False Friends

‘Which is best?’ asked Kettering.

Shepherd shrugged. ‘Six of one,’ he said.

‘Are you serious?’ asked Kettering. ‘You don’t know the best way?’

‘Truth be told, we don’t get much call for grenades,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re lucky I had a contact who had this.’

‘But you can get more?’ asked Kettering.

Shepherd exhaled through tight lips. ‘I’ll be honest, it won’t be easy. Grenades aren’t like guns. Guns you can mess around with and nothing bad is going to happen. Even ammunition is inert unless you treat it really badly. But grenades you’ve got to treat with respect. Plus, you’ve got to know that they’ve been looked after. You can’t mistreat them.’

‘Say I wanted a couple of dozen?’

‘Bloody hell, mate, two dozen grenades? What the hell would you want with that many?’

Kettering laughed. ‘Just want to have them around for a rainy day. Sell me twenty-four for four grand.’

Shepherd looked at Sharpe and Sharpe took the cue. ‘I guess we can do that,’ he said. ‘But transport’s the thing. We’ll have to talk to our guys.’

‘Looks like we’ve got a deal,’ said Shepherd. ‘I guess for four grand we can let you have this one for free.’

‘Is it made in Yugoslavia?’ asked Kettering.

Shepherd shook his head. ‘Nope, but that’s where we’ll be getting them from. We know a supplier there. They’re made by a Swiss company for the British but they sell them around the world. It’s an L109A1 and the British Army have been using them since 2001. It’s filled with RDX explosive and the steel shell does the damage. When it goes off it produces thousands of fragments that are designed to go through Kevlar body armour.’

Kettering took a deep breath. ‘Okay, let’s do it,’ he said.

Shepherd took Kettering’s hand and showed him how to hold the grenade so that the lever was held in place. He pointed at the ring at the top of the lever. ‘When you’re ready, pull out the pin. So long as you hold the lever in place, nothing has changed; you can stay like that for as long as you want. But as soon as you release that handle the grenade is live. A non-reversible chemical reaction starts that culminates in an explosion after three or four seconds. So here’s the thing: once the handle is off there’s nothing can stop it. There’s no changing your mind.’

‘Understood.’

‘And don’t freeze. It can be quite stressful and you might find your hand tightens up, so stay focused. Check the direction you’re going to throw it, pull the pin, and throw. That counting to three is strictly for the movies. Pull, throw, count to three while you run and drop on three.’

‘And it can kill anything within a hundred feet, is that what you said?’

‘I said the fragments will go that far, but they’re only deadly within about sixty feet. Further than that and they’re more like airgun pellets. They’ll hurt but won’t do much damage. The closer you are to the explosion, the more the damage. If it goes off while you’re holding it there won’t be much left of you, let’s put it that way.’

‘Got you,’ said Kettering. He took another deep breath and nodded. ‘Okay.’ He laughed nervously. Beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead and Shepherd hoped that his hands weren’t as sweaty because the last thing he wanted was a live grenade rolling on the ground.

‘And as soon as it’s gone off, we’re in the cars and away,’ said Sharpe. ‘No hanging around.’ He slammed the Range Rover’s tailgate shut.

‘You’ll call when you have a delivery date?’ asked Kettering.

‘Yeah, and we’ll be dealing with you direct from now on,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s no need for Ian to be involved.’ Shepherd wanted Ray Fenby out of the loop so that there’d be less chance of Kettering and Thompson blaming him when the shit hit the fan. He pointed towards the slope. ‘Off you go, and whatever you do don’t try to see it go off. If you can see it the shrapnel can rip through your eyes. Remember that.’

‘Good luck,’ said Roger. ‘Rather you than me. And, if you don’t mind, I’ll wait behind the Jag.’ He headed off towards the car.

‘Piece of cake,’ said Kettering, and he walked away.

Shepherd looked over at Thompson. ‘If he blows himself up we can still sell the stuff to you?’ he said.

‘Sure, we don’t really need him,’ said Thompson. Roger and Sean laughed out loud.

‘I heard that!’ shouted Kettering. He carried on walking and stopped about fifty yards away from them. ‘How’s this?’ he called.

Shepherd gave him a thumbs up. ‘Go for it,’ he called. ‘Just remember to throw it down the slope.’

‘Do we need to cover our ears or something?’ asked Thompson.

‘Not out in the open,’ said Shepherd. ‘In a confined space, maybe.’

‘And we won’t get hurt?’

‘Would I be standing here if there was even a chance of that?’ said Shepherd.

‘You’ll be fine,’ agreed Sean. ‘Unless he fucks up and throws it the wrong way.’

‘Here we go!’ yelled Kettering. He pulled out the pin, threw the grenade in a high arc down the slope, then turned and ran up the hill. After three paces he dropped face down on to the grass and a second later there was a dull thud that Shepherd felt in his stomach and through the soles of his feet. There was a cloud of white smoke at the bottom of the slope and a brown patch about five feet wide that smouldered though there was no fire. In a fraction of a second the small metal globe had been transformed into thousands of small deadly fragments.

Grenades were nasty weapons. Shepherd had never had to throw one in anger during his army days, and he was grateful for that. He’d shot men, and women, and on a few occasions he’d used a knife. He regretted none of the killings, but there was something basically unfair about a grenade. If you shot a man then there was a chance that he might fire first. In hand-to-hand fighting the more skilled fighter won. But there was no defence against a grenade. If you had one and the enemy didn’t, and you threw it, then he was dead and you weren’t.

Kettering was already up, jumping up and down and punching the air enthusiastically. ‘Did you see that!’ he shouted.

Thompson stared at the rapidly dispersing cloud of smoke. ‘Fucking awesome!’ He turned to look at Shepherd. ‘Was that fucking awesome or what?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah, awesome.’

Kettering hurried up the slope. ‘That was amazing, Garry. My heart was pounding when I pulled the pin out, it really was.’ He shook his head. ‘I want to do it again.’

‘We need to go,’ said Shepherd. ‘The sound carries. No one’s going to mistake a grenade for someone out shooting crows.’

Kettering looked disappointed, like a child who’d been told his time at the funfair was over and that he had to go home.

‘Cheer up, mate,’ said Sharpe. ‘Once you’ve bought them you can throw as many as you want.’

‘I might do that,’ said Kettering. ‘You know what would be cool? Throwing one in the canal. I bet there’d be one hell of a splash.’

‘So we have a deal?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Fuck, yeah,’ said Kettering. He held out his hand and Shepherd shook it.

‘Cash on delivery,’ said Sharpe.

‘Wouldn’t have it any other way,’ said Kettering. ‘Give me forty-eight hours’ notice.’

‘Fancy a drink to celebrate?’

‘You know a place?’

‘There’s a decent pub a few miles from here. Don’t know if they have bubbly but we can give it a go.’

Kettering slapped him on the back. ‘Garry, lead the way. And you’re buying.’

The pub did have champagne. It was only Moet but it was cold and cost about a third of the price they’d pay in a London bar. Shepherd paid the barmaid and carried it and six glasses over to a table by a shoulder-high brick fireplace. They were the only customers inside, though half a dozen farm workers in overalls and heavy coats were standing outside drinking pints and smoking.

Shepherd popped the cork and poured the champagne. The men clinked glasses and drank.

‘So what do you think?’ asked Kettering. ‘A week? Ten days?’

‘Thereabouts,’ said Shepherd.

‘Excellent.’

‘Can I ask you something?’ said Shepherd.

‘Anything but algebra,’ said Kettering. ‘I was always crap at algebra.’

‘Why do you need so many guns? And the grenades?’

‘Do you always ask your customers what they’re going to do with the stuff they buy?’ asked Kettering.

‘It’s not every day that I sell forty AK-47s.’ He shrugged. ‘If you don’t want to tell me that’s fine. I’m just interested, that’s all.’

‘Best you don’t know,’ said Thompson.

‘He’s right,’ said Sharpe. ‘Once we know, we’re accessories before the fact.’

‘You a lawyer, James?’ asked Kettering.

‘I’ve known a few in my time,’ said Sharpe.

‘You’re not planning a race war or something, are you?’ asked Shepherd.

Kettering stiffened and he stared at Shepherd with unblinking blue eyes. ‘What makes you say that, Garry?’ he said quietly.

‘Yeah, come on, that’s a bit personal, innit?’ said Sharpe.

Shepherd ignored his partner. He knew he was pushing it, but Button wanted to know what Kettering and Thompson were up to and the best way of getting that information was from the horse’s mouth. ‘We met you through Ian, and Ian’s as BNP as they come, isn’t he? Kill the blacks, gas the Jews and burn the Pakis. England for whites only and all that. So when he first said that you and Paul wanted a meet, we naturally assumed. .’

‘That we were going out to shoot niggers and Pakis?’

Shepherd shrugged again. ‘You can see why,’ he said. ‘But then we saw you with Conteh at the boxing and we didn’t know what to think.’

‘Leave me out of this,’ said Sharpe. ‘I couldn’t care less what you’re doing with the guns, so long as your money’s good.’ He flashed Shepherd a warning look but Shepherd pretended not to notice.

‘Let me get this straight,’ said Kettering. ‘You don’t think I should have said hello to John Conteh, one of the biggest characters in the world of boxing, because he’s black?’

‘No, I’m not saying that,’ said Shepherd. ‘But Ian said you were, you know, in the EDL and all that.’

‘Yeah, I’m a patriot, Garry. We all should be. Family, friends and country, that’s really all that matters in life. But being a patriot isn’t about colour. It’s about country. You heard Conteh speak that night; he’s as Liverpool as they come and as British as you and me. I’ve plenty of black friends, Garry. And I’ve been with my share of black birds.’

Thompson smirked. ‘I can vouch for that.’

Sean and Roger nodded. ‘He is a sucker for that old black magic,’ said Roger.

‘So none of that racist nonsense, okay?’ said Kettering. ‘I know Ian’s full of it and that’s why we don’t hang out with him too much. He’s a good guy and that and we have a laugh but he’s not one of us and never will be.’

‘Message received and understood,’ said Shepherd.

‘Now don’t get me wrong,’ said Kettering. ‘The ones that are flooding into this country, they’re the ones that should be sent packing. I get as annoyed as anyone at these families from the arse end of nowhere who are given mansions to stay in and benefits and LCD TVs and all the trimmings. Them I would put up against a wall and shoot. But it’s not them that’s the problem. It’s the bastards that are ruining our country that are the ones to blame.’ He drained his glass and Shepherd refilled it for him.

‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Shepherd. ‘The politicians?’

‘You know who I mean, Garry,’ continued Kettering. ‘They want to control us all, they want us to be passive consumers, obedient taxpayers, working our whole lives to pay for their bloated lifestyles.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ asked Sharpe. ‘You’ve lost me.’

‘You don’t see it, do you? You really don’t see what’s happening to this country? To the whole of Europe? Do you think this recession was an accident?’ Kettering shook his head. ‘It’s all part of the great plan,’ he said. ‘They want to take our savings, our pensions, our assets, because then we have no choice other than to work for them.’ Sean and Roger nodded in agreement.

‘Them?’

‘The faceless bureaucrats who run our lives. The unelected elite. The men and women who control the money and make us dance to their tune. It’s slavery, that’s what it is.’

‘An international conspiracy? Is that what you’re saying?’ asked Sharpe, leaning forward.

‘The biggest conspiracy that the world has ever known,’ said Kettering. ‘With the aim of producing a one-world government with a single currency ruled by a very small elite while everyone else spends their whole lives being controlled and told what to do.’ He waved his glass around. ‘It’s happening already. That’s what the EU is all about. The EU and the United Nations. They’re just steps on the way to a world government. And the bastards that are running this country, Labour and Conservative alike, are helping them, working towards the destruction of Western civilisation. By mass immigration. By destroying the trade unions. By weakening the state education system to produce a population with IQs lower than that in most Third World countries. By ruining the healthcare system. By destroying our faith in the Church.’

Kettering’s eyes were wide and flecks of saliva sprayed from his mouth as he spoke.

‘They want the population compliant, like cattle. And they’ve pretty much done it. They push us and prod us and control every second of our lives, from the cradle to the grave. Someone has to bring the people to their senses, to tell them that they have to stand up and fight before it’s too late.’

‘Is that what the guns are for?’ said Shepherd quietly.

Kettering didn’t appear to have heard him. ‘We have to show the world what’s really going on. We have to open people’s eyes. Look at Nine-Eleven. No one gave the Muslims a second thought before the Twin Towers were attacked. They were getting on with their lives, not making a fuss. Bin Laden could see how that would be the end of his religion. If people don’t fight for something they don’t value it and they don’t complain when it gets taken away from them. So he ignited a fire that has continued to burn. And when Bush and Blair invaded Afghanistan and Iraq they fanned the flames. Now look just how strong and united the Muslims are. The world is scared of them. Look at how our own government bends over backwards to accommodate them. Well, it’s time for the British people to stand up and inspire that same fear. It’s time that the world respected us again.’

‘But how does killing civilians achieve that?’

‘By making them think about their lives. By showing them how weak and defenceless they have become. That’s what Anders Breivik achieved in Norway. And that’s going to be repeated across Europe until the people rise up and defend their countries.’

‘Steady, Simon,’ said Thompson.

Kettering looked at Thompson as if seeing him for the first time. ‘We’re among friends,’ he said.

‘We don’t know that,’ said Thompson. ‘Not for sure.’ He looked over at Shepherd and raised his glass. ‘No offence. I mean, we’ve known Sean and Roger for donkey’s, but you two are the new kids on the block.’

‘None taken,’ said Shepherd. He smiled across at Kettering. ‘The Norwegian’s the one that killed all those kids, right? Please don’t tell me you’re planning to kill kids.’

‘It was a socialist camp,’ said Kettering. ‘He knew what he was doing. He knew that by killing the way he did he’d get his whole country talking. The whole world.’ He drank more champagne. ‘Are you going to pull out of our deal? Is that what you’re thinking?’

‘Once the guns leave my hands it’s not my problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘They can’t be traced to me. I doubt that you’d tell the cops where you got them from and even if you did it’d be your word against mine.’ He shrugged. ‘Money’s money, that’s what I always say.’

Kettering nodded, then leaned over and clinked his glass against Shepherd’s.

‘Doesn’t it worry you, what’s happening to our country?’ asked Thompson.

‘I don’t give it much thought,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t pay tax, I come and go as I please and I do pretty much as I like. I leave my money offshore, so even if the cops were to get on to me I could move overseas and they’d never get me. I’m bulletproof, mate.’

‘At the moment. But what will you do when they get rid of money and everyone is chipped?’ said Thompson.

‘Chipped?’ repeated Sharpe.

‘They’ll do away with money and you’ll have a chip under your skin that you use to buy everything, and the moment you step out of line your chip is wiped,’ said Thompson. ‘It’ll be the ultimate controlling tool. If we get to that stage it’s all over. The rich will get richer and richer and the poor will stay poor.’

‘I’m not poor, mate.’

‘Compared to the Russian oligarchs? Compared to Tony Blair and the Bushes and the rest of them? Compared to the bankers? They’re the ones who are taking over, unless we do something.’

‘You’re a great one for conspiracies, aren’t you?’ said Shepherd.

Thompson’s eyes hardened. ‘You need to read more,’ he said. ‘You know what a false flag is?’

Shepherd did but he wanted Thompson to continue talking.

‘It’s when the government does something but blames it on someone else. Hitler did it when he burned down the Reichstag. The Yanks did it in the Tonkin accident when they claimed that the North Vietnamese attacked one of their destroyers. The biggest false flag of all time was Nine-Eleven.’

‘You think the Americans killed their own people?’ asked Shepherd.

‘It was Bin Laden who brought down the Twin Towers,’ said Thompson. ‘I’m not one of those morons who think they used explosives. Of course they used planes and of course it was Bin Laden behind it. But who was behind Bin Laden?’

Shepherd didn’t say anything. He sipped his champagne.

‘The Americans,’ said Thompson. ‘They trained him, they funded him and they told him what to do. And afterwards they killed him. Why? Because they wanted Iraq’s oil and they wanted the world in fear, because a population living in fear is easier to control. You’ve read 1984?’

Shepherd shook his head.

‘You should,’ said Thompson. ‘George Orwell was way ahead of his time. Read 1984 and Animal Farm and you’ll see exactly where the world is headed. It’s one huge conspiracy, Garry. They wreck our economy, they keep us in fear, they destroy our national identity, they take away our faith, and then one day we wake up and we’re all slaves. Unless we do something.’

‘I’m starting to wish I hadn’t asked,’ said Shepherd, trying to lighten the moment. Kettering and Thompson were both staring at him intently.

‘It’s not a joke, Garry,’ said Kettering. ‘This isn’t a race war; it’s a fight for the survival of our species. Because once the elite has total control there’ll be no going back. They’ll control the food, the water, the money supply, the land, everything.’

‘So what do you guys do, when you’ve got the guns? Do you attack Downing Street? Do you take hostages? What’s the plan?’

Kettering grinned and tapped the side of his nose. ‘That, Garry old lad, is on a need-to-know basis.’

‘And you don’t need to know,’ added Roger.

‘Amen to that,’ said Sean. He raised his glass and smiled thinly. ‘No offence.’

‘Well, that was just plain weird, wasn’t it?’ said Shepherd as he drove away from the pub and headed to Hereford. He beeped his horn at Kettering and Thompson, who were climbing into their Jaguar. They waved as he drove away. Sean and Roger were sitting in the back of the Jaguar, deep in conversation.

‘What was weird was the way that you brought Ray into the frame,’ said Sharpe. ‘That wasn’t right, you know that?’

‘I needed to find out what they were planning to do,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, but mentioning Ray like that just makes them associate us with him even more. It made it sound like Ray had been talking to us about them and they won’t like that.’

‘It went okay,’ said Shepherd, accelerating past a mud-splattered tractor.

‘We should tip Ray off and give him the option of pulling out.’

‘You’re over-thinking it, Razor,’ said Shepherd. ‘It was a brief conversation and then we were straight on to the great conspiracy theory. They were so fired up about that they won’t remember where it started.’

Sharpe sighed and folded his arms. ‘Aye, maybe.’

‘The Roger guy, the bald one, is Roger McLean. Button reckons he met with that Norwegian who shot all the kids. He’s anti-Islamic, big time. Button’s going to be very interested to know that he turned up.’

‘And that Sean, what do you think? UDA?’

‘Military-trained, that’s for sure. He knew how to handle the Yugo. I’ll run him by Charlie, see what she says. So what’s your take on the Bin Laden thing?’

‘The conspiracy?’ Sharpe shrugged. ‘I can just about buy the Americans getting Bin Laden to attack the Twin Towers, but the whole global-conspiracy thing is a bit much. But it makes for a good story.’

‘What about the theory that the West demonised Bin Laden?’

‘That’s true enough,’ said Sharpe. ‘And they used him as an excuse to invade Afghanistan and Iraq. But that doesn’t make it a conspiracy. A conspiracy needs some very clever people and it was George W. Bush, for God’s sake. Didn’t he have an IQ of 91?’

‘I think that’s an urban myth,’ said Shepherd. ‘But what they seem to be saying is that it’s bigger than politicians. And it was the bankers that caused all the problems we have now, right? So I guess there are two options — either the bankers did it deliberately, in which case it is a conspiracy, or they were all just plain stupid. In which case why are they getting million-pound bonuses?’

‘Yeah, well, my vote’s for the latter,’ said Sharpe. He looked across at Shepherd. ‘What’s your interest?’

Shepherd shrugged carelessly. ‘The Five case I’m on at the moment is about fundamentalist terrorism and there’s an al-Qaeda angle. I just wonder how much of what al-Qaeda does is about Bin Laden and how much is just disaffected Muslims. I don’t get the feeling that there’s a master plan at work. But maybe there is. Maybe there’s someone pulling all the strings on this, keeping our population in fear so that they won’t notice that one by one their civil liberties are being taken away.’

‘I think it’s much simpler than that,’ said Sharpe. ‘I think that there are a lot of unhappy people in the world and terrorism is just an excuse for them to vent their frustrations. A big chunk of the population is unhappy, unhappy enough to kill and maim civilians. And that’s a pretty scary thing to admit.’

‘And what about those guys?’ said Shepherd. ‘Kettering and Thompson.’

‘Them? They’re as mad as bloody hatters. But with guys like Sean and Roger with them they could be dangerous. If they know more guys like Sean they could do a hell of a lot of damage with those guns.’

‘And the grenades,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s not forget about the grenades.’

They drove in silence for a few minutes, then Sharpe sighed and stretched out his legs. ‘I sometimes wonder if we should even bother fighting this whole Muslim thing,’ he said.

‘What?’

Sharpe grimaced. ‘Well, first of all, they’re going to win in the end, aren’t they? They’re ten per cent of the population now, give or take. But they’re breeding way faster than us.’

‘Us?’

‘You know what I mean. I’ve got two kids, which just maintains the status quo. You’ve got only the one and there’s no sign of you having any more. But your average Muslim family breeds like rabbits. Six kids. Seven. Eight. And most of the guys have more than one wife. So they’re breeding faster than us. And it won’t be long before there are more of them than us and then they can vote in their own government and everything changes.’

‘You’re crazy,’ said Shepherd. ‘Even crazier than usual.’

‘You can’t argue with the maths,’ said Sharpe. ‘And if Turkey joins the EU then it’ll happen even faster. How many Muslims are there in Turkey? A hundred million? How many do you think will head over to the UK for benefits and the NHS? I tell you, Spider, we’ll be a Muslim country by the end of the century and probably a lot sooner.’

‘Yeah, well, neither of us will be around to see that.’

‘But that’s my point,’ said Sharpe. ‘Maybe we should be trying to speed things up.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘Now you’ve lost me.’

‘Look, here’s the thing,’ said Sharpe. ‘Would it be so bad if we became a Muslim country? Because if you look into it, it’s not that bad for us guys. In fact, on balance, my life would be better.’

‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

‘Hear me out,’ he said. ‘Under Islamic law men get to run things again. No more women bosses, no more female home secretaries, no more Charlotte Buttons breaking our balls. No more foul-mouthed chavs screaming in the street. And I’m all for covering the faces of the ugly ones when they’re out in public. The roads would be a lot safer as well, if they were prevented from driving. Women would do what women should be doing: staying at home and bringing up the kids. And we could have more than one wife too. Think how well that would work. You could have one as a cook, one as a cleaner, one for the bedroom, and one. .’ He struggled to find a reason for a fourth wife. ‘Anyway, you get my drift.’

‘You’re mad,’ said Shepherd.

‘Even the booze thing isn’t a problem,’ continued Sharpe. ‘We had a group of Algerian cops over doing an undercover course at Bramshill. Drank like fishes. And the Turks are Muslims but they brew a good beer. The only downside that I can see is bacon.’

‘Bacon?’

‘The pork thing. I love bacon butties and crackling and I wouldn’t want to give that up. But the prayer thing isn’t a problem. Look at those bastards who keep taking cigarette breaks — everything stops while they go out for a smoke. Well, I’d be happy enough to take five breaks a day for a lie-down.’

‘You don’t lie down, you soft bastard. You kneel and pray.’

‘You know what I mean,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’m just saying that five prayers a day is no hardship. And giving ten per cent of your money to charity is a good thing. Especially if that meant lower taxes. And putting women back in the home means that unemployment would go right down, which is great for the economy.’

‘Please tell me this is a joke, Razor,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re starting to worry me.’

‘But the really great thing is the whole shariah law business. An eye for an eye. Now you tell me that the UK wouldn’t benefit from a policy of removing the right hands of thieves. Or castrating rapists. And I’d definitely go for beheading some of the scumbags I’ve put away rather than them doing twelve years in a cushy jail before being sent home to their families.’

‘And stoning adulterers?’

Sharpe scowled. ‘I’m not saying that there aren’t some negative aspects, but on balance I think there are advantages to shariah law. Plus, in every Muslim country I know of, the police are respected.’

‘Feared, you mean.’

Sharpe shrugged. ‘Fear or respect, they don’t spit in your face and get away with it like they do in this country.’

‘Come on, Razor. Corruption is rife in all those countries. You can buy your way out of their prisons, and the rich get away with murder.’

‘No system’s perfect,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’m just saying that perhaps we shouldn’t be fighting an Islamification that is going to happen eventually. Maybe we should start embracing it.’

‘Allahu akbar,’ said Shepherd.

‘Indeed,’ said Sharpe. ‘Fancy a curry?’

‘I thought a kebab would be more your thing after your Road to Damascus moment,’ said Shepherd.

‘No, mate, a curry and a couple of Kingfishers is what I need.’ He grinned. ‘Mind you, have you noticed that you never see women serving in curry houses? There’re no bolshy waitresses; it’s always guys. I’m sure that’s a Muslim thing.’

‘Razor, I swear to God, if you turn up for work in a man dress tomorrow I’m off this case.’ He grinned. ‘Okay, a curry it is. There’re a couple of good places in the centre of Hereford. Soon as we’ve dropped the guns off at the barracks we’ll swing by before we head back to London.’

Shepherd waited until he was back in his Hampstead flat before phoning Charlotte Button.

‘Kudos, Spider, that couldn’t have gone better,’ she said.

‘You got sound and video?’

‘We got everything. Well done.’

‘Yeah, well, it was more by luck than judgement, I have to say. If they hadn’t jumped at the chance of a drink I don’t know how else we could have got them to the pub.’

The pub they had gone to after the weapons demonstration had been fitted with hidden microphones and cameras and the farm workers outside had all been MI5 officers.

‘All’s well that ends well,’ she said. ‘And we now have Roger McLean in the frame and that’s priceless. They’ve already arrived back in Birmingham and we have a team on him as we speak.’

‘What about Sean?’

‘His name’s not Sean, for a start. Aidan McEvoy. Ulster Defence Association hard man. The PSNI lost sight of him a year or so ago and assumed that he was in Ireland.’

‘Why would the UDA get involved with the likes of Kettering and Thompson?’

‘We’re working on that. Might just be personal. Might be that he’s a hired hand. Of course it might also be that the UDA is connected to Breivik’s Knights Templar group, in which case we have a major problem.’

‘The UDA has plenty of arms so if they’re involved there’d be no need for them to be buying from me.’

‘That’s what we’re hoping,’ said Button. ‘A UDA lone wolf is bad enough; if the whole organisation was moving its attentions to the mainland we’d have a small war on our hands. But there’s no point in crossing bridges. We’ve got McEvoy under observation now so we’ll see where that leads us. But as far as today went, job well done.’ She ended the call.

Shepherd felt too tense to sleep. It was often that way after working undercover: the adrenaline was flowing and all his senses were on overdrive. During his undercover career he’d seen agents deal with the pressure in many different ways. Drink, drugs and gambling were easy crutches to turn to, but they’d never appealed to Shepherd. Running had always been his way of taking the edge off. Running cleared his mind, and aching muscles led more often than not to a dreamless sleep, but it was too late to go out running so he spent an hour doing sit-ups, crunches and press-ups before showering and heading to bed.

Chaudhry was sitting at the back of a lecture theatre typing notes into his laptop. There were more than a hundred students listening to the lecturer and most had laptops open in front of them, though a few were still taking notes the old-fashioned way, scribbling away on notepads. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket as he received an SMS. He took out his phone. The message said ‘Now’ and was followed by a mobile number he didn’t recognise. It was Khalid. He changed his number every few days and changed his phone once a month. It was Friday and Chaudhry hadn’t had any contact with Khalid for over a week. Chaudhry grimaced. The door was at the front of the lecture theatre and if he left now he’d have to walk past the lecturer, a forty-something surgeon with a tongue as sharp as his scalpel. Chaudhry looked at his watch. There were only another ten minutes until the lecture would be over so he decided to wait, though he packed away his laptop and put it into his backpack. As soon as the lecturer finished, Chaudhry picked up his bike helmet and backpack and hurried out into the corridor. There were too many students around so he went along to the cafeteria, where there were only a handful of people. He took out his mobile and called the number.

‘What took you so long, brother?’ asked Khalid.

‘I’m at the university and I needed to find somewhere quiet,’ said Chaudhry.

‘You can talk now?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then listen to me, brother, and listen well. It is time.’

Shepherd was walking out of Tesco Express when his mobile rang. It was Chaudhry.

‘John, where are you?’

‘Hampstead,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘It’s on,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Today. Today’s the day.’

Shepherd quickened his pace, heading for his flat. ‘What do they want you to do?’

‘I don’t know yet. Harvey and I are being picked up later today and that’s when we’ll be told. John, what do we do?’

Shepherd could hear the tension in the man’s voice and he was breathing heavily.

‘Just take it easy, Raj. Everything will be okay.’

‘This is it. This is when the killing starts. They want us to kill people. You have to do something.’

‘Raj, you need to be cool. No one’s going to kill anybody. We’ve got your back. Let’s just take this one step at a time. Now, who did you speak to?’

‘It was Khalid.’

‘And did he say where you would be going?’

‘He said nothing, John. Just to turn up outside an Indian restaurant and a van would collect us. Me and Harvey.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘And the restaurant? Where is it?’

‘Stoke Newington Church Street. At five o’clock. That’s only four hours away.’ He was talking quickly again, the words tumbling into each other.

‘It’s going to be fine, Raj, I promise. Now, did he ask you to take anything with you?’

‘No.’

‘What about clothing? Did he tell you what to wear?’

‘Just casual stuff.’

‘Outdoor gear, indoor?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Did he say anything about bringing ID? Money?’

‘He didn’t say anything about that.’

‘Passport? Did he mention your passport? Or driving licence?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Okay, now the phone we gave you. The one with the GPS. I need you to take that with you and to keep it switched on.’

‘He said no phone.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. He was very specific about that. He said that Harvey and I were to leave our phones behind.’

Shepherd tapped his phone against the side of his head as his mind raced, considering all his options.

‘John, are you there?’

‘Yes, Raj, I’m here.’

‘What do we do?’

‘Are you okay to go?’

‘I think so. But what do you think they want?’

‘I don’t know. I wish I did, but I don’t,’ said Shepherd. ‘Okay, now listen to me carefully, Raj. I want you and Harvey to do exactly as you were told. I’ll make sure that you’re followed and that you’re protected.’

‘You can do that? You’re sure?’

‘As soon as I’ve finished this call I’ll get on to my bosses and arrange it. You and Harvey do as Khalid says and I’ll make sure you’re followed every step of the way.’

‘But what if they want us to kill, John? What if they give us guns or bombs?’

‘Then we’ll see that and we’ll move in,’ said Shepherd. ‘Look, Raj, do you think you can take your phone with you? That would make it easier for us to follow you.’

‘But what if Khalid finds out? He’ll know I disobeyed him.’

‘It’s up to you, Raj. All I’m saying is that if you had the phone it would be easier for us to track you. But there’s no pressure. It has to be your call.’

Chaudhry laughed harshly. ‘No pressure? Are you serious? If they find out what I’m doing they’ll. .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

‘Raj, it’s going to be okay.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise,’ said Shepherd. He ended the call with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach because he knew that wasn’t a promise that he could make. He phoned Charlotte Button and told her what had happened.

‘Friday evening?’ she said. ‘Worst possible time. Any idea of potential targets?’

‘Raj had no idea. Unlikely to be a sporting venue, right? If they’re being picked up at five I doubt they’ll be in place by six. More likely seven.’

‘Seven o’clock in London? They could hit Soho, Leicester Square, the theatre district. Or it could be symbolic. Trafalgar Square. Downing Street. The London Eye.’

‘He wasn’t specifically asked to bring ID so I can’t see it’ll be anywhere that would need identification,’ said Shepherd.

‘Well, we can spend all day trying to second-guess them but that’s not going to get us anywhere.’

‘They’re being picked up outside an Indian restaurant on Stoke Newington Church Street. I’ve asked Raj to take his GPS phone with him so we can track him. He’s reluctant, though, because Khalid specifically said no phones. What about Khalid? Are you going to have him tailed too?’

‘Khalid shook his tail yesterday.’

‘How did that happen?’

‘Khalid’s hardcore al-Qaeda, Spider. Single-use SIM cards, disposable phones or callboxes, no computer of his own and only uses computers in Muslim-owned internet cafes, never conducts business at home but almost always face to face in public places.’

‘But he’s under surveillance, right?’

‘Most of the time, yes. But ninety-nine per cent of the time he does nothing. He sleeps, he goes to the mosque, he eats, he socialises. We’ve no idea what he says to the people he meets, which is why Chaudhry and Malik are so valuable. They’re the only assets we have in his circle.’

‘But yesterday he lost his watchers?’

‘It happens now and again. He goes into anti-surveillance mode and he’s clearly been trained by experts. We could have a dozen men on him and he’d still lose them all.’

‘So he knows that he’s being followed?’

‘Our guys are experts too, Spider. I doubt that he knows that he’s being followed; it’s just that every time he goes active he employs all the anti-surveillance techniques at his disposal. Like I said, he’s hardcore. I wish we knew what he was planning. We could be looking at anything, couldn’t we? Guns. Bombs. Chemicals. We just don’t know.’

‘There’s nothing to suggest that it’s a suicide attack,’ said Shepherd. ‘So I don’t think it’ll be bombs.’

‘They could be lying to Chaudhry and Malik,’ said Button. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘What do you need me to do?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Where are you?’

‘Hampstead. Just dropping some stuff off.’

‘Soon as you’ve done that, come to Thames House,’ she said. ‘I’ll get an operation room set up.’

‘I’d rather be closer to them.’

‘No can do,’ said Button. ‘You’re not a professional follower. The last thing we need is you showing out. Soon as you can, okay?’

‘I’m on my way,’ said Shepherd.

Chaudhry unlocked the door to his flat and wheeled in his bike. Malik was sprawled on the sofa eating his way through a bag of crisps and watching a quiz show on television. Chaudhry glared at him. ‘Why the hell is your phone off?’ he said.

‘Battery died,’ said Malik. ‘It’s charging.’

Chaudhry kicked the door shut and leaned his bike against the back of the sofa. ‘Khalid called,’ he said. ‘It’s today.’

‘What?’ Malik sat up, spilling crisps over the carpet. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you think I mean?’ said Chaudhry, tossing his helmet on to an armchair. He folded his arms and stood glaring down at Malik.

‘Today? It’s today?’

Chaudhry nodded. ‘It’s today.’

‘What do they want us to do?’ Malik asked.

‘How am I supposed to know?’ Chaudhry said, shrugging.

Malik stood up. Stray crisps fell to the carpet. ‘He didn’t say anything?’

‘Harvey, if he’d told me one word don’t you think I’d have told you? He said be here, now. He said we’d be picked up. That’s all he said.’ Chaudhry walked into the small kitchen and opened the fridge. ‘Why is there never anything to drink?’ he said. ‘I bought three cans of Coke yesterday so where the hell are they?’

‘This is fucked up,’ said Malik, coming up behind him. ‘Why didn’t they tell us what’s going on?’

Chaudhry slammed the fridge door. ‘Because the fewer people who know what we’re doing, the less chance it gets out. Need to know.’

‘It’s treating us like we don’t matter, that’s what’s going on here.’ Malik screwed up his face and grunted. ‘Bastards, bastards, bastards.’

‘Relax,’ said Chaudhry. He switched on the kettle. ‘What happens, happens.’

‘Have you called John?’

‘First thing I did.’

‘What if they. .’ Malik left the sentence unfinished.

‘What?’ said Chaudhry.

‘What if they want us to. . you know. . shahid.’

Chaudhry’s mouth fell open. ‘Are you crazy? Where’s that come from?’

‘This doesn’t feel right. This isn’t what they said would happen. Maybe they’ve changed their minds. Maybe they want us to be martyrs.’

‘We talked about this. After all the training they’ve put us through they wouldn’t throw us away like that. And remember what The Sheik said. They want us to be warriors, not shahid. Now stop talking nonsense.’ He reached for a jar of Nescafe. ‘Do you want a coffee?’

‘Do I want a coffee? We might be dead in a few hours and you’re worrying about coffee?’

Chaudhry pointed a finger at Malik’s face. ‘I told you, stop talking crap. Now do you want coffee or not?’

Malik nodded. ‘Okay, thanks,’ he whispered.

‘It’s going to be okay, Harvey. We always knew we’d get the call at some point.’ He spooned coffee granules into two mugs.

‘I just worry that they might not be straight with us,’ said Malik. ‘We don’t know what they’re capable of, not really.’

Chaudhry leaned against the fridge and folded his arms. ‘Khalid wants us in Church Street at five. We’ll be collected and taken to wherever it is he wants us. What do you want to do? Call him and tell him we’ve had a change of heart?’

‘We could do that,’ said Malik. ‘We absolutely could. We could just call it a day.’

‘We can’t,’ said Chaudhry, shaking his head.

‘We can. We’ve done enough. We just tell John that we want out. MI5 can’t force us to go on like this. We gave them The Sheik. We showed them who’s bad in the mosque. We can walk away with our heads held high.’ He gripped Chaudhry’s shoulder so hard that Chaudhry winced. ‘Let’s go, brother. Let’s go before we’re in any deeper.’

‘We can’t do that,’ said Chaudhry. ‘We can’t let John down. And what would Khalid do if we left now?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Malik, letting go of his flatmate’s shoulder.

‘With everything we know about him and the organisation, how could he let us live?’

‘We could run. Disappear.’

‘Harvey, how could we do that? To disappear we’d need money, we’d need documents, passports. The only people who could arrange that for us would be MI5. And if we run they’re not going to help us, are they?’

‘We’ve helped them already, haven’t we? We gave them The Sheik. They owe us for that. In fact screw them. We can go to the Americans. They’d put us in their witness protection scheme. We’d have a whole new life in the States.’

‘Yeah, and who do we talk to? You want to phone the White House and talk to the President?’ Chaudhry laughed harshly. ‘Sure, that’d work,’ he said sarcastically. ‘We don’t even know for certain that they told the Americans about us.’

‘So we’re trapped,’ said Malik.

‘It’s not a trap, it’s an opportunity,’ said Chaudhry. The kettle finished boiling and he poured water into the mugs and stirred. ‘When we first went to MI5 we went because we knew that people would die if we didn’t. We knew what Khalid and his people were planning to do, right?’

Malik nodded. Chaudhry splashed milk into both mugs and handed one to his friend.

‘I’ve already spoken to John. He’ll be watching us. They’ll move in before anything happens and we’ll be heroes.’ He raised his mug. ‘Trust me, Harvey. We’ll be heroes, this will be over and we can get on with our lives.’ He clinked his mug against Malik’s.

‘I hope you’re right,’ said Malik.

‘We’ve got a live video feed from a van across the road,’ said Luke Lesporis, MI5’s head of London surveillance. Lesporis had cut his surveillance teeth following drug dealers in south London, more often than not with dreadlocks and a Bob Marley T-shirt. But his streetwalking days were almost a decade behind him. MI5 had hired him to head up their London surveillance team and he now had close-cropped hair and spent most of his time behind a desk in a Hugo Boss suit. He looked over at Charlotte Button and pushed his wire-framed designer spectacles up his nose and then pointed at one of the twelve LCD screens on the wall they were facing. Shepherd could see an Indian restaurant, and a traffic warden writing out a ticket. ‘The traffic warden’s ours,’ said Lesporis. ‘We also have two motorcycle couriers and a black cab in the street and black cabs in the streets parallel. We’ve a Met helicopter on the way.’

‘Thank you, Luke,’ said Button. She was wearing a grey Prada suit and had hung the jacket on the back of her chair. A small gold crucifix nestled below her throat from a thin gold chain. They were in an operations room on the top floor of Thames House. There were no windows and the overhead lights were subdued to give them a better view of the LCD screens. There were half a dozen young men and women sitting at a bank of computer terminals, while Button and Shepherd were sitting in high-backed black leather chairs in front of a control console. Luke Lesporis was to their left, standing up and drinking occasionally from a plastic bottle. There was a large clock on the wall facing the door. It was twenty minutes to five.

‘SAS?’ asked Shepherd.

‘They’re on alert but we are confident we can handle this with the resources we have,’ said Button. ‘The Combined Firearms Response Team is ready to go and we’ve got six ARVs ready in north London. We’ve got three in position south of the river. We’re drafting in teams from other forces and within the hour we should have at least a dozen more in place.’

One of the lower screens was showing a map of London, centred on Stoke Newington.

Another screen flickered into life. This one showed a view from the roof of a building overlooking the street. Lesporis raised his hand and touched his Bluetooth earpiece. ‘We have a camera on the roof of a building opposite,’ he said.

‘Tell them to make sure they’re not seen,’ said Button.

Lesporis nodded and turned back to his computer.

Button smiled at Shepherd. ‘Coffee?’

‘Coffee would be good,’ said Shepherd.

Button picked up one of the handsets in front of her and asked for a coffee and a tea. ‘And sandwiches,’ she said. ‘Whatever’s going.’

Two dark-haired young men in pinstriped suits walked in, both wearing Bluetooth earpieces. Button greeted them by name and they sat down at computer terminals and logged on.

‘We’ve got two walkers on the ground — the traffic warden and a BT engineer — but this is going to be vehicle surveillance obviously,’ said Button. She picked up a Bluetooth earpiece and put it into her right ear.

‘There’s no chatter, no sense that anything big is happening?’

‘It’s quiet,’ said Button. ‘But it’s been quiet for weeks. That can mean that nothing’s happening or it can mean they’ve battened down the hatches in preparation for a big one.’

A blonde woman in a grey suit raised her hand. ‘Helly telly coming online,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Zoe,’ said Button. One of the top screens went live, giving them an overhead view from the Met’s helicopter. ‘Ask them to give the target plenty of room,’ she said.

Zoe nodded and began talking into her Bluetooth headset.

‘There’s a police commander on the way but this is our operation,’ Button said to Shepherd.

‘What do we do about Raj and Harvey?’

‘In what way?’

‘Hell’s bells, Charlie, two of our men are in the middle of this. If the cops start shooting what’s to say they won’t be killed?’

‘I can’t lie to you, Spider. The primary aim is to safeguard the public. We’ll do what we can to protect our assets but that has to be a secondary consideration.’

Shepherd lowered his voice and leaned towards her. ‘Charlie, these guys trust us. You can’t hang them out to dry.’

‘That’s not what’s happening here,’ she said. ‘At the moment we don’t know where they’re going or what they’ll be doing. This is a surveillance operation. If we move to another level then hopefully we’ll have eyes on them and be able to identify and protect our assets. One step at a time, okay?’

‘Will you stop referring to Raj and Harvey as assets?’ hissed Shepherd. ‘They’re people. Human beings. They’re not inanimate objects.’

‘They’re assets. That’s the technical term,’ said Button quickly. Her eyes narrowed. ‘I understand your depth of feeling,’ she said. ‘But keep in mind the big picture here. These people have been planning a major terrorist incident for several years so it’s going to be big. Just how big we’ve yet to find out. Preventing that incident has to be our priority.’

Shepherd opened his mouth to argue, but then abruptly changed his mind. As much as he hated to admit it, she was right. There would be no point in saving Raj and Harvey if dozens or hundreds of innocent civilians were killed. It was a simple matter of numbers. He nodded slowly. ‘I hear you,’ he said. ‘But I want to be here when the order is given.’

‘You will be,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you going anywhere until this is over.’

‘We have two IC4 males on the street,’ said a balding middle-aged man in shirtsleeves.

Everyone looked at one of the centre screens. Chaudhry and Malik were walking down the road towards an Indian restaurant.

‘Here we go,’ said Button. ‘Just so we’re clear, Chaudhry is wearing the duffel coat, Harvey is wearing the green parka.’

Both men had their hoods up so their faces were hidden.

Malik was rocking from side to side, transferring his weight from one leg to the other, like a junkie desperate for his next fix. They were standing in Stoke Newington Church Street, in front of the Indian restaurant. Malik had his hands in the pockets of his parka and had his head down, staring at the pavement as he rocked.

‘Harvey, mate, you have to chill,’ whispered Chaudhry.

‘Chill? We could die today, Raj. That’s what could happen. I’ve never trusted Khalid. He’s a cold-blooded bastard. Even when he smiles he doesn’t smile with his eyes — have you noticed that?’

‘No arguments here,’ said Chaudhry. ‘But getting all worked up isn’t going to help anyone. John is on the case; he’ll protect us.’

‘You don’t know that,’ said Malik. ‘You don’t know what he’ll do.’

‘I trust him,’ said Chaudhry. ‘And you do too. We wouldn’t have gone this far if it hadn’t been for him. John’s real, you know he is.’

‘I guess,’ said Malik.

‘He’s probably watching us now,’ said Chaudhry.

Malik looked up and started scanning the rooftops of the buildings on the other side of the road. ‘Do you think?’

‘I’m sure of it,’ said Chaudhry. ‘He’ll have people close by.’

‘Yeah, well, I hope they’ve got guns because if anything goes wrong I want them to put a bullet in Khalid’s head.’

Chaudhry laughed, but he stopped when he saw the white van heading down the road towards them. The driver and the passenger in the front seat were both Asian. ‘This could be them,’ he said. There were no side windows to the van, just the name of a plumbing firm.

Malik looked at the van. ‘Where’s Khalid?’

‘He said there’d be two men in the van. He didn’t say he’d be there.’

‘Why not?’ said Malik. ‘Why isn’t he here?’

‘I didn’t ask and I doubt that he would have told me anyway.’

Malik stared at the van as it got closer. ‘It’s happening, isn’t it? This is really happening.’ He looked back at Chaudhry. ‘I can’t do this, Raj. I’m not up for it.’

‘You’ll be fine, brother. I’ll be with you every step of the way.’ He stepped forward and hugged Malik. ‘Trust me. Just trust me.’

Malik nodded hesitantly. ‘Okay, I’ll try,’ he said.

Chaudhry released his grip on Malik and looked into his eyes. ‘We’re going to be heroes,’ he said. ‘Remember that.’

Malik forced a smile just as the van pulled up at the kerb. ‘I just don’t want to be joining the seventy-two coal-eyed virgins,’ he said. ‘Not today, anyway.’

Chaudhry punched him gently on the shoulder.

‘No virgin’s going to give it up for you, brother; you’re as ugly as sin.’

The van stopped next to them and the passenger window slowly wound down.

‘Salaam, brothers,’ said the man in the front passenger seat. He was wearing a white woollen skullcap and had a straggly beard. The beard worried Chaudhry because Khalid had always insisted that he and Malik were clean-shaven. It was important to blend in, he said, so no beards and no Muslim clothing.

‘Who are you, brother?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘I don’t know you.’

‘I’m Harith. We are here to take you where you need to go.’

‘But I don’t know you, brother. You could be anyone.’

The driver nodded at Malik. ‘You know me, brother.’

Malik leaned forward and put his hand on the door. ‘Afzal, brother, what are you doing here?’ he asked the driver.

‘I’m here on behalf of Khalid,’ said Afzal. ‘You’re to get into the back of the van.’

Malik looked at Chaudhry. ‘Afzal plays in my five-a-side league,’ he said.

‘Where’s Khalid?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘He’s in the control room,’ said Afzal. ‘You’re to get in the back.’ He looked at the cheap digital watch on his wrist. ‘We’ve got a schedule.’

‘What fucking control room, brother?’ Chaudhry asked Afzal. ‘Nobody said anything about a control room. What’s going on?’

‘There’re a lot of people involved,’ said Afzal. ‘He’s running things so he’s somewhere where he can’t be found, organising. Now get in the back, brother. We’re on a tight schedule.’

Chaudhry and Malik walked round to the rear of the vehicle. Chaudhry pulled open the door. There were racks filled with tools and plumbing supplies on either side and plastic crates full of equipment in the middle. They both got inside. Malik sat on the floor while Chaudhry pulled the door closed. He checked that the door was secure and then sat down on one of the crates.

‘Are we good, brothers?’ asked Harith. ‘Are we ready to serve Allah?’

Malik nodded. ‘All good, brother,’ said Chaudhry. He pulled down the hood of his duffel coat.

‘No mobile phones, right?’ said Harith.

‘No, we left them in the flat,’ said Chaudhry. ‘What’s happening? What are we doing?’

‘All will be explained to you at the right time,’ said Harith. The van moved away from the kerb and joined the traffic heading south, into the city.

‘Right, everyone on their toes. Under no circumstances are we to lose this van,’ said Button. ‘Zoe, make sure the chopper stays high. I don’t want them hearing it.’ On the screen the van had pulled back into the traffic and was moving south. ‘Luke, are you in contact with the bikes?’

‘Tim is,’ said Lesporis.

One of the men in a pinstriped suit raised his hand.

‘Right, Tim, let them know we’ve got the eye in the sky so they can hang back for a bit,’ said Button. ‘But on their toes. If the chopper loses the van I want the bikes straight back in. I need you to keep them up to date on the van’s location every step of the way.’

‘Got it,’ said Tim.

‘Luke, what about the cabs?’

Lesporis nodded. ‘Two running parallel and one behind.’ He pointed at the view from the helicopter. ‘One is four cars behind the target.’

‘Okay, let’s get them all ahead of the target. And again, keep them informed, ready to move in if the chopper loses the van. Let’s give them no chance of seeing our vehicles, right?’

A uniformed police commander appeared at the doorway, his hat tucked under his left arm. ‘Ms Button?’ he asked, looking around the room.

‘Commander Needham, welcome. There’s a desk ready for you,’ said Button, pointing at a workstation and headset to her left. ‘The link to the Met is already up and your screen has access to the PNC once you’ve logged on.’

The commander nodded and took off his jacket as he walked towards the workstation. ‘We have three armed response vehicles en route,’ he said.

‘We need them well away from the target vehicle, and absolutely no blues and twos,’ said Button. ‘At least a hundred yards away at all times and under no circumstances can there be any visual contact. I can’t stress that enough.’

‘Understood,’ said the commander, sitting down and adjusting the headset.

Button stared up at the screen showing the overhead view from the helicopter. ‘I need everyone to start considering possible targets,’ she said. ‘Any thoughts just shout them out — there’s no need to be shy.’

Chaudhry could feel his heart pounding as if it was about to burst out of his chest. He looked over at Malik. Malik’s face was bathed with sweat and he was breathing heavily.

‘Where are we going?’ Chaudhry asked Harith. ‘You can at least tell us that.’

‘Soon, brother,’ said Harith. He handed a mobile phone to Chaudhry. It was a cheap Nokia. ‘You will be called on this and given instructions.’

Chaudhry nodded. He ran his hand through his hair. ‘But what are we to do, brother? Why can’t you tell us?’

‘You are serving Allah, that is all you need to know,’ said Harith. ‘Put the phone in your pocket. When it rings, answer.’ He looked through the windscreen at the traffic ahead of them. ‘We will soon be there.’

‘Inshallah,’ said Chaudhry. God willing.

Shepherd looked up at the screen showing the map of central London. The position of the van containing Raj and Harvey was marked with a red flashing light. ‘The station,’ he said. ‘St Pancras.’

Charlotte Button nodded in agreement. ‘I think you’re right.’

‘Lots of people, high profile; they could do a lot of damage.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘We need to be looking for more of them,’ he said. ‘If they’re attacking the station they might be going in mob-handed.’

Commander Needham looked up from his console. He was holding a phone a few inches from his ear. ‘We might want to consider multiple targets,’ he said. ‘If this is in some way a repeat of Seven-Seven they could be planning to attack several places at the same time.’

‘What do you suggest, Commander?’

‘I can talk to our CCTV centre and get our people looking for Muslims in vans.’ He smiled thinly. ‘God forbid we should be profiling, of course.’

‘Do it, please, Commander.’ The commander nodded and pulled on his headset. ‘Luke, you need to ask all our watchers to keep an eye out for other possible attackers. Vans, cars — if they follow the profile of this one then we’re looking for two Asians in the front, more in the back. If they see anything they’re to let us know immediately.’

‘Will do,’ said Lesporis.

Button looked across at Shepherd. ‘This could very easily go wrong,’ she said.

‘You want to pull them over?’ asked Shepherd.

‘That’s not going to help if there are others,’ she said.

‘What about Khalid? Any news?’

‘No sign of him,’ said Button.

‘That’s not good,’ said Shepherd.

‘You’re telling me.’

Harith twisted around in his seat. ‘Two minutes and we will be there, brothers,’ he said. He pointed at one of the plastic crates. ‘Open that, brother,’ he said to Malik.

Malik leaned over and pulled the lid off the crate. Inside were two Timberland backpacks. One was black, the other blue. Chaudhry reached over to grab the black one and passed it to Malik, then he took the blue one for himself.

‘Do not open them, brothers,’ said Harith.

Chaudhry rested the backpack on his knees. ‘What is it, brother? What’s inside?’

‘You do not need to know,’ said Harith. He gave a sheet of paper to Chaudhry. It was a map.

‘This shows you where you are to go,’ he said. ‘Wait there and you will receive further instructions.’

‘Are we to become shahid?’ asked Malik. He was sweating and his Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down. He pushed down the hood of his parka and shook his hair from his eyes.

‘If it is the will of Allah, who are you to argue?’ said Harith.

‘Why won’t you tell us what’s happening?’ asked Malik.

Chaudhry put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Hush, brother,’ he said. ‘This is what we trained for.’

Harith nodded enthusiastically. ‘You must put your trust in Allah.’

Malik opened his mouth to say something but Chaudhry squeezed his shoulder and shook his head.

The van came to a stop. ‘Allah be with you, brothers,’ said Harith.

‘And with you, brother,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Allahu Akbar.’

‘Allahu Akbar,’ repeated Harith.

Malik opened the door and stepped out on to the pavement. Chaudhry followed him and slammed the door shut. A cold wind blew against their backs and they both pulled up the hoods of their coats as they watched the van drive away.

‘Raj, what the hell are we going to do?’ asked Malik.

Chaudhry hefted the backpack on to his shoulders and turned to face the building they were standing next to. St Pancras Station.

Button watched the van drive away from the station on the screen showing the feed from the police helicopter. ‘Tell the chopper to keep with the van,’ she said. ‘They’re not to be stopped. Just keep an eye on them.’ She tapped her fingers on her lips as she stared at the map, which was now centred on the station. ‘Can we get a CCTV feed on the two of them?’ shouted Button. ‘We need to see if they’re being coerced.’

‘I’m on it,’ said a young man in a grey suit.

‘And can we get video feeds from inside the station?’ asked Button.

‘I’ll talk to the BTP’s Major Incident Communication Centre,’ said the man, tapping on his computer.

Button looked over at Shepherd. ‘It has to be the Eurostar.’

‘I don’t think they’re after the Eurostar. Raj wasn’t told to take his passport with him,’ said Shepherd.

‘I have a feed now,’ said the man in the grey suit. ‘Screen five.’

They all looked at the screen. Chaudhry and Malik were standing on the pavement, deep in conversation. They both had backpacks on.

‘Shit,’ said Shepherd.

‘Shit is right,’ agreed Button. ‘The question is, what are they up to? They might have fake passports ready to go abroad. But the security to get on the cross-Channel trains is as tough as at the airports so I don’t see them getting bombs or guns on board. But they could do a lot of damage in the station. I just wish I knew what was in those backpacks.’ She called over to one of the men in front of the terminals. ‘Peter?’ A middle-aged man in a sports jacket swivelled his chair to face her. ‘Is there any way we can get an explosives dog to the station, now?’ asked Button.

‘I’ll try,’ he said.

‘If we can run a dog through and get a reaction that will tell us something,’ said Button. ‘But on the QT, no confrontation.’

‘Got it,’ said the man, turning back to his computer keyboard.

‘Can the dog tell the difference between explosives and ammunition?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I hope so,’ said Button.

‘I have an ARV close to the station,’ said Commander Needham. ‘Do you want us to intervene?’

‘Give me a moment, Commander,’ said Button.

‘Understood, but be aware that our only chance of getting any sort of clear shot will be gone once they go inside.’

‘Duly noted,’ said Button tersely. She stared at the screen that showed Chaudhry and Malik standing at the Midland Road entrance. ‘What’s your take on what’s happening, Spider?’

‘The backpacks are big enough for carbines, assuming they’ve got folding stocks,’ said Shepherd. ‘And bombs can be any size. The Seven-Seven bombers had backpacks and rucksacks.’ He shrugged. ‘I just don’t know. There’s no way of telling.’

‘The backpacks look bulky, don’t they? Would carbines look like that? They look as if they’re packed with something.’

‘Then that would mean explosives. And that would mean a suicide mission. That doesn’t make sense. Raj and Harvey weren’t being groomed to be martyrs.’

‘Unless they’re being lied to. It wouldn’t be the first time that men have been duped into becoming martyrs.’

‘Hell, Charlie. I don’t know. I don’t know what their mindset is. Certainly Raj and Harvey never believed that they’d be sent on a suicide mission.’

‘We have a clear shot,’ said the commander. ‘Do I have a green light?’

‘Wait!’ said Shepherd.

The commander looked at Button. ‘We can take them out now with zero collateral damage,’ he said. ‘We might not get another chance.’

Button opened her mouth to speak but Shepherd held up his hand. ‘Just give me a minute,’ he said. ‘Let me think.’

‘The clock is ticking, Spider,’ said Button.

‘Amen to that,’ said the commander. ‘If there are bombs in those backpacks we need to neutralise the threat now, before they go into the station,’ he said.

‘Neutralise the threat?’ repeated Shepherd. ‘Why don’t you say what you mean? Shoot them. That’s what you’re suggesting, isn’t it?’

‘Easy, Spider,’ said Button. ‘We’re just following protocol here. If they’re carrying bombs and there’s a chance that they are going to be detonated then we have to minimise civilian casualties. And the best way of doing that is to take them down sooner rather than later.’

‘I don’t see triggers, do you? They’ve just got backpacks. There could be anything in them.’

‘Including bombs with timers.’

‘Let’s just wait a little longer.’

‘We’re running out of time,’ said Button.

Lesporis stood up. ‘Charlotte, we have another van approaching St Pancras. Two Muslim males in the front.’

‘What?’ said Button, turning to look at the screen showing the map of London. A flashing light was moving east towards the station. ‘Do we have video?’

‘Screen eight,’ said Lesporis. They looked at the screen. A white van was sitting at a set of traffic lights. ‘We have a bike behind them. That’s where we’re getting the video feed from.’

‘They’re on Euston Road,’ said Button. ‘If they’re going to St Pancras they’ll be there in the next five minutes. How many are in the van?’

‘We think three in the back but there are no windows so we can’t be sure,’ said Lesporis.

‘So there are more of them on the way?’ said the commander.

‘It seems so,’ said Button.

On the screen, Chaudhry was talking to Malik.

‘I wish we had audio,’ said Button. She went over to stand behind Lesporis and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Make sure our watchers stick with that van and find out where it goes.’

‘I’m on it,’ said Lesporis.

Chaudhry stopped and stared up at the sign above the station. A CCTV camera was looking down at them. Malik stood next to him.

‘What are we going to do, Raj?’ asked Malik.

‘Let me think,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Think? What the hell are you thinking about? What if we’re carrying bombs? Those bastards could be preparing to blow us up right now.’

Chaudhry turned to look at the van that had dropped them off. It was turning on to the main road.

‘Raj? Come on, brother, get a grip, will you? What do we do?’

‘He didn’t say anything about a bomb. He just said we go into the station and we’ll get further instructions.’ Chaudhry held up the map. ‘This is where we have to go.’

‘And you believe that? And where the hell is Khalid? For all we know he could be calling up mobile-phone detonators right now. We’re dead men walking, brother.’

‘Just give me a minute, will you?’ Chaudhry looked at Malik’s backpack. It was bulky, as was the one on his back. He jiggled his. It made no sound. The pack was heavy, but not uncomfortably so. He tried to remember his time in the training camp in Pakistan. For several days they’d been shown how to make and use various types of explosives, and even how to construct a suicide-bomb waistcoat.

‘They’re not heavy enough,’ said Chaudhry.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If the target’s a station then the bombs would have explosives and metal for fragmentation. Nuts, bolts, nails. Otherwise you just get a loud bang. Feel the weight. They’re not packed with metal.’

‘So what do you think we’re carrying? Packed lunches?’

‘Poison? But that doesn’t really make sense. Poison in a rucksack isn’t going to hurt anybody. Guns, maybe. Handguns. Perhaps that’s it. Maybe we get into position and they call us and tell us to start shooting.’

‘I’m not shooting anybody. Look, let’s just dump the backpacks and get the hell out of here.’

‘That’s not an option, Harvey. Look, we’re not carrying bombs. I’m sure of that. So we go inside and see what they want us to do next. We can stop at any time.’

‘So let’s stop now.’

‘If we drop the bags and run, that’ll be it. How do we know they’ll catch Khalid?’

‘That’s not our problem, Raj.’

‘Yes, it is,’ hissed Chaudhry. ‘These people kill civilians. They’re terrorists so that’s what they want to do — terrorise. They kill and maim innocents because that way they spread terror. And if we don’t stop Khalid maybe he’ll kill your sister. Or my parents. Or our friends. These bastards don’t care who dies, Harvey. They blow up tube trains and buses and even mosques. And if we don’t stop them, who will?’

‘I don’t want to die, brother.’ Malik was close to tears.

‘No one’s going to die,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Not today. I promise.’

The young man in the grey suit raised a hand. ‘BTP want to know how many feeds you want?’

‘All of them,’ said Button.

‘We can get them all but there are more than a hundred cameras inside and outside. They’re asking if you want them to be selective.’

‘We need them all,’ said Button.

‘I told them that but the point they’re making is that if they send them as individual feeds we won’t have enough screens here. They’re suggesting they send us split-screen feeds with sixteen views per screen.’

‘That’ll do,’ said Button.

The man put a hand to his Bluetooth headset and nodded as he listened to what he was being told. He put up his other hand and made a waving motion at Button. He muttered something into his headset and then nodded at Button. ‘What they’re saying now is that you can have multiple feeds but you won’t be able to home in on any particular frame.’

‘Just tell them to send the feeds now,’ said Button tersely.

The van that had been driving along Euston Road stopped outside the station. The video from the bike that was following the van shook for a few seconds and then stabilised.

Button turned to the commander. ‘Have you got a firearms team at the Euston Road entrance?’

The policeman nodded. ‘Already in place but still in their vehicle.’

‘Let’s leave it that way for a while longer,’ said Button. She called over to a red-haired woman sitting at the far side of the room. ‘Marie, can you get me a floor plan of St Pancras showing all the entrances?’

‘I’m on it,’ said Marie, tapping on her keyboard.

‘The first feeds are coming through,’ said the young man.

‘Thanks, Toby,’ said Button. She pointed at the wall of screens. ‘Let’s clear the top row and put them all there.’

‘I’ve another ARV on the way,’ said the commander.

On one of the screens, three Asians got out of the back of the van on Euston Road. All were wearing backpacks.

A black screen flickered into life. It was filled with a map of the station, showing Euston Road to the left, Midland Road at the top and Pancras Road at the bottom.

Button walked over to the screen and tapped the top of the map. ‘This is where Chaudhry and Malik are,’ she said. ‘The Midland Road entrance.’ She moved her finger and tapped the left-hand side of the map. ‘This is where the second van is. I need everyone to start looking at the CCTV footage to see if we can spot anyone else. I’m as anti-profiling as anyone but we’re looking for young male Asians with backpacks.’

Shepherd got up and went to stand next to her.

‘Chaudhry and Malik are about to enter the station,’ said the commander.

‘We’ve got the van covered from the air, and it’s no longer a threat,’ said Button, her eyes on the screen.

Each of the screens showing the CCTV footage from St Pancras was divided into sixteen viewpoints, four across and four down. One of the shots was a view of the main entrance. Shepherd could see Chaudhry and Malik standing together.

‘If we move now we can take them down before they enter the station,’ said the commander. ‘But that window of opportunity is closing fast. If there are bombs in those backpacks. .’ He left the sentence unfinished.

Shepherd stared at the screen. Chaudhry was looking straight at the camera, almost as if he was looking right at Shepherd; then he smiled thinly.

‘It’s okay,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s no need to shoot.’

‘What do you mean?’ said the commander.

‘Spider?’ said Button.

‘It’s okay, nothing’s going to happen.’

‘How can you say that?’ asked Button.

‘His hood. The hood of his duffel coat. We agreed a signal: if he was in trouble he’d move his hood. His hood has been up since he got out of the van. He hasn’t done anything to it so it’s all good.’

Button and the commander turned to look at the screen. Chaudhry was looking right at them. His face was strained and he was biting down on his lower lip. ‘He’s stressed,’ said Button.

‘Of course he’s stressed. He’s stressed because he knows we’re following him and the cops have a habit of shooting innocent people.’ He smiled at the commander. ‘No offence,’ he said.

‘We’re not going to get another chance like this,’ said the commander. ‘Once they’re inside we can’t use the snipers so that means we’ll have to go in, and then it’s going to get very messy.’

Shepherd ignored the policeman and stared intently at Button. ‘Charlie, this is a rehearsal.’

‘Are you sure, Spider? Are you absolutely sure?’

Shepherd pointed at the screen. ‘Raj and I have a prearranged signal. If there’s a problem he’ll pull down his hood. Or he’ll bite his nails. If there was a problem that’s what he’d do. He’s not doing either. Harvey’s hood is up too.’

As they watched, Chaudhry turned and walked through the doors leading into the station.

‘What if he’s forgotten? What if in the heat of the moment he hasn’t remembered?’

‘He was looking at the camera,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was giving us a clear view of his face so that we can see it’s him.’

‘There’s a lot riding on this, Spider,’ said Button. ‘You have to be sure.’

Shepherd swallowed, his mind whirling. He wasn’t sure. There was no way that he could be. But if he admitted that to Button she’d give the order and the CO19 marksmen would start shooting.

‘We have a window of about two seconds,’ said the commander.

‘Spider?’ asked Button.

‘It’s okay,’ he said.

Button nodded and looked at the commander. ‘Stand your men down,’ she said. ‘We won’t be shooting anyone today.’

The commander scowled at Button as if he thought she’d made the wrong decision, but he relayed the order to his team.

Button looked back at Shepherd and he could see the apprehension in her eyes. He knew exactly what she was thinking. If he was wrong both their lives were about to change for ever. And a lot of people were going to die.

Chaudhry and Malik walked together towards the Eurostar departure area. A train had just arrived and passengers were pouring out of the arrivals hall.

‘What’s going to happen?’ asked Malik.

‘I don’t know,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Are we going to France? Are we doing something on the Eurostar?’

‘We can’t, we don’t have our passports.’

‘So why are we here?’

‘I don’t know, Harvey. Now just shut up, will you?’ Malik flinched as if he’d been struck and Chaudhry felt suddenly guilty. ‘I’m sorry,’ whispered Chaudhry. ‘I don’t know what’s going on. But it’s not about bombs, I’m sure about that.’

‘So what, then?’

‘Wait and we’ll find out.’

A fearful look flashed across Malik’s face. ‘Raj, what if it’s radioactive? What if there’s plutonium or something in the packs? It could be killing us now without us knowing.’

‘No one is going to kill us, Harvey. Remember what The Sheik said to us? We are Islamic warriors. Mujahideen. We are to fight and fight again, remember? We were never meant to be shahid. Only the stupid and ignorant kill themselves. That’s not us.’

‘So why won’t they tell us what’s happening? Have a look at the phone, will you? Check it’s working.’

Chaudhry took the phone Harith had given him out of his pocket. He showed the screen to Malik. ‘See? When they call, it’ll ring.’

‘Yeah? And maybe the phone is the trigger. Maybe when it rings the packs will explode or spew anthrax into the air.’

‘Harvey, will you look at the bloody phone? It’s a phone, full stop. It’s not connected to anything. It’s not a detonator. Okay?’

Malik shuddered. ‘I can’t take this much longer, brother. It’s doing my head in, innit?’

Chaudhry wasn’t listening to his friend. He was scanning the area, his eyes narrowed. ‘It’s a rehearsal,’ he said quietly.

‘What?’

‘A dry run.’ He gestured with his chin. ‘Take a look around, Harvey.’

Malik looked to his left. He saw two young Asians standing by a coffee shop. They both had backpacks similar to the ones that he and Chaudhry were carrying. Then he looked over at the entrance to the tube station just as two more Asians walked out. He saw they also had backpacks. Timberland backpacks. ‘Are they with us?’ asked Malik. ‘I don’t recognise them.’

‘You don’t recognise them because they’re not from our mosque,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Khalid has been recruiting from all over London. Maybe the country.’

The two Asians who had come out of the tube station were deep in conversation. One of them was holding a mobile phone.

‘I don’t understand, brother. What are you saying?’

‘Nothing’s going to happen today. If it was going to happen it would have happened already.’

‘You mean it’s a test, right?’

‘I think so,’ said Chaudhry. ‘They wanted to check that we’d do as we’re told.’

As two more Asians walked from the direction of the Pancras Road taxi rank, Chaudhry’s mobile rang and he jumped. The caller had withheld his number. Chaudhry took the call.

‘Well done, brother,’ said Khalid. ‘You can make your own way home now. Someone will call to collect the backpacks and the phone. Allahu akbar.’ Khalid ended the call.

Chaudhry took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘We go home,’ he said to Malik.

‘It’s over?’

‘If anything it’s just beginning,’ said Chaudhry

‘They’re walking towards the exit,’ said Button. ‘Did you see that? He took a call on his mobile and now they’re heading towards the Midland Road taxi rank.’

‘Some of them are walking towards the tube,’ said the commander. ‘Maybe it’s the tube they’re after.’

‘No, they’re all leaving,’ said Shepherd. He pointed at another CCTV feed. Two Asians with backpacks were walking towards the Euston Road exit. ‘And here, look.’ A tall Asian was walking slowly to the Pancras Road exit, while a fat Asian hurried after him. Both were carrying backpacks.

‘He’s right,’ said Button. ‘They all got phone calls and they’re all leaving. It was a dry run. A rehearsal.’ Button patted Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Spider. You called it right.’

‘And if I hadn’t, Charlie? What then? Would have you killed them all?’

‘If I was convinced that they were carrying bombs, and if I was convinced that they were going to use them, then of course.’

Shepherd nodded slowly but didn’t say anything.

Shepherd was just about to put the key into the lock of his front door when his John Whitehill phone rang. It was Chaudhry.

‘John, it’s okay,’ he said. ‘Were you watching? It was a test. It was just a test.’ His words were coming out so quickly that they were running into each other. ‘We were scared shitless, I can tell you. Harvey thought they were going to use anthrax or something. Then Khalid called and said we were to go home.’

‘I know,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just give me a minute.’ He let himself into the flat and closed the door behind him before switching off the burglar alarm. ‘Where are you?’

‘Home,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Is Harvey with you?’

‘We’re both here. It was a dry run. A rehearsal.’

‘I know,’ said Shepherd again. ‘We were watching you. I told you, MI5 has professionals. They watched you all the way from Stoke Newington and we had you on CCTV at the station.’

‘Did you see the others? There were other brothers there.’

‘We saw them,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did you recognise them?’

‘Just one of them. The one who was driving the van we were in. Harvey had played football with him. But they all had the same backpacks. So you think we’re going to attack the station? Is that what it was about? Next time they’ll give us guns?’

‘I don’t know, Raj. It’s possible. Did they say anything to you?’

‘They just told us to go home and that they’d talk to us soon. Someone is going to collect the bags and the phone.’

‘I’ll arrange a tail,’ said Shepherd.

‘Do you think I should open the backpack, see what’s inside?’

‘Best not,’ said Shepherd. ‘It might be part of the test.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘We wait and see what happens next,’ said Shepherd. ‘And well done, you handled yourself brilliantly. Tell Harvey from me, you guys did a great job.’

‘I just did what they said. I don’t know what I would have done if they’d given me a gun.’

‘Let’s meet tomorrow and we’ll talk it through,’ said Shepherd. ‘And well done with the hood.’

‘The hood?’

‘Letting me know that everything was okay by leaving your hood up.’

Chaudhry didn’t say anything for several seconds.

‘You forgot, didn’t you?’ said Shepherd eventually.

‘I’m sorry, John. I was just so caught up in what was happening.’

Shepherd laughed softly.

‘What?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘What’s so funny?’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Shepherd. ‘All’s well that end’s well.’

‘Did I do something wrong?’

‘You did just fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s meet tomorrow. We can talk about it then.’

Ray Fenby used his remote to flick through the channels of his TV and sighed at the stream of dross that made up daytime television: endless repeats, banal talk shows and rolling news. There was nothing at all worth watching. He pushed himself up off the sofa and padded over to his poky kitchen in his bare feet. The worst thing about working undercover was that for most of the time he was doing absolutely nothing. Pretty much all of the people he came in contact with had jobs, in which case they were tied up all day, or they were criminals, in which case they were usually asleep.

Fenby’s days were spent watching television, catnapping and waiting for the phone to ring. The fact that he was based in Birmingham just added to his misery because he had no friends or family in the city. At least when he’d been working in London he could drop round and have a beer with his mates. He opened the fridge. He’d run out of milk and there was nothing there that he wanted to eat, but there were half a dozen cans of Carlsberg Special. He sighed and wondered whether it was a good idea to start drinking at three o’clock in the afternoon, finally deciding that it probably wasn’t but that he was old enough to make bad decisions. He took out a can, popped it open and took it back to his sofa. He flopped down and drank.

His doorbell rang and he frowned. His flat was on the third floor with a door-entry system at the main entrance, and he hadn’t buzzed anyone in. He figured it was either Jehovah’s Witnesses or a cold caller wanting him to change his electricity supplier so he ignored it. His bell rang again, more insistently and for longer this time. He put the Carlsberg can on the floor and went to his front door. He looked through the peephole. It was Kettering. And Thompson. Fenby frowned. Kettering and Thompson had never been round to his flat before, though they had dropped him off outside the building. He took a deep breath and mentally switched himself into Ian Parton mode before opening the door. He forced a smile.

‘Hey, guys, what’s up?’

‘We’re on the way to the pub and thought we’d swing by and see if you wanted a pint,’ said Kettering.

‘Yeah, sure, I’ll get my coat,’ said Fenby.

He moved down the hall to get his jacket, but as he did so Kettering and Thompson followed him. As he turned round to look at them, a third man stepped into the hallway. He had close-cropped hair and a strong chin with a dimple in the centre. He was wearing a long dark-brown leather coat and as he reached up to scratch his head Fenby caught a glimpse of a heavy gold identity bracelet.

‘This is Mickey. He’s an old mate from London,’ said Kettering.

Mickey nodded at Fenby but didn’t say anything. He clasped his hands over his groin and studied Fenby with cold blue eyes.

‘Haven’t got any bubbly, have you?’ asked Kettering.

‘Afraid not,’ said Fenby. ‘Just lager.’

‘Not really thirsty anyway,’ said Kettering. He took out a leather cigar case, tapped out a cigar and lit it. He blew smoke slowly up at the ceiling and smiled. ‘Can’t beat a Cuban,’ he said.

Fenby wasn’t sure what to say. Something was wrong, he was certain of that, but he couldn’t for the life of him work out what it was.

‘How about we sit down and have a chat?’ said Kettering.

The three men bundled Fenby into his sitting room and pushed him down on the sofa. Kettering sat down in an armchair while Mickey stood by the door, glaring at Fenby. Thompson went over to a bookcase by the window and began flicking through the books there.

‘So how are things?’ asked Kettering.

‘Good. All good,’ Fenby said, nodding.

‘Spoken to James and Garry at all?’

Fenby frowned and shook his head. ‘No. Why?’

‘Just wondering.’ Kettering grinned. ‘How long have you known them?’

‘Is there a problem, Simon?’

Kettering’s smile hardened. ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

‘I’m confused, mate,’ said Fenby. ‘Has something happened?’

‘I think it has,’ said Kettering. He looked across at Thompson. ‘What do you think, Paul? Has something happened?’

Thompson nodded. ‘It looks like it,’ he said.

Fenby’s heart was racing. He was outnumbered three to one and it looked like he had a major problem on his hands. ‘Guys, come on, what is this, a wind-up?’

‘How long have you known Gracie?’ asked Kettering.

Fenby’s throat had gone dry and when he swallowed he almost gagged. ‘A few years. I don’t know. I mean, we’re not bosom buddies. I met him in a pub. We got talking, like you do. And he’s sold stuff to friends of mine.’

‘Edwards too, yeah?’

‘I know James better than Garry. But like I said, I’m not in his pocket. We’ve had a few beers, watched a few games, had a few nights on the town, but he doesn’t have me around for Christmas dinner.’

Kettering nodded slowly. ‘What team does he support?’

‘What?’

‘His team. What’s his team?’

‘Rangers. He’s Scottish and doesn’t bother much about the English teams. But he’d take Liverpool over Man U.’

‘Married?’

‘He’s never mentioned it.’

‘Where’s he live?’

‘I’m not sure. Croydon, maybe.’

‘What car does he drive?’

‘We’ve always been drinking so we’ve been in cabs. Look, Simon, what’s going on?’

‘Just answer the questions, old lad. You’re doing fine,’ said Kettering. ‘Where was the last time you saw him?’

‘Couple of months ago.’

‘I said where, not when.’

‘A pub.’

‘Where, exactly?’

‘Central London. The east end.’

‘On his own?’

‘There was a group of us.’

‘What was he drinking?’

‘Champagne. He’s big on the old bubbly, like you guys.’

‘Who else was there?’

Sweat beaded on Fenby’s forehead as he felt Kettering forcing him into a corner. He was having to lie but without being able to base his lies on anything solid; and without a foundation of truth the tower of lies he was building threatened to come crashing down around him. He had to do something to break the line of questioning. He stood up. ‘I need to take a leak, guys,’ he said.

‘Sit the fuck down,’ said Thompson.

Fenby tried to smile, hands out, showing his palms, forcing his body language to be as open as possible. ‘Guys, come on, this is me. Let me take a leak.’

Kettering looked over at Mickey and nodded. Mickey reached into his jacket and pulled out a revolver.

‘For fuck’s sake, guys, what’s going on?’

‘Sit down,’ said Kettering. ‘Or I swear to God Mickey’ll put a bullet in your nuts.’

Fenby stared at the weapon. It looked real enough. It was a big gun and he figured it would make a lot of noise if it went off. His bedsit was one of a dozen in the building and a lot of the occupants were unemployed, which meant there was a good chance that someone would call the police. That wouldn’t help him, of course, but it might make them think twice about pulling the trigger. ‘You’re going to shoot me? The cops’ll be all over you. Even in Birmingham they dial three nines when they hear gunshots.’

Just as Fenby finished speaking Mickey stepped forward and whipped the gun across his face, smashing several of his top teeth and ripping open his lip. Fenby fell back on to the sofa, blood pouring down his face.

‘Get him a towel,’ said Kettering and Thompson went through to the bathroom.

Tears trickled down Fenby’s face, mingling with the blood that was streaming from his torn lip. His jaw felt as if it was on fire but he also felt light-headed, as if he was seconds away from passing out. He blinked his eyes and realised that both of his hands were shaking. He folded them, but his upper body was still wracked with tremors. Thompson came out of the bathroom and threw a towel at Fenby, who grabbed it and held it to his face. Pain lanced through his jaw and he swallowed blood.

Kettering got up from the armchair. He walked over, sat down on the arm of the sofa and leaned towards Fenby. ‘Here’s the thing, mate,’ he said. ‘Mickey here saw your pal Gracie at the boxing thing I was at in London. He didn’t say anything at the time because he was on another table but he recognised Gracie. Except he wasn’t Gracie when Mickey saw him. His name was. .’ He looked over at Mickey. ‘What was his name?’

‘Alistair something or other,’ said Mickey. ‘He was putting together a cannabis deal. Tons of it, coming in from Morocco. This was about a year ago.’

‘And tell him what happened,’ said Kettering.

‘Ship was boarded when it arrived in Southampton. Three tons of cannabis got seized by Customs and half a dozen guys got sent down. But Alistair wasn’t touched. No one could understand why, because he was involved from the start.’

Fenby shrugged. ‘That’s news to me.’

‘Yeah, well, it does make you think, doesn’t it?’ said Kettering. ‘So I asked Mickey here to make a few enquiries. And you know what? No one in London has heard of your mates. James Gracie, Garry Edwards. No one’s heard a dicky bird.’

‘They’re fucking arms dealers,’ muttered Fenby. ‘They don’t advertise.’

‘We weren’t looking in the Yellow Pages,’ said Kettering. ‘We asked people who asked people and no one knows anything about them. They don’t exist, mate. They’re on nobody’s radar.’

‘Except yours, Ian,’ said Thompson.

‘Yeah, except yours,’ said Kettering, staring at Fenby.

‘He was an undercover cop, that’s what I was told,’ said Mickey.

‘Bollocks,’ said Fenby. ‘I know guys he’s sold guns to. If he was a cop he couldn’t sell guns, could he?’

‘He showed us guns, didn’t he?’ said Thompson. ‘That doesn’t prove a thing.’

‘It’s entrapment,’ said Fenby.

‘That’s a big word for a football hooligan,’ said Mickey.

‘Fuck you,’ said Fenby. He took the towel away from his mouth and stared at it. It was wet with blood. ‘I need to get to hospital.’

Kettering looked across at Thompson and gestured with his chin. Thompson went into the kitchen.

‘Where’s he going?’ asked Fenby. Blood was trickling down his chin so he pressed the towel against it, wincing with the pain.

‘He’s going to have a look around, Ian. A good look.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we think you’re a fucking slag copper, that’s why,’ said Mickey. ‘Same as your mate.’

Fenby stared at Kettering. ‘Simon, they took you out and showed you the guns. They gave you a hand grenade to throw, you said. A fucking hand grenade. The cops don’t do that.’

‘They do if they really want to stitch you up,’ said Kettering. He took another long pull on his cigar. ‘They could be waiting for us to get the money so that they can seize that. Plus, they might be trying to see who else they can pull in. Your mates asked a hell of a lot of questions in the pub after their little demonstration. For all I know they were wired and it’s all on tape. So if you are a cop, Ian, and if you’re in on this, save yourself a lot of pain and just tell me now.’

‘Do I look like a fucking narc?’ asked Fenby.

‘Who knows what a narc looks like?’

‘How long have you known me?’

‘That’s not the point, is it? The question is, are you an undercover cop or not?’

There was a crash from the bedroom, the sound of a drawer hitting the floor.

‘If there’s anything in this flat that says who you really are, then you’re fucked,’ said Kettering.

‘Totally fucked,’ said Mickey. ‘I’m going to see to that.’

Fenby stared sullenly at the two men as he dabbed at his smashed lips.

Chaudhry was walking up the stairs, about to leave the mosque in Dynevor Road with Malik, when he saw Khalid coming down.

Khalid beamed. ‘Salaam, brothers,’ he said. ‘Is everything good?’

‘You tell us,’ said Chaudhry.

‘You sound upset, brother,’ said Khalid. He put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait for me in the coffee shop round the corner until I have prayed,’ he whispered. His breath was rancid and Chaudhry fought the urge to retch.

Khalid leaned close to Malik, kissed him on both cheeks and then went down the stairs.

‘What did he say?’ asked Malik.

‘He wants us to wait for him,’ said Chaudhry.

‘That’s it? We wait? Like dogs? What about the fact that we sat in all last night and he never called?’

‘Hush, brother,’ said Chaudhry. Half a dozen young Pakistanis came thudding down the stairs. One of them was wearing a coat over candy-striped pyjamas and was chewing gum. Chaudhry shook his head contemptuously.

They went out into the street. Fajr prayers had to be completed before sunrise so the road was still illuminated by street lights and there were delivery trucks parked in front of many of the businesses. Chaudhry took Malik along to the coffee shop. It was a popular place for Muslims to take their morning coffee after prayers and was always busy at that time of the day. They found a corner table and Chaudhry ordered two coffees from the Turkish girl behind the counter. She was pretty and he watched her slim figure as she busied herself at the coffee-maker. She glanced over her shoulder and caught him looking and he felt his cheeks redden.

‘You’re Raj, aren’t you?’ she said with a smile, as she put the two cups down in front of him.

‘Yeah. Do I know you?’

‘I’m the girl that keeps serving you coffee,’ she said. ‘I heard your friends call you Raj.’

‘Yeah, that’s me.’

‘I’m Sena.’ She smiled again and went on to the next customer.

Chaudhry took the coffees over to the table. ‘I think she fancies me,’ he said as he sat down.

‘Who?’

‘The girl behind the counter. Sena.’

‘You’ve got a girlfriend.’

‘Who?’

‘You know who. That bird your dad fixed you up with. What was her name?’

‘Jamila? She’s not a girlfriend.’

‘Got on like a house on fire, you said. Brains and beauty.’

‘It’s early days,’ said Chaudhry. ‘And she’s from a good Muslim family so it’s going to go very slowly.’

‘Whereas Turkish girls are easy, is that what you’re saying?’

Chaudhry laughed. ‘No, I’m just saying that she told me her name and I think that she fancies me.’ He sipped his coffee. ‘The Jamila thing is a bloody minefield,’ he said. ‘It’s like every second thing I say to her is a lie.’

‘What, you don’t fancy her?’

‘I fancy her, sure, but because of what we’re doing I’m going to have to keep lying to her. I want to tell her the truth but I can’t. I don’t want our relationship to be based on lies but it is.’

‘So put her on the back burner until this is over,’ said Malik. ‘Like you said, she’s a Muslim; she’s not going to rush into anything.’ He looked at his watch. ‘What’s taking Khalid so long?’

‘You know he likes to pray twice as long as anyone else,’ said Chaudhry. ‘It’s his thing.’

‘And treating everyone like mushrooms,’ said Malik. ‘That’s really his thing. He likes controlling people. That’s what this is about. He wants us to be at his beck and call.’

They had waited in all evening expecting Khalid to phone, but he hadn’t. At just before eight o’clock a man they didn’t recognise had turned up and asked for the backpacks and phone and taken them away. Both backpacks had been locked with small padlocks but they had been able to peep inside and it looked as if they contained only old telephone directories. Chaudhry had asked the man when Khalid would call but he had just shaken his head and said nothing.

They had almost finished their coffee when Khalid appeared in the doorway. He looked around, then waved at them to join him on the pavement.

‘Too many ears,’ he explained. ‘These days the mosque leaks like a sieve. We can trust nobody.’ He gestured with his chin. ‘Walk with me.’

He headed off along the pavement and Chaudhry and Malik joined him, Chaudhry on Khalid’s left, Malik on his right. ‘You seem tense, brothers,’ said Khalid.

‘Tense?’ repeated Malik. ‘Of course we’re tense. What were you playing at? Was it a test, is that it?’

Khalid’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you questioning me, brother?’

‘If I was questioning you I would have done it when you told us to get into the van,’ said Malik. ‘We did everything you asked of us. And then you told us to go home. So I ask you again, brother, was it a test?’

Khalid nodded slowly. ‘Yes. You were being tested.’

‘So we’re not trusted? After everything we have been through you still don’t trust us?’

‘It’s not a matter of trust,’ said Khalid.

‘Are you sure? Because trust shouldn’t be an issue, brother. We have met The Sheik, remember? Have you, brother?’

‘No,’ said Khalid. ‘I was never granted that honour.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ said Malik. ‘We had tea with The Sheik. He told us how valuable we were to him, how we were a resource that would be used with care, that our mission would be as important as that of the martyrs of Nine-Eleven.’

‘You are angry,’ said Khalid. ‘I understand.’ They looked right and left and crossed a side street.

‘Harvey, chill, brother,’ said Chaudhry. ‘We’re just a bit concerned that nobody told us what was happening,’ he said to Khalid.

‘I understand,’ said Khalid.

‘You understand?’ Malik glared at Khalid. ‘Do not patronise me, brother. Was it your idea to test us?’

‘Harvey, mate, give him a break, will you?’ said Chaudhry.

‘We were told to run a rehearsal,’ said Khalid quietly. ‘It was a question of testing the logistics.’

‘The logistics?’ repeated Malik.

‘We needed to make sure that we could get everyone in the right place at the right time. We had to arrange vehicles and drivers. We had to check that phones worked and that we could get everyone to work to a schedule.’ Two Pakistanis walked towards them and Khalid stopped speaking until they had gone by. ‘You are very important to our organisation, brothers,’ he said. ‘We have a lot riding on you so we have to be sure that everything works. We must leave nothing to chance.’

‘And the test, was it successful?’ asked Malik.

Khalid shrugged. ‘Mostly.’

‘Mostly?’ said Chaudhry. ‘What do you mean, mostly?’

‘One brother didn’t turn up,’ said Khalid.

‘What happened?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Khalid. ‘But we will find out.’

‘Do you think he’s a spy?’ asked Malik, and Chaudhry tensed.

Khalid turned to look at Malik. ‘Why would you ask that, brother?’ he said quietly. He stopped suddenly, catching the two men unawares.

Malik looked over at Chaudhry, a look of panic in his eyes.

‘We were talking about it earlier,’ said Chaudhry. ‘We thought that you didn’t trust us, that you suspected there might be a spy in the organisation.’ Khalid continued to stare balefully at Malik. ‘That’s what the police are doing, isn’t it?’ said Chaudhry. ‘They put spies in the mosques and they pay informers to betray our brothers.’

‘It is not the police,’ said Khalid, still looking at Malik. ‘It is MI5, the security service.’ He started walking again and the wind tugged at his dishdash. Chaudhry and Malik matched his pace. ‘The brother who let us down is not a spy, I am sure of that. But he has shown that he cannot be relied upon so we will have to deal with him.’ He laughed softly. ‘But a spy? No.’

‘So when do we do it for real?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘You are eager,’ said Khalid. ‘That’s good. But we have to wait until the moment is right.’

‘And the backpacks?’ said Malik. ‘Why did we have to have backpacks?’

‘That was to test the logistics,’ said Khalid. ‘Why do the backpacks concern you?’

‘You know why the backpacks worry us,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Brothers, the backpacks were a test of our logistics. To see if we could get a dozen pieces of equipment to a dozen brothers and get them to a specific location at a specific time.’ He smiled. ‘You thought you were carrying explosives, didn’t you?’ he said.

‘We didn’t know what to think,’ said Chaudhry.

Khalid nodded slowly. ‘You thought that there might be explosives in the packs, but still you went. That showed commitment, brothers. And don’t think that commitment wasn’t noticed and appreciated.’

‘You wanted to see if we were prepared to become shahid?’ said Chaudhry.

‘Was there any doubt about that, brother?’

Chaudhry sighed. ‘I had hoped that I had already proved my loyalty,’ he said. He nodded at Malik. ‘Harvey too.’

‘The two of you are too valuable to become shahid,’ Khalid said. ‘A lot of time, trouble and money has gone into training you and it would be a waste to make you martyrs. The operation we are planning will involve guns, not explosives. And provided you follow your instructions you will kill more kaffirs than died in the Twin Towers and you will live to fight another day.’

‘That’s what he said? You’re sure?’ asked Shepherd. ‘He said explosives weren’t going to be used?’

Chaudhry nodded. ‘Word for word, pretty much.’

‘Guns,’ said Malik. ‘He said we’d be using guns.’

They were sitting in a coffee shop in Camden, close to the market. Chaudhry and Malik had spent twenty minutes walking among the market stalls before Shepherd had called Chaudhry and assured him that they weren’t being followed. They sat in a corner away from the windows.

‘No explosives but lots of casualties?’ said Shepherd.

‘More than died in Nine-Eleven,’ said Chaudhry. ‘That’s what he said.’

Shepherd raised his eyebrows. ‘With guns? Did he say what type?’

Malik shook his head. ‘He said there would be lots of casualties and that we would get away.’

Shepherd sipped his coffee. It was important intelligence that he’d have to pass to Button as soon as possible. There had been about a dozen men at St Pancras, but how could a dozen men kill three thousand civilians with guns?

‘How far do we take this, John?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We went to the station with backpacks. What if there had been bombs in those packs and they’d been detonated remotely?’

‘That was never going to happen, Raj. Like Khalid said, you’re too valuable to waste on a suicide attack.’

‘We don’t know that for sure,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Suppose they target the Prime Minister? Or the US President? You don’t think they’d worry about sacrificing me or Harvey if they had a target like that?’

‘They’ve never talked about using you for an assassination,’ said Shepherd. ‘And none of your training has been for that.’

‘We were taught sniping in Pakistan,’ said Malik.

‘You’re over-thinking it,’ said Shepherd. ‘Trust me, you’re worrying about nothing. Everything that happened at St Pancras points to a large-scale operation using a dozen or so men. And even a dozen men with suicide bombs wouldn’t kill more than a hundred or so people.’ He shrugged. ‘That sounds blase and I don’t mean it that way, but it’s a matter of effectiveness. The four bombers in London on 7th July 2005 killed fifty-two people and injured seven hundred, and while that’s horrific it’s still not the thousands that Khalid is talking about. Suicide bombs are terrible things but a bomb in a crowded station is effective only within twenty feet or so; there are simply too many bodies around absorbing the shrapnel. You get horrific injuries close to the source of the explosion but beyond fifty feet it’s survivable and at a hundred feet you’d be unlucky to get a scratch. What Khalid is talking about is something much, much bigger.’

‘So what’s the plan, John?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘What do we do?’

‘We wait and see what Khalid does next. I’ll talk to our technical people and we’ll see about increasing our electronic surveillance. Now we know he won’t let you take your phones with you we’ll have to come up with something else.’

‘Tracking devices in our shoes?’ said Malik. ‘Real secret-agent stuff?’

‘Something like that,’ said Shepherd. ‘The stuff they have these days is incredibly small. It’s not like it was in the old days when you used to have a metal box taped to your crotch and a microphone stuck to your chest.’

Malik looked at his watch. ‘Do you mind if I push off, John?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got a five-a-side match later.’

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘I think we’re done. Good job.’

Malik got up to leave. ‘I’ll stay and finish my coffee, brother,’ said Chaudhry. Malik nodded and left. Chaudhry stirred sugar into his coffee. ‘So how long have you been working with MI5?’

‘Fifteen years, give or take,’ lied Shepherd. He’d already agreed with Button not to reveal his police or SAS background to Chaudhry and Malik. She’d decided that they’d react best to him if they thought he was career MI5 and believed he was fairly senior in the organisation, rather than an SAS trooper turned undercover cop who had been with the Security Service for less than two years.

‘How did you deal with the stress? The constant lying?’

‘I compartmentalise the job,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can’t be on all day every day. So you make sure you have time on your own, or with your family, when you can be yourself.’

‘But I can’t do that, John, can I? I have to lie even when I’m with my parents. My dad, he’d probably be proud of me, but my mum would hit the roof. And even if they were cool with what I was doing I can’t tell them, can I? I can’t tell anyone that I helped kill The Sheik. Or that I’m working against terrorists who are planning to kill thousands of civilians. I have to lie to my family, to my friends, to my fellow students. There are only two people that I can be honest with: you and Harvey.’

‘I understand,’ said Shepherd.

‘Understanding is all well and good, but I need to know how to deal with it,’ said Chaudhry.

It was a good point, Shepherd knew, but he wasn’t sure how to respond to it. Chaudhry was right, undercover work was stressful. Most operatives couldn’t do it for more than a few years. Divorces, breakdowns and career burnouts were common, which is why his bosses at the Met, SOCA and MI5 insisted on six-monthly psychological evaluations for all its undercover people. But Chaudhry and Malik didn’t have the luxury of a psychologist; all they had was Shepherd, and all he could offer them was the benefit of his experience.

‘Do you feel guilty about lying, is that it?’ asked Shepherd.

‘With my family, of course. They ask me how my studies are going and I say great and they ask me what I do in my free time and then I’m a bit evasive, and I really had to lie about the whole Pakistan training-camp thing. But that’s not where the stress comes from. It’s when I’m talking to Khalid and the others that it gets to me. My heart starts beating like it’s going to burst and sometimes I can feel my legs trembling. My mouth goes dry, which means I sometimes stumble over my words. If they see that they’re going to know that something is wrong.’

Shepherd nodded sympathetically. ‘You have to try to believe in what you’re saying,’ he said. ‘You’re like an actor playing a part, and you have to convince yourself that you are what you’re pretending to be. That conviction will then flow out of you. But to be honest, Raj, you’re worrying too much. You’re not pretending to be someone else; you’re yourself. It’s only your beliefs that you’re misrepresenting. All you need to do is to convince Khalid and the rest that you’re an Islamic fundamentalist who has embraced jihad. All the hard work has been done. You went to Pakistan, you went right into the lion’s den, you went through with the rehearsal at St Pancras. You’ve already proved yourself.’

‘But sometimes Khalid looks at me like he doesn’t believe me.’

‘What do you mean, specifically?’

Chaudhry shrugged. ‘It’s difficult to explain. He stares at me, like he’s looking through me. He frowns sometimes, like he’s thinking that something’s not right. He does the same with Harvey.’

‘That’s your guilty conscience kicking in. You know you’re lying and you know that lying is wrong, and because you’re basically a moral person you expect to be punished for what you’re doing. I’m not saying you want to be caught out, but part of you expects it to happen. Only sociopaths can lie without any sort of guilt.’

Chaudhry grinned. ‘That’s what my dad always used to say when I was a kid. He didn’t care what I’d done, provided I told the truth.’

‘That’s what all parents tell their children,’ said Shepherd. ‘Not that they always mean it.’

‘My dad did,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Even if I did something stupid, provided I owned up to it and provided I said I was sorry and tried to make it right, he wouldn’t punish me. Mind you, Dad didn’t have to punish me, it was enough to know that I’d disappointed him.’

‘He sounds like a good guy.’

‘He is,’ said Chaudhry. ‘He’s never laid a finger on me, my whole life. A lot of Asian parents reckon that if you spare the rod you spoil the child, but my mum and dad have been great.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I wish I could tell him what I’m doing.’

‘You can’t,’ said Shepherd. ‘You know that, right?’

‘Oh, I had it drummed into me by Ms Button. But the fact that he doesn’t know means that I have to lie to him, and you don’t know how much I hate that.’

‘No, I understand. I have a son, and I hate having to lie to him. But when you work for MI5 it comes with the job.’

Chaudhry tilted his head on one side. ‘You said you weren’t married.’

Shepherd’s stomach lurched. He’d made the worst possible mistake that an undercover agent could make: he’d slipped out of character. He’d been so relaxed in Chaudhry’s company that he’d answered as Dan Shepherd and not as John Whitehill. He forced himself to appear relaxed, and smiled as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but he could feel his heart pounding. ‘She died, a few years ago,’ he said.

‘Sorry,’ said Chaudhry.

‘Yeah, my life’s a bit complicated to say the least,’ said Shepherd. ‘Thing is, it always sounds strange to say widower, but I guess that’s what I am. Easier to say I’m not married.’

‘And you’re a single parent?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘He’s at boarding school, so it works out well.’ He felt strange giving out personal information, which was something he almost never did when he was working. But having Chaudhry talk about telling the truth had struck a chord. Shepherd didn’t enjoy lying, even though over the years he had become an expert in the art of telling untruths.

‘I bet he misses you.’

‘I think he’s having too much fun at the moment,’ said Shepherd.

‘But he knows you work for MI5?’

‘To be honest, no.’

‘And you’re okay lying to him?’

‘It’s not like that,’ said Shepherd. ‘I very rarely look him in the eye and lie to him. On the very rare occasions I do then it’s because there’s a very good reason.’

‘And don’t you forget sometimes? Forget what you said before? That’s my nightmare, that I’ll give myself away by forgetting something.’

‘I’m lucky,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got a photographic memory. I pretty much remember everything I see and hear.’

‘Eidetic they call it, right?’ said Chaudhry. ‘Kid I went to school had it. But the funny thing was that he wasn’t that great at exams.’

‘Same with me,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just because you can remember stuff doesn’t mean you can write great essays. But it’s a big help when you’re undercover.’

‘I worry that I’m thinking too much before answering. Especially with Khalid. It’s as if I have to run everything through a filter, checking that I’m saying the right thing. It’s so bloody stressful.’

Shepherd empathised. It was exactly how he worked when he was undercover. It was vital that he never said anything that wasn’t known by his character, so everything that came out of his mouth had to be analysed and approved. Often he would go into an operation fully briefed on most of the people he would come across, but that didn’t mean his character had access to the same information. He had to be constantly aware of who he’d met and who he hadn’t, and what he had said to them. He understood exactly what Chaudhry meant about it being stressful, because he had to do all that without any sign of hesitation. Hesitation could easily be taken as evasiveness so it was important that conversations flowed. Humour was good, banter back and forth could slow down a conversation and give him time to think, but sometimes jokes weren’t appropriate. Props were good, especially drinks. If a question blindsided him a sip of his whisky would give him time to get his thoughts straight. And as much as he disliked smoking, a cigarette was a perfect way of getting a few seconds of thinking time.

‘The trick is to rehearse stories in your head,’ said Shepherd. ‘Get so familiar with them that you can tell them without thinking. That way if you’re in a situation that makes you uncomfortable you can relax and tell the story because in your mind you’ve told it a hundred times before. And it helps if it’s a funny story. If you get people laughing that takes their mind off you. Makes them less suspicious, anyway.’

‘Khalid doesn’t have much of a sense of humour,’ said Chaudhry. ‘And he’s not one for anecdotes.’

‘Then try asking him questions. Play stupid. Most people think they’re smarter than everyone else and you can play to that. You don’t need to act like a simpleton but asking for help and for information will make him feel superior. You have to be careful that you don’t come over as if you’re pumping him for information. Don’t ask for facts, or for hard information. Tell him you’re feeling anxious and ask him how he deals with that. Ask him how he stays so focused. Give him the opportunity to talk about himself; that’s what people love to do most.’

Chaudhry laughed. ‘You make it sound like seduction,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly how you go about winning over a woman, right? Make her laugh, ask her about herself.’

‘That’s not far off the mark,’ said Shepherd. ‘In a way it is all about seduction. You need them to like you and trust you, so you say and do whatever you have to, to achieve that.’

‘And then when they trust you, you fuck them. It’s exactly the same.’ Chaudhry nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I can do that.’

‘You’ve got to be careful, though,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’ve heard of Stockholm Syndrome? Where hostages start to build empathy with their captors?’

‘Sure.’

‘Well, it can happen when you’re undercover. You’re putting so much effort into getting them to trust you that there’s a danger of you starting to get drawn into the relationship.’

‘I doubt that’s going to happen with Khalid,’ said Chaudhry. ‘He’s a nasty piece of work. He really does hate us, you know.’

For a moment Shepherd wondered what Chaudhry meant by ‘us’ and then he realised that he was talking about the British.

‘What I can’t understand about people like him is that they’re happy enough to live here and take advantage of what this country has to offer, yet they put all this effort into trying to destroy it,’ said Chaudhry. ‘He gets full benefits, you know. He managed to persuade his GP to say that he’s got a bad back so he gets disability payments and everything.’

‘Is he really in pain?’

‘Is he hell,’ said Chaudhry. ‘But he faked it. They gave him a scan and sent him to a specialist who found nothing, but what can they do? If he says he has constant back pain they have to believe him, so now he gets a couple of hundred quid a week from the state. They pay his rent, he doesn’t pay council tax, and he was saying that he never pays his electricity or water bills because they can’t cut him off since he’s disabled. I tell you, John, this country is going to the dogs.’ He sipped his coffee and sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound off. It’s just that I hate what’s happening to England. And it’s people like Khalid that are trying to ruin it for everyone else. He wants sharia law here. He wants women to cover themselves. He wants us to become a Muslim country. I just don’t get it. If he’s that unhappy with things here why doesn’t he just go and live in Pakistan, or Saudi Arabia?’ He smiled at Shepherd. ‘Have you ever been to Pakistan?’

Shepherd shook his head.

‘It’s a cesspit, mainly,’ said Chaudhry. ‘Don’t get me wrong, the people are great and I’ve got family out there, but it’s corrupt, it’s dangerous, and the rich hold the power of life and death over the poor. If you’re rich or connected to the army you can get away with murder, literally. It’s a country where the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer. That’s why practically everyone in Pakistan wants to come and live in England. I don’t understand why anyone would prefer that way of life to the way we live here.’ He shrugged. ‘Rant over,’ he said.

‘Not a problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘Better you let off steam with me rather than let Khalid know how you feel.’ He looked at his watch.

‘Have you got to go?’ asked Chaudhry.

‘I’m fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can stay as long as you want. That’s what I’m here for, Raj. To help you in any way I can.’

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Sure.’

‘Is your name really John?’ asked Chaudhry, his voice a low whisper as if he was afraid to ask the question.

Shepherd smiled as he stared at Chaudhry, but his mind was racing. Protocol was to stick with his MI5 alias under any circumstances, and to never, ever, admit that he was anyone other than John Whitehill. But the fact that Chaudhry had asked the question meant that he already suspected that Whitehill was an alias, and if he believed that and Shepherd still lied then it would destroy any trust they had. ‘No,’ said Shepherd. ‘It isn’t.’

Chaudhry closed his eyes and sighed. ‘I knew it,’ he said. He opened his eyes again. ‘But I appreciate your honesty. You could have lied but you didn’t. I respect that.’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, Raj,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s the way that MI5 works. It has to be that way. If you don’t know my real name then you can’t let it slip out by mistake. Also, it protects me. The John Whitehill name is specific to this operation so if it gets used by anyone we know where they picked it up.’

Chaudhry frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Suppose we hear the name Whitehill mentioned on a phone tap out in Pakistan. That’s an immediate red flag for us and we’d know that we have a problem in London. But if my real name was being used it might have come up in a dozen operations, so we wouldn’t know where the problem was.’

‘I guess that makes sense.’

‘And suppose you knew my real name as well as my cover name, it would just add to the pressure you’re under. Yet another lie you have to tell.’ He leaned towards Chaudhry. ‘If you want I’ll tell you my real name,’ he said. ‘You’ve earned the right to know who I am. But it’s in your best interests not to know. And if you ever need to contact MI5, the John Whitehill name is the key to instant access to me or, if I’m not available, to another case officer who will be apprised of your situation immediately. If you were to call up and ask for me by my real name they’d deny all knowledge of me.’

‘So you’re under as much pressure as we are, aren’t you?’ said Chaudhry. ‘We have to lie to everyone around us and you have to pretend to be someone you’re not.’

‘It’s not the same thing, not really,’ said Shepherd. ‘Look, Raj, many’s the time I’ve sat opposite a handler just like you’re sitting opposite me.’

‘Is that what you are?’ asked Chaudhry. ‘My handler?’

‘That’s the jargon,’ said Shepherd.

‘It makes me sound like an animal.’

Shepherd smiled. ‘It’s not meant that way,’ he said. ‘It’s more a question of “handle with care”. But the point I’m making is that I’m usually the one being handled. And I know how difficult it is to be undercover. I know how lonely it can be. I know how you feel isolated and vulnerable. And I know that I’m your lifeline.’ Chaudhry lowered his eyes and stared at the table. ‘Raj, look at me,’ said Shepherd. Chaudhry did as he was told. ‘I understand exactly what you’re going through and I’ll do whatever I can to make it easier for you. I’ll be watching your back every step of the way. And I promise you that I won’t lie to you, okay?’

Chaudhry nodded slowly. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

Shepherd caught a black cab back to Hampstead. As he was letting himself into the flat one of the three mobiles he was carrying began to ring. He took it out. It was his Nokia, the Garry Edwards phone. The caller was withholding his number but he took the call anyway. There were only two people who had the number: Ray Fenby and Simon Kettering.

‘Garry, how the hell are you?’ It was Kettering.

‘All good,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s up?’

‘Got someone who’d like a chinwag with you, if you’re up for it,’ said Kettering. ‘Friend of mine from Germany is interested in the same sort of kit you’re getting for me.’

‘Sweet,’ said Shepherd.

‘Big numbers too. Figured you and he ought to get together.’

‘No problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘Where are you?’

‘Let’s do it down your way,’ said Kettering. ‘Just wanted to check that you were interested. I’ll fix up a time. Tomorrow good for you?’

‘Sunday? You not going to church?’

‘Ha bloody ha,’ said Kettering. ‘Are you around or not?’

‘I’ll clear my diary,’ said Shepherd.

He ended the call and sat down on the sofa, tapping the mobile against the side of his head, his forehead creased into a frown. A European connection was exactly what Button had been hoping for. The last thing that Shepherd had expected was to have it handed to him on a plate.

Kamran Khalid never felt at home in London, but he never felt as if he was out of place either. He wore a long grey shirt over light-green baggy pants and had a white skullcap on his head, and the man he was with wore similar clothing, but in the English capital in the third millennium there was nothing at all unusual about the way he was dressed. Nor was there anything unusual about his ethnicity — as they walked across the bridge from Stratford town centre the majority of people around him had Asian or Arabic heritage and in the space of five minutes he had heard half a dozen languages spoken, none of them English. London had become one of the most ethnically mixed cities on the planet, which is why it was the perfect place for a terrorist to hide. The police weren’t permitted to stop and question anybody solely on the basis of their appearance, not even to ask if the person had the necessary permission to be in the country. Khalid did have the correct paperwork. Better than that, he had a British passport. And the man who was with him, an Arab, had a Dubai passport and the correct visa to allow him entry into the United Kingdom. The passport was a fake, but it was a good one. The visa was real, though, obtained by the simple means of paying a thousand-dollar bribe to a corrupt HKBA official.

They were heading towards Westfield shopping mall in East London, close to the site of the 2012 Olympics. With three hundred shops, seventy restaurants and almost two million square feet of retail space, it was the largest urban shopping mall in Europe.

The two men spoke in Arabic, but they kept their voices low and whenever anyone of Arabic appearance was near they kept silent. Both men had spent three hours carrying out anti-surveillance procedures before meeting, including switching cabs and using the public transport system, and they were confident that they were not being followed.

‘It is busy, brother,’ said the Arab. His real name was Abu al Khayr, which means ‘one who does good’. From the standpoint of the men and women plotting terrorist atrocities in the West his name was appropriate because he was an al-Qaeda paymaster. He travelled the world and funnelled the organisation’s money to where it would do the most harm. He appeared on FBI, CIA and MI5 databases under several names but he had never been fingerprinted and none of the security services knew his true role within al-Qaeda.

‘It’s always busy,’ said Khalid. ‘Busiest at weekends but even on a quiet day there will be tens of thousands of people here.’ They took the escalators to the top floor and bought coffees at Pret A Manger, then sat at a table by the window so they could watch the crowds pass by.

‘So tell me about security,’ said Abu al Khayr.

Khalid chuckled softly. He nodded towards an obese woman with badly permed hair who was standing next to a gangly Asian by the escalators. Both wore black suits and had identification cards strapped to their forearms in clear plastic holders. They were deep in conversation. ‘That is your security,’ he said. ‘They are usually in pairs and are more involved with giving directions than they are with monitoring what is happening. There are other security guards wearing peaked hats but they are not armed and they do not appear to be well trained. They have radios but that is all.’

As they watched the pair, a woman in a full burka with two toddlers stopped to ask the Asian a question. The Asian pointed down towards Marks amp; Spencer.

‘There are a lot of sisters here,’ said Abu al Khayr.

‘This is London. There are sisters wherever you go,’ said Khalid. ‘It cannot be helped. One in five Londoners is now a Muslim. We can instruct our brothers to be careful but even so there are certain to be Muslim casualties.’

Abu al Khayr nodded. ‘Martyrs,’ he said. ‘There will be a place in Heaven for them.’ He looked up at a small black plastic dome in the ceiling, a few inches across. ‘There is CCTV everywhere,’ he said, a statement and not a question.

‘Every square foot is covered by CCTV cameras, every walkway, every shop, every restaurant, every entrance and exit. There is nowhere that is not covered. But that is their problem — there are too many to be monitored in real time. Once they are aware of an incident they can look at it, and they have all footage stored on hard drives, but in terms of monitoring real-time security they are virtually useless. By the time they realise what is going on, it will be too late. And at that point the more footage they get the better. Every time the world sees the video of the planes smashing into the World Trade Center it reminds them of our victory. So we want the world to see what happens here.’

They sat in silence as they drank their coffee, both deep in thought.

‘So tell me what you think we should do,’ said Abu al Khayr eventually.

Khalid finished his coffee. ‘Let me show you,’ he said.

The two men left Pret A Manger and went down one level. ‘This is the first floor,’ said Khalid. ‘On this level there are only two ways out, and one is through the Marks amp; Spencer store. From there they can get outside, so we will need a brother there to stop people leaving. But it is also our way out.’ He pointed down the mall towards the John Lewis store. ‘To the right of John Lewis there is a single door leading to car park A. That gives us direct access to the mall.’ He pointed up to the second floor. ‘There is no escape from upstairs. There are restaurants, the bowling alley and the cinema. But the top two floors are always less busy than the ground floor and the lower ground, so it is there we will strike first.’

They took the escalators down to the ground floor. Khalid took Abu al Khayr through the crowds to a set of glass doors that led to the bridge leading across the railway lines to Stratford Regional Station and the town centre. It was the way they had come into the mall. ‘This is the exit to the station,’ he said. ‘There are five doors, a single at each side and three double doors between them. Do you see the handles?’

Each door had a long vertical chrome pole as a handle. Abu al Khayr nodded.

‘All we need is a chain and a padlock,’ said Khalid. ‘It will take a matter of seconds and all of the doors will be locked shut. Once done no one can get out, and no one can get in.’

‘The glass is reinforced?’

‘It is. It will resist a sledgehammer.’

‘And how many exits are there in total?’

‘On the ground floor there are six. All have the same type of doors and all can be chained shut within seconds.’

There was a constant stream of shoppers entering and leaving the mall. ‘Won’t people try to stop them locking the doors?’ asked Abu al Khayr.

‘This entrance is the busiest,’ said Khalid. ‘We will have a brother wearing a security uniform.’ He grinned. ‘We already have two brothers on the security staff and hope to have more within the next few days. The owners are very keen to demonstrate their commitment to diversity.’

‘They make it so easy,’ said Abu al Khayr.

‘Always,’ said Khalid. ‘They see it as a strength but it is their biggest weakness. And one that we shall take full advantage of.’

They began walking through the mall. It was packed with shoppers and they were constantly being bumped into or having to step aside to avoid strollers and wheelchairs.

‘How many people are here?’ asked Abu al Khayr.

‘On a busy day, more than forty thousand. On a quiet day, maybe half that.’

‘That’s a lot of people,’ said Abu al Khayr. ‘As big as a football stadium.’

‘Exactly,’ said Khalid. ‘And think how many passengers there are on a plane. A few hundred. Here we have tens of thousands of people and not a single check on who comes and goes.’ Three Asian youths in baggy jeans and baseball caps pushed by them, swearing and laughing. ‘Do you think anyone has searched them for a knife?’ asked Khalid. ‘Or a gun?’ He shook his head. ‘There are no checks at all. Not one.’

They reached the halfway point of the mall. Shops branched off to the left and at the end were four double doors that led to more shops outside the main mall. Khalid put his mouth close to Abu al Khayr’s ear. ‘One man could lock the doors and start shooting. In the panic they would have only one way to run.’ He looked up and gestured at the levels above them. From where they were standing they could see shoppers on the first and second floors and beyond them the glass ceiling and the clouds high in the sky. ‘Just look around you. Look at the crowds. Think of them panicking and falling over each other, like stampeding cattle. And from above come the bullets of our brothers.’

Abu al Khayr nodded enthusiastically. Khalid started walking again and Abu al Khayr hurried after him. They walked towards the John Lewis store.

‘This is the most complicated area,’ said Khalid. ‘Ahead there are two double doors that lead to John Lewis. To the left are six doors leading to the outdoor shops, and to the right are six doors leading to Stratford International Station.’ Abu al Khayr looked around. There were shoppers walking in all directions and it was as crowded as a Moroccan souk. ‘You notice how the ground floor of John Lewis is on the other side of the doors?’ said Khalid. ‘Once the mall doors are locked our brothers will be able to exit through the store. They can enter on the first floor, use the internal stairs and leave at ground-floor level. They can do the same at Marks amp; Spencer at the other end.’

‘I understand,’ said Abu al Khayr. ‘They can mingle with the shoppers and escape.’

Khalid heard Arabic voices behind him and he looked over his shoulder. An old man with a long straggly grey beard was admonishing two young boys who could have been his great-grandchildren. Next to him was a woman in a full burka sitting in a wheelchair. All that could be seen were her eyes but from them alone it was clear she was as old as the man. An Arab man in a baggy grey suit was pushing the wheelchair, probably the woman’s son. The man caught Khalid’s glance and he smiled and nodded. Khalid smiled back. He and Abu al Khayr walked away from the Arab family and headed down an escalator to the lower ground level.

There was another exit midway down the mall, at the end of a line of shops leading off a bustling food court. There were three double doors which could be locked with a single padlocked chain.

The final two exits were at the far end of the mall — two double doors leading to the car park and five leading outside to the tube station.

The two men walked outside and sat down on a bench from where they could watch the shoppers pouring into the mall.

‘We will need a minimum of fourteen brothers,’ said Khalid. ‘That will give us one at each entrance. If they simultaneously lock all the doors then no one can get in, or out. But the more brothers we can get the better. I would prefer twenty.’

‘Do we have that many?’

Khalid nodded. ‘We can bring brothers in from Europe. I have spoken to mosques in France and Germany and they have brothers ready and willing to help.’

Abu al Khayr grinned. ‘So we can do it?’

‘We can and we will,’ said Khalid. He took a printed guide to the mall from his shirt pocket and unfolded it. On one side was a floor plan showing the four levels. ‘Getting access could not be easier,’ he said. ‘The brothers can arrive by tube, by train and by car. I suggest all the weapons are brought in by car. There are two car parks, A and B.’ He tapped them on the map. ‘Access to car park B, the bigger of the two, is from the lower ground floor only, here and here. Car park A connects to the mall on the lower ground floor, the ground and the first floor. Brothers arriving from the train and tube can collect their weapons and equipment from the car parks on the lower ground floor, then take up their positions. I think two vehicles, parked close to the entrances to the malls. Then we should have a vehicle in each of the three lower levels of car park A, again as close to the mall entrances as possible. That’s five vehicles and we need two brothers in each, a driver and an organiser. The brothers with the guns must stay hidden in the back. If we can use sisters in the front, that would be better. Just a husband and wife doing their shopping together.’

‘There are sisters we can use, but not many are trained in the use of weapons,’ said Abu al Khayr.

‘No need,’ said Khalid. ‘They only have to be in the vans. In fact they can drive away before the shooting starts.’

‘And the police? What happens when the police arrive?’

Khalid grinned. ‘We will launch the attack at six o’clock,’ he said. ‘Most of the police work during the day. It will take them time to call in reinforcements. The first armed response unit will take at least ten minutes and what can one car do? They will see that the doors are locked and they will have to wait for superior officers to arrive. And in the evening that will take time.’

‘They won’t enter the mall?’

‘Not with the doors locked, and not when they realise there are armed men inside. They are constrained by health and safety rules. All they will do is keep the area clear until they are able to assess the situation. By the time they’ve done that it will all be over.’

‘What about the SAS?’

Khalid shrugged. ‘They are based in Hereford and even if they leave immediately and fly to London in helicopters they will be too late. This won’t be like Mumbai, where the brothers had to move from room to room looking for targets. We will have all the targets here that we need. The only limiting factor will be the amount of ammunition that our brothers can carry.’

‘And how many casualties do you anticipate?’ asked Abu al Khayr.

‘In the first ten minutes I would expect there to be at least a thousand dead and many more injured. If we can continue for half an hour, the total could reach four thousand.’

‘It defies belief,’ said Abu al Khayr.

Khalid chuckled softly. ‘You can believe it, brother,’ he said. ‘Hundreds will die in the first few seconds because no one will have time to react. Then there will be panic but there will be no way out. Most will hide in shops but they will be trapped there. The mall is so crowded that every bullet will find a target. Our brothers can continue to shoot until their ammunition is expended.’

‘And then? What happens then?’

‘Then they leave. This will not be a suicide mission, brother. If carried out properly we will kill thousands and our brothers will escape to kill again.’

Abu al Khayr nodded as he studied the map. ‘Yes,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I can see how it will work.’

‘Inshallah,’ said Khalid. God willing.

Shepherd headed down the road to Hampstead tube station. A vendor was giving away copies of a glossy magazine at the entrance to the station and Shepherd took the opportunity to stop and have a quick look around. He waited on the northbound platform until two trains had gone through, then he walked across to the southbound platform and caught a train to Charing Cross. To the casual observer he was simply sitting and reading his magazine on the train, but in fact he was taking careful note of everyone who got on or off.

When he did get off the train he walked slowly down the platform and was one of the last passengers to step on to the escalator. He walked through the station as if he was going to buy a ticket but then changed direction abruptly and headed instead for the taxi rank. He took a black cab to Thames House, confident that no one had followed him.

Charlotte Button was waiting for him in a meeting room on the third floor. Several dozen photographs taken from CCTV footage at St Pancras station were pinned to a board that took up most of one of the walls. ‘How did it go?’ she asked him as he sat down at the long highly polished table in the centre of the room.

‘He’s a bit squirrelly, but that’s to be expected,’ said Shepherd.

‘Not too squirrelly, I hope.’

‘He’ll be fine. But I was wondering if it would help for the two of them to have a chat with Caroline Stockmann.’ Stockmann was an MI5 psychologist who was responsible for Shepherd’s six-monthly psychological evaluations.

Button turned her back on the photographs and folded her arms. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘It’s no biggie, it’s just that the pressure is mounting and Caroline is always good at getting to the heart of any problems I might have.’

‘Caroline evaluates you twice a year to check that you’re up to undercover work,’ said Button. ‘If it ever gets to the point that you’re showing signs of being overstressed then we can move you into another area of work. That’s not an option for Chaudhry and Malik. This isn’t their job; it’s their lives. Even if they are under pressure there’s not much we can do other than offer as much support as we can. It’s not as if we can pull them out and put in someone else, is it? We’ve got to work with what we’ve got.’

‘I agree. I just thought it might help them, that’s all.’

‘Do you think I should talk to them?’

‘I’m not sure that’ll help,’ said Shepherd. ‘To be honest, relaxation techniques are what they need. Yoga or meditation. They’re fairly tightly wound at the moment.’

‘Which is good,’ said Button. ‘Considering what they’ve been through and what they’re now involved in, they should be stressed. If they suddenly start looking as if they haven’t got a care in the world then their al-Qaeda handlers are going to think that something’s wrong.’ She sat down opposite him and linked her fingers. ‘We’re on the home stretch, Spider. St Pancras was a dry run and the real thing is likely to be in days rather than weeks.’

Shepherd nodded. She was right. There would be no point in doing a full rehearsal and then putting everything on the back burner.

Button pointed at the photographs. ‘From our point of view the St Pancras rehearsal was a gift from above, it really was. We’ve identified eighty-seven possibles from the CCTV footage, based on ethnic status, age and possession of a backpack.’

‘Ethnic profiling?’ said Shepherd.

‘We’ve no choice,’ said Button. ‘There were thousands of people at the station and most of them had luggage of one form or another. Now we know that Chaudhry and Malik were given backpacks by Khalid it’s a fair enough assumption that anyone else involved also had a backpack. What we’ve done is trawl through the CCTV footage looking for Asians with backpacks. We’ve done male and female even though previous attacks in the UK have always involved men. If we’d widened it to include all ethnic groups there would have been thousands and we don’t have time for that.’

‘And you think they had eighty-odd people there?’

‘Of course not. What we’ve got to do now is compare them with our watch list and disregard those who are just innocent travellers.’

‘What about the passengers who arrived from France? Can’t you check with the Border Agency?’

‘Unfortunately it’s not as simple as that. Passports are checked in France before passengers board but they’re not checked at this end. And they’re not photographed. But we have CCTV footage of passengers disembarking at St Pancras so we can check that footage against the footage inside the station. We’re using a facial recognition system at the moment but it’s not great so we might end up doing it manually.’

She stood up and walked back to the photograph display. Seven photographs had been put to the right-hand side, separate from the rest. The top two were of Chaudhry and Malik.

‘We’ve already identified four from our watch list,’ said Button. ‘They all came up from the tube station at different times and from different trains.’ She tapped a photograph directly below Malik’s. ‘This one was one of the leaders of Muslims Against Crusades and we have some very nice footage of him burning poppies on Remembrance Day in 2009.’ She tapped a second photograph, and a third. ‘These two are from Leeds. Bangladeshi origin but born in the UK. They were both students there up until three years ago. For a while they were full-blown fundamentalists wearing skullcaps and dishdashas to lectures and growing their beards long, then they went off the radar. We know they visited Pakistan last year for six months, and as you can see from the CCTV photographs they are now clean-shaven and wearing western clothing, which is as big a red flag as you’ll ever get. They’ve obviously been told to alter their appearance to blend in.’

She pointed at one of the two remaining photographs. ‘This one wasn’t on our watch list but we got a match from the Police National Computer. His father and elder brother set fire to his younger sister five years ago. Third-degree burns over most of her body and she’ll never walk again. The father and brother were sent down for ten years. He was also charged but the CPS didn’t think there was a good enough case to make against him.’

‘Honour killing?’

‘Not much honour in it, but yes, they wanted her dead because she was going out with a Sikh boy. She was seventeen. She survived only because a neighbour saw what was going on and dialled 999. Although when the ambulance arrived the entire family turned on the paramedics and said that it was Allah’s will that she died. Anyway, this guy is from Bradford and had no legitimate reason to be at St Pancras that we know of; plus, he was in Pakistan last year, supposedly to attend a wedding but we’ve checked flight manifests and he was out of the country for three months.’

‘Must have been one hell of a wedding.’

Button ran a finger along the last photograph. ‘This one’s a little unusual in that he’s Egyptian and not Pakistani. Riffat Pasha. At least that was the name he used when he claimed political asylum a few years back. He popped back up on the radar when he started posting on a Fundamentalist website, one of those “kill all infidels and we’ll go to Heaven” rant sites. He’s working in a hotel in Mayfair as a kitchen porter.’

‘Why hasn’t he been deported?’

‘Because there’s a whole industry geared up to keeping him here. He’s had a child with a Portuguese woman so if we did try to throw him out of the country his human rights would kick in. Besides, he hasn’t actually done anything yet, other than post inflammatory statements.’

‘Are you thinking his hotel could be the target?’

‘It would make sense. We’re getting someone to take a look at their staff list to see if anyone else there is on our watch list.’ She sat down again. ‘Once we’ve identified all the members of the cell we can put them under surveillance.’

‘What about nipping it in the bud and pulling them in now? The rehearsal has to be evidence of conspiracy, hasn’t it?’

‘We’ve gone in too soon before and it always ends in tears,’ said Button. ‘The cases collapse and the suspects get public sympathy and compensation. We need to catch them in the act, or at least with weapons or explosives.’

‘I wish I had your confidence,’ said Shepherd.

‘Spider, we’ll have them under constant surveillance and as soon as it looks like they’re ready to go we’ll move in. We’ll have all the phone taps we need and we’ll be monitoring emails; we’re also looking to get trackers fixed to the vehicles. We’ve identified four vans dropping off Asians with backpacks, the one Chaudhry and Malik were in and three others. We’re running checks on the vans now, but they were all sold within the last two weeks so we’re not holding out much hope that we’ll be able to trace the new owners. However, we’ll put an all-points alert out on them so fingers crossed we’ll spot the vans somewhere.’

‘Unless they trash the vans and get new ones for the operation.’

‘There’s no need for them to do that,’ said Button. ‘So far as they’re concerned the rehearsal went perfectly. I understand your concerns, but we need to let this run a while longer.’

‘You’re the boss, Charlie,’ said Shepherd.

‘Don’t worry, I know where the buck stops,’ she said.

‘There’s something else I need to talk to you about.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘Kettering just phoned to say that he wants to hook me up with a German guy.’

Button’s eyes widened. ‘That’s brilliant, Spider.’

‘Is it, though? He says he wants to link me up with him in London tomorrow and that we could be talking about a big arms sale. But my Spidey sense is tingling.’

‘What’s the problem?’

Shepherd grimaced. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t feel right. It came out of the blue and now it’s rush, rush, rush. And the timing is off. It would make more sense for them to wait until we’ve delivered the first order.’

‘What does Fenby say?’

‘His phone’s off,’ said Shepherd. ‘Went straight through to voicemail. I left a message for him to call me.’

Button toyed with a small gold stud earring as she looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You realise it would move the investigation up a notch,’ she said. ‘If we could link Kettering and Thompson to terrorist groups in Europe.’

‘I know, I know. I wish I could be more enthusiastic. But. .’ He raised his hands and then let them fall back on to the table. ‘It just doesn’t feel right.’

Button stopped playing with her earring and nodded slowly. ‘Then we go with your instincts,’ she said.

‘I just don’t want to screw it up because of a hunch.’

‘What about Sam? Have you spoken to him?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘He’s not going to be able to advise me, and if I do go sticking my head into the lion’s den I don’t want the Brummie cops watching my back.’

‘So you’re thinking of meeting them? Even though you have doubts?’

Shepherd rubbed his chin. ‘If I don’t Kettering’s going to know there’s something wrong, isn’t he? I might be able to play for time, but if I refuse to meet the German then there’s every chance he’ll pull out of our deal, which means everything goes tits up.’ He sat back and sighed. ‘I don’t have a choice, do I? It’s a rock and a hard place.’

‘We can minimise the risks,’ said Button.

‘I’ll have to talk to Razor. Kettering wants him there too.’

‘But he can’t tell Sam. You realise that, don’t you?’

Shepherd smiled ruefully. ‘I hope you can see the irony of that,’ he said. ‘You tell Sam Hargrove to keep Razor in the dark, and now you want Razor to lie to Sam.’

‘Point taken,’ said Button. ‘What would you rather do? Is it better to tell Sam and have him lie to the Birmingham cops, or keep him in the dark?’

‘If it all goes wrong he’s going to find out anyway.’

‘So you want me to fill him in? I’m happy enough to do that. Though it might well mean that MI5 takes over the entire operation.’

‘To be honest, it looks like we’re heading that way whatever happens,’ said Shepherd. He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Okay, Razor and I go to the meeting. Five provides the back-up. You fill Sam in.’

‘Where and when are you going to see them?’

Shepherd shrugged ‘He’s going to let me know first thing tomorrow.’

‘And what do you want in the way of support?’ asked Button.

‘Armed back-up, close but not obtrusive. And I’ll go to see Amar and fix myself up with a GPS tracker and audio.’

‘Whatever you need,’ said Button.

‘Guns is what we’ll need, Charlie.’

‘You want to be armed?’

‘It’ll fit in with our legends. We’re underground arms dealers. No reason we couldn’t be carrying.’

Button grimaced. ‘I don’t see that we can authorise Razor to carry a weapon.’

‘But it’s not a problem for me, right?’

‘It’s a lot of paperwork, but I’ll make it happen,’ said Button. ‘But, please, try not to shoot anyone.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ said Shepherd.

Abu al Khayr tapped on the steering wheel as he looked up and down the street. It was early evening, the pavements were crowded and there was a steady stream of people pouring out of the tube station. ‘What if he doesn’t come?’ he asked.

Khalid was sitting in the passenger seat, toying with a subha, a string of Muslim prayer beads. There were one hundred wooden beads on the string, one as big as a pea and the rest about a third of the size. Some of the beads were made of a wood that was as black as polished coal, and others were a dark brown, close to the colour of Khalid’s own skin. The small beads were there so that he could keep track of the ninety-nine times that he repeated the name of Allah whenever he prayed. He wasn’t praying as he sat in the van; he fingered the beads merely from habit. The beads had been a gift from his father on the day that he had turned eighteen, and he had carried them every day since. ‘He’ll come,’ said Khalid. ‘He thinks we’re going to eat. He never turns down free food.’

‘And you think he’s a traitor?’

Khalid continued to let the beads slip through his fingers one at a time. ‘I’m not sure. But traitor or not, we have to do what we have to do.’

Abu al Khayr nodded. ‘You are right, brother. We can’t afford any weak links, not at this stage.’

Khalid looked at the digital clock in the dashboard. It was seven o’clock.

‘There he is,’ said Abu al Khayr. He nodded at the entrance to the tube.

Khalid smiled when he saw the three men crossing the road towards the van. The man in the middle was Tariq Jamot, a regular at the Dynevor Road mosque. He worked for a tyre and exhaust centre and his fondness for fast food meant that he was a good fifty pounds overweight and had earned the nickname Fat Boy. The men either side of him were taller and leaner. All were second-generation Pakistanis, though only Jamot was London-born; his companions had grown up in Leeds. Fat Boy trusted the men he was with; there was no question of that. They often prayed together and they had attended the extra lessons that the mullah held in the mosque late into the night after last prayers. That was where they had been selected for further training and offered the chance to go to Pakistan. All had accepted the offer and all had returned committed to jihad and prepared to give their lives for the faith. Except that when the call had come, Fat Boy had been found wanting. The two men with Fat Boy had both arrived at St Pancras, ready and willing to do whatever had been asked of them. Fat Boy had received the call but had stayed at home, claiming that he was unwell.

Khalid waved through the open window and the three men waved back.

‘Lamb to the slaughter,’ murmured Abu al Khayr.

‘Hush, brother,’ said Khalid, still fingering the beads. ‘And smile.’

Abu al Khayr smiled and revved the engine as the three men got into the van through the side door and took their seats, Fat Boy still in the middle.

‘I have booked a table at a restaurant owned by a friend of mine,’ said Khalid, twisting round in his seat. ‘He makes the best chapli kebabs in London.’

‘My favourite,’ said Fat Boy, rubbing his hands together.

Khalid smiled. He knew that.

The five men chatted and joked as Abu al Khayr drove to the restaurant in Seven Sisters, a couple of miles north of Stoke Newington. The traffic was heavy but even so they pulled up in an alley at the rear of the restaurant after just fifteen minutes.

The three men in the back climbed out and Khalid joined them. ‘I’ll find somewhere to park,’ said Abu al Khayr, and he drove off.

‘Right, brothers, in we go,’ said Khalid.

He pushed open a wooden door that led into a small yard where there were a couple of mopeds with boxes on the back labelled with the restaurant’s name and phone number. There was a wooden shed to the right, packed with cases of canned food and cleaning equipment. Khalid walked to the back of the building and knocked on the door there. A lock clicked and the door was opened by a cook in a stained white apron. He nodded at Khalid and the four men trooped inside. They were in a kitchen lined with stainless-steel work surfaces, two grease-covered ranges covered by dirty extractor hoods and three old refrigerators. One of the fridges shuddered as its compressor went off. Hanging from hooks were metal spatulas, spoons and knives.

‘Are they shut?’ asked Fat Boy. ‘Why’s no one cooking?’

‘They opened specially for us,’ said Khalid. He gestured with his chin and the cook locked the back door.

A pair of double doors swung open and two men appeared, dark-skinned and with matching heavy moustaches. One of them was carrying a wooden chair and the other was holding a carrier bag. The one with the chair set it down, then he hugged Khalid and kissed him on both cheeks. The second man followed suit.

‘Which one is it?’ asked the man who had brought in the chair.

Khalid turned and pointed at Fat Boy. ‘Him.’

Fat Boy stiffened, but before he could move his two companions each grabbed an arm. He struggled so they held him tightly. ‘What?’ said Fat Boy. ‘What do you want? What’s happening?’

Khalid looked at him coldly. ‘It’s time to pay the price for your cowardice,’ he said.

Fat Boy opened his mouth to scream but the cook stepped forward and shoved a cloth into his mouth, then tied it roughly at the back of his neck. Fat Boy tried to push himself backwards but his shoes couldn’t get any traction on the tiled floor.

Khalid set the chair down in the middle of the kitchen and motioned for the two men to get Fat Boy to sit. Fat Boy struggled but he was out of condition and the men holding him were fitter and stronger. His instructors in Pakistan had told him that he needed to lose weight and exercise more and for a few weeks he’d followed their advice but as soon as he’d returned to London he’d fallen back into his bad habits. It was a question of discipline, Khalid knew. To carry out jihad one had to be focused, committed and driven. A jihad fighter needed to be physically and mentally fit, and Fat Boy was neither. With hindsight it had been a mistake to send him to Pakistan, but it was felt that his technical expertise would be useful. And that much was true. He had taken naturally to bomb-making and at one point his instructors had considered sending him to Iraq to help with the struggle against the occupying powers.

The man with the carrier bag knelt down by Fat Boy’s side. He took out a roll of duct tape and used it to bind Fat Boy’s ankles to the legs of the chair. Once the legs were securely bound he used the tape to fasten Fat Boy’s wrists together.

Fat Boy’s eyes were wide with fear and his nostrils flared with each panicked breath that he took.

The man finished tying him securely to the chair and stood up. He reached into his carrier bag and took out two black-and-white-checked keffiyeh scarves. He handed one each to Fat Boy’s companions and they wound them round their heads so that other than their eyes their faces were completely covered.

Fat Boy had stopped struggling but he was making a soft moaning noise behind the gag.

Khalid took out his mobile phone. It was important to record what was about to happen, as a warning to others.

‘You know why this is happening, and it is your own fault,’ said Khalid.

Tears were streaming down Fat Boy’s face.

‘This is your own doing and no one else’s,’ continued Khalid. ‘We trusted you. We trained you. We helped you to meet your full potential, to become a soldier of jihad, to fight for your people and for Allah. We asked only one thing of you, that you follow our instructions. But when the call came, what did you do? You let us down. You were found wanting. We gave you simple instructions and you failed to follow them and that means that we can never trust you again.’

Fat Boy shook his head and tried to speak but the gag reduced the sound to a garbled moan.

‘There is nothing you can say to us,’ said Khalid. ‘You said you were sick but you still went to work on the day after we needed you. And sickness is no excuse. We need total loyalty. And we demand it. And when we do not get it, we react accordingly.’

The man with the carrier bag took out a clear polythene bag and handed it to one of Fat Boy’s companions. To the other he gave the roll of duct tape.

Khalid switched on the phone’s video camera and began to film. Fat Boy moved his head from side to side but there was no way he could stop the polythene bag being pulled down over his head.

The cook leaned against one of the work surfaces and folded his arms. He grinned as he watched Fat Boy struggle. ‘Allahu Akbar,’ he whispered. God is great. ‘Allahu Akbar.’

‘Allahu Akbar,’ repeated Khalid as he took a step forward, holding the phone in front of him. ‘Allahu Akbar.’

The rest of the men in the kitchen began to take up the chant as the man with duct tape slowly wound it round Fat Boy’s neck, sealing the bag. The inside of the polythene bag began to cloud over but they could all see the look of panic in his eyes.

The duct tape wound tighter and tighter and the bag began to pulse in and out in time with Fat Boy’s ragged breathing.

The chant grew louder and louder, echoing off the kitchen walls. ‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’

Khalid took another step forward so that Fat Boy’s terrified face filled the screen. Condensation was forming on the inside of the polythene bag and his chest was heaving.

‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’

A damp patch spread around Fat Boy’s groin as his bladder emptied. His whole body began to tremble, as if he was being electrocuted.

‘Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!’

The chef was screaming the words at Fat Boy, his hands clenched into fists, his eyes burning with hatred.

Fat Boy shuddered, and then went still. He wasn’t dead yet, Khalid knew. It was too soon for that. But he was now unconscious and death would follow within minutes.

The men stopped chanting and Khalid stopped recording. He gestured at Fat Boy. ‘And that, brothers, is what happens to anyone who betrays us,’ he said. ‘Let it be known that once you commit yourselves to jihad, there is no going back. One way or another you go to meet your maker. You can go as a martyr and receive your reward in Paradise; or you can go like this piece of cowardly shit, terrified and pissing in your pants.’ He slipped his phone back into his pocket. ‘As soon as he is dead we can dump his body, then we can go and eat.’

Shepherd looked across at Sharpe. ‘You ready?’ he asked.

They were sitting in a Range Rover in the car park of the Seattle Hotel, close to Brighton Marina. Kettering and Thompson had arranged to meet them in the hotel bar. Shepherd had told Kettering that he would have preferred the meeting to have been in London but Kettering had said that the German was insisting on Brighton.

Sharpe grinned. ‘I was born ready,’ he said.

‘I’m serious, Razor,’ said Shepherd. ‘This could very easily turn to shit.’

‘It won’t be the first time,’ said Sharpe. He gestured at Shepherd’s leather jacket, which concealed a Glock in a nylon shoulder holster. ‘Don’t see why I can’t have a gun.’

‘Because you’re a cop, and this isn’t a police operation.’

‘Well, it is, sort of,’ said Sharpe.

‘Yeah, well, even if it was they wouldn’t give you a gun, would they?’ said Shepherd. ‘Those days are long gone. Now you’d have to be in one of the specialist units and you’d have to have your paperwork current, and even then they wouldn’t let you carry in plain clothes.’

‘But you can just get a gun and shove it under your jacket?’

‘That’s the power of Five,’ said Shepherd.

‘Let’s just hope a cop doesn’t spot it,’ said Sharpe. ‘They shoot unarmed Brazilian electricians so they’d have a field day with you.’

‘No one’s going to spot it,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s my fall-back position, that’s all. The meet’s in a hotel bar and I doubt that anyone’s going to be pulling out a gun. Besides, you’ve got a vest so what are you complaining about?’

‘And what if they shoot me in the head?’

‘No one’s going to shoot anyone,’ said Shepherd. He looked at his watch. ‘Okay, let’s go.’

He climbed out of the Range Rover and zipped up his jacket. It would make it harder to pull out the gun but it meant that it would stay well hidden. He took his mobile phone from his pocket and checked that it was on and working. It was a Nokia, and while it was a functioning phone it was also a tracking device and a permanent transmitter. Amar Singh was one of MI5’s best technicians and the phone was his own personal design. Everything that was said within a ten-foot range of the phone would be transmitted to Singh and Button in Thames House. There were two armed MI5 officers in the hotel and two more in a coffee shop close to the marina. They were also listening to the output from the phone that Shepherd was carrying. They had already agreed a warning phrase. If Shepherd were to say the words ‘I can’t stay too long’ then that meant they were to move in with weapons drawn.

Shepherd locked the car and he and Sharpe headed towards the front of the hotel.

‘That’s them, outside,’ said Sharpe.

Shepherd realised that he was right. Kettering and Thompson were standing to the right of the hotel entrance, smoking cigars. Kettering was talking earnestly and Thompson was nodding. Both men were wearing long overcoats and Kettering had a bright-red scarf round his neck.

Thompson spotted them first and he said something to Kettering. Kettering turned and waved.

‘Garry, James, great to see you,’ he said.

‘No problem,’ said Shepherd, shaking hands with them both.

The two men shook hands with Sharpe. ‘Are we going inside?’ he asked.

Kettering held up what was left of his cigar. ‘Can’t smoke in there,’ he said. ‘And it’s busy. Walls have ears and all that. We’ve got somewhere more private fixed up.’ He slapped Sharpe on the back. ‘Hope you’ve got your sea legs.’

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Shepherd. ‘You said the bar.’

‘Like I said, the bar’s busy,’ said Kettering. He started walking towards the marina. Sharpe followed him down the path but Shepherd stood where he was.

‘Where are you going?’ he called, more for the benefit of the MI5 team than for his own information. Kettering was clearly heading to the boats.

Kettering turned round, took a long pull on his cigar and blew a cloud of bluish smoke before answering. ‘The German who wants to meet you has a boat moored here. That’s not a problem, is it?’

Shepherd grinned. ‘It’s fine by me,’ he said.

‘Good man,’ said Thompson, putting his arm round Shepherd and guiding him towards the marina. ‘We’ve got some bubbly and smoked salmon on board.’

‘Who else is on the boat?’ asked Shepherd, again for the benefit of those listening.

‘Just Klaus,’ said Thompson.

Ahead of them were several dozen large yachts and motor cruisers. ‘Which one?’ said Shepherd.

‘The cruiser, the one with the blue stripe,’ said Thompson. ‘The Laura Lee.’

‘Doesn’t sound very German,’ said Shepherd.

‘He’s chartered it,’ said Thompson. He flicked the butt of his cigar into the water.

Shepherd looked at the boat. It was big, close to a hundred feet long, with a large seating area at the stern and a glass-sided bridge that sloped back sharply. There was a man standing in the bridge looking at them. Short, stocky and wearing a captain’s hat. ‘Is that him?’

‘That’s the captain,’ said Thompson.

‘Who else is on board?’

‘Why?’ asked Thompson. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong. I just like to know who I’m dealing with and you seem to be making it up as we go along. First you say you want to meet in the hotel bar, now we’re on a boat and it’s not just your German buddy. For all I know you’ve got Captain Bligh and the Pirates of the fucking Caribbean on board.’

‘There’s the captain and that’s it,’ said Thompson. ‘And I don’t know what you’re so worried about. What is it? You think we’re going to mug you?’

Kettering and Sharpe had reached the boat and they turned and waited for the other two to join them. There was a short gangplank leading from the jetty to the stern and Sharpe walked over it unsteadily, followed by Kettering.

As Shepherd got closer he looked up at the bridge. The captain flashed him a salute. Shepherd stopped and looked at Thompson. ‘Who’s the captain?’

‘The guy that drives the boat. It’s worth a million bucks. He comes with the charter. The owner doesn’t want amateurs crashing his pride and joy, now does he?’

‘His name,’ said Shepherd. ‘I meant who is he? Do you know him?’

Thompson shrugged. ‘Greig something or other. He works for the German.’ He patted Shepherd on the back. ‘Come on, Garry, chill. Think of how much money you’re going to make out of this.’ Shepherd walked over the gangplank and joined the others.

There was a large sitting area with cream leather seats running round the edge. Sliding doors led through to the main cabin, which was larger than the flat Shepherd was using in Hampstead. The floor was gleaming teak, there was a large LCD screen on one wall and in one corner there was a well-stocked bar. Marble and chrome stairs led up to the bridge and beyond the stairs was a stainless-steel galley.

‘It’s one hell of a boat,’ said Sharpe, stepping into the cabin and looking around.

Kettering took off his overcoat and tossed it on to a leather armchair. ‘Make yourselves at home, guys,’ he said.

Thompson slipped off his coat and dropped it on top of Kettering’s. He sat down on a leather sofa and adjusted the creases of his trousers. ‘Take a pew, James,’ he said.

A long glass table on two carved marble bases was surrounded by eight high-backed black leather chairs. Sharpe pulled one out and turned it to face Thompson before sitting down.

‘Where’s this German, then?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Klaus!’ shouted Kettering. ‘Where the hell are you?’

A wooden door slid open and a barrel-chested man appeared. He was wearing a brown leather jacket over a tight-fitting pale-blue V-neck and white jeans. He had a thick gold identity bracelet on his right wrist and a wristwatch with a dial so large that Shepherd could see the numbers on it from across the cabin. His hair was close-cropped, giving him the look of an American marine, and he smiled showing slab-like teeth.

‘This is Klaus,’ said Kettering.

Klaus held out his hand and shook with Shepherd. He had a strong grip but Shepherd’s was just as firm. ‘Good to meet you,’ said Klaus.

‘You don’t sound very German,’ said Shepherd.

‘I went to school in England,’ said Klaus. ‘And my mother is English.’ He shook hands with Sharpe, then headed for the stairs. ‘I’ll tell the captain to get going,’ he said.

Shepherd realised that the engines were running. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked Kettering.

‘We’re going for a spin,’ said Kettering.

‘Like fuck we are,’ said Shepherd. ‘You wanted a chat in private, fine. You want to drink bubbly on your boat, all well and good. But I’m fucked if I’m going out to sea.’

‘It’s not the sea, mate,’ said Thompson. ‘It’s only the Channel. People swim across it.’

‘What are you scared of, Garry?’ asked Kettering.

‘I’m not scared. I just don’t like being pissed around. I’m more than happy to talk business with Klaus, and if he wants a demonstration I can arrange that. But I don’t have time to go messing about on boats.’

‘We can talk just as easily here, right?’ said Sharpe, stretching out his legs. He looked around. ‘Where’s the bubbly? Let’s crack open a bottle and get down to business.’

‘Guys, come on now, this is a great boat,’ said Thompson. ‘Let’s just take her out for an hour or so. We can fish.’

‘Fish?’

‘It’s got rods and everything,’ said Thompson.

Shepherd looked over at Sharpe. Sharpe was smiling but Shepherd could see the tension in his eyes. Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong. ‘I’d really rather stay moored up,’ said Shepherd.

Klaus came back down the stairs. He headed out on to the rear deck and began untying the ropes that kept the boat moored to the jetty.

‘Relax, Garry,’ said Thompson.

‘I just don’t like surprises,’ said Shepherd.

Thompson stood up and patted him on the back. ‘A few glasses of bubbly will soon get you relaxed,’ he said. ‘Come on, sit down.’

‘Guys, no one said we were going out to sea. I’m not happy about this.’

Kettering reached inside his jacket and took out his leather cigar case. He opened it to reveal four thick cigars and he offered one to Shepherd.

‘I don’t want a fucking cigar,’ said Shepherd.

‘You need to relax, Garry. Get some sea air in your lungs.’

‘Make up your fucking mind, will you? Do you want me smoking or breathing in sea air? This is fucked up, Simon. This isn’t how professionals do business.’ He looked over at Sharpe again, trying to get a read on what his partner was thinking. If they were going to pull out they had to do it now, while they were still in port. And if he was going to call for help it would have to be done within the next minute or two.

Sharpe was still smiling but his eyes had narrowed. Then he gave a small shrug and clasped his hands behind his neck. He was leaving the decision up to Shepherd.

Klaus came back into the cabin. ‘Okay?’ he said.

Shepherd nodded. ‘I guess so,’ he said reluctantly.

‘Great,’ said Thompson. ‘I’ll get the bubbly.’

He went into the galley and opened a large stainless-steel fridge. Shepherd sat down on a beige leather bench seat under a long window. The engines roared and the boat reversed away from the jetty. Thompson pulled out a bottle of Bollinger and grabbed five glasses off a tray as Kettering lit a cigar.

Shepherd was trying to get a read on Kettering and Thompson but was failing. They seemed relaxed enough and their bonhomie appeared genuine. It could be that they just wanted to go out on the boat, and they were right that there would be no chance of them being overheard out at sea. Though of course they weren’t taking into consideration the fact that Shepherd’s phone was broadcasting everything that was being said back to Thames House and to the back-up teams in the hotel and in the coffee shop. Shepherd had no idea what the MI5 teams were doing but he assumed that they had now left both places.

Thompson popped the cork too enthusiastically and champagne sprayed over the floor before he started pouring it into the glasses. Klaus took a glass and gave it to Sharpe, then took one for himself, while Thompson gave glasses to Shepherd and Kettering before filling his own.

Kettering stood up and held his glass high. ‘To the future,’ he said. ‘And to the men who will shape it.’

They all stood up, raised their glasses in salute and then drank. It was good champagne, Shepherd knew, but he couldn’t taste it. His mind was racing, still trying to work out what was going on. If Klaus was a German then Shepherd was a Dutchman.

Kettering looked out of the rear windows at the marina in the distance. ‘When will we be in international waters, do you think? Twelve miles, isn’t it?’

‘We’re not going out twelve bloody miles, I hope,’ said Shepherd.

Klaus was staring at Sharpe with a sly smile on his face. Sharpe hadn’t noticed but the way the man was staring gave Shepherd an uncomfortable feeling. The atmosphere had changed now that they were out at sea.

Thompson was holding the empty champagne bottle, his feet planted shoulder-width apart. He caught Shepherd’s look and smiled but his eyes stayed hard.

‘You really don’t remember me, do you?’ asked Klaus, still staring at Sharpe, his voice a low growl.

Everything appeared to slow down as Shepherd’s adrenal glands kicked into overdrive. He swallowed and even that seemed to happen in slow motion, and he realised that the dull thud he could hear was the sound of his own heart. Thompson was hefting the bottle as if he was about to throw it; Kettering was holding his cigar in one hand and his champagne glass in the other, blowing a cloud of smoke up at the ceiling; Sharpe was turning to look at Klaus, frowning; Klaus’s grin was turning into a snarl.

Shepherd reached for the zipper of his bomber jacket, trying to make the move look casual. Time started to move at its normal speed again and he forced a smile. ‘Lads, I can’t stay too long,’ he said.

‘You fucking slag!’ Klaus shouted at Sharpe. ‘There’s only one thing worse than a grass and that’s a fucking undercover cop.’ He reached behind his back and pulled out a revolver. Sharpe stepped towards Klaus, pulling back his fist but Thompson smashed the champagne bottle against the side of his head and he dropped to the floor like a stone.

Klaus swung the gun round to point it at Shepherd and Shepherd raised his hands. He still had the glass of champagne in his right hand. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he asked.

‘Your pal’s a cop,’ said Klaus.

‘Like fuck he is,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve known him for donkey’s. He’s no grass.’

‘I said cop,’ said Klaus. ‘He works for the Met. Came across him a year or so ago. He was involved with a group of guys bringing in cannabis from Morocco. Customs grabbed the lot but when the dust cleared there was no sign of him. And he wasn’t James Gracie back then. Alistair something or other. I was always on the fringes so I never spoke to him, but it was him all right, no question.’

‘Well, that’s fucking news to me,’ said Shepherd, keeping his hands in the air. He nodded his chin at the glass he was holding. ‘I want to put my hands down, is that okay?’

‘No, it’s not fucking okay,’ said Thompson. He strode over and took the champagne off him, then pushed him down on to the bench seat. ‘Put your hands behind your head and cross your ankles.’

‘What?’

‘You heard him,’ said Klaus. ‘Sit the fuck down, put your hands behind your head and cross your fucking ankles.’

Shepherd looked at Kettering. ‘Simon, mate, there’s no reason to be like this. If he’s bad, it’s fuck-all to do with me.’

‘Just do as you’re told,’ said Kettering.

Shepherd slowly put his hands behind his neck and crossed his legs at the ankles.

‘See the thing is, mate, we know you’re a cop too.’

‘Give me a break,’ said Shepherd.

‘Your name’s Dan Shepherd,’ said Kettering. He gestured at Sharpe with his cigar. ‘And that’s Jimmy Sharpe.’

Shepherd felt suddenly calm. There was no point in lying now that they knew who he was. He stared at Kettering. Kettering held his look as he took a long pull on his cigar.

‘Your mate told us everything. Eventually.’

‘You’re making a big mistake, Simon,’ said Shepherd quietly.

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Kettering. He leaned over the table and put his cigar on to a large crystal ashtray.

‘You haven’t bought the guns yet. Conspiracy is as good as it gets, and you could probably play the entrapment card. Get a good lawyer and you’ll walk, more than likely.’

‘What about the dead cop?’ said Kettering.

‘What dead cop?’

‘The cop we killed back in Brum,’ said Kettering.

Shepherd’s jaw tensed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘You’re good,’ Kettering said. ‘I’d hate to play poker with you.’ He looked across at Thompson. ‘Playing it straight, right to the end.’ He turned back to Shepherd, his eyes cold. ‘There’s no going back for us now. Whatever we do we’re finished in the UK. You’ve got us on tape, I bet, and even if you haven’t there’s more than enough evidence to put us away for — what? Ten? Fifteen? Twenty?’

‘Killing a cop means you’ll never get out,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, well, if you’ll forgive the pun, that ship has already sailed,’ said Kettering. He gestured at the seat Shepherd was sitting on. ‘Lift that up,’ he said. ‘There’s a storage space underneath.’

Shepherd slowly took his hands from behind his head, uncrossed his legs and stood up. He gingerly lifted the bench seat. In the space below there was a body wrapped in polythene, bound with grey duct tape. He cursed and let the seat fall back. ‘You didn’t have to do that,’ he said.

‘Well, I sort of did,’ said Kettering. ‘And I need you to get the body out because we’ll be dropping it over the side shortly.’

Shepherd turned to face Kettering, his hands bunching into fists. ‘Why kill him? He was just a cop doing his job. That’s all any of us are doing. It’s not personal. You’re breaking the law and it’s our job to stop you. You don’t kill someone for doing their job.’

Kettering scowled at Shepherd and opened his mouth to speak. But then he changed his mind and nodded at Klaus. ‘Fucking shoot him, will you? He’s giving me a headache.’

Klaus smiled thinly and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot was deafening in the confined space and the bullet hit Shepherd just below the heart. He fell backwards, his arms flailing.

Amar Singh looked across at Charlotte Button. ‘They shot him,’ he said. ‘The bastards have bloody well shot him.’

Button ignored him. She clicked on her mic and spoke to the leader of the armed teams. ‘What’s happening there, Bill?’

‘We’re waiting for a police launch. It’s on its way.’

‘You heard the shot?’

‘We heard it.’

‘Soon as you can,’ she said.

She bit down on her lower lip as she considered her options. A helicopter was a possibility but it would take time and even then the police helicopters weren’t armed. She could call in the Met but getting an armed response unit out to sea would be a logistical nightmare.

Singh was looking at her fearfully and she managed a small smile.

‘What are we going to do?’ he asked.

‘At the moment I’m just praying that they didn’t shoot him in the head,’ she said. ‘And that if he was shot in the chest your bulletproof vest held up.’

Shepherd lay on his back, his chest on fire. The Kevlar vest under his shirt had stopped the bullet but it had still hurt like hell. His mind raced. If he played dead there was a good chance that Klaus would fire again and this time Shepherd might not be so lucky. His gun was in its shoulder holster but to get at it he was going to have to unzip his bomber jacket. The armed teams would have heard the shot and they would be on their way but it would take them time to get a boat and motor over to the Laura Lee. He was going to have to take care of it himself. His arms were out to the sides so if he made a move for his gun Klaus would see it and have all the time in the world to put another bullet into him.

‘Is he dead?’ Kettering’s voice.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Shoot him again.’

Shepherd heard footsteps. He held his breath, playing dead. If Klaus shot him again it would probably be another chest shot. Civilians tended to avoid head shots, partly because it was a smaller target than the chest but mainly because shooting someone in the face was more personal. Shepherd half opened his eyes. Klaus was walking towards him, the gun at his side.

‘He’s not breathing,’ said Klaus.

‘Shoot him again. Better safe than sorry.’

Shepherd felt his lungs burning but he continued to hold his breath. He was going to get only one chance and he had to choose his moment.

‘He’s dead,’ said Klaus. ‘I shot him in the heart.’ Shepherd heard a dull thud, which he hoped was the sound of the gun being put on the glass table.

‘Looks like he’s gone,’ said Thompson.

‘Then let’s toss him over the side with the others,’ said Kettering. ‘And hurry up. He probably had his people at the marina so we need to get the bodies over the side and ourselves over to France. Wrap all three of them in chains and drop them over the side. The water’s plenty deep enough so no one will ever find them here.’

Shepherd heard footsteps. Then he heard a grunt as someone bent down over him. He opened his eyes. It was Klaus, looming over him. Shepherd reached up and clawed his fingers down Klaus’s face, searching for the eyes. He felt his fingers slide into the eye sockets and he pushed hard. Klaus screamed and fell back.

Shepherd knew he had only seconds to react and that every decision he made was crucial. There were three men in the cabin and another on the bridge. He’d seen one gun and hopefully that was now on a table but that didn’t mean there weren’t more on the boat.

He lay where he was and pulled down the zipper of his bomber jacket with his left hand while he groped inside with his right. His fingers were wet with Klaus’s blood but the Glock had a non-slip grip. There was no safety to worry about either, and there was already a cartridge in the chamber.