‘Half in advance?’ Walsh said. ‘I’m not handing over that kind of money up front, without anything to show for it. How do we know we can trust you?’
‘You don’t. But more importantly from my point of view, I don’t know if I can trust you. You came to me, remember? So here’s what I suggest we do. First, we’ll do a small deal, and establish whether we can trust each other. I will supply you with some small arms – Kalashnikovs, ammunition, maybe even grenades or plastic explosive – but no heavy weapons at this stage.’ He held up a hand as O’Brien started to protest. ‘It’ll be in the nature of a test. You’ll get some weapons you can use and if everything goes smoothly and both sides are happy, then we can talk about a shipment of more serious and specialised equipment. You tell me your requirements and I’ll give you a price within a couple of hours at most and deliver the goods within a week.’
The two men held a whispered consultation and then O’Brien gave a reluctant nod. ‘All right then, I’ll give you a list.’ He reached into his pocket for a pen, but Harper stopped him at once. ‘I don’t ever want anything in writing. Just tell me what you want.’
There was another whispered consultation between the two men then O’Brien nodded. ‘We want ten AK-47s, five thousand rounds of ammunition, twenty grenades, detonators, det-cord and fifty kilos of Semtex.’
Harper shrugged. ‘The plastic explosive might be Semtex but we also source it from Russia, France, Greece and Poland, and sometimes American C-4 or British PE-4 comes my way, would that be okay?’
‘The origin doesn’t matter,’ O’Brien growled. ‘Just so long as it does the feckin’ job when it detonates.’
‘Give me a few minutes,’ Harper said, rising to his feet, ‘and I’ll have a price for you for the other stuff.’
Harper went out on to the terrace and took out his phone. He paced up and down as he faked a phone call for several minutes, then walked back into the lobby and sat down, facing the men. ‘The supplies are no problem, the price is two hundred thousand dollars.’
O’Brien raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a lot more than we were expecting to pay.’
‘The weapons are guaranteed untraceable and they are genuine military supplies, not poor quality copies and knock-offs. You can get AK-47s cheaper elsewhere – you can pick them up in the bazaars of Peshawar for a few dollars, I believe – but to get them to Europe would cost multiples of that in bribes and be done at considerable risk to yourselves. Grenades are less readily available and plastic explosive is really hard to get. The days when you could buy a few kilos from some disgruntled Czech or Russian soldier trying to top up his pay are long gone. So there’s a scarcity value as well as the risk factor.’
He paused, trying to read their body language. ‘Anyway, the price isn’t negotiable,’ he said. ‘Like I said, you came to me. I don’t have to go around drumming up business. Take it or leave it.’
He sat and watched the people filing through the lobby while the two men held yet another whispered consultation and finally O’Brien said, ‘All right.’
Harper reached into his pocket and handed him a BlackBerry. ‘This is encrypted. It cost me two grand so treat it with respect. There is one number programmed on this phone. You will communicate with me only on that number, using only this phone, and you will not give the number to any other person in your organisation, no matter who they are. Nor do you ever speak to anyone else using this phone. And I will speak to one person and one person only. So …’ He looked from O’Brien to Walsh. ‘You two had better decide who’s in charge.’
‘I’m in charge,’ O’Brien said.
‘And any breach of any aspect of this,’ Harper said, ‘and not only is the deal off but I’ll come looking for you.’
O’Brien’s expression showed his anger. ‘You think you can threaten me?’
Harper shrugged. ‘I’m sure you’re quite a big shot in your organisation. But this is my domain; my game, my rules, as I believe you British like to say.’
‘We’re not feckin’ British,’ O’Brien hissed.
Walsh hastily intervened. ‘We appreciate your precautions and we realise that you are protecting our security as well as yours.’
‘Fine, at least we’re on the same page,’ Harper replied. ‘Now enough of business, I’m sure you’ll want to freshen up after your journey. I’ve booked suites for you here and I’ve reserved a table for dinner in the restaurant here, it’s Michelin starred and the chef is one of the best in France. And afterwards, I’d like you to be my guests at Monte Carlo’s famous casino.’ He gave his best smile. ‘Who knows, you might win enough to pay for your shipment.’
Sharpe snapped away with his long-lensed camera as a Turkish man in a long black coat came out of the door that led up to the minicab offices. The man walked a short way along the street and climbed into a Toyota and drove off.
‘They’re busy enough,’ said Sharpe.
They were sitting in their rented Mondeo a hundred yards or so from the kebab shop in Leeds. They had been there for an hour and had photographed a dozen different drivers. The kebab shop was open for business but it was late morning and there had been few customers. Sharpe lowered his camera and looked at the computer printout on his lap.
‘The taxi firm and the kebab shop are in the name of two brothers, Yusuf and Ahmet Yilmaz. Yusuf is older by a couple of years. Yusuf has two sons and four daughters. Ahmet isn’t married.’
‘You know Turkish family names are a relatively new invention,’ said Shepherd. ‘Started in 1934. Before then most male Turks used their dad’s name followed by oglu. It means son of.’
‘Aye, we had something similar in Scotland,’ said Sharpe. ‘Neither of them have criminal records, they’ve done a good job of staying below the radar. Using the taxis to deliver is a smart move. And the kebab shop and the taxi business are both cash businesses so there’s no problem getting their ill-gotten gains into the bank. I’m guessing they funnel money back to Turkey, too. They keep a relatively low profile here. They drive second-hand cars, their houses are nothing special.’
‘Smart,’ said Shepherd.
‘How much longer do you want to sit here?’ asked Sharpe. ‘All we’re getting is photographs of drivers and cars.’
‘It’s all grist to the mill,’ said Shepherd. ‘The more we give the Leeds cops, the better.’
‘I could do with a drink.’
‘Let’s give it another hour.’
An hour later, Shepherd and Sharpe were sitting in a pub about a mile away from the kebab house. Sharpe had a pint in front of him, but Shepherd was driving so had ordered a coffee. Shepherd took out a pay-as-you-go phone and tapped out the number that Flynn had given him. It was answered with a growl.
‘Yusuf?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘I’m a friend of Aidan Flynn. He said you were the go-to guy for a decent amount of blow.’
‘I don’t know you.’
‘Nah, but I’ve got cash and I’m looking for an ounce and I need it now.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Pub called the Royal Oak. In High Street.’
‘Okay, there’ll be a minicab outside in fifteen minutes. The driver’ll send you a text when he’s there. Get in the back, hand over the cash and the driver will give you the gear.’
‘How much?’
‘Eight-fifty.’
‘How pure is that?’
‘It’s good stuff.’
‘Yeah, well if you’re selling it for eight-fifty it’s been cut to fuck. I want it as pure as you get it. An ounce before you cut it.’
There were a few seconds’ silence before he spoke again. ‘Fifteen hundred.’
‘I’d be happier with twelve.’
‘Fourteen or you can fuck off.’
‘Fourteen it is,’ said Shepherd. One thousand four hundred pounds for twenty-eight grams of cocaine worked out at about £50 a gram but that was still too cheap for the cocaine to be pure. Street cocaine was generally cut b
y ninety per cent so that just ten per cent was the real thing. Pure cocaine, if you could get it, was closer to £100 a gram. ‘And if your gear’s as good as Aidan says it is, I’ll be back for more.’
The line went dead and Shepherd nodded at Sharpe. ‘All good. One thousand four hundred.’
‘Have you got that on you?’
‘I will have if we hit an ATM. I’ve got a few cards on me. There’s one down the street. You get another drink in while I get the cash.’
‘What are you going to do with the gear once you’ve bought it?’
‘I hadn’t thought that far ahead.’
‘You’ll have to dispose of it. Which means a grand and a half down the drain.’
‘I don’t see I’ve got any choice, Razor,’ said Shepherd. ‘Make mine a Jameson and soda.’
Sharpe had just ordered himself another pint when Shepherd’s phone buzzed to let him know he’d received a text. YOUR CAR IS OUTSIDE. BLACK VAUXHALL ZAFIRA. He nodded at Sharpe. ‘We’re on.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
‘Best not. It’ll look strange, two up on a drugs buy. But I’ll keep my phone on so you can listen in.’ He called Sharpe’s number and Sharpe answered. Shepherd slipped his phone into his jacket pocket as he stood up.
‘What happens if anything goes wrong?’ asked Sharpe. ‘They know you’ll have nearly fifteen hundred quid in your pocket.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I hope so.’
Shepherd nodded and headed out of the pub. The black Vauxhall Zafira was parked down the road. He walked along to it and climbed into the back. The driver seemed to be Turkish but it was hard to be sure because he had a flat cap pulled down over his face. ‘You got the money?’ he growled.
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. He handed over a thick roll of twenty-pound notes.
The man counted them with gloved hands and then nodded. ‘Okay. Get out. Another car will come and give you the gear.’
‘What?’
‘Two minutes. He’ll give you the gear. I have to go now.’
‘Fuck that for a game of soldiers,’ said Shepherd. ‘I paid you. I want the gear now.’
The driver sighed and shook his head. ‘I don’t have the gear. I take the money. The next car gives you the gear. That’s how we do it.’
‘And how do I know you won’t drive off with my cash?’
‘Do you want your money back? You can have your money back. I don’t care. I’m just the driver.’
Shepherd stared at the back of the man’s head, then realised he didn’t have any choice. ‘Two minutes?’
‘Maybe less.’
‘Okay.’
Shepherd climbed out and as soon as he slammed the door shut the taxi drove off. He looked around and couldn’t help but chuckle. If he had just been ripped off, Sharpe was never going to let him hear the end of it. He shoved his hands into his pockets and turned to look into a shop window. Electrical equipment, solar-powered lights, lava lamps and radio-controlled cars. Shepherd was squinting at a radio-controlled drone that came with a TV camera when he heard a car drive up. He turned and saw another Vauxhall, this one blue, with a driver who was wearing a matching flat cap to the man who’d taken Shepherd’s money. The driver’s side window wound down as Shepherd walked over to the car. The man’s hand appeared holding a small padded envelope. Shepherd took it and almost immediately the car sped off down the street.
Shepherd went back into the pub. ‘Bingo,’ he said, sitting down at Sharpe’s table and sliding the envelope towards him.
‘Congratulations,’ said Sharpe. ‘Be a laugh if I arrested you for possession, wouldn’t it?’ He peered inside the bag. ‘Do you want to test it, or should I?’
‘Could you, without raising a red flag?’
‘I wasn’t planning on sending it to the lab,’ said Sharpe. ‘The taste test’ll do the business.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Spider, sometimes you have to do what you have to do. Don’t play the innocent with me, you’ve done enough drug deals in the past. You pull out a test kit and your card is well and truly marked. Sometimes you have to bite the bullet and put a bit up your nose.’ He laughed and sipped his pint.
Shepherd didn’t say anything, but he knew that Sharpe was right. Undercover cops weren’t supposed to do anything illegal during the course of an investigation, but if you were surrounded by heavies with guns and everyone else had sampled the merchandise, a refusal could be fatal.
‘Give me a minute,’ said Sharpe. He stood up, slid the envelope into his pocket and headed to the toilets.
Shepherd took his phone out and killed the call to Sharpe’s phone, then called Liam. He answered on the third ring. ‘Where are you?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Home. Downstairs. I’m doing some homework.’
‘How is the school?’
‘It’s actually okay. Better than I thought it would be. I’m trying out for the football team tomorrow.’
‘So it’s working out?’
‘I think so.’
‘And what are you telling them when they ask why you moved schools.’
‘Just that I hated boarding. I tell them I thought I was going to Hogwarts but it was more like Borstal. It gets a laugh.’
‘I’m glad you’ve got something to smile about,’ said Shepherd.
‘Dad, I’m sorry.’
‘I know you are. I’m trying to get this sorted and then I’ll be back in Hereford.’
‘Any idea how long?’
‘Sooner rather than later, I hope. How’s Katra?’
‘She’s good. Keeps forcing food on me. I think I’ve put on a kilo already. She was bored with no one here.’
‘Don’t give her any problems, Liam.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. No curfew breaking, no sneaking out.’
‘Dad, I’ll be as good as gold. I swear.’
‘I hope so. Okay, good night. God bless.’ Shepherd ended the call as Sharpe came back and sat down. He tossed the padded envelope across the table. ‘All good?’ asked Shepherd.
‘I’m no expert, but it’s definitely coke. Now what?’
‘Now I take this to the cops and that should be the end of it.’
Harper was at his most expansive over dinner, keeping up a stream of conversation and making sure both men’s glasses were well topped up. He made a show of filling his own glass each time as well, but he was drinking little, merely sipping from his glass. Walsh also drank sparingly, but O’Brien was guzzling his wine down, swallowing first growth vintage claret as if it were water. Nor did he hold back from wolfing down every scrap of the five-course meal that Harper had ordered for them.
After dinner, they strolled across the square to the casino, where the doorman fell over himself to greet Herr Müller and his honoured guests, signalling frantically for a hostess to escort them into the gaming rooms. Herr Müller then led them to the roulette table and gave both men a stack of €100 chips. ‘Please,’ he said, as the American fumbled for his wallet. ‘Tonight you’re my guests.’ His smile was unforced; he was imagining Button’s face when she saw the bill for his expenses, almost all of them without a receipt.
O’Brien continued to drink steadily, growing more red-faced, sweaty and irritable with each glass. While Walsh won a small amount of money, O’Brien was losing on almost every spin of the wheel. Harper played shrewdly, placing his chips as if he hadn’t a care in the world, but betting only on odd or even or red or black to minimise his losses. When O’Brien was cleaned out, Harper bought them both vintage cognacs as a nightcap but then excused himself.
When he got back to his suite, the first thing he did was to turn back the carpet next to the bed and the wardrobe. He had placed a few cornflakes on the floor under the carpet that morning and they had been crushed to fragments. The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign would have kept housekeeping out so, although nothing had been taken and everything was apparently just as it had been, he was sure the
room had been thoroughly searched. He smiled to himself. They were definitely on the hook, all he had to do now was to reel them in. And for that he’d need more help. He picked up his phone and called a number in Germany.
Shepherd left London in his BMW SUV early on Friday morning. He had programmed the address Button had given him into his SatNav but the place was still difficult to find. It was listed as an Agricultural Research Station, close to where the M1 intersected the M25, but there were no signposts and it took Shepherd half an hour of driving around narrow roads before he found a single-track lane that led to a wire fence. At a gate with a security barrier, his ID was checked and then he was waved through.
The ‘Agricultural Research Station’ turned out to be a two-storey pre-war brick-built office block with metal grilles over all the windows. There were half a dozen cars parked by the main entrance including a large black Vauxhall Insignia with a suited driver in the front who was watching a movie on an iPad.
There was an intercom by the side of the entrance and he pressed the single button. The door clicked and he pushed it open. Button was already walking down a corridor towards him, her heels clicking on the tiled floor. She had her hair held up with a gilt clip and was wearing a dark blue blazer over a Burberry skirt.
‘Perfect timing,’ she said. ‘Our explosives expert is just setting up, but before I take you to see him there’s someone else you need to meet.’
She took him back along the corridor to a windowless office where a tall man in a black leather jacket over a grey shirt and tight black jeans was sitting on a desk, swinging his legs back and forth.
‘This is Neil Murray, he’s Five but he’s been on attachment to the NCA for the last couple of months in an operation that’s been targeting a south London gang. They’re a nasty bunch, the south London equivalent of the Addams Family. Drugs, protection, extortion, and extensive money-laundering operations.’
‘How are you doing?’ said Murray. He slid off the desk and shook hands. Shepherd noticed that his nails were bitten to the quick and the fingers were stained with nicotine. Nail biting and chain-smoking were common among undercover operatives, though Shepherd had never succumbed to either vice.
Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller Page 14