False Friends (38 page)

Fat Boy’s eyes were wide with fear and his nostrils flared with each panicked breath that he took.

The man finished tying him securely to the chair and stood up. He reached into his carrier bag and took out two black-and-white-checked keffiyeh scarves. He handed one each to Fat Boy’s companions and they wound them round their heads so that other than their eyes their faces were completely covered.

Fat Boy had stopped struggling but he was making a soft moaning noise behind the gag.

Khalid took out his mobile phone. It was important to record what was about to happen, as a warning to others.

‘You know why this is happening, and it is your own fault,’ said Khalid.

Tears were streaming down Fat Boy’s face.

‘This is your own doing and no one else’s,’ continued Khalid. ‘We trusted you. We trained you. We helped you to meet your ful potential, to become a soldier of jihad, to fight for your people and for Al ah. We asked only one thing of you, that you fol ow our instructions. But when the cal came, what did you do? You let us down. You were found wanting. We gave you simple instructions and you failed to fol ow them and that means that we can never trust you again.’

Fat Boy shook his head and tried to speak but the gag reduced the sound to a garbled moan.

‘There is nothing you can say to us,’ said Khalid. ‘You said you were sick but you stil went to work on the day after we needed you. And sickness is no excuse. We need total loyalty. And we demand it. And when we do not get it, we react accordingly.’

The man with the carrier bag took out a clear polythene bag and handed it to one of Fat Boy’s companions. To the other he gave the rol of duct tape.

Khalid switched on the phone’s video camera and began to film. Fat Boy moved his head from side to side but there was no way he could stop the polythene bag being pul ed down over his head.

The cook leaned against one of the work surfaces and folded his arms. He grinned as he watched Fat Boy struggle. ‘Al ahu Akbar,’ he whispered. God is great. ‘Al ahu Akbar.’

‘Al ahu Akbar,’ repeated Khalid as he took a step forward, holding the phone in front of him. ‘Al ahu Akbar.’

The rest of the men in the kitchen began to take up the chant as the man with duct tape slowly wound it round Fat Boy’s neck, sealing the bag.

The inside of the polythene bag began to cloud over but they could al see the look of panic in his eyes.

The duct tape wound tighter and tighter and the bag began to pulse in and out in time with Fat Boy’s ragged breathing.

The chant grew louder and louder, echoing off the kitchen wal s. ‘Al ahu Akbar! Al ahu Akbar!’

Khalid took another step forward so that Fat Boy’s terrified face fil ed the screen. Condensation was forming on the inside of the polythene bag and his chest was heaving.

‘Al ahu Akbar! Al ahu Akbar!’

A damp patch spread around Fat Boy’s groin as his bladder emptied. His whole body began to tremble, as if he was being electrocuted.

‘Al ahu Akbar! Al ahu Akbar!’

The chef was screaming the words at Fat Boy, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes burning with hatred.

Fat Boy shuddered, and then went stil . He wasn’t dead yet, Khalid knew. It was too soon for that. But he was now unconscious and death would fol ow within minutes.

The men stopped chanting and Khalid stopped recording. He gestured at Fat Boy. ‘And that, brothers, is what happens to anyone who betrays us,’ he said. ‘Let it be known that once you commit yourselves to jihad, there is no going back. One way or another you go to meet your maker. You can go as a martyr and receive your reward in Paradise; or you can go like this piece of cowardly shit, terrified and pissing in your pants.’ He slipped his phone back into his pocket. ‘As soon as he is dead we can dump his body, then we can go and eat.’

Shepherd looked across at Sharpe. ‘You ready?’ he asked.

They were sitting in a Range Rover in the car park of the Seattle Hotel, close to Brighton Marina. Kettering and Thompson had arranged to meet them in the hotel bar. Shepherd had told Kettering that he would have preferred the meeting to have been in London but Kettering had said that the German was insisting on Brighton.

Sharpe grinned. ‘I was born ready,’ he said.

‘I’m serious, Razor,’ said Shepherd. ‘This could very easily turn to shit.’

‘It won’t be the first time,’ said Sharpe. He gestured at Shepherd’s leather jacket, which concealed a Glock in a nylon shoulder holster. ‘Don’t see why I can’t have a gun.’

‘Because you’re a cop, and this isn’t a police operation.’

‘Wel , it is, sort of,’ said Sharpe.

‘Yeah, wel , even if it was they wouldn’t give you a gun, would they?’ said Shepherd. ‘Those days are long gone. Now you’d have to be in one of the specialist units and you’d have to have your paperwork current, and even then they wouldn’t let you carry in plain clothes.’

‘But you can just get a gun and shove it under your jacket?’

‘That’s the power of Five,’ said Shepherd.

‘Let’s just hope a cop doesn’t spot it,’ said Sharpe. ‘They shoot unarmed Brazilian electricians so they’d have a field day with you.’

‘No one’s going to spot it,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s my fal -back position, that’s al . The meet’s in a hotel bar and I doubt that anyone’s going to be pul ing out a gun. Besides, you’ve got a vest so what are you complaining about?’

‘And what if they shoot me in the head?’

‘No one’s going to shoot anyone,’ said Shepherd. He looked at his watch. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

He climbed out of the Range Rover and zipped up his jacket. It would make it harder to pul out the gun but it meant that it would stay wel hidden.

He took his mobile phone from his pocket and checked that it was on and working. It was a Nokia, and while it was a functioning phone it was also a tracking device and a permanent transmitter. Amar Singh was one of MI5’s best technicians and the phone was his own personal design.

Everything that was said within a ten-foot range of the phone would be transmitted to Singh and Button in Thames House. There were two armed MI5 officers in the hotel and two more in a coffee shop close to the marina. They were also listening to the output from the phone that Shepherd was carrying. They had already agreed a warning phrase. If Shepherd were to say the words ‘I can’t stay too long’ then that meant they were to move in with weapons drawn.

Shepherd locked the car and he and Sharpe headed towards the front of the hotel.

‘That’s them, outside,’ said Sharpe.

Shepherd realised that he was right. Kettering and Thompson were standing to the right of the hotel entrance, smoking cigars. Kettering was talking earnestly and Thompson was nodding. Both men were wearing long overcoats and Kettering had a bright-red scarf round his neck.

Thompson spotted them first and he said something to Kettering. Kettering turned and waved.

‘Garry, James, great to see you,’ he said.

‘No problem,’ said Shepherd, shaking hands with them both.

The two men shook hands with Sharpe. ‘Are we going inside?’ he asked.

Kettering held up what was left of his cigar. ‘Can’t smoke in there,’ he said. ‘And it’s busy. Wal s have ears and al that. We’ve got somewhere more private fixed up.’ He slapped Sharpe on the back. ‘Hope you’ve got your sea legs.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Shepherd. ‘You said the bar.’

‘Like I said, the bar’s busy,’ said Kettering. He started walking towards the marina. Sharpe fol owed him down the path but Shepherd stood where he was.

‘Where are you going?’ he cal ed, more for the benefit of the MI5 team than for his own information. Kettering was clearly heading to the boats.

Kettering turned round, took a long pul on his cigar and blew a cloud of bluish smoke before answering. ‘The German who wants to meet you has a boat moored here. That’s not a problem, is it?’

Shepherd grinned. ‘It’s fine by me,’ he said.

‘Good man,’ said Thompson, putting his arm round Shepherd and guiding him towards the marina. ‘We’ve got some bubbly and smoked salmon on board.’

‘Who else is on the boat?’ asked Shepherd, again for the benefit of those listening.

‘Just Klaus,’ said Thompson.

Ahead of them were several dozen large yachts and motor cruisers. ‘Which one?’ said Shepherd.

‘The cruiser, the one with the blue stripe,’ said Thompson. ‘The
Laura Lee
.’

‘Doesn’t sound very German,’ said Shepherd.

‘He’s chartered it,’ said Thompson. He flicked the butt of his cigar into the water.

Shepherd looked at the boat. It was big, close to a hundred feet long, with a large seating area at the stern and a glass-sided bridge that sloped back sharply. There was a man standing in the bridge looking at them. Short, stocky and wearing a captain’s hat. ‘Is that him?’

‘That’s the captain,’ said Thompson.

‘Who else is on board?’

‘Why?’ asked Thompson. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. I just like to know who I’m dealing with and you seem to be making it up as we go along. First you say you want to meet in the hotel bar, now we’re on a boat and it’s not just your German buddy. For al I know you’ve got Captain Bligh and the Pirates of the fucking Caribbean on board.’

‘There’s the captain and that’s it,’ said Thompson. ‘And I don’t know what you’re so worried about. What is it? You think we’re going to mug you?’

Kettering and Sharpe had reached the boat and they turned and waited for the other two to join them. There was a short gangplank leading from the jetty to the stern and Sharpe walked over it unsteadily, fol owed by Kettering.

As Shepherd got closer he looked up at the bridge. The captain flashed him a salute. Shepherd stopped and looked at Thompson. ‘Who’s the captain?’

‘The guy that drives the boat. It’s worth a mil ion bucks. He comes with the charter. The owner doesn’t want amateurs crashing his pride and joy, now does he?’

‘His name,’ said Shepherd. ‘I meant who is he? Do you know him?’

Thompson shrugged. ‘Greig something or other. He works for the German.’ He patted Shepherd on the back. ‘Come on, Garry, chil . Think of how much money you’re going to make out of this.’ Shepherd walked over the gangplank and joined the others.

There was a large sitting area with cream leather seats running round the edge. Sliding doors led through to the main cabin, which was larger than the flat Shepherd was using in Hampstead. The floor was gleaming teak, there was a large LCD screen on one wal and in one corner there was a wel -stocked bar. Marble and chrome stairs led up to the bridge and beyond the stairs was a stainless-steel gal ey.

‘It’s one hel of a boat,’ said Sharpe, stepping into the cabin and looking around.

Kettering took off his overcoat and tossed it on to a leather armchair. ‘Make yourselves at home, guys,’ he said.

Thompson slipped off his coat and dropped it on top of Kettering’s. He sat down on a leather sofa and adjusted the creases of his trousers.

‘Take a pew, James,’ he said.

A long glass table on two carved marble bases was surrounded by eight high-backed black leather chairs. Sharpe pul ed one out and turned it to face Thompson before sitting down.

‘Where’s this German, then?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Klaus!’ shouted Kettering. ‘Where the hel are you?’

A wooden door slid open and a barrel-chested man appeared. He was wearing a brown leather jacket over a tight-fitting pale-blue V-neck and white jeans. He had a thick gold identity bracelet on his right wrist and a wristwatch with a dial so large that Shepherd could see the numbers on it from across the cabin. His hair was close-cropped, giving him the look of an American marine, and he smiled showing slab-like teeth.

‘This is Klaus,’ said Kettering.

Klaus held out his hand and shook with Shepherd. He had a strong grip but Shepherd’s was just as firm. ‘Good to meet you,’ said Klaus.

‘You don’t sound very German,’ said Shepherd.

‘I went to school in England,’ said Klaus. ‘And my mother is English.’ He shook hands with Sharpe, then headed for the stairs. ‘I’l tel the captain to get going,’ he said.

Shepherd realised that the engines were running. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked Kettering.

‘We’re going for a spin,’ said Kettering.

‘Like fuck we are,’ said Shepherd. ‘You wanted a chat in private, fine. You want to drink bubbly on your boat, al wel and good. But I’m fucked if I’m going out to sea.’

‘It’s not the sea, mate,’ said Thompson. ‘It’s only the Channel. People swim across it.’

‘What are you scared of, Garry?’ asked Kettering.

‘I’m not scared. I just don’t like being pissed around. I’m more than happy to talk business with Klaus, and if he wants a demonstration I can arrange that. But I don’t have time to go messing about on boats.’

‘We can talk just as easily here, right?’ said Sharpe, stretching out his legs. He looked around. ‘Where’s the bubbly? Let’s crack open a bottle and get down to business.’

‘Guys, come on now, this is a great boat,’ said Thompson. ‘Let’s just take her out for an hour or so. We can fish.’

‘Fish?’

‘It’s got rods and everything,’ said Thompson.

Shepherd looked over at Sharpe. Sharpe was smiling but Shepherd could see the tension in his eyes. Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong. ‘I’d real y rather stay moored up,’ said Shepherd.

Klaus came back down the stairs. He headed out on to the rear deck and began untying the ropes that kept the boat moored to the jetty.

‘Relax, Garry,’ said Thompson.

‘I just don’t like surprises,’ said Shepherd.

Thompson stood up and patted him on the back. ‘A few glasses of bubbly wil soon get you relaxed,’ he said. ‘Come on, sit down.’

‘Guys, no one said we were going out to sea. I’m not happy about this.’

Kettering reached inside his jacket and took out his leather cigar case. He opened it to reveal four thick cigars and he offered one to Shepherd.

‘I don’t want a fucking cigar,’ said Shepherd.

‘You need to relax, Garry. Get some sea air in your lungs.’

‘Make up your fucking mind, wil you? Do you want me smoking or breathing in sea air? This is fucked up, Simon. This isn’t how professionals do business.’ He looked over at Sharpe again, trying to get a read on what his partner was thinking. If they were going to pul out they had to do it now, while they were stil in port. And if he was going to cal for help it would have to be done within the next minute or two.