False Friends

Malik twisted round in his seat as they headed west.

‘Can you see anyone?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘There’s a woman in a hatchback who’s been behind us for a while.’

‘Where?’ said Chaudhry.

‘Behind the van,’ said Malik. ‘The grey one.’

Chaudhry saw the Volvo and he laughed. ‘There’s a kid in the back seat,’ he said.

‘So?’

‘So no one takes a kid on a surveillance job,’ said Chaudhry. He slapped Malik on the leg. ‘There’ll probably be two people in the car, both adults, and the car will be new or fairly new. A saloon, not an estate or a sports car or anything out of the ordinary. Maybe a van.’

‘And you know this how?’

‘I read,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Read what?’

‘Books. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Fiction,’ said Malik. ‘You’re talking about those Andy McNab books you’re always reading.’

‘He was in the SAS,’ said Chaudhry. ‘He knows his stuff.’

The minicab lurched to the side to avoid a bus that had stopped suddenly and the driver screamed abuse in Arabic. ‘Fucking buses,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘You see that? You see that bastard?’

‘Yeah, we saw him,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Bet he doesn’t have a licence. You know how many drivers don’t have licences in London?’

Chaudhry ignored him and looked over his shoulder again. There was a motorcycle courier about twenty feet behind their minicab. He had a tinted visor and a fluorescent vest and Chaudhry frowned as he tried to remember whether he’d seen the same man in Stoke Newington. Then the bike indicated left and turned into a side street.

‘I think we’re okay,’ said Malik. ‘He would have thought we’d be going by tube so he probably just had a couple of people waiting for us on the pavement. I reckon they were fuming when we got into the cab. Serves John right, playing games like this. And don’t forget the receipt. He’s bloody well going to cover our expenses.’

Chaudhry thought Malik was probably right: the traffic was heavy and he couldn’t see how a car could be following them, especially considering how erratic their driver was.

When the cab dropped them at the station entrance Chaudhry paid the driver and took a receipt, then stood on the pavement looking around.

‘What?’ said Malik.

‘Just checking,’ said Chaudhry. A minibus pulled up and five teenagers in sports gear piled out.

‘It’s pointless,’ said Malik. ‘He knows we’re coming here so he’s bound to have people waiting for us. Whatever we do they’re going to see us. They’re probably looking at us right now.’

They looked towards the platforms. A man in a grey suit walked by, talking into a mobile and pulling a small wheeled suitcase. Two uniformed drivers were heading for the exit, deep in conversation. Two teenage girls in school uniforms were giggling as they shared an iPod, one earpiece each. A blond-haired young man with a large rucksack was studying a map. He looked up and made eye contact with Chaudhry, then he smiled and walked over to him.

‘Bayswater?’ he said. ‘You know Bayswater?’ He had a Scandinavian accent and Chaudhry could smell alcohol on his breath.

Chaudhry pointed in the general direction of Bayswater and the young man thanked him and headed off, folding up his map.

‘Do you think he was one of them?’ asked Malik.

‘They wouldn’t talk to us,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Look, all we can do is go to Reading and tell John who we saw. It’s not as if we can shake them off, even if we spot them. Come on.’

They went over to the ticket machines and Chaudhry used his credit card to buy two return tickets to Reading. The next train was due to leave in ten minutes so they walked to the platform, boarded the train and found two window seats with a table between them.

There were already a dozen or so people in the carriage and a few more arrived before the train departed. Malik looked around, frowning.

‘Could you make it more obvious?’ asked Chaudhry, taking a Galaxy tablet from his pocket. He had stored several textbooks on the computer and he figured he’d get some revision done while on the train.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re staring.’

‘I’m trying to see who might be following us.’

‘So you don’t have to stare. They’ll be with us all the way to Reading if they are following us. And don’t forget that they know where we’re going; they’ll probably be waiting for us in Reading anyway. Why don’t you make yourself useful and get us something to eat?’ He pointed towards the front of the train. ‘There’s a restaurant car down there. And get me a Coke or something.’

‘John’ll pay us back, right?’

Chaudhry grinned. ‘Get a receipt.’

As Malik headed out of the carriage, Chaudhry looked around. There were two suited businessmen working on laptops at one table, and an old couple sharing a bag of crisps directly behind them. Sitting at the rear of the carriage was a grey-haired man wearing dark glasses, which Chaudhry initially thought looked suspicious until he saw the seeing-eye dog, a golden retriever, sitting under the man’s table.

He settled back in his seat and started reading an anatomy textbook.

Malik returned after ten minutes with two paper bags containing soft drinks, sandwiches and muffins. He sat down and handed a receipt to Chaudhry. ‘You’re his mate so you can get the money from him.’

‘I wouldn’t say he’s a mate,’ said Chaudhry, slipping the receipt into his wallet.

‘He chats to you more than to me, have you noticed that? And when he calls it’s you that he phones.’

‘That’s alphabetical,’ said Chaudhry, popping the tab of his Coke.

‘What are you reading?’ asked Malik.

‘Anatomy,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Got anything I can read?’

Chaudhry held up the tablet. ‘This is all I’ve got,’ he said. His mobile rang and he took it out and looked at the screen. ‘It’s John.’

‘I told you he always calls you,’ said Malik, folding his arms.

Chaudhry pressed the green button to take the call.

‘How’s the sandwich?’

‘What?’

‘The sandwich. Cheese, right?’

‘Cheese salad,’ said Chaudhry. He looked over at Malik and pointed at the phone and then mouthed, ‘He knows what I’m eating.’

‘I just wanted you to know I’m in the Novotel, room 608. Come right up and knock on the door.’

‘Okay,’ said Chaudhry. ‘How do you know what sandwich I’ve got?’

‘I know you’ve got a sandwich and a can of Coke and Harvey’s got two chicken sandwiches and a muffin, and I also know that Harvey asked for a receipt because he probably thinks I’m going to reimburse you.’

‘Are you on the train?’

‘I told you, I’m in the room. I’ll see you when I see you.’ The line went dead and Chaudhry stared at the phone in amazement.

‘What?’ said Malik.

‘He knows what we ordered. He knows you asked for a receipt. One of his people must have been in the restaurant car.’

Malik sipped his Coke. ‘At least we know someone’s watching out for us,’ he said. ‘But bloody hell, they must be good.’

Shepherd opened the door to the hotel room just as Chaudhry was about to knock. Chaudhry froze with his mouth open in and his hand in mid-air.

‘Hello, lads,’ said Shepherd.

‘How did you know we were here?’ said Malik. ‘We didn’t talk to anyone at reception. We came right up.’

‘I got a call when you walked into the hotel,’ said Shepherd. ‘And I was told that you were walking here.’

‘We were followed from the station?’ said Chaudhry.

‘Every step of the way,’ said Shepherd, ushering them inside and closing the door. ‘They were on your tail from the moment you left the flat. Though they were surprised that you took a cab to Paddington.’

Malik looked around the hotel room. ‘You haven’t got cameras in here, have you?’ he asked. Shepherd laughed. ‘I’m serious, man. You spooked us with that sandwich thing. There was someone in the restaurant car when I was buying them, right?’ He took off his parka jacket and tossed it on to the bed.

‘It was our man behind the counter,’ said Shepherd.

‘The old guy?’ said Malik. ‘How did you manage that?’

‘We knew you’d be on a train to Reading, which was a bit of a cheat, so he had the uniform and was ready to go. Whichever train you got on, he’d get on.’

‘You can do that?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘It’s MI5, Raj, they can do pretty much what they want. We had a British Transport Police guy primed to go and he arranged it. He flashes his ID and tells the staff to do as our guy says.’ There was a small sofa by the window and he waved at it. ‘You guys take the weight off your feet. We’re going to be here for a while.’

Chaudhry and Malik sat down.

‘Do you want room service? Coffee? Water?’

‘Coffee would good,’ said Chaudhry. Malik nodded. Shepherd picked up the phone and ordered three pots of coffee.

It was a large room with a double bed and a working area where a whiteboard had been placed on an easel. There was a connecting door to the adjoining room and as Shepherd put down the phone there was a soft knock on it. Shepherd opened the door and took a handful of photographs from a man in the next room.

‘Who’s that?’ asked Chaudhry as Shepherd closed the door.

‘One of the guys who followed you,’ said Shepherd. He handed the photographs to them and the two men started looking through them. There were pictures of them leaving their building, getting into the minicab, and walking through the station. There was a photograph of them buying their tickets, and another of them getting on to the train. One photograph of them sitting on their train even appeared to have been taken on a mobile phone.

Chaudhry looked up in amazement. ‘How many did you have following us?’ he asked.

‘There were two on the pavement outside your flat. We had two motorbikes just in case you went by bus or cab, which was lucky.’

‘Was one a courier?’

‘They were both couriers,’ said Shepherd. He gathered up the photographs and put them on the desk.

‘I think I saw one following the cab.’

‘Well done,’ said Shepherd. ‘I hope he wasn’t too obvious. We had four at the station, plus the BTP officer and the guy ready to go in the restaurant car. And I cheated a little by having three at Reading station so that even if they missed you completely in London they could pick you up there.’

‘How come we didn’t spot them?’ asked Malik.

‘Because they’re professionals,’ said Shepherd. ‘They look totally normal. They blend in and they do absolutely nothing to attract attention to themselves. No one was going to get close enough to see what ticket you were buying, but that’s not an issue. If they’re professional then as soon as they know you’re heading for the station they’ll just buy tickets for all the main lines anyway. And our guys have British Transport IDs so they can just flash them to a ticket inspector.’ He showed them the picture of them boarding the train. ‘It’s always best to board a train at the last moment. It gives anyone following less time to get sorted. You made it too easy.’

‘The guy in the suit,’ said Malik. ‘There was a businessman at Paddington. He kept looking at us.’

‘He was probably looking at you and wondering why you were staring at him. He wasn’t one of ours. Our people would never look directly at you. And they’d never make eye contact with you. In fact that’s one of the ways you can spot a close-up tail — they’ll be avoiding eye contact even when you’d expect them to be looking at you.’

‘How do we spot them, then?’ asked Malik.

‘If they’re doing their job properly you shouldn’t be able to,’ said Shepherd.

‘I looked at everyone in our carriage and I didn’t think anyone was following us.’

‘There’s a good chance that they wouldn’t be in your carriage,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s the beauty of a train. There’s no getting off anywhere other than at a station, so while the train’s moving they don’t even need to have you in sight. All that matters is that they see when you get off.’

‘So you check who gets off with you?’ said Chaudhry.

‘Not necessarily,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they’re pros there’ll be at least two on the train. One will stay put while you get off and radio or phone the other to say that you’re on the move. So your tail could actually be ahead of you.’

‘It’s impossible to tell you’re being followed, is that what you’re saying?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘It’s not impossible, but it takes practice. That’s why we’re here. This isn’t about us showing off. It’s about demonstrating what a good surveillance operation is like. What I want to do is to run a few exercises with you. And give you a few tips about what to look out for and what to do if you think you are being followed.’

‘Is something wrong, John?’ asked Malik. ‘Has something happened?’

Shepherd smiled and shook his head. ‘Everything’s fine,’ he said. ‘This is just a training exercise.’

‘Do you think someone might be following us?’

‘No, this is just a precaution,’ said Shepherd. ‘But the closer we get to the operation, the more likely it is that they’ll run a check on you. I don’t want a panicky phone call from either of you in a week or so saying that you think you’re being followed.’

‘Khalid, you mean?’ asked Chaudhry.

Shepherd nodded. ‘There’s every possibility that he’ll have you checked out, just to see what you’re up to. It might be nothing more than him getting someone to follow you for a day or two, but if it happens I want you to know it’s happening and to act in the right way.’ He could see that both men were tense so he smiled, trying to put them at ease. ‘The good news is that today at least you were clean. We’re sure that no one was following you today, other than our people. And in future, if at any time you are worried that someone is following you, you can call me and I’ll get you checked out.’

There was a loud knock at the door and both men jumped.

Shepherd grinned. ‘Relax, guys. It’s our coffee.’

‘Okay, there’s one of ours now, within a hundred feet,’ said Shepherd. ‘See if you can spot him.’ He smiled. ‘Or her.’

They were sitting on a bench in Forbury Gardens, close to Reading Town Hall. It was lunchtime and a lot of office workers were strolling around, many of them either smoking or eating sandwiches.

Chaudhry and Malik looked around.

‘Try to be casual,’ said Shepherd. ‘Don’t stare and try to avoid eye contact, but if you do make eye contact with anyone make it as natural as possible. If it’s a pretty girl it’s okay to say hello. The key is for every interaction to be exactly as it would normally be. So you’d normally want a prop like a newspaper or your mobile, something that you can keep looking at. Especially in a static situation like this. A guy sitting on his own doing nothing looks suspicious. Give him a newspaper and he’s just a guy taking a break. Better still give him a pen so that he can do the Sudoku and no one will give him a second look.’ He held up the copy of the Telegraph that he was holding. ‘Also, just like in the movies, you can open it up and peer over the top of it.’

‘The woman with the pram has walked by us three times,’ said Malik.

‘Yes, but the baby’s crying. It’s very rare for a watcher to bring family. Especially kids. If something goes wrong and a kid gets hurt there’d be hell to pay.’

‘Maybe it’s not a real baby,’ said Malik. ‘Maybe it’s a recording.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘But no, it’s not her.’

A council employee in blue overalls and a fluorescent jacket was emptying a litter bin. He was bobbing his head in time to whatever music he was listening to through large black headphones atop a woollen hat.

‘That guy,’ said Chaudhry, nodding at the man.

‘Because?’

‘Because when we walked by that bin it wasn’t even half full.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘Well spotted.’

‘Am I right?’

‘Spot on,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’ll often use people in uniforms because they tend to pass unnoticed; generally you’ll see the uniform and not notice the face. The downside of uniforms is that if they’re not in the right setting they show out. So he looks right in the park, or the street, but you’d notice him straight away in a shop or a bar.’ He took out his BlackBerry and tapped out a number. A few seconds later, the man who was emptying the litter bin straightened up and answered his phone. ‘All right, Tim, on to phase two.’

‘Phase two?’ asked Malik.

Shepherd ended the call and put his phone away. The man in the fluorescent jacket pulled the rubbish-filled black bag out of the bin, fastened it and then walked away towards the town hall.

‘Tim’s going to walk behind the town hall. We’re going to carry on with another exercise and I want you to tell me when you see him reappear.’

‘Check we can multitask, is that it?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘Sort of,’ said Shepherd. He stood up. ‘Let’s just take a walk,’ he said. ‘But keep your eye on the town hall. As we walk around I want you to watch out for someone taking your photograph. There are plenty of buildings overlooking the park so you can easily be snapped with a telephoto lens.’

They did a slow circuit of the park, with Chaudhry and Malik keeping a close eye on the town hall while also checking out the buildings around them. They walked slowly and Shepherd chatted to them both as they walked, explaining in detail how the surveillance team had followed them from their flat to the hotel in Reading.

When they got back to the bench a middle-aged man in a raincoat and trilby hat had taken their place. He was reading an iPad and chewing on a baguette.

‘So first things first,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did you see Tim come back from behind the town hall?’

Chaudhry shook his head. ‘Definitely not,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Malik. ‘I saw him go behind the building but he never came back.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘Well done, Tim,’ he said to the man on the bench. ‘They missed you completely and I only just made you.’

The man with the iPad stood up and pushed back his trilby. Chaudhry and Malik groaned as they realised it was the man who had been emptying the litter bin.

‘He changed his clothes,’ said Malik.

‘Exactly,’ said Shepherd.

Tim nodded and walked away as Shepherd, Chaudhry and Malik went to sit on the bench.

‘Here’s the thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘Professional followers will always carry with them things that can change their profile. Hats. Jackets. Bags. Plus props. If you see a guy carrying a copy of the Financial Times you’re more likely to notice the paper than the man’s face. So if he drops the paper and carries a cup of coffee you won’t remember him. If he goes into a shop wearing a baseball hat and comes out wearing a scarf there’s a good chance you won’t recognise him. It can help you lose a tail too. A reversible jacket can change your colour scheme completely, or take off your pullover and tie it round your waist, roll up your sleeves, develop a limp, put your arm in a sling. Glasses on, glasses off. Tim there was wearing a fluorescent jacket and carrying a black bag the first time you saw him. That’s what you were looking for, so when he walked by you in a raincoat and carrying an iPad you didn’t notice him.’

‘So what’s the trick, what are you supposed to remember?’ asked Malik.

‘Try to get a good look at faces. If you can’t see their faces look for body shape. And despite what I said about developing a limp, most people tend to move the same way. Look at the way people walk, how they move their shoulders, the angle of their neck. And shoes. A watcher might have time to change his jacket but shoes are usually too much trouble.’

Shepherd’s BlackBerry buzzed and he took it out of his pocket. He looked at the screen and grinned. ‘Here’s the first of the photographs,’ he said. He showed them the screen. There was a picture of Chaudhry and Malik, close up.

‘You’re shitting me,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Who took that?’

‘One of the watchers. She walked right by us.’

‘Why didn’t we see her?’ asked Malik.

‘Because you were looking at the buildings,’ said Shepherd. ‘You were concentrating on the distance so you didn’t see what was right under your noses.’

Shepherd’s BlackBerry buzzed again as it received a second photograph. This one was of Chaudhry, side on. He showed it to Chaudhry, who shook his head in amazement.

‘That was taken just feet away. From a phone, right?’ Chaudhry said.

‘No, that was taken by Jake, who had a camera in his hat. He can take a picture of anything he’s looking at, and the shutter button is in his pocket. Even close up you’d never see the lens; it’s not much bigger than a pin.’

The phone buzzed once again. The third photograph was of the three of them, taken from some distance away. Shepherd showed it to Chaudhry and Malik. ‘This camera was in a briefcase.’

‘Okay, I get it,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Your guys are pros and we’re the amateurs. But you didn’t have to bring us all the way to Reading to tell us that.’

Shepherd put the BlackBerry away. ‘You’re absolutely right, Raj. So now we’ll move on to the next stage.’

‘Sit down and try it out for size,’ said Shepherd. He had taken Chaudhry and Malik to the John Lewis department store, close to Reading station. They were in the sprawling furniture department on the fourth floor.

‘Are you serious?’ asked Malik.

‘We’re here to look at furniture, right? So sit.’

Chaudhry and Malik dropped down on to the long leather sofa, a dark-brown Chesterfield. Shepherd sat in a matching armchair.

‘The key to spotting a tail is to take them to an environment where they show out,’ said Shepherd. ‘Department stores are perfect. Look around, what do you see?’

The two men casually looked around. ‘Housewives,’ said Chaudhry. ‘And couples.’

‘Exactly. And not just housewives. Well-to-do housewives. Generally middle-aged and middle class. You don’t see many young single men here. Or people in jogging clothes. Or businessmen with briefcases. Or anyone in a uniform. And if they were here they’d be the proverbial sore thumb. Choosing furniture takes time, so you can spend ten minutes or more here and no one will think anything about it.’

He stood up. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Menswear next.’ He took them downstairs to the menswear department and through to the suits section. ‘Browse,’ he said. ‘And let me know what you see. Or don’t see.’

There were half a dozen men looking through the racks of men’s clothes.

‘No women,’ said Malik. ‘I get it.’

‘Yes, you rarely see women buying men’s clothes,’ said Shepherd. ‘So a watcher who blends in in the furniture department won’t fit in as well here.’

‘Could be a middle-aged guy,’ said Chaudhry. ‘He’d fit in in both places.’

‘So you’d then go to the lingerie department and do a walk-through there. Or the toy department. Or cosmetics. That’s why department stores work so well. They have everything under one roof. And, because there are multiple entrances and exits, they have to stick with you. High street shops don’t work so well. They can just wait outside.’

‘So what are you saying? That we have to go shopping every day to see if we’re being followed?’ asked Malik.

‘What I’m saying is that if you suspect that you are being followed you head to John Lewis or Debenhams or House of Fraser and you make sure. You can do it without being obvious that you’re looking for a tail.’

A male shopping assistant in a dark suit was heading their way so Shepherd took them towards the escalators.

‘And then what?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘Then we lose them, right? We shake them off?’

Shepherd chuckled. ‘No, Raj. Then you call me.’

‘Look around and tell me what you see,’ said Shepherd. They were in the Oracle Centre, next door to the John Lewis store. There were ninety shops on three floors under a vaulted glass ceiling. Shepherd had taken them to the upper floor, from where they could look down on the crowds below.

‘A lot of people,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Exactly,’ said Shepherd. ‘People of all shapes and sizes, every ethnicity imaginable, men, women, young, old, rich, poor. In an environment like this there’s no way of spotting a watcher by appearance alone. Plus, it’s all open, so from here we can see pretty much everyone on the ground floor, and everyone up here. And they can see us. If you go into a shop all they have to do is wait for you to come out. The situation is similar in the high street. But there is a big advantage to a place like this.’ He turned around to face the shop that they were standing in front of. It was an Apple store, one of the busiest in the mall. Inside were dozens of customers playing with iPads, iPhones and Mac computers while black-shirted sales staff looked on.

‘Reflections,’ said Shepherd. ‘If you look into a shop window your watchers will relax and tend to look at you directly. If you get the angles right you can see behind you and to the sides.’

Chaudhry and Malik moved their heads from side to side. ‘So you stop, is that it?’ said Chaudhry. ‘Then check in the reflection to see if anyone’s looking. That works?’

‘Like a charm,’ said Shepherd. ‘Chances are they’ll look to see why you’ve stopped. But it’s also a good way of checking if anyone across the road is watching you. The distance means that if you’ve got your back to them they’ll feel they can look at you without any risk. Shop windows are also a good way of backtracking.’

‘Backtracking?’ repeated Malik.

‘I’ll show you,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll walk off down the mall and you two follow. Try to be casual, and if I look your way avoid eye contact. Okay?’

The two men nodded.

Shepherd grinned. ‘Don’t look so serious,’ he said. He turned and walked towards Debenhams, then headed left towards Boots. He walked slowly, glancing in shop windows, his hands in his pockets.

Chaudhry and Malik followed about twenty paces behind. ‘Shall we walk together or split up?’ asked Malik.

‘I don’t think it matters,’ said Chaudhry. They moved aside to let two young women with scraped-back ponytails push their buggies by.

Shepherd gazed at the computers in the window as he walked by PC World, then he paused at the entrance to allow a group of teenagers to walk out. He looked at his watch before carrying on towards Boots.

Chaudhry and Malik continued after him. But then Shepherd stopped, turned, and began walking back towards them. Malik made eye contact with Shepherd and froze; Chaudhry took a single step and then he stopped too.

Malik turned, bumping into Chaudhry and knocking him off balance. Chaudhry reached out to grab Malik’s arm as Shepherd stopped and looked again at the computers in PC World’s windows. He stood there for several seconds, rubbing his chin.

‘What do we do?’ asked Malik. ‘Do we walk by him?’

‘It’s too late,’ said Chaudhry. ‘He got us. Look at his reflection.’

They looked at Shepherd’s reflection in the shop window. He was grinning at them.

Shepherd carried the three coffees over to the corner table where Chaudhry and Malik were already sitting. He put the mugs on the table and sat down. They were in Caffe Nero on the ground floor of the Oracle Centre.

‘What I’ve been showing you is how to spot if you have a tail,’ said Shepherd, keeping his voice low. ‘But here’s the important thing: if you realise that you are being followed you mustn’t let on that you know. You guys are just regular citizens. You’re not spies and you’re not criminals. You shouldn’t be able to spot a tail, and you certainly shouldn’t have the skills to shake one off.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘Villains are different. To them surveillance is one of the hazards of the job. If you’re a career criminal then from time to time the cops will follow you. They know you’re a villain and you know you’re a villain, and giving the cops the slip is part of the game. But say we’re looking at a guy who might be a spy. We put him under surveillance. If we become aware that he’s spotted us then that’s a red flag right there. The very fact that he knows he’s being tailed almost certainly means he’s a spy.’

‘I don’t get it,’ said Malik.

‘If you’ve got nothing to hide you’ll never know that you’re being followed. I could follow a civilian around all day and he’d never see me because most people are too wrapped up in their own lives. But someone with something to hide will be looking around. If someone does start following you, and they see you using anti-surveillance techniques, they’ll know that something is wrong.’ He sipped his coffee again. ‘That technique I used, the backtrack? You can do that and make it look natural. Walk past a newsagent and then go back and buy a pack of gum. Walk past a newspaper seller and then go back and pick up a paper. Look at your watch and then change direction as if you’d forgotten you had to be somewhere. And you can use reflections. It doesn’t have to be a shop window; you can use car mirrors, mirrors in shops. Anything, so long as it looks normal. But if you do spot someone following you the worst possible thing you can do is acknowledge it. You have to carry on as if nothing has happened.’

‘So what’s the point?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘The point is that if you ever do think that someone’s watching you, you let me know as soon as you can. I can then check it out, see if there is any surveillance and decide what to do about it.’

‘Just phone you, is that it?’

‘Sure. Or text. Tell me your location and who you think is following you.’

‘And what will you do?’

‘I’ll get a team out and put them in counter-surveillance mode. There’s always at least one team of watchers on standby at Thames House. They’ll check you over and identify anyone who’s following you, and they’ll do it without the tail ever knowing. People carrying out surveillance are often the easiest to follow because they’re usually so involved in what they’re doing.’

‘And you think Khalid or one of his people might follow us?’ asked Malik.

‘It’s possible,’ said Shepherd. ‘But that doesn’t mean it’ll be somebody you’ll recognise. They’re much more likely to bring in someone you don’t know.’

‘This backtracking thing, do we do that every day? Every hour? Or what?’

‘If you get the feeling you’re being followed, at any time, give it a go. You don’t want to be doing it all the time, that’s for sure. But if I’m on my way to a meeting I’ll usually do it at least once. And always when I’m on my way home.’

‘Why would anyone be following you?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘Any one of a dozen reasons. It would depend on whatever case I’m working on,’ said Shepherd. He leaned closer to them. ‘There’s something else we need to set up. We need to agree an alarm code, a way of you letting me know that there’s a problem without anyone else being aware of what’s going on.’

‘Like a safe word?’ said Malik.

‘What’s a safe word?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘If you’re with a dominatrix you agree a safe word, so that if she’s hurting you too much you say the word and she knows to stop.’

Chaudhry laughed out loud and looked over at Shepherd. Shepherd grinned.

‘Hey, I read it somewhere,’ protested Malik. ‘Oh, screw the two of you.’ He folded his arms and glared at Chaudhry. ‘Ha ha bloody ha.’

‘To be honest, he’s right,’ Shepherd said to Chaudhry. ‘We need to agree a word or phrase that you can remember, and if you ever use it in conversation with me I’ll know that you’re in trouble.’

‘Like what?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘Something that’s easy to remember but that you wouldn’t ordinarily say. But it has to be a word or phrase that won’t arouse suspicion.’

Chaudhry smiled slyly at Malik. ‘What do dominatrixes use?’ he asked.

Malik flashed him a tight smile. ‘You see, I know you’re taking the piss but the whole point is that the submissive uses the safe word. That way he has the ultimate power even though the dominatrix is in control.’

Chaudhry shook his head in mock sadness. ‘You know far too much about this domination stuff,’ he said.

‘I was Googling something else and it came up,’ said Malik.

‘Googling what? “Naughty boys want their arses spanked”? I have to say, Harvey, this is a very worrying side to you. Now I’m scared that I might wake up one morning and find myself tied to the bed and you standing over me with a whip in your hand.’

The mickey-taking was a good sign, Shepherd knew; it showed that they were relaxed. So he drank his coffee and let them get on with it.

‘Do you see what I have to put up with?’ Malik asked Shepherd.

‘I don’t know — I think he might have a point. You know that we do positive vetting, don’t you? Something like that would definitely show up.’

‘Are you serious?’ asked Malik, leaning forward, then he saw from the look on Shepherd’s face that he wasn’t. He sat back. ‘You’re as bad as he is.’

‘All right, guys, let’s get back to the matter in hand,’ said Shepherd. ‘A phrase that I’ve used in the past is “like my grandfather always used to say”. You can start pretty much any sentence with that. How does that sound?’

‘I never knew either of my grandfathers,’ said Malik.

‘Grandmother?’ asked Shepherd.

Malik nodded. ‘Yeah, that’ll work.’

Shepherd looked across at Chaudhry. ‘Works for me as well.’

‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd. ‘And it can work both ways too. If you hear me use that phrase it means there’s a problem and you need to treat with suspicion anything that I say.’

Chaudhry frowned. ‘Say what?’

‘Suppose there’s somebody listening in and I know they’re there. I could use that phrase to tip you off. Or say I was being forced to arrange a meeting with you — if I used that phrase you’d know right away that you’re not to turn up.’

‘Are you saying that someone might be after you?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘It’s just a safety net,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s standard in undercover work. There’s another useful phrase I’ll give you. If I call you I’ll ask what the weather is like. If you say it’s fine then I’ll know that everything is okay. If you say it looks like rain or snow or anything negative then I’ll know you’ve got a problem.’

‘Well, why haven’t we needed it before now?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘What’s happened to bring this up?’

‘Nothing’s happened,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s just standard procedure. We’re obviously getting close to the critical stage so we need to have all our ducks in a row. Show me your hands.’

‘What?’

‘Just let me see your hands. Palms down.’ Chaudhry held out his hands and Shepherd studied the fingers. Then he nodded at Malik. ‘You too.’ Malik held out his hands and Shepherd looked at them. ‘Okay, neither of you is a nail-biter, so we can use that as a visual sign. If there’s a problem, if you’re in danger or there’s something wrong, and we have visual contact but can’t speak, then make a point of biting your nails.’

Chaudhry frowned. ‘Now you’ve really lost me,’ he said.

‘Suppose we arrange a meet. And you turn up and you’re waiting for me. But then you realise that you’re being watched. You might not have time to text me. I might be there already and walking towards you. If you start biting your nails I’ll immediately abort the meeting. Ditto if you’re on your way to see me and I spot somebody who might know you. I see you, I bite my nails, you back off. Again, it’s a safety net. You’ll probably never have to use it but we have it in place, just in case.’

‘Okay,’ said Chaudhry, but Shepherd could hear the uncertainty in his voice.

‘Trust me, we’re just being cautious,’ said Shepherd. ‘Best to talk it through now rather than trying to put something together at short notice. I’ll give you another one while we’re at it. You both wear coats with hoods, right?’

‘Now you’re the fashion police?’ said Malik.

‘I’m just saying that you normally wear your parka and Raj has his duffel coat. Changing the hood can be a sign that there’s a problem. Say it’s up and you want to let me know there’s a problem. If you’re sure I’m watching you, you put your hood down. Or vice versa. If it’s down you pull it up. It’s a natural gesture but it can let me know that something’s wrong. Got it?’

Chaudhry nodded. ‘Got it.’ He looked over at Malik and grinned. ‘Think that’ll work with your dominatrix?’

Shepherd finished the last of his coffee. ‘Okay, let’s run through a few exercises in the mall. There’re a few more tricks I want to show you, then I’ll put you on the train back to London.’

Shepherd was half an hour from Hampstead in his Volvo when his mobile rang. He took a quick look at the screen. It was Hargrove. He took the call on hands-free.

‘I’ve had Fenby on the phone. Good news and maybe not so good news,’ said Hargrove. ‘Kettering and Thompson are okay to meet you in London. But they want to see you at a charity boxing night.’

‘What?’

‘They’re down tomorrow for a charity do at a hotel in Russell Square. The Royal National Hotel. They’ve got a table and they want you there.’

‘That’s not on, is it? What if I bump into someone I know? Is it a big event?’

‘Four hundred-odd people, mainly from south London. The event’s to raise money for a boxing club in Croydon. A couple of fighters that Kettering knows are coming down from Birmingham so Kettering has told Ray that he wants to kill two birds with one stone.’

‘We’re not going to be able to arrange an arms deal at a table full of boxing fans,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re going to have to give this a body swerve.’

‘No can do,’ said Hargrove. ‘You’ve got to look at this from their point of view. They don’t know you — you’re Fenby’s contact. So they want to meet you in a social context first.’

‘So we’ll have a pint in a quiet pub somewhere off the beaten track. I’ve done God knows how many jobs south of the river and if anyone there recognises me I’ll be blown.’

‘We can run a check on the guest list for you,’ said Hargrove. ‘Look, Ray has already tried to put them off but Kettering is insisting and if we start to make a fuss he’s going to get suspicious. He just wants to sit down with you and get to know you.’

Shepherd sighed. ‘If that’s the way you want it I won’t argue, but don’t blame me if it goes tits up,’ he said.

‘Your reservations are noted,’ said Hargrove. He cut the connection.

Shepherd phoned Damien Plant and asked him how he was getting on with the Garry Edwards legend.

‘I put the finishing touches to it this morning,’ said Plant.

‘I need it for tomorrow evening,’ said Shepherd. ‘The clothes and bling, anyway.’

‘Where are you?’

‘On my way to Hampstead.’

‘I could drop it off on my way home,’ said Plant. ‘In an hour.’

‘Perfect,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’ll give me time for a shower.’

‘Don’t go to any trouble on my account,’ said Plant.

‘I’ll have coffee ready for you,’ said Shepherd. ‘How do you like it?’

‘Same as I like my men,’ said Plant. ‘Black, sweet and with bulging forearms.’

Shepherd laughed and ended the call.

The traffic was light heading into London and he had parked the car, showered and changed, and was stirring sugar into a mug of black coffee when his intercom buzzed. He pressed the button to open the downstairs door. Plant was wearing blue Armani jeans and a blue blazer over the sort of tight white T-shirt that he’d threatened to make Shepherd wear. He was carrying a blue nylon holdall in his left hand and three grey garment covers in his right.

Shepherd showed him through to the sitting room.

‘I’d forgotten how cosy this place was,’ said Plant, looking around. He had chosen everything in the flat, from the furniture and LCD television to the books on the shelves and the pictures on the walls.

‘Yeah, it’s not exactly a cat-swinging room, is it?’

‘Perfectly in keeping with a freelance journalist,’ said Plant. ‘Frankly we were lucky to get you into Hampstead the way rents are moving here.’

He sat down and sipped his coffee as Shepherd opened the garment covers. There was a dark-blue single-breasted suit, several shirts, a black linen jacket not dissimilar to the one that Plant had been wearing at Thames House, and a brown leather jacket that zipped up the front.

‘The leather jacket’s Armani,’ said Plant. ‘I’ve scuffed it a bit to give it some character. I wouldn’t mind it back when the job’s finished; it’s the sort of thing I can use again and again. The suit you can keep. The shirts too.’

Inside the holdall was a padded manila envelope. Shepherd opened it and slid out a driving licence. It had his photograph and the name of Garry Edwards, with the signature that he’d given Plant in Thames House. Shepherd didn’t recognise the address on the licence and he frowned at Plant.

Plant smiled. ‘I’ve used an office address for you. They’ll have the Edwards name on file so will field any enquiries.’

‘I doubt I’ll be flashing it around,’ said Shepherd. Also inside the envelope was a gold Cartier wristwatch, a gold money clip and a heavy gold bracelet.

Plant took a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it and a slim gold pen to Shepherd. ‘The jewellery you’ll have to sign for,’ he said. ‘It’s fully insured but please take care of it.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Shepherd, signing the form and giving it back to Plant.

‘I’ll love you and leave you,’ said Plant. He finished his coffee and stood up. ‘Thought I might swing by the Heath for old times’ sake.’

‘Bloody hell, Damien, be careful.’

Plant winked. ‘Not to worry, I’m loaded up with fake ID.’

‘I meant gay-bashers. It still goes on, you know.’

Plant grinned. ‘I’m just off the close-combat course and there’re a few new tricks that I’m dying to try out.’

Shepherd opened the door for him. ‘Why would they send a dresser on the close-combat course?’

‘Have you been to the Harrods January sales?’ said Plant. ‘Middle-aged women with fur coats and umbrellas are bloody lethal.’ He laughed and headed down the stairs.

The black cab turned into Russell Square and joined a queue of cars and coaches heading towards the Royal National Hotel, a massive nondescript concrete building that looked more like an office block than a hotel. ‘I’m not happy about this, Razor,’ said Shepherd.

‘What, because it’s got only three stars?’

‘No, because there’re going to be more than four hundred people here including a fair sprinkling of south London villains, any one of whom might know you or me.’

‘Hargrove has checked the guest list, right?’

‘Yeah, but most of the tables are in one name. I tell you, this could all turn to shit very quickly if someone recognises us.’

‘We could always grab a pair of gloves and sort it out in the ring,’ joked Sharpe.

‘Why am I the only one worried here?’

Sharpe patted Shepherd’s knee. ‘Because every day of our lives we run the risk of coming across someone who might recognise us. It can happen in the street, at a football match, at a restaurant. If you start worrying about it then you’ll end up a basket case. What happens, happens. Que sera, sera.’

‘Bloody hell, Razor, when did you go all Buddhist on me?’

The taxi pulled up in front of the hotel and Sharpe reached for the door handle. ‘If it happens, we’ll deal with it,’ he said. ‘You can pay for the cab, right? You get better expenses than me and, as you love to point out, I’m not getting overtime.’ He got out of the taxi as Shepherd handed the driver a twenty-pound note. Shepherd told the driver to keep the change and asked for a receipt, then joined Sharpe on the pavement. To their right was a pub with more than two dozen men standing around drinking and smoking. Like Shepherd they were wearing lounge suits and ties but there was plenty of bling on show as well, expensive watches, gold chains and diamond rings. Shepherd scanned faces as the cab drove off but he didn’t see anyone he recognised. A coach began disgorging its load of Chinese tourists, led by a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit holding a red flag above his head.

The reception area of the hotel was gloomy and despite the fact that it was almost eight o’clock there was a long line of guests waiting to check in. The Chinese tourists filed in, chattering excitedly.

‘I hope it’s boxing and not that kung fu bollocks,’ growled Sharpe.

A printed sign with an arrow pointing to the left showed them the way to the boxing. They went down a wood-panelled corridor to a large room with a bar packed with a couple of hundred men. Half a dozen bar staff in black T-shirts were working hard to keep up with the orders, with most of the drinkers paying with fifty-pound notes. Shepherd scanned faces again. His memory was near-photographic and he didn’t see anyone that he’d ever met but he recognised at least twenty criminals whose records he’d seen and one face that the Met were looking for in connection with a Securicor van robbery two years earlier.

To the left of the room was a seating plan on an easel. They went over to it and found Kettering’s table. It was number 21, close to the ring and just behind the judges’ table.

‘Drink?’ asked Sharpe, nodding at the bar.

Shepherd looked at his watch. ‘Let’s get to the table,’ he said.

They weaved their way through the bar to the entrance of the main hall. A boxing ring had been erected in the centre of the room underneath a massive dome-shaped chandelier. A long table had been erected on a podium against the far wall giving the organisers and VIP guests a clear view of the ring. There were another thirty tables around the ring, each seating a dozen people. Most of the tables were empty and a few Indian waiters were making last-minute adjustments to the cutlery and glasses.

‘Remind me again who I am?’ said Sharpe.

‘Don’t be a tosser all your life,’ said Shepherd. ‘Come on, let’s sit down. Might as well get ourselves a good view of the door.’

They were both using legends that they’d used before. Sharpe was James Gracie, a Scottish criminal who’d served time for armed robbery in the eighties before moving out to the Costa del Sol, from where he ran his arms business. The legend was rock-solid and even a check on the Police National Computer would come up with Gracie’s record. He’d used it several times over the years.

Shepherd sat down at the table, choosing a seat that allowed him a clear view of the entrance. Sharpe sat a few seats away so that he was directly facing the ring.

There were unopened bottles of red and white wine on the table. Sharpe reached for one and sneered at the label. ‘Cheap plonk. Fancy champagne?’

‘Let’s wait until the guys get here,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can make a show of it.’

Guests were moving into the hall and taking their places. A group headed for the VIP table, including a large black man wearing a floppy pink hat and what appeared to be a black mink coat, and a good-looking black man with a greying moustache, dressed in a sharp suit.

‘That’s John Conteh, isn’t it?’ said Sharpe, nodding at the man with the moustache.

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘What is he, sixty? I hope I look that good when I’m sixty.’

‘Do you think he runs marathons with a rucksack of bricks on his back?’

‘I don’t run marathons, you soft bastard.’

The VIP table began to fill up. Sitting next to Conteh was a sharp-faced man in a beige suit. He was talking animatedly to the heavyweight boxer and demonstrating an uppercut to the chin. Like most of the guests on the top table his head was shaved.

Four stunningly pretty black girls, as tall and willowy as supermodels, walked to one table followed by four heavyset men in Italian suits. Shepherd recognised one of the men; he was a well-known drug dealer based in Beckenham, south London. He looked over at Sharpe to see if he’d spotted him and Sharpe nodded.

‘Problem?’ asked Sharpe.

Shepherd shook his head. He’d worked on a case involving the drug dealer but had never met him. Shepherd saw Kettering and Thompson at the doorway but kept his face blank. Edwards and Gracie had never met the two men so they had to wait until they’d been introduced. ‘Here we go,’ he whispered to Sharpe. Then in a louder voice he began telling Sharpe a joke about a one-legged safecracker. He stopped when Kettering and Thompson arrived at their table.

Kettering grinned amiably. ‘You James and Garry?’ he said.

Shepherd stood up. ‘I’m Garry,’ he said, and held out his hand. Kettering shook it. He had a firm grip and Shepherd squeezed back hard.

‘Simon,’ Kettering said. He shook hands with Sharpe, and then introduced Thompson. ‘This is Paul.’ Thompson shook hands with them both and then they took their seats. Kettering sat on Shepherd’s left and Thompson sat between Shepherd and Sharpe. ‘Well, Ian speaks very highly of you two.’ Ian Parton was the cover name that Fenby was using.

‘Yeah, he’s a riot is Ian,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s not here?’

‘Nah, don’t think he’s much of a boxing fan,’ said Kettering. ‘Football’s his game.’ He winked at Shepherd. ‘You a boxing fan, Garry?’

‘I like a good punch-up,’ said Shepherd. He nodded at Sharpe. ‘James is the pugilist. That accounts for his battered face.’

Sharpe laughed. ‘Yeah, I boxed a bit when I was a kid,’ he said. ‘What brings you down to the Big Smoke?’ he asked Thompson.

‘We’ve got a couple of fighters here,’ said Thompson. ‘We support a youth club in Birmingham and Harry was looking for some fighters who weren’t local so we said we’d bring our boys down.’

‘Harry?’ said Shepherd.

‘Harry’s organised tonight,’ Thompson said. ‘It’s a fundraiser for his club. Next time we have a fundraiser in Birmingham he’ll repay the favour.’

More people were arriving and the room was echoing with conversation and laughter. The guests were mainly men and the few women who were there looked as if they could well be charging by the hour.

Sharpe waved a waiter over. ‘Get me a bottle of Bollinger, will you?’ he said. He pointed at the bottles of wine on the table. ‘I can’t drink this crap.’

Kettering saw what he was doing. ‘What’s the problem, James?’

‘No problem,’ said Sharpe. ‘Just fancy a drop of bubbly. I’ll pay for it.’

‘You bloody won’t,’ said Kettering. ‘Tonight’s on me.’ He pointed a finger at the waiter. ‘What champagne have you got? Got any Cristal?’

‘Bollinger and Moet,’ said the waiter.

‘Two bottles of Bollinger,’ said Kettering. ‘And the bill comes to me, right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the waiter, and he headed for the bar.

Two men appeared at their table. Big men with weightlifters’ forearms and bulging necks that suggested years of steroid use. Kettering stood up, walked round the table and hugged them both, then introduced them to Shepherd and Sharpe. ‘Terry and Tony,’ he said. The two men sat down and started chatting to Thompson.

‘They’re brothers,’ Kettering said to Shepherd. ‘Kickboxing champions, both of them.’

‘Who else is on our table?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Couple of pals of Harry’s, and three or four of my mates, assuming they can make it,’ said Kettering. ‘Don’t worry, you’re among friends.’

‘I’m not worried,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m just not sure it’s the most secure place for a meeting.’

Kettering laughed. ‘We’re just here to watch some boxing and have a bite to eat,’ he said. He leaned towards Shepherd, so close that Shepherd could smell the man’s aftershave, sweet with the scent of lime. ‘The thing is, Garry, we need to trust each other. Am I right? You don’t know us and we don’t know you but this way we get to feel each other out. See how the land lies.’

‘Point taken,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I hope at some point we can talk business.’

Kettering nodded enthusiastically. ‘You can count on it,’ he said.

The waiter returned with two bottles of champagne in individual ice buckets. He was followed by another waiter who was carrying a tray of champagne flutes. The first waiter popped the cork of one of the bottles while his colleague placed the glasses on the table. Two more men arrived at the table: one, obese, in a dark-blue suit, his hands festooned with gold rings, the other tall and thin with a shaved head and a large diamond stud in one ear. Kettering introduced them to everyone else at the table. The fat man was Davie, a scrap-metal merchant; the thin man was Ricky, a property developer.

Once all their glasses were filled, Kettering clinked his against Shepherd’s. ‘Here’s to swimming with bow-legged women,’ he said.

Shepherd sipped his champagne and smacked his lips appreciatively, even though he didn’t really like the taste. ‘I love a drop of bubbly,’ he said.

‘Big fan of Cristal, myself,’ said Kettering.

‘Yeah, you can’t beat Cristal,’ said Shepherd. He raised his glass to Sharpe. ‘Me and James, we knocked back half a case one night, remember?’

‘I remember the bloody hangover, that’s about all,’ laughed Sharpe. He leaned over and clinked his glass against Shepherd’s.

‘Then it couldn’t have been Cristal because you never get a hangover from Cristal,’ said Kettering. ‘You get what you pay for.’ He touched his glass against Shepherd’s again. ‘Anyway, great to finally meet you. Ian tells me good things.’

‘I hope he’s not told you too much,’ said Shepherd. ‘Wouldn’t want my name being taken in vain in Brummie-land.’

The doors to the kitchen burst open and a dozen waiters filed out carrying trays. The first course was a prawn cocktail served in stainless-steel bowls, followed by roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatoes and vegetables. Kettering made small talk with Shepherd while they ate.

As the plates were being taken away, Kettering ordered another two bottles of champagne, then he patted Shepherd on the arm. ‘You smoke, Garry?’

‘Not really,’ said Shepherd.

Kettering slid a brown leather cigar case from his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve got some nice Cubans.’

‘I’ll take a cigar, yeah,’ said Shepherd.

‘Come on, then. Let’s give dessert a swerve and we’ll have a chat outside.’ He stood up and gestured with his chin at Thompson. Shepherd caught Sharpe’s eye and nodded at the door and the four men threaded their way through the tables to the doorway. They headed along the corridor and over to the pub. ‘Hey, Paul, get us some brandies,’ said Kettering. ‘The good stuff.’

Thompson went inside the pub while Kettering handed cigars to Shepherd and Sharpe and then lit them with matches. The three men blew smoke up at the stars.

‘So, Ian says you’re the go-to guys,’ said Kettering.

Shepherd leaned towards Kettering and lowered his voice. ‘What is it you want?’

Kettering looked around, then bent his head towards Shepherd. ‘AK-47s. Can you get them?’

‘I can get you anything, mate. The question is, have you got the money?’

‘We’ve got money,’ said Kettering. ‘Money isn’t a problem. So what would an AK-47 cost?’

‘Depends on how many you want,’ said Shepherd.

Kettering shrugged. ‘Forty?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Forty AK-47s? What are you planning, a war?’ He continued to laugh but his mind was racing because Kettering had caught him by surprise. He had been expecting the man to want to buy two or three, or maybe half a dozen. But forty was a totally different ball game. As he laughed he looked over at Sharpe and could see that his partner’s eyes had also hardened with the realisation that their investigation had moved up to a whole new level.

‘Can you get us forty or not?’ asked Kettering.

Shepherd forced himself to appear relaxed. ‘I can get you four hundred. Give me a month and I could probably get you four thousand.’ He took a pull on his cigar and held the smoke in his mouth rather than inhaling before blowing it out. ‘A grand each. So forty grand.’

‘Pounds?’

Shepherd frowned. ‘Of course, pounds. What do you think I meant? Roubles? Rupees?’

‘A grand each, though,’ said Kettering. ‘That’s more than we thought.’

Thompson returned with four brandy glasses and he handed them out.

‘Garry here says a grand each,’ Kettering said to Thompson.

‘Fuck me,’ said Thompson. ‘That’s about three times what we thought we’d have to pay.’

‘What, Googled it, did you?’ Shepherd chuckled. ‘It’s like buying bubbly, mate. You get what you pay for. If you want Bolly or Cristal you pay top price. If you want a bottle of fizzy white wine then you piss off down to Tesco with a tenner in your hot little hand.’

‘You can get a second-hand Romanian knock-off for a couple of hundred quid,’ said Sharpe. ‘But it won’t be new and you won’t know whether or not it’s going to blow up in your hands. We’ve got the real thing, brand new and still in their boxes, never been fired.’

Shepherd nodded in agreement. ‘We only sell good gear,’ he said. ‘No one has ever complained about our product.’ He sipped his brandy.

‘But a grand,’ said Kettering. ‘That’s steep.’

‘Plus the ammunition,’ said Shepherd.

‘How much?’

‘Again, depends on how much you want. We can do you a good deal if you want to bulk buy.’

‘We do,’ said Thompson. ‘The more the merrier.’

‘And these guns, where do you get them from?’

‘Not thinking about trying to cut out the middleman, are you?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Because that’s a dangerous game to be playing in this business.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Kettering. ‘Jeez, you’re a suspicious bugger. I just meant where do they come from? Russia? China?’ He flicked ash into the street.

‘I wouldn’t sell you a Chinese gun,’ said Shepherd. ‘Pile of crap, they are. As bad as the Romanians. No, mate, we’ve got the Rolls-Royce of the AK. Made in the former Yugoslavia. Serbia. Google the Yugo and you’ll see what I mean. Everybody loves them.’

‘The Yugo’s a car, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, but I’m sure you’ll be able to tell the difference,’ said Shepherd. ‘Our Yugos are the ones that go bang.’

‘I thought the best AK-47s were the originals, the Russian ones,’ said Thompson.

‘Nah, the Yugo’s better, no question,’ said Shepherd.

‘And you can get us forty?’ asked Kettering.

‘Like I said, forty or four thousand.’

‘What, you get them from the factory?’

‘Where I get them from isn’t the issue, mate,’ said Shepherd. ‘The issue is you paying for them.’

‘Cash?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘No, mate, Amex will do nicely.’ His face went hard. ‘Of course, cash. But if you’ve got krugerrands I’ll take them.’

‘Krugerrands?’

‘Gold,’ said Shepherd.

‘We can get the cash,’ said Thompson.

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Shepherd. ‘So we’re agreed on forty? For forty grand?’

Kettering nodded. ‘And the ammo.’

‘I can let you have the ammo for?50 a box.’

‘And how many bullets in a box?’ asked Thompson.

‘We call them rounds,’ said Shepherd. ‘Or cartridges. And there’s a hundred in a box.’

‘So a bullet — I mean a round — costs fifty pence?’

‘I guess you were good at maths at school,’ said Sharpe. He grinned over at Shepherd and they both laughed.

‘Yeah, fifty pence each,’ said Shepherd.

‘That’s bloody expensive,’ said Kettering.

A couple went by, a man in a cashmere coat walking arm in arm with his fur-coat-wearing wife, and the men stopped speaking until the couple were out of earshot.

‘Yeah, well, it’s not as if you can drop into B amp;Q and buy a few boxes, is it?’ said Shepherd. ‘It all has to be brought in from the Continent and there are risks and costs. Plus, you need special rounds, 7.62 by 39 millimetre. They’re not easy to come by in this country. Most of the ammo you’ll be offered is nine mill or.22 so it’s pretty much a seller’s market for the AK-47 ammo.’ He shrugged. ‘You’re welcome to see if anyone else can get you the rounds cheaper but I can tell you now you’ll be wasting your time.’

‘Plus, there are quality-control issues,’ said Sharpe. ‘We’ve got a saying. Guns don’t jam; ammunition jams. It doesn’t matter how good the gun is, if you start using it to fire crap ammo then your weapon is going to jam. And that can ruin your whole day.’

Kettering nodded thoughtfully. ‘We’ll need about twenty thousand rounds,’ he said. ‘So two hundred boxes.’

Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘Two hundred boxes? That’s five hundred rounds per gun, right?’

‘Is that a problem?’

Shepherd looked across at Sharpe. The same thought was obviously going through his partner’s mind. Why would anyone want to buy twenty thousand rounds?

‘If you’ve got the ten grand it’s no problem at all.’ Shepherd took a long pull on his cigar.

‘What about a discount?’ asked Thompson.

‘As you’re such a good customer, you can have the ammo for eight grand,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’re looking at a total of forty-eight grand.’

‘How about we split the difference and call it forty-five?’ said Kettering. ‘Seeing as how I’m buying the Bolly?’

‘Forty-five it is,’ said Shepherd. ‘But, mate, what are you going to be doing with twenty thousand rounds?’

‘Self-protection,’ said Kettering.

‘From what? The bloody army?’

‘Look, you said the ammunition was hard to get hold of. I don’t want to be coming back to you for more.’

‘You know the magazine only holds thirty rounds?’ said Sharpe.

‘So?’ said Kettering.

‘Just thought I’d mention it. I mean, twenty thousand rounds is a lot of ammo. Are you planning to fire them at the same time?’

Kettering shrugged. ‘Why?’

‘Because it takes time to reload,’ said Sharpe. ‘You can fire thirty rounds with one pull of the trigger if you’re on fully automatic. Then you’ve got to start slotting in fresh rounds one at a time.’

‘What he means is that if you’re planning to fire off a lot of rounds you’re better off with pre-loaded magazines,’ said Shepherd.

Kettering nodded slowly. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I get it. You mean we put the rounds in magazines and then just shove in a new one when the old one’s empty.’

‘Click, clack,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s as easy as that.’

‘We can do you polymer magazines at thirty quid a pop,’ said Shepherd.

Kettering looked over at Thompson. Thompson pulled a face.

‘What if we wanted ten magazines for each gun?’ said Kettering.

‘Sure. Four hundred magazines. We can do that.’

‘But that would be twelve grand,’ said Thompson. ‘That’s a bit bloody steep for magazines.’

‘But you can give us a discount, right?’ Kettering said to Shepherd. ‘They’re only plastic.’

‘Polymer,’ said Shepherd. ‘As good as the metal ones and lighter. But that’s what they cost. How about we say four hundred for ten grand? So all in, guns, ammo and clips, fifty-five grand.’

‘Fifty for cash?’ said Kettering.

Shepherd laughed. ‘I already said it was cash or gold,’ he said. ‘Fifty-five is my bottom price. What about handguns? I can get you Zastava pistols from the same source. Easier to conceal than an AK-47.’

‘Don’t really see the point of a handgun,’ said Kettering. ‘Seems to me that if you’re going to be using a gun people need to see it. So the bigger the better.’ He grinned. ‘How about we call it fifty-two grand and I’ll get you some gloves signed by John Conteh?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘You love to haggle, don’t you? Okay.’

Kettering held out his glass and the three other men followed suit. ‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ he said.

‘The pleasure’s all ours,’ said Sharpe. They clinked glasses and drank.

‘You can get anything, can you?’ asked Kettering.

‘Pretty much,’ said Shepherd. ‘I sold a couple of tanks once.’

Kettering laughed. ‘A tank I don’t need, but I could do with bulletproof vests.’

‘That’s easy enough,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let me come back to you with a price. What sort do you want?’

‘What are the options?’

‘Depends on what sort of protection you want. They go from cheaper ones that will stop a.22 and not much else, right up to vests with steel plates that’ll stop a.45 at point-blank range.’

‘Yeah, the full Monty,’ said Kettering. ‘That’s what we need.’

‘No problem,’ said Shepherd.

‘And what about grenades?’

Shepherd stiffened and Sharpe’s mouth opened in surprise.

‘What?’ said Sharpe.

‘Grenades,’ said Thompson. He looked over his shoulder to check that no one could overhear their conversation. ‘Can you get us some?’

‘What the hell do you want with grenades?’ asked Sharpe.

‘What’s it to you?’ snapped Thompson.

‘James means it’s a bit unusual, that’s all,’ said Shepherd. ‘We don’t get much call for grenades. They’re a bit. . specialist.’

‘But you can get them, right?’ asked Kettering. ‘We’ll pay good money.’

‘I’ll talk to some people, see what I can do,’ said Shepherd. ‘And you’re talking fragmentation grenades, right? You don’t mean smoke grenades or flash-bangs?’

‘Yeah, the real thing is what we want,’ said Kettering. ‘And about the guns. We’re going to need a test fire.’

‘We can arrange that,’ said Shepherd.

‘Up near us?’ said Kettering. ‘I want to bring a couple of guys with us, just to show what we’re buying.’

‘Just make sure they’re people you can trust,’ said Shepherd. ‘And we’ll need to arrange the venue. We’ll pick you up and take you to wherever we do it.’

‘You don’t trust us?’ said Thompson.

‘I don’t trust anybody,’ said Shepherd. ‘If I get caught with a boot full of AK-47s then I’m banged up for ten years. So forgive me if I’m careful.’

‘I get it,’ said Kettering. ‘But no one is going to screw you over. We want those guns.’

‘How long after the test fire will you have the forty?’ asked Thompson.

Shepherd looked at Sharpe. ‘A week?’

‘A week to ten days,’ said Sharpe. ‘We can cover it from stock in the warehouse but I’ll need to arrange a cover consignment.’

‘What’s that?’ asked Kettering.

‘We put the guns in the base of a container, but we have to fill the container with a legitimate cargo. Fruit or veg is the best. Ideally we have the van in a convoy of legit trucks. Soon as we have a delivery date we’ll let you know.’

‘And you’ll deliver them to us in Birmingham?’

‘We’ll arrange a drop-off wherever you want, but again we won’t tell you until the last moment. You check the guns, we check the cash, and Bob’s your father’s brother.’

‘So we’ve got a deal?’ asked Kettering.

Shepherd nodded. ‘Looks like it.’

Kettering beamed. He clinked his glass against Shepherd’s again and finished his brandy. ‘Let’s get back inside and watch the boxing,’ he said.

Shepherd waited until he was back in his Hampstead flat before phoning Hargrove. ‘It’s on,’ he said. ‘We’ve agreed a price and they want a test fire.’

‘Well done,’ said Hargrove.

‘The thing is, they want forty AK-47s and a stack of ammo. And hand grenades.’

‘Hand grenades?’

‘Yeah. How do we want to play this?’

‘Did they say what they want with grenades?’

‘Said it wasn’t our business, which is probably right. We’re arms dealers so why the hell would we care what they’re going to do with them?’

‘Ray didn’t say anything about grenades,’ said Hargrove. ‘And he didn’t say anything about forty AK-47s. What are they planning, a war?’

‘I don’t think Ray’s fully in the loop,’ said Shepherd. ‘If he was they’d have had him along tonight. They want assault rifles, bulletproof vests and grenades. I tried asking him why they wanted that much ordnance but they didn’t say and I didn’t want to push it because it was our first meeting.’

‘Did you get a read on them?’

‘Kettering’s not a nutter, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t have marked him down as a criminal. Looks more like an estate agent. Clean cut, bit of a Jack the Lad, maybe. Thompson’s a bit harder but even so I wouldn’t have thought he’d be the type to go on a murder spree.’

‘Could it be racial?’

Shepherd sighed. ‘I really don’t know what’s going on in their heads,’ he said. ‘At one point Thompson went over and had his photograph taken next to John Conteh. And one of the boxers they brought down from Birmingham was a Jamaican lad. If they’re racists they’re doing a bloody good job of hiding it.’

‘Could they be reselling?’

‘It’s possible, but at the prices I was quoting I doubt there’d be much profit left for them. It’s the grenades that worry me. Guns, even assault rifles, can be used for defence. But there’s nothing defensive about a grenade.’

‘I doubt we’ll be getting to the point where we actually give them grenades,’ said Hargrove.

‘That may be, but they’re going to want a test fire before we get their money, and they’re going to want to see a grenade.’

‘Do you have any thoughts on that front?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘I’m starting to realise why you wanted me on this op,’ he said.

‘I wanted you because you’re the best undercover agent around,’ said Hargrove. ‘But your inside track with the SAS would certainly be a help. If they’re still happy to supply us with the guns would you ask if they could lend us a grenade or two?’

‘I’ll run it by them,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do you want to tell the superintendent that the case has moved up a notch?’

‘I think we have to,’ said Hargrove. ‘We’ve gone from a couple of wideboys buying a few guns to something much more serious. I’ll have a word with Fenby too. I want to know how the hell he managed to miss the fact that they’re looking to equip a small army.’

‘I don’t think it’s Ray’s fault,’ said Shepherd. ‘They were sounding us out, making sure we could be trusted, and the question of numbers came up when we were discussing price. They wanted a discount for volume.’

‘And you gave them a price for a grenade?’

‘I said I’d put out some feelers. I figured it’d be best not to appear too keen.’

He ended the call, then went through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. All the champagne he’d drunk was playing havoc with his stomach so he popped a couple of Rennies into his mouth and chewed them as he made himself a cup of coffee. He carried it through to the sitting room and dropped down on to the sofa, then called the Major on his mobile.

‘We’re ready to go,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’ve got half a dozen Yugos for you, plus ammunition,’ said the Major.

‘I know this is short notice, but how are you fixed for grenades?’

‘Bloody hell, Spider. Are these guys going to war?’

‘Everyone keeps asking that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can you help us out?’

‘By grenades I assume you don’t just mean flash-bangs.’

‘The real thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘What do you have on the base?’

‘We mainly use the L109A1 but we have all the Nato stuff for familiarisation. And we’ve got a store of white phosphorus grenades.’

‘Anything that could have come from the former Yugoslavia?’

‘We’ve got display models of the Yugoslavian M-75 and M-93.’

‘But not active grenades?’

‘Not last time I checked. But I’ll run through the inventory, see what we’ve got.’

‘Can I run something else by you? The buyers want to test fire the weapons before they buy. Hargrove is suggesting we do it out in the open. Can you think of somewhere?’

‘Plenty of options around our old stamping ground, the Brecon Beacons. I can make sure we don’t have any exercises on the day you do it. And the farmers out there are used to loud bangs.’

‘I’m a bit antsy about doing it out in the open,’ said Shepherd. ‘No back-up if things go wrong, nowhere to mount surveillance cameras or mics.’

‘You could wire up the odd sheep,’ said the Major. ‘Or if you want I could get a couple of our snipers in ghillie suits close by.’

‘I’m not sure that Hargrove wants a full-blown SAS operation. But I’ll suggest it.’

‘Have you thought about suppressors?’

‘For the Yugos?’

‘Sure. We’ve been running tests on them and they work a treat. You still get a bang, of course, but you lose most of the crack. And if your targets are planning mayhem in a public place then suppressors would be a big help. And from your point of view, it would cut down a lot of the noise when you’re test firing. Just a thought.’

‘And a bloody good one, Boss. I’ll run all this by Hargrove and let you know. How much notice will you need?’

‘Providing I get it okayed in principle, a few hours at most. You take care, Spider.’

Shepherd woke up early on Monday morning and went for a run around Hampstead Heath in his old army boots, the weighted rucksack on his back. He got back to his flat and showered and changed into a polo shirt and black jeans. He realised that he’d missed a call while he was in the shower — Charlotte Button. He called her back.

‘Just checking in to see how things are progressing with Chaudhry and Malik,’ Button said.

‘I’m seeing them this afternoon. I get the feeling that it’s stalled a bit.’

‘It was never going to be a short-term operation,’ she said. ‘It will start moving eventually. It has to. They wouldn’t put the two of them through all that training and then not use them.’

‘Unless there’s a trust issue.’

‘Have they suggested that?’

‘No, that’s just me thinking out loud.’

‘We could think about pushing things forward,’ said Button.

‘In what way?’

‘They could start making a few suggestions themselves.’

‘I’d advise against that,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’ve been led every step of the way ever since they were recruited. I don’t think now’s the time for them to be coming up with ideas.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Button. ‘But it has gone very quiet. There’s almost no chatter that we can find.’

‘That could be a sign that something big is being planned,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s see how I get on with them this afternoon.’

‘Good,’ said Button. ‘And how are things going on with Sam Hargrove?’

Shepherd filled her in on what had happened at the boxing evening.

She listened without interruption until he mentioned the forty AK-47s. ‘Sorry, did you say fourteen or forty?’

‘Forty,’ said Shepherd. ‘And they asked about grenades and bulletproof vests.’

‘What are their names?’

‘Simon Kettering and Paul Thompson. The Brummie cops think they’re responsible for a racist attack a while back.’

‘A murder?’

‘A beating.’

‘Big jump from that to forty AK-47s. And the grenade thing’s a worry. Sam made it sound as if it was a small arms buy.’

‘That’s what we all thought. It was only over the brandy and the cigars that they brought out their shopping list. Sam’s as surprised as we are.’

‘So what happens next?’ asked Button.

‘That’s up to the Birmingham cops, I guess, but it looks like we set up a deal and then bust them.’

‘Good luck with it,’ said Button. ‘Just let me know where you are.’

‘No problem,’ said Shepherd.

He ended the call and looked at his watch. He’d arranged to meet Chaudhry and Malik at three o’clock so he had time to kill. That was the biggest drawback of the job that Button had given him. Babysitting the two men meant that most of the time he was just sitting around doing nothing but waiting for the phone to ring. He wasn’t enjoying being a handler; he much preferred the adrenaline rush of being undercover. He switched on his TV and flicked through the channels, trying to find something interesting to watch. He gave up after five minutes and went over to the bookcase at the side of the fireplace. The books there had been selected by Damien Plant as the sort of books that would be owned be a freelance journalist, so mostly they were non-fiction, reference books and biographies. Tony Blair’s autobiography was there, and as Plant was a diehard Conservative Shepherd figured that there had been an element of sarcasm in the choice, especially as a yellow sticker on the front cover showed that the price had been slashed to one pound. He took it over to the sofa, flopped down, and started to read.

Chaudhry fiddled with his tie for the hundredth time since he’d sat down at the table. He was in the Pizza Express down the road from the university and close to Trafalgar Square. The restaurant was on two levels and he actually preferred the basement level, which was larger and with more room between the two tables, but sitting at a table on the ground floor meant that he got a clear view of the entrance. He’d arranged to see Jamila at seven but had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and ordered a bottle of sparkling water, ice and lemon. Despite the water his throat felt dry and scratchy and it hurt when he swallowed. He could feel his hands sweating and he wiped them on his trousers, grateful that he’d liberally sprayed himself with deodorant before leaving the King’s campus.

He’d done as his father had asked and made contact with Jamila on Facebook. She had accepted his friendship within an hour and he’d immediately gone to her page. There were several dozen photographs of her with her family, on holiday, and doing her volunteer work in Pakistan. Most of her friends seemed to be either girls or fellow students at UCL. Her hobbies were tennis and the theatre and she liked listening to Rihanna and Lady Gaga. In none of the photographs did she seem to have a boyfriend and her relationship status was single.

They’d messaged each other back and forth through Facebook and posted stuff on each other’s walls, mainly music videos that they liked or YouTube videos of animals doing stupid things. Then one day she’d said that she was having a boring week and he offered to take her for a meal and she’d accepted. So they still hadn’t spoken, and he wasn’t a hundred per cent certain that he would recognise her in a crowd. The pictures on her Facebook page gave off mixed messages. In Pakistan she was never without a headscarf and had her arms and legs covered, but there were pictures of her playing tennis on a grass court wearing very short shorts.

He swirled the ice cubes around his glass with his finger and when he looked up he realised that he’d been wrong to think that he wouldn’t recognise her in a crowd. She was standing at the entrance, looking around, her chin up confidently, a slight smile on her face. Her skin was a rich caramel colour, her hair black and glossy, longer than it was in her pictures, but her eyes were her most striking feature: so brown they were almost black, with lashes that were so long they might have belonged to a cartoon character.

She was wearing a long coat and had a Louis Vuitton bag over her left shoulder, and as she turned in his direction the coat opened to reveal a tight skirt that ended just above the knee, the legs of a catwalk model and black high heels. As he looked up from the shoes he realised that she was looking at him and he stood up. His hand knocked against his glass and the water spilled over his trousers. He jumped back, cursing, and the glass fell on to the tiled floor, shattering into a dozen pieces. All the diners turned to look at the noise and Chaudhry felt his cheeks redden. He bent down to pick up the pieces of glass but a blonde waitress rushed over and said that she’d take care of it for him. As Chaudhry picked up his napkin and pressed it against the damp patch on his trousers, Jamila walked up to him.

‘Oh dear, are you okay?’ she asked, and Chaudhry was amazed to hear a Scottish accent until he remembered that she was from Glasgow.

‘Sure. Yes. No problem.’ He carried on dabbing at his groin. ‘I’m such a klutz.’

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Klutz,’ she said. Her grin widened and she held out her hand. ‘I’m Jamila.’

‘Yes, of course you are,’ said Chaudhry. He held out his right hand and then realised that he was still holding his napkin. He apologised, transferred it to his left hand and shook hands with her. Her skin was soft and smooth and her fingernails were bright pink with gold tips. ‘Great to finally meet you,’ he said. ‘In person, I mean.’

The waitress had put most of the pieces of broken glass on her tray. She stood up and smiled at Chaudhry. ‘Why don’t I move you to a table downstairs?’ she said. ‘Save you waiting while I finish cleaning up.’

Chaudhry smiled at her gratefully. She took the two of them down the staircase to the lower floor and handed them over to a tall Australian waiter with a surfer’s physique and sun-bleached hair. He took Jamila’s coat, showed them to a table by the wall and gave them a couple of menus. Chaudhry ordered another bottle of water.

As the waiter walked away, Chaudhry apologised again. Jamila waved off his apology. ‘I’m forever knocking things over,’ she said. ‘I just hope I don’t do it in the lab or thousands of people could die.’

‘Are you serious?’

She grinned. ‘No, they haven’t let me near the dangerous stuff yet.’

‘I never liked microbiology,’ he said. ‘Everything is so. .’

‘Small?’

Chaudhry laughed. ‘Exactly. I prefer patients that I can talk to.’

‘But it’s micro-organisms that’ll be making a lot of them sick. Viruses and bacteria, they’re the big killers.’

‘Well, cancer, heart attacks and strokes are the big killers, but I know what you mean,’ he said. He winced as he realised how he’d managed to be both arrogant and patronising in the same sentence. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Sorry?’

‘I mean, you’re right. It’s an important field.’

‘It can be boring at times,’ she said. ‘My dad wanted me to be a doctor but I told him that I couldn’t face spending the rest of my life around sick people.’

Chaudhry chuckled. ‘That would pretty much rule out medicine,’ he said.

‘I’m not even sure if I want to stay in science,’ she said. She shrugged. ‘Still, that’s part of the reason for being at university, isn’t it? To find yourself.’

Chaudhry nodded but couldn’t think of anything to say. He was finding it difficult to concentrate because every time he looked at her he got lost in her eyes.

‘Do you drink?’ asked Jamila, looking up from her menu.

He frowned, wondering if it was a trick question. He was a Muslim and Muslims didn’t touch alcohol. ‘Not really,’ he said. He grimaced. ‘Actually, not at all.’

‘Never? Not even a taste?’

Chaudhry chuckled again. ‘It would be like eating pork,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t even want to try.’

She put down the menu, looking uncomfortable.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Would you mind terribly if I had a glass of wine?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure.’ He held up his hands. ‘Just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean others shouldn’t.’

The Australian waiter returned with the bottle of sparkling water. He poured it for them and Jamila asked for a glass of white wine. As he headed off she smiled at Chaudhry and his stomach turned over. She did have the most amazing smile.

‘So you don’t drink because you’re a Muslim?’ she asked.

Chaudhry nodded. ‘Sure. The Koran says intoxication is forbidden.’

‘Raj, I’m not planning to get drunk.’

‘I know, but that’s not what I meant.’ He felt his cheeks redden again. ‘I don’t know. . it’s just part of me. No alcohol. Pray five times a day.’

‘And one day you’ll make a pilgrimage to Mecca?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you give a percentage of your earnings to charity?’

‘I’m not actually earning yet. But when I am, yes, of course.’

She leaned forward and his stomach turned again as she smiled. ‘I’m making you uncomfortable. All this talk about religion. I’m sorry.’

‘You’re not. Really.’ That was a lie, he realised. But it wasn’t the conversation that was making him uncomfortable, it was her striking beauty. ‘Your father. Does he drink?’

‘He likes wine. But never more than two glasses.’

‘And he doesn’t ask you to cover your head when you go out?’

Jamila laughed, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. ‘Of course not.’ She laughed again. ‘Just the thought of it.’ She shook her head. ‘My dad’s not like that. He’s been in the UK since he was ten. And my mum was born here. I’ve never seen her wear so much as a headscarf.’

‘What about when she goes back to Pakistan?’

‘She’s never been,’ said Jamila. Glasgow’s her home. If you think I’ve got an accent, you should hear Mum. You couldn’t get her to Pakistan if you paid her.’

The waiter returned with Jamila’s wine. Chaudhry caught him smiling at Jamila in a way that made him want to grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall. He shook his head, wondering how she’d managed to provoke such strong feelings in such a short space of time. He’d been in her company for barely ten minutes and he was already jealous when another man even looked at her.

‘You’ve been to Pakistan, my dad says.’

‘Over the Christmas holiday,’ he said, nodding.

‘On a health programme, right? That must have been really interesting.’

Chaudhry’s mouth had gone dry and he swallowed awkwardly. This was the first time he’d met her and he didn’t want to start their relationship with a lie but he didn’t have a choice. ‘It was hard work,’ he said. ‘My dad said you worked in an orphanage.’ He hoped that the change of subject wasn’t too obvious but he was very uncomfortable lying to her and much preferred to be talking about her.

She nodded enthusiastically. ‘I did a gap year before I went to uni,’ she said. ‘I spent most of it in a city called Murree, in the Punjab. They’d had over twelve inches of rainfall and it was a real mess. A lot of people were killed, thousands of homes were destroyed and a lot of kids were abandoned so the number of orphans had gone through the roof. And food was in short supply; there were no medicines. It was horrible, Raj. It really made me appreciate what we have in this country. We moan about the NHS but at the end of the day at least you get to see a GP and if necessary you go to hospital for treatment.’ She smiled. ‘Why am I telling you that? You’ll be a doctor soon.’

‘No, I know what you mean. I hate the poverty out there. My dad’s always telling me how well Pakistan has done, how at independence in 1974 it inherited one jute factory, one textile mill and one university. But when I was there all I saw was the poverty.’

‘Where were you?’

‘Karachi,’ said Chaudhry. At least that much was true. He and Malik had flown there from London before being transported to an al-Qaeda training camp close to the border with Afghanistan. ‘It was a small clinic in a deprived area. I was giving them vaccinations and offering basic healthcare advice.’ He felt his heart race as he lied, and his hands were damp with sweat. He wiped them on his trousers. He liked Jamila, really liked her, and he hated the fact that any relationship he had with her would be based on untruths. He felt a wave of shame and he looked round for their waiter. ‘I could do with a Coke,’ he said. ‘Where’s our waiter gone?’

Jamila lifted her head and the Australian waiter rushed over, eager to please. She rewarded him with a beaming smile and nodded at Chaudhry. The waiter took Chaudhry’s order and then they both chose their pizzas. Chaudhry was a little annoyed that Jamila asked the waiter for his opinion on what was good and even more annoyed when she took his advice and had the Padana with its goat’s cheese, spinach, red and caramelised onions and garlic oil. It did sound good but Chaudhry couldn’t force himself to follow the waiter’s suggestion. His favourite was the Diavolo, but he figured that if there was any chance of a goodnight kiss then he’d be better avoiding the Tabasco, jalapeno peppers and hot spiced beef that gave it its kick, and so he went for a classic Margherita.

‘Good choice, sir,’ said the waiter, with what Chaudhry took to be a sarcastic tone, and then he flashed Jamila another beaming smile before heading off to the kitchen.

‘I didn’t see any pictures of your volunteer work,’ said Jamila.

‘Sorry?’ said Chaudhry, confused.

‘On your Facebook page. There weren’t any photographs of you in Karachi. At the medical centre.’

‘I’m not a great one for taking pictures,’ said Chaudhry, hating himself for yet another lie. ‘And I was worked off my feet.’

‘Will you go back, do you think?’ she asked.

‘Probably not,’ said Chaudhry, and at least that was the truth.

‘I’m definitely going back,’ said Jamila. She sipped her wine. ‘I thought of taking another year off and spending it at the orphanage but my dad says I should graduate first.’

‘Definitely,’ said Chaudhry quickly. Too quickly, he realised. ‘I mean, you’d find it much harder to get back into studying. Better to get your degree first and then take another year off before you start work.’

‘That’s what my dad says.’

The meal flew by. They ate their pizzas, Jamila ordered a second glass of wine, they shared a dessert, they had coffee, and all the time they talked and laughed as if they had known each other for years. She was the prettiest girl Chaudhry had ever seen, and he was all too well aware of how men’s heads turned as they walked past their table. When the bill came she offered to split it with him but Chaudhry insisted that she allow him to pay. She agreed but made him promise that on their next date he would let her pay. His heart raced when she said that, and he couldn’t stop grinning as they stood on the pavement looking for a taxi.

It turned out that he could have eaten the Diavolo pizza after all because he didn’t get a kiss. But he did get a peck on the cheek and she squeezed his arm before she got into the back of a black cab. He stood rubbing his cheek as the taxi drove off. He’d had an amazing evening, and he knew that his father was right: she was the perfect girl for him. But he also knew that no matter how the relationship progressed it had started with him lying to her, not once but several times. He’d looked into her beautiful, sexy, wonderful eyes and he’d lied. His stomach lurched and before he could stop himself he was vomiting in the gutter.

Hargrove arrived at Thames House immaculately dressed as always. He was wearing a black pinstriped suit, a crisp white shirt and a blue and yellow striped tie, and was carrying a black leather briefcase, looking more like a stockbroker or merchant banker than a chief superintendent with the Metropolitan Police. Shepherd met him outside. He was also wearing a suit, but a black one that had probably cost less than Hargrove’s trousers alone.

‘Any idea what this is about, Spider?’ asked Hargrove as they headed for the entrance.

‘I know as much as you do,’ said Shepherd. Button had phoned him the previous evening and asked him to come in for a 10 a.m. meeting with Hargrove and to walk him into the building.

‘Is that because it’s need-to-know or because she hasn’t told you either?’

‘The latter,’ said Shepherd.

Hargrove smiled thinly. ‘Of course you’d say that anyway, wouldn’t you?’

‘Charlie tends to play her cards close to her chest,’ said Shepherd. They walked into the reception area where Hargrove showed his warrant card and Shepherd signed him in. They walked through a metal detector and took a lift up to the third floor. Button was waiting for them in a windowless meeting room. She was sitting halfway down a large oak table with a pale-blue file in front of her.

She stood up, shook hands with Hargrove and waved him to a seat on the opposite side of the table. Shepherd hesitated as he wondered on which side of the table he should sit. His instincts were to sit next to Hargrove as they were working together on the arms case and Button had called the meeting, but he was still employed by MI5 and Button was his boss.

Button saw his indecision and nodded at the seat to Hargrove’s left. ‘Why don’t you sit yourself there? It’ll be easier for me to show you what I’ve got.’

Shepherd sat down next to Hargrove.

‘Coffee?’ asked Button.

Both men shook their heads.

‘Okay, so I’ll dive straight in. Basically there are some interesting developments in the Kettering and Thompson case that I need to run by you.’

‘That’s a West Midlands case,’ said Hargrove quietly. ‘I didn’t realise there was any MI5 involvement.’

‘Any case where terrorism is involved falls within our brief,’ said Button.

‘Terrorism? We’re talking about a group of Brummie villains purchasing weapons,’ said Hargrove.

Button nodded. ‘I’m afraid there seems to be more to it than that,’ she said. She flipped open the file on the table. Inside were a couple of dozen printed sheets topped by a photograph.

‘We’re all familiar with Norwegian right-wing extremist Anders Behring Breivik, of course. He detonated a car bomb in central Oslo killing eight people and went on to murder another sixty-nine at a youth camp.’

Shepherd and Hargrove frowned. Button smiled at their confusion. ‘What Operation Excalibur seems to have missed is that three of the men they’ve been looking at met with Breivik just six months before the attacks.’

The colour drained from Hargrove’s face. ‘How could West Midlands Police not know this?’ he said.

‘They’ve been treating it as a purely criminal case,’ said Button. ‘I assume no one there thought of looking at the bigger picture.’

‘But why didn’t a check on Kettering and Thompson throw up the link to the Norwegian?’ asked Hargrove.

‘Because that intel isn’t on the Police National Computer,’ said Button.

‘I know that,’ said Hargrove. ‘I ran the checks myself when we were first approached about the case. I don’t understand this, Charlotte. A British group with links to a Norwegian mass murderer discuss acquiring high-powered weapons and alarm bells don’t start ringing?’

‘Well, they’re ringing now, Sam. Loud and clear.’

‘That’s what you think?’ asked Shepherd. ‘You think this Brummie group is planning some sort of public attack?’

‘All we know is that Kettering and Thompson met with the Norwegian in 2002 and were in email contact with him right up until the attacks. Six months ago Kettering, Thompson and another man flew to Olso and met with him again.’ She flicked through the papers in the file, then tapped one. ‘During interrogation Breivik claimed that he was a member of a new Christian military order. He called it the new Pauperes commilitones Christi Templique Solomonici. Effectively a new order of the Knights Templar. He told his interrogators that this group was formed in April 2002 by nine men — two from England, a Frenchman, a German, a Dutchman, a Greek, a Russian and a Serb. And himself. He says that there are now eighty of these knights and that they are preparing to seize political power in Western Europe with the aim of expelling all the Muslims.’

She smiled thinly.

‘How much of this is the fantasy of a deluded mind and how much is a serious terrorist threat has yet to be determined. I don’t think we’ve uncovered anything that suggests a coup or revolution is on the cards. But the link with Breivik is a red flag. A very big red flag.’ She took out a surveillance photograph and slid it across the table to Hargrove. ‘This is the third man from the UK who was at that meeting. Roger McLean. I gather he doesn’t appear on Operation Excalibur’s watch list?’

Hargrove studied the picture and then handed it to Shepherd. McLean was a big man with a shaved head and a St George’s Cross tattooed on his right forearm.

Shepherd shook his head. ‘They’re not looking at him,’ he said.

‘McLean’s been around right-wing groups for more than twenty years. He was initially with the National Front, then switched to the British National Party, then just before he met Breivik he moved to the EDL. In 2003 he went off the grid.’

‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ asked Hargrove.

‘He didn’t attend any party meetings of any of the groups, didn’t go to any demonstrations, disappeared from the electoral roll, isn’t registered with a GP, doesn’t pay tax, doesn’t, so far as we can see, have a bank account. But he does appear to be involved in several right-wing and anti-Islamic websites.’

Button took back the photograph from Shepherd and handed Hargrove a printed screenshot of a website. ‘The Truth About The Muslim Menace’.

‘The nightmare scenario is that we have a group of British citizens who are set to emulate Breivik,’ said Button. ‘We’ve had our psych people run profiles of Kettering and Thompson but we don’t have enough information to decide whether or not they are capable of mounting a suicide attack. But we’re told that they are the type who would go on a killing spree if they thought they had a reasonable chance of getting away with it.’ She sighed. ‘You can imagine the havoc a group with automatic weapons could cause in the city centre. The Bullring alone gets a hundred thousand visitors on an average day. It could all be over in a couple of minutes and the death toll would be horrendous. Hundreds, certainly. That’s before we even start talking about grenades.’

At the mention of grenades Hargrove turned to look at Shepherd, and Shepherd winced inwardly. Hargrove had realised that the intelligence on grenades could only have come from Shepherd.

‘And with it being Birmingham, many of the victims would be Asian and Muslim,’ continued Button. ‘We’ve always considered that the high percentage of Muslims in the community meant that the West Midlands are less likely to suffer a terrorist attack. But the nature of these terrorists changes everything.’

‘We don’t know that they are terrorists,’ said Hargrove. ‘They’re saying that they want the guns for self-protection.’

‘Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they?’ said Button. ‘They’re unlikely to go shopping for weapons on the basis that they’re going on a killing spree.’ She took back the website screenshot and slid it into the file. ‘Birmingham is the UK’s second biggest city and if it is in the firing line there are plenty of targets, from the Council House in Victoria Square to tower blocks, department stores, stations, hotels. And, as the city is slap bang in the middle of the country, there are plenty of escape routes. They could go on a killing spree and be on a motorway at seventy miles an hour before the police even get to the scene.’

She shuffled her papers and smiled at Hargrove. ‘I realise that this puts you in something of an awkward position, Sam.’

‘That’s putting it mildly,’ said Hargrove quietly. ‘You’re going to take Operation Excalibur off West Midlands Police and they’re going to blame me.’

‘Actually, that’s not what I was going to suggest,’ said Button. ‘Your agent is in place and Dan here is on attachment to COG so if anything we’d be looking for the operation to be brought under the Met’s jurisdiction. But I don’t think that’s necessary either. Basically we’d like you to continue running your undercover operation but to share any intelligence with us. I’d be happy to do that through Dan, but if you’d rather be the point of contact that would be perfectly acceptable.’

‘And would West Midlands Police be privy to the fact that we’re sharing their intel?’ asked Hargrove.

‘Best not,’ said Button. ‘And frankly whether or not they knew that MI5 had a watching brief is immaterial to the way that they would handle the case.’

Hargrove leaned forward. ‘That’s not strictly speaking true, though, is it? They’re treating it as if it were a straightforward criminal investigation but you believe there are terrorist implications.’

‘If West Midlands Police get a conviction for buying automatic weapons then Kettering, Thompson and the rest will go down for ten years. I think we’d regard that as a successful outcome. We’ll just be monitoring to check that the investigation proceeds smoothly.’

‘And if I’m asked directly whether or not I’m passing intel on to the Security Services? What do I say?’

‘I really don’t see that happening,’ said Button. ‘But that would be one very good reason for using Dan as the conduit.’

‘Plausible deniability,’ said Hargrove.

‘Exactly.’

‘And I’m assuming Ray Fenby doesn’t get told?’

‘I don’t see any reason why he needs to know,’ said Button. ‘But there is one thing that perhaps we’d like to handle a little differently. West Midlands Police are treating this very much as a local crime issue. We would be very interested to see if there’s any overseas connection. In particular, anything connecting Kettering and Thompson and the other members of this Knights Templar group — the German, the Frenchman, the Dutchman and the rest. We’re running an investigation at this end following phone and email traffic, but if we can get Kettering or Thompson to reveal anything, that would be a bonus.’

‘I’ll talk to Ray,’ said Hargrove. ‘But that’s a tough one. Kettering and Thompson aren’t stupid so he won’t be able to push it.’

‘Understood,’ said Button. ‘But if you could perhaps ask him to keep his ears open for any Continental connection it’d be much appreciated.’

Hargrove nodded but he looked uncomfortable.

‘And again, it’s important that Fenby isn’t aware of our interest. I’d rather that stayed between the three of us.’

Shepherd looked over at Hargrove and saw from the look on his face that the same thought had occurred to the chief superintendent. ‘Does that include Inspector Sharpe?’ said Hargrove.

‘I think we have to keep our involvement on a need-to-know basis,’ said Button. ‘And the fewer people that know, the better. The last thing we need is canteen talk leading to a blown operation.’

Hargrove raised his eyebrows. ‘I can’t see him opening his heart to the Birmingham cops over a cup of coffee,’ he said.

Button put up her hands. ‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘But I wouldn’t want the Birmingham police to get all territorial and move in precipitously. So I’d rather that Razor wasn’t aware of the new arrangement.’

‘Understood,’ said Hargrove, though Shepherd could tell that the chief superintendent wasn’t happy.

‘Now, regarding any European involvement, the fact that Spider’s going to be suggesting that the arms are being brought in from Serbia might help,’ said Button. ‘Once we’ve planted the idea of weapons from Europe, we could perhaps suggest a test firing over there. Then if they are in contact with other groups it’s not too much of a stretch for them to think of involving them.’

‘I worry that we might start overcomplicating matters,’ said Hargrove.

‘It would be something of a coup if we could nail terrorists across Europe, especially if they have links with Breivik. Obviously Ray, Dan and Jimmy are the men on the ground and of course they have to play it by ear. It’s just something to think about.’ She closed the file and pushed back her chair. ‘Well, thank you so much for coming in.’ She stood up. So did Hargrove and Shepherd.

Hargrove shook her hand. ‘Probably best if Dan is the conduit, as you suggest,’ he said.

Button nodded enthusiastically. ‘I think that’ll be best,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if he stays here for a while? I’ve some admin business that I need to run by him.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Hargrove. He picked up his briefcase.

‘I’ll get someone to show you out,’ said Button. She took him to the door and handed the chief superintendent over to a young man in a blue blazer. As they headed for the lifts, Button went back into the meeting room and smiled apologetically at Shepherd. ‘For an undercover agent you’re not very good at hiding your emotions,’ she said. ‘I can see from the look on your face that you’re not happy about what just happened.’

‘I can’t believe you did that,’ said Shepherd. ‘It made me look like I’d gone running to you, telling tales out of school.’

Button sat down, frowning. ‘What?’

‘Look at it from his point of view. He’s running an undercover operation for the Birmingham cops and I’m brought in to help. A few days later he gets called into Thames House and told that Five is now pulling the strings. He puts two and two together and thinks that I told you that he’s not up to it.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Button. ‘First of all, you and he have worked together and he knows you wouldn’t pull a trick like that. But, more importantly, we haven’t taken the operation from him.’

‘You just told him that all intel on the case now goes through me to you.’

‘With his full knowledge. It’s not as if we’re doing it behind his back.’

‘It still makes it a case of us and them. And telling him about the grenades.’ Shepherd gritted his teeth in frustration.

‘What?’

Shepherd sighed. ‘That could only have come from me,’ he said. ‘So in that case I definitely was going behind his back.’ He shrugged. ‘Anyway, what’s done is done. No use crying over spilled milk.’

‘It had to be done, you know that. This is turning into too big a case.’

‘It sounds like it,’ agreed Shepherd.

‘How did the training go with Chaudhry and Malik? I gather you tied up half our watchers for a day.’

‘They needed bringing up to speed on the basics of counter-surveillance,’ said Shepherd. ‘Plus, the watchers wanted to do some training themselves so we ended up killing two birds with the proverbial stone.’

‘And you think they’re capable of spotting a tail now?’

‘Put it this way, they’re a hell of a lot more prepared than they were. Any chatter on that front?’

‘Nothing significant,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘If there is you’ll be the first to hear about it.’ She sat back in her chair and tapped the file on the table. ‘This Birmingham case has given me an idea,’ she said. ‘I know I mentioned it before but I’m even more convinced now that we should be a bit more proactive with Chaudhry and Malik.’

Shepherd frowned. ‘I said it wasn’t a good idea then and I still think that.’

‘Hear me out,’ said Button. ‘You’re up and running as an arms dealer. Khalid and his people are planning a terrorist attack for which they’ll need equipment. If there was any way that we could put you in the mix, it’d make for a much better case and give us the inside track from the get-go.’

‘But Raj and Harvey are students. What reason could they have for knowing me?’

Button wrinkled her nose. ‘That we’d have to work on, but I’m sure there’s a way. And if we have Khalid coming to you for weapons then we can wrap this up with no risk to the public.’

‘But one hell of a risk for Raj and Harvey,’ said Shepherd. ‘This is Khalid’s show. He gives the orders and they do as they’re told. Alarm bells are going to start ringing if they go from being foot soldiers to players.’

‘I’m not saying it’ll be easy, the circumstances would have to be right and it’ll take a lot of planning, but in a perfect world it’d make everything a lot easier.’

‘Yeah, well, the world’s not perfect, not by a long chalk. And I don’t want to put them in harm’s way any more than we have to.’ He folded his arms. ‘These guys are just amateurs. It has to be kid gloves.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Button. ‘I’m not suggesting we do anything to put them at risk.’

‘With the greatest of respect, any form of proactive behaviour is going to do just that. These guys have already done far more than any member of the public can be expected to do. They gave us a top al-Qaeda team, the location of a training camp in Pakistan and they found Bin Laden. And they’ve risked their lives to do it. The least we can do is to watch their backs.’

‘Exactly,’ said Button. ‘It’s precisely because they have taken risks that they’ve achieved so much. They could have just informed us about Khalid and his people and left it at that, but they were prepared to go to Pakistan and undergo al-Qaeda training, and that led directly to MI5’s best-ever intelligence coup. Do you think we would have found Bin Laden if they hadn’t taken risks? All I’m saying is that we need to keep this investigation moving forward and one way of doing that is to put you in play.’

Shepherd could see that there was no point in arguing with her so he shrugged and said nothing.

‘Look, Spider, no one is saying that we’re going to rush into anything. Just give it some thought.’

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But can we look at a way of getting me into the mix without involving Raj and Harvey? Five must have other al-Qaeda assets we can use as a pipeline.’

Button nodded. ‘I’ll ask around, see what’s available.’ She stood up, bringing the meeting to an end. As he left the building Shepherd couldn’t shake off the feeling that she’d lied to him.

He waited until he was outside Thames House before calling Hargrove on his mobile. ‘I just wanted to say that I had no idea that was going to happen,’ said Shepherd.

‘Not a problem,’ said Hargrove. ‘Though I do feel as I’ve just been mugged at knifepoint.’

‘If I’d known I would have at least warned you.’

‘Spider, you work for MI5 now and Charlie’s your boss. And I’m a big boy. I know the way things work.’

‘She’s put us in a bastard position, though. If Superintendent Warner up in Birmingham finds out that we’re going behind his back he’s going to hit the roof.’

‘Hopefully that won’t happen,’ said Hargrove. ‘And frankly she does have a point. If Kettering is planning a terrorist incident then with the best will in the world the West Midlands cops aren’t geared up for dealing with it. If it was the Met then it would be a different story, but the chances are that if Warner does realise that Kettering is a terrorist rather than a vanilla criminal he’s going to be picking up the phone to Five anyway. This way Charlie can hit the ground running if the call comes.’

‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was worried you might be annoyed.’

‘I’m not happy, but I’ll get over it,’ said Hargrove. ‘My main worry is that Five will take all the credit for our hard work, but that wouldn’t be the first time.’

Hargrove ended the call and Shepherd rang Jimmy Sharpe. ‘Can you talk?’ he asked.

‘Till the cows come home,’ said Sharpe.

‘Why can’t anybody just answer that question with a straight yes or no?’ said Shepherd. ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘You read my mind,’ said Sharpe. ‘When and where?’

‘I’ll come to you,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just name a pub.’

Chaudhry’s mobile rang. He didn’t recognise the number but he took the call. It was Khalid. Khalid routinely changed SIM cards and once a month he replaced his phone. The intelligence services now had the capability to track a phone and monitor its calls no matter what SIM card was being used and wherever possible Khalid would use a public phone instead.

‘Have you been to evening prayers, brother?’ asked Khalid.

‘I have, brother,’ said Chaudhry. He and Malik had gone to the Dynevor Road mosque for the Maghrib prayers, which had to be performed just after sunset. It tended to be the busiest of the prayer sessions as those Muslims that had day jobs could conveniently drop by on their way home. The fourth of the five daily prayer sessions consisted of two rak’at prayed aloud, and the third in silence.

A teenager who had been praying in front of Chaudhry had neglected to turn off his mobile phone and during Chaudhry’s silent rak’at the boy had received a text message. He had then taken out his phone and begun texting, much to Chaudhry’s consternation. Chaudhry had been just about to say something when the imam had clipped the teenager’s ear and told him to be more respectful. Chaudhry was becoming increasingly frustrated at the mosque; many of the men going there to pray seemed only to be going through the motions and he had smelled alcohol on the breath of several of the worshippers.

‘Permit me to buy you and Harveer dinner,’ said Khalid. He never referred to Malik by his westernised name. Equally Raj was always addressed as brother or as Manraj. ‘There are two brothers who I would like you to meet.’

‘Of course,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Half an hour from now, then, brother. At the Aziziye Halal. You know it?’

‘Of course, brother.’

The Aziziye Halal was a traditional Turkish restaurant on the ground floor of the Aziziye Mosque on Stoke Newington Road, next to a halal butcher where Chaudhry bought most of his meat. The mosque had started life as the Apollo Picture House in 1913 and had shown soft-core sex films during the seventies before being converted into a mosque in 1983. It was much larger than the Dynevor Road mosque, with room for two thousand worshippers, and it was far more salubrious, if for no other reason than the Dynevor Road mosque was underground and the Aziziye was on the upper floor with large windows. It was the Turkish community who had pressed for the cinema to be converted into a mosque, and generally it was only Turks who worshipped there. The Turks were as protective about their mosque as they were about the business they controlled in the area.

Malik was lying on the sofa reading a book on Japanese cooking.

‘Khalid wants to see us,’ Chaudhry said. ‘At the Aziziye.’

‘The mosque?’

‘The restaurant. Get ready.’

‘I hope he’s paying.’

‘If he doesn’t you can ask him for the receipt and get MI5 to pay.’ Chaudhry could see from the look on Malik’s face that he thought he was serious. ‘Don’t you bloody dare,’ laughed Chaudhry.

Twenty-five minutes later they were removing their shoes at the entrance to the restaurant. Khalid was inside, talking to a waiter. Standing with Khalid were two young Asians. Chaudhry recognised them from the mosque, though he had never spoken to them.

The waiter, dressed in a black shirt and black trousers, headed over to a stack of menus as Khalid turned and saw Chaudhry and Malik. He walked towards them and kissed them on both cheeks. He was wearing a blue and white striped dishdash and a white skullcap, holding a chain of wooden prayer beads, and smelled of garlic and cheap cologne. He waved over his two companions. ‘This is Lateef and Faisal,’ said Khalid.

‘It’s an honour, brother,’ said Lateef, shaking hands with Chaudhry then pulling him close into a hug. He patted him on the back with his left hand. ‘A real honour.’ He was an inch or two taller than Chaudhry with the looks of a Bollywood leading man; his hair was gelled and slicked back.

Faisal was short and stocky with darker skin and cheeks mottled with old acne scars. He stepped forward and hugged Malik. ‘Salaam, brother,’ he said.

The waiter returned with the menus and took them along to their cubicle. Most diners in the restaurant ate in small cubicles, divided up with chest-high partitions. They varied in size from small ones that accommodated just two people to family cubicles where more than a dozen could eat in comfort, sprawled on red patterned cushions around low tables.

The waiter held open the door of the cubicle and one by one they filed in and flopped down on the cushions. Khalid sat down at the head of the table. There was an LCD TV screen behind him showing advertisements for the restaurant. Khalid pointed at the TV and nodded at the waiter. The waiter switched it off and handed out menus. Khalid waved the menus away and ordered for them all.

Unlike many of the Turkish-run Muslim restaurants in the area, the Aziziye Halal didn’t serve alcohol. The waiter brought a tray of fruit juices and water, and then disappeared to the kitchen. Khalid poured water into glasses for each of the men.

‘So, Lateef and Faisal will soon be following the glorious path that you both trod,’ said Khalid. ‘I thought it might be a good idea for you to tell them what they can expect.’

‘Was it amazing, brother? Being with the mujahideen?’ asked Lateef.

‘They were not with the mujahideen,’ said Khalid. ‘They are mujahideen. That is what happens over there. You go as men who want to take part in jihad but you return as Islamic warriors, as mujahideen.’

‘The training, was it hard?’ asked Faisal.

‘It has to be hard,’ said Malik. ‘You don’t know how weak you are until they get to work on you.’ He sipped his water. ‘I can play five-a-side all evening and never break a sweat,’ he said. ‘But after half an hour of physical training in the desert I thought I was going to die. We did obstacle courses and route marches; we walked in the hottest part of the day and we walked through the night. We ran, we crawled, we hid in trenches for hours. They teach you discipline like you wouldn’t believe. I lost about five kilos while I was there.’

Chaudhry nodded in agreement. ‘It opens your eyes to what they go through every day,’ he said. ‘Here we’re soft and weak, and without training you wouldn’t last a day out there.’

‘And they teach you to fire guns and stuff?’ asked Faisal.

‘Not just to fire them,’ said Chaudhry. ‘They show you how to strip and clean weapons, how to fix them, how to store them.’

‘AK-47s, right?’ said Lateef.

‘All sorts,’ said Chaudhry. ‘The AK-47 is the workhorse but they taught us about the Uzi and the guns that the Americans use — the M4 carbine and the M9 pistol.’

‘They make you strip and reassemble them blindfolded,’ said Malik. ‘You think you’ll never get the hang of it but eventually you do.’

‘And what’s it like, firing an AK-47?’ asked Lateef.

‘It’s louder than you expect, and you smell the gunpowder for hours afterwards,’ said Chaudhry. ‘It doesn’t kick as much as you’d think.’

‘But the Uzi kicks,’ said Malik. ‘The Uzi kicks like a living thing. It’s like trying to hold on to a struggling cat.’

A man with a long beard moved by their cubicle, followed by two women covered from head to foot in black burkas, their eyes shielded behind black mesh. There was no way of knowing whether they were his wives, his sisters or his elderly aunts.

The men fell silent until the new arrivals had made their way to their cubicle and seated themselves.

‘Did you shoot anyone while you were out there?’ asked Lateef.

‘Brothers, this was a training camp,’ said Khalid softly. ‘You go to train to be mujahideen, not to fight. You are too valuable to risk in a desert gunfight.’

Lateef lowered his voice. ‘We heard that sometimes they kill prisoners in the camps. For practice. Is that true?’

‘I have heard that,’ said Chaudhry. ‘But it did not happen while we were there.’

‘Did you fire missiles, the sort that can bring down helicopters and planes?’

‘We didn’t fire them ourselves but we saw one being fired and we know what to do,’ said Chaudhry.

‘That must have been awesome,’ said Faisal. He looked over at Khalid. ‘They should give us surface-to-air missiles here,’ he said. ‘Can you imagine what we could do? You can see the planes landing at Heathrow from miles away.’ He mimed firing a SAM missile launcher and made a whooshing noise.

Khalid was about to admonish him when the cubicle door opened and the waiter appeared with their food. He knelt down and put dishes on the table: stuffed vine leaves, filo pastry stuffed with feta cheese, fried meatballs served with chopped onions, salad and naan bread. When the waiter had left, Khalid leaned forward. ‘It is not about the weapons, brothers. Weapons are only the means to an end. Becoming a mujahideen is an attitude of mind. That is why you go to Pakistan. You go to become focused so that you can best serve Allah. A true mujahideen doesn’t need a rocket or a gun to kill the infidel. But he needs the mental toughness to commit himself.’

‘They toughen you up over there, that’s for sure,’ said Chaudhry. ‘They explain a lot too. You think you know everything about what it means to be a Muslim, but until you’ve seen what they go through. .’ He shrugged. ‘Our lives here are so easy. We forget that our brothers are being slain all over the world.’

Faisal and Lateef nodded enthusiastically.

‘What else did you learn, brothers?’ asked Faisal.

‘They taught us how to resist interrogation,’ said Malik.

‘What do they do?’ asked Lateef. ‘Do they torture you?’

‘They rough you up a bit, but it’s more psychological intimidation,’ said Malik.

‘Did they waterboard you?’ asked Faisal.

Malik laughed. ‘No, they didn’t. It was more about showing you the tricks that the interrogators would use.’

‘Anyway, brothers, we’re in England,’ said Khalid. ‘If ever you are arrested by the police you say nothing other than that you want a lawyer. That’s all you say. The British police are not allowed to hurt you or trick you or use any pressure at all. And once you ask for a lawyer they can’t ask you any more questions until the lawyer arrives.’ He sniggered. ‘The British are their own worst enemy.’

‘And bombs, did you learn about bombs?’ asked Lateef.

Malik nodded. ‘We spent a week being taught about explosives and IEDs,’ he said. ‘They showed us how to make explosives from raw materials, how to make detonators and timers — everything. From small bombs you can put in a can of Coke right up to car bombs that can take out a whole building.’

‘Awesome,’ said Faisal.

‘When are you guys going?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘Next week,’ said Faisal. ‘Wednesday.’

‘Both of you?’

The two men nodded. ‘We’re going to a wedding,’ said Lateef, making quote-mark gestures around ‘wedding’.

‘How long?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘Three months, maybe longer.’

‘Excellent,’ said Chaudhry. ‘You won’t regret it.’ He looked over at Khalid. ‘Are they going to the same camp we went to?’

Khalid shook his head. ‘A new one,’ he said. ‘Closer to the border.’ He waved at the food. ‘Let us eat while we talk, brothers. One thing I can tell you is that the food over there will not be as good as this, so enjoy it while you can.’

Sharpe was standing at the bar, halfway through a pint of lager, when Shepherd walked in. He raised his glass in salute and ordered a Jameson’s and soda from the blonde Polish barmaid. As soon as his drink arrived Shepherd took Sharpe over to a corner table, where they wouldn’t be overheard.

‘Charlie just stitched me up,’ said Shepherd as they sat down.

‘In what way?’

‘She told Hargrove that Five is going to be running Operation Excalibur.’

Sharpe’s eyebrows shot up. ‘I bet he was well pleased to hear that.’

‘Well, not running it, exactly. But I’m supposed to be filling her in on everything that happens. And she made a few suggestions as to how he should be handling things.’ He held up his hand. ‘And this is strictly between you and me. She made it clear that she doesn’t want you to know.’

‘What?’

‘She said that only Hargrove and I were to know what’s going on. Hargrove briefs me and I pass the intel on to her.’

‘So why are you telling me if she specifically told you not to?’

Shepherd grinned. ‘Because she was playing silly buggers. She said that she’d rather you didn’t know, which as far as I’m concerned isn’t a direct order. If she ever finds out we had this conversation I’ll just say that I misunderstood. Besides, what’s she going to do, sack me?’

‘Doubtful,’ said Sharpe. ‘Who else is going to get her tea whenever she wants it?’

‘Screw you,’ said Shepherd. ‘I wanted to fill you in because you need to know that anything you come up with from now on is going to be fed straight to Five.’

‘I appreciate the heads-up,’ said Sharpe. He sipped his lager. ‘So you’re now her man on the inside?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘I can’t believe she did that to me, Razor. How’s Hargrove going to trust me now? Why should he trust me? He knows that I’m going to be telling Button about every move he makes. And if he makes a mistake I’ll be the one dropping him in it.’

‘He won’t be making any mistakes,’ said Sharpe. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

‘That’s not the point,’ said Shepherd. ‘The point is that at one fell swoop she’s pretty much trashed my relationship with Hargrove. He says it’s okay, but he would say that.’

Sharpe chuckled. ‘Maybe that’s what she wanted.’

‘What?’

‘Maybe she got the hump because Hargrove wanted you on his team. He goes above her head to get you seconded to COG; she thinks that he’s trying to steal you back so she plays her own little game to make Hargrove think that you’re now her puppy dog.’

‘Piss off, Razor.’

‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,’ said Sharpe. ‘Button’s as smart as they come, you know that. She’s going to protect her turf.’

‘I’m not her turf,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, you’re more her bitch than her turf.’

‘Now you’re really starting to piss me off.’

‘You work for her. You moved with her from SOCA to Five; you’re part of her team. She sees Hargrove as a threat and Charlotte Button isn’t a woman you can threaten.’

‘Hell’s bells, Razor. Hargrove wanted me because he knows I can do the arms-dealer thing. He knows I’ve no interest in moving back to the Met.’

‘Yeah, well, maybe he’s sort of hoping that you might.’

Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did he say something?’

Sharpe shook his head. ‘Not in so many words.’

‘What words, then? Come on, Razor, spit it out.’

Sharpe sipped his lager slowly, then put his glass down before answering. ‘Okay, he said it would be good to get the old team back together. He reckons that the pendulum is going to start swinging the other way and that we’re going to be given the go-ahead to start taking down the big guys.’

‘So what are you saying? He asked for me so that he could persuade me to leave Five?’

‘There you go, putting words into my mouth. No, of course he didn’t come straight out and say that. But he definitely wanted you on this operation.’

Shepherd sighed. ‘Why are people so bloody devious?’ he muttered. ‘Aren’t we supposed to be on the same side?’

‘If Hargrove does want you in COG he can’t come out and ask you, can he?’

‘Why not?’

‘Because then Button will accuse him of poaching her staff. He’s got to wait for you to ask him and this could be a way of him testing the water.’ He sipped his lager. ‘Have you thought about it? Coming back to the cops?’

Shepherd snorted dismissively. ‘And know that every move I made was being second-guessed by box-tickers and accountants? And everything I did could be splashed across the newspapers at any point? I don’t know why anyone would be a cop these days. Wouldn’t want to be in SOCA again either.’

‘Like I said, Hargrove says it’s going to change.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s not up to him, is it? But it’s not just the job, it’s the attitude. If a cop makes a mistake he gets hung out to dry. If you’re in CO19 and you fire your weapon you’re on automatic suspension until the shooting is investigated. And effectively you’re guilty until proven innocent. You make a decision in the heat of the moment because you think it’s the right thing to do, but you’re then judged by pricks who never leave their offices unless it’s to get into the back of a chauffeur-driven car. Five is totally different, Razor. Everything I do is covered by the Official Secrets Act. No newspaper is going to splash my picture across the front page; no MP is going to call for my head because he wants to appease his constituents. Five looks after its own.’

‘Hargrove always had our backs,’ said Sharpe.

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah, he’s old school. But he’s just one brick in the wall. Say this operation goes tits up. Say we end up putting a round in one of those guys. Do you think Hargrove will be able to protect us?’

‘You’re not planning on shooting anybody, are you?’ asked Sharpe. He grinned slyly.

‘Just you, you soft bastard.’

‘You think you could take me?’

‘One-handed,’ said Shepherd.

Shepherd was making himself a coffee when his John Whitehill phone rang. He had spent three hours drinking with Sharpe and while he was far from drunk he was still a little light-headed. It was Chaudhry.

‘Hey, Raj, how’re things?’ he said, speaking slightly slower than usual to make sure that he didn’t slur his words.

‘I’ve something to tell you,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Go ahead, I’m all ears,’ said Shepherd, pouring milk into his coffee.

‘Can we meet?’

‘Tonight?’

‘I don’t want to forget anything and I don’t want to write it down,’ said Chaudhry. ‘My memory’s not as good as yours.’

‘You’re a medical student. You have to memorise millions of facts,’ said Shepherd.

‘Which is why there’s no room for anything else,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Look, I just met with Khalid. There’s some stuff you need to know.’

‘I can see you, but I can’t drive,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’ll come to you. I can see you on the Heath.’

‘Two guys on Hampstead Heath at night? Not sure that’s a good idea.’

Chaudhry laughed. ‘Don’t worry, John, you’re not my type. Look, I can cycle over and I’ll be careful. No one’s going to follow me on the bike.’

Shepherd took a sip of his coffee. ‘Okay, come to the east side of the Heath. There’s a petanque pitch there.’

‘A what?’

‘That game where you toss balls. Boules, the French call it. It’s near the bandstand, fairly close to the road. I’ll get there first. If everything’s okay I’ll be wearing a baseball cap. If I’m not wearing a cap don’t come near me. Just go back home and wait for me to contact you.’

‘You think someone might be following you?’

‘No, but it’s always a good idea to have a fallback position.’

Shepherd ended the call. He finished his coffee, picked up his coat and a baseball cap off a hook by the door, and headed out.

He spent fifteen minutes strolling around the Heath making sure that he wasn’t being followed. He did get two very nice smiles, one from a sixty-year-old man in a cashmere coat and a trilby, another from a teenager in a black leather motorcycle jacket.

He did a quick walk round the petanque pitch, then sat down on a bench and put on his cap. Chaudhry was on time, pushing his bicycle. He was wearing his duffel coat with the hood up. He leaned the bike against the bench and sat down.

‘Are you okay, Raj?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I’m fine,’ said Chaudhry. He grinned at the baseball cap. ‘You really don’t suit that,’ he said. He pulled his hood down. ‘You’re about ten years too old for it.’

Shepherd took it off. ‘Yeah, I was going to suggest holding a newspaper but as it’s dark I thought that would just look plain silly. So what’s up?’

Chaudhry folded his arms. ‘Khalid wanted me and Harvey to talk to a couple of young guys who are on their way to Pakistan. We had dinner.’

‘Nice,’ said Shepherd.

‘They’re off to a training camp next week. Not the one that we went to, a new one.’

‘Do you know where it is?’

‘Closer to the border, he said. These guys are from the mosque. Khalid has recruited them the way he recruited me and Harvey. He did the same with us, introduced us to a couple of veterans before we went out to Pakistan. Now we’re the veterans.’

‘That’s how it works,’ said Shepherd. ‘Making you all feel part of the process, you against the world. It binds you together.’

‘They’re both students at South Bank University. Sociology, would you believe? One is Lateef Panhwar. The other is his pal, Faisal. Didn’t get his surname. They’re both from Derby, up north. And they’re flying out next Wednesday on PIA.’

‘That’s terrific, Raj. Thanks.’

‘What will you do?’

‘We’ll see if anything’s known about them. Then we’ll arrange to have them followed in Pakistan, and hopefully nail down the location of the training camp.’

‘They’re nutters, John. Serious nutters. They were talking about shooting down planes at Heathrow.’

‘Now that they’re on our radar we’ll be on their case twenty-four seven,’ said Shepherd.

‘So I did good?’

‘You did great, Raj. Really.’

‘What they’re doing is so wrong,’ said Chaudhry. ‘People like Khalid, they’re evil. They’re twisting the Koran to make it sound like we should be killing non-believers and that our religion has to go into battle against all others. You know what jihad means, right?’

‘Struggle,’ said Shepherd.

‘Exactly. Struggle. Yet most of the younger brothers seem to think that it means a crusade. That we have to somehow destroy all other religions. But that’s not what the Koran says.’

‘I think the majority of Muslims understand, don’t they?’

‘The older generation, maybe. But the young ones?’ Chaudhry shook his head. ‘I’m not so sure. The Americans did themselves no favours when they invaded Afghanistan and Iraq. And whoever thought that Guantanamo Bay was a good idea should be taken out and shot. It produced a whole generation of Muslims who really do believe that America is evil.’

‘No argument here,’ said Shepherd. ‘But you’ve got to remember that Afghanistan and Iraq were a reaction to Nine-Eleven.’

‘And Nine-Eleven was a reaction to American support for Israel, everyone forgets that,’ said Chaudhry. He grimaced as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Bloody hell, now I sound like I’m defending al-Qaeda,’ he said. ‘That’s not what I meant at all.’

‘Understanding someone’s motivation doesn’t mean that you agree with them,’ said Shepherd. ‘But your train of logic is spot on. Al-Qaeda resented what Israel was doing in the Middle East and blamed America for supporting them; al-Qaeda carried out the Nine-Eleven attacks; America retaliated by invading Afghanistan and Iraq. Muslims around the world saw that as an attack on their religion and that initiated all the terrorist attacks we’ve seen since — in Madrid, in London, in Algiers, in Yemen.’

‘And what the Americans did to Bin Laden is going to make it worse, right? It makes him the ultimate martyr.’

‘I would think so,’ said Shepherd. ‘Killing him was never going to stop al-Qaeda. It’s not like a snake that you can kill by chopping off the head. It’s more like a cancer where the more you attack the tumour, the more cancerous cells you release.’

‘So why don’t the people at the top realise that?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘If it’s that obvious to you and me, why did Bush invade Iraq? Iraq, which wasn’t even an al-Qaeda stronghold. In fact Saddam hated al-Qaeda more than the West did.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘I’m nothing to do with policy,’ he said. ‘I’m an Indian surrounded by chiefs.’ He smiled. ‘No offence.’

Chaudhry wagged a finger at him. ‘You don’t want to be confusing a Pakistani with an Indian,’ he said. ‘Even in jest.’

‘Not good?’

Chaudhry grinned. ‘Let’s just say it could end in tears. Me, I’m a Brit first and a Pakistani second, so it’s water off a duck’s back. But even my dad gets upset if he’s mistaken for an Indian, and he’s as laid back as they come.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

Chaudhry sighed. ‘Anyway, the answer to my question — why did the US invade Iraq? — you know why, right? Bush Senior couldn’t take Saddam down so his son did, the first chance he got. It was nothing to do with al-Qaeda and nothing to do with terrorism. And now look at the state the world’s in.’ He sighed again. ‘We’re screwed, aren’t we? The West? No matter how this works out.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Shepherd.

‘We stop Khalid and we stop Lateef and Faisal. We arrest everyone and they all go to prison. But there’ll be others to take their place, won’t there? They’re already being recruited, right now. Kids and teenagers are being groomed to be the new shahid. Who’s going to stop them?’

‘Hopefully there’ll be someone like you who’ll do the right thing,’ said Shepherd.

Chaudhry sneered. ‘That’s not much of a plan, is it?’

‘Fair point,’ said Shepherd. ‘But that’s the way it is, unfortunately. Back in 1984, before you were born, the IRA almost killed Margaret Thatcher, the prime minister. They blew up the hotel she was staying in, along with half her cabinet. She was pulled from the wreckage and the IRA released a statement saying that she was lucky and that she would have to continue to be lucky. But the IRA had to be lucky only once. That’s the situation we’re in now. We need to be lucky all the time.’

‘And like I said, that’s not much of a plan.’

‘The security services are on full alert and they will be for the foreseeable future,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s a lot of surveillance going on; internet chatter and emails are monitored; GCHQ eavesdrop on phone calls. We’ve got CCTV, we’ve got all sorts of technological advantages that the terrorists don’t have, and we’ve got right on our side.’

‘That gives you an advantage, does it? Having right on your side?’

‘It means that there will always be people like you who want to do the right thing, Raj. No one is totally alone. Everyone has friends, relatives, workmates, neighbours. Providing there are people who are prepared to do the right thing, the terrorists will always be identified, sooner or later.’

Two middle-aged women in matching raincoats, one with a spaniel, the other with a red setter, walked by. The woman with the spaniel glared at Shepherd with open hostility. He smiled at her and winked, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust and tugged hard at her dog’s lead.

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Chaudhry.

‘And what about you, Raj? After all this is over. What do you plan to do?’

Chaudhry frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘MI5 can use guys like you.’

‘Brown-skinned Muslims, you mean?’

‘I meant intelligent, self-motivated individuals who want the best for our country. You could go far, really. And not because of your ethnicity.’

‘My dad would. .’ Chaudhry laughed. ‘Actually, I don’t know what my dad would say. But my mum, she’d freak out. She always wanted my brother to be a doctor and she went apeshit when he announced that he wanted to be an architect. The only thing that calmed her down was me saying that I wanted to study medicine. If I were to change my mind now. .’

‘I think you’ll make a great doctor,’ said Shepherd.

‘I bet you say that to all your. .’ Chaudhry smiled. ‘What are we to you, John? How do you describe us?’

‘You’re an agent,’ said Shepherd.

‘I thought you were the agent.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘I’m an officer. An MI5 officer. You’re an agent. Or an asset.’

‘An asset? That’s good to know.’ He smiled thinly. ‘I just wish this was over, John.’

‘I know. It will be soon.’

‘I just keep thinking that Khalid knows what we’re doing.’

‘He doesn’t.’

‘He’s under surveillance, right?’

Shepherd nodded.

‘Would he have been followed tonight? To the restaurant?’

‘I would think so.’

‘I didn’t see anyone,’ said Chaudhry.

‘You wouldn’t. The people we use are real professionals. And if we even suspected that he knew you were talking to us we’d pull you out immediately. But that’s not on the cards, Raj. The fact that he wanted you to meet Lateef and Faisal shows that he trusts you. You’re his golden boys.’

Chaudhry shrugged. ‘I guess so.’

‘There’s no guessing about it. He recruited you, he sent you to Pakistan for training, now he’s getting ready for the big one. He’s never going to suspect you because you’re on the inside; he’ll see any threat coming from the outside. That’s why you and Malik are so important in all this. You’re on the inside.’

‘You’ve been in my position before, right?’

‘Lots of times.’

‘It’s scary, isn’t it? Lying all the time?’

Shepherd smiled. ‘It can be. But you get used to it.’

‘I don’t want to get used to it,’ said Chaudhry. ‘I just want it to be over.’

Shepherd opened his eyes and was disorientated for a few seconds until he remembered he was in his bedroom in Hereford. He’d driven up the previous morning, then taken Katra to watch Liam play rugby. Liam’s team had won, and afterwards they’d taken him and half a dozen of his teammates for pizza. Shepherd shaved and showered and dressed in a polo shirt and black jeans before heading down to the kitchen. Katra was already up and by the time he’d picked up the newspaper from the hallway she had a cup of coffee ready for him.

‘Breakfast?’ she asked. She was wearing a baggy sweatshirt over cargo pants and had tied her brown hair back with a scrunchy.

‘Egg and bacon would be great, Katra. I’ve got a busy day.’

‘Working on a Sunday?’ she said, taking a frying pan from a cupboard.

‘No rest for the wicked.’

‘Can I ask you something?’ she said as she began to cook his breakfast.

‘Of course,’ said Shepherd.

Katra had worked as his au pair for more than four years and he thought of her more as family than as an employee. Over the years she had lost most of her Slovenian accent though her love of soap operas meant that her pronunciation was a blend of north of England and the East End of London, with the occasional Australian twang thrown in for good measure.

‘Now Liam’s at boarding school and you’re in London so often, I was just wondering if you really still needed me.’

‘Of course we need you,’ said Shepherd. ‘Liam’s here between terms and at most half-terms too. And the house still needs looking after.’ He grinned. ‘Besides, who would cook breakfast for me? And I really don’t want to be ironing my own shirts.’

She laughed. ‘I like ironing,’ she said.

‘Then you’re not going anywhere. Plus, I don’t know how long I’ll be in London. My situation can change at short notice.’ He put down his newspaper. ‘Everything’s okay, right? You are happy here?’

Katra turned round to look at him, the spatula in her hand. ‘Of course!’ she said. ‘I have been happy ever since I started working for you.’

‘That’s fine. You’re happy, we’re happy, everyone’s happy.’

‘But what if you get married?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Trust me, Katra, marriage isn’t on the cards, not at the moment. And if I do meet someone it’ll just mean twice as much ironing.’

Katra nodded, reassured, and went back to cooking his breakfast.

An hour later and Shepherd was pulling up in front of the Stirling Lines barracks at RAF Credenhill, home to the SAS. He was driving an MI5 Range Rover that had been registered in the name of his Garry Edwards legend. He wound down his window. ‘Dan Shepherd, here to see Major Gannon,’ he told a young trooper.

The trooper consulted a list on a clipboard and nodded. ‘Can you show me photo ID, please, sir?’ Shepherd took out his wallet and showed him his driving licence. The trooper looked at it carefully, handed it back and then wrote down the registration number of the car. ‘If you could park by the shooting range, Major Gannon is expecting you,’ he said, raising a boom barrier so that Shepherd could drive through.

The Major, dressed in a black Adidas tracksuit, was waiting for him in front of the shooting range. He grinned as Shepherd got out of the car. ‘Traded in the BMW?’ he asked.

‘Nah, this is a pool car. More in keeping with what an arms dealer would drive, apparently.’ Shepherd walked round to the rear and opened the tailgate.

‘The guns are inside,’ said the Major, nodding at the double doors that led to the range. ‘I’ve got you three Yugos, but there’re more if you need them. I thought there were six but three have been signed out.’

‘Three’ll be fine,’ said Shepherd. He followed the Major through the doors into the range. He wrinkled his nose at the acrid smell of cordite.

At the far end of the range was a line of terrorist targets in front of a wall of sandbags. There was a table close to the entrance in front of a rack of ear protectors, and on the table was a wooden crate and a metal ammunition case.

‘So I’ve been hearing stories about you from a couple of Navy Seals we’ve had embedded with us for a few weeks.’

‘Just make sure they’re careful where they’re pointing their weapons,’ said Shepherd.

‘They do have a reputation for friendly fire, don’t they?’ agreed the Major. ‘Friendly fire ranks right up there with military intelligence in the tautology hit parade, doesn’t it?’

‘You know there are two thousand active Navy Seals? Hardly special forces, is it? I mean, how special can they be to let that many in?’

The Major grinned. ‘They’re not exactly fans of you, either.’

Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. ‘They were telling tales out of school, were they?’

‘What happens in Stirling Lines, stays in Stirling Lines,’ said the Major. ‘They were among friends; plus, they can’t hold their liquor. Not like our lads.’

‘And what did they say?’

‘Just that you were on the Bin Laden operation. Not that they knew who you were, not by name. Just that there was a Brit there and he was none too happy about the way it went down.’

‘They must have been well pissed if they talked to you about the Pakistan operation.’

‘What can I say? Part of the Sass initiation is to have your drinks spiked, you know that.’

‘Yeah, well, careless talk costs lives.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I did give them a piece of my mind, that’s true. No one told me that we were going out there to kill him. And I certainly wasn’t there to shoot women and kids.’

‘It was messy?’

‘It was a cock-up from start to finish,’ said Shepherd. ‘One of the choppers crashed. You know why?’

The Major shook his head. ‘But they do have a habit of crashing their choppers. The Iranian hostages. Somalia. All over Iraq and Afghanistan.’

‘This wasn’t just pilot error, this was plain bloody incompetence. The compound was surrounded by a concrete wall, eighteen feet high. We were supposed to land inside the wall and that’s the way they’d rehearsed it. For weeks. They’d built a mock-up of the compound in Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan. The plan was to fly over the compound and drop down on to the building. They’d rehearsed it a hundred times. But they screwed up. For the rehearsals they’d replaced the wall with a wire fence. I guess some prick decided that so long as it was the right size, all well and good. Except, of course, the downdraught could escape through the wire fence when they practised the manoeuvre. But as soon as we started descending towards the walls the downdraught blew straight back up and the pilot lost control. So they crashed because some idiot couldn’t be bothered to build a wall.’

The Major nodded. ‘Yeah, for the want of a nail. That’s the big problem with the Yanks: everything’s done for the lowest price. I wouldn’t use an American weapon if you paid me.’

‘Yeah, well, let’s make sure that this operation goes as it should.’

‘No problem,’ said the Major.’ He patted the crate. ‘I’ve put six clips in there, fully loaded.’

‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd. ‘And the suppressors?’

The Major nodded at a black holdall. ‘In there too. Do you want to check them?’

‘No need,’ said Shepherd. ‘When do you need them back?’

‘Whenever,’ said the Major. ‘They’re off the books and the serial numbers won’t cause us any trouble.’ He opened the ammunition box. It was filled with large polystyrene beads and the Major shoved in his hand and pulled out a spherical grenade. He brushed off a few stray beads and then gave it to Shepherd. It was painted a deep green with a thin yellow band across the top just below where the safety clip and fly-off lever were attached to the casing. Stencilled on the side were the yellow letters spelling out GREN HAND HE L109A1 and a lot number.

‘You ever thrown one?’ asked the Major.

Shepherd shook his head. ‘They were still using the L2A2 in my day.’

‘This is pretty much the same,’ said the Major. ‘Based on the Swiss HG85 but the boffins played around with the design so that the fragments can penetrate the latest body armour.’

‘Nice,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, funny the way that so much money is put into coming up with better ways of killing people,’ said the Major. ‘You’d think a grenade would just be a grenade, but someone somewhere thought it worth spending a few million quid on coming up with a better one.’ He took it back from Shepherd. ‘Bog-standard percussion fuse with a delay of three to four seconds. Effective killing radius is sixty feet unprotected, fifteen feet if you’re wearing body armour and a Kevlar helmet, but frankly there wouldn’t be much left of your arms and legs. Explosion produces about eighteen hundred fragments, any one of which could ruin your day.’

‘And you don’t want it back?’

The Major put it back into the box. ‘It’s non-traceable,’ he said. ‘The lot number won’t lead anywhere, so if you do get caught with it just say you found it.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, that should do it.’

‘And you’ve no idea what these clowns want with grenades?’

‘We’ve just got a shopping list, that’s all. They’re not very chatty about their motives but they’re talking about forty Yugos and a stack of ammunition. Charlie reckons that they’re tied in with the Norwegian mass murderer.’

‘White supremacists, then?’

‘They didn’t come over at all Ku Klux Klan when we met them,’ said Shepherd. ‘But they might have been on their best behaviour.’

‘So what do you think? They’re going to start shooting blacks and Asians?’

‘The Norwegian didn’t, did he?’ said Shepherd. ‘Most of his victims were white kids. He did what he did to draw attention to his manifesto. The only thing that made them targets was that they were at a left-wing camp. So, if anything, his target was political rather than racial.’

‘With any luck they’ll head for Westminster and get all Guy Fawkes on the Houses of Parliament,’ said the Major.

‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘But that’s not how it works with terrorists, is it? They always choose the weakest targets. And the guys we’re dealing with are from the Midlands; there’s no evidence they’ll be heading down to London.’

‘So what’s Charlie’s plan? Nip them in the bud or let them run?’

‘She’s not letting me in on the bigger picture,’ said Shepherd. ‘She pinched the case from the Brummie cops, that much I do know.’

‘You think she’s after the glory?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Shepherd. ‘But at the moment she’s got me in the middle playing both ends. I’m reporting to Sam Hargrove, who reports to the top brass in Birmingham, then I get debriefed by Charlie. The shit’s going to hit the fan if Charlie moves in over the heads of the cops.’

‘Hopefully none of the shit’s going to head your way.’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘I’m hoping that Sam will take the flak,’ he said.

‘He’s the guy you worked for when you were a cop, right?’

‘Yeah, he’s a straight shooter. One of the best. So I don’t see that he’ll hang me out to dry. But the Brummie cops are going to be spitting feathers when they find out that all the work they’ve done has been pinched by Five.’

‘It’s a mucky business at best, isn’t it?’ said the Major. ‘It’s so much more black and white in the military. Both sides wear uniforms and carry weapons and the best side wins.’

‘And the losers end up dead,’ said Shepherd. ‘Unlike the world of terrorism, where the losers end up as MPs.’

The Major laughed. ‘Yeah, funny how the world changes,’ he said. ‘There’s a whole generation already who’ve no real idea what a threat the IRA were. You ask most teenagers about the Brighton bombing and they wouldn’t have a clue what you were talking about. But say what you want about the IRA, at least you knew what they wanted: the Brits out and a united Ireland. You might not agree with their methods, but you could understand what they wanted and why they did what they did.’

‘They murdered plenty of civilians,’ said Shepherd sourly.

The Major held up his hands. ‘Hey, you won’t ever hear me defending the IRA,’ he said. ‘They killed enough of my friends over the years. What I’m saying is that at least you knew what was driving them. But this new lot of terrorists? Who the hell knows what their motivation is?’

‘A life in paradise with seventy-two coal-eyed virgins if they kill the infidel,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, but they can’t really believe that, can they?’ said the Major. ‘Even if you believe in God you can’t possibly believe that God, any god, would want to see innocents maimed and killed. Those guys who crashed the planes into the Twin Towers — what did they hope to achieve? And the British Muslims who blew up the tube. Does anyone know what they wanted?’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘The world’s going crazy, Spider. And an old fart like me just can’t make any sense of it any more.’

Spider laughed. ‘You’ve a fair few years left in you yet, boss,’ he said. ‘The mistake you’re making is assuming that they think the way that we do. They don’t. They’re brainwashed, most of them. They’re led into it, trained for it, then, if need be, they’re pushed.’

‘But what are they trying to achieve? Death to all Christians? Because that’s not going to happen. The Islamification of Europe? That’s not going to happen either. And it’s not about Iraq or Afghanistan because that happened long after the attack on the Twin Towers. And most of the troops have already been pulled out. There doesn’t seem to be any objective; and if there’s no objective, if it’s just a religious war, then it’s never going to end, is it?’

‘It’s all becoming a bit Alice in Wonderland,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can’t believe that the London bombers really believed that their actions would change anything. Or that they were going straight to heaven. There’s something else at work. Something self-destructive. Self-hatred, maybe, which spills over to hatred of the world. If you really want to worry about something, Major, think about what’ll happen if they ever get a nuclear weapon. You know that the IRA would never have even contemplated using a nuclear bomb, but these morons will. That’s what I find so scary.’ He laughed harshly. ‘I’ve got my psychological evaluation coming up so I’ll see if the MI5 shrink has any ideas on what it all means.’ He patted the crate. ‘I’ll get the guns back to you tonight.’

‘Good man,’ said the Major. ‘Just be careful, okay?’

‘With the guns?’

The Major shook his head. ‘With the morons you’ll be giving the guns to,’ he said. ‘Guns and civilians are always bad news.’

Shepherd drove from the barracks to Hereford station and waited in the car for twenty minutes until the train from London pulled in. He waited until he saw Jimmy Sharpe emerge from the building before getting out.

Sharpe was dressed casually in a dark-green waterproof Barbour jacket and dark-brown corduroy trousers. He was holding a Marks amp; Spencer carrier bag. ‘Thought I’d bring some sandwiches,’ he said, holding up the bag.

‘I can see you dressed for the country,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s with the Barbour?’

‘Forecast said it might rain. And I thought this was how you country folk dressed for hunting, shooting and fishing, and we’re going shooting, right?’ Shepherd climbed into the Range Rover and started the engine. Sharpe got into the passenger seat. ‘Gear’s good?’ he asked as he tossed his carrier bag of sandwiches on to the back seat.

‘Just what we needed,’ said Shepherd.

‘Good to have mates in low places,’ said Sharpe, settling into his seat. He looked at his watch. ‘We got time for a pint, do you think?’

‘I’m driving is what I think, Razor.’

‘Yeah, but I’m not.’

‘We can stop for a coffee on the way.’

‘In a pub?’

Shepherd smiled and shook his head. ‘You’re incorrigible,’ he said.

Sharpe grinned with no trace of embarrassment. ‘It fits in with my legend. I’m an incorrigible arms dealer who takes a drink now and again.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Do you think Hargrove will reimburse me for a first-class ticket?’

‘From where?’

‘I was in London. The train was packed and the chavs in standard class were doing my head in. So I sat in first class. But when I showed the conductor guy my warrant card he said he didn’t give a toss who I worked for and made me pay the difference.’

‘Ah yes, there isn’t the respect there used to be,’ said Shepherd, his voice loaded with sarcasm.

‘What do you guys show? You know, when you want to identify yourself?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘The whole point of being in MI5 is that we don’t identify ourselves.’

‘I thought it was MI6 that was the Secret Intelligence Service?’

‘Yeah, well, Five is secretive too. It’s pretty much like Fight Club. The first rule is that we don’t talk about it. And we certainly don’t flash our ID cards to get free rides on public transport.’

‘So how can you prove you’re a spook?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Say you’re caught doing something you shouldn’t and you get pulled by the cops. What do you use as a get-out-of-jail-free card?’

Shepherd chuckled. ‘First of all, I wouldn’t get myself into a situation where the cops would be involved. But if something went wrong, and by some chance it did happen, then I’d stick to whatever cover story I had.’

‘And if they didn’t believe you and you were arrested? They’d fingerprint and DNA you.’

‘Both of which would come back as unknown. But say they did keep me banged up, I’d be allowed my phone call and I’d call it in.’

‘Button, yeah?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘There’s a hotline we call that’s answered by a duty officer. We explain the problem and the duty officer takes care of it. If it’s the cops then it goes to the commissioner’s office and he sorts it out.’

‘So you could get away with murder, could you?’

‘Bloody hell, Razor, I’m not James Bond and there’s no bloody licence to kill. And it’s all hypothetical anyway. It’s not as if I go around breaking the law.’

Sharpe laughed and jerked his thumb at the boxes in the back of the Range Rover. ‘What’s that back there? Chopped liver?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Fair point. But if we do get pulled over by the traffic cops then I assume you’ll flash them your warrant card before they start rooting around in the back.’

‘Yeah, that’s one of the benefits of being back with the Met,’ said Sharpe. ‘At least everyone knows what a warrant card is. That SOCA ID was bloody useless.’ He folded his arms. ‘So where are we doing the show?’

‘Out in the Brecon Beacons,’ said Shepherd. He tapped the TomTom unit on his dashboard. ‘Got the location programmed in already. There’s a place we can drive off the road and not be seen. The nearest house is a mile away and the SAS sometimes do live-fire exercises out there so the locals are used to gunfire.’

‘And no back-up? That’s a worry.’

‘Not a problem. We’re not carrying cash so no one’s going to get heavy for three guns and a hand grenade. Plus, you can take care of yourself, can’t you? What do they call it? The Gorbals Kiss?’

Sharpe chuckled. ‘I’d never headbutt anybody, Spider. You know that.’

‘Anyway, Kettering and Thompson didn’t look the heavy sort to me. Cerebral rather than physical. We’ll be okay.’

‘And has Hargrove said anything about when we move in?’

‘I know as much as you do,’ said Shepherd.

Sharpe slowly turned his head, a sly grin on his face. ‘Are you sure about that?’

‘What, you think I’ve got some sort of inside track?’

‘Heaven forbid,’ said Sharpe.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Sharpe shrugged. ‘I’m just starting to feel like a third wheel on this job, that’s all. Hargrove’s gone very quiet ever since you came on board. He doesn’t seem to be talking to me as much as he used to. Not just about this operation, either.’

‘You’re paranoid,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah? Well, just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me.’

‘Razor, Hargrove has been talking to me because I’ve got access to the Sass. It’s the only way we can get the weapons we need. Can you imagine the paperwork that we’d need to get assault rifles through the Met?’

‘I guess,’ said Sharpe. He looked at his watch again. ‘How long before we’re there?’

‘Two hours, maybe.’

‘I’ll catch forty winks,’ he said and settled back in his seat.

‘I’ll miss your sparkling conversation,’ said Shepherd.

Shepherd kept the Range Rover at just below the speed limit on the drive from Hereford to the Welsh border and through the national park to the town of Brecon. He stopped at a small pub on the outskirts, woke Sharpe, and drank a cup of strong coffee while Sharpe drank a pint of lager. They sat at a table close to a walk-in stone fireplace and Shepherd waited until the barmaid was out of earshot before taking out a pay-as-you-go mobile and dialling Kettering’s number. ‘We’re about half an hour away,’ said Shepherd. ‘What about you?’

‘Parked up already at the lay-by, like you said,’ said Kettering. ‘Traffic was light and we got here early. You’ve got the stuff?’

‘Of course I’ve got the stuff. I wouldn’t have driven all the way to sheep-shagging country for nothing, would I? We’ll see you there.’ He ended the call and nodded at Sharpe. ‘All good. They’re in the lay-by. We can let them wait a bit. Show them who’s boss.’

‘Did you just say sheep-shagging? Doesn’t Five have diversity-awareness courses?’

‘I’m in character,’ said Shepherd. He finished his coffee and nodded at Sharpe’s half-empty glass. ‘I’m having another coffee while you finish that.’

Shepherd went over to the bar, ordered a second cup of coffee and then carried it back to the table.

‘What do you think about Kettering and Thompson?’ Sharpe asked as Shepherd sat down.

‘In what way?’

‘They’re not Walter Mitty characters, are they? They’re not fantasists.’

‘Fantasists don’t normally buy dozens of automatic weapons,’ said Shepherd. ‘They might put photos of themselves holding replicas on Facebook but they don’t usually follow through.’

‘So what’s their game?’ asked Sharpe. ‘What do you think they’ve got planned?’

‘Who knows?’

‘All that crap about defending themselves if there’s another riot is crap. Grenades aren’t defensive, and Kalashnikovs are overkill,’ said Sharpe. He took a long pull on his pint before continuing. ‘It’s not about self-defence. They’re planning something, something that’s going to leave a lot of people dead.’

‘Maybe,’ said Shepherd. ‘But it’s not going to get to that stage. They’ll be busted long before they get a chance to use the guns.’

‘I hope so,’ said Sharpe. ‘But we could bust them today if we wanted. Conspiracy to buy automatic weapons. That’d get them ten years.’

‘Except they’re not paying us today, are they? We need them to hand over the cash. What’s bugging you? We’ve done this before. We do a show and tell, we arrange a handover and we hoover them up.’

Sharpe shrugged. ‘This one just feels different, that’s why. Kettering and Thompson aren’t regular crims. They’re not blaggers, they’re not drug dealers, but they want enough guns to supply a small army. Don’t you want to know why?’

‘Not really,’ said Shepherd. ‘In the grand scheme of things the reason doesn’t matter. They buy the guns, they go to jail and they don’t pass go or collect two hundred pounds. And we move on.’

‘Yeah, maybe I’m over-thinking it.’ Sharpe drained his glass and patted his expanding waistline. ‘Okay, once more into the valley of death.’

‘There’s confidence for you,’ said Shepherd. He stood up and Sharpe followed him out to the Range Rover.

After driving for fifteen minutes they arrived at the lay-by where Kettering had parked. There were four men sitting in Kettering’s Jaguar. Shepherd flashed his lights and slowed down as he drove by. Kettering flashed back, pulled into the road and followed them.

It took Shepherd another ten minutes to drive to the destination on the TomTom. There was a fence running to their left with a barred gate leading to a track that wound round a gently sloping hill. Sharpe got out and opened the gate, waited for Shepherd and Kettering to drive through and closed it. Ahead of them, about a hundred feet or so in the air, a hawk was flying into the wind, its wings fluttering as it held its position over the ground. As Sharpe got back into the car the hawk plummeted down, its wings tucked in close to its body, and grabbed a small rodent in its claws.

Shepherd drove around the hill. The track petered out but the four-wheel drive kept the Range Rover moving easily across the field. The Jaguar had more trouble and slowed to a crawl.

Shepherd brought the Range Rover to a stop and climbed out. Sharpe laughed when he saw how much trouble Kettering was having driving over the rough ground. ‘He’s not going to be happy about this,’ he said. ‘It’ll play havoc with his suspension.’

The Jaguar, its sides now splattered with mud, finally reached the Range Rover. It parked and four men got out. Kettering and Thompson were both wearing leather bomber jackets and jeans and had scarves round their necks. Kettering waved. ‘All good, Garry?’

‘No problems,’ said Shepherd.

Kettering nodded at the two men who had been in the back of the Jaguar. ‘Friends of ours,’ he said. ‘Roger and Sean.’ The two men shook hands with Shepherd and Sharpe. Sean was broad-shouldered, with a military haircut and a Northern Irish accent that suggested Londonderry rather than Belfast. Shepherd had seen Roger McLean’s photograph in Button’s office — he was the right-wing activist who had met with the Norwegian mass murderer in 2002.

Sharpe walked over to the Jaguar. ‘Nice motor,’ he said.

‘Yeah, can’t beat a Jag,’ said Kettering.

‘Be better with four-wheel drive, though,’ said Sharpe. He walked round the car, checked that there was no one hiding in the back, and nodded at Shepherd.

Thompson saw what he was doing and he grinned. ‘Don’t trust us?’ he said.

‘Just don’t want any surprises,’ said Sharpe.

‘Better check the boot in case we’ve got a group of dwarves in there with shooters,’ said Kettering.

‘We’ll trust you,’ said Shepherd, opening the tailgate of the Range Rover. He used a screwdriver to lever off the top of the crate. Inside were three assault rifles, swathed in bubble wrap. He took one out and unwrapped it, then showed it to the four men. ‘You know much about guns?’ he asked.

‘A bit,’ said Kettering. He looked across at Thompson. ‘Handguns mainly, though.’ He nodded at Sean. ‘Sean here’s the expert.’

‘Okay, well, this is a Zastava M70, manufactured in the former Yugoslavia. Barrel length 415 millimetres, gas-operated, air-cooled, 620 rounds a minute on fully automatic, muzzle velocity 720 metres per second with an effective range of 400 metres.’ He reached into the crate and pulled out a curved magazine. He held it up so that they could see it. ‘Thirty-round box magazine.’ He slotted in the magazine then chambered a round. ‘And there you are, good to go.’ He sighted down the gun at a rock in the distance. ‘Point and shoot. That’s pretty much all there is to it.’

‘They’re reliable, yeah?’ said Thompson.

‘Not much to go wrong with them,’ said Shepherd. ‘Trust me, it’s a nice weapon. It’s better than the crap the Chinese make and in my view it’s more reliable than the Russian version. The one drawback, and it’s a minor thing, is that you need to clean it thoroughly. If I were you I’d clean it every time you use it. The inside of the barrel isn’t chromed so you have to stop rust setting in.’

‘Can you show us how to clean them?’ Thompson asked Sean.

Sean nodded. ‘Sure. It’s not difficult. But doing it will add years to its life.’

‘What happens if you don’t clean it?’ asked Kettering.

‘It starts to rust and the inside gets pitted,’ said Sean. ‘That means there isn’t such a tight fit for the round as it moves along the barrel so it doesn’t go as straight. Take a new gun like this fresh out of the crate and at four hundred metres you should be able to put round after round in a target the size of a dinner plate. But if you don’t clean it, after five hundred rounds or so you’d have trouble hitting a bus.’

Shepherd and Sharpe nodded in agreement. Whoever Sean was, he knew his stuff.

‘Got you,’ said Kettering. He held out his hands for the gun. Shepherd clicked the safety on and handed it to him.

Kettering smiled appreciatively as he held the gun. ‘And you’re sure it’s as good as the Kalashnikov?’

‘It’s better, I think. And I’m not just saying that because I’m bringing them in from Serbia. I could get the Russian version if I wanted. And I could get the Chinese version at a lower price.’ He gestured at the gun. ‘That’s a good, reliable weapon. These are the fixed-stock versions but I can get you them with a folding stock.’

‘They’d be easier to hide, right?’ said Thompson.

‘Absolutely,’ said Shepherd. He unwrapped a second gun, slammed in a magazine and handed it to Thompson, after making sure that the safety was on. ‘With the folding stock you can hang them on a sling and hide them under a coat. Takes a second to snap the stock out.’

Kettering nodded enthusiastically. ‘That sounds perfect,’ he said.

‘How many are you going to be looking for?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Forty. Maybe more. It depends on your price.’

Thompson was holding his gun awkwardly, as if he was scared that it was going to bite him. Shepherd smiled and pointed at the safety catch. ‘The safety has three positions,’ said Shepherd. ‘At the moment the safety is up, which means that the gun can’t be fired. If you move it down one notch it’s set for automatic firing which means it will keep firing so long as you keep the trigger pulled. You really don’t want to be doing that because you’ll empty the clip before you know it. Push the safety all the way down and you’re in semi-automatic mode. That means one pull of the trigger fires one round.’

‘We can fire them, right?’ said Kettering.

‘That’s why we’re here,’ said Shepherd. He took a wooden target from the car. It was a wooden frame that folded down the middle. He assembled it, locked it into position and handed it to Sharpe. There was a cardboard tube next to the crate and Shepherd popped a plastic cap off one end and pulled out a roll of paper. It was a paper target that the SAS sometimes used, a cartoon of Bin Laden holding a Kalashnikov.

Kettering laughed when he saw the target. ‘I thought he was dead already.’

‘You believe that?’ asked Thompson. ‘He was dead five years ago.’

Kettering grinned at Shepherd. ‘Paul’s a big conspiracy theorist.’

‘Bloody right I am,’ said Thompson. ‘You have to be blind not to see the way the world’s going. Look, do you seriously think an old man sitting in a cave could have planned and carried out Nine-Eleven?’

‘It’s not something I’ve thought about,’ said Shepherd.

‘How can you not?’ said Thompson. ‘And how is it that, just as the Americans are pulling out of Iraq, they suddenly find out where he is? I mean, what are the odds?’

‘Minuscule,’ said Sharpe. He flashed Shepherd a smile, clearly enjoying winding Thompson up.

‘And then there’s the whole dumping the body at sea. They go to all that trouble of finding him and then they go and drop him in the ocean first chance they get. That makes no sense at all. Unless it wasn’t him they killed.’

‘What, you don’t think it was him they shot?’

‘Let me ask you this,’ said Thompson. ‘You know about Bin Laden, right? He had health problems. His kidneys. In fact he was in Dubai having treatment not long before the Nine-Eleven attacks. He had to have regular dialysis.’

‘Yeah, I heard that,’ said Sharpe.

‘Now, did you see any of the photographs the Yanks released of the house where Bin Laden was staying in Pakistan? The house that he never left in how many years?’

‘Yeah,’ said Sharpe. ‘They were all over the papers.’

‘What’s your point?’ asked Shepherd, who was rapidly tiring of the discussion.

‘The point, Garry my old mate, is that in none of the pictures is there anything that looks remotely like dialysis equipment. So how does someone with kidney failure survive for years without an oil change? I had an uncle who died of kidney failure a few years back and he had to go in for dialysis three times a week, regular as clockwork.’ He tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Trust me, that wasn’t Bin Laden in that house.’

‘Are you done, mate?’ asked Kettering.

‘Check the internet,’ said Thompson. ‘Google it. It’s all part of the global conspiracy.’

‘Is that why you want the guns?’ asked Shepherd. ‘To fight back?’

‘Enough, Paul,’ said Kettering, and this time there was a hard edge to his voice. ‘Let’s get this done and we can get back in the warm.’

Thompson looked away, avoiding Kettering’s piercing stare. ‘Yeah, okay, it’s getting cold, isn’t it?’ He flicked the safety down.

Shepherd reached over and pushed the barrel down so that it was pointing at the ground. ‘Not until I say so,’ said Shepherd. He flicked the safety back into the on position. ‘Okay, now out here in the open the sound of one of these guns firing will carry for five miles, maybe ten if the wind is blowing the right way. So I’m going to fit suppressors to cut down on the noise.’

He unzipped a black holdall and took out a foot-long bulbous black metal tube and showed it to them. ‘This screws into the barrel and it reduces the noise by about half.’ He screwed the suppressor into the barrel of the gun that Kettering was holding.

‘So it’s a silencer?’ said Kettering.

‘We call them suppressors,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s only in the movies that they call them silencers. No gun can truly be silenced; you’re always going to hear something.’

He took a second suppressor from the holdall and attached it to Thompson’s weapon.

‘And they don’t affect the accuracy?’ asked Kettering.

‘Not so you’d notice,’ said Shepherd. He looked at Sharpe. ‘Do you want to set up the target, yeah?’

‘Okay, just make sure no one gets trigger happy while I’m doing it. How far?’

‘A hundred metres should do it,’ said Shepherd.

Sean was looking at the suppressors and frowning. ‘Where did you get them from?’ he asked.

‘That’s for me to know, mate,’ said Shepherd.

‘That’s pretty specialised kit.’

‘And we’re pretty specialised suppliers,’ said Shepherd.

‘You get them made here? Or overseas?’

‘Sean, mate, that’s need-to-know and you don’t need to know.’

Sharpe paced out a hundred steps and then stood the target up. He looked around, picked up a few large rocks and used them to weigh down the bottom of the target. He waved at Shepherd. ‘Okay!’

‘Why don’t you put an apple on your head and we’ll do that William Tell thing?’ shouted Shepherd.

‘Yeah, and why don’t I bend over and let you kiss my hairy Scottish arse?’ shouted Sharpe as he walked back. ‘And tell then to keep those things pointing at the ground until I’m out of the way.’

‘Jeez, I shoot him in the leg once and trust just goes out of the window,’ said Shepherd.

‘Are you serious?’ asked Thompson.

‘Of course he isn’t,’ said Kettering.

‘He has a point, though,’ said Shepherd. ‘Keep the safeties on, fingers out of the trigger guards and barrels down at the ground. We did have a prick down in London who let rip with a Mac-10 by mistake a few months back. Geordie guy. Could hardly understand a word he said but he looked like he knew about guns so we gave him a bit of leeway. Next thing we know he pulls the trigger on full automatic and twenty rounds go everywhere.’ He nodded at Sharpe. ‘Almost blew his nuts off.’

‘What about the Mac-10?’ asked Kettering as he looked at the AK-47.

‘Pray and spray,’ said Shepherd. ‘Very short barrel so the accuracy is shit. Gang bangers like them because they see them in the movies and because they’re easy to hide. They use them a lot in drive-bys — they shove them through an open window and pull the trigger until the magazine’s empty. But nine times out of ten you won’t hit the target.’ He pointed at the AK-47. ‘That’s a lot more accurate because you can put it to your shoulder and use the sights. If you need something a bit more compact you can get a folding stock. Of course, if you want Mac-10s I can get you Mac-10s. The customer’s always right.’ He looked at Sean. ‘What do you think?’

Sean nodded in agreement. ‘Yeah, wouldn’t touch a Mac-10 with a barge pole. The Yugo’s way better.’

Kettering laughed. ‘That’s good to hear,’ he said. He turned to face the target. ‘So, safety off, right?’

‘You got it,’ said Shepherd.

Kettering flicked the safety off, put the stock against his shoulder and looked through the sights.

‘It’s set for single fire,’ said Shepherd. ‘Don’t want you to blow the target apart the first go.’

Kettering aimed and pulled the trigger. There was a bang, muffled but loud, but the target seemed to be unscathed.

‘You went high,’ said Shepherd. ‘Grip tighter with your left hand.’

Kettering did as he was told and fired again. This time a small hole appeared dead centre of the chest.

‘Nice,’ said Shepherd.

‘Killed him stone dead,’ said Thompson.

‘Not bad,’ agreed Sean, standing with his hands on his hips.

Kettering fired off the rest of the clip and most of them hit the target. The grouping wasn’t impressive but Shepherd knew that the size of the AK-47’s bullet meant that any shot to the chest at that range was pretty much guaranteed to be fatal.

When he’d finished, Shepherd checked that the weapon was safe before allowing Thompson to fire at the target. Thompson was far less proficient with the weapon and his first six shots all went wide.

‘The bloody sights are off,’ said Thompson.

‘Try sighting with your other eye,’ said Shepherd. ‘Generally one eye’s better than the other. And just because you’re right-handed doesn’t mean you’ll aim better with your right eye.’

Thompson changed eyes and his next shot hit the target right between the eyes. Thompson whooped like an excited kid. ‘Now we’re talking,’ he said, and he fired off another half-dozen shots; all but one went high.

‘Squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it,’ said Shepherd. ‘And you’re anticipating the recoil.’

‘What does that mean?’ asked Thompson, looking through the sights.

‘You know it’s going to kick so you pull against it but that just makes it worse. You need to be stable with a firm grip, and squeeze slowly.’

‘Okay, okay, I’ve got it,’ said Thompson and he fired off the rest of the clip. He got another shot into the head of the target, one to the chest and two to the groin. Shepherd realised it would take hours on the range to get the man anywhere near proficient with the weapon.

‘How about letting Sean have a go?’ asked Kettering.

‘No problem,’ said Shepherd. He slotted in a fresh magazine and handed the weapon to Sean.

Sean brought the weapon up smoothly, sighted on the target and in the space of three seconds put six shots into the heart. He nodded appreciatively at Shepherd. ‘Nice,’ he said. He sighted again, took a couple of seconds to steady himself and put another six shots into the head of the target.

‘Fucking show-off,’ said Roger. ‘Sign of a misspent youth, that is.’

‘Do you want a go?’ asked Sean.

‘I can’t shoot for shit,’ said Roger. ‘I’m a lover, not a fighter.’

They all laughed as Sean emptied the magazine into the target.

When he’d finished Shepherd took the weapon from him, pulled out the magazine, checked that the breech was clear and handed it to Sharpe, who put it back in the Range Rover.

‘See, if you were firing Mac-10s you wouldn’t get a single shot in the target from this range,’ Shepherd said to Kettering. ‘And they have a tendency to jam. It’s horses for courses. But, like I said, the customer is always right.’

‘These suppressor things, how much are they?’ asked Kettering.

‘Negotiable,’ said Shepherd. ‘There isn’t much call for them, frankly.’

‘What if we wanted one for each gun?’

‘You want forty suppressors?’ asked Sharpe.

‘If the price is right, yeah,’ said Kettering.

Shepherd rubbed his chin. ‘That might take time,’ he said. ‘There’s not a huge call for them so they’re made to order. Usually a hundred.’

‘A hundred quid?’ said Kettering.

‘There’s no production line and it’s not as if they can be subcontracted out to China or India,’ said Shepherd. ‘But if you order forty we can maybe do the lot for two grand. I’ll have to check.’

‘Two grand is more like it,’ said Kettering. He looked at Sean. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s specialist kit, no question about that,’ he said. ‘And it does the business. Cuts the noise right down.’

‘If you don’t mind me asking, why do you need suppressors for all of them?’ said Shepherd. He held out his hands and Kettering passed him the weapon.

Kettering shrugged as Shepherd pulled the magazine out and made the gun safe. ‘Just thought they’d be a good idea. Easier to. .’ He shrugged again.

‘We just want them,’ said Thompson. ‘Not a problem, is it?’

Shepherd grinned and put the gun into the crate. ‘Nothing’s a problem so long as you’ve got the readies.’

‘Can you deliver the suppressors when you deliver the guns?’

Shepherd looked across at Sharpe. ‘What do you think?’

Sharpe wrinkled his nose. ‘We might have to kick them up the arse, but yeah, we should be able to manage that.’

Shepherd turned back to Kettering. ‘Seems like we’ve got a deal, right?’

‘We’re getting there,’ said Kettering. He looked around as if he was scared of being overheard, even though they were in the middle of nowhere. ‘What about the other things? The grenades?’

‘Thought you’d never ask,’ said Shepherd. He nodded at Sharpe. ‘Grab the target and shove it in the car, yeah?’

‘What did your last slave die of?’ joked Sharpe, as he headed towards the target.

‘Well, it wasn’t overwork, I can tell you that,’ said Shepherd. He winked at Kettering. ‘You just can’t get the staff these days.’ He took a grenade out of the ammunition box and showed it to Kettering. Kettering reached for it but Shepherd held up a warning hand. ‘No touching, mate,’ he said. ‘It’s not a toy.’

‘I want to see it work,’ said Kettering.

Shepherd laughed. ‘They don’t work,’ he said. ‘You pull the pin, you throw them and they go bang.’

‘Then I want to see this one go bang,’ said Kettering.

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to know that I’m buying the real thing.’

‘Oh, it’s real,’ said Shepherd. ‘You pull the pin and release the lever and you’ve got a maximum of four seconds, which means you really want to be throwing it on a count of three.’

‘So let’s do it,’ said Kettering.

‘First of all, these make one hell of a bang,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’ll be heard for miles. And second of all, it leaves shrapnel all over the place. It’s not like picking up a few shell cases.’

‘What, you think someone might start looking around for evidence?’

‘There’ll be a hole about six feet wide and bits of metal for up to a hundred feet or so. I’m not saying you can’t watch it go bang; what I’m saying is that as soon as it has, we’re going to be wanting to get the hell out of Dodge.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Kettering. ‘I think we’re pretty much done.’

‘Plus, you’ll need to pay me two hundred quid.’

‘Two hundred?’

Shepherd held up the grenade. ‘These don’t grow on trees. You break it, you pay for it. And once you pull the pin it’ll be well and truly broken.’

‘You can add it to the bill, can’t you?’

‘Sure I can. But I really don’t see the point. You can’t check them all, can you?’

‘The one will do,’ said Kettering. He held out his hand.

‘You sure you want to do it?’ said Shepherd. ‘The world looks an awful lot different when you’re holding one of these things with the pin out.’

‘I’m a big boy,’ said Kettering. ‘What do I do?’

‘The first thing you do is get the fuck away from us,’ said Sharpe, returning with the target under his arm. He threw it into the back of the Range Rover.

‘He’s not lying,’ said Shepherd. ‘Head away from us, well away from the cars. See over there where the ground slopes? Do it there. Pull the pin, then throw it as far as you can. Then you’ve got two choices. There isn’t much cover out here so you can either run like fuck or hit the ground.’