They have a habit of distancing themselves by removing those who have served them.’

  ‘The person I am acting for is not royal,’ said Aslam, ‘but he is a Saudi.’

  ‘And the targets, they are in the Kingdom?’

  ‘No. The woman is in England, the American moves around. Neither will be in Saudi Arabia.’

  ‘Are there any special requests?’

  ‘There are,’ said Aslam. ‘They must be killed by hand. With violence.’

  ‘So this is for revenge?’

  ‘Very much so.’

  ‘Up close and personal, as they say.’

  ‘They must die in pain,’ agreed Aslam. ‘Is that a problem?’

  Salih smiled. ‘It is a challenge,’ he said. ‘But challenges must be paid for.’

  ‘And your fee would be?’

  Salih’s smile widened. ‘It will depend on the targets,’ he said.

  ‘The American works for the Government. Former CIA, now in one of the greyer areas of Homeland Security. The woman is a police officer in England.’

  ‘Not civilians, then,’ said Salih.

  ‘Civilians are cheaper?’

  ‘Of course, because they are easier to deal with. I will require two million dollars each. Plus all expenses, which will be considerable.’

  ‘How considerable?’

  ‘I will need a quarter of a million dollars in advance. That will be non-refundable, whatever the outcome.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘I will make my preparations, and before I go ahead I will require fifty per cent of my fee, the rest to be paid once the job is done.’

  ‘Also agreed,’ said Aslam. ‘There is something you must do when you kill them.’

  ‘I am listening,’ said Salih.

  ‘When they die, they must be told that they are dying because of what they did to Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed and to his brother Abdal Rahmaan. Those must be the last words they hear as they die. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand,’ Salih said. He paused briefly. Then, ‘Why did you come to me?’ he asked.

  ‘Because you are a Muslim,’ said Aslam, meeting his gaze. ‘They must be killed by a Muslim.’ Salih nodded slowly. ‘And because you are very good at what you do. You have never been caught and, as far as I am aware, you have never failed.’

  ‘Not once,’ said Salih.

  ‘You are able to move freely between countries and you are, above all else, a professional. So, you are the perfect choice. Now, is there anything you require from me that will assist you?’

  ‘Just the money,’ said Salih.

  ‘I can supply you with passports and visas if required.’

  ‘I have my own sources.’

  ‘Of course.’ Aslam took an envelope from his jacket pocket and stood up to hand it to Salih. ‘I do not have photographs, unfortunately, but I have accurate descriptions of both parties, full names and some personal details.’

  ‘That will be enough,’ said Salih, taking the envelope. He dropped it on top of the money and clicked the locks of the attaché case. ‘We shall not meet again,’ he said. ‘Unless my fee is not forthcoming, of course.’

  Muhammad Aslam chuckled. ‘I heard you had a sense of humour,’ he said.

  ‘You heard wrong.’

  Shepherd pulled up in front of the industrial unit and parked the Audi A6 next to Charlotte Button’s Lexus. The unit was on the outskirts of Liverpool on an industrial estate close to the M57. The car hadn’t been Shepherd’s choice. It had been delivered to his home in Hereford as part of his legend and he regretted having to leave his SUV behind. He was Jamie Pierce, a website designer and computer geek, who was relocating from Bristol to Belfast and who would have no need of an SUV. Along with the car he’d been given a file containing the Jamie Pierce legend, which he’d committed to memory. He was single, had never married and had no children. A man who was more comfortable with computers than with people. One of the hardest things about being under cover was remembering the personal details of his legend and blanking out his own past. In the real world he had a ten-year-old son, and a wife who’d died in a senseless traffic accident, but while he was under cover he had to push them to the back of his mind. Shepherd hated having to pretend that his family had never existed, no matter how necessary it was.

  Two other vehicles were parked outside the unit, a fluorescent green VW Beetle and a black Jeep Cherokee with wire wheels. Shepherd didn’t know who owned the Beetle but the Cherokee belonged to Amar Singh, a technician who had worked for the Metropolitan Police but transferred to SOCA at the same time as Shepherd. He climbed out of the car and pushed open the door into the unit. Button and Singh were deep in conversation. A woman with curly blonde hair in a long green dress with a cardigan draped over her shoulders was standing by a pile of furniture with a clipboard. They all looked up as Shepherd walked across the concrete floor. Singh flashed him a thumbs-up. ‘Spider, welcome,’ said Button. ‘This is Jenny Lock, our dresser.’

  Shepherd shook hands with Lock. ‘You were at Five with Charlie?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m freelance,’ she said. ‘I go where the money is.’ She was in her mid-thirties, pretty with flawless skin and long eyelashes.

  ‘Charlie keeps telling me there’s no money at SOCA,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Only when I see your expense claims,’ said Button. She glanced at the furniture and cardboard boxes. ‘I wanted Jenny to go through everything before it gets delivered to Belfast.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What time’s your sailing?’ asked Button.

  ‘Plenty of time,’ said Shepherd. ‘It leaves at ten thirty so I should get to the port just after nine.’

  ‘We’ve got the removal firm booked on the morning ferry,’ said Lock,‘so it should be with you early afternoon tomorrow.’ She handed him the clipboard. As a dresser, her job was to provide the accessories that went with his legend. Shepherd inspected the furniture and electrical equipment. There was a Dell computer and monitor in their original boxes, along with a printer and a Sony laptop. ‘We’ve put lots of work-related info on to the hard drives, and set you up with an email address that’s got work-related correspondence. We’ll be sending you stuff every day, and I suggest you reply whenever you can. Neither of the computers are secure, of course, so stay in character with anything you send.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘A lot of Elaine Carter’s friends are police and police wives, so there’s a chance you’ll be checked out,’ said Button.

  ‘You think someone’ll get into my computers?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’said Button. ‘Given the chance? You know how protective cops can be of their own. And not just the cops. Let’s not forget you’re an Englishman in Belfast. MI5 is still very much active in the province so anyone with an English accent will attract attention. The IRA have disarmed but they’re still active, while the UDF, UVF and the rest of the Unionist boys will be looking at you. Belfast has changed since the Peace Process gained momentum, but both sides are still gathering intelligence.’

  ‘My legend better be watertight, then.’

  ‘It’s rock solid,’ said Button. ‘I’ve set up designated phone numbers for three former employers on your CV and we’ve put motoring offences on the PNC. We’ve flagged your details on the computer so if anyone looks at you we’ll know straight away. We’ve used a safe-house in Bristol as your former address and we’ve backdated utility accounts, council-tax payments and the electoral roll. We even put you on a local GP’s list. I’ll give you all the details before you leave.’

  ‘And the car’s kosher?’

  ‘You’ve had it since new, and it ties in with the speeding offences. We’ve got backdated parking tickets. We’ll leave the British plates on.’ She nodded at Singh. ‘Amar has rigged up a special m
obile for you.’

  Singh handed Shepherd a new model Nokia. ‘Stun gun?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Infinity transmitter,’ said Singh. ‘Everything it picks up is sent through the phone system to my receiver, whether or not the phone is switched on.’ Singh grinned. ‘So be careful what you say.’

  ‘How do I switch it off?’

  ‘You don’t,’ said Singh.

  ‘What if I take out the battery?’

  Singh sighed. ‘Yes, obviously, if you remove the power source, it won’t be able to transmit.’

  ‘I wouldn’t advise that, Spider,’ said Button. ‘We can track you through the phone, too. It’s got GPS. We’ll need to know where you are.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want you eavesdropping on my every word.’

  ‘If you get close to her, if you win her over, she might give herself away at any time. We’ve got the house covered but we need to have you wired when you’re outside. I decided the phone was better than you wiring yourself up.’

  ‘You’ve got the house covered?’

  ‘I was coming to that,’ said Button. ‘Amar went in two weeks ago, posing as a surveyor. All the rooms are wired for sound.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a microphone in every electrical socket,’ Singh told him.

  ‘So every time I burp or fart, it’ll be recorded?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘The on-off switch on the socket turns the microphone on and off too, so you’ll have some privacy,’ said Singh.

  Shepherd gestured at the door. ‘Can I have a word,Charlie?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, and they went outside. She waited until he’d closed the door, then asked, ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘I didn’t realise this was going to be so personal,’ he said. ‘Everything I say and do, I’ll be watched.’

  ‘No cameras, Spider, but yes, someone will be listening. How else are we going to get evidence against her?’

  ‘Usually we wait till I’m in, and then I’m wired up.’

  ‘Same principle here.’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘This is different.’

  ‘Not shy, are you? Is that the problem?’

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just not happy about everything I say and do being on the record. Being under cover means telling lies, and I don’t want that coming back to haunt me.’

  ‘We all know you have to do what you have to do,’ said Button. ‘Anything not relevant will be deleted, you have my word.’

  ‘Will I be expected to give evidence in court?’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ said Button. ‘The last thing we want is to have her on trial. There’ll be a lot of sympathy for her, after what the IRA did to her husband. If she goes on trial, it’ll stir up a whole lot of bad feeling.’

  ‘So you expect her to plead guilty?’

  ‘If you get her confessing on tape, and if you get the gun, I don’t see that she’ll have much choice.’

  ‘Yeah? Any chance of her cutting a deal under the Good Friday Agreement? Like the bastards who shot her husband?’

  Button flashed him a warning look. ‘Spider …’

  ‘Her husband was a cop, Charlie. A cop doing a difficult job. They shot him in cold blood and the Government released them as part of a political settlement. I don’t think there’s much that’s political about shooting a man in front of his wife and child, do you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what I think, Spider. I’ve as much sympathy for Elaine Carter as you, believe me, but if she’s killing, she has to be stopped. Between you and me, the powers-that-be’ll probably do a deal, a reduced sentence in exchange for a guilty plea.’

  ‘It’s a shitty world, Charlie.’ He sighed.

  ‘You’re preaching to the converted,’ said Button. ‘Look at it this way. Better you’re the one rather than some hard-arsed cop with an axe to grind. At least you can empathise.’

  Shepherd took out a packet of Marlboro and popped one into his mouth. He offered them to Button but she declined. He lit the cigarette and blew smoke into the air.

  ‘How are you getting on with those?’ asked Button.

  ‘At least I can inhale without coughing now. I just hope I don’t get addicted before the job’s over.’ Button was looking longingly at the cigarette and he offered her the packet again.

  She wrinkled her nose,then sighed and took one. ‘I suppose it doesn’t count if I didn’t buy it,’ she said.

  ‘One won’t hurt you,’ said Shepherd. He lit it for her.

  Button inhaled deeply, held the smoke in her lungs, then blew it out. ‘Disgusting habit,’ she said.

  Tears sprang to Willie McEvoy’s eyes and he blinked them away, not wanting to die like a crying baby. ‘There’s half a kilo of cocaine upstairs,’ he said, ‘and money. There’s thirty grand under the bed. It’s yours. Take it.’

  The barrel of a gun was pushed against the back of his neck. He heard the click-click-click of the hammer drawn back.

  ‘Look, if I’m on your turf, I’ll leave,’ said McEvoy, his voice trembling. ‘I’ll up and go. I’ll leave Belfast. There’s no need to do anything stupid, okay?’

  McEvoy stared at the wall in front of him. There was a small wooden cross with a figure of Jesus next to a framed photograph of the Pope. ‘Please, Jesus, don’t let me die like this,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll do anything, anything, just don’t let me die.’

  McEvoy heard a rustle and a gloved hand reached over his shoulder, holding a photograph. McEvoy recognised the face in the picture and his heart sank. Robert Carter, in his RUC uniform and cap. McEvoy had been hoping he was being robbed, that all he had to do was to give up his money or his drugs and he’d escape with a beating or, at worst, a bullet in the leg. Now he knew this wasn’t about drugs or money.

  Tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘I only drove the car,’ he said. ‘That’s all I did. I drove the sodding car. I didn’t even have a gun, they said that at my trial. I didn’t even have a gun.’ McEvoy put his hands up to his face and sobbed. He knew what had happened to Adrian Dunne and Joseph McFee. ‘I’ve got money in the bank and I own three apartments in the city. Two apartments in Liverpool. More than a million quid’s worth. I’ll get the money for you tomorrow and I’ll sign the apartments over to you.’

  The gloved hand took the photograph away from his face.

  ‘I did my time,’ said McEvoy. ‘I didn’t shoot him. I didn’t have a gun. I drove the car. I waited and I drove them away. That’s all.’ McEvoy felt a warm wetness spread round his groin and smelt his own urine. He’d pissed himself. He was crying like a baby and he’d pissed himself. Anger flared through his system and he lowered his hands, his tear-filled eyes blazing with hatred. He clenched his hands into fists. ‘I’m not going to die like this,’ he said. ‘Fuck you, I’m not going to …’

  The gun barked and McEvoy felt a searing pain in his left leg, as if he’d been hit with a hammer. He staggered to the right and almost immediately there was a second bang and his right leg buckled. McEvoy screamed. He lurched forward, arms flailing. His knees felt as if they were being pierced by red-hot pokers and the strength drained from his legs. ‘This isn’t fair …’ he said. He didn’t hear the shot that blasted through the back of his skull and tore through his face, spraying his brains and blood across the wall in front of him.

  It took Shepherd less than twenty minutes to drive to the ferry terminal. He was directed to one of the lines of cars waiting to board, and an hour later he was sitting in the cafeteria eating an egg-mayonnaise sandwich and drinking coffee as the ferry headed across the Irish Sea. The Norfolkline ship took just over eight hours to make the crossing and he had booked a cabin so that he could get some sleep. His fellow passengers were a mixed bag. There were middle-aged motorcyclists in black leathers, families with children, and groups of workmen travelling with the tools of their trade.

  Shepherd studied a Belfast street map as he ate. He had been to Belfast three times in the past when he had worked
for Superintendent Sam Hargrove’s police undercover unit, twice to infiltrate drugs gangs and once as back-up for a local Irish cop who had been trying to penetrate a counterfeit-currency ring. He had missed out on the IRA years, when members of the SAS put their lives on the line working under cover in Northern Ireland. It had been a dirty war, with casualties on both sides. There had been successes and failures, and war stories were still told in the bars and pubs of Hereford by the guys who had been through it.

  Shepherd had come up against paramilitaries from both sides during his time in Belfast, but only as members of criminal gangs. As both sides downgraded their terrorist activities, the men with the guns found other ways to fill their time, from drug-dealing to armed robbery. Going up against criminal gangs in the city had been tough, not least because Shepherd’s English accent marked him as an outsider. The city’s criminal fraternity had split along tribal lines, but he’d been surprised to find that his nationality had never been held against him. The anger and hostility seemed to be directed between Catholics and Protestants, and as an Englishman he was deemed almost superfluous to the conflict. They were hard men, though, and most had started out throwing stones and petrol bombs at armoured Land Rovers before graduating to shootings, punishment beatings and, eventually, sectarian murder. That was the big difference for Shepherd. Most of the criminals he dealt with in mainland Britain were hard men, but few had seen a dead body and the vast majority had never killed anyone. But Belfast was brimful of men who had been trained to kill and who had taken lives for no other reason than that the victim was of the wrong religion. He was interested to see how the city had changed following the historic agreement for power-sharing.

  He headed for his cabin at just after midnight and went straight to sleep. He woke at five thirty, shaved and washed, then went back to the cafeteria for coffee. At just before six the captain announced over the loudspeaker system that they were arriving in Belfast and Shepherd went down to the vehicle deck and sat in his Audi.

  There were no checks as he drove off the ferry. There was little traffic on the roads and he was soon on a dual-carriageway on the outskirts of Belfast. He drove up into the Castlereagh Hills and turned on to Castlemore Avenue. The first houses he passed were detached, but then he came to a neat row of semis. He slowed and checked the numbers. His house was on the right, a neatly tended garden in front with a wrought-iron gate. He stopped the car, opened the gate, then drove up to the garage door. It was just before eight o’clock.