When the bill came Julia took out her credit card but Shepherd insisted and paid with cash. ‘I haven’t enjoyed myself so much in years,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a pretty shitty time over the last couple of days and I needed a break.’
‘Happy to have helped,’ she said. ‘I’m in town for a few more days so we could do it again, if you like.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah, that’d be cool.’ He wondered for a moment if he’d been wrong and it really had been a chance encounter.
She pulled out her purse and gave him a business card, then took out a pen and scribbled a phone number on the back. ‘That’s got my Rio details and that’s my UK mobile.’
Shepherd took the card and stood up. He followed her outside. ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.
‘I’m at the Premier at County Hall,’ she said. ‘Cheap and cheerful but to be honest it’s just a place to crash. You?’
‘I’ve got a flat not far from here,’ he said. ‘To be honest, I only went out for a walk.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Five hours ago.’
‘You could invite me in for coffee,’ she said, and then immediately laughed. ‘There you go, now you’ll be sure I’m a hooker. How about this?’ She put her hand over her heart. ‘I solemnly swear that no matter what happens, no money will change hands.’
Shepherd smiled at her, sure now that she was up to something. ‘You’re funny,’ he said. He could think of only two reasons why she would be so keen to get him alone. She was either planning to rob him, or hurt him. And she’d already seen that he didn’t have much cash in his wallet.
‘I’m serious.’
‘About the coffee? Or the money?’
She linked her arm through his. ‘Both,’ she said. She gave his arm a squeeze and Shepherd flashed her a grin that suggested he had fallen for her charms. There was only one way to find out what she was up to and that was to take her back to his flat and see how it played out.
Shepherd unlocked his front door and tapped in the four-digit code to stop the alarm system from buzzing.
‘This is nice, Harry,’ said Julia, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window and looking out on its view over the river.
‘The view? You hardly notice it after a while. And I’m sure Rio’s stunning. Do you want a coffee? Or wine?’
‘Wine would be good.’
‘Red? White?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘I’m a fan of red but I keep it in the fridge.’
‘You rebel.’
‘I just like cold red wine. Is that okay?’
She laughed. ‘That’s fine.’ She was still standing at the window but turned and took off her coat and tossed it on to an armchair. ‘I just love this view.’
Shepherd took a bottle of Rioja out of the fridge and two glasses. He poured the wine and went over to the window and gave Julia her glass. She sipped it and nodded her approval. ‘Cold is good,’ she said.
‘I drink it with fish, too.’
She laughed. ‘You really are a rebel.’ Before he knew what was happening she had moved towards him and was kissing him full on the lips. His left hand was still holding his wine but he slipped his right hand around her waist and pulled her closer. She moaned and pressed herself against him but then he shivered and gasped as her wine spilled down his back.
‘Oh my God,’ she said, stepping back.
He laughed. ‘That’s one way of ending a kiss.’
‘I’m such a klutz. And look at the floor. I’m so sorry, it’ll stain.’ She stared in dismay at the red wine pooling on the wooden floor.
Shepherd put his glass down on the coffee table. ‘It’s varnished, it’s okay.’ He was fairly sure that the spill hadn’t been accidental. She was making her move.
She headed over to the breakfast bar. ‘I’ll clean it up, you change your shirt. And that will stain, so I owe you a new one.’ Shepherd went to the bathroom as she picked up a cloth from the sink and went to mop up the spilled wine.
‘It’s a rental flat, don’t worry,’ he said as he grabbed a towel. He peered around the door so that he could catch her reflection in the window. She was bent over his glass and pouring something into it from a small bottle. She shook the bottle and then used her finger to stir the wine. As she straightened up, Shepherd pulled back, smiling to himself. She’d put something in his drink, obviously, but why? Was he a random pick-up and she just wanted to rob him? Or had she targeted him as Frederik Olsen, hired killer? Or Dan Shepherd, MI5 officer?
He dried himself, took a clean shirt from his wardrobe, checked himself in the dressing-table mirror and then practised his most winning lovelorn smile and went back into the main room. She was just finishing up wiping the floor. ‘I think it has stained it, a bit,’ she said.
Shepherd took the cloth from her. ‘Don’t worry about it, really.’ He picked up his glass and took it and the cloth over to the sink. ‘See what music you want,’ he said, nodding at the stereo. As she went over to look at the extensive CD collection in a rack above a Bang & Olufsen stereo system, Shepherd turned and as he tossed the cloth on to the draining board he poured most of his wine down the sink. He raised the nearly empty glass to his lips as he turned.
‘The music’s yours?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he lied. In fact the CD collection, along with almost everything else in the flat, had been carefully selected by Damien Plant, one of MI5’s top dressers. Plant’s department supplied homes and offices, vehicles, furniture, clothing and jewellery along with faked photographs and documentation, everything needed to pump life into a legend.
‘I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Santana fan.’
‘Have been for years,’ he said, raising his glass to her.
She slotted the Santana CD into the stereo and picked up the Rioja bottle. ‘Let me top you up,’ she said.
He walked towards her and faked a stumble. ‘Whoops,’ he said.
‘Careful, we don’t want another spillage,’ she said, and slopped more wine into his glass. She was smiling but the flirtatious look had gone from her eyes and had been replaced with something colder and more clinical.
‘I don’t normally get as drunk as this,’ he said, slurring his words a little.
‘Maybe sit down?’ she said, putting the bottle and her glass on the coffee table.
Shepherd sat down on the sofa. He figured he’d go with the flow just to see what she had planned. The fact that she’d put something in his drink suggested she wasn’t going to pull out a gun and shoot him. He started blinking rapidly and put a hand up to his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I guess I drank too much.’
She smiled sweetly and took the glass from his hand. ‘Well, it is a good wine.’
‘Yes, but normally I can hold my drink better than this.’ He forced a smile. ‘I can barely keep my eyes open.’
‘Have a nap. I’ll enjoy the view.’ She put his glass down next to hers and walked over to the window and looked out over the river, but Shepherd could see that she was checking out his reflection. She kicked off her high heels.
‘No, I’ll be okay,’ he said, made as if he was trying to get up and then slumped back on the sofa. He allowed his eyes to close and then he breathed heavily for the best part of a minute before he heard her pad over the wooden floor. He heard a rustle as she picked up her bag and a thud as she placed it on the coffee table. He heard rustling and then a thwack-thwack sound. He opened his eyes a fraction and saw that she had put on a pair of blue latex gloves and was putting on a hair net. As he watched she reached into her Louis Vuitton bag and took out a roll of silver duct tape, followed by a plastic bag and a large syringe. Whatever she was up to, it had been well planned.
She walked over to the front door and he realised she had an accomplice. His heart began to race. Maybe he’d been a bit too clever playing her along.
He stood up as she opened the door. There was a man standing there, short and heavily built in a leather bomber jacket and cargo pants. Shepherd knew that he’d have to ac
t fast because one against two was never a good idea, even if one of the two was a pretty girl. He moved quickly but it was a big flat and the man was inside and Julia was closing the door before he reached them.
It was only at the last minute that the man saw him coming but Shepherd was already throwing a punch that connected with the man’s chin and slammed him against the wall, knocking the wind out of him.
The girl screamed and scratched at his eyes but he ducked back and her nails missed him by inches. She screamed again but before she could lash out once more he punched her in the solar plexus and she fell to her knees, gasping for breath.
The man scrambled to his feet and Shepherd turned to face him. The man’s face had gone blank, his eyes focused on Shepherd, his lips forming a tight line as he breathed in and out slowly through his nose. His left leg moved forward, his right heel went up and he bent slightly at the knees. His hands went up in the air and then came down, his elbows tucked into his sides. His shoulders were relaxed and his chin was down. His hands were in front of his face as if he were holding an invisible basketball. As soon as he saw the hand movement Shepherd knew what to expect. Krav Maga, the martial art developed by the Israeli Army. Everyone who studied Krav Maga was taught the same movement. It was a way of relaxing the shoulders and getting the hands to the correct position, and it was a dead giveaway as to what would happen next. Krav Maga was terrific for self defence, the fighting stance meant the man could react quickly to any aggressive move Shepherd made. But in this case the man was the attacker and any movement he made would involve him driving off the back foot.
He launched a punch at Shepherd’s head and Shepherd took a step back, but the man followed him and before he was aware of what was happening, the man had kicked him in the stomach and Shepherd was slammed against the wall, gasping for breath. That hadn’t been a Krav Maga move, he realised. He was going to have to focus.
He pushed himself away from the wall and put his hands up. ‘We don’t have to do this,’ said Shepherd.
The man flashed a half-smile but didn’t say anything. Shepherd could feel the man’s confidence. He knew he was good. But that confidence would be his undoing because he didn’t know how good Shepherd was.
Shepherd threw a punch at the man’s face and he backed away but Shepherd used his momentum to launch a kick. However, the man kept moving backwards and easily avoided it.
The man’s right hand dropped and started to move inside his jacket and Shepherd realised he had a concealed weapon, probably a gun. He faked a kick and the hand twitched back into a defensive position.
Shepherd jabbed with his left hand then punched hard with the right, but the man blocked it and kicked Shepherd in the chest. Shepherd saw the kick coming and managed to start moving backwards, which took some of the sting out of it, but he still staggered back, his arms flailing for balance.
The man reached into his jacket and started to pull out a handgun. Shepherd launched himself at the man and managed to grab the weapon as it emerged from the jacket. He caught a glimpse of a grey Glock and his left hand locked on to it as his right hand went for the man’s throat, pushing him against the wall. Shepherd’s fingers tightened around the man’s voicebox but he was strong and he began to swing the gun around towards Shepherd’s face. The man started to grin with triumph and Shepherd could see his finger tightening on the trigger. Shepherd released his grip on the man’s throat and grabbed for the gun, twisting it towards the man’s chest as the trigger finger twitched. The gun roared and the bullet ripped up through the man’s chin and out of the top of his skull, erupting in a hail of blood and brain matter. Shepherd staggered back as the man slid down against the wall leaving a wet red smear glistening on the wallpaper.
Shepherd heard a noise behind him and turned to see the girl getting to her feet. Her back was close to the breakfast bar and they both looked at the knife block at the same time. She grabbed a large knife and held it low with the blade raised.
Shepherd moved back, knowing that she had the advantage. She slashed the blade, left and right, and moved forward. She handled the knife professionally, no question of that. Holding the blade up meant it would be harder to block any blow. If he did try to block it and got the timing wrong she’d cut his hand or worse.
He didn’t bother saying anything to her. There was no point. She wanted to kill him, no question, and she’d either succeed or he’d stop her, there was no other possible outcome.
The knife slashed again and he moved backwards. There was nothing close by that he could grab to protect his hands. Nothing he could throw at her.
Slash. Slash. Then two more in quick succession. Slash. Slash.
Each time she slashed, Shepherd had no choice other than to move back and he knew that he was running out of space. At the rate she was moving his back would be up against the wall in a few seconds and then he would have nowhere to go.
She lunged forward and this time Shepherd didn’t move back, he twisted to the side but not quickly enough and the blade sliced through his shirt and he felt a searing pain as it bit into his flesh. He kept turning, ignoring the pain, and span around, raising his left arm and smashing his elbow into the side of her head. There was a satisfying cracking sound and she fell backwards, arms flailing as the knife span from her hand. She was totally off balance and Shepherd reacted instinctively, stepping forward and punching her in the face with all his weight behind the blow. She crashed backwards and her head hit the coffee table before she flipped over on to the floor. She lay still and Shepherd could tell from the unnatural angle of her neck that it was broken. He wasn’t sure if it had been the punch or hitting the table that had killed her but it didn’t matter. She was dead and he wasn’t. Shepherd stared down at the body. He was angry more than anything. Angry at her stupidity and angry at whoever had sent her to kill him. It was all so bloody unnecessary.
He picked up her handbag and riffled through it. No knife. No gun. But there was a vial of tablets. He tossed the pills and the bag on to the sofa. The plan had obviously been to pump him full of sleeping pills and put the plastic bag over his head. Shepherd had to admire the professionalism. He picked up his phone and called Charlotte Button.
‘Well, will he live?’ asked Button. Shepherd was sitting on a stool as a doctor attended to the wound on his stomach. The cut wasn’t deep and the doctor had cleaned it and closed it with Steristrips.
‘He’ll be fine,’ said the doctor, a woman in her thirties who had arrived with Button and two men in grey suits who had zipped the bodies of Shepherd’s attackers into black plastic bodybags. Ten minutes later another man had arrived. He had used a digital camera to take a photograph of the dead couple’s faces and a portable LiveScan machine to take their fingerprints and he was now sitting on the sofa tapping away on a laptop.
‘Will I be able to play the piano again?’ joked Shepherd, pulling on a fresh shirt.
‘Clearly your sense of humour hasn’t been damaged,’ said Button. She showed the doctor out and then went to the kitchen area to make two cups of coffee. She gave one to Shepherd. ‘How did it happen?’ she asked.
The two men were moving through the room, collecting the wine bottle, the knife, and the woman’s belongings and placing them in a black rubbish bag.
Shepherd sipped his coffee. ‘I met her in a pub, around the corner. The Lighthouse. I had a few drinks, we had dinner. She came back with me.’
‘That’s not like you.’
Shepherd laughed. ‘When did you become an expert on my social life, Charlie?’
‘She is pretty, I suppose.’ She grimaced and corrected herself. ‘Was pretty, I should say.’
‘She was good. She was funny, she was attentive.’
‘And you thought you’d pulled?’
‘I had a pretty good idea what was going on,’ he said. ‘But the man caught me by surprise. The plan was to give her enough rope, but then she let him in and the dynamic changed.’ He shrugged. ‘He was going to shoot me, I didn’t have
a choice. She was an accident, sort of. I didn’t mean to kill her.’
‘And she knew you as …?’
‘Don’t worry, I stayed in character. I used the Harry Cartwright legend we set up for the Battersea flat. Told her I was in marketing.’
‘And she said she was what?’
‘She said she was from Brazil and worked in website design. A group of them were over here on a job. She said she was staying at the Premier Inn at County Hall.’ He fished her business card out of his pocket and handed it to Button.
Button studied the card and then turned it over. ‘This is her UK number?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘She said her phone wasn’t working. I let her use mine.’
‘What happened when you got back to the flat?’
‘We had a drink. I saw her put something in my glass. I pretended to drink it. She thought I’d passed out and then she let the guy in. I hadn’t reckoned on that.’
The man with the laptop looked up. ‘Facial recognition has given us a match,’ he said. ‘The girl’s Maya Katz. She’s Israeli. Former army, former Mossad, now freelance.’
‘Does she work for Smit?’ Button asked him.
‘She works for the highest bidder,’ he said. ‘But no intel that she’s connected to Smit.’
‘What about the man?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Nothing yet.’
‘So what do you think?’ Shepherd asked Button. ‘I doubt she took offence at anything I said to her in the pub.’
‘Someone paid them, that’s for sure,’ said Button. ‘The question is, who?’
‘It has to be the Russians, right?’ Shepherd knew that it would be a lot simpler if he told her about the two Russians who had been following him in Berlin, but that was one can of worms he didn’t want to open.
‘To be fair, you have acquired a fair number of enemies over the years.’
Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller Page 26
