False Friends

Seal Alpha stood up, bracing himself against the fuselage. ‘Lock and load!’ he shouted. ‘Five minutes and counting.’ His name was Adam Croft and he was the ranking non-commissioned officer and leader of the mission, a ten-year veteran of the Navy Seals who had spent half of those years serving in Iraq and Afghanistan. There were thirteen Navy Seals sitting on the floor of the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter. All the seats had been stripped out to keep the payload to a minimum. The Seals weren’t in any way superstitious and thirteen was the maximum number that could be squeezed into the belly of the helicopter. All thirteen had been hand-picked by Croft.

The Seals started chambering rounds as Croft and the Black Hawk crew chief readied the four ropes that they would be using to abseil down into the courtyard close to the main house. They were all dressed in the same desert camouflage fatigues and bulletproof vests but their headwear varied. Some favoured Kevlar helmets, others wore scarves or floppy hats. Their weapons varied too. Most cradled M4 rifles fitted with noise suppressors but there were several Heckler amp; Koch MP7 carbines and one pump-action shotgun. They all wore noise-cancelling headsets to neutralise the roar of the Black Hawk’s two General Electric T700 turboshaft engines.

The co-pilot waved again. Three fingers. ‘Three minutes, guys!’ shouted Croft. He peered through a window. They were flying over houses and roads, but there were no street lights and almost all the homes were in darkness. Abbottabad didn’t have much in the way of nightlife and it was now almost one o’clock in the morning. He couldn’t see the second helicopter but he knew it would be close by, somewhere to starboard.

The helicopters were in full stealth mode, their engines quietened, their bodies covered with a radar-dampening fabric coating, their tail sections modified, including extra blades on the tail rotors. Pakistan was supposedly America’s ally in the war against terrorism, but no one in the White House took that alliance seriously and the Pakistani authorities had not been informed of the mission.

The turbines powered down and the nose pitched up as the helicopter transitioned into a hover.

‘This is it, guys — go to night vision!’ shouted Croft.

The men removed their noise-cancelling headsets and pulled on their night-vision goggles, pressing the button on the right-hand side that activated them. Croft pulled on his own and blinked as they flicked on, casting everything in a green hue. The Seals were from the Naval Special Warfare Development Group but everyone knew them as Team Six. So far as US special forces went, they were the best of the best. They had been training for the mission for more than six weeks in North Carolina followed by another three weeks at Camp Alpha, a highly secure area of Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan.

The Black Hawk hovered about a hundred feet above the building. It was a manoeuvre the pilot had practised a hundred times over a mock-up of the compound at Camp Alpha. Contractors had built a replica of the compound and the three-storey building, complete with contents. He eased back on the power and the helicopter began to descend. He scanned the instruments but he was flying by feel, as if the helicopter was an extension of his own body.

‘One hundred feet,’ said his co-pilot.

The helicopter slowly dropped, the backwash kicking up dust in the compound below.

‘Ninety feet,’ said the co-pilot.

The pilot smiled to himself. He didn’t need the verbal reminder of how high they were; he could do this bit with his eyes closed.

‘Eighty feet,’ said the co-pilot. ‘All good.’

The pilot grinned. He knew it was all good. Compared to some of the missions he’d been on in Iraq this was a piece of cake. At least no one was firing missiles at him.

The helicopter began to shudder and he had to fight the pedals to keep it from swinging around.

‘What’s the problem?’ asked the co-pilot.

The nose pitched down and then just as quickly reared up. Both men scanned the instruments, trying to see if there was a technical problem, but everything seemed to be working perfectly; it was just that the helicopter was refusing to respond. It began to spin to the left as it continued to descend, faster now.

‘Seventy feet,’ said the co-pilot.

The juddering intensified and the pilot felt the rudder pedals banging up and down, beating a rapid tattoo on the soles of his feet. ‘I’m losing it,’ he said. ‘We’re going to have to abort.’

The helicopter continued to spin and the pilot pulled on the collective to increase power, then pushed the cyclic forward trying to get the helicopter moving forward.

‘We’re going down!’ shouted the co-pilot.

The pilot gritted his teeth as he fought to regain control of the helicopter but nothing seemed to be working. It bucked and tossed like a living thing and his hands were aching from the strain of gripping the controls. ‘Help me with the cyclic!’ he shouted. ‘I’m losing it.’

The co-pilot grabbed at the cyclic between his legs but it was too late: the helicopter was spinning out of control and losing height rapidly.

The pilot twisted round in his seat. ‘We’re going down!’ he shouted. ‘Brace, brace, brace!’

His words were lost in the roar of the turbines but the Seals knew that they were in trouble and they grabbed on to whatever support they could find.

The pilot turned back to the instruments but realised immediately that there was no point: if they were going to survive he’d have to fly by instinct alone. The helicopter was spinning in an anticlockwise direction so he pushed the cyclic to the right to try to counteract it and pulled the collective up to full power. They were going to hit the ground, he was sure of that, so all he could do was try to lessen the impact.

Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the other Black Hawk. It was hovering just outside the north-east corner of the compound. He yanked the cyclic, trying to push the spinning helicopter away to the west. If he collided with the other helicopter it would all be over.

‘Thirty feet!’ shouted the co-pilot.

They were still over the compound, spinning crazily. The perimeter wall was eighteen feet high.

‘Brace for impact!’ the pilot screamed, though he knew that no one would hear him over the noise of the engines.

He saw the house flash by and realised that he was too far away to hit it but he still had to worry about the wall. The power was on full and the turbines were screaming but the rotor blades just didn’t seem to be generating any lift.

‘Twenty feet!’

Below him was the wall and then they were over it, but as he struggled to stop the spinning there was the sound of tortured metal and the helicopter lurched to the left. The tail rotor had slammed into the wall and almost certainly disintegrated in the impact.

The pilot reacted instantly, thrusting the cyclic forward so that the Black Hawk would hit the ground nose first. If they hit side on the main rotor would slam into the ground and the resulting crash would destroy the rotor blades and send lethal shrapnel through the cabin. He saw the ground rushing up at him and then they hit, hard, the cockpit shattering and the harness biting into his shoulders with such force that his right collarbone snapped. He could hear panicked shouts from behind him and then everything went black.

‘Go left, left, left!’ shouted the co-pilot of Helo Two but the pilot was already pushing the cyclic to the left to get it away from Helo One. He was also pulling the collective up so that they gained height. He concentrated on the instrument panel, which meant that he lost sight of the other helicopter, but the way that it had been spinning left him in no doubt that it had crashed.

A Seal appeared behind him. ‘What’s happening?’ screamed the Seal but the pilot ignored him and concentrated on flying the helicopter. The crew chief grabbed the Seal’s arm and pushed him down to the floor, then pointed a warning finger at the man. While they were in the air the aircrew were in charge and the last thing they needed was soldiers in full combat gear moving about when they weren’t supposed to.

The Black Hawk gained altitude and the pilot put it into a hover outside the compound, then turned it round so that he could see what was happening to Helo One.

‘They’re piling out,’ said the co-pilot.

‘Any sign of fire?’ asked the pilot.

‘They look okay. The rear rotor is smashed and the tail’s broken but that’s it. The main rotor isn’t even damaged. They were lucky.’

‘If they were lucky they wouldn’t have crashed in the first place. You have control.’

The co-pilot gripped the cyclic and tested the rudders. ‘I have control,’ he said and he took over the flying while the pilot clicked on his mic so that he could speak to the Seal in command behind him. ‘Helo One is down,’ he said. ‘What do you want to do?’

Chief Petty Officer Guy Henderson cursed under his breath. He peered out of one of the side windows but couldn’t see the downed helicopter. ‘They okay?’

‘There’s no fire and they’re getting out. But they’re outside the compound.’

‘Can you patch me through to Seal Alpha?’

‘I can talk to the pilot and co-pilot but they look like they’re busy right now. It has to be your call, unless you want to talk to command centre.’

‘Negative that,’ said Henderson. His mind raced. In all the rehearsals they’d carried out in North Carolina and Afghanistan they hadn’t once considered that one of the helicopters would crash. There was no contingency plan for what had just happened and he knew that if the decision as to what to do next was left up to the top brass then the mission would probably be aborted. There were simply too many chiefs: the President was in ultimate control in the White House but he wasn’t a soldier, so it would be up to his military advisors to make the call. That meant taking the views of the command centres in CIA headquarters at Langley Virginia, the Navy Seals’ command centre in Afghanistan and the command centre in the American Embassy in Islamabad. By the time a consensus had been reached Pakistani jets would have been scrambled and be on their way.

‘Clock’s ticking,’ said the pilot. ‘You’re going to have to make a decision here. Do we continue or do we go into rescue mode?’

Henderson held up a gloved hand. By now Helo One should have been in position over the courtyard and the Seals dropping down on ropes before storming the house. Helo Two should have been dropping four of its Seals outside the compound to secure the perimeter and then Henderson and the rest of the team were to be dropped on to the roof of the main building to gain access from there. But that clearly wasn’t going to happen now. When the CIA had first been told who was living in the compound President Obama had considered demolishing the building using B2 stealth bombers, and then had discussed using armed drones with Hellfire missiles; but he had been advised that neither offered a cast-iron guarantee of success. The only way to be sure was to send in a team of Seals, which is when they had begun to plan Operation Neptune’s Spear. Two pilotless drones fitted with high-resolution infrared cameras were already three miles above the compound and sending back live visual feeds to the other side of the world, where the President and his staff were gathered in the White House’s situation room.

The fact that the President was watching made Henderson’s head spin but he forced himself to concentrate on his options. They could change the plan completely and all go to the roof, but the element of surprise had gone and the occupants might well start shooting. They could drop down into the compound and take the role of the Helo One strike team and storm the building through the front door, but they hadn’t rehearsed that and they’d be using only half the number of men they’d used in training.

Henderson jerked his thumb down. ‘Take her down, outside the compound,’ he said. ‘Let’s see what Adam says.’

Croft made sure that all his men were out safely, then he hurried over to the cockpit. The pilot was slumped forward but seemed to be breathing. The co-pilot had unbuckled his harness and taken off his helmet but was having trouble opening his door, which had buckled in the crash. Croft ran round to it, and using all his strength he managed to yank it open.

‘Is everyone okay?’ asked the co-pilot.

‘Shaken but nothing broken,’ said Croft. ‘What about the helo? Will she blow?’

The co-pilot shook his head. ‘All the electrics are off and the fuel tanks haven’t ruptured, so no, she won’t burn.’

The pilot groaned and the co-pilot and Croft opened the door, unbuckled his harness and helped him out. He was conscious but groggy and they sat him down next to a concrete wall. They’d landed in an animal compound, close to a feeding pen filled with grain. A small herd of scrawny cows had bolted when the helicopter crashed but were now standing a hundred feet away, watching what was going on, their tails swishing from side to side.

Croft looked across the street. The second Black Hawk was hovering a few feet above a field. It landed gently and the Seals on board piled out, bent double to keep their heads away from the spinning rotor blades.

The leader of the Helo Two Seals rushed over to Seal Alpha. ‘You okay, Adam?’

‘I’ve been better,’ said Croft.

‘Do we abort?’ asked Henderson.

‘Hell no,’ said Croft. ‘We’ve no injuries so all we’ve got to do is go through the main gate. But get your pilot to radio for a Chinook to get us out of here.’

‘Roger that,’ said Henderson, and he ran back to the Black Hawk.

The co-pilot gestured at the wrecked helicopter behind them. ‘We’re going to have to destroy the electronics and then burn the ship,’ he said.

‘Wait until we’re out,’ said Croft. He waved at his team. ‘Let’s get into the compound,’ he said. ‘The clock’s ticking.’ He jogged over to the compound wall and examined the gate. It was metal with wheels on the bottom so that it could be pushed to the side. He tried to move it, but it was obviously locked on the inside. He kicked it hard, several times, and it rattled but remained obstinately closed.

All the Seals from Helo Two had moved some distance away because the main rotor was still turning. Henderson leaned into the belly of Helo Two and briefed the crew chief.

When he’d finished talking a soldier holding a Heckler amp; Koch put a hand on his arm. ‘What’s happening, Guy?’

The soldier was English, the only non-American on the team, and although he was there as an observer he had been issued with a Glock pistol and Heckler amp; Koch MP5 carbine complete with suppressor.

‘We’re going ahead, but through the gate,’ said Henderson. ‘We can’t risk losing the second helo.’

The crew chief appeared at the Black Hawk’s side door. ‘Chinook’s on its way. ETA five-zero minutes.’

‘Roger that,’ said Henderson. He nodded at the Englishman. His name was Dan Shepherd and he worked for MI5, the British intelligence agency. It was MI5 who had provided much of the intelligence on the interior of the compound and they had insisted that they were represented on the mission. Shepherd had been chosen because he had a special forces background with the Special Air Service, the nearest thing the Brits had to the Seals. ‘I’ve got to talk to Adam, stick with me.’

Henderson jogged over to Croft with Shepherd following closely behind. Croft looked up as they reached him. ‘What’s the story?’ he asked.

‘Chinook’s on its way, ETA fifty minutes. What’s the plan, Adam?’

‘We breach the compound,’ said Croft. ‘Then in through the front door.’

‘What about my team?’

‘Four men to secure the perimeter; you and the rest follow me.’ He waved at a short, squat Seal who was standing looking at the downed helicopter. ‘Get the C4 out, Tommy,’ he said. ‘Blow this fucking gate in.’

Tommy was the leader of the unit’s three-man demolition team and they hurried over to the gate and started unpacking C4 charges from their backpacks.

‘You think it’s a good idea to take everyone in through the front?’ asked Shepherd.

‘We can’t risk crashing the second helo so rope drops are out,’ said Croft. They were all wearing night-vision goggles so it was impossible to read their faces, but it was clear from Croft’s tone that he wasn’t happy about having his orders questioned.

‘Let’s move, Dan,’ said Henderson, turning towards his team.

Shepherd stood where he was, staring at Croft. ‘I get that, but do you think it’s smart to send everyone in through the gate?’ he said. ‘They’ll know we’re coming and if they start shooting it’ll be a massacre.’

‘We can take fire,’ said Croft.

‘I hear you, but the smart thing to do would be to move in on two fronts.’

‘I only see the one gate, and we’re not using the helo. Now get out of my face and let me get to work.’

‘Come on, Dan. .’ said Henderson, putting his hand on Shepherd’s shoulder. He tried to move Shepherd away from Croft but Shepherd wouldn’t budge.

‘You could send a team over the wall at the side,’ said Shepherd. ‘If you go through the main gate you only get to the first courtyard by the guest house. You still have to get into the courtyard where the main building is. That’s going to slow you down. But if you send men over the west wall they’ll drop straight into the main courtyard and they could move around the west side of the house. If you come under fire they could deal with it.’

Croft took out a small laminated map of the compound and realised that Shepherd was right. But he still didn’t appreciate having his orders questioned. ‘Last time I looked that wall’s eighteen feet high,’ said Croft.

‘There’s a stack of oil drums over there by the cowshed and we can pull down some of the planks of wood. That and the ropes from the helo should get us over.’

‘That would work, Adam,’ said Henderson.

The two Seals stared at each other, looking for all the world like two giant insects about to attack each other, then Croft nodded. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said. ‘Leave four men watching the perimeter but take the rest over the west wall. And stay in radio contact; we don’t want any surprises in there.’

‘Roger that,’ said Henderson. He nodded at Shepherd and the two men ran back to the Black Hawk.

Croft paced up and down outside the gate. The ground was rough red dirt that had turned to mud in recent rain and it sucked at his rubber-soled boots. Tommy and his team had finished attaching four charges the size of cigarette packs at the four corners of the gate.

‘Ready when you are,’ said Tommy, running wires from the charges to a safe distance. Croft crouched down on one knee and turned his head away. ‘Fire in the hole!’ shouted Tommy, and he blew the charges. The gate fell inwards and slammed into the muddy ground.

Croft led the way, his boots thudding over the gate. His men followed. There was an alleyway some twenty feet long with another locked metal gate at the end.

Croft pointed at Tommy, and then at the gate. Tommy nodded and went forward with his demolition team. As they fixed charges to the second gate, Croft looked at his watch. It had been seven minutes since the Black Hawk had crashed. According to their game plan they should have been inside the house already. As it was they were still outside the residential part of the compound and whoever was inside would know that they were under attack.

There were two explosions and the second gate was down. ‘We’re almost at the outer courtyard,’ Croft said into his radio mic.

‘Roger that,’ said Henderson. ‘We’re just about to go over the wall.’

Croft led his team over the second gate into a courtyard. There was a small building to the left. It was a guest house, used by a fifty-year-old man and his family. At the far end of the courtyard was another metal gate. Croft’s heart was pounding and sweat was dripping down his forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his left hand. He was finding it hard to visualise the layout of the compound. All the training had started with him doing a fast rope drop directly into the residential compound and then storming the building. Everything they’d done since the helicopter had crashed was totally new and unplanned. He reached into the top pocket of his tunic and pulled out the laminated map again. He stared at it, trying to get his bearings. According to the map, the third gate led to the inner courtyard and the house.

A three-man team headed by Seal Golf peeled off to secure the guest house as Croft waved at Tommy and pointed at the third gate. ‘Last one and then we’re in, Tommy.’

Tommy and his team rushed forward and started attaching C4 charges.

Henderson and Shepherd studied the platform that the Seals had built against the perimeter wall using oil barrels and planks taken from the animal compound. There were three barrels at the bottom with planks on top, then two more barrels on top of that. Standing on the top barrels they’d have to jump only a few feet before scrambling over the top.

‘They’re just about to access the inner compound so we need to go now,’ said Henderson.

‘I’ll go first,’ said Shepherd.

‘You’re here to observe,’ said Henderson.

Shepherd tied a rope round his waist. ‘It was my idea so it’s the least I can do,’ he said. He handed the other end of the rope to Henderson. ‘Just be gentle with me,’ he said. ‘Eighteen feet isn’t that big a drop but I don’t want to go breaking an ankle at this stage.’

Another Seal was also getting ready to go over the wall but Shepherd slung his MP5 on his back and beat him to it, clambering up on to the wooden planks and then carefully climbing on to one of the barrels. He reached up to the top of the wall, grabbed it with his gloved hands and dragged himself up with a grunt.

Henderson played the rope out between his fingers, keeping a careful eye on the Englishman as he straddled the wall and dropped down into the courtyard. Shepherd’s knees scraped against the concrete wall as Henderson lowered him down. As soon as Shepherd’s feet touched the ground he turned and reached for his MP5, checking that the immediate area was clear.

A small cat with a broken tail ran away but other than that the courtyard was deserted.

The Seal dropped down next to Shepherd, unhooked the rope from his waist and pulled it twice to let the man on the other side of the wall know that he was down. Shepherd did the same and the two ropes snaked back over the top.

The rest of the Seals came over the wall in pairs, with Henderson bringing up the rear.

‘We’re in the compound,’ Henderson said into his mic.

There was a burst of static then he heard Croft. ‘About to blow the third gate and then we’re in.’

Henderson motioned for his team to move forward.

‘Fire in the hole!’ shouted Tommy and the four charges attached to the third gate blew. The gate buckled but remained in place so Tommy and one of his team rushed forward and finished the job with two hard kicks.

The gate went down and the Seals stormed through into the inner courtyard.

A man appeared at a doorway, holding an AK-47. He was short, portly and bearded, wearing a long nightshirt. It was the courier, Croft realised, recognising him from the dozens of surveillance photographs they’d studied in North Carolina. Three red dots from the laser sights of the M4 carbines danced on the man’s chest then three shots rang out and the courier fell back, the AK-47 tumbling to the ground. There were screams from a woman and children inside the house as four Seals stormed in, stamping over the body in the hallway.

Croft looked round, checked that the rest of the Seals were ready, and pointed at the main house. ‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘Home stretch.’

As they approached the main house a heavyset man with a thick moustache appeared on the patio. Next to him was a middle-aged woman in a nightdress. The man was holding an AK-47 in one hand, and he was holding up his other hand as if telling the soldiers to stop where they were. The three-man unit to Croft’s left fired as one and three bullets slammed into the man’s chest. He slumped to the ground and almost immediately the woman’s face imploded as she was hit. Even with the suppressors the noise of the shots echoed off the courtyard walls as dull thuds.

Three small children ran out of the house screaming. The soldiers let them go, keeping their weapons trained on the entrance to the house.

Croft waved his men forward. ‘In we go,’ he said.

Henderson flinched at the sound of shots. ‘They’re taking fire,’ he said, ducking down into a crouch.

‘All suppressed M4s,’ said Shepherd. ‘And they weren’t from the house.’

They came round the corner just in time to see Croft and his men burst through the front door.

Shepherd looked up at the upper levels of the building. All the windows were in darkness. If the occupants had any intention of fighting back the best time would have been when the Seals moved into the compound. Then they’d have been firing from cover and with the advantage of the high ground. Now that the Seals were moving inside the advantage switched to the Americans. They were highly trained in close-quarter combat and the night-vision goggles gave them an extra edge.

Shepherd moved forward but Henderson held him back. ‘They go in first,’ said Henderson. ‘You’re an observer, remember?’

Seal Alpha moved through the hallway with his team, using their weapons to cover all the angles. They had spent hours practising clearing the mock-up house in Afghanistan, and the exercises had always included dealing with booby traps — tripwires, alarms and explosives. But the fact that there were children in the house suggested that it hadn’t been booby-trapped, which would make their life easier.

There was a metal cage around the staircase that led to the upper floors and the three-man demolition team hurried over to it and began attaching charges while the rest of the Seals cleared the ground floor. There were four rooms including a kitchen and a bathroom, a sitting room with an old-fashioned television and karaoke machine, a bedroom with single beds. The Seals were thorough, opening all the cupboards and overturning the mattresses.

When they were satisfied that the ground floor was clear they moved to the far end of the hallway while the demolition team finished attaching the explosive charges.

Shepherd walked up to the house with Henderson in tow. Behind them Henderson’s team fanned out, covering the upper floors of the house with their M4s. Shepherd stared down at the dead man and woman on the patio. Blood was still pooling around the woman’s chest as she lay face down on the tiles. ‘We’re shooting women now, are we?’ he asked.

Henderson gestured at the AK-47 by the dead man’s feet. ‘What do you call that?’

‘You’ve been around as long as I have, Guy,’ said Shepherd. ‘The only shots we’ve heard have been fired by suppressed M4s. No AK-47s have been fired.’

‘Maybe that’s because we got our defence in first.’

‘Yeah, well, that doesn’t explain the woman. When did Seals start killing women?’

‘We can’t take any chances — under those baggy clothes she’s wearing she could be rigged up with a suicide vest.’

‘It’s a nightdress,’ said Shepherd scornfully. ‘It’s well after midnight. They were in bed and they came out to see what was going on.’

‘With an AK-47?’

‘Guy, mate, you’re from Texas. I’m betting you’d have a gun in your hand if you heard noises in your garden late at night. We’ve just crashed a bloody helicopter in theirs.’

They heard two dull thuds from inside the house, small explosive charges. Shepherd looked across at Guy, wondering if he’d been right about the suicide vest.

Henderson read his mind and shook his head. ‘That’s C4. Our guys are blowing the staircase cage.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Let’s go,’ he said, and he headed inside. Henderson hurried after him.

Croft pulled open the mangled mesh cage and led the charge up the stairs. As he got to the halfway point he saw a man peering round the corner at the top and he pulled the trigger of his M4, sending a bullet smashing into the wall inches away from the man’s ear.

The man jerked back. Croft had recognised him from the photographs they’d studied back in the States. It was Bin Laden’s twenty-three-year-old son. He’d been seen in the compound most mornings lifting weights and doing push-ups.

Croft ran up the stairs just in time to see the man reach the end of the hallway. He fired again as the man turned but his shot went wide. Croft cursed, then he flinched as a gun went off behind him, two shots in quick succession. Seal Bravo. Both shots hit the man in the chest, just above the heart, and he fell backwards, hit a wall and then slid down it, his eyes wide and staring as blood spurted from the two wounds. He was one of four adult males that the Americans knew were living in the compound. Now three of them were dead.

The Seals piled up the stairs and began clearing the rooms. There were four, including a foul-smelling bathroom. They found two women hiding under a double bed in one of the bedrooms and roughly patted them down for explosives before one of the Seals hurried them out and down the stairs. They screamed and cursed and spat at him every step of the way.

The stairway leading up to the top floor was caged too and the demolition team went to work, attaching charges to the metal frame.

Shepherd ducked as he heard the shots, then smiled ruefully as he realised that it was his instincts that had taken over. The gunfire was upstairs. Then he heard rapid shouts and Arabic cursing and saw two middle-aged women being pushed down the stairs by one of the Seals. The women were both in their fifties, with weathered skin and bad teeth and hooked noses peppered with blackheads. Their faces were contorted with hatred and one of them spat at Shepherd as she went by, then screamed something at him in Arabic.

‘Nice,’ said Henderson. ‘Something about your mother.’

‘Hearts and minds,’ said Shepherd sarcastically as he wiped away the phlegm with the back of his hand.

‘We tend to find shock and awe works better,’ said Henderson. ‘We don’t have time for please and thank you and tea and crumpets. And don’t think for one moment that those bitches wouldn’t blow you away in a heartbeat if they were the ones with the guns.’

They went up the stairs to where Croft was watching the demolition team attach their charges.

‘You guys get down the hallway,’ said Croft. ‘We’re just about to blow the cage.’

Henderson put a hand on Shepherd’s shoulder. ‘Come on, we need to get away from the charges.’ He pushed Shepherd down the hallway. They almost stumbled over the dead man lying there. Fresh blood glistened greenly through Shepherd’s goggles, a slightly darker green than the man’s T-shirt. Two black dots showed where the bullets had struck home. Shepherd looked around the floor but there was no sign of a weapon.

He ducked involuntarily as the explosive charges went off.

The charges had wreaked havoc on the cage around the stairway, mangling the metal frame and twisting the hinges, but it was still in place and blocking the stairs. Tommy and his number two on the demolition team grabbed it and pulled hard. It came away from the wall and they dragged it into the hallway.

Croft led the charge up the final staircase. As his feet pounded on the concrete steps a door opened on the top floor. Croft caught a glimpse of a bearded man and then the door slammed shut.

He reached the top floor, hurried along to the bedroom door and paused for a second for the rest of his team to join him. He stepped to the side and Seal Delta kicked the door hard, just below the handle. The jamb splintered and the door crashed open.

Croft went in first, just as they’d rehearsed, bent forward to keep his centre of gravity low, his carbine sweeping the room. One step into the room then a quick shuffle to the right so that the next man had a clear view.

There were three targets in the room. There was a man standing by the bed. A craggy face with a long straggly beard. Two women, both wearing long cotton nightgowns.

The women began screaming in Arabic. The younger one took a step towards the Seals, her hands curved into claws, her face contorted with hatred. ‘Neek Hallak!’ she screamed. Croft knew enough Arabic to know that she was telling them to go fuck themselves.

The older woman stepped to the side, putting herself between the soldiers and the old man. Her husband. They were both his wives, and both would die to protect him.

Seal Charlie shouted at the younger woman. ‘Shut the fuck up, bitch!’

The woman continued to scream at the Americans in Arabic, shaking her fist, her eyes blazing. Then suddenly she charged at Seal Bravo, wailing like a banshee. Seal Bravo lowered his aim and shot the woman in the left calf. Her leg collapsed and she staggered against the wall, her screams of anger turning into howls of pain.

The older wife grabbed hold of the injured woman and she too began to curse. Seal Charlie let his weapon fall on its sling and he dashed forward, shoving the two women against the wall.

Croft brought his gun to bear on the man, who was still standing next to the bed, a look of quiet serenity on his face. There was no fear, no anger, just blankness as if he couldn’t comprehend what was going on around him. Croft raised his weapon, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Off to his left, the injured woman had slumped to the floor, blood streaming from the wound in her leg, and the second woman was trying to stem the flow with her nightdress. Croft was barely aware of the women; he was totally focused on the man in front of him. Two more Seals moved into the room, their M4s sweeping left and right.

The man was still raising his arms, and now he stood almost as if he was crucified, his palms open, fingers extended. His eyes stared blankly at the soldier and a smile slowly spread across his face. It was the smile of a man at peace with himself. Croft pulled the trigger and a small dark-green rose blossomed in the centre of the man’s chest and his whole body shuddered, and even before he began to fall Croft fired again, this time at the man’s face. The bullet blew away most of the man’s skull above the eyeline, splattering blood, brain and bone over the wall behind him. The target fell backwards on to the bed, his arms still outstretched.

Three more Seals piled into the room. They began whooping when they saw the dead man on the bed. Croft clicked on his radio mic. ‘For God and country — Geronimo, Geronimo.’ His breath came in ragged gasps, the adrenaline still coursing through his system. He took a deep breath to steady himself before clicking the mic again. ‘Geronimo EKIA.’

EKIA. Enemy killed in action. The most hunted man in the world was dead.

Croft turned to look at his colleagues and punched his fist in the air. ‘You do not fuck with Navy Seals!’ he shouted. ‘Who do you not fuck with?’

‘Navy Seals!’ they chorused, then began whooping and pumping the air with their fists.

Shepherd stood in the doorway, his Heckler amp; Koch cradled in his arms as he watched the Seals cheering and slapping each other on the back. Henderson came up behind him and put a gloved hand on his shoulder. ‘We should go, Dan. It’s over.’

The woman who hadn’t been shot tried to get over to the dead man but Seal Bravo pushed her back down on the floor. ‘Stay where you are, bitch, or I’ll shoot you too!’

‘Stand down!’ shouted Croft. ‘I want the place searched from top to bottom. We want computers, papers, photos. . Anything that looks like intel we take. And let’s get his body into a bag.’ He saw Shepherd looking at him.

Shepherd took off his night-vision goggles. There were thin curtains over the windows and there was enough moonlight filtering in for him to see. There was a big-screen television on a table in one corner of the room, along with a video recorder and a stack of tapes.

‘What’s your problem?’ asked Croft.

‘Dan, come on,’ said Henderson, trying to pull Shepherd out of the room. Shepherd shrugged off Henderson’s hand.

‘What the fuck did you do?’ shouted Shepherd.

Two Seals pushed by Shepherd and headed for a cupboard on which there was a laptop computer and a stack of DVDs. They knelt down and took off their backpacks.

Croft pushed his goggles to the top of his head. ‘What do you think happened?’ he growled at Shepherd.

‘I think you shot an unarmed man, that’s what I think.’

Croft pointed at an AK-47 leaning against the wall by the bed. ‘What do you call that?’

‘I call it murder. He didn’t make a move for the weapon and yet you double-tapped him.’

‘Yeah, well, I wanted to make sure he was dead. That bastard was responsible for Nine-Eleven. He deserved what he got.’

Seal Delta appeared in the doorway, with Seal Echo close behind him. Seal Echo was holding a tube of rolled-up white plastic. ‘Got the body bag,’ he said.

‘You and Pete put the body in it,’ said Croft. He nodded at Seal Delta. ‘Are they searching the rooms downstairs?’

‘We’re on it,’ said Seal Delta. ‘They’ve already found a stack of porn.’

‘Make sure they take it with us. We need to show what degenerates these bastards are,’ said Croft.

Seal Delta disappeared out of the doorway and thudded downstairs. Seal Echo and Seal Charlie went over to the bed and unrolled the body bag.

Croft realised that Shepherd was still staring at him. ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ he said.

‘I’m here to observe, remember?’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s what I’m doing. Observing.’

‘Get back to the chopper,’ said Croft. He pointed at Henderson. ‘You’re supposed to keep him out of trouble, Guy, and at the moment you’re not doing a great job.’

‘This isn’t over,’ said Shepherd. ‘No one told me this was a kill mission. I was told that we were here to capture and remove for interrogation.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe you weren’t in the loop,’ said Croft. ‘Now get back to the chopper. We’re leaving as soon as the body’s bagged.’

‘Who authorised you to kill him?’

Seal Bravo came up behind Shepherd. He elbowed Henderson out of the way and jabbed the barrel of his weapon against the side of Shepherd’s neck. ‘Do as he says and get the fuck out of here,’ he growled. ‘You won’t be the first Brit to get caught in friendly fire.’

Shepherd slowly turned to face Seal Bravo and stared at him with unblinking eyes. ‘If you want to pull the trigger then you go right ahead,’ he said. ‘But, just in case you’re wondering, that hard thing pressing against your leg isn’t my cock, it’s my Glock, and if you do shoot me my gun’s going to go off and blow away your nuts. To be honest, I’d rather be dead than live the rest of my life with no balls, but maybe you’re okay with that.’

Seal Bravo took a step back. Shepherd’s MP5 was hanging on its sling and he’d taken his Glock out of its nylon holster and it was now pointing at the soldier’s groin. Shepherd’s finger was tightening on the trigger.

‘Stand down!’ shouted Henderson. ‘Both of you.’

‘Tell him to take his gun away from my neck or I will shoot him,’ said Shepherd.

‘Eddie, stand down,’ said Henderson.

Seal Bravo snarled at Shepherd, but he took another step back and lowered his weapon.

‘Shepherd, if you’ve got a problem with what happened, you take it up with your bosses,’ said Croft. ‘You’ve no jurisdiction here. You’re an observer, you observed, now get back to the chopper or so help me God I’ll leave you here for the Pakistanis to find.’

Shepherd holstered his Glock and walked out of the room.

Henderson followed him. ‘Dan, you’ve got to watch it with these guys. In a war zone they’re a law unto themselves.’

‘So they can get away with murder? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m saying this is their mission; you’re a passenger. If you’ve got a problem with anything you’d better stow it until you’re back home.’

‘What’s his fucking problem?’ growled Seal Bravo. ‘I thought the SAS were special forces, but he’s behaving like a crybaby.’

‘He’s an observer, that’s all,’ said Croft. ‘The Brits insisted he was on the team because they supplied the intel. I told them it would be like mixing oil and water but the top brass said he was in so he’s in. Doesn’t mean we have to like it.’ He looked at his watch. It had been just thirty-four minutes since they had entered the compound. In all the rehearsals they’d done in North Carolina and Afghanistan they’d been in the air and on their way home within thirty minutes.

Seal Echo rolled Bin Laden’s body into the body bag and zipped it up.

‘Take it down to the helo,’ said Croft. Seal Echo and Seal Charlie picked up the body and carried it out.

The Seals by the television had stashed the laptop and the DVDs in their backpacks and were working their way through a stack of magazines and newspapers they’d found in the wooden cupboard.

‘Take it all,’ said Croft. ‘They’ll want to know what he was reading; it’ll give a clue to what he was planning.’ He nodded at Seal Bravo. ‘Five more minutes and we’re out of here,’ he said, then hurried down the stairs.

More Seals were searching the bedrooms. The walls were all concrete and the floors were tiled, which cut down the number of possible hiding places, but they tapped everything with the stocks of the M4s to be sure. They smashed cupboards and tables and used their knives to rip open mattresses.

‘Come on guys, the clock is ticking, mover it!’ he shouted before hurrying down the stairs to the ground floor, with Seal Bravo hard on his heels.

Shepherd stood and watched as four Seals brought half a dozen children out of the compound. They were all barefoot and wearing shabby nightgowns and their hands had been tied behind their backs with flex cuffs. Two of the children were girls who couldn’t have been more than six years old and they were crying uncontrollably. ‘They’re just kids,’ said Shepherd.

‘Kids are as dangerous as adults in this part of the world,’ said Henderson. ‘We have to make sure they’re not a threat.’

The Seals pushed the kids along the perimeter wall to where a group of women and children were sitting. One of the women tried to get up but a Seal pushed her back down with the barrel of his weapon. ‘Stay on the ground!’ he yelled.

The woman screamed at him in Arabic and the Seal prodded her again.

The children ran towards her and sat down around her. The younger ones were crying but one of the boys, barely a teenager, glared sullenly at the Seals. Even though he was standing fifty feet away Shepherd could feel the hatred pouring out of the boy.

Off in the distance, to the west, Shepherd heard the twin rotors of a Chinook helicopter. ‘Cavalry’s on the way,’ he said.

He pulled his night-vision goggles back over his eyes and scanned the night sky. The Chinook was half a mile away, flying low. It was a much bigger helicopter than the Black Hawk and able to carry four times as many troops. It was only slightly slower than the Black Hawk but it didn’t have the Black Hawk’s stealth capabilities and was an easy target, hence the pilot’s decision to fly as low as possible.

The Chinook transitioned into a hover and came in to land about a hundred feet away from the compound. Immediately six Seals jumped out and took up position around the helicopter, guns at the ready.

Four Seals came out of the compound, carrying a white body bag. They were jogging and breathing heavily from the exertion, their faces glistening with sweat.

As they headed towards the Chinook, Croft appeared, followed by half a dozen of his men. They were all carrying black bags stuffed with whatever they’d taken from the building.

The Seals with the body bag dumped it on the ground at the rear of the Chinook as the ramp slowly descended and banged on to the ground.

A medic ran down the ramp and hurried over to the body bag. He unzipped it and then took out a medical kit from a pouch on his belt. He rolled the body over and pulled up the shirt, then stabbed a hypodermic into the base of the spine and carefully extracted more than fifty centilitres of spinal fluid. He put the hypodermic into a plastic case and handed it to a Seal, who jogged over to the Chinook and climbed on board.

Croft and his men hurried up the ramp with their black bags as the medic took another hypodermic and withdrew a second sample of bone marrow, which he put into a plastic case before hurrying back into the rear of the helicopter. The two Seals zipped up the body bag and carried it up the ramp after him. Croft came out of the Chinook and headed back to the entrance of the compound, looking at his watch.

‘Why the two samples?’ asked Shepherd.

‘We’re not home and dry yet,’ said Henderson. ‘Taking two samples gives us twice the chance of getting the DNA back home.’

‘Did you know this was a kill mission, Guy?’ asked Shepherd. Henderson ignored him. ‘What, are you deaf as well as blind?’ said Shepherd.

Henderson shook his head and sighed. ‘You just won’t let it go, will you?’

‘Let it go? We’ve just assassinated five people, and from what I’ve seen only one of them was holding a gun and that gun wasn’t fired. We killed an unarmed woman and shot another in the leg.’

‘You’re just an observer, remember? No one here wanted you to come in the first place.’

‘Yeah, well, if my bosses had known this was going to be a kill mission I don’t see that they’d have sent me,’ said Shepherd. ‘So I’m asking you again, did you know they were going to kill him?’

Henderson turned to look at him. ‘We rehearsed dozens of scenarios. We tried it with booby traps, with return fire, with grenades — they ran us through anything that we might come across, and yes, in a lot of scenarios the targets ended up dead.’

‘And what about rehearsing what just happened? Where not a single shot is fired and Bin Laden is standing unarmed with his hands up?’

‘There was an AK-47 in the bedroom. You saw it.’

‘He wasn’t holding it, Guy. And he didn’t even make a move towards it. He wasn’t resisting. And he was shot twice. A double tap. One in the chest, one in the head. You only do that when you want to be sure of a kill. If Croft was worried about return fire one shot to the arm or leg would have done the trick.’

‘Dan, with the greatest of respect, you weren’t in the room. It was dark, there was a lot going on, they had no reason to know that they weren’t under fire. Plus, you had those screaming women, who could easily have been hiding bombs under their clothes.’

‘That’s bullshit and you know it.’

The twin rotors of the Chinook started to pick up speed.

‘You’re asking me if I knew that they weren’t going to take him alive. I didn’t. That’s God’s truth.’

‘They had a body bag ready, Guy. And a kit to take spinal fluid for a DNA test. They wouldn’t have needed either if he was alive.’

The demolition team came out of the compound. Croft shouted over at Tommy and pointed at the crashed Black Hawk. Tommy flashed him an ‘OK’ sign and ran over to the helicopter with his men close behind.

The co-pilot was already in the cockpit using a hammer to smash the radio and the instrument panel, and any other equipment that the military regarded as classified. America was years ahead of the rest of the world when it came to helicopter technology and the Pakistanis would happily sell anything they found to the highest bidder.

As the co-pilot continued to smash up the cockpit, the three demolition Seals began attaching C4 charges around the Black Hawk, paying particular attention to the engine, the avionics and the rotor head. Tommy shouted for the co-pilot to get clear as the Seals placed the final charges around the undercarriage.

Tommy shouted, ‘Fire in the hole!’ and tossed two thermite grenades inside the belly of the Black Hawk. The Seals all pushed up their night-vision goggles as the helicopter erupted in a ball of flame.

Croft ran over to Henderson. ‘We’ll use the Chinook,’ he said. ‘You and your girlfriend take the Black Hawk. You’ll probably have to refuel over the border.’

Henderson nodded. Croft looked at Shepherd as if he was about to say something but then he appeared to have a change of heart and just shook his head contemptuously before running over to the Chinook. He stood at the rear of the helicopter counting off his men as they approached.

As the final Seal ran up the ramp, Croft clapped him on the shoulder, then he stopped to look at Shepherd. He mouthed an obscenity and gave him the finger, then turned and jogged into the bowels of the helicopter. The ramp at the back slowly rose into place then the turbines roared and the Chinook rose a few feet off the ground. It turned to the east and then sprang forward and leaped into the air.

The remaining Seals were hurrying towards the Black Hawk, bent low as its rotors began to blur.

‘Come on, Dan, I’ve got the feeling that they wouldn’t be heartbroken if we got left behind.’ Henderson slapped Shepherd on the back and the two men ran towards the helicopter, cradling their weapons.

Chaudhry hefted his bike on his shoulder and carried it to his second-floor flat taking care not to mark the wallpaper. There was more than enough room to leave it in the hallway but one of the residents had taken to pushing pins into the tyres of any bike left there overnight as a way of registering displeasure. It was probably the little old lady who lived on the fourth floor. Her name was Mrs Wilkinson and no matter what the time of year she wrapped herself up in a tartan coat and a fur hat. On the rare occasions that she passed him on the stairs she glared at him with open hostility and once he was fairly sure that he’d heard her mutter ‘Paki bastard’. Chaudhry didn’t care; he was twenty-four and over the years he’d heard much worse. Besides, she was in her eighties, born in an era when Britannia truly did rule the waves. He put the bike down in front of the door and fumbled for his keys, but before he could open the lock the door opened. His flatmate, Malik, was standing there, his eyes blazing.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ said Malik.

‘Lectures,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Where do you think?’

Malik stepped to the side and Chaudhry wheeled his bike inside. ‘I’ve been calling you all afternoon.’

‘Yeah, well, I turn my mobile off in lectures,’ said Chaudhry, steering his bike through the narrow hallway. There was a small balcony at the far end of their poky kitchen where they left their bikes.

‘You haven’t heard, have you? You’ve no idea what’s happened?’ Malik was bobbing from side to side like an excited toddler. His first name was Harveer but like many British-born Pakistanis he had adopted a nickname that was easier to remember and everyone other than his immediate family called him Harvey. Chaudhry’s own true name was Manraj, which meant ‘the heart’s king’, but he’d been known as Raj ever since primary school.

‘Heard what?’ said Chaudhry, taking off his safety helmet and putting it on the kitchen table.

‘He’s dead,’ said Malik. ‘He’s fucking well dead. The Sheik. The Americans have killed him. It’s been on the TV all day.’

‘No way!’ said Chaudhry. He took off his grey duffel coat and dropped it on to the back of a wooden chair.

‘Total bloody way,’ said Malik. ‘On every channel, pretty much.’

Chaudhry hurried into their sitting room and dropped down on to the sofa in front of the TV. A blonde newsreader was on the screen. Behind her was a head-and-shoulders photograph of the man himself, his eyes blank, his straggly brown beard streaked with grey, a white skullcap on top of his head: the most hated man in the western world.

‘Navy Seals blew him away,’ said Malik. ‘Shot one of his wives and maybe one of his kids — they’re not sure.’

Chaudhry shook his head in disbelief. ‘It can’t be,’ he said.

‘It’s on all the channels,’ said Malik. ‘Why would they say it if it wasn’t true?’

‘When?’

‘I don’t know. Today. Last night. But he’s dead, Raj. They bloody well killed him.’

‘And it was at the house? The house in Abbottabad?’

Malik nodded enthusiastically. ‘They went in with helicopters. Stormed the compound.’

Chaudhry stared at the television. His whole body was trembling and he clenched his fists, trying to steady himself. ‘That’s not what John said would happen. He said they’d take him out with a Predator. Shoot him from the sky. That’s what John said.’

‘Yeah, well, John’s a British spook and it was the American military who killed him so maybe the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand’s doing.’ Malik’s eyes blazed with a fierce excitement. ‘You know what this means, Raj? We did it. You and me. We killed Bin Laden.’

Chaudhry folded his arms to try to stop them trembling.

‘Don’t you get it, Raj? We’re bloody heroes.’

Chaudhry turned and glared at his flatmate. ‘Are you crazy? Talk like this is going to get us killed.’

‘There’s only you and me here,’ said Malik. ‘What’s crawled up your arse and died?’

‘Have you any idea of the danger we’re in? What if anyone finds out it was us?’

‘How would they find out? On TV the Yanks are claiming the credit for the whole thing.’

‘Then let’s leave it that way. No more cracks about heroes, okay? If anyone asks then it’s Americans murdering Muslims and we need to stand up to them blah blah blah. You got that?’

Malik nodded. ‘I hear you, brother.’

‘Where’s the remote? I want to check the other channels. Let’s see what the BBC are saying.’

Malik groped under a cushion, pulled out the remote and tossed it to Chaudhry. ‘You think we should call John?’

‘Let’s wait until he gets in touch with us,’ said Chaudhry, flicking through the channels.

Shepherd’s BlackBerry rang when he was in a black cab a mile from his rented flat in Hampstead. It was Charlotte Button. He took the call.

‘You’re back, then?’ she said.

‘Almost home,’ he said. ‘I’m in a cab.’

‘We need to talk, obviously.’

‘Yeah. Obviously.’

‘Do you want to do it tonight? I can swing by your place.’

‘It’s a mess,’ said Shepherd. ‘But yes, we need to discuss a few things and the sooner the better.’

‘I didn’t know what was going to happen,’ said Button. ‘You know that if I had known I’d have told you.’

‘Yeah, I’m not sure that the fact they kept you in the dark inspires me with confidence,’ said Shepherd, as the taxi pulled up at a red light.

‘Be with you as soon as I can,’ said Button, ending the call.

Shepherd’s flat had been supplied by MI5 as part of his cover. He was a freelance journalist and the flat was in keeping with a journalist’s lifestyle: a cramped one-bedroom flat in a side road off Hampstead High Street. The taxi dropped him outside and Shepherd paid the driver. The taxi drove off just as Shepherd realised that he hadn’t asked for a receipt and he cursed under his breath.

The flat was in a block built during the sixties to fill the gap left when two mews houses were demolished by a stray German bomb during the Second World War. Shepherd’s flat was on the second floor with a small sitting room overlooking the street, a bedroom at the back, a small shower room and a kitchen that wasn’t much bigger than the shower room.

He let himself in, tapped in the burglar alarm code and then dropped his kitbag behind the sofa before taking a quick shower.

He was combing his still-damp hair when the intercom rang and he buzzed Button in. He had the door open for her when she came up the stairs, and as always there was the briefest hesitation when it came to greeting her. A handshake always seemed too formal but she was his boss and a kiss on the cheek always seemed somehow wrong. She made the decision for him, putting her right hand on his arm and pecking him just once on the cheek.

‘Good to see you back in one piece, Spider,’ she said, moving past him into the hallway. She was wearing a black suit and black heels and her chestnut hair was loose, cut short so that it barely touched her shoulders.

‘I’ve got wine,’ said Shepherd, closing the door. ‘Or are you driving?’

‘I’m being driven,’ said Button. ‘One of the perks. So anything white would be good, preferably without bubbles.’

Shepherd went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. ‘I’ve got Frascati.’

‘No Pinot Grigio?’ asked Button.

‘Sadly, no. I’m a freelance journo, remember?’

‘Then Frascati it is.’

‘Screw top, I’m afraid.’

Button laughed. ‘Corks are overrated.’ She took off her jacket and sat down in an armchair. It and the two-seater sofa were the only places to sit and there was no dining table. ‘Cosy, isn’t it?’ she said as he walked in from the cubbyhole of a kitchen.

‘It’s close to the Heath so I get to run whenever I want to. And it’s close enough to Stoke Newington so that I can be over there in a hurry if necessary.’

‘Have you fixed up a meet with them?’

‘I will do,’ said Shepherd, sitting down on the sofa with the bottle of wine and two glasses. ‘So, you had no idea that they were going to kill him?’ asked Shepherd. ‘No hint? No clue?’

‘How can you even ask that?’ said Button. ‘I was as much in the dark as you were. All I was told was that we could have one operative on the team. My understanding was that providing Bin Laden wasn’t armed he was to be held for interrogation and eventual trial.’

‘He was unarmed,’ said Shepherd. ‘They all were.’

‘There was no firefight? The Americans are saying they came under fire.’

‘The only shots fired were fired by the Yanks,’ said Shepherd as he poured wine into the two glasses. ‘They shot one of his wives and then they shot him. A double tap to make sure. Then they all cheered and did that stupid whooping thing. They shot an unarmed man and then act like they’re bloody heroes. Twats.’

‘I’m sorry it worked out that way, Spider.’

‘You know, it seems to me that we would have been better off sending in the SAS. I said at the time it was a mistake trusting it to the Seals. They like to go in with guns blazing, kill everyone and let God sort them out.’ He shook his head and sneered in disgust.

‘At least you’re back in one piece.’

‘Yeah, well, no thanks to the Yanks. You heard about the helicopter they crashed, right?’

Button nodded.

Shepherd tapped his chest. ‘Well, I nearly bought it when it came close to crashing into the chopper I was in. Missed us by feet. I tell you, if it had hit us it would have been thank you and good night.’

‘What happened?’ She picked up her glass, sniffed the wine, then sipped it.

‘The pilot got too close to the compound wall and the rotor blast got deflected back. Instant loss of lift and down they went. Lucky no one was hurt. I tell you, Charlie, from start to finish it was a disaster. The plan was to lower us by rope inside the compound. The chopper crashes so we’re on the wrong side of the wall. They tried to break down the gate and when that didn’t work they had to use C4 to blow it. By the time we got into the compound every man and his dog for miles must have heard us.’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry. It just pisses me off how badly organised they are. And after all that they still start shooting unarmed men and women. They killed Bin Laden’s son and he didn’t even have a gun. For all I know he could have been surrendering. It was an assassination, nothing less.’

‘There are those that might say it’s better they didn’t take him alive. Can you imagine what al-Qaeda might have done to try to force the Americans to give him back? At least this way that’s not an option.’

‘Yeah? You think there won’t be repercussions? Because I’ll take any bet you want to place. If Bin Laden had come out firing an AK-47 there might have been an argument for shooting him, but he was unarmed and they put a bullet in his chest and one in his head.’ He forced a smile. ‘At least they didn’t shoot me. I guess I should be thankful for small mercies.’ He toyed with his wine glass. ‘So what now?’

‘Business as usual,’ said Button. ‘I need you to hand-hold Chaudhry and Malik. Especially after what’s happened.’

‘I’ll check in by phone tonight and arrange a meeting.’

‘How do you think they’ll react?’

Shepherd grimaced. ‘They’ll be pleased he’s dead; they both hated him for what he’d done. But they’ll wonder why I didn’t give them a heads-up about what was going to happen.’

‘Smooth their feathers,’ she said. ‘Say whatever’s necessary to keep them on track.’

‘I’m not going to lie to them, Charlie.’

She swirled her wine around the glass. ‘No one’s asking you to lie, or even bend the truth. But they’re amateurs doing a very dangerous job and they need the kid-gloves treatment. For instance, probably best not to tell them you were in Pakistan.’

‘I wasn’t planning to,’ said Shepherd. ‘They don’t know about my SAS background.’

‘That’s the way to play it,’ she said. ‘You’re a regular MI5 intelligence officer with undercover experience pretending to be a freelance journalist,’ she said. ‘Anything else will just overcomplicate it.’

‘Let me ask you something,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do you think killing Bin Laden makes it more likely now that Raj and Harvey are going to be put into play?’

‘They were already in play. They’ve been trained in Pakistan; they met with Bin Laden; they’ve been groomed to commit a major terrorist atrocity. It has always been a matter of when and not if. I’m surprised it’s taken as long as it has.’

Shepherd sipped the last of his wine and then refilled their glasses. ‘I just can’t help thinking that killing Bin Laden is like a red rag to a bull. Especially the way they did it. Shooting him in cold blood and dumping his body at sea. If I was a radical Muslim I’d be getting ready to make my point.’

‘But as the Americans are taking the credit, they’ll be the ones suffering the consequences,’ said Button. ‘No one knows of our involvement and the Americans certainly won’t be publicising that you were with the Seal team.’

‘But if al-Qaeda does lash out at the UK, Raj and Harvey could be at the forefront.’

‘We’ll be listening for chatter and the Border Agency is on alert,’ said Button. ‘I think if anything it’ll subdue al-Qaeda for a while. They’ll retrench and regroup.’

‘Would you like a bet on that?’

‘I never gamble, Spider. You know that.’ She raised her glass to him. ‘And seriously, I’m glad you’re okay. I was never convinced that sending you to Pakistan was a good idea but my bosses wanted one of ours on the team. Word had come down from Number Ten.’

‘What, to demonstrate that the special relationship is still there?’

‘Who knows how our masters think?’ said Button. ‘It was probably just to get one over on the French.’ She sipped her wine again. ‘While we’re waiting for Chaudhry and Malik to be put into play there’s another job coming up, if you’re interested.’

‘I get a choice?’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s a change.’

‘It means a secondment to the Met.’

Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’m not investigating cops again,’ he said. ‘I told you after the last time, that’s not what I’m about.’

‘Heard and understood,’ said Button. ‘No, it’s run-of-the-mill bad guys being targeted. And it’ll mean you meeting up with someone from your past. Sam Hargrove.’

It was the last name that Shepherd had expected to hear and he raised his eyebrows.

‘Sam’s found a home in the Met’s Covert Operations Group and needs a hand on an undercover job,’ continued Button. ‘He’s a DCS now. He was still a superintendent when you were with his unit, right?’

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘Good to see him doing so well. Did he ask for me specifically?’

Button shook her head. ‘The Met is stretched, SOCA’s in disarray and the head of Covert Policing Command knows my boss at Five so I think it got discussed over lunch at the Garrick and I was asked to put someone forward. With your police background you were the obvious choice.’

‘Okay,’ said Shepherd hesitantly.

‘Problem?’

‘No, it’s not that. It’s just, you know, the past is a different country. You can’t go back, can you? I left the Met to join SOCA and left SOCA to go to Five. It’s going to feel strange going back to where I started.’

‘It wasn’t that long ago. But if you’ve any reservations, any reservations at all, let me know.’

‘No, it’s all good.’ He nodded. ‘Really. It’ll be interesting to see how the Met’s been getting on without me.’ Shepherd smiled. He wasn’t worried about working with Sam Hargrove again. In fact he was looking forward to it. He’d enjoyed working for Hargrove in the Met’s undercover unit in the days before it had been taken over by SOCA, and there had several times over the past few years when he’d considered giving his former boss a call.

‘Why don’t you sleep on it and if you’re not keen you can let me know tomorrow?’

‘I don’t need to,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’ll be fine. It’s not as if I’m rushed off my feet, is it?’

‘There’s a lot of waiting, that’s true,’ said Button. ‘But I’ve made it clear to Sam that if you are co-opted your Five work takes absolute precedence. If Chaudhry or Malik need you, you drop everything.’

Shepherd nodded and sipped his wine, watching her over the top of his glass. She almost always referred to the men by their family names, almost never as Raj and Harvey. He wondered if it was deliberate and that she was distancing herself from them. And that made him wonder how she referred to him when he wasn’t around. Was he Dan? Or Spider? Or Shepherd?

‘What?’ she said, and he realised that he must have been staring.

He grinned. ‘Nothing, I was just wondering if Jimmy Sharpe would be involved. I haven’t seen him for months but the last I heard was that he was doing some undercover work with the Met.’

‘Well, if he is, give him my best.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’d better be going, I’ve a stack of emails that need answering and I’ve a conference call with Langley in a couple of hours.’

Shepherd slapped his forehead. ‘Damn, I knew I’d forgotten something. I was supposed to Skype Liam.’ He groaned. ‘They’re not allowed to use their laptops after eight. I’ll have to call him tomorrow.’

‘How’s he getting on at boarding school?’

‘Loves it,’ said Shepherd. ‘His grades are improving and he’s really into all the sports. He’s started rock climbing, and that’s something I used to do as a kid so hopefully we’ll get in a few climbs together at some point.’

‘It’s funny how quickly they adapt,’ said Button. ‘My daughter always wanted to go to boarding school. There were a few tears the first week she was away, but these days she can’t wait to get back. It’s a teenage thing, I guess; they’d rather be with their friends.’

‘It works out really well for me,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can take him out any weekend if I want and they’re very relaxed about midweek visits. I try to Skype him every evening but this whole Pakistan thing has meant that I haven’t spoken to him for a week.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘I spoke to him just before I went away, but obviously I didn’t say where I was going, just that I was working and that I probably wouldn’t be able to use my phone or computer. The Yanks were so paranoid they took everything off me as soon as I got to their airbase. They didn’t give me my phone back until I was boarding my plane this morning and by then the battery was dead.’

‘He’ll be okay. He’s used to your absences.’

‘It’s not him I’m worried about,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m the one that misses him, not the other way round.’ He drained his glass. ‘At least I don’t have to nag him to do his homework; the school’s doing a better job of that than I ever did.’

He stood up and showed Button to the door.

‘I’ll get Sam to call you, then,’ she said, heading downstairs before he had time to worry about whether to shake her hand or accept a peck on the cheek.

Shepherd watched the battered black Golf GTI pull into the car park and drive slowly around before parking in the bay furthest away from the M1 motorway. London Gateway services, between junctions two and four north of the capital, was perfect for clandestine meetings. It was a place full of transients: everyone was a stranger and everyone was on the way to somewhere else. London Gateway was just a stopping-off point for a coffee, a toilet break or an expensive and badly cooked meal. Businessmen with mobile phones glued to their ears, chav housewives shepherding unruly broods towards the bathrooms, bald-headed white-van drivers chewing gum and knocking back cans of Red Bull, they all remained the centre of their own universes and showed little if any interest in the people around them.

Miles to the south, moored on the Thames in the centre of the city, was the museum warship HMS Belfast. Shepherd had read somewhere that the warship’s guns were aimed so that their shells, if fired, would fall directly on to the service centre. It was a nugget of information that his perfect memory kept locked away for ever, but for the life of him he had no idea why the centre had been targeted, and could only assume it was a comment on the drab architecture. Or maybe someone had once eaten a bad sausage roll there.

Shepherd climbed out of the Volvo, a three-year-old model from the office pool. He locked the door and walked over to the Golf, whistling softly to himself. He had a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and he kept his head down. He tapped on the rear window of the car and the two men inside jumped as if they’d been stung, then they relaxed as they recognised him.

Shepherd opened the rear door and got in. ‘Harvey, when are you going to get yourself a decent motor?’ he asked, clapping the driver on the back.

‘This, it’s a classic, innit?’ said Malik. It was cold in the car and both men were bundled up, Chaudhry in his duffel coat and Malik in his green parka jacket.

Shepherd pulled on the handle to close the door and it threatened to come away in his hand. ‘It’s a piece of shit,’ he said.

‘So how about your bosses pay for a new motor, then?’ said Chaudhry. ‘There was a reward for Bin Laden, wasn’t there? Twenty-five million bucks. How about sending some of that our way, John?’

John Whitehill was Shepherd’s cover name. It was the only name they would ever know him by. ‘I’ll ask, but the Yanks are taking the credit,’ he said.

‘Yeah, but they know the information came from us, right?’ said Malik, twisting round in his seat.

‘What do you think, Harvey? You think we’ve been shouting your names from the rooftops?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Malik, his cheeks reddening. ‘But Obama knows, right?’

‘Of course Obama doesn’t bloody well know,’ said Shepherd. He ran a hand through his hair, trying not to lose his temper. He forced himself to smile. ‘If the President knew then at least a dozen other people would know, and Washington leaks like a bloody sieve. All the politicians are hand in glove with the media so it wouldn’t take long for the info to go public and then the two of you would be well fucked. I presume you don’t want your names splashed across the New York Times.’

‘But someone knows, right?’ said Malik. ‘We get the credit, right?’

‘We know, Harvey. That’s what matters.’

‘And who is “we”, exactly?’ pressed Malik.

Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked quietly.

‘I’m fine,’ said Malik. ‘I just want some reassurance here that someone else isn’t taking credit for what we did. We found Bin Laden. We found the man the whole world was looking for. And we told you and then the Americans went in and killed him. And nowhere do I hear that it was anything other than an American operation.’

‘Which is what we want. That sort of disinformation keeps you safe. What do you want, Harvey? You want to go and shake hands with Obama in the White House and have him tell you how proud he is?’

‘What I want, John, is a piece of the twenty-five-million reward that the Americans promised.’

‘That was up to twenty-five million,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they do pay it then it’ll be split among everyone involved.’

‘Including the Seals?’ asked Malik.

‘Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘You know the Yanks paid thirty million dollars to one informant who gave up Hussein’s kids,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Uday and Qusay. Remember? The Yanks went in and blew them away too. And like I said, they handed over thirty million dollars to one man.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Google,’ said Raj. ‘It ain’t rocket science.’

‘So do we get a piece of the reward, or not?’ asked Malik.

‘I’ll put out some feelers, Harvey.’

‘Yeah, well, make sure you do. I just worry that what me and Raj did is going to get lost in all that Yank back-slapping.’

‘What you did won’t be forgotten, you have my word.’

‘That and a quid’ll get me on a bus,’ said Malik, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

‘You’re not saying you’re doing it for the money, are you?’

‘Fuck you, John!’ spat Malik. ‘Fuck you and fuck MI5. We put our lives on the line, Raj and me. We spent three months in Pakistan and if we’d put a foot wrong they’d have killed us without blinking an eye. But we went into the lion’s den and we walked out and now it’s like we don’t fucking exist.’ He grunted and pounded his fists against the dashboard.

‘Bloody hell, Harvey. Steady, mate, or you’ll set off the airbag,’ said Shepherd.

Malik grunted again but then began to chuckle. He shook his head as he laughed.

‘You okay, brother?’ asked Chaudhry anxiously.

Malik nodded. ‘Aye, brother, I’m fine.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘I’m fine. It’s been a bit stressful, you know?’

Shepherd patted him on the shoulder. ‘Mate, more than anyone I know what you guys went through and as far as I’m concerned the sun shines out of your arses.’

Chaudhry gestured at the service centre. ‘Can we go and get something to eat? I’m starving.’

‘Not with me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can’t take the risk.’

‘No one knows us this far out of London,’ said Malik.

‘That’s why we’re here,’ said Shepherd. ‘We need to keep our heads down for the next few days. Everyone’s going to be ultra-sensitive so I don’t want anyone spotting us together in a coffee shop or on the Heath.’

‘So we have to drive out here whenever we want to meet?’ asked Malik.

‘Here or somewhere just as safe,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just for the next week or so until it dies down. Look, it’s Sod’s Law: the time you think you’re safest is the time when you bump into someone who recognises you. So we’ll stay right where we are and you can go and have a coffee when I’ve gone.’

‘Why don’t you get us a safe house?’ asked Malik. ‘You people always use safe houses, don’t you?’

‘Horses for courses,’ said Shepherd. ‘But if you were seen going into a strange address then you’d be screwed. This way is best. Not much can go wrong in a service station car park.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Touch wood.’

‘You know what? I’d really like to see inside the MI5 building,’ said Chaudhry. ‘What’s it called again? The one by the Thames?’

‘That’s MI6’s HQ,’ said Shepherd. ‘Vauxhall Bridge. MI5 is at Thames House, in Millbank. It’s not as impressive. Why would you want to look round it?’

Chaudhry shrugged. ‘Dunno. Just be interested to see what the place is like, that’s all.’

‘It’s easily arranged,’ said Shepherd. ‘But best to wait until this is over.’

‘And what happens then?’ asked Malik. ‘When we’re done with this?’

‘What do you mean?’

Malik looked at Chaudhry, then back at Shepherd. ‘What happens to us? We get the reward, right? Do we get new identities? Witness protection?’

‘Have you two been discussing this?’ asked Shepherd.

‘We were wondering what you’d got planned,’ said Chaudhry.

‘What do you want to happen, Raj?’

‘Other than the reward, you mean?’ Chaudhry smiled. ‘I’m joking. I just want this to be over, John. I want be a doctor; I want to help people.’

‘You should think about joining MI5,’ said Shepherd. ‘Or the police. Once this is over you could write your own ticket.’

‘Be a professional liar? Because that’s what I’ve been doing for the last twelve months. I’m sick of it. Sick of the lies, sick of playing a part. I want my life back.’ He grinned. ‘And the reward, of course.’

‘You’ll get your life back, I can promise you that,’ said Shepherd. ‘But that’s why we have to keep you both deep undercover at the moment. Once the operation’s over we pull you out, you move on and do whatever you want to do. But no one must ever know.’

‘That’s for sure,’ said Malik. ‘If anyone at the mosque knew about us they’d hack off our heads with a blunt knife.’

‘That’s not going to happen, Harvey,’ said Shepherd. ‘And most of the guys at your mosque would be as appalled as anyone about what’s being planned.’

‘Yeah, but they’d see us as traitors for spying on our own.’

Shepherd didn’t like the way the conversation was going. It was vital that the two men concentrated on what they were doing and not on what the possible repercussions were. The more they considered the downside, the more likely it was that they would become nervous and make mistakes. ‘Guys, you’re doing a great job and we’re on the home stretch. What you’re doing is going to save a lot of people.’

‘But no one can ever know, right?’ said Malik.

‘The people who matter will know,’ said Shepherd. ‘And afterwards, doors are going to be opened for you. Like I said, you’ll be able to write your own ticket. If you want a job within the security services I doubt that’d be a problem. They’d bite your hand off.’

‘I don’t wanna be no spy,’ said Malik.

‘Brother, you’ve already crossed that bridge,’ said Chaudhry. He laughed and squeezed his shoulder. ‘That’s what we’ve been doing for the last year. But go on, tell John what it is you want out of life.’

Malik shook his hand away. ‘Stop taking the piss.’

‘Harvey wants his own restaurant.’

‘Seriously?’ said Shepherd.

Malik nodded enthusiastically. ‘Japanese. I love sushi, the whole raw-fish thing. I was telling Raj that if we get the reward for Bin Laden I’m going to open one up. Fly in the best chefs from Japan, really go upmarket. You like sushi, John?’

‘It’s okay. I prefer my food cooked, though. I like that thing the Japanese do, cooking the stuff in front of you with the flashing knives. Food and theatre combined.’

‘Teppanyaki,’ said Malik. ‘Yeah, I thought I’d do that too, concentrating on seafood. Lobster, prawns.’

‘You’ve given a lot of thought to it,’ said Shepherd.

‘My plan was to get my master’s then try to get a job with one of the big restaurant groups, but now I’m thinking about my own restaurant. That would be something, right?’

‘It’d be great,’ agreed Shepherd. A white Transit van pulled up close by and parked with its engine running. Shepherd sat back and looked over at the driver. He was shaven-headed with a mobile phone pressed to his ear and as Shepherd watched he pulled out a copy of the Sun and spread it across the steering wheel. Shepherd relaxed. ‘So what was the buzz after everyone heard what had happened in Pakistan?’ he asked.

‘In the mosque?’ said Chaudhry. ‘Mostly they thought it was a lie. They don’t believe anything the Americans say these days. I kept hearing that it was all bullshit and that Bin Laden’s been dead for years.’

‘What?’

‘I shit you not. The Americans have been caught out lying too many times. And, to be honest, until I met the man I thought he was a myth too. I figured that he’d died in the caves in Afghanistan years ago. But it’s not like I can tell the brothers in the mosque that, is it? So they reckon that the Americans had been using Bin Laden as an excuse to invade Muslim countries and now that they’re pulling out of Iraq and Afghanistan they don’t need the myth any more. So they tell the world that he’s dead and that they buried the body at sea.’

‘It’s a nice story,’ said Shepherd. ‘Most conspiracy theories are.’

‘The same brothers don’t believe that Bin Laden was behind Nine-Eleven either,’ said Malik. ‘They say it was all an American-Zionist plot.’

‘There’re plenty of Americans who believe that too,’ said Shepherd. ‘But why would the Americans kill their own people?’

‘For oil,’ said Malik. ‘You think they care about their own people? How many of their soldiers have died in Iraq? Five thousand or so, right? Plus how many Iraqis? A million? You think with numbers like that they’d worry about how many were in the Twin Towers? And you know that at first Bin Laden denied having anything to do with Nine-Eleven, right?’

‘There was a lot of confusion in the early days,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I don’t think there’s much doubt now. You should have asked the man himself when you had the chance.’

Malik snorted. ‘We weren’t allowed to ask anything,’ he said. ‘They were very clear on that before they took us in to see him. No questions, no speaking unless he spoke to us, minimum eye contact, never contradict him.’

‘He knows that, Harvey,’ said Chaudhry. ‘He debriefed us, remember?’ He turned round to look at Shepherd. ‘There are those who don’t believe that Bin Laden died in that raid, but there are others who see it as yet another American attack on Islam. And the Pakistani brothers are the most fired up because of the way they flew in without telling anybody. Some of them are talking about it as if it was an invasion.’

‘Which it bloody well was,’ said Malik.

‘But you can see why it had to be done that way,’ said Chaudhry, turning back in his seat. ‘If they’d told the Pakistanis then someone would have tipped off Bin Laden.’

‘But if they’d done an air strike or something it wouldn’t have looked so bad,’ said Malik. ‘Flying in troops was like invading the country, wasn’t it?’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Do you know why they didn’t do an air strike, John?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Mate, that’s well above my pay grade,’ he said.

‘Yeah, but you must have an opinion. Why would they piss around with helicopters and guns and that? Why not use one of them Predator things?’

‘Maybe they wanted to make sure,’ said Shepherd. It was something he’d asked Charlotte Button when she’d first told him that he would be going on the mission as an observer. Usually the Americans preferred to strike from the sky using the unmanned drones that were piloted from the other side of the world. Malik had referred to the Predator but the American military’s death-dealer of choice was now the Reaper, bigger and faster than the Predator and able to stay in the air for more than twelve hours before firing its fourteen Hellfire missiles. Button had explained that the Americans wanted to collect DNA evidence to make absolutely sure that they had the right man, but that hadn’t made sense to Shepherd, especially when the Seals had gone and buried the body at sea. A body was proof of death, a DNA sample wasn’t. ‘Also they’re saying that there were women and children in buildings nearby.’

‘That’s never worried them before, has it?’ said Malik.

‘You know, the Americans are a law unto themselves,’ said Shepherd. ‘The important thing is that he’s dead. And the fact that he’s dead makes it much more likely that they’ll do something with you guys, sooner rather than later.’

‘You think?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘Al-Qaeda will want revenge, there’s no question of that,’ said Shepherd. ‘And you guys are in place.’

‘At what point do you arrest them?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘That’s above my pay grade too,’ said Shepherd.

‘But they’ll stop them before anyone gets hurt, won’t they?’

‘I’m sure they will,’ said Shepherd.

‘What about if we wore a wire or something?’ said Malik. ‘Wouldn’t that help? We could record Khalid talking about what he wanted us to do — that would be conspiracy, wouldn’t it?’

‘And what if they found the wire?’ said Chaudhry.

‘Why would they find it?’ He looked at Shepherd. ‘They’re really small, aren’t they? They can put them in buttons, can’t they? Cameras too.’

‘Raj is right,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’d be taking too much of a risk. And Khalid is very unlikely to start revealing his plans all of a sudden; he’s only ever going to tell you what you need to know. He’ll give you the mushroom treatment.’

Malik frowned. ‘Mushroom treatment? What’s that?’

Chaudhry laughed. ‘It’s when they keep you in the dark and feed you bullshit,’ he said. ‘And John’s right. That’s how terrorist cells work: the upper echelons restrict the information that goes to the individual cells. That way the damage is limited if a cell is blown.’ He nodded at Shepherd. ‘Right?’

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself, Raj,’ said Shepherd. ‘But even a tape of Khalid saying what he wants to do isn’t enough. He could claim to be a fantasist, he could say that he was joking, or that you were acting as an agent provocateur. We need him with weapons, or bombs — hard evidence that no jury can ignore. So we just carry on playing the waiting game.’

‘And you have him under surveillance all the time, right?’ said Malik.

‘Best you don’t know about the operational details,’ said Shepherd.

‘Now who’s treating us like mushrooms?’ said Malik.

‘There’s a difference, Harvey,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m doing it because I’ve got your best interests at heart. I’m on your side. Khalid just wants to use you.’

Even as the words were leaving his lips, Shepherd wondered just how truthful he was being. Yes, he was looking out for the two men and didn’t want them in harm’s way, but he was also being very selective about what he was telling them and in that respect he wasn’t much different from the men planning to use them as terrorists.

‘You’re doing a great job, and I’m watching your backs every step of the way,’ he said, smiling confidently.

Chaudhry and Malik joined the queue of men, mainly Pakistani, waiting to enter the Musallaa An-noorthe mosque in Dynevor Road. It was close to where they lived and catered for mainly Pakistani Muslims, with room for about a hundred worshippers at any one time. They nodded to those that they recognised but didn’t talk to anyone. The man in front of them was in his seventies, wearing a grey dishdash and a crocheted skullcap. He flicked a cigarette butt into the street before heading through the door at the side of a run-down sportswear shop. Chaudhry and Malik went down the stairs after him, keeping their hands on the walls either side for balance. At the bottom of the stairs they slipped off their shoes and put them in one of the wooden racks by the door. They were both dressed comfortably but respectfully in long-sleeved shirts and trousers and they were wearing ties. It had been drummed into Chaudhry as a child that the mosque was a place where men went to commune with Allah and that it was important to dress accordingly. But as he looked around he could see that most of the Muslims who had come to pray had not had the same upbringing. There were men in grimy sweatshirts and loose tracksuit bottoms, loose shirts and baggy jeans, stained overalls; there were even two teenagers wearing football shirts and shorts who were obviously on their way to a match. They were both chewing gum, and Chaudhry considered going over to them and admonishing them but he knew that it wasn’t his place to do that. He was there to pray, not to get into arguments with Muslims who should know better.

At just after sunset it was time for the Maghrib prayers, the fourth of five formal daily prayers that every good Muslim carries out. The man standing directly in front of Chaudhry rolled up his jeans to make it easier to kneel when praying, but he did it casually, one leg rolled right up to the knee, the other to mid-calf, and when he did kneel the jeans rode down and revealed his underwear. Chaudhry shook his head at the lack of respect.

He looked over at Malik and nodded at the uneven trousers of the man in front of them. Malik grinned. Like Chaudhry he had been born in Britain to hard-working middle-class Pakistani parents and had been brought up to respect the sanctity of the mosque.

The man’s toenails were long and yellowing and there was dirt under them. Chaudhry shuddered. He could never understand why people who followed a religion where shoes were always being removed didn’t make more of an effort to take care of their feet. It didn’t take much to clip nails and to wash before heading to the mosque. He took a deep breath and looked away. There was no point in worrying about the personal grooming habits of others.

He knelt down and began to pray. As his face got close to the prayer mat the stench of sweat and tobacco hit him and his stomach lurched. Whoever had last been on the mat had obviously been a heavy smoker and hadn’t been overzealous on the personal-hygiene front. He sat back on his heels and sighed.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Malik.

‘The mat stinks,’ said Chaudhry. ‘What’s wrong with people? Why can’t they shower before they come to pray? Or at least spray on some cologne.’

‘Do you want to move? There are spaces at the back.’

Chaudhry looked over his shoulder. The mosque was busy and moving would mean threading their way through the rows and even then he couldn’t see two places together. ‘I’ll put up with it,’ he said. ‘But I don’t understand why the imams don’t say something.’

‘I think they’re more worried about numbers than hygiene,’ whispered Malik. ‘Come on, let’s finish and get out.’

Chaudhry nodded and began to pray, as always forcing himself to concentrate on the words even though he had said them tens of thousands of times before. He knew that many of the men around him were simply going through the motions, their lips moving on autopilot while their minds were elsewhere, their thoughts on their work, on their families, or more likely on what they were missing on television or on what they would be eating for dinner. That wasn’t how Chaudhry had been brought up to pray. Prayer was the time when one communed with Allah and to do it half-heartedly was worse than not doing it at all. Not that he found it a chore. In fact he relished the inner peace that came with focused prayer, the way that all extraneous thoughts were pushed away, all worries, all concerns, all fears. All that mattered were the prayers, and once he had begun he wasn’t even aware of the stench of stale sweat and cigarette smoke.

When they finished they made their way out and slipped on their shoes. They headed up the stairs and out into Dynevor Road. It was a cold day and Malik pulled up the fur-lined hood of his parka as they turned right towards their flat, but they stopped when they heard a voice behind them.

‘Hello, brothers.’

They turned round. It was Kamran Khalid, their friend and mentor. And the man who had sent them to Pakistan for al-Qaeda training. Khalid was tall, just over six feet, and stick-thin. He had a close-cropped beard and a hooked nose between piercing eyes that rarely seemed to blink.

‘Brother,’ said Chaudhry, and Khalid stepped forward and hugged him, kissing him softly on both cheeks. He did the same with Malik.

Khalid claimed to be from Karachi but never spoke about his family or schooling in Pakistan. He spoke good English, albeit with a thick accent, but Chaudhry had also heard him talking in Arabic on several occasions. As far as the authorities were concerned, Khalid was an Afghan, a refugee from the Taliban. He had claimed that his family had been massacred by Taliban tribesmen and that had been enough to get him refugee status and eventually citizenship, but Chaudhry doubted that he was an Afghan. On the few occasions that he’d talked to Khalid about his background, the man had been vague rather than evasive and had smoothly changed the subject.

‘All is well?’ asked Khalid, addressing them both.

Chaudhry and Malik nodded. ‘We are all in mourning for what happened,’ said Chaudhry, keeping his voice low.

Khalid smiled tightly. ‘At least we know that The Sheik is in Paradise reaping the rewards of a holy life. And how lucky were you to be blessed by the man himself.’

‘There will be retribution, won’t there?’ asked Chaudhry.

Khalid smiled easily, showing abnormally large teeth that were gleaming white and almost square. ‘Not here, brothers,’ he whispered. ‘Walk with me.’

He took them along to Stoke Newington High Street and into a Turkish-run coffee shop. The Turks ran most of the restaurants and shops in the area and they guarded their territory jealously, which was why none of the major chains were represented. It was clammy and hot inside the shop and Malik and Chaudhry took off their coats. Khalid waited until a young Turkish boy had set down three espressos on their table and gone back to the cash register before leaning across the table and addressing them in a hushed voice. ‘The Americans will pay, the British will pay, they will all pay,’ he said.

Chaudhry could see the irony in the fact that all three of them were British citizens, but it was clearly lost on Khalid. No matter how long he lived in the UK, Khalid would never think of himself as British. The British, like the Americans, were the enemy.

‘Do you know what happened, brother?’

‘I know that The Sheik died bravely with the name of Allah on his lips,’ said Khalid. ‘And that the kafir that killed him will burn in hell for all eternity.’

‘How did they know where he was?’ asked Malik.

‘They are saying that a courier led them to the compound, but who knows? The Americans always lie. And they have satellites in the sky that can read a number plate. Or it could have been the Pakistani military who betrayed him.’

‘You think they knew he was there?’

‘How could they not, brother? He was not in London, where strangers are ignored. People would see who came and went. Do you think they would not ask who was living behind such high walls?’

‘But why would they betray him?’

Khalid shrugged. ‘For money. For influence. Who knows?’

‘May they also burn in hell,’ said Malik.

‘Inshallah,’ agreed Khalid. God willing.

Chaudhry stirred two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. ‘And what about us, brother?’ he asked. ‘How much longer must we wait?’

‘Not much longer,’ said Khalid. ‘Your impatience is understandable but you are resources that must not be squandered. You will not be used until the time is right.’

‘And how will we be used?’ asked Malik. ‘Can you at least tell us that?’

‘When I know, you will know,’ said Khalid.

‘All the training we did, and yet now it’s as if it never happened,’ said Malik. ‘I had assumed that by this time we’d. .’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

‘Brother, I understand your frustration. But we cannot rush. We never do. That is why we are so successful. We watch, we wait, we bide our time and only when we are sure of victory do we strike. We could give you arms now and tell you to storm the American Embassy and you might kill a few kafirs and it would be a news story for a couple of days, but then life would go on and you would soon be forgotten. That’s not what we are about, brothers. What we want is another Nine-Eleven.’

Malik frowned. ‘Planes, you mean? We’re going to crash planes?’

Khalid looked around as if he feared they were being overheard, then he shook his head. ‘No, brothers. This is not about planes. Nor do we plan to make you martyrs. You are no shahid. You are warriors, warriors who will strike again and again.’ He reached across the table and held each of them by the hand, his nails digging into their flesh. ‘What we are planning, brothers, will change the world for ever, you have my word on that.’

‘When?’ asked Malik.

‘All in good time,’ said Khalid. ‘We will strike when the time is right and not before.’

It was early September when Sam Hargrove called. Shepherd had spent the weekend in Hereford and was on his way back to London when his mobile rang and he took the call using his hands-free. ‘Can you talk?’ asked Hargrove. He spoke with no introduction because he had no way of knowing if Shepherd was alone.

‘I’m driving, but yes, go ahead,’ said Shepherd. ‘Charlie told me back in May that you might be calling.’

‘The operation I’m working on has taken longer than I expected,’ said Hargrove. ‘It’s just about coming together now. Are you in London? Be handy to have a chat.’

‘I’m here most of the time at the moment, so whenever works for you is fine,’ said Shepherd.

‘Sooner rather than later,’ said Hargrove. ‘I don’t suppose I could persuade you to swing by Broadway?’

Broadway was where New Scotland Yard was based, just down the road from St James’s Park tube station.

‘I’d rather not,’ said Shepherd. ‘The job I’m on is local and I’m keeping a low profile.’

‘Where’s your base?’

‘Hampstead.’

‘Anywhere near the King William? A colleague told me that’s a good place for a meet.’

‘No problem. It’s just round the corner from my flat.’

‘We can catch up over a drink,’ said Hargrove. ‘How’s an hour from now for you?’

‘Traffic’s not great,’ said Shepherd, ‘but yeah, I should be able to make it.’

Shepherd ended the call. The traffic wasn’t as bad as he’d thought and he had more than enough time to find a resident’s parking space close to his flat and to grab a Jameson’s and soda and a corner table before Hargrove arrived.

Hargrove seemed a bit heavier since Shepherd had last seen him and his overcoat was a little tighter round his midriff. As he walked into the pub he undid the buttons of his coat and revealed a dark-blue pinstriped suit, a crisp white shirt and a tie with light and dark blue stripes. He looked around, saw Shepherd at the table and waved. He ran a hand through his greying hair as he walked over, and when they shook hands his cuff edged out of his jacket sleeve revealing a gold cufflink in the shape of a cricket bat.

‘You’re looking well,’ said Hargrove.

‘You too,’ said Shepherd. He grinned over at his former boss. ‘You know this is the oldest gay bar in London?’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Hargrove, looking around. There were no women in the pub, although that wasn’t especially unusual for London. But the clientele was mainly under thirty, well groomed and with a fashion sense that was definitely a cut above that found in the average London hostelry. Hargrove chuckled. ‘I see what you mean.’

‘It’s not called the Willie for nothing,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s been an openly gay venue since the 1930s, back in the day when they sent you down for being gay. But they’re not prejudiced, they’ll serve anyone. So what can I get you?’

Hargrove rubbed his stomach. ‘I’ve had to give up the beer,’ he said. ‘Cutting back on the calories. Gin and slimline tonic will be fine. Ice and a slice.’

He took off his coat, draped it over the back of a chair and sat down. He was adjusting the creases of his trousers when Shepherd returned with his drink.

‘Still running?’ asked Hargrove.

‘I’m on the Heath every day, pretty much.’

‘You still doing that thing with a rucksack full of bricks?’

‘Builds stamina,’ said Shepherd. He clinked his glass against Hargrove’s. ‘Anyway, good to see you.’

‘And you,’ said Hargrove. The two men drank. Hargrove smacked his lips and put down his glass. He patted his stomach again. ‘I’m going to have to start doing something.’

‘Running is good,’ said Shepherd. ‘With or without the bricks.’

‘It’s the wife that’s the problem,’ said Hargrove, stretching out his legs. ‘She’s been watching all those cooking shows. Loves Gordon Ramsay. Anyway, she started cooking herself and went on a few courses and I have to say she’s brilliant. She was always a good cook but this last year she’s moved up to a whole new level. Can’t remember the last time I ate out. It’s like having my own Michelin-starred restaurant. But I hate to think what my cholesterol levels are like.’ He sipped his gin and tonic. ‘So how are things with the fragrant Charlotte Button?’

‘We have our ups and downs, but generally it’s good,’ said Shepherd. ‘The last year I’ve been hand-holding a couple of guys who are undercover. They’re amateurs so I have to watch them every step of the way.’

‘That’ll be a change for you, seeing life from the other side.’

‘Tell me about it. I hadn’t realised just how much ego-stroking had to be done.’

‘You never needed much,’ said Hargrove. ‘I nearly gave you a call when I heard you were leaving SOCA but then you decided to go with her to Five and I figured it would be disrespectful to poke my nose in.’

‘I’m happy enough,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s a bigger canvas and a lot less PC.’ He grinned. ‘And not much in the way of paperwork.’

‘Yeah, that’s more than fifty per cent of the job these days,’ agreed Hargrove. ‘Ticking boxes and meeting targets. But I have more freedom than most.’

‘Still undercover operations, right?’

‘I head up the Covert Operations Group,’ said Hargrove. ‘COG. We form part of the Covert Policing Command which is the old Criminal Intelligence Branch. Basically my task is to control all undercover operations throughout the Met. Any of the boroughs can call on us, though all requests are dealt with through SCD. Recently they’ve been subcontracting us out to other Forces and between you and me I think the long-term aim is to make the COG a national unit but controlled by the Met. Basically to do the job that SOCA was supposed to do.’

‘SOCA was a total waste of time,’ said Shepherd. ‘I should never have joined.’

‘To be honest, you weren’t given much of a choice,’ said Hargrove, adjusting his immaculate cuffs. ‘Still, what’s done is done. I hear you’re doing great things at Five. And Charlotte seems well pleased with you.’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘They keep me busy,’ he said.

‘And they let you out of the country.’

Shepherd steepled his fingers under his chin as he studied Hargrove. He knew the policeman well, trusted him without question, but working for MI5 brought with it a whole new degree of security. He didn’t know what Hargrove’s clearance was and until he did there was no way he could talk about any MI5 operations, past or present. ‘I’ve been getting around,’ he said.

‘How’s your boy? He must be — what, thirteen now?’

‘He’s fine. He wanted to go to boarding school so it’s all worked out well.’ He sat back in his chair.

‘You still living in Ealing?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘We moved to Hereford a few years ago.’

‘To be near the Regiment?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘No, that’s where Liam’s grandparents live. It made more sense to be closer to them.’

‘So you commute, back and forth?’

‘Depends on the job. Most of the work involves deep undercover roles and they usually come with accommodation. Now that Liam’s boarding it’s less of an issue.’

‘Well, you’ll be glad to hear that the operation I need help with is a bit closer to home. Birmingham, in fact. That’s only fifty miles or so from Hereford.’

‘The job I’m on is in London. Did Charlie explain that if I need to get back at short notice I’ll have to drop everything?’

‘She made that clear. I don’t see that as a problem, if all goes to plan you’ll only have to put in a couple of appearances. A cameo, you might say.’

‘The problem I have is that I never know when it might kick off. It’s very much a long-term thing but when it does start to go it’ll probably do so very quickly.’

‘We can work around that,’ said Hargrove. ‘What is it, terrorism?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Couple of guys in a London mosque were recruited into an al-Qaeda cell. I was drafted in early on because they are total virgins. They’ve been groomed and trained and done the Pakistan training camp bit but since then they’ve been put into cold storage. To be honest, I’m starting to wonder if they’ve been rumbled. But until we know either way we’re just watching and waiting.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Truth be told, I’ve been on more exciting jobs so I’m more than happy to work with you. What’s the story?’

‘Simple enough,’ said Hargrove. ‘You’ve heard of the English Defence League, right? There’re a couple of guys in an EDL offshoot in Birmingham looking to buy guns. We’ve got an inside track and need someone to play the part of the arms dealer. It’s a role you’ve played before with some success.’

‘I remember,’ said Shepherd.

‘We don’t need much in the way of a legend,’ said Hargrove. ‘You’ll be brought in as a London arms dealer through the contact we already have in place. I thought we might pull in your teammate Jimmy Sharpe.’

‘Razor? He’s working for you?’

‘Joined my team three months ago,’ said Hargrove. ‘Since he left SOCA he’s been rattling around the Met and no one really knew what to do with him. They offered him a retirement package but he turned that down and then they sent him to me.’

‘He’s a good operator,’ said Shepherd.

‘One of the best. It’s just that he’s old school and the world has changed.’ He drained his glass.

‘You’re prospering,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m management so it’s easier for me. I follow the rules, see which way the political wind is blowing and go with it, and I make sure that all my boxes are ticked. If I don’t screw up I could go up another rung before retirement, maybe two. That’ll do me, Spider. I already have my cottage in Norfolk and my flat near Lords and a Cordon Bleu cook to wait on me hand and foot, so all’s right with the world.’

‘It’ll be good to work with Razor again.’

‘Well, he’s the perfect fit for this job. The guy we have in place is young but experienced. He’s involved in the long-term penetration of right-wing groups. To be honest, he’s been undercover too long and wants out so he can probably appear in court to give evidence, which gives us a huge advantage.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’ll put you together with Razor and we’ll see what we can put together by way of samples. Then the inside man can fix up a meeting with the buyers and we’ll take it from there.’ Hargrove grinned. ‘It’s good to be working with you again, Spider. The old team back in harness.’

Shepherd grinned back. ‘I was just thinking exactly the same thing,’ he said. He held up his empty glass. ‘One for the road?’

Hargrove looked at his watch. ‘Would love to but I have to get back. The wife is doing something special with duck tonight.’ He stood and picked up his coat. ‘I’ll be heading up to Birmingham in a couple of days and it’d be handy if you could come with me. Bit of a briefing with the locals and it’ll give you a chance to have a sit-down with Razor.’

A young man in a leather jacket smiled at Hargrove and raised his martini glass.

Hargrove smiled and nodded, then he patted Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘Next time I’ll let you suggest the venue.’

‘I still don’t see why Mohammed can’t come to the mountain,’ said Sharpe as he walked out of Starbucks and onto Hampstead High Street. It was Friday morning and the sky overhead was threatening rain.

‘Now what are you moaning about?’ said Shepherd.

They were both carrying coffees. Hargrove had sent Shepherd a text saying that he was on his way and Shepherd was holding two coffees, a regular for himself and a latte for the chief superintendent.

‘Why are we having to schlep up to Birmingham?’ said Sharpe. ‘There’re three of us; why can’t the undercover guy come down to London?’

‘To be honest, I don’t want to be going into New Scotland Yard unless I have to,’ said Shepherd. ‘And Hargrove said that the West Midland cops don’t want any of their intel leaving their office.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense,’ said Sharpe. He sipped his coffee and looked at his wristwatch, a cheap Casio. ‘What are they saying? They don’t trust the Met?’

‘It’s that whole right-wing thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s not unknown for cops to be supportive of organisations like the BNP and EDL. From what Hargrove was saying, it looks as if they’re not even putting their intel on to the computer.’

‘So have they checked us out, do you think? To make sure we haven’t got any right-wing sympathies.’

‘Clearly not,’ said Shepherd, ‘or they wouldn’t be letting you loose on their precious operation.’

‘I resent that remark,’ said Sharpe. He grinned. ‘Anyway, I’m a changed man, haven’t you heard? I’ve been on all the diversity courses going and passed with flying colours. I fully understand the role that the police service of the twenty-first century has in maintaining productive and respectful relationships with the various ethnic components of the community.’ He laughed. ‘Load of bollocks.’ He was about to say more when Hargrove’s black Vauxhall Vectra appeared at the end of the road.

‘Here we go,’ said Shepherd.

‘I thought he’d have a driver,’ said Sharpe.

‘I think the days of drivers for senior officers are long gone,’ said Shepherd.

The car pulled up next to them. Shepherd climbed into the front while Sharpe got into the back. Hargrove was wearing a dark-blue suit and had put the jacket on a hanger on the hook at the rear passenger side. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he said.

Shepherd gave Hargrove his coffee and he slotted it into a cup-holder before putting the car into gear and pulling away from the kerb. The drive from London to Birmingham took just under two hours, during which time Hargrove briefed them on the West Midlands operation, which had been codenamed Excalibur. The Major Investigations Unit had targeted a dozen right-wing activists in Birmingham, most of whom were members of the English Defence League. The investigation had begun in 2010 and had initially been little more than low-level intelligence gathering. But following the countrywide riots and looting the activists had started talking about arming themselves. Several had already acquired handguns but at least two of the men under investigation were now looking to buy more serious weaponry. According to the undercover cop that Hargrove had in place, they wanted AK-47s.

‘Why would anyone want an AK-47?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Birmingham is right up there with London and Manchester when it comes to guns on the streets,’ said Hargrove. ‘Most of the illegal guns are in the hands of gang members and there are already plenty of AK-47s, Uzis and Ingrams knocking around.’

‘So what do you think’s going on? Are these guys planning to take on the gangs, is that it?’

‘Our man doesn’t know why they want the guns. Self-protection, maybe. Could be they just want to pose for pictures on their Facebook pages. Hopefully when we throw you into the mix we’ll be able to find out what their intentions are.’

They turned off the A41 and arrived at Lloyd House, the headquarters of West Midlands Police. Hargrove’s car had been approved for secure parking and they went through a rear door from the car park and along a corridor to a main reception area, where Hargrove showed his warrant card. Ten minutes later they were in a fourth-floor meeting room drinking watery coffee with a uniformed superintendent and a plainclothes sergeant in a grey suit that appeared to be two sizes too large for him. They made uncomfortable small talk while they waited for the undercover officer to arrive. The superintendent, Richard Warner, was in his early fifties, grey-haired and wearing thick-lensed spectacles.

They were halfway through the coffee, and the small talk had pretty much dried up, when the door to the meeting room opened. Jimmy Sharpe grinned and cursed under his breath when he recognised the new arrival. ‘Ray Fenby,’ he said. ‘Bloody hell, it’s a small world.’

He stood up and embraced the man. Fenby, in his early twenties, was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and camouflage cargo pants. His head was shaved and as he hugged Sharpe, Shepherd saw that he had MILL tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand and WALL on the left.

‘How’s it going, Razor?’ said Fenby.

‘I didn’t realise you knew each other,’ said Hargrove.

‘We worked on a SOCA case two years ago,’ said Sharpe, releasing his grip on the younger man. ‘Just after he left school.’

Fenby chuckled and ran a hand over his shaved head. ‘I’m twenty-four,’ he said.

Sharpe grabbed him by the back of the neck and gave him a good-natured shake. ‘He was wearing his school blazer the first time we met.’

‘We were in a pub,’ said Fenby. ‘And the way I remember it, you didn’t even buy a round.’ Fenby glanced shamefacedly at the uniformed superintendent. ‘Sorry, sir.’

The superintendent smiled amiably. ‘Take a seat, Ray,’ he said. Fenby shook hands with Shepherd and introduced himself.

‘Ray was one of a group of officers in training who were pulled out of Hendon and seconded to the Football Intelligence Unit,’ Hargrove explained to Shepherd. ‘We’ve drafted him into the Covert Operations Group and he’s been part of Operation Excalibur from the start.’ Hargrove smiled at the uniformed superintendent. ‘Over to you, Superintendent.’

Superintendent Warner nodded and reached for an open laptop that was connected to a projector. He launched a PowerPoint presentation and clicked on the first slide. Two surveillance photographs filled the screen. ‘Simon Kettering and Paul Thompson. They were big wheels in the EDL, especially on the fundraising side. They’re not your usual right-wing extremist thug. They wear suits, they drive nice cars, they’re well spoken, they have no criminal records. In fact if it wasn’t for Ray here they wouldn’t even be on our radar. They always maintained a low profile when they were with the EDL but they now appear to be heading up their own splinter group. And before anyone asks, it doesn’t seem to have a name. It’s just a group of like-minded people who get together from time to time. Ray has spent some time penetrating this group, and it looks as if he has been accepted. And last week he came to us with the news that two of the men want to buy weapons. Serious weapons. They have been talking about AK-47s and Uzis.’

He tapped the keypad and another picture flashed on to the screen. Kettering and Thompson sitting outside a wine bar with a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. Both men were smoking large cigars.

‘To any outside observer the two of them seem to be nothing more than a couple of yuppies.’

He clicked the mouse several times and they looked at a succession of photographs, mostly taken with a long lens. Kettering getting into a Porsche. Thompson getting out of a Mini Cooper. The two of them at a football match, shouting and punching the air.

‘But there is a darker side to them,’ said the superintendent. He clicked the mouse again and a photograph that had been taken from CCTV footage popped up. It was grey and grainy, almost as if it had been taken in thick fog. It showed two men in suits kicking a man on the ground. ‘We are fairly sure that this is the two of them attacking an Asian teenager three months ago. The CPS say the footage we have isn’t good enough for a positive identification but they were heard boasting about the attack.’

Another click of the mouse brought up a montage of sixteen photographs of young men — all of them white and aged between twenty and forty. More than half had shaved heads.

‘We have identified these sixteen men as being close to Kettering and Thompson. Between them they have more than fifty convictions for assault, racial abuse and threatening behaviour, mainly against members of the Asian community. Most have been photographed at BNP and EDL demonstrations and are regular posters on anti-Islamic and anti-Asian internet forums. I should make it clear at this point that neither Kettering nor Thompson has ever been charged or convicted of any offence and so we don’t have fingerprints or DNA on file. We think that’s because they’re smarter than the average right-wing thug.’

He clicked the mouse for a final time. The logo of West Midlands Police filled the screen along with the motto, ‘Serving our communities, protecting them from harm.’

Sharpe put a hand up to scratch his cheek as he attempted to suppress a grin and Shepherd turned away so that he didn’t have eye contact because he was sure that Sharpe was about to wink at him. Shepherd knew that Sharpe had nothing but contempt for cops who thought that their job was to serve. In Sharpe’s view, the police were there to catch criminals and everything else should be left to Social Services.

‘So as of today we have a total of eighteen suspects under investigation here in the West Midlands. As regards the sixteen faces I showed you, the CPS is satisfied that we have enough evidence to charge them with conspiracy to commit various illegal acts, including assault and arson. But we don’t have anything yet to pin on Kettering and Thompson and until we do I’m reluctant to charge anybody. Once we start making arrests they’re going to realise that we’ve had a man on the inside so the investigation will have to come to an end. So we need to make sure that we have enough to convict Kettering and Thompson.’ He smiled at Hargrove. ‘Which is hopefully where your team comes in.’

Hargrove nodded. ‘Happy to help,’ he said.

‘On several occasions Kettering and Thompson have talked about buying a high-powered weapon and if we can get them in possession then we can put them behind bars for a few years at least. And once we have them in custody we hope to turn one of their friends and get evidence of their involvement in the racial attack.’ The superintendent gestured at Fenby. ‘Ray has let them know that he has contacts in London who have access to guns. Kettering and Thompson have expressed interest but want a good look at any weapons on offer. But let the man himself do the talking.’ He nodded at Fenby.

The undercover officer cleared his throat nervously. ‘They want big stuff, AK-47s, and they keep talking about the guns that the armed cops use, the Heckler amp; Koch MP5.’

‘And have they said what they want to do with the weapons?’ asked Hargrove.

‘They keep their cards close to their chest,’ said Fenby. ‘Kettering and Thompson are tight. They might even be partners, in a sexual sense. They’re not overtly gay and I’ve seen them with girls but there’s something weird about the two of them when they’re together. They finish each other’s sentences; they mimic each other’s body language.’ He shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s weird. It’s taken me months to get close to them but they’re still cagey when I’m around. Those faces you saw represent most of the group that they hang around with, but there’s a lot of coming and going. I’m in pretty tight with three guys I met through football but they’re not much closer to Kettering and Thompson than I am. They seem to keep everyone at a distance.’

‘How did Kettering and Thompson come to know that you had arms-dealer connections?’ asked Hargrove.

‘The guys I was hanging with started talking about guns. They wanted to know how to get their hands on some and I thought they meant handguns so I began to tell them a few stories about south London, how you could go into a pub and buy a gun for a century, and their ears pricked up. A couple of days later I was in a club and Kettering pulls me to one side and asks me if I know anyone who can supply guns and I took it from there.’

‘And where do you stand at the moment?’

‘I’ve said I know a couple of guys in London and that I’ll see if I can get some prices.’

‘You’re okay with that?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Might be safer if you make us friends of friends, that way you don’t have to know our shoe sizes and dates of birth.’

‘I don’t think they’ll go with complete outsiders,’ said Fenby. ‘I’ll have to vouch for you personally.’

‘They’ll trust you with this?’ asked Shepherd.

Fenby shrugged again. ‘They’ve no reason to doubt me. I’ve proved myself often enough.’

The superintendent tapped a pen on the table and flashed Fenby a warning look.

Fenby looked pained. ‘You know what it’s like undercover. I’m one of the lads. We talk the same language, walk the same walk. I haven’t put a foot wrong so far.’

‘The problem is that we don’t have a large undercover squad,’ said the superintendent. ‘And those that we do have are more used to drugs work than weapons.’

Hargrove nodded. ‘I think we can put something together,’ he said.

‘That’s good to hear,’ said the superintendent. ‘How do we move it forward?’

‘We need to arrange a meeting, through Ray here. Put Kettering and Thompson together with Jimmy and Dan. Get them to spell out what they want.’

‘And you’ll have the guns?’

‘Not at the first meeting,’ said Hargrove. ‘Arms dealers are like drug dealers; they’re not comfortable selling to people they don’t know. You might be able to buy a cheap handgun from a stranger in Brixton, but the big stuff is too sensitive. No dealer would sell guns on the first meeting. And any sale would be done in very controlled circumstances.’

‘Can we do that here? In Birmingham?’

Hargrove wrinkled his nose. ‘Any dealer worth his salt is going to expect the buyer to come to him. At least in the first instance. If we appear too keen it’s going to look suspicious.’

‘So London?’

‘Home turf, yes. For the initial meeting. We’ll get a sense of what they want and decide how to run it.’

‘And what about surveillance?’

‘For the first meeting I’d suggest a totally hands-off approach. Everyone tends to be on edge.’

The superintendent nodded but didn’t look happy. ‘You’re the expert,’ he said. ‘Obviously we’ll follow your lead.’

‘We’ll give you a full report of what happens in London and we’ll arrange for the sale to take place up here,’ said Hargrove. He looked at his wristwatch. ‘Before we head back, I’d like Dan and Jimmy here to be given full access to the investigation files that you have.’

‘I can’t let you take anything out of the building,’ said the superintendent quickly. ‘We’ve kept all our files off the mainframe. Everything is either on paper under lock and key, or on two laptops.’ He tapped his computer. ‘This is one. They’re under lock and key too and never leave the building.’

‘That’s not a problem.’ Hargrove nodded at Shepherd. ‘Dan has a photographic memory so he won’t even have to take notes.’

‘Useful skill,’ said the superintendent.

‘It’s stood me in good stead so far,’ said Shepherd.

Hargrove, Shepherd and Sharpe reached the outskirts of London at nine o’clock in the evening. Hargrove dropped them in Hampstead High Street, not far from the Starbucks where he’d picked them up. Shepherd and Sharpe waved as Hargrove drove away.

‘Like the good old days,’ said Sharpe.

‘What do you mean, us standing out in the cold while he drives off in a warm car?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Sharpe, punching him on the shoulder. ‘We were a bloody good team.’ He looked around. ‘Is there a half-decent pub near here?’

‘I quite like Ye Olde White Bear.’

‘Do ye now?’ laughed Sharpe. ‘Then lead on, McDuff.’

Shepherd took him towards the Heath and into the pub. Sharpe pulled out his wallet and bought a pint of lager for himself and a Jameson’s, ice and soda for Shepherd. A football game was playing on an overhead screen.

‘So what’s it like, being at the Met?’ asked Shepherd after they had clinked glasses.

Sharpe pulled a face as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘The whole multicultural-community bollocks gets on my nerves, but at least with Hargrove I get to do real police work and put some real villains behind bars. You know what he’s like; he protects you from the shit that comes running downhill.’ He sipped his lager. ‘That whole SOCA nonsense — bloody waste of time from the get-go.’

‘No arguments here,’ said Shepherd.

‘They should have left us with the Met instead of forcing us to work with Customs officers and tax inspectors. Whoever thought that was a good idea should be put up against a wall and shot. SOCA turned into the worst sort of bureaucracy and didn’t put away a single high-profile villain. And what did it cost? Billions? All of it money down the drain.’

‘Water under the bridge now, Razor.’

‘Maybe, but one of the reasons that the cops are so under-resourced is because so much was put into SOCA. Like the bloody NHS: too many chiefs and not enough Indians.’ He took another drink of lager. ‘What about Five? What’s it like there?’

‘Can’t tell you, Razor. Official Secrets Act and all that.’

‘Screw you.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘It’s okay. It’s not as bureaucratic as SOCA and money never seems to be an issue.’

‘And the lovely Charlotte?’

‘She’s a good boss, Razor, no matter what you think.’

Sharpe put down his glass and raised his hands in surrender. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Put your bloody hands down, you idiot. Charlie’s like Hargrove — she takes any flak that’s flying about.’

‘And tells you the bare minimum.’

‘It’s the Security Service, Razor. Most of what goes on is on a need-to-know basis.’

‘Yeah? Well, I like to know exactly why I’m putting my balls on the line. I can’t abide all that secret squirrel stuff.’ He picked up his glass again.

‘Yeah, maybe I’m not totally in the loop but the money makes up for that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do you want to talk pay grades? You went back into the Met as a DS?’

‘Detective Inspector,’ said Sharpe, squaring his shoulders. ‘Hargrove pushed through a promotion.’

‘Yeah, well, DIs don’t get overtime, and trust me, I’m paid a shedload more than you.’

Sharpe chuckled. ‘Next round’s on you, then.’ He drained his glass and banged it down on the counter. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’ Shepherd ordered another round of drinks as Sharpe looked around the pub. ‘So what’s with you and Hampstead?’ he said. ‘Full of TV producers and poncy writers and lesbians, isn’t it?’

‘Part of my legend,’ said Shepherd. ‘And just in case we bump into anyone who knows me, I’m John Whitehill and I’m a freelance journalist.’

‘Yeah? I’m DI Jimmy Sharpe with the Covert Operations Group.’

‘Very funny, Razor.’

‘This job you’re on, terrorism-related?’

‘Pretty much everything Five does at the moment is,’ said Shepherd.

‘The world’s gone mad,’ said Sharpe. ‘You know that, right? The number of people killed in acts of terror in the UK is a small fraction of the number stabbed and shot every year on our streets. Yet how often do you see cops walking the beat?’

‘Flashing back to your days in Glasgow, huh?’

‘Take the piss all you want, Spider. At least we could still give a teenager a clip round the ear without being hauled up on charges. I don’t know why anyone joins the police these days. It’s all PC bullshit and paperwork, and you’re as likely to be grassed up by a colleague as you are to be dropped in the shit by a member of the public.’

‘Sounds like you’re ready to quit.’

‘Retire, you mean? I’ve thought about it. But what would I do? Too young for a pipe and slippers.’ He took a long pull on his pint. ‘So Button isn’t worried that Hargrove is going to poach you?’

‘Why would she think that? Hargrove was looking for someone and she figured I’d be the best bet because I’ve worked with Hargrove before.’

Sharpe grinned. ‘Is that what she said? Naughty Charlie. Hargrove asked for you specifically. Because you’ve worked with him before, but also because of your experience with guns. I figure she didn’t have any choice because the request was made at the top. Just like her to take the credit.’ He shook his head and took another pull on his pint. ‘Women, huh?’

‘I don’t think her sex has anything to do with it, Razor. Anyway, doesn’t really matter whose idea it was. The important thing is that we pull it off.’

‘Piece of piss,’ said Sharpe. ‘How many times have we done this before?’ He took a deep breath and stretched out his arms. ‘I feel like a curry,’ he said. ‘Any good Indians in this neck of the woods?’

Shepherd got back to his flat just after eleven-thirty. He’d taken Sharpe to the Meghna Tandoori in Heath Street, a short walk from the pub they’d been drinking in. The restaurant was much more upmarket than Sharpe was used to, with minimalist white decor and white high-backed chairs. But the food was terrific and they’d washed the meal down with several bottles of Kingfisher. After Shepherd’s cracks about their relative salaries Sharpe had insisted that Shepherd paid, and then he’d left in a minicab.

Shepherd made himself a coffee before sitting down in front of the television and calling Major Allan Gannon, his former commanding officer in the SAS and a long-time friend.

‘Spider, how the hell are you?’ said the Major.

‘All good, Boss. Can you talk?’

‘The hind legs off a donkey. Where are you?’

‘London. You?’

‘Locked up in Stirling Lines,’ said the Major, referring to the SAS headquarters at Credenhill in Herefordshire.

‘I need a favour,’ said Shepherd, and he ran through the undercover operation that Hargrove was planning.

‘AK-47s aren’t a problem; we’ve stacks of them here. But if you’re playing at arms dealer why not go for the Yugo AK?’

‘You’ve got some?’

The Yugo AK was manufactured by Zastava Arms, a Serbian company, and was the Yugoslavian People’s Army’s assault rifle of choice before the country was ripped apart by civil war. It was a good weapon and many soldiers thought it superior to the Russian Kalashnikov.

‘Loads,’ said the Major. ‘We use it all the time in exercises. I’m pretty sure we’ve even got a few of the crates they came in.’

‘That would work,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll run it by Hargrove, see if we can just use them. It’ll make our cover seem more authentic.’

‘Damn right. There’s a fair number of Yugos knocking around the UK. Former Serbian military types have been selling them to gang bangers. I tell you what, Spider, I’ve got some Zastava M88 pistols too.’

‘Better and better,’ said Shepherd. ‘And there’s no problem you loaning them to us?’

‘I’ll sign it off as an exercise,’ said the Major. ‘You can pick them up from here, can you?’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Shepherd.

‘Let me know when you want them,’ said the Major. ‘Be good to have a chat. I’ve been hearing some very interesting stories about you.’

‘My ears are burning.’

‘They should be.’

‘So how are your studies, Manraj?’ asked Chaudhry’s father as he dropped down on to the sofa and stretched out his legs. His fiftieth birthday was fast approaching but he looked a good ten years younger, with not a single grey hair and only a few laughter lines at the corners of his eyes. He was a keen squash player, had been for more than thirty years, and it showed in his lean physique. On more than a few occasions people had assumed that he was Chaudhry’s elder brother rather than his father.

It was Saturday afternoon and Chaudhry had cycled from Stoke Newington to his parents’ house, a neat four-bedroom detached house in Stanmore. It was the house that he’d been brought up in and as he looked around it he felt as if he’d never left. At the far end of the room was the piano on which he and his brother had practised for half an hour every night; through the French windows he could see the garden where his father had taught him the finer points of spin bowling; he knew that at the top of the stairs was his bedroom, pretty much exactly as it was the day he’d left to go to university three years earlier. Leaving home had been symbolic rather than a necessity. He could have commuted back and forth from Stanmore but Chaudhry had wanted to be independent; plus, he’d become bored with life in the suburbs. His elder brother had studied for his degree at Exeter so it hadn’t been too much of a struggle to persuade his parents to allow him to rent a place in Stoke Newington.

‘It’s getting harder, but you know what med school is like,’ said Chaudhry. His father was an oncologist at Watford General Hospital, and had been since before Chaudhry was born. ‘Third year was much better because we had the attachments, so you actually got to deal with patients. The fourth year is all bookwork and the supervised research project. It’s a grind.’

His father nodded sympathetically. ‘It’s a grind all right, but we all go through it. Just take it one day at a time. Once it’s done and you’ve passed the exams you get your degree and then you can really start to learn about medicine.’

‘Fourth year’s the worst, right?’

‘Every year’s tough, Manraj; they’re just tough in different ways. But it’s when you start working as a junior doctor that the pressure really starts.’

‘The killing season, they call it at King’s.’

‘They call it that everywhere,’ said his father. ‘Just don’t ever let the patients hear you say that.’ He smiled over at his son. ‘I’m really proud of you, Manraj. I hope you know that.’

Chaudhry nodded. He knew. And he could see it in his father’s eyes.

‘So, are you seeing anyone?’

Chaudhry frowned, not understanding what his father meant, then realisation dawned and he groaned. ‘Dad. . Please. .’

‘I’m your father and you’re my only unmarried son, so I’m entitled to ask.’

‘You have only two sons and Akram got married last year.’

‘I’m not getting any younger and I’d like to be able-bodied enough to play cricket with my grandchildren.’

Chaudhry laughed and slapped his own thigh. ‘You’re crazy. Now you want me to be a father and I haven’t even graduated. What’s the rush?’

‘There’s no rush, it’s just that I’ve found what I think might be the perfect girl for you.’

‘Say what?’

His father looked at him over the top of his spectacles. ‘What’s the problem? I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘You thought I’d be happy because you’re fixing up an arranged marriage for me?’

‘Who said anything about marriage? I was at an NHS conference last week and I met up with an old friend who works as a cardiologist in Glasgow. He was talking about his daughter — she’s a second-year microbiology student at UCL — and I mentioned you were at King’s. .’

‘And the next thing you know you’ve got us married off. Dad, I’m more than capable of finding my own girlfriend.’

‘Which is why I asked you if you were seeing anyone.’ He pushed his spectacles higher up his nose. ‘Her name’s Jamila, and she’s from a very good family. According to her father, she hasn’t had a steady boyfriend. He was very impressed to hear that you’re at King’s.’

‘You didn’t show him my CV, did you?’

‘I might have mentioned a few of the highlights, yes. Look, no pressure, but why don’t you at least get in touch, maybe ask her out?’

‘It’s not going to be one of those chaperoned things, is it? With half the family tagging along?’

His father laughed. ‘What century do you think you’re living in?’ he said. ‘She’s on Facebook. She’s been told to expect you to ask to be a Facebook friend, to chat online for a while and see if you get on.’

‘You’ve already told her about me?’

‘Her father has, yes.’

‘How long have you been planning this?’

‘We’re not planning anything. I told you, I met her father at a conference and we got talking. You can at least get in touch on Facebook, can’t you? I don’t want her father to think that we’re snubbing her.’

Chaudhry sighed. ‘Okay, I suppose I can do that.’

‘Manraj, there’s no pressure here, really. There’s no need to make a big thing about it. It’s not like when your mum and I were introduced. Back then they almost put a gun to my head.’

‘Seriously?’

His father laughed again. ‘Of course not seriously,’ he said. ‘But I was left in no doubt that I’d need a pretty good reason to turn her down. Things were very different back then and most marriages were arranged.’

‘And you were okay with that?’

‘Your grandfather is a pussycat these days, but thirty years ago he was as tough as they come. He was born in Pakistan, remember. Or British India, as it was then. He came over with nothing and it wasn’t like it is now, with benefits and handouts. The people in his village paid for him to come to the UK and when I was old enough to marry it was time for him to pay the piper.’

Chaudhry leaned forward. ‘You never told me this before.’

His father shrugged. ‘That’s the way it worked. Your mother’s grandparents helped pay for my father to come to this country. I had citizenship so if I married her then her parents and her grandparents could come too. Which is what happened, of course. Our marriage helped their family, and that was only fair because they’d helped my father.’

‘And what if you hadn’t liked her?’

His father laughed out loud. ‘We’ll never know,’ he said. ‘But I did have a few tense moments, I can tell you. They sent over a photograph but it was a group photograph and her face wasn’t clear because she was wearing a headscarf. There was no Skype back then and no Facebook. We managed a few phone calls but she was shy and she didn’t speak any English.’ He shrugged. ‘I tell you, I was bloody shaking when I got off the plane.’

‘You flew to Pakistan to meet her?’

‘To marry her, Manraj. It was a done deal by the time I arrived in Pakistan.’

Chaudhry’s jaw dropped. ‘And that didn’t worry you?’

‘I understood that I had an obligation to my father. How could I have refused? It would have been a slap in the face for him and for everyone who had helped him get to England.’ He sat back on the sofa. ‘Anyway, all’s well that ends well. We were met at the airport by her parents and they drove me to their village in this rickety old truck that seemed to be held together with string. The first time we met her whole family was there, so were my parents, and she had her face covered. The minutes before she took down her veil were the scariest in my life. Then she did and. .’ He grinned. ‘Wow. That’s what I said. Wow. I remember how everyone laughed. She was a lovely girl, Manraj. Like a supermodel. Her hair was just amazing; it came down to her waist and was so soft and shiny. And her skin. . I tell you, the first time I touched her arm I-’

‘Dad, please,’ said Chaudhry, holding up his hands. ‘Enough. I get it.’

‘Get what?’ said his mother, arriving with a tray of tea things and a plate of chocolate cake that she had baked specially for him. She put the tray down on the coffee table and sat next to her husband.

‘I was just telling him about Jamila,’ said his father.

‘Oh, isn’t she lovely?’ said his mother, picking up the teapot.

His mother wasn’t supermodel fit any more, thought Chaudhry, but she was still a lovely woman. The woman he’d known had always been cuddly rather than fit but as he looked at her pouring tea he could see what had attracted his father. She had high cheekbones and flawless skin the colour of the milky tea that she handed him. Her eyes were wide, with impossibly long lashes, and her hair was still as lustrous as a model’s in a shampoo advertisement. It was hard to imagine her as a simple village girl unable to speak English. His mother was always immaculately dressed, either in a traditional sari or in a western designer outfit, and she was always well made-up, even if she was just popping down to the local shops.

‘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 pulled 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’ll 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 tell 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’ll 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 still sore so he decided to go for a run to see if that would loosen it up. He pulled 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 generally quieter and Shepherd always preferred to run alone. He did two circuits of the extension then cut around West Meadow and down to Parliament Hill Fields. Several running clubs used the Heath and as he got closer to the Parliament Hill athletics track he was overtaken by a group of serious runners, all 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 skill as well 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 villages of Hampstead and Highgate. Stopping at the duelling 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 called 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 all 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 finally 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 carefully on the table.

‘How the hell 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 Intelligence, Pakistan’s premier intelligence 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 allies.

‘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 all 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 spell 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 surveillance or satellites. 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 all, 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 will get sight of the map,’ said Button.

‘And you’re not? It’s the Pakistanis, for God’s sake. Their intelligence 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 allies of ours, that’s for sure.’

‘And why has this map come forward now? Bin Laden was killed 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 really matter. All 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 intelligence 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’ll 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 still 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 surveillance 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 personally, 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 really wanted to hurt the UK.’

‘He probably said that to all 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 tell his people that they’re disposable, is he? He’s going to tell them all 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 will 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. Well, 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? Pull 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 well 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’ll carry out attacks here and in the States. And pulling Chaudhry and Malik out at this late stage is going to make them appear as guilty as hell.’ She leaned forward. ‘You’re over-thinking this, really. So far as the world is concerned, the Americans followed 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 thoughtfully. ‘Okay, I’ll 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 followed 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 totally 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 telling 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 naturally 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.

‘I hear you,’ he said.

‘I know these guys too, don’t forget. I’m not as close as you are, obviously, but I do care what happens to them. And there’s no way I’d put them in the line of fire. I really do believe that increasing their security now would do more harm than good. At the moment the only link between them and us is you. And your legend as John Whitehill, freelance journalist, is watertight. Anyone who checks up on you will find a website, dozens of articles in magazines and journals, and a rented flat in Hampstead. The worst accusation that could be levelled against them is that they’ve talked to a journalist. But that all changes if anyone finds one of our gizmos.’

‘So we just leave things as they are?’

‘Our friends over at GCHQ are listening for chatter,’ she said. ‘If we get any sense that there’s a witch hunt going on then we can rethink. We’ll put an extra watch at the borders, and check on the usual suspects here.’

‘Forgive me if that doesn’t inspire me with confidence,’ said Shepherd. ‘Our borders still leak, we both know that. Known terrorists have walked into the country without anyone batting an eyelid.’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’

‘And GCHQ listening for chatter didn’t stop the London tube bombings.’

‘Exactly,’ said Button. ‘That’s why what Chaudhry and Malik are doing is so important. They’ve got the inside track on a major terrorist attack that no one, absolutely no one, is aware of. We need them, Spider. We need their intel.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘You’re right.’

Button grinned. ‘That’s good to hear,’ she said. ‘Look, I understand your concerns, but I think the chance of anyone connecting them to what happened in Pakistan is remote. If it makes you feel better, why not give them a security briefing, give them some tips about what to watch out for. That’s why I wanted you involved, to share your expertise. They’re virgins at this and you’ve been around the block a few times.’

‘That’s the truth,’ he said. ‘Okay, let’s do that. But you really need to keep your ear to the ground, Charlie. Any intel at all that they might be at risk and we pull them out, right?’

‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’

After the meeting with Button, Shepherd went up to the sixth floor to talk to Damien Plant, one of MI5’s top dressers. Plant was a one-stop shop for everything needed to back up a legend. He could supply any paperwork from a driving licence and passport to a utility bill or credit card, in any name and with any address and date of birth. His department also supplied homes and offices, vehicles, furniture, clothing and jewellery. There was almost nothing that Damien and his team couldn’t provide.

Plant shook Shepherd’s hand and waved him to a chair. He was in his early thirties, with sunbed-brown skin and a shaved head, and he was wearing a black linen jacket and blue Versace jeans. His desk was piled high with catalogues and fashion magazines and his walls were lined with reference books.

He sipped from a bottle of Evian and swung his feet up on to his desk. ‘You’re not here to complain about your flat, are you?’ he said. ‘I was working to a very tight budget and you can’t blame me for that. And when we set it up we had no idea the operation would go on for as long as it has.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Shepherd.

‘I know, but there’s barely enough room to swing a cat. If I’d known you were going to be there for a year I would have tried to fix up a bigger place. Within budget, of course.’

‘I’ve not been there much over the last few months, the operation had gone quiet,’ said Shepherd. ‘But on the plus side, it’s great to be so near the Heath.’

‘I love Hampstead,’ said Plant. ‘Used to go cottaging there in my misspent youth.’

Shepherd wasn’t sure if Plant was joking or not. ‘Funnily enough I was in the Willie not that long ago,’ he said.

‘You should have told me you were on the turn,’ said Plant, raising one eyebrow. ‘I could have taken you out and shown you the ropes.’

‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before I go down that route,’ said Shepherd. ‘It was a business meeting. About this job, as it happens. Basically I’m an arms dealer, so pretty much none of the John Whitehill props work, especially the clothing. The job’s actually for the Met but Charlie’s fixed it up so she’ll sign off on it.’

‘I trust you, Spider,’ said Plant and he reached over to pick up a clipboard and pen. ‘Full wardrobe?’ he asked, the camp act completely forgotten.

‘I guess, but I’m probably going to be in character only a couple of times so no need to go overboard on the number of outfits.’

‘Suits?’

‘One suit. A name. Whatever you think.’

‘Paul Smith should work. I’ll see what I can get in the way of a leather jacket. Shirts? Ties?’

Shepherd sighed. He hated the feel of a tie round his neck but there were some times when it was necessary. ‘Maybe. What do you think?’

‘We could do Miami Vice and put you in a T-shirt, show off your abs. Well-cut suit over it.’

Shepherd grimaced. Given the choice between a tight T-shirt and a tie, on balance he’d prefer the tie. ‘Tie, I guess. And good shoes.’

‘Bally, I think,’ said Plant. ‘What about jewellery? That watch has to go, of course.’

Shepherd held up his left hand. He was wearing a cheap Casio, which was the sort of watch that a freelance journalist would wear but it wouldn’t do for an arms dealer with criminal connections. ‘I’ll wear my own Submariner,’ he said.

Plant looked pained. ‘I’d advise against the Submariner,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the steel model, with the black bezel, right?’

Shepherd nodded. It was the watch that he’d worn ever since he’d been with the SAS.

‘See, that screams military. You’d be stressing the action-man aspect when you’re playing a villain. With villains it’s all about show so I’d go for a gold Cartier. Or a Patek Philippe. Something that says you’re wearing twenty or thirty grand on your wrist and you don’t give a shit.’

‘Okay,’ said Shepherd.

‘And I’m thinking a gold chain for your right wrist. Maybe a ring?’

‘And a money clip,’ said Shepherd. ‘Something gold.’

Plant scribbled on his clipboard again. ‘And what’s your legend? English? London?’

‘Yes. Former soldier; did some contracting work out in Iraq six or seven years ago, now self-employed.’

‘Car?’

‘You know, I think we can leave that. There’s no need to overcomplicate things. I’ll be with a Met guy so he can take care of the transport.’

‘I do have a new Maserati that I’m trying to get a few miles on.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘I’ll pass, but if things change I’ll definitely let you know.’

‘So we don’t need accommodation?’

‘It won’t be an issue. I won’t be having the bad guys round for drinks.’

Plant scribbled on his clipboard. ‘Paperwork?’

‘I doubt I’ll be asked for ID but I might as well have a driving licence.’

‘Same date of birth but we’ll knock a couple of years off,’ said Plant. ‘Name?’

‘Garry Edwards. Double r.’

Plant frowned. ‘In Edwards?’

‘In Garry.’

Plant looked at him over the top of his clipboard. ‘I have to say, I don’t see you as a Garry.’

‘I’ve played the part before,’ said Shepherd. ‘No one’s complained.’ Edwards was a former soldier who worked as a security contractor in Afghanistan and sold weapons on the side. The legend was one that he’d used once before when he’d worked for Hargrove’s police undercover unit and it would withstand close scrutiny.

Plant passed a sheet of paper across the table and Shepherd scribbled a ‘Garry Edwards’ signature and passed it back.

‘Anything else?’

‘I think we’re good,’ said Plant. ‘What’s the time frame?’

‘No great rush, but as always the sooner the better.’

Shepherd left Plant’s office and headed for the agency’s training department. He had something he needed to run by them.

Shepherd caught the tube to Hampstead and walked back to his flat, taking a circuitous route to make sure that he wasn’t being followed. He had spent all afternoon with the training department arranging an exercise for Chaudhry and Malik. He let himself into the flat and tapped his security code into the burglar alarm console. He switched on the kettle and then called Chaudhry on his BlackBerry.

‘Couple of questions for you, mate,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do you know anyone in Reading? Anyone at all?’

‘Never been,’ said Chaudhry.

‘And you don’t know anyone from there? Anyone at the university?’

‘Not that I know of. Why?’

‘Something I want to do,’ said Shepherd. ‘What about Harvey?’

‘He’s here now. I’ll ask him.’ Shepherd heard a muffled conversation and then Chaudhry came back on the line. ‘He says no. What’s going on, John?’

‘I want to run you through a training exercise, show you a few anti-surveillance techniques, and I want to do it in a place where no one knows you. What are you doing on Thursday?’

There was another short muffled conversation. ‘We’ve both got lectures but we can duck them. Why do we need to do this?’

‘There’re a few tricks of the trade I want to run by you, that’s all,’ said Shepherd.

‘Has something happened?’ asked Chaudhry suspiciously.

‘No, everything’s good,’ lied Shepherd. ‘I just want to keep you both sharp. Here’s what I want you to do. On Thursday morning I want you both to get the train from Paddington to Reading. The trains run throughout the day and the journey takes about half an hour.’

‘Be easier for Harvey to drive,’ said Chaudhry.

‘This isn’t about getting there, it’s about knowing whether or not you’ve got a tail,’ said Shepherd. ‘I want you to get to Paddington, then get on the train. When you get to Reading, I want you to go to the Novotel. It’s about half a mile from the station. Take whatever route you want. Once I’m in the room I’ll give you the number so you can go straight up.’

‘That’s it? What’s the point?’

‘The point is that I’ll have you followed. The guys who’ll be following you won’t know your destination, so if you can throw them off and get to the Novotel without them following you, you’ll get a gold star. If you can’t throw them off then I want you to describe anyone you spot.’

‘And who are they? Who’ll be following us?’

‘Professionals,’ said Shepherd. ‘They do it for a living, for MI5.’

‘We’re going to be followed by spies?’

‘That’s the plan. It’ll be good experience.’

‘But why’ve we got to trek across London to Paddington?’

‘Because I want you to get the feel of moving across the city knowing that you’re being followed. Then I want you in Reading so that I can run you through a few exercises without any chance of you bumping into someone you know. Trust me, it’ll be worth doing.’

‘If you say so. And you’ll cover our expenses?’

‘Of course,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll have a brown envelope with me. See you on Thursday.’

Shepherd ended the call. He’d bought half a dozen salads from Marks amp; Spencer and he took out a nicoise. He was about to make himself a coffee but then changed his mind and took a bottle of wine out of the fridge and poured himself a glass. He carried the salad and wine through to the sitting room and sat down opposite the television. It was five-thirty and he’d promised to call his son on Skype at six, so he switched on the television and watched the BBC rolling news as he ate his salad and drank his wine. At six o’clock he switched on his laptop and went through to his Skype program. Liam was already online.

Shepherd put through the call and almost immediately Liam appeared on screen, his tie at half-mast as usual, his hair unkempt. ‘You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards,’ Shepherd laughed.

Liam ran a hand over his hair but it didn’t make any difference. ‘Rugby practice,’ he said. ‘We’ve got a big game on Saturday.’

‘How’s the rugby going?’

‘It’s brilliant, Dad. I thought football was the best but I’m really into rugby now.’

‘I’ll try to make it,’ said Shepherd.

‘Cool,’ said Liam.

‘And what about the climbing?’

‘Yeah, that’s good fun. I’m getting really good on the wall and next month the instructor’s taking us out to some crag that’s about a hundred feet high.’

‘Good luck with that. We’ll have to do some climbing together some time.’ Shepherd sipped his wine.

‘Are you drinking?’ asked Liam.

‘It’s wine. With my dinner.’

‘It’s a bit early to be drinking, isn’t it?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘What are you, the alcohol police? I’m in for the night, I’m not driving anywhere, so let your old dad have a drink, why don’t you?’ He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘Where are you?’ asked Liam. ‘You’re not home, are you?’

‘London still,’ said Shepherd.

‘When are you seeing Katra again? Do you think she can come to the match?’

‘Maybe,’ said Shepherd. ‘If I can get the timing right I can go to Hereford, pick her up and come to your school.’

‘Please try, Dad.’

‘I will. Of course I will.’

‘You’re not going to sack her, are you?’

Shepherd put down his wine glass. ‘Why do you say that?’

Liam shrugged and looked away, embarrassed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, spit it out.’

Liam sighed. ‘You don’t seem to be at home much. And I’m at school all the time. So maybe you’ll decide that you don’t need her.’

‘That’s crazy,’ said Shepherd. ‘Someone still has to take care of the house. You’re at home for the holidays. And I’ll be back once this job is done and dusted. Trust me, I’m as fond of Katra as you are. As long as she wants to work for us, she can.’

‘Great,’ said Liam. He looked back at the screen, grinning broadly.

‘And what about maths? How are you getting on? Didn’t you have a test today?’

Liam’s face fell. ‘Can’t we talk about something else, Dad?’

Shepherd grinned. His son was still young enough to read like a book.

The Al Nakheel on the top floor of the Al Khozama Centre was generally regarded as the best restaurant in Riyadh. It certainly had the best view, and the tables on its panoramic terrace were almost always fully booked. Fully booked or not, Ahmed Al-Jaber was always guaranteed to be given a table. His connections to the Saudi royal family were second to none and, even in a country of billionaires, Al-Jaber’s wealth was revered. Al-Jaber was sitting at his regular corner table when Bin Azim walked into the restaurant. The lunchtime clientele was almost exclusively male and dressed in either made-to-measure suits or the full-length white Saudi robes and checked shemagh headdresses. Al-Jaber was a traditionalist and always wore a robe and shemagh, even when he was overseas. As always he was accompanied by bodyguards, large men in black suits and impenetrable sunglasses. Two of them stood at the far end of the terrace, hands clasped in front of their groins, and there were two more by the doors that led to the kitchen. Bin Azim walked over slowly, favouring his left leg. He would soon be turning seventy-five and the last five years had not been good to him. Diabetes, arthritis and a worrying tendency to forget people’s names. Bin Azim preferred a well-cut suit to a flowing robe and he always found the shemagh an annoyance, but he wore them out of respect for Al-Jaber.

Al-Jaber smiled when he saw Bin Azim walking towards him. In terms of money and status Bin Azim was a pygmy compared to Al-Jaber, but he was ten years older and, out of respect for his age, Al-Jaber stood up and held out his hands in welcome. It was Bin Azim who initiated the kissing, a soft peck on each cheek, before they sat down.

‘I’m not eating,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘But please order whatever you like.’

‘Coffee is fine,’ said Bin Azim, adjusting his robe around his legs. A hovering waiter asked him what sort of coffee he wanted and Bin Azim ordered an espresso. His doctor was constantly asking him to switch to tea but coffee was one of the few pleasures that Bin Azim had left in his life and he intended to enjoy it until his last breath.

‘How was Karachi?’ asked Al-Jaber.

‘It there a worse place in the world?’ said Bin Azim. ‘If there is I have yet to find it.’

‘Perhaps in Africa,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘But there is money to be made in Pakistan and the generals are easy to work with. Everything and everyone has a price there.’

Bin Azim’s hand moved slowly inside his robe. He was well known to Al-Jaber’s bodyguards but they still stiffened and their hands moved to their concealed weapons. Bin Azim’s hand reappeared holding a piece of paper and the bodyguards relaxed. He slid the piece of paper across the table.

‘The Americans had help,’ said Bin Azim.

‘From the Pakistanis?’ There was a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses on the table by Al-Jaber’s right hand and he put them on.

‘From someone,’ said Bin Azim. He nodded at the piece of paper. ‘That’s the proof.’

Al-Jaber unfolded the sheet of paper. It was a photocopy of a hand-drawn floor plan.

‘It is a drawing of the compound and the buildings in it,’ said Bin Azim. ‘The walls and the exterior can be seen from satellites but, as you can see, the map shows the internal walls.’

Al-Jaber studied the map for almost a full minute before looking up. ‘And it is accurate?’

‘Absolutely. Every room.’

‘So it was drawn by someone who had visited the compound?’

‘That is the only way to get that amount of detail. You see the doors? The way they are drawn open?’

Al-Jaber looked back at the map. ‘Yes, I see that.’

‘The hinges are all on the correct sides. If the door is hinged on the left, it is drawn that way. And the furniture. It is exactly as it was in the house. I checked with his family.’

‘The Americans are saying that they followed The Sheik’s courier to the compound.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Is that a lie, then?’

‘It might perhaps be how they found the compound. But the courier would never betray The Sheik.’

‘The map is definitely genuine?’ asked Al-Jaber.

‘I have no reason to doubt its veracity.’

‘They are duplicitous bastards, the Pakistanis. You shake a Pakistani’s hand and you had better count your fingers afterwards.’

Bin Azim laughed. ‘My contact is solid. He met with The Sheik himself, many years ago. And he has supplied us with top-grade intelligence in the past.’

‘Leopards can change their spots,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘Especially ones from Pakistan.’

‘I can vouch for him,’ said Bin Azim.

‘My concern is that the Pakistanis might want to cause mischief for the Americans.’ He held up the piece of paper. ‘ISI could have made this map after the event. Then leaked it to you.’

‘Why would they do that? What is there to gain? Are we going to hate the Americans more because of this map? Of course not.’

‘And the timing is very suspicious. Why release it now?’

‘It has only just been discovered. My contact says that they were clearing out one of the upstairs bedrooms and they found it under a mattress. The Americans were in there at night, the map must have been dropped in the confusion and the mattress tipped on top of it.’

‘So the Pakistanis didn’t search the building after the attack?’

‘Why would they? They would have assumed that the Americans had taken everything of importance.’ He held out his hand and Al-Jaber passed the map back.

‘What about the Americans? Could they have wanted the Pakistanis to find the map? The Americans might want to sow dissent among our ranks. We start to suspect everybody. Once an organisation loses trust, it cannot function.’

The waiter reappeared with Bin Azim’s coffee and they waited until he had set the white porcelain cup down on the table and left before continuing their conversation.

‘So that is the question we must ask ourselves,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘Did the Americans leave it to be found? Or do we have something that they would rather we didn’t have?’

‘The fact that ISI went public is an embarrassment to the Americans. It makes them look less than professional.’

Al-Jaber chuckled. ‘Crashing their helicopter did that,’ he said. ‘My worry is that the Americans want us to act on this map. That they left it there for the Pakistanis to find, knowing that the Pakistanis would in turn pass it to us.’

‘If it was a plant it was very cleverly done. I am more inclined to believe that it was an error. These are the same Americans who crashed their helicopter, remember?’

Al-Jaber nodded slowly. ‘Then let us assume that the map is genuine and that the Americans made a mistake. What do we do?’

‘We find out who betrayed The Sheik and we kill him. Such a betrayal cannot go unpunished.’

‘The Sheik is dead,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘Killing the betrayer will not bring him back. One must be careful with revenge. Remember what the Koran says, old friend. “If thou dost stretch thy hand against me, to slay me, it is not for me to stretch my hand against thee to slay thee: for I do fear Allah, the cherisher of the worlds.” Revenge is not for good Muslims; it’s what the infidels do.’

‘Then not for revenge, but to make sure that it doesn’t happen again. Whoever gave away The Sheik’s location might be in a position to betray us in some other way. Who knows who else he might give up? We have to find out who the traitor is, find out what he knows, and then. .’ He shrugged. ‘I do not see that we have any choice.’ He sipped his coffee.

Al-Jaber stroked his chin. ‘How do we find this traitor?’ he asked.

Bin Azim unfolded the map again and placed it on the table. He tapped a finger on one of the rooms. There were the outlines of a bed and a cupboard and what appeared to be a flat-screen television against one wall. ‘This is the room where The Sheik died,’ he said. ‘It is accurate: the furniture is correctly marked and the door opens with the hinges on the left.’ He tapped a second door, to the right of the bed. ‘This door leads to a bathroom. But last summer this door was not here. The room next door to the bedroom was used as another bedroom. But a builder was brought in to turn it into a bathroom and make a connecting door.’ He tapped the map again. ‘So prior to mid-August this door did not exist. Whoever drew this map could only have visited the compound between mid-August and when The Sheik was killed. That is a narrow time frame. Nine months.’

‘And what about the builder? Was he aware that The Sheik lived there?’

‘I’m assured that he wasn’t. The Sheik and his family were moved to another safe house while the work was carried out. Only when the building workers had gone did The Sheik move back.’

‘We would need to be sure that the builder is not the traitor,’ said Al-Jaber.

‘Of course,’ said Bin Azim. ‘But if he is cleared we will then need to take a look at every visitor that The Sheik received over the nine months since the bathroom was installed.’

‘Do you have someone in mind for this?’

‘I do, yes. A Palestinian who has handled interrogations for me before.’

‘And if the betrayer is found will this Palestinian be able to take care of things?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Bin Azim.

‘Then that’s what we shall do,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘There is a problem, though. Of those that visited The Sheik, most were being readied for jihad in countries around the world. Do we allow them to go ahead, or do we stop them?’

‘If we pull them out now questions will be asked and rumours will start. If we let it be known that we suspect we have a traitor then all trust will be shattered. Suspicions will spread like a cancer.’

‘So we tell no one? Only the Palestinian?’

Bin Azim nodded. ‘I think it is best. Only one apple is bad. The Palestinian will identify the bad apple and will remove it. But we will be watching all our operations carefully. If we so much as suspect that any have been compromised we will cauterise them immediately.’

‘I agree,’ said Al-Jaber. He looked at his watch, a diamond-encrusted gold Rolex. ‘I have to go soon; my wife wants to go shopping.’

‘Where are you heading?’ asked Bin Azim.

‘London,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘The weak pound makes their Harrods as cheap as a market bazaar. She has a shopping list that is longer than my arm.’

Bin Azim knew that Al-Jaber had four wives, but he didn’t have to ask which one was going on the shopping trip. Al-Jaber’s first wife was in her sixties and was rarely seen outside the family compound. His second and third wives had borne Al-Jaber sixteen children between them. One was in a top American hospital being treated for bowel cancer and the other was rumoured to be in a Swiss facility being treated for depression following two failed suicide attempts. Al-Jaber’s fourth wife was a third of his age, a stunning Lebanese girl. Bin Azim was one of the few non-family members who had ever seen her face. She only ever wore a full burka including a mesh veil that shielded her eyes when she went out. Even when she was overseas Al-Jaber insisted that she stayed covered. The women of Lebanon were more spirited than their Saudi sisters, but Al-Jaber’s fourth wife knew better than to argue with her husband. The marriage had been arranged — she was the granddaughter of one of Al-Jaber’s business associates — and the union had been financially beneficial to her family to the tune of tens of millions of dollars. In the grand scheme of things the burka was a small price to pay.

‘I am using the large jet, but the Gulfstream is available for whoever you decide to use,’ said Al-Jaber. ‘My people can also arrange for diplomatic status and a passport.’

‘As always, you read my mind,’ said Bin Azim.

‘Only Allah can see into our minds,’ said Al-Jaber, getting to his feet. ‘But I understand what needs to be done. And I am privileged to be able to offer the assistance that is within my gift.’

Bin Azim stood up and kissed Al-Jaber on both cheeks. Al-Jaber’s bodyguards were already moving towards the restaurant doors, and Bin Azim knew that, far below, more big men in dark suits would be standing by Al-Jaber’s bombproof white Bentley.

Chaudhry looked at his watch, then over at Malik, who was sitting on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table, watching football on the television. ‘We’ve got to go, Harvey,’ he said.

‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ said Malik. ‘Did he say why we’re going to Reading?’

‘He wanted somewhere where nobody would know us.’

‘But Reading?’ He slapped the arm of his sofa. ‘How do we even get there?’

‘Trains run from Paddington all the time.’

‘Yeah, but getting to Paddington from Stokie is a pain.’

‘It’s for our own good. It’s a training exercise, so we’ll know what to do if we’re ever followed.’

Malik’s eyes narrowed. ‘See, that’s what’s worrying me, brother. Why would anyone be following us? They’d only do that if they suspected us, right? And if they even suspect that we’re spies then we’re dead.’

Chaudhry walked over to the sofa and stood looking down at his friend. ‘We’ve been through this,’ he said. ‘Khalid might get someone to check us out. Or the cops might follow us. No one knows what we’re doing, remember? And the cops are always looking at the mosque, you know that. Someone at the mosque passes our name on to the cops and they might take a look at us. John’s putting us through this so we’ll know what to look for.’

‘It’s a waste of time, innit?’ scowled Malik. ‘We’re not doing anything wrong. Even if they follow us what are they going to see? We go to lectures, we eat, we sleep, we shit. You play squash. I play five-a-side. It’s not like we’re mixing explosives or scoping out targets. We’re waiting, brother. That’s all we’ve been doing for months now. If anyone follows us they’ll be bored out of their skulls in a few days.’

‘Harvey, we have to do this.’

‘Brother, we don’t have to do anything. We’re not on staff, are we? Last time I looked MI5 weren’t paying us a salary. In fact they’re paying us fuck all, in spite of everything we did for them.’ He jabbed his finger at Chaudhry. ‘We killed The Sheik, you and me. We grassed him up and the Yanks blew him away and that’s down to us. But instead of being heroes we’re supposed to drag our arses all the way to Reading to prove a point?’

Chaudhry sat down next to Malik. ‘What’s up with you?’

‘It just feels like they’re yanking our chain,’ said Malik.

Chaudhry grinned. ‘Are you not feeling loved, is that it?’

‘Screw you,’ laughed Malik.

‘We’re not doing this to be loved, Harvey. We didn’t go to MI5 because we wanted a medal or because we wanted money. We went to them because it’s the right thing to do. This is our country and people like Khalid are trying to destroy it. It’s up to us to help stop them.’

‘I get that. I’m not stupid.’

‘No one’s saying you’re stupid, but you sound like you’re losing focus. We have to be committed to this. If we aren’t you know what could happen?’ Malik didn’t say anything. He looked away, unwilling to meet Chaudhry’s piercing gaze. ‘How will you feel, Harvey, if you do bail out and a few weeks down the line something bad happens and a lot of people die? How are you going to feel then, knowing that you could have stopped it?’

Malik shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay what?’

‘I hear you.’ He nodded. ‘I’m just pissed off at all the waiting. It’s doing my head in. Why won’t Khalid just tell us what we’re going to do?’

‘Maybe he doesn’t know himself. Maybe he’s taking orders from someone else. All we can do is wait. As for John, he wants to help. He’s not doing this to piss us around. It’s to keep us sharp.’

Malik threw his hands in the air. ‘Okay, fine, let’s do it.’ He stood up. ‘But how the hell do we get to Paddington?’

‘Tube.’

‘That’ll take for ever,’ said Malik, picking up his jacket. ‘Can’t we get a minicab?’

Chaudhry frowned. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I guess so.’

‘Let’s do that, then. And John can reimburse us.’ He grinned. ‘You know what? We should just get the cab to take us to Reading. See if they can follow us. That’d serve them right.’

‘Yeah, okay. All John said was that we should go to Paddington,’ said Chaudhry. ‘I don’t see why we can’t get a cab to the station. But on the way we keep our eyes open because he’s going to ask us if we saw anyone following us.’ He stood up. ‘It’ll be fun,’ he said, punching his friend lightly on the shoulder.

They put on their coats, left the flat and walked along to Stoke Newington High Street. There was a minicab office in a side road, marked by a flashing yellow light above the door. Like most of the businesses it was run by Turks though the drivers were a smorgasbord of London’s ethnic communities — Nigerian, Indian, Iranian, Polish, Somalian — and there was barely a country not represented on the company’s roster.

The driver who took Chaudhry and Malik was an Iraqi who treated his ten-year-old manual Toyota as if it was an automatic, doing most of the journey in second gear. They chugged along at low speeds, the engine screaming whenever they went above thirty-five miles per hour. The car stank of garlic and stale vomit despite a Christmas tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the driving mirror. Arab music was blaring from the stereo and the driver was constantly drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the beat.