‘Like the Marie Celeste, only dustier,’ Harper said.
‘But it’ll do?’ Billy Whisper asked, in a voice so low he could have been talking to himself.
‘It’ll do,’ Harper said. He grinned. ‘Actually it’s perfect.’
A perilous-looking metal staircase led down into a basement warehouse with double steel doors opening on to a loading ramp in the street at the rear of the building. Harper gave a nod of approval. While the two Billys set off in a hired truck to collect the office equipment they had sourced to ‘dress’ the office, Harper put in a call to Zelda. She turned up within an hour, bringing four of her former comrades to clean the place up, all of them women who were equally solid of body and stolid of expression.
‘Now we know what happened to the East German shot-put team,’ Billy Whisper murmured.
‘Okay, let’s get started,’ Harper said. ‘We’ve got company coming soon. And can you also find me a couple of big, surly-looking guys to act as guards, Zelda?’
‘Of course, what do you need them to do?’
‘Nothing really, just stand around looking mean. More window dressing.’
She returned later that afternoon accompanied by two hulking men with broad, Slavic features and suspicious-looking bulges in the armpits of their coats.
‘They’ll do just fine, Zelda,’ Harper said. ‘Do they speak any English?’
‘No, not a word. Is that a problem?’
‘Not really, tell them all they’ve got to do is guard the doors, open them when I tell them to do so and look thoughtful and nod if I say anything to them whether it’s in English or some mid-European gibberish.’
With the promise of a hundred-dollar bonus each if they got the job done faster, the cleaning women had already gone through the building like a tornado, dusting, sweeping and polishing. As soon as they’d finished, the two heavies helped Billy Whisper and Billy Big unload the equipment they had brought: second-hand but modern-looking desks, chairs, filing cabinets, telephones, computers and printers. If not exactly pristine, the place now at least looked like a functioning business. The rusting filing cabinets and other old equipment were carried into the back of the warehouse store and covered with a tarpaulin.
Harper added a few finishing touches, including a box of disposable gloves, bottles of vodka and schnapps, and a couple of photographs of him in character, exchanging handshakes with groups of Slav-looking officials and army officers, which Hansfree had Photoshopped and hastily framed. Harper broke off at the sound of an engine and saw an unmarked grey Mercedes van reversing up to the steel double doors at the bottom of the loading ramp. While Zelda’s two hired goons stood guard in the street and Hansfree worked on his laptop, Harper, Zelda, the two Billys and the van driver, all wearing disposable gloves, manhandled a series of wooden crates stencilled with the name of a refrigeration company into the building. They placed them against one wall and unscrewed the lids, revealing the arms and explosives inside them: AK-47s, ammunition, grenades, slabs of plastic explosive and lengths of detonator cord.
They then unloaded the additional weapons that Zelda had brought for the window dressing Harper had requested and, still wearing disposable gloves, they spent a few minutes arranging a heavy machine gun, a mortar and a series of pistols, semi-automatics and rocket-propelled grenade launchers against the other walls of the storeroom. She had also brought him the semi-automatic pistol he had asked for, a Soviet-era Makarov with a shoulder holster, spare magazines and 1,000 rounds of 7.62 short ammunition.
After Zelda and her cleaners had left, Harper asked Hansfree to check the registered number on the pistols and research the origin of the ammunition boxes. It took him less than half an hour on his laptop. He called Harper over and kept his voice low so that he couldn’t be overheard.
‘The registered number shows the Makarov was allocated to the Stasi and the numbers on the base of the ammo show the factory where it was manufactured and when it was made,’ he said. ‘Again, records show it was Stasi.’
‘Bloody hell, good work Hansfree – how do you find out all this stuff?’
‘Have you heard of BRIXMIS? In Cold War days the two sides were so shit-scared of starting nuclear Armageddon by accident that they agreed a semi-official form of spying in which a Soviet military mission was allowed access to almost all areas of West Germany to satisfy themselves that there was no secret mobilisation for war going on, while the British Commanders’-in-Chief Mission to the Soviet Forces in Germany, BRIXMIS for short, did the same on the other side of the Iron Curtain in East Germany. They weren’t supposed to gather intelligence as well but of course both sides did, and all the information that BRIXMIS gathered, from the most minute details of Soviet bloc equipment to covert infiltration routes, observation post locations and even targets for assassination in the event of war, is gathered in the BRIXMIS files which, astonishingly, are still unclassified.’
‘Excellent. Can I borrow one of your laptops?’
Hansfree waved Harper to a computer. He sat down in front of it and went through a proxy service to open Button’s draft folder. He wrote a message – THE SUPPLIES HAVE BEEN DELIVERED.
He sat back and waited. In less than fifteen minutes she was online and leaving a reply.
HOW LONG BEFORE THEY ARRIVE?
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS, Harper wrote. I’VE ARRANGED FOR THEM TO COME THE SCENIC ROUTE TO KEEP THEM ON THE BACK FOOT.
TRACKING DEVICES?
IN HAND. ALL ON SCHEDULE.
KEEP ME INFORMED.
Harper closed the file and logged off the proxy service. He stood up and went to watch Hansfree at work. Hansfree had put an aluminium briefcase on a table and deftly opened it with his metal claws. Inside, neatly stowed in compartments cut in the foam rubber lining, were a series of tiny electronic gadgets and a set of drills, files and brass armourer’s tools. Calmly and methodically, working fast but with no appearance of haste, he took each of the New IRA’s weapons in turn and disassembled it. He fitted one of the tiny devices into some of them, drilling into the stock, and then sealing the hole and matching the finish so skilfully that it was undetectable. He also made imperceptible alterations to the barrel or firing mechanism of each weapon, and then reassembled them. Harper as always was mesmerised by the skill with which the man used his artificial hands. ‘You’re an artist, mate,’ he said once when Hansfree looked over at him.
‘I wasn’t always this good with them,’ said Hansfree. ‘I spilled a lot of coffee when I first started.’
‘Yeah, well now your claws are better than my fingers, no question.’
‘I’d still swap you, any day.’
When he’d finished, even Harper’s searching examination could see no visible difference in any of the weapons. He gave a nod of approval. ‘Good job. Now how do I pass the tracking info on?’
‘I’ll put the details on a thumbdrive,’ said Hansfree.
Harper went over to talk to Maggie May and confirmed that she was all set to fly to Paris to await O’Brien and Walsh. The two Billys would be spending the night in the warehouse with Hansfree and Zelda’s two thugs, though the thugs would be outside on guard duty.
Harper went right through the building, checking it over from top to bottom, looking for anything out of place. At last, satisfied, he rode his motorbike deep into the countryside outside the town and took a dirt track into a dark conifer forest. There was a cottage at the entrance to the track and an old man splitting logs in the yard paused to glance at Harper as he rode past, but looked away almost at once and went back to his work. Old habits die hard, Harper thought to himself – curiosity could be bad for your health in the Communist era; best to look the other way. He rode on for another mile, deep into the heart of the forest, where the track ended in a clearing scarred by the caterpillar tracks of heavy vehicles. A stack of newly felled tree trunks, stripped of their bark and branches, were piled at one side of the clearing, with an industrial wood-shredder at the other in front of mounds of sawdust and pulveri
sed wood, but the foresters had finished work for the day and there was no sign of any activity.
Harper cut the BMW’s engine, put it on the kickstand and hung his helmet from the handlebars. After the noise of the bike, he gave his ears a couple of minutes to get used to the silence, inhaling the scent of pine resin that still hung heavy in the air, and then made a careful circuit around the clearing, watching and listening for any movement or sound. Satisfied, he returned to the clearing, took the Makarov pistol from his shoulder holster and paced out twenty yards from one of the mounds of chippings. He sighted on a fragment of blood-red bark, exhaled slowly as he took up the first pressure and then squeezed the trigger. There was a spurt of sawdust a couple of inches above and to the right of his mark. He made an adjustment, sighted again, and this time the shot drilled a hole straight through the bark. He spent half an hour there, firing while standing, kneeling and lying prone, and practising fire and movement, shooting, throwing himself to the ground and rolling over a couple of times before firing off another shot. He also practised magazine changes while rolling on the ground.
When he’d finished, he cleaned the pistol and returned it to his holster and then spent a few more minutes gathering up the ejected cartridge cases from the rounds he had fired. Buried deep in the mounds of chippings, the rounds themselves were likely to remain undiscovered until long after Harper had completed his op and left the country. He rode back along the track and past the cottage, though this time there was no sign of the old man, other than a blue-grey wisp of smoke rising from the chimney. He gunned the engine as he reached the road, roaring away towards the town. Harper found a small, anonymous hotel near the railway station and paid for a room with cash. As he settled down to grab a few hours’ sleep, in a room with mildewed walls and mouse droppings on the floor next to the bed, he smiled to himself. After his presidential suite in Monte Carlo, normal service had now been resumed.
Shepherd woke at 8 a.m. and went for a run around Battersea Park before showering and changing. Neil Murray had telephoned him just after he’d got home the previous evening, having dropped a slightly tipsy Savill-Brown in front of a very expensive mews house in Chelsea that her parents had apparently given her as a twenty-first birthday present. Murray had reported that Owolade was definitely interested. He had pumped Murray for information and persuaded him to hand over a contact number.
‘I’m pretty sure it’s on,’ said Murray. ‘But I’ve no doubt that Charlie will let me know if it falls through. Anyway, you’ve got my number – if you need anything, give me a call.’
Shepherd made himself a cheese and bacon omelette and was just about to dig a fork into it when his phone rang again. A withheld number. He picked it up and growled, ‘Yeah?’
‘Freddie, this is Timmy, we met last night with Neil. You can’t have forgotten me, I was the big black man drinking Cristal.’
Shepherd chuckled dryly. ‘I remember, Timmy. What can I do for you?’
‘Did Neil tell you my line of business?’
‘He didn’t say a thing, just that you were a friend and that you had a huge dick.’
Owolade laughed so hard that for a moment Shepherd thought the man was going to have a seizure. ‘You’re a very funny man, Freddie.’
‘I do my best. So let me ask you again, Timmy, what can I do for you? Did Neil give you my number?’
‘I’m about to put some work Neil’s way and I could probably do the same for you.’
‘I’m not looking for work at the moment.’
‘Everyone is available if the price is right, Freddie.’
‘I have to say that I’m not comfortable having a conversation like this on the phone, especially with someone I don’t know.’
‘Neil can vouch for me, the same as he vouches for you.’
‘And I’m even more uncomfortable that he’s been giving you personal information about me.’
‘Freddie, please, let’s not get off on the wrong foot here. I’m just a middleman, and I know a guy in Amsterdam who would love to talk to you. I know he’s having problems filling a contract and you’d be perfect.’
‘So why hasn’t Neil put himself forward?’
‘Because this is big, real big. I can’t give you the details but I can put you in touch with the man who can, if you want.’
‘And what’s your interest in this, Timmy?’
‘Let’s just say, with a contract as big as this there’ll be a half-decent finder’s fee.’
‘You’re pimping me out, Timmy, is that it?’
Owolade roared with laughter again. ‘Yes, man, I suppose I am. Here’s what I was thinking: I’ll get in touch with the Dutchman, and if he’s interested I’ll put the two of you together and you can hear for yourself.’
‘And if I take the contract, he pays the finder’s fee? Not me?’
‘Of course.’
Shepherd pretended to think about. ‘Okay, I don’t see what harm it can do. Yeah, go for it.’
‘I’ll call you back,’ promised Owolade and he ended the call.
Shepherd ate his omelette and drank two cups of coffee, then decided to go out for a paper. He was on his way back from the newsagent when his phone rang. Owolade was still withholding his number.
‘It’s on,’ said Owolade. ‘There’ll be a ticket booked for you on the three o’clock KLM flight from Heathrow. What name do you need it under?’
‘Harry. Harry Cartwright. Today?’
‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ said Owolade. ‘You’ll be met at the airport but the guy will be holding a sign that says System Communications. The driver will take you to see Mr Smit.’
‘That’s his name, is it? Smith?’
‘Not Smith. Smit. Lucas Smit.’
‘Never heard of him,’ said Shepherd.
‘Well he’s heard of you,’ said Owolade. ‘Your reputation precedes you, as they say.’
‘Okay, I’ll be there,’ said Shepherd. ‘What about me getting back to you?’
‘No need,’ said Owolade. ‘If I need your services, I’ll call you.’
‘Is your finder’s fee taken care of?’
‘That depends on what Mr Smit thinks of you,’ said Owolade. ‘Now I wonder if I could ask you a question? The girl you were with last night. Was she a hooker?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘No offence, it’s just that she was as fit as fuck and if she’s an agency girl I wouldn’t mind, you know …’
Shepherd laughed. ‘She’s a friend,’ he said. ‘With benefits, as they say.’
‘Well, no harm in asking,’ laughed Owolade. ‘Good luck in Amsterdam.’
Shepherd ended the call and immediately phoned Button. The call went through to voicemail and Shepherd cursed. He was sorting through his wallet to check that he only had Harry Cartwright credit cards when Button called back.
‘Smit wants to see me in Amsterdam. Today.’
‘That’s good news.’
‘It’s bloody short notice.’
‘It shows Smit’s keen. What’s the story?’
‘They’re booking me on an afternoon flight from Heathrow.’
‘I’ll get Amar to meet you there. Do you want a team shadowing you?’
‘It’ll be okay,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s just a chat, and they came to me. Doubt they’ll be suspicious.’
‘If you change your mind, let me know.’
The ticket was waiting for Shepherd at Heathrow. He checked in and went through to the business class lounge, heading straight for the men’s room. Amar Singh was already there, dressed in maintenance overalls and fiddling with the U-bend of one of the washbasins. Singh was an Asian in his mid-thirties, one of the top technicians in MI5’s technical support section. He was usually dressed in expensive designer gear and he looked distinctly uncomfortable in the scruffy overalls as he stood up and wiped his hands.
‘How’s it going, Spider?’
‘All good, Amar. How are the wife and kids?’
‘Nagging th
e life out of me, but what can you do?’ said Singh. He took an iPhone out of his pocket and handed it to Shepherd.
‘I’m not a big fan,’ said Shepherd. ‘The batteries always seem to run out at the worst possible time.’
‘This phone you don’t switch on,’ said Singh. ‘It functions as a recorder, not a transmitter. Everything said within ten feet is recorded on a chip. So long as it’s in your pocket it’ll record everything. But even an Apple technician wouldn’t be able to spot the difference between it and a regular phone.’
‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd, slipping the phone into his inside pocket.
The door opened and a middle-aged businessman with a harried expression rushed over to the urinal. Shepherd nodded at Singh and left.
Shepherd cleared Dutch immigration and walked out into the arrivals area. A big man in a heavy coat was holding a sign on which SYSTEM COMMUNICATIONS had been printed in capital letters. Shepherd smiled and nodded at the man. The man nodded back and took Shepherd to a multistorey car park where another man was sitting at the wheel of a black stretch Mercedes with tinted windows. Shepherd climbed into the back while the heavy got into the front next to the driver. There was an envelope on the back seat with the word EXPENSES printed on it. Shepherd opened it and flicked his thumb across an envelope containing a dozen or so €500 notes. He smiled and pocketed the envelope. He was sure Button would appreciate the money to offset the expenses of the operation.
They drove for the best part of forty-five minutes before they pulled up in front of a terrace of pretty four-storey houses overlooking a wide canal. The heavy climbed out and opened the door for Shepherd and then ushered him to the front door of a pale green house. The Mercedes drove off as the door opened. Another big man, this one with a military haircut and wearing a brown leather bomber jacket, pulled the door wide open and nodded for Shepherd to go into the first room on the right. It was clearly a security centre with three tables and a couple of sofas. There was a bank of small screens on one wall showing CCTV images of the outside and inside of the house. On one of the tables there was a row of chargers containing transceivers and several mobile phones. Two more men in bomber jackets were lounging on a sofa and they watched as the man who opened the front door ran a portable metal detector slowly over Shepherd, from head to toe. He took Shepherd’s two phones, his keys and his wallet and put them in a small tray, then asked him in accented English to remove his coat. That went on to one of the tables.
Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller Page 16
