False Friends (12 page)

‘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 real y 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 Whitehil , freelance journalist, is watertight. Anyone who checks up on you wil find a website, dozens of articles in magazines and journals, and a rented flat in Hampstead. The worst accusation that could be level ed against them is that they’ve talked to a journalist. But that al 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’l 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 stil 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 real y need to keep your ear to the ground, Charlie. Any intel at al that they might be at risk and we pul 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 bil 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 jewel ery. 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 wal s 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 Wil ie 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’l be a cold day in hel before I go down that route,’ said Shepherd. ‘It was a business meeting. About this job, as it happens. Basical y I’m an arms dealer, so pretty much none of the John Whitehil props work, especial y the clothing. The job’s actual y for the Met but Charlie’s fixed it up so she’l sign off on it.’

‘I trust you, Spider,’ said Plant and he reached over to pick up a clipboard and pen. ‘Ful 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’l 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. Wel -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.’

‘Bal y, I think,’ said Plant. ‘What about jewel ery? 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’l 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 vil ain. With vil ains it’s al 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’l 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’l pass, but if things change I’l 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’l be asked for ID but I might as wel have a driving licence.’

‘Same date of birth but we’l 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 fol owed. He had spent al 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 cal ed Chaudhry on his BlackBerry.

‘Couple of questions for you, mate,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do you know anyone in Reading? Anyone at al ?’

‘Never been,’ said Chaudhry.

‘And you don’t know anyone from there? Anyone at the university?’

‘Not that I know of. Why?’

‘Something I want to do,’ said Shepherd. ‘What about Harvey?’

‘He’s here now. I’l ask him.’ Shepherd heard a muffled conversation and then Chaudhry came back on the line. ‘He says no. What’s going on, John?’

‘I want to run you through a training exercise, show you a few anti-surveil ance techniques, and I want to do it in a place where no one knows you.

What are you doing on Thursday?’

There was another short muffled conversation. ‘We’ve both got lectures but we can duck them. Why do we need to do this?’

‘There’re a few tricks of the trade I want to run by you, that’s al ,’ said Shepherd.

‘Has something happened?’ asked Chaudhry suspiciously.

‘No, everything’s good,’ lied Shepherd. ‘I just want to keep you both sharp. Here’s what I want you to do. On Thursday morning I want you both to get the train from Paddington to Reading. The trains run throughout the day and the journey takes about half an hour.’

‘Be easier for Harvey to drive,’ said Chaudhry.

‘This isn’t about getting there, it’s about knowing whether or not you’ve got a tail,’ said Shepherd. ‘I want you to get to Paddington, then get on the train. When you get to Reading, I want you to go to the Novotel. It’s about half a mile from the station. Take whatever route you want. Once I’m in the room I’l give you the number so you can go straight up.’

‘That’s it? What’s the point?’

‘The point is that I’l have you fol owed. The guys who’l be fol owing you won’t know your destination, so if you can throw them off and get to the Novotel without them fol owing you, you’l get a gold star. If you can’t throw them off then I want you to describe anyone you spot.’

‘And who are they? Who’l be fol owing us?’

‘Professionals,’ said Shepherd. ‘They do it for a living, for MI5.’

‘We’re going to be fol owed by spies?’

‘That’s the plan. It’l be good experience.’

‘But why’ve we got to trek across London to Paddington?’

‘Because I want you to get the feel of moving across the city knowing that you’re being fol owed. Then I want you in Reading so that I can run you through a few exercises without any chance of you bumping into someone you know. Trust me, it’l be worth doing.’

‘If you say so. And you’l cover our expenses?’

‘Of course,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’l have a brown envelope with me. See you on Thursday.’

Shepherd ended the cal . He’d bought half a dozen salads from Marks & Spencer and he took out a niçoise. He was about to make himself a coffee but then changed his mind and took a bottle of wine out of the fridge and poured himself a glass. He carried the salad and wine through to the sitting room and sat down opposite the television. It was five-thirty and he’d promised to cal his son on Skype at six, so he switched on the television and watched the BBC rol ing news as he ate his salad and drank his wine. At six o’clock he switched on his laptop and went through to his Skype program. Liam was already online.

Shepherd put through the cal and almost immediately Liam appeared on screen, his tie at half-mast as usual, his hair unkempt. ‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards,’ Shepherd laughed.

Liam ran a hand over his hair but it didn’t make any difference. ‘Rugby practice,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a big game on Saturday.’

‘How’s the rugby going?’

‘It’s bril iant, Dad. I thought footbal was the best but I’m real y into rugby now.’

‘I’l try to make it,’ said Shepherd.

‘Cool,’ said Liam.

‘And what about the climbing?’

‘Yeah, that’s good fun. I’m getting real y good on the wal and next month the instructor’s taking us out to some crag that’s about a hundred feet high.’

‘Good luck with that. We’l have to do some climbing together some time.’ Shepherd sipped his wine.

‘Are you drinking?’ asked Liam.

‘It’s wine. With my dinner.’

‘It’s a bit early to be drinking, isn’t it?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘What are you, the alcohol police? I’m in for the night, I’m not driving anywhere, so let your old dad have a drink, why don’t you?’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘Where are you?’ asked Liam. ‘You’re not home, are you?’

‘London stil ,’ said Shepherd.

‘When are you seeing Katra again? Do you think she can come to the match?’

‘Maybe,’ said Shepherd. ‘If I can get the timing right I can go to Hereford, pick her up and come to your school.’

‘Please try, Dad.’

‘I wil . Of course I wil .’

‘You’re not going to sack her, are you?’

Shepherd put down his wine glass. ‘Why do you say that?’

Liam shrugged and looked away, embarrassed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, spit it out.’

Liam sighed. ‘You don’t seem to be at home much. And I’m at school al the time. So maybe you’l decide that you don’t need her.’

‘That’s crazy,’ said Shepherd. ‘Someone stil has to take care of the house. You’re at home for the holidays. And I’l be back once this job is done and dusted. Trust me, I’m as fond of Katra as you are. As long as she wants to work for us, she can.’

‘Great,’ said Liam. He looked back at the screen, grinning broadly.

‘And what about maths? How are you getting on? Didn’t you have a test today?’

Liam’s face fel . ‘Can’t we talk about something else, Dad?’

Shepherd grinned. His son was stil young enough to read like a book.

The Al Nakheel on the top floor of the Al Khozama Centre was general y regarded as the best restaurant in Riyadh. It certainly had the best view, and the tables on its panoramic terrace were almost always ful y booked. Ful y booked or not, Ahmed Al-Jaber was always guaranteed to be given a table. His connections to the Saudi royal family were second to none and, even in a country of bil ionaires, Al-Jaber’s wealth was revered. Al-Jaber was sitting at his regular corner table when Bin Azim walked into the restaurant. The lunchtime clientele was almost exclusively male and dressed in either made-to-measure suits or the ful -length white Saudi robes and checked shemagh headdresses. Al-Jaber was a traditionalist and always wore a robe and shemagh, even when he was overseas. As always he was accompanied by bodyguards, large men in black suits and impenetrable sunglasses. Two of them stood at the far end of the terrace, hands clasped in front of their groins, and there were two more by the doors that led to the kitchen. Bin Azim walked over slowly, favouring his left leg. He would soon be turning seventy-five and the last five years had not been good to him. Diabetes, arthritis and a worrying tendency to forget people’s names. Bin Azim preferred a wel -cut suit to a flowing robe and he always found the shemagh an annoyance, but he wore them out of respect for Al-Jaber.