False Friends ss-9 Read online

  ‘About an hour ago,’ she said. ‘We’re talking it through as we speak.’

  ‘And you didn’t think it was worth talking to me?’

  ‘I don’t think this is the sort of conversation we should be having on an open line,’ she said. ‘Can you come to the office?’

  ‘I’d prefer somewhere outside,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I’ve got an active investigation that means I have to be here all day,’ she replied.

  ‘Give me an hour,’ he said and cut the connection. He read through the rest of the article and then picked up the Mail. The same story was on page seven.

  Charlotte Button kept Shepherd waiting for half an hour in a conference room on the third floor of Thames House, but her apologies when she did finally arrive seemed genuine enough. Shepherd stood up out of politeness but she waved him to sit back down as she dropped into one of the high-backed executive chairs on the opposite side of the highly polished oval oak table. Shepherd had the Telegraph and Mail open in front of him. Button was holding a cup of tea and she placed it carefully on the table.

  ‘How the hell could this have happened, Charlie? Whose side are the Pakistanis on?’

  The thrust of the articles in both papers was the same: an unnamed spokesman for the Inter-Services Intelligence, Pakistan’s premier intelligence agency, had announced that a hand-drawn map had been found in the compound where Bin Laden had been living, a map that could have been left only by the Seals. The map showed the layout of the compound and had floor plans of the main building, including the bedroom where Bin Laden was shot. The spokesman also said that the fact that the Americans had destroyed their own helicopter was a sign that they no longer trusted their Pakistani allies.

  ‘Their noses were put out of joint because the Americans made them look stupid, or at best incompetent, so this is them getting their own back. They just want to show that the Americans make mistakes.’

  ‘Even if it means putting our guys in the firing line? And what about the bloody Yanks? What were they thinking? Are their memories so bloody poor that they can’t commit a floor plan to memory?’

  ‘Spider, you’re blowing this out of all proportion,’ said Button calmly.

  Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘I’m what?’

  ‘Look, you’re right: a mistake was made. The Seals shouldn’t have left the map behind, but Bin Laden’s dead and what’s done is done.’

  ‘You’re not serious, are you?’ said Shepherd. Button said nothing. She picked up her cup and sipped her tea. ‘Charlie, you don’t need me to spell this out for you, do you?’ Button continued to sip her tea. Shepherd leaned forward, his eyes locked on hers. ‘That piece of paper shows that the Yanks had intel on the inside of that building, intel that couldn’t have come from surveillance or satellites. The only way they could know the layout of the inside of the building is if they’d spoken to someone who’d been inside.’

  ‘He had visitors. We know that,’ said Button, putting down her cup.

  ‘Are you being deliberately obtuse?’ asked Shepherd. ‘If anything had changed in that room, anything at all, then it would give them a timeline. If a chair had been brought in and that chair was shown on the plan then they’d know when the traitor had been there.’

  ‘You’re assuming that the bad guys will get sight of the map,’ said Button.

  ‘And you’re not? It’s the Pakistanis, for God’s sake. Their intelligence services leak like a bloody sieve. They probably showed the map to al-Qaeda before they went public. And why go public with something like that in the first place? There’s only one reason, and that’s to embarrass the bloody Yanks. They’re no allies of ours, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And why has this map come forward now? Bin Laden was killed months ago. Why have the Pakistanis just released it?’

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Button. ‘Either they found it at the time and have been sitting on it, or they’ve only just found it. They’re getting ready to demolish the building so they could have just swept through the building again and stumbled across it. The when doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that they’ve gone public with it.’

  ‘Whose side are they on?’

  ‘Supposedly ours,’ said Button. ‘But there are a lot of different factions within the Pakistani intelligence community. And some of those factions are close to al-Qaeda.’

  Shepherd cursed and shook his head.

  ‘Spider, what are you worried about? That al-Qaeda is going to be looking for revenge?’

  ‘You think they’ll just let it go?’

  ‘It’s a terror organisation. They plant bombs and they crash planes. They’re not geared up for individual assassinations. And who’s going to be authorising and funding a revenge operation?’

  ‘He had his supporters. Rich Saudis. They might want to prove a point.’

  Button sat back in her chair. ‘I think you’re worrying about nothing,’ she said. ‘Even if someone in al-Qaeda realises that there was human intel behind the raid there’s still nothing to point to our people.’

  ‘There’s the timeline,’ said Shepherd. ‘How many visitors do you think he had during the five years he was in Pakistan? The Americans had the compound under surveillance for six weeks before the raid and in that time there were just three visitors, and one of them was his courier. So in a year, maybe twenty? Do you think they’d believe that the Americans would wait a year before taking him out? Six months, max. So they can probably pin it down to ten visitors, maybe a dozen.’

  ‘That’s complete guesswork, Spider. Bin Laden wanted to brief our two guys personally, but he might have met hundreds of others.’

  ‘Our guys were special, that’s what he said to them. He was taking a particular interest in them because he really wanted to hurt the UK.’

  ‘He probably said that to all the girls,’ said Button, then she quickly held up her hand as she saw the frown flash across Shepherd’s face. ‘I’m sorry, misplaced flippancy. But my point is valid. He’s not going to tell his people that they’re disposable, is he? He’s going to tell them all that they’re vital to his organisation, that they’re the centre of his universe. You make a shahid feel that he’s the most important person on earth because that’s the only way he’s going to blow himself to kingdom come. My point is that Bin Laden will have had several visitors and I don’t see that our guys are any more at risk than anyone else. And the Americans are already feeding the media with stories that it was Bin Laden’s courier who led them to the house.’

  ‘And you’re prepared to take that risk, are you?’

  ‘It’s a calculated risk. You’ve worked undercover and you know that there’s always a risk.’

  ‘But I’m a professional. Our guys are amateurs. You brought me in to babysit them for exactly that reason. You needed a pro to hold their hands. Well, that’s what I’m doing. They don’t know the danger they’re in right now so I’m the one who has to speak for them.’

  ‘And what do you want to do? Pull them out? Blow the whole operation?’

  ‘Blow the whole operation?’ repeated Shepherd incredulously. ‘They supplied the intel that led to Bin Laden being taken out. That operation is well and truly over.’

  ‘But what al-Qaeda are planning in the UK is ongoing,’ said Button. ‘What happened in Pakistan isn’t going to put the brakes on what’s happening here. If anything, Bin Laden’s death makes it even more likely that they’ll carry out attacks here and in the States. And pulling Chaudhry and Malik out at this late stage is going to make them appear as guilty as hell.’ She leaned forward. ‘You’re over-thinking this, really. So far as the world is concerned, the Americans followed a courier to the compound based on intel they got from waterboarding. Now you and I know that’s a fairy story, but the media’s lapping it up and the Americans love it because it makes them look like heroes for once.’

  Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. ‘Okay, I’ll buy that. But they’re going to need more protection.’

  ‘Like
what? You want to go Salman Rushdie on them and have them assigned round-the-clock Special Branch guards? You want them followed by unmarked cars? Helicopters?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What, then? I understand you’re anxious about their safety. That’s what happens to handlers. You get attached. You care.’

  Shepherd smiled tightly.

  ‘And before you ask, yes, I care when I’m running you. Every handler does. You’re not chess pieces that we move around as part of the greater game. What you’re feeling is totally natural. A sort of reverse Stockholm Effect. Every handler goes through it. Which is why every handler in turn has a supervisor who can keep an eye on the bigger picture. And that’s what I’m doing now. You’re close to these guys. That goes with the territory. But I am taking a broader view, and I think you’re worrying unnecessarily.’

  ‘What about bugging their flat? A tracker in Malik’s car? Letting Amar work his magic on their mobile phones?’

  ‘And what if any of that hi-tech stuff is discovered? Then they are in trouble. Big trouble.’

  Shepherd sighed. Button was right. She was telling him exactly what he’d said to Chaudhry and Malik. A GPS in the car or in their phones would be a dead giveaway. Chaudhry and Malik weren’t professionals; they were just young men doing what they thought was right, and they’d never be able to lie their way out of trouble. When Shepherd worked undercover everything was a lie from his name onwards. Lying didn’t exactly come naturally to him but he was proficient at it. The big advantage that Chaudhry and Malik had was that they were real. Everything about them was genuine. That was their strength — and their weakness.

  ‘I hear you,’ he said.

  ‘I know these guys too, don’t forget. I’m not as close as you are, obviously, but I do care what happens to them. And there’s no way I’d put them in the line of fire. I really do believe that increasing their security now would do more harm than good. At the moment the only link between them and us is you. And your legend as John Whitehill, freelance journalist, is watertight. Anyone who checks up on you will find a website, dozens of articles in magazines and journals, and a rented flat in Hampstead. The worst accusation that could be levelled against them is that they’ve talked to a journalist. But that all changes if anyone finds one of our gizmos.’

  ‘So we just leave things as they are?’

  ‘Our friends over at GCHQ are listening for chatter,’ she said. ‘If we get any sense that there’s a witch hunt going on then we can rethink. We’ll put an extra watch at the borders, and check on the usual suspects here.’

  ‘Forgive me if that doesn’t inspire me with confidence,’ said Shepherd. ‘Our borders still leak, we both know that. Known terrorists have walked into the country without anyone batting an eyelid.’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh.’

  ‘And GCHQ listening for chatter didn’t stop the London tube bombings.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Button. ‘That’s why what Chaudhry and Malik are doing is so important. They’ve got the inside track on a major terrorist attack that no one, absolutely no one, is aware of. We need them, Spider. We need their intel.’

  Shepherd nodded. ‘You’re right.’

  Button grinned. ‘That’s good to hear,’ she said. ‘Look, I understand your concerns, but I think the chance of anyone connecting them to what happened in Pakistan is remote. If it makes you feel better, why not give them a security briefing, give them some tips about what to watch out for. That’s why I wanted you involved, to share your expertise. They’re virgins at this and you’ve been around the block a few times.’

  ‘That’s the truth,’ he said. ‘Okay, let’s do that. But you really need to keep your ear to the ground, Charlie. Any intel at all that they might be at risk and we pull them out, right?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

  After the meeting with Button, Shepherd went up to the sixth floor to talk to Damien Plant, one of MI5’s top dressers. Plant was a one-stop shop for everything needed to back up a legend. He could supply any paperwork from a driving licence and passport to a utility bill or credit card, in any name and with any address and date of birth. His department also supplied homes and offices, vehicles, furniture, clothing and jewellery. There was almost nothing that Damien and his team couldn’t provide.

  Plant shook Shepherd’s hand and waved him to a chair. He was in his early thirties, with sunbed-brown skin and a shaved head, and he was wearing a black linen jacket and blue Versace jeans. His desk was piled high with catalogues and fashion magazines and his walls were lined with reference books.

  He sipped from a bottle of Evian and swung his feet up on to his desk. ‘You’re not here to complain about your flat, are you?’ he said. ‘I was working to a very tight budget and you can’t blame me for that. And when we set it up we had no idea the operation would go on for as long as it has.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I know, but there’s barely enough room to swing a cat. If I’d known you were going to be there for a year I would have tried to fix up a bigger place. Within budget, of course.’

  ‘I’ve not been there much over the last few months, the operation had gone quiet,’ said Shepherd. ‘But on the plus side, it’s great to be so near the Heath.’

  ‘I love Hampstead,’ said Plant. ‘Used to go cottaging there in my misspent youth.’

  Shepherd wasn’t sure if Plant was joking or not. ‘Funnily enough I was in the Willie not that long ago,’ he said.

  ‘You should have told me you were on the turn,’ said Plant, raising one eyebrow. ‘I could have taken you out and shown you the ropes.’

  ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before I go down that route,’ said Shepherd. ‘It was a business meeting. About this job, as it happens. Basically I’m an arms dealer, so pretty much none of the John Whitehill props work, especially the clothing. The job’s actually for the Met but Charlie’s fixed it up so she’ll sign off on it.’

  ‘I trust you, Spider,’ said Plant and he reached over to pick up a clipboard and pen. ‘Full wardrobe?’ he asked, the camp act completely forgotten.

  ‘I guess, but I’m probably going to be in character only a couple of times so no need to go overboard on the number of outfits.’

  ‘Suits?’

  ‘One suit. A name. Whatever you think.’

  ‘Paul Smith should work. I’ll see what I can get in the way of a leather jacket. Shirts? Ties?’

  Shepherd sighed. He hated the feel of a tie round his neck but there were some times when it was necessary. ‘Maybe. What do you think?’

  ‘We could do Miami Vice and put you in a T-shirt, show off your abs. Well-cut suit over it.’

  Shepherd grimaced. Given the choice between a tight T-shirt and a tie, on balance he’d prefer the tie. ‘Tie, I guess. And good shoes.’

  ‘Bally, I think,’ said Plant. ‘What about jewellery? That watch has to go, of course.’

  Shepherd held up his left hand. He was wearing a cheap Casio, which was the sort of watch that a freelance journalist would wear but it wouldn’t do for an arms dealer with criminal connections. ‘I’ll wear my own Submariner,’ he said.

  Plant looked pained. ‘I’d advise against the Submariner,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the steel model, with the black bezel, right?’

  Shepherd nodded. It was the watch that he’d worn ever since he’d been with the SAS.

  ‘See, that screams military. You’d be stressing the action-man aspect when you’re playing a villain. With villains it’s all about show so I’d go for a gold Cartier. Or a Patek Philippe. Something that says you’re wearing twenty or thirty grand on your wrist and you don’t give a shit.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘And I’m thinking a gold chain for your right wrist. Maybe a ring?’

  ‘And a money clip,’ said Shepherd. ‘Something gold.’

  Plant scribbled on his clipboard again. ‘And what’s
your legend? English? London?’

  ‘Yes. Former soldier; did some contracting work out in Iraq six or seven years ago, now self-employed.’

  ‘Car?’

  ‘You know, I think we can leave that. There’s no need to overcomplicate things. I’ll be with a Met guy so he can take care of the transport.’

  ‘I do have a new Maserati that I’m trying to get a few miles on.’

  Shepherd laughed. ‘I’ll pass, but if things change I’ll definitely let you know.’

  ‘So we don’t need accommodation?’

  ‘It won’t be an issue. I won’t be having the bad guys round for drinks.’

  Plant scribbled on his clipboard. ‘Paperwork?’

  ‘I doubt I’ll be asked for ID but I might as well have a driving licence.’

  ‘Same date of birth but we’ll knock a couple of years off,’ said Plant. ‘Name?’

  ‘Garry Edwards. Double r.’

  Plant frowned. ‘In Edwards?’

  ‘In Garry.’

  Plant looked at him over the top of his clipboard. ‘I have to say, I don’t see you as a Garry.’

  ‘I’ve played the part before,’ said Shepherd. ‘No one’s complained.’ Edwards was a former soldier who worked as a security contractor in Afghanistan and sold weapons on the side. The legend was one that he’d used once before when he’d worked for Hargrove’s police undercover unit and it would withstand close scrutiny.

  Plant passed a sheet of paper across the table and Shepherd scribbled a ‘Garry Edwards’ signature and passed it back.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I think we’re good,’ said Plant. ‘What’s the time frame?’

  ‘No great rush, but as always the sooner the better.’

  Shepherd left Plant’s office and headed for the agency’s training department. He had something he needed to run by them.

  Shepherd caught the tube to Hampstead and walked back to his flat, taking a circuitous route to make sure that he wasn’t being followed. He had spent all afternoon with the training department arranging an exercise for Chaudhry and Malik. He let himself into the flat and tapped his security code into the burglar alarm console. He switched on the kettle and then called Chaudhry on his BlackBerry.