Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller

by Leather, Stephen

  ‘By the Russians?’

  ‘We don’t know. The cops found his body in a house in Queens. Two shots to the chest, one to the face. No forensics. It looks like a professional hit.’

  ‘Getting killed is an occupational hazard, it goes with the job. Do the Russians know that there’s a contract out on Putin?’

  ‘If they do, we didn’t tell them.’

  ‘But they could have found out on their own and taken care of it.’

  ‘True. But then wouldn’t you have expected them to have taken out Smit as well? Or cancelled Putin’s visit?’

  ‘You could always ask them,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I assume you’re joking,’ said Button. ‘We’re not in the business of sharing intel with the Russians, and vice versa. We’re not even sure that Tyler was connected to the Putin contract. It’s purely circumstantial. But the facts are that immediately after Tyler’s death, Smit went into overdrive.’

  ‘Did this Smit mention a number?’

  Button shook her head. ‘He’s far too careful to be caught discussing money but we’re assuming millions.’

  ‘Tens of, I would have thought. And even then …’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t see contractors lining up to take the job. You’d get the Walter Mittys and the chancers, the guys trying to make a name for themselves, but the real professionals would see too much downside.’

  ‘AIVD want us to come up with someone,’ said Button quietly.

  ‘I’d already figured that out,’ said Shepherd. He smiled. ‘But come on, what would my way in be? I call up Smit and say that I’ve heard he’s looking for an assassin?’

  ‘There’s a network of middlemen like Smit right across Europe, and beyond. I think we can get you into the loop.’

  ‘Charlie, at that level it’s all word of mouth. You need to know someone who knows someone who knows someone.’

  ‘We think we have a way in. There’s a guy in custody in Ras al-Khaimah, in the Emirates, who was caught trying to kill a minor royal. The prince had fallen out with another prince and it all got nasty. The guy they caught is behind half a dozen high-profile kills over the past ten years. He’s never been identified, no one knows what he looks like. You become him.’

  ‘That’s hellish risky. I won’t know who knows him.’

  ‘No one knows him. And certainly Smit doesn’t, and that’s all that matters.’

  ‘And how do you get me next to Smit?’

  ‘A middleman in London who sometimes works for Five.’

  ‘This is getting very, very messy, Charlie.’

  ‘It’s a bit complicated, but there’s a logic to it. The killer’s known only as The Dane.’

  ‘Because he’s from Denmark or because he’s a big dog?’

  Button smiled coldly. ‘I know you’re trying to lighten the moment, but this is complicated enough as it is. No, he’s not Danish. At least he doesn’t have a Danish passport. When they caught him in Ras al-Khaimah he had Irish, Canadian and Australian passports. Their police liaised with Interpol and they ran his prints and DNA through all the EU databases but they drew a blank. The passports all had his photographs but different names so no one knows his real name or where he came from.’

  ‘What if The Dane gets out?’

  ‘He won’t,’ said Button. ‘They were going to take off his head and that still might happen. But until then he’s in a tiny concrete box being fed through a hole in his door. No visitors, no doors, just the occasional beating to break up the monotony.’

  ‘But what if word gets out that he’s being held there?’

  Button shook her head. ‘It won’t. The request for help from Interpol was made at a very high level. There’s probably fewer than a dozen people who know that he’s been caught, and all of them are good guys.’

  ‘So the plan is to get your man in London to introduce me to Smit and then Smit puts me in touch with the father?’

  ‘Basically, yes.’

  ‘And will the London guy know that I’m not The Dane?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Probably not?’

  ‘If we can have the London guy believe you are The Dane, his recommendation would carry more weight.’

  ‘And how do we do that?’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ said Button. ‘I’m hoping that in a few days we’ll be ready to move.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘I’ll need all the intel on The Dane, obviously.’

  She opened her briefcase and passed him a grey thumbdrive. ‘Everything you need is on there,’ she said. ‘I’ll get a legend drawn up and provide you with all the documentation you need.’

  ‘How does The Dane operate?’

  ‘You mean, how does he kill? Always at a distance. That’s his trademark. So sniping or bombs. He’s a crack shot with a sniper’s rifle and an expert bombmaker. That’s why until Ras al-Khaimah, he’d never been caught or even identified. His bombs have been especially productive. One of his kills in the States used a bomb with a timer to make it active, cross referenced with a GPS signal from the victim’s phone. The bomb was in place for more than a month until The Dane activated it and then when the target arrived … bang!’

  ‘Then I need to get up to speed with explosives and get to know my way around a sniping rifle again.’

  ‘I can get you a briefing from one of our experts on the explosives front,’ said Button. ‘And I’m sure you can brush up your sniping skills in Hereford.’

  Shepherd nodded.

  ‘Are you okay? You look a little … perturbed.’

  Shepherd pulled a face then sipped his coffee. ‘Don’t you think that Putin deserves a bullet in the head?’ he said eventually.

  Button’s jaw dropped. ‘I can’t believe you said that.’

  ‘Someone should take responsibility for what happened to that plane. Almost three hundred people died.’

  ‘I rather think some sort of proof is needed before you make a statement like that,’ said Button. ‘It’s not an absolute certainty that the Russians fired the missile that brought the plane down. Or that Putin gave the order.’

  ‘You don’t think it was the Russians? Seriously?’

  ‘It wasn’t the first time that a plane was shot down over the Ukraine,’ said Button. ‘The Ukrainian military shot down a Siberia Airlines flight over the Black Sea in 2001, killing seventy-eight. They never officially admitted liability but eventually the government conceded that it was probably the result of an errant missile fired by its armed forces.’

  ‘Errant missile? That’s like the old chestnut of collateral damage, isn’t it? I seem to remember the Ukrainians paid out just two hundred thousand dollars per victim.’

  ‘Your memory never fails you, does it?’ She drank her tea.

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘You don’t need a trick memory to know that the Ukrainians pretty much got away with murder then. Now Putin’s managing to pull the same trick.’

  ‘The point I’m making is that if the Ukrainians did it then, they could have shot down the Malaysian flight. And I have to say I hope you’re not serious about Putin being a valid target for assassination.’

  ‘I’m just saying, if my son had been on the flight, I’d be wanting to hold someone accountable. And if it looked as if that wasn’t going to happen, then maybe I’d be looking to take matters into my own hands.’

  ‘Are you saying you don’t want this mission?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. I’m just saying that I can empathise with the father. Maybe even sympathise. Wouldn’t it be easier just to shut him down?’

  ‘Shut him down how, exactly?’

  ‘Send someone around to warn him off. Tell him we know what his intentions are.’

  ‘The Dutch want him arrested and charged.’

  ‘So don’t tell the Dutch. I’ll make a call.’

  Button tilted her head on one side as she looked at him with narrowed eyes.

  He laughed and threw up his hands. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ he said.

 
; ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’re thinking of charging me with being an accessory before the fact.’

  ‘We don’t charge people in Five, you know that. I just find your attitude surprising, that’s all. He’s planning to fund an assassination and you seem to think a verbal warning is punishment enough.’

  ‘I won’t mention it again,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And don’t forget Lucas Smit. The world will be a safer place with him behind bars.’

  ‘No argument there,’ said Shepherd. ‘Okay, when do I start?’

  ‘I need to get my ducks in a row; why don’t you go and do what you have to do in Hereford, I’ll fix up an explosives expert and then we’ll get you up and running.’

  The four members of Harper’s team were in his hotel room by two o’clock on Saturday afternoon. The last one to arrive was a pale, intense-looking man in his mid-thirties, dressed all in black and wearing black leather gloves. His nickname was Hansfree – an ironic reference to the fact that the man was missing most of both arms below the elbows. Both his hands were prosthetic, but he was so proficient with them a casual observer would have no idea of his disability. He’d lost his hands during an IED incident in Bosnia, after which he’d left the army and set himself up as a freelance researcher. With his prosthetics and voice recognition software he was as quick if not quicker than any able-bodied computer user.

  Hansfree sat on the bed next to a pale, dark-eyed brunette in her thirties who tended to use the name Maggie May when she was working.

  Harper stood by the window. The curtains were still drawn and the lights were off. ‘Apologies for the venue but this is all at short notice and I didn’t want to do the briefing in a public place, for obvious reasons.’ He nodded at the sandwiches and water on the dressing table. ‘Refreshments there if you need them. Right, glad you could all make it. Time to have some fun and make some money. I’ve worked with you all individually before but I think this is the first time you’ve all met each other and for security purposes, it’s likely that we won’t do so again in the future. I’ll do the introductions, it’ll save time.’ He nodded at the only female member of the group. ‘The lovely lady is Maggie May, at least that’s her working name. She’s a surveillance professional, one of the best. Sitting next to her is Hansfree, one of the best researchers and computer men in the business.’

  Hansfree raised his right hand in salute. Harper gestured at the small, unassuming man with mousy hair standing by the bathroom door. ‘That’s Billy Whisper, AKA Bravo Whisky. He was secret squirrel in Northern Ireland during the later stages of the Troubles – and also spent a couple of years seconded to the cousins over the water.’

  ‘Why Billy Whisper?’ asked Hansfree.

  ‘Because people say that I talk too quietly,’ said Billy, though hardly anyone heard what he said.

  Hansfree laughed. ‘I get it.’

  ‘Billy’s a linguist by training,’ said Harper. ‘He speaks fluent Arabic, German, French and Russian, and has a working knowledge of Farsi and Pushtu as well. He can do a cracking Northern Irish accent when necessary.’

  ‘So I can,’ said Billy Whisper.

  ‘And, last but not least, is the gentleman on my right, variously known as BB, Bravo Bravo or Billy Big, and sometimes, behind his back, as Brick Shithouse.’

  The powerfully built figure next to him looked up and raised a hand in salute.

  ‘Billy Big is ex-SRR – Special Reconnaissance Regiment, the successor to the Fourteen Int Company that Billy Whisper worked for.’ He smiled. ‘And better at intelligence gathering than they were too. The SRR is based in Hereford like the SAS. Right, now we know who everyone is, it’s time to get down to business. Comms procedures: we’ll be using these smartphones.’ He pulled the briefcase out from under the bed and opened it. ‘They’re protected by a GCHQ super code that – unlike Angela Merkel’s phone – is not breakable by the NSA in the States. So we can communicate by text, mobile and email and they’re all guaranteed secure, and just to make sure that they stay that way, all transmissions will automatically self-destruct after twelve hours. However, as they invented the code, self-evidently GCHQ can listen in, and since this op is off the books, we need to keep comms neutral-sounding and avoid trigger words – weapons, bombs, et cetera, et cetera – that might spark attention.’

  Harper spent the next hour laying out the main points of the plan he had been formulating and gave each of them their designated tasks. When he’d finished he gave them a final warning. ‘Like I always say, no plan ever survives contact with the enemy,’ he said. ‘We need to be flexible and ready to adapt quickly to changing circumstances. I’ll be using an intermediary to make first contact with the principal target’s daughter and, if we all play our parts right, she’ll open the doors to her father and his rich friend. The set-up will be in Monte Carlo, so your first assignment is to find the right location and carry out the necessary surveillance on it, but the pay-off will probably be in Germany. You’ll have generous expenses, no receipts required, and your fees on completion can be paid in cash or into any bank account, anywhere in the world, as you prefer. Questions?’ All four shook their heads. They were professionals and all knew what was expected of them. ‘Good, then we’ll speak as necessary but you need to hold yourself in readiness at all times.’

  They left the room one at a time at five-minute intervals. Harper stood at the window and watched them go. Maggie May was the last to leave. ‘How’s your boy?’ asked Harper. She had a six-year-old son, the reason that she was now working freelance. She had been working for MI5’s surveillance section when she had made the mistake of falling pregnant. That wouldn’t normally be an issue at MI5, but the mistake had been compounded by the fact that the father was her boss, and was married.

  ‘He’s growing up fast,’ she said.

  ‘Who’s looking after him while you’re with me?’

  ‘My parents,’ she said.

  ‘And his father?’

  ‘Still with his family. Still refusing to pay me a penny and still dodging a DNA test.’

  ‘If ever you need a helping hand …’ said Harper.

  She grinned. ‘I’m not that desperate yet, Lex.’

  ‘I’d do it pro bono.’

  ‘It’s not the money. It’s the fact that no matter how much of a bastard he is, he’s still the father of my son.’

  ‘I hate my father,’ said Lex. ‘Just because you carry someone’s DNA doesn’t mean you owe them anything.’

  ‘Well, you sort of do, Lex. If it wasn’t for the DNA, you wouldn’t be alive, would you?’ She hugged him and pecked him on the cheek. ‘You take care, you hear?’

  ‘And you, babe.’

  Harper stood at the window and watched her leave. She stopped at the street corner and turned, then blew him a kiss. Harper chuckled as she walked away.

  Shepherd checked his phone as he walked over to his BMW SUV and groaned as he realised the battery had gone flat. He had a charger in the car so he plugged it in before starting the engine and heading for Hereford. He pulled into a service station after an hour and checked his phone on the way to buy a coffee. There were two text messages from Katra asking him to call her urgently. He rang and could tell from her voice that she was upset.

  ‘Where are you, Dan?’ she asked.

  ‘On my way to Hereford,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Liam’s in trouble at school,’ she told him.

  Shepherd’s stomach lurched. ‘What do you mean? Is he okay?’

  ‘I’m not sure. They called and said he was in trouble with the police.’

  ‘The police? Katra, what’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know. The school phoned this morning and asked to speak to you. They said the police were talking to Liam. But they wouldn’t tell me what it’s about. They said they had to talk to you.’

  ‘I’ll call them now,’ he said. He ended the call and scrolled through his phone’s address book looking for the
school’s number. He realised he didn’t have it and called Katra back. She gave him the number and he tapped it into his phone. He eventually got through to the headmaster’s secretary after being put on hold for a couple of minutes.

  ‘Mr Shepherd? Would it be possible for you to come to the school?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘As soon as possible.’

  ‘Today? Saturday?’

  ‘It’s a boarding school, Mr Shepherd. We never close.’

  ‘Can you tell me what’s happened?’ he asked.

  ‘I think the headmaster would rather tell you in person,’ she said.

  ‘Is my son okay?’

  ‘He’s fine. But there has been a problem that we need to talk to you about.’

  ‘My au pair said the police have been to the school.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ she said. ‘There was a problem with Liam’s locker. Mr Shepherd, really, it would be better if you came and spoke to Mr Turner.’

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as possible,’ said Shepherd. He ended the call and hurried back to his car, thoughts of coffee forgotten.

  He arrived at Liam’s school on the outskirts of Harrogate at just after three o’clock in the afternoon. It was an impressive sandstone building with two large wings either side of a turreted tower from which flew two flags – one the Union flag, the other the school crest. Off to the left were extensive playing fields and to the right were tennis courts and an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Shepherd found a parking space in the staff car park and hurried inside the main building. It was, he realised, only his third visit to the school. He found the main office wing and was directed to the headmaster’s office where his secretary, a prim young woman with her hair pinned back, asked him to wait on one of a line of hardbacked chairs. ‘Mr Turner is on the phone. As soon as he’s done I’ll tell him you’re here,’ she said. Shepherd spent several minutes studying a collection of framed photographs of various school sports teams and trying to quell the rising sense of panic that kept threatening to overwhelm him.