Dead Men

by Leather, Stephen

  The list of Specially Designated Nationals was one of the big guns in the OFAC armoury. Once on the list, a person’s assets were blocked and all Americans prohibited from dealing with them. Anyone on the list became a virtual pariah, their travel options were limited and any businesses they were connected to withered and died. ‘For the moment we’ll just give them enough rope to hang themselves,’ said Yokely. ‘If we start freezing assets they’ll know that we know. But keep a watching brief, please, Karl, and update me on any further transfers. What happened to the money in the Singapore account?’

  ‘It’s not been touched. At the moment there’s a little over five million US dollars in it. I’ve had a look at transactions over the past five years. From time to time money is paid in from mainly Middle Eastern accounts, then transferred to Switzerland, the Cayman Islands and the British Virgin Islands. Various names to those accounts, but most of them are the aliases you gave me.’

  ‘Thanks, Karl. Do me another favour, will you? Run a worldwide search for those aliases and pin down every account he has. At some point in the future we’ll freeze them. And check for withdrawals over the past month. I’m pretty sure Salih is in London, but it’d be helpful to have confirmation.’

  ‘What about my HobNobs?’

  ‘I FedExed them yesterday,’ said Yokely.

  Traynor flashed him a thumbs-up and the screen went blank. Yokely sat back in his chair and linked his fingers behind his head. ‘So, Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed, you want me dead, do you?’ he whispered. ‘Well, you’ve thrown the dice. Let’s see how they land.’

  Shepherd was using a pair of shears to hack away at the hedge in the back garden when his mobile phone beeped. He looked at the screen. It was a text message from a number he didn’t recognise. ‘KELLY’S CELLAR. 6 P. M.’ He frowned. Only the people he’d met in Belfast and Charlotte Button had his number. Mentally he ran through the phone numbers he knew, but there was no match. He called it back, but the phone had been switched off. There was an outside chance that the message had been sent to the wrong number, but Shepherd doubted it. It was just after three o’clock now so he had plenty of time. He finished the hedge, then went upstairs to shower and change.

  He drove into the city centre and parked in a multi-storey close to Royal Avenue, then spent ten minutes walking round the shops in Royal Avenue, the City Hall behind him, checking reflections in shop windows. Kelly’s Cellar was down Bank Street to his left, but he carried on walking. A group of Hari Krishna devotees were jumping up and down, banging drums, clashing cymbals and chanting, watched by a group of Goth teenagers with black hair, pale faces and pierced noses. He went into a Virgin Megastore and wandered among the rows of CDs and DVDs for fifteen minutes until he was sure he wasn’t being followed, then left and headed back to the bar.

  The Goths were still staring at the Hari Krishna group as Shepherd walked by. One of the girls had a safety-pin through her ear and a silver ring in one nostril. Shepherd realised self-mutilation wasn’t something that he found the least bit attractive. He wondered what he’d do if Liam ever decided to dress in black with white makeup, mascara and assorted body piercings or started to bang a drum and chant. His boy was only ten, but time flew and he wasn’t looking forward to the rebellious teenage years.

  Kelly’s Cellar was a traditional two-storey black and white pub with a slate roof. It would perhaps have been more at home on a windswept moor, surrounded by bleating sheep, but now it was hemmed in by a branch of Tesco and a red-brick shopping centre. He took a last glance over his shoulder and pushed open the black wooden door. There was a long bar to his right and a line of wooden tables at which old men in thick coats were drinking pints of Guinness, newspapers open at the sports pages. Four women with pinched faces and cheap clothes were cackling together like witches and drinking halves of bitter.

  Shepherd scanned the faces as he went to the bar but there was no one he recognised. A red-haired man in a stained T-shirt and jeans asked what he wanted to drink and he ordered a Jameson’s and ice. ‘Can I buy you a drink, you Brit bastard?’ said a man behind him, in a poor imitation of a Northern Irish accent.

  Shepherd spun around. His eyes widened. Richard Yokely was the last person he’d expected to see in a Belfast pub. The American grinned but Shepherd held up a hand to silence him. He got out his mobile phone, took off the back and removed the battery.

  ‘Someone listening in, are they?’ said Yokely.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ said Shepherd. ‘Since when has Belfast been your turf?’ He put the phone and the battery back into his pocket.

  ‘I’m a quarter Irish, didn’t I tell you?’ said Yokely, clapping Shepherd on the back. ‘Well, two-eighths, actually. A great-grandmother on my mother’s side was from Donegal and a great-grandfather on my father’s was from Warrenpoint.’ He ordered a pint of Guinness.

  ‘So, you’re here to revisit your roots, O’Yokely, is that it?’

  ‘Nothing so mundane, I’m afraid,’ said Yokely, in his regular Southern drawl. He was wearing a long tweed coat over a brown wool suit and brown leather shoes with tassels. He stuck out his hand and Shepherd shook it. The chunky class ring on Yokely’s right ring finger bit into his palm.

  Yokely paid for their drinks and they went to a corner table. He sipped his Guinness and wiped a line of white foam from his upper lip. ‘Never tastes the same outside of Ireland,’ he said. ‘They do a great steak and Guinness pie upstairs, with diddly-diddly music if you’re lucky.’

  ‘How did you get my number, Richard? It’s a pay-as-you-go and it’s only been valid for the past week or so.’

  ‘A long story.’

  ‘I’ll give you my home number and a pay-as-you-go you can call,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I’d rather you didn’t contact me on operational phones in future.’

  Yokely flashed him a mock salute. ‘Message received and understood.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Shepherd. ‘For all you knew I might have been surrounded by armed crack-dealers when you sent me that SMS.’

  ‘Actually, I knew exactly where you were and what you were doing,’ said Yokely. ‘And you’ve got more to worry about than drug-dealers, believe me.’

  ‘You should also be aware that everything said in the vicinity of that operational phone is recorded,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘And what do you mean, I’ve got more to worry about than drug-dealers? Why do you always talk in riddles? What’s going on?’

  ‘Smile, Spider,’ said Yokely. ‘We’re just a couple of tourists shooting the breeze. That’s why I chose this place.’ He sipped his Guinness, then wiped his upper lip on his sleeve. ‘We’re just a Yank and a Brit on the tourist trail. This place was built fifty years before the founding fathers signed our Constitution, did you know that? We don’t have anything this old back in the States. Did you know the United Irishmen planned the 1798 Rising here? It’s a real piece of history.’

  ‘Funny how the world changes, isn’t it?’ said Shepherd. ‘Terrorists become folk heroes, providing they get what they want and enough time passes.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re becoming cynical in your old age.’

  ‘My job is to put murderers behind bars,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can see why I’d be frustrated when my government decides to set them free early for political reasons.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’ asked Yokely. ‘To put murderers behind bars?’

  Shepherd narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘Do you know why I’m here?’

  Yokely raised his glass. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Do you know everything I do?’

  ‘Pretty much.’ The American grinned.

  ‘You know we have laws against stalking,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘So sue me. Anyway, you should be thinking of me more as a guardian angel than a stalker.’

  ‘That’s why you’re here, is it?’ said Shepherd. ‘To protect me?’

  ‘Spider, I just wanted to get in touc
h without going through the lovely Charlie,’ Yokely said. ‘I needed a chat, man to man.’

  ‘She’s already warned me about going behind her back,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Behind her back, over her head, between her legs, she can’t dictate who you speak to in your own time.’

  ‘Strictly speaking, I’m on SOCA time and Charlie’s my boss.’

  Yokely reached inside his jacket pocket and gave him a photograph of two men in traditional Arab dress: flowing white robes, headdresses and sandals. One was in his sixties or seventies, the other in his thirties. There was a strong facial resemblance so Shepherd figured they were father and son. The two men were sitting at a café table, glasses of tea in front of them. The older man was smoking a cigarette and looking at the other with amusement. Shepherd stared at the faces. He hadn’t seen either man before.

  ‘The old guy is Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed,’ said Yokely. ‘He made a fortune acting as a middle man for the Saudi Royal Family. Weapons, ships, property investments. Semi-retired, these days, but he still has incredible contacts across the Arab world. And probably a few senators in his pocket. We know of two MPs who live well above their means thanks to Othman’s generosity and he was a regular visitor to Number Ten during the Thatcher years.’

  Shepherd handed back the photograph and Yokely slid it inside his jacket.

  ‘Othman wants Charlie dead,’ said the American, flatly.

  ‘Shit,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘He has deep pockets and he knows people. Generally speaking, what Othman wants, Othman gets.’

  ‘You’ve told Charlie, right?’

  ‘No,’ said Yokely. ‘And I’m not planning to.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The sort of people Othman will send to kill her aren’t going to be put off by a couple of uniforms standing outside her front door,’ said Yokely.

  ‘You can’t play with her life like this,’ hissed Shepherd.

  ‘Hear me out,’ said Yokely. ‘The other man in the photograph is Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed. British citizen, don’t you know?’ he said, in a passable upper-class English accent. ‘Courtesy of his dad’s money, of course. Eton-educated, followed by a spell at the London School of Economics. Now dead. And the father blames Charlie.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because he’s a vindictive shit who needs to blame someone,’ said Yokely. ‘Abdal Jabbaar was behind some of the biggest al-Qaeda atrocities in recent years, including the London Tube bombings and the attack on the Eurostar. He killed himself three months ago in a prison in the Ukraine. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as they say. He was responsible for the deaths of several hundred civilians and I for one would happily dance on his grave.’

  ‘So how did he die?’

  ‘Suicide, I’m told.’ Shepherd cocked an eyebrow and Yokely put up his hands. ‘Cross my heart, Spider. He slashed his wrists.’

  ‘So why does he blame Charlie?’

  ‘She interrogated him a while back, before we shipped him off to Guantánamo Bay.’ He smiled without warmth. ‘It was a robust interrogation.’

  ‘If you sent him to Guantánamo Bay, what the hell was he doing in the Ukraine?’

  ‘We needed to be more forceful with our interrogation, and the Ukrainians are more …’

  ‘Forceful?’ Shepherd filled in.

  ‘I was going to say flexible,’ said Yokely.

  ‘So flexible that he killed himself?’

  ‘He wasn’t being tortured, Spider.’

  ‘I’m guessing that depends on your definition of torture,’ said Shepherd. ‘Why was Charlie involved in his interrogation?’

  ‘Her language skills. She’s fluent in Arabic. Plus she’s a woman. Plus we had to do it on the hoof. We were under time constraints.’

  ‘So you were involved?’

  ‘We had him in the American embassy. He was behind the bombs on the Eurostar but we didn’t know what the target was.’

  Shepherd drained his glass and put it on the table. ‘Can I take a shot in the dark here and venture a guess that you’re on Othman’s hit list, too?’

  ‘I was coming to that,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure you were.’

  ‘The old man has taken it into his head that Charlie and I were responsible for the death of his sons and put a price on our heads. But Charlie’s the reason I’m talking to you. I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself.’ He pointed at Shepherd’s empty glass. ‘Another?’

  ‘Sons?’ said Shepherd. ‘You said “son” before. Singular.’

  ‘Abdal Jabbaar killed himself in the Ukraine. His brother died while Charlie and I were interrogating Abdal Jabbaar.’

  ‘Under what circumstances?’ asked Shepherd.

  Yokely smiled tightly. ‘That’s classified.’

  ‘But two of this man’s sons are dead? And he blames you?’

  ‘He blames the two of us,’ said Yokely. ‘Now, do you want another drink?’

  ‘It’s my round,’ said Shepherd.

  When he got back to the table,Yokely was whispering into his mobile phone. He cut the connection as Shepherd sat down.

  ‘So, here’s the scoop. The information I have is that Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed has hired a Palestinian to kill us both. Me and Charlie. His name is Hassan Salih but that means nothing. He uses lots of different aliases.’

  ‘Picture?’

  ‘If I had one, you’d have it. This guy has stayed off our radar. He’s a real pro.’

  ‘But you’re not worried?’

  ‘Not for myself, Spider. I’m always on the move, I have no family to speak of, no real base. And I’m well protected by virtue of what I do. Charlie’s a whole different ball-game.’

  ‘You have to tell her,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And if I do, what then? She and her family go into hiding. Her kid gets pulled out of school. Her career is put on hold. For how long? The killer just waits. Eventually she goes back to work and so does he.’

  ‘I get the feeling you have a plan.’

  ‘We know there’s a contract on her so we watch her.’

  ‘Without telling her?’

  ‘It’s the only way, Spider. And you know people, right, people who can keep an eye on her?’

  ‘She’s a former spook. She’ll spot a tail a mile off.’

  ‘So tell them to be careful. Keep their distance. I’ll arrange full-on electronic surveillance and every professional killer we know will be red-flagged.’

  Shepherd sipped his whiskey. ‘You’re using her as bait.’

  ‘We’re protecting her.’

  ‘You’re using her as bait to catch a killer who’s also got you on his hit-list.’

  ‘You say tomato, I say potato. If I didn’t think it was the only way to go, I wouldn’t be here.’ He sipped his Guinness. ‘There’s something else you should know.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Salih has been tracking Button’s mobile. The one she uses to talk to you.’

  ‘So he’s got my number?’

  ‘I thought you should know.’

  Shepherd’s jaw clenched. ‘Richard, if he knows my mobile number and he has the right contacts, he can get my call lists. Which means he gets all the numbers I’ve been in contact with.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Which means he’ll have my home phone number.’

  ‘You can change your Sim card,’ said the American.

  ‘That’s locking the stable door and you know it,’ said Shepherd. ‘Besides, I can’t go changing my number mid-operation.’

  ‘There’s no reason to suggest that he’s interested in you,’ said Yokely. ‘I just wanted to be straight with you.’

  Shepherd massaged the bridge of his nose. ‘Let’s just say we get the guy,’ he said. ‘The father will hire someone else. If he’s as rich as you say, he can keep paying until the job’s done.’

  ‘I’ll take care of the father,’ said Yokely.

  ‘Meaning what?’

 
‘Meaning I’ll take care of him. Sooner rather than later. It’s just a matter of choosing the time and the place.’

  ‘You’re going to kill him?’

  ‘I’ll neutralise the threat,’ said the American. He raised his glass in salute.

  ‘Tomato, potato,’ said Shepherd.

  Salih stood in the shadows of a spreading willow as he watched the narrow-boat go by. It was on the Regent’s Canal, heading to Camden Town, packed with revellers dancing to a four-piece jazz band. The musicians were good, riffing on a Duke Ellington classic, and Salih was tapping his foot in time to the tune. It was a little after nine o’clock, and the moon was almost full, the sky so clear that Salih could see the craters on its surface. He turned up the collar of his coat and walked to the basin where the narrow-boats could turn around a small man-made island.

  The Russian was waiting there, smoking one of his small, foul-smelling cigars. ‘How are you, old friend?’ asked Merkulov.

  ‘Everything is good,’ Salih said.

  Merkulov hugged him, then the two men started to walk along the towpath, their feet crunching on the gravel. ‘She was in Belfast today,’ said Merkulov. He took an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to Salih. ‘There’s a list of her recent calls.’

  Salih pocketed the envelope. ‘What about the number she keeps calling in Belfast?’

  ‘It’s in there too. It’s a pay-as-you-go, so it could belong to anyone. But I checked the numbers called from it and one is the home number of a SOCA officer, a man called Daniel Shepherd. The address is in Hereford, near the Welsh border. Either whoever has that phone is calling Shepherd, or Shepherd is calling his home.’

  Salih frowned. ‘Hereford is where the SAS is based, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Salih nodded slowly. ‘So this man is possibly former special forces, now working for Charlotte Button in Belfast?’

  ‘That’s an assumption, but probably valid.’

  ‘Can you get me information on him?’

  ‘I still have no reliable contact in SOCA, but I do know several former SAS officers. I can check him out through them. But it will be expensive.’

  ‘How much?’ said Salih.

  ‘It’s not a question of how much I pay them,’ said Merkulov. ‘If they give me information on Shepherd and something happens to him, they’ll be gunning for me. I can check him out, that’s easy enough, but I’ll need your assurance that you won’t do anything drastic to him.’