Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller (21 page)

Shepherd laughed. ‘She’s a friend,’ he said. ‘With benefits, as they say.’

‘Well, no harm in asking,’ laughed Owolade. ‘Good luck in Amsterdam.’

Shepherd ended the call and immediately phoned Button. The call went through to voicemail and Shepherd cursed. He was sorting through his wallet to check that he only had Harry Cartwright credit cards when Button called back.

‘Smit wants to see me in Amsterdam. Today.’

‘That’s good news.’

‘It’s bloody short notice.’

‘It shows Smit’s keen. What’s the story?’

‘They’re booking me on an afternoon flight from Heathrow.’

‘I’ll get Amar to meet you there. Do you want a team shadowing you?’

‘It’ll be okay,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s just a chat, and they came to me. Doubt they’ll be suspicious.’

‘If you change your mind, let me know.’

T
he ticket was waiting for Shepherd at Heathrow. He checked in and went through to the business class lounge, heading straight for the men’s room. Amar Singh was already there, dressed in maintenance overalls and fiddling with the U-bend of one of the washbasins. Singh was an Asian in his mid-thirties, one of the top technicians in MI5’s technical support section. He was usually dressed in expensive designer gear and he looked distinctly uncomfortable in the scruffy overalls as he stood up and wiped his hands.

‘How’s it going, Spider?’

‘All good, Amar. How are the wife and kids?’

‘Nagging the life out of me, but what can you do?’ said Singh. He took an iPhone out of his pocket and handed it to Shepherd.

‘I’m not a big fan,’ said Shepherd. ‘The batteries always seem to run out at the worst possible time.’

‘This phone you don’t switch on,’ said Singh. ‘It functions as a recorder, not a transmitter. Everything said within ten feet is recorded on a chip. So long as it’s in your pocket it’ll record everything. But even an Apple technician wouldn’t be able to spot the difference between it and a regular phone.’

‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd, slipping the phone into his inside pocket.

The door opened and a middle-aged businessman with a harried expression rushed over to the urinal. Shepherd nodded at Singh and left.

S
hepherd cleared Dutch immigration and walked out into the arrivals area. A big man in a heavy coat was holding a sign on which SYSTEM COMMUNICATIONS had been printed in capital letters. Shepherd smiled and nodded at the man. The man nodded back and took Shepherd to a multistorey car park where another man was sitting at the wheel of a black stretch Mercedes with tinted windows. Shepherd climbed into the back while the heavy got into the front next to the driver. There was an envelope on the back seat with the word EXPENSES printed on it. Shepherd opened it and flicked his thumb across an envelope containing a dozen or so
€
500 notes. He smiled and pocketed the envelope. He was sure Button would appreciate the money to offset the expenses of the operation.

They drove for the best part of forty-five minutes before they pulled up in front of a terrace of pretty four-storey houses overlooking a wide canal. The heavy climbed out and opened the door for Shepherd and then ushered him to the front door of a pale green house. The Mercedes drove off as the door opened. Another big man, this one with a military haircut and wearing a brown leather bomber jacket, pulled the door wide open and nodded for Shepherd to go into the first room on the right. It was clearly a security centre with three tables and a couple of sofas. There was a bank of small screens on one wall showing CCTV images of the outside and inside of the house. On one of the tables there was a row of chargers containing transceivers and several mobile phones. Two more men in bomber jackets were lounging on a sofa and they watched as the man who opened the front door ran a portable metal detector slowly over Shepherd, from head to toe. He took Shepherd’s two phones, his keys and his wallet and put them in a small tray, then asked him in accented English to remove his coat. That went on to one of the tables.

The heavy who had met Shepherd at the airport motioned for him to follow him up the stairs. The second floor was a room that ran the full length of the building, with book-lined walls and works of art that looked real and expensive, and there was a white grand piano by a window overlooking the canal. There were three dark green leather sofas and a lot of antique furniture.

The third floor had four rooms leading off a central hallway. The heavy knocked on one of the doors, opened it, and motioned for Shepherd to go inside.

The room was windowless and the walls, ceiling and floor had been lined with a grey foam material. On top of that was a wire mesh that effectively created a cage that filled the whole room. There was a wooden raised floor on which stood all the furniture – an ornate Regency desk, four winged leather chairs and a coffee table that matched the desk, piled high with reading material. The only electrical equipment in the room appeared to be a laptop sitting on the desk.

Lucas Smit was sitting in one of the winged chairs. He was a small man with swept-back white hair and cheeks flecked with broken veins. He studied Shepherd with pale blue eyes framed by eyelashes that had greyed with age. He was in his sixties, maybe older, and his hands were dotted with brown liver spots. He smiled, showing yellowing teeth.

‘Please sit, Mr Olsen,’ he said, waving to one of the chairs. ‘This is not the most attractive room in the house, but it is the most secure.’

Shepherd sat down. He had been in secure communication rooms in various embassies around the world and this was on a par with the best. The design meant that all eavesdropping methods were rendered useless.

Smit settled back in his chair and watched Shepherd like a snake contemplating its next meal. ‘You’re very successful at what you do, Mr Olsen,’ he said quietly.

Shepherd shrugged. ‘I get by.’

‘You’re very modest. You don’t sound Danish, I have to say.’

Shepherd shrugged.

‘My English is good. Some would say perfect. But most people would realise that I am not a natural-born speaker and quite a few would know that I was Dutch.’

‘Your accent sounds good to me,’ said Shepherd.

Smit smiled without warmth. ‘You flatter me, Mr Olsen. But that’s not your real name, is it? Any more than you are Danish.’ His eyes bored into Shepherd’s for several seconds, then he smiled. ‘That’s very clever. You make the world think you are Danish so they start off on the wrong track. That’s why no one really knows who you are, or where you come from. And why you’ve never been photographed.’

‘There are advantages to having a low profile, obviously,’ said Shepherd, and Smit chuckled. ‘But you approached me, remember? These days I don’t tout for work. Work finds me.’

Smit nodded. ‘I appreciate that, but whenever I work with someone for the first time, I am obviously somewhat apprehensive.’

‘That’s understandable. But you have to appreciate that I can hardly supply references.’

Smit put up an apologetic hand. ‘I’m sorry if I come across as suspicious. It’s the nature of our business. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?’

‘Not if you don’t mind if I don’t answer them.’ Shepherd smiled. ‘Go ahead.’

‘How many kills have you made?’

‘Twenty-seven as a freelance contractor.’

‘Do you care about the nature of your targets?’

Shepherd frowned. ‘In what way?’

‘Men, women, children?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘A target is a target.’

‘Do you care why a target has been selected?’

‘These are very strange questions,’ said Shepherd.

‘Some men are choosy about which contracts they accept.’

‘I’m not. If I had reservations, I couldn’t do the job.’

‘What about collateral damage?’

‘It’s messy and best avoided. But if the only way to take out a target is to involve others, then sometimes it’s necessary. But as I said, best avoided.’

‘Suppose you were asked to shoot a friend?’

‘Is that what this is about? You want me to kill someone I know?’

Smit laughed dryly and put up a hand. ‘No, the contract I have in mind for you is not a friend of yours. I am just trying to get a feel for your mindset.’

‘I’m a professional. I’m good at what I do and I’m paid a premium price for my skills. Would I kill a friend?’ Shepherd shrugged. ‘It would depend on the price, I suppose. But then, I don’t have many friends.’

Smit nodded and smiled, as if he approved of the answer. ‘What’s your longest kill?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘I try not to go beyond five hundred metres. You rarely get the chance for more than one shot and beyond that distance it’s a bit problematical.’

Smit nodded. ‘Tell me about the problems with long-range shots.’

‘Are you serious? You’re testing me?’

‘I just want you to confirm that you are a professional. I don’t think that is too much to ask for before I arrange a contract worth three million euros. Now my question is simple – what are the extra problems with long-range shots, beyond a thousand metres?’

‘Fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘I assume you’re not talking about windage or bullet drop because that’s important no matter what the distance. Beyond a thousand metres two other factors kick in, the Coriolis effect and bullet drift.’

Smit smiled. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Now how about you explain those to me.’

Shepherd shook his head dismissively. ‘This is ridiculous,’ he said.

‘Humour me,’ said Smit.

‘The Coriolis effect is when the earth’s rotation pulls the round either left or right, depending on where the shooter is and the direction of fire. The closer you are to firing east–west or west–east the less the effect.’

‘And bullet drift?’

‘Rounds spin as they move through the air. Up to three thousand times a second. The round will tend to move in the direction it’s spinning. It’s a very small deviation and up to a thousand metres you can pretty much ignore it.’

‘And how do you account for it when making your shot?’

‘You don’t,’ said Shepherd. ‘Okay, you can use a ballistic computer but in my experience you’re better making a shot and then compensating. Which is why if it’s a job, I keep to well below a thousand metres.’ He flashed Smit a tight smile. ‘Happy now? Did I pass?’

‘You passed,’ said Smit. ‘But all you have done is shown that you understand the technicalities of sniping. You can talk the talk, as the Americans say, but can you walk the walk?’

T
he same two heavies who had picked Shepherd up at the airport dropped him off at the Intercontinental Amstel hotel and returned his phones. Smit had booked a palatial suite overlooking the river and given him the business card of a local escort service. The Dutchman said he had an account with them and that Shepherd could order as many girls as he wanted. Shepherd took off his coat and tossed it on the bed, then phoned Button.

‘He wants to see me in action,’ he told her. ‘Gave me some crap about walking the walk.’

‘I suppose that’s only to be expected,’ she said. ‘You’re an unknown quantity. When and where?’

‘He says he has a place in Croatia. Tomorrow.’

‘Can’t you persuade him to do it in the UK? We could set something up.’

‘He’s worried about it being a fit-up. The plan is for me to stay here overnight. He’s booked me into the Intercontinental Amstel.’

‘That’s a lovely hotel,’ she said. ‘You should try the restaurant. La Rive. It overlooks the river and has a Michelin star. Graham and I …’ She left the sentence unfinished. Graham had been her husband; he had died a few years previously.

‘Thanks, but I’m not here for the fine dining,’ said Shepherd.

‘Well it’s your call, obviously, as to whether you go or not.’

‘It’s not the safest of places, Croatia.’

‘I could arrange some sort of backup.’

‘You could. But that might be the test. To see if I’m being followed. We can’t take the risk. If I go, I have to go alone.’

‘As I said, it’s your call.’

Shepherd closed his eyes and tapped the phone against the side of his head for several seconds. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t see that I’ve got a choice.’

‘You’ve always got a choice.’

‘Yeah, but if I pull out they’ll find someone else.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll do it.’

‘What do you need from me?’

‘I don’t think I can go in with any backup – human or technological. If they search me and find a bug or tracker then it’s all over. And there’ll be no cavalry in Croatia.’

‘What about the phone that Amar gave you?’

‘They didn’t give it a second look. But they took it off me. And ran a metal detector over me.’

‘How are you getting to Croatia?’

‘Private jet to Zagreb, he said. Back tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully.’

‘And assuming you pass the test, he’ll give you the contract?’

‘Apparently. One third of the money up front, transferred to an account of my choosing.’

‘We’ve already set an account up in the Cayman Islands in the name of Harry Cartwright. That account feeds into accounts that lead eventually to Frederik Olsen. It’s likely that Smit will run checks.’

‘That should do nicely,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’ll text you the details. Look, the Smit side is going well but we need something concrete to tie in Jansen.’

‘Like what? Smit on tape saying that Jansen is the client? Because I don’t see that happening at the moment.’

‘Ideally a face to face with Jansen,’ said Button.

‘How the hell am I supposed to do that?’

‘I’m just saying. In a perfect world …’

‘Yeah, well the world isn’t perfect,’ said Shepherd.

‘Just play it by ear, that’s all I’m saying. See what you can do.’

Shepherd ended the call and lay down on the bed. He put his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.

T
he Range Rover turned off the main highway and drove down a single-track road for a mile before turning again. They stopped at a gate set into a wire fence. A second Range Rover pulled up behind hem. Two armed guards cradling AK-47s walked towards the car but the driver wound down the window and said something to them in Croatian and they nodded and waved them through. The road dipped down and Shepherd realised they were in a quarry. It seemed to be disused as there was no equipment and no one appeared to be working.