Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller (45 page)

Button took off her coat and sat down. All she could do now was wait.

B
utton sat alone for almost two hours before the door opened. She had been reading a two-year-old copy of
Country Life
to pass the time and it slipped from her fingers as she stood up and recognised the woman standing in the doorway. Patsy Ellis was probably the last person she would have expected. Ellis was holding a bottle of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. She smiled at Button.

‘I come bearing gifts,’ she said. Her face broke into a smile. ‘Actually, I figured we could both do with a drink.’

‘Patsy, what a lovely surprise,’ said Button, getting to her feet. The two women air kissed. It was a surprise, and not an unpleasant one. She and Ellis went back many years, and early on at least Ellis had been something of a mentor.

The two women sat down, smiling like the old friends they were.

‘I didn’t think it would be you,’ said Button.

‘They wanted a friendly face. Obviously.’ Ellis handed her a glass. She showed Button the bottle. ‘Chardonnay. Screw top, I’m afraid.’

‘The DG doesn’t want to do his own dirty work, is that it?’

‘You clearly don’t know the DG the way that I know the DG,’ said Ellis. She unscrewed the top of the bottle and poured wine into their glasses. ‘He’s perfectly capable of getting his hands dirty. To be honest, I think he quite likes it.’

She raised her glass. ‘Good to see you, Charlie. It’s been too long.’

‘Hasn’t it just,’ said Button. They clinked glasses and drank, watching each other warily. Ellis was an old friend but in view of what had happened, friendships could be fragile. ‘How are things these days at the JIO?’

Ellis had left MI5 a few years earlier to join the Joint Intelligence Organisation, the agency which was responsible for assessment and forward planning. It offered advice and support to the Joint Intelligence Committee that oversaw the work of MI5, MI6 and GCHQ. No one knew more about the workings of the British intelligence agencies than Patsy Ellis.

‘Interesting times,’ said Ellis. ‘No question of that.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I could, but then I’d have to kill you,’ said Ellis. She grimaced. ‘Whoops. That’s probably not in the best possible taste, all things considered.’

‘You’ve got to keep your sense of humour,’ said Button. She sipped her wine. It was perfectly chilled and she had to fight the urge to gulp it all down.

Ellis waved a languid hand at the French windows. ‘Why don’t we take our wine outside and enjoy the evening air.’

‘So they can get a clear shot?’

Both women smiled as they picked up their glasses and stepped out on to the terrace. There was a large circular glass-topped white wrought-iron table with four matching chairs and plump green cushions. They sat down and surveyed the garden. To their left was a rockery of ferns and small plants, and to the right was a line of apple trees. Down at the bottom was a gazebo and Button saw two men in dark overcoats sitting together. One of them was smoking.

‘This is lovely, isn’t it?’ said Ellis. ‘Have you been here before?’

‘Twice,’ said Button. ‘But not recently.’

‘It doesn’t get much use these days,’ said Ellis. ‘They used to debrief Russian and East German defectors here, years ago. They’d stay for months at a time.’

Button looked up at the darkening sky. The brightest of the stars were already visible. ‘I read a thriller once,’ she said. ‘Brian Freemantle was the author. His hero was Charlie Muffin. Ever read him?’

Ellis shook her head. ‘I was never one for fiction.’

‘Not even Le Carré?’

Ellis shook her head again.

‘You don’t know what you’re missing, Patsy. This book, I forget the title, was about a defector being debriefed in a house much like this. The defector had a friend, a countryman, who had also just defected and for some reason had to come and talk with him. Maybe that was a condition of him defecting. The friend was an astrophysicist and they spent hours sitting in the garden, talking. Eventually they realised that the astrophysicist was working out the location of the safe house by looking at the stars.’

‘Is that even possible?’

‘I suppose so. I’m not sure how accurate it would be. But in the book the astrophysicist does it and they send in a rescue squad or a hit team.’

‘How does it end?’

Button shrugged. ‘I can’t remember, it was so long ago.’ She sipped her wine. ‘Of course these days they’d find the house with satellite surveillance or a drone or a GPS tracker.’

‘It’s a different world, that’s for sure,’ said Ellis. ‘It used to be that human intel was the be all and end all. Now it’s GCHQ and websites and search engines and email and phone monitoring. We have so many CCTV cameras we can follow people right across London without ever leaving our office.’

‘A brave new world indeed. George Orwell got it right, pretty much.’

‘George Orwell wrote
Nineteen Eighty-Four
,’ said Ellis. ‘It was Aldous Huxley who wrote
Brave New World
.’ She raised her wine glass. ‘English Literature at Oxford.’

Button clinked her glass against Ellis’s. ‘Mathematics at Bath.’

‘Lovely city,’ said Ellis.

They sipped their wine. Both men in the gazebo were smoking now, the red tips of their cigarettes moving up and down like fireflies.

‘So how does this story end, Patsy?’ asked Button.

‘How do you think it ends?’

Button shrugged. ‘Not with a court case, obviously.’

Ellis laughed. ‘Perish the thought.’

‘It’s a tough one, isn’t it?’

‘The toughest. It’s not as if you can get a spare bedroom in the Ecuador embassy, is it? I suppose the Russians …’

Button shuddered. ‘Don’t even say that in jest.’

‘You see, you’re not a traitor. You’re not a double agent. It would be hard to argue treason.’

‘I was carrying out government policy most of the time.’

‘Yes, well, certainly, but not all the time, and that’s where you crossed the line.’

‘No one was ever targeted who didn’t deserve it,’ said Button.

‘Again, no one is disputing that. The world is probably a safer place because of the actions you took. But that doesn’t mean you should expect a medal. We both know what you did, Charlie. And, hand on heart, if I’d been through what you’ve been through, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same. If my husband had …’ She put up a hand and waved away the rest of the sentence. ‘Best we don’t go there.’

‘How is Tony?’

‘Good. Not happy that I’m here with you instead of being at the theatre with him.’

‘Are you missing anything nice?’

‘
Evita
. He’s taken Hannah.’

‘And how is she now? She must be what, twenty?’

‘Twenty-one. She got a 2:1 from Cambridge and is planning to work in the City after a gap year.’

‘You did well with Hannah. Lovely girl.’

‘Thank you. Yes. She’s done us proud.’ Ellis swirled her wine around the glass. ‘You used government money and personnel to deal with personal matters,’ she said eventually.

‘It’s a grey area, though.’

‘Very grey,’ agreed Ellis.

‘The funding has always been off the books,’ said Button. ‘And the personnel were freelance.’

‘You’re splitting hairs,’ said Ellis. She grinned. ‘Splitting grey hairs, I suppose.’

‘The government has always had plausible denial,’ said Button. ‘Nothing was ever written down.’

‘So there are no notes? No emails? No written record?’

Button shook her head. She sipped her wine and watched Ellis over the top of her glass.

‘So what is your insurance, Charlie? What do we need to be worried about?’

Button shrugged but didn’t say anything.

‘I’m not recording this, you know that.’

Button smiled. ‘Some things are better not said.’

‘Because they might be taken as a threat?’

Button shrugged again and sipped her wine.

‘There’s no paper or email trail, obviously. But I’m thinking that someone with an eye to the future might record the odd conversation, either phone or face to face. The occasional briefing. Plus, of course, a diary would be very revealing, wouldn’t it?’

‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Button.

‘And D-Notices aren’t much use in this brave new world. Details of a government-sanctioned assassination unit would go global within minutes. Especially if there was a list of targets. It would be—’

‘Embarrassing,’ Button finished for her.

‘Dangerous, I was thinking. Countries who thought we were their friends might start reassessing their relationship with us. Then there are the legal implications. You can imagine the lawyers piling in, can’t you?’

‘Again, I couldn’t possibly comment.’

‘And I’m assuming that there wouldn’t just be one copy in a safe deposit box somewhere. And I don’t doubt that you’ve left an envelope with a close family friend to be opened in the event of your demise.’

Button sipped more of her wine.

‘More likely on a website somewhere that requires you to visit it on a regular basis. If you don’t log in, the information there is made public.’

‘It’s the Internet age,’ said Button.

Ellis sighed. ‘I’m guessing you have all your bases covered, as our American cousins are so fond of saying. So where do we go from here, Charlie?’

‘The ball’s in your court, to use another sporting metaphor.’

‘There’ll be no charges, obviously. No one wants you in court, even a secret one. But you can hardly continue as if nothing has happened.’

‘I’m happy enough to resign,’ said Button. ‘It would be nice if I could keep my pension.’

‘Resigning for personal reasons?’ Ellis nodded. ‘I think that would work.’

‘I could do some charitable work,’ said Button. ‘Something with animals, perhaps.’

‘I didn’t realise you were into animals.’

‘I’m not, really.’

Ellis chuckled softly. ‘I don’t think anyone expects you to start working for the RSPCA,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’ve been authorised to suggest that you continue doing what you have been doing, but in a freelance capacity.’

Button’s eyes widened. ‘Are you serious?’ she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

‘Are you telling me you hadn’t considered something along those lines?’

‘Of course. But not with Her Majesty’s Government’s approval.’

‘Who said anything about approval?’ said Ellis. ‘That’s not what I said. I’m simply passing on the suggestion that you might consider going private. You have to leave MI5, Charlie. You know that’s a foregone conclusion. But if you decided to go private, you wouldn’t meet any resistance. The opposite, in fact.’

Button smiled. ‘I’m listening.’

‘Off the record, there might well be occasions when HMG would put work your way – at arm’s length, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Button.

‘Your company would not be paid, of course. Nor expenses reimbursed. We couldn’t afford a paper trail.’

‘That makes sense.’

‘But in return for the occasional pro-bono contract, as it were, HMG would allow you the freedom to operate pretty much without impediment.’

‘That’s an interesting proposal.’

‘The world has changed, Charlie. And the pace of change has picked up. When those fanatics raided the offices of Charlie Hebdo and massacred all those French cartoonists, they took it to a whole new level. HMG is now even more committed to The Pool. Plus, there would be the possibility of you receiving intelligence from us that might be helpful in your operations.’

‘And how might that work?’ asked Button.

‘Every now and again we could get together for a little chat. Share a bottle of wine. Shoot the breeze, put the world to rights.’

‘And you’d share intel with me?’

‘I don’t see why not. So long as national security wasn’t compromised. And we would assume that you would never take out a contract that clashed with HMG’s intentions.’

‘I don’t see that being an issue, Patsy.’

Ellis raised her glass. ‘Then I don’t see we have a problem,’ she said.

Button raised her glass and clinked it against Ellis’s. ‘Here’s to the start of a long and mutually beneficial relationship,’ she said.

Ellis grinned. ‘We can but hope,’ she said.

‘
T
hey’re coming now,’ said Allen. He was sitting in the back of the Mondeo. Sharpe was in the driving seat and Shepherd was sitting next to him. Allen had a transceiver in his hand and a wire running up to the earpiece in his right ear.

‘There they are,’ said Sharpe.

Heading down the road towards them was the white van belonging to the kebab shop.

The Mondeo was parked in the car park next to a doctor’s surgery that gave them a reasonable view of the kebab shop and the minicab office above it.

It was just after eight o’clock in the evening and Ahmet had left in the van at four o’clock for the ninety-minute drive west along the M62 to Liverpool. A West Yorkshire Police surveillance team had shadowed him to the depot; a simple matter as they knew exactly where he was heading. The same team had followed him back, but again they were able to keep their distance. Yusuf had remained in the minicab office but his eldest son had gone with Ahmet.

Ahmet brought the van to a stop outside the kebab shop. Yusuf’s son climbed out, went around to the rear of the van, pulled the doors open and took out a large box labelled FRESH CHICKEN.

‘There we go,’ said Shepherd.

Yusuf’s son took out a second box and slammed the door shut. Then, instead of heading into the shop he went to the door that led to the stairs up to the minicab office. He pressed an intercom button and looked up at the CCTV covering the pavement. A couple of seconds later he pushed the door open and went inside.

‘They’re getting ready to go now,’ said Allen.

‘They’d be better waiting for Ahmet to go up and join his brother,’ said Sharpe. He held up his hands. ‘But then it’s not my gig.’

Half a dozen armed police came down the road towards the kebab shop in black suits, bulletproof vests and Kevlar helmets. In the midst of them was an officer holding an enforcer, a bright orange battering ram capable of smashing open the most reinforced of doors. It weighed sixteen kilos but in the right hands could generate a force of three tonnes.