Shepherd folded his arms, then realised she might think his body language defensive. He put his hands on his knees but that felt too posed so he moved them to his lap. ‘That’s such a psychologist’s question,’ he said.
‘I didn’t mean it to be. I’m just interested.’
‘In what specifically?’
‘What it was like to be shot, I guess.’
Shepherd rubbed his chin. ‘It doesn’t hurt, if that’s what you mean. Not at first, anyway. It’s like been punched really hard. The endorphins kick in and you’re aware that you’re losing blood and you just go weak.’
‘Who shot you?’
‘He didn’t leave a card,’ said Shepherd.
‘You didn’t see him?’
‘He was over a rise. We weren’t in combat, he just took a shot.’
‘A sniper?’
‘Or a coward. One shot and he was off. It was in Afghanistan. Never found out if he was a soldier or just a villager with a gun.’
‘You were lucky.’
‘Everyone says that, but if I’d really been lucky I wouldn’t have been shot in the first place,’ said Shepherd.
‘I meant lucky you weren’t killed.’
‘It hit bone and went downwards, missed an artery by half an inch. I was in a four-man team and the medic did his stuff. I was helicoptered to hospital and a week later I was back in the UK.’ There were other details he didn’t want to tell her. Like the fact that he had been cradling a dying SAS captain who had lost a good-sized chunk of skull and brain when the sniper’s bullet had slammed into Shepherd’s shoulder.
‘You didn’t leave the SAS on medical grounds, though, did you?’ she asked.
‘That’s in my file, is it?’
She smiled reassuringly. ‘I’m not trying to trick you, Dan,’ she said. ‘Your file only says you spent six years in the regiment before leaving to join the police. It wasn’t a bad enough injury to have you RTUd?’
RTU. Returned to Unit. It was every SAS trooper’s worst nightmare: being told that the Regiment didn’t want or need them any more and they were to return to their original unit. Shepherd hadn’t been RTUd. He’d walked out for Sue.‘I heal quickly,’said Shepherd.
‘What’s it like, being in a firefight?’
‘It wasn’t a firefight, it was an ambush.’
‘But when you’re under fire, what’s that like?’
‘If you have to ask, you’ll never know,’ he said.
‘That’s an easy answer,’ she said.
‘It’s a difficult question. Unless you’ve had bad guys blasting away at you you’re never going to understand what it feels like.’
‘But you’re scared?’
Shepherd frowned as he tried to find words to explain. It wasn’t fear: he had fought alongside regular soldiers and he’d seen fear in their eyes when the bullets were flying but he’d never seen it in the eyes of SAS troopers. The men of the SAS relished combat: it was what they trained for, what they lived for. They had the same look when they prepared to jump from a Hercules two miles up. Excitement. Elation. Adrenaline pumping, heart pounding. ‘It’s like they say, you’re never so alive as when you’re close to death.’
‘They say, too, that time seems to slow down?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘It’s not that things go slowly, more that everything is clearer. Sounds are sharper, colours more vibrant.’
‘It sounds like a drug.’
‘I’ve never taken drugs so I wouldn’t know.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Not so much as a whiff of a cannabis. And even if I had I’d be pretty damn stupid to tell a police psychologist, wouldn’t I?’
She nodded slowly. ‘But combat is addictive, I suppose?’
Shepherd wondered where she was heading.
‘It enhances sensation,’she said.‘That’s what many drugs do. Even runners feel the same effect, don’t they? The chemicals released during a marathon run induce a feeling of euphoria.’
‘Have you ever run a marathon?’
‘Three times. Twice here in London and once in New York. I don’t run as much as I used to, but in my twenties you’d have been hard pushed to keep up with me.’
Shepherd took a quick look at her legs. She crossed them and when he looked back at her face she was smiling. ‘So, am I right?’ she asked. ‘Does combat give you a similar high?’
It was, Shepherd realised, another good question. But Kathy Gift was paid to ask searching questions and evaluate the answers she was given. ‘For some people, I suppose it is.’
‘It’s an interesting thought, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Most people would be scared witless if they were shot at. But for some maybe the excitement outweighs the fear. Wouldn’t they be the ones selected to join the SAS?’
Shepherd shook his head emphatically. ‘The selection process weeds out the thrill-seekers and the wannabe James Bonds. The ones who make it aren’t adrenaline junkies.’
‘So what sort of people do make it?’
‘You’ve got to be physically fit, but it’s mental toughness that gets you through.’
‘There’s a type, is there?’
‘I guess so. Most are working class, from pretty tough backgrounds, and they’re all driven.’
‘Driven?’
‘To show that they’re the best. That’s what keeps you going through selection. You reach a point where you’re physically exhausted. From then on it’s a matter of willpower.’
‘And having gone through all that, having shown that you’re among the best of the best, you walked away?’
‘I was a father.’
‘There are married men in the Regiment, aren’t there?’
‘Some. But it puts the marriage under strain. We’re off having adventures around the world and the wives sit at home changing nappies.’
‘Is that how you see life in the SAS, having adventures?’
Shepherd sat back and folded his arms, no longer caring about his body language. He could see where she was going. She wanted to show that he was hooked on the excitement of dangerous situations. ‘I think that’s how the wives see it,’ he said. ‘They think it’s all fun and games, and that’s partly our fault – we tend to downplay the dangerous aspects.’
‘Because you don’t want them to worry?’
Shepherd nodded.
‘But your wife was still worried. Was that why she wanted you to leave the SAS?’
‘It wasn’t so much the danger, more that I was away for long periods. She had a point.’
‘So you agreed to leave?’
‘We talked about it and decided it was for the best.’
‘And you went straight into undercover work?’
‘That’s right.’ It would all be in Shepherd’s file. He’d applied to join the Met, but his potential had been spotted almost immediately. Instead of being sent to the Police Training College at Hendon he’d been interviewed by Superintendent Hargrove and offered a place on his unit.
‘Out of the frying pan into the fire?’
It was a phrase Sue had used. An armed criminal could be every bit as dangerous as an Afghan tribesman or an Iraqi soldier. ‘I got to spend more time at home,’ he said.
‘And what about you? Was the job as challenging?’
Another good question. Kathy Gift had the knack of getting to the heart of the matter. ‘It’s different,’ he said, choosing his words carefully. ‘In the Regiment you’re part of a team. There’s the Regiment,then your troop, then your four-man brick. You always have mates to rely on who’ll pull your balls out of the fire if necessary. Working undercover, most of the time you’re on your own. You might be under surveillance, but they’re always on the outside, looking in.’
‘It must be stressful.’
Of course it was stressful. She was a psychologist who worked with a specialist undercover unit: she knew exactly how much stress there was in the job. What did she expect him to say? Ask for some Valium? ‘You deal with it,’ he sa
id eventually.
‘How?’
‘I run.’
‘Running clears the mind, doesn’t it?’
‘It can.’
‘It must be difficult, being undercover for long periods.’
‘Sure. But that’s the job.’
‘Not everyone can deal with the stress for ever.’
‘I know.’ It wasn’t unusual for undercover agents to turn to alcohol, or even drugs, to relieve the pressure. Shepherd wasn’t averse to a drink, but he never drank to excess.
‘Do you find it getting easier or harder?’
‘The more time I spend undercover, the better I get at it.’
Gift brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I meant the stress,’ she said. ‘Is it easier to deal with it?’
Shepherd exhaled slowly. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It’s not something I think about.’
‘But do you sleep okay, for instance?’
‘Like a baby.’
‘Panic attacks, shortness of breath, dizziness?’
‘Never,’ said Shepherd, emphatically.
‘Do you lose your temper easily?’
‘No.’
‘Loss of appetite?’
‘I eat like a horse.’
‘So, you’re fine?’
‘That’s what I’ve been telling you.’
‘No problems?’
‘None.’
‘And the new job?’
‘I’m not supposed to divulge operational details, you know that.’
‘Of course I do. I was just asking how it was going. Is it straightforward? Is it stressful? How are you coping with it? That was all I meant.’
‘It’s as straightforward as undercover assignments ever can be, no more stressful than previous jobs and I’m coping just fine.’
‘Okay,’ she said. She stood up and bent down to pick up the briefcase. Shepherd found himself looking at her legs again. He could believe she was a runner.
‘That’s it, then?’ he asked.
‘For the moment.’ She slipped the clipboard and pen into the briefcase, then snapped the twin locks shut. ‘I’d like to see you again in a few days. I’ll phone.’
‘I’m really busy on this case,’ he said, as she left the room. He hurried after her. ‘I have to work shifts, two till ten this week, and I’m on nights next week.’
‘I’m flexible time-wise,’ she said. ‘I’ll try not to catch you in the shower next time.’
Shepherd got to the front door before her and opened it. She flashed him a smile and walked towards her black Mazda, high heels clicking on the paving-stones. Shepherd closed the door and leaned his forehead against it. He took a deep breath. He’d been on his guard throughout the interview, wanting to appear co-operative but without giving away too much of himself. The psychologist was there to help, but she also had the power to remove him from operational work if she felt he was a danger to himself or others. The interview had gone well, he thought. He had answered most of her questions truthfully. But the one thing he’d been expecting her to talk about she hadn’t mentioned: Sue’s death and how he was dealing with it. Shepherd knew she was too smart to have forgotten to bring it up. That meant she’d deliberately avoided it – for the time being at least. But Shepherd had no doubt that Kathy Gift would be back and that she’d want him to open up about it. It wasn’t something to which he was looking forward.
Rashid Malik was British. He had been born in Britain and he had a British passport. He spoke English with a Birmingham accent and supported Birmingham City Football Club. He even had a season ticket to the St Andrews stadium. The British state had educated him, looked after his health, even paid him when he didn’t feel like working. But now Malik was prepared to die to strike at the heart of the British establishment. And to kill as many people as he could.
He lay down in the bathtub and allowed the warm water to rise over his face. He held his breath and pretended he was already dead. It felt good. He was at peace, relaxed.
Malik had only been in London for two days and he hadn’t left the studio flat. There was food in the cupboard, fruit juice and bottled water in the fridge, a prayer mat and a copy of the Qur’a¯n in the corner of the room. That was all he needed while he prepared himself.
Malik had been starting primary school in a lower middle-class suburb of Birmingham when the Palestinians announced their first intifada and began sending suicide bombers against the Israelis who had stolen their land. When he was ten he watched the news as the American and British forces invaded Kuwait in Operation Desert Storm and listened to his father curse the Saudis for allowing the infidels to use their soil as a base from which to attack a Muslim nation. Malik moved to his secondary school during the civil war in Bosnia, and watched television in horror as the Serbs butchered Muslims in their thousands while the world did nothing. He left school when he was seventeen. His teachers said he was clever enough to go to university, but there was nothing he wanted to study. He loathed the thought of working in an office or programming computers. It all seemed so pointless when fellow Muslims were being murdered around the world. He tried raising it with the imam at his local mosque but he had said only that Malik should be grateful to live in a country where everyone had a place and a voice.
Malik had spent three years either filling supermarket shelves or on the dole. He had been at home watching television when two planes slammed into the World Trade Center in New York and a third hit the Pentagon. When it was revealed that Muslims had carried out the attacks, he had cheered, then rushed to his mosque where other young men were equally excited that someone had stood up to the Americans. The older members of the mosque had tried to calm them, tried to tell them that Islam was a peaceful religion, that any form of killing was wrong and that terrorism against innocent men, women and children was a sin, no matter what the provocation. Malik would not listen.
He joined street protests calling on the government not to join in the invasion of Afghanistan, and helped make petrol bombs when it became clear that Britain was going to back President Bush. It was when he saw images of a children’s hospital in Kabul destroyed by an American missile that he decided protests were not enough. He told his parents he wanted to spend time in Pakistan, discovering his roots. They welcomed his decision as an opportunity for him to find a suitable wife and even paid for his ticket. They gave him a list of the phone numbers and addresses of family and friends and cried as he walked through the departure gates at Heathrow’s Terminal Three. It was the last time they had seen him.
Malik spent a week in Pakistan and didn’t call any of the numbers his parents had given him. He headed north to the frontier town of Peshawar and met a group of young Muslims who were as keen to fight American imperialism as he was. He was taken to a camp where Muslims who wanted to fight the infidel were recruited and trained. There, they were desperate for recruits to send to Afghanistan to fight with the Taliban, but the men who ran the camp were suspicious of the clean-shaven young man who spoke only English. But the fact that he had a British passport intrigued them and they kept him under observation for three weeks, during which time he did nothing but study the Qur’a¯n, grow a beard and perform basic exercise drills. Once they were convinced of his good intentions he was trained in the use of explosives, light weapons and communications. Malik was a quick learner, and enthusiastic. He had finally found something he considered worth studying.
His instructors monitored his progress and were about to send him to join the Taliban when word came from an al-Qaeda aide that Malik was to be moved to a training camp in the Yemen. There, he was given further intensive training in terrorism techniques but he spent the bulk of his time studying the Qur’a¯n and the Hadiths, texts based on the life of the Prophet Muhammad. Without realising it, Malik was being nudged towards the passages that glorified martyrdom, that promised everlasting joy in the shadow of Allah for those who fought and died in the name of Islam. He was shown videos of other young volunteers who had sacr
ificed themselves. He was told how the shahids – the martyrs – would never be forgotten on earth and would live for ever in heaven. Malik watched the videos of bright-eyed men and women, some not even in their teens, eager to give their lives for the fight against the infidel.
Afghanistan fell to the Americans, and then it was Iraq’s turn. Malik watched on CNN as the infidels slaughtered Muslims, then pillaged the country’s resources. He saw photographs of American and British soldiers torturing Iraqi prisoners-of-war and begged his instructors to send him on a mission. He was told to wait, that his time would come, that he was too valuable a resource to be wasted. He was special, and Allah had a special place for him in heaven.
Bombs exploded in Spain and the Spanish government pulled its troops out of Iraq; once again, Malik begged his instructors to use him. Finally his time came. He was told to shave off his beard and return to the United Kingdom, not to Birmingham and his parents but to a bedsit in Derby, where he was to speak to no one other than a man who would bring him food and clean clothes. He stayed in the bedsit for two weeks and left the room only once, at night. He walked to a local graveyard and climbed over the wall. He found a space between two graves and lay there, his arms crossed over his chest, trying to imagine what it would be like to be dead. He closed his eyes under the star-sprinkled skies and realised he was at peace. Death was nothing to be scared of. Malik knew that it wouldn’t lead to eternal sleep. The death of a shahid was rewarded with eternal paradise for himself and his relatives. Death was to be embraced.
Eventually a second man collected him and drove him to London in a van that smelt of curry. In London he was shown into another bedsit and told not to go out. He spent the days studying the Qur’a¯n and the nights sleeping.
One day the Saudi came to the bedsit, wearing a suit that looked made to measure and carrying a slim leather briefcase. Malik didn’t know the Saudi’s name, nor did he want to. The Saudi explained that Malik would be given the chance to strike at the British, to punish them for their actions, to make a statement that would be heard across the world. Malik listened to him, then hugged him and thanked him for the opportunity he was being given. ‘Allahu akbar,’ he said.
Soft Target: The Second Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Page 31
