‘It’s the fact that I’m a freelance that worries me,’ said Shepherd. ‘A lot of the time I’m dealing with people I don’t know. Okay, jobs come in by word of mouth and a new client always has to be vouched for, but one day maybe I’ll get approached by a wrong ’un, someone trying to stitch me up.’
‘An undercover cop?’
‘It happens. So far I’ve been lucky, I’m below the radar, but then some smart arse began calling me the Hammer, and once you’ve got a nickname the cops start taking an interest.’ He took a short pull on his cigar and blew smoke. ‘Look, here’s the thing. You run a slick operation. No one fucks with you. The cops don’t bother because they know you’re untouchable, right?’
Marty grinned. ‘Pretty much, yeah.’
‘I’m guessing that part of the reason is you have a few top cops in your pocket. The odd judge, maybe.’
Marty’s grin widened. ‘We couldn’t possibly comment,’ he said.
‘And it’s none of my business, obviously,’ said Shepherd. ‘But my point is, I’d rather be inside the tent than outside. I’d prefer to be part of a team, that’s all. And you’re the best team around.’
‘No need to go blowing smoke up our arses, Terry,’ laughed Tommy, but there was an edge to the laughter that made it a casual threat.
‘You know what I mean, though,’ said Shepherd. ‘My money’s good, no question of that. But it’s erratic. And the more jobs I do, the more I’m putting myself at risk. If I’m part of a crew, especially a successful one like yours …’
‘I hear you, Terry,’ said Tommy. He looked at his brother. ‘What do you think, Marty?’
‘Give him a go. What have we got to lose?’
Tommy turned back to Shepherd. He paused for a few seconds, staring at him with unblinking eyes. ‘We’ve got a bit of a problem on the Rock. Do you fancy flying over and sorting it out for us?’
‘Sure. What’s the story?’
Another short pause, then just a hint of a nod. ‘I’ll have Howard run it by you. Let him know if you need any more people. He’ll sort it.’ He drew on his cigar as he studied Shepherd’s face. ‘You been to Gibraltar before?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘Spain. But never Gibraltar.’ That was a lie, but a necessary one. Shepherd had visited Gibraltar several times, but always in transit with the SAS on a Hercules, usually en route to Belize.
Tommy nodded. ‘If you feel like a curry while you’re there, pop into Raj’s Curry House. That’s what it’s called, no shit. Ragged Staff Wharf. Best curries I’ve ever had. Place looks a bit run-down but you can’t beat the food.’
Marty nodded in agreement.
‘Mind you, if you want to try some decent food, come out to Dubai.’
‘I might take you up on that,’ said Shepherd.
‘Gordon Ramsay’s new place is shit hot,’ said Tommy.
‘So you’re there for the food, not the lack of an extradition treaty?’ said Marty.
Tommy punched his brother softly on the arm and laughed. ‘Bit of both, truth be told.’
A roar went up inside and Tommy gestured at the hotel entrance. ‘Let’s get back inside,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t want to miss the fights.’
Omar Hassan was sitting with his family in the large dining room. His mother insisted that the family ate together as often as possible and that was no hardship because she was an amazing cook. His father was at the head of the table, his wife facing him and closest to the door. Omar was between his father and Aidan, with Toby and Zack opposite. Jasmine carried in the last of the food, then took her seat between Aidan and their mother.
Omar’s mother had been working in the kitchen for most of the afternoon, joined by Jasmine when she got back from the garage. While the men had showered and changed their clothes, the women had put the finishing touches to the meal. There were succulent lamb kebabs, goat curry with okra and aubergine, aloo gosht and chicken Korma. Plates of freshly made naan bread were scattered along the table, with a bowl of steaming rice and a larger one of salad.
Omar was famished but he waited for his father to help himself before heaping food onto his plate. There was water and fruit juice to drink and Omar washed his food down with both. The talk was usually about football or work, but The Voice was on later that night and they were all backing their favourites. Toby, of course, was championing the blonde with big breasts even though two of the contestants were Asian. Omar didn’t join in the discussion as he bolted his food. All he could think about was his mission. The piece of paper with the photographs of the vehicles he was to purchase was in his back pocket and he had constantly to fight the urge to take it out and look at it.
‘That injection must have worked,’ said his father.
‘Excuse me?’ Omar had only half heard him.
His father pointed at his mouth. ‘The way you’re wolfing your food, your tooth must be a lot better.’
Omar remembered his lie and put his hand up to his lips. ‘Still a bit sore. I’m just hungry. I missed breakfast.’
‘You need to eat more vegetables,’ said his mother. ‘They’re good for teeth.’
‘It’s true,’ said Jasmine. ‘Rabbits have great teeth and that’s all they eat.’
‘What time’s The Voice on?’ asked Omar, desperate to change the subject. His ruse worked and within minutes they were all arguing about singers again.
Omar went to his room at just after nine. His mother asked him if his tooth was still bothering him. He hated lying to her but he forced a brave smile and said that it was, a bit. He went upstairs and booted up his laptop. He was up until midnight, searching the internet for the vehicles he needed. He found two almost immediately, one in Newcastle and another in Birmingham. One was offered for sale at just over four thousand pounds, the other for three thousand. From the photographs the vendors had put on line all they needed was new lights and some signage. One in Scotland looked similar but wasn’t identical to the pictures he’d been given and another in Durham had no picture or price. He sent off emails asking when he could see the vehicles, left a message in the draft mail folder, then showered and went to bed. He was asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow.
It was close to two o’clock in the morning when Shepherd phoned Sharpe. The boxing had finished at eleven, then everyone had sat around until midnight. Tommy O’Neill had waved Shepherd and Evans to his table and they had drunk with him for an hour before he and Marty announced they were heading off for more drinks at the Mayfair. Evans and Shepherd had piled into a black cab with the O’Neills and were the first to arrive at the bar. The maître d’ had recognised Marty and ushered them through into the VIP area. Marty ordered a bottle of Cristal, had second thoughts and ordered two. ‘Might as well celebrate,’ he said. He punched Shepherd’s shoulder. ‘Job well done, mate. Job well fucking done.’
‘I said Terry was all right,’ said Evans.
Within fifteen minutes another dozen or so men in black tie arrived and the VIP area was heaving. Shepherd didn’t hear anyone mention Owen or what had happened to him, which he took as a good sign. He wasn’t happy about having to drink champagne and he was pretty sure that Willoughby-Brown would be even less happy when he got the expenses claim for four bottles of Cristal, but he had to play the role of Terry Taylor to the full. Shepherd wasn’t the first to leave the bar and he wasn’t the last. He hugged the O’Neills and Evans, pretending to be drunker than he was, then caught a black cab to the Battersea flat he was using as part of his legend. It was in a modern block with floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a view of the Thames and north London beyond. It was expensive but the security alone made it worth the price. The reception desk was manned twenty-four/seven and there was extensive CCTV, with an underground car park that required a keycard to access it. Shepherd was dealing with men who wouldn’t think twice about killing him if they discovered who he was, and he slept easier knowing that his apartment was secure.
One of MI5’s top dressers had kitted out the flat with
items that fitted the Terry Taylor legend, including holiday snaps, well-thumbed books and a surprisingly decent CD and DVD collection, even though Shepherd had no plans to bring anyone home with him. There was always a chance that the O’Neills or one of their people would check up on him so he had to be prepared. That was what made undercover work so stressful: he could never, ever, let his guard down.
He waited until he had switched the kettle on before calling Sharpe. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said. ‘Any problems?’
‘Smooth as silk,’ said Sharpe. ‘As it happens, Owen had missed his last two scheduled appointments with his probation officer so he was already red-flagged. One of the cops took the seating plan with him and Owen doesn’t have a leg to stand on. Like you said, his table alone was enough to send him back behind bars. And there were half a dozen other convicted armed robbers at that dinner so he’s got a lot of explaining to do.’
‘A good lawyer might be able to keep him out,’ said Shepherd, ‘but you dragged my nuts out of the fire, so I owe you one.’
‘Another one,’ corrected Sharpe. ‘Are you around for a drink tomorrow?’
‘I can’t. I’m off to Turkey.’
‘Rather you than me.’
‘Ours not to reason why.’
Sharpe laughed. ‘You still working for that shithead Willoughby-Buggery?’
‘Willoughby-Brown. Yeah.’
‘Then watch your back – that bastard will throw you to the wolves as soon as look at you.’
‘Razor, mate, you never trusted Charlie either.’ Charlotte Button was Willoughby-Brown’s predecessor, thrown out of MI5 after using professional contacts to resolve personal issues, which was a polite way of saying she had used government money to pay for the assassination of the men who had killed her husband.
‘I’d trust the fragrant Ms Button over Willoughby-Buggery any day of the week,’ said Sharpe.
‘I’ll tell her that next time I see her.’
‘You two still close?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ said Shepherd. ‘We haven’t been in touch since she left.’
‘Probably best,’ said Sharpe. ‘When you get back from Turkey you should have a drink with Sam. He still speaks fondly of you.’
‘I’m not sure I could go back to being a cop, Razor.’
‘It’s not like it was, Spider. The National Crime Agency means business. It’s a lot more professional than SOCA ever was.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Shepherd.
‘You be careful out in Turkey,’ said Sharpe. ‘You can’t trust the ragheads.’
‘It’s Turkey, Razor, not Iraq. The Turks will be in the EU before long.’
‘And won’t life get interesting then?’ said Sharpe. ‘Like I said, be careful.’ He ended the call.
Shepherd put his mobile on the coffee-table and stretched out on the sofa. It had been almost five years since he’d left the Serious Organised Crime Agency to work for MI5, and he’d never given any thought to going back to the police. But maybe Sharpe was right, maybe it was time to get out of intelligence work. He’d always trusted Sam Hargrove, and it might be fun to work with Razor again. One thing for sure, life with Razor was never boring.
When the Syrian civil war first erupted and thousands of refugees fled the country, the shortest and safest route to the safety of Europe was by land to Greece. Syria had a 125-mile border that ran along the River Evros in the north of Greece. Refugees poured across, mainly at a six-mile strip of farmland close to the town of Nea Vyssa. But in the winter of 2012 the Greeks built a barbed-wire fence to block the exodus. It was more than twelve feet tall, fitted with thermal-imaging cameras and guarded by Greek soldiers. The refugees had had to find another way to Europe, and resorted to the sea.
Most aimed for the Greek island of Lesbos, which could be reached by boat across the Aegean Sea, close to the Turkish town of Ayvacık, in Çanakkale province. By 2015 thousands of refugees were daily cramming into boats filled to over-capacity to make the crossing, usually hiding in olive groves during the day and making their way down to the beaches under the cover of darkness. A whole industry grew up to ferry them to Lesbos, with armed gangs charging for a place on a boat, a life vest, food and water. Everything had to be paid for.
After the EU had persuaded the Turks to beef up security at Ayvacık, many of the traffickers had moved on to pastures new, though a steady stream of refugees tried to make their way to Lesbos, come what may.
Mohammed al-Hussain’s passage to Europe wasn’t in the hands of a trafficking gang so he didn’t need to sit on a leaking dinghy packed with other refugees. His minders avoided Ayvacık and drove instead to the small fishing port of Küçükkuyu, a popular holiday destination for Turks, with bustling seafood restaurants and gift shops. Every Friday a popular farmer’s market brought shoppers from miles around. During the day families played on the beach and swam in the sea, and the bars were busy until late at night.
The drive from Akçakale had taken a full twenty-four hours, though they had broken the journey at a farmhouse midway. There, a Turkish family had shown him to a whitewashed bedroom with a comfortable single bed. Al-Hussain had asked if he could wash and was taken to the villa’s only bathroom where a bath was run for him, and he was given clean towels. Afterwards he prayed, then sat down with his minders in the kitchen where the woman of the house, her face hidden behind a cloth niqab served them a meal – meat, cheese and fruit, with bread rolls fresh from the oven. She poured them hot mint tea, then left them alone. There was little in the way of conversation between the men. They were Turks and al-Hussain was Syrian, and while he was grateful for their assistance and support, he knew nothing about them, not even their names. They ate in silence, but after he had retired to his bed, he could hear them talking and laughing in the kitchen. He was dog tired and they let him sleep for six hours before one gently shook him awake and told him it was time to go.
They arrived at Küçükkuyu late at night. The driver parked the pick-up truck down a quiet alley, then slipped away into the darkness. Al-Hussain and the two other IS men waited, the only sound the clicking of the engine as it cooled. Fifteen minutes later the driver returned and opened the rear door so that al-Hussain could climb out. He led him along the alley, across a market square, then down a sloping street to the harbour where fishing boats were bobbing in the water, preparing to go out before first light. The yacht was at the far end, well away from the fishing fleet. The two other fighters followed some way behind, their weapons hidden under their coats. They stayed on the pier as the driver took al-Hussain down a flight of stone stairs. Two men were waiting at the rear of the yacht, strapping Asians with closely cropped beards.
‘I will leave you here,’ said the driver. ‘These men will take you to Greece. There you will be handed over to the next team. The men have Greek passports. In the event you are stopped, they will explain that you are their English friend and they are taking you sightseeing. You have your passport.’
Al-Hussain nodded.
The man embraced him and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Fi amanullah,’ he said. May Allah protect you.
‘Jazak allahu khair,’ replied al-Hussain. May Allah reward you with all good things.
The two men reached out to help him climb onto the boat. He turned to wave at the driver but the man had already slipped up the steps and disappeared into the night.
‘Are you OK, brother?’ asked one man. He spoke with a heavy Greek accent. Al-Hussain could tell they weren’t Syrian, Iraqi or Iranian, but other than that he was none the wiser as to their ethnicity. Pakistani or Bangladeshi, maybe Afghans. Not that it mattered: they were Muslims, committed to the Islamic State, which meant they were his friends and comrades.
‘I am well, brother,’ said al-Hussain in English. ‘I need to wash, and to sleep.’
‘We have prepared the main cabin for you,’ said the second man. They were both wearing dark linen shirts and shorts with leather belts from which hung knives in scabbards. ‘We shall set
sail in about an hour when the tide is favourable.’ They showed him to the hatch.
Al-Hussain was not looking forward to the voyage. It was the first time he had ever been on a boat, and even tethered to the harbour wall, it was unpleasant as the craft rocked from side to side.
A few hours after Mohammed al-Hussain had left Turkey by boat, Spider Shepherd landed at Istanbul airport. There were long queues at Turkish immigration and when Shepherd eventually reached the front his John Whitehill passport was carefully scrutinised. The officer checked his certificate of medical insurance, which had been processed by the MI6 paper handlers, then went through every page of his passport again, quietly sucking her teeth. Eventually she stamped it and waved him through.
He had flown from Heathrow to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris, then waited there for a little more than three hours, more than enough time to check that he wasn’t being tailed. He’d eaten a late breakfast and drunk three cups of coffee. The first leg of his trip had been economy but he had been booked into business class for the second and wasn’t too stiff as he walked out into the arrivals area. He’d dressed casually in a blazer and blue jeans and put on a pair of impenetrable Ray-Bans in preparation for the blinding Turkish sunshine. He was carrying a large brown canvas camera bag containing some basic camera equipment, a change of clothing and a washbag.
He scanned the waiting crowds looking for the man who was supposed to be meeting him – Derek Shuttleworth, one of MI6’s men in the British Embassy. Within seconds he had spotted him, mainly because he was holding an iPad showing JOHN WHITEHILL in capital letters. Every few seconds it flashed. Shepherd cursed under his breath. Whitehill wasn’t his real name but, real or not, Shuttleworth shouldn’t have been broadcasting it to the world. He walked over to the man. ‘Put that away, yeah,’ he muttered.
‘Sure, yes, absolutely,’ said Shuttleworth. He was a good three inches shorter than Shepherd, thin but with a middle-age spread that tugged at the buttons of his charcoal grey suit. He was wearing mismatched socks and Shepherd wondered if that was a fashion choice or a mistake. He had a thin moustache, deep-set eyes and flecks of dandruff on his shoulders. He was in his late thirties. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring and his nails were bitten to the quick.
[Spider Shepherd #13] - Dark Forces Page 7
