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  ‘Allahu akbar!’

  ‘You’re a dead man – a dead man!’ shouted the gunman.

  ‘Allahu akbar!’ screamed Bradshaw, at the top of his voice.

  The man pulled the trigger and the gun jerked in his hand. But there was no explosion, just a metallic click.

  Bradshaw stared at the gun, gasping for breath, unable to believe what had happened. Had it misfired? ‘Allahu akbar,’ he whispered. ‘Allah has saved me.’

  ‘Not Allah, my friend,’ said the man on the gunman’s right. He pulled off his ski mask and scratched his straggly beard. It was Hakeem. ‘You saved yourself. By your words and your actions.’

  Bradshaw sagged in the chair. ‘You bastard.’

  Hakeem nodded at the man with the gun. ‘Untie him,’ Hakeem said. The man tucked the weapon into his belt and knelt beside the chair. ‘We had to test you, my friend,’ Hakeem said, to Bradshaw.

  ‘What did you think? That I wanted to steal your money?’

  ‘You could have been MI5 or MI6, or an undercover policeman,’ said Hakeem. ‘They are sending agents to infiltrate us all the time.’

  The third man went behind Bradshaw and used a penknife to cut the plastic tie around his wrists.

  ‘And how do you know that I’m not an agent, that I just saw through your ruse?’

  ‘You looked into the barrel of the gun as the trigger was pulled,’ said Hakeem. ‘You faced death and you praised Allah. No agent, not even a Muslim agent, could do that. A Muslim who works for MI6 is not a true Muslim. He would not be prepared to die for his salary.’

  ‘And do you test everyone this way?’ asked Bradshaw, massaging his wrists.

  ‘Only the ones who ask me for half a million pounds,’ said Hakeem. He patted Bradshaw’s shoulder. ‘I shall arrange for the finance that you need and I shall need a number to contact you.’

  ‘I rarely use mobile phones,’ said Bradshaw, ‘and when I do, I change Sim cards every few days.’

  The three men with Hakeem took off their masks. All were Asian. Bradshaw wondered which of them spoke with the Lancashire accent.

  ‘So how do I reach you, other than by picking you up off the streets at night?’ asked Hakeem.

  ‘I’ll give you a Yahoo email address and the password to access the account.’

  ‘Sending emails is risky,’ said Hakeem. ‘The authorities screen them.’

  ‘I don’t send emails,’ said Bradshaw, scornfully. ‘If you want to contact me, you compose a message and leave it in the drafts folder. I’ll log on to the account, read it and reply. The message is never sent so it can never be intercepted.’

  Hakeem arched one eyebrow. ‘You have undergone no formal training,’ he said, ‘yet your tradecraft is almost perfect.’

  ‘Most of it is common sense,’ said Bradshaw. ‘The rest I learned from the Internet.’ He dabbed at his bleeding lip.

  ‘I am sorry for what happened tonight,’ said Hakeem.

  Bradshaw held up the blood-spotted handkerchief. ‘This?’ he said. He sneered. ‘This is nothing compared with the blood I’m about to shed.’

  Shepherd arrived at Heathrow just as the sun was going down. It had been a tiring drive from Hereford and he stretched as he climbed out of his BMW in the long-term car park. He had kicked a football around with Liam before leaving Hereford, but the boy was obviously unhappy that he was going away again. Shepherd had made the usual promises about gifts on his return and spending time with him when he got back, but Liam had said it didn’t matter. The apparent lack of concern was more hurtful than the times when Liam had cried and begged him not go. Shepherd couldn’t tell whether his son was hiding his emotions or if he really didn’t care that his father was going away again.

  Liam would move in with Moira and Tom tomorrow and Katra was flying to Slovenia the following day. She had wanted to buy a one-way ticket because she didn’t know when she’d be coming back, but Shepherd had insisted on paying and had bought her a business-class open return.

  Button had booked him on a flight with EVA Air, a Taiwanese airline that went from Heathrow to Bangkok before flying on to Taipei. Jimmy Sharpe had gone with Thai Airways the previous day. Shepherd checked in, handing over a Samsonite suitcase, then spent forty-five minutes going through Security. He was carrying his toothpaste and shaving foam in a clear plastic bag and removed his shoes and belt before going through the metal detector, but the machine still beeped. A surly Asian man patted him down roughly as if Shepherd was an inmate in a Category A prison. ‘Your watch – take it off,’ said the man, pointing at the Breitling.

  ‘No problem,’ said Shepherd, removing it. He thought of telling the man that he could kill him in a dozen ways that wouldn’t involve the watch but there was nothing to be gained by scoring points. The men and women who manned the security checks held all the power, and they knew it. His only option was to smile and comply. He went back to the X-ray machine, put his watch in a plastic tray and returned to the metal detector.

  An old man was being helped from his wheelchair by an airline employee so that he could go through the arch. He was clearly frail and his hands were shaking, but the security personnel stood watching impassively. The man staggered through and his wheelchair followed. That was ridiculous, thought Shepherd. In no way could the old man be a threat to anyone. Nor could ninety-nine point nine per cent of the passengers queuing to go through the metal detector. But everyone was subjected to the same demeaning treatment by men and women who clearly enjoyed the power they wielded. Shepherd heard no ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ from the security staff, saw no smiles. There were just blank faces and barked instructions. If the aim of the terrorists who had laid siege to London was to undermine the basic rights and freedoms of the country’s citizens, then at Heathrow airport they had already succeeded.

  The second time he went through the metal detector it made no sound and Shepherd retrieved his carry-on bag, then headed for the lounge. He didn’t like flying and he never had done. It wasn’t that he was scared, more that he hated being packed into an aluminium tube with several hundred strangers for hours on end. He knew that all the experts said it was a bad idea to drink alcohol when flying but Shepherd had a double Jameson’s and soda before he boarded and slept most of the way to Bangkok.

  The airport terminal was clean and modern, all steel and glass, and its efficiency put Heathrow to shame. Shepherd was through Immigration in ten minutes with a thirty-day visa stamp in his John Westlake passport. His suitcase arrived in the cavernous baggage hall just fifteen minutes later. As he walked into the arrivals area, two young Thai men in dark suits holding clipboards asked him if he wanted a car. He saw that they had photographs of modern saloons, including a Mercedes and a BMW. Behind them a line of backpackers was waiting for public taxis and he decided to go for the luxury option. He was Ricky Knight, bank robber on the run, and he was entitled to do things with a little style. They asked him where he was going and Shepherd showed them an email confirming his booking at the Sandy Spring hotel in Pattaya. The two men had a rapid conversation in Thai, then one spoke into a two-way radio, and five minutes later Shepherd was in a Mercedes heading away from the airport on a six-lane motorway.

  ‘First time to Thailand?’ asked the driver, a man in his fifties with slicked-back hair. A Buddhist amulet and a garland of red and white flowers were dangling from the rearview mirror.

  ‘Sure is,’ said Shepherd. He closed his eyes, not wanting to continue the conversation, and the driver took the hint.

  After half an hour they left the motorway and powered along a four-lane concrete road flanked by rice fields and coconut-palm plantations. The farmland was dotted with factories, smoking chimney stacks, industrial units and container-storage yards. Most buildings flew the Thai flag, a red stripe top and bottom, with a blue one on a white background in the middle. There were huge billboards on scaffolding in some of the fields, advertising hospitals, condominium developments and cars. It wasn’t pretty countryside. The ubiquitous pa
lm trees were easy enough on the eye but it was clear that the land was a commodity to be built on and exploited. There was litter everywhere – plastic bags, chunks of blown tyres, discarded packaging materials.

  Pattaya was a low-rise sprawl of shops, markets and billboards, the skyline strewn with sagging electricity wires strung between rough concrete pylons. The most modern buildings were banks, petrol stations and car showrooms. For the first time since he’d left the airport he saw Westerners, usually bare-chested, driving small motorcycles, sometimes with Thai girls riding pillion.

  The biggest building was a white concrete tower topped with a cross in red, white and blue, and a large sign identifying it as Bangkok Hospital, Pattaya. They pulled up at red traffic-lights. In the central reservation there was a large circular photograph of the King of Thailand, a kindly-looking man with spectacles and an SLR camera with a long lens around his neck. The light turned green and the Mercedes made a right turn down a road lined with furniture shops, open-air restaurants and low-rise hotels and spas. There were more Westerners, shopping, eating and strolling around in swim suits and Tshirts. The city was starting to look more like a holiday resort, with gift shops, art shops and Indian-tailor shops promising made-to-measure suits in twenty-four hours for less than a hundred dollars.

  They drove past the Dusit Thani Resort and ahead was the sea. They reached the beach road and turned left. It was a one-way street, a narrow strip of sand covered with deck-chairs and umbrellas on the right, and on the left, bars, restaurants and shops with swimming rings and inflatable dolphins blowing in the breeze. Most of the signs were in English and Thai, but Shepherd saw plenty of Russian and Arabic, too. Strung across the street, thai flags were interspersed with yellow pennants. The driver pointed down a street to their left. ‘Hotel there but cannot go,’ he said. ‘One way.’

  Shepherd saw a no-entry sign and the driver continued along the beach road and turned into the next side road. It was lined with bars, with names like Club Nevada, Lion Bar, Kittens Bar, and Hot and Cold A-go-go. In the middle, the Pattaya post office was decorated in the colours of the national flag. At the end of the street they turned left again, then made another left so that they were heading the right way down the one-way street. It was just after six o’clock when the car pulled up in front of the hotel and the sky was darkening. Night seemed to come quickly, as if a dimmer switch was being turned down.

  The hotel was an uninspiring cube with a line of small trees in pots at the front. A uniformed bellboy took Shepherd’s suitcase from the boot of the car and followed him inside. The lobby was functional but the four young women at the reception desk beamed at him. He gave them his John Westlake American Express card and signed for a week’s stay. The bellboy took him up to the seventh floor and showed him into a suite with a sea view, and Shepherd tipped him with a red hundred-baht note. He put his hands together as if in prayer and bowed, so Shepherd knew he’d over-tipped. The man left, closing the door behind him.

  Shepherd stood at the window. There were dozens of boats in the water, and to the left of the bay two huge floating restaurants bedecked with white lights. The sky was grey now and the sea almost black. He walked around the suite. It was two separate rooms, one with a sofa, a dining-table, a television and a small kitchen area, with a full-size fridge; a door led to a shower room. The bedroom was the same size as the sitting room with another television, a wardrobe with a built-in safe and a bathroom. It was bigger than the first flat he and Sue had lived in, the year before they had married.

  Shepherd’s bedside phone rang and he answered it. ‘Welcome to Pattaya,’ said a gruff Geordie accent. ‘Are you free for a wee chat?’

  It was Bob Oswald. Button had said he was a surveillance expert and she was right. Shepherd had been in the hotel for less than ten minutes so he must have been outside watching for his arrival. ‘Sure. Come on up.’

  A few minutes later there was a soft knock on the door. Shepherd opened it to find a lanky man with sandy hair and a shock of freckles across his nose and cheeks. They shook hands. Oswald was holding a carrier-bag and he took out two cans of Heineken lager. ‘Thought you might need some refreshment,’ he said. ‘It’s a hell of a long flight.’ He tossed one to Shepherd and opened the other as he sat down on the bed. ‘Charlie’s got me on a flight back to the UK tomorrow. I’d offer to take you for a run around the town but I guess we shouldn’t be seen together.’ He reached into the bag and pulled out a bulky manila envelope. ‘She wasn’t sure how much cash you’d bring so she sent me five thousand pounds by Western Union. Three hundred thousand baht, give or take. Should tide you over for a while. She’s getting the SOCA finance people to set you up an account with Bangkok Bank – they’ve got branches everywhere. She said she’ll courier it to you at the hotel as soon as it’s ready.’ He opened his wallet and took out a small green Sim card. ‘Thought you might need this,’ he said. ‘It’s a pay-as-you-go and I’ve put a couple of thousand baht in it for you. You can get top-ups at any 7-Eleven.’

  Shepherd thanked him. ‘How long have you been here, Bob?’ he asked.

  ‘This trip, two weeks,’ said Oswald, ‘but I’ve been here four times in the past six months.’

  ‘Always checking on the Moore brothers?’

  ‘Mainly them, but Charlie’s asked me to take a look at a few other faces as well.’

  ‘Can’t be easy,’ said Shepherd. ‘I reckon a lot of the guys out here wouldn’t want cameras pointed in their direction.’ He opened his suitcase and took out one of his spare mobile phones, then sat on the bed and inserted the new Sim card.

  Oswald grinned. ‘It’s not been the easiest job I’ve had,’ he said. ‘The surveillance is simple enough, though, because it’s not the sort of city where you stay home at night. And there’s a fair amount of drugs and drink consumed. But those shots of them at the pool took me the best part of twenty-four hours. I had to crawl to some scrubland overlooking it at night and dig myself in, then lie there all morning. I got them in the afternoon but had to wait until dark before I could crawl back out. You don’t want to hear about my toilet arrangements.’

  ‘You’re right, I don’t,’ said Shepherd. He switched on his phone and watched as it searched for a signal. It showed TH GSM on the display. ‘Was it your idea to book me in here?’

  ‘It’s convenient,’ said Oswald, ‘and no one gives anyone a second look. It’s known as being “guest friendly” and a lot of Bangkok-based expats stay here.’

  ‘Guest friendly?’

  Oswald chuckled. ‘It means they don’t care who the guests bring back at night,’ he said. ‘Some of the hotels charge a fee for girls who stay overnight and make them leave their ID cards at Reception.’

  ‘I’m not here to fraternise with the locals,’ said Shepherd. He sipped his lager, more to be sociable than because he wanted a drink.

  ‘Didn’t mean to imply that you were,’ said Oswald. ‘But Charlie said I should find you a place that fitted with the legend of a guy on the run who was in Pattaya for the first time, and this is the place. It was a toss-up between the Sandy Spring and the Dynasty next door but I’m in there so I said you’d be better here.’ He reached into the carrier-bag again and this time brought out a glossy brochure and a business card, which he gave to Shepherd. ‘This is an estate agency run by a guy who’s a friend of the Moores, Dominic Windsor. He’s totally legit but he has a few dodgy friends and acquaintances. I thought you could pay him a visit and get him to show you a few villas for rent. Find yourself a decent place, and he’ll be sure to mention you to the Moores.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did he sell the Moores theirs?’

  ‘Nah, they bought the land through a Thai lawyer and had their villas built for them. I’m told there are secret rooms and basements and an escape tunnel, but a lot of what you hear is total bullshit.’

  ‘Charlie says they live in a compound, right?’

  ‘There are half a dozen villas surrounded by a high wall. There’s a hill t
hat overlooks the compound, which is where I took the snaps. There are two gates in the wall and both are manned twenty-four hours a day by off-duty cops with guns.’

  Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s how it works out here. Jewellery shops and VIPs pay cops to act as guards.’

  ‘Even though the Moores are armed robbers?’

  ‘Money talks,’ said Oswald. ‘There’s a lot of blind eyes turned in Pattaya. Counterfeit goods, hookers, drugs, child porn, it’s all out there, and they don’t even bother covering it up. It’s a dangerous place, believe me.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve been told.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Oswald. ‘I’ve been in some pretty rough neighbourhoods over the years but nothing compares with Pattaya. If something went wrong in that compound, they could do whatever they want with you and there’d be no repercussions. None at all. The cops would probably help them get rid of the body.’

  ‘What goes on there?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Sex, drugs and rock and roll,’ said Oswald. ‘I’ve spoken to girls who’ve been to some wild parties and apparently anything goes. Cocaine, heroin, amphetamines, cannabis. Mark’s a bit of an animal, from what I hear. Likes to slap the girls around. Mickey’s more level-headed, but Mark’s his little brother so he gives him a lot of leeway. Mark’s got into a few fights and there’s a few locals gunning for him.’

  ‘What about around town?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Where do they hang out?’

  ‘They’re regulars around the strip,’ said Oswald. ‘It’s called Walking Street, down by the beach. At night they block it off to traffic and it’s the main bar area. There’s a go-go bar called Angelwitch that they like, and another called Living Dolls. Restaurant-wise, there’s a steak place on Second Road they go to several times a week.’

  ‘They’re a tight group, right?’

  ‘They go out as a posse, pretty much, but they’re fairly sociable. They’re well known around town.’

  ‘As criminals?’

  ‘It’s like the Costa here,’ said Oswald. ‘The bad guys get treated like rock stars. The bigger the crime, the more the glory. Every wannabe face you meet claims to be tied to one London criminal or another. If you believe half of what you hear then every man and his dog down here has done favours for Terry Adams or Frankie Fraser or got a piece of the Brink’s Mat gold.’