True Colours

AFGHANISTAN, 2002

Ahmad Khan and Captain Todd flew to the Jalalabad base on a Blackhawk helicopter and then drove the final thirty miles to the SAS Forward Operating Base in a convoy of armoured Land Rovers as soon as it was light. It was ‘bandit country’ and all the occupants of the Land Rovers, including Khan, were armed. Khan had a scarf around his head and face, concealing his identity from any Taliban spies who might be watching from the shadows.

He looked around him with interest as they approached the Forward Operating Base. The road that led up to the gates was studded with huge concrete blocks, forcing any vehicle to slow down and weave from side to side as it approached, preventing suicide bombers from driving a truck packed with explosives straight into the gates.

The base was small, surrounded by razor-wire fences and berms bulldozed out of the stony soil, providing blast protection and cover for those inside. From what he could see, it looked much less well equipped than the American bases. Beyond the berms, Khan could just glimpse the tops of rows of shipping containers and tents and a heavily sandbagged, mud-brick building, the only permanent structure on the site. Around them were sandbagged emplacements from which protruded the barrels of General Purpose Machine Guns, and the much thicker firing tubes of mortars.

Bulldozers had flattened everything within half a mile of the perimeter in all directions, removing any cover for insurgents and giving the defenders of the base a clear field of fire. The cleared ground included the flattened rubble of a series of buildings, and as they passed them, Khan wondered whether they had merely been sheds or barns, or had once been people’s houses.

When they reached the gates, the British soldiers travelling with them were waved through after a brief check of their ID, but when Todd and Khan tried to follow them, the two armed guards blocked their way. Khan could see the looks of contempt aimed at his black dishdasha and AK-47, but he kept his expression neutral and looked away as Todd first talked and then argued with them, his voice rising as he became increasingly frustrated.

As the captain argued with the guards, two soldiers walked over. They were not dressed like the other British soldiers he had seen, but wore shorts and sun-faded T-shirts. They were no taller than he was and did not appear particularly powerfully built, but from their lean, muscled physiques and air of relaxed self-confidence, Khan suspected they were special forces.

He heard the bigger of the two men refer to the other as ‘Spider’, presumably a nickname. Spider looked at Khan’s weapon, and then nudged his colleague. ‘Clock that, Geordie?’ he said beneath his breath. The AK-74’s orange plastic stock and magazine made it very distinctive, and Khan could tell from their expressions that they knew that this newer, improved version of the AK-47 was rare enough in the Taliban’s armoury for it only to be issued to its commanders and its most elite troops.

Todd was still arguing with the guards. ‘I’ll have you on a charge for this, I’m warning you!’ he said.

‘What’s the problem, Captain?’ the one called Geordie said.

‘This guard is refusing to let us into the compound,’ Todd said, brushing his hair back from his eyes.

Geordie’s face broke into a grin. ‘That’s probably because you’ve got an armed and unknown Afghan with you,’ he said. Khan noticed that he didn’t call the officer ‘Sir’, even though Todd was a captain and the other man was obviously from the ranks.

‘This man is Ahmad Khan, a Surrendered Enemy Personnel,’ Todd said.

‘Well, that doesn’t carry too much weight in these parts,’ Geordie said. ‘I can tell you from my own experience that SEPs are like junkies – they’re only with you long enough to get their next fix – cash, weapons, whatever – and then they’re gone again. With respect, Captain, no experienced guy would trust an SEP as far as he could throw him.’

Todd glared at him. ‘This man has vital intelligence I need to put before the boss and I am not going to exclude him from the compound just because of your prejudice against SEPs and perhaps Afghans in general.’

The soldier called Spider glanced from one to the other and then made a calming gesture to both of them with his hands. ‘It’s not about prejudice,’ he said. ‘It’s based on bitter experience. We’ve had more than our fair share of green on blue attacks out here.’ He pointed at Khan’s rifle. ‘One: He’s carrying a loaded AK-74. Only the top guys in the Taliban carry them. So he’s not some tribesman picking up a few extra dollars for fighting the faranji invaders, he’s one of their leaders. Two: This is a secure compound. Not even a Brit would get in here without being vetted or vouched for, and yet you’re trying to bring an armed Taliban fighter in here.’

‘The thing is, Captain,’ Geordie said, emphasising his point by jabbing his finger towards him, ‘you’re not only jeopardising the safety of everyone here, but you’d better watch your own back, because I’d take odds that he’d rub you out if he thought he could get away with it.’

‘Your comments are noted,’ Todd said, struggling to keep his anger under control. ‘Now step aside, the OC needs to hear what he has to say.’

The two guards – both paratroopers – stood their ground, with their weapons ready to fire.

‘With the greatest of respect, Captain, they’re not going to let you in while your SEP has a loaded weapon,’ Spider said. ‘But if he unloads his weapon and leaves the magazine and his ammunition belt with the guards, he can probably be allowed into the compound. He can pick them up again on his way out.’

Khan glanced at Todd, then shrugged and began unloading his rifle, but no Afghan man, let alone a warrior, would willingly be deprived of his weapon and he glared at the two SAS men as he did so.

‘Do you speak English?’ Geordie asked Khan as he handed his ammunition belt and magazine to one of the guards.

‘Enough,’ Khan said.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Ahmad Khan.’

‘Well, Ahmad Khan, you’d better be on your best behaviour while you’re here, because we’ll be watching you.’

Khan smiled. He was on their ground, not his, but he was not going to be bullied or intimidated by them. ‘Do I scare you, soldier?’ he said. ‘Is that it? Yes, I can see the fear in your eyes.’ He smiled again as Geordie’s fists clenched despite himself.

‘You don’t scare me, mate,’ he said. ‘I’ve slotted more than my fair share of guys like you.’

Khan’s smile did not waver. ‘Tread carefully, my friend. We Afghans are a proud people. We don’t give in to threats, nor tolerate insults to our honour.’

‘Leave it, Geordie,’ Spider said at last, breaking the growing silence and putting a hand on Geordie’s shoulder. ‘He can’t hurt anyone now.’ He nodded to Todd. ‘Morning prayers are about to start,’ he said, puzzling Khan, for he had seen no sign that any of the troops he had met were religious men.

‘He means our morning briefing,’ Todd said, seeing his baffled expression. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be able to accompany me – security, need to know, and all that stuff – but make yourself as comfortable as you can,’ he said with a rueful smile, gesturing at a makeshift waiting area near the gates consisting of tattered deckchairs and upturned ammunition boxes, ‘and I’ll be back as soon as possible.’

Todd whistled to a soldier who’d been doing his morning run. ‘Corporal, look after our Afghan friend for a few minutes, would you?’ He caught Khan’s look and gave a sheepish grin. ‘Sorry, camp regulations: no unescorted visitors.’ He turned and hurried after Spider and Geordie into the mud-brick building.

Ignoring the soldier, Khan squatted down in the dust in the pool of shade cast by a shipping container, and settled himself for a long wait. About an hour later he saw Todd emerge from the building with a face like thunder and stride off across the compound to a group of soldiers clustering around a tent as they prepared themselves for a patrol. Khan watched as Todd moved from group to group and had a long conversation with two of their sergeants, but when he at last turned and walked back towards Khan, he was accompanied by three of the soldiers and had a smile back on his face.

‘OK,’ he said to Khan. ‘It’s on, though I’ve had a hell of a job convincing them. I’m afraid that some of my colleagues just don’t trust you – I can’t entirely blame them, because there have been some unfortunate incidents in the past – but if this all goes smoothly, that should not be an issue in the future.’ He paused, checking Khan’s expression before he continued. ‘These three men will be your escort,’ he said, gesturing to the soldiers.

‘You are not coming with me?’ Khan said. He kept his voice even but Todd read the message in his eyes and flushed with embarrassment. ‘I’m afraid the boss has vetoed me going with you, but these Paras are good guys and can handle themselves if there’s any trouble. Though obviously I’m not expecting there to be any,’ he added hastily as he saw Khan’s expression. ‘The RV with your fighters is in an area that has been pacified by us and is peaceful, at least during daylight hours. So one vehicle and three men should be all we’ll need.’

Khan looked at the faces of the Paras that Todd had assembled and was immediately struck by how young and fresh faced they looked, compared to his own battle-hardened men. ‘Insh’allah there will not be,’ he said. He wondered again whether the trust and loyalty his men felt for him personally and the dislike they felt for their other commanders would be enough to outweigh their tribal loyalty to the Taliban. He glanced at his wristwatch. Russian-made and taken from the wrist of a dead Soviet soldier many years before. It still kept perfect time. ‘The rendezvous is in four hours,’ he said. ‘And it is always wise to be the first to arrive, so we need to leave as soon as your men are ready.’

Todd sent the three Paras off to collect their kit and then turned back to Khan. ‘You won’t let me down, will you?’ he said. ‘I’ve staked my own reputation, such as it is, on this.’

‘I have my own reasons – and, with respect, they are far more powerful than yours – for wanting this to succeed. My daughter’s future, perhaps even her life, depends on it.’ He held Todd’s gaze and the Englishman was the first to look away.

The Paras loaded their gear into a Land Rover with a General Purpose Machine Gun mounted on the bonnet. Each of the three men was also armed with an M16 rifle. Khan’s AK-74 and his magazines and ammunition were given back to him and he cradled the weapon in his lap as he sat in the back alongside one of the Paras. As they drove out of the compound, Khan saw Spider and Geordie standing off to one side, watching him. The expressions on their faces showed that they did not trust him an inch.

‘It’s him,’ said McIntyre. ‘It’s definitely him. No question.’ Shepherd, McIntyre and Harper were sitting in Shepherd’s X5 in the street opposite the house occupied by the man they used to know as Ahmad Khan. McIntyre was in the back of the car, directly behind Shepherd.

‘What do you think, Lex?’ asked Shepherd, moving to the side to give him a better view.

‘The eye’s the giveaway,’ said Harper. ‘The beard’s shorter and he’s older but then we’re all getting older, aren’t we?’

‘I’d be happier seeing him in Afghan dress,’ said Shepherd. ‘The Western clothing is throwing me off.’ Khan was wearing baggy brown corduroy trousers and what appeared to be carpet slippers, and a green quilted jerkin over a dark brown pullover. On his head was a knitted skullcap. ‘But the way he moves, the way he carries himself, it all feels right.’ Khan had left a terraced house in the Hammersmith street and was walking purposefully away from them, his arms swinging freely at his sides.

‘Yeah, if he had an AK-74 slung over his shoulder then we’d know for sure,’ said Harper. ‘Can we get closer?’

‘If he recognises any of us then we’ll blow it,’ said Shepherd.

‘Why would he recognise us?’ asked Harper. ‘It’s been more than ten years and we probably all look the same to him.’

‘He got up close and personal with me,’ said Shepherd. ‘And you tend to remember the people you’ve shot. I know I do.’

‘I don’t know why we’re even discussing this,’ said McIntyre. ‘It’s him. Even without the eye I’d know him anywhere.’

‘Yeah, I think you’re right,’ said Shepherd. He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think. I know. It’s him.’

‘Yeah, that milky eye nails it,’ said Harper.

‘So what do we do?’ asked McIntyre.

‘We take it one step at a time,’ said Shepherd.

‘Sod that,’ said Harper. ‘Let’s just slot the bastard. He’s due, Spider. He’s overdue. After what he did to you and the captain.’

‘Have you got a gun on you, Lex?’ asked Shepherd. ‘This isn’t Afghanistan. Everything we do from now on has be planned out in advance and executed flawlessly otherwise we’ll all end up behind bars.’

The man disappeared around a corner. ‘So what do you want to do?’ asked Harper.

‘We need intel,’ said Shepherd. ‘We need to see who he’s living with.’ He gestured at the house. ‘That’s one house, it’s not been subdivided into flats. So he probably lives with someone. His family maybe. We need to find out where he works. What his movements are.’

‘Here’s what I don’t get,’ said Jock. ‘The last time we saw him he was taking pot shots at us in Pakistan. How does he end up here?’

‘That’s a good question,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was involved in that money-clearing house that was channelling funds for al-Qaeda. Maybe he pocketed some of the cash himself and used it to buy his way into the country.’

Harper nodded in agreement. ‘Ten grand will buy you a genuine UK passport,’ he said.

‘A fake, you mean?’ said McIntyre.

‘No, the real thing,’ said Harper. ‘There’s a whole industry geared up for it. They use genuine citizens who don’t need a passport. They effectively buy up the identity and apply for a passport using a different photograph.’

‘Sounds like the voice of experience,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’ve got three, under different names,’ said Harper. ‘A British one, an Irish one and a German one. All kosher. The only drawback is facial recognition. If you’re on two different databases under different names then facial recognition will catch you out. But if Khan’s new identity is the only one in the system then he can stay here for ever without being found out.’

‘What do you need three passports for?’ asked McIntyre.

‘It’s a long story,’ said Harper. He sat back in his seat and pulled out his cigarettes. He showed the pack to Shepherd. ‘OK if I smoke?’

‘Sure, it’s not my car,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just crack the window open.’

Harper opened the window a few inches and lit a cigarette. He offered the pack to McIntyre but he shook his head.

‘Assuming it is him, what then?’ asked Harper.

‘We slot him,’ said McIntyre quickly. ‘Maybe kick the shit out of him first.’

‘Spider?’

Shepherd sighed. In his heart he knew that he had already decided what he was going to do, but he was finding it difficult to say the words out loud. Ahmad Khan deserved to die for what he had done back in Afghanistan, but deserving to die and committing a cold-blooded murder were two very different things.

‘Spider?’ repeated Harper.

Images flashed through Shepherd’s mind. The gaping wound in Captain Todd’s throat and the frothy blood that oozed from between his lips. The splintered skull and the mangled brain tissue beneath it. The look of panic in the young captain’s eyes before the life had drained from them. ‘Yeah, it has to be done,’ said Shepherd quietly.

‘Then how?’ asked Harper.

‘How?’ repeated Shepherd.

‘Ways and means,’ said Harper. ‘We’re going to need guns, right? Unless you’re planning something more creative.’ He laughed. ‘I’m sure you MI5 guys have all sorts of tricks up your sleeves.’

‘MI5 doesn’t kill people,’ said Shepherd. ‘We don’t have a licence to kill. It’s not like the movies.’

‘Just because you don’t have a licence to kill doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen,’ said Harper. ‘It’ll be handled by a department you’ll never hear about. Remember that scientist, the one involved in the weapons of mass destruction nonsense. Are you telling me that MI5 didn’t top him and try to make it look like suicide? And that guy who fastened himself up in a kitbag in the bath?’

‘Don’t tell me you’re one of those conspiracy theory nutters,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m just saying, governments have people killed, it happens all the time. You know that the Libyans used to do it, and the Russians, right? And Saddam Hussein used to kill off his enemies all around the world.’

‘We’re not Libya, Russia or Iraq,’ said Shepherd. ‘Our government wouldn’t get away with killing people.’

‘Israel, then,’ said Harper. ‘Are you saying that you don’t think Mossad knocks off enemies of Israel?’

‘Israel’s different,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’re a law unto themselves.’

‘America, then? What was the killing of Bin Laden if it wasn’t state-sponsored assassination?’

‘That’s different,’ said Shepherd. ‘That was a military operation.’

‘Because the assassins wore uniforms and flew in army choppers?’ said Harper. ‘They broke into a guy’s house and shot him in front of his family. How is that not an assassination?’

Shepherd threw up his hands. He could feel that he was losing the argument though he had no idea why he was suddenly trying to defend MI5. ‘You’re comparing apples and oranges,’ he said. ‘I’m just saying that MI5 doesn’t have a department that kills people.’

‘And I’m telling you it does, it’s just that you don’t know about it,’ said Harper. ‘But we’re getting away from the point. Assuming you don’t have a mysterious Q to give us some state-of-the-art assassin’s stuff, we’re going to need guns, right?’

‘I know a few Regiment guys who have a little something tucked away for a rainy day,’ said McIntyre.

‘Yeah, well, more fool them,’ said Shepherd. ‘The days of being able to keep a few souvenirs in the attic are well gone. Several guys have been sent down for keeping guns they shouldn’t have.’ He looked across at Harper. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘I know people who can get us guns here. Shorts and longs. Pretty much whatever we want.’

‘Untraceable?’

‘Sure. They’ll want cash, obviously.’

‘Let me think about it,’ said Shepherd. He started the engine and edged the car into the traffic.

‘I wish we could just go and slot the bastard now,’ said McIntyre. He punched the back of Shepherd’s seat. ‘That raghead bastard has it coming.’

‘One step at a time, Jock,’ said Shepherd. ‘Like I said, we need to get a bit more intel.’

‘Intel?’ repeated Harper. ‘What bloody intel do we need? We know it’s him and we know where he lives.’

‘Yeah, but we can hardly gun him down in the street, can we?’ said Shepherd. ‘We need to know where he goes, what he does. Who he lives with. Where he works.’

‘You think he works?’ said Harper. ‘I don’t think you’ll find many jobs for Taliban warlords down at the Jobcentre.’

‘He’s not on benefits, I know that much,’ said Shepherd. ‘So he must be getting money from somewhere. He must be paying for that house himself. Plus he’s got a car. A white CRV. If he wasn’t working, he wouldn’t need a car.’

‘Speak of the devil,’ said McIntyre. He pointed at a white CRV parked across the road from where they were. ‘Is that it?’

Shepherd looked over at the SUV. The registration number matched the number that Sharpe had given him. ‘That’s it,’ he said. He indicated right and headed east, towards Paddington station.

‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Harper.

‘Like I keep saying, we gather intel.’

‘And we’ll need guns,’ said Harper.

‘Intel first,’ said Shepherd.

‘Then guns,’ said Harper, rubbing his hands together. ‘Then we slot the bastard.’

Shepherd dropped McIntyre at Paddington station from where he could catch a train to Reading. ‘He’s changed,’ said Harper as they watched McIntyre walk into the station. His shoulders sagged and he had his head down as he trudged along with the evening commuters

‘We’ve all changed, Lex. It’s called getting older.’

‘He’s lost his edge, and you know it,’ said Harper. ‘He’s put on a couple of stone and you can smell the drink on him.’

‘He’s stopped drinking,’ said Shepherd.

‘You believe that?’

‘That’s what he says. Do you want me to drop you at Bayswater?’

‘Aye, might as well.’ Harper lit another cigarette.

‘You never smoked in Afghanistan, did you?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Nah. The guys I was doing the blagging with were all smokers so I thought if I can’t beat them, join them.’ He blew smoke through the open window. ‘You think you can rely on Jock?’

‘Jock’s sound,’ said Shepherd.

‘What about getting Jimbo? Jimbo Shortt?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah, I was thinking that myself.’

‘And Geordie. Geordie’ll want to be on board for this. The two of them saved your life, remember.’ He chuckled. ‘Yeah, of course you remember. You remember everything.’

‘Geordie’s dead, mate. Died in Iraq a few years back. Sniper.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah. You can say that again.’

‘It’s funny how quickly you lose touch with people. In the army you’re as tight as tight can be, you know? Then you hand in your papers and that’s it, you never see your muckers again.’ He blew more smoke through the window. ‘You keep in touch with your SAS mates?’

‘Some,’ said Shepherd. ‘But you’re right, once you leave you’re not part of it any more. The guys who are still in don’t treat you the same, and the ones that leave tend not to look back.’ He looked across at Harper. ‘Look, I don’t mean to get all emotional, but I’m sorry we lost touch.’

‘It doesn’t matter, mate. We’re good.’

‘No, I mean it, Lex. We were tight in Afghanistan, we got each other out of no end of scrapes. I should have made more of an effort to stay in touch.’

‘I’m a big boy, Spider. And it’s not as if I called you, is it?’

‘I wished you had, Lex. I wished you’d called me when you were having problems. I could have pulled some strings.’

‘And saved me from a life of crime, is that what you mean?’ He grinned. ‘I chose this life of crime, and I’ve no regrets. None at all.’

Shepherd stared at Harper, trying to work out whether the man was telling the truth.

‘I’m not lying, Spider. I got the life I wanted. Sun, sea, sand, all the birds I want, good muckers around me, and enough excitement if and when I need it.’

‘So long as you don’t get caught.’

‘Sure. And how safe is your job? Who’s to say you won’t get a knife in the back or a bullet in the face this time next week? Nothing lasts for ever, Spider. And really, I’m happy with the life I’ve got. You staying in touch wouldn’t have changed that.’ He laughed. ‘I might even have tempted you over to the dark side. You’d make a bloody good villain.’

Shepherd smiled and nodded. ‘You’re not the first person to have said that.’

‘I’m serious,’ said Harper. ‘You were a cop and now you’re a … what, a spy?’

‘I’m not a spy, Lex. I’m an MI5 officer. But the work I do is pretty much policing.’

‘And you’re on the side of the good guys, I get it. But what does MI5 really do? Protect the country’s citizens, or its ruling class?’

Shepherd grinned. ‘Bloody hell, when did you go all political?’

‘I can see what’s going on in the world, mate,’ said Harper, earnestly. ‘I can see how the rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer, how multinational companies pay almost no tax and bankers can screw up our economy and still get seven-figure bonuses. And the cops and MI5 are helping to keep that system in place.’

‘There’s a bit more to it than that, Lex.’

‘Really? So what case are you working on now?’

Shepherd sighed. ‘I can’t tell you,’ he said. That was true. All of Shepherd’s work was covered by the Official Secrets Act and it was an offence to discuss his work with outsiders. But it was also true that protecting Peter Grechko was less about making the UK a safer place than it was about doing a favour for the prime minister’s office.

‘You mean you could tell me but then you’d have to kill me?’ said Harper, and he laughed.

‘I keep telling you, I’m not James Bond,’ said Shepherd.

Harper took a long pull on his cigarette before blowing smoke out of the window. ‘Let me tell you how I see the world, Spider,’ he said. ‘The bankers have damn near destroyed the West. They’ve plunged millions into poverty and saddled us with debts that our grandchildren will be paying off.’

‘Not you, though,’ interrupted Shepherd. ‘I’m sure you’re not paying taxes on your ill-gotten gains.’

Harper ignored Shepherd and stared out of the window as he continued to speak. ‘They stole billions, mate. Billions. So how can anyone complain if I and a few mates go into one of their branches and take some of that for ourselves? It’s not as if anyone gets hurt. And the money we take is insured. All we’re doing, on a very small scale, is redressing the balance. What’s wrong with that?’

‘It’s theft,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re taking something that doesn’t belong to you and that’s against the law.’ He chuckled. ‘Hell, Lex, my boy knew the difference between right and wrong when he was four years old.’

‘Because you taught him,’ said Harper. ‘But if I had kids, I’d be giving them a different definition of right and wrong.’

‘And what about drugs?’ said Shepherd.

Harper turned to look at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’d tell your kids that drugs are a good thing, right?’

‘I’d tell them what I believe, that drugs are no more dangerous than alcohol or cars.’

‘Cars?’

‘More people die in car accidents every year than they do from drug overdoses. Yet you don’t hear anyone saying we should ban cars. Alcohol causes way, way more damage than drugs. Yet you can buy it in supermarkets. So you tell me why drugs are singled out they way they are. Your rich banker can sit on a cellar with a thousand bottles of wine and all’s well with the world. But you get caught with half an ounce of cocaine and you’re banged up. Our hospitals are full of people dying from alcohol abuse, and half of all the people in jail have alcohol problems.’

‘There are plenty of people behind bars because of drugs.’

‘You see, that’s where you’re wrong, mate,’ said Harper. ‘They’re in prison because the powers that be have decided that drugs are illegal. So you get sent to prison for possession of drugs or for selling them. If drugs were legal, none of those people would be in prison.’

‘See, that’s not true,’ said Shepherd. ‘Look at all the violent crimes caused by drugs.’

Harper shook his head. ‘It’s not the drugs that cause the crime, it’s the drugs trade. It’s because drugs are illegal that the trade is controlled by gangsters. They shoot each other over turf wars and get violent with anyone who owes them money. But it’s not the drugs that make people violent. You can’t say that about alcohol. Drunks punch and knife each other every day of the week. Hospital A&E departments are full of people affected by alcohol, and like I said, most car crashes involve booze. But people on drugs generally don’t drive and generally don’t fight each other. You smoke some dope and you chill, you pop a few tabs of ecstasy and you love your neighbour, you don’t want to punch him in the face. Even coke is about enjoying yourself. Mate, if drugs were legalised tomorrow the world would be a much happier and safer place.’ He took another pull on his cigarette, blew smoke through the window, and then held the still-smouldering butt under Shepherd’s nose. ‘And what about these?’ he asked. ‘Biggest self-administered killers on the planet, cigarettes. And no sign of them being made illegal.’ He flicked ash out of the window. ‘It’s Prohibition, mate. Pure and simple. And one day that’s how it’ll be seen.’

‘You think so?’

Harper nodded. ‘I’m sure so. People want drugs, and eventually they’ll get a government that gives them what they want. That’s how democracy works, right?’

Shepherd chuckled. ‘I have to say I don’t think I know how democracy works these days,’ he said. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘Do you want me to drop you in Bayswater?. I’m guessing you don’t want to go back on the tube, what with your thing about CCTV.’

‘Anywhere near Queensway’ll be fine,’ said Harper.

Shepherd put the car into gear and edged into the traffic. ‘What Jock was saying, about souvenired weapons, it’s not a bad idea.’

Harper frowned. ‘I told you, I can get whatever we need here. Untraceable and no comebacks.’

‘I believe you. But maybe traceable is what we need.’ He braked to allow a black cab to perform a tight U-turn in front of them. ‘Khan is from Afghanistan. If we use guns from Afghanistan and they do get traced, the Afghan connection would muddy the waters, wouldn’t it.’

‘Using SAS guns would muddy the waters? You’ll need to explain that to me.’

The black cab tooted its horn and continued on its way. Shepherd accelerated, heading west. ‘Not SAS guns, you plonker. Taliban weapons, if we can get any. I’m sure lots of the guys brought guns over and have them tucked away. And with the clampdown on illegally held guns at the moment, they’d probably be happy enough to get rid of them.’

‘Do you know anyone?’

‘I think I might know someone who has a little something tucked away for a rainy day, yes.’

Shepherd parked his X5 next to a meter and fed it with a couple of one-pound coins. He took out his mobile phone as he walked towards the entrance of the park and tapped out Amar Singh’s number. He explained what he wanted – a GPS tracking device that he could leave on a car for a few days.

‘Not a problem, Spider. Can you drop by today, I’ll have one waiting for you.’

Shepherd looked at his watch. It was just after three and he’d almost certainly get stuck in rush-hour traffic. ‘Can you wait for me, if I try to get there before six?’

‘I’m on a late one tonight so no rush,’ said Singh. ‘We’re working on CCTV links to a lock-up in Bradford that’s got some very interesting stuff in it.’

Shepherd stood to the side to allow two large women with a golden retriever and a liver-and-white cocker spaniel exit the park. It was a sunny day but there was a chill in the air and he was wearing an overcoat over his suit.

The park was in North London, edged with trees and overlooked by a terrace of Edwardian brick mansion blocks. To the right was a line of tennis courts and to the far left, behind a building housing showers and changing rooms, was a running track and an outdoor gym. There was a children’s playground beyond the running track but most of the park was given over to a huge field where dogs could be exercised and where during the summer weekends pub teams played cricket. Around the field ran a tarmac path with wooden benches every fifty yards or so.

A middle-aged man in a camouflage-pattern T-shirt and baggy khaki cargo pants was shouting at a group of eight women, who were all attempting to do push-ups with varying degrees of success. One of the women, rolls of fat outlined by a too-tight lilac jumpsuit, was merely lying face down and moaning. The man went over to stand by her and shouted for her to put some effort into it. The woman grunted in pain and managed one press-up before collapsing back into the grass. The man bent down, patted her on the shoulder and whispered what Shepherd assumed were words of encouragement before standing up and shouting again.

As Shepherd watched the man put the women through a series of star jumps, sit-ups and jogging, all the time shouting at them like an ill-tempered sergeant major, he couldn’t help but smile. It had been several years since Shepherd had seen Jim ‘Jimbo’ Shortt, but the man had barely changed. Like most former SAS he was wiry and toned rather than muscle-bound, and had the sort of face that could easily be lost in a crowd. His only distinguishing feature was his sweeping Mexican-style moustache, now starting to show touches of grey. As Shortt shouted at the women to lie flat on their backs he looked over at Shepherd. The two men locked eyes and Shortt gave him a small nod of recognition. Shepherd grinned and went to sit down on a bench.

Shortt spent the next half an hour putting the women through their paces, never pushing them so hard that they gave up, but never letting them off easily, and by the time the session had finished the women were all exhausted and drenched with sweat. The large woman in the lilac jumpsuit grabbed Shortt and gave him a hug and a kiss on both cheeks before heading over to the changing rooms.

Shortt jogged over to where Shepherd was sitting and Shepherd stood up to greet him. ‘Fuck me, Spider Shepherd,’ said Shortt. ‘What brings you to my neck of the woods?’

‘Good to see you, Jimbo,’ said Shepherd. The two men hugged and slapped each other on the back. ‘When the hell did you get into shouting at women?’

‘They call it Boot Camp,’ said Shortt. He gestured at the camouflage T-shirt he was wearing. ‘You don’t think I’d wear this by choice? Mainly housewives who don’t get any other exercise. I tell them, sign up for my Boot Camp and you’ll drop a kilo a week, guaranteed. I’ll give them their money back if they don’t.’

‘A rucksack full of bricks, can’t beat it,’ said Shepherd.

Shortt laughed. ‘These girls haven’t exercised for years, you have to break them in gently.’ He leaned towards Shepherd. ‘Do you have any idea what those housewives are paying me?’ Shepherd shook his head. ‘Thirty quid for a ninety-minute session,’ said Shortt. ‘And there are eight of them there. I’ve got another ten doing the evening session. That’s more than five hundred quid for three hours a day. There’s guys out in Iraq right now earning less than that a week. And no one’s shooting at me here.’ He grinned. ‘And I do one-on-one training for a hundred and twenty quid an hour, Spider. That’s serious money. For hanging out in a gym.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ said Shepherd.

‘You should give it a go,’ said Shortt, patting him on the back. ‘I’ve just signed a deal with a model agency to put some of their models through their paces. I could put some very fit birds your way.’

Shepherd laughed and held up his hands in surrender. ‘I’ve got a job, Jimbo,’ he said.

‘Where are you these days? Still with SOCA?’

The two men sat down on the bench. ‘Nah, I moved on.’

‘Secret squirrel?’

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Just figured you’d end up with the spooks,’ said Shortt. ‘Anti-terrorism’s where it’s at these days and you’re a good fit – SAS background plus police experience. Is the pay good?’

‘I’m not getting nine hundred quid a day, that’s true,’ laughed Shepherd.

‘Then think about giving this a go,’ said Shortt. ‘The personal trainer business is booming, everyone’s health conscious these days.’

‘You’re the second person to suggest a career change this week,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah? Who was the first?’

‘Remember Lex, that Para who was my spotter out in Afghanistan? Scottish lad. Keen as mustard?’

Shortt nodded. ‘Yeah, thought he was putting in for selection?’

‘Change of plan. He’s self-employed these days.’ Shepherd reached into his jacket pocket and slipped the newspaper cutting to Shortt. ‘Recognise this guy?’

‘Ahmad fucking Khan,’ said Shortt as soon as he glanced at the photograph in the article. He looked at the name of the newspaper at the top of the cutting, and the date. ‘He’s in England? How the hell is he in England?’

‘We’re not sure.’

‘He’s a Taliban killer. He shot those three Paras in the back and he killed Captain Todd.’

Shepherd forced a smile. ‘I was there, remember.’

‘Damn right you were there.’ He bent his head down and read the article. ‘It doesn’t mention him,’ he said when he’d finished.

‘He was just caught in the picture,’ said Shepherd. ‘Wrong place, wrong time. But I’ve tracked him down. I know what name he’s using and I know where he lives.’

‘And now you’re going to slot the bastard?’ Shepherd nodded. Shortt handed back the cutting. ‘Count me in,’ he said.

‘I thought you’d say that.’

‘And that’s why Lex is around, right? What about Jock?’

‘Jock’s on board,’ said Shepherd.

‘The four musketeers,’ said Shortt. ‘Pity we lost Geordie. Geordie would have loved a chance to take a crack at Khan.’

Shepherd nodded. Geordie Mitchell had been the sixth man on the mission to destroy the al-Qaeda money house in Pakistan, the operation that had ended with the death of Captain Harry Todd and Shepherd taking a bullet in the shoulder. Mitchell had died a few years earlier in Iraq, killed by a sniper in the same way that Ahmad Khan had killed Harry Todd. ‘Do you have much in the way of souvenirs, Jimbo?’

Shortt arched his eyebrows. ‘What are you suggesting, Spider? Don’t you know that it’s a criminal offence to own unlicensed weapons?’

‘I do indeed,’ said Shepherd. ‘But I also know that every time you flew back from Afghanistan you had a rucksack full of souvenirs.’

‘Yeah, those were the days,’ said Shortt. ‘I made a packet selling stuff back at Stirling Lines. They were queuing up to buy AK-47s and Makarovs.’

‘But you kept some for yourself, right?’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Shortt, rubbing his moustache.

‘Here’s the thing. We want to use Afghan guns for this. That way if the guns are ever traced, it’ll look as if it was someone from Afghanistan who’d done the dirty deed.’

‘There’d be a certain justice in that, wouldn’t there? He comes over here to make a new life, and guns from his past take that life away.’ He grinned. ‘That’s practically poetic, Spider.’

‘So you’ll help?’

‘Bloody right I will.’

Shepherd got to Thames House at 6.30. Amar Singh was still in his office, tapping on a computer terminal as he carried out a conversation via a Bluetooth headset. He waved Shepherd to a chair as he continued to talk about video feeds and IR cameras. Eventually he finished, took off his headset and shook hands with Shepherd. He reached down and pulled open a drawer. ‘OK, here it is, and I have to say it’s a nice bit of kit.’

He handed Shepherd an iPad and Shepherd frowned. ‘It’s an iPad?’

‘Top of the range,’ said Singh. He gave Shepherd a small metal box, the size of a cigarette packet. ‘That’s magnetic so you put it under the wheel arch or on the chassis, anywhere that it’s out of sight. You can hide it inside the car but if you do it’s important that you put it against metal. It’s the attachment that activates it. As it is, you can keep it for a year or two and it won’t lose its charge. As soon as it’s put up against metal it activates and the battery is good for about a week.’

Shepherd switched on the iPad. It had all the normal apps but there was one called Tracker. He held the iPad out and Singh nodded. ‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘It’ll give you a location on a map or Google Earth and it’s accurate to within six feet or so. The iPad needs a mobile phone connection but you should have that all the time, it’s done through a monthly account.’

‘You’re a star, Amar, thanks.’

‘No sweat. As far as I’m concerned it’s out on a test, just let me have it back when you’re done.’

Shepherd’s phone rang. He apologised to Singh and took out his phone, but grimaced when he saw who was calling. Charlotte Button. He considered letting the call go through to voicemail but the fact that she was calling him suggested that she knew he was in the building. He tried to keep his voice as cheerful as he could when he answered.

‘A little bird tells me you’re in Thames House,’ she said.

‘I’m with Amar,’ he said.

‘Problem?’

‘Just picking up a bit of kit,’ he said.

‘Swing by my office on your way out, would you? There’s something I need to run by you.’

She ended the call and Shepherd put his phone away. He picked up the iPad and the transmitter and put them into his backpack. ‘I should have them back in a couple of days,’ he said.

‘No rush, they’re as cheap as chips,’ said Singh. ‘It’s funny, ten years ago a device like that would have cost ten grand or more. Now the whole set-up is less than a grand and most of that is for the iPad. How’s the vest, by the way?’

‘Difficult to say, no one’s taken a shot at me yet.’

Singh grinned. ‘I meant comfort-wise.’

‘Yeah, good. Most of the time I’m not even aware that it’s on.’

‘No itching, no discomfort?’

‘I’ve started wearing a regular cotton vest under it, and it’s fine.’

Shepherd shook hands with Singh then walked to the lift and took it to Button’s floor. She was sitting at her desk studying a whiteboard on which were stuck a dozen surveillance photographs of Asian teenagers. She waved a hand as he looked at the pictures. ‘Nothing to do with you, Spider,’ she said. ‘This is up in Bradford. They’re planning a Mumbai-type massacre. They seem serious, too.’ She nodded at a chair and Shepherd sat down, placing the backpack on the floor and hoping that she wouldn’t ask about what he’d been doing with Amar Singh. ‘But that’s not what I needed to see you about. There’s a problem over Grechko.’

‘Problem?’

‘Well, let’s call it a complication,’ said Button.

Shepherd used his satnav to find Shortt’s house, a neat three-bedroom semi-detached in Wembley, about half a mile from the stadium. There was a Jaguar parked in the driveway so Shepherd left his X5 in the street. It was just after ten o’clock in the morning. Shepherd had already checked in with Popov and Grechko wasn’t planning to leave the house until early evening, so he’d said that he would take the morning off. Shepherd had picked up Harper in Bayswater. As always he was wearing his parka with the hood up.

Shortt opened the front door wearing a polo shirt and pale blue jeans. He grinned when he saw Harper and stepped forward to hug him. ‘Bloody hell, what’s it been? Twelve years?’

‘More,’ said Harper. ‘You’re looking good, Jimbo.’

‘Clean living,’ said Shortt. ‘What’s with the parka? The mod look coming back, is it?’

Harper grinned and flipped the hood back as he walked into the hallway. Shepherd followed him. ‘Where’s the family?’ he asked.

‘The wife’s playing golf and the kids are at school,’ said Shortt, closing the front door.

‘Golf?’

Shortt shrugged. ‘I know. Why ruin a perfectly good walk by walloping a little ball with a piece of metal on the end of a stick? But she’s bloody good at it. Her handicap’s two. Her instructor reckons she’ll be scratch within the year.’

‘Good for her,’ said Shepherd, following Shortt through to the kitchen. He was carrying a black nylon holdall.

‘Coffee?’ asked Shortt. ‘I’ve just made a pot.’

Shepherd and Harper nodded and sat down at the kitchen table as Shortt prepared three mugs of coffee. Shepherd opened his holdall and took out the iPad and transmitter that Singh had given him. Harper looked at the transmitter with interest. ‘See, I knew you had a Q,’ he said.

Shepherd laughed. ‘We don’t call him Q. His name’s Amar.’

Shortt put the coffee on the table and sat down. ‘So what’s the story?’ he asked.

‘We need intel,’ said Shepherd. ‘Khan knows me so I have to keep well away. We need to get that transmitter on to his car, under a wheel arch, then follow him at a distance. Lex doesn’t have a car and neither does Jock, so it’s down to you with Lex’s help.’

‘I can do that,’ said Shortt.

‘The Jag’s a bit high profile,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’ll swap with the wife,’ said Jimbo. ‘She’s got a Vauxhall Astra.’

‘Best to attach it in the early hours of the morning,’ said Shepherd. ‘The range is limitless, pretty much. It tracks through the phone network so you can be anywhere in the world and pick up the location.’

‘Nice,’ said Harper. ‘Think you could get me one?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘No, and I’ll need that one back when we’re done.’

He reached into the holdall and took out a clipboard with a questionnaire and a laminated card clipped to it. He passed it across the table to Shortt. ‘We need to know what his personal situation is. It could be that he lives alone but, assuming he doesn’t, we need to know who he lives with, where he works, where he goes.’ He tapped the laminated card. ‘This is a council ID, no photograph but it looks like the real thing. Are you up for ringing the doorbell and seeing if you can get them to answer a few questions? You tell them that the council’s doing a residents’ survey to know what resources the area needs.’

Shortt nodded. ‘I can do that.’ He grinned. ‘I was always good at the secret squirrel stuff.’ He looked over at Harper. ‘Did Spider ever tell you about my little adventure during Selection?’

Harper shook his head.

‘I was told to go into a pub in the St Paul’s district of Bristol with a gun. I was the only white face in a pub full of Afro-Caribbean blokes. My sole task was to stay there for an hour without anyone detecting the weapon. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? But the problem was that the pub was the headquarters for the local pimps and drug dealers, and any unfamiliar face was instantly suspect. As soon as I stepped through the door, one of the players whispered to this very good-looking woman who made straight for me. She said, “Hi, handsome, want to buy me a drink?” and was all over me, and her hands were everywhere – and I mean everywhere!’ He grinned. ‘Perks of the job, you might say. Of course, she didn’t really fancy me, she was just patting me down to check if I was carrying a weapon or wearing a wire.’

‘She didn’t find the gun?’

‘I’d tucked it between my legs. If she’d felt it I’d have just told her she was giving me a hard-on. But I tell you, by the time I walked out of that pub I had them eating out of my hands.’ He picked up the clipboard. ‘After that, this’ll be a piece of cake.’

‘Any chance of you doing this tomorrow?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I don’t see why not,’ said Shortt. ‘I can rejig my schedule easy enough.’ He looked over at Harper. ‘Where are you staying?’

‘Bayswater,’ said Harper.

‘I’ll pick you up five-ish, so we can get there nice and early,’ said Shortt.

Shepherd finished his coffee and put down his mug. ‘And the guns? Are they here?’

Shortt stood up, opened a cupboard and took out a pole with a hook on the end. He saw the look of confusion on Shepherd and Harper’s faces. ‘Attic,’ he said.

The three men went upstairs and Shortt used the hook to pull open a trapdoor and release a folding metal ladder. He propped the pole up against the wall, went up the ladder and flicked a switch. A fluorescent light flickered into life as Shepherd climbed up behind him. The attic had been lined with plywood and the floor was bare boards. There were half a dozen cardboard boxes and a metal trunk against one wall and a battered chest of drawers against another.

‘Give me a hand to move this,’ said Shortt, taking one end of the chest of drawers. Shepherd took the other and together they dragged it into the centre of the attic as Harper came up the ladder. Shortt pulled open one of the drawers and took out a screwdriver. The sheet of plywood behind the chest of drawers was held against the rafters by six screws and Shortt undid them one at a time. He passed them to Shepherd and pulled the sheet away and propped it against the wall.

Shepherd whistled softly as he saw what had been concealed behind the panel. There was an AK-47 with a foldable stock and below it an AK-74. And beneath the two carbines were two pistols. Standing upright was a Lee Enfield bolt-action rifle that must have been more than sixty years old. Shepherd took it out and held it up to his shoulder. ‘How the hell did you get this?’

‘Took it off a dead muj,’ said Shortt. ‘He didn’t have any use for it, seeing how he was dead and all.’

‘I meant how did you get it back to the UK?’

Shortt shrugged. ‘What can I say? They didn’t do much in the way of checks back then. I could probably have bought a tank back, bit by bit.’

Harper took out the AK-47 and nodded admiringly at it. ‘Now this brings back memories,’ he said.

‘Have you got ammo?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Not for the AKs or the Enfield. But I’ve kept a few rounds for the pistols. Used to take them to a quarry in Wales to fire off a few now and again. And I keep them clean and oiled.’

Shepherd put the rifle back in its hiding place and picked up one of the pistols. It looked clean and serviceable. He checked the action and nodded approvingly. ‘Looks fine, Jimbo. But what about the ammo?’

‘It’s old, no argument there. Can’t guarantee it hasn’t gone off.’ He laughed. ‘No pun intended.’

‘I can get ammo, no problem,’ said Harper. ‘For the AKs, too, if you want?’

‘Just the pistols,’ said Shepherd. He gave the gun back to Shortt. ‘You might think of giving them a really good clean just in case there’s DNA anywhere.’

‘I’ve cleaned them already,’ said Shortt.

‘The DNA tests they have these days are really sensitive,’ said Shepherd. ‘They can get a full profile from the merest smear of sweat. In the grip or inside the chamber. Just a touch. Before we use them you need to put on gloves and wipe every surface, inside and out. Did you ever strip them down?’

‘Sure, a couple of times.’

‘Then your DNA will be all over the mechanism. A lot of gangbangers forget that. They wipe down the grips and the barrel but forget that their DNA’s all over the inside of the gun. And on the clip, too. You’d be amazed at the number of guys in prison who wiped down the gun but left their prints on the clip. And on the ammo.’

‘Understood,’ said Shortt. He put the gun back in its hiding place and replaced the wooden panel. ‘To be honest, I’ve been thinking of getting rid of them for a while now. Guns and kids aren’t a good mix.’ He nodded at Shepherd and Harper and they pushed the chest of drawers back in front of the panel.

‘Who else knows about them?’ asked Shepherd.

‘As of today, just us,’ said Shortt. ‘The missus doesn’t even know they’re there. I just wanted a few souvenirs, you know? Didn’t you bring something for a rainy day?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘Sue wouldn’t have stood for it,’ he said. ‘But to be honest, I was never a great one for souvenirs.’

‘Probably because of your trick memory,’ said Shortt. ‘You remember everything. But for me, holding one of those guns brings it all back.’

The three men went downstairs to the kitchen. Shortt took a bottle of Bell’s whisky from a cupboard and showed it to Shepherd. ‘Just a small one,’ said Shepherd. ‘With soda. I’m driving.’

‘I’ll take ice with mine,’ said Harper.

Shortt made a whisky and soda for Shepherd in a tall glass, and poured himself and Harper equal measures of whisky before dropping in a couple of ice cubes. They clinked glasses and drank.

‘You’re sure about this?’ said Shortt, sitting down at the table.

Shepherd joined him. ‘About Khan? Sure.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘He’s convinced,’ said Harper, swirling his ice cubes around with his finger.

‘It needs to be done,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s the right thing to do. But it’s …’ He struggled to find the right words.

‘The wrong thing to do?’ Shortt finished for him.

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s not the doing of it, it’s making sure that there are no repercussions. This won’t be the first time I’ve done something like this, so it’s not about having a conscience or anything. It’s about doing it right.’

‘We’ve all got a lot to lose, Spider. The last thing I want to do at my age is to go to prison. And the job you’ve got.’ He shrugged. ‘If they get you, they’ll throw away the key.’

‘I know.’

‘So that’s why I’m asking if you’re sure.’

‘We’re sure,’ said Harper. He drained his glass. ‘We’re damn sure.’

Shepherd stared at his glass. ‘This isn’t what about he did to me,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s not even about the fact he killed Captain Todd. That was combat. OK, the captain and I weren’t a threat to him, but we were the enemy and we could have shot back. It’s what he did to those three Paras that I can’t forgive. They were shot in the back, Jimbo. He pretended to be on our side, he said he’d bring in the rest of his men, and he waited until they were out in the desert and he shot them in the back.’ He shook his head and drained his glass, then slammed it down on the table. ‘That was nothing to do with war,’ he said. ‘That was terrorism. If a man picks up a gun and fights another man, that’s combat and may the best man win. But lying and cheating and shooting soldiers in the back, that’s something else.’

Shortt poured more whisky into Shepherd’s glass and added soda water. ‘We’ll get the bastard, don’t worry about that.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But we have to make sure there’s no comeback.’

‘There won’t be,’ said Shortt. He grinned and clinked his glass against Shepherd’s. ‘What can go wrong?’ he said. ‘We’re professionals.’

Shepherd was back at Grechko’s mansion by two o’clock in the afternoon. He hadn’t eaten all day but Sheena the chef was in the kitchen and she happily made him one of her amazing club sandwiches, accompanied by a plateful of double-fried chips that were so good he had to force himself to refuse a second helping. He was finishing his coffee when he heard Dudko in his earpiece. Dudko had been manning the main gate all day.

‘There’s a Charlotte Button here, says she’s got an appointment to see Mr Grechko. But she’s not in the book.’

‘That’s my fault, but she is expected,’ said Shepherd. ‘Check her ID and send her in. Vlad, where is Mr Grechko?’

Vlad Molchanov was in the control centre. ‘Library,’ said Molchanov.

Shepherd thanked Sheena and hurried out of the kitchen and down the corridor to the library. He knocked on the door.

‘What?’ snarled Grechko.

Shepherd pushed open the door. Grechko was sprawled on a sofa with the day’s newspapers laid out over a coffee table. One of his secretaries was sitting at a side table with her pen poised over her notebook. ‘Charlotte Button’s here, sir,’ said Shepherd. ‘She wanted a word with you, remember?’

Grechko growled and looked at his wristwatch, a diamond-encrusted Rolex. ‘What does she want?’

‘She said she wanted to tell you herself, sir. Too important to talk about on the phone.’ Shepherd knew exactly what she wanted but Button had made it clear that she wanted to be the one to have the conversation with Grechko.

Grechko chuckled. ‘That’s right, you can’t trust the phones here. MI5 spend more time eavesdropping on your citizens than the KGB ever did on ours.’ He tossed a copy of the Financial Times on to the table in front of him. ‘OK, show her into the piano room, I’ll meet you there.’

Shepherd closed the door quietly and walked across the hallway, his shoes squeaking on the Italian marble. He opened the front door just as a black Series 7 BMW purred down the driveway. It parked and Button climbed out. ‘I thought you’d have a driver,’ said Shepherd.

‘Those days are long gone,’ said Button. She nodded at the house. ‘How is he today?’

‘Same as always, alternating between that creepy smile and snarling like a bear with a sore head. I think he might be bipolar.’

‘A bipolar bear, now that would be something,’ said Button. She looked up at the house. ‘Now this certainly is something,’ she said.

‘It’s like a bloody hotel,’ said Shepherd. ‘And there’s more of it underground than there is above. All the parking is down there and there’s room for fifty cars on two levels. There’s a gym for the staff and an even bigger one for Grechko and his family, a huge sauna, an indoor pool, a gun range, a cinema, a games room with pretty much every video arcade game ever made, and that’s only the bits I’ve seen. I got the tour but I wasn’t taken everywhere.’

‘A gun range?’ said Button.

‘Yeah. In a country where ownership of handguns is a criminal offence. Funny that. They say that it’s only used for airguns but I’ve seen some of the targets and the holes are bloody big for pellets.’

‘Have you seen any of the bodyguards with guns?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘To be honest the gun range is well soundproofed so I’ve never heard anything being fired. Just seems a funny thing to have in a private house, that’s all. Dmitry showed me airguns and swore blind that’s all they have, but I’d be very surprised if there weren’t a few firearms in the house. Mind you, there’s a full-size tenpin bowling alley and I’ve never seen that being used either.’

He took her inside and down a wood-panelled hall to a set of double-height doors. He pushed them open to reveal a room the size of a basketball court with a Steinway piano at either end and a scattering of ornate sofas and easy chairs. ‘The piano room,’ said Shepherd.

‘Does he play?’

‘No, but the new Mrs Grechko does apparently. She’s still in France.’

There was a large fireplace in the centre of the room, and over it a gilt mirror with mermaids around the edge. There were two large chandeliers each with hundreds of small bulbs, and half a dozen oil paintings that looked as if they had just come from the National Gallery. ‘Does Mrs Grechko do the interior design?’ asked Button, sitting on one of the sofas and crossing her legs at the ankles.

‘Have you seen the new Mrs Grechko?’ asked Shepherd. ‘She’s a twenty-two-year-old former Miss Ukraine, she doesn’t do much of anything other than spend his money.’

Button looked around the room. ‘Well, whoever did this seemed to be going for the Buckingham Palace look,’ she said.

‘He has a team of people who do nothing else but design his homes, his yacht and his planes. They were discussing how big the chandeliers could be on his new jet before turbulence became a factor.’

‘Chandeliers? On a plane?’

‘One of them is going to be above his Jacuzzi,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m still trying to get to grips with the image of him sitting in a hot tub at thirty thousand feet.’

The doors opened and Grechko strode in. Button didn’t get up and the Russian made no move to greet her, he just walked over to the sofa facing her and sat down. He put his hands on his knees and looked at her expectantly. Shepherd went to stand by the fireplace.

‘I’m sorry about coming to see you at such short notice, but we have come across evidence that suggests that the attack against you was perhaps not political.’

Grechko sneered at Button with undisguised contempt. ‘Are you stupid?’ he said. ‘How can it not be political? Those in power, those bastards in the Kremlin, they hate me because of what I have, of what I have achieved.’ He threw up his hands. ‘This is ridiculous. I will speak to your prime minister, it’s as clear as the nose on your face that you have no idea what is going on. Perhaps you are in the wrong job, Miss Button.’

‘Of course, you are perfectly entitled to call the PM and I have no doubt he will listen to your concerns and then he will probably call the head of MI5 who will talk to my boss who will then call me into his office where I will tell him exactly what I’m telling you, because what I’m telling you is the truth. I’m not going to change that truth simply because it’s not something you want to hear. All I ask is that you listen to me and then we can decide how to move forward. Believe me, Mr Grechko, all I want is to make sure that you come to no harm on British soil.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘Or anywhere else, for that matter.’

Grechko continued to glare at her for several seconds, then he flashed her an insincere smile. ‘I am not an unreasonable man,’ he said. ‘And I am not unaware that I am a guest in your country.’ He waved at the coffee table in front of her, a thick slab of crystal on gold legs. ‘Would you like tea? This is the time of day when you English drink tea, is it not?’

‘I think we English will drink tea at any time of the day,’ she said.

‘Excellent,’ said Grechko. He took a small remote control unit from his pocket and pushed a button. Within seconds the double doors to the room were opened by a butler in a crisp black suit. ‘Tea, for two,’ he said. ‘And those little sandwich things.’

The butler, a grey-haired man in his fifties, nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Anything but Earl Grey,’ said Button.

‘Earl Grey?’ repeated the Russian, frowning.

‘I’ve never liked Earl Grey tea,’ said Button with an apologetic smile.

Grechko pointed at the butler. ‘No Earl Grey tea,’ he said.

‘Absolutely, sir,’ murmured the butler, and quietly closed the doors.

‘He worked for Prince Charles for many years,’ said Grechko. ‘He served the Queen many times. Do you know how much the Royal Family pays its butlers?’

Button shook her head. ‘I don’t. Sorry.’

‘Well, I do. A pittance. They treat their staff like serfs. I pay him five times what they paid him. Five times.’

‘I’m sure he appreciates working for you,’ she said.

The Russian’s eyes narrowed as if he was trying to tell whether she was being serious or sarcastic, but then he smiled and chuckled. ‘He does,’ he said. He waved a shovel-like hand at Shepherd, who was still standing by the fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘And you, Tony, sit, please.’

‘I’m on duty, sir, and I’m supposed to be on my feet at all times,’ said Shepherd.

‘Sit!’ said Grechko. ‘I’m sure that I’m safe in my own home.’

Shepherd nodded and sat down on the sofa next to Button. The Russian steepled his fingers under his chin and stared intently at Button, his brow furrowed. ‘So you have come here to tell me that the attack on me was not political, that someone other than the dogs in the Kremlin is after my blood?’

Button bent forward, maintaining eye contact. ‘The attack on you in London recently was clearly professional. But the assassin missed.’

‘Luckily for me,’ said Grechko with a tight smile.

‘Indeed. And like you we put that down to good fortune. It was a difficult shot, even for a skilled marksman. But we hadn’t realised that Oleg Zakharov was the target for another assassination attempt, earlier this year.’

‘Ah yes, poor Oleg. He was a good friend.’

‘A good friend who died recently, in Monte Carlo.’

‘A cocaine overdose.’ Grechko mimed sniffing the drug. ‘He also had a liking for drugs, I warned him many times to be careful.’ He frowned. ‘You think that it wasn’t an accident?’

‘Cocaine overdoses are somewhat unusual,’ said Button. ‘And if as you said he was a frequent user, the police might not look too closely at the death.’

‘Then if it was murder, it was those bastards in the Kremlin,’ spat Grechko. ‘They are filled with jealousy and hatred for what we have achieved.’ He threw up his massive hands. ‘If it was murder, then the death of Oleg proves that we are all targets.’

‘Targets, yes, I understand that, but not necessarily targets of the Russian state,’ said Button. ‘Mr Grechko, why didn’t you mention to me that someone had tried to kill Mr Zakharov?’

‘It was months ago. And it was in Prague.’

‘It was in Prague, yes. A sniper. He missed and a bodyguard was shot in the leg.’

‘Yes, Oleg told me he was lucky.’

‘I wish that you had told us this earlier.’

‘Why do you think it is important?’

‘Because it suggests that a killer was also targeting Mr Zakharov.’

‘So? Doesn’t that make it even more likely that what is happening is political?’

‘We’re not sure, but the fact that there were two failed assassination attempts is of some concern.’

‘Concern?’ repeated Grechko. ‘You are concerned that he missed?’

‘I am concerned that having missed Mr Zakharov, the same sniper also misses you.’

‘You are assuming that it was the same sniper, of course,’ said the Russian.

‘I have checked and the ballistic evidence shows that the same weapon was used,’ said Button. ‘It’s very unlikely that two snipers would use the same weapon. What I am having trouble understanding is why a sniper who failed once is then given a second chance. If I was hiring an assassin and he failed, I doubt that I would give him a second contract.’ She saw the look of surprise on Grechko’s face and added quickly that she was talking hypothetically. Grechko folded his arms and lowered his chin as if deep in thought.

‘Mr Grechko, since we last spoke I have widened my enquiries. You knew Sasha Czernik, is that correct?’

Grechko frowned. ‘Yes, he was a good friend. His heart attack came as a great shock.’

‘Did you know that a month before his heart attack, his security team found a bomb underneath his car?’

‘Sasha had a lot of business rivals,’ said Grechko. ‘He was a Ukrainian, you know? And he refused to leave, said it was his homeland and that was where he wanted to be buried.’ Grechko flashed her a tight smile. ‘He didn’t realise it would happen so quickly, of course. He was only forty-five.’ He shrugged. ‘I told him Kiev was a dangerous place, he should move to London or Paris. New York, even. He had enough money, he could buy citizenship anywhere. I told him he should speak to Murdoch, make an offer for some of his papers. Even in the age of the internet, the men who own the papers make the rules. Isn’t that so?’

Button ignored the question. ‘The point I’m making is that someone tried to kill Mr Czernik. Is it possible that it was the same person who has tried to kill you and who took the life of Mr Zakharov? Can you think of anyone who might have a personal grudge against the three of you? Someone with a military background?’

Grechko shook his head. ‘I don’t think you fully appreciate the position that men like us are in,’ he growled. ‘They want our companies or they want us dead. Or both.’ He looked up, his eyes blazing. ‘This is because we won’t give them what they want.’

‘And what do they want, Mr Grechko?’

‘They are like pigs at a trough,’ said the Russian. ‘All of them. Worse even than the grasping pigs in this country. They see what we have and they want it. In the past we’ve bought them mansions in London, we’ve put millions in Swiss bank accounts for them, we’ve bought businesses for them in Europe and America. Between us, we’ve given those robbers billions of dollars, Miss Button. And still they want more.’

‘And have you been directly threatened by politicians? Have they specifically said they will have you killed if you don’t give them what they want?’

‘They don’t have to say that, we all know how Russia is ruled,’ said Grechko. ‘But now I am protected. And soon I will be a British citizen. Then I will be out of their reach and so will the companies I own.’

The butler returned with a tray laden with a solid silver tea service and two plates of delicately cut sandwiches. The butler poured tea under the Russian’s watchful eye, handed out cups and offered sandwiches before quietly slipping out through the double doors and pulling them closed behind him.

‘Miss Button, I can assure you that if you are looking for the men who want my death, you need look no farther than the Kremlin.’ He looked at his watch pointedly. ‘Now if you will forgive me, I have a lot of work to do.’

‘I quite understand,’ said Button. She got to her feet and offered her hand but Grechko strode past her and out of the room. She looked at Shepherd and raised one eyebrow. ‘Nice,’ she said.

‘He can be a charmer,’ said Shepherd.

He walked with her out of the piano room and along to the front door. ‘I really must get one of those remote control things,’ said Button. ‘You press a button and a butler magically appears.’

‘Not just the butler,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s programmed for all his staff. I think he’d have the bodyguards wearing them if he could but Popov spun him a line about them interfering with our transceivers.’

‘How are you getting on with Popov?’

‘He’s fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s a pro. And I think he realises that I’m on board to help and not to screw him over.’ He opened the front door for her.

‘Security here does seem on the ball,’ said Button. ‘But I don’t see the killer giving up. It’s like the IRA said after they almost killed Margaret Thatcher in Brighton. They only need to be lucky once. We have to be lucky all the time.’

‘Is that true?’ he asked as they reached the car. ‘About Grechko? Is he getting citizenship?’

‘He’s already entitled, the amount of money that he’s invested in this country,’ said Button. ‘Under existing rules an investment of just a million pounds will get you British citizenship and Grechko has invested hundreds of millions here.’

‘And I suppose the fact that he’s pally with the PM won’t hurt.’

‘I can assume that’ll get him fast-tracked,’ said Button. ‘But this isn’t about his connections, it’s purely financial. Let’s face it, Spider, the trouble this country is in economically, we need all the investors like Grechko that we can get.’

‘Even though we know next to nothing about him?’

‘He’ll have to show that he doesn’t have a criminal record,’ said Button.

Shepherd laughed. ‘Yeah, I’m sure that’ll be a problem,’ he said. ‘I wonder how much a clean bill of health will cost?’

Button unlocked the car door and then turned to face him. ‘Is there a problem?’

Shepherd grimaced. ‘I don’t like the man. I don’t like the way he carries himself, I don’t like the way he treats people. He’s an arrogant bully, Charlie, and I don’t think he got to where he is without riding roughshod over a lot of people. Maybe worse.’

‘Russia’s a tough place,’ said Button. ‘You don’t get to the top there by being a shrinking violet.’

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about him, that’s all. We were in Cyprus and he was up to something, flying back and forth with suitcases filled with I don’t know what.’

‘Contraband?’

‘I don’t know. Popov said it was cash. But who knows? You know, I can see that we need to protect him from assassination while he’s on British soil, but I’d be a lot happier if he just went back to Russia. And I don’t understand why we’re offering guys like him the keys to our country. You know this road, half the houses are owned by Russians and most of the rest by Arabs. And at any one time most of the owners aren’t even here.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know why we don’t just put a huge for sale sign up over our country and have done with it.’

Button looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Are you OK?’

‘I’m fine.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s just a bit depressing seeing someone who has so much when you know that most of the population is struggling to just get by. I’ve got to go, Grechko is at the Mayfair Bar tonight so there’s a lot to do.’

‘How much time off are you getting?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because you look tired, Spider. Your eyes are so dark you look like a panda. Are you getting much sleep?’

Shepherd laughed despite himself. ‘I don’t need mothering, Charlie.’

‘No, but you do need time off. There’s no point in you being with Grechko twenty-four-seven if you’re making yourself ill. I understand how stressful this is.’

‘So what are you suggesting? I take a break?’

‘Let me see if I can get someone to share the workload,’ she said. ‘Babysitting Grechko is probably a two-man job until we get the guy that’s after him.’

‘I might know someone,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’m listening.’

‘Former Regiment guy. Jock McIntyre. He’s left the SAS and is working security now but it wouldn’t take much to get him to join me. I could probably get Grechko to pay his wages, too. But he’d need to know that he was on board with your approval because he only trusts his own people.’

‘Why did this McIntyre leave?’

‘He’s put in close to twenty years. Honourable discharge and all that. Bloody good operator, I was with him in Afghanistan.’

‘And he’s up to speed on personal protection?’

‘Like I said, he’s working security at the moment. I can vouch for him.’ Shepherd knew that he wasn’t actually lying to Button, but he was definitely stretching the truth. But she was right, he did need back-up, and it would be useful having McIntyre close by rather than having him running back and forth from Reading.

‘Let me run a background check on him and I’ll let you know. Have you got his date of birth?’

‘I’ll text you later today,’ said Shepherd.

Button nodded and climbed into the car. ‘You take care, Spider,’ she said. ‘And try at least to get a few early nights.’

She closed the door and started the engine. Shepherd waved at the guard in the guardhouse and as the car purred down the driveway the massive black gates swung open.

As Shepherd walked back to the house, he phoned Jock McIntyre. ‘Jock, fancy a bit of real work?’

‘What do you have in mind?’

‘Helping me babysit that Russian I told you about. I can probably get you a couple of hundred quid a day. It means you can stay in London while we handle the other thing.’

‘I’m your man,’ said McIntyre. ‘Anything to get me out of this bloody office block. It’s doing my head in.’

‘OK, first things first. I need your date of birth and your National Insurance number, they’ll want to run a check on you. You haven’t been in trouble, have you?’

McIntyre chuckled. ‘I’ve been as good as gold, mate.’

‘Terrific. Text me those numbers and make sure you’ve got a half-decent suit. I’ll call you when it’s sorted. You can live in, the security guys have their own quarters.’

‘This is getting better by the minute,’ said McIntyre.

Shepherd ended the call and weighed the phone in his hand as he headed around to the rear of the house. He hoped that he hadn’t made a mistake in trusting McIntyre. But at least Shepherd would be able to keep an eye on him while he was based at Grechko’s mansion. And he would be close at hand when the time came to move against Ahmad Khan.

Two days after Shepherd had given the iPad and tracking device to Shortt, he got a late night phone call from Harper. ‘All done,’ said Harper, ‘Are you up for a meet?’

‘Tonight?’ Shepherd looked at his watch. It was just after ten and he’d only just arrived back at his flat.

‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ said Harper.

‘Can’t we at least meet in a pub?’ said Shepherd. ‘This park thing is getting on my nerves.’

‘I can get a cab to yours if that’s easier,’ said Harper. ‘Got anything decent to drink?’

‘Few bottles of lager and a bottle of Jamesons.’

‘Jamesons will do. With ice. Text me the address and I’ll come on over.’

Shepherd’s door entry system buzzed less than half an hour later and he pressed the button to open the downstairs door. Harper waited until he was in the flat before taking off his parka. He tossed it on a chair and pulled a face as he looked around. ‘Bloody hell, mate, they’re clearly not paying you enough to be a spook.’

‘It’s a cover flat,’ said Shepherd, pouring slugs of whiskey into two glasses.

Harper went over to look at the framed photographs of Shepherd. In a couple he was in police uniform, and in one he was in full CO19 gear. ‘Photoshop?’ he said.

‘Nah, I dressed up for that picture a few years ago,’ said Shepherd, dropping ice into the glasses and adding soda to his own.

Harper went over to study the contents of Shepherd’s bookshelves. ‘So who are you? In case anyone asks?’

‘Tony Ryan, Specialist Firearms Officer with the Met,’ said Shepherd, handing one of the glasses to Harper.

Harper raised it in salute. ‘Nice to meet you, Tony,’ he said, and drank half of it before dropping down on to the sofa. ‘So you have full ID, driving licence, passport, all in the name of this Ryan.’

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd, sitting down. ‘But before you even ask, the answer’s no, I can’t get paperwork for you.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of asking,’ said Harper. ‘Besides, I’ve got my own people for that.’ He reached over to his parka and pulled a folded sheet of paper from the pocket. He gave it to Shepherd and leant back, stretching out his legs. ‘So, Ahmad Khan has a job. He works at an Asian supermarket in Shepherd’s Bush. Big place, a lot of restaurants use it, cash and carry. Jimbo did a walk around and saw him stacking shelves and a while later he was manning one of the cash registers. He got there at eight in the morning and left at seven.’

‘He drove there?’

Harper nodded. ‘Parked around the back in a staff parking area. It’s not overlooked so it’d be a perfect place to pick him up, either first thing when he arrives or later when he’s leaving. We could be there with a van and he’d be in the back before he had any idea what was going on.’

‘What’s his home situation?’

Harper grinned. ‘Yeah, Jimbo did his secret squirrel thing while Khan was at the supermarket.’ He nodded at the piece of paper. ‘The details are there. His daughter was at home and she was happy enough to talk to him. Her name’s Najela and she’s nineteen.’

‘Definitely the daughter?’

‘That’s what she said. And her English is good, Jimbo said. She’s a student studying at a local college.’

‘What about her mother?’

‘Just the two of them. Jimbo asked about the mother but all she said was that she was dead.’

‘And she’s from Afghanistan?’

Harper nodded. ‘Kabul,’ she said. ‘She said her father was a teacher and left after he’d been persecuted by the Taliban.’

‘Well, that’s a crock,’ said Shepherd.

‘Khan isn’t short of money. They’re renting the house and have been for five years or so. Najela works part time at a Citizens Advice Bureau and she’s a translator for the local council.’

Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. ‘Anything else?’

‘That’s it, pretty much. Jimbo said he didn’t want to push it too hard. So we do it, right? We pick him up and we slot him?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘We need ammo,’ he said.

‘Ammo’s not a problem,’ said Harper. ‘I know a man.’

‘It’s got to be totally untraceable,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s no point in using weapons from Afghanistan if the ammo points to Brixton gangbangers.’

‘Give me some credit, Spider. I’m not a virgin at this.’

‘You know about the Makarov specs, right?’

‘You mean 9.22 millimetre? Sure.’ He grinned. ‘I’m not the wet-behind-the-ears Para you knew back in Afghanistan. I’ve come on a bit since then.’

‘Apologies,’ said Shepherd. ‘But you’re sure you can get it?’

‘Russian stuff has been flooding into this country ever since the Soviet Union fell apart,’ said Harper. ‘Cheap, too. Your average gangbanger wants a nice shiny Glock or an Ingram or a Uzi. He thinks a Russian gun isn’t as cool because he doesn’t see them up on the big screen. Now your Bosnians and Serbs are quite happy to use a Russian gun, and London is full of them. Getting ammo will be a breeze. What about the longs? Do you want to use them?’

‘AKs are noisy,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can make suppressors for the shorts but there’s nothing you can do to quieten a Kalashnikov.’

‘We don’t have to fire them. Just the look of an AK tends to make people do as they’re told.’

‘The voice of experience?’

Harper laughed. ‘What can I say?’

‘It seems like overkill,’ said Shepherd. ‘I assume we’re doing this up close and personal. If we were planning a drive-by the AK would be the weapon of choice, but we’re not.’

‘Four men, two guns, doesn’t seem right, that’s all.’

‘There’s concealment, too. Even with the folding stock, the AK-47 is a big weapon. You could tuck it under an overcoat but even so it’s bulky.’

‘Might be useful if armed cops show up.’

Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’

Harper leaned over and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Of course I am, you daft sod.’

‘Because we’re not getting into a shoot-out with cops.’ He pointed a finger at Harper. ‘Any sign of cops and we run like the wind. Same with collateral damage – there isn’t to be any. We don’t hurt his family, we don’t hurt passers-by, and we certainly don’t hurt cops. I think we should pick him up, in a vehicle, and take him somewhere quiet. And we have to think about the body.’

‘We should bury him with a pig, or at least a pork chop in his mouth,’ said Harper.

‘Behave, Lex. We need to bury it somewhere where it’ll never be found.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Harper.

‘I’m serious, Lex.’

‘I know you are, mate. And I’m with you one hundred per cent. But let me make a suggestion. The two Russian shorts are perfect for the job. Like you said, they’ll muddy the waters. But we need four guns. I’ll pick up two more when I buy the ammo.’

‘They mustn’t be traceable.’

‘They won’t be. I know a gangbanger south of the river who does them on sale or return.’

‘That’ll work. But make sure you don’t get stitched up.’

‘I trust these guys, it’ll be fine. Do you have a preference?’

‘Go for revolvers, that way we’re not picking up cartridges.’

‘Consider it done.’ He drained his glass, stood up and patted Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘I’ll give you a call when it’s done.’

Shepherd looked up at him. ‘How are you fixed for cash?’

Harper chuckled. ‘You offering me a handout?’

‘You’ve got a thing about ID so I’m assuming you don’t use ATMs, or banks.’

‘I’ve got a few internet bank accounts but you’re right, most ATMs these days have cameras. I use safety deposit boxes. And hawala.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘About the safety deposit boxes? Sure. I’ve got three in London, packed with cash, gold and a passport or two.’ He took his pack of cigarettes out and slipped one in his mouth.

‘You know what I mean. Hawala.’

Harper tilted his head and lit the cigarette. He blew smoke before answering. ‘You don’t have to be a Muslim to use hawala,’ he said. ‘Plenty of places in Thailand that’ll take my cash,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a mate who dropped off a million baht with a guy in Pattaya yesterday. Today I can pick it up in sterling at any one of half a dozen places close to my hotel in Bayswater. Don’t even have to use ID if I don’t want to.’

‘How does that work?’

‘It’s buyer’s choice,’ said Harper. ‘If you want to use a driving licence or a passport as an ID to collect, that’s OK. But you can use a number, too. Produce the number, get the money. No questions asked.’

‘And you’ve never been ripped off?’

‘Other than the commission charge, nope. The hawala system is more reliable than the banking system. Quicker, too.’ He grinned. ‘So I’ve no problems with money, thanks for asking. And the guns and ammo, they’re on me.’

Shepherd’s mobile rang and he picked it up. It was Button. ‘I’ve got to take this,’ he said, and hurried over to the kitchen.

‘Sorry to bother you so late but I’ve just heard back about your friend,’ she said. ‘Interesting chap, this McIntyre.’ Shepherd could tell from her tone that there was more to come, so he didn’t say anything. ‘You didn’t mention his drinking,’ said Button eventually.

‘Everyone drinks,’ said Shepherd.

‘But not everyone gets into fights with civilians in pubs,’ said Button.

‘Hereford’s funny like that,’ said Shepherd. ‘The town’s proud of its association with the SAS, but you get more than your fair share of local hard men trying to prove how hard they are. It happened to all of us at some point – you’re having a quiet drink and some idiot on steroids will ask you if you’re SAS and why you’re not wearing your balaclava and did you come in through the window and all that nonsense, and you know it’s leading up to the “so how hard are you?” question and then fists start flying.’

‘And how do you handle that?’

‘I never got to that stage,’ said Shepherd. ‘I always used to say I sold life insurance and if that didn’t work I’d just walk away.’

‘Pity that Mr McIntyre didn’t use the same technique,’ said Button. ‘He’s been in a few scrapes, I see.’

‘He’s a highly trained soldier who’s seen action in some of the world’s most dangerous places,’ said Shepherd. ‘Iraq, Afghanistan, Sierra Leone. You’ve got to expect him to blow off a little steam every now and again.’

‘And you said he was in the security business?’ Shepherd winced in anticipation of what he knew was coming. ‘You failed to mention that he was a security guard and that he spends most of his time sitting at a reception desk in an office building in Reading.’

‘He’s working. A job’s a job.’

‘Look, I get that he’s a friend, and I get that you served together in the SAS. But are you absolutely sure he’s up for close personal protection with a man like Peter Grechko?’

‘I’m sure,’ said Shepherd, but even as he said the words there was a nagging doubt at the back of his mind and he remembered the way that McIntyre’s hand had shaken as he’d poured whisky in his miserable little room.

‘He’s to stay off the booze,’ said Button.

‘He knows that.’

‘And he’s to keep quiet about his SAS background, I don’t want him getting all competitive with Grechko’s people.’

‘No problem.’

‘And I need you to keep a close eye on him. He’s your responsibility.’

‘He’ll do just fine. And I’ll feel happier with him around. I can rely on Jock one hundred per cent, which is something I can’t say for Grechko’s security team.’

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Button.

‘They’re clearly not happy about having an outsider telling them what to do,’ he said. ‘Let’s just say that if Grechko is ever in the firing line, I’ll be the one thrown in front of the bullet.’

Button laughed. ‘Well, make sure you’re wearing a vest,’ she said. ‘OK, I’ll go with you on this. He’s worked undercover before?’

‘We all do undercover scenarios during selection,’ said Shepherd. ‘And he’s been on undercover ops.’

‘Then I’ll put together a legend and email it to you,’ she said. ‘We’ll have him down as a security expert with a military background and I’ll tell Grechko that we’ve used him before and that he’s there as a back-up.’

‘As soon as you’ve done that, I’ll take him over to the house,’ said Shepherd. ‘He can bunk down with Grechko’s team. He was one of the SAS’s linguists and he speaks reasonable Russian so that’ll be useful.’

‘Just make sure he knows he’s to be on his best behaviour,’ said Button.

The line went dead. Shepherd went back into the sitting room. Harper was grinning like a naughty schoolboy. ‘What?’ he said.

‘Your voice changes,’ said Harper.

‘What do you mean?’

‘That was your boss, right? The woman?’

‘Charlie, yeah.’

Harper’s grin widened. ‘Well, your voice changes when you talk to her. It goes softer. Lovey-dovey, in fact. It’s like she gets you in touch with your feminine side.’

‘Bollocks,’ said Shepherd.

‘Just saying, it’s nice to see a softer, gentler Spider, that’s all,’ said Harper.

‘Carry on taking the piss like this and I’ll show you my softer side all right,’ said Shepherd. ‘Charlie Button’s my boss, end of.’ He could see from the look on Harper’s face that he didn’t believe him and that there was no point in trying to convince him otherwise. He sighed and poured another slug of Jamesons into his glass.

Harper spent the next day holed up in his hotel watching television and eating pizza delivered by Domino’s. The Polish lady who cleaned the rooms seemed happy enough when he told her that he’d make his own bed and that he didn’t need a change of towels. He waited until it was dark before heading out and as always kept his head down and his parka hood up as he walked along the street. He let three black cabs go by him before holding up his arm and flagging down the fourth. He waited until he had climbed in the back before telling the driver where he wanted to go – a street close to Clapham railway station. It was starting to get dark and most vehicles had switched on their lights. He took out his cigarettes but then saw the no smoking sign on the glass panel behind the driver’s head. He settled back in his seat as the cab crawled over the Thames.

The street lights were on when the cab dropped him off. He kept his head down as he walked along the street, his hands thrust deep in the pockets of his parka. It was a rough area, where the cops tended to drive by mob-handed in grey vans, and where street muggings happened so often that they weren’t even mentioned in the local paper. A stabbing would be dismissed in a couple of paragraphs and the paper had long since given up printing police requests for witnesses as no one ever came forward.

There were two large black men in Puffa jackets standing in front of the house. It was in the middle of a run-down terrace and one of the few that hadn’t been converted into flats. The two men were both wearing wraparound sunglasses and leather gloves and they stared at Harper with unsmiling faces as he walked along the pavement towards them. The bigger of the two men, his shaved head glistening in the light from a street lamp just feet away, clenched and unclenched his fists.

Harper kept his head down until he was right in front of them, then he looked up at the bigger man and grinned. ‘Bloody hell, T-Bone, you’re not planning to stick one on me, are you?’

The big man’s face creased into a grin. ‘Lex bloody Harper? Fuck me, a blast from the past.’ He stepped forward and grabbed Harper before hugging him to his massive chest. Harper gasped as the big man forced the air from his lungs.

‘Steady, mate, don’t break me,’ said Harper.

‘Fuck me, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ said T-Bone, as he released him. ‘How long’s it been? Three years? Four?’ He put a hand around the back of his neck and squeezed.

‘Four, I guess,’ said Harper. He shook hands with T-Bone, and then bumped shoulders.

T-Bone looked at his companion, who was watching them with amusement. ‘This here’s Lex Harper, aka Harpic.’

‘You’re the only one who calls me that,’ said Harper,

‘Because you’re clean round the bend,’ laughed T-Bone, thumping Harper on the shoulder. ‘This here’s Jelly.’

Jelly reached out with a hand the size of a small shovel and shook with Harper. ‘You buying?’ asked Jelly as he bumped shoulders with Harper. He had his Puffa jacket open and a gold medallion the size of a saucer dangled in the middle of his chest from a thick gold chain. There were heavy gold rings, most of them sovereigns, on each of his fingers, though they looked to Harper to be more like makeshift knuckledusters than decoration.

T-Bone laughed. ‘Harpic here don’t need to buy gear from us, he’s big-time. He’s a player. Isn’t that right, Harpic? You’re a player now.’ He gestured at Harper’s parka and grinned at Jelly. ‘Don’t let the homeless threads fool you. He’s worth millions.’

‘Good to see my PR’s doing a decent job,’ said Harper. ‘Actually I need something. Is Perry in?’

‘Yeah, ’course,’ said T-Bone.

A black Golf drove down the road, rap music booming through its open windows. They all turned to look as the car drove by. There were four black teenagers in baseball caps but they were laughing and passing a joint around and T-Bone and Jelly relaxed.

‘Everything OK?’ asked Harper.

‘We’re having a bit of a turf war with some Somalians but it’s all good,’ said T-Bone. He clapped Harper on the shoulder. ‘Come on, I’ll take you in, but stay behind me and I’ll pull Perry’s chain.’

He opened the front door and walked down a purple-painted hallway. He walked like a weightlifter on his way to attempt a personal best, his arms bent at the elbows and swinging in time with his steps. Harper followed. He could smell the distinctive aroma of smouldering marijuana and from upstairs came the pounding beat of a Bob Marley track.

T-Bone stopped at a door and pushed it open. From inside, Harper heard the rat-tat-tat of a video game being played at full volume. ‘Hey, Perry, remember that Scottish prick you keep talking about. What was his name? Your old mate. The one who went out to Spain?’

‘Lex? Lex Harper.’

‘Yeah, Lex. Turns out he’s a grass.’

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

‘He’s spilling his guts to Five-O. He’s a bloody supergrass.’

‘No fucking way.’

‘That’s the word. I always knew he was a bad ’un.’ T-Bone slapped his hand against the wall.

‘Lex Harper? A grass? You sure about this?’

‘Sure enough to put a bullet in his head next time I see him.’ T-Bone stepped into the room. ‘Bloody grass.’

The room went quiet as the video game was paused. ‘This is bullshit,’ said Perry Smith.

‘You always said you never trusted him, remember?’

‘T-Bone, what the fuck are you on?’

Harper heard footsteps and then T-Bone moved to the side so that Perry could see him. Perry flinched and took a step backwards, then burst into laughter, revealing a mouthful of gold teeth. ‘Lex, you bastard!’ he shouted.

Harper pushed the hood of his parka down. ‘Long time, no see, mate,’ he said. The two men hugged, then Smith put his hands on Harper’s shoulders and held him at arm’s length as he stared at him, shaking his head in amazement. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Just wanted to see the new pad. You’re coming up in the world, aren’t you? This is better than that rathole you used to have in Streatham.’

The two men hugged again and Smith patted him on the back, hard. Smith grinned at T-Bone. ‘I knew you were pulling my chain, bastard,’ he said. ‘Lex here’s one of the best.’ He released his grip on Harper and waved to one of three sofas around a square coffee table that was home to three tall bongs and a large silver bowl piled high with a white powder. Above the table was a white paper spherical lampshade that must have been three feet across.

A huge TV dominated one wall, with a heavily armed trooper in mid-flow, blowing apart two men holding rocket launchers. Harper laughed. ‘Still one for the video games, Perry?’ he said as he sat down.

Perry laughed back. ‘It’s training, innit?’ He sat down next to Harper and pointed at the cocaine. ‘Help yourself.’ He flashed T-Bone a thumbs-up and the heavy headed back to the front door. ‘Hell, man, it’s great to see you. When was the last time?’

‘Brixton. Four years ago. The Fridge.’

Smith laughed. ‘That’s right. But it ain’t the Fridge no more. Electric Brixton they call it now.’

‘Yeah? A rose by any other name, yeah?’

‘You introduced me to the Dutchman there, remember? Seven years ago. Vouched for me and that. That made me a stack of money, man. That connection made me.’

‘Glad to have helped, Perry.’

‘I’m serious, man. You always looked out for me.’

‘And vice versa, mate.’

There was a glossy magazine with a razor blade and a silver tube the size of a biro on it. Harper pulled it closer to him and used the blade to take a dollop of cocaine from the bowl. He used small, economical movements to divide the powder into four equal lines and then used the tube to snort up two of the lines. He felt the kick almost immediately and sat back, nodding his approval. ‘That’s good,’ he said. A second wave coursed through his bloodstream stronger than the first. ‘Very good.’

‘Only the best for you, brother,’ said Smith. He pulled the magazine towards him and did the remaining two lines. ‘So where’s your money these days? I’ve had to close down my Isle of Man accounts, and my Swiss accounts. And I hear the EU is after Jersey now.’

Harper shrugged. ‘I’m spreading it around,’ he said. ‘I’m putting a lot in property owned by offshore companies. You can’t trust the banks any more. And gold. Gold in safe deposit boxes is the way to go.’

‘Funny old world, innit? First cash was king, then they made us jump through hoops to get it in the banking system, and now we’re trying to get out the banks.’

Harper laughed. ‘Don’t get me started, mate,’ he said. ‘I reckon it’s a global conspiracy.’

Smith piled more cocaine on to the magazine and split it into four lines. ‘So to what do I owe the pleasure?’ he said. ‘I mean, always great to see you, Lex, but I’m assuming you want something.’

Harper rubbed the bridge of his nose. He could feel his pulse racing as the cocaine coursed through his veins. He had a sudden urge to get up and walk around but he knew that was just the drug talking and he ignored it. ‘I’ve been away for a while and I need some chrome.’

‘Thought you always used Ks?’

Harper grinned. ‘That was back in the day. I need something small but with a kick. Can you help me out?’

‘Open all hours,’ said Smith, leaning over the magazine and snorting up one of the lines. ‘You know me. You getting back into the blagging game?’

Harper shook his head. ‘Nah, this is personal.’

Smith snorted a second line and then sat back, his eyes wide.

‘T-Bone can sort you out, I can’t keep it on the premises, Five-O keep kicking my door open. Looking for drugs, they say.’ Smith laughed and wiped the back of his nose with his hand.

‘Do they ever find any?’ asked Harper.

Smith waved at the remaining lines of cocaine. Harper grinned, reached for one of the tubes and snorted two lines, one up each nostril. ‘We’re always clean as a whistle because we know when they’re coming.’

Harper took a deep breath and blinked a couple of times. It was very good coke. As good as anything he’d had before. ‘Where did you get this from?’ he asked.

‘The Serbs,’ Smith said. ‘They’ve got a deal going with one of the Colombian cartels.’ He laughed and squeezed Harper’s knee, hard enough to hurt. ‘But if you want to place an order, Lex, you talk to me. You hear?’

‘Loud and clear,’ said Harper. ‘But I was just asking. I don’t do much coke, and definitely not out of South America. The DEA’s all over that bit of the hemisphere and they’re bad news.’

‘I only deal with the Serbs, and they’re cool.’

‘Yeah, everybody’s cool until the DEA starts offering deals,’ said Harper. ‘I’m sticking with dope these days, pretty much. That’s practically legal now. And E. Can’t go wrong with E.’

‘Coke’s where the money is, though,’ said Smith. ‘Coke and crack.’ He stretched out his arms and arched his back. ‘Still in Spain?’

‘Some of the time.’

Smith laughed. ‘You always did play your cards close to your chest, man,’ he said, and squeezed his knee again. ‘You need any help with this personal matter then you call me, you hear me?’

‘I hear you,’ said Harper. ‘But this one is complicated. There’s a few other guys involved.’ He stood up and held out his arms. Smith stood up and the two men hugged.

Smith walked Harper to the front door and hugged him again before showing him out. Another heavy had joined Jelly on the doorstep and they both watched as T-Bone and Harper walked over to T-Bone’s black Porsche SUV. ‘Nice motor,’ said Harper. T-Bone climbed in and Harper joined him. ‘I’m thinking of getting a Bentley. The convertible.’

Harper laughed. ‘A black man in a Bentley? Why don’t you just draw a target on your back?’

‘They pull me over whatever I’m driving,’ said T-Bone, starting the engine. ‘But they never find nothing.’ He waved over at the two men outside the house and they nodded back. T-Bone drove to Streatham and parked in front of a row of six brick-built lock-up garages with metal doors and corrugated iron roofs in an alley a short distance from the town centre. He switched off the engine and the two men climbed out of the SUV and looked around. There was the hum of traffic in the distance but other than that it was quite. There was half a moon overhead but there were no street lights and it took Harper’s eyes a while to get accustomed to the dark. T-Bone opened the back of the Porsche and took out a large black Magnalite torch. He switched it on but kept it pointing at the ground as he walked over to one of the lock-ups in the middle of the row. He pulled a set of keys from his Puffa jacket, selected one and used it to unlock the door. It went up and over but T-Bone raised it only a few feet before ducking under and waving at Harper to follow him.

There were four metal trunks lined up in the middle of the lock-up and a stack of wooden packing cases against the far wall. There was a cloying, damp smell mixed with an acrid tang that suggested an animal had been using the place as a toilet.

‘Pull the door down,’ said T-Bone.

‘You’re not going to rape me, are you?’ asked Harper.

‘With your straggly white arse? You couldn’t be farther from being my type if you’d been on a plane for twelve hours,’ said T-Bone. ‘Now stop pissing around and pull the door down so I can switch the light on.’

Harper did as he was told and once the door hit the ground T-Bone flicked a switch and a solitary fluorescent light flickered into life. He switched off the torch and slid it into his pocket. ‘So what do you need, Harpic?’

‘A couple of revolvers,’ said Harper. ‘Russian would be good. And if you really wanted to make my day, I’d love a couple of Makarovs. Failing that a revolver, but again I’d prefer Russian.’

‘Bloody hell, Harpic, when did you get so fussy?’

‘It’s a special situation. Can do?’

T-Bone frowned and shook his head. ‘Sorry. I don’t have any Makarovs. I do have a few Russian pistols but they’re semi-automatics.’

‘Nah, I need revolvers.’

‘I’ve got a couple of Colt KingCobras.’

‘How long are the barrels?’

‘Six inches.’

Harper pulled a face. ‘I’m looking for something to easily pull out of a pocket.’

T-Bone nodded. ‘I’ve got some very nice Smith & Wessons, the Five Hundred short barrel. Four-inch barrel, only holds five rounds but it packs one hell of a punch. Five-hundred calibre, weighs almost three pounds.’

‘That’s heavy,’ said Harper.

‘Yeah, well, like I said, it packs a punch.’

‘Maybe something a bit more traditional.’

T-Bone nodded and bent over one of the trunks. He released two catches and opened the lid to reveal several dozen packages in see-through Ziploc plastic bags. ‘How about a Smith & Wesson Model 629?’ he said, rooting through the packages. ‘It’s a .44 Magnum. It only holds six rounds but it has a three-inch barrel.’ He passed a package over to Harper and straightened up with a grunt. ‘I’ve got some Model 627s as well. They take eight rounds but the barrel is an inch longer.’

Harper unzipped the bag and took out the gun. It was wrapped in oiled cloth and looked brand new. ‘It weighs forty-two ounces,’ said T-Bone. ‘You won’t get much lighter than that, not without losing a lot of stopping power.’

Harper weighed the gun in his palm. ‘This feels OK,’ he said. He looked down the sights and then flicked the cylinder open and closed. ‘Yeah, I like this. You’ve got two?’

T-Bone bent down, rooted through a package and pulled one out. ‘There you go.’

‘Price?’

‘A grand and a half.’

‘For the pair?’

‘Each.’

‘Three grand?’

‘Maths is clearly your strong suit, yeah?’

‘Three grand for two guns?’

‘They’re mint. Never been fired. They were stolen from a gun shop in LA last year. Absolutely untraceable. Take them away for three grand and if you don’t fire them I’ll pay you fifteen hundred to take them back.’

‘Rounds?’

‘What do you want?’

‘A box’ll be fine.’

‘Box of twenty? You can have that for free. We got a deal?’

Harper nodded. ‘Yeah, we’ve got a deal.’ He put down the gun and took a envelope from the inside pocket of his parka. He rippled his finger over the fifty-pound notes it contained until he had counted out sixty of them. He handed them over to T-Bone. ‘I need something else, ammo-wise,’ he said. ‘I need rounds for a Makarov.’

‘You’ve got a thing for Russian guns?’ said T-Bone, pocketing the cash.

‘For this particular gun, yeah. I just need a box of ammo.’

‘Small gun, right? Nine-mill?’ He closed the lid of the trunk and opened another. It was full of boxes of ammunition.

‘It’s more complicated than that,’ said Harper. ‘They talk about the Makarov being a nine-millimetre but the round is actually 9.22. The Russkies did that deliberately so the NATO forces couldn’t use captured Soviet ammunition.’

‘Smart.’ T-Bone picked up a box of shells and tossed them to Harper.

‘Paranoid, more like. Plus it meant they wouldn’t be able to use any ammo they took from NATO soldiers. So six of one, really.’

‘But what you’re saying is that it needs special ammo?’ He closed the lid of the trunk.

‘Yeah. Have you got any?’

T-Bone shook his head. ‘Nah, but I can probably get some. Let me make a call.’

He took out his flashlight and switched it on, then switched off the fluorescent light. Harper pulled the door up and they both slipped underneath it and out into the alley. T-Bone locked the door. ‘You get in the car,’ he said to Harper. ‘I’ll make that call.’

T-Bone drove to Shepherd’s Bush. The Porsche’s satnav told them that they were arriving at their destination and Harper shook his head in disgust. ‘You’ve got to be careful with those things, T-Bone,’ he said. ‘The cops can use them to find out wherever you’ve been.’ They were heading for a supermarket with a large car park. The supermarket was open twenty-four hours a day but it was almost eleven o’clock and there were only a few cars there.

‘Don’t see how else I’d have found this place, it’s well out of my comfort zone,’ said T-Bone.

‘I’m just saying, it stores every location you’ve ever been to and the route you used.’ He gestured at the screen. ‘And here’s the thing, it does that even if it’s switched off.’

‘Bullshit,’ growled T-Bone.

‘I kid you not. You think the thing’s off but it’s not. And it’s all in there. Same as your mobile. Switching it off makes no difference. And the spooks, man, they can listen in to a phone even when it’s off.’

‘Says who?’

‘Says me, and I know people. People who know. The only way to silence a phone is to take out the battery. It used to be that you could get away with just changing SIM cards, but now it’s the phone itself they use. Once they’ve got the IMEI number, they’ve got you.’

‘IMEI?’

‘International Mobile Station Equipment Identity. Every phone has one. You can check yours by tapping in star hash zero six hash. Now in the good old days they tracked the IMSI number which is stored on the SIM. But now they go after the IMEI. And like I said, switching off the phone doesn’t help.’

‘So what do you do, Harpic?’

‘Me? I buy cheap phones and chuck them every couple of weeks.’

They saw a grey Range Rover parked at the far end of the supermarket car park with its lights off. ‘That’s them,’ said T-Bone.

‘They’ve come all the way out here for a box of ammo?’

‘We do a lot of business with them and I’m due a favour or two,’ said T-Bone. He brought the car to a halt about fifty feet away from the Range Rover.

‘How much do I owe you?’

T-Bone laughed. ‘It’s on me,’ he said. ‘I overcharged you on the guns.’ He switched off his lights.

‘I know,’ said Harper. ‘But as I was paying with counterfeit notes, I figured what the hell.’

T-Bone’s hand was halfway inside his Puffa jacket when he realised that Harper was joking. ‘You stay here. They’re not great with new faces.’ T-Bone climbed out of the SUV, flexed his shoulders, and walked slowly and purposefully over to the Range Rover.

Harper looked around. A young woman walked out of the store pushing a trolley laden with carrier bags. A bearded old man in a cheap cloth coat and a piece of rope for a belt spoke to her, presumably asking for a handout, but she hurried past. A white van pulled into the car park and stopped in a handicapped space. The fat man in blue overalls who climbed out of the van didn’t appear to have any disabilities as he strode into the supermarket.

Harper looked back at the Range Rover. T-Bone was still walking slowly towards it, his hands swinging freely, his gloved hands clenching and unclenching like those of a cowboy preparing for a fast draw. For the first time the vulnerability of his situation struck home. He was in someone else’s car, in a place he wasn’t familiar with, while a drug-dealing gangster walked towards a car full of people he didn’t know who were almost certainly armed. Harper trusted T-Bone but he didn’t know the men in the Range Rover. Plus T-Bone had three thousand pounds in his pocket. Harper fumbled one of the packages out of his pocket. He unzipped the plastic bag and unwrapped the cloth to reveal the chromed revolver. The box of rounds was in his inside pocket and he pulled it open. The box was sealed and he used his teeth to rip off the plastic wrapping before pulling it open. He flicked out the cylinder and quickly slotted in six rounds. He clicked the cylinder back into place and slid the box back into his inside pocket. He sat with the gun between his legs, his finger outside the trigger guard, as he watched T-Bone walk up to the Range Rover. The window wound down and Harper tensed. His brain went into overdrive as he breathed slowly and evenly, his mind running through all the options. T-Bone had left the keys in the Porsche so if push came to shove he could jump over into the driving seat and drive off. But T-Bone was a friend, and a good one, so if it did all turn to shit Harper would have no choice other than to get out of the car and start shooting. And he was all too aware of how few rounds he had in the revolver. Six shots were more than enough to put down a man, but they wouldn’t be much use against a sturdy vehicle like a Range Rover.

The cocaine he’d taken with Smith still had all his senses in overdrive and he took slow, deep breaths to steady himself as he watched T-Bone take out a handful of banknotes and hand them through the front passenger window of the Range Rover. Harper tensed. If it was going to happen it was going to happen now. His right hand tightened on the gun and his left reached over for the door handle. He’d already decided what he was going to do – if they shot T-Bone he’d be out of the car before his friend hit the ground, two quick shots at the driver through the windscreen as he walked towards the car and then he’d have to play it by ear, making each of the remaining four shots count. The gun began to tremble between his legs and he took another deep breath.

T-Bone’s hand reappeared, this time holding a small box. Harper caught a flash of white teeth and then T-Bone nodded and turned back to the Porsche. After a few steps the Range Rover’s lights came on full beam, blinding Harper. He flinched and turned away, expecting a hail of bullets, but they never came. The headlights dipped and the Range Rover edged towards the exit.

Harper shoved the gun in his pocket as T-Bone pulled open the door and slid into the driving seat. He slammed the door shut and tossed the box of Russian cartridges into Harper’s lap. He looked down at the footwell and saw the scraps of plastic from the ammunition box. ‘You OK, Harpic?’

‘All good, T-Bone,’ said Harper.

‘You don’t need to be paranoid all the time. There are some good people out there.’ The Range Rover blipped its horn and turned into the main road.

‘Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me,’ said Harper, pulling up the hood and settling back in his seat.

Shepherd’s mobile rang and he groped around for it. He was lying on his sofa watching an old Van Damme movie on Sky. Van Damme was undercover but no one seemed to care that he had a Belgian accent or a very dodgy haircut. Shepherd squinted at the phone’s display but the number was being withheld. ‘Yeah?’ he said.

‘It’s me,’ said a voice. Lex Harper.

‘Hello, you.’

‘I need to see you.’

‘Bloody hell, it’s almost midnight.’

‘I’ve got something for you. Can’t have them hanging around my place, there’s some very shady characters staying there.’

‘I’ve got to be up at six.’

‘You’re way past the stage of needing your beauty sleep. It’ll only take a few minutes.’

‘No offence, mate, but I’m not over the moon about you popping around to the flat late at night. Once was OK but it’s not cool to make a habit of it. I’ve got neighbours and there’s a little old lady opposite who’s big with the Neighbourhood Watch.’

‘No problem. I can meet you on the Heath.’

‘At this time of night? They’ll think we’re cottaging.’

‘I’ll see you at Preacher’s Hill,’ said Harper. ‘It’s well away from Jack Straw’s Castle so no cottaging there. I’m here now and there’s no sign of George Michael. Put on your running gear and pop over. And don’t forget your rucksack full of bricks.’

Harper ended the call. Shepherd groaned and rolled off the sofa. He was wearing a polo shirt and jeans so he quickly changed into an old sweatshirt and baggy tracksuit bottoms and pulled on the old pair of trainers. His rucksack was still in Hereford but he had a small Nike backpack in his bedroom and he put that on before heading out. Preacher’s Hill was just a few minutes from his flat, a small triangular section of woodland separated from the main Heath by East Heath Road.

Harper was already sitting on a bench, not far from a children’s playground, smoking a cigarette, his face obscured by the hood of his parka. Shepherd sat down next to him. ‘Yeah, this is good, two men sitting by a kiddies’ playground, that won’t attract attention,’ he said.

‘It’s midnight, all the kids are safe home in bed,’ said Harper. ‘Anyway, this won’t take long. Take your bag off.’ He flicked ash on to the path.

Shepherd took off the bag and unzipped it. Harper took a furtive look around then slid his hand into his right pocket and took out a plastic bag. He gave it to Shepherd, who shoved it into the backpack. Harper took another package from his left pocket and that too went inside the backpack.

‘What are they?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Smith & Wesson 629s, they’re .44 Magnums.’

‘Six in the chamber,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, but six Magnums. Hit a guy in the arm and the arm comes off. One head shot and there’s nothing else.’

‘Bloody loud, too.’

‘Spider, mate, will you stop looking a gift horse in the mouth. There’s three grand’s worth of chrome in there.’ He looked around again before reaching into his inside pocket and pulling out two boxes of ammunition. ‘Four-fours for the Magnums, and rounds for the Makarovs.’

Shepherd slid the boxes into the backpack and zipped it up.

‘When are we going to do it?’ asked Harper.

‘We need to have a sit-down with Jimbo and Jock.’

‘Sure, but you and me are pulling the trigger, right? We’ve got more invested in this.’

Shepherd nodded. ‘I guess so.’

‘There’s no “guess so” about it,’ hissed Harper. ‘Three of my muckers died out there, shot in the back. And he killed Captain Todd right in front of you.’

‘I know, but Jimbo and Jock are involved.’

‘Yeah, well, it’s the difference between the pig and the chicken.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Breakfast, mate. Eggs and bacon. The chicken’s involved but the pig’s committed. I’m committed to this. And I think you are too, right?’

‘Sure.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’ Harper leant forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his left hand cupping his right. His cigarette smouldered and the smoke made Shepherd’s eyes water. ‘We have to do this, you know that?’

‘I’m not disputing that. He shot me, remember? Damn near killed me. But we have to do this right.’

Harper took a long pull on his cigarette and blew a tight plume of smoke across the grass. ‘Have you done anything like this before?’

Shepherd took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘Yeah.’

‘In cold blood?’

‘It’s never in cold blood. But shot someone when they weren’t a direct threat? Yes. I’ve done that.’

‘And we’re not talking about sniping?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘No. More recent.’ He sat back and folded his arms, a physical manifestation of how uncomfortable the conversation was making him feel. ‘But in a way, this is like sniping. If I’d had Khan in my sights back in Afghanistan, I’d have pulled the trigger and thought nothing of it. Half the kills I had in Afghanistan weren’t a direct threat to me. Most of them wouldn’t even have known what hit them. What we’re going to do is payback. It’s as if I pulled the trigger back in 2002, it’s just that the bullet has taken more than a decade to arrive.’

‘Sniping’s too good for him,’ said Harper. ‘I want him to see who puts the bullet in his head. I want him to know who’s taking his life and I want him to know why. I want to put the first bullet in him, Spider. You can do what you want, but the first shot is mine.’

‘It means that much to you?’

‘He killed my mates. Shot them in the back. Yes, it means that much to me.’

Shepherd stared at Harper. He could see the hatred burning in the man’s eyes and for the first time he understood just how Harper felt. Harper wanted revenge, and revenge wasn’t always a dish best served cold.

Shepherd knew that he had to speak to Charlotte Button, but it wasn’t the sort of conversation that he could have on the phone. By the time he got back to his flat it was almost one o’clock so he decided to leave it until the next day. He wasn’t happy about hiding the guns and ammunition in the flat but he knew that it would be safer there than in Harper’s hotel. There was a bucket of cleaning supplies in the cupboard under the sink and he hid them there, covering them with sponges, cleaning cloths and a bottle of Domestos.

He showered and went to bed, though he slept fitfully. He’d set his alarm for six but he was already awake when it started to ring. He wasn’t sure what time Button got up but he left it until he was driving up to The Bishops Avenue before calling her on hands-free. ‘The early bird?’ she said.

‘There’s a morning briefing at seven each morning and I like to be there for that,’ he said. ‘But we need to talk.’

‘Can you come to the office?’

‘Let me see what Grechko’s schedule is like,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’ve got meetings back to back,’ she said. ‘It’ll be really hard to get away today.’

‘It’s important, but I’ll call you back in about an hour,’ said Shepherd. He arrived at the gates to Grechko’s house, wound down his window and waved at the CCTV camera. The gate rattled open and he drove through, waving at Yakov Gunter in the guardhouse. Gunter waved back and went back to reading his newspaper. Gunter was one of the recent additions to the security team, one of the bodybuilder types who spent most of their time in the gym. His thick neck and overdeveloped biceps suggested that he was also abusing steroids, but Shepherd figured that was none of his business. He drove through the garage doors and down to the parking area in the basement. He left his X5 next to Podolski’s motorcycle. She had left her black crash helmet sitting on one of the mirrors.

He used his thumb and four-digit code to get into the security centre, where Thomas Lisko was sipping coffee and watching the CCTV screens. Popov was already in the briefing room with Podolski, Dudko and Volkov. Podolski offered Shepherd coffee and he thanked her and took his place at the table. One of the chefs had already dropped off a plate of croissants and rolls and a platter of assorted meats and cheeses. Shepherd took an almond croissant and had just taken a bite when Tarasov walked in and sat down.

Popov handed around printed sheets and began the briefing. Grechko wasn’t planning to leave the house but there were three visitors expected, one of his accountants, a Savile Row tailor and a watch dealer. Popov grinned at Shepherd. ‘Before all this he’d have been going to see them but he’s summoned them here. I think he’s quite warming to the idea.’

‘It certainly makes security a lot easier,’ said Shepherd. Podolski put a mug of coffee down in front of him and he smiled his thanks. ‘The visitors, they’re all long-standing contacts?’

Popov nodded. ‘Mr Munroe has been Mr Grechko’s tailor since before I joined his security team. Mr Adams is a senior partner of the accountancy firm that handles Mr Grechko’s UK companies. And Mr Edwards has been to the house several times before. He is a well known watch dealer.’

‘Sounds good,’ said Shepherd. He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got some things to do so I’ll leave you to it. I’ll be on my mobile if you need me.’ He went back out to the car, called Button to let her know that he was on his way, then slipped his Bluetooth earpiece into his pocket and switched off his transceiver. He waved at Gunter as he drove out through the gates, then called up Shortt on his hands-free. ‘Jimbo, can we have a meet at your place this afternoon?’ he asked as he drove towards central London.

‘No problem, she’s at golf until five,’ said Shortt. ‘Shall I get snacks?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘Don’t go to any trouble,’ he said.

He called McIntyre and told him that Charlotte Button had given him the green light.

‘That’s great news, I’ll tell them where to stick their job,’ said McIntyre.

‘I’ll fix you up with a room at the house. Have you got a suit?’

‘Are you being sarcastic?’

‘I was just asking, Jock. We have to wear a suit and tie. Black if you’ve got it.’

‘I’ll dig out my funeral suit. What other gear do I need?’

‘A few changes of clothes. We can buy whatever else you need. Just pack a bag and I’ll pick you up at Paddington station in a couple of hours.’

‘I’m on my way,’ said McIntyre.

Shepherd’s final call was to Harper and he arranged to collect him from Bayswater later that morning.

The traffic was heavy and it took him almost an hour to get to Thames House. It was only after Shepherd had signed in that he remembered that he was still carrying his Glock. He smiled apologetically at the woman who had checked his credentials. ‘I’m sorry, I have a weapon,’ he said.

‘That’s all right,’ she said briskly. ‘You can leave it in our secure room. I’ll get Brian to take you through.’

A young man in a grey suit took Shepherd into a room with metal lockers covered by two CCTV cameras. Shepherd took off his jacket, then slipped off his shoulder holster and put it in a locker with the two extra ammunition clips. He was surprised to see a key in the lock; he’d been expecting something more high-tech. He took the key, slipped it into his trouser pocket and put his jacket on, all the time under the watchful eye of Brian and whoever was monitoring the CCTV.

He took the lift up to Button’s office. Her secretary explained that she was busy and kept him waiting for a full thirty minutes before the door opened and two earnest young men in shirtsleeves walked out carrying armfuls of files. She smiled when she saw him and apologised for keeping him waiting. Her secretary put down a cup of tea for her and asked Shepherd if he wanted anything. He declined and sat down while Button went back behind her desk.

‘I had something of an epiphany last night,’ he said.

‘That’s good to hear.’

‘This Sasha Czernik. You think he was murdered after the bungled car bombing?’

‘I’m trying to get the body exhumed but it’s an uphill struggle. The Russian authorities aren’t being cooperative.’

‘But you think he was murdered, right?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘So we have a killer who killed two oligarchs and is after a third.’

‘Assuming that Czernik was murdered, yes.’

Shepherd rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Look, it doesn’t seem likely that the Kremlin is going to use a sniper that can’t hit his target. Suppose it’s personal. Maybe the killer wants to get close when he kills. He wants the victim to know who his killer is.’

‘But that doesn’t gel with a sniper, does it?’

‘Here’s the thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘Maybe the sniper isn’t missing. Maybe he’s aiming at the bodyguards.’

‘A killer with a grudge against bodyguards of the world’s richest men?’

He grinned at her sarcasm. ‘Suppose that, as you say, the killer has a personal reason for killing these oligarchs. For some reason he wants them dead. But he wants them to know who has killed them and why. He wants them to see his face. He never intends to kill them with the rifle, or a bomb, because then they wouldn’t know why they were dying. The first attempt is set up to deliberately fail so that he can get his man on the team and use him to get the intel he needs to get in close.’

Button tilted her head to one side and nodded thoughtfully.

‘Hurting a bodyguard, or almost blowing up a car, shows up shortcomings in security. So what does your regular neighbourhood oligarch do when he thinks his security has failed? He brings in more bodyguards.’

‘So our assassin shoots a bodyguard and then joins the security team? Becomes the inside man?’

‘Easy enough to check,’ said Shepherd. ‘Get a list of the bodyguards who were on the team at the time of the sniping, and then compare it with the bodyguards in place at the time of the assassination.’

‘And if you’re right, we’ll find a common denominator who joined Zakharov’s and Czernik’s security,’ said Button. She nodded again. ‘It’s worth a try. I’ll get right on it. And you need to take a closer look at the new arrivals on Grechko’s team. Find out what changes he made to his security team between the sniper attack and you going on board.’

‘You think the killer might already be there, in the house?’

‘That’s exactly what I think, Spider. So you be careful.’

Shepherd collected his Glock from the secure room then drove to Queensway. Harper was waiting outside a Chinese restaurant with a line of smoked ducks in the window, his hands deep in the pockets of his parka and his head down. He jogged over to the SUV and climbed in. ‘So we’re doing it?’ asked Harper, as they drove towards Paddington station.

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘But we have to talk it through first.’

McIntyre was waiting outside the station and he was carrying a black holdall. He tossed his bag on to the back seat and got in after it. He was wearing a black suit and a blue and black striped tie.

Shepherd didn’t need the satnav, the route to Shortt’s house was imprinted on his memory. The Jaguar was still in the driveway so he parked in the street and the three men walked to the house. Shortt had the front door open for them before they were halfway down the driveway and he hugged Harper and McIntyre and slapped Shepherd on the back before taking them inside.

Shortt made mugs of coffee and put them on the kitchen table, where there was already a bottle of Jamesons. Despite Shepherd’s protests that he was driving, Shortt poured a slug of whiskey into each of the mugs. ‘To the good old days,’ he said, and they all raised their mugs and drank.

‘Come on, sit down,’ said Shortt. He opened the fridge and took out a plate of sandwiches. He put them down next to the whiskey. ‘The little woman made us some scoff,’ he said, taking his seat.

‘Remember the coffee in Afghanistan?’ said Harper, spooning two sugars into his mug. ‘Tasted like mud.’

‘That was because of all the sand in it,’ said Shortt. ‘But it was crap coffee, that’s true.’

‘The major always used to have his own private stash,’ said Shepherd. ‘Bought it at Fortnum and Mason.’ He saw the look of disbelief on Harper’s face and grinned. ‘I’m serious. He brought it over in cans. Special biscuits, too. Dark chocolate Hobnobs.’

‘Now I know you’re taking the piss,’ said Shortt. ‘The chocolate would melt.’

‘Swear to God,’ said Shepherd, sitting down on the sofa next to Harper. Shortt had commandeered the armchair and Jock McIntyre had turned around one of the wooden dining chairs and was resting his arms on its back. He poured another slug of whiskey into his mug. ‘So, let’s get right down to it. It’s definitely Ahmad Khan and he’s alive and well and living in Hammersmith.’

‘Not for much longer,’ said Harper.

‘The question is, what do we do now?’ said Shepherd.

‘We kill the fucker,’ said Harper. He mimed a gun with his right hand and faked two shots at the window. ‘Bang, bang. Double tap.’

‘That’s the first thing we need to agree on,’ said Shepherd.

‘Fuck me, if we’re not of one mind on that then we might as well all go home,’ said Harper, throwing up his hands in exasperation.

‘Lex, relax,’ said Shepherd. ‘This is a big thing and we all have to be absolutely sure of where we stand and where we’re heading. If anyone is having second thoughts then now’s the time to say so and to walk away with no hard feelings. Because from this point on it’s going to be that much harder to walk away.’

Harper look at Shortt and then at McIntyre. ‘Anyone want out?’

The two men shook their heads.

‘Fuck, no,’ said McIntyre.

‘Just so we’re clear,’ said Shepherd speaking slowly and precisely. ‘Everything we’ve done up to this point is borderline legal. Certainly we wouldn’t get sent down for anything that’s happened this far.’

‘Except for the guns, and the ammo,’ said Harper.

‘And breaking into Khan’s house,’ said Shortt.

‘And various abuses of the Data Protection Act,’ said McIntyre. He put up his hands. ‘Just saying.’

‘You didn’t actually break into the house, Jimbo,’ said Shepherd. ‘You stood on the doorstep and asked a few questions.’ He grinned. ‘But I take your point, maybe borderline legal is stretching it. But the point I’m making is that anyone who wants to can still walk away. But from now on it’s conspiracy to commit murder.’

‘It’d better be more than a conspiracy,’ said Harper. ‘Come on, Spider, get on with it. Let’s hear the plan.’

‘Guys, let’s just take a minute here. We’ve all taken lives before, but this is different. This isn’t combat, this isn’t kill or be killed. We need to be quite clear about what we’re talking about. Murder. Cold-blooded murder.’

‘Yeah, well, revenge is a dish best served cold,’ said Harper. ‘Isn’t that what they say?’

‘That’s what they say all right,’ said Shepherd. ‘But that doesn’t make it right. Killing someone in the heat of battle, in a firefight or hand to hand, that’s all well and good. Hell, that’s what we were trained to do. But waiting more than ten years to kill a man when he’s not expecting it, that’s something else. It’s a big thing and it’s going to stay with us for ever.’

He looked expectantly at Shortt. Shortt shrugged. ‘Bastard deserves to die,’ he said. ‘He killed the captain. He could just as easily have killed me.’ Shortt nodded at Harper. ‘He killed three of Lex’s mates. Shot them in the back. For that alone he deserves to die.’

McIntyre nodded in agreement. ‘He should have died back in Afghanistan for what he did. He damn well sure shouldn’t be living in our country as if it never happened.’ He put his hand up. ‘If we’re voting, my vote’s for doing what we have to do.’

Shepherd smiled thinly and nodded. ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to sound like a wimp but I had to know that we’re all of the same mind.’ He took a sip of coffee and put the mug down. ‘So the question now is who does what.’

‘I’m pulling the trigger,’ said Harper. ‘I’ve got dibs on that.’

Shepherd ignored him. ‘We’ve got four shorts,’ he said. ‘Jimbo has two Makarovs and we’ve got two modern Smith & Wessons as back-up. The Makarovs are from Iraq so if they do get traced it’ll muddy the waters. What we need to do now is to decide when and where.’ He could see that Harper was about to speak so he silenced him with a cold look. ‘I know, the sooner the better. No question of that. But we can’t just walk up to him in the street and put a bullet in his head. This isn’t Afghanistan, this is London, and within minutes of a gunshot we’ll have ARVs all over us.’

‘ARVs?’ said McIntyre.

‘Armed Response Vehicles,’ said Shepherd. ‘The capital’s full of them. And even if we do slot him in the street, afterwards there’ll be a full investigation, which means analysis of all CCTV in the area, speaking to witnesses, the works. Killing someone is easy, it’s getting away with it that’s difficult.’

He picked up his coffee again and sipped it, making sure that he had their undivided attention.

‘I’m going to suggest that we don’t shoot him in the street, or in his house, or anywhere where there are potential witnesses. We pick him up at his place of work.’ He looked at Harper. ‘Where he leaves his car while he’s working, right?’

Harper nodded. ‘It’s not overlooked. Providing he’s the only one in the car park, no one will see anything. Guaranteed.’

‘OK,’ continued Shepherd. ‘So we take him out to the New Forest, we do it there and we bury him where he’ll never be found. That’s the key to getting away with this. With no witnesses and no body, there’ll be no investigation. Thousands of adults go missing every year and unless there are suspicious circumstances no one cares.’

‘What about his daughter?’ asked Shortt. ‘She’ll report him missing.’

‘Adults go missing all the time,’ said Shepherd. ‘Unless there are signs of violence, he’ll just go on the list. If the body never turns up, there’s no crime to investigate.’

‘The New Forest is miles away,’ said Harper. ‘There’s plenty of places closer.’

‘We want to be out of the Met’s jurisdiction,’ said Shepherd. ‘And if it is ever found, the farther away the better. It’s driveable in ninety minutes or so and the roads are good.’

‘Makes sense,’ said McIntyre.

‘So, logistics,’ said Shepherd. ‘We need a vehicle, ideally something untraceable, to transport Khan from the pick-up point to the New Forest.’

‘I’ll get the car sorted,’ said Harper.

‘A van would be better,’ said Shepherd. ‘No one pays attention to vans. But it can’t be traced back to you, Lex. We’ll clean it afterwards but that’s no guarantee there won’t be DNA or something left behind.’

‘Give me some credit, Spider,’ said Harper. ‘I wasn’t planning on going to Hertz. I’ll pick up a second-hand one for cash and won’t bother registering it.’

‘Then clone a set of plates because these days London is awash with mobile CCTV, not to mention the static cameras. And you’ll need somewhere safe to keep it.’

‘I’ll sort out a lock-up,’ said Harper.

‘We’ll need something to bind him. We can knock him out but there’s no guarantee of how long he’ll stay out so we need duct tape and something to gag him with, and something to wrap him in. A carpet. Tarpaulin. Something like that.’

Shortt raised a hand. ‘I’ve got stuff like that in the garage.’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘No, it all has to be new. And bought from different shops in different areas. And paid for in cash.’

‘No problem, I’ll do it,’ said Shortt.

‘So far as the guns are concerned, we do it with the automatics so that if the body is ever found then the rounds will suggest a Russian or Afghan connection. But they’re automatics so we need to pick up the shell casings afterwards. And I can’t tell you how important it is that we clean every part of the guns, inside and out. Rounds and clips, too. Clean as a whistle.’ He looked over at Harper and grinned. ‘Whatever that means.’ He sipped his coffee again. ‘I plan to do it after dark in the New Forest, so hopefully there’ll be no one around to hear the shots. But even so I want suppressors on the Makarovs.’

McIntyre held up his hand. ‘I can do that,’ he said.

‘Doesn’t have to be too fancy,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’re not overloud in the first place.’

‘Pop bottle, cardboard baffles and Brillo pads,’ said McIntyre. ‘And Robert’s your father’s brother. But I’ll need somewhere to do it.’

‘You can use my garage,’ said Shortt. ‘Providing the wife’s out. I’ve plenty of tools there, too.’

‘Perfect,’ said Shepherd. ‘And we’ll have Jimbo’s duct tape to attach them. Now, assuming we get Khan out to the New Forest and slot him there, we’ve got to dispose of the body. We’ll need a hole digging and we’ll need that done in advance. It’ll need doing at night, the day before the shooting.’

‘The missus isn’t happy if I’m out at night,’ said Shortt.

‘If I’m doing it then I’ll need Jock on my job,’ said Shepherd. He looked at Harper. ‘You and me, Lex?’

‘Sure,’ said Harper.

‘I’ll get the spades. Can you get a throwaway mobile with GPS so that we can find our way back to it?’

‘Consider it done,’ said Harper, with a grin.

‘So we take Khan out to the New Forest, we do what has to be done, we drop him in the hole and we fill it up. Then we need to dispose of the guns and anything else left over. The duct tape, the suppressors, whatever we use to wrap the body in. Plus the spades, the phone we used to GPS the grave. Everything.’

‘We could just leave it all in the van and torch it,’ said Harper.

Shepherd shook his head. ‘That would draw attention and they’d have SOCO all over it,’ he said. ‘Anything not completely burned could be traced back to us. So you should sell on the van. Or leave it somewhere it’ll get stolen. I’ll take care of the guns and the ammo.’

‘I’ll take the burnable stuff to the quarry I used to use for shooting,’ said Shortt. ‘Get a little bonfire. It’s well away from London.’

‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now this is important. Everything you’re wearing on the day has to be run through a washing machine or destroyed. No arguments. If for any reason our names are in the frame SOCO will look for traces on all our clothes and footwear and if there is anything they’ll find it. So immediately afterwards you put all your clothes through a washing machine, twice. Wear trainers and dump them or burn them. And we all shower. Twice.’

‘Not together, though,’ said McIntyre. ‘I’ve had bad experiences with Jimbo in the shower.’

Harper laughed. ‘Where’s the soap?’

All four men joined in, laughing louder than the poor joke merited. It was a way of releasing tension, Shepherd knew. On the surface they all seemed calm and collected with no reservations about what they were planning. But taking the life of a human being was never done lightly and Shepherd knew that they would all be worried about it at some level or another. He waited for the laughter to die down. ‘Footwear is the most likely to carry traces, so no short cuts there. Don’t just throw them in the rubbish. Burning is best, or soak them in bleach and toss them, but again not in your household rubbish, somewhere miles from home. Same with any clothing you decide to throw away.’ He looked at Harper. ‘The van will need cleaning, too, inside and out. Best to use bleach on the inside, then take it to a car wash. Make sure the wheels are well clean because if they do get the van they’ll be taking a close look at the tyres. They can pretty much match mud in the way that they can fingerprints and DNA. So twice through a car wash, then up to you. If you want to sell it on, do it outside London. If you want to torch it, same applies.’

Harper nodded. ‘Sounds as if you’ve got all the bases covered.’

‘It has to be this way, Lex. The smallest thing can follow you around the world. A speck of DNA is all they need. And the phone we use to track the hole, I’ll dispose of that and the SIM card. And remember that your own mobile phones always give your position away. I know Lex is covered, but the rest of you, you need to get pay-as-you-go throwaway mobiles. We use them for this operation and then we ditch them. And whenever you’re out, you leave your identifiable mobiles at home and switched on. Got it?’

The three men nodded back at him. Harper slapped his hand down on the table, hard enough to rattle the mugs and whiskey bottle. ‘The bastard has had it coming,’ he said. ‘He’s finally going to get what he deserves.’