Rafiq shook his head.
‘He wrote the IT Crowd thing as well,’ said Labib. ‘Bloody hilarious that was.’
‘Yeah, well, he tweeted that Bin Laden was a big fan of one of his shows and that he was watching an episode when the Americans killed him. Took the piss out of the Sheikh something rotten. Seemed to think it was funny. There was a piece in the Guardian with him laughing about it. Me and a group of brothers went down to London. Turns out he’d moved to Norwich but we found where he lived and we were already to make a YouTube video of us cutting his head off when I got the call.’
‘The call?’
‘A friend of a friend of a friend pulled me to one side and told me that I was wasting my time, that no one would care about a dead comedy writer. That’s when I started on this path.’ Sami picked up another piece of meat and chewed on it. ‘What about you? What did you want to do? After they invaded Afghanistan and Iraq, we all wanted to do something, right?’
‘I thought about attacking a shopping mall,’ said Rafiq. ‘I saw what they did in Kenya, when those guys shot the place up. But I couldn’t get a gun.’
‘You’re from London, right?’
Rafiq shook his head. ‘Bradford.’
‘You should have driven to Birmingham,’ said KC. ‘You wouldn’t have any problem picking up a gun in Birmingham, same as Glasgow. Pop into any pub and you’ll find someone to fix you up. Did you ever think about taking out a plane?’
Rafiq nodded. ‘Sure. But these days they check you too carefully, right? You can’t even get nail-clippers on a plane.’
‘A friend of mine had this idea where we get twenty brothers on a plane. Then as the plane is taking off or landing they all get up and move to one side of the plane, then run to and fro. He reckoned it would definitely make it crash.’
Rafiq laughed. ‘And kill twenty brothers at the same time.’
‘Yeah, he hadn’t really thought it through.’
‘I tell you what would work, though,’ said Rafiq. ‘They still let you on with duty-free and cigarette lighters. Two or three brothers with a couple of bottles of brandy each could set fire to a plane mid-flight with no bother. I put together a plan to do that. That’s when I got recruited to this. One of the imams got to hear about me and he hooked me up. Said that I was too valuable to become a shahid, that there were better ways to serve Allah.’
‘He’s right,’ said KC. He picked up a piece of naan, dipped it in the korma, and popped it into his mouth. ‘These MANPADS are the dog’s bollocks. We can bring down a whole plane and be away before the wreckage hits the ground. This is what jihad is about, all right.’
Rafiq nodded. ‘I can’t wait. I wish they’d let us know where our targets are.’
‘I reckon we’ll be used locally. I’m a Brummie so they’ll have me at Birmingham Airport. You’ll be at Leeds, maybe.’
‘You’re sure it’ll be a plane?’
‘That’s what the MANPADS are for,’ said KC. ‘You can fire them at buildings, sure, but for the real damage you want a plane. Having said that, it’d be something to fire one at 10 Downing Street, wouldn’t it?’
‘Hell, yeah,’ said Rafiq. ‘I’d be up for it. Inshallah.’ Inshallah. God willing. Even though he knew that pretty much every word that passed his lips was a lie.
Charlotte Button was on her second glass of Pinot Grigio when Caroline Stockmann hurried through the door of the wine bar and over to her table, apologising profusely. ‘I was stuck on the Tube,’ said the psychiatrist, popping her briefcase under the table.
‘Wine?’ asked Button.
‘Wine? A long profanity-laced moan would be more like it.’ She grinned. ‘I’d prefer a beer.’
A sleek blond waitress came over carrying a tray and Stockmann asked what beers they had, listened intently as the waitress rattled off a number of brands. ‘Nothing draught?’ asked Stockmann. ‘A Peroni, then. Thanks.’
The waitress headed towards the bar and Stockmann sighed. ‘It was a body on the line,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Button.
‘The reason the train was held up. They didn’t say suicide, though. They never do. An incident, they called it. I’ve never understood why anyone would choose to end their life by throwing themselves under a train. For one thing, half the time it doesn’t work and you end up crippled and disfigured. But does no one think about the effect it has on the driver?’ She shuddered, then smiled brightly. ‘So, how are you?’
‘I hope that’s not a professional question because we know each other too well for you to be giving me a psychiatric evaluation.’
Stockmann laughed. ‘Perish the thought,’ she said.
Button sipped her wine. ‘So how is Dan?’
Stockmann shrugged. ‘I’ve been wondering how to answer that question,’ she said.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Not as such, no. No real red flags. Just a feeling.’
Button said nothing. She knew that Stockmann would explain what was troubling her in her own good time. The waitress came over and put a bottle of beer and a glass in front of Stockmann. Stockmann smiled her thanks, ignored the glass and picked up the bottle. ‘You know I like Dan,’ she said.
‘We all do,’ said Button.
‘And there’s no question that he’s a good operator.’
‘One of the best,’ agreed Button.
‘He’s very centred, he doesn’t seem to have any vices, he enjoys his work, clearly. If it was the first time I’d given him a biannual I’d probably give him full marks and not give it a second thought. But I’ve been meeting with him for a few years now so I’ve had been able to establish a baseline. That’s my worry, Charlie. The Dan Shepherd I met this week is different. Not hugely different, and to be honest I’m not sure if it’s something to worry about, but he has changed.’
‘We’re all getting older,’ said Button.
‘And not necessarily wiser,’ said Stockmann. ‘What I can say about Dan is that he seemed to be taking more care with his choice of words than he used to.’ She took a sip of beer. ‘It was as if he was telling me what he thought I wanted to hear rather than what he was actually thinking.’
‘You think he was lying?’
Stockmann shook her head. ‘Not lying, no. More as if he was running everything he said through a filter. That suggests to me that he perhaps has something to hide.’
‘Do you have any idea what that might be?’
Stockmann chuckled. ‘I was only with him for an hour. It would take a lot longer than that and ideally with him connected to a lie detector to get any sense of what he might be worrying about. But seriously, it might be nothing. He’s had a rough few years, he might just be becoming more cautious with age. The young tend to speak without thinking; as you get older you learn to control your impulses. I just got the feeling that this time he was being a little more careful about the answers he gave.’
‘You think perhaps he was worried that you might ask him something specific? Something that he might lie about?’
Stockmann nodded. ‘Exactly. But I didn’t see any of the physical signs that suggest apprehension. No lip-licking or difficulty swallowing caused by a dry mouth. There was no avoiding of eye contact, no rubbing of hands.’
‘You wouldn’t, though, would you? Dan has spent most of his life lying to some of the most dangerous criminals and terrorists in the country. He’s an expert at controlling his body language.’
‘Exactly,’ said Stockmann. ‘All I have to go on is the fact that he seemed to be taking a fraction of a second longer to answer each question than I seem to remember from our previous chats.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s probably nothing. I just thought you should know, that’s all.’
‘I’ll feel him out when I get the chance. See if there’s something on his mind. Did you ask him about his thoughts on promotion?’
‘I did, and he’s not keen. He’s happy doing what he’s doing.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Butt
on.
‘Is he in line for a promotion?’
‘It has been discussed,’ said Button. ‘It would be a question of the right slot opening up.’
‘I did notice one sensitive area,’ said Stockmann. ‘He’s definitely uneasy talking about relationships.’
‘I didn’t realise he had any,’ said Button.
‘That’s what I said,’ said Stockmann.
‘Don’t tell me his masculinity was threatened? Not Spider, not in a million years.’
Stockmann chuckled. ‘No, he was just a bit defensive, that’s all. I think he felt that his relationship status had no bearing on his ability to do the job.’
‘Which is probably true, up to a point. Is he seeing anyone at the moment?’
Stockmann smiled at her over the top of her spectacles. ‘Now that’s an interesting question.’
‘You know as well as I do that a stable family life makes the job we do much easier. I do worry about him bringing up his boy on his own.’
‘Well, to be fair, you’re a single mother yourself.’
Button laughed out loud. ‘You’re not analysing me, are you, Caroline?’
Stockmann grinned. ‘Perish the thought.’
‘Or playing the matchmaker?’
‘Well, he is a very attractive guy. And close to your age.’
‘Oh my God, you are matchmaking.’ She shook her head and then took a long drink of wine.
‘That wasn’t my intention, but I don’t recall that you were seeing anyone.’
‘I’m a single mother with a job that pretty much takes up my every waking moment,’ said Button, putting down her glass. ‘But even if I had the time, and if I had the inclination, the last person I’d consider dating would be someone from the office. I can’t believe you’ve switched this around to me.’
‘Well now, to be fair, there are similarities in your situations,’ said the psychologist. ‘You’ve both had very successful careers in law enforcement, you both lost your spouses and are now single parents with teenage children at boarding school.’
‘You mean we’d have a lot to talk about over dinner?’ said Button. ‘You’re terrible, Caroline.’
‘Now you’re reading too much into what I’m saying,’ said Stockmann. ‘I simply meant that career-wise and family-wise, in many ways you’re dealing with similar situations. I wondered if that might give you an insight into what he’s going through.’
‘He’s as professional as he’s ever been,’ said Button. ‘He’s reliable, he’s loyal, he gets the job done. He does tend to complain when others aren’t as professional as he is, but I’m just as guilty on that front.’
Stockmann nodded. ‘Neither of you suffer fools, gladly or otherwise,’ she said. ‘Of course, he prefers to be at the sharp end, as he calls it.’
‘He’s never been one for sitting at a desk,’ agreed Button.
‘Well, we both know that Dan is attracted to situations where he finds himself under pressure.’
‘He’s an adrenalin junkie, you mean?’ Button nodded. ‘That’s what makes him so good at his job.’
‘So long as the risk-taking itself doesn’t become his raison d’être,’ said Stockmann.
‘You think that’s happening?’
‘Dan has been working undercover for a long time. More than ten years. You know how stressful that is. And that most undercover agents do it for two or three years and then move on to more routine duties. Of those that continue with undercover work, more than half end up with stress-related problems. Drug or alcohol addiction, gambling, domestic violence.’
‘Which is why we have the biannuals,’ said Button, running her finger around the edge of her glass.
‘Indeed. And hopefully we manage to nip any problems in the bud. But sometimes the adrenalin addiction can be just as dangerous. There have been cases of agents deliberately jeopardising operations to increase the risk factor, to make the work more exciting, if you like.’
Button frowned. ‘Are you saying that he’s reached that stage?’
Stockmann put up a hand. ‘No, absolutely not. I’ve no evidence of that. But Dan is very clued up on the dangers of long-term undercover work and it might be that he is becoming more aware of his addiction to the adrenalin rush and he is trying to downplay it in conversation with me. That would explain why he was being extra careful during our chat.’
‘And this is new, is that what you’re saying?’
Stockmann nodded. ‘It’s the first time I’ve noticed it, yes. Which suggests that something has happened to make him behave that way.’ She shrugged. ‘Mind you, as you said, we’re all getting older. It could just be that hitting forty has given him food for thought and he’s just being a bit more careful in conversation.’
‘He’s forty this year?’
Stockmann smiled. ‘You didn’t know?’
‘I haven’t bought him a card, if that’s what you’re suggesting,’ said Button. ‘Perhaps that’s it. He’s turning forty, which is a time for reassessing one’s life. That’s made him a bit more careful. Does that sound possible?’
‘It’s as good an explanation as anything I’ve been able to come up with,’ Stockmann said. ‘And of course it might be a one-off. Next time he might be back on track. Anyway, it’s not a serious red flag, but I felt you ought to be aware of it, that’s all.’
‘Duly noted, Caroline,’ said Button. She finished her wine and wiggled her empty glass. ‘One for the road, do you think?’
Rafiq woke with a start and realised immediately that he’d been slapped, and slapped hard. He put his hands up to protect himself but he was too slow and he was slapped again. His cheeks were burning and he thrashed around, trying to avoid more blows, wondering whether he’d overslept and was being rudely awoken for missing morning prayers. ‘What the fuck?’ he shouted.
He was slapped again and this time he tasted blood in his mouth. It was still dark and all he could make out was shapes standing over him.
‘What’s wrong?’ he shouted.
A foul-smelling sack was thrust over his head and he panicked. He clawed at the rough material but then he was yanked to his feet and his arms twisted up behind his back.
He heard voices, muffled by the sacking, then he was roughly pulled across the floor of the cave. He lost his footing but they held him firmly by the arms and half pulled, half dragged him outside. There he was thrown against a large boulder and he felt his hands being tied.
‘Would someone tell me what’s going on?’ he shouted. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He hoped and prayed that it was part of his training and that he was just being tested.
Once his hands were bound he was pulled away from the boulder and pushed down a slope. He felt the stony ground beneath his bare feet, then he heard a car door being opened.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
Something pushed him in the small of his back and he staggered forward. A hand pushed his head down and his knees banged against something and he realised they were pushing him into the vehicle.
‘Where are you taking me?’ he shouted.
He was shoved into the car, then roughly put into a sitting position. Someone climbed in next to him. Then the door slammed and the engine started.
Rafiq was panting like a sick dog and he forced himself to calm down. No matter how bad his situation was, nothing would happen to him while he was in the car. He took a big breath, held it, then slowly exhaled. It was probably just a test, he told himself. They’d take him somewhere and ask him a few questions and then they’d laugh and tell him that he’d passed with flying colours and they’d go back to the camp and carry on with his training. He closed his eyes, trying to quell the panic that kept threatening to rise up and overwhelm him. It had to be a test. It had to be.
Katra had just put a plate of steak and kidney pie and chips in front of Shepherd when his mobile rang. It was Charlotte Button. ‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘In my kitchen,’ he said.
>
‘Hereford?’
He could tell from her tone that something was wrong. ‘Yes. What’s up?’
‘Remember Raj? Manraj Chaudhry?’
‘Of course.’
‘He’s in trouble. In Pakistan.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Not over the phone,’ she said. ‘I need you in London. Do you want to drive or shall I send you a car? The trains aren’t great, I gather.’
‘It’s a three-hour drive even if the traffic’s good,’ said Shepherd. ‘Sending a car will take for ever. I’ll drive.’ He looked at his watch. It was six o’clock in the evening. ‘I should be there by nine. Ten at the latest.’
‘Call me when you’re an hour outside London,’ she said, and ended the call.
Shepherd stood up. ‘Is something wrong?’ asked Katra, standing by the sink.
‘I’ve got to go to London,’ he said.
‘Now?’
He nodded. ‘Now. I’m sorry about dinner.’
‘Shall I make you a sandwich? You could eat it on the way.’
‘Good idea,’ he said. ‘But quick as you can, I have to leave now.’
‘Cheese and ham?’
‘Perfect?’ Shepherd hurried upstairs. He always kept a packed holdall in his wardrobe containing two changes of clothes, a washbag and his passport. He grabbed a jacket and the holdall and a spare mobile phone and headed back downstairs. Katra had done him two rounds of sandwiches and put them in a Ziploc bag. ‘You’re an angel,’ he said.
‘When will you be back?’
‘No idea,’ he said, picking up the keys to his BMW X5. ‘I’ll phone you from London.’
‘Be careful,’ she said.
Shepherd frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’ In all the years she’d worked for him he didn’t remember her ever telling him to take care.
Her cheeks reddened. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Just a feeling.’
Rafiq could barely breathe, the sack over his head was stifling and he was close to passing out. He had lost track of time. He’d been in the car or truck for an hour, maybe longer, and they’d driven across rough ground for most of the way. Eventually they’d stopped and he’d been dragged inside and tied to a chair. He’d begged for water but his pleas had been ignored. He had no idea whether or not he was alone in the room, the sack muffled most sounds, though at some point he had heard another vehicle drive up outside.
Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies Page 7
