Live Fire

by Stephen Leather

  ‘You want me to put you in touch with my competition?’ said Kleintank.

  ‘I just want a missile with a guidance system,’ said Bradshaw, ‘but if you point me in the right direction, I’ll take one of them off your hands.’

  ‘One is thirty thousand euros,’ said Kleintank.

  ‘You said fifty thousand for two.’

  ‘But you don’t want two,’ said Kleintank. ‘If you only take one I have to find another buyer. That takes time, and with every buyer I meet, there are risks.’ He patted one of the wooden crates. ‘These are in demand, but the Americans don’t want them being sold, which means there’s a lot of undercover agents trying to take them off the market. If I show these to the wrong people, I could end up in the Ukraine with a cattle prod up my arse.’

  ‘I’m not sure how much demand there is for practice weapons,’ said Bradshaw. ‘I only need one like this. I will pay you thirty thousand euros, in cash, if you put me in touch with someone who can sell me one with a guidance system.’

  ‘You have the money with you?’ asked Kleintank.

  ‘It’s close by,’ said Bradshaw.

  Kleintank wrinkled his nose as if he was considering the offer, but Bradshaw knew he had already made up his mind.

  Kleintank nodded. ‘Let me talk to my friend,’ he said. He walked away from them, tapping a number into his mobile phone. As he talked he paced around the card table, occasionally looking at Bradshaw and Kundi. After a few minutes he came back, his phone still in his hand. ‘I have a friend in Nice who can help you,’ he said.

  ‘Friend or competitor?’ asked Bradshaw.

  Kleintank smiled. ‘We’re in the same business – sometimes we compete, sometimes we help each other. Marcel and I were in the Legion together, so I trust him with my life. He does a lot of business with South American nations.’

  ‘And he has a Grail with a guidance system?’

  ‘He has a Stinger. Fully operational. Sixty thousand euros.’

  ‘Tell him we’ll take it,’ Bradshaw said, ‘subject to it being as described.’ He gestured at the practice Grail missiles. ‘Is there any easy way of getting one to Nice so that I can combine the shipments?’

  Kleintank grinned. ‘Everything is easy if you have the money,’ he said.

  Shepherd was in Tony’s Gym at ten o’clock. He ran on a treadmill for forty-five minutes, then spent half an hour lifting weights, working on tone and fitness rather than building bulk. There was no sign of the Moore brothers or any of their crew. After he’d showered, he left his Jeep in the gym’s car park and took a motorcycle taxi to the beach road where he bought two cappuccinos from Starbucks and walked to Sharpe’s hotel.

  Sharpe was wearing nothing but boxer shorts and looked as if he’d had even less sleep than Shepherd. He took the coffee and sat on his bed, running a hand through his unkempt hair.

  ‘Hangover?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘I think there’s something in the beer here,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘Yeah, it’s called alcohol.’ Shepherd sat down on the chair by the window. ‘Things are moving,’ he said. ‘They’re setting up a big score and it’s going to be soon.’

  ‘Can’t be soon enough for me,’ said Sharpe. ‘Every time I go outside someone offers me cheap sex or throws a bucket of water over me. It’s too bloody hot and my stomach’s playing up.’ He looked over at Shepherd. ‘Have you noticed that no one chucks water over the cops? The Thais don’t and neither do the Westerners. You see anyone dealing with the cops here, it’s “Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir,” from the Thais and the Westerners. I saw a big Brit guy on a scooter pulled in for not wearing a helmet and he was as meek as milk. Promised not to do it again, said he was sorry, handed over a couple of hundred baht. Even did that thing they do, putting his hands together like he was praying.’

  ‘It’s called a wai.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he did that too. There was no cheek, no answering back, no bad language. I’m sure if the same guy had been pulled in back in the UK, he’d have been giving the cop all sorts of abuse. And you know why that is?’

  ‘I guess a combination of their tight brown uniforms and the big guns on their hips.’

  ‘Because here they’re scared of the cops, that’s why.’

  ‘I was right, then.’ Shepherd swung his feet up onto Sharpe’s bed.

  ‘It’s not the guns,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s respect for the uniform. We’ve lost that back in England. No one respects the police any more. Here, it’s the way it used to be in England fifty years ago.’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘You’re an old fart, razor, but you’re not old enough to remember when the police commanded respect.’

  ‘I’m third-generation police, you know. My dad and his father before him were cops in Glasgow. My granddad’s long gone but I can still remember him and my dad swapping stories. They had real stories, too, not like the cops these days where the most exciting thing they do is to fill out a crime report or appear on Crimewatch. Guys like the Moores, they’d have been nipped in the bud with a few clips around the ear when they were kids, and if that hadn’t worked they’d have been nicked on their first or second job. My dad and granddad knew every bad apple on their beat, their names and where they lived, what car they drove and when they were up to no good.’

  ‘Yeah, things have changed.’

  ‘You never walked a beat, Spider. I know the SAS is no picnic but you went from abseiling down buildings with a machine-gun to working under cover. You were never throwing drunks into a van on a Saturday night or trying to take a knife off a guy high on crack.’

  ‘I meant society’s changed,’ said Shepherd. ‘And the police have changed along with it.’

  ‘Damn right things have changed. Intelligence back then was in the head of the local bobby. Now it’s guys like Kenny Mansfield sitting in their offices and staring at their screens. They might understand the statistics and how to use databases but they don’t understand people. Cops like my dad and his dad, they understood people.’

  ‘So what’s the solution?’

  Sharpe chuckled and sipped his cappuccino. ‘There is no solution, Spider. We just have to accept the way things are and deal with it. But I know one thing for a fact. Before the days of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, and before everything a cop did was subject to public scrutiny, the police did a pretty good job of maintaining law and order, even in a tough city like Glasgow.’

  ‘Because they could get away with breaking the rules, you mean?’

  ‘They broke them and they bent them, sure,’ said Sharpe, ‘but my dad and granddad both said the same thing – they never put away someone who didn’t deserve it.’

  ‘Now you’re starting to sound like a vigilante, Razor,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘My dad told me about a drug-dealer on his patch, a guy by the name of Willie Mackenzie. Mackenzie was a mid-ranking dealer but he was heading for the big-time. Heroin was his drug of choice, but he’d deal in anything. The Drugs Squad finally got Mackenzie on a GBH charge after he took a razor to one of his competitors. Blinded the guy, scarred him for life. For some reason the judge gave him bail, and over the next two months every witness told the police they’d had a memory lapse. One had his lapse in intensive care, the other forgot everything after someone poured petrol through his letterbox. Mackenzie never stood trial for the GBH.’ Sharpe took another sip of coffee. ‘A couple of months later my dad was on the team that busted a gang bringing in a consignment of heroin from the Continent. The drugs were in a warehouse near the docks. The gang had already started distributing the gear and guess what? Five kilos turned up in the boot of Mackenzie’s car. That, and a statement from one of my dad’s informants that he’d seen Mackenzie at the warehouse, was enough to have him sent down for ten years.’ He waved his paper cup at Shepherd. ‘You’re a great one for fairness, Spider. Now you tell me that what happened isn’t fair.’

  ‘It’s fair, but it’s not right,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s a difference.�
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  ‘Mackenzie got what was coming to him and the police made sure it happened.’

  ‘He must have known your dad set him up.’

  Sharpe shrugged. ‘My dad was a hard bastard and he wasn’t scared of a piece of shit like Mackenzie. Not that it made any difference. Mackenzie died in prison, knifed by a lifer.’

  ‘You’re not thinking about framing the Moore brothers, are you, Razor?’ asked Shepherd, only half joking.

  ‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ said Sharpe. ‘Those days are long gone. You know, the only time my dad ever got hurt in the job, he was hit by a car and spent a month in hospital. During that month more than five hundred people came to pay their respects. And the guy who did it, he handed himself into the cops after a week. You know why?’

  ‘I’m assuming because someone threatened to break his legs.’

  Sharpe grinned. ‘And you’d assume right. There was respect back then. Respect for the uniform and respect for the man. They’ve still got it here in Thailand, but we’ve lost it in England.’

  ‘Maybe you should move here,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It’s too hot for me, and that water-throwing thing is a bloody nuisance.’

  ‘It’s only once a year,’ said Shepherd.

  His phone rang. He motioned for Sharpe to stay quiet and took the call.

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘On my way to Starbucks for a coffee. What’s up?’

  ‘Got your passport with you?’

  ‘Why? Do I need it to buy coffee?’

  ‘Don’t piss me about, mate. We’re on our way to Phnom Penh – Cambodia.’

  ‘I know where Phnom Penh is, Mickey. Do you want to tell me why or is it still need-to-know?’

  ‘We’re booked on a flight this afternoon so you get the hell back to your place and pack. We’ll pick you up.’ Mickey ended the call abruptly.

  Shepherd held up the phone, a quizzical look on his face.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ said Sharpe.

  ‘I’m going to Cambodia.’

  ‘What the hell for?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘Too risky,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’d have to scramble to get a ticket. And if they were going to do me harm, they could do it here as easily as in Cambodia.’ He stood up and dropped his Starbucks cup into the overflowing bin. ‘I’ve got to go. Can you tell Charlie what’s happening?’

  The Bangkok Airways jet landed smoothly and taxied to the runway. Shepherd was at the front of the plane with Mickey and Mark while Wilson, Yates and Black were by the emergency exit in the middle. When they got off, a Cambodian soldier in creased fatigues was waiting for them. He shook hands with Mickey, who introduced him to Shepherd. ‘This is Wilbur,’ said Mickey. ‘We can never pronounce his name, so that’s what we call him.’

  The soldier saluted, then offered his hand. Shepherd shook it. Wilbur was in his late forties, his skin so dark that it was almost black, and both cheeks covered with old acne scars. He wore a thick gold chain around his right wrist and several gold rings.

  ‘Wilbur’s brother is the aide to one of the generals here so he makes sure we’re well looked after,’ said Mickey. ‘Anything we need, we just ask him.’ Wilbur grinned, showing a gold canine tooth.

  They waited for Wilson, Yates and Black to get off the plane, then Wilbur walked them through the diplomatic channel and outside the terminal to where two white Toyota Landcruisers with military drivers were waiting for them. ‘You come with me and Mark,’ Mickey said to Shepherd. Wilson, Yates and Black climbed into the second vehicle. ‘We’ll check into the hotel later.’

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘It’s a surprise,’ said Mark.

  Wilbur got into the front passenger seat of the second vehicle, which pulled away from the terminal first.

  ‘I don’t have to shoot anyone, do I?’ asked Shepherd. Mickey and Mark burst out laughing, but they wouldn’t tell him what was so funny.

  Mickey opened a window and lit a cigar. Their driver put the car in gear and they left the airport. There were far fewer vehicles on the roads than there had been in Thailand, and those that Shepherd did see were older and less cared-for than their Thai counterparts. The houses they passed were of poorer quality too, mainly wooden shacks with corrugated-iron roofs. Even the animals in the fields seemed undernourished compared to their Thai cousins.

  They powered past a rusting bus, its roof piled high with boxes and suitcases, every seat taken and a dozen people standing. There was a school on their right, and most of the children in the dusty playground were barefoot. Several waved at the Landcruisers and Shepherd waved back.

  After driving for just under half an hour they turned off the main road on to a potholed track that led to a wire-fenced compound where two Cambodian soldiers with assault rifles on shoulder slings saluted and pulled back a wheeled barrier. The Cambodian flag fluttered from a pole by a guardhouse where another soldier stood, idly picking his teeth. In the distance, Shepherd heard the distinctive crack-crack-crack-crack of Kalashnikovs set on automatic.

  Mickey twisted in his seat. ‘Don’t get jumpy, they’re on our side,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Shepherd. ‘What is this place?’

  ‘It’s a firing range run by the army. They let tourists play with guns. We’ve been over a few times and we’ve asked Wilbur to fix up something special for us.’

  ‘Specifically?’

  ‘Need-to-know, mate.’

  ‘You do love your secrets, don’t you?’

  ‘You’ll know soon enough,’ said Mark.

  Shepherd saw some wooden buildings to the left and a line of human-shaped metal targets in a row in front of a stack of sandbags. The two Landcruisers left the track and drove across the grass towards a clump of coconut palms. A couple of minutes later they came to a wall made of concrete blocks. It was about thirty feet long and ten tall. The Landcruisers pulled up beside an open Jeep in military camouflage colours with two soldiers in green fatigues smoking cigarettes, which they threw away when they saw Wilbur.

  ‘Right, come on,’ said Mickey, opening his door. He strode to the Jeep and stuck an arm around Wilbur. ‘Nice one, mate.’

  ‘Two thousand dollars each,’ said Wilbur. ‘Like we agreed.’

  ‘Cheap at half the price,’ said Mickey. He beckoned to Shepherd. ‘Come and look at these, Ricky.’

  Shepherd peered into the back of the Jeep. Two Chinese-made rocket-propelled grenade launchers lay on a piece of sacking. Next to them were four backpacks, which Shepherd assumed contained the grenades and launch charges.

  ‘This isn’t a team-building exercise, is it?’ Shepherd pointed at the wall. ‘This is a dress rehearsal, right?’

  Mickey chortled. ‘No flies on you, are there?’

  Wilson, Yates and Black were coming over to the Jeep. ‘What’s the plan, Mickey?’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re going to be shooting armoured cars? If so, you can count me out.’ He picked up one of the RPGs and hefted it onto his shoulder. ‘This would blow an armoured car into a million pieces, kill everyone in it and destroy all the cash.’

  ‘Give me some credit.’

  ‘So what’s it about? What are we doing here?’

  Mickey took his cigar case out and lit a cigar. ‘Okay. You remember the building we talked about? The money depository?’

  ‘I’ve not got Alzheimer’s, Mickey.’

  ‘We’re not going in through the front. We’re going in through the back. And we’re using RPGs.’

  ‘No way,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘That’s the plan,’ said Mickey.

  ‘I might be stupid, but why don’t we just blow the wall with explosives? A shaped charge would do the job a treat. And we’d have more control over the shape of the hole we make. RPGs are all well and good but they can be a bit hit-and-miss.’

  ‘Yeah, well, if you’re the pro you say you are, you
won’t bloody well miss,’ said Mickey. ‘That’s why we’re here – to check you can fire one of those things.’

  ‘I didn’t mean miss literally,’ said Shepherd. ‘I meant that with an RPG there’s an element of chance in the type of damage it’ll do. A controlled explosion would give you more control …’ He smiled thinly. ‘That’s why they call it a controlled explosion.’

  ‘Yeah, but using explosives means we’ll lose the element of surprise,’ said Mickey. ‘The wall is covered by CCTV and all sorts of sensors so they’d see us as soon as we got anywhere near the wall. Let’s say we rush to the wall, fix the charge, retreat to a safe distance, detonate the charge and then rush back to the hole. How long’s that going to take? Two minutes?’

  ‘Give or take,’ admitted Shepherd.

  ‘So that’s two minutes we lose,’ said Mickey. ‘And we reckon that from the moment they know we’re there to the cops turning up is a minimum of six minutes. So, if we use a shaped charge we lose a third of our time. But if we let fly with an RPG from two hundred metres, the first they’ll know we’re there is when the wall’s in bits.’

  ‘Okay, I get it,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re in and out in six minutes.’

  ‘Five,’ said Mickey. ‘One minute before the cops get there, we’re off, back across the fields. They’ll turn up at the front of the building while we’re roaring away in SUVs.’

  Mark lit a cigarette. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘RPGs through the back wall,’ said Shepherd. ‘Whose idea was that?’

  ‘The Professor,’ said Mark.

  ‘And who the hell is The Professor?’

  Mark shrugged. ‘He’s a guy we use to plan our jobs.’

  ‘He knows what he’s doing,’ said Mickey. ‘Plans everything down to the last detail. If he says an RPG will take down the wall, then it will. So, the million-dollar question, Ricky, is can you fire that thing?’

  ‘I can fire it,’ said Shepherd. He glanced at the concrete wall. ‘This is a test, right?’

  ‘A test of the equipment, and a test that you know what you’re doing.’ Mickey bowed theatrically. ‘So, let’s see you do your stuff.’