‘Where are you heading?’ asked Bin Azim.
‘London,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘The weak pound makes their Harrods as cheap as a market bazaar. She has a shopping list that is longer than my arm.’
Bin Azim knew that Al-Jaber had four wives, but he didn’t have to ask which one was going on the shopping trip. Al-Jaber’s first wife was in her sixties and was rarely seen outside the family compound. His second and third wives had borne Al-Jaber sixteen children between them. One was in a top American hospital being treated for bowel cancer and the other was rumoured to be in a Swiss facility being treated for depression following two failed suicide attempts. Al-Jaber’s fourth wife was a third of his age, a stunning Lebanese girl. Bin Azim was one of the few non-family members who had ever seen her face. She only ever wore a full burka including a mesh veil that shielded her eyes when she went out. Even when she was overseas Al-Jaber insisted that she stayed covered. The women of Lebanon were more spirited than their Saudi sisters, but Al-Jaber’s fourth wife knew better than to argue with her husband. The marriage had been arranged – she was the granddaughter of one of Al-Jaber’s business associates – and the union had been financially beneficial to her family to the tune of tens of millions of dollars. In the grand scheme of things the burka was a small price to pay.
‘I am using the large jet, but the Gulfstream is available for whoever you decide to use,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘My people can also arrange for diplomatic status and a passport.’
‘As always, you read my mind,’ said Bin Azim.
‘Only Allah can see into our minds,’ said Al-Jaber, getting to his feet. ‘But I understand what needs to be done. And I am privileged to be able to offer the assistance that is within my gift.’
Bin Azim stood up and kissed Al-Jaber on both cheeks. Al-Jaber’s bodyguards were already moving towards the restaurant doors, and Bin Azim knew that, far below, more big men in dark suits would be standing by Al-Jaber’s bombproof white Bentley.
Chaudhry looked at his watch, then over at Malik, who was sitting on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table, watching football on the television. ‘We’ve got to go, Harvey,’ he said.
‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ said Malik. ‘Did he say why we’re going to Reading?’
‘He wanted somewhere where nobody would know us.’
‘But Reading?’ He slapped the arm of his sofa. ‘How do we even get there?’
‘Trains run from Paddington all the time.’
‘Yeah, but getting to Paddington from Stokie is a pain.’
‘It’s for our own good. It’s a training exercise, so we’ll know what to do if we’re ever followed.’
Malik’s eyes narrowed. ‘See, that’s what’s worrying me, brother. Why would anyone be following us? They’d only do that if they suspected us, right? And if they even suspect that we’re spies then we’re dead.’
Chaudhry walked over to the sofa and stood looking down at his friend. ‘We’ve been through this,’ he said. ‘Khalid might get someone to check us out. Or the cops might follow us. No one knows what we’re doing, remember? And the cops are always looking at the mosque, you know that. Someone at the mosque passes our name on to the cops and they might take a look at us. John’s putting us through this so we’ll know what to look for.’
‘It’s a waste of time, innit?’ scowled Malik. ‘We’re not doing anything wrong. Even if they follow us what are they going to see? We go to lectures, we eat, we sleep, we shit. You play squash. I play five-a-side. It’s not like we’re mixing explosives or scoping out targets. We’re waiting, brother. That’s all we’ve been doing for months now. If anyone follows us they’ll be bored out of their skulls in a few days.’
‘Harvey, we have to do this.’
‘Brother, we don’t have to do anything. We’re not on staff, are we? Last time I looked MI5 weren’t paying us a salary. In fact they’re paying us fuck all, in spite of everything we did for them.’ He jabbed his finger at Chaudhry. ‘We killed The Sheik, you and me. We grassed him up and the Yanks blew him away and that’s down to us. But instead of being heroes we’re supposed to drag our arses all the way to Reading to prove a point?’
Chaudhry sat down next to Malik. ‘What’s up with you?’
‘It just feels like they’re yanking our chain,’ said Malik.
Chaudhry grinned. ‘Are you not feeling loved, is that it?’
‘Screw you,’ laughed Malik.
‘We’re not doing this to be loved, Harvey. We didn’t go to MI5 because we wanted a medal or because we wanted money. We went to them because it’s the right thing to do. This is our country and people like Khalid are trying to destroy it. It’s up to us to help stop them.’
‘I get that. I’m not stupid.’
‘No one’s saying you’re stupid, but you sound like you’re losing focus. We have to be committed to this. If we aren’t you know what could happen?’ Malik didn’t say anything. He looked away, unwilling to meet Chaudhry’s piercing gaze. ‘How will you feel, Harvey, if you do bail out and a few weeks down the line something bad happens and a lot of people die? How are you going to feel then, knowing that you could have stopped it?’
Malik shrugged. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay what?’
‘I hear you.’ He nodded. ‘I’m just pissed off at all the waiting. It’s doing my head in. Why won’t Khalid just tell us what we’re going to do?’
‘Maybe he doesn’t know himself. Maybe he’s taking orders from someone else. All we can do is wait. As for John, he wants to help. He’s not doing this to piss us around. It’s to keep us sharp.’
Malik threw his hands in the air. ‘Okay, fine, let’s do it.’ He stood up. ‘But how the hell do we get to Paddington?’
‘Tube.’
‘That’ll take for ever,’ said Malik, picking up his jacket. ‘Can’t we get a minicab?’
Chaudhry frowned. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I guess so.’
‘Let’s do that, then. And John can reimburse us.’ He grinned. ‘You know what? We should just get the cab to take us to Reading. See if they can follow us. That’d serve them right.’
‘Yeah, okay. All John said was that we should go to Paddington,’ said Chaudhry. ‘I don’t see why we can’t get a cab to the station. But on the way we keep our eyes open because he’s going to ask us if we saw anyone following us.’ He stood up. ‘It’ll be fun,’ he said, punching his friend lightly on the shoulder.
They put on their coats, left the flat and walked along to Stoke Newington High Street. There was a minicab office in a side road, marked by a flashing yellow light above the door. Like most of the businesses it was run by Turks though the drivers were a smorgasbord of London’s ethnic communities – Nigerian, Indian, Iranian, Polish, Somalian – and there was barely a country not represented on the company’s roster.
The driver who took Chaudhry and Malik was an Iraqi who treated his ten-year-old manual Toyota as if it was an automatic, doing most of the journey in second gear. They chugged along at low speeds, the engine screaming whenever they went above thirty-five miles per hour. The car stank of garlic and stale vomit despite a Christmas tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the driving mirror. Arab music was blaring from the stereo and the driver was constantly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the beat.
Malik twisted round in his seat as they headed west.
‘Can you see anyone?’ asked Chaudhry.
‘There’s a woman in a hatchback who’s been behind us for a while.’
‘Where?’ said Chaudhry.
‘Behind the van,’ said Malik. ‘The grey one.’
Chaudhry saw the Volvo and he laughed. ‘There’s a kid in the back seat,’ he said.
‘So?’
‘So no one takes a kid on a surveillance job,’ said Chaudhry. He slapped Malik on the leg. ‘There’ll probably be two people in the car, both adults, and the car will be new or fairly new. A saloon, not an estate or a sports car or anything out of the ordina
ry. Maybe a van.’
‘And you know this how?’
‘I read,’ said Chaudhry.
‘Read what?’
‘Books. It doesn’t matter.’
‘Fiction,’ said Malik. ‘You’re talking about those Andy McNab books you’re always reading.’
‘He was in the SAS,’ said Chaudhry. ‘He knows his stuff.’
The minicab lurched to the side to avoid a bus that had stopped suddenly and the driver screamed abuse in Arabic. ‘Fucking buses,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You see that? You see that bastard?’
‘Yeah, we saw him,’ said Chaudhry.
‘Bet he doesn’t have a licence. You know how many drivers don’t have licences in London?’
Chaudhry ignored him and looked over his shoulder again. There was a motorcycle courier about twenty feet behind their minicab. He had a tinted visor and a fluorescent vest and Chaudhry frowned as he tried to remember whether he’d seen the same man in Stoke Newington. Then the bike indicated left and turned into a side street.
‘I think we’re okay,’ said Malik. ‘He would have thought we’d be going by tube so he probably just had a couple of people waiting for us on the pavement. I reckon they were fuming when we got into the cab. Serves John right, playing games like this. And don’t forget the receipt. He’s bloody well going to cover our expenses.’
Chaudhry thought Malik was probably right: the traffic was heavy and he couldn’t see how a car could be following them, especially considering how erratic their driver was.
When the cab dropped them at the station entrance Chaudhry paid the driver and took a receipt, then stood on the pavement looking around.
‘What?’ said Malik.
‘Just checking,’ said Chaudhry. A minibus pulled up and five teenagers in sports gear piled out.
‘It’s pointless,’ said Malik. ‘He knows we’re coming here so he’s bound to have people waiting for us. Whatever we do they’re going to see us. They’re probably looking at us right now.’
They looked towards the platforms. A man in a grey suit walked by, talking into a mobile and pulling a small wheeled suitcase. Two uniformed drivers were heading for the exit, deep in conversation. Two teenage girls in school uniforms were giggling as they shared an iPod, one earpiece each. A blond-haired young man with a large rucksack was studying a map. He looked up and made eye contact with Chaudhry, then he smiled and walked over to him.
‘Bayswater?’ he said. ‘You know Bayswater?’ He had a Scandinavian accent and Chaudhry could smell alcohol on his breath.
Chaudhry pointed in the general direction of Bayswater and the young man thanked him and headed off, folding up his map.
‘Do you think he was one of them?’ asked Malik.
‘They wouldn’t talk to us,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Look, all we can do is go to Reading and tell John who we saw. It’s not as if we can shake them off, even if we spot them. Come on.’
They went over to the ticket machines and Chaudhry used his credit card to buy two return tickets to Reading. The next train was due to leave in ten minutes so they walked to the platform, boarded the train and found two window seats with a table between them.
There were already a dozen or so people in the carriage and a few more arrived before the train departed. Malik looked around, frowning.
‘Could you make it more obvious?’ asked Chaudhry, taking a Galaxy tablet from his pocket. He had stored several textbooks on the computer and he figured he’d get some revision done while on the train.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re staring.’
‘I’m trying to see who might be following us.’
‘So you don’t have to stare. They’ll be with us all the way to Reading if they are following us. And don’t forget that they know where we’re going; they’ll probably be waiting for us in Reading anyway. Why don’t you make yourself useful and get us something to eat?’ He pointed towards the front of the train. ‘There’s a restaurant car down there. And get me a Coke or something.’
‘John’ll pay us back, right?’
Chaudhry grinned. ‘Get a receipt.’
As Malik headed out of the carriage, Chaudhry looked around. There were two suited businessmen working on laptops at one table, and an old couple sharing a bag of crisps directly behind them. Sitting at the rear of the carriage was a grey-haired man wearing dark glasses, which Chaudhry initially thought looked suspicious until he saw the seeing-eye dog, a golden retriever, sitting under the man’s table.
He settled back in his seat and started reading an anatomy textbook.
Malik returned after ten minutes with two paper bags containing soft drinks, sandwiches and muffins. He sat down and handed a receipt to Chaudhry. ‘You’re his mate so you can get the money from him.’
‘I wouldn’t say he’s a mate,’ said Chaudhry, slipping the receipt into his wallet.
‘He chats to you more than to me, have you noticed that? And when he calls it’s you that he phones.’
‘That’s alphabetical,’ said Chaudhry, popping the tab of his Coke.
‘What are you reading?’ asked Malik.
‘Anatomy,’ said Chaudhry.
‘Got anything I can read?’
Chaudhry held up the tablet. ‘This is all I’ve got,’ he said. His mobile rang and he took it out and looked at the screen. ‘It’s John.’
‘I told you he always calls you,’ said Malik, folding his arms.
Chaudhry pressed the green button to take the call.
‘How’s the sandwich?’
‘What?’
‘The sandwich. Cheese, right?’
‘Cheese salad,’ said Chaudhry. He looked over at Malik and pointed at the phone and then mouthed, ‘He knows what I’m eating.’
‘I just wanted you to know I’m in the Novotel, room 608. Come right up and knock on the door.’
‘Okay,’ said Chaudhry. ‘How do you know what sandwich I’ve got?’
‘I know you’ve got a sandwich and a can of Coke and Harvey’s got two chicken sandwiches and a muffin, and I also know that Harvey asked for a receipt because he probably thinks I’m going to reimburse you.’
‘Are you on the train?’
‘I told you, I’m in the room. I’ll see you when I see you.’ The line went dead and Chaudhry stared at the phone in amazement.
‘What?’ said Malik.
‘He knows what we ordered. He knows you asked for a receipt. One of his people must have been in the restaurant car.’
Malik sipped his Coke. ‘At least we know someone’s watching out for us,’ he said. ‘But bloody hell, they must be good.’
Shepherd opened the door to the hotel room just as Chaudhry was about to knock. Chaudhry froze with his mouth open in and his hand in mid-air.
‘Hello, lads,’ said Shepherd.
‘How did you know we were here?’ said Malik. ‘We didn’t talk to anyone at reception. We came right up.’
‘I got a call when you walked into the hotel,’ said Shepherd. ‘And I was told that you were walking here.’
‘We were followed from the station?’ said Chaudhry.
‘Every step of the way,’ said Shepherd, ushering them inside and closing the door. ‘They were on your tail from the moment you left the flat. Though they were surprised that you took a cab to Paddington.’
Malik looked around the hotel room. ‘You haven’t got cameras in here, have you?’ he asked. Shepherd laughed. ‘I’m serious, man. You spooked us with that sandwich thing. There was someone in the restaurant car when I was buying them, right?’ He took off his parka jacket and tossed it on to the bed.
‘It was our man behind the counter,’ said Shepherd.
‘The old guy?’ said Malik. ‘How did you manage that?’
‘We knew you’d be on a train to Reading, which was a bit of a cheat, so he had the uniform and was ready to go. Whichever train you got on, he’d get on.’
‘You can do that?’ asked Chaudhry.
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p; ‘It’s MI5, Raj, they can do pretty much what they want. We had a British Transport Police guy primed to go and he arranged it. He flashes his ID and tells the staff to do as our guy says.’ There was a small sofa by the window and he waved at it. ‘You guys take the weight off your feet. We’re going to be here for a while.’
Chaudhry and Malik sat down.
‘Do you want room service? Coffee? Water?’
‘Coffee would good,’ said Chaudhry. Malik nodded. Shepherd picked up the phone and ordered three pots of coffee.
It was a large room with a double bed and a working area where a whiteboard had been placed on an easel. There was a connecting door to the adjoining room and as Shepherd put down the phone there was a soft knock on it. Shepherd opened the door and took a handful of photographs from a man in the next room.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Chaudhry as Shepherd closed the door.
‘One of the guys who followed you,’ said Shepherd. He handed the photographs to them and the two men started looking through them. There were pictures of them leaving their building, getting into the minicab, and walking through the station. There was a photograph of them buying their tickets, and another of them getting on to the train. One photograph of them sitting on their train even appeared to have been taken on a mobile phone.
Chaudhry looked up in amazement. ‘How many did you have following us?’ he asked.
‘There were two on the pavement outside your flat. We had two motorbikes just in case you went by bus or cab, which was lucky.’
‘Was one a courier?’
‘They were both couriers,’ said Shepherd. He gathered up the photographs and put them on the desk.
‘I think I saw one following the cab.’
‘Well done,’ said Shepherd. ‘I hope he wasn’t too obvious. We had four at the station, plus the BTP officer and the guy ready to go in the restaurant car. And I cheated a little by having three at Reading station so that even if they missed you completely in London they could pick you up there.’
‘How come we didn’t spot them?’ asked Malik.
‘Because they’re professionals,’ said Shepherd. ‘They look totally normal. They blend in and they do absolutely nothing to attract attention to themselves. No one was going to get close enough to see what ticket you were buying, but that’s not an issue. If they’re professional then as soon as they know you’re heading for the station they’ll just buy tickets for all the main lines anyway. And our guys have British Transport IDs so they can just flash them to a ticket inspector.’ He showed them the picture of them boarding the train. ‘It’s always best to board a train at the last moment. It gives anyone following less time to get sorted. You made it too easy.’
False Friends (The 9th Spider Shepherd Thriller) Page 11
