Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies (13 page)

Shepherd spent the night at the Premier Inn, part of the massive riverside building that had once been County Hall. He caught a black cab to the MI6 building at eight o’clock the following morning. ‘So are you James Bond, then?’ asked the driver as they drove to Vauxhall Bridge.

‘Yeah, that’s me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Licensed to kill.’

‘But you work there?’

‘Just visiting,’ said Shepherd.

‘Weird, innit?’ said the driver. ‘They’re spies, right? They do secret stuff. So why would they tell everyone where they’re based?’

‘That’s a good question,’ said Shepherd. ‘It makes no sense to me, either.’

‘And if you were really spies, why would you want to be in a building by the river where anyone can take a potshot at it? Like the IRA did back in 2000. I was working in Battersea when they did it, fired a bazooka from across the river. Bang!’

Shepherd nodded. In fact it was a Russian-built Mark 22 anti-tank weapon and it was never likely to do any serious damage to the building. But the driver was right. Open government was a wonderful idea in theory, but when it came to spies it made no sense to have them or their headquarters on public display. Far better to have them in a secluded location surrounded by high walls and barbed wire. Which is exactly where he’d like to have Willoughby-Brown billeted.

The cab dropped him outside the building and Shepherd headed inside. This time it was Willoughby-Brown himself who came down to take him upstairs. He was wearing the same clothes he’d had on the previous day and he didn’t seem to have shaved. His shirtsleeves were still rolled up and there were dark sweat stains under the armpits. ‘Have you had breakfast?’ he asked as they rode up in the lift to the fifth floor.

Shepherd shook his head.

‘Me neither. Let me have a smoke and then we’ll have a bite.’ Willoughby-Brown took him along to the terrace where he took out his cigar case and lit one of his small cigars and flicked the match away. ‘So, the good news is that the Pakistanis are getting ready to go in and they’ve approved your involvement.’

‘When?’

‘A couple of days. They’re getting their ducks in a row as we speak.’

‘What ducks?’

‘The personnel. The equipment. Logistics.’

‘The longer they leave it, the more pain Raj is going through.’

‘They know that.’

‘But do they care?’ asked Shepherd. ‘If they know where he is, why don’t they just go in?’

‘They don’t want to rush it,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘Softly-softly, catchee monkey. On the plus side, it gives you time to get out there.’

‘I’d like to go to Hereford first, to get in some practice. It’s been a while since I’ve held anything bigger than a handgun.’

‘Can you get there and back by tomorrow?’

‘With your help, sure.’

‘I’ll fix that up after breakfast.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘You still haven’t told me what Raj was doing in Pakistan.’

‘Does it matter?’ asked Willoughby-Brown.

‘Don’t pull that need-to-know bullshit,’ snapped Shepherd. ‘I need to know everything there is to know.’

The MI6 man blew bluish smoke into the sky before speaking. ‘MANPADS,’ he said. ‘You know what a MANPAD is, of course.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Man-portable air-defence systems. Shoulder-launched surface-to-air-missiles. Weapon of choice for taking out a low-flying aircraft or a helicopter. And just so you know, there’s no such thing as a MANPAD. It’s always MANPADS. The S stands for system.’

‘I stand corrected,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘They’re the perfect terrorist’s weapon, portable, relatively cheap and damn effective. They’ve been used in South Africa, Georgia, Sri Lanka, Mombasa, Mogadishu, and of course Iraq and Afghanistan.’ He took a long pull on his cigar and blew smoke before continuing. ‘Manraj was being trained in the use of MANPADS. Him and other British-born Asians.’ He held up a hand. ‘Sorry. I mean Raj was being trained in the use of MANPADS. Anyway, they told him they wanted him in Pakistan to train him in the use of the 9K38 Igla. You’re familiar with it?’

Shepherd nodded. Igla was Russian for ‘needle’ and the ground-to-air missile had been used by the Russian army since the eighties. ‘NATO calls it the Grouse, right?’

‘That’s the one. What makes it especially nasty is that the propellant acts as a high explosive once detonated by the warhead’s secondary charge. The whole thing, ready to fire, weighs less than forty pounds. Maximum range seventeen thousand feet and can hit anything travelling at less than seven hundred miles per hour.’ Willoughby-Brown took another pull on his cigar. ‘Just between you and me, Manraj – sorry, I mean Raj – wasn’t overly happy about making the trip. But he was told by his al-Qaeda handler that it was imperative that he went.’

‘Because?’

‘Because they are in the process of shipping a consignment of Iglas to the UK. They want people trained to use them ready and waiting for when they arrive.’

‘To attack what?’ asked Shepherd.

‘To attack whatever the hell they want to attack,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘They could shoot civilian airliners at any of the major airports, they could do a lot of damage to pretty much any London landmark. Remember when the IRA fired an RPG at MI6 headquarters back in 2000? That’s nothing compared to what the Igla can do.’

‘Totally different piece of kit,’ said Shepherd. ‘And you’re saying that al-Qaeda is bringing Iglas into the UK?’

‘I’m not saying that, Raj’s handlers said as much. And not just one or two. Raj was one of six they took out training, and there’s every chance his wasn’t the only group.’

‘All Brits?’

‘So far as we know, yes. The idea seems to have been to take them to Pakistan for intensive training and then to get them back to the UK. Two were from London, two from Bradford and two from Birmingham.’

‘So multiple attacks.’

‘That’s what we were assuming. The hope was that Raj would come back and we could do a full debrief.’ He took another long pull on his cigar.

‘Where did al-Qaeda get the missiles from?’ asked Shepherd.

‘They’ve been around for years,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘Most of them were looted from Saddam Hussein’s arsenals after the Gulf War.’

‘So why is it becoming an issue now?’

‘We think this particular consignment were in a US-controlled area and while the Yanks were there in force the missiles had to stay put. Now that the American troops are being wound down, the bad guys have been able to retrieve them.’

‘Do we know how many?’

Willoughby-Brown shook his head. ‘We were depending on Raj coming back. They could be using two-man teams, they could be trained as individual shooters.’

‘Sounds to me you don’t know much,’ said Shepherd sourly.

‘It was an ongoing operation,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘We had no idea it was going to go so badly wrong.’

‘And what about the other groups?’

‘We’re checking flight manifests to and from Pakistan and comparing them with MI5 watch lists, we’ve increased surveillance at troublesome mosques, we’re listening to internet chatter …’

‘You’re clutching at straws is what you’re doing,’ said Shepherd. ‘This is bad, right? For all you know the MANPADS could be here already, and so could the operators. You could be behind the curve in every way possible.’

‘It’s not good, no. I’m under no illusions. But the one thing we have in our favour is that they don’t know how much we know.’

‘You know nothing.’

‘Yes, but they don’t know that. They don’t know whether we know who their people are or if we know the location of the missiles.’

‘So they’ll be torturing Raj, is that what you’re saying?’

‘They’ll be trying to find out how much he’s told us. How much we already know.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’

‘The good news is that they won’t be in a rush to kill him,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

‘And the bad news is that they’ll be torturing him? You’re a piece of work, you really are.’

‘I’m just telling you the way it is,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

‘Raj isn’t a professional, he’s not been trained in interrogation resistance techniques.’

‘He’s young, he’s fit, he can take pain.’

‘Have you ever been tortured?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Not as such.’

‘Then maybe you should keep your opinions to yourself on that score,’ said Shepherd.

Willoughby-Brown shrugged and flicked away what was left of his cigar. ‘The sooner you’re in Pakistan, the sooner we can get him out of there,’ he said.

Shepherd nodded. ‘Amen to that.’

‘Come on, let’s eat.’

Willoughby-Brown took Shepherd down to the third floor to a canteen, where they picked up trays and joined a queue mainly composed of young men and women in suits. Shepherd loaded his plate with bacon, eggs and mushrooms while Willoughby-Brown took two croissants and a bowl of fruit. ‘Trying to get my cholesterol down,’ he said. He patted his ample stomach. ‘I’ve put on a few pounds since Sierra Leone.’

‘I guess sitting at a desk every day doesn’t help,’ said Shepherd.

‘You work out?’ asked Willoughby-Brown, helping himself to tea while Shepherd poured himself a coffee.

‘I run,’ said Shepherd.

‘Never fancied running,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘Feet pounding on pavements, never been my thing.’

They carried their trays over to a table by a window overlooking the Thames. ‘I always knew you’d end up with one of the agencies,’ said Willoughby-Brown as they sat down.

‘It was more by accident than design,’ said Shepherd.

‘You were perfect. You always thought like a spook, even back in Sierra Leone, and that trick memory of yours is one hell of an asset.’

‘I didn’t plan it this way,’ said Shepherd.

‘Oh, I know exactly how it happened,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘In fact we almost made an approach when you left the cops, but it was felt it would be bad form stealing you away from the lovely Charlotte.’

Shepherd frowned. ‘You were watching me?’

‘Monitoring your progress,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘We were a tad worried that the Yanks might steal you away, but that turned out for the best.’

‘You know Richard Yokely?’

‘Tricky Dicky? I know of him. And there were big sighs of relief all around when you didn’t go and work for him.’ He took a bite of croissant and washed it down with tea. ‘How do you find Five?’

‘It has its ups and downs.’

‘And the lovely Charlotte?’

‘She’s OK. We’ve got a history.’

‘SOCA? What a fiasco that was.’

‘We had our successes.’

‘Precious few. You wonder whoever thought that you could put together cops, customs officers and tax inspectors and end up with a cohesive unit. It was doomed to failure and its replacement isn’t going to do any better.’

‘Five is a more professional set-up, that’s for sure,’ said Shepherd.

‘And what about job satisfaction?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘It has its moments.’

‘You could always move to Six.’

‘And work for you?’ Shepherd chuckled. ‘I’ll pass.’

‘Not necessarily for me,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘There are plenty of options. And the work’s challenging. Plenty of travel, too.’

‘I’m a single parent, travel’s not high on my agenda these days.’

‘Yes, but Liam’s at boarding school now, you don’t have to be home at night to tuck him in.’

Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re still looking at my files, then?’

Willoughby-Brown grinned with no trace of embarrassment. ‘I’m a spook, old lad. It’s what I do. Look, you have a good life at Five, I can see that. But that’s because Charlotte shields you from a lot of the crap that goes on. And she’s not going to be there for ever.’

‘Do you know something?’

‘I know lots of things, Shepherd.’

‘About Charlie?’

‘Let’s just say she’s not going to be in her current position for ever and the time might come when you’re not as happy there as you are at the moment. If the situation changes, I’d just like you to bear Six in mind. I said it back in Sierra Leone and I’ll say it again – you’re a perfect fit. If you’d been with Six and not Five it would have been you handling Raj and not Taz and maybe we wouldn’t be in the position we’re in.’

‘Is that you admitting that Taz was a mistake?’

Willoughby-Brown smiled amicably. ‘I’m just saying that things might have worked out differently,’ he said. ‘Look, the beauty of Six is that our mandate is overseas so we don’t get caught up in all the domestic politics here. We make a real difference. Yes, we’ve got a problem with home-grown terrorists, but the major threats are overseas. They’re the ones pulling the strings and they’re the ones we need to take down.’ He ripped into his second croissant. ‘Anyway, I won’t press it,’ he said. ‘The offer stands and you know where to find me.’

Shepherd pushed a forkful of egg and bacon into his mouth. There would be more chance of Hell freezing over than taking a job with Willoughby-Brown, but he thought it best not to say as much.

Rafiq had no idea what time it was when he was taken from his cell. The door had been thrown open and two of his captors had stood for a moment in the doorway with savage grins on their faces. Rafiq had curled up into a foetal ball and waited for the beating, but it never came. They grabbed him by the arms and dragged him out of the cell and down a dusty corridor. Rafiq was sure that they were going to kill him and he tried to focus on the people he loved. His mother and father and his sister. If he was going to die, he wanted to be thinking about them. He tried to block out the horror of what was happening to him. Death would be painful but it wouldn’t take long. A few seconds. A minute at most. He had been beaten and tortured for hours, he was sure he could get through a few seconds of pain.

He heard a door opening and he was dragged through to another room. There was a table and man sitting behind it. A bearded man in a long cotton dishdasha, with a white knitted skullcap atop a mop of curly black hair. Rafiq blinked, trying to focus. There was a brass teapot on the table, and plates of food: some fruit, some cubes of meat, slices of cheese and a stack of naan bread. There was a window behind the man and there was a halo of light around him, making it hard to make out his features. His two captors pushed him down on the chair. Rafiq slumped forward, his head in his hands.