Shepherd said nothing.
‘You saved a lot of lives,’ said Yokely.
‘I killed a man,’ said Shepherd.
‘Yes, you did,’ said the American. ‘You shot him in the back of the head. And some. Would you care to run it by me?’
Shepherd looked at Yokely for several seconds, then nodded slowly. That Gannon had arranged the meeting meant that Yokely could be trusted. Shepherd just wished he knew what the meeting was about. ‘I was working undercover, infiltrating an armed-response unit,’ he said. ‘As part of that operation I was on the Underground. Armed. There were four suicide-bombers primed to detonate at the same time. One was killed above ground – by muggers, as it happened. One went off above ground. One detonated on a platform at Liverpool Street station. I killed the fourth.’
Yokely grinned.
‘What’s funny?’ asked Shepherd, quickly. Too quickly. He’d sounded defensive.
‘Your terminology is much more forthright than I’m used to,’ said the American. ‘The guys I work with would never be so up-front. They’d refer to it as “terminating the objective” or “managing the situation” or something equally banal.’
‘I killed him,’ said Shepherd flatly. ‘Shot him seven times.’
‘You didn’t think that was overkill?’
‘The two bombs that went off killed forty-seven people and injured more than a hundred others,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can’t take any chances with suicide-bombers. Even mortally wounded, they can still press the trigger. You have to keep firing until you’re sure, absolutely sure, they’re dead. Or in a non-living situation, as your guys would probably say.’
‘You shot him from behind,’ said Yokely.
‘Yes, I did.’
‘So you couldn’t see if he was holding the trigger?’
‘It was a fair assumption.’
‘In fact,’ said Yokely, slowly, ‘you couldn’t even be sure that he was a suicide-bomber. Not from what you could see.’
‘He was wearing a vest packed with explosives,’ said Shepherd. ‘There was a timing device too, so that if he was incapacitated, the device would still explode.’
Yokely held up a hand. ‘Please don’t get me wrong, Dan. I’m not suggesting it wasn’t a totally righteous kill. You deserve a medal for what you did, no doubt about it. I’m just interested in the mechanics of what happened.’
‘I identified the target. I killed him before he could detonate the bomb. End of story.’
‘I suppose it would be trite to ask if you had any regrets.’
‘Regrets?’
‘About killing a man in cold blood.’
‘No one kills in cold blood,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s a fallacy. The adrenaline courses through the system, the heart races, the hands shake. You can train to suppress the body’s natural reactions, but no one kills coldly.’
‘You’ve killed before, right?’
‘In combat. Under fire.’
‘So what happened on the Tube, that was the first time you’d shot an unarmed man?’
‘Like I said, he wasn’t exactly unarmed,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was wired up with a dozen pounds of high explosive.’
‘Which you couldn’t see from where you were.’
‘What are you getting at?’ said Shepherd.
‘Stay with me for a while, Dan,’ said Yokely. ‘My point is that you made the kill without seeing the imminent threat for yourself.’
‘Major Gannon had the area under observation through CCTV,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was in the British Transport Police observation centre.’
‘But even he wasn’t one hundred per cent sure,’ said the American.
‘Maybe. But all’s well that ends well.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Yokely, enthusiastically. ‘But tell me, how important was it to you that the Major was directing you?’
‘I trust him totally,’ said Shepherd.
‘And if it had been someone else? Suppose it had been a Transport Police chief inspector who had made the call? Would you have been as willing to shoot?’
Shepherd sat back in his chair and considered the question. To an SAS trooper, obeying orders came naturally: rank commanded respect, even if the man who held it didn’t. From time to time Shepherd had carried out orders he hadn’t agreed with, but not often. In the police the situation was nowhere near as cut and dried. Promotion had more to do with politics and point-scoring than it did with ability, and Shepherd constantly came across officers whose judge ment was questionable. Working for Superintendent Hargrove’s undercover unit insulated him from having to follow orders given by men he didn’t respect or trust, and that was the nub of the American’s question. Would Shepherd have shot the terrorist if anyone other than the Major had given the order? At the time Shepherd had been working undercover in SO19, the armed-response unit of the Metropolitan Police and while the officers he’d worked with had all been first rate, he doubted that he would have trusted them as much as he trusted the Major. He took a sip of whiskey. ‘I might have hesitated if it had been anyone else,’ he said.
‘Nothing wrong with that,’ said the American. ‘You’re paid to use your judgement. If you weren’t you’d be in uniform handing out speeding tickets.’
‘But if the scenario was the same, with a terrorist about to kill dozens of innocent bystanders, I’d shoot. Face to face, back of the head, wherever, whenever.’
‘Okay. Let me run a different scenario by you. Suppose the terrorist had been on a train, heading to the station. You knew he didn’t plan to detonate until he reached the destination, but suppose the Major had ordered you to shoot him on the train. Would you have done that?’
‘Of course,’ said Shepherd, emphatically. ‘He could just as easily press the trigger on the train.’
‘Now suppose he was walking towards the station to board the train, wearing the vest, fingers on the trigger. You’d shoot?’
‘Yes.’
The American nodded thoughtfully. ‘And if the terrorist was in his safe-house, preparing to don the vest. You burst in through the door. He looks at the vest. The trigger is close by. You’d shoot?’
Now Shepherd could see where the conversation was going. ‘Yes,’ he said.
The American smiled. ‘Because your life was in imminent danger, or because he was a terrorist?’
‘It wouldn’t be an execution,’ said Shepherd. ‘The threat is that he would detonate the bomb. To use the phraseology of your guys, I would neutralise that threat.’
‘Now, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question—’ said Yokely.
‘Would I shoot him a month before the operation?’ interrupted Shepherd. ‘Would I kill him if I knew he was planning a terrorist incident?’
‘Gannon said you were a sharp cookie.’
‘Can cookies be sharp?’ Shepherd smiled.
‘Would you?’ said the American, treating Shepherd’s question as rhetorical. ‘Would you shoot an unarmed man in anticipation of something he was going to do?’
‘You mean, if someone had smothered baby Hitler in his cradle, would millions of lives have been saved?’
The American shrugged. ‘If you want to think of it that way.’
‘You’re talking about assassinations,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m just shooting the breeze with you, Dan.’
‘We tried it a few years ago,’ said Shepherd. ‘Gibraltar, 1988.’ The SAS had mown down three unarmed IRA terrorists who had been planning to detonate a massive car bomb. ‘Shit hit the fan with a vengeance. The media went for us. The European Court of Human Rights said our guys were wrong to shoot.’
‘Easy for them to say,’ said Yokely. ‘Last I heard, the court wasn’t anywhere near Gibraltar.’
‘They had a point,’ said Shepherd. ‘We could have arrested them.’
‘Lives were saved that day, Dan. A lot of lives. And we’re in the position to start saving a lot more.’
‘By killing people?’
‘The world
has changed, post 9/11. We’ve become more pre-emptive with our effects-based operations.’ The American smiled thinly. ‘In other words, we plan to get our defence in first.’
‘Under whose authority?’
‘We don’t need anyone’s authority any more,’ said Yokely. ‘It’s like George W said. You’re either with us or you’re against us. We don’t care what the European Court of Human Rights says. We shit on Amnesty and the rest of the misguided do-gooders. We do what we have to do.’ He leaned closer to Shepherd. ‘Forgive my French, Dan, but the world has gone fucking crazy and it’s about time we brought some sanity to it.’ He sat back and smiled easily. ‘You’ve seen what’s happening. They’re hijacking planes full of women and children and flying them into buildings where decent people are doing nothing more than working to put food on their families’ tables. They’re cutting the heads off men and women who are begging for their lives. They’re blowing up trains full of commuters. They’re not fighting a war, these people, they’re fighting a Crusade – with a capital C. They want us dead, Dan. They want us off the face of this earth. There’s no draw being offered, no shaking hands and living together. They want us face down on a prayer mat five times a day or they want us dead. And it’s time for us to start fighting back.’
‘And who decides who shoots whom?’
‘That’ll come from the White House,’ said Yokely. ‘Decisions will be taken on the basis of all available intelligence. It’s not a sanction that will be applied lightly, but it will be applied, and in my opinion it’s about time. These people don’t fight fair, Dan, they fight to win. And up to now we’ve been hampered by the fact that we’ve always played by the rules. Look what happened a while back when Newsweek ran the story that some interrogator at Guantanamo Bay had flushed a copy of the Koran down the toilet. Muslims go crazy in Afghanistan, the president of Pakistan gets on his high horse, and our own national security adviser, God bless his little cotton socks, stands up and says they’ll investigate and take action. Excuse me, but it’s a book. They’re hacking the heads off charity workers in Baghdad, planning to poison our air with anthrax, doing everything they can to buy weapons of mass destruction, and we’re worrying about a book. I was at Guantanamo Bay, and I can tell you that the story was horseshit. Never happened. But if I thought it would help damage al-Qaeda in any way I’d be first in line to wipe my arse with the bloody thing.’ Yokely took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, that’s just me. I feel pretty strongly about what we’re doing, Dan. Our way of life is under attack and I’m stepping up to defend it. End of story.’
Shepherd sipped his drink, his mind racing. The Special Forces Club was a place that had heard more than its fair share of tall stories, but this one took some beating. He was being sounded out for a job as a hired killer. Under other circumstances he’d have been wired up in anticipation of arresting Yokely and locking him up for a long time. ‘You’re putting together an assassination team?’ he said, wanting the American to spell out exactly what he was planning.
‘Not a team, exactly. More a group of individuals who may or may not work in co-operation on particular assignments.’
‘So I’d just sit at home, waiting for the call?’
Yokely shook his head. ‘You’d be placed with an official body, the Office of Anti-terrorism Assistance, for instance, as a consultant. You’d advise law-enforcement personnel from friendly governments on procedures to deal with terrorism. Bomb detection, crime-scene investigation, VIP protection. All the sort of techniques you’re familiar with. And then, from time to time, we’d draw on you to utilise your particular talent.’
‘You think killing people is a talent?’
‘Most people can’t do it, Dan,’ said the American, in a low whisper. ‘They reckon that up to half the soldiers who stormed the beaches on D-Day were firing high. And you’re doing well if you can get a quarter of the men in a firing squad to hit the target. Human beings aren’t natural killers of their own species. Few animals are. You’re special, Dan. And in return for your services, you’d be very well paid. I’m not sure exactly what salary you’re currently on, but I can guarantee that while you’re working for us you’ll be getting ten times as much. And as much downtime as you need. Full medical and psychiatric back-up.’
Shepherd grimaced. ‘I already have a shrink on my case,’ he said.
‘They’re necessary,’ said Yokely. ‘We’re very well aware of the psychological damage that can be done by taking human life. You won’t be on your own.’
‘And if I get caught?’
‘You’ll have the full backing of the White House,’ said the American. ‘First of all, anything we do will be so well planned, so well thought out, that every eventuality will have been taken into account.’
‘Yeah, and they said the Titanic was unsinkable,’ said Shepherd.
‘Second of all, in the unlikely event that any operative is in the least bit compromised, all it will take is a one-on-one phone call from our big guy to your big guy and it gets smoothed out.’
‘As easy as that?’
‘These are big boys’ games, Dan,’ said Yokely. ‘Big boys’ rules apply.’ He sighed. ‘No one expects you to make up your mind here and now,’ he said. ‘Think about it. Think about whether or not you’re up to it. Whether or not you want to be involved. If so, we can talk again. If not, well, hell, it’s been nice chewing the fat with you. But I want you to know one thing. The world now is a very dangerous place. A lot of innocent people are going to die. As a cop, you’ll be putting away villains – drug-dealers, conmen, thieves. You come and work for us and you’ll really be making a difference.’ Yokely stood up. ‘It’s important work, Dan. It doesn’t come any more important.’
Shepherd didn’t turn to watch the American walk away. He stared at the wall, swirling his whiskey and ice in the glass, trying to pin down how he felt about Yokely’s offer. Could he become a government-sanctioned assassin? Could he kill total strangers for no other reason than that he was told to? Didn’t that put him on the same moral level as a terrorist? Didn’t they kill for what they believed in? Hell, wouldn’t he be worse than a terrorist? He’d be killing for cold, hard cash. He took a long pull at his drink. And it would mean lying to his friends and family. It had been bad enough when he was in the SAS and almost everything was classified. If he worked for Yokely, he’d never be able to tell anyone what he did for a living. It would be worse than working undercover. He’d be living a lie at every minute of every day.
He closed his eyes and leaned back, placing the cold glass against his forehead. The money would be useful, though. A few years at that level and he’d be set up for life. Assuming that men who worked for Yokely were allowed to retire. Any organisation that was geared up for execution without trial would have no qualms about disposing of former employees who knew too much. It would be a tough decision to make. He’d have to think about it. Long and hard. But he was sure of one thing already. He was certain he could the job. And do it well.
Shepherd waited until Liam was asleep before slotting an unused Sim card into one of his phones. He took it upstairs to his bedroom and pulled out the drawer in one of the bedside cabinets. Inside was a small digital recorder to which was attached a length of black plastic-coated wire ending in a small suction cup. He licked the suction cup and pressed it to the back of the mobile. Then, on his work mobile, he called up the text message Hargrove had sent him. He tapped out the number and listened to the ringing tone, then pressed ‘play’ on the recorder. After half a dozen rings the call was answered but nobody spoke. ‘Hello?’ said Shepherd. No one answered. ‘Is anyone there?’
‘Who is this?’ said a voice.
Shepherd couldn’t place the accent. ‘Who am I speaking to?’ he asked.
The line went dead. ‘Great,’ Shepherd muttered. ‘Play hard to get, why don’t you?’
He pressed ‘redial’. Three rings later, the call was answered. Again, no one spoke. ‘Listen, I’ve got something you want,’ said Sh
epherd. ‘Hang up on me again and I’ll keep it for myself.’
‘Who is this?’ said the voice. Indian, maybe, or Pakistani – even Bangladeshi. There were so many possibilities that it was pointless to guess.
‘I’m the guy who’s got the stuff you were expecting from France.’
‘You’re not Pernaska.’
‘Do I sound like an asylum-seeker?’
‘Where is Pernaska?’
‘The cops have got him.’
The line went quiet as if someone had put a hand over the receiver. After a few seconds, the man spoke again: ‘You have what Pernaska was carrying?’
‘I have all his shit. Including the cans he was supposed to give you.’
‘And how did you get this number?’
‘Because I’m psychic,’ said Shepherd, scornfully. ‘How do you think I got the number?’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’ said the man, patiently.
‘Rudi gave it to me and told me to call you.’
‘Because?’
‘Because the immigration cops have got him under wraps and he was worried you might think he’d gone off with your drugs.’
‘Drugs? What drugs?’
‘Look, I wasn’t born yesterday,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s not cooking oil you wanted brought into the country. Now, do you want it or not?’
‘It is our property. Of course we want it,’ said the man.
‘Well, possession being nine-tenths of the law, strictly speaking it’s my property at the moment.’
The line went quiet again. Then a second voice spoke, deeper than the first, the accent similar. ‘Who is this?’
‘Am I talking to the organ-grinder, finally?’ asked Shepherd.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you the guy in charge?’
‘Who are you?’
‘We’re going round in circles here,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got the cans. I assume you want them. How much are you prepared to pay me?’
‘Pay you? For what?’
Cold Kill: The Third Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Page 11