‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m on a day off,’ said Shepherd, ‘and I owe him some quality time.’
‘You are always busy,’ said Katra. She was wearing a baggy denim shirt over a pair of khaki cargo pants and looked about fifteen.
‘So are you,’ he said. ‘Have a few hours off. Don’t bother cooking – I’ll take Liam for fast food. You talk about me working long hours but you’re always on the go. Kick back, watch some TV.’
Katra laughed. ‘I’ve got ironing to do,’ she said. ‘And fast food is bad for you.’
‘Once in a blue moon won’t kill him.’
Katra frowned. ‘A blue moon?’
Shepherd grinned. Katra’s English had improved rapidly during the months she’d been with him and Liam, but she still didn’t have too good a grasp of slang and idiom. Her English was still a hundred times better than Shepherd’s Slovenian, though. ‘It means rarely. Not often. You don’t often see a blue moon.’
Katra’s brow creased into a frown. ‘I don’t think I have ever seen the moon blue.’
‘It’s just an expression,’ said Shepherd. He waved goodbye, went outside and climbed into the dark green Honda CRV. Parked next to it was the battered Land Rover he used when he was being Tony Corke.
He’d barely started the car when one of his mobiles rang. He fumbled in his pocket for it. It was his work phone and Hargrove was on the line. Shepherd slotted the phone into the hands-free socket. ‘Can you talk?’ asked the superintendent.
‘I’m just heading to Liam’s school,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s up?’ He slowed down to well under the speed limit – the main road was peppered with cameras.
‘We found a telephone number under the insole of one of Rudi Pernaska’s shoes,’ said Hargrove. ‘A throwaway mobile. There’s a good chance it’s the contact for the money. We’ve run a check on the phone and it’s never been used.’
‘Sounds like they’re waiting for a call.’ A set of traffic-lights ahead turned red and he brought the CRV to a stop. ‘How do you want to play it?’
‘Assuming the number is that of the contact who’s expecting delivery of the cans, we should run with it. I’ve got our technical team resealing them and fitting a tracking device. We deliver them and see where they lead us.’
‘You want me to handle the delivery?’ said Shepherd.
‘There’s a number of options,’ said Hargrove. ‘You could switch roles, call up and say you were on the boat with Rudi, that he’s been sent to an immigration centre and you’ve got the cans. It’d mean you pretending to be an asylum-seeker.’
‘My language skills aren’t up to that,’ said Shepherd. ‘If I say I’m from Kosovo and they wheel in a Kosovan speaker, it’ll all be over.’
‘Plan B would be to bring in someone who can pass themselves off as an asylum-seeker. We’ve got a Chinese guy on a long-term drugs play – I could pull him in.’
‘Is there a Plan C?’
‘You stick with the Tony Corke legend. Make a call, say you were on the crew and that you’ve got the cans. Tell them Pernaska gave you the number but you’ll want paying.’
‘And if they’re hard cases, I get a bullet in the back of my head for my trouble.’
‘You’ve got a million euros of their money,’ said Hargrove. ‘I would think they’ll negotiate. Just make sure you arrange the handover in a public place.’
‘Then you bust them?’
‘I’ve had a word with Europol,’ said Hargrove. ‘They’re keen to nail down both ends of this operation, Britain and France, and they’d like you to make contact with the British end, see if you can set up some sort of a deal to bring in more currency.’
‘Offer to smuggle in more for them?’
‘Find out why they’re using refugees. And see if they’d be interested in you using a more direct method. We can set you up with a high-speed boat, which would fit in with your Corke legend.’
‘I’m going to be sailing across the Channel on my own?’
‘I’m told it’s no more complicated than driving a car,’ said Hargrove. ‘We’ll have you well trained, don’t worry.’
‘And you think they’ll trust me?’
‘You’ll be handing over a million euros. That’s got to buy you a lot of goodwill.’
‘Why wouldn’t Corke just do a runner with the cash?’
The lights turned green and Shepherd edged the car forward, looking both ways as he crossed the junction.
‘Because he figured he was dealing with some very heavy people. And he’s out on bail facing a prison sentence. He’d be looking for money to pay his lawyers.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Shepherd. ‘Okay, when do I call them?’
‘Sooner rather than later. We’re keeping Pernaska’s suicide under wraps. His wife and daughter will be held by Immigration in Croydon until the investigation’s run its course – Pernaska’s contact here will be expecting him to get in touch today so we don’t want to go beyond tonight because they might start asking questions. Call this afternoon, but be cagey. It’s going to take a day or two for us to get the tracker in place. Make contact, but tell them you’ll need time to think about where to do the handover.’
‘Do I tell them I know what’s in the cans?’
‘Best not – or maybe that you think it’s drugs. Then play it by ear when you meet.’
‘How do I explain that I’m footloose and fancy-free?’
‘Tell them you’ve got a good lawyer and he got you bail. You used your house as security.’
‘And you’ll keep Pepper and Mosley out of the way?’
‘It’s already in hand. So, you’re up for this?’
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’ll text you the number. Be handy if you could record the conversation with them.’
‘I’ll do it from home later tonight,’ said Shepherd. He cut the connection.
He was still half a mile from Liam’s school but already the traffic had slowed to a crawl. Ahead all he could see were middle-aged women at the wheel of expensive SUVs. As a kid Shepherd had spent thirty minutes on the bus to get to and from school, with a ten-minute walk at either end – his parents had been happy for him to go out on his own. At weekends he’d disappear on his bike for hours and they were perfectly happy, providing he was back before dark. Those days were long gone. Now Shepherd lived in Ealing, which was as safe as anywhere could be, but every year across the UK children were raped and murdered, or disappeared never to be seen again. Teenagers were out on the streets with knives and guns. Twelve-year-old crack addicts thought nothing of mugging a kid for his mobile phone and lunch money, while paedophiles were allowed to roam at will. There was no way Shepherd would allow Liam to use public transport to get about, and while he knew that the school run was a waste of time and fuel he, like most other parents, preferred it to the alternative.
Liam was waiting outside the school gates. He waved at the CRV and ran towards it, sports bag banging on his hip. He frowned when he saw that Shepherd was driving. He pulled open the passenger door, climbed into the front seat, dropped his bag in the back and fastened his seatbelt. ‘Where’s Katra?’
‘I said I’d pick you up today. We can go and have a burger.’ Shepherd put the CRV in gear and pulled away from the kerb.
‘You said we’d play football yesterday,’ said Liam sullenly.
‘I got held up,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Where were you?’
‘I had to go and see someone and they were late.’
‘It was a pinkie promise,’ said Liam, folding his arms and staring straight ahead.
‘I know.’
‘Pinkie promises are real promises.’
‘I meant it when I promised, I really did, but something happened.’
‘And you didn’t even get up this morning.’
‘I was tired.’
‘It’s like you don’t care.’
‘I care, Liam. Of course I care – I’m your dad.
’
‘You don’t always act like my dad.’
Shepherd felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He didn’t know what to say, because he knew that Liam was right. Recently he hadn’t been behaving much like a father. He was a policeman who happened to have a son, and more often than not his son ended up playing second fiddle to the job.
‘Do you want McDonald’s or Burger King? Or we could have KFC?’
‘I don’t like KFC much.’
‘McDonald’s, then? Or Burger King?’
‘McDonald’s, I guess.’
Shepherd drove to the nearest branch and they went inside. Liam ordered a Big Mac, fries and a Coke. Shepherd had a cheeseburger. They sat at a table by the window. ‘How was school?’
‘School’s school,’ said Liam.
‘I was hoping for a bit more information than that,’ said Shepherd.
‘We did geography. And literature.’
‘Yeah, what are you reading?’
‘Anthony Horowitz’s new Alex Rider book.’
‘Alex Rider?’
‘He’s great. He’s a kid who’s a secret agent. He does the coolest stuff.’
‘And you read that at school?’
‘Yes.’
‘In my day we did Dickens and Jane Austen.’
‘Who?’
‘Never mind,’ said Shepherd. ‘What does he do, this Alex Rider?’
‘Fights bad guys and saves the world.’
‘And how old is he?’
‘He’s a teenager.’
Shepherd grinned. ‘And you believe that a teenager can save the world?’
Liam raised his eyebrows. ‘They’re books, Dad. Stories.’
Shepherd rarely spoke to his son about his work. He hadn’t told Sue much, either. Not the details. Not that every now and again his life was on the line, that he’d looked down the barrels of several guns, and that while he hadn’t actually saved the world he had fought more than a few bad guys. Part of him wanted to tell his son a few war stories, to see his eyes light up with excitement, but he didn’t want Liam to know how dangerous his work was. In the real world, heroes didn’t get shot in the chest and live to fight another day. Fist fights hurt like hell, and when you did shoot someone you never forgot the way the body slumped to the ground and the blood pumped out of them as they died. There was nothing glamorous about violence, although Shepherd couldn’t deny the adrenaline rush it gave him.
‘What about we go and play football tonight?’ asked Liam.
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can have a kickabout.’ Liam grinned. Then Shepherd remembered Major Gannon. ‘I’m sorry, Liam,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to meet someone.’ Liam’s face fell. ‘I’m really sorry. It’s important.’
‘It’s always important,’ said Liam. He put down what was left of his burger.
‘Come on, finish your Big Mac and we’ll buy you some comics. Maybe a new game for your PlayStation.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ said Liam.
‘Tomorrow’s Saturday. We can play football then.’
‘Whatever.’
Shepherd could see he was close to tears. ‘Liam …’
‘I want to go home.’
Shepherd reached over to ruffle his son’s hair, but Liam leaned back, out of reach. Then he pushed himself out of his chair and headed for the door.
Shepherd walked through Harrods, taking a circuitous route through the perfumes department as he checked for a tail, then headed for the street behind the shop. The Special Forces Club was in a red-brick mansion block, typical of the upper-class residences in Knightsbridge. There was no plaque on the wall to identify it: it had been taken down in the wake of the terrorist attacks in America. The front door was never locked – the club was open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
There was a small reception desk in the hallway, manned by a short, stocky former SAS staff sergeant who had once killed three men with his bare hands. Shepherd nodded at him as he signed in. ‘How are they hanging, Sandy?’
‘Fine, sir,’ he said, with just a touch of irony. There were no ranks in the club.
Shepherd jogged upstairs to the first-floor bar. He saw Major Gannon sitting in a winged leather armchair by the window. Shepherd ordered a Jameson’s and ice from the white-jacketed waiter and went over to shake hands. As he sat down in an armchair, he saw the Major’s metal briefcase by the wall. It contained the secure satellite phone that those in the know called the Almighty.
‘Working hard, Spider?’ said Gannon.
‘No rest for the wicked. Immigration scams. People-smuggling.’
‘The new frontier,’ said the Major. ‘Last I heard there was more money to be made out of people-trafficking than there was from drugs.’
Shepherd grinned. ‘I think that, pound for pound, cocaine still has the edge, but overall you’re right. It’s a bigger business.’
‘With less of a downside,’ said the Major.
‘Yeah. Get caught with a few hundred kilos of a class-A drug and they’ll throw away the key. Get caught with a containerload of Chinese workers and you’d be unlucky to get three years. Plus the traffickers get paid in advance, cash on the nail. The going rate into the UK is six thousand dollars. The drugs guys don’t get their money until the drugs are delivered.’
‘We’re in the wrong business,’ laughed the Major. ‘Here we are, defending the free world for a pittance and the chance of a pension, while the bad guys live like princes.’
‘We get the medals,’ said Shepherd.
‘Ah, yes, the medals,’ said the Major.
‘And we know we’ve got right on our side.’ Shepherd raised his glass to the Major. ‘So that’s all right, then.’
The two men clinked their glasses.
‘What about you?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Much on?’
‘Still looking after the Increment,’ said the Major. ‘I’m doing such a good job, apparently, that they don’t want me to do anything else.’ The Increment was the government’s best-kept secret: a group of highly trained special forces soldiers who were used on operations considered too dangerous for Britain’s security services, MI5 and MI6. The Major headed the unit from the Duke of York Barracks in London, close to Sloane Square. Calls from MI5 and MI6, and the prime minister’s office, came through on the satellite phone, which was never far from his side. The Major was able to draw on all the resources of the Special Air Service and the Special Boat Service, plus any other experts he required. ‘I keep telling them I’m too long in the tooth for all this action stuff, but they just pat me on the back and say I’m the best man for the job.’
‘It’s good to be wanted,’ said Shepherd.
‘Which is why I asked you here,’ said the Major. ‘Somebody wants you. Or, at least, a chat with you.’
‘About?’
‘That’s need-to-know, and apparently I don’t need to know.’
‘Terrific,’ said Shepherd.
The Major sipped his drink. ‘He’s here now.’
Shepherd smiled tightly. ‘The guy at the bar behind me? American, late forties, grey hair cut short, thin lips, class ring on his right hand, Rolex Submariner watch, the anniversary model with the green bezel, grey suit, pink shirt, blue tie with black stripes, black loafers with tassels, drinking gin and tonic?’
The Major grinned. ‘You and your photographic memory,’ he said. ‘But it’s vodka he’s drinking, not gin. How did you know he was a Yank?’
‘The class ring’s very American. And he’s reading the International Herald Tribune,’ said Shepherd. ‘Elementary, my dear Watson.’
The Major smiled. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘He’s very American.’
‘FBI, CIA, DEA?’
‘None of the above. He used to be CIA but now he’s something in Homeland Security. A special unit ans werable to someone at the White House.’ The Major picked up his metal briefcase and stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said. ‘It’s for your ears only, he says.’
‘
Secret Squirrel?’
The Major clapped Shepherd’s shoulder and headed for the door. On the way out he nodded to the man at the bar, who slid off his stool and carried his drink to Shepherd’s table. ‘Thanks for this, Dan,’ he said. He held out his hand. ‘Richard Yokely.’ He had a slight Southern drawl.
Shepherd shook his hand.
‘Can I get you another drink?’ asked Yokely.
‘I’m fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m surprised to see an American drinking alcohol. I thought, these days, you weren’t allowed any vices.’
‘I’m sure my secret’s safe with you,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’m old school. I reckon it’s more about the results a man gets than his appearance.’ He leaned across the table. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I still enjoy the odd cigar.’ He chuckled, sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs. ‘So, thanks for coming. I’ve heard a lot about you, Dan. All good.’
‘That’s a worry,’ said Shepherd, ‘since I’m supposed to be undercover.’
‘We’re on the same side,’ said Yokely. ‘I get to see some very secret files. And your name was mentioned in glowing terms.’
‘And who is it you work for?’
The American shrugged carelessly. ‘I don’t have a business card, as such,’ he said. ‘Or an office. Truth be told, I’m more of a facilitator.’
‘For whom?’
Another shrug. And a slight smile. ‘For the government. In the same way that your Superintendent Hargrove is answerable to the Home Office, I answer directly to the head of Homeland Security. It’s a very tight chain of command. I talk to my boss, he talks to the President. Sometimes I talk to the President direct. And in the same way that your unit doesn’t have a name or any of those cute initials they like to give everything now, I don’t have a designated department.’ He grinned. ‘I’m just little old me. The be-all and end-all.’
‘And your brief?’
‘To save the free world, Dan. To make the world a safer place.’ He took a sip of his vodka and tonic, then swirled the ice round his glass with his index finger. ‘What you did, down in the Tube, that was one hell of a thing.’
Cold Kill: The Third Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Page 10