[Spider Shepherd #13] - Dark Forces Page 11

  ‘It won’t be your problem, though, will it?’ said Shepherd. ‘You’ll be out of here.’

  ‘Please don’t misunderstand me,’ said Yusuf. ‘I don’t want to leave Turkey any more than the Syrian refugees want to leave their country. But, like them, I have no choice. If I stay here, Daesh will kill me eventually. I am sure of that.’

  ‘But you’re helping them.’

  ‘I help them for money, not because I agree with what they are doing. And they think I don’t suspect. They think they are so much smarter than everyone else so I won’t know what they’re up to. But eventually they will realise I am not as stupid as they think I am and at that point they will kill me. So I have no choice. I have to leave. If I do not leave I will die and I am not prepared to allow that to happen.’

  ‘Have you had a direct threat made against you?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Not to my face, no,’ said Yusuf. ‘But I have heard that one of the IS commanders is not happy with the work I am doing for the refugees. He thinks that by helping the refugees I am working against Daesh.’

  ‘But you’ve been helping them.’

  ‘I think there is a power struggle going on within Daesh and it has put me and my family in the firing line. That is why you must help me.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here, Yusuf. You show me what you have and, if it’s good, it’ll be your ticket to England.’

  Yusuf beamed. ‘Just what I wanted to hear, my friend. Just what I wanted to hear.’

  It took just under forty-five minutes to reach Yusuf’s villa. It was on the outskirts of Urfa, surrounded by a barbed-wire-topped wall. There was a metal gate that rolled back as he approached and Shepherd saw two men in long robes cradling AK-47s. Yusuf drove up to the villa as the gate rattled shut behind him. It was built of whitewashed stone with a flat roof and ornate metal bars over the windows. CCTV cameras were mounted above the front door. The two men climbed out of the Renault. ‘You have security here but not at the camp?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘I would not be allowed armed guards at the camp,’ said Yusuf, waving at one of the men. He put a hand on Shepherd’s back, guided him to the front door and pushed it open. Beyond, a hallway led to a small courtyard with a stone fountain in the centre. There were large spreading plants in terracotta pots and more plants in baskets hanging from metal brackets. Several wicker chairs and sofas stood around an oval glass table. Yusuf waved at one of the sofas. ‘Please sit, my friend. Do you smoke?’

  ‘Smoke? No.’

  ‘I am very fond of the pipe,’ said Yusuf. ‘I hope you do not mind.’ He waved at a brass and wood hookah at the side of the table.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Shepherd, sitting down.

  Yusuf smiled his thanks, then disappeared through a side door. Shepherd looked up at the sky. It was a brilliant blue and cloudless, but the courtyard was cool, and the gushing fountain gave it the feel of a spa. The grey flagstones seemed ancient, worn glass-smooth over the years. On the far side a flight of stone steps led to the upper floor. Yusuf returned with a portly middle-aged woman wearing a black tunic and hijab. She smiled at Shepherd and picked up the pipe. ‘Would you like water?’ asked Yusuf. ‘Tea? Something stronger? I have some excellent malt whisky.’

  ‘Iced water would be fine,’ said Shepherd.

  Yusuf spoke to the woman in Turkish and she disappeared into the kitchen with the pipe. He sat down in a wicker chair with a spreading back that made it look as if he had wings.

  ‘Is that your wife?’ asked Shepherd.

  Yusuf laughed. ‘No. You think …?’ He laughed again and shook his head. ‘She is the maid, my friend. One of the maids. My wife, she is a beautiful woman. My wife and children are not here, my friend. They are in a safe place, with more guards than I have here.’

  ‘And why aren’t your family here?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘It looks fairly secure to me.’

  ‘Looks can be deceiving,’ said Yusuf. ‘We are still close to the border. And there are thousands of Syrian refugees nearby, any one of whom could be loyal to Daesh. I am happy enough to rest my head here at night, but I would not be able to sleep soundly knowing that my children were in the next room. That is why I need to move them to England. Only there will they be safe.’

  ‘Have you been to England?’

  ‘No, I have not been lucky enough to make the journey. But I love your country, Mr Whitehill. The English are good people. Fair people. There is no better country in the world.’ He spread his hands. ‘I love Turkey, and I will always be a Turk, but in my heart of hearts I wish I had been born in England. Do you like cricket, Mr Whitehill?’

  ‘I prefer football.’

  Yusuf patted his chest. ‘I have always loved cricket. I love to watch the game. How can that be, Mr Whitehill? Why, as a child, was I so drawn to cricket, the game that the English invented? I sometimes think that in a previous life I was an Englishman.’

  ‘That might explain it,’ said Shepherd.

  The maid returned with the pipe. She had prepared it with hot charcoal and tobacco and placed it next to Yusuf. He reached for the hose and sucked on it, then blew smoke at the sky. He sighed and nodded his approval at her. She hurried off.

  The smell of the tobacco wafted over to Shepherd. It was sweet with a hint of apple. ‘Yusuf, I don’t want to rush you but I’m going to need to see the intel you have.’

  ‘Of course, my friend. Just let me enjoy my pipe for a minute or two.’

  For the first time Shepherd began to worry. It was as if the Turk was playing for time. The maid returned holding a brass tray on which were a glass of iced water along with two ceramic bowls, one containing shelled peanuts, the other cubes of what looked like sugar-dusted Turkish delight. She set the tray on the table in front of Shepherd.

  ‘Please, help yourself, my friend,’ said Yusuf.

  Shepherd picked up the iced water. He was thirsty and drank almost half of it in one go. Yusuf took another contented pull on his pipe, then put down the hose. He pushed himself up out of the chair. ‘I will get the information,’ he said.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd.

  Yusuf rubbed his hands together. ‘How many will you need? To prove that my information is good?’

  ‘I need to see everything,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Everything? You expect me to give you all that I have?’

  ‘Not give, Yusuf. Just show it to me. I won’t take notes or photograph anything. Just bring it to me, show me that it exists, then you take it away. I’m not going to try to steal anything.’ He gestured at the doorway. ‘You have men with guns out there. It’s not as if I could run away with anything, is it?’

  ‘I just worry, my friend. That information is my ticket to England and I don’t want to lose it.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Shepherd. ‘But you have to see it from my boss’s point of view. You’re asking for a lot and we would be remiss if we didn’t confirm that you’re in a position to deliver on your promises.’

  ‘That is fair,’ agreed Yusuf. He disappeared up the stairs.

  The maid returned with a jug of iced water. She refilled Shepherd’s glass, then placed the jug on the table, picked up the bowl of Turkish delight and offered it to him. He smiled and shook his head but she continued to prod the bowl at him until he took a piece and nibbled it. As she headed out of the courtyard, Yusuf came down the stairs holding a sheaf of papers. They had been folded twice as if he had been keeping them in an envelope.

  He sat down next to Shepherd. Shepherd reached for them and Yusuf gave them to him, albeit with reluctance. He bit his lower lip and rubbed his hands together as he watched Shepherd flick through the sheets.

  There were forty-eight, each a photocopy of a Syrian passport. All the passports had been issued in Ankara to Asian men. The youngest was eighteen, the oldest thirty-seven. Shepherd passed his eyes over each one. He didn’t have to try to remember the details: providing he looked at it, the information would
be in his memory for ever. ‘The dates of birth, are they genuine?’ he asked.

  Yusuf wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t know. But I was given them. And the names. The place of birth was put in by my man in the embassy.’

  Shepherd continued to examine the sheets. ‘And these are real passports, not fakes?’

  ‘They are genuine. The real thing. The details are in the system. And they can be renewed.’

  Shepherd gathered together the papers, and handed them back to Yusuf, who grabbed them and folded them in half. ‘So it’s good?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s good.’

  Yusuf grinned like a schoolboy who had just been told he’d passed an exam. ‘So I can come to England?’

  ‘That’s what I’ll be recommending to my boss,’ said Shepherd.

  Yusuf beamed. ‘That is just what I wanted to hear.’ He held up the sheets. ‘Let me put these away.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Shepherd. He leaned over the table, poured himself more iced water and glanced at his watch. It was just before four o’clock. He wanted to be back at the camp before dusk. Parker had told him a supply flight would head back to Istanbul that evening. He sipped his water. The maid reappeared and spoke to him in Turkish. Her eyes were almost black and when she smiled he could see that several of her back teeth were missing. He figured she was asking him if he wanted anything and he shook his head. ‘Teʂekkür ederim,’ he said. Thank you. That was just about all the Turkish he knew.

  She picked up the dish of Turkish delight and prodded it at him again until he took another piece and popped it into his mouth. As she left, Yusuf came down the stairs. He’d changed his suit and was wearing a clean shirt. Shepherd assumed they were about to leave so he stood up but Yusuf sat down in his chair and reached for the tube of his hookah. Shepherd looked at his watch pointedly, but Yusuf didn’t seem to take the hint. He sucked at the hose, then blew smoke at the flagstones. ‘So, what do you think of my country, my friend?’ he asked.

  ‘I haven’t seen much of it,’ said Shepherd. ‘The airport and the camp, and your house, of course.’

  ‘This isn’t my house,’ said Yusuf. ‘I rent it. I sleep here but it’s not my home.’

  ‘You don’t mind leaving Turkey?’

  Yusuf took a long pull on the pipe and blew a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. ‘I will miss Turkey, of course, but I can always return, knowing that my family are safe.’

  ‘And what about Turkey?’ asked Shepherd. ‘What will happen here, do you think?’

  ‘Who knows? Something must happen. Turkey can’t afford to keep paying for all the refugees who are coming, not without help. The cost will bankrupt the country unless Europe pays to deal with the problem. They can’t all stay here, that’s for sure. This province is very conservative. We have Turks, we have Arabs, we have Kurds. Good people. The Syrians …’ He shrugged. ‘You have to understand, they are not the same as us. They are what you might call our country cousins. Their morals are … How would you say? Looser.’

  ‘Looser?’

  ‘Underage girls are married off to older men for money. Or they sell themselves on the streets. The men, they’re lazy, they’re aggressive, they can’t be trusted. Don’t get me wrong, they’re refugees and they need our help, but we can’t take them all in, not without destroying what we have.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘So what’s the answer?’

  ‘Daesh must be fought and defeated,’ he said. ‘And we Turks cannot do that, not on our own. NATO must do it. They must send troops to fight Daesh and do what needs to be done.’

  ‘You know that’s probably not going to happen?’

  ‘It will have to happen, eventually,’ said Yusuf. ‘Do you know how many fighters they have?’

  ‘Estimates vary,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Two hundred thousand,’ said Yusuf. ‘With a war chest of billions. You know how many soldiers Italy has?’

  ‘A hundred thousand, give or take.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Yusuf. ‘And Spain, less than that. And Daesh is growing while the West cuts back on its armed forces. So let’s look ahead a few years. If nothing is done, Daesh will continue to grow. What happens when they have half a million fighters and they invade Spain or Italy? Would the Italians be able to hold them back? Would the Spanish? Of course not. NATO would have to act, and that means the Americans. But would the Americans be prepared to send hundreds of thousands of men to fight in Europe?’

  ‘There’s a long way to go before that’ll be necessary,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It will happen,’ he said. ‘Daesh wants to control the world. And unless the world fights back …’

  Yusuf drove Shepherd back to Suruç and stopped outside Craig Parker’s Portakabin. The two men climbed out of the car. ‘I will wait to hear from you, my friend.’ Yusuf embraced him. ‘But, please, do not leave it too long. I fear for my family, and the sooner they are in England, the better.’

  ‘I’m leaving for England tonight. As soon as I’ve spoken to my boss someone will be in touch,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘But we are good?’ asked Yusuf.

  ‘Yes,’ said Shepherd.

  Yusuf beamed and hugged him again. ‘You are a good man, John. Thank you.’ He got back into the Renault, still grinning, and waved as he drove off.

  Shepherd waved back, then headed inside. Laura was at her computer and she beckoned him through.

  Craig Parker jumped up from his desk when Shepherd opened the door. ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

  ‘It was okay,’ said Shepherd, sitting down.

  ‘Can you help him?’

  ‘I don’t see why not. Do you really think he’s in danger?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Parker. ‘He said he fears for his safety and the safety of his family, but I haven’t heard it from anyone else. But then I wouldn’t, would I? The thing is, he’s hardly low-profile. He’s well known in the camp so I’m sure he’s on Islamic State’s radar.’

  ‘He says he’s been threatened. By an IS commander.’

  ‘That’s what he told me. And it’s perfectly possible, so he’s put his family in a safe house.’

  ‘If he really feared for his life, wouldn’t he just pack up and go?’

  ‘He needs the money,’ said Parker.

  ‘So he’s putting money ahead of his family’s safety.’

  ‘It’s tough out here, John,’ said Parker. ‘He doesn’t have many choices.’

  One of Shepherd’s phones vibrated. He took it out and looked at the screen. It was the Terry Taylor phone and the caller had withheld his number. ‘I’ve got to take this,’ he said. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Sure, of course, go ahead,’ said Parker.

  Shepherd smiled and held up the phone. Parker got the message. ‘Ah, right.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll be outside.’

  Shepherd waited until Parker had left before taking the call. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Terry, it’s Howard. The brothers want me to give you a briefing.’

  ‘How’s tomorrow?’

  ‘Today would be better,’ said Wedekind. ‘The Mayfair again – say, six?’

  ‘I’m out of the country, mate. Back tomorrow.’

  ‘Where the fuck are you?’

  ‘I had some business to take care of. I can do tomorrow, first thing.’

  ‘Tommy didn’t say anything about you being out of the country.’

  ‘Well, I’m not staff yet, Howard,’ said Shepherd. ‘If you want you can give me the SP over the phone and I’ll head straight out there.’

  ‘Tommy doesn’t want business discussed over the phone, ever,’ said Wedekind. ‘You’ll have to learn that. Anyone discusses anything other than face to face, they’re out.’

  ‘Understood. So what time’s good for you tomorrow?’

  ‘No time’s good for me tomorrow,’ snapped Wedekind. ‘That’s why I wanted to see you today.’

  ‘Howard, mate, I’m sorry. Totally my fault. Look, let me buy you lunch tomorrow. Or dinner. On
me. Anywhere you want.’

  ‘Sheekey’s. Lunch. And I’ll be drinking champagne.’

  ‘As many bottles as you want, Howard.’

  ‘You can count on it.’

  The message in the draft mail folder said the meeting was to be in Heaton Park again at eleven in the morning. Omar replied, explaining that his father queried time off so an evening meeting would be preferable. Within minutes another message had appeared: 7 p.m.

  Omar ran the same counter-surveillance measures as he had last time when he travelled from his home to the park by bus, tram and on foot. Once he was sure he wasn’t being followed he turned into the park. It was starting to rain and he had brought a small collapsible umbrella with him. He opened it and held it over his head as he walked to the bench. The man was already there, sitting under a large red, green and yellow striped golfing umbrella. There was a black kitbag at his feet.

  Omar sat down. The rain was still spitting and all but the most committed dog-walkers had left the park. ‘I will need more money,’ said Omar. He reached into his coat and handed the man several printed sheets. ‘I can’t find anything usable for under three thousand pounds. The best ones are closer to ten. Six tens are sixty grand.’

  The man nodded. ‘We knew you would need additional funds. Are the buyers happy to accept cash?’

  ‘Most prefer it. I’ve been asking for discounts for cash and no one knocks me back.’

  ‘Sixty thousand isn’t a problem,’ said the man. ‘Just remember what I said about receipts. How much work is required?’

  ‘They all need light bars but I can buy those second-hand and fit them myself. Of the ones I’m looking at, three are white so we’ll need to respray but I have a good guy for that.’

  ‘And the premises we arranged for you? They are suitable?’

  ‘They’re fine. Well away from prying eyes.’

  The man pushed the kitbag towards Omar with his foot. ‘There is thirty thousand pounds in there. Be very careful with it, brother. You can tell me when you need more and we will meet again, but you must bring receipts with you.’

  Omar reached down, picked up the kitbag and placed it on his lap.

  ‘This guy who is helping you. You trust him?’