False Friends (39 page)

Sharpe was stil smiling but his eyes had narrowed. Then he gave a smal shrug and clasped his hands behind his neck. He was leaving the decision up to Shepherd.

Klaus came back into the cabin. ‘Okay?’ he said.

Shepherd nodded. ‘I guess so,’ he said reluctantly.

‘Great,’ said Thompson. ‘I’l get the bubbly.’

He went into the gal ey and opened a large stainless-steel fridge. Shepherd sat down on a beige leather bench seat under a long window. The engines roared and the boat reversed away from the jetty. Thompson pul ed out a bottle of Bol inger and grabbed five glasses off a tray as Kettering lit a cigar.

Shepherd was trying to get a read on Kettering and Thompson but was failing. They seemed relaxed enough and their bonhomie appeared genuine. It could be that they just wanted to go out on the boat, and they were right that there would be no chance of them being overheard out at sea. Though of course they weren’t taking into consideration the fact that Shepherd’s phone was broadcasting everything that was being said back to Thames House and to the back-up teams in the hotel and in the coffee shop. Shepherd had no idea what the MI5 teams were doing but he assumed that they had now left both places.

Thompson popped the cork too enthusiastical y and champagne sprayed over the floor before he started pouring it into the glasses. Klaus took a glass and gave it to Sharpe, then took one for himself, while Thompson gave glasses to Shepherd and Kettering before fil ing his own.

Kettering stood up and held his glass high. ‘To the future,’ he said. ‘And to the men who wil shape it.’

They al stood up, raised their glasses in salute and then drank. It was good champagne, Shepherd knew, but he couldn’t taste it. His mind was racing, stil trying to work out what was going on. If Klaus was a German then Shepherd was a Dutchman.

Kettering looked out of the rear windows at the marina in the distance. ‘When wil we be in international waters, do you think? Twelve miles, isn’t it?’

‘We’re not going out twelve bloody miles, I hope,’ said Shepherd.

Klaus was staring at Sharpe with a sly smile on his face. Sharpe hadn’t noticed but the way the man was staring gave Shepherd an uncomfortable feeling. The atmosphere had changed now that they were out at sea.

Thompson was holding the empty champagne bottle, his feet planted shoulder-width apart. He caught Shepherd’s look and smiled but his eyes stayed hard.

‘You real y don’t remember me, do you?’ asked Klaus, stil staring at Sharpe, his voice a low growl.

Everything appeared to slow down as Shepherd’s adrenal glands kicked into overdrive. He swal owed and even that seemed to happen in slow motion, and he realised that the dul thud he could hear was the sound of his own heart. Thompson was hefting the bottle as if he was about to throw it; Kettering was holding his cigar in one hand and his champagne glass in the other, blowing a cloud of smoke up at the ceiling; Sharpe was turning to look at Klaus, frowning; Klaus’s grin was turning into a snarl.

Shepherd reached for the zipper of his bomber jacket, trying to make the move look casual. Time started to move at its normal speed again and he forced a smile. ‘Lads, I can’t stay too long,’ he said.

‘You fucking slag!’ Klaus shouted at Sharpe. ‘There’s only one thing worse than a grass and that’s a fucking undercover cop.’ He reached behind his back and pul ed out a revolver. Sharpe stepped towards Klaus, pul ing back his fist but Thompson smashed the champagne bottle against the side of his head and he dropped to the floor like a stone.

Klaus swung the gun round to point it at Shepherd and Shepherd raised his hands. He stil had the glass of champagne in his right hand. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he asked.

‘Your pal’s a cop,’ said Klaus.

‘Like fuck he is,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve known him for donkey’s. He’s no grass.’

‘I said cop,’ said Klaus. ‘He works for the Met. Came across him a year or so ago. He was involved with a group of guys bringing in cannabis from Morocco. Customs grabbed the lot but when the dust cleared there was no sign of him. And he wasn’t James Gracie back then. Alistair something or other. I was always on the fringes so I never spoke to him, but it was him al right, no question.’

‘Wel , that’s fucking news to me,’ said Shepherd, keeping his hands in the air. He nodded his chin at the glass he was holding. ‘I want to put my hands down, is that okay?’

‘No, it’s not fucking okay,’ said Thompson. He strode over and took the champagne off him, then pushed him down on to the bench seat. ‘Put your hands behind your head and cross your ankles.’

‘What?’

‘You heard him,’ said Klaus. ‘Sit the fuck down, put your hands behind your head and cross your fucking ankles.’

Shepherd looked at Kettering. ‘Simon, mate, there’s no reason to be like this. If he’s bad, it’s fuck-al to do with me.’

‘Just do as you’re told,’ said Kettering.

Shepherd slowly put his hands behind his neck and crossed his legs at the ankles.

‘See the thing is, mate, we know you’re a cop too.’

‘Give me a break,’ said Shepherd.

‘Your name’s Dan Shepherd,’ said Kettering. He gestured at Sharpe with his cigar. ‘And that’s Jimmy Sharpe.’

Shepherd felt suddenly calm. There was no point in lying now that they knew who he was. He stared at Kettering. Kettering held his look as he took a long pul on his cigar.

‘Your mate told us everything. Eventual y.’

‘You’re making a big mistake, Simon,’ said Shepherd quietly.

‘We’l see about that,’ said Kettering. He leaned over the table and put his cigar on to a large crystal ashtray.

‘You haven’t bought the guns yet. Conspiracy is as good as it gets, and you could probably play the entrapment card. Get a good lawyer and you’l walk, more than likely.’

‘What about the dead cop?’ said Kettering.

‘What dead cop?’

‘The cop we kil ed back in Brum,’ said Kettering.

Shepherd’s jaw tensed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You’re good,’ Kettering said. ‘I’d hate to play poker with you.’ He looked across at Thompson. ‘Playing it straight, right to the end.’ He turned back to Shepherd, his eyes cold. ‘There’s no going back for us now. Whatever we do we’re finished in the UK. You’ve got us on tape, I bet, and even if you haven’t there’s more than enough evidence to put us away for – what? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty?’

‘Kil ing a cop means you’l never get out,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, wel , if you’l forgive the pun, that ship has already sailed,’ said Kettering. He gestured at the seat Shepherd was sitting on. ‘Lift that up,’ he said. ‘There’s a storage space underneath.’

Shepherd slowly took his hands from behind his head, uncrossed his legs and stood up. He gingerly lifted the bench seat. In the space below there was a body wrapped in polythene, bound with grey duct tape. He cursed and let the seat fal back. ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ he said.

‘Wel , I sort of did,’ said Kettering. ‘And I need you to get the body out because we’l be dropping it over the side shortly.’

Shepherd turned to face Kettering, his hands bunching into fists. ‘Why kil him? He was just a cop doing his job. That’s al any of us are doing. It’s not personal. You’re breaking the law and it’s our job to stop you. You don’t kil someone for doing their job.’

Kettering scowled at Shepherd and opened his mouth to speak. But then he changed his mind and nodded at Klaus. ‘Fucking shoot him, wil you? He’s giving me a headache.’

Klaus smiled thinly and pul ed the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was deafening in the confined space and the bul et hit Shepherd just below the heart. He fel backwards, his arms flailing.

Amar Singh looked across at Charlotte Button. ‘They shot him,’ he said. ‘The bastards have bloody wel shot him.’

Button ignored him. She clicked on her mic and spoke to the leader of the armed teams. ‘What’s happening there, Bil ?’

‘We’re waiting for a police launch. It’s on its way.’

‘You heard the shot?’

‘We heard it.’

‘Soon as you can,’ she said.

She bit down on her lower lip as she considered her options. A helicopter was a possibility but it would take time and even then the police helicopters weren’t armed. She could cal in the Met but getting an armed response unit out to sea would be a logistical nightmare.

Singh was looking at her fearful y and she managed a smal smile.

‘What are we going to do?’ he asked.

‘At the moment I’m just praying that they didn’t shoot him in the head,’ she said. ‘And that if he was shot in the chest your bul etproof vest held up.’

Shepherd lay on his back, his chest on fire. The Kevlar vest under his shirt had stopped the bul et but it had stil hurt like hel . His mind raced. If he played dead there was a good chance that Klaus would fire again and this time Shepherd might not be so lucky. His gun was in its shoulder holster but to get at it he was going to have to unzip his bomber jacket. The armed teams would have heard the shot and they would be on their way but it would take them time to get a boat and motor over to the
Laura Lee
. He was going to have to take care of it himself. His arms were out to the sides so if he made a move for his gun Klaus would see it and have al the time in the world to put another bul et into him.

‘Is he dead?’ Kettering’s voice.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Shoot him again.’

Shepherd heard footsteps. He held his breath, playing dead. If Klaus shot him again it would probably be another chest shot. Civilians tended to avoid head shots, partly because it was a smal er target than the chest but mainly because shooting someone in the face was more personal.

Shepherd half opened his eyes. Klaus was walking towards him, the gun at his side.

‘He’s not breathing,’ said Klaus.

‘Shoot him again. Better safe than sorry.’

Shepherd felt his lungs burning but he continued to hold his breath. He was going to get only one chance and he had to choose his moment.

‘He’s dead,’ said Klaus. ‘I shot him in the heart.’ Shepherd heard a dul thud, which he hoped was the sound of the gun being put on the glass table.

‘Looks like he’s gone,’ said Thompson.

‘Then let’s toss him over the side with the others,’ said Kettering. ‘And hurry up. He probably had his people at the marina so we need to get the bodies over the side and ourselves over to France. Wrap al three of them in chains and drop them over the side. The water’s plenty deep enough so no one wil ever find them here.’

Shepherd heard footsteps. Then he heard a grunt as someone bent down over him. He opened his eyes. It was Klaus, looming over him.

Shepherd reached up and clawed his fingers down Klaus’s face, searching for the eyes. He felt his fingers slide into the eye sockets and he pushed hard. Klaus screamed and fel back.

Shepherd knew he had only seconds to react and that every decision he made was crucial. There were three men in the cabin and another on the bridge. He’d seen one gun and hopeful y that was now on a table but that didn’t mean there weren’t more on the boat.

He lay where he was and pul ed down the zipper of his bomber jacket with his left hand while he groped inside with his right. His fingers were wet with Klaus’s blood but the Glock had a non-slip grip. There was no safety to worry about either, and there was already a cartridge in the chamber.

Klaus was groaning, his hands clasped over his face, blood trickling down through his fingers.

Stil lying on his back, Shepherd grabbed the Glock and pul ed it from its holster. Al he could see was Klaus, rocking back on his heels and wailing like a banshee. He pul ed his leg back, put his foot in the centre of Klaus’s chest and kicked him hard. Klaus fel backwards.

Shepherd brought his left hand up to support his right wrist, his finger tightening on the trigger as he looked for a target.

He found Kettering in his sights, standing by the table, his eyes wide and confused. Kettering cursed and looked to his right. Shepherd realised what he was looking at: Klaus’s gun on the table.

‘Don’t move!’ shouted Shepherd, but Kettering was already reaching for the gun. ‘Freeze!’ Shepherd yel ed.

Kettering grabbed the gun and began to swing it round. He said something but Shepherd couldn’t hear him above the sound of Klaus’s screams.

Shepherd fired once, hitting Kettering six inches below his Adam’s apple. Kettering stiffened and the gun dropped from his fingers, clattering back on to the glass table.

Shepherd got to his feet, sweeping the cabin with his Glock.

Thompson was standing by the stairs leading up to the bridge. ‘Don’t shoot,’ he said.

‘Keep your hands where I can see them,’ said Shepherd. Kettering sank to his knees, blood gushing over his shirt, his mouth working soundlessly.

Thompson moved towards the table but Shepherd fired close to the man’s foot. ‘The next one goes into your chest,’ he said. Thompson straightened up and raised his hands.

‘Does the captain have a gun?’ Shepherd asked. Thompson shook his head. ‘If you’re lying I’l shoot you first,’ said Shepherd.

Kettering fel forward and thudded face down on to the deck.

‘He doesn’t,’ said Thompson. ‘I swear.’

Shepherd gestured with the gun. ‘Up the stairs. Try anything, even look at me wrong, and I’l put a bul et in you.’

Thompson went slowly up the stairs to the bridge. Shepherd stayed wel back in case Thompson tried to kick out but Thompson just did as he was told. The captain smiled when he saw Thompson but his face fel when he saw Shepherd and the gun in his hand.

‘I need you to take us back to the marina,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t have time to mess about so if you fuck around I’l shoot you in the leg. Do you understand me?’

The captain nodded and immediately started turning the boat to starboard.

‘Take us back to the jetty,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m just looking after the boat,’ said the captain. ‘This is nothing to do with me.’