Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller

by Leather, Stephen

  He let the silence build for a few minutes, then spoke again, softening his tone. ‘However, that’s all water under the bridge now. We’ve some business to conclude and we don’t have to be best friends to do business together, do we? I hope you and your organisation are now convinced that we can supply these weapons, and indeed any others that you might want. And having seen that impressive demonstration this morning, I’m sure you’ll agree that despite the Katyusha rockets’ age, they will still launch and detonate to quite spectacular effect.’ He glanced around the table. O’Brien gave a nod in agreement, and although Walsh was still glowering at him, he didn’t voice any dissent.

  ‘So, once the next tranche of the money has been paid, all that remains to be settled are the arrangements for the final handover of the weapons,’ Harper said.

  O’Brien glanced at his American backer, noted his angry expression and said, ‘We’ll just need a moment for a word.’ O’Brien and Walsh then got up and walked out of the café, standing on the street outside while they argued with each other. Their bodyguard remained where he was, giving Harper his best hostile bouncer’s stare.

  Harper pulled a face as he sipped his coffee and then pushed the cup away from him. He could see the two men’s profiles through the frosted-glass window at the front of the café. They were animated, the smaller figure of Walsh waving his hands for emphasis as he said something, but Harper then saw O’Brien stabbing his stubby finger into the other man’s shoulder, emphasising a point. A couple of minutes later the two men filed back inside. Walsh, looking close to tears, took his duffle bag off his shoulder, placed it on the floor and then slid it across to Harper with his foot. He picked it up, opened the top and looked at the bundles of notes inside. He ruffled through a couple, checking they really were notes and not just one-hundred-dollar bills at either end and a wad of paper in the middle, then he closed the bag and put it back on the floor at his feet.

  ‘Right then,’ Harper said, ‘the arrangements for the handover.’

  Despite close questioning from O’Brien, Harper discussed only in the broadest outline the method by which the Katyushas would be moved from the secret, ex-Stasi stores where they were held.

  ‘That’s our business and our problem to deal with,’ he said. ‘Your only concern should be how the items can be safely dispatched onwards to the Republic of Ireland or wherever it is you’re going to ship them to. So … we will transport the goods to a suitable trans-shipment point within Germany. The items will be delivered in environmental packaging only, i.e. camouflaged plastic weatherproof covers as part of a cargo of plastic piping of the same length and diameter as the goods themselves. The paperwork will be supplied by us and will show that we are moving pipework for export. On the day of shipping, you will travel to Berlin as before. Today is Saturday, so it will be early next week. I suggest you stay in Berlin but it’s your call. We’ll rendezvous with you and bring you to the site where you will be able to check that the cargo is as per specification and then pay in full the final settlement for the goods. They will then be released to you and you will be responsible for onward transportation of the goods to whatever destination you wish to choose. Okay?’

  O’Brien and Walsh nodded.

  ‘Pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen.’

  Alexei Klimov was a big man, as all Russians seemed to be. Charlotte Button had never met a small one, nor a thin one, at least not within the intelligence services. Klimov was waiting for her on a bench overlooking the Thames and beyond that the London Eye, the giant Ferris wheel that gave tourists one of the best views of the river and the city.

  As she walked from her car she saw two men who were definitely bodyguards and possibly a third. All male, all wearing raincoats, and all, like Klimov, big men with weightlifters’ shoulders. Klimov nodded but didn’t smile as she joined him on the bench. She was wearing a beige Burberry raincoat with the collar up and carrying an umbrella because the leaden sky was threating rain.

  ‘I do hope you’re not going to stab me in the leg with that,’ he said, nodding at the umbrella.

  ‘That’s a Bulgarian trick,’ she said. ‘Besides, we do our best not to kill people on our own turf. That’s the downside of a free press, of course.’

  The Russian chuckled. ‘Free press? That’s as much a non sequitur as military intelligence. It’s been a long time since there was such a thing here, Charlotte, and we both know it. It went the way of free speech.’ He shrugged. ‘Listen to me, getting all political.’ He looked around. ‘Do you ever wonder how many spies have met here, by the Thames?’

  She laughed. ‘A lot,’ she said. ‘Spies, criminals, journalists, lovers. It’s a popular spot.’

  ‘If it were Russia in the old days, we would have planted permanent listening devices in the benches. All of them.’

  ‘How do you know we haven’t?’ she asked.

  ‘Because this is England,’ said the Russian. ‘It would require too much paperwork.’

  She chuckled softly, then leaned closer to him. ‘We need to talk, Alexei.’

  ‘Definitely,’ said the Russian. ‘Do you want to go first, or should I?’

  ‘I was the one who asked you out, have you forgotten?’

  Klimov inclined his head slightly. ‘Then by all means go first.’

  ‘Yesterday a couple of hired killers tried to murder one of my officers. Came close to succeeding, too. We haven’t been able to ID the man but we did identify a Maya Katz. She’s Israeli. Former army, former Mossad.’

  ‘They can be dangerous, the Israelis. And Mossad, well they’re a law unto themselves.’

  ‘I said former Mossad, Alexei. She works for the highest bidder. And I have it on very good authority that she has done work for the SVR in the past.’

  ‘Do you think the SVR paid for this Katz to attack your man? It sounds unlikely.’

  ‘No, Alexei. I don’t think the SVR would have any interest in my man. But the Federal Protective Service, well, they might. You see, your people might not have realised that he was my officer. They might have thought he was a threat to your president. And they might have decided that a contract killer was fair game.’

  ‘Now I’m confused, Charlotte. Katz is the contract killer, you said?’

  ‘My officer is pretending to be a contract killer. Katz and her partner tried to kill him. I think whoever gave them the contract didn’t realise that the man was my officer. I am pretty sure they believed his legend.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Frederik Olsen. He’s known in the business as—’

  ‘The Dane,’ Klimov finished for her.

  ‘You’re well informed,’ said Button.

  The Russian sighed. ‘I’m afraid this is going to get rather complicated, Charlotte.’

  ‘So Katz and her partner were working for you?’

  He smiled thinly. ‘You know I couldn’t possibly admit that.’

  ‘This is unofficial. Off the record. It goes no further than me.’

  Klimov looked pained. ‘We both know that is not true, Charlotte. You say unofficial but I really doubt that you are permitted to meet an agent of the Russian Federal Protective Service without informing someone.’

  ‘Well, yes, obviously I have to say that we met, but I don’t have to go into details. I need to know what’s happening, Alexei. I need to know if my operation has been compromised.’

  Klimov slowly reached inside his overcoat and brought out two photographs; black and white headshots. He passed the first one to Button. ‘Oleg Gruzdev. He had been with the protective service for more than ten years. He was a good man. He had two children; one of them is about to join the army. They found him under a bridge. His wallet was left on the bridge so the German police suspect suicide. There was no note, of course.’ He passed her the second photograph. ‘Leonid Yelagin. He’d only been with the protective service for two years but he was a rising star. He had good family connections, too. He was due to get married later this year. His fiancée’s
family is also very well connected. That might well cause you problems in the future, Charlotte.’

  ‘And this involves me how, Alexei?’

  ‘Please don’t be coy with me, Charlotte. We’ve known each other far too long to be playing games. Leonid and Oleg were following your man. They knew him as Frederik Olsen. They disappeared while they had him under surveillance.’

  Button frowned. ‘But they died in Germany, you said.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Button shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, but that doesn’t make any sense. My man hasn’t been to Germany. He’s in the UK, which is where your assassin tried and failed to kill him. He’s been back and forth to Holland but that’s it.’

  ‘He was in Germany, Charlotte.’

  ‘I wonder if it’s another Frederik Olsen. The operation we’re running is complicated. My man is using another man’s identity, there might be someone else doing the same thing.’

  ‘Now I’m even more confused, Charlotte. You have a man pretending to be The Dane and as such he has been hired to kill our president? Is that the position?’

  ‘Well, yes. But no. Obviously he’s not going to kill Putin, that goes without saying. Olsen is behind bars in the Gulf. We’re trying to nail the man who has commissioned the assassination.’

  ‘And at no point did you think of informing the Federal Protective Service?’

  ‘It’s early days yet. We have it under control. There is absolutely zero risk to your president and we are perfectly capable of resolving this long before he arrives.’

  ‘We should have been notified,’ said Klimov.

  ‘You want to be notified every time we hear of a threat to one of your people? We’d be on the phone to you every day.’

  ‘We’re talking about the president,’ said the Russian. ‘Would you be so reticent if the assassin had been hired to kill the American president? I don’t think so. Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Button. ‘It’s a free country.’ She smiled to show that she was joking.

  He smiled back, took out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, being careful to keep the smoke away from her.

  ‘So your man was being tailed by my men. They thought he was a Danish assassin. You’re telling me he was one of your men undercover. Fine. I accept that. But who killed Leonid and Oleg? Did this Parkinson do it?’

  ‘Parkinson? Who the hell is Parkinson?’

  ‘That’s the name your man used to check into the hotel in Berlin. Peter Parkinson.’

  ‘Alexei, I can assure you, hand on heart, that my man was not in Germany. And I have never heard the name Peter Parkinson before. My man is Harry Cartwright.’

  ‘His real name?’

  She smiled tightly. ‘Obviously not. That’s his operational name.’

  Klimov reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a third photograph, larger than the head and shoulder shots of his agents. It was a surveillance photograph taken with a long lens of Spider Shepherd walking out of what was clearly the Marriott Hotel in Berlin. Button swore in a way that she hadn’t sworn in years, so vehemently that even the Russian was taken aback. He grinned. ‘You and I should play poker some time,’ he said.

  ‘Can I keep this?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  Button put the photograph away. ‘Frankly, Alexei, I have no idea what is going on. Perhaps you can tell me. What was he doing?’

  The Russian shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Your man checked into the hotel. He went out for some fresh air and so far as we can ascertain he met with no one. If you are asking me to surmise what happened, perhaps his excursions were counter surveillance. Some time later my men went missing.’

  ‘If that’s true, it had nothing to do with my people, I swear.’

  ‘So who then?’

  Button frowned. ‘I wish I knew, Alexei. And you’re absolutely certain he met with no one?’

  ‘Oleg reported in two hours before he went missing,’ said Klimov. ‘It appeared to him that your man was waiting for something. Killing time. Then he went out. That’s when they vanished. They turned up dead twenty-four hours later.’

  ‘So you think he led your men somewhere and they were taken?’

  ‘That seems obvious to me.’

  ‘I say again, Alexei, it was none of my doing.’

  ‘Who then? The BND?’

  The Bundesnachrichtendienst was Germany’s foreign intelligence service.

  ‘Unlikely,’ said Button.

  ‘What about Smit?’

  ‘You know about Smit?’

  ‘Of course we know about Smit. How do you think we found out about Olsen or whatever your man is called?’

  ‘So you think that Smit might have had your men killed?’

  ‘If he thinks they were on to him. Yes, I suppose so.’

  Button smiled thinly. ‘Do you think that perhaps what happened in Queens had him spooked?’

  The Russian’s eyes narrowed. ‘And what happened in Queens?’

  ‘Now who’s being coy?’ said Button. ‘A contract killer by the name of Rob Tyler was killed. We believe that Smit had hired him for the Putin contract. That’s how we managed to get our man inside. With Tyler dead, Smit needed a replacement and we gave him one.’

  Klimov rubbed his square chin. ‘Without admitting to anything, let’s just say that yes, Smit had every reason to be concerned. He could have had your man watched and they spotted my men.’

  ‘That sounds reasonable,’ said Button.

  ‘But what doesn’t sound reasonable is that your man was in Berlin without your knowledge. Do you usually keep your officers on such a loose rein?’

  ‘You can be sure that’s something I’ll be taking up with him,’ said Button. ‘But for now, we need to do some serious talking.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here, Charlotte.’

  Button decided to walk back to her office. She needed time to think. She had spent more than an hour on the bench talking to Klimov and was just as confused as she had been when the Russian had dropped his bombshell about Shepherd being in Germany. She could think of only one reason why Shepherd would visit Berlin, and that was to see Alex Harper. There was no way that could have been a coincidence. But why would Shepherd want to talk to Harper? Button knew they were friends and had served in the army together, but it didn’t explain the flying visit to Germany and it most definitely didn’t explain the use of a legend. Towards the end of the conversation, Klimov had produced a copy of the passport that Shepherd had used when he had checked into the hotel. Button hadn’t asked how he’d managed to obtain it but it was clearly Shepherd’s photograph, although the date of birth was off by a year.

  The discussion with the Russian had been full and frank but she was sure that he hadn’t told her everything. That was fair enough because Button hadn’t told him everything, either. She hadn’t mentioned Alex Harper and she certainly hadn’t told the Russian what Harper was doing in Germany. She had been more forthcoming about the plot to assassinate Putin, although she had insisted that at no time had the Russian president been in any danger, and nor would he be. Everything would be done and dusted long before he set foot on British soil.

  Klimov had pretty much confirmed that the Russians were responsible for the killing of Rob Tyler in the States without actually saying the words. He was a lot more hesitant about discussing the attack on Shepherd in Battersea.

  ‘You know I can’t say anything about that,’ he had said, smiling grimly. ‘An attack on a British citizen on British soil. That could not possibly be condoned.’

  ‘Let’s talk about her without talking about Russia,’ Button had pressed. ‘She was former Mossad?’

  ‘Israeli Army followed by Mossad where she became by all accounts a very skilled assassin. One of their best, especially when a honey trap was needed. Her speciality was the Black Widow thing, sex followed by death. Then she went freelance. She’s in quite some demand. Female contractors are few and far between. I’m surprised you ha
ven’t come across her. She has no political affiliations, she will work for whoever pays.’

  ‘Why, Alexei? Why on earth would a British civil servant have need of a hired killer?’ she had asked in mock astonishment. It took him a couple of seconds to realise that she was joking, and he laughed along with her.

  His laughter turned into a coughing fit and for a few moments he was close to choking, but he banged himself hard on the chest, recovered and smiled. ‘Charlotte my dear, one day you’ll be the death of me, I swear.’

  Shepherd left Sharpe in the car while he went into the Leeds police station. He asked to see DS Drinkwater and had to wait almost an hour in reception before the door opened and DC Allen beckoned to him.

  ‘Sorry, we’ve had a targets meeting that went on for ever.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘But you’ll be glad to know that overall, recorded crime in Yorkshire is down twelve per cent, year on year.’

  ‘Well done you,’ said Shepherd. ‘Will they give you a gold star?’

  Allen grinned. ‘The key word there is recorded. The trick to getting the stats down is to just record fewer crimes. Turn breakins into insurance claims and don’t bother to charge shoplifters.’ He held the door open for Shepherd. ‘We’ll be using the second interview room on the left.’

  The door to the room was open and DS Drinkwater was sitting at the table, engrossed in his smartphone. He didn’t look up when Shepherd entered, nor when he sat down opposite him. Only when DC Allen came in and closed the door did the detective look up from his phone.

  Shepherd knew that the man was being deliberately rude but he didn’t rise to the bait and smiled politely. He had a black leather document case with him and unzipped it and took out the results of his surveillance on the minicab office, a dozen photographs in all. He placed them in front of Drinkwater who looked at them but made no move to touch them. Shepherd also had a printout with the names, addresses and dates of birth of the Yilmaz brothers.