Live Fire

by Stephen Leather

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Button.

  ‘I was the first point of contact with Sergei,’ said Shepherd. ‘I started talking to him and it was me who introduced him to the Moores. Without me, they might never have met him.’

  ‘You’re worried about entrapment? Didn’t you suggest that we use one of our own people to pose as an arms dealer?’

  ‘This is different. Sergei is the real thing. And I talked to him about weapons before the Moores did. Then I introduced him to the Moores.’

  ‘But they were the ones who asked Sergei to supply them with RPGs?’

  Shepherd grimaced. ‘It’s a grey area,’ he said. ‘We were all there when it came up.’

  ‘But it was the Moores who asked the Russian to supply them with RPGs?’ insisted Button.

  ‘Yes, I guess so.’

  ‘You guess so?’

  ‘Mickey was the one who actually asked for the gear, but we were all there.’

  ‘So it’s not a problem,’ said Button. ‘That hardly counts as entrapment. But it’s not going to be an issue anyway. We’ll be catching them red-handed with the money, and you won’t be giving evidence against them so no one is going to try shifting the blame on to you.’

  ‘I just wanted you to know.’

  ‘It’s noted,’ said Button. ‘Do you know when you’ll be leaving?’

  ‘Everything’s on a need-to-know basis with me,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got my bag packed ready for the call.’

  His intercom buzzed. ‘What’s that?’ asked Button.

  ‘I’ve got a visitor. As soon as I know when we’re leaving, I’ll call you.’

  Shepherd disconnected and went to the intercom. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s Olga.’

  ‘Olga?’

  ‘From the bar.’

  ‘Which bar?’

  ‘Did you forget me already?’

  Shepherd frowned, then remembered the pretty brunette in Absolute-a-go-go. The one who had been stroking his thigh until he had left to go to the ice bar. ‘Olga, it’s late,’ he said.

  ‘Sergei told me to come,’ she said. ‘Please let me in. My taxi has gone already.’

  Shepherd didn’t want her in the villa, but he didn’t want to leave her alone in the darkened street either. He pressed the button to open the gate and went to the front door.

  Olga had changed into a blue denim miniskirt and a yellow top that showed off a perfect midriff. She was wearing long silver earrings, strappy high heels, and carrying a shiny gold handbag with a fringe on the bottom. She waved as she walked up the path to the front door. ‘Hi!’ she said.

  Shepherd folded his arms. ‘Olga, how did you know where I lived?’

  ‘Sergei asked your friend. The one who smokes cigars all the time.’

  ‘Mickey,’ said Shepherd. ‘Terrific.’

  She stopped and stood with her weight on one hip. ‘Don’t you like me?’ she said, pouting.

  ‘It’s not that,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ she said. She smiled brightly and walked past him into the hallway. ‘Can I have a drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Kitchen’s that way,’ said Shepherd, gesturing to her left. He closed the front door and followed her. She dropped her handbag on the table.

  ‘I saw the way you watched me when I was dancing.’ She opened the fridge. ‘And how you reacted when I touched you.’

  ‘You’re pretty. And …’

  She took out a bottle of white wine and showed it to him. ‘Can I have this?’ she said.

  ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. He took it from her and fished a corkscrew out of one of the drawers.

  ‘And?’ she said. ‘You said I was pretty, and …’

  ‘And you reminded me of someone.’

  ‘Your wife?’

  ‘I don’t have a wife,’ he said.

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  Shepherd opened the bottle and poured her some wine. ‘Not a girlfriend,’ he said. ‘Someone I worked with, but she’s older than you.’

  She sipped her wine and then licked her upper lip. ‘You want to have sex with her, yes?’

  Shepherd’s stomach lurched. ‘No,’ he said.

  She stepped towards him and ran her finger down his chest. ‘I think you do,’ she said. ‘You can, you know. You can make love to me and pretend I’m her.’ She kissed his cheek. ‘You can do to me anything that you want to do to her.’

  He could feel her warm breath on his skin and took a step back. ‘Olga, I can’t.’

  She took another sip of wine and peeped at him over the top of her glass. She had a knowing glint in her eyes that reminded him of the way Charlotte Button looked at him sometimes.

  ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Old enough,’ she said.

  He poured himself some wine. ‘Seriously, how old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-two,’ she said.

  Just about half Charlie’s age. Young enough to be her daughter. But she had the same soft dark chestnut hair, the same high cheekbones, the same brown eyes, so brown they were almost black, the same slim figure and shapely legs. Her voice was different, of course, but she had the same confidence as Charlie, the same way of walking, with her shoulders back and her head held high, as if nothing in the world scared her.

  Shepherd took out his wallet and gave her five thousand baht.

  ‘You don’t have to pay me,’ she said. ‘Sergei said I was a present.’

  ‘That’s just to say thank you for coming,’ he said. ‘You have to go now. You can tell Sergei that I was an animal in bed, if you like.’

  ‘I want to stay with you,’ she said earnestly. ‘It’s not because of Sergei, it’s because I like you.’ She sounded like a schoolgirl talking to her first love.

  ‘I like you, too, but you can’t stay.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be fair to you, and it wouldn’t be fair to …’ He tailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence.

  ‘To the woman you want to screw?’ She laughed, and he knew she was teasing him. She put down her glass and tried to put her arms around his neck, but he took a step back.

  ‘I can’t,’ he said.

  ‘I’m clean,’ she said. ‘I saw the doctor for a check last week.’

  ‘It’s not that, Olga,’ he said. ‘Really. But you have to go. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she said. She started to undo her top but he held up his hand to stop her.

  ‘No,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m not. But you have to go.’

  ‘You’re a nice man, Ricky,’ she said. She picked up her handbag and put away the money he’d given her.

  ‘I’m not,’ he said. ‘But thank you.’

  She kissed his cheek. ‘Whoever she is, she’s a very lucky woman,’ she whispered. Then she turned and walked away.

  The bidding went up to six thousand pounds quickly but within two minutes only one other bidder was interested in the ten-year-old removal van. He was an elderly man in a sheepskin jacket and a flat cap. Once the bidding went above four thousand his lips had formed a tight line and deep lines creased his forehead. Bradshaw had an easy smile on his face each time he raised a hand to increase his bid. He would pay whatever it took to win the auction and he and Kundi had twelve thousand pounds in cash between them, which was far more than the van was worth.

  Under the rules of the auction they hadn’t been allowed to test-drive it but they had been able to run the engine and, according to Kundi, it was worn but serviceable. He had crawled under it to check the brakes and the suspension and pronounced it suitable for their needs. The name of the removals company that had previously owned it had been painted over but it was still just about visible, along with the company’s website address and telephone number. It was perfect, so Bradshaw continued to smile and bid.

  The middle-aged man dropped out at six thousand eight hundred pounds and the auctioneer banged down his gavel. Half an hour later, having paid in cash, Kundi was dr
iving down the M25 with Bradshaw in the passenger seat.

  Shepherd woke to the sound of his mobile phone ringing. It was seven o’clock in the morning, which meant it was midnight in England.

  ‘Sorry about the time but I figured you’d want the Paul Bradshaw intel ASAP,’ said the Major. ‘It took me longer than I thought to get it – the guy I needed to speak to is out in Iraq.’

  ‘Not a problem, boss,’ said Shepherd, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. He reached for a bottle of Evian water on his bedside table and took a swig from it as the Major carried on talking.

  ‘Bradshaw joined the King’s Royal Hussars straight out of school and was a Challenger tank gunner. His career was satisfactory, rather than exemplary, tried hard but wasn’t especially good at anything. He did two tours in Iraq, handled himself well. During his last tour he was based in Al Amara in Maysan province. A lot of Brits died there. It was a testing ground for IEDs from Iran, but he was lucky, had a few near misses but returned without a scratch. He left a year ago and enrolled on an engineering degree course.’

  ‘Why did he leave?’

  ‘No reason given,’ said the Major. ‘Obviously he was interviewed and given a dozen reasons why he should stay but he wanted to go back to Civvy Street so that was that.’

  ‘No emotional problems, no post-traumatic stress disorder?’

  ‘He was fine,’ said the Major. ‘At least, as fine as someone who has done two tours in Iraq can ever be. There was one black mark on his record. An Iraqi interpreter he worked with was killed at an American roadblock and Bradshaw wanted the guys who shot up the man’s car to be charged, but of course it didn’t happen. Bradshaw seemed to take it personally. He wanted the Americans punished and the interpreter’s family compensated.’

  ‘How did it play out?’

  ‘Bradshaw was given the usual American run-around, told that the men had been cleared by an internal inquiry, all the usual bullshit. He wouldn’t take no for an answer and he confronted one of the American soldiers and threatened to blow his head off. His squad pulled him away and it was kept quiet, but from what I’ve been told he was only seconds away from pulling the trigger.’

  ‘You think that might have set him off?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said the Major. ‘By the time he was back in England he was hunky-dory and the Hussars were sorry to lose him. His mate Chris Thomas left at the same time. He’s back in Iraq now, running his own security company and making a small fortune. Quite a few former Regiment guys are working for him and he’s a straight arrow, by all accounts.’

  ‘Any idea what Bradshaw’s doing?’

  ‘We’re not geared up for that,’ said the Major. ‘Once they leave the military we don’t keep tabs on them. We’d have to run a check through the cops or other agencies, and you wouldn’t want me to do that because it’ll start raising red flags.’

  ‘Thanks’ said Shepherd.

  ‘There’s more,’ said the Major. ‘That other arms dealer you wanted checking out. Marcel Calvert. He’s dead.’

  Shepherd closed his eyes. Richard Yokely knew about Calvert. Had the American gone to Nice and killed him? ‘What happened?’

  ‘He was knifed in his house. Nothing was stolen so the local cops don’t think it was a robbery, but a knife killing doesn’t sound like a professional hit.’

  Shepherd opened his eyes. He doubted Yokely would kill with a knife. But if not Yokely, then who? ‘A knife is personal,’ said Shepherd. ‘But Bradshaw didn’t know Calvert. It was Kleintank who put him in touch with him.’

  ‘Might be just one of those things,’ said the Major. ‘If Bradshaw is a Muslim convert preparing to wreak havoc on the West, he’d hardly be likely to stop to knife an arms dealer, would he?’

  ‘Who knows?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Now, do you want some really bad news? The phone number you gave me was last used in Calais.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It was used to call another UK pay-as-you-go number,’ said the Major. ‘That was in France, too. Since then they’ve remained switched off. You don’t have to be a detective to work out that he was either coming over on the ferry or through the Eurotunnel. Presumably with his missiles.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  ‘Shit,’ repeated Shepherd.

  ‘You must have suspected as much,’ said the Major.

  ‘Yeah, but having it confirmed brings it home,’ said Shepherd. ‘And it sure as hell cuts down on my options. Can you find out where he is?’

  ‘That’s not easy, Spider,’ said the Major. ‘If it was me, I’d talk to the spooks but the lovely Charlotte is still very tight with Five and I’m sure they’d be straight on to her. And I’m guessing you wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘She won’t be happy if she knows I went behind her back,’ admitted Shepherd.

  ‘And is there a reason why you can’t be up front with her?’

  ‘It’s complicated,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’m not sure what else I can do,’ said the Major. ‘I can keep a watching brief on the phone he used. And the number he called. I have a contact at GCHQ who’ll do it as a favour. And I suppose I can have some of our military intelligence people have a sniff around if I make it clear that it’s to be kept away from other agencies. But, hand on heart, that’s all that’s within my gift right now.’

  ‘Thanks, Major.’

  ‘I wish I could do more, Spider.’

  Shepherd’s Ricky Knight phone began to ring and it Mickey Moore was calling. ‘I’ve got to go, boss. Sorry.’ Shepherd cut the connection and answered Mickey.

  ‘Where are you?’ said Mickey, with no preamble.

  ‘My villa.’

  ‘We’re on,’ said Mickey.

  ‘When?’

  ‘The clock’s ticking,’ said Mickey. ‘Get around to our office at three o’clock this afternoon and have your bag packed. Just hand luggage. We’ll be back in three days.’ The line went dead.

  Shepherd walked outside and paced around the swimming-pool, considering his options. He didn’t have many, and most of those involved Charlotte Button getting very, very angry. Button demanded complete loyalty from her agents, and there would be hell to pay if she ever discovered that he had done a deal with Richard Yokely behind her back.

  The girl poured lemon vodka into three ice glasses then shoved her gloved hands into her padded jacket and jogged up and down, her breath feathering in the freezing air. Shepherd carried the drinks to where Mickey and Mark were sitting. The three men downed them and hurled the ice glasses at the walls of the bar.

  ‘It’s all sorted,’ said Mickey. ‘Your mate Sergei can get the RPGs to Holland and I’ve got mates there who use fast boats to bring wacky-baccy into the UK so they’ll get them over for me.’

  ‘First, Sergei isn’t my mate – I don’t want any flak if he lets us down. I met him for the first time on your shooting trip to Cambodia.’

  ‘Relax, mate,’ said Mickey. ‘Sergei is sound.’

  ‘And, second, I hope you can trust your wacky-baccy mates. They’ll be screwed if they get caught bringing RPGs into the country.’

  ‘They never get caught,’ said Mickey. ‘They’ve been doing it for years. They use rib boats with massive engines and they can outrun anything that Customs have. They’ll bring our gear over to the Northumbrian coast and we’ll pick it up there. Chopper and Davie are already in the UK, and Barry’s in Ireland, fixing up our transport there. The Russian assures me that the RPGs will be in France tomorrow. You’re flying to Dublin today with me and Mark, and we’ll drive over on the ferry to Holyhead.’

  ‘There’s no direct flights between Bangkok and Dublin,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘We’ll go via Amsterdam,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Where do we stay in Ireland?’

  ‘We’ll be straight on to the ferry. If all goes to plan we’ll be back in three days.’

  ‘Are you still treating me like a mushroom or can
I ask a question?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Depends on the question,’ said Mickey.

  ‘The take is going to be what?’

  ‘We won’t know for sure,’ said Mickey. ‘Money moves in and out every day. Could be anywhere between ten and twenty million.’

  ‘Well, my question is, what do we do with the money? I don’t think we’re going to be flying out with suitcases full of cash.’

  Mark laughed. ‘We give it to the laundryman,’ he said.

  ‘So when do I get my share?’

  ‘When we all do,’ said Mickey. ‘The guy we use, he’s solid. We’ve used him before.’

  ‘So basically we hand between ten and twenty million quid to this guy in the UK and we get on a plane to Thailand?’

  ‘That’s the plan,’ said Mickey.

  ‘And what’s his cut?’

  ‘Fifteen per cent,’ said Mickey.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s almost as bad as the taxman.’

  ‘He’s worth every penny,’ said Mickey. ‘Once he’s got the money, it’s as good as in the bank.’

  ‘I’m assuming you won’t tell me who he is so I can check his references?’

  Mickey chuckled and waved at the waitress for more vodka.

  ‘The thing is, Mickey, you’re asking me to hand over my share of twenty million quid to a guy I don’t know. I’m not thrilled about that. What if he does a runner?’

  Mickey leaned closer to Shepherd and grinned wolfishly. ‘We know where he lives and where his kids go to school, and he knows that we know.’

  ‘I’m not complaining,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I’m putting a lot of faith in you. And him.’

  The waitress carried a tray of vodka shots over and placed it on the table. ‘We know what we’re doing, Ricky,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ve got a winning formula, and so long as we stick to it, we’ll do just fine.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Shepherd, and picked up his ice shot glass. They all drank their vodkas down in one and then smashed the glasses against the wall.

  Bradshaw rested the ladder against the side of the removal van and held it as Kundi climbed up and onto the roof. ‘What do you think?’ asked Bradshaw.