Cold Kill: The Third Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Page 21

  ‘If it’s so easy, why doesn’t Matiur just buy one? Why does he bother going through the whole legal process?’

  ‘He is already in the system – has been for the past five years. We have only had our contact in the Passport Agency for the past three years. You see, at the moment the only real identifying feature in a passport is the photograph. But soon they’ll be biometric, with either fingerprints or retinal scans incorporated. When that happens anyone who is in the system twice will be spotted. Anyway, travelling isn’t a problem as Matiur has permanent residency, so he’s happy with the way things are. He will get citizenship. It’s just a matter of time.’

  Shepherd put away the passport. ‘Okay, I’ll head off back to Dover.’

  ‘Actually, there’s something I need you to do first.’ Salik’s hand disappeared inside his coat again and reappeared with a white envelope.

  Shepherd took it and opened it. Inside, a dark blue folder contained a Eurostar ticket. ‘What’s this?’ he said.

  ‘Your train leaves Waterloo at nine minutes past one,’ said Salik. ‘You have plenty of time to get to the station.’

  Shepherd stared at the ticket. It was in the name of Peter Devereux. ‘You can’t do this!’ he exploded.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Salik, evidently confused by his outburst.

  ‘Have me running off to Paris at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘You’ll be back by this evening,’ said Salik, patiently. ‘They will meet you in Paris. You will be there for three hours and you will be back in London by ten o’clock.’

  ‘Who’s they?’

  ‘The men who are arranging the shipment. They want to meet you. I have already emailed them your photograph.’

  ‘You did what?’ Shepherd was genuinely alarmed. As Tony Corke he had no reason to refuse to go to Paris to meet the Albanians. But as Dan Shepherd, undercover cop, he knew that the Albanians wouldn’t think twice about killing him if they knew his true identity. And now they had his photograph.

  ‘Just so they’ll be able to spot you. They need to know what you look like.’

  ‘Salik, I’ve got things to do.’

  ‘A few hours, that’s all. Less than three hours there, three hours back.’

  Shepherd stood up. ‘God damn it, you can’t treat me like some sort of servant!’

  ‘You are working for me, remember?’ said Salik, quietly. His voice had hardened. ‘And the Albanians will not do business with men they do not know. You will go, or we are through.’ He stared at Shepherd with unblinking brown eyes.

  Shepherd had been backed into a corner. Tony Corke had no valid reason for refusing to go. He needed the money – and Salik was right: he was no more than a hired hand. ‘Okay,’ he said.

  Salik smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s a formality. Just go over, show your face, and they’ll put the consignment together.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’d better be going,’ he said. ‘The traffic’s pretty heavy over the river so if I were you I’d get the Tube.’

  Shepherd forced a smile. ‘I’ll call you tonight, let you know how I got on.’

  He headed out of the park. He decided against using the Tube and flagged down a black cab. His mobile wouldn’t work on the Underground and he had some urgent calls to make.

  The Saudi stirred his coffee slowly and looked out of the window. The street outside was filled with housewives loaded with shopping, office workers stealing time from their employers to run personal errands, youngsters in hooded tops smoking cigarettes furtively, planning their next shoplifting trip. A slim leather briefcase stood at his feet.

  He sipped his coffee. Strong and bitter, as he liked it. He checked his watch. It was time. He had spent an hour in the coffee shop and was on his third espresso. He was sure that no one was watching the building opposite. He picked up his mobile. The Sim card was new and this was the first time he had used it. It would also be the last: later on that day he would destroy it. The way in which the authorities allowed the liberal use of untraceable phonecards made no sense to the Saudi. Disposable Sim cards were used by terrorists, drug-dealers, money-launderers, by anyone who wanted to communicate without detection. Mobile phones were also used to detonate bombs, but governments in the West allowed anyone to buy a Sim card without identifying themselves. The Saudi had two dozen in his briefcase, not one of which could be traced back to him. It was greed, pure and simple: the phone companies made money, and so did the governments – from tax, and from the licences they auctioned to the phone companies. No one wanted to kill the golden goose.

  He tapped out a number. The man who answered didn’t identify himself. He said simply, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Our meeting for tomorrow is still on schedule?’ asked the Saudi.

  ‘The following day would be better,’ said the man.

  The Saudi ended the call. He finished his coffee and picked up his briefcase, then walked across the street. Between a shop selling bric-à-brac and an off-licence, a door led up to the shabby flats above. There were eight buttons in two rows of four. There had once been paper stickers on the buttons with typed names but now they were all illegible. Someone had written the number ‘2’ on one in pencil. The Saudi pressed it. Almost immediately the door lock buzzed. The Saudi pushed his way in and climbed a set of bare wooden stairs to the second floor. The man he was there to meet had already opened the door. ‘Allahu akbar,’ he said.

  ‘Allahu akbar,’ said the Saudi, and walked into the flat.

  The man was a Chechen. He had fought for his own people against the Russians, and in Bosnia. It was while he was fighting Serbs in the former Yugoslavia that he was approached by a representative of a Saudi charity. Two weeks later he was in Pakistan. Initially he was trained in the use of explosives but gradually his instructors realised that Ilyas could be used for greater things. His commitment to the Muslim cause, the fact that he had no living family and hated all things Western made him the perfect candidate to join the ranks of the shahid. They began to groom him to sacrifice his life for the jihad. He was shown videos recorded by shahids who gone to sit in heaven with Allah, then guided through the Koran and shown that there could be no greater glory than to die for Islam.

  It was the Saudi who had realised that Ilyas was too valuable to be thrown away on a suicide mission, no matter how important the target. He had fair hair and green eyes, and spoke excellent English, albeit with a strong accent. No one would suspect he wasn’t European until they heard his voice. He was fearless, trained in the use of most arms from pistols to rocket-propelled grenades, a skilled driver and mechanic.

  The flat where Ilyas had been staying for the past month was small but clean: a cramped sitting room with a futon and a coffee table, tiny bedroom with a single bed, and a cooking area with a double hotplate, a microwave and fridge. A copy of the Koran lay open on the coffee table.

  An orange fluorescent jacket hung over a chair with ‘NETWORK RAIL’ on the back. Next to it stood a large blue metal toolbox with patches of rust on the sides.

  The Saudi went to the futon and sat down. He placed his briefcase on the coffee table and opened it. Ilyas picked up the Koran and sat with it in his hands as the Saudi got out eight detonators and put them on the table. There were six triggers in the briefcase, which he laid beside the detonators; only four would be needed but the Saudi had included two spares. There were four nine-volt batteries, with enough wiring and connectors to complete four trigger circuits.

  Ilyas studied the components and nodded slowly. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘When?’

  ‘Soon,’ said the Saudi. ‘Inshallah.’

  Shepherd sat holding his mobile phone as the driver of the black cab negotiated the traffic heading south. He had a serious problem and wasn’t sure how to deal with it. He’d only taken the Tony Corke mobile with him to the meeting. It was bugged and Hargrove had been listening to the conversation, assuming he’d been able to hear it through the pea coat. But Shepherd needed to talk to him. If he used the phone to call Har
grove, there’d be a record on the Sim card. He could delete the number afterwards but an electronics expert would be able to retrieve it. If the Albanians checked the phone when he arrived in Paris, they might want to know whom he’d called. Worse, they might even check the phone, and if they discovered the transmitter it would all be over.

  Shepherd needed to ditch the phone, but he also needed a replacement. And for that he had to speak to Hargrove. He stared out of the window and cursed. Even if Hargrove had got on the case as soon as he’d heard that the Uddin brothers were sending him to Paris, Shepherd doubted he’d have time to arrange anything like adequate back-up. Once he was on the train it would take just over two and a half hours to get to Paris. Men had to be assigned, briefed and put in position. Surveillance equipment had to be requisitioned. He could talk to Hargrove and the bug would pick it up, but he’d have no idea if Hargrove had heard him. Equipment failed, usually at the worst of times.

  Shepherd had just decided he would have to use the mobile when it rang. It was Hargrove. ‘We’re right behind you, Spider,’ said the superintendent.

  Shepherd resisted the urge to look out of the rear window. ‘I’ve got to switch phones,’ he said.

  ‘Sharpe is on his way, on the back of a bike,’ said Hargrove. ‘He’ll be at Waterloo waiting for you. Men’s toilet. Swap phones and remove this number from the Sim card. You’ll be fine.’

  Shepherd smiled to himself. Hargrove, as usual, was way ahead of him – he would be a tough act for Button to follow.

  ‘I’ve already been on to Paris,’ said Hargrove. ‘They’re getting teams in place.’

  ‘It’ll be tight.’

  ‘They promised me at least four men and another monitoring CCTV at the station.’

  ‘Are you going?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘We’ll be on the train but we’ll keep our distance.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll feel better knowing you’re around.’

  ‘It’s short notice, but in a way it’ll help the case,’ said Hargrove. ‘The French won’t have time to get audio but they’ll take pictures and hopefully identify the Albanians. That’ll give us a big advantage for when you do the actual run.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Is the ticket first or standard?’

  ‘Standard,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘In what name?’

  ‘Peter Devereux,’ said Shepherd. ‘Same as on the passport they’ve given me.’

  ‘Okay, let me call Eurostar, get myself and Sharpe on board. Be lucky, Spider.’

  The superintendent cut the connection. Shepherd bit his lower lip. He hated going into any situation blind. Preparation was everything. Now he was trav elling to a city he’d only ever visited as a tourist and would be questioned by Albanian gangsters. He didn’t know who they were, or anything about their backgrounds, but they had his photograph and there was an outside chance they might know who he was. That was the big unspoken fear in every undercover operative’s heart: that someone out there might know the truth. And if the Albanians did, they’d kill him. Shepherd’s heart was pounding and he took several deep breaths to calm himself. He was worrying about nothing; he hadn’t worked against Albanians before; this was his first case involving counterfeit currency. All they had was a photograph and a legend that would withstand all but the most thorough investigation. Everything would be fine. In eight hours or so he’d be back in London, asleep in his own bed. He flipped off the back cover of his phone, removed the battery and slid out the Sim card. He put the Sim card into his wallet and reassembled the phone.

  The taxi dropped Shepherd outside Waterloo station. He gave the driver ten pounds and told him to keep the change. As the man took it, Shepherd remembered that the station toilets weren’t free. ‘Sorry, mate, you couldn’t give me twenty pence, could you?’ he asked sheepishly. ‘I’ve got to take a leak.’

  The driver handed him a coin. ‘Have it on me.’ He laughed.

  Shepherd walked into the station and headed down the stairs to the lavatories. He put his twenty-pence coin into the slot and pushed through the turnstiles. All the urinals were unoccupied but two men were washing their hands at the line of basins. There was no sign of Sharpe. Shepherd checked his watch. There was half an hour before the train was due to leave and he still had to go through the Immigration and security checks.

  He went over to one of the urinals. Two stalls were occupied, red squares showing in their locks. The rest showed green. Unoccupied. Shepherd urinated, whistling softly to himself. The two hand-washers left.

  An elderly man with a walking-stick limped over to a urinal. A toilet flushed and one of the doors opened. Shepherd glanced over his shoulder. It was Jimmy Sharpe. Shepherd zipped up his jeans and went to a washbasin. He put his mobile phone beside it and started to wash his hands. Sharpe stood at the adjacent basin and put down an identical phone next to Shepherd’s, nodded curtly and thrust his hands under the tap.

  Shepherd shook his hands dry, picked up Sharpe’s phone and left.

  He slid his ticket into the automated barrier and showed his passport to a bored officer of the French Police Nationale, then walked through a metal detector. It amazed him that there were no checks by British officials on people leaving the country. Virtually every other country in the world examined the passport of anyone leaving, and often punished those who had overstayed their visas. Not the British. The government seemed to take the view that as long as people were leaving, that was the end of it.

  The train was boarding and Shepherd took the escalator to the platform. Carriage number eight, midway down the train, a window-seat facing the rear in a group of four. Two students sat opposite, sharing an iPod and nodding in time to tunes that Shepherd could hear only as an irritating buzz. It looked as if the seat next to him might be empty, but at the last moment a middle-aged woman in a fake-fur coat hurried down the aisle pulling a wheeled suitcase after her. She rammed it under the table, banging Shepherd’s leg.

  Shepherd closed his eyes and rested his head against the seat back. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting the Albanians.

  The train pulled out of Waterloo. Shepherd asked the middle-aged woman to let him pass so that he could use the toilet and took the opportunity to walk to the front of the train. He hadn’t realised how long the Eurostar was. He counted the number of seats in one carriage and did a quick calculation in his head. More than seven hundred passengers on the train – the equivalent of two full jumbo jets. Virtually every seat was taken and there was no sign of Sharpe or Hargrove. He hoped they’d managed to get on because he didn’t want to be in France with only the French police behind him.

  Just before the train went into the tunnel, Shepherd went in search of the buffet car towards the rear. He bought a chicken-salad sandwich and some coffee, then took them back to his seat. As he was unwrapping the sandwich he saw Hargrove walking through the carriage from the rear of the train. They had the briefest eye-contact and then he was gone. Shepherd relaxed a little. At least he was on board. And, presumably, Sharpe was, too.

  Shepherd moved along the platform to the Gare du Nord station concourse, his hands in his pockets. He was fairly sure that Hargrove was some way behind him, but he didn’t look round. Ahead, a line of taxi drivers held up handwritten cards, and behind them was a Häagen Dazs outlet, with a scattering of tables. To the left of the ice-cream shop two big men in black leather jackets and blue jeans were staring at him with hard eyes. Shepherd hoped they weren’t part of the French surveillance team because they were as obvious as hell. He kept walking.

  The French station was considerably scruffier than its London counterpart, the concourse littered with discarded fast-food wrappings and crushed cigarette packets. An old woman in a brightly coloured headscarf and a long dark coat flashed him a toothless smile and held out a gnarled hand. Shepherd shook his head and walked past.

  The two men in leather jackets were heading purposefully towards him. Not surveillance, then. Shepherd stopped and turned to
them, head slightly up, lips tight, playing the hard man.

  ‘You are Tony Corke?’ asked the taller of the two. He had jet-black hair that kept falling across his eyes, a narrow, hooked nose and a pointed chin.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd, hands deep in his pockets. He wasn’t expecting violence in a public place, but he wasn’t going to offer to shake hands.

  ‘We are here to meet you,’ said the man. ‘I am Ervin. This is Artur.’ He nodded at his colleague, a heavy-set man with a square jaw and a five o’clock shadow. ‘Our English is not so good. You can speak French?’

  ‘No,’ lied Shepherd. He wasn’t fluent in the language but he had enough to get by. He didn’t want the Albanians to know that, though.

  An old man with a wheeled suitcase that must have weighed more than he did banged into Artur and apologised in a gruff Scottish accent. Artur glared at him.

  ‘We have an auto outside,’ said Ervin.

  ‘A car,’ corrected Artur.

  ‘Yes, a car,’ said Ervin.

  ‘Nobody said anything about a car,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can talk here.’

  ‘We are just here to meet you,’ said Ervin.

  ‘You’ve met me. Now I want to go back to London.’

  ‘Our boss wants to meet you.’

  ‘Your boss can come here.’

  ‘He’s in his apartment. He wants us to take you there.’

  ‘Look, Salik said I was to come to Paris because you wanted to see me. You’ve seen me. I’m just a sailor and I’m working for Salik, not you.’

  ‘My boss doesn’t work with people he hasn’t met. He doesn’t trust people until he has looked them in the eye.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I said. In his apartment. Please, come with us.’

  Shepherd glared at him. He had no way of knowing how good the French surveillance was – or even if it was in place. For all he knew, the two Albanians might have more than a meeting planned for him. ‘How far away is his apartment?’