‘Leeds. Two brothers. Turks. Yusuf and Ahmet Yilmaz. Yusuf is older by a couple of years. They run a kebab shop and a minicab firm. They use the cabs to deliver the drugs.’
‘Turks still run most of the heroin into this country, you know that. Cocaine’s not really their thing. The Colombians control that and they get pretty heavy with anyone who tries to muscle in on their turf.’
‘I figured the Turks are just supplying what the market wants. I don’t think they’re big enough to be bringing the gear in themselves.’
Harper nodded. ‘Sounds right. They’ll probably be getting their stuff in Liverpool or Manchester, I’d guess. No point in them going farther afield. But there’s a lot of Charlie in Scotland at the moment so they could be buying it from the Jocks.’ He patted Shepherd’s leg. ‘I’m heading back to Berlin tonight, I’m still in the middle of that Irish things but I’ll make a few calls before I go.’
‘You don’t have to do this, Lex.’
Harper nodded. ‘I do, mate. It’s what friends do. They help each other.’ He patted Shepherd on the leg again, stood up, and jogged away.
Shepherd sat alone on the bench, running through all his options. The problem was, they were few and far between.
Harper arrived back in Berlin early on Wednesday morning. He had kept his suite at the Hotel Adlon and he showered and changed before going to see Hansfree and Zelda. In Harper’s absence, Hansfree had been hard at work on the BRIXMIS files and had identified a possible site for the weapons handover at a freight marshalling yard and loading ramp in the Michendorf Bahnhof – a sprawling network of railway tracks and sidings, flanked on either side by dense forest.
‘If we do it early morning there’ll be no one around,’ said Hansfree.
‘Are you happy with that?’ Harper asked Zelda.
‘It’s perfect,’ said Zelda. ‘What about the transport?’
‘I’m going to suggest we leave the truck with them,’ said Harper. ‘You can take the cost of it out of my share. That way they can check the consignment without having to unload it.’
‘So my driver delivers it, and then what? Leaves?’
‘Let’s get Billy Whisper to drive the truck. He can leave with Hansfree. Can you arrange that?’
‘Of course.’
‘For tomorrow?’
‘They’re already loaded and the driver is waiting for instructions.’
Harper grinned. ‘Tomorrow morning it is.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll leave you guys to it,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some calls to make.’
Button crouched, her hands up defensively. The Arab bared his teeth as he swished his knife from side to side. There was no way to run, the man was between her and the door. He took a step towards her and she took a step back. Her husband’s body was to her right. Graham was on his back, his mouth open in surprise, his eyes wide, staring and lifeless. Between his body and the window was a desk with a computer on it. Button bent down, picked up her mobile phone and threw it hard at him. It hit him on the shoulder and went spinning behind him, shattering against the wall. Button started to move forward, ready to grab the knife, but he was too quick for her and he jabbed at her hand, just missing her. She grabbed a glass paperweight but the Arab lashed out again with the knife, catching her in the shoulder, cutting through her shirt and slicing into her flesh. She screamed and hurled the paperweight at him. It smashed into his jaw, breaking his two front teeth. He glared at her as blood trickled from between his broken teeth and ran down his chin and he raised the knife. He stabbed at Button and she turned to the side and grabbed at his wrist with her right hand but he was too quick for her and he jerked the knife back. The blade cut into her palm and she felt blood spurt between her fingers. She screamed, more from anger than from the pain.
The Arab said nothing as he slashed at her again with the knife. Blood was pouring from his mouth where she’d hit him with the paperweight but the only sound was a gentle whistling noise as he breathed through his nose.
Button glanced across at the desk and saw the letter opener that went with the paperweight, a steel blade embedded in a piece of carved crystal. She lurched towards it but the Arab anticipated her and he slashed at her, screaming. The knife caught her in the side, ripping into her flesh. She could feel the blade bite deep and she tried to twist away from the searing pain. She tripped over her husband’s legs and went sprawling on her hands and knees.
She heard the Arab grunt and then fell forward as something thumped into her right shoulder. The thump was followed by a sharp pain and she realised that the knife was embedded in her shoulder. She screamed as he pulled the knife out and the serrated edge ripped through skin and muscle. Tears filled her eyes. She didn’t want to die like this, cut to pieces in her own home. She screamed and rolled over. He was standing over her, blood dripping down his chin. Still he said nothing, though she could feel the hatred pouring out of him.
Button pulled her legs up and scrabbled away from him. She could feel blood running down her hip. He grunted again and slashed the knife at her legs. The tip nicked her ankle, drawing more blood. Button yelped and pulled her legs in close to her body.
She shuffled to the left and he moved with her, waving the knife menacingly. He lunged at her but as he did she lashed out with her right foot and managed to catch him in the groin with the heel of her shoe. The Arab grimaced and stabbed at her thigh. The blade went in deep and Button screamed in pain. She screamed again as he pulled the knife out and she saw blood spurt down her leg. She shuffled back to the wall and pushed herself up against it, then almost fell over as her injured leg gave way beneath her. She staggered along a bookcase, scattering books on to the floor. She grabbed at a book and threw it at her attacker as hard as she could. It hit him on the forehead and span across the room. He laughed at her and stabbed again and she jumped away.
The door was to her left, just a few yards away, but the Arab realised that too and he took a step to the side, blocking her escape. As he moved she saw Shepherd at the study window, a machine gun in his hands. For a brief moment they had eye contact.
‘Down,’ Shepherd mouthed.
Button did as she was told and as she fell to her knees the window exploded and bullets raked across the Arab.
Button woke up, her chest heaving. Her face was bathed in sweat and she was panting. She wiped her face and rolled over to reach for the glass of water she’d left on her bedside table. She gulped some down, the images from the dream still racing through her mind. In her whole life she’d never been closer to death than on that day back in 2008. She’d survived but her husband hadn’t, stabbed in the heart by the assassin who’d come to kill her. It had all been about revenge – the assassin had been paid to kill her by an old man who blamed her for the death of his sons. Button had learned a lot about revenge that day – the lengths to which people could go to right a wrong.
She put down the glass and lay on her back, staring up at the ceiling. Shepherd had killed the man who had tried to kill her. But that hadn’t been revenge enough for her. The day that she’d stood next to her daughter and watched her husband’s coffin be lowered into the ground, she’d silently sworn to herself that anyone connected to his death would die too. She’d made good on that promise. It had taken her more than five years, but she’d done it. Now they were all dead, and she felt not one iota of guilt. She felt the opposite, in fact. She’d carried out her promise. Everyone involved with Graham’s murder was now dead. But still the dream came. Almost every night. Alcohol sometimes helped. A bottle of wine before bed seemed to keep the dream away. But not always. She took a deep breath and sighed, knowing that she wouldn’t be able to sleep again. She turned her head and looked at the clock. It was just after six o’clock. The sun hadn’t risen yet and she never liked getting up in the dark. She closed her eyes and tried to think happy thoughts. She thought back to the day that Zoe had been born, and the look of pride on Graham’s face as he’d held her for the first time. She smiled to herself as she
relived the moment, then the realisation that he would never see the beautiful girl she had become hit her like a blow to the stomach and she rolled over into a foetal ball and sobbed into her pillow.
Shepherd’s ringing mobile woke him. He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling for a couple of seconds, wondering where he was and more importantly, who he was. Sleep was always a dangerous time for anyone in the undercover business because it was when you were most off guard. Hampstead. His legend was John Whitehill, freelance journalist, but he was also Frederik Olsen who was the man known as The Dane. And somewhere amongst all the lies he was Dan Shepherd, MI5 officer. He sat up and double-checked that the phone ringing was his own and not that of one of his legends. ‘Yeah?’ he said as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine.’ It was Lex Harper.
‘What time is it?’
‘It’s intel time, mate. Are you awake?’
‘Where are you?’
‘Krautland. Listen, about that kebab thing. The brothers get their stuff from a gang in Liverpool. They drive over a couple of times a month.’
‘What stuff are we talking about?’
‘Everything, mate. The Liverpool gang runs a one-stop shop operation, they sell everything. Coke, heroin, Ecstasy, dope, you name it, they’ll price it for you. They bring it in from Amsterdam, usually on the Ostend–Felixstowe ferry.’
‘They’re big?’
‘Damn right. Third biggest in Liverpool and gunning for number two.’
‘They friends of yours?’
Harper chuckled. ‘Nah, mate. I’m friends with the number two gang. And I’ve done business with the top dogs. To be honest, they’re all getting a bit fed up with this lot. They’re getting a bit too big for their boots, if you get my drift. They’re a nasty bunch and there have been a few shootings over the last month or so. So if you were to, say, talk to your cops and give them some intel on them, you’d be doing us all a favour.’
‘Sounds like a plan. How much can you tell me?’
Harper laughed. ‘Me, bugger all. I’m no grass. But there is a lad I’ll send along to fill you in. His name is Justin. Justin Time, we call him, because he’s always late. He’s a Scouser but don’t hold that against him. He’s a good lad and he’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’ve said you’re a mate and to be trusted. He doesn’t know who you are or who you work for and I’ve used that bollicky name you used in Berlin – Peter Parkinson. Wasn’t he Spider-Man, by the way? Were they playing some bloody game with you?’
‘Spider-Man was Peter Parker. And the legends are randomly generated. That’s what they say, anyway.’
‘Yeah, well Justin thinks you’re him and that you’re a mate over from Spain. You’ll have to go and see him in Liverpool, he doesn’t travel much. Hates flying, failed his driving test a dozen times so he gets around on public transport. He’s a laugh but he’s sound.’
‘What’s he do?’
Harper laughed. ‘Best you don’t know,’ he said. ‘Let’s just say that he’s bloody good with laundry.’
Harper gave Shepherd a mobile phone number.
‘Lex, thanks for this.’
‘No need for thanks, mate,’ said Harper. ‘It’s like I said before, it’s what friends do for friends.’ He ended the call.
‘Is that him?’ asked Sharpe, peering through the rain-splattered windscreen of the rented Ford Mondeo. A man in his twenties was standing in the doorway of a betting shop, his head down over a racing paper. They were in Leeds, not far from the railway station.
‘Maybe,’ said Shepherd. He took out his mobile and rang Justin’s number. Seconds later the figure in the doorway pulled a phone out of his parka pocket.
‘Yeah?’
‘Justin. It’s Peter. We’re in the blue Mondeo across the road from you.’
Justin looked over, waved, shoved the phone and paper into his pocket and flipped up the fur-lined hood of his parka before jogging through the rain towards the car.
He climbed into the back and pushed the hood off his head, grinning. ‘Good weather for ducks, yeah?’ His accent immediately betrayed his Liverpool origins.
‘Justin, thanks for this,’ said Shepherd. He twisted around in the driving seat to shake hands with him. ‘I’m Pete. This is Ricky.’
Justin shook both their hands. ‘Any mate of Lex’s, as they say. He says you’re Spider-Man.’
‘Pete Parkinson not Peter Parker,’ said Shepherd.
‘Like the disease?’
‘I guess so.’
‘My gran had that. Shook like she was being electrocuted. If we wanted to loosen the sauce bottle we used to give it to her to hold for a few minutes. Worked a treat.’ He laughed at his own joke and settled back in his seat. ‘So what do you need to know?’
‘This gang, the ones who are bringing in stuff from Amsterdam, what can you tell me about them?’
‘They’re local, mainly, but they’ve got a few lads from Manchester with them. They came out of nowhere a couple of years back. I think one of them did time with a guy who worked for one of the Colombian cartels and they put together a coke thing. The Colombians get it to Amsterdam and this guy – his name is McLaren, like the racing car – has done a deal with this company here. They charge him two and a half grand a kilo, heroin or coke, cheaper for hash. Trucks drive straight off the ferries, up north and across the M62. Six hours on a good day. Dover’s so busy there’s next to no chance of being pulled. They’re bringing in twenty or thirty trucks a day and they don’t have gear on them all, so the only way they’d catch a delivery is if they had intel and the gang is as tight as a duck’s arse so there’s no one to grass them up.’
‘What about when it gets to Liverpool?’
‘They’ve got a depot near the end of the M62. They unload the containers there and use vans to deliver the stuff to shops and restaurants. The drugs go out on the vans. But again, not all the vans. You’d never know if a van had heroin or coke or just chicken or fish.’
‘And the cops never raid them?’
‘They’ve been turned over a couple of times but never found nothing. They’ve got cops on the payroll and I’d bet they’re drugs cops. Probably got their own men in Customs and at the ports. Same as Lex, right? He’s got cops on his payroll right across the country. Has to be that way.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘I guess.’ He didn’t want to hear any more. The less he knew about what Lex Harper got up to, the better.
‘I heard that now McLaren’s paying to put his people’s kids in private schools and for them to go to university, just so they can get them on the graduate entry schemes. They’re getting them into the cops and MI5 and Border Force and they pay them five times their salary to stay there and keep their noses clean. I swear to God, mate, it’s that organised. They shell out a couple of hundred grand a year and they’ve got their own people, right at the heart of it. Long and the short of it, they’re pretty much untouchable at the moment.’
‘Are you okay to show me the depot they use?’
‘Sure,’ said Justin. ‘Head out the city, east, follow the signs for the M62.’
The depot was on an industrial estate a few hundred yards from the end of the M62, on the outskirts of Liverpool. The estate was composed of a dozen featureless buildings of varying sizes, of which the depot was the largest by far. It sat in the middle of the estate like a mother hen surrounded by its chicks. The depot, and a car park large enough to take twenty or so container lorries, was surrounded by a wire security fence and the whole area was covered by CCTV. The only way in and out was through a metal gate that rolled back and forth to allow the trucks in and out. There were two uniformed security guards to check the paperwork of the trucks as they entered and left, and another to operate the electric gate.
There was a large loading bay on one side of the building where three large grey trucks were parked up with their rear doors facing the building. Men in white overalls were unloading boxes on to trolleys and wheeli
ng them inside. On the other side of the building was a smaller loading bay with several vans parked next to it.
‘So how does it work?’ asked Shepherd.
He, Sharpe and Justin were sitting in their Mondeo in the car park of a unit that had a large FOR RENT sign across its main door. Justin was in the back.
‘It’s a legit business,’ said Justin. ‘It’s been around since the seventies but they moved here a couple of years ago. They supply chicken around the whole of the north-west and down as far as Birmingham. Fish, too. Anything that needs refrigeration. There’s dozens of trucks that pass through here each day, some from the Dover ferries, some from Felixstowe. The vans are refrigerated and the chickens are packed in boxes. The only way to check the truck completely is to take out all the chickens. But if they get above a certain temperature then Health and Safety steps in and declares the consignment unfit for human consumption and Customs has to stump up the money. But they’re lazy bastards anyway. No one wants to be humping out dozens of cases of chicken. So ninety-nine times out of a hundred they don’t even check. But where they’re clever is that they only bring in ten or twenty kilos on a truck. That much gear is easy to hide. They build secret compartments into the trucks and Customs wouldn’t see if they were looking right at it. The only way they’d ever get caught is if they had serious intel, you know, telling them that there was gear in a specific truck, but that’s never going to happen. Even the drivers don’t know when they’re carrying gear.’
Shepherd twisted around in his seat. ‘How come you know all this?’ he asked.
‘One of their guys had a falling-out with them and ended up working for us. Gave us the full SP.’
‘And you didn’t think of shopping them to the cops?’
‘There’s no point. The gang’s got an inside man in the drugs squad. Any time they start sniffing around they just stop the shipments. Then they get the all-clear and it starts up again. It’s a sweet operation.’
Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller Page 32
