He looked over at Malik and nodded at the uneven trousers of the man in front of them. Malik grinned. Like Chaudhry he had been born in Britain to hard-working middle-class Pakistani parents and had been brought up to respect the sanctity of the mosque.
The man’s toenails were long and yellowing and there was dirt under them. Chaudhry shuddered. He could never understand why people who followed a religion where shoes were always being removed didn’t make more of an effort to take care of their feet. It didn’t take much to clip nails and to wash before heading to the mosque. He took a deep breath and looked away. There was no point in worrying about the personal grooming habits of others.
He knelt down and began to pray. As his face got close to the prayer mat the stench of sweat and tobacco hit him and his stomach lurched. Whoever had last been on the mat had obviously been a heavy smoker and hadn’t been overzealous on the personal-hygiene front. He sat back on his heels and sighed.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Malik.
‘The mat stinks,’ said Chaudhry. ‘What’s wrong with people? Why can’t they shower before they come to pray? Or at least spray on some cologne.’
‘Do you want to move? There are spaces at the back.’
Chaudhry looked over his shoulder. The mosque was busy and moving would mean threading their way through the rows and even then he couldn’t see two places together. ‘I’ll put up with it,’ he said. ‘But I don’t understand why the imams don’t say something.’
‘I think they’re more worried about numbers than hygiene,’ whispered Malik. ‘Come on, let’s finish and get out.’
Chaudhry nodded and began to pray, as always forcing himself to concentrate on the words even though he had said them tens of thousands of times before. He knew that many of the men around him were simply going through the motions, their lips moving on autopilot while their minds were elsewhere, their thoughts on their work, on their families, or more likely on what they were missing on television or on what they would be eating for dinner. That wasn’t how Chaudhry had been brought up to pray. Prayer was the time when one communed with Allah and to do it half-heartedly was worse than not doing it at all. Not that he found it a chore. In fact he relished the inner peace that came with focused prayer, the way that all extraneous thoughts were pushed away, all worries, all concerns, all fears. All that mattered were the prayers, and once he had begun he wasn’t even aware of the stench of stale sweat and cigarette smoke.
When they finished they made their way out and slipped on their shoes. They headed up the stairs and out into Dynevor Road. It was a cold day and Malik pulled up the fur-lined hood of his parka as they turned right towards their flat, but they stopped when they heard a voice behind them.
‘Hello, brothers.’
They turned round. It was Kamran Khalid, their friend and mentor. And the man who had sent them to Pakistan for al-Qaeda training. Khalid was tall, just over six feet, and stick-thin. He had a close-cropped beard and a hooked nose between piercing eyes that rarely seemed to blink.
‘Brother,’ said Chaudhry, and Khalid stepped forward and hugged him, kissing him softly on both cheeks. He did the same with Malik.
Khalid claimed to be from Karachi but never spoke about his family or schooling in Pakistan. He spoke good English, albeit with a thick accent, but Chaudhry had also heard him talking in Arabic on several occasions. As far as the authorities were concerned, Khalid was an Afghan, a refugee from the Taliban. He had claimed that his family had been massacred by Taliban tribesmen and that had been enough to get him refugee status and eventually citizenship, but Chaudhry doubted that he was an Afghan. On the few occasions that he’d talked to Khalid about his background, the man had been vague rather than evasive and had smoothly changed the subject.
‘All is well?’ asked Khalid, addressing them both.
Chaudhry and Malik nodded. ‘We are all in mourning for what happened,’ said Chaudhry, keeping his voice low.
Khalid smiled tightly. ‘At least we know that The Sheik is in Paradise reaping the rewards of a holy life. And how lucky were you to be blessed by the man himself.’
‘There will be retribution, won’t there?’ asked Chaudhry.
Khalid smiled easily, showing abnormally large teeth that were gleaming white and almost square. ‘Not here, brothers,’ he whispered. ‘Walk with me.’
He took them along to Stoke Newington High Street and into a Turkish-run coffee shop. The Turks ran most of the restaurants and shops in the area and they guarded their territory jealously, which was why none of the major chains were represented. It was clammy and hot inside the shop and Malik and Chaudhry took off their coats. Khalid waited until a young Turkish boy had set down three espressos on their table and gone back to the cash register before leaning across the table and addressing them in a hushed voice. ‘The Americans will pay, the British will pay, they will all pay,’ he said.
Chaudhry could see the irony in the fact that all three of them were British citizens, but it was clearly lost on Khalid. No matter how long he lived in the UK, Khalid would never think of himself as British. The British, like the Americans, were the enemy.
‘Do you know what happened, brother?’
‘I know that The Sheik died bravely with the name of Allah on his lips,’ said Khalid. ‘And that the kafir that killed him will burn in hell for all eternity.’
‘How did they know where he was?’ asked Malik.
‘They are saying that a courier led them to the compound, but who knows? The Americans always lie. And they have satellites in the sky that can read a number plate. Or it could have been the Pakistani military who betrayed him.’
‘You think they knew he was there?’
‘How could they not, brother? He was not in London, where strangers are ignored. People would see who came and went. Do you think they would not ask who was living behind such high walls?’
‘But why would they betray him?’
Khalid shrugged. ‘For money. For influence. Who knows?’
‘May they also burn in hell,’ said Malik.
‘Inshallah,’ agreed Khalid. God willing.
Chaudhry stirred two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. ‘And what about us, brother?’ he asked. ‘How much longer must we wait?’
‘Not much longer,’ said Khalid. ‘Your impatience is understandable but you are resources that must not be squandered. You will not be used until the time is right.’
‘And how will we be used?’ asked Malik. ‘Can you at least tell us that?’
‘When I know, you will know,’ said Khalid.
‘All the training we did, and yet now it’s as if it never happened,’ said Malik. ‘I had assumed that by this time we’d …’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.
‘Brother, I understand your frustration. But we cannot rush. We never do. That is why we are so successful. We watch, we wait, we bide our time and only when we are sure of victory do we strike. We could give you arms now and tell you to storm the American Embassy and you might kill a few kafirs and it would be a news story for a couple of days, but then life would go on and you would soon be forgotten. That’s not what we are about, brothers. What we want is another Nine-Eleven.’
Malik frowned. ‘Planes, you mean? We’re going to crash planes?’
Khalid looked around as if he feared they were being overheard, then he shook his head. ‘No, brothers. This is not about planes. Nor do we plan to make you martyrs. You are no shahid. You are warriors, warriors who will strike again and again.’ He reached across the table and held each of them by the hand, his nails digging into their flesh. ‘What we are planning, brothers, will change the world for ever, you have my word on that.’
‘When?’ asked Malik.
‘All in good time,’ said Khalid. ‘We will strike when the time is right and not before.’
It was early September when Sam Hargrove called. Shepherd had spent the weekend in Hereford and was on his way back to London when his mobile ran
g and he took the call using his hands-free. ‘Can you talk?’ asked Hargrove. He spoke with no introduction because he had no way of knowing if Shepherd was alone.
‘I’m driving, but yes, go ahead,’ said Shepherd. ‘Charlie told me back in May that you might be calling.’
‘The operation I’m working on has taken longer than I expected,’ said Hargrove. ‘It’s just about coming together now. Are you in London? Be handy to have a chat.’
‘I’m here most of the time at the moment, so whenever works for you is fine,’ said Shepherd.
‘Sooner rather than later,’ said Hargrove. ‘I don’t suppose I could persuade you to swing by Broadway?’
Broadway was where New Scotland Yard was based, just down the road from St James’s Park tube station.
‘I’d rather not,’ said Shepherd. ‘The job I’m on is local and I’m keeping a low profile.’
‘Where’s your base?’
‘Hampstead.’
‘Anywhere near the King William? A colleague told me that’s a good place for a meet.’
‘No problem. It’s just round the corner from my flat.’
‘We can catch up over a drink,’ said Hargrove. ‘How’s an hour from now for you?’
‘Traffic’s not great,’ said Shepherd, ‘but yeah, I should be able to make it.’
Shepherd ended the call. The traffic wasn’t as bad as he’d thought and he had more than enough time to find a resident’s parking space close to his flat and to grab a Jameson’s and soda and a corner table before Hargrove arrived.
Hargrove seemed a bit heavier since Shepherd had last seen him and his overcoat was a little tighter round his midriff. As he walked into the pub he undid the buttons of his coat and revealed a dark-blue pinstriped suit, a crisp white shirt and a tie with light and dark blue stripes. He looked around, saw Shepherd at the table and waved. He ran a hand through his greying hair as he walked over, and when they shook hands his cuff edged out of his jacket sleeve revealing a gold cufflink in the shape of a cricket bat.
‘You’re looking well,’ said Hargrove.
‘You too,’ said Shepherd. He grinned over at his former boss. ‘You know this is the oldest gay bar in London?’
‘I didn’t know that,’ said Hargrove, looking around. There were no women in the pub, although that wasn’t especially unusual for London. But the clientele was mainly under thirty, well groomed and with a fashion sense that was definitely a cut above that found in the average London hostelry. Hargrove chuckled. ‘I see what you mean.’
‘It’s not called the Willie for nothing,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s been an openly gay venue since the 1930s, back in the day when they sent you down for being gay. But they’re not prejudiced, they’ll serve anyone. So what can I get you?’
Hargrove rubbed his stomach. ‘I’ve had to give up the beer,’ he said. ‘Cutting back on the calories. Gin and slimline tonic will be fine. Ice and a slice.’
He took off his coat, draped it over the back of a chair and sat down. He was adjusting the creases of his trousers when Shepherd returned with his drink.
‘Still running?’ asked Hargrove.
‘I’m on the Heath every day, pretty much.’
‘You still doing that thing with a rucksack full of bricks?’
‘Builds stamina,’ said Shepherd. He clinked his glass against Hargrove’s. ‘Anyway, good to see you.’
‘And you,’ said Hargrove. The two men drank. Hargrove smacked his lips and put down his glass. He patted his stomach again. ‘I’m going to have to start doing something.’
‘Running is good,’ said Shepherd. ‘With or without the bricks.’
‘It’s the wife that’s the problem,’ said Hargrove, stretching out his legs. ‘She’s been watching all those cooking shows. Loves Gordon Ramsay. Anyway, she started cooking herself and went on a few courses and I have to say she’s brilliant. She was always a good cook but this last year she’s moved up to a whole new level. Can’t remember the last time I ate out. It’s like having my own Michelin-starred restaurant. But I hate to think what my cholesterol levels are like.’ He sipped his gin and tonic. ‘So how are things with the fragrant Charlotte Button?’
‘We have our ups and downs, but generally it’s good,’ said Shepherd. ‘The last year I’ve been hand-holding a couple of guys who are undercover. They’re amateurs so I have to watch them every step of the way.’
‘That’ll be a change for you, seeing life from the other side.’
‘Tell me about it. I hadn’t realised just how much ego-stroking had to be done.’
‘You never needed much,’ said Hargrove. ‘I nearly gave you a call when I heard you were leaving SOCA but then you decided to go with her to Five and I figured it would be disrespectful to poke my nose in.’
‘I’m happy enough,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s a bigger canvas and a lot less PC.’ He grinned. ‘And not much in the way of paperwork.’
‘Yeah, that’s more than fifty per cent of the job these days,’ agreed Hargrove. ‘Ticking boxes and meeting targets. But I have more freedom than most.’
‘Still undercover operations, right?’
‘I head up the Covert Operations Group,’ said Hargrove. ‘COG. We form part of the Covert Policing Command which is the old Criminal Intelligence Branch. Basically my task is to control all undercover operations throughout the Met. Any of the boroughs can call on us, though all requests are dealt with through SCD. Recently they’ve been subcontracting us out to other Forces and between you and me I think the long-term aim is to make the COG a national unit but controlled by the Met. Basically to do the job that SOCA was supposed to do.’
‘SOCA was a total waste of time,’ said Shepherd. ‘I should never have joined.’
‘To be honest, you weren’t given much of a choice,’ said Hargrove, adjusting his immaculate cuffs. ‘Still, what’s done is done. I hear you’re doing great things at Five. And Charlotte seems well pleased with you.’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘They keep me busy,’ he said.
‘And they let you out of the country.’
Shepherd steepled his fingers under his chin as he studied Hargrove. He knew the policeman well, trusted him without question, but working for MI5 brought with it a whole new degree of security. He didn’t know what Hargrove’s clearance was and until he did there was no way he could talk about any MI5 operations, past or present. ‘I’ve been getting around,’ he said.
‘How’s your boy? He must be – what, thirteen now?’
‘He’s fine. He wanted to go to boarding school so it’s all worked out well.’ He sat back in his chair.
‘You still living in Ealing?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘We moved to Hereford a few years ago.’
‘To be near the Regiment?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘No, that’s where Liam’s grandparents live. It made more sense to be closer to them.’
‘So you commute, back and forth?’
‘Depends on the job. Most of the work involves deep undercover roles and they usually come with accommodation. Now that Liam’s boarding it’s less of an issue.’
‘Well, you’ll be glad to hear that the operation I need help with is a bit closer to home. Birmingham, in fact. That’s only fifty miles or so from Hereford.’
‘The job I’m on is in London. Did Charlie explain that if I need to get back at short notice I’ll have to drop everything?’
‘She made that clear. I don’t see that as a problem, if all goes to plan you’ll only have to put in a couple of appearances. A cameo, you might say.’
‘The problem I have is that I never know when it might kick off. It’s very much a long-term thing but when it does start to go it’ll probably do so very quickly.’
‘We can work around that,’ said Hargrove. ‘What is it, terrorism?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Couple of guys in a London mosque were recruited into an al-Qaeda cell. I was drafted in early on because they are total virgins. They’ve been groomed
and trained and done the Pakistan training camp bit but since then they’ve been put into cold storage. To be honest, I’m starting to wonder if they’ve been rumbled. But until we know either way we’re just watching and waiting.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Truth be told, I’ve been on more exciting jobs so I’m more than happy to work with you. What’s the story?’
‘Simple enough,’ said Hargrove. ‘You’ve heard of the English Defence League, right? There’re a couple of guys in an EDL offshoot in Birmingham looking to buy guns. We’ve got an inside track and need someone to play the part of the arms dealer. It’s a role you’ve played before with some success.’
‘I remember,’ said Shepherd.
‘We don’t need much in the way of a legend,’ said Hargrove. ‘You’ll be brought in as a London arms dealer through the contact we already have in place. I thought we might pull in your teammate Jimmy Sharpe.’
‘Razor? He’s working for you?’
‘Joined my team three months ago,’ said Hargrove. ‘Since he left SOCA he’s been rattling around the Met and no one really knew what to do with him. They offered him a retirement package but he turned that down and then they sent him to me.’
‘He’s a good operator,’ said Shepherd.
‘One of the best. It’s just that he’s old school and the world has changed.’ He drained his glass.
‘You’re prospering,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m management so it’s easier for me. I follow the rules, see which way the political wind is blowing and go with it, and I make sure that all my boxes are ticked. If I don’t screw up I could go up another rung before retirement, maybe two. That’ll do me, Spider. I already have my cottage in Norfolk and my flat near Lords and a Cordon Bleu cook to wait on me hand and foot, so all’s right with the world.’
‘It’ll be good to work with Razor again.’
‘Well, he’s the perfect fit for this job. The guy we have in place is young but experienced. He’s involved in the long-term penetration of right-wing groups. To be honest, he’s been undercover too long and wants out so he can probably appear in court to give evidence, which gives us a huge advantage.’
False Friends (The 9th Spider Shepherd Thriller) Page 6
