[Spider Shepherd #13] - Dark Forces Read online

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Put a selection of images on a thumb drive, Denis, while I pop out for a smoke.’ Shaw pushed himself up out of his chair.

  ‘I’m on it,’ said Donoghue.

  Shaw opened a door and Shepherd followed him out. The unit was based in a container, the same size and shape as the ones used to carry goods on ships. There were two in a large hangar. Both were a dull yellow, with rubber wheels at either end so that they could be moved around, and large air-conditioning units attached to keep the occupants cool. The hangar was at RAF Waddington, four miles south of the city of Lincoln.

  Shaw headed for the hangar entrance as he lit a cigarette. On the wall by the door was the badge of 13th Squadron – a lynx’s head in front of a dagger – and a motto: ADJUVAMUS TUENDO, ‘We Assist by Watching’. It was something of a misnomer as the squadron did much more than watch. Shaw blew smoke at the mid-morning sky. ‘It was like he had a sixth sense, wasn’t it? The way that sniper moved.’

  ‘Could he have heard the drone?’

  Shaw flashed him an admonishing look. The men of 13th Squadron didn’t refer to the Predators as drones. They were RPAs, remotely piloted aircraft. Shepherd supposed it was because without the word ‘pilot’ in there somewhere, they might be considered surplus to requirements. Shepherd grinned and corrected himself. ‘RPA. Could he have heard the RPA?’

  ‘Not at the height we were at,’ said Shaw.

  ‘Must have spotters then, I guess.’

  ‘The two men with him were eyes on the target. They weren’t checking the sky.’

  ‘I meant other spotters. Somewhere else. In communication with him via radio or phone.’

  ‘I didn’t see any of them using phones or radios,’ said Shaw.

  ‘True,’ said Shepherd. ‘But he could have a phone set to vibrate. The phone vibrates, he grabs his gun and runs.’

  ‘Without warning his pals?’

  ‘He could have shouted as he ran. They froze. Bang.’

  ‘Our target was one of the guys with him. The Brit. Why are you so concerned about the one that got away?’

  ‘Usually snipers have just one spotter,’ said Shepherd. ‘Their job is to protect the sniper and help him by calling the wind and noting the shots. That guy had two. Plus it looks like there were more protecting him from a distance. That suggests to me he’s a valuable Islamic State resource. One of their best snipers. If he got away, I’d like at least to have some intel on him.’

  ‘The Brit who was with him. How long have you been on his tail?’

  ‘Khan’s been on our watch list since he entered Syria a year ago. He’s been posting some very nasty stuff on Facebook and Twitter.’

  ‘It was impressive the way you spotted him coming out of the mosque. I couldn’t tell him apart from the other men there.’

  ‘I’m good at recognising people, close up and from a distance.’

  ‘No question of that. I thought we were wasting our time when he got in that truck but then they picked up the sniper and went up on the roof. Kudos. But how did you spot him?’

  ‘Face partly. I’d seen his file in London and I never forget a face. But I can recognise body shapes too, the way people move, the way they hold themselves. That was more how I spotted Khan.’

  ‘And what is he? British-born Asian who got radicalised?’

  ‘In a nutshell,’ said Shepherd. ‘A year ago he was a computer-science student in Bradford. Dad’s a doctor, a GP. Mum’s a social worker. Go figure.’

  ‘I don’t understand it, do you? What the hell makes kids throw away their lives here and go to fight in the bloody desert?’

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘It’s a form of brainwashing, if you ask me. Islamic State is a cult. And like any cult they can get their believers to do pretty much anything they want.’

  Shaw blew smoke at the ground and watched it disperse in the wind. ‘What sort of religion is it that says booze and bacon are bad things?’ he said. ‘How can anyone in their right mind believe for one moment that a God, any God, has a thing about alcohol and pork? And that women should be kept covered and shackled? And that old men should have sex with underage girls? It’s fucking mad, isn’t it?’

  ‘I guess so. But it’s not peculiar to Islam. Jews can’t eat pork. Or seafood. And orthodox Jews won’t work on the Sabbath.’

  ‘Hey, I’m not singling out the Muslims,’ said Shaw. ‘It’s all religions. We’ve got a Sikh guy in the regiment. Sukhwinder, his name is, so you can imagine the ribbing he takes. Lovely guy. Bloody good airman. But he wears a turban, doesn’t cut his hair and always has to have his ceremonial dagger on him. I’ve asked him, does he really believe God wants him not to cut his hair and to wear a silly hat?’ Shaw grinned. ‘Didn’t use those exact words, obviously. He said, yeah, he believed it.’ He took another pull on his cigarette. ‘So here’s the thing. Great guy. Great airman. A true professional. But if he really, truly, honestly believes that God wants him to grow his hair long, he’s got mental-health issues. Seriously. He’s as fucking mad as those nutters in the desert. If he truly believes God is telling him not to cut his hair, how do I know that one day his God won’t tell him to pick up a rifle and blast away at non-believers? I don’t, right? How the hell can you trust someone who allows a fictional entity to dictate their actions?’

  ‘The world would be a much better place without religion – is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying people should be allowed to believe in anything they want. Hell, there are still people who believe the earth is flat, despite all the evidence to the contrary. But the moment that belief starts to impact on others …’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just want the world to be a nicer, friendlier place and it’s not, and it feels to me it’s religion that’s doing the damage. That and sex.’

  Shepherd smiled. ‘Sex?’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed? The more relaxed a country is about sex, the less violent they are. The South Americans, they hardly ever go to war.’

  ‘Argentina? The Falklands?’

  ‘That was more of a misunderstanding than a war. But you know what I mean. If you’re a young guy in Libya or Iraq or Pakistan, your chances of getting laid outside marriage are slim to none. They cover their women from head to toe, for a start. So all that male testosterone is swilling around with nowhere to go. Of course they’re going to get ultra-violent.’

  ‘So we should be sending hookers to Iraq and Libya, not troops?’

  ‘I’m just saying, if these Islamic State guys got laid more often they wouldn’t be going around chopping off so many heads. If Khan had been getting regular sex with a fit bird in Bradford, I doubt he’d be in such a rush to go fighting in the desert.’

  ‘It’s an interesting theory,’ said Shepherd. ‘But if I were you I’d keep it to myself.’

  ‘Yeah, they took away our suggestions box years ago,’ said Shaw. He flicked away the remains of his cigarette. ‘I’ll get you your thumb drive and you can be on your way.’

  They went back inside the container. Donoghue had the thumb drive ready and handed it to Shepherd, who thanked him and studied the main screen. The dust and smoke had pretty much dispersed. The roof and upper floor had been reduced to rubble but the ground floor was still standing. ‘No sign of any bodies?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Anything on the roof would have been vaporised, pretty much,’ said Morris. ‘If there was anyone on the ground floor, we won’t know until they start clearing up, and at the moment that’s not happening. They’re keeping their distance. Probably afraid we’ll let fly a second missile. We can hang around for a few hours but I won’t be holding my breath.’

  ‘Probably not worth it,’ Shepherd said. ‘Like you say, he’s either vaporised or well out of the area.’ He looked at his watch and flashed Shaw a tight smile. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere, anyway.’

  ‘A hot date?’ asked Shaw.

  ‘I wish,’ said Shepherd. He couldn’t tell Shaw he was heading off to kill someone and thi
s time it was going to be up close and personal.

  Mohammed al-Hussain was driven to see his commander in the back of a nondescript saloon car, a twelve-year-old Toyota with darkened windows. The commander was based in a compound on the outskirts of Palmyra, pretty much in the middle of Syria. Palmyra had been gutted by the fierce fighting between the Syrian government and Islamic State fighters. The city’s historic Roman theatre had been left virtually untouched and was now used as a place of execution, the victims usually forced to wear orange jumpsuits before they were decapitated, often by children.

  The commander was Azmar al-Lihaib, an Iraqi who had been one of the first to join Islamic State. His unit worked independently, often choosing its own targets, though special requests were regularly handed down from the IS High Command.

  Al-Hussain was dog-tired. He hadn’t slept for more than thirty-six hours. The khat leaves he was chewing went some way to keeping him awake but his eyelids kept closing as he rested his head against the window. He must have dozed for a while because the car lurched to a halt unexpectedly causing him to jerk upright, putting his hands up defensively. They had arrived at al-Lihaib’s compound. The men in the unit never wore uniforms and the Toyota’s occupants were checked by two men in flowing gowns, holding Kalashnikovs, with ammunition belts strung across their chests.

  They drove through the gates and parked next to a disused fountain. Al-Hussain climbed out and pulled the backpack after him. He never went anywhere without his rifle and even slept with it by his side. He spat out what was left of the khat, and green phlegm splattered across the dusty ground.

  Two more guards stood at either side of an arched doorway and moved aside to allow him through. He walked down a gloomy corridor, his sandals scuffing along the stone floor. There was a pair of double wooden doors at the far end with another two guards. One knocked and opened them as al-Hussain approached. He hesitated for a second before he went through.

  It was a large room with thick rugs on the floor and heavy purple curtains covering the window. Commander al-Lihaib was sitting cross-legged beside an octagonal wooden table inlaid with mother-of-pearl on which stood a long-spouted brass teapot and two small brass cups. Even when he was sitting down it was obvious that al-Lihaib was a big man and tall, while his Kalashnikov, on a cushion beside him, looked like a toy against his shovel-sized hands. He was in his forties with hooded eyes and cheeks flecked with black scars that looked more like a skin condition than old wounds. Like many Islamic fighters his beard was long and straggly, and the backs of his hands were matted with hair. His fingernails were yellowed and gnarled and his teeth were chipped and greying. He waved al-Hussain to the other side of the table, then poured tea into the cups as the younger man sat and crossed his legs.

  Al-Lihaib waited until they had both sipped their hot mint tea before he spoke. ‘You had a lucky escape,’ he said.

  ‘Allah was looking over me,’ said al-Hussain.

  ‘As were your team, thankfully,’ said al-Lihaib. ‘It is rare actually to see a drone but one of the men caught the sun glinting off it, then the missile being launched.’

  ‘I barely made it off the roof,’ said al-Hussain. ‘I’m sorry about the men who were with me. I shouted a warning but they froze.’

  ‘They had been briefed?’

  ‘They had been told to follow my orders immediately. As I said, they froze.’

  ‘You had only seconds in which to act,’ said al-Lihaib.

  ‘The question is, how did they know where I would be?’ said al-Hussain. ‘I was told of the location only an hour before I got there.’

  ‘And we learned of the colonel’s visit only that morning, by which time the drone was almost certainly in the air.’ Al-Lihaib sipped his tea.

  ‘Could the drone have been protecting the colonel?’ asked al-Hussain.

  ‘Out of the question,’ said the commander. ‘The Americans and the British do not use their drones to protect foreigners, only to attack their enemies.’

  ‘Then how did they know I would be on the roof?’

  ‘They didn’t,’ said al-Lihaib. ‘They couldn’t have.’

  ‘Then why?’

  Al-Lihaib took another sip of his tea. ‘It could only have been the British jihadist they were after,’ he said. ‘The British have been using the drones to track and kill their own people. They must have been following him, watched him join you and go to the roof. Once they had a clear shot, they launched their missile.’ He smiled grimly. ‘You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was the Brit they wanted to kill. You would have been collateral damage.’

  Al-Hussain drank some tea.

  ‘Your parents are in Lebanon?’ asked al-Lihaib.

  Al-Hussain nodded. ‘They fled in 2013.’

  ‘They are safe?’

  Al-Hussain shrugged. ‘I haven’t spoken to them since they left. I told them they should stay. We are Syrians, this is our country. We should fight for it.’

  ‘Sometimes we have to take the fight to the enemy,’ said al-Lihaib. ‘Like the martyrs did on Nine Eleven. The whole world took notice. And in Paris. We hurt the French, we made them bleed. They learned a lesson – you hurt us and we hurt you. An eye for an eye.’

  Al-Hussain nodded but didn’t say anything. Al-Lihaib reached inside his robe and took out a passport. He placed it on the table in front of al-Hussain.

  ‘What’s that?’

  The commander waved for him to pick it up. It was a British passport. The man in the photograph was strikingly similar to al-Hussain but, according to the printed details, he was called Hammad Rajput. He was two years older than al-Hussain and had been born in Birmingham. The beard in the picture was shorter and well-trimmed, but the likeness was so close they might have been brothers.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘We’re sending you to England, brother. We have a special job for you.’ He gestured at the passport. ‘A brother in England is allowing you to use his identity to get into the country. You look very like him so you will not be stopped, and your English is good enough to pass muster. We will get you into Europe and then to London.’

  Al-Hussain chose his words carefully. Islamic State did not take kindly to those who did not follow orders without question. ‘I always feel that I can do my best work here,’ he said. ‘I have support, I know the territory. No one has more kills than me.’

  ‘You are one of our best snipers,’ agreed al-Lihaib.

  Al-Hussain wanted to correct him. He was the best sniper in the country, by far. No one else came close. But pride was not a quality that IS encouraged so he bit his tongue.

  ‘That is why we need you in England. We have a job that only you can do.’

  ‘But I can come back? Afterwards?’

  Al-Lihaib smiled slyly. ‘Do you fear becoming a shahid, brother? Do you fear dying for Allah?’

  ‘I would die in an instant for Allah and for my country,’ said al-Hussain. ‘Without hesitation and with a smile on my face.’

  ‘No one is asking you to die, brother,’ said al-Lihaib. ‘We have gone to a lot of time and trouble to train you. No one is prepared to throw that away.’

  ‘But I can do so much more here,’ said al-Hussain. ‘I can be efficient. And the targets I take out here are our enemy.’

  ‘The British are also our enemy, brother. They are killing our people from the air. They invaded Afghanistan and killed our brothers and sisters. They did the same in Iraq. The British are our enemies, and what better way to hurt our enemy than to attack him on his own territory?’

  Al-Hussain considered his words carefully. Al-Lihaib was smiling but he knew he had to tread carefully. He felt that he had already said too much but he had to give it one more try. ‘It’s a long way to go. Is the target so very important?’

  Al-Lihaib’s eyes hardened. ‘The importance of the target is not for you to decide, Mohammed al-Hussain. You are a soldier and you will obey orders. You will obey this order, will you not?’
/>   Al-Hussain returned the man’s stare for several seconds, then lowered his eyes. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Inshallah.’ God willing.

  ‘This is fucking bullshit,’ said the man. He was standing in a hastily dug grave, just over three feet deep. His name was Laurence McGovern but most people called him Larry. ‘You’re going to shoot me here?’

  ‘It’s got to be done, Larry. Stop complaining,’ said Shepherd. He was holding a revolver, a Smith & Wesson 627 loaded with eight .357 rounds.

  McGovern looked down. ‘It’s fucking muddy as hell. And this is a two-thousand-quid Hugo Boss suit.’

  Shepherd pointed the gun at McGovern’s chest. ‘Would you stop complaining?’ he said. ‘This is for your own good.’

  ‘Shooting me in the middle of the New Forest is for my own good? You are one mad bastard.’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘It has to look good or it’s not going to work.’

  ‘But the suit …’ McGovern raised his arms. ‘You could at least let me change into something cheaper.’

  ‘That’s the suit you left home in,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s the suit you’re going to die in. Now, stop moaning.’ He looked over his shoulder at the two men standing behind him. ‘Are we good to go?’ he asked.

  ‘Ready when you are,’ said the older of the two men. Philip Duff was one of MI5’s most able technicians and was holding the trigger that would set off the small explosive charges on the vest under McGovern’s shirt. His assistant was a younger man and his main role seemed to be to carry Duff’s bags.

  Shepherd looked back at McGovern. ‘Don’t fuck this up, Larry,’ he said. ‘If you do, we’ll only have to ruin another suit.’

  ‘Just pull the trigger and get it over with,’ said McGovern.

  ‘Don’t over-egg it, that’s what I’m saying,’ said Shepherd. ‘Bang. You react. Bang. Bang. You go down. Keep your eyes closed and don’t breathe.’ He took out his mobile phone with his left hand.

  ‘I’m not stupid,’ said McGovern.

  Shepherd opened the phone’s camera and pressed the button to start video recording. ‘Just so you know, Tommy and Marty want to say goodbye.’