Tall Order: The 15th Spider Shepherd Thriller

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Give me the Glock,’ whispered Harper. O’Hara handed it over. Harper held out his hand for the silencer. O’Hara gave it to him and Harper screwed it into the barrel of the gun. Then he pulled out his Berretta and passed it to O’Hara. ‘I’ll slot Masood, and his wife if she wakes up,’ whispered Harper. ‘If either of those two are disturbed then do what you have to do.’ He nodded at the Berretta. ‘But if you fire it, we’ll have to leg it PDQ.’

  O’Hara nodded. ‘Last resort,’ he said.

  Harper flashed him a tight smile and opened the door to Masood’s bedroom. The woman was still snoring. He walked around the bed and stood close to Masood. He aimed the gun at the man’s temple. One shot to the head would be enough. His finger tightened on the trigger. Purists never referred to silencers on guns; they were always suppressors. The reason was that no gun could ever be truly silenced. All a silencer did was reduce the amount of noise produced by a shot – usually by about thirty decibels or so. It could take the sound down from a loud crack to a fairly loud pop, but there would still be noise. The question was, would it be enough to wake the woman? If it was, he would have no choice other than to put a bullet in her head.

  ‘Be lucky,’ he whispered to her. He pulled the trigger and Masood’s head exploded over the pillow.

  The woman stopped snoring but her eyes stayed shut and her mouth was wide open. There was a soft gurgling sound at the back of her throat and then she began to snore again. Harper smiled and headed for the door. His iPod Touch vibrated in his pocket. It was a message from Button: New intel on Masood’s sons. All have ISIS connections. Treat as hostile.

  Harper sighed. She would probably moan about him only getting two of the sons, but then she should be grateful that he got the message in time. He pointed the Glock at the woman’s head and pulled the trigger. She died mid-snore. He didn’t know if the wife had ISIS connections but if her husband and her sons were jihadists then she had forfeited the right to a long and happy life.

  He went back into the hallway. O’Hara was peering into the nearest bedroom. He turned and frowned at Harper. ‘Two shots?’ he mouthed.

  ‘Change of plan,’ whispered Harper. ‘Watch the other one.’ He pushed the door open, walked over to the bed and shot the sleeping man in the head, point blank. The man twitched once and then lay still as the pillow soaked up his blood. Harper turned and walked quickly back into the hallway.

  O’Hara had the door to the last bedroom open and he pushed it open for Harper, who went over to the bed, casually aimed the Glock at the sleeping man’s head and pulled the trigger. The skull imploded and the pillow glistened with blood.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ asked O’Hara as Harper rejoined him in the hall.

  ‘They’re all dirty,’ said Harper. ‘I’ll keep the Glock. Okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ said O’Hara. ‘I wasn’t planning on taking it back with me anyway. You’ll pay me, right?’

  Harper grinned. ‘Of course I’ll pay you, you soft bastard.’ He stopped as he heard a key slotting into the lock of the front door. The same thought hit them both instantaneously – the third son. O’Hara flattened himself against the wall. Harper did the same. They were both breathing shallowly. Harper smiled to himself. It looked as if Button was going to get what she wanted.

  He listened as the man downstairs closed the door behind him. If he came upstairs, all well and good. It became more problematical if he decided to go to the kitchen because then he’d see the broken window. Harper’s finger slid over the trigger and he moved his head slightly, giving his ears the best chance of picking up the slightest sound. The man coughed, then started walking to the kitchen. Harper moved quickly to the top of the stairs. He headed down on tiptoe, keeping close to the wall to minimise any squeaking of the boards. He reached the bottom of the stairs and turned left, raising the gun. The man disappeared into the kitchen and a second later the lights flicked on. Harper moved along the hallway, holding his breath. A loose floorboard creaked underfoot but it was muffled by the carpet. He took another step, and another. The man turned to look at the kitchen door and Harper knew he had seen the broken window. A frown flashed across the man’s bearded face and then he stiffened. He turned to look at Harper but by then Harper was just four feet away from him and he shot him in the middle of the face. The nose disappeared and blood spurted down the man’s beard as he slumped to his knees, then he pitched to the side. His head scraped against the fridge, leaving a smear of treacly blood as he fell to the floor.

  O’Hara came up behind Harper. ‘You’re on fire tonight,’ he said.

  Harper shrugged. ‘It’s not as if they’re shooting back, is it?’ he said. He stepped over the body, taking care not to tread in the spreading pool of blood. He switched off the light and waited for O’Hara to join him at the door before opening it. They put their guns away and stepped into the yard. The alley was clear and they got back to the Toyota without being seen.

  ‘Please tell me we’re done for the night,’ said O’Hara.

  ‘Mate, we’ve done everything we’ve been asked to,’ said Harper. ‘I’ll be pushing for a bonus after this.’

  ‘So what’s the plan now? Crash in a hotel?’

  ‘To be honest, I’d be happier back in London,’ said Harper. ‘You can sleep while I drive.’

  ‘But we’ll stop for food on the way?’

  Harper grinned. ‘Breakfast is on me,’ he said.

  Chapter 35

  Ten Years Ago, Dubai

  Y okely, McNee and Leclerc climbed out of the SUV. All three had semi-automatics in underarm holsters and silencers in their pockets for when they needed them. McNee had a small nylon backpack containing the equipment he needed to blow up the boat.

  Bardot wished them luck, then drove off. The sun had just gone down below the horizon and there was only a smear of red in the darkening sky.

  ‘Right guys, game faces on,’ said Yokely.

  They were casually and expensively dressed, in brand name clothes they had bought from shops in the marina’s upmarket mall. Yokely had a blazer, dark trousers and a Ralph Lauren shirt. Leclerc had chosen a black Hugo Boss suit with a grey shirt and McNee had shopped at Prada. The backpack alone had cost over a thousand dollars.

  As they wandered through the marina they looked like three wealthy middle-aged men, out for a stroll and possibly a meal in one of the many world-class restaurants and cafés in the area. Dubai Marina was a two-mile stretch of the Persian Gulf shoreline, flanked by tower blocks containing some of the most expensive apartments in the city. The first phase had only just been completed and there were still dozens of buildings being constructed. There were several marinas where multi-million dollar yachts and cruisers were moored, linked by a canal that gave access to the Arabian Gulf. Many of the boats never left their moorings, though. They were for show, and for entertaining, rather than sailing.

  They walked along the jetty. Yokely spotted the bodyguards immediately. Big men in dark suits wearing earpieces. They both looked over at the three men. One was about six feet from the rear of the boat. The other was further along, abreast of another boat.

  They reached the first bodyguard. He was over six feet tall, his head shaved and his hands the size of small shovels.

  ‘Wow, you’re a big one,’ said Leclerc. ‘Isn’t he a big one?’ he asked McNee.

  ‘Fucking huge,’ said McNee. ‘What do you think he is? Two hundred and fifty pounds?’

  ‘Three hundred,’ said Leclerc.

  Yokely continued to walk. ‘Come on, we’ll be late!’ he shouted.

  ‘We just want to know how big this guy is,’ said Leclerc.

  ‘Leave him alone.’

  The bodyguard stood with his feet planted shoulder width apart, his hands clasped together in front of his groin. ‘I suggest you do as your friend says,’ he growled. His eyes widened when he saw the silenced Glock pointing at his groin. ‘I need you to walk quietly and calmly to the boat,’ said Yokely. ‘You do anything other than
that and I will shoot you in the groin. Then in the head. Okay?’

  The man raised his hands slowly.

  ‘You can keep your hands down,’ said Yokely. ‘Just start walking.’ He gestured with his gun and the man did as he was told. Yokely kept two paces from the bodyguard and his finger firmly on the trigger. The threat he had made had not been an empty one – any sign that the bodyguard wasn’t following his instructions and Yokely would shoot.

  They reached the stern. McNee had climbed on board and was aiming his gun at the first bodyguard. The bodyguard glowered at Yokely as he stepped on to the deck. Leclerc followed him. The stern of the boat had been fitted out for entertaining, with a U-shaped seating area and a table large enough to seat six. Beyond it was a ship’s wheel and a hatch that led below decks.

  Yokely kept his gun aimed at the second bodyguard’s back as he climbed on to the boat. The two bodyguards looked at each other, unsure what they should do. Yokely didn’t give them the chance to come to any conclusion. He shot them both in the heart. The smaller one dropped immediately but the bigger man stayed where he was as blood trickled down the front of his shirt. Yokely put a second bullet in the man’s sternum. This time he fell with a dull thud.

  Yokely looked around. The jetty was still deserted. He headed for the hatch as Leclerc and McNee dragged the two bodies to the table and rolled them underneath where they would be out of sight.

  Yokely went down a set of wooden steps into a large entertainment area with modern low-backed sofas, a large-screen TV on one wall and a galley. Through the windows to his left he could see the marina’s tower blocks. A door led to the bow, which was where the main cabins were. He waited for Leclerc to join him before easing open the door. It led to a wood-panelled corridor. There was a door to the side but it was ajar and the cabin was empty. They moved down the corridor on the balls of their feet. There was a second door. It was open. The cabin was large with a double bed and an overstuffed sofa.

  The final door was closed. Yokely turned and nodded at Leclerc, then slowly turned the handle and eased the door open.

  Benikhlef was naked, lying on his back while a blonde girl sat astride him. His hands were up on her breasts and as she moved the tattoo of a tiger writhed on her back as if it were alive. He was grunting in time with her movements and his feet twitched as if he was being electrocuted.

  Yokely stepped into the cabin and tapped her on the back of her head with the silencer. She flinched and then twisted around. Benikhlef gasped and his erection swung from side to side as she jumped off the bed and flattened herself against the wall.

  ‘Don’t scream,’ said Yokely. ‘Whatever you do, don’t scream!’

  Her eyes were wide and panicking and she looked frantically at Yokely and then at Leclerc and then she opened her mouth to scream. Yokely pointed at her. ‘If you make a sound, you die,’ he said.

  She closed her mouth and nodded fearfully.

  Benikhlef sat up and pushed himself back against the headboard. ‘If you want money, I have money in the safe,’ he said. ‘Just let me get it.’ He held up his left arm and showed Yokely the diamond-studded gold watch on his wrist. ‘This is a Patek Philippe,’ he said. ‘Take it.’ He pulled off the watch with trembling hands and threw it at the end of the bed. ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘We’re not here for you or your watch,’ said Yokely.

  Benikhlef’s erection had subsided and he groped for a black silk robe. He wrapped it around his shoulders. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I just want to talk,’ said Yokely. ‘About a couple of Stinger missiles that passed through your hands.’

  Benikhlef frowned. ‘You are American? Who do you work for? The CIA? The FBI?’ He smiled ingratiatingly but Yokely could see the fear in the man’s eyes. ‘I have friends in the CIA. They often ask me for information and I am always happy to help them.’ He pointed at the door behind Yokely. ‘Let us at least take this out of the bedroom. We can have a drink, like civilised men.’ He smiled and nodded. ‘I will tell you whatever you want to know,’ he said. ‘There is no need for violence.’

  ‘I’m happy here,’ said Yokely. ‘Too much glass out there. And don’t worry about your bodyguards, they’ve been taken care of. You see, here’s what I don’t understand; you say there’s no need for violence, but you’ve made a fortune from it, haven’t you?’

  ‘I am just a middleman,’ said Benikhlef. ‘I buy and I sell and I make a profit.’

  ‘The two Stingers you bought from Alex Kleintank. Who did you pass them on to?’

  Benikhlef swallowed nervously. ‘You have spoken to Alex?’

  ‘We had a conversation, yes.’

  Benikhlef swallowed again. ‘And he told you he sold me two Stingers?’ He shrugged, trying to appear casual, but he was clearly worried. ‘Of course I will not deny it. He sold, I bought. It was a transaction. I buy and sell to Alex many times a year.’

  ‘Because you are both middlemen, making an honest buck?’

  Benikhlef could hear the sarcasm in Yokely’s voice so he didn’t answer.

  ‘You sold that Stinger to terrorists and they shot down a plane with more than three hundred men, women and children on board,’ said Yokely.

  Benikhlef’s jaw dropped. He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That is not possible.’

  ‘Who was the buyer?’

  ‘His name was Hakeem. He said he was going to take them to Iraq, I swear.’

  ‘What was his full name?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was introduced to me as Hakeem. He is a Palestinian.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  Benikhlef ran a hand over his face, wiping away the sweat. ‘He was fifty, maybe a bit younger. Had a long beard, straggly. It was streaked with grey. He had a string of amber beads that he was always playing with.’

  ‘Misbaha?’

  Benikhlef nodded. ‘Yes, Misbaha.’

  The Misbaha were Muslim prayer beads, usually thirty-three or ninety-nine on a string used by devout Muslims to keep track of their prayers.

  ‘And where did he take delivery?’

  Benikhlef tried to swallow but his mouth had gone so dry that he almost gagged. ‘Serbia,’ he said.

  ‘So you bought them from Kleintank in Sarajevo and sold them to Hakeem in Serbia?’

  Benikhlef nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what about shipping? To Iraq?’

  ‘Hakeem said he would take care of shipping. I just sold him the missiles.’

  Yokely’s smile tightened. ‘You’re lying, Jamahl. Please don’t insult my intelligence again.’

  ‘I am telling you the truth.’

  Yokely pointed his gun at the woman and shot her twice in the chest. She slumped against the wall of the cabin, shuddered and slid down the wall like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

  Benikhlef gasped and covered his mouth with his hands. ‘Why did you—?’

  ‘You don’t seem to think I am serious, Jamahl. I thought killing your bodyguards would do the trick but clearly not. You either tell me everything you know or I will kill you and then I will go upstairs to your lovely penthouse home and kill every member of your family. I will do that with a smile on my face, Jamahl, because it will go some way to redressing the balance of all the lives your missile took.’

  Benikhlef was trembling now, staring at the body of the woman in horror.

  ‘Who shipped the missiles?’

  ‘I did. Hakeem came here, to Dubai. He explained what he wanted and I gave him the price.’

  ‘He paid cash?’

  Benikhlef nodded again.

  ‘What is this Hakeem’s full name?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just know him as Hakeem.’

  ‘And how did he know to deal with you?’

  ‘A friend introduced us.’ Benikhlef was still staring at the body, his voice a dull monotone. All the fight had gone out of him, as if he knew what was coming and had accepted it.

  ‘Did you meet a man called Hamid bin Faisal?’


  Benikhlef shook his head.

  Yokely took out a photograph of bin Faisal and showed it to Benikhlef. Benikhlef looked at it and shook his head again.

  Yokely put the picture away. ‘This mutual friend. Who is he?’

  ‘Abdul Aziz Al Amin.’

  ‘Where is he from?’

  ‘He is a Saudi. But he lives here, in Dubai.’

  ‘He introduced you to this Hakeem?’

  Benikhlef nodded. ‘Yes. Abdul is a long-standing friend to al-Qaeda, he has been for many years. He helps them with funding.’

  ‘Where does Abdul live?’

  ‘He has a villa on the Palm Jumeirah.’

  ‘Nice,’ said Yokely. The Palm Jumeirah was an artificial archipelago that had been built by dredging sand from the floor of the Persian Gulf and spraying it to form land in the shape of a palm tree, producing enough new land to house sixty-five thousand people in some of Dubai’s most luxurious homes. There were dozens of top hotels and restaurants on the Palm and it had become one of Dubai’s main tourist attractions.

  ‘It is Abdul that you want,’ said Benikhlef. ‘He is al-Qaeda’s man, he hates America and everything it stands for. I like America. Last year I took my grandchildren to Disneyworld. You know Disneyworld? In Florida.’

  ‘Yes, I know Disneyworld,’ said Yokely. He fired once, shooting Benikhlef in the dead centre of the chest. Benikhlef’s eyes went blank almost immediately and his head slumped.

  Yokely unscrewed the silencer and slid the Glock back into his holster. He went back up on deck, where McNee was already pulling equipment from his backpack. Wiring. A timer. A can of lighter fluid.

  ‘Do you need help with the fire?’ Yokely asked.

  ‘No, I’m good,’ he said.

  ‘Peter and I will get started on dinner,’ he said.

  Leclerc drove Yokely to an Italian restaurant overlooking the marina. Yokely asked for a table by the window and the greeter – a beautiful Indian girl with waist-length glossy black hair and a beaming smile – said that wouldn’t be a problem. They followed her gently swaying hips across the room to a table that was perfect. Yokely thanked her and slipped her a twenty-dollar bill. It wasn’t the local currency but in Yokely’s experience dollar tips were appreciated the world over. He took out his throwaway mobile and called Karl Traynor.