Soft Target ss-2

by Stephen Leather

  ‘It’s like that in the ARV. We spend hours driving around waiting for something to kick off. But when it does, there’s all sorts of rules and regulations about what we can and can’t do. It’s like going into battle with one hand tied behind your back.’

  ‘Any idea how long you’ll be undercover this time?’

  ‘I’ve almost cracked it.’

  ‘Hell of a job, Spider.’

  ‘If they’re bent, they deserve what’s coming to them.’

  ‘I meant a hell of a job for you. Winning their trust so that you can betray them. Especially when they’re cops.’

  ‘I try not to think of it that way,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just gathering evidence. If they weren’t bad, they wouldn’t have anything to worry about.’

  ‘It would do my head in,’ said Gannon. ‘We tried using our guys undercover in Ireland, but it never worked.’

  ‘Different skills,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Yeah. They grew their hair long, wore the right clothes and got the accent, but they just didn’t fit.’

  ‘Everyone knows everyone else over the water. You were trying to blend into an incestuous community.’

  ‘The UK criminal fraternity’s not that big – aren’t you worried you’ll be rumbled by someone you’ve come across before?’

  ‘I’m good with names and faces,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can usually spot trouble before it happens. And, more often than not, I leave an operation before the bad guys are busted so no one’s the wiser.’

  ‘But you’re doing okay?’

  Shepherd knew Gannon wasn’t talking about work. Was he okay about Sue? ‘One day at a time,’ he said. ‘That’s what they say, isn’t it? You take each day as it comes, and after a while it doesn’t hurt as much. Eventually life gets back to normal.’

  ‘It’s easy to say, I know.’

  ‘I miss her so damn much.’

  ‘That’ll never change.’

  ‘It would be easier if there was someone to blame.’ Shepherd took a deep breath. ‘There’s no one I can talk it through with,’ he went on. ‘Liam’s too young, Sue’s parents are trying to deal with their own grief. The unit’s given me a psychologist but she’s more interested in knowing if I’m up to the job.’

  They sat down on a bench beside the London Eye. Shepherd grinned. ‘Let me give you a crap analogy.’ He pointed to the giant wheel. ‘That’s life, in a way. We all get one circuit, then it’s someone else’s turn. But with the whole world to experience, most people never get beyond the pod they’re born in. Once round and then off into the long night.’

  ‘Fuck me, Spider, how depressed are you?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not after the meaning of life. It’s just that there are times when you wonder what the point of it is.’

  ‘Life? Or the London Eye?’ Gannon smiled. ‘The London Eye’s a tourist attraction – but life? Who the hell knows?’

  ‘The guy who topped himself in front of me – Barry Jones. We’d started on a meaning-of-life conversation before he pulled the trigger.’

  ‘He had a history of depression. That’s why he was RTUd. He was a loose cannon, waiting to go off.’

  ‘His life had turned to shit, was what he said. Wife had left him, found a new man, wouldn’t let him see his daughter.’

  ‘He used to knock her around. That’s what I was told. Any problems he had, he brought them on himself.’

  ‘That’s not the way he saw it. He said he loved his kid, that his wife was turning her against him, and that he’d never laid a finger on her.’

  ‘He had a short fuse – it was in his file. He decked an officer once but it was in the field and the officer was due to move on so nothing came of it.’

  ‘I tried to see the little girl afterwards,’ said Shepherd. ‘Jones asked me to tell her that he loved her, but her mother wouldn’t let me into the house. Said I was a murderer – she seemed to think we’d killed him. I had his blood all over me.’

  ‘Probably best that you didn’t see the child, then. It would have been pretty traumatic for her. The gear that SO19 wear is as intimidating as our kit, with or without bloodstains.’

  ‘I keep having dreams that she was at the window watching her dad shoot himself. She wasn’t – I know she wasn’t.’

  ‘Small mercies,’ said Gannon. ‘You wouldn’t want a kid seeing something like that. Probably wouldn’t benefit from seeing you, either, to be honest. She’s always going to remember you as the man who was there when her dad died.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re probably right. Maybe I’ll write her a letter or something.’ He scowled. ‘Nah, the mother would just throw it away. But she has to know her dad loved her. If I don’t tell her, she’ll go through life thinking he didn’t.’

  ‘You’re not responsible for his actions,’ said Gannon. ‘You don’t owe him anything.’

  ‘He was Sass, and it was his last request,’ said Shepherd. ‘And if I don’t carry it out, who will? Jeez, what state must he have been in to pull the trigger? We were talking and then, bang, he was gone.’

  ‘Jones lived for the Regiment. It was his be-all and end-all. When he was RTUd, he fell apart. It happens.’ Gannon took a packet of Wrigley’s gum from his pocket and offered a piece to Shepherd. Shepherd shook his head. Gannon popped a stick into his mouth and chewed. ‘It’s like greyhounds. They’re bred for one reason. To win races. As soon as they’re past their best, they’re surplus to requirements. Twenty-five thousand healthy dogs are put down every year just so that the punters can bet a few quid on a Saturday night.’

  ‘It’s a better analogy than my London Eye.’

  ‘It’s the way it is. Greyhounds aren’t bred as family pets, they’re bred to win races. The Sass doesn’t train men to be good fathers or husbands or to run businesses. It trains them to jump out of aeroplanes, march through hazardous terrain with back-breaking loads and kill people. Once your Sass days are over, those skills aren’t especially useful. You know what most guys used to end up doing after they left the Regiment?’

  ‘The building trade.’

  ‘Dead right. Brickies or scaffolders. I’ve had guys end up as gravediggers and lollipop men. Most leave thinking they’re going to earn a living as mercenaries or security consultants, but most end up on building sites or guarding car parks. Iraq has thrown up job opportunities but not everyone’s suitable for close-protection work. And the ones who’ve been out of the Regiment for a few years have lost their edge. Life’s tough, and it’s even tougher for our guys out in the real world. I’m sorry Barry Jones took his life, but he’s one of half a dozen former members of the Regiment so far this year.’

  That was news to Shepherd. ‘And there’s nothing anyone can do?’

  ‘It’s a rough old world. We’re the SAS, not the Samaritans. I’m not happy about the way it is, Spider, and I do what I can. But I’ve enough on my plate with the Increment. So, tell me about the trick-cyclist.’

  ‘My boss reckons I might be stressed out. It was tough going undercover in a high-security prison. Then there was Sue’s accident. And I’ve been pretty much flat out since I started with the unit.’

  ‘You seem straight and level to me.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You were never the most relaxed of guys, but that’s the nature of our job.’

  ‘Thanks again. I’ll tell her when I see her next.’

  ‘Ah, the plot thickens. A woman?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I guess it’s difficult for her to relate to, right?’

  ‘She’s a smart girl but, yeah, she’s never fired a gun in anger.’

  ‘Not many people have.’

  ‘I don’t see why they should expect me to spill my guts to a stranger, someone who has no conception of what it’s like to be in combat or to work undercover.’

  ‘I doubt they’d be using her if she wasn’t qualified.’

  ‘Oh, she’s good all right. Downright bloody devious. Keeps trying to get me to talk about Sue without
asking me full on.’

  ‘Why’s she interested in Sue?’

  ‘She reckons I’m not dealing with her death. I get the feeling she thinks I should be crying my eyes out.’

  ‘We all deal with death in our own way,’ said Gannon.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with me just because I’m not bursting into tears every other day.’

  ‘I didn’t say there was,’ said Gannon. ‘I know how much she meant to you. You gave up the Regiment for her.’

  ‘For her and Liam,’ said Shepherd. ‘She wanted the quiet life. Me at home with a pipe and slippers.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Out of the frying-pan and into the bloody fire. She didn’t realise the cops would have me undercover. She saw more of me when I was with the Sass.’

  ‘How’s Liam handling it?’

  ‘How does any kid deal with the death of his mum? She was the world to him.’

  ‘Have you talked to him about it?’

  ‘It’s like pulling teeth.’

  ‘Like father, like son,’ said Gannon.

  ‘You think he gets it from me?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You’re his role model,’ said Gannon. ‘If you’re the strong, silent type he’ll try to be the same.’

  Shepherd stared up at the cloudless blue sky. ‘Maybe that’s it.’

  ‘What’s eating you, Spider?’ asked Gannon, quietly.

  High overhead a 747 banked towards Heathrow. ‘I’m not sure. There’s something not right but I don’t know what it is.’ He wasn’t used to telling people how he felt: his whole undercover life was spent masking his true feelings.

  ‘Maybe Jones made you aware of your own mortality.’

  ‘I’m not suicidal,’ said Shepherd. Too quickly: he’d sounded defensive. ‘And I’ve seen men die. Hell, I’ve killed them close up, too.’

  ‘Yeah, but they were the enemy. You didn’t get to know them before you pulled the trigger. You had a chance to talk to Jones, to get inside his head – you let him get inside yours too. And there were obvious similarities to your own situation.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Shepherd was unconvinced. He was no stranger to death. He’d killed on missions and slept the sleep of the just. He’d seen friends and colleagues die, too – a young trooper had died after a snake bite in the Borneo jungle during a training exercise. He’d seen another fall to his death in a climbing accident. He would never forget the men’s faces, but they didn’t haunt his dreams as Jones did.

  ‘You and Jones both left the Regiment and both have one child,’ said Gannon. ‘Maybe you saw a bit of yourself in him. Seems to me that if you really want to get to the bottom of what’s troubling you, you should try opening up to the psychologist.’

  ‘But you think I’m okay?’

  ‘You keep asking me that, and you seem fine – but what the hell do I know?’

  His head hurt. His throat hurt. His left knee felt as if it was on fire. His right hand ached and the slightest movement of his thumb sent pain lancing down his arm. The only good thing was that at least it meant he was alive. Eddie Anderson would have smiled except he was missing his front teeth and moving his lips was agony.

  He heard movement at the side of his bed. He didn’t open his eyes. A nurse came to check on him every fifteen minutes. Sometimes they changed his dressings. There was a drip in his left arm and sometimes they did something with the bag.

  ‘You’re in a right state, aren’t you?’

  Anderson opened his eyes a fraction and squinted up at his visitor. He expected a doctor but the man looking down at him wasn’t wearing a white coat. He was wearing a black raincoat over a dark blue suit. He was a tall, thin man with close-cropped bullet grey hair and he was holding a warrant card six inches from Anderson’s nose.

  ‘No comment,’ said Anderson, wincing because it hurt to speak.

  ‘I admire your loyalty but your boss is dead,’ said the detective.

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Deceased. No more. Dead on arrival. He is an ex-boss. Am I getting through to you?’

  ‘What about Ray?’

  ‘Wates is in a worse state than you, Eddie. They’re taking his spleen out this afternoon.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Anderson.

  ‘You can live without a spleen. They say.’

  Anderson closed his eyes.

  ‘Three against one and two of you are in intensive care while one’s on a slab. And the other guy, not a mark on him.’

  Anderson said nothing.

  ‘You knew he was a cop, right?’ said the detective.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘This is just you and me, Eddie. There’s no tape. Whatever you tell me stays in this room.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I’m a cop who hates mysteries,’ said the detective. ‘You, Charlie Kerr and Ray Wates go charging in with guns. Kerr gets shot dead, Wates gets beaten to a pulp and you get hit by a car. That’s a mystery.’

  ‘How do you know what happened?’ said Anderson. He opened his eyes. ‘You weren’t there.’

  ‘No, but I know a man who was,’ said the detective.

  ‘So why no caution?’ asked Anderson suspiciously. ‘You caution me, I get a brief. Piss off and leave me alone.’

  The detective leaned over the bed, his face a few inches from Anderson’s. ‘The way things stand at the moment, they reckon you’re the victim here. Crazy as it seems, the plods think you, Charlie and Ray were attacked. So, you tell me what I want to know and I walk out of here and maybe, just maybe, you get to go home to your wife and kid in Chorltoncum-Hardy. But you screw me around any more and I’ll put the plods right. You’ll go down for attempted murder.’

  Anderson glared at the detective. ‘It sounds like you know everything anyway.’

  ‘The guy you attacked, you knew he was a cop?’

  ‘Fucking right.’

  ‘And that didn’t worry you?’

  ‘It worried me and Ray, but Charlie wanted him dead.’ Anderson frowned. ‘No comebacks, right?’

  ‘On my mother’s life,’ said the detective.

  ‘Nelson tried to fuck with Charlie’s missus. Charlie, not surprisingly, took it personal. That’s why he was there. I told him it was a mistake.’

  ‘Nelson?’ said the detective. ‘Who the fuck is Nelson?’

  ‘Nelson’s the undercover cop. That’s the name he was using anyway. Tony Nelson.’ A wave of nausea washed over him and Anderson closed his eyes.

  When he opened them again, the detective was staring at him. ‘How do you know he was an undercover cop?’

  ‘Because he was cracking on he was a fucking hitman, that’s why. And we followed him to a cop shop in the City.’

  ‘Leman Street?’

  ‘I don’t know what road it was. Near Aldgate station.’

  ‘And Nelson was pretending to be a hitman?’

  Anderson fought another bout of nausea. ‘I need a doctor,’ he said.

  ‘No, you need me,’ said the cop. ‘I’m the only one standing between you and a life sentence. You tried to kill a cop, remember.’

  ‘A fucking supercop, that’s what he is. Who the hell is he anyway?’

  ‘Kerr didn’t tell you?’

  ‘When we followed him from Manchester, we thought he was a hitman. Angie had paid him to put a bullet in Charlie. We saw her and Nelson get busted, then Nelson got a get-out-of-jail-free card. We followed him to London and he reported to a cop shop.’

  ‘That was when?’

  ‘Tuesday.’

  ‘And what time did he arrive at the cop shop?’

  ‘Four o’clock. Four thirty, maybe.’

  ‘And you left it until Thursday before you made your move?’

  ‘Charlie had things to do up north.’

  The ward doors crashed open and a middle-aged Chinese man in a white coat hurried over the linoleum floor towards Anderson’s bed. ‘What the hell is going on here?’ he asked, in a perfect Home Counties accent.

  ‘I’m just having a few words with Mr
Anderson,’ said the detective.

  ‘He’s a sick man,’ said the doctor.

  ‘He almost killed a policeman.’

  ‘And once he’s stabilised you can charge him. But at the moment he’s my patient.’

  ‘I’m done anyway,’ said the detective.

  ‘Yes, you are,’ said the doctor.

  The detective stared at him, long and hard. The doctor tried to meet his gaze but his face reddened. He began to busy himself with the equipment monitoring Anderson’s vital signs.

  ‘So that’s it?’ said Anderson. ‘I’m in the clear?’

  ‘Fingers crossed,’ said the detective. He left the ward, his black leather shoes squeaking with each step.

  It was only as the detective barged out through the double doors that Anderson realised the man hadn’t identified himself, and the warrant card had been too close to his face to read.

  The name on the passport that the man was using was Muhammad Zahid. It was a good name, but it wasn’t the name that he had been born with. The passport was Iraqi, but the man was Palestinian. When he had joined the ranks of the shahid a video would be shown on Arab TV stations across the Middle East proclaiming his love for the Palestinian people and his hatred for the infidels who aided the Israeli murderers. The man calling himself Zahid hadn’t been in Palestine for five years and hadn’t seen his family for six. Ever since his Arab brothers had achieved martyrdom during the attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, the West’s intelligence service had gone into overdrive. Suspected terrorists were watched, hunted and held without trial. Phones were tapped, emails were read, letters were opened. There was no such thing as secrecy any more. The Americans wanted to photograph, fingerprint and take DNA samples from every human being on the planet, but until they did, all that a man like the Palestinian needed was a valid passport with a valid visa. The immigration officer at Heathrow’s Terminal Three was underpaid and overworked: he had only seconds to look at the passport and compare the photograph in it with the man in front of him. The resemblance was close enough and the passport was genuine, so the Palestinian was waved through. The immigration officer even welcomed him back to the United Kingdom. It had been so easy. The British were so trusting, so gullible.