Cold Kill

by Stephen Leather

‘London is a target. As are most European cities. Our landmarks, our stations, our football stadiums. Al-Qaeda wants to kill, maim and destroy our way of life. And for that they need troops. Warriors prepared to die for the cause.’

  ‘Suicide-bombers?’

  ‘Right. But men and women who can blend, who can move through Western countries without attracting attention, who won’t get picked up by racial profiling. Al-Qaeda targeted two groups as fulfilling these criteria. The first are the Invisibles, second or third generation Muslims born in the West, of Asian or Middle Eastern heritage, but with full British citizenship. We think there are up to ten thousand Invisibles in the UK sympathetic to the al-Qaeda cause, and we know up to three thousand have been through some form of al-Qaeda training overseas. And they started looking for non-Arab Muslims, and Bosnia was the perfect hunting ground. Several of the charities there became recruiting centres for the jihad. The Americans discovered a stack of terrorist-related material at the offices of one of Saudi Arabia’s leading aid agencies, including instructions for using crop-duster aircraft to spray poisons from the air, US State Department identification badges, photographs and maps showing the location of government buildings. Half a dozen charities in Sarajevo have been shut down in the last few years because of suspicious finances. Money that was supposed to be used for the reconstruction of Bosnia has been channelled into terrorist networks. Millions upon millions of dollars.’

  Button pointed at the photographs on the whiteboard. ‘Those are just some of the men and women we suspect have been recruited to the al-Qaeda cause out of Bosnia. And what makes them so dangerous is that none is an Arab. They can fly under our radar, assuming that their paperwork is in order.’

  ‘And you think they could be using the Uddin brothers for passports?’

  ‘We need to know who their contact is, and who he has supplied passports to,’ said Button. ‘It could just be that they’re helping economic migrants get into the country by the back door. Or something more sinister may be going on. That’s what we need to know. And we need to know quickly.’

  Shepherd nodded at the photographs. ‘And these are all terrorists active in the UK?’

  ‘They’re all Muslims, and they were all in Bosnia at some point. And they’re all missing now – or, at least, unaccounted for. The Americans are looking for them. So are we.’

  ‘Isn’t there any facial-recognition system at the Passport Agency office same as there is for fingerprints? Cross-check these photographs with photographs submitted for passports?’

  ‘It’s been worked on, but there’s no system in place yet. Once we have biometric passports, that will change. But it doesn’t help us now. We need to find out who the Uddin brothers have supplied with passports and if any are on this board.’

  ‘And how am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting you can,’ she said. ‘But see how much the Uddin brothers know. See if they’ll tell you how many passports they’ve arranged over the years for what sort of customers. Anything you can get will help.’

  ‘When do they get busted?’

  ‘It’s still being discussed,’ said Button. ‘It depends how extensive the passport operation is, and how closely linked the passport guy is to the brothers. What we’ve got to decide is whether we pull in the passport guy as soon as we identify him, or let him run and watch him. My former colleagues in Five have been informed, and they’re pushing to leave him in place.’

  ‘So that we can see who else he’s supplying with passports?’

  ‘Exactly. If potential terrorists are using him, there’d be more to gain from watching and waiting. If it’s just economic migrants, we can bust him and plug the hole. It could be that we pull the Uddin brothers in for the currency-smuggling but leave the passport guy in place. It’s all up in the air.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’m sorry if it sounds a bit vague, but it’s complex. I know it’d be a lot easier if we were going after a drug-dealer or an armed robber. Catch them in the act and it’s on to the next case. As soon as there’s the possibility of terrorist activity, the game moves up a notch.’

  Shepherd frowned. ‘Game?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Shepherd knew exactly what she meant. He’d worked with operatives from the intelligence services before, British and American, and they often treated their cases as an academic exercise. They enjoyed pitting their wits against an enemy who was their intellectual equal, took pleasure in every victory and were embittered by defeat. Button had said ‘game’ and that was what she meant. Her job didn’t involve putting herself in harm’s way: that was what Shepherd was for. He’d be the one on the ground, risking a bullet in the head or a knife in the gut, lying, cheating and doing whatever it took to take down the enemy. He’d be the one walking into the lion’s den with a recording device taped to his back. He didn’t regard what he did as a game. He put away criminals because they hurt other people physically, stole from them or plied them with drugs. Each case was a battle, and while he often doubted that he’d win the war, he was determined to win every battle he fought.

  Button could sense Shepherd’s concern. ‘It’s an expression,’ she said.

  It was – but it was more than that: it was an attitude. And when you were facing dangerous criminals, it could be a dangerous one. Generally spies didn’t shoot other spies, but drug-dealers most definitely put bullets into undercover cops. When he’d faced Kreshnik in the apartment in Paris, it hadn’t been a game, and it was important that Charlotte Button understood that. ‘No problem,’ he said. He remembered how she’d taken pleasure in telling him she’d followed him to the Ritz. She’d been playing a game then, no question about it.

  ‘I wasn’t minimising what I’m asking you to do, Dan,’ she said. ‘It really is just an expression.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Shepherd. He looked at the photographs and artists’ impressions on the whiteboard and wondered how many of those men and women thought of the jihad as a game.

  Shepherd walked slowly along the pavement, checking reflections in shop windows, more from habit than any fear that he was being followed. The Uddin brothers’ bureau de change was little more than a booth set in a row of shops, with a staircase next to it that led up to the offices. An Asian youth with slicked-back hair was sitting in a glass-fronted cubicle next to an electronic board that listed exchange rates in red numbers. He was engrossed in a book. Plenty of people were walking by, but no one seemed interested in changing money. It was a busy street. There was an Argos, a Woolworth’s, small shops selling electrical equipment and phone cards, and an amusement arcade packed with fruit machines. The bulk of the shoppers were Arabs, and along the street there were several Arab coffee shops with tables on the pavements where men in long white robes sat and sipped strong, sweet coffee and sucked on ornate hookah pipes.

  Shepherd crossed the road at a set of traffic-lights. A huddle of women clothed from head to foot in black burkhas, with veiled letterbox slots at eye level, scuttled out of Argos weighed down with bulging carrier-bags. They waved frantically at a black cab and climbed into the back.

  The youth didn’t look up from his book as Shepherd walked past him and headed up the stairs to Salik’s office. He had a tight feeling in his stomach. He always did when he was wearing a wire. He could feel the battery pack and the digital recorder in the small of his back, the wire that wound round his waist under his shirt, the microphone taped to his chest. He hated carrying digital recorders, but sometimes they were a necessary evil. Devices like the transmitting mobiles and long-distance microphones were all well and good but the quality was variable. Stand-alone recorders with good-quality microphones were pretty much foolproof, so long as they remained hidden. Shepherd only used them when he was sure he had the trust of the people he was talking to, and he knew the Uddin brothers trusted him. He had just brought in seven million euros of counterfeit currency for them and he hadn’t even insisted on being paid in advan
ce.

  On the first floor he came to a white-painted door with a plastic plaque that displayed the name of the bureau de change in large capital letters and underneath it half a dozen other company names in smaller type. Shepherd knocked.

  An Asian youth opened the door. He might have been the elder brother of the boy downstairs, although his hair was longer and he was wearing horn-rimmed glasses.

  ‘I’m here to see Salik and Matiur,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Tony, don’t stand on ceremony, come on in,’ called Salik.

  The office was spacious, with gunmetal grey blinds covering the windows and desks in three corners, each with a computer and flat-screen monitor on it. There was a bank of half a dozen fax machines on a table under one window and a large oval teak table with eight chairs round it. Salik and Matiur were sitting at the table. A tall, long-spouted earthenware teapot stood in front of them with four handleless mugs.

  ‘Tony,’ said Salik. He hurried around the table to give Shepherd a hug. Shepherd untangled himself before the other man could feel the concealed recording device. ‘Sunday was perfect – better than perfect.’

  The youth sat down at one of the computer terminals and began to tap on the keyboard. Matiur stood up and Shepherd reached out to shake hands. ‘You are a good man,’ said Matiur. ‘A professional.’

  ‘Well, hopefully we can do it again some time soon,’ said Shepherd.

  Salik sat down and picked up the teapot. ‘Have some mint tea,’ he said. ‘We import it.’

  Shepherd joined him. ‘You have your fingers in a lot of pies,’ he said, taking a cup.

  ‘You have to diversify,’ said Salik. ‘Businesses are cyclic. If you have only one, there are peaks and troughs.’ He reached under the table and pulled out a leather briefcase. ‘This is yours, Tony.’ He handed it to Shepherd, who put it on his lap and clicked the two locks. The case was full of bundles of banknotes, fives, tens and twenties. ‘I hope this is all real,’ he said.

  Salik and Matiur laughed. ‘You have our money-back guarantee,’ said Salik. ‘Fifty thousand pounds, and it is all real.’

  Shepherd took out a bundle and counted it carefully. Tony Corke needed the cash and he’d be sure to count every note. When he’d assured himself that there was fifty thousand pounds in the case, he said, ‘Thanks. Now I need to talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’ asked Salik.

  ‘My court case.’ Shepherd closed the briefcase. ‘This is all well and good but my solicitor’s costing me an arm and a leg.’

  ‘Lawyers are expensive,’ said Salik. ‘Does he think he can keep you out of jail?’

  Shepherd scowled. ‘It’d take a miracle to do that, which is why we need to talk.’

  ‘You want more money? Is that it?’

  ‘I want Tony Corke to disappear.’

  ‘But you said you’d lose your house if you run. You had to put it up as surety for your bail, you said.’

  ‘They’ll take the house, sure, but there’s a big mortgage on it. With the equity in it and the cash, I’d be running away from eighty grand. If I’m going to be doing more runs for you, money won’t be a problem.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I need a new identity. A new life.’

  ‘You have a passport already.’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t have a birth certificate to go with it. Or any other paperwork.’ He reached into his coat and pulled out the envelope Button had given him. ‘I’ve got paperwork here on a guy who died a few years ago. He was a friend of a friend. He never had a passport so he’s not in the system, but he has a birth certificate, a school record, a university degree and a national-insurance number. With a passport, I’ll have a ready-to-use new identity.’

  ‘But if he died, there’ll be a death certificate and the national-insurance number will have been cancelled,’ said Salik. He took the envelope and examined the papers.

  ‘He died overseas,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was an oil-worker out in the Middle East. He rarely visited the UK and died in a car accident in Malaysia. He had no relatives and was cremated out there. No death certificate’s been filed here – I checked.’

  Salik peered at the birth certificate. ‘Christopher Donovan?’

  ‘I look like a Chris, don’t I?’

  ‘This would make you thirty-seven?’

  ‘So I gain a couple of years. It’s not a problem.’

  Salik nodded. ‘Okay. The fee will be the same as last time. Ten thousand pounds.’

  Shepherd opened the briefcase and gave Salik ten thousand pounds. Then he produced his wallet, fished out two passport photographs and gave them to Salik. ‘How reliable is your guy?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m going to be using the new identity for the rest of my life, hopefully. What if he gets busted down the line? Presumably there’ll be a record of every guy he gave passports to.’

  ‘He’s careful,’ said Salik. ‘So are we. We don’t keep records. We take the money and we hand over the passports. That’s all.’

  ‘I’d like to meet him,’ said Shepherd. ‘To reassure myself.’

  ‘Out of the question,’ said Salik.

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘I guess I can’t force you,’ he said. ‘I’d just be happier if I knew who I was dealing with.’

  ‘You’re dealing with us, Tony, and you have my word that nothing will go wrong.’ Salik put the photographs into the envelope with the papers. ‘Two days,’ he said. ‘We’ll call you.’

  ‘And what about another currency run?’

  ‘We’re talking about it. We’ll let you know.’

  ‘The sooner the better,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It’s not something we will rush into,’ said Matiur. ‘Besides, our friends in France require payment in advance. They do not allow us credit.’

  Shepherd sipped his tea. ‘Can I ask you something about your business here?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Salik, waving expansively.

  ‘I see these bureau de change places all over London, but I don’t understand how they make money.’

  Salik frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, they’re always in busy shopping streets – Edgware Road, Oxford Street, Knightsbridge, expensive places – but I never see queues of people lining up to change money.’

  Salik laughed. ‘You are feeling sorry for us, my friend?’

  ‘No, I’m sure you’re making a living or you wouldn’t stay in business. But the margins are tight, right? You buy a currency at one price and sell at another. It’s the margin where you make the profit.’

  Salik chuckled again. ‘And you think we don’t have enough tourists wanting to change their traveller’s cheques, is that it?’

  ‘I don’t see you’d make big money, that’s all.’

  ‘We don’t make our money from the tourists,’ said Salik. ‘If a German wants to change five hundred euros into sterling, of course we make a pittance on the transaction. But there are plenty of people around who need six-figure sums changing, and that’s where we make our money. You never see it because, of course, that doesn’t happen down on the street. They come upstairs to our office.’ Salik said something in Bengali to his brother, who muttered in response.

  Salik stood up. ‘Come on, let me show you,’ he said.

  He took Shepherd along the corridor to another office, pulled a key chain from his pocket and opened the door. Inside there was no furniture, just a metal door set into the wall. He used another key to open it. Behind it a space three feet wide and three feet deep was filled with metal shelving on which were stacked thick bundles of banknotes, euros, dollars, pounds and a dozen other currencies that Shepherd didn’t recognise, many from the Middle East. His jaw dropped. ‘Don’t tell me that’s one day’s takings,’ he said.

  ‘This is our float,’ said Salik. ‘We do several runs a day to the bank.’

  ‘But where does it come from?’

  ‘Cash businesses that want to convert currencies without going throu
gh a bank. On large amounts we can give a better deal than the banks. Our overheads are lower.’ He smiled. ‘And we tend to be less concerned about paperwork.’

  ‘So it’s money-laundering?’

  Salik looked pained. ‘Tony, please …’

  ‘But that’s what it is, right?’

  ‘We provide a service for people who don’t want to go through the banking system,’ said Matiur. ‘That doesn’t mean we have a stream of drug-dealers passing through. Let me give you an example. A Saudi prince is over here and he wants to buy a car for his new girlfriend. The Saudis pay cash for almost everything. Now, if he’s just come from the South of France, he might have euros. If he has been in New York, he’ll have dollars. He might even have riyals. Do you think the car dealer is going to protest when one of the prince’s assistants produces a briefcase full of banknotes, no matter whose face is on them? Of course not.’

  ‘Cash for everything?’

  ‘The Saudis don’t use credit cards,’ said Salik, ‘and they rarely write cheques. In the UK, foreign nationals are only taxed on the money they bring into the country. So if it comes in as cash on a private jet, the Inland Revenue never gets its cut. Now, is that money-laundering? No, not strictly speaking.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘Then there are companies that deal with overseas buyers and need cash.’

  ‘For bribes?’

  ‘For commissions,’ said Salik, with a sly smile. ‘We get a lot of Nigerians and South Americans. They give us sterling and we supply whatever currency they need. Hookers come to us too. Bayswater and Lancaster Gate are full of prostitutes and escort-agency girls, and they’re all paid in cash. Some of them pull in twenty thousand a week, and a lot of that is in foreign currency.’ He smiled. ‘Not many men are stupid enough to pay for sex with their credit cards.’ He patted Shepherd on the back. ‘So, you see, Tony, there is no need to feel sorry for us. We do good business. Once the money is ours, we can put it straight into the banking system.’

  ‘What about the ten-thousand-pound limit?’ asked Shepherd, playing the Tony Corke role to the hilt. ‘I thought all big transactions had to be reported to the cops and you had to prove it wasn’t drugs money.’