False Friends ss-9

by Stephen Leather

  ‘Couple of questions for you, mate,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do you know anyone in Reading? Anyone at all?’

  ‘Never been,’ said Chaudhry.

  ‘And you don’t know anyone from there? Anyone at the university?’

  ‘Not that I know of. Why?’

  ‘Something I want to do,’ said Shepherd. ‘What about Harvey?’

  ‘He’s here now. I’ll ask him.’ Shepherd heard a muffled conversation and then Chaudhry came back on the line. ‘He says no. What’s going on, John?’

  ‘I want to run you through a training exercise, show you a few anti-surveillance techniques, and I want to do it in a place where no one knows you. What are you doing on Thursday?’

  There was another short muffled conversation. ‘We’ve both got lectures but we can duck them. Why do we need to do this?’

  ‘There’re a few tricks of the trade I want to run by you, that’s all,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Has something happened?’ asked Chaudhry suspiciously.

  ‘No, everything’s good,’ lied Shepherd. ‘I just want to keep you both sharp. Here’s what I want you to do. On Thursday morning I want you both to get the train from Paddington to Reading. The trains run throughout the day and the journey takes about half an hour.’

  ‘Be easier for Harvey to drive,’ said Chaudhry.

  ‘This isn’t about getting there, it’s about knowing whether or not you’ve got a tail,’ said Shepherd. ‘I want you to get to Paddington, then get on the train. When you get to Reading, I want you to go to the Novotel. It’s about half a mile from the station. Take whatever route you want. Once I’m in the room I’ll give you the number so you can go straight up.’

  ‘That’s it? What’s the point?’

  ‘The point is that I’ll have you followed. The guys who’ll be following you won’t know your destination, so if you can throw them off and get to the Novotel without them following you, you’ll get a gold star. If you can’t throw them off then I want you to describe anyone you spot.’

  ‘And who are they? Who’ll be following us?’

  ‘Professionals,’ said Shepherd. ‘They do it for a living, for MI5.’

  ‘We’re going to be followed by spies?’

  ‘That’s the plan. It’ll be good experience.’

  ‘But why’ve we got to trek across London to Paddington?’

  ‘Because I want you to get the feel of moving across the city knowing that you’re being followed. Then I want you in Reading so that I can run you through a few exercises without any chance of you bumping into someone you know. Trust me, it’ll be worth doing.’

  ‘If you say so. And you’ll cover our expenses?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll have a brown envelope with me. See you on Thursday.’

  Shepherd ended the call. He’d bought half a dozen salads from Marks amp; Spencer and he took out a nicoise. He was about to make himself a coffee but then changed his mind and took a bottle of wine out of the fridge and poured himself a glass. He carried the salad and wine through to the sitting room and sat down opposite the television. It was five-thirty and he’d promised to call his son on Skype at six, so he switched on the television and watched the BBC rolling news as he ate his salad and drank his wine. At six o’clock he switched on his laptop and went through to his Skype program. Liam was already online.

  Shepherd put through the call and almost immediately Liam appeared on screen, his tie at half-mast as usual, his hair unkempt. ‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards,’ Shepherd laughed.

  Liam ran a hand over his hair but it didn’t make any difference. ‘Rugby practice,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a big game on Saturday.’

  ‘How’s the rugby going?’

  ‘It’s brilliant, Dad. I thought football was the best but I’m really into rugby now.’

  ‘I’ll try to make it,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Cool,’ said Liam.

  ‘And what about the climbing?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s good fun. I’m getting really good on the wall and next month the instructor’s taking us out to some crag that’s about a hundred feet high.’

  ‘Good luck with that. We’ll have to do some climbing together some time.’ Shepherd sipped his wine.

  ‘Are you drinking?’ asked Liam.

  ‘It’s wine. With my dinner.’

  ‘It’s a bit early to be drinking, isn’t it?’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘What are you, the alcohol police? I’m in for the night, I’m not driving anywhere, so let your old dad have a drink, why don’t you?’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Liam. ‘You’re not home, are you?’

  ‘London still,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘When are you seeing Katra again? Do you think she can come to the match?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Shepherd. ‘If I can get the timing right I can go to Hereford, pick her up and come to your school.’

  ‘Please try, Dad.’

  ‘I will. Of course I will.’

  ‘You’re not going to sack her, are you?’

  Shepherd put down his wine glass. ‘Why do you say that?’

  Liam shrugged and looked away, embarrassed. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on, spit it out.’

  Liam sighed. ‘You don’t seem to be at home much. And I’m at school all the time. So maybe you’ll decide that you don’t need her.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ said Shepherd. ‘Someone still has to take care of the house. You’re at home for the holidays. And I’ll be back once this job is done and dusted. Trust me, I’m as fond of Katra as you are. As long as she wants to work for us, she can.’

  ‘Great,’ said Liam. He looked back at the screen, grinning broadly.

  ‘And what about maths? How are you getting on? Didn’t you have a test today?’

  Liam’s face fell. ‘Can’t we talk about something else, Dad?’

  Shepherd grinned. His son was still young enough to read like a book.

  The Al Nakheel on the top floor of the Al Khozama Centre was generally regarded as the best restaurant in Riyadh. It certainly had the best view, and the tables on its panoramic terrace were almost always fully booked. Fully booked or not, Ahmed Al-Jaber was always guaranteed to be given a table. His connections to the Saudi royal family were second to none and, even in a country of billionaires, Al-Jaber’s wealth was revered. Al-Jaber was sitting at his regular corner table when Bin Azim walked into the restaurant. The lunchtime clientele was almost exclusively male and dressed in either made-to-measure suits or the full-length white Saudi robes and checked shemagh headdresses. Al-Jaber was a traditionalist and always wore a robe and shemagh, even when he was overseas. As always he was accompanied by bodyguards, large men in black suits and impenetrable sunglasses. Two of them stood at the far end of the terrace, hands clasped in front of their groins, and there were two more by the doors that led to the kitchen. Bin Azim walked over slowly, favouring his left leg. He would soon be turning seventy-five and the last five years had not been good to him. Diabetes, arthritis and a worrying tendency to forget people’s names. Bin Azim preferred a well-cut suit to a flowing robe and he always found the shemagh an annoyance, but he wore them out of respect for Al-Jaber.

  Al-Jaber smiled when he saw Bin Azim walking towards him. In terms of money and status Bin Azim was a pygmy compared to Al-Jaber, but he was ten years older and, out of respect for his age, Al-Jaber stood up and held out his hands in welcome. It was Bin Azim who initiated the kissing, a soft peck on each cheek, before they sat down.

  ‘I’m not eating,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘But please order whatever you like.’

  ‘Coffee is fine,’ said Bin Azim, adjusting his robe around his legs. A hovering waiter asked him what sort of coffee he wanted and Bin Azim ordered an espresso. His doctor was constantly asking him to switch to tea but coffee was one of the few pleasures that Bin Azim had left in his life and he intended to enjoy it until his last breath.
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br />   ‘How was Karachi?’ asked Al-Jaber.

  ‘It there a worse place in the world?’ said Bin Azim. ‘If there is I have yet to find it.’

  ‘Perhaps in Africa,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘But there is money to be made in Pakistan and the generals are easy to work with. Everything and everyone has a price there.’

  Bin Azim’s hand moved slowly inside his robe. He was well known to Al-Jaber’s bodyguards but they still stiffened and their hands moved to their concealed weapons. Bin Azim’s hand reappeared holding a piece of paper and the bodyguards relaxed. He slid the piece of paper across the table.

  ‘The Americans had help,’ said Bin Azim.

  ‘From the Pakistanis?’ There was a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses on the table by Al-Jaber’s right hand and he put them on.

  ‘From someone,’ said Bin Azim. He nodded at the piece of paper. ‘That’s the proof.’

  Al-Jaber unfolded the sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of a hand-drawn floor plan.

  ‘It is a drawing of the compound and the buildings in it,’ said Bin Azim. ‘The walls and the exterior can be seen from satellites but, as you can see, the map shows the internal walls.’

  Al-Jaber studied the map for almost a full minute before looking up. ‘And it is accurate?’

  ‘Absolutely. Every room.’

  ‘So it was drawn by someone who had visited the compound?’

  ‘That is the only way to get that amount of detail. You see the doors? The way they are drawn open?’

  Al-Jaber looked back at the map. ‘Yes, I see that.’

  ‘The hinges are all on the correct sides. If the door is hinged on the left, it is drawn that way. And the furniture. It is exactly as it was in the house. I checked with his family.’

  ‘The Americans are saying that they followed The Sheik’s courier to the compound.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Is that a lie, then?’

  ‘It might perhaps be how they found the compound. But the courier would never betray The Sheik.’

  ‘The map is definitely genuine?’ asked Al-Jaber.

  ‘I have no reason to doubt its veracity.’

  ‘They are duplicitous bastards, the Pakistanis. You shake a Pakistani’s hand and you had better count your fingers afterwards.’

  Bin Azim laughed. ‘My contact is solid. He met with The Sheik himself, many years ago. And he has supplied us with top-grade intelligence in the past.’

  ‘Leopards can change their spots,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘Especially ones from Pakistan.’

  ‘I can vouch for him,’ said Bin Azim.

  ‘My concern is that the Pakistanis might want to cause mischief for the Americans.’ He held up the piece of paper. ‘ISI could have made this map after the event. Then leaked it to you.’

  ‘Why would they do that? What is there to gain? Are we going to hate the Americans more because of this map? Of course not.’

  ‘And the timing is very suspicious. Why release it now?’

  ‘It has only just been discovered. My contact says that they were clearing out one of the upstairs bedrooms and they found it under a mattress. The Americans were in there at night, the map must have been dropped in the confusion and the mattress tipped on top of it.’

  ‘So the Pakistanis didn’t search the building after the attack?’

  ‘Why would they? They would have assumed that the Americans had taken everything of importance.’ He held out his hand and Al-Jaber passed the map back.

  ‘What about the Americans? Could they have wanted the Pakistanis to find the map? The Americans might want to sow dissent among our ranks. We start to suspect everybody. Once an organisation loses trust, it cannot function.’

  The waiter reappeared with Bin Azim’s coffee and they waited until he had set the white porcelain cup down on the table and left before continuing their conversation.

  ‘So that is the question we must ask ourselves,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘Did the Americans leave it to be found? Or do we have something that they would rather we didn’t have?’

  ‘The fact that ISI went public is an embarrassment to the Americans. It makes them look less than professional.’

  Al-Jaber chuckled. ‘Crashing their helicopter did that,’ he said. ‘My worry is that the Americans want us to act on this map. That they left it there for the Pakistanis to find, knowing that the Pakistanis would in turn pass it to us.’

  ‘If it was a plant it was very cleverly done. I am more inclined to believe that it was an error. These are the same Americans who crashed their helicopter, remember?’

  Al-Jaber nodded slowly. ‘Then let us assume that the map is genuine and that the Americans made a mistake. What do we do?’

  ‘We find out who betrayed The Sheik and we kill him. Such a betrayal cannot go unpunished.’

  ‘The Sheik is dead,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘Killing the betrayer will not bring him back. One must be careful with revenge. Remember what the Koran says, old friend. “If thou dost stretch thy hand against me, to slay me, it is not for me to stretch my hand against thee to slay thee: for I do fear Allah, the cherisher of the worlds.” Revenge is not for good Muslims; it’s what the infidels do.’

  ‘Then not for revenge, but to make sure that it doesn’t happen again. Whoever gave away The Sheik’s location might be in a position to betray us in some other way. Who knows who else he might give up? We have to find out who the traitor is, find out what he knows, and then. .’ He shrugged. ‘I do not see that we have any choice.’ He sipped his coffee.

  Al-Jaber stroked his chin. ‘How do we find this traitor?’ he asked.

  Bin Azim unfolded the map again and placed it on the table. He tapped a finger on one of the rooms. There were the outlines of a bed and a cupboard and what appeared to be a flat-screen television against one wall. ‘This is the room where The Sheik died,’ he said. ‘It is accurate: the furniture is correctly marked and the door opens with the hinges on the left.’ He tapped a second door, to the right of the bed. ‘This door leads to a bathroom. But last summer this door was not here. The room next door to the bedroom was used as another bedroom. But a builder was brought in to turn it into a bathroom and make a connecting door.’ He tapped the map again. ‘So prior to mid-August this door did not exist. Whoever drew this map could only have visited the compound between mid-August and when The Sheik was killed. That is a narrow time frame. Nine months.’

  ‘And what about the builder? Was he aware that The Sheik lived there?’

  ‘I’m assured that he wasn’t. The Sheik and his family were moved to another safe house while the work was carried out. Only when the building workers had gone did The Sheik move back.’

  ‘We would need to be sure that the builder is not the traitor,’ said Al-Jaber.

  ‘Of course,’ said Bin Azim. ‘But if he is cleared we will then need to take a look at every visitor that The Sheik received over the nine months since the bathroom was installed.’

  ‘Do you have someone in mind for this?’

  ‘I do, yes. A Palestinian who has handled interrogations for me before.’

  ‘And if the betrayer is found will this Palestinian be able to take care of things?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Bin Azim.

  ‘Then that’s what we shall do,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘There is a problem, though. Of those that visited The Sheik, most were being readied for jihad in countries around the world. Do we allow them to go ahead, or do we stop them?’

  ‘If we pull them out now questions will be asked and rumours will start. If we let it be known that we suspect we have a traitor then all trust will be shattered. Suspicions will spread like a cancer.’

  ‘So we tell no one? Only the Palestinian?’

  Bin Azim nodded. ‘I think it is best. Only one apple is bad. The Palestinian will identify the bad apple and will remove it. But we will be watching all our operations carefully. If we so much as suspect that any have been compromised we will cauterise them immediately.’

  ‘I agree
,’ said Al-Jaber. He looked at his watch, a diamond-encrusted gold Rolex. ‘I have to go soon; my wife wants to go shopping.’

  ‘Where are you heading?’ asked Bin Azim.

  ‘London,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘The weak pound makes their Harrods as cheap as a market bazaar. She has a shopping list that is longer than my arm.’

  Bin Azim knew that Al-Jaber had four wives, but he didn’t have to ask which one was going on the shopping trip. Al-Jaber’s first wife was in her sixties and was rarely seen outside the family compound. His second and third wives had borne Al-Jaber sixteen children between them. One was in a top American hospital being treated for bowel cancer and the other was rumoured to be in a Swiss facility being treated for depression following two failed suicide attempts. Al-Jaber’s fourth wife was a third of his age, a stunning Lebanese girl. Bin Azim was one of the few non-family members who had ever seen her face. She only ever wore a full burka including a mesh veil that shielded her eyes when she went out. Even when she was overseas Al-Jaber insisted that she stayed covered. The women of Lebanon were more spirited than their Saudi sisters, but Al-Jaber’s fourth wife knew better than to argue with her husband. The marriage had been arranged — she was the granddaughter of one of Al-Jaber’s business associates — and the union had been financially beneficial to her family to the tune of tens of millions of dollars. In the grand scheme of things the burka was a small price to pay.

  ‘I am using the large jet, but the Gulfstream is available for whoever you decide to use,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘My people can also arrange for diplomatic status and a passport.’

  ‘As always, you read my mind,’ said Bin Azim.

  ‘Only Allah can see into our minds,’ said Al-Jaber, getting to his feet. ‘But I understand what needs to be done. And I am privileged to be able to offer the assistance that is within my gift.’

  Bin Azim stood up and kissed Al-Jaber on both cheeks. Al-Jaber’s bodyguards were already moving towards the restaurant doors, and Bin Azim knew that, far below, more big men in dark suits would be standing by Al-Jaber’s bombproof white Bentley.