Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller (5 page)

The woman backed away, still screaming, and Khalaf took a step towards her. ‘Allahu Akbar!’ he yelled.

He was side on to Shepherd. Shepherd sprinted faster, knowing that he had only a second to act. There was no time for anything fancy, no grabbing or kicking or throwing. He ran full pelt at Khalaf, twisting his shoulder and hitting him in the right side with all his weight. They both went flying, the combat knife clattering to the ground. Shepherd hit the floor and immediately went into a roll, down on to his shoulder and up again, using his momentum to carry him back to his feet. Khalaf was less coordinated and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes. The machete slipped from his grasp but stayed tied to his wrist. As Shepherd stood over him, Khalaf cursed and groped for his weapon. The woman finally regained the use of her legs and began to run, still screaming, for the exit.

There were more shouts of ‘Allahu Akbar’ off to his left amid all the screaming and crying.

Khalaf had the machete in his hand now and murder in his eyes. His fingers tensed around the handle but Shepherd didn’t give him the chance to move, he stepped forward with his left leg and kicked the man hard in the head. The skull snapped to the side and the spine snapped like a dead twig. Shepherd knew from the sound and the angle of the neck that Khalaf was dead. He bent down, picked up the combat knife, and began running across the station concourse.

People were running everywhere, mainly towards the exit, but there were some passengers rooted to the spot and unbelievably some were taking videos on their mobile phones.

Shepherd heard frantic screaming off to his left and he started running in that direction, weaving through the panicking crowds. He saw a machete rise and fall followed by the screams of a woman in pain. The attacker was dark skinned and had a strip of cloth around his forehead. He had the same manic look in his eyes that Khalaf had had, and like Khalaf held a machete in his right hand and a knife in his left. He was bearded and wearing a waistcoat over a traditional shalwar kameez, a long grey shirt and baggy off-white pants. The woman he had just slashed was writhing on the ground, her blouse glistening with blood. She had gone into shock, her mouth opening and closing like a stranded goldfish, her eyes staring up at the station roof.

The man with the machete roared in triumph and started running after a businessman in a long coat and heavy briefcase. The businessman realised he was being chased and he turned and shrieked as he threw the briefcase towards his attacker. The case hit the man on the knees but he was so drugged up on amphetamines and adrenaline he didn’t register any pain. He jumped over the briefcase and stabbed the businessman in the chest. The businessman fell back, his arms flailing. The machete went up and came slashing down, slicing through the businessman’s left sleeve. The businessman turned and tried to run but the machete slashed down again, catching him in the shoulder.

Everyone in the vicinity was screaming now and the attacker was chanting, ‘Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar!’ at the top of his voice.

The businessman took a couple of steps and then fell to his knees. The attacker raised his machete again, getting ready to separate the head from the body. Shepherd was a dozen or so feet away and moving fast. He yelled ‘Police!’ more to get a reaction than to identify himself, he just wanted to distract the man. It worked, the man turned to look at him, the machete still held high.

Shepherd had the knife in his right hand and he held it low, moving in close before stabbing upwards. The man stumbled back and slashed down with the machete, narrowly missing Shepherd’s wrist. Shepherd’s left hand managed to grab the man’s sleeve and he pulled him towards himself as he struck with the knife again. This time he felt the knife penetrate the man’s clothing and he pushed harder, feeling the blade separate the ribs. The man’s mouth opened but no sound came out, then Shepherd grunted and pushed harder, driving the knife upwards towards the heart.

Off to his right Shepherd was aware of the sound of shots being fired and more screams.

The man began to shake and the knife he had been holding clattered to the floor. His weight pitched forward against Shepherd, forcing himself down on the blade. The machete slipped from the man’s fingers and swung free on the strap around his wrist. Shepherd felt warm blood gushing over his hand and he gave one final push and the struggling ceased as the blade pierced the heart.

As he pulled out the knife and stepped back, he heard more shots and shouts of ‘Armed police!’ The man fell face down at Shepherd’s feet and blood pooled around him as Shepherd stood and looked around. He heard more rapid-fire shots to his left and at the far end of the station he saw three armed police officers shoot down a young Pakistani guy in a blue tracksuit. The rounds smacked into the man’s chest and for a second or two seemed to have no effect – the man continued to charge at the officers with his machete held high above his head, but then he suddenly collapsed like a stringless marionette and fell to the ground, shuddering for a second or two before going still.

‘Spider, what the hell’s happening?’ asked Brewer in his ear. ‘The ARUs are there.’

‘I see them,’ said Shepherd. ‘All good.’

‘Armed police, drop your weapon now!’ The shout came from behind him and Shepherd turned to see two armed policemen dressed all in black walking towards him, their carbines up at the shoulders, fingers inside their trigger guards. ‘Armed police, drop your weapon!’ repeated the one nearest him. The guns were Heckler & Koch G36 assault rifles with thirty-round curved magazines, one of the Metropolitan Police’s weapons of choice, but Shepherd had never been a fan. It had a tendency to overheat during firefights, taking a toll on its accuracy with the result that it became pretty much ineffective above a couple of hundred metres.

Announcing they were ‘armed police’ seemed a bit unnecessary considering what they were pointing at him, but Shepherd complied, tossing the knife on to the ground. He knew there was no point in identifying himself, no point claiming that he was one of the good guys, no matter what he said they would have to follow protocol. He sighed and put his hands behind his neck, then knelt down, making no sudden movements.

‘Down on the floor!’ screamed the second officer.

‘I’m already down,’ Shepherd muttered under his breath.

‘Armed police, down on the floor!’ screamed the first officer.

Shepherd realised they meant face down so he sighed, slowly took his hands away from his neck and eased himself down, turning his head so that he could watch them approach. They still had their weapons trained on him and their fingers on the triggers.

He heard the pounding of boots and more shouts of ‘armed police’ and Shepherd said a silent prayer that the cops wouldn’t put a bullet in him, just to be on the safe side. It wouldn’t have been the first time that he had been shot by the cavalry.

H
arper arrived in Ireland just before two o’clock in the afternoon. He took a taxi from Dublin airport up to Belfast. There were no checks at all between the north and the south of Ireland and barely any sign that he had crossed a border of any kind. Once at Belfast airport he paid cash for a one-way ticket to Heathrow using a British driving licence as ID. Barely twenty-four hours after receiving the text message in Pattaya he was walking out of Heathrow airport and over to the line of waiting black cabs. A chunky East European woman in a fluorescent jacket asked him where he wanted to go.

‘Somewhere hot and sunny,’ he said.

She frowned. ‘What?’

‘Where are you from?’ asked Harper. ‘Bulgaria? Romania?’

‘Where do you want to go?’ she asked, ignoring his question.

‘She’s from Romania, mate,’ said the driver of the cab nearest to Harper. ‘Just tell her where you want to go or you’ll be there all day.’

‘Here’s the thing,’ said Harper. ‘I don’t know her, so why should I tell her where I’m going? It’s none of her business.’

‘She just wants to make sure that it’s not local. I’ve been here for three hours waiting for a fare and I don’t want to be dropping you down the road.’

‘You won’t be,’ said Harper. He pulled open the door and climbed in. ‘Drop me near King’s Cross.’

‘You got a train to catch?’

‘Bloody hell, is everyone going to be asking me what I’m doing today?’

The cabbie laughed. ‘I’m guessing you had a long flight,’ he said, pulling away from the kerb. The woman in the fluorescent jacket glared after him, muttering under her breath.

Harper had the driver drop him close to King’s Cross station. He had a small holdall and he swung it over his shoulder as he walked around for half an hour to make absolutely sure that he wasn’t being followed. He used the time to buy three cheap mobile phones and half a dozen SIM cards. Only when he was satisfied that he was clean did he rent a room for cash in a grubby, no-questions-asked hotel. He sent a single text message from one of the new phones and then shaved and showered and changed into a clean shirt before parking himself at the window overlooking the street.

The redevelopment of the hinterland around King’s Cross had pushed the prostitutes and the sleazy hotels and bedsits that had catered for them there even further towards the margins. Watching from the window of his room, Harper smiled to himself as he saw Charlotte Button picking her way through the litter in the street and skirting a prostitute negotiating with a furtive, balding man in a city suit. A few moments later, he heard her footsteps on the stairs and a light tap at his door.

He opened the door and ushered her in. She looked around the room and shook her head. ‘I’m sure you choose places like this just to make me feel uncomfortable,’ she said.

‘I prefer to stay below the radar,’ he told her. It was starting to get dark so he switched on the light. Button drew the curtains, then looked disdainfully at the dust on her hands. She went through to the cramped bathroom and washed them under the cold tap, looked at the grubby towel and thought better of it, and flicked her hands dry as she walked back into the main room where Harper was sitting on the edge of the bed.

She took off her coat and put it on a hook on the back of the door before she sat down on the one chair in the room. As usual, she was immaculately groomed, with not a hair out of place and dressed in a black Chanel suit with a slim gold Cartier watch on her left wrist.

He had never managed to place her age – she could have been anywhere from early thirties to late forties – but whatever her age she was a bloody attractive woman.

‘So, let’s get straight down to business,’ Button said as she rested her briefcase on her knees, clicked open the locks and took out a file and a thick envelope. ‘As usual, this is completely off the books. On completion of your task, your fee will be paid into your offshore account. Meanwhile …’ She showed him the corner of a thick wad of notes. ‘Here’s ten thousand dollars in cash for expenses. If you need more, contact me through the drafts folder.’

Harper took the envelope from her and made as if to start checking the cash.

‘It’s all there,’ Button said, unable to stop the edge in her voice from revealing her irritation.

He grinned as he continued to check the notes. ‘You can’t trust anyone these days, Charlie, you know that.’ He slid the envelope into his pocket.

‘I’ll need receipts and—’

Harper interrupted her. ‘I’ll try,’ he said, ‘but as you know, in the circles I move in, that isn’t always possible.’

‘I know that – drug dealers, gangsters and terrorists aren’t exactly known for their tidy paperwork, are they? And I’ve never quibbled over the expenses claims you’ve submitted but, wherever possible, I need receipts to back them up.’ She gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘Even spooks have accounts departments to answer to, you know.’

‘Fine, but you haven’t told me what – or who – you want me to do in return for Her Majesty’s generosity.’

She studied him for a moment. ‘How much attention have you been paying to the UK news recently?’

He smiled. ‘As much as I usually do: practically none.’

‘You really should try to get beyond page three of the
Sun
occasionally, Lex, you’d find it very educational.’

‘Oh but I do,’ Harper said. ‘I always read the sports pages too.’

Button had to smile, despite herself. ‘Anyway, had you been following the news, you’d know that the New IRA have been becoming increasingly active, both in Northern Ireland and here on the mainland.’

‘The IRA? I thought HMG had followed Lyndon Johnson’s famous advice and had got Adams, McGuinness and their boys all inside the tent, pissing outwards, these days.’

‘They are, but that’s only the Provisional IRA. There were – and are – always factions and splinter groups who held out against the peace process. The Real IRA is pretty much defunct now but the New IRA are another story. Two members of the Police Service of Northern Ireland have been shot in recent weeks, a bomb was detonated in Londonderry, killing two people, and a device was left in a backpack at the bus station in Birmingham last week. No warning was given and it was only by a miracle – and the vigilance of an off-duty bus driver – that it was found and destroyed in a controlled explosion. Had it gone off, as it was timed to do, during the rush hour, scores of people might have been killed.

‘The New IRA are very well funded and, as a result, are increasingly well supplied with weapons and explosives. And as usual, the various agencies here, in Northern Ireland and in the Republic often seem to be more interested in marking out their turf, scoring points off each other and protecting their sources than they are in actually eliminating the problem. So, we’ve decided to bypass the usual channels.’ She fixed him with her cold gaze. ‘We need to cut off the supply route of funds and weapons to the New IRA at source.’

‘So my task is?’ Harper said.

‘You are to dispose of two targets. Their real names are Declan O’Brien and Michael Walsh but to keep it simple let’s call them Mick One and Mick Two.’ She opened the file and began sliding surveillance photographs and police mugshots across the table towards him. The first was of a solidly built man who looked to be in his early forties, with thinning sandy-coloured hair and a face that bore the marks of heavy drinking and a few fist fights, if the clumsily set broken nose was anything to go by. ‘Declan O’Brien …’