‘Screw you, Razor. I didn’t come here for a character reading.’
‘Subconsciously you did. And I’m saying that to you as a friend. A real friend.’
‘You’re saying I’ve crossed the line,’ said Shepherd. He smiled ruefully. ‘You think I’ve gone over to the dark side.’
‘Aye, Luke Skywalker, and if you do that the force will no longer be with you.’ He grinned. ‘Look, you’ll be fine. You just need to take a step back and re-evaluate your situation. And stay focused. We’re out here to get the Moore brothers and their crew. Everything else is a distraction.’
Shepherd rested his head against the back of the chair and gazed up at the ceiling. ‘You’re right,’ he said.
‘You sound surprised,’ said Sharpe. ‘You know what you need?’
‘A few weeks’ holiday with my son,’ said Shepherd.
‘A massage,’ said Sharpe. ‘A nice soapy massage. It’ll relieve all that tension.’
Shepherd chuckled. ‘You are bloody incorrigible.’
Bradshaw studied the map as Kundi drove the rented Citroën van slowly down the dual carriageway on the outskirts of Nice. ‘I don’t like left-hand drives,’ said Kundi.
‘You’re doing fine,’ said Bradshaw.
Talwar was in the back of the van with the boxes containing the Grail and the Stinger missiles. They had stopped at a supermarket and bought two dozen cases of beer and wine, which they’d stacked around the weaponry.
Bradshaw glanced at his Casio wristwatch. The Motorail train for Calais wasn’t due to leave for another hour. Everything was on schedule. He took out his mobile phone and switched it on. He didn’t trust mobiles: the Government’s intelligence agencies could listen in to every conversation made and read every text sent, and they could locate any user within minutes, but he was on the move and he had to stay in touch with Chaudhry so he had no choice. He didn’t store any numbers in it and he kept it switched off when he wasn’t using it. He waited until the phone had powered up and tapped out Chaudhry’s number. He answered on the third ring, and didn’t identify himself. ‘We’re on our way,’ said Bradshaw.
‘Did everything go okay?’ asked Chaudhry.
‘Everything is on schedule. We’ll see you in Calais.’ Bradshaw cut the connection and switched off the phone.
Shepherd was in Tony’s Gym, running hard on a treadmill, when his mobile rang. He’d left it on the console of his running machine and squinted at the display. It was Mickey. He pressed the green button to take the call, and slowed the treadmill to four kilometres an hour. ‘Hi, Mickey, what’s up?’
‘Are you on the job, mate?’ asked Mickey.
‘I’m running,’ said Shepherd.
‘Who’s after you?’
‘I’m in the gym,’ said Shepherd.
‘You need to get home and pack your toothbrush,’ said Mickey. ‘We’re off to Arms ’R Us.’
‘Where exactly are we going?’ asked Shepherd.
‘We’ll tell you at the airport. Mark’s driving around to pick you up.’
‘I need my passport, right?’
Mickey chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, Mark’s got it. Just pack for a day or two, hand luggage only so we don’t have to piss around checking in bags.’
As soon as Mickey ended the call, Shepherd stepped off the treadmill and phoned Sharpe. ‘So we don’t know what name you’re flying under or where you’re going?’ said Sharpe.
‘That’s right, so I need you at the airport to report back to Charlie because I might not be able to call. Tell her the flight I’m on and leave it up to her to arrange surveillance if she wants it.’
‘Do you want me to get on the flight?’
‘No need,’ said Shepherd. ‘I think they trust me, I’ll be back here in two days. They’re going to pick me up at the villa so I’m thinking we’ll be at the airport in about three hours. You’d better head off there now.’
‘On my way,’ said Sharpe.
Shepherd cut the connection and went straight to his Jeep without changing. He drove quickly back to his villa. There was no sign of Mark so he took a quick shower and changed into a clean polo shirt and jeans. As he was about to pack his holdall, a car horn sounded outside the villa, three long blasts. Shepherd hurried down the driveway to the gates, used his remote control and they creaked open. ‘Give me a couple of minutes to get my shit together,’ he called.
Mark wound down the window. ‘We’ve got time for a beer,’ he said. He switched off the engine and followed Shepherd into the villa. ‘Not a bad place,’ he said, looking around. ‘But you’re paying too much.’
‘Mickey said you had my passport.’
Mark reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled it out. He handed it over. The picture was Shepherd’s but the name was Graham Moreton. Shepherd examined the passport. It looked genuine and had been issued by the British Embassy in Bangkok.
‘It’s real and it’s in the system,’ said Mark. ‘We’ve got a guy in the embassy. He isn’t cheap but he’s sound.’
‘A Brit?’
‘Thai.’
Shepherd slipped it into his shirt pocket. ‘So, where are we off to?’
Mark tapped the side of his nose. ‘Need to know.’
‘Give me a clue so I know what to pack,’ said Shepherd. ‘Hot, cold, raining, snow?’
‘Germany,’ said Mark. ‘Where’s the kitchen?’
‘Over there,’ said Shepherd, pointing. ‘Beer’s in the fridge.’
Shepherd went to the master bedroom and threw two clean shirts, underwear and two pairs of socks into his holdall with his washbag. He decided against taking his UK mobile phone with him, locked it in the wardrobe safe and grabbed a sports jacket off its hanger. Then he went to join Mark by the pool. ‘Nice enough gaff, this,’ said Mark. ‘Pool’s a bit small but the view’s all right.’
‘I’m not much of a swimmer,’ said Shepherd. ‘So, who else is on this trip?’
‘Just you, me and Mickey,’ said Mark. He finished his beer and tossed the bottle into the pool. ‘What?’ he said, when he saw the disgust on Shepherd’s face. ‘You said you weren’t much of a swimmer. Anyway, you’ve got a poolboy, haven’t you? Come on, let’s go.’
Mark drove at his usual breakneck pace and ninety minutes later they were pulling up in the long-stay car park at the airport. He locked the Range Rover and they walked together to Departures. Mickey was already there and took them to the Lufthansa checkin desk. Shepherd didn’t see Jimmy Sharpe, which meant one of two things – he was watching from a discreet hiding-place or he hadn’t made it to the airport in time. Mickey had booked them into business class on the direct flight to Munich and they went through Immigration to sit in the lounge before the flight boarded. They talked about football, the bars and the weather. The one thing they didn’t talk about was the reason for the trip.
Kundi edged the Citroën van down the rails to the ground. ‘Easy does it,’ said Bradshaw. Ahead, two little blonde girls were waving at them from the back of a Mercedes estate car. Bradshaw waved back. Immediately the two little girls put their fingers in their mouths and pulled faces at him, waggling their tongues and staring at him cross-eyed. Bradshaw laughed. ‘Kids,’ he said. The Mercedes accelerated, the little girls continuing to pull faces until they were out of sight.
Bradshaw took his mobile phone from his pocket, switched it on and tapped out Chaudhry’s number. The call went straight to voicemail. Bradshaw switched off his phone and put it away. He had a map on his lap and traced the route from the Motorail depot to the ferry terminal. He glanced at his watch. ‘Are you hungry, brothers?’ he asked.
‘I could eat,’ Kundi said.
‘Me too,’ said Talwar. He nodded so enthusiastically that his glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them back up again.
‘We’ll stop on the way,’ said Bradshaw.
They had spent the night in a four-berth couchette on the train from Nice. It was the most efficient way of getting the van and its contents ac
ross the country. There had been no security checks getting on or off the train, and the service had operated with an efficiency that put British train operators to shame.
They stopped at a small roadside café and ordered steak and chips, freshly baked bread and orange juice. While they were waiting for their meal, Bradshaw took out his phone and switched it on again. This time Chaudhry answered. ‘Where are you, brother?’ asked Bradshaw.
‘Just driving away from the Eurotunnel terminal,’ said Chaudhry. He was bringing one of his father’s delivery vans from England. ‘Shouldn’t be long before I’m there.’
Bradshaw scanned the car park from the café window. There were only half a dozen vehicles in it and there was an area behind a rubbish skip that wasn’t overlooked by the road. He gave Chaudhry directions to the café, then ordered three cappuccinos from the grey-haired waiter. They were just finishing their coffee when Chaudhry arrived. Bradshaw went out and showed him where to park, then brought him inside.
‘Is everything okay?’ whispered Chaudhry, as they sat down.
‘Everything is going as planned,’ said Bradshaw. ‘We have an hour before we’re due at the ferry terminal, so you have time to eat and then we’ll transfer the equipment to your van.’
‘I don’t see why we have to fly back while you and Samil go on the ferry,’ said Talwar.
‘Because two men in a delivery van will arouse no suspicion,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Four men, especially when three are Asian, will attract attention.’
‘That’s racist,’ said Kundi.
‘Of course it’s racist,’ said Bradshaw, ‘so we fly below their racist radar. Samil and I are just two delivery drivers heading home. Samil will be using his family’s van and his licence and insurance are in order. You and Talwar return the rented van and fly back to England. The infidels are none the wiser.’
‘You are right, brother. I’m sorry.’ Kundi took out a packet of cigarettes but Talwar pointed at a French no-smoking sign. He sighed and put it away.
‘There’s nothing to be sorry about,’ Bradshaw said. ‘You are a true warrior for Islam. And soon we will show the world what true warriors can achieve.’
Shepherd followed the Moore brothers off the plane. ‘Now what?’ he said. A sign pointed to Immigration but the brothers seemed in no hurry to leave the airport.
Mickey grinned. ‘We can grab a bite to eat here,’ he said. ‘That food on the plane, couldn’t touch it.’
The brothers had flown together at the front of the business-class section and Shepherd had been in the middle with an empty seat next to him. He’d watched a movie and slept a little but he was still dog tired. ‘Where are we going, Mickey?’ asked Shepherd, ‘And don’t give me any of that need-to-know crap.’
‘Sarajevo,’ said Mickey. ‘There’s an arms dealer who can get us RPGs.’
‘And you need me because …?’
‘Because you’ll be able to tell us if the gear is kosher,’ said Mickey. He pointed at a coffee shop. ‘Come on – I need caffeine. How much do you think they fine you if you light up in a German airport?’
Chaudhry drove off the ferry in first gear. ‘What if they stop us?’ he asked. Ahead, half a dozen Customs officers, in yellow fluorescent jackets, were looking carefully at the vehicles as they moved slowly down the ramp onto the Dover quayside.
‘They won’t,’ said Bradshaw.
‘How can you be so sure?’ said Chaudhry. ‘We have weapons in the back, and if they find them they’ll throw away the key.’
Bradshaw could hear the rising panic in the other man’s voice, and his forehead was bathed in sweat. ‘They’re not looking for weapons,’ he said coldly. ‘They’re looking for drugs, and we don’t fit the profile for drug smugglers.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘Because you’re Asian and I’m not – it’s not a mix that’s normally associated with drug smugglers. Because we’re in a totally legitimate van with the name of your father’s company on the side. Because we’re both clean-shaven and dressed casually. Because we’re both looking totally relaxed. Smile, brother. Think calm thoughts and smile.’
‘If they stop us we’re dead.’ Chaudhry licked his lips nervously. He took out a packet of gum and his hands shook as he unwrapped a stick and slipped it between his lips.
‘Keep your hands on the wheel,’ said Bradshaw, calmly. Chaudhry did as he was told.
One of the Customs officers, a woman in her forties with dyed blonde hair, was holding a chocolate and white spaniel on a long leash.
‘See the dog?’ said Bradshaw. ‘It’s a drugs dog. That’s all they’re interested in. But if they do stop us, they’ll ask us questions first. And, providing we answer their questions, they won’t search us.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘Chit-chat,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Where have we been, what do we have in the van, where are we going – the questions don’t matter. What they’re looking for are signs of nervousness, signs that something isn’t right. Only then will they search. And even if they do open the back, all they will see is cases of wine and beer. And we fit the profile of booze runners. There’s no way they’re going to start pulling all those boxes out.’ He patted Chaudhry’s knee. ‘Relax and think happy thoughts.’
Chaudhry forced a smile. They drew level with the Customs officers. A grey-haired man with bored eyes waved them on. Bradshaw nodded at the man but was ignored. ‘See? Allah is smiling on us.’
‘Allahu akbar,’ said Chaudhry.
‘Allahu akbar,’ agreed Bradshaw.
Mickey had booked them into suites at the Radon Plaza Hotel, just five minutes from Sarajevo’s international airport. There was no one to meet them, but the immigration queues were short, and less than half an hour after the wheels of the plane had touched the runway they were checking in at Reception.
Mickey told Mark and Shepherd that they had an hour before they were due to meet the man who would supply them with RPGs. ‘Now we’re here, do you think you could tell me who the hell we’re going to be dealing with?’ said Shepherd. Mickey opened his mouth to reply but Shepherd held up a hand to silence him. ‘I’m not doing business with the IRA or the Libyans or any other terrorists. The way the Yanks rule the world, we could all end up in Guantánamo Bay if things go wrong.’
‘You worry too much,’ said Mickey. ‘The guy’s Dutch, and he’s as legit as an arms dealer can ever be. He deals with a lot of governments and most of the major arms manufacturers. He’s a middleman, sells to countries that are a bit on the less-than-democratic side.’
‘You mean dictators,’ said Shepherd.
‘Dictators, not terrorists,’ stressed Mickey. ‘But the politics mean sod all to me. All I care about is that the Professor says he can supply us with RPGs.’
Shepherd wasn’t interested in picking a fight with Mickey, but he wanted to get as much information about the arms dealer as he could. ‘And how do we get the RPGs into the UK?’
Mickey grinned and tapped the side of his nose.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Need to know.’
‘And you don’t,’ said Mark.
Mickey punched Shepherd’s shoulder. ‘Shower and shave and we’ll meet down here in an hour.’
The three men went up to their rooms. Shepherd showered and changed into a clean polo shirt, then watched BBC 24 news. Nurses in England were threatening to strike, two Members of Parliament had resigned after being caught fiddling their expenses, and a youth had been stabbed in a London street. There was a report on the plane that had crashed into the sea after leaving JFK airport. A journalist standing on a boat said that the Coast Guard were pulling bodies from the sea, that there were no survivors, and that the authorities were suggesting catastrophic engine failure was to blame.
His bedside phone rang. ‘We’re heading down now,’ said Mickey. ‘Don’t bring your mobile with you. He’s paranoid about bugs and tracking devices.’
‘Understood,’ said Shepherd. He
left his phone in the room safe, picked up his jacket and went down to Reception. Mickey and Mark were already there, sitting on a sofa by the entrance. Shepherd joined them. ‘What does he look like?’
‘He’s Dutch, probably wearing clogs and carrying tulips,’ said Mark. ‘With his finger in a dike.’
Shepherd shook his head sadly. ‘What are you? Twelve?’
Mark lit a cigarette as a big man walked in through the revolving doors, looked around the reception area and came towards them. The three men stood up. ‘You are the Englishmen?’ he asked. His accent was Slavic and he had the build of a man who worked out but used steroids to add bulk to his muscles. He wore a long black coat over a charcoal grey suit, and a grey shirt buttoned to the neck.
‘As English as chicken tikka massala,’ said Mickey.
The heavy didn’t understand and frowned. ‘You have ID?’ he asked.
Mickey handed him his passport and the man squinted at it. ‘You can read, yeah?’ asked Mickey.
The man gave it back to him and stared at him with cold grey eyes. ‘Yes, I can read,’ he said. ‘I need to pat you down.’
‘What?’ said Mark.
‘I need to check that you are not carrying weapons.’
‘And do we get to pat you down?’ asked Mark.
The man pulled open his coat and jacket just enough for them to glimpse a semi-automatic in a nylon holster.
‘So, let’s get this straight,’ said Mark. ‘You’ve got a gun but you want to make sure we don’t have weapons? How fair is that?’
‘I need to check,’ said the man, flatly. ‘Mr Kleintank insists.’
Mark seemed bewildered, but raised his arms and allowed the man to pat him down. ‘Satisfied?’ he said.
Mickey held up his hands. ‘Go on, knock yourself out. But be careful around the groin area. I wouldn’t want you giving me a hard-on.’
The man remained stony-faced as he patted Mickey down, then did the same with Shepherd. ‘All three of you are coming?’ he asked.
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