Tall Order Spider

by Stephen Leather

  They had already spent half an hour exploring the reef almost a hundred feet below the surface. The water was warm and clear and they had seen dozens of varieties of fish, crabs, shrimp, and even a couple of leopard sharks lying on the seabed. It was a myth that all sharks died if they stopped swimming. Some varieties did need to be constantly moving to keep oxygen-rich water flowing over their gills, but others, like the leopard shark, could send water through their respiratory system by pumping their pharynx. The leopard shark rested during the day and prowled the sea at night hunting crustaceans and small fish. Malone had found two lying on the seabed and pointed them out to Shepherd.

  Shepherd had booked Malone and the boat for a private charter so that he could dive on a reef a couple of miles south of the island of Bali. It was a deep dive but Shepherd was an experienced diver and he had paid over the odds to be the only person on the boat. He’d used the name Gerry Hunter and had a PADI logbook that showed he’d done a dozen deep dives over the past year.

  Malone had taken him down to the reef and kept pace with Shepherd as he explored it. Malone was totally at ease in the sea, using the merest flick of his fins to cut through the water. His breathing was slow and even and he seemed to be using his air at a much slower rate than Shepherd was going through his.

  ‘So, Vic, there’s something we need to talk about,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Let me get my gear straight and then I’ll go over the chart with you,’ said Malone.

  ‘It’s not about the dive,’ said Shepherd. ‘I need to come clean with you. My name isn’t Gerry. It’s Dan.’

  Malone straightened up, frowning. ‘So the logbook’s fake?’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘I can dive,’ he said. ‘No worries on that score.’ He took a sip of water. ‘Now that I’ve told you who I am, how about you return the favour.’

  Malone’s frown deepened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean let’s be straight with each other. Let’s share.’

  Malone put his hands on his hips. ‘What the fuck is this? What’s going on?’

  Shepherd held up a hand. ‘No need to get upset, we’re just having a chat here,’ he said. ‘Look, I know who you are. Dean Martin. And not the singer, obviously, because he’s, you know, dead.’

  Martin’s hand reached towards the knife in the scabbard on his right calf but Shepherd held up his water bottle and laughed. ‘Dean, you need to chill. It’s all good. This isn’t a hit, it’s a meet and greet.’

  Martin let his hand relax. ‘Are you here for the diving or not?’

  ‘I’m here to chat away from prying ears,’ said Shepherd. He waved his bottle at the dark-skinned Indonesian man at the wheel. ‘I’m assuming you can trust him.’

  ‘I can’t trust anyone,’ said Martin. He bent down, pulled the top off an icebox and took out a bottle of Heineken. ‘But if we’re not doing any more diving, I might as well have a beer.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Shepherd. He put down his water bottle and held out his hand.

  Martin chuckled, popped the top of the bottle and gave it to him, then grabbed a Heineken for himself and sat down opposite Shepherd. ‘So who the fuck are you?’ he asked.

  ‘I told you. It’s Dan. Dan Shepherd.’

  ‘Then what the fuck are you, Dan? I went to a lot of trouble to escape being Dean Martin.’

  Shepherd grinned and raised his bottle in the air. ‘A great singer, it has to be said. I’d put him above Sinatra, but then that’s just me.’

  ‘I’ve heard all the Dean Martin jokes, trust me,’ said Martin.

  ‘So was your father a fan of big band music?’

  Martin’s brow furrowed. ‘What?’

  ‘Your name. I figure only a fan of the Brat Pack would name their son after Dino.’

  Martin grinned. ‘He was a Led Zep and Black Sabbath fan. Heavy metal. Dean was my mother’s father’s name and she’d always promised him that her firstborn would be named after him. I guess she never figured on marrying a guy called Martin.’

  ‘What did the guys in Delta call you?’

  ‘Los Muertos.’

  ‘Because that was Dean Martin’s nickname, or was there something else?’

  Martin’s smile widened but his pale blue eyes were ice cold. ‘Fifty-fifty,’ he said. ‘Is this a job interview we’re having?’

  ‘I think we’re past that stage, Dean. Look, I’m a man on a mission, and you can help me.’

  ‘And why the fuck would I do that?’ Martin sipped his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Because my mission is a bastard by the name of Hakeem Khaled.’

  Martin shrugged. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘No, but I’m told you’ve seen him. He was the one who organised the shooting down of the plane at JFK ten years ago.’

  Martin’s eyes widened. ‘You’ve found him?’

  ‘We’re close,’ said Shepherd. ‘I have the name. And I have a rough idea of where he is.’

  Martin sipped his beer. ‘And where would that be?’

  ‘Somewhere hot and sunny,’ said Shepherd. ‘You were on his case ten years ago but he got away from you. He’s still up to his old tricks, I’m afraid. You heard about the stadium bombing in London? The suicide bomber?’

  Martin nodded.

  ‘That was his work. He set it up, groomed the sad fuck who blew himself to smithereens. Probably built the vest or at least arranged for it to be built.’

  ‘And who the hell are you, Dan, in the grand scheme of things?’

  ‘Just a hired hand.’

  ‘MI5? MI6? SAS?’

  Martin sneered at Shepherd when he didn’t answer. ‘You remind me of the CIA guys we kept coming across in the Sandbox. Wouldn’t tell you the time even if they had a watch on their wrist.’

  ‘Sorry, force of habit,’ said Shepherd. ‘Fair enough, you deserve to know something about me. I was in the SAS but now I’m with MI5.’

  ‘So you’re James Bond?’

  ‘Bond is MI6,’ said Shepherd. ‘And he’s a fictional character.’

  Martin laughed. ‘So what’s the difference between MI5 and MI6?’

  ‘Five is domestic. Pretty much. Six is overseas. That’s it in a nutshell but there is some overlap.’

  ‘I met a few SAS guys in Afghanistan. Good soldiers.’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘You SEALs know what you’re doing, too,’ he said. ‘I did my fair share of joint ops with you guys. But probably before you signed up. Look, Dean, I was in the stadium when the bomb went off. I saw what happened there and I’ll never forget it.’ He shuddered at the images that flashed through his mind and he could hear the injured father calling for his dead son. ‘I want to get the bastard who did it. And I need your help.’

  ‘Who told you about me?’

  ‘I doubt you’d know my boss,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘But he’s a Brit?’

  ‘She,’ said Martin. ‘Yeah, as English as cream teas and croquet on the lawn.’

  ‘How would the Brits know about me?’

  ‘She’s got her fingers in a lot of pies,’ he said.

  ‘I can think of only one man who would know where I was, that’s all,’ said Martin. ‘I’m just surprised that he’d share that information. Why me? Why after all this time am I suddenly needed?’

  ‘Because you’re the only one who has seen Hakeem Khaled up close and personal. We have a passport photo from fifteen years ago but no one looks like their passport photo, right? You’ve seen him, you’ve seen his face and you’ve seen him move. You’re the only one who can ID him. Am I right?’

  Martin nodded. ‘I’ll never forget the bastard,’ he said. ‘The way he was congratulating the others, like they’d won some sort of award. Yes, I’d recognise him again.’

  ‘That’s why you have to step up, Dean.’

  ‘I’m retired,’ said Martin. ‘And off the grid.’

  ‘I think you’ll find that’s changed,’ said Shepherd. ‘Whatever happened in the pa
st is the past. They want you back in harness.’

  ‘I’m happy here,’ said Martin. He waved his beer bottle at the cloudless sky. ‘How could anyone not be happy here?’

  ‘You’ve got unfinished business.’

  ‘I left that life behind,’ he said. ‘And it wasn’t by choice. I wanted to serve my country, Dan. But my country didn’t want me. Fuck that. My country wanted me dead.’

  ‘And now your country realises it made a mistake.’

  ‘Does it? Or does it just want to use me?’

  ‘I hear you. I really do. But if you don’t want to do it for the US of A, do it for yourself. That bastard brought down an American plane. And so far he hasn’t paid the price. He hasn’t paid any price. He’s still out there, killing innocents. You nearly caught him ten years ago. Now you get the chance to follow through. You need to do this, Dean. Without you, that bastard will carry on killing.’

  Martin took a long pull on his beer and looked out over the sea for several minutes, deep in thought. ‘How are we going to get him?’ he asked eventually, still staring off into the distance. ‘Drones, or up close and personal?’

  ‘We’re going to try with drones first,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I want to be there when he dies,’ said Martin quietly, turning to look at him.

  Shepherd raised his bottle in salute. ‘I’m pretty sure that’s the plan,’ he said.

  Chapter 71

  Present Day, Bali, Indonesia

  T he plane was a Gulfstream jet and the pilots were definitely civilians, so Shepherd figured the flight had been arranged through the Pool. The pilots were both British, the captain in his fifties and the co-pilot maybe half his age. The captain was friendly enough, shaking their hands and introducing himself as Tom and the co-pilot as Sean. He apologised for the fact that there were no cabin staff but explained the bar was fully stocked and there was food in the galley. The safety briefing consisted of Tom telling them that seat belts were best worn all of the time. With that, the two pilots locked themselves in the cockpit and a few minutes later the engines burst into life.

  Martin grabbed two beers from the bar and tossed one to Shepherd. ‘Might as well enjoy ourselves,’ he said. He was wearing a T-shirt advertising Bintang Beer and blue jeans. Shepherd was only slightly less casual in a grey sweatshirt and black jeans and he had carried on his leather jacket. They both had small holdalls with a change of clothes and toiletries.

  They chose seats on either side of the fuselage. Martin had a footrest in front of his seat and Shepherd had a table. Martin swung his feet up and fastened his seat belt. Ten minutes later they were over the Indian Ocean, heading west.

  The plane stopped to refuel twice, once in Cyprus and again in Gibraltar. Shepherd slept most of the way. He woke up a few times and when he did Martin was sitting staring out of the window, deep in thought.

  Their final destination was RAF Waddington, four miles south of the city of Lincoln. The plane landed smoothly and taxied towards one of several gunmetal grey hangars. The captain came out of the cockpit and opened the door and pulled a lever that unfolded a set of stairs. ‘Pleasure having you both with us,’ he said, though he had barely said a word to them throughout the flight.

  Shepherd headed down the stairs, blinking in the bright sunlight. It was a cloudless day, the sky a perfect blue. Martin followed him. On the door leading into the hangar was a large 13th Squadron badge – a lynx’s head in front of a dagger and the motto – ADJUVAMUS TUENDO, Latin for ‘We Assist By Watching’. As the two men walked towards the hangar, the door opened and an officer in a blue uniform stepped out. He was in his early thirties with greying hair and carrying a few too many pounds around his waist. Shepherd grinned and held out his hand – he’d met Flight Lieutenant Sam Davies before.

  ‘We can’t keep you away, can we?’ said Davies as they shook hands.

  ‘You do serve excellent coffee,’ said Shepherd. He introduced Martin to the lieutenant. ‘This is Dean, he’s our eyes on this one. Dean, this is Flight Lieutenant Sam Davies. He’s a nice guy, just don’t refer to his charges as drones. They’re remotely piloted aircraft, or RPAs.’

  Martin shook hands with the officer. ‘Whatever you call them, they saved my life a few times when I was out in the Sandbox.’

  ‘That’s good to know,’ said Davies.

  He led them into the hangar. Inside were two large yellow metal containers with massive rubber wheels at either end. Large air-conditioning units were attached to the containers, without which the interiors would soon become unbearably hot. Davies took them inside the nearest container where two pilots were sitting in high-backed beige leather chairs facing a bank of screens. They both had control panels and joysticks in front of them and another panel between them on which there were two white telephones. They both twisted around in their seats.

  ‘Alex Shaw you’ll remember,’ said Davies, nodding at the man in the left-hand seat. Shaw waved a greeting. He was also in his early thirties, with a receding hairline and wire-framed spectacles.

  The other seat was occupied by a blonde woman in her early twenties, also wearing glasses. ‘Pilot Officer Anita Exley is a new addition to the team and she’s been involved in the editing of the footage you’ll be looking at.’

  Exley smiled, nodded and then turned back to look at the screens. Shepherd was familiar with the equipment. The screens on the left showed satellite images and maps, and above them was the tracker screen that showed where the RPA was. Below that was the head-up display that showed a radar ground image. The biggest screen, in the centre of the display, was used to show a high-definition birds-eye image of the ground below the RPA.

  The pilots of 13th Squadron operated ten Reapers, also known as Predator Bs. Each one cost a shade under twenty million dollars. With a twenty-metre wingspan and a take-off weight of just under five thousand kilos, the Reaper could fly fully loaded for the best part of fourteen hours up to a height of fifteen thousand metres with a maximum speed of close to three hundred miles an hour. Depending on the target, the Reaper could be fitted with up to four Hellfire air-to-ground missiles and two Paveway laser-guided bombs.

  ‘We’ve been tasked with supplying you with any footage we have of a training camp on the Pakistan–Afghanistan border,’ said Davies. ‘I have to warn you, there isn’t much that’s usable. They’ve become a lot more savvy over the past year or so. They spend most of the daylight hours inside the network of caves there. From what we know there’s a huge cave system and they have generators and a water supply so they don’t actually have to come out if they don’t want to. We see far more activity at night and we have night-vision cameras, but they’re not much use for identification. From the way they manage to avoid our daytime surveillance, we’re fairly sure they are monitoring our take-offs. There are Special Forces on the ground trying to stop them, but they’ve started using kids so there’s not much our lads can do. They can’t start shooting thirteen-year-olds just because they’ve got a sat phone.’

  ‘The kids make a call whenever they see an RSA take off, is that it?’ asked Shepherd.

  Davies nodded. ‘We try to fool them by flying away from our intended destination but they’re not stupid. And if they know the take-off time they have a pretty good idea of when we’ll be above them. They know exactly how high we can fly and for how long, and they have spotters in the area. We’ve fooled them a few times but generally by the time we get there they’ve taken cover inside the caves. But we’ve still got close to twenty hours of footage we can show you.’

  ‘And we’re okay to stay here until we’ve viewed it all?’

  ‘Sure. It’s night-time out there at the moment and we’ve nothing scheduled. I’m assuming you’ll be done by this evening if you fast-forward through the boring bits. The mess is open all day and Anita can arrange for coffee and sandwiches if you need it. Alex and I will head off and leave you in Anita’s capable hands.’

  Shaw climbed out of his chair and followed the lieutenant o
ut of the container.

  ‘We had a flight over the area yesterday,’ said Exley. ‘There isn’t much to see, but why don’t we start with that?’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Shepherd. ‘Dean, why don’t you take the seat?’

  Martin squeezed past Shepherd and sat down as Exley tapped on her keyboard. The main screen flickered and then was filled with a rocky desert landscape.

  ‘This is just after dawn,’ she said. ‘We launched at night and went into a holding pattern over the border until first light. But as you can see, the area is almost deserted. Early morning is pretty much the best time to get your training done, temperature-wise, but there’s no one about. Except for the odd spotter.’ On the screen they saw a man with his face covered with a black and white keffiyeh scarf at the entrance to one of the caves. He was holding a pair of high-powered binoculars. ‘The spotters just sit there and watch until we fly off. Then presumably they all pile out and start their training.’

  ‘How much damage could you do if you fired missiles at the cave entrance?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘We could seriously damage the entrance but not beyond fifty feet or so, and the cave system goes right back into the hills,’ said Exley. ‘There are dozens of entrances and the systems are all linked. Plus, the spotters would see us making an attack run so they’d be able to warn the people inside. And we’d be firing blind, which is never a good idea. The Hellfires are best suited to specific targets out in the open. They’re scalpels rather than chainsaws.’

  ‘Got you,’ said Shepherd. ‘So how should we do this?’

  ‘Despite their security measures we do have a lot of footage of jihadists out in the open,’ said Exley. ‘Sometimes we outfox them, sometimes we’re just lucky. We caught them a blinder last week by sending out two Reapers, flying one low as a decoy and one much higher in the clouds. The low one circled for an hour and then headed back. After it had gone they came out to play and it was half an hour before they spotted the one at high altitude.’

  Her fingers tapped on the keyboard and the main screen filled with a view from an RPA high in the sky. There was a coding along the bottom that gave the time, date, altitude and position.