False Friends (11 page)

‘How would I know? I haven’t seen her,’ said Chaudhry.

Mrs Chaudhry looked over at her husband. ‘Didn’t you show him the picture?’

‘I haven’t had the chance,’ said his father. He grunted as he pushed himself up off the sofa and walked over to a sideboard that was loaded with framed family photographs. He pul ed open a drawer and rooted through the contents.

‘She is gorgeous,’ said his mother. ‘And smart.’

‘Yeah, Dad said she was a microbiologist.’

‘And she’s got such a good heart. She took a gap year to work in an orphanage in Pakistan. Like you did last year. You’l have so much to talk about.’

‘It wasn’t an orphanage Manraj worked at, it was a hospital,’ said his father.

‘It’s the same thing, giving up your time to help others less fortunate.’ She smiled at Chaudhry in the way that only a proud mother can and Chaudhry’s stomach lurched. He tried to cover his discomfort by sipping his tea.

He’d never lied to his parents before he started working for MI5 but there was no way he could have told them that he had gone to Pakistan to attend an al-Qaeda training camp, where he learned to strip and fire a whole range of weapons, construct explosive devices and manipulate biochemical agents. He’d told his parents that he was volunteering at a country medical centre during his Christmas break and he’d never felt more guilty than when his father had offered to pay for his ticket. The people at MI5 had told him that under no circumstances could he ever tel his parents what he was doing, that to do so would risk his life and theirs. So he had lied, and he hated himself for doing it.

‘Are you okay, honey?’ asked his mother.

Chaudhry forced a smile. ‘I’ve been studying too hard and not sleeping enough,’ he said.

‘Why don’t you stay for the weekend? I’l feed you up, you can lie in tomorrow and if you need to get some work done you can use your father’s study.’

‘We’ve only just kicked him out of the nest. Don’t say you want him back already,’ said his father. He held up a photograph. ‘Here it is.’ He walked back to the sofa and gave the picture to Chaudhry.

Chaudhry took it. He looked at it for several seconds and then looked back at his father, his eyebrows raised. ‘Wow,’ he said.

Shepherd woke up early on Monday morning, half an hour before his alarm was due to go off. He’d spent the weekend in Hereford and had arrived back in London late on Sunday night. His back was aching, probably from the long drive, so he did a few stretches before heading to the bathroom to clean his teeth. His back was stil sore so he decided to go for a run to see if that would loosen it up. He pul ed on an old sweatshirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms and went through to the kitchen, where he kept his army boots and weighted rucksack. He figured it best to forgo the rucksack and he went downstairs. He jogged to the Heath, then set off on his regular route: up North End Way and round the Hampstead Heath extension, a large open space to the north-west of the main Heath. In the past it had been farmland and while it wasn’t as pretty as the rest of the Heath it was general y quieter and Shepherd always preferred to run alone. He did two circuits of the extension then cut around West Meadow and down to Parliament Hil Fields. Several running clubs used the Heath and as he got closer to the Parliament Hil athletics track he was overtaken by a group of serious runners, al in hi-tech trainers and Lycra shorts and vests. Several grinned as they overtook Shepherd and he heard one mutter something about Shepherd’s choice of footwear. Shepherd always ran in boots. Running was a survival skil as wel as a way of keeping fit and the heavy boots meant that he was able to push himself to his limits faster and more efficiently. He headed east to Dukes Field, skirted the secret garden and then headed north to Cohen’s Fields, increasing the pace until he felt his calf muscles burn.

He reached Kenwood House, the spectacular white-stucco mansion built on the ridge that linked the vil ages of Hampstead and Highgate.

Stopping at the duel ing ground where grievances were settled with pistols during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, he dropped to the ground and did a hundred press-ups in four sets of twenty-five. Then he carried on running for another thirty minutes. He slowed to a jog as he headed back to his flat, picking up a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
and the
Daily Mail
and a carton of milk on the way.

Back in the flat he showered and shaved, changed into a clean shirt and chinos, then made himself a mug of coffee and flopped down on to the sofa. He sipped his coffee as he scanned the front page of the
Telegraph
, then turned to page two. His jaw tensed when he saw the headline of the lead story, then he began to curse as he read it. He was only halfway through when he picked up his BlackBerry and cal ed Button.

‘Have you seen the
Telegraph
?’ he said as soon as she answered.

‘About an hour ago,’ she said. ‘We’re talking it through as we speak.’

‘And you didn’t think it was worth talking to me?’

‘I don’t think this is the sort of conversation we should be having on an open line,’ she said. ‘Can you come to the office?’

‘I’d prefer somewhere outside,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’ve got an active investigation that means I have to be here al day,’ she replied.

‘Give me an hour,’ he said and cut the connection. He read through the rest of the article and then picked up the
Mail
. The same story was on page seven.

Charlotte Button kept Shepherd waiting for half an hour in a conference room on the third floor of Thames House, but her apologies when she did final y arrive seemed genuine enough. Shepherd stood up out of politeness but she waved him to sit back down as she dropped into one of the high-backed executive chairs on the opposite side of the highly polished oval oak table. Shepherd had the
Telegraph
and
Mail
open in front of him.

Button was holding a cup of tea and she placed it careful y on the table.

‘How the hel could this have happened, Charlie? Whose side are the Pakistanis on?’

The thrust of the articles in both papers was the same: an unnamed spokesman for the Inter-Services Intel igence, Pakistan’s premier intel igence agency, had announced that a hand-drawn map had been found in the compound where Bin Laden had been living, a map that could have been left only by the Seals. The map showed the layout of the compound and had floor plans of the main building, including the bedroom where Bin Laden was shot. The spokesman also said that the fact that the Americans had destroyed their own helicopter was a sign that they no longer trusted their Pakistani al ies.

‘Their noses were put out of joint because the Americans made them look stupid, or at best incompetent, so this is them getting their own back.

They just want to show that the Americans make mistakes.’

‘Even if it means putting our guys in the firing line? And what about the bloody Yanks? What were they thinking? Are their memories so bloody poor that they can’t commit a floor plan to memory?’

‘Spider, you’re blowing this out of al proportion,’ said Button calmly.

Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘I’m what?’

‘Look, you’re right: a mistake was made. The Seals shouldn’t have left the map behind, but Bin Laden’s dead and what’s done is done.’

‘You’re not serious, are you?’ said Shepherd. Button said nothing. She picked up her cup and sipped her tea. ‘Charlie, you don’t need me to spel this out for you, do you?’ Button continued to sip her tea. Shepherd leaned forward, his eyes locked on hers. ‘That piece of paper shows that the Yanks had intel on the inside of that building, intel that couldn’t have come from surveil ance or satel ites. The only way they could know the layout of the inside of the building is if they’d spoken to someone who’d been inside.’

‘He had visitors. We know that,’ said Button, putting down her cup.

‘Are you being deliberately obtuse?’ asked Shepherd. ‘If anything had changed in that room, anything at al , then it would give them a timeline. If a chair had been brought in and that chair was shown on the plan then they’d know when the traitor had been there.’

‘You’re assuming that the bad guys wil get sight of the map,’ said Button.

‘And you’re not? It’s the Pakistanis, for God’s sake. Their intel igence services leak like a bloody sieve. They probably showed the map to al-Qaeda before they went public. And why go public with something like that in the first place? There’s only one reason, and that’s to embarrass the bloody Yanks. They’re no al ies of ours, that’s for sure.’

‘And why has this map come forward now? Bin Laden was kil ed months ago. Why have the Pakistanis just released it?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Button. ‘Either they found it at the time and have been sitting on it, or they’ve only just found it. They’re getting ready to demolish the building so they could have just swept through the building again and stumbled across it. The when doesn’t real y matter. Al that matters is that they’ve gone public with it.’

‘Whose side are they on?’

‘Supposedly ours,’ said Button. ‘But there are a lot of different factions within the Pakistani intel igence community. And some of those factions are close to al-Qaeda.’

Shepherd cursed and shook his head.

‘Spider, what are you worried about? That al-Qaeda is going to be looking for revenge?’

‘You think they’l just let it go?’

‘It’s a terror organisation. They plant bombs and they crash planes. They’re not geared up for individual assassinations. And who’s going to be authorising and funding a revenge operation?’

‘He had his supporters. Rich Saudis. They might want to prove a point.’

Button sat back in her chair. ‘I think you’re worrying about nothing,’ she said. ‘Even if someone in al-Qaeda realises that there was human intel behind the raid there’s stil nothing to point to our people.’

‘There’s the timeline,’ said Shepherd. ‘How many visitors do you think he had during the five years he was in Pakistan? The Americans had the compound under surveil ance for six weeks before the raid and in that time there were just three visitors, and one of them was his courier. So in a year, maybe twenty? Do you think they’d believe that the Americans would wait a year before taking him out? Six months, max. So they can probably pin it down to ten visitors, maybe a dozen.’

‘That’s complete guesswork, Spider. Bin Laden wanted to brief our two guys personal y, but he might have met hundreds of others.’

‘Our guys were special, that’s what he said to them. He was taking a particular interest in them because he real y wanted to hurt the UK.’

‘He probably said that to al the girls,’ said Button, then she quickly held up her hand as she saw the frown flash across Shepherd’s face. ‘I’m sorry, misplaced flippancy. But my point is valid. He’s not going to tel his people that they’re disposable, is he? He’s going to tel them al that they’re vital to his organisation, that they’re the centre of his universe. You make a shahid feel that he’s the most important person on earth because that’s the only way he’s going to blow himself to kingdom come. My point is that Bin Laden wil have had several visitors and I don’t see that our guys are any more at risk than anyone else. And the Americans are already feeding the media with stories that it was Bin Laden’s courier who led them to the house.’

‘And you’re prepared to take that risk, are you?’

‘It’s a calculated risk. You’ve worked undercover and you know that there’s always a risk.’

‘But I’m a professional. Our guys are amateurs. You brought me in to babysit them for exactly that reason. You needed a pro to hold their hands.

Wel , that’s what I’m doing. They don’t know the danger they’re in right now so I’m the one who has to speak for them.’

‘And what do you want to do? Pul them out? Blow the whole operation?’

‘Blow the whole operation?’ repeated Shepherd incredulously. ‘They supplied the intel that led to Bin Laden being taken out. That operation is wel and truly over.’

‘But what al-Qaeda are planning in the UK is ongoing,’ said Button. ‘What happened in Pakistan isn’t going to put the brakes on what’s happening here. If anything, Bin Laden’s death makes it even more likely that they’l carry out attacks here and in the States. And pul ing Chaudhry and Malik out at this late stage is going to make them appear as guilty as hel .’ She leaned forward. ‘You’re over-thinking this, real y. So far as the world is concerned, the Americans fol owed a courier to the compound based on intel they got from waterboarding. Now you and I know that’s a fairy story, but the media’s lapping it up and the Americans love it because it makes them look like heroes for once.’

Shepherd nodded thoughtful y. ‘Okay, I’l buy that. But they’re going to need more protection.’

‘Like what? You want to go Salman Rushdie on them and have them assigned round-the-clock Special Branch guards? You want them fol owed by unmarked cars? Helicopters?’

‘Of course not,’ said Shepherd.

‘What, then? I understand you’re anxious about their safety. That’s what happens to handlers. You get attached. You care.’

Shepherd smiled tightly.

‘And before you ask, yes, I care when I’m running you. Every handler does. You’re not chess pieces that we move around as part of the greater game. What you’re feeling is total y natural. A sort of reverse Stockholm Effect. Every handler goes through it. Which is why every handler in turn has a supervisor who can keep an eye on the bigger picture. And that’s what I’m doing now. You’re close to these guys. That goes with the territory. But I am taking a broader view, and I think you’re worrying unnecessarily.’

‘What about bugging their flat? A tracker in Malik’s car? Letting Amar work his magic on their mobile phones?’

‘And what if any of that hi-tech stuff is discovered? Then they are in trouble. Big trouble.’

Shepherd sighed. Button was right. She was tel ing him exactly what he’d said to Chaudhry and Malik. A GPS in the car or in their phones would be a dead giveaway. Chaudhry and Malik weren’t professionals; they were just young men doing what they thought was right, and they’d never be able to lie their way out of trouble. When Shepherd worked undercover everything was a lie from his name onwards. Lying didn’t exactly come natural y to him but he was proficient at it. The big advantage that Chaudhry and Malik had was that they were real. Everything about them was genuine. That was their strength – and their weakness.