‘So,’ Harper said, ‘we just need you to arrange collection of the weapons and then, providing there are no hitches at that stage, phase one will be complete.’
‘The collection would have been a bit easier and a bit quicker if I hadn’t had to divert my men to Paris on what turned out to be a wild feckin’ goose chase,’ O’Brien said, glaring at him. ‘I’ve already sent them to Berlin but to get them here’s going to take at least another two hours.’
Harper shrugged. ‘I apologise for the inconvenience, but I had to reassure myself that you were as professional about your security as I am about mine. My men were observing you and carrying out counter surveillance at each stage of your journey to ensure that you were not being followed.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Rather than waiting here in the cold for them, I suggest we go to the hotel I’ve booked for you. It’s not quite up to the standard of our hotel in Monte Carlo, but at least there’s hot food and a warm fire.’
The hotel seemed to double as the local nightclub and the bar was packed with what looked to be a broad cross-section of the area’s lowlife humanity: petty criminals, thugs, gangsters, prostitutes, drug dealers, and less easily definable types. Just like a Wild West saloon, the place fell silent as Harper and the two men entered, with every head turning to stare at them, probably assessing whether they were undercover cops, rival gangsters, or tourists who had strayed into the wrong part of town: turkeys ripe for plucking. Seeing no obvious threat or opportunity, the locals resumed their conversations while Harper settled the men at a corner table, bought them some beer and more schnapps and ordered them some food. As they sat there, to O’Brien’s mounting irritation, Walsh kept his chained briefcase on his lap and was constantly glancing around.
‘For feck’s sake,’ O’Brien said. ‘Will you stop feckin’ fidgeting? You couldn’t be more conspicuous if you’d walked in stark bollock naked.’
When the food arrived – steaming bowls of soup with black bread – O’Brien sniffed at it apprehensively.
‘It’s Kohlsuppe – cabbage soup,’ Harper said. ‘It’s a German speciality and tastes better than it sounds.’
They sat mostly in silence, eating, drinking and watching the lowlifes. They had been there almost three hours when O’Brien’s mobile rang. ‘They’re at the station,’ he said, handing Harper the phone.
Harper gave them directions, then drained his drink and stood up. ‘Let’s go.’
By the time they got back to the weapons store, a white van was already parked outside. Zelda’s thugs still stood, impassive, by the steel doors.
‘Jesus,’ Walsh said, pulling his coat tighter around him. ‘Do Germans never feel the cold?’
At a nod from Harper, the thugs swung the steel doors open as the van backed up to them. As he walked inside with O’Brien and Walsh, Harper eased his jacket open a fraction, feeling the reassuring weight of the Makarov under his arm. He stood to one side, assessing the two solidly built Irishmen who had emerged from the van. Harper’s experienced eye noted that one of them had a pistol tucked into his waistband under his windcheater and Harper kept a wary eye on him, but the Irishmen only seemed focused on the weapon crates. As they began to screw down the lids, Harper held up his hand. ‘Just one more formality, before we go any further. I take it you’re happy with the shipment? In which case, the balance of the price – a hundred thousand euros – is now due.’
Walsh glanced at O’Brien for approval, then unlocked his briefcase and took out a bulky manila envelope. Harper opened it, riffled through the thick stack of five-hundred euro banknotes it contained and then slipped it into his jacket pocket. It took no more than five minutes to load the crates and the drivers then set off at once on their journey to whatever port they had chosen. O’Brien and Walsh did not expose themselves to unnecessary risks by going with them.
The hidden trackers would reveal every step of the route taken from the weapons store in Germany, through the ports where they would be shipped and received and on to the hides and weapons caches in the ‘bandit country’ of Northern Ireland and the Republic where they would be concealed. All Harper needed to do was hand the thumbdrive over to Button when he got back to the UK.
Harper returned Walsh and O’Brien to their hotel and then took his leave of them for the night. After listening in on their bugged conversation in their hotel room before they went to bed that night, Hansfree reported to Harper that the only reservation they appeared to have about him or the Katyusha deal was whether a rocket that had been manufactured more than twenty years before would still be in working order.
Shepherd’s phone rang and he picked it up. The number was being withheld but that was by no means unusual in his line of work so he took the call anyway. ‘Yeah?’
‘Mr Shepherd.’ The caller was jovial, the emphasis on the Mister and it wasn’t a question. The voice was just upper class enough to be annoying but Shepherd still couldn’t place it.
‘Who is this?’ he asked.
‘How quickly they forget,’ said the man. ‘It’s Jeremy, Dan. Long time no talk.’
Shepherd cursed under his breath. Jeremy Willoughby-Brown. MI6 and a long way down his list of people he wanted to talk to.
‘I’m busy,’ said Shepherd coldly.
‘We’re all busy these days,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘That’s what happens when the threat level is raised to critical.’
‘What do you want, Jeremy?’
‘A chat,’ said Willoughby-Brown.
‘About what?’
‘Not on the phone, old lad. Face to face, if you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t have time for cloak and dagger, really. I’m working my balls off at the moment. If you need to talk to me you’re going to have to do it through Charlie. Lines of communication and all that.’
‘Unfortunately that’s not possible. As you’ll understand once I’ve briefed you.’
‘You’re Six. I’m Five. You don’t brief me, Jeremy. If you’ve fucked up again and you need someone to pull your nuts out of the fire, you need to use the correct channels.’
Willoughby-Brown chuckled. ‘I do love it when you go all macho on me,’ he said. ‘Now be a good chap and stop fucking around. Meet me at the bandstand in Battersea Park.’
‘When?’
‘Now would be good,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘I’m in the area and it’s a short walk from that lovely two-bedroom flat of yours. I do envy you the view of the Thames. There’s something so relaxing about overlooking the water, isn’t there? Soon as you can, Dan, it’s getting a bit chilly.’
The phone went dead and Shepherd cursed again. The last thing he wanted was a face to face with Willoughby-Brown but the fact that the MI6 man knew his number and where he was staying meant there was something major going on. He grabbed his overcoat and headed out.
Willoughby-Brown had been right about the weather turning cold and Shepherd’s breath feathered around him as he walked across the park. The sun was just starting to go down and the street lights were coming on. Willoughby-Brown was sitting on a bench, smoking a small cigar. He was wearing a brown raincoat with the collar up and a red scarf loosely tied around his neck. He didn’t get up or move to shake hands, he just waved with his cigar for Shepherd to sit next to him.
‘You’re looking fit,’ he said. ‘Still doing that running thing with the rucksack full of bricks?’
‘Not so much these days.’ Shepherd folded his arms and waited for Willoughby-Brown to get to the point.
‘You did well at King’s Cross. That could all have gone very badly.’
‘Right place, right time,’ said Shepherd.
‘More to it than that, I’m told,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘First-class surveillance followed by some very heavy action-man stuff. I’d tip my hat to you, if I were wearing a hat.’
‘Could have gone a lot worse.’
‘Killed two of them with your bare hands.’ He took a pull on his cigar and blew smoke. ‘I’ve seen the CCTV. You were a machine. How
much of that is training, and how much is natural ability?’
Shepherd didn’t answer. He looked around the park, wondering if Willoughby-Brown had come alone. He couldn’t spot any tails.
‘Serious question, Dan. Was it training or some inborn killer instinct?’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘Six of one …’
‘I often wondered if I’d have made it into the SAS. I was quite fit, back in the day.’
Shepherd laughed out loud and Willoughby-Brown turned to look at him.
‘Seriously, I was a bit of a runner. Played cricket. Did a bit of orienteering at university.’ He patted his expanding waistline. ‘I’ve put on a bit of weight since then, obviously.’
‘Obviously,’ said Shepherd, trying not to laugh again. ‘What do you want, Jeremy?’
Willoughby-Brown took another drag on his cigar and blew smoke as he continued to stare at Shepherd. ‘You know Alex Harper,’ he said eventually. It was a statement, not a question.
‘Sure. Lex used to be my spotter in Afghanistan.’
‘Seen much of him recently?’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘We haven’t really kept in touch.’
‘He lives in Pattaya these days. Thailand.’
‘Yeah, I think I heard that.’
Willoughby-Brown chuckled. ‘You have an eidetic memory, you never forget anything you’ve seen or heard.’
‘It’s not perfect, by any means,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can you get to the point?’
‘Is he still a friend?’
‘We were close in Afghanistan. Had to be. A spotter is a sniper’s most valuable asset. If you’re not a tight team it won’t work.’
‘I wasn’t asking for a history lesson, I’m asking how close you are now.’
‘He’s not on my Christmas card list, but if he called me up and wanted a pint, I’d go.’
‘You know he’s a big-time drug trafficker now?’
Shepherd shrugged but didn’t say anything.
‘He was in Spain for a while, hanging out with the Costa del Crime mob, putting together cannabis deals out of North Africa. Things got a bit hot for him in Spain so he relocated to Thailand. Lives quite the life out there, I’m told.’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘Like I said, we’re not that close any more.’
‘I wish I could say the same for Charlotte Button.’
Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’
‘Ah, now that you most definitely didn’t know, did you? They’re as thick as thieves, those two. Have been for a while now.’
‘Bullshit,’ snarled Shepherd.
‘Not jealous that the fragrant Ms Button’s affections now lie elsewhere, by any chance?’ said Willoughby-Brown, smirking.
‘You can be a pompous shit sometimes,’ said Shepherd.
‘I find your reaction interesting,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘Frankly, it’s more of an overreaction.’
‘I just want you to come to the point,’ sighed Shepherd.
‘All in good time,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘What I have to tell you mustn’t be rushed. I’d hate there to be any misunderstandings.’
‘Here’s the thing, Jeremy. I don’t trust you. I didn’t trust you in Sierra Leone and I didn’t trust you in Cyprus. So forgive me when I don’t believe it when you start bad-mouthing my boss, a woman I’ve known for more than five years and who is one of the best bosses I’ve ever worked for.’
‘I thought you’d say that,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘Bear with me.’ He took out his mobile phone and sent a text message.
‘What are you playing at?’ asked Shepherd.
‘You’ll see in a minute or two.’
‘See what?’
‘Dan, just wait, all your questions will be answered.’
Shepherd wanted to stand up and walk away but there was something about Willoughby-Brown’s demeanour that made him reluctant to leave.
In the distance a siren burst into life. Overhead a passenger jet headed towards Heathrow. Shepherd looked at his watch and then scanned his surroundings. He spotted the man immediately. He was in his mid-fifties, greying hair, rectangular-framed spectacles and wearing a dark blue overcoat. The man’s gloved hands were swinging as he walked which suggested a military background, but Shepherd knew that he had joined the Security Service soon after leaving university and had never worked anywhere else. Once he’d spotted the director general it was easy enough to see his bodyguards. There were three. Two ahead of him and one following. The one following was in his twenties, wearing headphones and carrying a skateboard. There was a man about a hundred yards from Shepherd, wearing a light raincoat and carrying a briefcase in his left hand. To his right was a woman, hard-faced and holding a Harrods bag. All three were good but the fact that they were all matching their pace to the director general’s and their eyes were constantly on the move marked them out as his protection team. In the old Cold War days almost no one knew the identity of the Director General of MI5 but in the brave new world of the Internet and social media, he had his own Wikipedia page and often appeared on television. While the new openness had been widely welcomed it also meant that the man was now vulnerable to anyone with a gun or knife who wanted to try his luck.
The man in the raincoat nodded almost imperceptibly at Willoughby-Brown as he walked by the bench and twenty seconds later the director general stood in front of Shepherd.
‘Mr Shepherd, good to see you again.’
Shepherd got to his feet. He had met the director general several times during his career with MI5, but never one to one. It was usually at briefings where there would be more than a dozen men and women in suits and Shepherd was acting as backup to Button.
‘I’ve been following your career with interest,’ said the director general.
Shepherd waited to see if the man expected a handshake but the gloved hands remained resolutely at his side. ‘Thank you, sir.’
The man with the skateboard had placed it on the path and was trying a few tricks. He seemed to be quite good at it.
‘I know how close you are to Charlotte Button, and I understand that what we are asking you to do is uncomfortable. But I want you to know that Jeremy Willoughby-Brown has my full authority on this. He is speaking with my voice.’
Shepherd’s mouth had gone dry and he had trouble swallowing.
‘This is a very difficult situation, Mr Shepherd. The reputation of the service is on the line. You need to bear that in mind at all times. Discretion is of the utmost importance. A lot is riding on you and Mr Willoughby-Brown.’
‘I understand,’ said Shepherd.
‘I hope you do,’ said the director general. He sighed. ‘It’s a mess, Mr Shepherd. The worst mess I have come across in thirty years.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘You know someone, you think you can trust them, and then this happens.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, I’ll leave you with Mr Willoughby-Brown. You have a lot to discuss.’ He walked away, his arms swinging at his side. The skateboarder picked up his skateboard and walked after him.
Willoughby-Brown took out his pack of cigars and lit one.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked Shepherd.
‘The DG wanted you to know how important this is,’ said Willoughby-Brown.
‘How important what is? You still haven’t told me what this is about.’
Willoughby-Brown blew smoke up at the sky and then smiled. ‘Charlotte Button has been running an off-the-books assassination operation and she has been using it to take revenge on the people who killed her husband.’
Shepherd felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. He saw a look of satisfaction flash across Willoughby-Brown’s face and he fought to keep his face impassive. ‘That sounds unlikely,’ he said.
‘Doesn’t it just? But it’s true.’
‘It’s impossible. How could something like that go on without anyone knowing?’
‘Oh, the powers that be know about the assassination unit. It’s the revenge killings that took us by surprise.’
‘
You’re talking in riddles,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just say what you have to say.’
Willoughby-Brown’s eyes narrowed and he took his time drawing on his cigar and blowing smoke before continuing. ‘From time to time there are people that the British government would rather weren’t around. Now back in the golden age, it was your old regiment who took care of business. It was mainly the Irish problem back then. Your boys would find an IRA arms cache and put it under observation, pissing into plastic bags for as long as it took. Then when the boyos came along for their guns, they’d be dispatched with a minimum of fuss.’
‘Shoot to kill, you’re talking about. That’s not really assassination. It’s one group of soldiers shooting at another. They call that combat.’
‘Well, we could argue semantics all night,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘But the simple fact is that the SAS killed at least fourteen members of the Provisional IRA and the Irish National Liberation Army that we know about. There were probably a lot more. All well before your time, obviously. But I’ve no doubt that you heard the war stories.’
Shepherd shrugged but didn’t say anything. He was still trying to process the little hard information that Willoughby-Brown had given him. Charlotte Button was running an assassination squad? He couldn’t see how that could possibly be true.
‘It wasn’t just the SAS, of course. The RUC had its fair share of shoot-to-kill operations, but more often than not they were fed intel by the regiment or the spooks. It was all very murky. But because it was the IRA getting killed, and because they were murderous bastards in the main who thought nothing of bombing innocent women and children, no one really cared.’
Willoughby-Brown took another long pull on his cigar and tried, and failed, to blow a smoke ring. ‘It was Gibraltar where the shit really hit the fan, of course,’ he carried on. ‘March 1988. What was that, eight years before you joined?’
‘Thereabouts.’
‘You probably came across the guys who did it, right? Operation Flavius. Three IRA terrorists shot dead by the SAS on The Rock.’
‘They were planning a car bomb,’ said Shepherd.
‘No argument here, Danny boy. But there was no bomb and the three Irishmen were unarmed when the SAS shot them. The inquest and the European Court of Human Rights declared the killings lawful, pretty much, but the country’s Guardian readers had a field day. So the SAS was told in no uncertain terms that such shoot-to-kill operations were off limits, at least on British soil. The problem is, HMG still had enemies who couldn’t be dealt with by conventional means. So another way had to be found.’
Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller Page 19
