Tall Order: The 15th Spider Shepherd Thriller

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I swear,’ said Yokely.

  ‘On the Bible,’ said Rauf. ‘I want you to swear on the Bible that you will not kill me.’

  Yokely took a deep breath. ‘Fine,’ he said eventually. ‘I swear, on the Bible, that I will not kill you if you give me the information I want. Now, who told you what to do? Who organised this?’

  Rauf swallowed nervously, then nodded. ‘His name was Hakeem. We met him for the first time in the motel.’

  ‘The Park Motel?’

  Rauf nodded.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Two nights ago. We checked in and he came around with a truck to give us the missile.’

  ‘What’s his full name?’

  ‘He just said Hakeem.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘Fifty, maybe fifty-five. A bit fat. A long beard going grey.’

  ‘What was he wearing?’

  ‘Regular clothes. Blue jeans. Trainers. A long grey coat. He was always playing with prayer beads.’

  ‘Nationality?’

  ‘I don’t know. He wasn’t the chatty type.’

  ‘And this was the first time you met him?’

  Rauf nodded. ‘We were told to go to the motel and wait and that we would receive the missile and our instructions.’

  ‘This Hakeem, did he know any of you? Had he met any of you before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not Ibrahimi?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘When Hakeem arrived he knew who we were but I don’t think anyone knew him.’

  ‘And was Hakeem alone?’

  ‘There was someone with him. Driving the truck.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I don’t know. He stayed in the truck.’

  Yokely held up the man’s passport. ‘You are from Leeds?’

  ‘Born and bred.’

  ‘How does a young guy from Leeds end up blowing a jet out of the sky over New York?’

  ‘I didn’t. I was in the motel.’

  ‘But you knew what you were doing. You must have done when you saw the Stinger.’

  Rauf stared at Yokely, his eyes burning with hatred. ‘You’re not a Muslim; you wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘You’re killing Muslims all over the world, mate. In Iraq, in Afghanistan, in Somalia. It’s a Crusade. How could we not fight back?’

  ‘Killing civilians is fighting back? Killing women and children?’

  ‘Muslim women and children are killed every day. The Jews murder women and children in Palestine and you Americans encourage them.’

  Yokely held up his hand. ‘Okay, enough,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I asked.’

  ‘Look, I’ve told you everything you wanted to know. We’re done here, right?’

  Yokely picked up the Glock and screwed the silencer into the barrel.

  ‘You swore on the Bible that you would not kill me!’ Rauf protested, his voice trembling.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ said Yokely. Yokely handed the gun to McNee, who walked up to Rauf and shot him in the heart, point blank. Rauf stared at McNee with hate-filled eyes as he died. McNee stared back, a slight smile on his face, until Rauf’s head slumped on to his chest.

  McNee handed the gun back to Yokely, who put it back in his briefcase. He picked up his phone and called Sam Hepburn at the NSA. ‘I’ve a name and some phones for you to check, Sam.’

  ‘You’ve been a busy boy. As have I.’

  ‘You’ve got something for me?’

  ‘Damn right, I do. That Stinger was one of a dozen that went through an arms dealer in Sarajevo. The paperwork is all legit, nothing underhand that I can see. The dealer’s name is Alex Kleintank and he’s been in the business for more than a decade. He was one of the first into Afghanistan supplying the contractors out there. He’s been busy in Iraq recently.’

  ‘Do you have an address, picture, anything?’

  ‘All of the above,’ said Hepburn. ‘He had to register with the government before he could be awarded any contracts and he did. He has all the necessary accreditations so we have all his details. I’ll send you an email.’

  ‘Do we have any idea how it got from Sarajevo into the States?’

  ‘No way of telling but it wouldn’t be difficult.’

  Yokely gave Hepburn the numbers of the phones they had found in the motel, and ended the call. He took McNee outside and they opened the back door of the van. Inside were half a dozen large plastic barrels and a pallet of orange bottles of drain cleaner. Drain cleaner was primarily sulphuric acid, which would make short work of a body. After just a day or two submerged in the chemical, identification would be next to impossible, and after a week there would be almost nothing left.

  ‘I’ll get the delivery door open and you can drive in,’ said Yokely. He went back into the warehouse as McNee climbed into the cab.

  Once Yokely had opened the load bay door, McNee drove the van inside and switched off the engine.

  Yokely went over to the Stinger launcher. McNee joined him. ‘A Stinger FIM-92? Nice bit of kit,’ said McNee

  ‘Can you store this some place safe?’ asked Yokely. ‘There’s a camcorder, too. Somewhere they’ll be safe but I can dig them out if needs be.’

  ‘I’ve got a place.’

  Yokely nodded. ‘Okay, let’s get started.’

  McNee climbed into the back of the van and handed out blue plastic suits, black gloves and overshoes, facemasks and goggles. The drain-cleaning fluid was very caustic and the fumes were dangerous.

  They put on the gear and McNee lowered down four barrels, one at a time.

  They heaved the four dead jihadists into the barrels. All of the men were fairly short and lean so there was no problem fitting them in. Then they unscrewed the caps off bottles of drain-cleaner and poured them in. There was no fizzing or spluttering but the sulphuric acid fumes built up fairly quickly, so they moved away for a few minutes to let the fumes disperse before going back and adding more. Taking it in short bursts meant that it took the best part of half an hour to fill the barrels. McNee fitted plastic lids and used metal straps to lock them shut. As he was sealing the last barrel, Leclerc returned.

  Yokely stripped off his protective gear and dropped it into a garbage bag. ‘How’s our boy?’ he asked Leclerc.

  ‘He’s not happy about being sent on his way. But he’s a team player.’

  ‘He’s a former SEAL, that’s a pre-requisite. How did he perform?’

  ‘Like a pro. I’d work with him again, no problem.’

  ‘Okay, that might happen. Once this job is over.’ He nodded at the barrels. ‘So, this gets rid of the four jihadists. I need you in Sarajevo right away. The Stinger was supplied by a Dutch arms dealer who’s based out there. Alex Kleintank. He had a dozen and one of them was used to shoot down the plane at JFK. Find out where he is, who he’s meeting, his personal situation, but keep your distance.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ said Leclerc. He went outside and less than a minute later Yokely heard the car start and drive off.

  ‘Sarajevo?’ said McNee, frowning. ‘Strange place to be based, no?’

  ‘Arms is a multi-national business; he’s probably just a middleman,’ said Yokely. He nodded at the launcher. ‘But that went through his inventory, which means he’s partly responsible for what happened.’

  ‘So, we head out there?’

  ‘And Dubai. And the UK. Rashid Makhdoom lived in London. The French connection I’m not sure about. Omar looked more Iraqi than Algerian. Let’s see what the databases turn up.’

  ‘Either way we’ve a lot of flying to do.’

  Yokely nodded. ‘And we’ll have to use scheduled flights and false names,’ he said. ‘We can’t be leaving any trails on this. How are you fixed for passports?’

  ‘I’m good,’ said McNee. ‘I’ve a couple of genuine Canadian passports left over from my last operation.’

  ‘Everyone loves the Canadians,’
said Yokely. ‘Canadian and Irish passports will get you in everywhere, just about.’ He picked up his phone and called David Dalton. Dalton answered almost immediately. ‘Where are you, David?’ asked Yokely.

  ‘On the way to the airport,’ said Dalton. ‘All revved up and raring to go.’

  ‘Slight change of plan,’ said Yokely. ‘I need you in the UK, ASAP. How good are your anti-terrorism sources there?’

  ‘I’ve a good contact in Europol, Italian but he lives in London. And there’s a guy in MI5 who owes me a few favours.’

  ‘I’d avoid Europol if possible,’ said Yokely. ‘In my experience they leak like a sieve. I need you to check out two jihadists, now deceased. Rashid Makhdoom from London and Shabir Rauf, from Leeds.’ Yokely spelled out their names, then gave Dalton their dates of birth and passport numbers. ‘I need to know what they have in the way of relatives, especially those on any watch lists. I need to know where they were radicalised and who by.’

  ‘I’m on it,’ said Dalton.

  ‘We’ll be with you in a few days. Set us up a safe house in London, and we’ll need equipment.’

  ‘You’ll need me to handle disposal?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Yokely.

  Chapter 21

  Present Day, Manchester

  T he sky was darkening when Harper pulled into the service station to the west of Manchester. Jony Hasan’s silver BMW was already parked and Harper pulled up next to him. Hasan wound down his window and grinned at the Toyota. ‘What the fuck is that?’ he asked. He was in his early thirties, a dark-skinned Asian wearing an Armani leather bomber jacket, with a thick gold chain around his neck.

  ‘It’s called low-key,’ said Harper.

  ‘It’s called a piece of shit, that’s what it’s called,’ laughed Hasan. ‘You wouldn’t catch me dead in one of those.’

  ‘It’s reliable with good mileage,’ said Harper. ‘So fuck the fuck off.’

  Hasan chuckled. ‘Come into my office and we’ll talk,’ he said.

  Harper got out of his car and climbed into Hasan’s BMW. The men bumped fists. ‘Thanks for the short notice,’ said Harper.

  ‘Nothing’s too much trouble for my best customers,’ said Hasan. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Something small that packs a punch. And totally non-traceable.’

  ‘What did you buy last time? It was a Smith & Wesson SD9 VE, wasn’t it?’

  Harper nodded. ‘Yeah. Sixteen rounds in the clip. Maybe something a bit smaller?’

  ‘Revolver or automatic?’

  ‘I’m going to need a silencer, so automatic.’

  Hasan wrinkled his nose. ‘How do you feel about six in the clip?’

  ‘Six is fine. I’m not planning on any spray and pray.’

  ‘I’ve got a brand new Beretta Pico. Just over five inches long, .380ACP, weighs under twelve ounces.’

  ‘Sounds perfect.’

  ‘Yeah, but the one downside is that I don’t have a silencer for it. A silencer will triple the length, which sort of spoils the fact that it was designed as a pocket pistol.’

  Harper wrinkled his nose. ‘Noise might be a factor.’

  ‘I could probably get you one within forty-eight hours. Worst possible scenario I can get one made for you.’

  Harper shook his head. ‘I need it tonight.’

  ‘Then no can do,’ said Hasan. ‘But you could fix yourself up something, right? Cobble something together.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Worst possible scenario, shoot through a pillow or wrap a blanket around your hand. That calibre will shoot through no problem.’

  Harper nodded thoughtfully. ‘How much?’

  ‘They’re hard to get,’ said Hasan.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Jony, cut the sales pitch. Just give me the number.’

  ‘Eight hundred quid, ammo included,’ said Hasan. ‘If you return it unfired I’ll give you four hundred for it.’

  Harper took out his cigarettes. ‘Nah, I’ll be firing it, no question.’

  He pulled out his cigarette lighter but Hasan waved a warning finger at him. ‘This motor is new – don’t you go stinking it up.’

  ‘Sorry, mate,’ said Harper, putting the cigarettes and lighter away. ‘How about we say six hundred for cash?’

  ‘It’s always cash, Lex. This is a fucking cash business. But if it’ll speed things up, seven hundred. And I’ll throw in a couple of extra clips.’

  ‘With ammo?’

  ‘Of course. An empty clip’s no use to anyone, is it?’

  ‘Deal,’ said Harper.

  Hasan held out his hand. Harper fished out a wad of notes and peeled off seven hundred pounds. He handed it to Hasan, who put it in his pocket before climbing out of the car. He went around to the boot, opened it and rummaged around for a few minutes before returning to the driver’s seat with a large Tupperware container. He handed the container to Harper and closed the door.

  Harper ripped the top off the container and took out the gun, which had been wrapped in an oily cloth. It did appear to be brand new. Harper sniffed it, then checked the mechanism. He nodded. ‘Nice,’ he said.

  ‘You sound surprised,’ said Hasan. ‘Have I ever let you down?’

  Harper slipped the gun into his jacket pocket and gave the cloth and container back to Hasan. ‘You know what would happen if you did, mate,’ said Harper. He grinned, but he was only half joking. ‘There’s a couple of other things I need,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve got a boot full of kit,’ said Hasan, reaching for the door handle. ‘Let me show you my wares.’

  Harper shook his head. ‘I need a lock-up in Birmingham. Somewhere quiet. Size isn’t too important. But I’ll be up to mischief there so it mustn’t be traceable.’

  ‘What sort of mischief, Lex?’

  Harper grinned. ‘Do you really want to know? Let’s just say that you probably won’t be able to use it again and you wouldn’t want it traced back to you.’

  Hasan nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I’ve got a place. I haven’t used it for a while and I was planning on getting rid.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘South of the city. Quiet area, no one will disturb you. It used to be a chop shop but the guy who ran it was sent down on drugs charges and won’t be out for three or four years. Place is pretty much abandoned.’

  ‘Pretty much?’

  ‘I used to use it to store vehicles but I’m not doing much in Birmingham these days.’

  ‘Sounds perfect. How much?’

  Hasan wrinkled his nose. ‘Ten grand.’

  Harper could hear the uncertainty in the man’s voice and he resisted the urge to smile. ‘Let’s say five.’

  ‘Split the difference.’

  Harper nodded. ‘Seven five it is.’ He nodded at his car. ‘Let me get the cash.’ He got out and went over to the Toyota. The envelope that Button had given him was in the glove compartment. He counted out seven thousand five hundred pounds in fifty-pound notes, then went back to give them to Hasan.

  Hasan grinned and pocketed the cash. ‘Always a pleasure doing business with you, Lex. I’ll text you the details.’

  ‘The key?’

  ‘There’s one close by. There’s a drainpipe spout to the left of the door. The key’s in there.’

  ‘There better had be, mate.’

  ‘Cross my heart,’ said Hasan.

  ‘I trust you,’ said Harper. ‘One last thing. I need personnel. Someone reliable, someone who can do what needs to be done without fucking it up, and someone who knows me or my reputation and what will happen if they let me down.’

  ‘I thought you had your own team?’

  ‘I need someone at a distance for this,’ said Harper.

  ‘Belfast Mick is around.’

  ‘Really? What’s he up to?’ Mick O’Hara was a former IRA hard man who had left political violence behind him once the Good Friday Agreement had wiped away the eighteen murders he had committed in Northern Ireland, but had transferred his skill
s to the private sector with considerable success. The bulk of his work involved chasing up debts but he was able to offer permanent solutions to problems, provided the price was right.

  Hasan held up his hand. ‘Client confidentiality, Lex,’ he said. ‘But I can tell you that a job he was expecting to do fell through last night so he’s at a bit of a loose end.’

  ‘Have you got a number for him?’ Hasan looked uncomfortable and Harper waved his hand dismissively. ‘I know, I know, client confidentiality. Look, I’ll give you my number and you get him to call me, okay?’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Hasan.

  Harper gave him the number of one of his throwaway mobiles, fist-bumped him, then climbed out and got back into his Toyota. He filled the tank with petrol and headed north. He was ten minutes outside Birmingham when O’Hara called him. Harper took the call on hands-free. ‘Mick, you Irish bastard, how the hell are you?’

  ‘Mad as fucking hell,’ growled the Irishman. ‘But what can you do?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Manchester.’

  ‘Can you get to Birmingham tonight? I’ll make it worth your while.’

  ‘You got a job for me, Lex?’

  ‘If you’re interested.’

  ‘Fuck, yeah.’

  ‘I’m checked into the Ibis at Birmingham Airport. Call when you get there.’

  Harper ended the call. O’Hara was a good operator and would come in handy for what he needed to do next. Five minutes later his phone beeped. It was a text from Hasan with details of the Birmingham lock-up.

  Chapter 22

  Present Day, London

  I t was just after midnight when one of the Super-Recognisers spotted Ali Naveed arriving at the stadium. He had climbed out of a van about a quarter of a mile away. A council CCTV camera set up to monitor traffic had caught the van turning off the main road and stopping. Naveed climbed out of the front passenger seat, waved at the driver and walked off. The puffa coat and the distinctive Nikes made him easy to follow as he joined the crowds streaming towards the stadium.

  The CCTV picture was clear enough for them to read the registration number and to see the sign on the side. The van belonged to a Lebanese restaurant in Edgware Road. They couldn’t see the driver but two cameras further down the road had a better view through the windscreen and they could clearly see a young Asian man with a neatly trimmed beard behind the wheel.