Three weeks earlier a security guard had been shot in the stomach at close range with a sawn-off shotgun. Half a million pounds’ worth of diamonds and rubies had been stolen, and the man had died in hospital two days later, his wife and three sons at his bedside. O’Sullivan hadn’t fired the fatal shot, but he had orchestrated the robbery, one of more than half a dozen he was thought to have carried out in the previous year. Conor O’Sullivan was a professional criminal who, either through luck or good judgement, had never been to prison. The Serious Organised Crime Agency’s undercover operation was about to change that.
‘Is that it, then?’ asked Sharpe.
‘Keep the mobiles going for a week or so just in case,’ said Button. ‘There’s always a chance that O’Sullivan will spread the good word.’
The men in black overalls carried out the cases containing the weapons and ammunition. One, a burly sergeant with a shaved head, flashed Button a thumbs-up as he walked by. ‘Thanks, Mark,’ she said. ‘I’ll have the paperwork for you by tomorrow morning.’
‘What’s next for us?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Don’t worry, Dan, there’s no rest for the wicked. I’ll have something for you.’ She consulted her watch. ‘I have to be at the Yard this afternoon. I’ll call you both later. But job well done, yeah? O’Sullivan’s needed putting away for years.’ She headed towards the door, then stopped. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘you’ve both got biannuals this month, haven’t you?’
Shepherd and Sharpe nodded. Every six months all SOCA operatives had to be assessed by the unit’s psychologist.
‘We’ve a new psychologist on board,’ said Button. ‘Caroline Stockmann. She’ll be getting in touch to arrange the sessions.’
‘What happened to Kathy Gift?’ asked Shepherd.
‘She’s moved on,’ said Button.
‘To where?’
‘Academia. Bath University.’
‘Couldn’t stand the heat?’ asked Sharpe.
Button’s expression registered disapproval. ‘She got married, actually.’
‘To a man?’ asked Sharpe, unabashed. He raised his hands as if to ward off her glare. ‘Hey, these days, who knows?’
‘Razor, not everyone gets your sense of humour.’
‘But you do, right?’
Button smiled. ‘You’re a bloody dinosaur,’ she said.
‘But dinosaurs have their uses,’ said Sharpe.
‘Actually, they don’t,’ said Button. ‘That’s why they’re extinct.’
‘She got married?’ said Shepherd.
‘It was all quite sudden,’ said Button.
‘Probably up the spout,’ said Sharpe.
‘Jimmy . . .’ said Button.
‘This Stockmann, what’s her story?’ asked Shepherd.
‘She’s top notch,’ said Button. ‘Very highly qualified. I’ve known her for ten years.’
‘She’s worked with undercover agents before?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Not per se,’ said Button. ‘She was in MI5’s Predictive Behaviour Group.’
‘Which means what?’ said Shepherd.
‘The group is used to determine the way various people might react in a given situation. Generally heads of state. So, if you wanted to know how the Iranian government will react to EU pressure to drop their nuclear programme, you’d ask the PBG. The group has other uses, too. Mostly classified.’
Shepherd groaned. ‘So a spook’ll decide whether or not I’m fit for undercover work.’
‘She’s a highly qualified psychologist who happened to work for the security services,’ said Button. ‘It’s only because she knows me that she’s agreed to work for SOCA. We’re lucky to have her.’
‘It’s not about qualifications,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s about understanding people – understanding what we go through. And if she’s only ever been behind a desk, she’s not going to know what life’s like at the sharp end.’
‘So tell her,’ said Button. ‘That’s the purpose of the biannual, to get everything off your chest.’
‘That’s not strictly true, though, is it?’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s also a test we have to pass to remain on active duty.’
‘Spider, you’re fine. I know you’re fine and you know you’re fine. You have a chat with Caroline and she’ll confirm what we both know.’ She glanced at her watch again. ‘I have to go.’
As she headed for the door, Shepherd saw that Sharpe was grinning at him.
‘What?’ said Shepherd.
‘What happened to Kathy Gift?’ said Sharpe, in a whiny voice.
‘Behave,’ said Shepherd.
‘You had a thing for her, didn’t you?’
‘How old are you, Razor?’
‘Spider and Kathy, sitting in a tree . . .’ sang Sharpe.
‘Screw you,’ said Shepherd, walking away.
‘ . . .K-I-S-S-I-N-G.’ Sharpe’s voice followed Shepherd out of the warehouse. Button’s black Vauxhall Vectra was driving away. She was in the back, reading something.
‘You okay?’ said Singh, behind him.
Shepherd shrugged. ‘What do you make of her?’ he asked.
‘She’s a good boss,’ said Singh. ‘Gives you room to do your own thing but she’s there when you need her.’
Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, she’s growing on me.’ He jerked a thumb at the warehouse. ‘That went well, from start to finish.’
‘She had all the bases covered,’ agreed Singh. ‘I had to laugh at Razor, though. Pulling a gun like that.’
‘Yeah, he’s a bugger sometimes. But he’s a pro.’
‘Fancy a drink?’
‘Nah,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got to get home. Rain check, yeah?’
‘No sweat,’ said Singh. ‘I’ll take Wild Bill Hickok for a drink.’ He turned back to the warehouse. ‘Oy, Razor, d’you fancy a pint?’
‘Do bears shit in the Vatican?’ yelled Sharpe.
Shepherd chuckled and headed for his car.
Shepherd parked the Series Seven BMW in the driveway. He was going to miss Graham May’s vehicle of choice. His own Honda CRV was four years old and he needed to replace it. But a Series Seven was well out of his price range.
The estate agent’s sign in the front garden had ‘UNDER OFFER’ across the top. A young couple, looking for somewhere bigger, had offered the asking price, which was double what Shepherd had paid six years earlier. He had made an offer on a house in Hereford, less than a mile from where his in-laws lived.
His son was in the sitting room, eating a sandwich. A glass of orange juice stood in front of him. Liam’s mouth was full so he waved at his father. Shepherd went to the kitchen, made himself a mug of instant coffee, then returned to the sitting room and dropped down on the sofa next to his son. ‘Did you do your homework?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ said Liam, and drank some juice. ‘I had to do a book report.’
‘Which book?’
‘Animal Farm. George Orwell.’
‘Great story,’ said Shepherd. ‘“Four legs good, two legs bad.”’
‘You’ve read it?’ said Liam, surprised.
‘At school, same as you,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s a classic.’
‘You don’t read books.’
Shepherd raised his eyebrows. ‘What?’
‘You read newspapers.’
Shepherd wanted to argue but his son was right. The last time he’d read a book for pleasure must have been four years ago when he was on holiday in Spain with Sue and Liam. He rarely had time to read these days, and when he did have a few hours to spare more often than not he’d just vegetate in front of the television. In his younger days he’d been an avid reader – Ian Fleming, Len Deighton, Jack Higgins, John le Carré – but his work as an undercover police officer meant he no longer enjoyed crime stories. Real-life police work was never as cut and dried as it appeared in fiction, and the truly guilty rarely got their just deserts.
Before he could reply, Katra came in. She was wearing baggy khaki c
argo pants and a loose sweatshirt. With no makeup and her hair tied back in a ponytail she looked younger than her twenty-four years. ‘You’re back early,’ she said. ‘Liam was hungry so I made him a sandwich.’ She was from Slovenia, but she had lived with them in London now for two years so her accent had almost gone.
‘No sweat,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll order a pizza later.’
‘Is it okay if I go to the supermarket?’
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.
Liam picked up the remote control and switched on the television. ‘You don’t have time for TV,’ said Shepherd, as his son flicked through the channels.
‘Anything you want?’ asked Katra.
‘Toothpaste,’ said Shepherd. ‘The stuff for sensitive teeth.’
‘You have toothache?’ asked Katra.
‘Just a twinge,’ said Shepherd.
‘Receding gums,’ said Liam. ‘It happens when you get old.’
‘Older,’ corrected Shepherd.
‘Your hair gets thinner, your skin gets less flexible and your bones weaken.’
‘I’m so glad we had this little chat,’ said Shepherd. He held out his hand for the remote control. ‘Now, give me that and scoot. And I want to see the book report before you go to sleep.’
Liam tossed him the remote control and Shepherd hit the button for BBC1. On the screen a middle-aged man with a mahogany tan and a woman half his age with gleaming teeth were laughing about nothing in particular. On ITV another woman, with equally sparkling teeth, was talking about the weather as if her audience had learning difficulties. It was going to rain in Scotland. Grin. With a chance of hail in Aberdeen. Bigger grin. But London would be sunny. Mega-grin with sly wink. Shepherd flicked to Sky News. More expensive dental work. Two newsreaders, a man and a woman, with tight faces. In a square frame in the top left-hand corner, a man in an orange jumpsuit was kneeling in front of a banner. Shepherd froze. He increased the volume as the frame expanded to fill the screen. The man in the jumpsuit was in his late thirties, his hair close-cropped. He was glaring defiantly at the camera. It had been six months since Shepherd had seen Geordie Mitchell. Then, his hair had been longer, he had been a few pounds heavier and he had been wearing a Chelsea FC shirt, not an orange jumpsuit.
‘A British man working as a security guard in Iraq has been taken hostage by a group calling for the withdrawal of coalition forces from the country,’ said the female newsreader.
Shepherd wondered how the former SAS trooper would have reacted to being described in that way.
‘Last night Colin Mitchell’s captors released a video showing him in apparently good health. They are calling for a complete withdrawal of all British troops from Iraq within the next fourteen days.’
Shepherd hadn’t known that ‘Colin’ was Mitchell’s real name. He’d known him for more than ten years as Geordie.
Two men in dark green overalls, scarves over their faces and cradling Kalashnikovs, were standing behind him. A third was holding aloft a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. A fourth masked man was next to Mitchell, addressing the camera in Arabic. A translation of his rhetoric passed slowly across the bottom of the screen.
‘Mr Mitchell was taken hostage after the vehicle he was travelling in was ambushed and three of his Iraqi colleagues were killed,’ continued the newsreader. ‘He is believed to have been working in Iraq as part of a security detail guarding an oil pipeline running through the north of the country. Mr Mitchell’s abduction comes just weeks after the beheading of American hostage Johnny Lake. All the indications are that the same group is holding Mr Mitchell. Following Mr Lake’s abduction, the American government was given fourteen days to withdraw its troops from Iraq. This morning the Foreign Office refused to comment on Mr Mitchell’s abduction.’
Shepherd’s mobile rang and he put it to his ear as he stared at the screen. ‘Are you watching the news?’ said a voice. It was Major Allan Gannon, Shepherd’s former boss in the SAS.
‘Just seen it,’ said Shepherd.
‘We have to meet.’
‘Absolutely.’
Shepherd got to the Strand Palace Hotel shortly before midnight. Liam was fast asleep and Shepherd had told Katra that he would be back in the early hours. She was used to him coming and going at unusual times so she had said goodnight and that she’d see him in the morning. It had never been as easy getting away when he was married: Sue had wanted to know where he was going, what he’d be doing and how dangerous it was. And she would sit up all night, waiting for him to get back. It was even harder when he was away from home for days at a time. Then he hadn’t always been able to phone her, and even when he did his calls had been hurried and whispered. The difference, of course, was that Sue had been his wife and had loved him, while Katra was an employee.
The Major had booked a suite on the seventh floor. Shepherd knocked on the door. It was opened by a man a couple of inches shorter than him but with a similar physique. Like Shepherd, Billy Armstrong was a keen runner and they had often trained together when they were in the Regiment. ‘Spider, good to see you,’ said Armstrong. He was wearing a brown leather knee-length coat and tight-fitting jeans that were fashionably ripped at the knees. They hugged. It had been more than a year since they’d met.
‘Where are you these days?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Sofia, Bulgaria, babysitting an industrialist who’s only just this side of legal. You still a cop?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Come and work with me. Four hundred quid a day plus expenses.’
‘And the chance of getting hurt?’
Armstrong grinned. ‘It won’t be me they’ll be shooting at.’
‘I thought you had to throw yourself in front of the bullet.’
‘That’s just public relations,’ said Armstrong. ‘When did you last hear of a bodyguard taking a bullet for a client? The boss is through there.’
Major Gannon was standing at the head of a long beech table that seated eight. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, with a strong chin and wide shoulders. His nose had been broken at least once. He was wearing a tweed jacket, an open-necked white shirt and chinos. He jutted out his chin when Shepherd walked in. ‘Spider. Good man.’ He strode round the table and they shook hands.
A third man was sitting at the table. Martin O’Brien was a former Irish Ranger and an old friend of Shepherd’s, even though they had never served together. As he stood up he ran a hand over his shaved head, then slapped Shepherd on the back. He was a big man, and seemed to have got even bigger since he’d left the army. He was wearing a black polo-neck pullover with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and blue jeans.
‘No sign of Jimbo?’ the Major asked Armstrong.
‘The late Jim Shortt?’ Armstrong laughed. ‘He’d be late for his own funeral.’
Right on cue, there was a quick double-knock on the main door. Shepherd went to open it. Shortt was a heavy-set man with a sweeping Mexican-style moustache. He was holding a black gym bag and grinned when he saw Shepherd. ‘The early worm, hey, Spider?’
‘Hey, hey, the gang’s all here,’ said Shepherd. He jerked a thumb at the bag. ‘Are you staying?’
‘Just got off a plane from Dublin,’ said Shortt. ‘The boss said I could kip here.’ He winked.
There was another knock at the door. Shepherd opened it. This time, a white-jacketed waiter was outside, behind a trolley loaded with pots of coffee and plates of sandwiches. Shepherd stood aside to let him wheel it in. O’Brien hurried over to check the order, then signed the bill. He saw Shepherd grinning at him and glared defiantly. ‘They’re not all for me,’ he said. ‘The boss said to get some grub in.’ He grabbed a handful of sandwiches, sat down next to Armstrong and offered him one. Armstrong shook his head.
Shepherd and Shortt helped themselves to coffee as the Major sat down at the head of the table. ‘Right, let’s get started,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about the cloak-and-dagger, but I obviously can’t use the barracks and I didn’t want to take over an
yone’s home so late at night.’ He was based at the Duke of York Barracks, close to Sloane Square. From his office overlooking the parade ground he ran the government’s best-kept secret: the Increment. The Increment was an ad-hoc group of highly trained special-forces soldiers used on operations considered too dangerous for Britain’s security services, MI5 and MI6. The metal briefcase that contained the secure satellite phone they called the Almighty leaned against the wall behind him. The only people who had access to it were the Prime Minister, the Cabinet Office, and the chiefs of MI5 and MI6. When Gannon received a call on it, he could command all the resources of the SAS and the SBS, plus any other experts he needed. ‘I’ll have somewhere else fixed up for us tomorrow, but this will do as a preliminary briefing room. Has everyone seen the video?’
Shortt shook his head.
‘Spider, do the honours, will you, please?’ Gannon pointed at a video-recorder and television on a stand in the corner of the room. Shepherd switched on the television and clicked the remote. The video was the Sky News broadcast that Shepherd had seen just before the Major had phoned. The men watched it in silence. The grainy video of Mitchell and his captors lasted barely a minute. It was followed by a terrorism expert, whom none of them recognised, talking about the dangers facing civilian contractors in Iraq, and a representative of the Muslim Council of Great Britain who denounced the kidnapping and called for Mitchell’s immediate release. ‘Kill it, Spider,’ said the Major. ‘There’s nothing else of interest.’
Shepherd hit ‘Stop’, switched off the television and returned to his seat.
‘Colin?’ said O’Brien. ‘Is that his name, right enough?’ He went over to the trolley for more sandwiches.
‘How long had he been out there?’ asked Armstrong, taking out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a disposable lighter. He took off his coat and hung it on the back of his chair.
‘It was his third tour,’ said the Major. He went to the trolley and poured himself a cup of black coffee. O’Brien offered him a sandwich but the Major declined.
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