The Vallon laughed. ‘We’re not getting steaks,’ he said. ‘It’ll be Spam. Spam, Spam, Spam. Steak is a myth. Like unicorns.’
‘Guys, focus,’ said Shepherd. He was bringing up the rear. Tail End Charlie. He spent most of his time walking backwards, checking that no one was coming up behind them. No one paid him any attention. Hardly surprising: they were kids and Shepherd – even though he was in his very early forties – was the old man. Like Liam, he was cradling an SA80.
‘Chips or baked potato?’ asked the number-three man. He was a Liverpudlian, a big, broad-shouldered guy, carrying the patrol’s heavy weaponry, a Minimi belt-fed light machine-gun.
‘Let’s stay focused, guys,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can talk about food when we’re back at base.’
‘Gotta be chips,’ said Liam. ‘Loads of chips.’
‘You need to lay off the carbs, Liam,’ said the fourth man. He was another big guy, well over six feet tall with receding hair and slab-like teeth. It seemed that no matter what Shepherd said they were going to continue their conversation.
Shepherd faced the front and looked right and left for any signs that the ground had been disturbed. Rocks that had been piled up, or dips in the soil. Sometimes the jihadists poured water into the dips. Sometimes they piled garbage on top. Sometimes the IEDs were in the garbage – explosives packed into a tin can or drink carton could easily blow off a leg.
‘You can’t have steak without chips,’ said Liam. ‘That’s like scrambled eggs without cheese.’
‘Guys, seriously, stop talking about food,’ snapped Shepherd. ‘Stay full on until we’re back in the compound.’
Again he was ignored, as if they hadn’t heard him.
‘It could all be bollocks,’ said the soldier in front of Shepherd. He was barely out of his teens, ginger-haired and stick-thin. ‘I can’t see them flying in sirloin steaks.’
‘I heard it from one of the cooks,’ said Liam. ‘The horse’s mouth.’
‘Yeah,’ said the Liverpudlian ‘That’ll be fucking right. Horse meat.’
Shepherd looked over his shoulder. ‘Guys, cut the chat!’ he shouted. ‘This is—’
The explosion knocked him backwards and his weapon slipped from his hands. He hit the ground hard. His ears were ringing and tears stung his eyes as he rolled over and got up on his hands and knees. His throat burned and he tasted blood as he coughed. ‘Liam!’ he shouted.
He heard a groan to his left and crawled over to him. It was the lad from Liverpool, his face and chest a bloody mess. Half his left leg was missing and all that remained of his left arm was a stump gushing blood. As Shepherd bent over the man he gasped and went still.
Shepherd struggled to his feet. The air was thick with dust and he couldn’t see more than a few feet. There were no shots or shouts to suggest they were under attack. It had been a big explosion, and from the look of the Liverpudlian he had been at the heart of it. It could have been detonated by wire or the man might have stood on it. Shepherd bent down and picked up his carbine. ‘Liam!’ he shouted.
There was no reply. Shepherd moved forward in a low crouch, expecting to hear the crack of enemy fire at any point.
‘Liam!’ he shouted again.
There was another body sprawled on the sand. It was the guy who had taken point with the metal detector. He was lying face down, the back of his head a bloody pulp. Shepherd knelt beside him but one glance was enough to convince him that the man was dead.
‘Dad?’
Liam was off to the left, lying on his back, his carbine at his feet. He tried to sit up but fell back and grunted. Shepherd hurried over to him. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I don’t think so, Dad.’
‘Are you hit?’
‘My stomach hurts.’
Shepherd ripped open Liam’s body armour and grimaced when he saw the damage to his abdomen.
‘Is it bad?’ asked Liam.
Shepherd didn’t answer. He pulled out a trauma pack, ripped it open and slapped it onto the gaping wound.
‘Dad, I’m cold.’
‘It’s okay, Liam. We’re going to get you help.’ He looked around but they were alone in the desert.
‘I’m so cold.’
‘It’s okay. The medics will be here in a sec.’ He peered left and right but couldn’t see more than a few feet. ‘Help!’ he screamed, at the top of his voice. ‘We need a medic! Medic!’
His voice didn’t carry, no matter how hard he screamed. He looked down at Liam. His eyes were open now and he was smiling. ‘Goodbye, Dad.’
‘You’re not going anywhere, Liam. Stay with me.’
‘I’m going, Dad. I can’t stay.’ Blood began to trickle from between his lips. His chest heaved and red froth erupted from his mouth.
‘Liam, no!’ screamed Shepherd.
A bell began to ring. Shepherd couldn’t see where the sound was coming from. ‘Medic!’ he screamed, but the word was muffled, as if he was shouting underwater.
Liam began to shudder. Shepherd held him tightly. ‘It’s okay, Liam. I’m here.’
Liam gritted his teeth and the shuddering intensified. His face was ashen, his eyes closed, his chin glistening with blood and saliva.
The ringing sound was louder now. Shepherd twisted, trying to see where it was coming from. ‘Medic!’ he screamed again – and then he was awake. His mobile was ringing on the bedside table. He gasped and sat up, his face wet with sweat. He sat panting for breath as the phone stopped mid-ring. He wiped his face with his hands, still panting. The dream had been so vivid that he felt part of him was still in the desert, cradling Liam. He picked up the phone. It was his work mobile and the caller had withheld his number. It could have been Willoughby-Brown but as no message had been left there was no way of knowing for sure.
Shepherd slid out of bed and padded over to the bathroom. He turned on the cold tap and splashed water over his face, then stared at his reflection in the mirror. The sense of relief was almost palpable. Liam wasn’t dead. Any war-zone posting was months away, and even if Liam was out on patrol in a danger area, Shepherd was sure he’d be professional. He threw more cold water over his face. He had never had a dream like that before, about himself or his son. He knew why he’d had the dream: he was worried about Liam and what lay ahead. His son had chosen a career that involved putting himself in harm’s way. So long as Liam was a soldier, Shepherd would worry about him every hour of every day. And for the first time he truly understood what he’d put his family through and that what went around really did come around.
Omar surveyed the four vehicles. They were identical and the paintwork was perfect. ‘What do you think?’ asked Faisal.
‘You’ve done a good job, brother,’ said Omar.
‘What about the number plates?’ asked Faisal. ‘They can’t be driven without plates.’
‘I haven’t been told yet,’ said Omar. ‘As soon as I know, I’ll get them made and you can fit them.’
‘When will they be used?’
‘Soon. That’s all I know.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to go.’
Faisal pointed at the vehicles. ‘So we’re done? We just leave them here?’
‘Until they’re needed, brother.’
The camera lens looked like a button, no different from the other two on the black leather jacket. Amar Singh finished attaching the camera, stood back and looked Shepherd up and down. ‘Perfect,’ he said.
They were in a BT van parked around the corner from where Shepherd was due to deliver the hundred thousand pounds to the accountant who was going to get it into the banking system. The money was in a cheap briefcase, a hundred bundles of a thousand pounds each. Some of the bundles were of fifty-pound notes and some of twenties; they were all old and appeared random though every number had been registered. A small GPS tracking device had been built into the briefcase’s plastic handle.
Singh tapped on the keyboard of his Mac computer, tapped it again a few times and a picture flickered onto the screen
. It was the view from the covert lens and the image was crystal clear.
‘Say something for the sound levels,’ said Singh.
‘“Mary had a little lamb, Its fleece was white as snow …”’
Green bars flickered on the screen in time with Shepherd’s voice. ‘We’re good to go,’ said Singh.
Shepherd climbed out of the back of the van and Singh closed the door. They were in a side-street and no one had seen him get out, but Shepherd still spent the best part of ten minutes running basic counter-surveillance to make sure no one was following him, then headed to the accountant’s office. His name was Sammy Patel, his company was Worldwide Equity Investments and it was based in a first-floor office with a florist on the ground floor and a minicab firm on the second. Patel wasn’t known to MI5 and, other than a few parking and speeding tickets, he had a clean record with the police.
There was an old metal CCTV camera pointing down at the entrance where Shepherd pressed a button on which ‘WEI’ had been written in felt tip. The door buzzed and Shepherd had to push it hard to get inside.
There was no carpet on the wooden stairs, and the boards creaked as he made his way up to the first floor where another CCTV camera looked down on him. There was a sign saying ‘Worldwide Equity Investments’, and an intercom to the left of the door. He pressed the button and the door immediately clicked open into a large room with a single metal desk, behind which sat a large Indian man in a grey suit and what appeared to be a pink and yellow MCC tie. He was in his fifties with greying hair, though his eyebrows were jet black. ‘Mr Patel?’ asked Shepherd.
The man pushed himself out of his high-backed leather chair with a grunt. ‘Sammy,’ he said. ‘Call me Sammy.’ They shook hands. ‘You must be Terry?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’
‘Any friend of Tommy and Marty is a friend of mine,’ said Patel, waving Shepherd to a chair.
The two men sat down, Patel’s chair squeaking under his weight. There was a window behind him but it was covered with white blinds. To his left there was a line of pine filing cabinets and to his right a large fire safe with a brass dial and a photocopier.
‘So, Howard said I can be of help to you.’
Shepherd put his briefcase onto the desk and pushed it across to Patel, who clicked the double locks and opened it. He smiled at the money, then closed the case. ‘Howard said a hundred thousand pounds,’ said Patel, ‘but that more would be coming.’
‘You’re not going to count it?’
‘Someone will count it down the line,’ said Patel. ‘I’m certainly not going to. This is a trust business, Terry. I trust you and you trust me. We’re not in the business of issuing receipts, and there’ll be no letters or emails. You drop the money off here and in a week or so it will be in whatever bank account you nominate, less our commission.’
‘And what if it goes missing?’
‘It won’t.’
‘Hypothetically?’
‘It won’t go missing, Terry. End of.’ He leaned back in his chair and spread out his hands. There was a gold sovereign ring on one finger and a large jade ring on another. ‘You think I could do business with the O’Neills if money had a habit of going missing?’ He chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t have lasted as long as I have if I was that careless. The important thing is that there’s no paper trail, Terry. Only you and I know how much is in that briefcase. I’ll get it into the banking system, and I’ll move it around so much that it’d make you dizzy if you tried to follow it. Then, when it’s totally clean, it’ll appear in your bank account and you can do with it as you want.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Shepherd.
‘Minus my commission, of course, as I said.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘Howard explained everything.’
‘Excellent,’ said Patel. ‘Now, how are you fixed for a destination account? It can be in any name you want, though obviously you’d need photo ID at some point.’
‘I’ve an account in London I was going to use,’ said Shepherd.
‘In your own name?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘I’d advise against a UK account,’ said Patel. ‘And the US, obviously. If you want your money close to home then Ireland’s a good bet, or Hungary. I used to recommend Cyprus but they did a deposit snatch a few years ago that put the wind up everybody. If you’re happier about having your money further afield, I can recommend Singapore.’
‘What about Dubai? That’s where Tommy is, these days.’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t have his money there. I always recommend keeping your money offshore. So, Tommy doesn’t have his cash there but you could quite easily use a Dubai bank if you wanted.’
Shepherd pulled a face. ‘I suppose Dublin would be better. I can be there in an hour or two.’
Patel nodded. ‘Dublin is a good call. I can open an account for you if you’ve got a passport.’
Shepherd reached into his pocket, took out Terry Taylor’s and handed it over. Patel stood up and used the photocopier to make a copy of it, then gave it back to Shepherd. ‘I’ll send you a text message saying when the funds are in your bank. Any problems, you know where I am.’
Shepherd stood up and they shook hands again. ‘Pleasure doing business with you, Sammy.’
‘Mutual,’ said Patel. He showed Shepherd out.
Shepherd went down the stairs and took the long way back to the BT van. He knocked on the rear door and Singh opened it for him. ‘Get it all?’ asked Shepherd, climbing in.
Singh pulled the door shut and helped him take off the jacket. ‘Couldn’t have been better. He was in shot pretty much the whole time and you even caught the cat-that-got-the-cream smile when he opened the briefcase.’ He unclipped the transmitter from Shepherd’s belt. ‘Jeremy’ll be over the moon, especially the way you got him talking about Tommy O’Neill. Conspiracy to launder money. Nice one.’
‘All in a day’s work,’ said Shepherd.
It took a ten-man team to break into Simon Page’s house. Four of them followed Page as he left the house, two on motorcycles and two in a BT van. Page left the house at just after ten a.m. when a grey Mercedes pulled up outside. The vehicle he had used the previous night had been from a car service. The driver Shepherd had assaulted was now in hospital, along with Page’s two bodyguards, so the service had sent a new car and driver.
The four followers had been outside Page’s home – a semi-detached cottage in Wimbledon, close to the Common – since six that morning. A search of the electoral register suggested that he lived alone, and a check of various databases came up with the information that he had divorced three years earlier and had no children. The cottage was rented and the wife now lived in Bath, her home town.
The four followers were in radio contact with the officer running the operation, Wendy Aspden. She was thirty-five, blonde, and had joined MI5 from SOCA after five years as a police surveillance operative. She was sitting in another BT van, around the corner from the house, with a laptop on her passenger seat showing the location of the four followers. She watched and waited until they were two miles away from Page’s house.
Another van was parked some way down the road from the house, this one in the livery of Thames Water. The driver and passenger were wearing blue overalls and flat caps. Just ahead of the van, a car contained the lock-picker and his assistant. The lock-picker had joined MI5 straight from university but after a brief period of training he was sent off on several lock-picking courses in Europe and the United States, then spent three years working for two of London’s largest lock and alarm companies. His name was Brian McAllister and he could pick any lock that was pickable and had the override codes for almost every alarm system in the capital. His assistant was a few years younger: Janet Rayner had also joined straight from university, with an English degree from Oxford.
The remaining two men in the team were on the pavement. One was carrying meter-reading equipment and his ID said he was with EDF,
the electricity company. The other was dressed as a DHL employee and was carrying a parcel with paperwork showing it had to be delivered to Simon Page.
‘Tango One is slowing. Looks like he’s stopping at NatWest bank,’ said Bravo One, the follower closest to the Mercedes.
‘Roger that,’ said Aspden. ‘Okay, Clive, in you go.’
Clive Edwards, the ‘meter reader’, walked down the path towards the front door. He rang the bell twice, waited until he was satisfied that the house was empty, and walked away.
‘Okay, Brian, time to work your magic,’ said Aspden.
‘Received,’ said McAllister. He climbed out of the car and crossed the road with Rayner. They were carrying toolboxes with the name of an alarm company on the side. They walked confidently across the road and down the path to the front door.
They had used high-powered binoculars to scope out the front door and knew that the lock was a simple Yale. There was no burglar alarm or CCTV. Page’s landlord had done everything on the cheap.
‘What’s happening, Bravo One?’ asked Aspden.
‘He’s gone inside the bank.’
McAllister already had his pick and tension wrench in his hands. He had decided to do the lock himself. Rayner was good but time was of the essence. He inserted the tension wrench and quickly felt his way in with the pick. It took him less than thirty seconds of massaging the tumblers before the lock clicked open. Rayner nodded approval. ‘Nice,’ she said.
He held the door open for her and she went into the hallway first. ‘We’re in,’ said McAllister, closing the door behind them. Rayner was already kneeling down and opening her toolbox. She took out a Fuji instant camera and photographed the hallway. She checked the print and slipped it into her pocket.
‘In you go, Frank,’ said Aspden.
Frank Westworth, the ‘DHL deliveryman’, strode down the path. As he walked up to the door McAllister opened it and he slipped inside. He put the parcel on a side table under a mirror. McAllister put his toolbox on the floor. They were all wearing gloves.
[Spider Shepherd #13] - Dark Forces Page 28