Tall Order Spider

by Stephen Leather

  He sighed. ‘You make it sound so easy.’

  ‘Four seconds, max. It’ll be fine.’

  ‘I hope so.’ He grinned. ‘And don’t call me Max.’

  She punched him lightly on the shoulder and got out of the car. He popped the boot and she went around to the rear and took out the stroller. She pulled the hood down so that no one could see that it was empty. The Glock was wrapped in a cloth. Next to it was a box of flesh-coloured latex gloves and she pulled on a pair before picking up the gun and slipping it into the stroller. She slammed the boot shut and lifted the stroller on to the pavement. She lit a cigarette and blew smoke up at the overcast sky as Pete drove away, then she pushed the stroller towards the corner shop. Her heart was racing and the cigarette wasn’t helping. It wasn’t that she was scared; the chances of the police coming along or the target suddenly appearing were infinitesimal – the worst that could happen is that someone might see what she was doing but even if that did happen it wasn’t the sort of area where people called the police. It was more that she didn’t want to fail. They had been given a task to carry out and she wanted everything to go smoothly. She blew smoke down at the pavement and flicked ash. Four seconds, max. She smiled. It was going to be fine.

  Pete appeared at the far end of the road. There was no traffic and only a handful of pedestrians. She took another drag on the cigarette and began pushing the stroller.

  An old man with waist-length dreadlocks and a Bob Marley hat stepped out on to the pavement and turned to pull his front door shut behind him. Katy steered around him.

  She heard a rapid footfall behind her and turned to see half a dozen schoolkids running down the pavement. They whizzed past her as if trying to see how close they could get without actually hitting her. She took another pull on the cigarette. Pete was driving down the road towards her, at just above walking speed. She blew smoke, then looked over her shoulder and pushed the stroller into the road, walking diagonally so that she would reach the BMW.

  A moped drove down the road, heading towards Pete. It was an UberEats delivery driver, clearly looking for an address. Katy said a silent prayer that he wasn’t going to the target’s address. She paused in the road and took a drag on her cigarette, then relaxed as the moped continued on its way. She flicked away the butt and pushed the stroller towards the BMW. She reached into the pocket of her tracksuit and pressed the key fob. The BMW’s lights flicked on and off.

  Pete was about fifty feet from her and she slowed as she walked parallel to the BMW. She took a quick look over her shoulder. There were a few pedestrians but most of them were looking at their smartphones as they walked.

  Pete timed his arrival perfectly, drawing level with the BMW just as she reached for the passenger door handle. She pulled open the door. Bent down and pulled the Glock from the stroller, and slipped it under the passenger seat. She closed the door and straightened up as Pete drove away.

  She manoeuvered the stroller around the rear of the BMW and lifted it on to the pavement. As she walked away she clicked the key fob again, relocking the car. She smiled to herself. Job done.

  Chapter 52

  Ten Years Ago, Leeds

  Y okely looked at his watch. It was four o’clock in the morning. He was sitting in the back of a van with the name of an Indian restaurant on the side. Dalton was in the driving seat. Yokely was dressed in black and holding a ski mask in his hands. His phone buzzed to let him know he’d received a text message. It was from McNee: On way. The imam had left for the mosque. McNee was parked up on a motorbike a short distance away from the imam’s house. His brief was to follow the imam at a safe distance.

  ‘Target is on the way,’ said Yokely. He yawned. It had been a long night. They had taken care of Latif Makhdoom and his parents, making it look as if they had been killed in a fire at their Stoke Newington home, then driven up to Leeds. Yokely had managed to snatch a few hours’ sleep in the back of the van, but he was still bone tired.

  Leclerc was also in the back of the van and he nodded. Like Yokely, he was dressed in black and carrying a ski mask. On the floor of the van they had duct tape, a stun gun and a hood to throw over the imam’s head.

  The van was in a supermarket car park, its front pointed towards the road. The engine was off. Yokely watched the second hand on his Rolex Submariner crawl around. After four minutes he patted the back of Dalton’s seat and Dalton started the engine. The three men in the back pulled on their ski masks and Yokely picked up his stun gun. He pressed the button on the side and bright blue sparks cracked between the two prongs. Forty-six million volts and totally illegal in the United Kingdom.

  ‘Here he comes,’ said Dalton. ‘Two hundred yards.’

  There were no windows in the rear of the van so Dalton was going to have to be their eyes. ‘A hundred and fifty,’ said Dalton. ‘The road’s clear, we’re good to go.’ He revved the engine.

  Leclerc put his hand on the door handle, ready to pull the door to the side. They would be facing the imam on his bike.

  ‘A hundred yards,’ said Dalton. ‘Ready to move.’

  Yokely took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘Here we go,’ he said.

  ‘Fifty yards,’ said Dalton. He eased on the accelerator and the van edged forward.

  ‘Twenty yards.’ He stamped on the accelerator and the van leapt into the road and then almost immediately he braked.

  Leclerc pulled on the handle and slid the door open. The imam was almost on top of them, his eyes wide with fright. He was wearing a white skullcap and a grey thawb and had a carrier bag hanging from his handlebars and the brakes were squealing as he tried to stop.

  Leclerc jumped out. The imam tried to steer in front of the van but he was moving too quickly and didn’t make it. The bike slammed into the van and the front wheel crumpled. The imam fell to the side but Leclerc was already moving, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and heaving him into the van.

  Yokely helped drag the imam inside and shouted ‘Clear’ as he pressed the stun gun against the man’s neck and pressed the trigger. The imam went into convulsions, his feet thrashing against the van floor.

  Leclerc grabbed the bike, threw it into the van and climbed in after it, then pulled the door shut.

  Dalton stamped on the accelerator and they sped off down the road.

  Leclerc tied a gag around the imam’s mouth and pulled the hood over his head.

  Yokely used the duct tape to bind the man’s feet and wrists together, then pulled off his ski mask. He grinned at Leclerc. ‘Well done.’

  Dalton drove to the storage unit. It was on the ground floor with a roll-up metal door. The entrance to the facility was covered by CCTV and there were cameras on all the floors, but the unit Dalton had taken was in the middle of a row of twenty with no direct CCTV coverage. The van could be driven alongside the unit and no one would see what was being taken inside through the side door of the vehicle.

  Yokely climbed out, unlocked the sliding door, then raised it and Leclerc handed him the bike. As Yokely put the bike in the corner of the unit, Leclerc dragged out the unconscious imam and dropped him on the floor. He pulled the van door shut and banged on the side. As Yokely pulled down the storage-unit door, Dalton drove the van away.

  There was a wooden chair in the middle of the unit and Yokely used duct tape to bind the imam’s arms and feet to it. Leclerc picked up a bottle of water, pulled the hood off the unconscious imam and then poured water over him. After a few seconds, the imam began to cough and splutter. Yokely untied the gag.

  El Saadawi continued to cough and blink his eyes. Eventually he focused on Yokely. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  Yokely ignored him and went over to a black holdall. He opened it and took out a hammer.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked El Saadawi. He looked over at Leclerc. ‘What is this? Who are you?’

  ‘Look at me, Mr El Saadawi,’ said Yokely. ‘I’ll be the one asking you questions.’

  ‘Questions? What questions?’ He looked arou
nd, trying to work out where he was being held. ‘What is this place?’

  The imam had been wearing sandals but they had come off in the van. Yokely squatted down, hefting the hammer.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked the imam, his voice trembling.

  Yokely smiled up at him. ‘I want you to answer a few questions, Mr El Saadawi. But in my experience, people don’t tell me anything until they’re in pain. So bear with me while I break a few of your toes and then we’ll get to the questions.’ He raised the hammer.

  ‘No!’ shouted the imam. ‘What questions, what do you want to know?’

  ‘There’s no point in telling you because you’ll say you don’t know what I’m talking about, you know nothing, it’s all a big mistake etcetera etcetera. So then I’ll have to hurt you and only then will you tell me the truth. I’m in a bit of a rush, Mr El Saadawi, so to save time I’ll go straight to the toe-smashing, if you don’t mind.’ He lifted the hammer again and took aim at the imam’s left big toe.

  ‘For the love of Allah and his prophet, please!’ shouted El Saadawi. ‘Just ask what you want and inshallah I will be able to answer.’

  ‘Inshallah? If god is willing? I’m not sure if this is about God, Mr El Saadawi. Religion, maybe. Jihad, certainly. But I don’t think God’s hand is in this.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ gasped the imam. ‘Please, ask your questions.’

  Yokely sat back on his heels. ‘Okay, let’s try it your way. Shabir Rauf. You sent him to Afghanistan for training, didn’t you?’

  El Saadawi opened his mouth to argue but Yokely raised the hammer. ‘Yes, yes, I sent him to Afghanistan,’ stammered the imam. ‘But to further his studies, that is all.’

  ‘Studies in Stinger missiles and bomb-making, no doubt,’ said Yokely. ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Yokely lifted the hammer again. ‘I swear on the prophet, I don’t know!’

  ‘Shabir’s uncle, do you know him?’

  ‘He has many uncles.’

  ‘Mohammed Ahmad.’

  ‘He is at the mosque sometimes. A few times a week.’

  ‘Did you send Shabir to America?’

  The imam frowned. ‘America? No.’

  ‘Well someone did.’

  ‘Not me, I swear. After he was in Afghanistan he stopped coming to the mosque.’

  ‘You didn’t know what he was doing there? In America?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well someone must have sent him. If not you, then who? Have you heard of Hakeem Khaled?’

  The imam’s lips tightened and his eyes hardened. ‘I’m not familiar with the name,’ he said.

  Yokely smiled at the obvious lie. ‘Really? I’m told he frequents the Finsbury Park Mosque.’

  ‘I rarely travel to London,’ said the imam. ‘It is not a pleasant city. I am happier here.’

  ‘How do you contact this Hakeem Khaled?’

  ‘I told you, I do not know this man.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Yokely. ‘I assume it involves an email draft file. I need you to give me the email address and password.’

  The imam shook his head. ‘You are wrong.’

  ‘Let’s see how a few broken toes changes that,’ he said. He nodded at McNee, who moved to stand behind the imam. The imam glared at Yokely as he picked up the hammer again. Yokely raised the hammer but the imam said nothing. Yokely shook his head sadly, then brought the hammer smashing down on the big toe. It split and blood splattered across the concrete floor. The imam screamed but Leclerc had already clamped his hand over the man’s mouth, muffling the cry.

  Yokely sat back and Leclerc released his grip on the man’s mouth. ‘So I’ll ask you again. Do you know Hakeem Khaled?’

  The imam nodded tearfully. ‘I know him.’

  ‘And you put him in touch with Shabir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did Hakeem say what he wanted Shabir to do?’

  ‘No. He told me to send him for training, which I did. On his return, I did not see Shabir again.’

  ‘When did Shabir come back from Afghanistan?’

  ‘A month ago. Six weeks, maybe.’

  ‘And how did you talk to Hakeem?’

  ‘Through an email account.’

  ‘I need you to give me the name of the account and the password.’ Yokely raised the hammer threateningly.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the imam. He gabbled the Yahoo account name and password and Leclerc wrote it down.

  ‘Well done, Mr El Saadawi. You’ve saved yourself a great deal of pain.’ He stood up and put the hammer back in the holdall.

  ‘What happens now?’ asked El Saadawi. ‘You will let me go?’

  ‘No,’ said Yokely. ‘That’s not going to happen, I’m afraid.’

  The imam opened his mouth to scream but Leclerc had the plastic bag ready and he whipped it over the man’s head. The screams quickly changed into grunts as the bag pulsed in and out. The imam strained at his bonds, his eyes glaring at Yokely through the transparent plastic, but then he went quiet and his eyes slowly closed.

  Leclerc was already unwrapping a roll of plastic sheeting.

  ‘What about breakfast?’ asked McNee.

  Yokely looked at his watch. It was coming up to seven o’clock in the morning. ‘I don’t see why not,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll head back to London.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said McNee. He grinned. ‘I know a place.’

  Chapter 53

  Present Day, London

  A s soon as he got to the Super-Recogniser Unit in Lambeth, Shepherd went over to talk to Sergeant Hurry. ‘George, can you do me a favour?’ he asked. He took the sergeant over to his desk and tapped in the address of the lock-up where Farooqi had been found. Then he tapped in the address of Farooqi’s flat. ‘That Syrian refugee I told you about, the one in Birmingham. He’s just turned up dead.’ He tapped the location of the house. ‘This is where Farooqi lived.’ He moved his finger and tapped the lock-up. ‘This was where his body was found. Looks like he was abducted and killed not long after the stadium bombing.’

  Hurry nodded. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Can you see what CCTV feeds are available on the direct route, but also look at alternative routes as well? Then can you get the feeds patched through to me?’

  ‘Sure.’ Hurry went back to his desk while Shepherd used Google Maps and Street View to check the area as best he could.

  It took Hurry less than an hour to patch in feeds from several dozen CCTV cameras on the routes between Farooqi’s flat and the lock-up where he died. He had also prepared a map of the area showing the location of the camera sites. Most were council run and used for monitoring traffic and potential trouble spots in the city. Hurry compiled an on-screen map using Google Maps and had also produced a large printout that Shepherd placed at the side of his keyboard. He was setting himself a huge task, he knew that, and he wasn’t thrilled about the amount of work involved. Farooqi clearly hadn’t walked from his flat to the lock-up, which meant that he had travelled in a vehicle of some kind, almost certainly under duress. Shepherd had to make an educated guess on the time frame, but the torture had been minor, which meant Farooqi had given up intel to his captors fairly quickly. He was probably only held for a few hours, so the total time from being picked up to being killed would probably be around three hours. Shepherd decided to double the time frame to be on the safe side. The vehicle must have driven to the flat, picked up Farooqi and then driven to the lock-up. There were half a dozen routes between the two locations and all had CCTV coverage at some point. The problem was that there were no CCTV cameras in the street where Farooqi lived or close to the lock-up. He was going to have to watch all the footage on all the possible routes and spot any common vehicles that were near the flat and then later near the lock-up. It was going to be a mammoth undertaking, and while his photographic memory was near faultless, he’d never used it like this before.

  Shepherd remembered everything he had ever seen or done – he could reca
ll every conversation he’d had and every face he’d seen. Once he had something in his long-term memory, it was there for ever. His short-term memory was also close to perfect. He’d always been able to memorise facts and as a party trick as a kid he’d memorise the order of a deck of playing cards in less than a minute. But what he was asking his memory to do on this occasion was something completely different – he was going to be looking at hundreds upon hundreds of vehicles and looking for a match, and that wasn’t something he’d done before.

  He counted the CCTV camera locations. There were thirty-seven. Watching all thirty-seven feeds for six hours would take more than two hundred hours. He couldn’t delegate the task to anyone else because the Super-Recognisers were all about recognising faces and bodies – so far as he was aware none of them had the same eidetic memory as his. This was going to have to be a solo job. He sighed and clicked on the feed nearest to Farooqi’s flat, then settled back in his chair. It was going to be a long week.

  Shepherd sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee, then stood up and stretched his legs. It was now almost midday and he’d spent two solid hours watching the CCTV footage on the main road from Farooqi’s flat to the lock-up. It was mind-numbingly boring; all he was looking at was vehicles coming up to a set of traffic lights and either going through or stopping depending on the colour of the lights. At this stage he was just remembering the colour and type of the vehicles and he was able to play the footage at three times the normal speed. Once he had watched the full six hours of the feed he would switch to another camera. His hope was that he would see the same vehicle in both feeds, and if he did he could then try to get a decent view of the registration plate.

  Shepherd’s mobile phone rang. It was Amar Singh. He took the call. ‘Hey, Amar. You working weekends as well?’

  ‘Everyone’s in,’ said Singh. ‘Just wanted to fill you in on what was on the hard drive I took from the Internet café.’