False Friends ss-9

by Stephen Leather

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Kettering.

  ‘We put the guns in the base of a container, but we have to fill the container with a legitimate cargo. Fruit or veg is the best. Ideally we have the van in a convoy of legit trucks. Soon as we have a delivery date we’ll let you know.’

  ‘And you’ll deliver them to us in Birmingham?’

  ‘We’ll arrange a drop-off wherever you want, but again we won’t tell you until the last moment. You check the guns, we check the cash, and Bob’s your father’s brother.’

  ‘So we’ve got a deal?’ asked Kettering.

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Looks like it.’

  Kettering beamed. He clinked his glass against Shepherd’s again and finished his brandy. ‘Let’s get back inside and watch the boxing,’ he said.

  Shepherd waited until he was back in his Hampstead flat before phoning Hargrove. ‘It’s on,’ he said. ‘We’ve agreed a price and they want a test fire.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘The thing is, they want forty AK-47s and a stack of ammo. And hand grenades.’

  ‘Hand grenades?’

  ‘Yeah. How do we want to play this?’

  ‘Did they say what they want with grenades?’

  ‘Said it wasn’t our business, which is probably right. We’re arms dealers so why the hell would we care what they’re going to do with them?’

  ‘Ray didn’t say anything about grenades,’ said Hargrove. ‘And he didn’t say anything about forty AK-47s. What are they planning, a war?’

  ‘I don’t think Ray’s fully in the loop,’ said Shepherd. ‘If he was they’d have had him along tonight. They want assault rifles, bulletproof vests and grenades. I tried asking him why they wanted that much ordnance but they didn’t say and I didn’t want to push it because it was our first meeting.’

  ‘Did you get a read on them?’

  ‘Kettering’s not a nutter, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t have marked him down as a criminal. Looks more like an estate agent. Clean cut, bit of a Jack the Lad, maybe. Thompson’s a bit harder but even so I wouldn’t have thought he’d be the type to go on a murder spree.’

  ‘Could it be racial?’

  Shepherd sighed. ‘I really don’t know what’s going on in their heads,’ he said. ‘At one point Thompson went over and had his photograph taken next to John Conteh. And one of the boxers they brought down from Birmingham was a Jamaican lad. If they’re racists they’re doing a bloody good job of hiding it.’

  ‘Could they be reselling?’

  ‘It’s possible, but at the prices I was quoting I doubt there’d be much profit left for them. It’s the grenades that worry me. Guns, even assault rifles, can be used for defence. But there’s nothing defensive about a grenade.’

  ‘I doubt we’ll be getting to the point where we actually give them grenades,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘That may be, but they’re going to want a test fire before we get their money, and they’re going to want to see a grenade.’

  ‘Do you have any thoughts on that front?’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘I’m starting to realise why you wanted me on this op,’ he said.

  ‘I wanted you because you’re the best undercover agent around,’ said Hargrove. ‘But your inside track with the SAS would certainly be a help. If they’re still happy to supply us with the guns would you ask if they could lend us a grenade or two?’

  ‘I’ll run it by them,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do you want to tell the superintendent that the case has moved up a notch?’

  ‘I think we have to,’ said Hargrove. ‘We’ve gone from a couple of wideboys buying a few guns to something much more serious. I’ll have a word with Fenby too. I want to know how the hell he managed to miss the fact that they’re looking to equip a small army.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s Ray’s fault,’ said Shepherd. ‘They were sounding us out, making sure we could be trusted, and the question of numbers came up when we were discussing price. They wanted a discount for volume.’

  ‘And you gave them a price for a grenade?’

  ‘I said I’d put out some feelers. I figured it’d be best not to appear too keen.’

  He ended the call, then went through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. All the champagne he’d drunk was playing havoc with his stomach so he popped a couple of Rennies into his mouth and chewed them as he made himself a cup of coffee. He carried it through to the sitting room and dropped down on to the sofa, then called the Major on his mobile.

  ‘We’re ready to go,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’ve got half a dozen Yugos for you, plus ammunition,’ said the Major.

  ‘I know this is short notice, but how are you fixed for grenades?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Spider. Are these guys going to war?’

  ‘Everyone keeps asking that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can you help us out?’

  ‘By grenades I assume you don’t just mean flash-bangs.’

  ‘The real thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘What do you have on the base?’

  ‘We mainly use the L109A1 but we have all the Nato stuff for familiarisation. And we’ve got a store of white phosphorus grenades.’

  ‘Anything that could have come from the former Yugoslavia?’

  ‘We’ve got display models of the Yugoslavian M-75 and M-93.’

  ‘But not active grenades?’

  ‘Not last time I checked. But I’ll run through the inventory, see what we’ve got.’

  ‘Can I run something else by you? The buyers want to test fire the weapons before they buy. Hargrove is suggesting we do it out in the open. Can you think of somewhere?’

  ‘Plenty of options around our old stamping ground, the Brecon Beacons. I can make sure we don’t have any exercises on the day you do it. And the farmers out there are used to loud bangs.’

  ‘I’m a bit antsy about doing it out in the open,’ said Shepherd. ‘No back-up if things go wrong, nowhere to mount surveillance cameras or mics.’

  ‘You could wire up the odd sheep,’ said the Major. ‘Or if you want I could get a couple of our snipers in ghillie suits close by.’

  ‘I’m not sure that Hargrove wants a full-blown SAS operation. But I’ll suggest it.’

  ‘Have you thought about suppressors?’

  ‘For the Yugos?’

  ‘Sure. We’ve been running tests on them and they work a treat. You still get a bang, of course, but you lose most of the crack. And if your targets are planning mayhem in a public place then suppressors would be a big help. And from your point of view, it would cut down a lot of the noise when you’re test firing. Just a thought.’

  ‘And a bloody good one, Boss. I’ll run all this by Hargrove and let you know. How much notice will you need?’

  ‘Providing I get it okayed in principle, a few hours at most. You take care, Spider.’

  Shepherd woke up early on Monday morning and went for a run around Hampstead Heath in his old army boots, the weighted rucksack on his back. He got back to his flat and showered and changed into a polo shirt and black jeans. He realised that he’d missed a call while he was in the shower — Charlotte Button. He called her back.

  ‘Just checking in to see how things are progressing with Chaudhry and Malik,’ Button said.

  ‘I’m seeing them this afternoon. I get the feeling that it’s stalled a bit.’

  ‘It was never going to be a short-term operation,’ she said. ‘It will start moving eventually. It has to. They wouldn’t put the two of them through all that training and then not use them.’

  ‘Unless there’s a trust issue.’

  ‘Have they suggested that?’

  ‘No, that’s just me thinking out loud.’

  ‘We could think about pushing things forward,’ said Button.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘They could start making a few suggestions themselves.’

  ‘I’d advise against that,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’ve been led every step of the way ever since they were recruited. I do
n’t think now’s the time for them to be coming up with ideas.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Button. ‘But it has gone very quiet. There’s almost no chatter that we can find.’

  ‘That could be a sign that something big is being planned,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s see how I get on with them this afternoon.’

  ‘Good,’ said Button. ‘And how are things going on with Sam Hargrove?’

  Shepherd filled her in on what had happened at the boxing evening.

  She listened without interruption until he mentioned the forty AK-47s. ‘Sorry, did you say fourteen or forty?’

  ‘Forty,’ said Shepherd. ‘And they asked about grenades and bulletproof vests.’

  ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Simon Kettering and Paul Thompson. The Brummie cops think they’re responsible for a racist attack a while back.’

  ‘A murder?’

  ‘A beating.’

  ‘Big jump from that to forty AK-47s. And the grenade thing’s a worry. Sam made it sound as if it was a small arms buy.’

  ‘That’s what we all thought. It was only over the brandy and the cigars that they brought out their shopping list. Sam’s as surprised as we are.’

  ‘So what happens next?’ asked Button.

  ‘That’s up to the Birmingham cops, I guess, but it looks like we set up a deal and then bust them.’

  ‘Good luck with it,’ said Button. ‘Just let me know where you are.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Shepherd.

  He ended the call and looked at his watch. He’d arranged to meet Chaudhry and Malik at three o’clock so he had time to kill. That was the biggest drawback of the job that Button had given him. Babysitting the two men meant that most of the time he was just sitting around doing nothing but waiting for the phone to ring. He wasn’t enjoying being a handler; he much preferred the adrenaline rush of being undercover. He switched on his TV and flicked through the channels, trying to find something interesting to watch. He gave up after five minutes and went over to the bookcase at the side of the fireplace. The books there had been selected by Damien Plant as the sort of books that would be owned be a freelance journalist, so mostly they were non-fiction, reference books and biographies. Tony Blair’s autobiography was there, and as Plant was a diehard Conservative Shepherd figured that there had been an element of sarcasm in the choice, especially as a yellow sticker on the front cover showed that the price had been slashed to one pound. He took it over to the sofa, flopped down, and started to read.

  Chaudhry fiddled with his tie for the hundredth time since he’d sat down at the table. He was in the Pizza Express down the road from the university and close to Trafalgar Square. The restaurant was on two levels and he actually preferred the basement level, which was larger and with more room between the two tables, but sitting at a table on the ground floor meant that he got a clear view of the entrance. He’d arranged to see Jamila at seven but had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and ordered a bottle of sparkling water, ice and lemon. Despite the water his throat felt dry and scratchy and it hurt when he swallowed. He could feel his hands sweating and he wiped them on his trousers, grateful that he’d liberally sprayed himself with deodorant before leaving the King’s campus.

  He’d done as his father had asked and made contact with Jamila on Facebook. She had accepted his friendship within an hour and he’d immediately gone to her page. There were several dozen photographs of her with her family, on holiday, and doing her volunteer work in Pakistan. Most of her friends seemed to be either girls or fellow students at UCL. Her hobbies were tennis and the theatre and she liked listening to Rihanna and Lady Gaga. In none of the photographs did she seem to have a boyfriend and her relationship status was single.

  They’d messaged each other back and forth through Facebook and posted stuff on each other’s walls, mainly music videos that they liked or YouTube videos of animals doing stupid things. Then one day she’d said that she was having a boring week and he offered to take her for a meal and she’d accepted. So they still hadn’t spoken, and he wasn’t a hundred per cent certain that he would recognise her in a crowd. The pictures on her Facebook page gave off mixed messages. In Pakistan she was never without a headscarf and had her arms and legs covered, but there were pictures of her playing tennis on a grass court wearing very short shorts.

  He swirled the ice cubes around his glass with his finger and when he looked up he realised that he’d been wrong to think that he wouldn’t recognise her in a crowd. She was standing at the entrance, looking around, her chin up confidently, a slight smile on her face. Her skin was a rich caramel colour, her hair black and glossy, longer than it was in her pictures, but her eyes were her most striking feature: so brown they were almost black, with lashes that were so long they might have belonged to a cartoon character.

  She was wearing a long coat and had a Louis Vuitton bag over her left shoulder, and as she turned in his direction the coat opened to reveal a tight skirt that ended just above the knee, the legs of a catwalk model and black high heels. As he looked up from the shoes he realised that she was looking at him and he stood up. His hand knocked against his glass and the water spilled over his trousers. He jumped back, cursing, and the glass fell on to the tiled floor, shattering into a dozen pieces. All the diners turned to look at the noise and Chaudhry felt his cheeks redden. He bent down to pick up the pieces of glass but a blonde waitress rushed over and said that she’d take care of it for him. As Chaudhry picked up his napkin and pressed it against the damp patch on his trousers, Jamila walked up to him.

  ‘Oh dear, are you okay?’ she asked, and Chaudhry was amazed to hear a Scottish accent until he remembered that she was from Glasgow.

  ‘Sure. Yes. No problem.’ He carried on dabbing at his groin. ‘I’m such a klutz.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mr Klutz,’ she said. Her grin widened and she held out her hand. ‘I’m Jamila.’

  ‘Yes, of course you are,’ said Chaudhry. He held out his right hand and then realised that he was still holding his napkin. He apologised, transferred it to his left hand and shook hands with her. Her skin was soft and smooth and her fingernails were bright pink with gold tips. ‘Great to finally meet you,’ he said. ‘In person, I mean.’

  The waitress had put most of the pieces of broken glass on her tray. She stood up and smiled at Chaudhry. ‘Why don’t I move you to a table downstairs?’ she said. ‘Save you waiting while I finish cleaning up.’

  Chaudhry smiled at her gratefully. She took the two of them down the staircase to the lower floor and handed them over to a tall Australian waiter with a surfer’s physique and sun-bleached hair. He took Jamila’s coat, showed them to a table by the wall and gave them a couple of menus. Chaudhry ordered another bottle of water.

  As the waiter walked away, Chaudhry apologised again. Jamila waved off his apology. ‘I’m forever knocking things over,’ she said. ‘I just hope I don’t do it in the lab or thousands of people could die.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  She grinned. ‘No, they haven’t let me near the dangerous stuff yet.’

  ‘I never liked microbiology,’ he said. ‘Everything is so. .’

  ‘Small?’

  Chaudhry laughed. ‘Exactly. I prefer patients that I can talk to.’

  ‘But it’s micro-organisms that’ll be making a lot of them sick. Viruses and bacteria, they’re the big killers.’

  ‘Well, cancer, heart attacks and strokes are the big killers, but I know what you mean,’ he said. He winced as he realised how he’d managed to be both arrogant and patronising in the same sentence. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I mean, you’re right. It’s an important field.’

  ‘It can be boring at times,’ she said. ‘My dad wanted me to be a doctor but I told him that I couldn’t face spending the rest of my life around sick people.’

  Chaudhry chuckled. ‘That would pretty much rule out medicine,’ he said.

  ‘
I’m not even sure if I want to stay in science,’ she said. She shrugged. ‘Still, that’s part of the reason for being at university, isn’t it? To find yourself.’

  Chaudhry nodded but couldn’t think of anything to say. He was finding it difficult to concentrate because every time he looked at her he got lost in her eyes.

  ‘Do you drink?’ asked Jamila, looking up from her menu.

  He frowned, wondering if it was a trick question. He was a Muslim and Muslims didn’t touch alcohol. ‘Not really,’ he said. He grimaced. ‘Actually, not at all.’

  ‘Never? Not even a taste?’

  Chaudhry chuckled again. ‘It would be like eating pork,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t even want to try.’

  She put down the menu, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Would you mind terribly if I had a glass of wine?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure.’ He held up his hands. ‘Just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean others shouldn’t.’

  The Australian waiter returned with the bottle of sparkling water. He poured it for them and Jamila asked for a glass of white wine. As he headed off she smiled at Chaudhry and his stomach turned over. She did have the most amazing smile.

  ‘So you don’t drink because you’re a Muslim?’ she asked.

  Chaudhry nodded. ‘Sure. The Koran says intoxication is forbidden.’

  ‘Raj, I’m not planning to get drunk.’

  ‘I know, but that’s not what I meant.’ He felt his cheeks redden again. ‘I don’t know. . it’s just part of me. No alcohol. Pray five times a day.’

  ‘And one day you’ll make a pilgrimage to Mecca?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you give a percentage of your earnings to charity?’

  ‘I’m not actually earning yet. But when I am, yes, of course.’

  She leaned forward and his stomach turned again as she smiled. ‘I’m making you uncomfortable. All this talk about religion. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re not. Really.’ That was a lie, he realised. But it wasn’t the conversation that was making him uncomfortable, it was her striking beauty. ‘Your father. Does he drink?’