The PC grinned. ‘The name on the side is probably a clue,’ he said.
‘Sure, but we don’t take anything for granted,’ said Shepherd. He went over to Hurry, who was munching on a slice of pizza. ‘Do you mind?’ asked Shepherd, pointing at the pizza.
‘Help yourself,’ said Hurry. ‘You paid for it.’
Shepherd took a slice and sat down next to the sergeant. ‘How are we getting on inside the stadium?’
‘Slowly but surely,’ said Hurry. He had a diagram of the stadium on his desk and he had plotted the jihadist’s progress using small red crosses. Numbers by the crosses referenced the CCTV camera that had picked up the image. ‘He turned left, and walked around for a bit, to-ing and fro-ing. He kept checking his watch as if he was waiting for something. Or someone.’
‘Did he talk to anybody?’
Hurry shook his head. ‘No. But ten minutes after entering the stadium he went to the Gents.’
‘Could he have picked up the vest there?’
‘I don’t think so. He was in and out within ninety seconds. I don’t think that would be enough time to get his coat off, fit a vest and put his coat back on.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Okay. Could he have met a contact in there?’
‘It’s possible. We’re looking to see if any members of staff went in prior to Naveed.’
‘What did he do after visiting the toilets?’
‘He walked around. So far we haven’t seen him talk to anybody. But he used his mobile twice.’
‘Does it look as if he was waiting for anyone?’ asked Shepherd.
‘It’s difficult to say,’ said Hurry. ‘He’s was looking around and you can sense that he’s nervous, but given what he intended to do, that’s understandable.’
Shepherd patted him on the shoulder and walked back to his own terminal. He needed to tell Patsy Ellis about the van that Naveed had arrived in but he didn’t want to do that with more than a dozen officers in earshot. He looked at his watch. It was half past twelve. Ellis had said to call her at any time so he’d put that to the test.
The canteen was open twenty-four hours a day, though at night there were only sandwiches and muffins on offer. Shepherd bought a chicken salad sandwich and a coffee and took it to a table by the windows. There were only two other officers there and they were deep in conversation on the other side of the room. He took out his phone and rang Ellis. She answered almost immediately so he figured she wasn’t in bed yet, and he quickly filled her in on the details of the van that had delivered Naveed to the stadium.
‘What about the vest?’ she asked. ‘Do we know how he got it?’
‘We’re working both ends as we speak,’ said Shepherd. ‘We see him come into the stadium and we know where he was when he detonated, so it’s just a matter of time. I’d say we’ll have reviewed all the relevant footage by midday.’
‘Excellent, Dan, thank you. And please, keep me informed. As I said, night or day, don’t worry about the hour.’
‘Understood,’ said Shepherd. He ended the call and went back downstairs. Hurry was sitting back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. ‘You need a break,’ said Shepherd. ‘We all do.’
‘What about you?’ asked Hurry. ‘You’ve been here longer than me.’
‘I’m going to pop home to shower and change, maybe grab a nap,’ said Shepherd. He knew from experience that working too long could be counterproductive when it came to facial recognition; it was easy to overlook something when the brain was tired. The unit recommended that its operators didn’t stare at the screens for more than thirty minutes without a break, and ideally they should get up and walk around for at least five minutes.
‘I’ll probably do the same in about an hour,’ said Hurry. ‘I’ve got two more operators coming in. I’ll brief them and then head off. I’ll have them follow the van. We have the stadium footage in hand.’
‘If anyone does spot Naveed getting the vest, call me right away,’ said Shepherd.
‘Definitely,’ said Hurry. He sipped his coffee, blinked his eyes several times and stared at his screen again. Shepherd headed for the lift.
Chapter 23
Present Day, Birmingham
H arper showered and changed and switched on the TV to watch Sky News. The stadium death toll had now passed thirty. Five were children. He had bought a couple of sandwiches and a coffee at a service station on the drive back and he was just about to take a bite out of the second one when his mobile rang. It was O’Hara. Harper said he would meet him in the hotel bar and ten minutes later he found the Irishman on a stool nursing a pint of Guinness. O’Hara grinned when Harper walked in. He slid off his bar stool and embraced him in a crushing bear hug.
‘Fuck me, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ said O’Hara. ‘How long’s it been?’
‘Three years? Berlin?’
O’Hara grinned. ‘Yeah. Berlin.’ He was a big man, a few inches over six feet tall and almost as wide, with a square jaw and slicked-back greying hair. He was wearing a caramel brown leather jacket that was stretched across his broad shoulders as if the seams would burst at any moment. He waved at the stool next to his and the two men sat down. Harper ordered a beer and they waited until the barman had served him before continuing their conversation.
‘So Jony says you’re at a loose end,’ said Harper.
O’Hara’s eyes narrowed. ‘Yeah? What else did he say?’
Harper held up his hands. ‘Mate, he’s all about client confidentiality. He just said a job fell through, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, he’s fucking right,’ said the Irishman. ‘Bloody nightmare. A couple of business types fell out big time and one was selling off assets on the cheap to his friends. Stripping the company. The other partner hires me to do the job, and pays a third up front. I do all the planning, get the kit, I’m all revved up and ready to go and the target keels over and dies. Heart attack. Getting out of his car and he just dies.’
‘How close were you to carrying out the contract?’
‘I was going to do him in the morning when he left his house. I mean, how fucking unlucky was I, huh? All my ducks in a row and the guy goes and dies of natural causes.’
‘So the client wouldn’t pay the balance?’
O’Hara shrugged. ‘Wasn’t much I could do, was there? Okay, I could have got heavy with him but then word would get around. I’d be the guy who charges for work he doesn’t do, and you know as well as I do that your reputation is all you have in this business.’
‘I hear you,’ said Harper. ‘But long story short, you’re available?’
‘I’m here, aren’t I? What’s the job?’
‘Two jobs. Syrians who may or may not have been up to no good.’
O’Hara frowned. ‘So it’s a government job? You know I’m not sanctioned for Pool work?’
‘It’s complicated,’ said Harper. ‘But I’ll pay you your normal rate and both jobs should be easy enough. Are you up for it?’
‘Fuck, yeah,’ said O’Hara. ‘You know I’d love to be part of the Pool and have the old get-out-of-jail-free card.’
‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Harper. ‘Anyway, the two hits are a young Syrian refugee here in Birmingham. Israr Farooqi. I have an address and the plan is to do him tonight. The other target is another Syrian, Imran Masood. He lives in Bolton. I was planning on doing him first thing in the morning.’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ said O’Hara.
‘I’m figuring straightforward hits, but we need to do something creative, point the finger at a racist group. Maybe plant the gun down the line.’
O’Hara nodded. ‘How much?’
‘Five grand each. Really I just need another pair of eyes. I’m happy to pull the trigger.’
‘Ten for the two works,’ said O’Hara. He rubbed his hands together. ‘When do you want to get started?”
Harper raised his glass. ‘As soon as we’re done with these.’ His iPod Touch vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and looked at the screen. It was a message f
rom Charlotte Button. A name and address. Khuram Zaghba. A house in Acton, West London. And a picture of an Asian male with a neatly trimmed beard. And a note: Target Three. Treat as priority.
Harper put the iPod away and picked up his glass. He raised it in salute to O’Hara. ‘Looks like we’re going to be busy,’ he said. ‘We need to get to London, pronto.’
Chapter 24
Present Day, London
S hepherd let himself into the riverside apartment that he had been renting for the past six months. ‘Dan?’ called Katra from the kitchen.
‘No, it’s a heavily armed burglar come to strip you of your valuables,’ said Shepherd, taking off his coat and hanging it on the back of the door.
Katra came out of the kitchen, grinning. ‘Why would you say that?’ she laughed, before giving him a hug that turned quickly into a kiss.
He returned the kiss and pressed himself against her. He wasn’t happy at the role he’d been given at work, but the one upside was that he was able to spend more time with Katra. She had moved down from their house in Hereford and up until the stadium bombing he had been home every evening by seven o’clock at the latest, and they’d been able to spend pretty much every weekend together. It was a much more stable lifestyle than his undercover days and Katra clearly relished the time she spent with him. While Shepherd was equally happy to have more time to spend with her, he hadn’t switched from the Serious Organised Crime Agency to MI5 to spend all day sitting in front of a terminal watching CCTV footage and he wanted to get back to what he did best – undercover work.
‘I thought I said you should go to bed?’ said Shepherd.
‘I wanted to wait for you. Are you hungry?’
‘I’m tired more than hungry,’ he said. ‘But yes, I guess I should eat.’
‘There’s bograc in the oven.’
Bograc was one of Katra’s Slovenian culinary specialities, a sort of beef goulash, and one of Shepherd’s favourites. ‘Sounds good,’ he said. ‘Let me shower first.’
He headed to the bathroom while Katra went back into the kitchen. It was only when he stood in the shower that he realised just how tired he was. The adrenaline had been full on while he had been working but as the hot water played over his body he felt a sudden urge to burrow beneath the covers and sleep.
He dried himself and changed into fresh clothes before going through to the kitchen, where Katra had a plate of steaming bograc in a bowl on a plate with a stick of freshly baked crusty bread. She had opened a bottle of red wine and she poured some into a glass as he sat down. ‘I can’t drink, baby,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go back to the office.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘It’s night-time, Dan.’
‘We’re on a big case,’ he said. He picked up a fork. ‘That suicide bomber at the football stadium. We have to check all the CCTV.’
‘But anyone can do that, surely.’
‘Thank you very much,’ he said.
‘You know what I mean,’ she said, sitting down opposite him. ‘It’s just checking cameras, isn’t it?’
‘There’s a bit more to it than that,’ he said, but actually he knew that Katra was right. When it came to the ability to recognise faces, he was no better or worse than any other member of the unit. He picked up his glass and toasted her. ‘But one glass isn’t going to hurt.’
She forced a smile, picked up her glass and clinked it against his. They both drank, then Shepherd tucked into his meal. He was on his third mouthful when his mobile rang. It was George Hurry. ‘We’ve got him getting the vest,’ said Hurry.
‘I’m on my way,’ said Shepherd. He ended the call and looked over at Katra. It was clear from her crestfallen expression that she knew what was happening. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Katra shrugged. ‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘It’s bograc. It’ll keep.’ She gathered up the plates and put them in the oven. Shepherd could see that she was unhappy but right then there was nothing he could say or do that would make it better, so he just grabbed his coat and headed for the door.
Chapter 25
Ten Years Ago, Sarajevo
R ichard Yokely and Gerry McNee flew into Sarajevo on the same Austrian Airlines flight, but sitting in different parts of the plane. McNee flew economy and Yokely was at the front of the plane. Yokely could have pulled rank but a team was a team so they had played rock, paper, scissors and he’d got the better seat anyway. Leclerc had sent a man to pick them up. He was in his fifties wearing a scuffed leather jacket and a flat cap and holding a piece of cardboard with the words MR WOLF on it. Leclerc’s attempt at humour. Yokely nodded at the man. ‘I’m Mr Wolf,’ he said. McNee suppressed a smile and shook his head.
The man took a mobile phone from his pocket and gave it to Yokely, then headed out of the terminal. Yokely checked the phone as they walked over to a battered Mercedes. There was a single number in the contacts book and he called it as the man took their bags and put them in the trunk.
‘Welcome to Sarajevo,’ said Leclerc. ‘The driver is Zoran. He looks shabby but I’ve used him before and he’s a hundred per cent reliable. I’ve got Kleintank under surveillance as we speak so best you meet me here. Zoran knows where to drop you. Call me again when you’re on the street.’
Yokely and McNee climbed into the Mercedes – Yokely in the front and McNee behind the driver – and they headed west away from the terminal. Yokely had been to Sarajevo several times over the years, and it wasn’t one of his favourite cities, even before the conflict had ripped the former Yugoslavia apart. The conflict had officially ended in 1999 but much of the bullet and shell damage had yet to be repaired. Sarajevo had been under siege by the Bosnian Serb Army from April 1992 until the end of February 1996, during which time almost fourteen thousand men, women and children were killed. Now the city was bustling with shoppers and students and new tower blocks were appearing everywhere.
They drove through the city centre, some of the roads still pockmarked with damage from mortars, then down a narrow road lined with apartments before Zoran pulled up. ‘Here,’ he said gruffly. ‘I drop you here.’
The two men climbed out and retrieved their bags from the trunk. As Zoran drove away, Yokely took out the throwaway phone and called Leclerc.
‘I see you,’ he said as soon as he answered. ‘About a hundred feet ahead of you, on the left. Blue Toyota.’
Yokely and McNee carried their bags to the Toyota. McNee popped the trunk and tossed the bags in as Yokely got into the front passenger seat. Leclerc had swapped his safari outfit for a heavy jacket, coarse trousers and work boots. He handed Yokely a photograph of a man in his mid-thirties getting out of a Mercedes.
‘As the name suggests, he’s Dutch. Used to be in the French Foreign Legion and they are tough motherfuckers so don’t be misled by the thousand-dollar suit and handmade shoes.’
He pointed at a metal-sided warehouse in the distance. ‘He’s in there with six men. Three are his bodyguards, all big and all armed. Three other guys went in about fifteen minutes ago. They didn’t seem to be carrying so I’m guessing customers.’
‘How are we fixed for kit?’
McNee got into the back seat. ‘In that bag next to Gerry,’ said Leclerc.
McNee unzipped the nylon holdall on the seat next to him. Inside were two Glocks, two silencers, a dozen clips of ammunition and a large black stun gun. He handed one of the Glocks and silencers to Yokely.
‘There are a couple of holsters in there,’ said Leclerc. He lifted his own jacket so that Yokely could see the butt of the Glock he was carrying.
The two men took off their jackets and adjusted the holsters.
‘You guys hungry?’ asked Leclerc.
‘You brought food?’ asked McNee.
‘No, but there’s a café down the road that does sandwiches,’ said Leclerc.
‘When did Kleintank go in?’ asked Yokely.
Leclerc looked at his watch. ‘About three hours ago. Then, like I said, his visitors arrived fifteen minutes ago.’ The d
oor in the side of the warehouse opened and three men stepped out. ‘That’s them,’ said Leclerc.
The three men walked down the road as a big man in a leather jacket pulled the door shut behind them. The man on the left was in his late thirties, with receding hair and a broad chest. The man on the right looked like his younger brother. They were laughing at something the man in the middle had said. Yokely’s eyes narrowed as he recognised the man in the middle. He was dark-haired, of average build and height, but Yokely knew that there was nothing average about Dan ‘Spider’ Shepherd. Shepherd had served in the SAS, probably the world’s best special-forces unit, and had switched to working as an undercover cop. These days he worked for the Serious Organised Crimes Agency, Britain’s equivalent of the FBI. Yokely had met the man in London two years earlier and had been impressed with his professionalism. But what the hell was he doing with an arms dealer in Sarajevo?
The three men climbed into a car and drove off.
‘What do you think?’ asked Leclerc.
‘I think we need to strike while the iron’s hot,’ said Yokely. ‘We don’t know when we’ll get another chance. So Kleintank has just got the three heavies?’
Leclerc nodded. ‘I followed them here and they unlocked the door to get in so I’m assuming the place was empty then. There’s no CCTV and no alarm that I can see.’
‘There’s as good odds as we’ll get,’ said Yokely. ‘Are we all good to go?’
McNee and Leclerc nodded.
They climbed out of the SUV, keeping their weapons hidden as they jogged over to the main entrance. Yokely tried the door. It was locked or bolted, which was hardly surprising.
McNee and Leclerc moved to opposite sides of the door. Yokely held his Glock down by his side and knocked on the door, three sharp, confident knocks. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. They didn’t hear any footsteps but the door opened a fraction. There was a figure there, but whoever it was they didn’t speak.
‘Room service,’ said Yokely.
A man said something in a language Yokely didn’t recognise.
Tall Order Page 10
