‘We can minimise the risks,’ said Button.
‘I’ll have to talk to Razor. Kettering wants him there too.’
‘But he can’t tell Sam. You realise that, don’t you?’
Shepherd smiled ruefully. ‘I hope you can see the irony of that,’ he said. ‘You tell Sam Hargrove to keep Razor in the dark, and now you want Razor to lie to Sam.’
‘Point taken,’ said Button. ‘What would you rather do? Is it better to tell Sam and have him lie to the Birmingham cops, or keep him in the dark?’
‘If it all goes wrong he’s going to find out anyway.’
‘So you want me to fill him in? I’m happy enough to do that. Though it might well mean that MI5 takes over the entire operation.’
‘To be honest, it looks like we’re heading that way whatever happens,’ said Shepherd. He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Okay, Razor and I go to the meeting. Five provides the back-up. You fill Sam in.’
‘Where and when are you going to see them?’
Shepherd shrugged ‘He’s going to let me know first thing tomorrow.’
‘And what do you want in the way of support?’ asked Button.
‘Armed back-up, close but not obtrusive. And I’ll go to see Amar and fix myself up with a GPS tracker and audio.’
‘Whatever you need,’ said Button.
‘Guns is what we’ll need, Charlie.’
‘You want to be armed?’
‘It’ll fit in with our legends. We’re underground arms dealers. No reason we couldn’t be carrying.’
Button grimaced. ‘I don’t see that we can authorise Razor to carry a weapon.’
‘But it’s not a problem for me, right?’
‘It’s a lot of paperwork, but I’ll make it happen,’ said Button. ‘But, please, try not to shoot anyone.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Shepherd.
Abu al Khayr tapped on the steering wheel as he looked up and down the street. It was early evening, the pavements were crowded and there was a steady stream of people pouring out of the tube station. ‘What if he doesn’t come?’ he asked.
Khalid was sitting in the passenger seat, toying with a subha, a string of Muslim prayer beads. There were one hundred wooden beads on the string, one as big as a pea and the rest about a third of the size. Some of the beads were made of a wood that was as black as polished coal, and others were a dark brown, close to the colour of Khalid’s own skin. The small beads were there so that he could keep track of the ninety-nine times that he repeated the name of Allah whenever he prayed. He wasn’t praying as he sat in the van; he fingered the beads merely from habit. The beads had been a gift from his father on the day that he had turned eighteen, and he had carried them every day since. ‘He’ll come,’ said Khalid. ‘He thinks we’re going to eat. He never turns down free food.’
‘And you think he’s a traitor?’
Khalid continued to let the beads slip through his fingers one at a time. ‘I’m not sure. But traitor or not, we have to do what we have to do.’
Abu al Khayr nodded. ‘You are right, brother. We can’t afford any weak links, not at this stage.’
Khalid looked at the digital clock in the dashboard. It was seven o’clock.
‘There he is,’ said Abu al Khayr. He nodded at the entrance to the tube.
Khalid smiled when he saw the three men crossing the road towards the van. The man in the middle was Tariq Jamot, a regular at the Dynevor Road mosque. He worked for a tyre and exhaust centre and his fondness for fast food meant that he was a good fifty pounds overweight and had earned the nickname Fat Boy. The men either side of him were taller and leaner. All were second-generation Pakistanis, though only Jamot was London-born; his companions had grown up in Leeds. Fat Boy trusted the men he was with; there was no question of that. They often prayed together and they had attended the extra lessons that the mullah held in the mosque late into the night after last prayers. That was where they had been selected for further training and offered the chance to go to Pakistan. All had accepted the offer and all had returned committed to jihad and prepared to give their lives for the faith. Except that when the call had come, Fat Boy had been found wanting. The two men with Fat Boy had both arrived at St Pancras, ready and willing to do whatever had been asked of them. Fat Boy had received the call but had stayed at home, claiming that he was unwell.
Khalid waved through the open window and the three men waved back.
‘Lamb to the slaughter,’ murmured Abu al Khayr.
‘Hush, brother,’ said Khalid, still fingering the beads. ‘And smile.’
Abu al Khayr smiled and revved the engine as the three men got into the van through the side door and took their seats, Fat Boy still in the middle.
‘I have booked a table at a restaurant owned by a friend of mine,’ said Khalid, twisting round in his seat. ‘He makes the best chapli kebabs in London.’
‘My favourite,’ said Fat Boy, rubbing his hands together.
Khalid smiled. He knew that.
The five men chatted and joked as Abu al Khayr drove to the restaurant in Seven Sisters, a couple of miles north of Stoke Newington. The traffic was heavy but even so they pulled up in an alley at the rear of the restaurant after just fifteen minutes.
The three men in the back climbed out and Khalid joined them. ‘I’ll find somewhere to park,’ said Abu al Khayr, and he drove off.
‘Right, brothers, in we go,’ said Khalid.
He pushed open a wooden door that led into a small yard where there were a couple of mopeds with boxes on the back labelled with the restaurant’s name and phone number. There was a wooden shed to the right, packed with cases of canned food and cleaning equipment. Khalid walked to the back of the building and knocked on the door there. A lock clicked and the door was opened by a cook in a stained white apron. He nodded at Khalid and the four men trooped inside. They were in a kitchen lined with stainless-steel work surfaces, two grease-covered ranges covered by dirty extractor hoods and three old refrigerators. One of the fridges shuddered as its compressor went off. Hanging from hooks were metal spatulas, spoons and knives.
‘Are they shut?’ asked Fat Boy. ‘Why’s no one cooking?’
‘They opened specially for us,’ said Khalid. He gestured with his chin and the cook locked the back door.
A pair of double doors swung open and two men appeared, dark-skinned and with matching heavy moustaches. One of them was carrying a wooden chair and the other was holding a carrier bag. The one with the chair set it down, then he hugged Khalid and kissed him on both cheeks. The second man followed suit.
‘Which one is it?’ asked the man who had brought in the chair.
Khalid turned and pointed at Fat Boy. ‘Him.’
Fat Boy stiffened, but before he could move his two companions each grabbed an arm. He struggled so they held him tightly. ‘What?’ said Fat Boy. ‘What do you want? What’s happening?’
Khalid looked at him coldly. ‘It’s time to pay the price for your cowardice,’ he said.
Fat Boy opened his mouth to scream but the cook stepped forward and shoved a cloth into his mouth, then tied it roughly at the back of his neck. Fat Boy tried to push himself backwards but his shoes couldn’t get any traction on the tiled floor.
Khalid set the chair down in the middle of the kitchen and motioned for the two men to get Fat Boy to sit. Fat Boy struggled but he was out of condition and the men holding him were fitter and stronger. His instructors in Pakistan had told him that he needed to lose weight and exercise more and for a few weeks he’d followed their advice but as soon as he’d returned to London he’d fallen back into his bad habits. It was a question of discipline, Khalid knew. To carry out jihad one had to be focused, committed and driven. A jihad fighter needed to be physically and mentally fit, and Fat Boy was neither. With hindsight it had been a mistake to send him to Pakistan, but it was felt that his technical expertise would be useful. And that much was true. He had taken naturally to bomb-making and at one poi
nt his instructors had considered sending him to Iraq to help with the struggle against the occupying powers.
The man with the carrier bag knelt down by Fat Boy’s side. He took out a roll of duct tape and used it to bind Fat Boy’s ankles to the legs of the chair. Once the legs were securely bound he used the tape to fasten Fat Boy’s wrists together.
Fat Boy’s eyes were wide with fear and his nostrils flared with each panicked breath that he took.
The man finished tying him securely to the chair and stood up. He reached into his carrier bag and took out two black-and-white-checked keffiyeh scarves. He handed one each to Fat Boy’s companions and they wound them round their heads so that other than their eyes their faces were completely covered.
Fat Boy had stopped struggling but he was making a soft moaning noise behind the gag.
Khalid took out his mobile phone. It was important to record what was about to happen, as a warning to others.
‘You know why this is happening, and it is your own fault,’ said Khalid.
Tears were streaming down Fat Boy’s face.
‘This is your own doing and no one else’s,’ continued Khalid. ‘We trusted you. We trained you. We helped you to meet your full potential, to become a soldier of jihad, to fight for your people and for Allah. We asked only one thing of you, that you follow our instructions. But when the call came, what did you do? You let us down. You were found wanting. We gave you simple instructions and you failed to follow them and that means that we can never trust you again.’
Fat Boy shook his head and tried to speak but the gag reduced the sound to a garbled moan.
‘There is nothing you can say to us,’ said Khalid. ‘You said you were sick but you still went to work on the day after we needed you. And sickness is no excuse. We need total loyalty. And we demand it. And when we do not get it, we react accordingly.’
The man with the carrier bag took out a clear polythene bag and handed it to one of Fat Boy’s companions. To the other he gave the roll of duct tape.
Khalid switched on the phone’s video camera and began to film. Fat Boy moved his head from side to side but there was no way he could stop the polythene bag being pulled down over his head.
The cook leaned against one of the work surfaces and folded his arms. He grinned as he watched Fat Boy struggle. ‘Allahu Akbar,’ he whispered. God is great. ‘Allahu Akbar.’
‘Allahu Akbar,’ repeated Khalid as he took a step forward, holding the phone in front of him. ‘Allahu Akbar.’
The rest of the men in the kitchen began to take up the chant as the man with duct tape slowly wound it round Fat Boy’s neck, sealing the bag. The inside of the polythene bag began to cloud over but they could all see the look of panic in his eyes.
The duct tape wound tighter and tighter and the bag began to pulse in and out in time with Fat Boy’s ragged breathing.
The chant grew louder and louder, echoing off the kitchen walls. ‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’
Khalid took another step forward so that Fat Boy’s terrified face filled the screen. Condensation was forming on the inside of the polythene bag and his chest was heaving.
‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’
A damp patch spread around Fat Boy’s groin as his bladder emptied. His whole body began to tremble, as if he was being electrocuted.
‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’
The chef was screaming the words at Fat Boy, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes burning with hatred.
Fat Boy shuddered, and then went still. He wasn’t dead yet, Khalid knew. It was too soon for that. But he was now unconscious and death would follow within minutes.
The men stopped chanting and Khalid stopped recording. He gestured at Fat Boy. ‘And that, brothers, is what happens to anyone who betrays us,’ he said. ‘Let it be known that once you commit yourselves to jihad, there is no going back. One way or another you go to meet your maker. You can go as a martyr and receive your reward in Paradise; or you can go like this piece of cowardly shit, terrified and pissing in your pants.’ He slipped his phone back into his pocket. ‘As soon as he is dead we can dump his body, then we can go and eat.’
Shepherd looked across at Sharpe. ‘You ready?’ he asked.
They were sitting in a Range Rover in the car park of the Seattle Hotel, close to Brighton Marina. Kettering and Thompson had arranged to meet them in the hotel bar. Shepherd had told Kettering that he would have preferred the meeting to have been in London but Kettering had said that the German was insisting on Brighton.
Sharpe grinned. ‘I was born ready,’ he said.
‘I’m serious, Razor,’ said Shepherd. ‘This could very easily turn to shit.’
‘It won’t be the first time,’ said Sharpe. He gestured at Shepherd’s leather jacket, which concealed a Glock in a nylon shoulder holster. ‘Don’t see why I can’t have a gun.’
‘Because you’re a cop, and this isn’t a police operation.’
‘Well, it is, sort of,’ said Sharpe.
‘Yeah, well, even if it was they wouldn’t give you a gun, would they?’ said Shepherd. ‘Those days are long gone. Now you’d have to be in one of the specialist units and you’d have to have your paperwork current, and even then they wouldn’t let you carry in plain clothes.’
‘But you can just get a gun and shove it under your jacket?’
‘That’s the power of Five,’ said Shepherd.
‘Let’s just hope a cop doesn’t spot it,’ said Sharpe. ‘They shoot unarmed Brazilian electricians so they’d have a field day with you.’
‘No one’s going to spot it,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s my fall-back position, that’s all. The meet’s in a hotel bar and I doubt that anyone’s going to be pulling out a gun. Besides, you’ve got a vest so what are you complaining about?’
‘And what if they shoot me in the head?’
‘No one’s going to shoot anyone,’ said Shepherd. He looked at his watch. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
He climbed out of the Range Rover and zipped up his jacket. It would make it harder to pull out the gun but it meant that it would stay well hidden. He took his mobile phone from his pocket and checked that it was on and working. It was a Nokia, and while it was a functioning phone it was also a tracking device and a permanent transmitter. Amar Singh was one of MI5’s best technicians and the phone was his own personal design. Everything that was said within a ten-foot range of the phone would be transmitted to Singh and Button in Thames House. There were two armed MI5 officers in the hotel and two more in a coffee shop close to the marina. They were also listening to the output from the phone that Shepherd was carrying. They had already agreed a warning phrase. If Shepherd were to say the words ‘I can’t stay too long’ then that meant they were to move in with weapons drawn.
Shepherd locked the car and he and Sharpe headed towards the front of the hotel.
‘That’s them, outside,’ said Sharpe.
Shepherd realised that he was right. Kettering and Thompson were standing to the right of the hotel entrance, smoking cigars. Kettering was talking earnestly and Thompson was nodding. Both men were wearing long overcoats and Kettering had a bright-red scarf round his neck.
Thompson spotted them first and he said something to Kettering. Kettering turned and waved.
‘Garry, James, great to see you,’ he said.
‘No problem,’ said Shepherd, shaking hands with them both.
The two men shook hands with Sharpe. ‘Are we going inside?’ he asked.
Kettering held up what was left of his cigar. ‘Can’t smoke in there,’ he said. ‘And it’s busy. Walls have ears and all that. We’ve got somewhere more private fixed up.’ He slapped Sharpe on the back. ‘Hope you’ve got your sea legs.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Shepherd. ‘You said the bar.’
‘Like I said, the bar’s busy,’ said Kettering. He started walking towards the marina. Sharpe followed him down the path but Shepherd stood where he was.
‘Where are you going?’ he called, more for the benefit of the MI5 team than for his own information. Kettering was clearly heading to the boats.
Kettering turned round, took a long pull on his cigar and blew a cloud of bluish smoke before answering. ‘The German who wants to meet you has a boat moored here. That’s not a problem, is it?’
Shepherd grinned. ‘It’s fine by me,’ he said.
‘Good man,’ said Thompson, putting his arm round Shepherd and guiding him towards the marina. ‘We’ve got some bubbly and smoked salmon on board.’
‘Who else is on the boat?’ asked Shepherd, again for the benefit of those listening.
‘Just Klaus,’ said Thompson.
Ahead of them were several dozen large yachts and motor cruisers. ‘Which one?’ said Shepherd.
‘The cruiser, the one with the blue stripe,’ said Thompson. ‘The Laura Lee.’
‘Doesn’t sound very German,’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s chartered it,’ said Thompson. He flicked the butt of his cigar into the water.
Shepherd looked at the boat. It was big, close to a hundred feet long, with a large seating area at the stern and a glass-sided bridge that sloped back sharply. There was a man standing in the bridge looking at them. Short, stocky and wearing a captain’s hat. ‘Is that him?’
‘That’s the captain,’ said Thompson.
‘Who else is on board?’
‘Why?’ asked Thompson. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong. I just like to know who I’m dealing with and you seem to be making it up as we go along. First you say you want to meet in the hotel bar, now we’re on a boat and it’s not just your German buddy. For all I know you’ve got Captain Bligh and the Pirates of the fucking Caribbean on board.’
‘There’s the captain and that’s it,’ said Thompson. ‘And I don’t know what you’re so worried about. What is it? You think we’re going to mug you?’
False Friends ss-9 Page 30
