‘So you never break the rules?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘I know you won’t let me take the Fifth, so let’s just say I might very occasionally bend them.’
‘Because the ends justifies the means?’
‘Because when I’m undercover I have to be flexible. If I wasn’t, I’d stand out straight away.’
‘And I’m guessing that as time goes by, your wriggle room is being continually reduced.’
‘It’s the way of the world, isn’t it? Every year there are more rules and regulations, more paperwork, more boxes to be ticked. Regular policing has become a bureaucratic nightmare but it’s starting to happen at Five, too.’
Stockmann nodded sympathetically. ‘Have you ever heard of Pournelle’s Iron Law of Bureaucracy?’ she asked.
Shepherd shook his head.
‘A writer and journalist by the name of Jerry Pournelle came up with it. It states that in any bureaucratic organisation there will be two kinds of people: on one hand you have those who are devoted to the goals of the organisation. That’s how I always see you, Dan. You believe in what you do, often passionately.’
Shepherd grinned. ‘I can’t argue with that.’
‘But the other sort of people are those who are dedicated to the organisation itself. They’re usually the administrators, the middle management.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve met my fair share of those,’ agreed Shepherd.
‘Well, the Iron Law states that in every case the second group will gain control of the organisation and will set down the rules that govern the way the organisation acts, and decide who gets promoted within it.’
‘That was SOCA in a nutshell,’ said Shepherd. ‘It was full of middle managers and all they seemed to do was to generate paperwork and hold meetings.’
‘Do you think it applies equally to MI5?’ asked Stockmann.
Shepherd chuckled. ‘Do you expect me to badmouth my employer?’
‘I’m interested in what motivates you,’ said Stockmann. ‘As I said, I think you want to achieve the objectives of the organisation and are less concerned about the organisation itself.’
‘I don’t plan to climb the slippery pole, that’s true,’ said Shepherd. ‘I prefer to stay at the sharp end.’
‘So you’d turn down a promotion if it was offered?’
‘It would depend on the job. I don’t want to be behind a desk. And I’m not sure how good I would be at motivating or managing people.’
‘You were never an officer, in the army?’
‘Never wanted to be,’ said Shepherd. ‘Not that it was ever offered.’
‘But in the SAS, being an officer generally means being away from the sharp end, doesn’t it?’
‘It does in most jobs,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let me ask you something. Am I being sounded out for a promotion here?’
Stockmann laughed. ‘No, I have no ulterior motive here other than finding out what makes you tick. Are you happy with the way that Five functions?’
‘I’ve had no problems with it,’ said Shepherd. ‘There are fewer restrictions than there were with the police, and with SOCA. Generally the people working at Five are there because they believe in what they’re doing.’
The psychologist nodded. ‘I suppose that is the main difference between law enforcement agencies and bureaucratic organisations in general – it’s clear where the moral – and legal – high ground lies. Generally you know who is wearing the white hat and who’s wearing black so there is always a sense that you are doing the right thing.’ She sipped her coffee and smacked her lips appreciatively, then smiled at him as she put her mug down. ‘How’s your boy? Liam?’
‘He’s a teenager,’ said Shepherd. ‘Going through what all teenagers go through.’
‘Those were the days,’ said Stockmann. ‘The spots, the anxieties, the mood swings. He’s at boarding school, still?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘It’s working out well. Lots of sport, he gets on well with his classmates. Best thing for him, especially with me being away so often.’
‘It’s been ten years since his mother died, hasn’t it?’
Shepherd nodded but didn’t say anything. He never felt comfortable talking about Sue.
‘We haven’t really discussed it, have we?’
‘It’s not an issue. For Liam, or for me.’
‘It can cause a lot of problems, a child losing a mother at a young age.’
‘Sue’s parents were very good. And we’ve had Katra for many years. She’s sort of become a mother figure for Liam.’
‘The au pair?’
‘She was hired as an au pair but she’s one of the family now.’ The kitchen door opened. Shepherd grinned. ‘Speak of the devil.’
They heard the sound of laden carrier bags being dumped on the kitchen table and then footsteps in the hallway. She appeared at the door, wearing a long leather jacket over tight blue jeans and purple Ugg boots. She had tied her dark brown hair back into a ponytail.
‘Sorry, I didn’t know you were expecting a guest,’ she said. ‘Do you want something to eat? Sandwiches? Coffee?’ There was the faintest of Slovenian accents but she sounded more Australian than East European after years of watching Australian soap operas.
‘We’re fine, thanks,’ said Shepherd.
‘I got lamb chops for tonight.’
‘Excellent.’ He gestured at Stockmann. ‘This is a friend from work, Caroline.’
Katra flashed her a smile. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘And you,’ said Stockmann. ‘Dan tells me what a great help you are.’
Katra’s smile widened, then she gave Shepherd a small wave and went back to the kitchen. Shepherd turned to see Stockmann was smiling at him. ‘What?’ he said.
‘She’s very pretty.’
Shepherd pulled a face. ‘I hadn’t noticed.’
Stockmann raised an eyebrow.
‘Seriously, she’s like a member of the family.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’
Stockmann chuckled softly. ‘Dan, I was simply pointing out how pretty she is.’
‘You think I’m being defensive?’
‘Now don’t you go putting words into my mouth,’ she said. ‘But I wouldn’t mind exploring the fact that you never remarried.’
‘I haven’t met the right person yet.’
‘So you are looking?’
‘Not actively, no. I haven’t joined “find me a new wife dot.com” if that’s what you’re implying.’ He threw up his hands and immediately regretted it because he knew how good Stockmann was at reading body language. ‘I’m not sure how relevant my personal situation is.’
‘Generally I’m interested because the nature of undercover work is such that it can impinge on the family. As you’re no doubt aware, the job has a much higher divorce rate than average.’
‘So maybe it’s a plus that I don’t have a wife.’
‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ said the psychologist. ‘The other way is that a secure family life can be an asset. It can bring some stability to what is a very unsettling career.’
‘Most undercover agents I know are single or divorced,’ said Shepherd.
‘True,’ said Stockmann. ‘But not many work undercover for more than a decade.’
‘Caroline, what are you getting at?’
‘I’m not getting at anything. I’m just getting a feel for your situation. That’s what these biannuals are all about. Assessment.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘You don’t feel lonely?’
‘Lonely? Are you serious?’
‘You’re a single man in a line of business that doesn’t lend itself to forming stable relationships.’
‘I’ve got friends.’ Stockmann smiled but didn’t say anything. ‘You mean girlfriends?’ The psychologist continued to stay quiet, but her smile widened.
Shepherd shook his head. ‘Caroline, I’m not a monk. I do have my moments, it’s just that I don’t shout it from the rooftops.’
‘That
’s good to know. Look, don’t read too much into what I’m asking. I just want to make sure that you’re socialising outside work, because when you’re working more often than not you’re not yourself. You need time to be Dan Shepherd among regular people.’
Shepherd pulled a pained face. ‘There’s a problem with that, of course. I work for MI5, and that fact can’t be public knowledge. So any relationship I have with anyone has to be based on a lie.’
‘True,’ said the psychologist.
‘That’s the problem, and always will be. No matter who I meet, one of the first things that comes out of my mouth is a lie, and there’s no taking that back.’
‘What do you tell people, civilians?’
‘That I work for the Home Office. Boring administrative stuff.’
‘And they buy that? With your physique?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘My physique?’
‘You don’t look like a man who spends his day driving a desk,’ said Stockmann. ‘That’s what I meant.’
‘I tell them I run, which is true.’
‘You still do that thing with the rucksack of telephone directories?’
‘Bricks,’ he said. ‘Wrapped in bubble wrap. Do they still make telephone directories?’
Stockmann laughed. ‘You’re right. It wouldn’t be the same with a couple of CDs, would it.’ She sighed. ‘I should exercise more,’ she said. ‘My blood pressure is creeping up. Ditto my blood sugar levels. But you’re disgustingly healthy, I gather.’
Shepherd smiled, noting that she had obviously seen his last medical.
‘So, I think I’ve pretty much run out of questions.’
‘And I’m good?’
‘I wish everyone I saw was as well balanced as you, Dan.’ She bent down, picked up her briefcase and put away her notepad. She looked at her watch. ‘Is there any way you could run me back to the station, there’s a train to London in half an hour.’
‘Happy to,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just promise not to ask me any more questions about my love life.’
‘The food could be better, couldn’t it?’ whispered KC. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Hammad was out of earshot. KC was sitting with Rafiq, Sami and Labib, cross-legged around a rough wooden table placed on a grubby green and red dastarkhwan that had been spread across the rock floor. They were in a large cave halfway up a hill that overlooked the goatherd’s cottage where they did a lot of their training. Hammad had explained that the drones that flew overhead were equipped with thermal imaging equipment that would show up their bodies in any normal structure, but in the cave they were safe. It was where they ate, slept and prayed, and bathed from water stored in large earthenware jars. The food was filling but not particularly tasty and was brought in each morning in the back of a battered pick-up truck, along with fresh water.
They were eating in traditional style, using their right hands to dip their naan bread into bowls of lentil curry or watery chicken korma and picking up cubes of lamb from kebabs that had been cooked on a small fire at the entrance to the cave. The fire had also been used to heat a kettle for the tea they were drinking. The fire had been quickly extinguished once the meal had been prepared. There was a very low risk of the smoke being spotted but even so the fire was used only for cooking. To keep themselves warm during the cold desert night the men either snuggled into sleeping bags they had brought with them from the UK or wrapped themselves in rough blankets.
‘We’re not here for the food, brother,’ said Rafiq, brushing crumbs from his beard.
‘No, but would it hurt them to give us a decent curry?’ asked Sami, gesturing with contempt at the bowl of korma.
‘And that lamb tastes more like dog to me,’ said Labib.
Labib and Sami spent most of their time outside training with Rafiq and KC because everyone else had problems understanding their near-impenetrable Glaswegian accents.
‘You’ve eaten dog, have you?’ asked KC.
‘You know what I mean,’ said Labib. ‘My dad owns a curry house in Maryhill and he’d be disgusted with this.’
‘Well, Sami seems to be doing all right on it,’ said KC, gesturing at his colleague’s tight-fitting shirt and the buttons that seemed in danger of popping off.
‘I’ve dropped five kilos since I came here,’ said Sami, patting his stomach.
‘How would you know that, brother?’ asked KC. ‘There are no scales here.’
‘I can feel the weight falling off me,’ said Labib.
‘You’re Bangladeshi, right?’ asked Rafiq. ‘They make the best cooks. That’s what my dad always says. Go into any Indian restaurant and you’ll find a Bangladeshi chef in the kitchen.’
Labib laughed. ‘That’s no lie, laddie,’ he said.
‘You’re not a chef, though?’
‘Me, nah, computers. I’ve got two brothers working with my dad, though. It’s good money, a curry house. Pretty much a cash business, too.’ He dabbed a chunk of naan in the lentils, but scowled at it instead of eating it. ‘My dad always says that his father invented chicken tikka masala.’
‘Get away with you,’ said Rafiq.
‘Nah, true. Back in the fifties.’
‘So you’re third-generation?’ asked Rafiq.
‘Yeah, my grandad came over in the early fifties, back when anyone from the Commonwealth could come. He came on his own and started cooking in one of the first curry houses in Glasgow. Earned enough to get his wife over and then brought her whole family.’
‘And he invented chicken tikka masala?’ said Rafiq. ‘Seriously?’
‘That’s what my dad says. Grandad died not long after I was born so I never got the chance to ask him. But the family swear it’s true. He was in the kitchen and a punter sent back his chicken tikka saying that it was too dry.’
‘Chicken tikka is supposed to be dry,’ said Rafiq.
‘Yeah, you know that and I know that but back then punters knew nothing about Indian food. He thought that all dishes were wet curries so assumed that the cook – my grandad – had screwed up. Anyway, Grandad was a nice guy so instead of going and giving the punter what for, he decides to give him what he wanted. He chucked in some tomato soup, yogurt and spices and the rest is history.’
‘That’s awesome,’ said Rafiq. ‘You know it’s the most popular dish in the UK, right? Outsells meat pies, fish and chips, outsells everything.’
Sami nodded. ‘And yet no one out here has ever heard of it.’
‘By here you mean the middle of nowhere?’ said KC.
‘Asia, I mean. No one in India or Bangladesh or Pakistan would know what the hell it was. It’s a completely British dish. And my grandad invented it.’
Rafiq raised his glass of tea. ‘Kudos,’ he said. ‘And God bless your grandad.’
Sami groaned and stretched out his legs. ‘I hate this sitting on the floor business,’ he said. ‘Would it be too much to ask for a table and chairs?’ He stood up and stretched.
‘It’s character-building,’ said KC. ‘Makes us hard.’
‘I’m from Glasgow, don’t forget,’ said Sami. ‘I was born hard.’ His companions laughed and Sami scowled. ‘Carry on laughing and I’ll introduce you to the Glasgow handshake.’
‘What’s that?’ asked KC.
‘Stand up and I’ll show you,’ said Sami. He beckoned at KC. ‘Come on.’
‘Stay where you are, KC,’ said Rafiq. ‘It’s a head-butt. Aka a Glasgow kiss.’
Sami laughed. ‘Damn right,’ he said. He stretched his arms above his head and twisted from side to side. ‘Sitting on the floor wouldn’t be so bad if we at least had cushions. Seriously, I don’t get this sitting on the floor. They did that because they didn’t have furniture. Same as they wiped their arse with their left hand because they didn’t have toilet paper. Now we do have toilet paper that left-hand business is just nonsense.’
‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Rafiq. ‘You don’t want Hammad hearing you talk like that. He’ll have your balls off.’
&nbs
p; ‘He’s right,’ said KC. ‘Remember, this isn’t just about weapons training, it’s about making us good jihadists.’
‘And good jihadists wipe their arses with their hands, do they?’ said Sami.
‘Seriously, Sami, you need to be careful,’ whispered Rafiq. ‘These guys don’t fuck about.’
Sami opened his mouth as if he was about to argue, but then he shrugged and sat down again.
KC reached for his tea and leaned towards Rafiq. ‘This is the real thing, isn’t it?’ he said.
Rafiq chuckled. ‘You think this is a game, brother?’
‘You know what I mean,’ said KC. ‘I spent years planning stuff, stuff that would never happen. Crazy stuff.’
‘Like what?’
‘You know. Checking the internet to see how to make ricin, that poison stuff. And botulism, from mussels.’
Rafiq frowned and massaged his forearm. ‘Muscles?’ He knew exactly what KC meant but sometimes it was better to play stupid because that tended to encourage people to talk. His MI6 handler had taught him that.
‘Nah, the shellfish. You can bury them in the ground and they go off and they produce botulism. One drop can kill like a million people or something. We tried it but couldn’t get it to work.’ He laughed. ‘We tried to test it on a cat and the thing went ballistic, biting and scratching.’ He shook his head, still laughing. ‘My mate almost lost an eye. Cats can fight, I tell you.’ He popped a piece of meat into his mouth. ‘I drew up a list of kaffirs I wanted to kill. Cameron, Beckham, Prince Harry, had all their pictures on the walls of my bedroom. My mum got a bit worried, thought maybe I was getting a thing for older white guys.’
‘Beckham?’
KC shrugged. ‘I hate the twat, him and that stick insect wife of his.’
‘Yeah, but a footballer, KC? Come on. Politicians, sure. And I get the point of random kaffirs. But targeting the former England captain, that’s bizarre.’
‘If you want to talk about bizarre, what about the Father Ted guy?’ said Sami.
‘Father Ted?’ repeated Rafiq.
‘The guy that wrote the Father Ted thing. Irish but he lives in London. He took the piss out of Bin Laden after the Americans murdered him. You didn’t hear about that?’
Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies Page 6