Soft Target ss-2

by Stephen Leather

  Rose screwed up his face. ‘Shit.’

  ‘It’s my job,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s what I do.’

  ‘You’re a cop investigating cops,’ said Rose bitterly. ‘Scum of the earth.’

  ‘You’re the first police officer I’ve ever gone up against,’ said Shepherd, ‘and I’m as happy about it as you are.’

  ‘I goddamned liked you, Stu,’ he said fiercely. ‘I thought you were my friend.’

  Shepherd didn’t know what to say.

  ‘You know why I did it.’

  ‘Sure. Your daughter.’

  ‘My daughter’s got a name. Kelly. She’s seven years old, Stu. Seven.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Have you got kids?’

  Shepherd stared at Rose. As Stuart Marsden, he didn’t, so the answer was no. He was in character, and it was against every rule in the book to step out of role. But Keith Rose deserved better than a lie. ‘A boy. Eight.’

  Rose smiled grimly. ‘So you know exactly how far a father will go to save his child. If you were in my position, you’d do whatever you had to.’

  ‘You killed two people, Keith.’

  ‘They were drugs-dealers. And they started shooting first.’

  ‘You sold drugs.’

  ‘They were on the streets anyway. I just changed their location.’

  ‘You broke the law.’

  ‘Whose law?’ said Rose. ‘The state’s? Fuck the state, Stu. My daughter’s dying and the state isn’t lifting a finger to help her. So I’m doing what I have to do. End of story.’

  ‘It’s not like I don’t understand,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Do you understand, Stu? Do you really? Do you know what’s it like to see your little girl getting weaker by the day and to be told by some pen-pushing bureaucrat that there aren’t the resources to treat her? And when I go hunting on the Internet and find a guy in Chicago who might save her the same fucking bureaucrat tells me that the health authority can’t afford it. Can’t afford it? I pay my taxes. I pay National Insurance. And the one time I need something from the state, they tell me they don’t have the money. The specialist here – who we waited three months to see – says her tumour’s inoperable. The guy in Chicago says he can operate and there’s an eighty per cent chance she’ll be okay. But will the state pay? It’ll pay to rehabilitate child-killers but it won’t to save my daughter.’

  ‘What do you want me to say? That life’s not fair?’

  ‘Life isn’t fair,’ said Rose. ‘We cops know that better than anyone. We know that the biggest villains never go down because we don’t have the resources to take them down. And they have enough cash to buy the best lawyers and pay off anyone who needs paying off. Cops, CPS, judges, juries. You know how it works. Speed cameras generate revenue, but putting drugs barons behind bars doesn’t. So millions of motorists send off cheques every year while the biggest, hardest bastards live lives of luxury. The state chooses the soft targets. Always has and always will.’

  ‘So you started ripping off drugs-dealers to redress the balance?’

  ‘By hook or by fucking crook, my daughter’s going to live. I’ll do whatever it takes.’

  ‘I don’t have time for this,’ said Shepherd. ‘There are terrorists on the tube system. Suicide bombers.’

  ‘Bollocks there are,’ said Rose.

  ‘They got one at Brixton. They think Victoria’s a target.’

  Malik walked up to the two constables. They were deep in conversation, close to the tube-station exit. One of the policemen nodded curtly when Malik approached them. ‘Yes, sir?’ He was young, maybe a year younger than Malik. He was good-looking, thought Malik, handsome, even. A man who would have no trouble winning the hearts of pretty girls. ‘I have done a terrible thing,’ he said.

  The second constable was in his early thirties, with a square jaw and unfriendly eyes. ‘What would that have been, sir?’ he said.

  ‘I have followed the wrong path. I know that now. I need to repent.’

  The second constable raised his eyebrows at his colleague. ‘What exactly have you done, sir?’

  Malik stepped closer to the two policemen, unbuttoning his raincoat.

  ‘Not a bloody flasher,’ muttered the older policeman.

  ‘You must take me somewhere safe,’ said Malik, ‘somewhere I can take this off.’ He opened the raincoat so that they could see the vest and its pockets of explosives.

  The two policemen froze. ‘Bloody hell,’ said the younger constable.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Malik. He held up his hands to show that he was not holding a trigger. ‘It will not go off.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ repeated the constable, taking a step back.

  ‘It is safe,’ said Malik. ‘I don’t want to harm anybody.’

  ‘Who are you?’ said the older constable.

  ‘My name is Rashid Malik. I was to explode this bomb in the Underground but I cannot be a murderer. I cannot kill women and children.’

  The younger constable reached for his radio mike but the older one grabbed his arm. ‘No!’ he said. ‘Radio frequencies can set them off.’ He looked at Malik. ‘How does that thing go off?’

  Malik opened his coat wider so that the policemen could see the button tucked into one of the vest pockets. ‘I have to press that.’

  ‘What about if you take it off? Is that okay?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘We’re not going to touch it, are we?’ said the younger constable, his voice shaky.

  The older constable gripped his shoulder.‘It’s going to be okay, Chris. We have to start moving people back, just to be on the safe side. Can you do that?’

  Chris nodded.

  ‘Okay. I’ll sit him down here.’

  Malik smiled encouragingly. ‘It is okay, really,’ he said. ‘It is safe now. Nobody is going to get hurt.’

  Rose’s hand was still on the butt of his Glock but he made no move to take it from the holster. ‘Your name isn’t really Stu, is it?’

  Shepherd shook his head.

  ‘What is it? Or are you undercover guys not allowed to say?’

  ‘Dan. Dan Shepherd.’

  ‘At least I got one truthful statement out of you– but it’s your job, isn’t it, to get close to people and then shit on them?’

  ‘It’s not like that, Rosie.’

  Rose’s earpiece crackled. ‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, what is your location?’

  Rose kept his eyes on Shepherd as he took the call. ‘Trojan Five Six Nine, still at Victoria station.’

  ‘MP, we need you at Charing Cross station concourse, suspected suicide bomber.’

  Rose’s eyes widened.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘They’ve found one. Charing Cross.’

  Shepherd frowned. ‘You mean it’s gone off?’

  Rose shook his head. ‘They want us there now.’

  The two men stared at each other. ‘That’s it, then,’ said Rose, eventually. ‘Whatever happens, it’s over for me, isn’t it?’

  Shepherd said nothing. Rose started walking towards the tube entrance.

  ‘Rosie?’

  Rose stopped. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Rose held Shepherd’s eyes for two seconds, then jogged away. Shepherd watched him go. Then his earpiece crackled. It was the major.‘Where are you, Spider?’

  ‘Just got here, heading downstairs now.’ Shepherd ran down the escalator. A train must have arrived because passengers were heading up. Several looked at him curiously, wondering why he was the only person going down.

  Major Gannon used the mouse to change viewpoints. There were tube staff and BTP officers on the platforms, and each time a train arrived they ushered the passengers quickly out of the carriages. He flicked from platform to platform. There were just too many passengers, too many possibilities. He looked up at the clock. Four fifty-six. If there were multiple bombers, they would almost certainly be under orders to detonate at about the
same time. As soon as one device exploded, the authorities would have to evacuate and all advantage of surprise would be lost. If Gannon had been planning it, he’d have them primed to explode at the same time. The chances were that if there was another bomber, he would also be working to a five p.m. deadline. It meant that if Victoria was a target, he would be arriving within the next four minutes.

  He flicked to the westbound District Line. A train burst out of the tunnel. There was no sound on the monitor. The doors opened and passengers stepped out, confused when they saw that the platforms were empty. Three CCTV cameras were covering the platform and Gannon skipped from view to view. When he clicked on the camera covering the rear of the train, something caught his attention. He leaned forward, staring at the screen.

  The ARV pulled up in front of Charing Cross station. Bamber unlocked the MP5s. ‘Stay with the car, Mike,’ said Rose. ‘Monitor the main set.’ He stripped off his personal radio. ‘Dave, you stay between me and the car. I won’t be able to use the radio because it might set the thing off. Anything I should know, shout. Keep at least fifty metres from me.’

  ‘Sarge, I don’t—’

  Rose cut Bamber off with an impatient wave. ‘Just do as you’re told.’

  Bamber held out an MP5 but Rose shook his head. At the entrance to the station a uniformed sergeant was standing next to a young Pakistani man in a long raincoat with his hands on his head. He was talking animatedly to the sergeant. Rose looked at the huge station clock. It was almost five o’clock.

  He put on his ballistic helmet and fastened the chinstrap as he walked towards the two men.

  There were crowds on the pavement, standing and staring.‘Can you all move back,please?’shouted Rose, but no one paid him any attention.‘Keith Rose,SO19,’ he said, as he drew level with the sergeant.

  ‘Ben Harris. Are you bomb disposal?’

  ‘They’re on their way.’ Rose nodded at the Pakistani. ‘You’ve seen it?’

  The sergeant nodded. There was no colour in his face. ‘He opened his coat. I made him stay like that so he can’t touch the button.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said the Pakistani. ‘I don’t want to hurt anyone.’

  Rose was surprised at the man’s nasal Birmingham accent. ‘What’s your name?’ asked Rose.

  ‘Rashid Malik.’

  ‘Okay, Rashid. Just stay where you are. We’ll get this fixed, don’t worry.’

  Malik smiled eagerly.‘It is okay. The bomb is safe.’

  A uniformed constable and two rail employees were trying to stop people leaving the station as they would have to walk past the Pakistani. Commuters were shouting angrily. ‘Ben, go and help your colleague over there. Keep everyone at least a hundred metres away.’

  ‘The bomb is safe,’ said Malik.

  The sergeant looked as if he was going to argue so Rose pointed in the direction of the station concourse. ‘If more people arrive, we’ll have major crowd problems over there. Find another way for them to leave.’

  ‘Everything is all right,’ said Malik.

  The sergeant hurried off to shout at the crowds.

  Rose waved at Bamber. He pointed at the crowds on the pavement. ‘Dave, get them moving towards Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘Right, Sarge!’ shouted Bamber. He ran over to the commuters and yelled at them to move away. He was faced with a wall of blank faces. The office-workers wanted to go home and they weren’t prepared to budge.

  Rose took one of the plastic ties from his belt and moved behind Malik. ‘I’m just going to fasten your wrists, Rashid,’ said Rose, matter-of-factly. ‘It’s for your own safety.’

  ‘There is no need,’ said Malik, but he didn’t resist as Rose fastened the tie.

  ‘Now, stand very still, Rashid. Let me see what we’re dealing with.’

  Shepherd scanned the northbound Victoria Line platform as the passengers rushed out of the carriages and registered surprise when they saw the platform was empty. Blue-uniformed members of staff cajoled them towards the escalators. Shepherd saw two Pakistani teenagers, young men with gelled hair and gold chains, but they were wearing loose sweatshirts with designer labels. No threat.

  He walked back down the platform. He saw anxious faces, nervous faces, angry faces, but he didn’t see the face of a man prepared to kill himself and dozens of others. There were businessmen with briefcases, secretaries wearing drab office suits and white trainers, schoolchildren with ties at half mast, tourists looking bemused and holding maps of the Underground system.

  ‘Spider, I have a possible. Just got off the westbound District Line,’ said the major in Shepherd’s ear.

  Shepherd started to thread his way through the passengers.

  Gannon moved his face closer to the monitor. The man was an Arab and he’d been in the second to last carriage of the westbound train. He was walking slowly down the platform, wearing a brown raincoat that looked several sizes too big for him. The coat had attracted Gannon’s attention, but the man’s body language also suggested something wasn’t right. He was tense: his eyes darted from side to side, and he was clenching and unclenching his fists. Gannon clicked on to a camera closer to the man. It was clear that the man was Middle Eastern: skin the colour of weak coffee, clean-shaven with a hooked nose. Gannon clicked back to the distant view. The man had a scrawny neck but the coat looked bulky round his chest. Or was he imagining it? Gannon had to be sure. ‘Ronnie,’ he said. ‘Have a look at this.’

  The commander came up and stood behind him.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Gannon.

  Roberts exhaled. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Maybe’ wasn’t good enough. Gannon clicked back to the close-up. ‘Not a face you recognise?’

  Roberts shook his head. ‘He’s not right, though. Look at his eyes – he’s hyper.’

  As they watched, the man began to mutter to himself. He looked as if he might be praying.

  Shepherd ran through the pedestrian tunnel. Half a dozen office workers using the tunnel as a short-cut glared at him even though they were the ones heading in the wrong direction. Shepherd pressed in his earpiece.

  ‘Arab male, late twenties, wearing a long brown raincoat. Clean-shaven. He’s on the platform about eighty feet from the exit tunnel.’

  Shepherd pulled the Glock from its holster as he ran. A middle-aged woman opened her mouth wide in astonishment and Shepherd had a glimpse of black fillings as he ran past her.

  ‘Where are you, Spider?’

  ‘Tunnel leading to the platform,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘He’s just passed it. You’ll come out behind him. He’s stopped.’

  Shepherd raised his gun so that the barrel was pointing at the ceiling. The tunnel curved to the right and ahead of him he saw the platform.

  There could be no mistake, Gannon knew. If he called it wrong and an innocent man was shot in the head for no other reason than that he was an Arab, his career would be over, Shepherd’s too. Gannon stared at the CCTV picture, Roberts at his shoulder. ‘It’s a definite maybe,’ said Roberts.

  ‘I think so.’

  The man was still muttering to himself, hands by his sides. Commuters were bumping into him as they passed but he showed no reaction.

  Gannon linked his fingers and continued to stare at the screen, unblinking. The man’s hands were empty, he was sure. He wasn’t holding a trigger. Gannon’s eyes flicked to the wall-mounted clock. It was four fifty-nine. The timing was right. The location was right. The man fitted the profile. But was that enough? Was that enough to order a man to be killed?

  The Arab stopped. Commuters passed by him like river water flowing around a rock. He raised his head until he was staring into the CCTV camera. His eyes bored into Gannon’s. The Arab smiled. A cruel, knowing smile. His right hand moved to unbutton his raincoat.

  ‘It’s him,’ said Gannon, calmly. ‘Green light.’

  Shepherd ran out on to the platform. There were a dozen or so passengers still there: stragglers in no rush to get home, tourists w
ho weren’t sure if they were heading the right way. A woman in the light blue uniform of the station staff was hurrying them along.

  Shepherd dropped into the firing position, legs shoulder-width apart, left foot in front of the right, toes turned inward. He brought up his left hand to cup the right and took aim with the Glock.

  The man was fifteen feet ahead. Brown raincoat, black trousers, black shoes. His hair was jet black and glistened under the tunnel lights. Shepherd couldn’t see any facial features. The man’s left hand was hanging by his side; he couldn’t see the right. Shepherd was all too aware of the enormity of what he was doing: he was shooting a man in the back of the head, with no warning, giving him no chance to surrender. It was a cold kill, done for no other reason than that Major Gannon was telling him to do it. Shepherd didn’t even consider that the major might be wrong. He trusted him.

  Shepherd pulled the trigger and the Glock kicked. The front of the man’s forehead exploded in a shower of blood, brain matter and bone fragments. Immediately Shepherd fired again and this time a chunk of skull blew across the tracks.

  The shots were deafening in the confined space, followed by screams of terror. Passengers scattered, bent double and running for the exit. Shepherd ignored them. He stayed focused on the target. A BTP officer rushed out on to the platform, saw what was happening and dashed back into the pedestrian tunnel.

  The man’s legs started to go. The right hand appeared at his side, fingers fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird. Shepherd fired a third shot, which blasted away most of what was left of the top of the skull.

  As the body slumped to the floor Shepherd kept the gun trained on the man’s head and started walking. He fired again. And again. He had to be sure.

  The body hit the ground, blood seeping from the gaping head wounds. The legs were twitching. Shepherd pumped two more rounds into the head at close range. Gobs of brain matter splattered across the platform.

  Shepherd was breathing heavily and his heart was pounding. It hurt when he swallowed. If the man he and Gannon had killed was just an innocent bystander, all hell was about to break loose.

  Slowly he knelt beside the body.