Live Fire

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Same old,’ said Shepherd. He could hear automatic gunfire in the background. ‘Are you in the middle of something?’

  ‘Just running a few VIP guests through a Killing House exercise,’ said the Major. ‘We’ve got the shadow Home Secretary and a couple of his minions on a fact-finding tour so we’re using them as hostages in a live-fire rescue scenario.’ He guffawed. ‘A couple of the guys are wondering if they’d get away with an accidental shooting but I’ve laid down the law.’

  ‘Look, boss, I need your help.’

  ‘I assume you mean in a professional capacity,’ said the Major, drily. ‘Or do you just need a few quid?’

  Shepherd had known the Major for more than ten years and had served with him in most of the world’s hot spots, including Northern Ireland, Sierra Leone and Afghanistan, and had trained with him everywhere, from the jungles of Brunei to the Arctic wastelands of northern Norway. ‘I need information on an ex-military guy who might be up to mischief,’ he said. ‘His name’s Paul Bradshaw. He’s bought two surface-to-air missiles on the black market and I need some background.’

  ‘I assume there’s a reason for you not doing this through unofficial channels.’

  ‘I’m sorry, boss, I can’t say.’

  ‘The circles you move in, Spider,’ said the Major. ‘Things were so much easier when you were in the Regiment.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Six six came up as the dialling code. You’re in Thailand?’

  ‘Pattaya,’ said Shepherd. ‘Infiltrating a group of bank robbers.’

  ‘When are you going to get a real job? You know the Regiment would have you back in a heartbeat. And if they didn’t, there’s always a place for you on the Increment.’ The Major was head of the Increment, the Government’s best-kept secret, a group of highly trained Special Forces soldiers who were used on operations considered too dangerous for Britain’s security services, MI5 and MI6. The Major reported directly to the Prime Minister’s office and he was able to draw on all the resources of the Special Air Service and the Special Boat Service, plus any other experts he required.

  ‘I’m thinking about it,’ said Shepherd, ‘but at the moment, I’m mid-operation.’

  ‘And this guy Bradshaw is out there in Pattaya?’

  ‘Negative,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was in Sarajevo, then Nice. Now I don’t know where he is. He spent time in Iraq.’ Shepherd gave the Major the pay-as-you-go mobile number that Yokely had given him. ‘He’s tight with a guy called Chris Thomas who runs a security outfit with contracts in Iraq. So far as I know, it was Thomas who put Bradshaw in touch with the arms dealer. The dealer is a Dutchman by the name of Alex Kleintank. Kleintank sold Bradshaw a practice Grail missile.’

  The Major chuckled. ‘Kleintank? Little tank? Perfect name for an arms dealer. Do you need Thomas checking out, too?’

  ‘Just Bradshaw,’ said Shepherd. ‘He went to Nice to see a French arms dealer, name of Marcel Calvert, and he bought a Stinger missile from him. Now he’s off the radar.’

  ‘I’ll check and get back to you,’ said the Major. ‘You be careful out there. They call it the Land of Smiles but more Brits die in Thailand than in Iraq and Afghanistan combined.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard that,’ said Shepherd. He ended the call and flopped down on the sofa. He tried not to think about the damage he was doing to his relationship with Charlotte Button. If she ever found out he was going behind her back, there would be hell to pay.

  Mickey and Mark Moore stood at either side of Shepherd, holding an arm each tightly. ‘Guys, I don’t want to look at ladyboys, I really don’t,’ Shepherd protested.

  ‘It’s fun,’ said Mark.

  ‘It’s sick,’ said Shepherd. He tried to get away from them, but they wouldn’t release him.

  ‘Do you want me to kill them for you, Ricky?’ said a deep, guttural voice behind Shepherd. The three men turned to see Sergei standing in the middle of Walking Street, his hands on his hips.

  Shepherd grinned. ‘That’d be great – go for it.’

  ‘Where are they taking you?’ asked the Russian.

  ‘To look at ladyboys.’

  Sergei threw back his head and roared. ‘If that’s what they want, let them. You can come and see some real women with me,’ he said. ‘Russian women.’

  ‘It’s a laugh,’ said Mark.

  ‘Being gay is nothing to be ashamed of,’ Sergei said solemnly.

  Mark flushed. ‘I’m not bloody gay!’

  Sergei’s face broke into a grin. ‘I’m joking,’ he said. ‘I saw you in the Red Rose, remember? I know you like girls. Lots of girls.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Mark.

  ‘But one of the girls was complaining that she couldn’t sit down after what you did to her.’ Sergei mimed rubbing his backside. Shepherd and Mickey laughed.

  ‘Where’s your place?’ asked Mickey.

  The Russian pointed down Walking Street towards a red sign in the shape of a vodka bottle with Absolute-ago-go in the middle. Below the sign was a window and in it a lithe blonde in a white thong bikini was dancing around a chrome pole. In the street below, a group of Korean tourists was filming her with video cameras. ‘The drinks are on me,’ said Sergei.

  ‘You’ve talked us into it,’ said Mickey. He raised his cigar. ‘Okay to smoke?’

  ‘It’s my bar, you can do what the hell you want,’ said Sergei.

  They walked along to Absolute-a-go-go. It was on an upper floor so they went up a flight of red-carpeted stairs past a sign that promised a happy hour from six o’clock until seven. A Thai man with the look of an off-duty cop saluted Sergei and pulled back a red curtain.

  Mickey, Mark and Shepherd followed him inside. It was a big bar with rows of blue fake-leather seating and two dancing podiums with chrome poles. The bases of the podiums were white translucent tiles through which shone fluorescent lights, which gave the place a clinical feel.

  Pretty Thai waitresses in white shirts, short black skirts and pencil-thin black neckties hurried around, but the dancing girls were Caucasian. There were two pneumatic blondes dancing topless and a stunning redhead in a red thong and high heels doing a solo show on the second podium. Around the bar other pretty girls in silk robes were sitting with customers, bottles of champagne in front of them. ‘We’re more upmarket than the other bars,’ said Sergei. He snapped his fingers at a passing waitress and ordered champagne with four glasses. ‘The bar fine is a thousand baht, and the girls have to ask for at least two thousand.’

  ‘How many have you got here?’ asked Mark.

  ‘About thirty, but we’ve got more coming,’ said Sergei. ‘Belarussians. All virgins.’

  ‘Really?’ said Mark.

  Sergei banged his fist on the table. ‘Virgins? You think there is such thing as a Belarussian virgin?’ he bellowed.

  Two more girls joined the redhead. One was a blonde with wavy hair, green eyes and milk-white flawless skin, the other a brunette with a pageboy haircut and dark brown eyes. She was like Charlotte Button, Shepherd thought, disconcerted. She saw him staring at her and dropped him a little curtsy.

  ‘You like her?’ asked Sergei.

  Shepherd reddened like a schoolboy who’d been caught looking at a pornographic magazine. ‘She’s fit,’ he said, getting back into character.

  ‘I’ll get her over,’ said Sergei, standing up.

  Shepherd pulled him back down. ‘I was just looking,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t you want to fuck her?’

  ‘She reminds me of someone, that’s all.’

  ‘Someone you want to fuck?’

  Shepherd groaned. ‘Leave me alone, Sergei. If I want to get laid, I’m more than capable of taking care of it myself.’

  Sergei’s champagne arrived. He opened it and poured for them, then stood up and raised his glass. ‘To the best country in the world,’ he said. They all raised their glasses. ‘Russia!’ shouted Sergei and drank.

  Mickey, Mark and Shepherd stood up
, too, and drank to his toast.

  ‘So, what else do you do, other than run this bar and shoot chickens in Cambodia?’ asked Mickey, as he sat down.

  ‘You didn’t tell them?’ Sergei asked Shepherd.

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘I figured it was between you and me,’ he said.

  Sergei nodded approvingly. ‘You are a good man, Ricky,’ he said. ‘You don’t talk too much.’ He poured more champagne into Shepherd’s glass. ‘We run a few bars, we bring in girls, we have our fingers in many pies,’ he said to Mickey. ‘We sell arms from the Soviet bloc, we offer protection for companies that need it, we do a nice line in exporting various commodities to Europe. We do anything that makes money.’ He raised his glass. ‘To Thailand, the Land of Opportunity!’

  Mickey, Mark and Shepherd raised their glasses, downed the champagne and banged their glasses on the table. Sergei refilled them, then waved at a waitress to bring another bottle.

  ‘You’re serious about the arms dealing?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘Serious as a bullet in the face,’ said Sergei. ‘Why, Mickey, do you want a gun?’

  Mickey looked at Mark, who nodded.

  ‘We need some special gear, Sergei,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Special, how?’

  Shepherd felt a soft touch on his leg and turned. The brunette was sitting next to him. She brushed his cheek with her lips. ‘Buy me a drink?’ she whispered into his ear. Her hand crept up his thigh and she smiled. She had the same amused look in her eyes that Charlotte Button often had. His cheeks reddened and his mouth dried. ‘You’re very cute,’ she said. She waved at a waitress, made a drinking motion with her hand, then pointed at Shepherd. The girl went over to the bar.

  Shepherd smiled at her as he strained to hear what Mickey was saying to Sergei. ‘RPGs,’ said Mickey. ‘We need three at least. Four would be better.’

  Sergei patted the pockets of his jeans. ‘I am afraid I do not have any on me,’ he said.

  ‘But you can get them, right?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Sergei. ‘Do you know what RPG stands for?’

  Mickey frowned. ‘I’m not retarded. Rocket-propelled grenade.’

  Sergei shook his head emphatically. ‘That’s what the Americans would like you to think, but it’s a Russian thing.’

  ‘Russian?’ repeated Mickey.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Shepherd. ‘Ruchnoy Protivotankovyy Granatomyot. Hand-held anti-tank grenade launcher. The Russians came up with it first but RPG fits rocket-propelled grenade so that’s what the Yanks called them. Strictly speaking, the grenades aren’t powered by rockets.’ He tried to ignore the girl’s hand on his thigh – it was becoming increasingly persistent.

  ‘You are a smart man,’ said the Russian.

  ‘That’s what they say,’ said Shepherd. ‘But can you get us RPGs?’ He put his hand on top of the girl’s to stop her attempts at arousal.

  ‘I can get you anything you want, my friend,’ said Sergei, ‘providing you have the money.’

  Mickey held up a hand to silence him. ‘Before you say anything else, let’s adjourn to our office.’

  The Russian frowned. ‘You have an office?’

  Sergei downed his vodka, dropped the ice glass onto the metal floor and stamped on it. Shards ricocheted around the bar. ‘Call this cold?’ he shouted. He stripped off his shirt and tossed it onto one of the sofas. ‘This is summer in Siberia. This isn’t cold.’

  Mickey, Mark and Shepherd were shivering by the main bar, holding ice shot glasses filled with raspberry vodka. They swallowed their drinks and threw their glasses against the wall.

  House music pounded through the powerful speakers and Mickey waved the Russian over to the bar. ‘So, you can get us RPGs?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Sergei. ‘Anything military is for sale in the former USSR, from tanks to nuclear weapons.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ said Mark. ‘You can’t get hold of nuclear weapons.’

  The Russian snorted. ‘Of course I can’t. But they are around if you know the right people. And you have to have enough money.’

  ‘We don’t want nuclear bloody missiles,’ said Mickey. ‘We just want RPGs.’

  ‘RPGs are easy,’ said Sergei. ‘I have a friend who sells them by the truckload to the Tamil Tigers.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Depends on what sort of warheads you want. And he gives a discount for big orders.’

  ‘We don’t want a big order,’ said Mickey.

  The Russian rubbed his chin. ‘Maybe five hundred dollars each.’

  ‘That’s all?’ said Mark. ‘Five hundred dollars for an RPG?’

  ‘That is for the firing unit,’ said the Russian. ‘The warheads are extra.’

  ‘How much extra?’ asked Mickey.

  ‘It depends on the type of warhead you want. For instance, he can sell you thermobaric warheads. Chinese-made, great quality.’

  ‘Thermo-what?’ said Mickey. He waved at the shivering waitress to bring over another bottle of vodka.

  ‘Thermobaric,’ repeated Sergei. ‘WPF 2004s. Major warhead.’

  ‘Not what we want,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Why not?’ asked Mark.

  ‘I can get you them for a good price,’ said Sergei. ‘A thousand dollars each. A discount if you buy a lot.’

  ‘They’re not what we need, Sergei,’ said Shepherd again. He blew on his hands but it didn’t make them feel any warmer. ‘Thermobaric warheads are full of an inflammable liquid that disperses on impact and then ignites,’ he explained to the Moores. ‘They kill people but don’t do much damage to buildings. Say you’ve got a sniper in an upstairs room. You fire one through the window and the guy fries. The building might burn but structurally it’ll be okay.’

  ‘So it’s the exact opposite of what we want,’ said Mickey.

  ‘You got it in one,’ said Shepherd.

  The waitress brought over the vodka with more ice shot glasses. Mickey twisted off the cap and poured slugs. ‘Cheers!’ he said.

  ‘Sergei, ideally what we want is a PG-7VR.’

  Sergei nodded. ‘I think we can get some,’ he said.

  ‘Can we speak English here?’ said Mark, shouting to make himself heard over the music.

  ‘PG-7VR,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s a tandem warhead. It was designed to penetrate modern tanks and can blast through two feet of armour. Effectively it has two warheads, a smaller one followed by a larger one. The whole thing weighs about four and half kilos and can travel about two hundred metres. I reckon two will do the job, three to be on the safe side.’

  ‘We’ll go with four. Four warheads and four launchers. That way we won’t have to waste time reloading.’ Mickey looked at the Russian. ‘And you can get them?’

  ‘Does the pope shit in the woods, Mickey?’ said Sergei. ‘Does he?’

  ‘Okay, here’s the problem, Sergei,’ said Mickey. ‘We don’t want them in Moscow or Kiev, or anywhere else in the former Soviet bloc. We want them in Europe, the closer to England the better.’

  Sergei pulled a face as if he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth. ‘That’s not so easy, my friend,’ he said.

  ‘They’re no good to me in Russia, mate,’ said Mickey. ‘We can get them in Cambodia if we need to, but they’ll send them by ship and it’ll take for ever. We need them going overland and we need them as soon as possible.’

  Sergei leaned across to Mickey and put his mouth close to his ear. ‘I will try,’ he said, ‘but first I want you to suck my dick.’

  Mickey punched the Russian’s arm. ‘Sergei, you sad bastard, if you can get us what we need, I might just do that.’

  The Russian slapped Mickey’s thigh. ‘You are a good man, Mickey, for one who was named after a mouse.’

  The two men laughed. ‘Seriously,’ said Mickey, ‘we need them in Europe. The further west the better.’

  The Russian nodded thoughtfully. ‘It can be done, but the further from Russia, the higher the price.’

  ‘Money isn’t a probl
em,’ said Mickey. ‘I can pay you here in cash, any currency you want.’

  ‘I will talk to my friend,’ said Sergei.

  ‘Tell him Holland’s favourite,’ said Mickey. ‘If he can get the RPGs that far, I can get them into the UK.’

  Sergei grabbed the vodka and filled fresh ice glasses. He raised his in the air. ‘To crime!’ he said.

  ‘To crime!’ they echoed, and drank. Mickey winked as Shepherd put his empty glass back on the table.

  Shepherd winked back.

  ‘Nice one,’ said Mickey. ‘Looks like we’re on, Ricky.’

  Shepherd’s stomach tightened. Mickey regarded Ricky Knight as a friend, someone he could trust, but Ricky Knight didn’t exist. Ricky Knight was really Dan Shepherd, and Dan Shepherd was working to put Mickey in a twelve-by-eight-foot concrete box for the next twenty years or so. He reached for the vodka. He needed to be doing something, even if it was just pouring drinks, because the more Mickey smiled at him, the guiltier he felt. It was one of the dangers of working under cover, Shepherd knew. To get close to the target he had to empathise, and through empathy came closeness and eventually friendship. But, like everything else in his undercover life, the friendship was false, based on lies. Every move Shepherd made worked to one aim: to betray Mickey and his team. It was what Shepherd did for a living and it was something he was good at, but the fact that he was working on the side of law and order and Mickey’s crew were villains who happily broke the law didn’t make him feel any better about what he was doing.

  Shepherd paid a baht bus to drive him back to his villa. The driver wanted three hundred baht and Shepherd was too tired to argue. He let himself into the villa and phoned Charlotte Button. ‘We’ve got the RPGs sorted,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘So it’s on?’

  ‘It’s on, but I’m worried about the way it’s falling into place.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘My involvement,’ said Shepherd. ‘Their contact in Sarajevo couldn’t come up with the goods. But the Russian I met out in Cambodia, the guy based in Pattaya I told you about, has said he can supply us and that he can get the gear to the UK.’