Tall Order: The 15th Spider Shepherd Thriller

by Stephen Leather

  As he was finishing the call, Yokely’s sandwich and coffee arrived. He ate the sandwich as he watched CNN. There were still no details on what had happened to the plane. Various experts spoke about engine failure and pilot error and freak weather and bird strikes. A security expert raised the possibility of a bomb having been on board the plane and explained how luggage – in the hold and in the cabin – was checked. A former FBI agent spoke at length about the shoe bomber, a Brit called Richard Reid who had attempted to detonate explosives packed into his shoes on a flight from Paris to Miami a few days before Christmas 2001. Reid had failed and was serving three life sentences plus a hundred and ten years at ADX Florence, a supermax security prison in Colorado. Security checks had been tightened since then but the expert warned that Islamic terrorists were constantly looking at new ways of downing passenger jets. No one mentioned the possibility of a missile strike, but Yokely knew that it would only be a matter of time before the truth came out.

  Al-Qaeda had yet to claim responsibility for the attack. There was probably confusion within the terrorist organisation. Khaled had seen his colleagues being confronted by the security guard so he must have assumed that they were captured. The fact that there had been no announcement of any arrests would have made no sense to the terrorists, though they might assume that the captured jihadists were cooperating with the authorities. Yokely figured that Khaled and anyone else involved in the planning of the attack would be lying low or would have fled the country already. Khaled had bolted without the video camera, which meant al-Qaeda had no proof to back up any claims it made, but Yokely doubted they would wait much longer before taking the credit.

  It took the NSA analyst less than an hour to restore the emails. When Yokely went back into the account the email in the draft folder was much longer, with more than twenty messages spread over a three-month period. Many of the messages contained quotes from the Koran, and again Saladin chose his words carefully. Jamahl Benikhlef was never referred to by name, only as ‘our friend’, but it was clear who they were talking about. Al Amin had made the introduction and Khaled had flown to Dubai twice for meetings with him.

  The fact that Saladin wanted to purchase missiles also wasn’t mentioned, though several times he referred to ‘arrows’. It was the ‘arrows’ that Saladin was thanking Al Amin for in the last message.

  Yokely sat back and sighed. Al Amin had introduced Khaled to Jamahl Benikhlef. Benikhlef had bought the missile from Alex Kleintank in Sarajevo and arranged to have it shipped to the US. And they had done it without once coming to the attention of the CIA or MI5 or Mossad or any of the West’s intelligence services. Khaled was clearly a cunning bastard and was now top of Yokely’s hit list. The problem was, he was no closer to locating the al-Qaeda mastermind than when he had first been given his mission.

  Chapter 39

  Present Day, London

  G eorge Hurry had gone home for some much-needed sleep but Inspector Nick Hughes was at his station, his jacket hanging on the back of his chair and his sleeves rolled up. He was sitting back in his chair, his hand on a mouse that allowed him to control the speed of the CCTV footage he was reviewing. Although he was in charge of the Super-Recogniser Unit, Hughes was a talented observer and always led from the front. He made sure that no one worked longer then he did and took fewer breaks than anyone in the unit.

  ‘Nick, who’s checking the mosque footage for Ali Naveed?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Matt Goddard,’ said the inspector, gesturing at a fresh-faced dark-haired man in a grey suit. ‘He’s new to the team but he’s got a good eye.’

  Shepherd thanked him and went over to Goddard to introduce himself. ‘Dan Shepherd, I’m here to liaise with MI5,’ he said. Goddard shook his hand. On the terminal was footage from a CCTV camera that covered the approach to what was clearly a mosque, a brick building with a green dome and a tall minaret flashed in white. Outside were a group of several dozen Asian men, all bearded and most wearing robes. The scene could easily have been anywhere in the Middle East but Shepherd knew that it was the Acton Mosque, only a few miles away from where the unit was based.

  ‘I’ve just been told that Naveed is a fan of the Argyle Street Mosque,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can you see what footage is available there?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Goddard. ‘Any idea of the time frame?’

  ‘He was a regular there so I’d be surprised if he hadn’t visited over the days prior to his death. But we’re more interested in who he talked to, who he went and left with. We’re looking for his contacts. His foster parents used to drive him but then they stopped. I’m hoping that he started attending with someone else and obviously we’d like to know who that someone is.’

  Goddard nodded. ‘Anyone in particular I should be looking for?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. Best bet is for you to save any footage of him that you find and run it by me. I’m up to speed on all the jihadists on MI5’s watch list. There’s an imam at Argyle Road who is a definite problem. His name is Shakeel Al-Heweny. I’ll send you over a picture. He’s a clever one – you’ll see him on TV all the time as the friendly face of Islam, “we must all work together to bring peace”, that sort of thing. But Five has tapes of him talking in private and he’s a nasty piece of work. We’re pretty sure he’s sending young men out to join ISIS in Syria and he runs courses in jihad, but again only in private. The thing is, if Al-Heweny is one of Naveed’s handlers he’s not likely to be embracing him in the street. Contact would have been behind closed doors, for sure.’

  ‘I’ll get the feeds and let you know as soon as I get anything,’ promised Goddard.

  Chapter 40

  Present Day, London

  H arper stretched out his legs and blew smoke up at the darkening sky. It had been threatening to rain all day but if anything the clouds were starting to thin out. There was a chill in the air and he’d turned up the collar of his jacket against the wind that was blowing against his back. A red setter ran over, sniffed his shoes and the holdall at his feet and then ran back to its owner, a young woman in a sheepskin jacket and Ugg boots. ‘Sorry!’ she called.

  ‘No problem,’ said Harper, waving his cigarette. In the distance he saw Charlotte Button She had her mobile phone to her ear but he couldn’t tell if she was on a call or faking it. The mobile phone was a Godsend for surveillance and anti-surveillance. Watchers could use their mobile phones to talk to each other while following a target, and being on a mobile meant that your eyes were free to look at whatever you wanted. Button was on a path parallel to where he was sitting. She was wearing a long coat that looked like cashmere and had a large Louis Vuitton bag over her left shoulder. Her chestnut hair was loose and shifting in the wind as she walked. Harper took a long pull on his cigarette. Two teenagers rollerbladed by Button. A woman with a pram walked by her, her eyes fixed to a smartphone. Two women in full burkhas with a dozen Harrods carrier bags led a gaggle of noisy children towards Bayswater. In the distance, a group of young children were riding ponies in single file. It was just a normal day in Hyde Park and so far as Harper could see no one was paying Button any attention.

  She seemed to have reached the same conclusion and headed his way, still deep in conversation on her phone. She put it away as she got closer, then sat down on the far end of the bench and crossed her legs away from him. ‘You’ve been a very busy boy, Alex,’ she said, arranging her coat over her knees.

  ‘When you’re paid by results there’s no point in hanging around,’ he said. ‘And speaking of payment …’

  Button smiled. She took a copy of the Evening Standard from her bag and placed it on the bench between them, looked around and then pushed it towards him. ‘There’s twenty thousand in cash,’ she said. ‘On account.’

  ‘Cash will do nicely,’ said Harper. He picked up the newspaper. It was folded around a bulky envelope. He knew that he didn’t need to count it, at least not in front of her.

  ‘I’m guessing you weren’t working alone,’ said
Button.

  ‘I had help. There was a lot to do and not a lot of time.’

  ‘Specifically?’

  ‘Just one guy. Mick O’Hara.’

  ‘The Irishman? Alex, he’s a bit of a loose cannon.’

  ‘It was a rush job, Charlotte. Beggars can’t be choosers. Yes, he’s got a temper and you wouldn’t want him thinking for himself, but if you keep him on a short leash he’s an asset.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for that.’

  ‘He didn’t put a foot wrong, I swear.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s booked into a cheap hotel not far from here in case I need him again. And he’d like to do more work for the Pool.’

  Button flashed him an icy stare. ‘Alex, just so we are crystal clear on this, Mick O’Hara will never, ever, work for the Pool.’

  Harper held up his hands in surrender. ‘Message received and understood.’

  ‘Put your hands down, Alex. You look ridiculous.’

  Harper grinned and did as he was told. There were times when Charlotte Button treated him as if he was an unruly pupil in her class, but truth be told he quite liked her telling him off. And he could see from the glint in her eye that she was only half serious. He used his left foot to push the holdall towards her. ‘There’s a few things in there you might like,’ he said. ‘Farooqi’s laptop and phone. And Zaghba’s mobile. I’ve got the passwords for Farooqi’s stuff but not for Zaghba’s.’

  ‘No problem, I’ll get it done.’

  ‘Farooqi said that Naveed told him that he had met Saladin. In London.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A couple of weeks ago. He said Naveed and this Saladin met at a London mosque.’

  ‘And do we know who this Saladin is? His real name?’

  ‘They only know him as Saladin. That’s what Farooqi said and under the circumstances, I don’t think he was lying.’

  ‘Had Farooqi met Saladin?’

  ‘No. Farooqi was waiting for instructions. They use the old draft folder technique.’

  ‘You have the email account?’

  Harper winked at her. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I have another name for you, but he’s on the run and I don’t yet have a location for him. His name’s Usman Yussuf and he works for the accounts department at the stadium. He brought the vest in. The police checked his address this morning but there’s no sign of him.’

  Harper nodded. ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘Stay close,’ she said. ‘I’ll probably have more names for you soon.’

  ‘And what about the guys you want framing?’

  ‘What do you have?’

  ‘I have the gun. Untraceable. And I have the spray paint cans. And I have the hammer that was used to off Farooqi.’

  ‘Can you plant the gun? Ideally on some drugs gang up in the Bolton area?’

  ‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’

  Button nodded thoughtfully. ‘Actually, no, I’ll get someone else to do it. If you got caught with it then the whole house of cards would come tumbling down.’

  ‘I appreciate your vote of confidence.’

  ‘You know what I mean. The best-laid plans and all that. Best we get the planting done one step removed. Can you be back here in two hours? I’ll have the gear collected.’

  Harper nodded. ‘No problem.’

  Button picked up the holdall. ‘Always a pleasure, Alex,’ she said.

  ‘Right back at you,’ said Harper. He lit a cigarette. ‘I’ll watch you go, make sure you’re not being followed.’

  ‘Bless you,’ she said. ‘Seriously, Alex. Thank you. In an uncertain world, you are one of the few men I can totally rely on.’

  ‘Careful, Charlotte, you’ll make me cry.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that any woman could bring tears to your eyes.’ She smiled and he could see the warmth in it. ‘You take care, Alex. I’d hate it if anything ever happened to you.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said.

  Button nodded. She turned away and walked south, in the direction of Harrods. Harper watched her go, not because he thought for one moment that she was being tailed; he just liked the way her backside moved under her coat and the way her chestnut hair swung from side to side with every step. He blew smoke at her and smiled through it. ‘One day, Charlotte,’ he whispered to himself. ‘One fine day.’

  Chapter 41

  Present Day, London

  S hepherd’s mobile rang on his desk. It was Don Margrave. He took the call and went out into the corridor.

  ‘I’ve got news on the driver, Zaghba. Our boys just forced their way into his flat.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He’s dead, mate.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Not living. Deceased. He has ceased to be. He’s expired and gone to meet his Maker. He’s a stiff. Bereft of life, he rests in peace.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Shepherd. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Someone smashed a table over his head and sprayed racist slogans on his walls.’

  Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘No bloody way.’

  ‘Yeah, his phone is missing and racists don’t generally steal phones. And there are no signs of forced entry. But all sorts of stuff about Muslims and pigs on the wall, apparently. There’s a forensics team in there as we speak.’

  ‘So what happened? He lets in a racist and lets him hit him with a table?’

  ‘Had to be someone he knew, right? Or someone with a decent story to get him to open the door and turn his back on him.’

  ‘Any idea of time of death?’

  ‘After midnight. Before four a.m.’

  ‘What do you think, Don?’

  The detective sighed. ‘If it was a one-off, I might buy the racist attack. Someone could have followed him in and cold-cocked him after he opened his door. But the uncle was also killed last night.’

  Shepherd frowned. ‘Whose uncle?’

  ‘Naveed’s. Imran Masood. Syrian refugee. He was granted asylum almost ten years ago and is now a British citizen. I say “is”. I mean “was”. He and his family were shot in their beds last night.’

  Shepherd froze. ‘What?’

  ‘Execution style. A bullet in the head for the old man, his wife and their three sons. It happened last night. In Bolton. The north of England.’

  ‘I know where Bolton is,’ said Shepherd laconically. ‘Five killings? There’s been nothing on the TV.’

  ‘Media blackout at the moment until they decide how to play it,’ said Margrave.

  ‘Sounds like a professional hit, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No one heard a thing so they must have used some sort of silencer.’

  ‘Suppressor,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’re called suppressors. But you’re right. Someone would have heard five shots if they hadn’t been suppressed.’

  ‘Hang on, in the movies and on TV they always call them silencers.’

  ‘Well they’re wrong. There’s no such thing as a silencer. All you can do is suppress the sound of a shot, not silence it.’

  ‘Well you learn something new every day,’ said the policeman. ‘I’m not sure how professional a job it was because the killer gained access by breaking a window downstairs. And one of the victims was shot in the kitchen.’

  ‘Sounds rushed,’ said Shepherd. ‘The suppressor suggests professionals but if it had been better planned they wouldn’t have broken a window.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Could the uncle have been involved in the planning of the stadium bombing?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ said Margrave. ‘But there are no recent calls between Naveed and Masood. They could have used call boxes, of course. It’s being looked at.’

  Shepherd’s forehead creased into a frown as he processed what the detective had told him. Could it be a coincidence? Who the hell would kill a family of five? Families did die together but it was usually in car crashes or house fires; it was incredibly rare for someone to break into a house to shoot and kill an entire family. ‘It wasn’t racist
, was it?’

  ‘A preliminary check hasn’t turned up any reports of racism against the family but we’ll dig deeper today. It might be a complete coincidence. Some sort of honour killing maybe. There were three sons and one of them might have been fucking someone he shouldn’t have been fucking. Their community can react pretty violently to situations like that.’

  ‘Yeah, but they usually throw acid or use knives. This takes honour killing to a whole new level.’

  ‘It can’t be a coincidence, can it?’ said the detective. ‘The hairs are standing up on the back of my neck. How’s your Spider sense?’

  ‘I’m with you, it can’t be a coincidence’

  ‘Do you think it’s ISIS tidying up loose ends?’

  ‘Killing anyone involved? They’ve never done that before. And it would screw up recruitment wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Only if it became public,’ said Margrave.

  ‘And there’s no evidence that the Masood family were involved in the planning or execution of the stadium bombing?’

  ‘No, but the uncle has ISIS connections and the three sons were all out in Syria at some point, presumably fighting alongside ISIS. It’s a weird one, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You said the Masood killings were clinical, a single shot to the head in every case?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘That’s right. And nothing was taken from the scene, according to the Bolton cops. Not that they’d know that for sure, obviously. And there were no racist slogans in Bolton. So if you were looking just at the scenes, sure you wouldn’t think they were connected. Except Imran Masood was Naveed’s uncle and Khuram Zaghba drove Naveed to the stadium.’

  ‘What about Usman Yussuf?’

  ‘No sign of him at the house. We got his address first thing but he’d already cleared out. Most of his clothes and personal effects had gone so he’s on his toes, obviously. They got the bag in the storage room and it’s being tested for explosives as we speak. If Yussuf turns up I’ll keep you in the loop. There’s something else you might be interested in.’