Soft Target ss-2

by Stephen Leather

  He walked down the corridor to Sewell’s office, where Barbara was busy on her word-processor. He tapped on the door. She looked up and smiled when she saw him. ‘Larry, how can I help you?’ She was an attractive brunette in her late forties.

  ‘Any sign of Roger?’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s not answering his phone either.’

  ‘He didn’t say where he was going, did he?’

  ‘I was expecting him on Monday.’

  ‘He mentioned going to Florida. Did he say anything to you?’

  ‘He didn’t ask me to get him tickets.’

  ‘And there’ve been no emails from him?’

  ‘Not this week.’

  ‘No contact at all?’

  ‘Do you think something’s wrong, Larry?’

  Hendrickson tried to look relaxed. It was too soon to start raising red flags, but it was only natural to be concerned if his partner had gone missing. ‘No– you know what he’s like. He’ll probably turn up tomorrow with a sore head. Anything urgent I can take care of for him?’

  ‘He’s right up to date. He worked late last Thursday to clear his desk.’

  Hendrickson frowned. That wasn’t like Sewell. He was forever behind with his paperwork. In fact, he left much of the day-to-day administration to Hendrickson. ‘I’m the ideas man,’ he’d always say. ‘You’re the bread-and-butter guy, Larry.’ Hendrickson had to chase him to sign contracts and cheques.

  ‘Thursday night?’

  ‘He was still here when I left. That’s why I wasn’t worried when he didn’t come in on Friday. I assumed he had a long weekend planned. I’m sure he’s fine.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ said Hendrickson. ‘If he does phone in, ask him to give me a call, will you?’

  Hendrickson headed back to his own office. He didn’t think for a minute that Sewell would call. Not unless they had phones in hell. But he needed to know who’d been using Sewell’s ID and password to log on to the company system. And what they wanted.

  The major walked with Shepherd across the grass to the outdoor shooting range. Four troopers in fatigues were firing three-round bursts of their MP5s at metal cut-out figures of terrorists, the sound of gunfire echoing off the nearby barracks buildings.

  ‘The Trojan units favour the Glock,’said the major. ‘You used the SIG-Sauer, right?’

  A sergeant was loading ammunition into magazines at a wooden bench and he nodded at Shepherd. His fingers were slipping rounds into the magazine quickly and efficiently, working purely by feel.

  ‘Started with the Browning Hi-Power but, yeah, the fifteen-round magazine gives the P226 the edge every time,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘The cops use the Glock with a ten-round magazine. The pros put eight in the mag so that the spring doesn’t get overstrained. Two point five kilogram trigger pull. Not my favourite short, but you’re stuck with it.’ Gannon picked up one of the pistols on the bench and handed it to Shepherd.

  ‘They say it never jams, right?’ said Shepherd.

  Gannon pulled a face. ‘No guns jam,’ he said. ‘Ammunition jams. Put a crap round in a Glock and it’ll jam. If you want jam-free, stick with revolvers, and live with having only six shots. The cops don’t bother putting tracer rounds at the bottom of the mag. We do, because in situations where we need constant firepower it lets us know when to change mags. Cops make every shot count so they should always know how many they’ve got left. That’s the theory. Now, let’s see what you do at ten metres.’

  Shepherd picked up one of the magazines and slotted it into the butt of the Glock. Gannon stood slightly behind him as he adopted the classic firing stance. Left foot slightly ahead of the right, right hand around the butt, left hand around the right. The targets were simple ringed bullseyes, about two feet in diameter. He fired eight shots in four groups of two at one of the targets, then lowered the gun. All eight shots had gone through the centre of the target; the holes could have been covered by a fifty-pence piece.

  ‘Show-off,’ said the major, grinning.

  ‘Like riding a bike,’ said Shepherd. He ejected the empty mag and slotted in a fresh one.

  He walked with the major to stand in front of the second target. This one was twenty-five metres away. Shepherd fired four groups of two in quick succession. His accuracy at the longer distance was virtually unchanged.

  The major nodded approvingly and walked with Shepherd to the third target. This one was fifty metres away, the upper limit for a handgun. Beyond fifty metres, hitting a target with any degree of accuracy was down to luck more than training. He took a few seconds to get comfortable, forced himself to relax, then fired eight shots. All were within the centre three rings and could have been covered by a saucer. Eight killing shots at fifty metres was good shooting by anyone’s standards. He ejected the mag, opened the breech to check that it was clear, locked the top slide in place and handed the gun to Gannon.

  ‘Your accuracy’s spot on, Spider, can’t fault you on that,’ said the major. ‘Technique-wise, the double tap is fine for the range, but it’s single shots when you’re on the street. Remember, with the boys in blue every shot counts and has to be accounted for. The big difference between us and the cops is that we shoot until the target goes down. Cops shoot when only absolutely necessary to neutralise the threat.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘I bloody hope so, Spider, because if you revert to your Sass training and empty a magazine into a bad guy, you go to jail and don’t pass go. Cops can only fire if life is in imminent danger. As soon as the bad guys drop their weapons, you stop firing.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘What we’re going to do now is to take you back into the Killing House and run you through a series of drills, using blanks. We’ll throw dozens of civilian situations at you. Teenager with an airgun, angry husband holding wife hostage, armed bank robbers, the works. We’ll be testing two things – your marksmanship and, more importantly, your judgement calls. You can’t afford to make a mistake.’

  Just then his mobile phone rang. Shepherd grimaced. ‘Sorry,’ he said to the major. ‘I’ve got to keep it on in case the job needs me.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Gannon.

  Shepherd walked away and took the call. It was Miss Malcolm from the au pair agency. ‘I haven’t caught you at a bad time, have I, Mr Shepherd?’ she asked.

  Shepherd wondered what she’d say if he told her that he was about to go into the SAS Killing House to practise hostage-rescue techniques. ‘No, it’s fine, Miss Malcolm.’

  ‘I’ve had four girls arrive in London at short notice and I thought I might show you the pick of the litter, so to speak.’

  ‘That’s good news,’ said Shepherd. ‘The sooner the better, as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘I was wondering if I could have one pop along to see you on Friday morning.’

  ‘That would be fine,’ said Shepherd. There was a burst of automatic fire from the far end of the range.

  ‘What on earth was that?’ asked Miss Malcolm.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just a car backfiring.’ He realised that the major was listening. Gannon mimed firing a burst at him with an MP5 and Shepherd waved him away. ‘Thanks for your call, Miss Malcolm,’ he said and cut the connection. It was only when he put away the phone that he realised she hadn’t told him the girl’s name or where she was from. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Gannon. ‘I’ve got to get an au pair fixed up sharpish.’

  ‘Couldn’t get one for me, could you? I could do with something to keep me warm at night.’

  ‘She’ll be cooking, ironing and babysitting Liam. That’ll be her lot,’ said Shepherd. ‘She’ll probably turn out to be a twenty-stone Romanian weight-lifter, but looks are pretty low on my list of requirements.’

  Shepherd spent all morning in the Killing House under the supervision of the major and a counterterrorism instructor, a grizzled sergeant whom Shepherd remembered from his days in the SAS. They broke for lunch at one and the major took Shepherd to t
he mess. A special-projects team, a captain and fifteen troopers, were at an adjoining table and clearly curious as to who the major was with.

  ‘So, what do you think of the new place?’ asked Gannon, as he started on a plate of sausage and chips.

  ‘More space than the old barracks,’ said Shepherd. ‘Food’s the same as it ever was, though.’

  ‘Funnily enough, it used to be the RAF’s catering school,’ said Gannon, stabbing at a sausage. ‘They didn’t leave any chefs behind so we’re stuck with our old guys. Still, it’s only fuel, isn’t it?’

  ‘That was one of the first things I noticed when I left the Regiment,’ said Shepherd. ‘The weight started to go on. I put on ten pounds in the first month.’

  ‘All the coffee and doughnuts you cops eat, I suppose.’

  ‘Soldiering burns up the calories. Police work is less physical, certainly the sort I do.’

  ‘Stressful, though.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so. Long-term stress. In the Sass, the stress comes in bursts mainly. Bang, bang, bang, then it’s all over and you wait for the shit to hit the fan again. In undercover work it’s constant. Even when a case is over there’s still the worry that someone might find out who you are and what you did.’

  ‘Revenge, you mean?’

  Shepherd buttered a chunk of bread. ‘You’re on your own if it goes tits up,’ he said. ‘In the Sass you’ve got the Regiment to take care of you. Safety in numbers.’

  ‘Cops take care of their own, don’t they?’

  ‘Uniforms, maybe, but I’m in a special unit. Most people don’t even know I’m a cop.’

  ‘Armed?’

  ‘If it goes with my cover. But as Dan Shepherd, no, I’m not supposed to carry a gun.’

  ‘Not supposed to?’

  Shepherd chuckled. ‘Some rules are meant to be broken,’ he said. ‘Anyone sneaks into my home in the middle of the night, they’d better be wearing body armour.’

  They finished their lunch and walked back to the Killing House, past the ammunition stores and the briefing room they called the Kremlin. As always Gannon was carrying his sat phone.

  ‘How much longer will you be heading up the Increment?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘It’s open-ended,’ said the major. ‘Apparently I’m doing such a good job they want me there until I retire or kick the bucket.’

  ‘All this al-Qaeda activity must keep you in the firing line,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You don’t know half of it, Spider. Five is asking us to do some pretty heavy stuff, these days. Stuff we’d never have got away with in the old days.’

  ‘Difficult to get a handle on what they want, isn’t it?’

  ‘You knew where you were with the Provos – Brits out, a united Ireland. Simple. Everyone knew what they wanted, and why the British wouldn’t give it to them. What the hell does al-Qaeda want? No one really knows. Death to infidels? The Yanks out of Saudi? Every woman in the world wearing a veil? And the way they wage war is so alien. Suicide bombers? Killing women and children? The Provos could be evil bastards at times, but the al-Qaeda lot are something else. How the hell are you supposed to deal with a suicide bomber?’

  ‘It’s a sick business, all right.’

  ‘It’s going to happen here, Spider. Sooner or later. Five are working overtime to keep the lid on it, but there’s only so much they can do. And when it happens it’ll be big.’

  ‘Spectaculars, the IRA called them,’ said Shepherd. ‘Always hated that. Almost glamorised what they did. A bomb’s a bomb. Casualties are casualties.’

  ‘But even they drew the line at planes. Or trains. They could have put a bomb on a British Airways flight whenever they wanted. The Dublin to Belfast train was a sitting target. But they never went for it. You know why?’

  ‘They followed rules, I guess,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘They regarded it as a war and they followed the rules of war. Most of the time. But al-Qaeda has no rules. The end justifies the means, no matter what the means are. They’ll blow up a school if it serves their purpose. A football ground. The more horrific the better. They’ve got guys out in North Korea trying to buy uranium to build a dirty bomb. They were in Russia for anthrax. They’ve got cells all over the world stockpiling explosives. It’s like trying to treat cancer. You take out one tumour and another one grows somewhere else. You’re always one step behind, trying to catch up. At least with the Provos we knew who the bad guys were. We had the RUC on our side and we had real intel. You know how many Arabs they had working for MI5 on 9/11?’

  ‘I’d guess none.’

  ‘You’d guess right. They had a few Arab speakers but they were white Oxbridge graduates. It’s no wonder intelligence in that area is so weak. Still is, as far as I can see. Most of what’s in the MI5 files that go across my desk is guesswork.’ He lifted the sat phone. ‘I just carry this around and wait for it to ring.’

  They reached the Killing House. ‘Question,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘How do you handle a suicide bomber?’

  ‘You don’t,’ said the major. ‘You can’t. They want to die, so there’s nothing you can say to them, no way you can apply pressure. You have to take them out with as few casualties as possible.’

  ‘So you slot them, end of story?’

  ‘Head shot because the explosive is generally strapped to their body. But even then, chances are they’ll go bang. They normally hold the trigger and all they have to do is press it. Even with a clean head shot the hand can spasm and set it off. Plus there’s plan B.’

  ‘Plan B?’

  ‘Whoever sends the bomber into play usually has a fallback position. Either a timer or a remote-control trigger. They often use mobile phones.’

  ‘So slotting the guy doesn’t necessarily make the bomb safe?’

  ‘The guy can be dead on the ground and you still can’t go near him, not before the bomb-disposal guys. The only way to deal with them is to take them out before they get to their target area. Once they’re in place, you’re screwed. The Israelis deal with them on a daily basis and the only defence they’ve got is public vigilance. You see a Palestinian wearing a bulky jacket, you scream like hell and run for it.’

  The sergeant was at the entrance to the Killing House, carrying an MP5. He nodded at Shepherd. ‘You ready for round two, Spider?’

  Shepherd grinned. He relished working with professional soldiers again. Undercover work was solitary. He met Hargrove, he occasionally worked with other agents if the particular job required it, but generally he was alone. The comradeship of the Regiment was one of the things he missed most about it.

  ‘We’ll run through some group hostage situations,’ said Gannon.‘Then I’ve arranged for sniper training.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd. That was another thing he missed about the SAS. The chance to play with big boys’ toys.

  When the sergeant called time on the exercises in the Killing House Shepherd was exhausted. He’d been working with four troopers from the counterterrorism wing and they’d pushed him hard. He drank from a plastic bottle of water and spat on the ground. ‘Nothing like the taste of cordite, is there?’ said Gannon.

  ‘How did it look?’

  ‘You’ll fit right in to SO19,’ said Gannon. ‘Not quite up to our high standards, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Shepherd. He handed his weapon to the sergeant.

  ‘We’re going to have to leave the sniping,’ said Gannon.‘I’ve got to head back to London. Chopper’s ready now.’

  Shepherd looked at his watch and groaned. He hadn’t realised how long he’d been in the Killing House. He pulled out his mobile phone and called Moira.

  ‘Daniel,’ she said, and Shepherd could tell she was annoyed with him.

  ‘Hiya, Moira. Look, I’m not going to be able to pick Liam up.’

  Moira sighed. ‘I collected him from school half an hour ago. A teacher phoned me to say that Liam was waiting at the gates.’

  Sh
epherd’s heart sank. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry.’

  ‘And I don’t think that taking the Lord’s name in vain is going to make things any better,’ said Moira.

  ‘Can I talk to him?’

  ‘He’s very upset, Daniel.’

  Shepherd gritted his teeth, unable to believe he’d screwed up again. Why hadn’t he kept a closer eye on the time?

  ‘You can’t keep doing this to him,’ said Moira. Her voice was flat: she wasn’t accusing him, simply stating a fact.

  ‘I know. Can you just tell him I was held up?’

  ‘He knows that. He knows you don’t do it deliberately.’

  The fact that she was being so understanding made Shepherd feel worse. ‘I’m sorry, Moira.’

  ‘I know you are. You’re always sorry when you let him down. But you can’t keep doing it.’

  ‘Please, Moira, can I speak to him?’

  ‘He’s crying. He won’t want to speak to you. Not for a while.’

  Shepherd felt as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus. He squatted with his back to the wall. ‘Look, can you get him into the back garden in fifteen minutes?’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Please, Moira, just do as I ask, will you?’

  ‘Daniel . . .’

  ‘Fifteen minutes,’ said Shepherd. He cut the connection and banged the back of his head against the wall. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

  Moira knocked on the bedroom door. ‘Liam?’ she said. There was no reply so she knocked again. ‘Liam?’

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ said Liam.

  ‘I haven’t made supper yet,’ said Moira. ‘I want you to come outside.’