Cold Kill (30 page)

‘Everything is on schedule,’ said the Saudi.

Hagerman led him up a wide staircase to the second floor, then stepped aside to allow the Saudi across the threshold first. The flat was almost monastically bare, with no pictures on the walls. There was no carpet, just gleaming oak floorboards, and only cushions to sit on. A prayer mat lay in one corner, and a copy of the Koran on the window-sill. Hagerman was an American by birth but a devout Muslim by choice, and had nothing but contempt for the ways of the West. He was a vegetarian, drank no alcohol, prayed far more frequently than the five times a day laid down by the Koran, and could quote the Holy Book by heart in its original Arabic.

‘Can I offer you a beverage? I have water and fruit juice.’

‘Water, please,’ said the Saudi. He sat down on one of the cushions as Hagerman went into the kitchen. Other than the Koran there was nothing to read and no source of entertainment. No television, no radio, no stereo.

It had taken the American more than five years to convince al-Qaeda that he wasn’t a CIA plant and another two before they were satisfied that he was indeed suitable to join the ranks of the
shahid
. The Saudi had felt from his first meeting that Hagerman was almost too committed to the
jihad
, too willing to die for Islam. His commitment bordered on a mental illness, but he would be a tool that the Saudi was happy to use.

Hagerman returned with a glass of water, chilled, from the fridge. The Saudi knew that he drank only bottled water, never from the tap.

‘I was robbed yesterday,’ said Hagerman, as he sat down on a cushion.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Someone got in through the bathroom window. Climbed a drainpipe. Kids, probably.’

‘The case?’

‘It’s fine. But they took some money and my passport.’

‘That’s not good news,’ said the Saudi. He knew he was stating the obvious, but there was no point in showing his anger. He could not have been told earlier: Hagerman had no way of getting in touch with him. Communication was one-way, once an operation was running.

‘I can’t travel without my passport,’ said Hagerman, also stating the obvious.

‘It wasn’t your American passport?’

Hagerman shook his head. ‘Of course not. I ditched that years ago. I’d be red-flagged at every airport in the world under that name. It was the Bosnian one.’

‘And difficult to replace in London?’

‘It would take time. And even then it wouldn’t have my UK visa in it so I couldn’t travel.’

The Saudi grimaced. ‘Okay,’ he said. He didn’t want to criticise the American, but it had been a stupid mistake to leave his passport in the flat.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Hagerman.

‘It is a problem, but it can be solved,’ said the Saudi. ‘I know people in London who can get you a passport.’

‘A counterfeit?’

‘A real passport. A British passport. You’ll be able to travel without any problems.’

‘And they’ll do it quickly?’

‘Providing you have the money,’ said the Saudi. He opened his briefcase, flicked through the document folders built into the lid and pulled out a manilla envelope. The Saudi never travelled without large amounts of cash. He rarely used credit cards as they left an electronic trail that could be followed. He opened the envelope and removed a wad of fifty-pound notes. He counted out two hundred – ten thousand pounds. ‘This will get you the passport,’ he said. He counted out another thousand pounds. ‘And this is for any other expenses.’

The American took the money, stood up and went into the kitchen where he put it into the freezer compartment of the fridge.

The Saudi scribbled a name and a phone number on a piece of paper and stood up. As Hagerman came out of the kitchen, the Saudi gave it to him. ‘Call this number. Tell him what you want and that you have the money.’

Hagerman took it and put it into his wallet.

‘Where’s the case?’ asked the Saudi.

‘In the bedroom,’ said Hagerman. ‘Under the bed.’

‘Show me,’ said the Saudi.

The bedroom was as bare as the outer room. There was a built-in wardrobe along one wall and a metal-framed bed with a mattress, a single thin pillow and two sheets.

Hagerman knelt down and pulled out a small hard-shell suitcase. He placed it on the bed and clicked open the locks.

The Saudi nodded, satisfied. It had been perfectly constructed and there was no way to tell from looking at it that the shell contained fifteen pounds of Semtex. The case would pass through any X-ray scanner without showing anything out of the ordinary. All that was needed to turn it into a devastating weapon of destruction was a detonator. And the Saudi had plenty of those.

Shepherd was finishing his breakfast when he heard a phone ringing upstairs. He knew from the tone that Salik was calling. ‘Work?’ said Liam, reading his mind. He was sitting at the kitchen table, eating his favourite scrambled eggs with cheese on toast and reading a comic, in which aliens were being blown apart by wisecracking space cowboys.

‘It never stops,’ said Shepherd.

‘We’re going to play football, right?’

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd, then hurried up the stairs and took the call.

‘Where are you?’ asked Salik.

‘Out and about,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s up?’

‘Are you at home?’

Shepherd couldn’t afford to say he was in case Salik was sitting outside the house in Dover. ‘I’m talking to some guy about a property in Spain,’ he said, ‘in case I have to leave the country at short notice.’

‘We would like to see the boat today,’ said Salik. ‘Can you meet us in Southampton?’

Shepherd looked at his watch. ‘When?’

‘We are in London. We could get to Southampton by three.’

‘Okay. Have you got a pen?’ Shepherd gave Salik the address of the marina and told him to wait in the car park until he got there. He cut the connection and phoned Hargrove.

‘They’re hooked,’ said the superintendent. ‘That’s good news.’

‘They just want to check the boat out but it looks as if they’re going to bite.’

‘Excellent,’ said Hargrove. ‘I’ll bring Singh in and we’ll get you wired up.’

‘I don’t think there’s much point in recording anything,’ said Shepherd, ‘and we wouldn’t pick up much on the boat over the noise of the outboard.’

‘We’ll need something on tape,’ said Hargrove.

‘Let’s see if they pat me down today,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s your call,’ said Hargrove.

‘I wouldn’t mind Sharpe and Joyce in the vicinity.’

‘Do you think the brothers still don’t trust you?’

‘After what the bloody Albanians did to me in Paris, I’m assuming nobody trusts me.’

‘I’m sure they’ll appreciate the overtime,’ said Hargrove. ‘I’ll call them.’

‘I’m assuming that all the Uddins will want is a look at the boat, maybe a short run out to sea.’

‘They wouldn’t be planning to pull a fast one on you, like he did with the trip to France?’

‘If they do, I’ll say no. I’m not doing the proper run unless everything’s set up at both ends. I learned my lesson last time.’

Shepherd ended the call and went downstairs. Liam glared at him over his comic.

‘What?’ said Shepherd.

‘I know what you’re going to say.’

‘Liam—’

‘It’s not bloody fair.’

‘Don’t swear!’

Liam threw down his comic and stormed out of the kitchen, pushing past Katra who was carrying an armful of dirty towels.

‘I have to work,’ Shepherd explained to her.

‘He was looking forward to playing with you,’ said Katra.

‘I know, but this is important,’ said Shepherd.

Katra opened her mouth to speak, then changed her mind.

‘What?’ said Shepherd.

‘Nothing,’ said Katra.

‘What were you going to say?’

‘It’s not my place, Dan,’ she said. ‘I work for you. I’m an employee.’ She opened the washing-machine and began to push in the towels.

‘You’re more than that, Katra, you know you are. Now, what were you going to say?’

Katra sighed and closed the washing-machine door. ‘Old habits die hard,’ she said, as she straightened up. ‘That’s the expression you used before, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s as if you’ve got into the habit of letting Liam down, as if he doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course he matters,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s my son.’

‘But work comes first?’

‘Of course,’ said Shepherd, and regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth. He sat down at the kitchen table as the ramifications of what he’d just said hit home. ‘Wow,’ he said.

Katra smiled sympathetically, knowing she’d proved her point.

‘I really said that, didn’t I?’ He put his head into his hands. ‘What a shit I am.’

Katra sat down opposite him. ‘He knows you love him,’ she said.

‘But he always comes second to my job. What sort of father am I?’

Katra reached across and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s because when your wife was here it didn’t matter so much if you had to be away. He had a mother and a father. Now he has only you.’

Shepherd banged his fist against his head. ‘You’re right.’

‘I can be with him, so it’s not as if you leave him on his own, but I’m not his family.’

‘And I’m carrying on exactly as I was when Sue was here,’ he said. ‘I can’t believe I said work was more important than my son.’

‘It’s a demanding job,’ said Katra.

‘That’s no excuse,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve been such a bastard to him.’

‘No,’ said Katra. ‘He understands. Really. And he’s proud of you. He talks about you all the time when you’re not here,’ she said.

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘You don’t tell him much about your work, but he knows you don’t have a job like his friends’ fathers. He understands you don’t work regular hours.’

‘I don’t think I could do any other sort of job.’

‘Even for Liam?’

Shepherd sat back and ran his hands through his hair. ‘I want both.’ He sighed. ‘I want a job that challenges me, and I want to be a good father.’

‘Perhaps you can’t have both,’ said Katra. ‘Perhaps you have to choose.’

Shepherd pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘You might be right,’ he said. He went upstairs and knocked on Liam’s bedroom door. When the boy didn’t answer, Shepherd knocked again and opened the door a little way. ‘Liam, can I come in?’ Sue and he had made it a rule since Liam was seven that they asked permission to enter his bedroom. And Liam had to do the same with theirs. It had taught him the value of privacy, and prevented embarrassing interruptions. ‘Liam, I’d like to talk to you.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ said Liam.

Shepherd opened the door fully. His son was lying on his bed, gazing up at the ceiling. ‘I’m sorry,’ said Shepherd.

‘You’re always sorry.’

Shepherd sat down on the side of the bed. Liam rolled away from him. ‘It’s a big case,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s one I’ve been working on for a long time.’

Liam said nothing.

‘Last time I was away, remember? I had to go to France. I was on a boat. I told you, right? Well, it’s that case and I’m still working on it. I’ll have to go back to France again and this is part of that. I have to go and see some people this afternoon.’

‘Why today? It’s Saturday.’

‘The bad guys don’t work office hours, Liam. I can’t tell them I’m playing football with my son, can I?’

‘Why not?’

Another question to which Shepherd had no answer.

‘Do the bad guys have kids?’

‘One does,’ said Shepherd. He thought of the four photographs Salik had shown him. ‘Four. One’s a boy of about your age.’

Liam rolled back to face Shepherd. His cheeks were wet with tears. ‘So he’d understand. He’d play football with his kids, right?’

Shepherd imagined Salik running around with his children, sweating and panting as he tried to keep up. ‘Probably,’ he said.

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘So tell him you promised to play football with your son and that you’ll see him next week.’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘Why?’

‘Like I said, it’s a big case.’

‘Is it drugs?’

‘No. Fake money.’

‘And are they gangsters?’

‘The men in France are. But the men in England . . .’ Shepherd frowned. He wouldn’t have described the Uddins as gangsters. Criminals, of course – they were breaking the law – but they weren’t what Shepherd would have called gangsters. ‘Not really. They’re bringing in the fake money. Smuggling.’

Liam sat up and shuffled back so that he was propped against the headboard. ‘Millions?’

‘Sure.’

‘Millions of pounds?’

‘Euros.’

‘And how do they smuggle it in?’

‘Boats,’ said Shepherd.

‘And is that what you’ve been doing?’

Shepherd was telling his son more than he should about an operational matter, but Liam was enthralled. He patted the boy’s leg. ‘This is top secret, you know that?’

Liam nodded seriously. ‘Secret Squirrel.’

Shepherd held out his hand, his little finger crooked. ‘You mustn’t tell anybody,’ he said. ‘Pinkie promise.’

‘Pinkie promise.’ Liam crooked his little finger and linked it with Shepherd’s.

‘They use boats to bring the money in from France. I’m pretending to be a sailor. That’s why I drive the Land Rover with the boat stuff in it.’

‘Is it dangerous?’

Shepherd remembered the Albanians. ‘No, not really.’

‘Do they have guns?’

‘Most gangsters have guns,’ said Shepherd.

‘Do they fire them at you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘But you were shot in the army.’

Shepherd’s shoulder began to ache. It was his brain playing tricks, he knew, a subconscious reminder of the bullet he’d taken in the Afghan desert. ‘That was different,’ he said. ‘That was a war.’