False Friends ss-9

by Stephen Leather

  ‘From where?’

  ‘I was in London. The train was packed and the chavs in standard class were doing my head in. So I sat in first class. But when I showed the conductor guy my warrant card he said he didn’t give a toss who I worked for and made me pay the difference.’

  ‘Ah yes, there isn’t the respect there used to be,’ said Shepherd, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

  ‘What do you guys show? You know, when you want to identify yourself?’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘The whole point of being in MI5 is that we don’t identify ourselves.’

  ‘I thought it was MI6 that was the Secret Intelligence Service?’

  ‘Yeah, well, Five is secretive too. It’s pretty much like Fight Club. The first rule is that we don’t talk about it. And we certainly don’t flash our ID cards to get free rides on public transport.’

  ‘So how can you prove you’re a spook?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Say you’re caught doing something you shouldn’t and you get pulled by the cops. What do you use as a get-out-of-jail-free card?’

  Shepherd chuckled. ‘First of all, I wouldn’t get myself into a situation where the cops would be involved. But if something went wrong, and by some chance it did happen, then I’d stick to whatever cover story I had.’

  ‘And if they didn’t believe you and you were arrested? They’d fingerprint and DNA you.’

  ‘Both of which would come back as unknown. But say they did keep me banged up, I’d be allowed my phone call and I’d call it in.’

  ‘Button, yeah?’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘There’s a hotline we call that’s answered by a duty officer. We explain the problem and the duty officer takes care of it. If it’s the cops then it goes to the commissioner’s office and he sorts it out.’

  ‘So you could get away with murder, could you?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Razor, I’m not James Bond and there’s no bloody licence to kill. And it’s all hypothetical anyway. It’s not as if I go around breaking the law.’

  Sharpe laughed and jerked his thumb at the boxes in the back of the Range Rover. ‘What’s that back there? Chopped liver?’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘Fair point. But if we do get pulled over by the traffic cops then I assume you’ll flash them your warrant card before they start rooting around in the back.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s one of the benefits of being back with the Met,’ said Sharpe. ‘At least everyone knows what a warrant card is. That SOCA ID was bloody useless.’ He folded his arms. ‘So where are we doing the show?’

  ‘Out in the Brecon Beacons,’ said Shepherd. He tapped the TomTom unit on his dashboard. ‘Got the location programmed in already. There’s a place we can drive off the road and not be seen. The nearest house is a mile away and the SAS sometimes do live-fire exercises out there so the locals are used to gunfire.’

  ‘And no back-up? That’s a worry.’

  ‘Not a problem. We’re not carrying cash so no one’s going to get heavy for three guns and a hand grenade. Plus, you can take care of yourself, can’t you? What do they call it? The Gorbals Kiss?’

  Sharpe chuckled. ‘I’d never headbutt anybody, Spider. You know that.’

  ‘Anyway, Kettering and Thompson didn’t look the heavy sort to me. Cerebral rather than physical. We’ll be okay.’

  ‘And has Hargrove said anything about when we move in?’

  ‘I know as much as you do,’ said Shepherd.

  Sharpe slowly turned his head, a sly grin on his face. ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘What, you think I’ve got some sort of inside track?’

  ‘Heaven forbid,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Sharpe shrugged. ‘I’m just starting to feel like a third wheel on this job, that’s all. Hargrove’s gone very quiet ever since you came on board. He doesn’t seem to be talking to me as much as he used to. Not just about this operation, either.’

  ‘You’re paranoid,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Yeah? Well, just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me.’

  ‘Razor, Hargrove has been talking to me because I’ve got access to the Sass. It’s the only way we can get the weapons we need. Can you imagine the paperwork that we’d need to get assault rifles through the Met?’

  ‘I guess,’ said Sharpe. He looked at his watch again. ‘How long before we’re there?’

  ‘Two hours, maybe.’

  ‘I’ll catch forty winks,’ he said and settled back in his seat.

  ‘I’ll miss your sparkling conversation,’ said Shepherd.

  Shepherd kept the Range Rover at just below the speed limit on the drive from Hereford to the Welsh border and through the national park to the town of Brecon. He stopped at a small pub on the outskirts, woke Sharpe, and drank a cup of strong coffee while Sharpe drank a pint of lager. They sat at a table close to a walk-in stone fireplace and Shepherd waited until the barmaid was out of earshot before taking out a pay-as-you-go mobile and dialling Kettering’s number. ‘We’re about half an hour away,’ said Shepherd. ‘What about you?’

  ‘Parked up already at the lay-by, like you said,’ said Kettering. ‘Traffic was light and we got here early. You’ve got the stuff?’

  ‘Of course I’ve got the stuff. I wouldn’t have driven all the way to sheep-shagging country for nothing, would I? We’ll see you there.’ He ended the call and nodded at Sharpe. ‘All good. They’re in the lay-by. We can let them wait a bit. Show them who’s boss.’

  ‘Did you just say sheep-shagging? Doesn’t Five have diversity-awareness courses?’

  ‘I’m in character,’ said Shepherd. He finished his coffee and nodded at Sharpe’s half-empty glass. ‘I’m having another coffee while you finish that.’

  Shepherd went over to the bar, ordered a second cup of coffee and then carried it back to the table.

  ‘What do you think about Kettering and Thompson?’ Sharpe asked as Shepherd sat down.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘They’re not Walter Mitty characters, are they? They’re not fantasists.’

  ‘Fantasists don’t normally buy dozens of automatic weapons,’ said Shepherd. ‘They might put photos of themselves holding replicas on Facebook but they don’t usually follow through.’

  ‘So what’s their game?’ asked Sharpe. ‘What do you think they’ve got planned?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘All that crap about defending themselves if there’s another riot is crap. Grenades aren’t defensive, and Kalashnikovs are overkill,’ said Sharpe. He took a long pull on his pint before continuing. ‘It’s not about self-defence. They’re planning something, something that’s going to leave a lot of people dead.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Shepherd. ‘But it’s not going to get to that stage. They’ll be busted long before they get a chance to use the guns.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Sharpe. ‘But we could bust them today if we wanted. Conspiracy to buy automatic weapons. That’d get them ten years.’

  ‘Except they’re not paying us today, are they? We need them to hand over the cash. What’s bugging you? We’ve done this before. We do a show and tell, we arrange a handover and we hoover them up.’

  Sharpe shrugged. ‘This one just feels different, that’s why. Kettering and Thompson aren’t regular crims. They’re not blaggers, they’re not drug dealers, but they want enough guns to supply a small army. Don’t you want to know why?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Shepherd. ‘In the grand scheme of things the reason doesn’t matter. They buy the guns, they go to jail and they don’t pass go or collect two hundred pounds. And we move on.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe I’m over-thinking it.’ Sharpe drained his glass and patted his expanding waistline. ‘Okay, once more into the valley of death.’

  ‘There’s confidence for you,’ said Shepherd. He stood up and Sharpe followed him out to the Range Rover.

  After driving for fifteen minutes th
ey arrived at the lay-by where Kettering had parked. There were four men sitting in Kettering’s Jaguar. Shepherd flashed his lights and slowed down as he drove by. Kettering flashed back, pulled into the road and followed them.

  It took Shepherd another ten minutes to drive to the destination on the TomTom. There was a fence running to their left with a barred gate leading to a track that wound round a gently sloping hill. Sharpe got out and opened the gate, waited for Shepherd and Kettering to drive through and closed it. Ahead of them, about a hundred feet or so in the air, a hawk was flying into the wind, its wings fluttering as it held its position over the ground. As Sharpe got back into the car the hawk plummeted down, its wings tucked in close to its body, and grabbed a small rodent in its claws.

  Shepherd drove around the hill. The track petered out but the four-wheel drive kept the Range Rover moving easily across the field. The Jaguar had more trouble and slowed to a crawl.

  Shepherd brought the Range Rover to a stop and climbed out. Sharpe laughed when he saw how much trouble Kettering was having driving over the rough ground. ‘He’s not going to be happy about this,’ he said. ‘It’ll play havoc with his suspension.’

  The Jaguar, its sides now splattered with mud, finally reached the Range Rover. It parked and four men got out. Kettering and Thompson were both wearing leather bomber jackets and jeans and had scarves round their necks. Kettering waved. ‘All good, Garry?’

  ‘No problems,’ said Shepherd.

  Kettering nodded at the two men who had been in the back of the Jaguar. ‘Friends of ours,’ he said. ‘Roger and Sean.’ The two men shook hands with Shepherd and Sharpe. Sean was broad-shouldered, with a military haircut and a Northern Irish accent that suggested Londonderry rather than Belfast. Shepherd had seen Roger McLean’s photograph in Button’s office — he was the right-wing activist who had met with the Norwegian mass murderer in 2002.

  Sharpe walked over to the Jaguar. ‘Nice motor,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, can’t beat a Jag,’ said Kettering.

  ‘Be better with four-wheel drive, though,’ said Sharpe. He walked round the car, checked that there was no one hiding in the back, and nodded at Shepherd.

  Thompson saw what he was doing and he grinned. ‘Don’t trust us?’ he said.

  ‘Just don’t want any surprises,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘Better check the boot in case we’ve got a group of dwarves in there with shooters,’ said Kettering.

  ‘We’ll trust you,’ said Shepherd, opening the tailgate of the Range Rover. He used a screwdriver to lever off the top of the crate. Inside were three assault rifles, swathed in bubble wrap. He took one out and unwrapped it, then showed it to the four men. ‘You know much about guns?’ he asked.

  ‘A bit,’ said Kettering. He looked across at Thompson. ‘Handguns mainly, though.’ He nodded at Sean. ‘Sean here’s the expert.’

  ‘Okay, well, this is a Zastava M70, manufactured in the former Yugoslavia. Barrel length 415 millimetres, gas-operated, air-cooled, 620 rounds a minute on fully automatic, muzzle velocity 720 metres per second with an effective range of 400 metres.’ He reached into the crate and pulled out a curved magazine. He held it up so that they could see it. ‘Thirty-round box magazine.’ He slotted in the magazine then chambered a round. ‘And there you are, good to go.’ He sighted down the gun at a rock in the distance. ‘Point and shoot. That’s pretty much all there is to it.’

  ‘They’re reliable, yeah?’ said Thompson.

  ‘Not much to go wrong with them,’ said Shepherd. ‘Trust me, it’s a nice weapon. It’s better than the crap the Chinese make and in my view it’s more reliable than the Russian version. The one drawback, and it’s a minor thing, is that you need to clean it thoroughly. If I were you I’d clean it every time you use it. The inside of the barrel isn’t chromed so you have to stop rust setting in.’

  ‘Can you show us how to clean them?’ Thompson asked Sean.

  Sean nodded. ‘Sure. It’s not difficult. But doing it will add years to its life.’

  ‘What happens if you don’t clean it?’ asked Kettering.

  ‘It starts to rust and the inside gets pitted,’ said Sean. ‘That means there isn’t such a tight fit for the round as it moves along the barrel so it doesn’t go as straight. Take a new gun like this fresh out of the crate and at four hundred metres you should be able to put round after round in a target the size of a dinner plate. But if you don’t clean it, after five hundred rounds or so you’d have trouble hitting a bus.’

  Shepherd and Sharpe nodded in agreement. Whoever Sean was, he knew his stuff.

  ‘Got you,’ said Kettering. He held out his hands for the gun. Shepherd clicked the safety on and handed it to him.

  Kettering smiled appreciatively as he held the gun. ‘And you’re sure it’s as good as the Kalashnikov?’

  ‘It’s better, I think. And I’m not just saying that because I’m bringing them in from Serbia. I could get the Russian version if I wanted. And I could get the Chinese version at a lower price.’ He gestured at the gun. ‘That’s a good, reliable weapon. These are the fixed-stock versions but I can get you them with a folding stock.’

  ‘They’d be easier to hide, right?’ said Thompson.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Shepherd. He unwrapped a second gun, slammed in a magazine and handed it to Thompson, after making sure that the safety was on. ‘With the folding stock you can hang them on a sling and hide them under a coat. Takes a second to snap the stock out.’

  Kettering nodded enthusiastically. ‘That sounds perfect,’ he said.

  ‘How many are you going to be looking for?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Forty. Maybe more. It depends on your price.’

  Thompson was holding his gun awkwardly, as if he was scared that it was going to bite him. Shepherd smiled and pointed at the safety catch. ‘The safety has three positions,’ said Shepherd. ‘At the moment the safety is up, which means that the gun can’t be fired. If you move it down one notch it’s set for automatic firing which means it will keep firing so long as you keep the trigger pulled. You really don’t want to be doing that because you’ll empty the clip before you know it. Push the safety all the way down and you’re in semi-automatic mode. That means one pull of the trigger fires one round.’

  ‘We can fire them, right?’ said Kettering.

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ said Shepherd. He took a wooden target from the car. It was a wooden frame that folded down the middle. He assembled it, locked it into position and handed it to Sharpe. There was a cardboard tube next to the crate and Shepherd popped a plastic cap off one end and pulled out a roll of paper. It was a paper target that the SAS sometimes used, a cartoon of Bin Laden holding a Kalashnikov.

  Kettering laughed when he saw the target. ‘I thought he was dead already.’

  ‘You believe that?’ asked Thompson. ‘He was dead five years ago.’

  Kettering grinned at Shepherd. ‘Paul’s a big conspiracy theorist.’

  ‘Bloody right I am,’ said Thompson. ‘You have to be blind not to see the way the world’s going. Look, do you seriously think an old man sitting in a cave could have planned and carried out Nine-Eleven?’

  ‘It’s not something I’ve thought about,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘How can you not?’ said Thompson. ‘And how is it that, just as the Americans are pulling out of Iraq, they suddenly find out where he is? I mean, what are the odds?’

  ‘Minuscule,’ said Sharpe. He flashed Shepherd a smile, clearly enjoying winding Thompson up.

  ‘And then there’s the whole dumping the body at sea. They go to all that trouble of finding him and then they go and drop him in the ocean first chance they get. That makes no sense at all. Unless it wasn’t him they killed.’

  ‘What, you don’t think it was him they shot?’

  ‘Let me ask you this,’ said Thompson. ‘You know about Bin Laden, right? He had health problems. His kidneys. In fact he was in Dubai having treatment not long before the Nine-Eleven att
acks. He had to have regular dialysis.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard that,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘Now, did you see any of the photographs the Yanks released of the house where Bin Laden was staying in Pakistan? The house that he never left in how many years?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sharpe. ‘They were all over the papers.’

  ‘What’s your point?’ asked Shepherd, who was rapidly tiring of the discussion.

  ‘The point, Garry my old mate, is that in none of the pictures is there anything that looks remotely like dialysis equipment. So how does someone with kidney failure survive for years without an oil change? I had an uncle who died of kidney failure a few years back and he had to go in for dialysis three times a week, regular as clockwork.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Trust me, that wasn’t Bin Laden in that house.’

  ‘Are you done, mate?’ asked Kettering.

  ‘Check the internet,’ said Thompson. ‘Google it. It’s all part of the global conspiracy.’

  ‘Is that why you want the guns?’ asked Shepherd. ‘To fight back?’

  ‘Enough, Paul,’ said Kettering, and this time there was a hard edge to his voice. ‘Let’s get this done and we can get back in the warm.’

  Thompson looked away, avoiding Kettering’s piercing stare. ‘Yeah, okay, it’s getting cold, isn’t it?’ He flicked the safety down.

  Shepherd reached over and pushed the barrel down so that it was pointing at the ground. ‘Not until I say so,’ said Shepherd. He flicked the safety back into the on position. ‘Okay, now out here in the open the sound of one of these guns firing will carry for five miles, maybe ten if the wind is blowing the right way. So I’m going to fit suppressors to cut down on the noise.’

  He unzipped a black holdall and took out a foot-long bulbous black metal tube and showed it to them. ‘This screws into the barrel and it reduces the noise by about half.’ He screwed the suppressor into the barrel of the gun that Kettering was holding.

  ‘So it’s a silencer?’ said Kettering.

  ‘We call them suppressors,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s only in the movies that they call them silencers. No gun can truly be silenced; you’re always going to hear something.’