Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller

by Leather, Stephen

  Jony grinned at her and flashed her a handful of notes. ‘Good thing I picked his pocket, then.’ He paused. ‘Buy you a drink?’

  He was not alone when he went back to his bedsit that night, and Bridie went with him when he made a couple of ‘deliveries’ the next day. They again spent the night together – ‘perks of the job,’ Jony said when he reported in to Harper – and the following day, as they were once more nursing a drink in the pub, Jony played his next card. ‘I’ve a bit of a special delivery today,’ he said. ‘I need someone I can trust to keep watch for me. It’s worth a monkey if you’re interested.’

  ‘Five hundred quid? Of course I’m feckin’ interested,’ she said.

  He drove her out to an industrial estate off the North Circular, parking at the far end of a piece of waste ground. They had been there for ten minutes when a Mercedes with blacked-out windows drove up and parked about fifty yards away.

  ‘That’s them,’ Jony said. ‘Swap seats with me and then keep your eyes peeled. Any sign of anything unusual, any other people or cars appear, beep the horn.’

  He got out, walked round to the passenger side and peeled back the carpet in the footwell. The exposed steel floor looked perfectly normal until he took a knife from his pocket and drew it along an almost invisible line on the floor, revealing the lid of a hidden compartment. Inside the compartment were two packages, and as he lifted them out, Bridie could see the outline of gun barrels through the thick plastic wrapping.

  ‘Keep alert,’ he said, and set off towards the Mercedes. Harper, in the driving seat, winked at Jony as he handed the packages in through the open window. ‘All good?’

  ‘All good, bruv,’ Jony said. ‘She practically gave birth when she caught sight of these.’

  ‘Then all we need now is for her old man to take the bait and then you can bow out and go back to the day job.’ He handed Jony a Jiffy bag. ‘The next instalment – don’t spend it all on wining and dining your lady friend.’

  ‘She’s a cheap date, bruv. No fine dining, just Guinness, Irish whiskey and crisps.’

  ‘And a few shags as well?’

  ‘Bruv, I’m shocked,’ Jony said with a grin. ‘Didn’t you know an English gentleman never kisses and tells?’ He winked, then stood back as Harper swung the Merc around and disappeared back up the road in a cloud of dust.

  Jony drove back into London in silence, waiting for Bridie to make the first move. ‘You sell a lot of guns then?’ she said at last.

  ‘A few.’

  ‘I might be able to put some business your way, that’s all. My da’s organisation is looking for supplies.’

  ‘I don’t supply them, I just deliver them for my boss and he’s very choosy about who he deals with.’

  ‘What sort of stuff can he supply?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘About what? About my da? Sure. He’s in the market for stuff, really.’

  Jony flashed her a sideways glance. ‘I can get my hands on pretty much anything. Handguns, rifles, explosives, even heavy weapons. But like I said my boss doesn’t deal with people he doesn’t know. He’s ultra paranoid about his security and with good reason – a lot of cops right around the world would pay good money to find out who he is and where he is.’

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt to ask though, would it?’ she said, placing her hand on his thigh.

  ‘I can ask, but I’m telling you, the answer will be no.’

  He pulled over to the side of the road, got out and faked a phone call as he paced up and down the pavement. A moment later he got back into the car, slamming the door behind him. ‘He said “No”, and I got a right bollocking for even mentioning his existence to someone he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Look, I made a call myself while you were talking to him,’ she said. ‘My father’s very interested. He runs a serious organisation and he’s got the financial backing to get some serious gear. So go back to your boss and ask again.’

  ‘He’ll only give me the same answer.’

  ‘Please, baby. Try again. For me.’

  Jony shrugged. ‘All right, I’ll try him again, but don’t hold your breath. And I’m not calling him back tonight; one bollocking a day is plenty.’

  Major Gannon arranged for Shepherd’s explosives training on Tuesday morning. He had an early egg and bacon breakfast with Liam, and even managed to get more than a few monosyllabic answers from him about how he was getting on at his new school. The headmaster was a good friend of the SAS and had agreed to push through Liam’s enrolment without waiting for the required paperwork.

  Shepherd didn’t raise the drugs incident with Liam. There was nothing to say. He was fairly sure that Liam had learned his lesson and he wouldn’t be able to do anything until the following day. Going up against drug dealers was best not done alone so he had phoned Jimmy Sharpe who had arranged to take Wednesday off and go to Leeds with him.

  Shepherd dropped Liam off at school and drove to Credenhill. The same guard checked his ID against the list on his clipboard with the same intensity as he had on Sunday, while another guard examined the underside of the car again, slowly and methodically.

  The Major was waiting for him in front of the regimental clock, which had been moved from the previous Stirling Lines barracks when they relocated in 1999. The tower was where the regiment honoured its dead and the Major was watching as a man in blue overalls was adding the name of another trooper who had failed to beat the clock. At the base of the clock was a verse from the ‘The Golden Road to Samarkand’ by James Elroy Flecker, a poem that had been adopted as the regiment’s creed.

  We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go

  Always a little further; it may be

  Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow,

  Across that angry or that glimmering sea.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘He was on attachment to the Colombians, helping to take down one of the cartels. We don’t know how but his cover was blown and they tortured and killed him.’

  ‘If you’re putting together a team, count me in.’

  ‘I’ll keep you posted,’ said the Major.

  ‘Wife? Kids?’

  ‘Thankfully, no. But his mum hasn’t taken it well.’

  He turned away and led Shepherd over to a featureless green metal building. ‘I’ve got one of our top dem guys here today,’ he said, putting his arm around Shepherd’s shoulders. ‘I wasn’t sure how far you’d want to go.’

  ‘I don’t need to actually blow anything up, but I need to know the whys and wherefores.’

  ‘Contract killer, you said, so I suppose you don’t really need to know how to blow up the big stuff.’

  The SAS were experts at infiltrating enemy areas and blowing up assets, everything from buildings and bridges to ships and military bunkers. But those sorts of skills weren’t really applicable in the world of contract killing.

  ‘I’m thinking IEDs, cars, booby-traps. I need to be brought up to speed on explosives and detonators, what goes where and what the pitfalls are.’

  ‘Well Bunny is the man for that. I don’t think anyone knows more about the stuff that goes bang.’

  ‘Bunny?’

  ‘Bunny Warren. He was doing some very secret stuff in Iraq, playing their bombers at their own game. He’d go in and booby-trap their IEDs. When they went to check, they’d end up on the receiving end of their own devices. Hoisted by their own petards, and good riddance.’

  The Major took Shepherd into the building where a short man in green fatigues and gleaming white Nikes was waiting for them. Bunny Warren was in his thirties and had the typical SAS physique – wiry rather than well-muscled, average height, and with the ability to blend into a crowd. Warren was the perfect grey man, there was nothing noticeable about his face – he had regular features, skin slightly sunburnt, mousy brown hair that was parted on the left. No jewellery, not even a wristwatch. The Major introduced the two men and they shook hands. Warren had a firm grip and hi
s brown eyes were measuring Shepherd up.

  ‘The boss says you want a full dem briefing so I’ve put out samples of pretty much everything,’ he said, waving at two trestle tables loaded with equipment. ‘We weren’t sure what you’d want in the way of demonstrations but we’ve got an area cordoned off if needed.’

  ‘I’m more into the technicalities at the moment,’ said Shepherd. ‘At some point I’m probably going to be tested on my technical knowledge so I want to be sure that I’m up to speed.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Warren, rubbing his hands together. ‘Let’s get started.’

  ‘If you don’t mind I’ll hang around for a while,’ said the Major. ‘Like Spider, my demo skills are a little rusty.’

  He pulled up a chair, sat down and stretched out his long legs. For the next two hours Warren went over the various types of explosives on the market, from simple dynamite and TNT to the more complex RDX and PETN. He went into great detail about ammonium nitrate fertiliser, how it could be mixed with TNT to produce Amatol or with diesel fuel oil to produce ANFO – Ammonium Nitrate Fuel Oil mixture – often the IRA’s explosive of choice for car bombings and the like. Warren paid particular attention to the methods of detonating the various explosives. ‘You can have the most efficient explosive in the world, but if you can’t get it to go bang you’re wasting your time,’ he said. While it was doubtful that Shepherd would need to be making an ANFO car bomb, Warren talked him though every step of the process.

  They broke for lunch and in the canteen, over fish and chips and several mugs of coffee, Warren talked Shepherd and the Major through composition explosives that were mainly designated by acronyms such as C-1, C-2, C-3, C-4, C-A, and C-B, made from mixing explosive such as PETN and RDX with plasticisers, waxes and oils, each recipe producing different ignition and explosive characteristics.

  Back in the building, Warren spent the rest of the afternoon showing Shepherd and the Major how to set up detonating circuits for various composition explosives, paying particular attention to Semtex and C-4, the explosives of choice for most of the world’s terrorist organisations.

  He had a block of brick-orange Semtex H for Shepherd to handle, along with a block of the more reddish Semtex 1A and the brown Semtex 2P.

  ‘Invented back in the fifties by a Czech chemist, but it didn’t go into production until 1964,’ Warren told them. ‘No doubt you know that seven hundred tons of Semtex was shipped to Libya in the seventies; a lot of that was sent on to terrorist groups around the world, including the IRA of course. Since 2002 all Semtex sales have been controlled by the Czech government and these days production is down to about ten tons a year, most of it for domestic use. The manufacturers have cut the shelf life down to just five years but there’s still an awful lot of it slopping around, especially among the jihadists.’

  Warren also had a block of C-4 to show them, off-white and malleable like putty, which was what the SAS generally used for its shaped charges. He tossed it to Shepherd.

  ‘These days terrorists are more likely to be using this, for car bombs and IEDs and the like,’ he said. ‘The Yanks call it C-4, we call it PE-4. It’s totally stable – as you know, when you’re pushed for hot water you can set fire to a small piece and it’ll burn quite nicely. Even shooting it won’t set it off. For it to go bang you need a detonator or a blasting cap. A quarter of a pound will easily kill several people and a pound will take out a truck. Are you sure you don’t want to set off a block or two?’

  Shepherd could see that Warren was itching to create an explosion or two so he laughed and nodded. ‘Yeah, what the hell, let’s blow some shit up.’

  Harper had arranged to meet Jony outside a pub in Leytonstone, east London. He got there first and read through the Sun as he waited for him to arrive. Jony parked his BMW next to Harper’s car nose to tail and the two men wound down their windows.

  ‘All good?’ asked Harper.

  ‘She’s hot to trot,’ said Jony. ‘Says her dad is as keen as mustard. Wants to meet.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Harper. ‘We’re going to do that offshore.’ He passed over a piece of paper. ‘Give her that.’

  Jony looked at the name and address on the piece of paper: Müller. Hotel de Paris. Monte Carlo. 3 p.m. Thursday.

  ‘Monte bloody Carlo?’

  Harper grinned. ‘How the other half lives,’ he said. ‘Give her that, then soon as you can, get the hell out of Dodge.’

  ‘No sweat, bruv. I lost interest in her some time ago.’ He waved, wound up the window and drove off.

  Harper stopped off at an Internet café on the way back to central London. He paid for a coffee and an hour on a terminal and went through to the draft folder. He left a short message. YOU THERE? And sipped his coffee.

  Within ten minutes a message had appeared in the drafts folder and for the next couple of minutes they went back and forth in a conversation that no one in the world – not even GCHQ or the NSA – could monitor.

  IT’S ON. I’M ARRANGING TO MEET THEM IN MONTE CARLO.

  After a few seconds a new message appeared in the drafts file. BECAUSE?

  Harper typed quickly. BECAUSE YOU WANTED IT DONE OUTSIDE THE UK AND BECAUSE I KNOW THE PLACE WELL. AND BECAUSE I HAVE A COUPLE OF BANK ACCOUNTS THERE.

  FINE.

  AND JUST SO THERE ARE NO UGLY SURPRISES I SHOULD TELL YOU THAT I’VE BOOKED THE BEST SUITE AT THE HOTEL DE PARIS, A SNIP AT JUST OVER 5,000 EUROS A NIGHT. A LITTLE OTT FOR MY TASTE BUT THE IMPRESSION IS THE THING.

  WHATEVER IT TAKES TO GET THE JOB DONE.

  Harper sat back and grinned at the final message. He was supposed to be a mega arms dealer and he wouldn’t be giving the right impression staying in a two-star bed and breakfast in Marseille. The whole thing hinged on them believing that he didn’t give a shit whether the IRA boys bought weapons from him or not.

  He went back into the draft folder a final time and was surprised to see another message from Button. Just two words. BE CAREFUL.

  He smiled and raised his coffee cup to the screen. ‘Always,’ he said, then typed a smiley face and logged off.

  Shepherd had just dropped Liam off at school when his mobile rang. He took the call on his Bluetooth. It was Charlie Button.

  ‘How are things in Hereford?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve brushed up on my sniping and I’m up to speed on explosives,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent. I’ve arranged for you to see one of our technical boys on Friday. He can talk you through the latest IEDs. And I’m hoping by then we’ll have fixed up an intro to the London agent who knows Smit. Can you be in London Friday morning and I’ll talk you through it? It looks as if we’ll be able to do something on that evening.’

  ‘No problem. Just let me know where.’

  ‘It’ll be north London so keep the Battersea flat up and running. I’ll get all the data changed for your new legend. Anyway, there’s nothing that needs doing until Friday, so take the next couple of days off. I’d say put your feet up but knowing you you’ll be out running.’

  ‘Something like that,’ he said. He waited until he was back home before phoning Jimmy Sharpe. ‘Razor, are you still free for a run to Leeds today?’

  ‘Are you buying the beer?’

  ‘Whatever it takes,’ said Shepherd. ‘One snag, I’m in Hereford. Can you get the train to Leeds and I’ll pick you up? I’ll drive you back to London when we’re done.’

  ‘Can I play with the siren?’ said Sharpe.

  ‘I don’t have a siren, Razor.’

  ‘I was joking.’

  Harper flew to Prague on Wednesday morning. The seat next to him in business class was empty and he spent the flight reading through a file that Hansfree had put together for him, containing a mass of documentation on the capacity and black-market prices of a range of Russian-and Czech-manufactured handguns, semi-automatics, machine guns, ammunition, explosives and detonating cord, and even surface-to-air and ground-to-ground missiles. If he was going to be convincing in his role as a big a
rms dealer, it was the sort of information that he had to have at his fingertips.

  After landing in Prague, he took a cab into the centre of the city. He bought a bag full of toiletries from a pharmacy, picked up a Czech hardback book and a couple of magazines, and then spent a couple of hours drinking beer and eating Bohemian food at U Fleku˚. He took another cab back to the airport and flew to Nice, where he rented an S-Class black Mercedes. He drove along the coast towards Monte Carlo and it was late afternoon when he pulled up outside his hotel. It was in the heart of the city, overlooking the harbour and within yards of the casino. Its facade, pierced by marble colonnades, balustrades and wrought-iron balconies, was so elaborately decorated that it could have been a wedding cake. Harper jumped out and dispensed the first of a succession of €50 notes to the parking attendant, the doorman, the bellhop, the reception clerk who checked him in, and the barmen and waiters who served him. By the end of the evening, there was probably no one on the hotel staff who did not know that their new guest, Herr Müller, was a lavish tipper.

  The hotel wasn’t the sort of place Harper enjoyed – all chandeliers, ornate plasterwork and gilt and cherubs by the bucket-load – but it suited the legend he had adopted. He wanted somewhere that would overawe the IRA men, putting them on the back foot from the start.

  Harper unpacked his Czech toiletries in his suite. He opened them one by one and emptied out part of each one, squeezing out half the toothpaste and squirting some of the shaving foam down the toilet. He opened the Czech magazines in a few places, cracked the spine of the hardback book and riffled through and thumbed some of its pages, and then put it next to his bed. His legend was that he was an East European arms dealer who never travelled to Britain, and if the IRA men searched his room and found a washbag full of toiletries from Boots or a receipt for a Marks and Spencer prawn sandwich, his cover would be blown and his life in immediate danger.

  That evening, he dressed in an Armani suit paid for with one of his new credit cards and ate in the hotel’s Michelin-starred restaurant before strolling across the square to the casino. As he entered, he slipped a €100 note into the doorman’s gloved hand.