Soft Target: The Second Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery)

by Stephen Leather

  As the body slumped to the floor Shepherd kept the gun trained on the man’s head and started walking. He fired again. And again. He had to be sure.

  The body hit the ground, blood seeping from the gaping head wounds. The legs were twitching. Shepherd pumped two more rounds into the head at close range. Gobs of brain matter splattered across the platform.

  Shepherd was breathing heavily and his heart was pounding. It hurt when he swallowed. If the man he and Gannon had killed was just an innocent bystander, all hell was about to break loose.

  Slowly he knelt beside the body.

  The phone on Gannon’s desk rang. He kept his eyes on the monitor as he took the call. It was Commander Richards at the New Scotland Yard control centre.

  ‘The vests have timers,’ said Richards. ‘The EOD boys have defused the one in Brixton. It was set to go off at five-oh-two p.m.’ Gannon’s eyes flicked to the wall clock. It was exactly five o’clock.

  ‘Any other circuits?’

  On the monitor, Shepherd was using his Swiss Army knife to cut the raincoat up the middle. He stripped it away as if he was skinning a rabbit.

  ‘Just the timer and the manual switch,’ said Richards.

  ‘I’ll call you right back,’ said Gannon, and replaced the receiver. ‘Spider, you okay?’

  On the monitor Gannon saw Shepherd’s hand go to his mouth. ‘Good call, Major,’ he said.

  ‘Listen to me, Spider. There’s a secondary circuit. The EOD guys at Brixton called it in. If it’s not detonated by hand, a timer kicks in.’

  ‘What do I do?’ Shepherd seemed unfazed by what he had been told.

  ‘The EOD guys say there are no booby traps so you can just pull the detonators out of the explosives. Then rip the clock out of the circuit. Easy-peasy.’

  The man was one of the Invisibles, but after he had fulfilled his destiny he would be invisible no longer: his name would join the long list of martyrs to the cause of Islam. He was British-born of Iranian parents who had fled their country when it was known as Persia, but the man had never felt British. He was a Muslim, first and foremost. It was as a Muslim that he lived and it was as a Muslim that he would die.

  He stepped off the train and groped inside his coat for the button. He looked left and right down the platform. It was packed with commuters rushing to get upstairs and on to their trains home. Liverpool Street station, five o’clock in the evening. The place and time of his destiny. The place and time that would be remembered for ever.

  He walked along the platform. People were still pouring off the train. The exits were blocked and the man heard sighs of annoyance and frustration. He was nudged in the back, his shoulders were pressed tight on either side; all around him, men and women were pushing and shoving, like cattle rushing into an abattoir.

  ‘Allahu akbar,’ whispered the man. His thumb was on the button. God is great.

  No, he thought. It wasn’t something to be whispered, as if he was ashamed of what he was doing. There was no shame. He was proud to die in the service of Allah. It was something to be shouted with pride.

  ‘Allahu akbar!’ he screamed. Angry faces glared at him. ‘Allahu akbar!’ he cried, and pressed the button.

  Shepherd ran his hands down the vest. There were four pockets in the back, each with a slab of explosive wrapped in nails. Wires led from the front to the explosives. Shepherd tugged at one and a thin metal cylinder the size of a cigarette eased out. Shepherd quickly pulled out the other three detonators, then rolled the body over. There were six pockets on the front of the vest, three on each side of the chest. Shepherd used both hands to pull out the detonators. Then he grabbed the wiring cluster and yanked it away from the vest. A digital clock emerged from a pocket. Shepherd grabbed it and pulled out the wires. He stared at the digital readout: 17:01.

  The main set burst into life. ‘MP, Trojan Five Six Nine, are you receiving?’ A man’s voice.

  Sutherland reached over and picked up the microphone. ‘Trojan Five Six Nine, receiving.’

  ‘Trojan Five Six Nine, we’ve just received intel on the bomb in Brixton. There is a secondary circuit attached to the device, activated by a timer.’

  Sutherland stared through the windscreen at Rose. He was holding the Arab’s raincoat open.

  ‘What do we do?’ asked Sutherland.

  ‘Is there an EOD team there yet?’

  ‘Negative,’ said Sutherland.

  ‘The detonators can be removed from the explosive,’ said the controller. ‘Just slide them out. What is your situation there?’

  ‘Trojan Five Six Nine, hang on . . .’ Sutherland got out of the car and waved both hands above his head. ‘Sarge! Sarge!’

  Rose turned, still holding open the raincoat.

  Before Sutherland could say more, Malik and Rose were engulfed by light. The two men were vaporised as the ten kilos of Semtex exploded. A hundred yards away, Sutherland was flung back against the car by the force of the explosion.

  The Saudi watched the BBC reporter detail the casualties. Forty-seven dead, including a police officer. Over a hundred injured. Third time lucky. Only two explosions, and one had been above ground, but it had been more than enough. The TV images of the dead and dying were winging their way round the world. There would be more pressure on the British government to pull out of Iraq. More protests in the streets. More recruits eager to join the ranks of al-Qaeda, willing to sacrifice themselves in the war against the infidel.

  The Saudi knew it was time to move on. He had done his work in London. He already had his ticket for Thailand. It would soon be the peak tourist season in Phuket, the island in the south of the country. Much of the population in the south was Muslim and the Saudi already had three cells in place, planning his next operation. The bar area of Patong was a prime target, packed every night with Australians, Americans and Brits. It was a soft target, the sort the Saudi preferred.

  He would be travelling on a British passport so he wouldn’t need a visa. He would automatically be granted a month’s stay on arrival. The Saudi had held British citizenship for more than twelve years. His father had invested heavily in the country and had made large donations to both major political parties. He had offered his hospitality to MPs from across the political spectrum, and over the years several dozen had enjoyed themselves on yachts in the South of France, in hotels in Dubai and on the family’s stud farm in Ireland. His application for citizenship for himself and his family had gone through smoothly, boosted by the fact he had signed a half-billion-pound contract with a British construction company. The government had bent over backwards to welcome the Saudi’s father, even though in private the man made no secret of his hatred for the British. They were there to be used, he said. They granted citizenship to anyone willing to pay for it, allowed outsiders to live in their country without paying taxes, allowed foreigners to buy everything from land to their football teams. They had no pride in their country and were prepared to prostitute themselves to the world. They deserved what they got.

  The Saudi had been educated at a top public school, his entrance facilitated by his father’s multi-million-pound donation towards a new science wing. No bribe had been necessary to get into the London School of Economics: the Saudi had won his place on merit. With his perfect English, first-class degree and wealthy family, the world was at the Saudi’s feet. But his hatred of the West matched his father’s, and he had devoted his life to bringing the West to its knees.

  The Qur’a¯n promised unlimited sex with seventy-two black-eyed virgins to the martyrs who sacrificed their lives for Islam. Virgins as beautiful as rubies, with complexions like diamonds and pearls. The Qur’a¯n said that martyrs went straight to heaven and that places would be saved for seventy relatives. There would be eighty thousand servants to take care of them. And they would see the face of Allah Himself. It was all nonsense,the Saudi knew. The Qur’a¯n also said that suicide was wrong. A sin. And it forbade the killing of women, children and old people, even for jihad. The Saudi didn
’t believe in the virgins and didn’t believe in heaven. But he did believe in punishing America and her allies, striking where it hurt until they removed their forces from Muslim territories around the world.

  He walked over to his prayer mat and knelt facing Mecca. For the next hour he bowed and prayed, offering his life to the jihad and asking to be lucky again.

  Shepherd and the superintendent walked together along the path through the gravestones, some more than a hundred years old. The superintendent’s driver stood by the official Rover at the entrance to the churchyard, ready to open the rear door. ‘It was a good service,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘He was a good cop,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘A good cop gone bad.’

  There was going to be a headstone, but there had been no coffin and no body. Rose’s Kevlar vest had been found intact, and there was some metal from his weapons but not a fragment of bone or soft tissue.

  ‘Rose did what he did for his family,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘He killed two people for money.’

  ‘They were drugs-dealers and they shot first.’

  ‘That was his story,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘I believe him.’

  ‘He was ripping off drugs-dealers, and because of that Andy Ormsby died along with the two Yardies, don’t forget that.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Shepherd. ‘But he was still a good cop.’

  ‘And as far as the world’s concerned that’s all he was,’ said Hargrove. ‘His family gets the insurance, his pension and a medal for the sideboard.’

  ‘No one gets to know?’

  ‘Just you and me. And the commissioner. He figures we should let sleeping dogs lie.’

  ‘That’s one hell of a decision.’

  Hargrove shrugged.‘Rose is dead. The money’s probably hidden offshore where no one will ever find it. What’s served by going public? We tell the world that the capital’s armed police can’t be trusted? The way it is now, Keith Rose was a hero. And the way things are at the moment, we need all the heroes we can get.’

  Ken Swift walked out of the church in full uniform. With him was Rose’s widow, dressed in black and clutching a shiny black handbag. She had her arm through his and as they walked he bent down to whisper something in her ear.

  ‘And Rose’s daughter gets to go to America for her operation? On the insurance money?’

  ‘The Met is footing the bill. She’s the daughter of a dead hero. They didn’t have a choice. So all’s well that ends well.’

  ‘Depends which way you look at it,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘If he hadn’t died as he did there’d have been a court case followed by life in a cat-A prison and the kid would have died in an NHS hospital. Given the choice, I know which I’d prefer.’

  Shepherd sighed. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  Swift helped Mrs Rose towards a waiting limousine. Briefly he locked eyes with Shepherd, then nodded, almost imperceptibly, and got into the car with her.

  ‘Swift?’

  ‘We can’t charge him without revealing Rose’s wrongdoing. He’s taking early retirement next week.’

  ‘Keeps his pension?’

  ‘Let it go, Spider.’

  The limousine drove away.

  ‘He told us where Ormsby was buried,’ Hargrove added. ‘Now the lad can have a proper funeral.’

  ‘What about Ormsby’s family?’

  ‘There isn’t one. He was an only child. Parents died when he was a teenager. No wife.’

  ‘Swift knows who I am. And what I did.’

  ‘He can’t say anything. He knows what will happen if he does. You did a good job, Spider.’

  ‘I’ll take some convincing of that.’

  ‘Take some time off. Go and be a dad for a while.’

  ‘For a while? It doesn’t work like that and you know it. You’re either a good father or you’re not. Over the last few months I’ve been a crap one.’

  ‘That’s why I said take some time off.’

  ‘And then what? I come back to investigate more cops? Hound some other poor bastard until he decides that his only option is to kill himself.’

  ‘Keith Rose didn’t kill himself. He died trying to save lives.’

  ‘You can keep telling yourself that,’ said Shepherd, ‘but we know what really happened.’

  ‘It was his choice,’ said Hargrove.

  ‘I know,’ said Shepherd. ‘But you know as well as I do, sometimes choices aren’t really choices at all.’

  CONTENTS

  Soft Target

  Praise for Stephen Leather

  Also by Stephen Leather

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Book

  Special Offer