Fair Game (6 page)

‘Anarchy,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s what I’m expected to say, right? And no one in their right mind wants anarchy? But really, Charlie, I don’t see that anyone would choose to be in the situation we’re in with scum like Crazy Boy. They break the rules when they feel like it and cry foul when we trespass on what they see as their human rights.’

‘Please don’t tell me that life isn’t fair, Spider, you know how I hate it when you do that.’ She sipped her tea. ‘So, do you want to hear what the job is?’

‘I’m all ears,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m assuming that you want me to go undercover, is that it? With a peg leg and a parrot on my shoulder?’

‘Leaving aside the fact that you’re the wrong colour, the pirates don’t trust outsiders,’ said Button. ‘But Crazy Boy doesn’t operate like the other pirate groups. Most of them tend to prowl around and seize whatever ship they come across, but we believe that Crazy Boy has started targeting specific ships, based on who owns them and what they’re carrying. We’re pretty sure that he’s getting inside information from at least one London-based company. That’s where we want to use you.’

‘Why me, Charlie? Sitting at a computer all day isn’t what I do best.’

‘It’s undercover, Spider, and no one does undercover better than you. And no one’s better than you at spotting who’s wrong.’

‘You flatterer, you.’

‘I know it’s not the same as infiltrating a gang of armed robbers or drug dealers, but in the grand scheme of things it’s just as important. Maybe more so. Crazy Boy’s pirates have taken six ships that we know about in the past two years. And the last four were all carrying containers for the same freight forwarders based in London. It could be a coincidence, but we think there’s something going on. The freighters were all similar vessels on similar routes, all coming from China via the Suez Canal and so passing through the Gulf of Aden close to Somalia. It’s possible that Crazy Boy is getting information from someone at the company. Most of the pirates used to operate by just prowling around and attacking any ship they found, but in the past few years they’ve started taking a more intelligence-led approach. We know they’ve been placing people in ports who then radio ahead when they spot a likely ship leaving, and we know of at least one hijacking where they had their own man on board as a seaman.’

‘So you want me to do a Father Christmas and find out who’s been naughty and who’s been nice?’

‘Exactly,’ said Button. ‘Their head office is in Hammersmith so they’re not too far from Ealing. Thirty-seven employees, of whom only twenty have access to ship and cargo movements. We’ve looked at assets and checked bank accounts of everyone at the company and we can’t find anyone who’s suddenly come into money or who has any obvious connection with Crazy Boy, but four ships in a row is just too many to be a coincidence.’

‘Not if they have cargo on hundreds of ships.’

Button shook her head. ‘They use most of the world’s shipping companies, depending on where they’re shipping to and from, so they are spread pretty wide. But the only pirates who’ve taken a ship carrying their cargo have been working for Crazy Boy. Our intelligence guys have run the probabilities and they’re sure that there’s some connection between Crazy Boy and the freight company.’

‘I’m not sure that it’s going to work, sending me undercover in a company. I’ve never worked at a desk, you know that. I was with the Paras then the SAS then the cops and then SOCA and I never so much as opened a drawer or used a photocopier.’

Button laughed. ‘We’ll put together a legend that doesn’t make your lack of typing skills an issue,’ she said. She took out a pale green thumb drive and gave it to him. ‘There’s a rundown on the company and the likely suspects,’ she said. ‘I understand your reservations, but you’re a chameleon, that’s your skill. You can blend into any situation, you get people to like you and to accept you. That’ll work as well with a group of office workers as it does with a gang of bank robbers or a terrorist cell. It’s the only way, Spider. If we send in the cops to start questioning people up front then they’ll know that we’re on to them and shut down.’

Shepherd put the thumb drive in his pocket. ‘When?’

‘We’ve got to put together a legend and fix you up with a flat. Three or four days. Unless you want more time off.’

‘Next week will be fine,’ he said and sipped his coffee. ‘So what’s the ultimate aim? To put Crazy Boy behind bars? Or deport him?’

‘If we can get him on conspiracy, we’ll move for sure. A lot depends on how he’s getting the intel from the company, if he’s doing it for himself or through an intermediary. We’re watching his money, too. It’s possible we’ll get him on money laundering. Deportation is doubtful in view of his British citizenship.’

‘And how much of this is a backside-covering operation in case the Americans come to you with a terrorism angle?’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m not that devious, Spider.’

‘Maybe not, but your bosses almost certainly are.’

‘I’ve been tasked with investigating Crazy Boy because British ships are at risk and there appears to be a British company involved. I mentioned the al-Shebab link just so you’d be aware of the potential political implications. If we can make a case against Crazy Boy he’ll be charged, that’s for sure. We won’t be dragging our heels, I can promise you that.’

‘And if it does kick off in Africa while he’s in prison, it stops being a UK problem.’

‘That’s fair,’ said Button. ‘Plus if we have him in prison on criminal charges and the US apply for extradition, it’ll be a lot easier to hand him over. It’s one thing for the human rights brigade to shout about the rights of a poor refugee, but they’re less likely to get hot under the collar about a Somali pirate with terrorist links.’

Shepherd finished his coffee and looked at his watch. ‘You don’t mind me heading back to Hereford?’

‘Absolutely not,’ she said. ‘I just wanted a face-to-face chat and to give you the thumb drive. I’ve got a meeting at Thames House all this afternoon.’ She grinned. ‘They’re big on meetings, unfortunately.’

‘How’s Zoe, by the way?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Sixteen going on twenty-five,’ she said. ‘Liam’s serious about boarding school, is he?’

‘Seems to be. He’s mentioned it a few times.’

‘Zoe’s at Culford School,’ said Button. ‘They’ve been brilliant. Especially after Graham died. It always made sense for her to be a boarder because Graham and I were working all the hours God sends. We had a string of au pairs but they never really worked out.’

‘That’s why I think it might be good for him. I’ve been away a lot over the past year or two and it doesn’t seem to be getting any better.’

‘He’s not just using it as a threat? Trying to get your attention?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘He puts up a good case. I’m away a lot and there’s no sign of that changing. If he was in the right school, he might do really well. And they’re usually big on sports, which he’s keen on.’

‘Well, Zoe loves it,’ said Button. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve still got Katra, right?’

‘Sure, and she’s great. But I’m away all the time and he’s an only child.’

‘That was the thing that swung it for Zoe,’ said Button. ‘It’s different if they’ve got siblings but when they’re on their own they really are better off with children their own age. Gives them social skills and they get their own network of friends. Zoe goes skiing with one of her pals and her parents and last year she spent two weeks in Hong Kong with one of the boarders whose family runs a hotel chain in Asia. And whichever way you look at it, they do so much better academically. There’s no chasing them to do homework, very little in the way of discipline problems and you can be reasonably sure that some inner-city wannabe gangster isn’t going to mug them for their mobile phone or lunch money.’

‘Are there any downsides?’

Button nodded slowly. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘You lose them that much quicker.’

‘In what way?’

Button sighed. ‘They grow up so fast anyway but when they’re away at school it seems to happen quicker. They become more independent, they learn to sort out their own problems, stand on their own two feet.’

‘That’s good, right?’

Button winced. ‘Of course it’s good, but there are times when you wish it didn’t happen so fast. They only have one childhood and the bits you miss you never get back.’

‘But on balance it’s a good thing?’

‘I think so, yes. If you want I can get you a brochure for Culford. Or they have a website you can look at.’

‘Yeah, the website’s fine, but I’m hoping to find something closer to Hereford.’ He stood up and as always when saying goodbye he was confused about what to do. A handshake seemed too formal, but she was his boss so a hug or a kiss on the cheek seemed too personal. He grinned and gave her a small wave.

She smiled back with an amused glint in her eye and he knew that she sensed his confusion. She mimicked his wave. ‘You take care, and polish up your secretarial skills, just in case.’

The Mercedes pulled up in front of a terraced house in Southall. ‘Wait outside, I won’t be more than ten minutes,’ Crazy Boy told his driver. The driver nodded. Crazy Boy jerked his chin at Two Knives. ‘Get the case out of the boot.’ Two Knives was a cousin, a fierce fighter when he had been a pirate, the man that Crazy Boy had used to carry out hostage executions when shipping companies had been slow in paying ransoms. Crazy Boy had given him the nickname because when he boarded a ship he always had two large curved knives, one on either hip. He had joined Crazy Boy in London a year earlier after paying ten thousand pounds to a group of Chinese traffickers. The Chinese were the best traffickers in the world. No one was better at moving people, arms or drugs. He had applied for asylum and his lawyer had assured him that he would have British citizenship within three years.

The driver pressed the switch to open the boot as Crazy Boy and Two Knives climbed out of the car. Crazy Boy sneered as he looked up and down the road. The houses were small and uncared for, the brickwork stained and crumbling, the paint peeling from the doors and window frames, the windows unwashed. The pavements were covered with litter and there were cubes of broken glass in the gutters, relics of smashed car windows. Three Indian women waddled by in brightly coloured saris, each pushing a stroller, gossiping away in Hindi. One of them glared at Crazy Boy and said something to her companions and they all laughed.

Crazy Boy knew that the Indians of Southall hated the Somalis. There had been dozens of cases of Somali teenagers being assaulted by groups of Asians and Somali shopkeepers were always having their windows smashed. He glared at the women and shook his fist at them. ‘Never seen a black man with a big car?’ he shouted in English. ‘Think we all live in the jungle, do you?’

The women averted their eyes as they hurried away.

‘Back to your foul-smelling hovels, you Indian cows!’ he screamed.

The women began to run, their pushchairs bouncing along the uneven pavement.

Crazy Boy mimed firing a gun at them. ‘Bastard Indians,’ he said. ‘They hate us, you know that? They came here to do Whitey’s work and then they bring in their cousins with arranged marriages and look down their noses at us. We fought to get into this country. We killed. They crawled in on their bellies and they think they’re superior to us?’

‘Bitches,’ agreed Two Knives, pulling a suitcase out of the boot. He looked around and then slammed the boot shut. The case was heavy and he had to use both hands to carry it to the front door.

Crazy Boy pressed the doorbell and heard a faint buzzing sound from the back of the house. A few seconds later he heard shuffling feet and a woman in full burka opened the door. She scrutinised them through the slit in her headdress and then opened the door wide to allow them in.

Crazy Boy went first, heading straight down the hallway to the kitchen at the back of the house. Two Knives followed him with the suitcase as the woman shut the door and disappeared into the front room.

The man sitting at the kitchen table was in his sixties with a straggly beard that was streaked with grey and white. He was wearing a Fair Isle sweater over a long grey Jubba jacket and baggy grey trousers. In his right hand he held a
misbaha
, a string of Islamic prayer beads. There were ninety-nine beads on the string, corresponding to the ninety-nine names of Allah. He tended to use them as worry beads rather than as a means of religious devotion. The man’s name was Muhammad al-Faiz but everyone who did business with him called him the Arab. He had been in England for nine years and already had eleven children with his three wives in the country. The wives lived in separate houses paid for by housing benefit, and all were claiming invalidity payments as the Arab knew a Bangladeshi doctor who was happy to sign them off as epileptics for five hundred pounds a time.

The Arab stood up, hugged Crazy Boy and kissed him on the cheek. ‘You are well, brother?’ he asked.

‘Always,’ said Crazy Boy. He waved at Two Knives, who swung the suitcase on to the kitchen table and unzipped it. Inside were dozens of brick-size bundles of fifty-pound notes. ‘One and a half million, to be transferred to my uncle in Mogadishu,’ said Crazy Boy. ‘He will want paying in US dollars, the same as last time.’

The Arab nodded his head. ‘That is not a problem. The conversion will be done on the day that the money is transferred. The current exchange rate is 1.44, I believe.’

He opened a cabinet above the sink and took out an electronic banknote counter. He unplugged a kettle and plugged in the counter. ‘Can I offer you a drink while I do the count? Mint tea, perhaps?’

‘After all this time you do not trust me?’ Crazy Boy laughed.

The Arab smiled as he took one of the bundles out of the case and slotted it into the top of the counter. ‘My friend, I trust nobody,’ he said. ‘That is why I have lived so long.’ He pushed a button on the front of the counter and the notes began to whirr as a red LED counted them off. ‘Would you care for tea, my friends, because this will take some time?’

‘Tea would be good,’ said Crazy Boy, sitting down at the table.

The Arab continued to count the money, breaking off only to make and serve glasses of hot sweet tea garnished with fresh mint leaves. Crazy Boy sat and sipped his drink and waited. He wasn’t offended at the Arab’s insistence on checking every note. Business was business. He was equally thorough when he was paying money out.