Cold Kill: The Third Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Read online

  ‘We have no evidence of what you were planning in Phuket, of course – the tsunami washed everything away. But we do know that three men and one woman were staying at one of the beachfront hotels and travelling on Bosnian passports. Do you know much about the former Yugoslavia, by any chance?’ She placed her hands on the table, palms down.

  ‘I want my lawyer,’ said the Saudi, quietly. ‘Now.’

  She ignored him. The Saudi had a sudden urge to stand up and slap her face. He hated her superiority, her arrogance. She was treating him with contempt, and he was not used to that from a woman. He forced himself to stay calm. He was sure that they had used a woman to unsettle him, and it was important not to show that the ruse was working. He tried to smile but his lips dragged across his teeth.

  ‘In May you were in Sydney, Australia. You stayed at the Four Seasons Hotel. You had a suite on the tenth floor. Not long after you left for London, a hundred and seven people died when three bombs went off at Circular Quay. You see why we’re more than a little concerned, Mr Ahmed. Terrible things seem to happen after you have paid a visit. People die. A lot of people. Including women and children. I’ve never understood the way al-Qaeda so happily kills women and children. Doesn’t the Koran say something about not murdering innocents? Or does the end always justify the means?’

  The Saudi said nothing.

  ‘The right to silence is overrated,’ said the woman. ‘You will tell us why you’re in London, Mr Ahmed. You will tell us and you will tell us quickly.’

  ‘I want my lawyer.’

  The woman smiled. ‘At this point I am prepared to offer you a million pounds sterling for the information we require, and for your future co-operation. We will not require you to give evidence in court, and once we have everything we need from you we will provide a new identity for you in a country of your choice.’

  ‘I do not need your money,’ said the Saudi, ‘and I do not want it. I want you to release me now. I demand it. I am a British citizen. I have rights.’

  The woman stood up and walked to the whiteboard by the door. She picked up a blue marker pen and wrote ‘£1,000,000’ at the top. ‘I’ll put it there to remind you that my offer is still on the table,’ she said. ‘At any stage you will be able to bring a halt to these proceedings by accepting the offer and co-operating.’

  ‘What proceedings?’ snapped the Saudi. ‘What are you talking about, you stupid woman?’

  The door opened and two men walked in. They were in their early thirties, with close-cropped hair and hard faces. They had the look of soldiers but they were wearing casual clothing – dark sweatshirts, jeans and heavy workboots. They had Bluetooth headsets that matched the one the woman was wearing, earpieces in their right ears and stubby microphones that reached the corner of the mouth. They stood at either side of the woman and stared at him. The one on the woman’s left had a broken nose, the one on the right a scar above his lip. The Saudi had seen such men before, and he had made use of them. They were men who would kill without conscience – he could see that in their eyes.

  ‘I am asking you again, Mr Ahmed. Would you please tell me what you have been planning while you have been in this country?’

  ‘I have nothing to say to you,’ said the Saudi. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Well, then,’ she said, as cheerfully as a Girl Guide leader. ‘Let’s get started. Please remove your clothing.’

  The man walked up to a three-storey house that seemed to have been converted into small flats or bedsits. There were twenty-odd bells by the front door, but he had a key. Shepherd watched from the pavement as he let himself into the house. He had walked from Kilburn Park station to Kilburn High Road, then headed north, turned off on to Willesden Lane, then right into a residential street. As Shepherd had followed him, he’d checked that the phone had sent the text message to Sharpe. It had. And as the man went inside the house, Shepherd dialled Sharpe’s number.

  ‘Got him,’ said Shepherd. He gave Sharpe the address.

  ‘Should be there in fifteen minutes,’ said Sharpe. ‘I headed your way as soon as I got the text. Traffic’s hellish, though, and back-up’s still on the way.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘Button’s mobile is off. I’ve left a message.’

  ‘What the hell is she playing at? Doesn’t she realise how serious this is?’

  ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, Spider. I’ll try again. Are you staying put?’

  ‘There’s probably a back way out but he’s not on to me so I’m thinking he’ll come out the front, if he comes out at all. I’ve got to go, Razor. I’ll call you back. Try Button again. Tell her what’s happening. I’ll call Bingham.’

  There were three text messages on his mobile, all from Bingham. Shepherd checked the first. The picture was of a man with brown hair but he was a good ten years older than the one he’d followed to the house. Shepherd sent a message back. NO. He opened the second message and his heart raced. It was the man. No question about it. He pressed the button to call Bingham, who answered on the second ring. ‘You’ve got him?’

  ‘Second of those last three you sent,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ said Bingham. Shepherd walked away from the house. There was nowhere in the street where anyone would have reason to loiter. He’d have to keep moving. He heard Bingham rustling paper. A file, maybe. Or a notebook.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Bingham. ‘He’s a Yank.’

  ‘No way.’

  ‘Joe Hagerman,’ said Bingham. ‘The Americans have been after him ever since he was sighted in Afghanistan during the war there. He was in a training camp in Pakistan, then disappeared under the radar two years ago. You have him in sight?’

  ‘He’s just gone inside a house in Kilburn,’ said Shepherd. ‘Jimmy Sharpe’s on his way and there’s supposed to be back-up coming.’

  ‘There are two cars heading your way but they’re stuck in traffic.’

  ‘Is Button stuck in traffic too?’

  ‘She’s otherwise engaged, I’m afraid.’

  ‘She should be on top of this,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘She’s handed it to me until she’s available,’ said Bingham.

  ‘Yeah, well, with respect, I don’t know you. I barely know her. Sharpe tells me her phone’s off.’

  ‘That’s true. I’ve been trying to update her on your progress but I’m not getting through.’

  ‘That’s not good enough. This guy’s a terrorist, a possible al-Qaeda operative, and she’s not contactable?’

  ‘Look, Dan, I’m not in a position to tell you what Charlotte’s doing, but you have my word that she won’t have turned off her mobile lightly.’

  Shepherd stopped walking, then turned back to the house. He cursed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Bingham.

  ‘Hagerman’s just come out and he’s got a suitcase with him.’

  Hagerman had exchanged his raincoat for a hooded duffel coat. He was holding a medium-sized hard-shelled case. It had an extendable arm so that it could be pulled along on its built-in wheels, but he was carrying it. He started to walk briskly along the main road.

  ‘He’s on the move,’ Shepherd said, into the phone. ‘Back towards Kilburn High Road. I’m going to have to talk to Sharpe.’

  Hagerman was carrying his case, alternating it between his left and right hands. Shepherd was about fifty feet behind, matching his speed, stopping occasionally to look in shop windows. He dialled Sharpe’s number. ‘Razor, where the hell are you?’ he said.

  ‘Maida Vale, should be with you in five minutes.’

  ‘He’s heading for the Tube. Two black cabs have gone by and he ignored them. He’s got a heavy case so I’m thinking he can’t be walking too far, which means he’s back on the Tube. If he goes to Paddington he can be at Heathrow in fifteen minutes. Where the hell’s the back-up?’

  ‘Stuck in traffic,’ said Sharpe.

  ‘This is a monumental cock-up.’

  ‘Where are you?’ />
  ‘Kilburn High Road. Three minutes from the Tube station.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Shepherd cursed. Once they went underground again he’d lose contact with Sharpe. ‘Are you near Maida Vale Tube station?’

  ‘Just passing it.’

  ‘Okay. Stop the car. You’ve got to get on the train. Let me run the numbers. Three minutes to the station. One minute to get tickets, one minute down to the platform. Three minutes for the train to get from here to you. You get the first train that pulls into Maida Vale after eight minutes from now. I’ll be close to the centre of the train.’

  ‘Got you.’

  ‘Call Bingham and tell him what we’re doing.’

  ‘What about the back-up?’

  ‘What fucking back-up?’ Shepherd cut the connection. Ahead of him, Hagerman had quickened his pace. Shepherd cursed and hurried after him.

  ‘It doesn’t look that painful, actually,’ said Button. She sipped her tea. She was looking through the two-way mirror into the next room where the Saudi was sitting naked on the floor with his legs apart at a thirty-degree angle, his face pressed to the ground, his neck tied to his calves with webbing strips. The two men stood behind him, arms folded.

  Yokely smiled thinly and adjusted the cuffs of his starched white shirt. ‘You should try it some time, Charlie,’ he said. ‘It’s known as “Stewed Chicken with a Bent Neck” by the guys at the Zhangshi Education and Reformation Camp. Believe me, it hurts.’

  ‘The technique is used at Guantanamo Bay, is it?’

  ‘Sadly, no,’ said Yokely. ‘I suggested it but was overruled.’ He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair.

  Button had taken off her Bluetooth headset. It was uncomfortable and made her ear sweat. ‘How long do we leave him like that?’ she asked Yokely.

  ‘In an ideal world, eight or nine hours. But this isn’t an ideal world.’ He picked up his mug, took a sip of coffee and grimaced. ‘It’s instant,’ he complained.

  ‘So drink tea,’ said Button.

  ‘I hate tea more than I hate instant coffee. After this is over we should go for a walk in Hyde Park. There’s a place by the Serpentine that does a great cup of coffee.’

  Broken Nose kicked the Saudi in the side, hard.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ she said quietly.

  Yokely walked over to the observation window and watched as Scarred Lip kicked him in the left thigh. The Saudi screamed. ‘You’re not doing it, Charlie,’ said the American. ‘You’re supervising. There’s a difference. It’s important that he sees his fate is in the hands of a woman.’

  ‘Because he’s a Saudi?’

  Yokely shook his head. ‘Because he’s a man,’ he said. ‘With same-sex torture, there’s always an element of competition. The subject wants to prove he’s better than the man who’s causing his pain. His adrenaline kicks in and he becomes determined to take as much as he can.’

  ‘And with a woman it’s less competitive?’

  ‘You’re not happy doing this, are you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Button, briskly.

  ‘I’m not saying that’s a negative. It’s in our favour. He’ll pick up on it. The fact that you find it so distasteful will make him realise how terrible his predicament is.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Button. ‘Sort of the ultimate good-cop-bad-cop?’

  ‘As a woman you can say you sympathise and he’ll believe it. If a man tries it, he’ll assume he’s faking it.’

  ‘You’re telling me that women fake it better than men, Richard?’ said Button, with a smile.

  The American chuckled. ‘It’s a science – it always has been, ever since the days of the Inquisition,’ he said.

  ‘I hate to think where you learned all this.’

  ‘I’ve been around,’ said Yokely. ‘Do you know what the US Army’s field manual defines as the object of interrogation?’

  Button smiled. ‘To obtain the maximum amount of usable information possible in the least amount of time.’

  Yokely raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m impressed,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve been on courses,’ she said. ‘The manual lists sixteen approaches, but I seem to recall that it explicitly prohibits torture, mental or physical.’

  ‘The manual was written a long time ago,’ said Yokely. ‘Long before 9/11.’

  ‘But the Geneva Convention still applies, last I heard.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘And I seem to recall article three forbidding violence to life and person, in particular murder of all kinds, mutilation, cruel treatment and torture.’

  ‘You know, Charlie, it’s always struck me as a pity that the Geneva Convention never said anything about flying airliners full of civilians into office buildings. But that’s just me.’ Yokely nodded at the Saudi, who was now being kicked by both men. ‘Trust me, if there was a better technique I’d be using it. What we’re doing in there has been shown to work. Often the threat of pain is more effective than the pain itself. But first we have to show that we’re serious. Once he knows we’re willing and able to inflict pain, he’ll believe us when we tell him we’re going to hurt him even more.’

  ‘And the offer of money gives him a way out?’

  ‘Threatening death on its own is worse than useless,’ said Yokely, warming to his subject. ‘One of two things happen. It could be that the guy assumes he’s going to be killed whether or not he’s compliant. He figures he’s going to die anyway so might as well get it over with. He just clams up and waits to die. Or he realises that it’s an empty threat because death defeats the whole point of the torture, assuming that the point is to extract information. So he calls the torturer’s bluff and says, “Okay, kill me.” If the torturer doesn’t carry out the threat, he loses the initiative. So either we kill him, or we torture him. There’s no reason to move from one to the other.’

  ‘So we tell Ahmed that the offer of money is there for him whenever he wants it?’

  Yokely flashed her a grin. ‘That’s what we tell him.’

  ‘And after he’s talked, what then? Does he walk away with the money?’

  ‘Do you really want to know, Charlie?’

  Button held his gaze for several seconds. The American had the glistening-hard eyes of a freshly killed fish. ‘I suppose not.’ She took out her mobile. ‘Do you mind if I check my messages before I go back in? I’m in the middle of a few things.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Yokely.

  Button switched on the phone and checked her voicemail. She had nine messages.

  The first was from her husband, letting her know that he was in meetings all afternoon and had a prearranged dinner with a client so wouldn’t be able to get back for Poppy, but that he’d call June, their three-times-a-week cleaning lady.

  The second was from David Bingham, confirming that he had started sending photographs of the al-Qaeda suspects to Shepherd’s phone and that he was arranging to send surveillance teams to back him up.

  The third was from Shepherd, letting her know that the suspect was on the move and that he was following.

  The fourth was from Jimmy Sharpe. Shepherd had followed the man into the Underground and was out of contact.

  The fifth was from Bingham, confirming that surveillance back-up was on the way and that, so far, Shepherd had not been able to identify the suspect.

  The sixth was from her husband saying that June was at a local hospital visiting an aunt with a broken hip and wouldn’t be able to let Poppy out. She could tell that he was annoyed.

  The seventh was from Sharpe. He explained that Shepherd had followed the man to an address in Kilburn and wanted Button to call him back.

  The eighth was from her husband. He apologised for being short with her earlier and said that one of his afternoon meetings had been cancelled so he’d be able to pop back to the house to take care of the dog.

  The ninth and final message was from David Bingham saying that Shepherd had identified t
he man. Joe Hagerman. An American. Button smiled to herself. Yokely was going to love that, an American-born terrorist on UK soil and it had been the British who spotted him. Hagerman had left the house in Kilburn and Shepherd was following on foot.

  Button exhaled deeply.

  ‘Problems?’ asked Yokely.

  ‘There’s a lot going on.’

  ‘I need you in there, Charlie,’ said the American, nodding at the two-way mirror.

  ‘I have to make a few calls,’ said Button.

  ‘Do you need privacy?’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind, Richard, thank you.’

  ‘I have to stay in here,’ said Yokely. ‘The toilets are along the corridor, why not use them?’

  Button headed down the corridor and pushed open the door to the toilets. She scrolled through her contacts book and called David Bingham. He briefed her on the current position. Shepherd had just gone back underground. Sharpe had gone to Maida Vale Tube station and was attempting to board the same train. Two back-up surveillance teams were on the way but stuck in traffic.

  ‘What’s your reading of the situation, David?’ asked Button.

  ‘I think Hagerman’s leaving the country. Probably through Heathrow.’

  ‘I’ll speak to Patsy. It’ll probably be best if we let the Americans handle this. Strictly speaking, we’ve nothing to pick him up on. I’ll call Patsy and get Five to make the approach.’

  ‘How are things going on American soil?’

  ‘They’ve a strange way of doing things,’ said Button.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Sadly, no. Just keep on top of the Hagerman thing for me. Okay, let me call Patsy.’

  Button ended the call and phoned Patsy Ellis. Button quickly outlined the situation to her former boss.

  ‘There’s no doubt that it’s Hagerman?’ asked Ellis.

  Button explained about Shepherd’s near-photographic memory.

  ‘And he’s on the move?’

  ‘With a suitcase. He took the Bakerloo Line so we’re thinking Paddington, then the Heathrow Express to the airport.’

  ‘Okay. But where’s he off to? He can’t fly to the US on anything other than a US passport without being fingerprinted. And he’s on their watch list so he’d be lifted as soon as he landed.’