Cold Kill (26 page)

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Shepherd.

‘We have a friend in the Passport Agency,’ said Salik. ‘We give him the photographs and you can use whatever name and date of birth you like. Ten thousand pounds.’

‘Ten grand?’

‘It’s a bargain,’ said Salik. ‘It’s a real passport – you can use it to apply for visas in other countries and it’ll never be spotted. We can take the ten thousand off the money we will be paying you.’

Shepherd pretended to consider the offer. Then he nodded slowly. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘A new passport it is. How long will it take?’

‘Forty-eight hours after we have the photographs,’ said Salik. ‘We can take them tonight. There’s a photo booth at Paddington station. We can go there after we’ve eaten.’ He waved at the dishes on the table. ‘Now, please, enjoy the food.’

The van was still parked off Inverness Terrace. Shepherd knocked three times on the rear door, which opened. Hargrove was still sitting on his stool while Singh was listening to a recording on a set of noise-suppressing headphones.

‘Did you get everything?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Everything in the restaurant, clear as a bell,’ said Hargrove. ‘The passport stuff was interesting. We didn’t do so well at Paddington. Your phone was in your jacket, I guess.’

‘They didn’t say much, just took the photographs and told me they’d be in touch. I’ve said I’ll stay in London until the passport’s ready. You definitely want me to run with the passport thing?’

‘Absolutely,’ said the superintendent. ‘If they’ve got a man in the Passport Agency doling out the real McCoy, we need to know who he is.’

‘And what about Paris?’

‘Let me speak to Europol,’ said Hargrove. ‘I’ll see if they can set up surveillance in France.’

‘The Albanians are tough bastards,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m going to need back-up I can trust.’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ said Hargrove. ‘It’s starting to look like this is a serious currency ring. There’s a North Korean embassy in Tirana, Albania’s capital. If the North Koreans wanted to flood Europe with fake euros, the Albanian Mafia could do it efficiently for them, with Albanian asylum-seekers flooding into Fortress Europe. The Uddin brothers are just a small part of it.’ He rubbed his knee. ‘One thing I won’t miss about this job is sitting in the back of this bloody van. Do you want a lift home?’

‘I’m parked in a multi-storey down the road,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘How was the food?’ asked Singh. ‘My mouth was watering hearing that guy run through the menu.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘It was bloody good, actually. The guys like to eat.’

‘You seemed to be enjoying yourself,’ said Hargrove.

‘They’re easy to relax with,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’re not your regular villains – they don’t have that edge so you don’t keep expecting them to fly off the handle.’

‘Not getting soft, are you, Spider?’ asked Hargrove.

Shepherd grunted dismissively. ‘They’re a pleasant change from the drug-dealing scumbags and blaggers I’m used to dealing with. I didn’t say they don’t deserve to be put away for what they’re doing.’ He climbed out of the van. ‘I’ll call you when they give me details of the meet,’ he said, and slammed the door. He turned up the collar of his pea coat and headed towards the car park.

It was Friday morning when Salik rang, a little after nine. Shepherd had just got back from his run. He’d picked up the
Daily Mail
and the
Daily Telegraph
from his local newsagent, with a cappuccino and two almond croissants from the delicatessen but had to leave them untouched as Salik wanted to see him within the hour. Speaker’s Corner again.

He showered and shaved, put on Tony Corke’s clothes and drove to Marble Arch. He had decided against wearing the bulletproof vest. He phoned Hargrove on the way but the superintendent confirmed what Shepherd already knew: that there had been no time to put any surveillance in place. The meeting would go unmonitored and there would be no backup.

‘It’s your call, Spider,’ said Hargrove.

‘It’s in the open – if he was up to something he’d have picked somewhere more private,’ said Shepherd.

‘Call me when you’re through,’ said Hargrove. ‘If you feel it’s necessary, I can get Sharpe and Joyce to head your way.’

‘It’ll probably be over by the time they turn up,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. He probably just wants a chat about the boat.’

‘If you change your mind, call me,’ said Hargrove.

Shepherd parked in a multi-storey and took a circuitous route to Speaker’s Corner. Salik Uddin was sitting on the bench where Shepherd had waited for him. He was wearing a camel coat with the collar turned up and peeling an orange. ‘Tony,’ he said, ‘thank you for coming.’

Shepherd sat down. Salik offered him a piece of fruit but he shook his head.

‘Vitamin C,’ said Salik. ‘It keeps colds at bay.’

Shepherd smiled. ‘My mother used to say that,’ he said, ‘but I had just as many colds as the other kids.’

Salik smiled and popped a segment into his mouth. ‘Mothers always know best.’ He chewed slowly. ‘So, where are you staying in London?’

‘A mate’s spare bedroom,’ said Shepherd. ‘His wife walked out too, so we’ve a lot in common. Thanks for the meal the other night. Best Indian food I’ve ever had.’

‘Bangladeshi food,’ corrected Salik.

‘Sorry,’ said Shepherd. ‘Best Bangladeshi food I’ve ever eaten.’

Salik reached into one of the side pockets of his jacket and took out a brand new British passport. He handed it to Shepherd. ‘That was quick,’ Shepherd said.

‘We get fast-track treatment,’ said Salik.

‘That’s why it costs so much, I guess.’

Salik smiled. ‘Ten thousand pounds for a genuine British passport is cheap, my friend. I spent five times that on legal fees for my application and Matiur has spent twice as much and doesn’t even have citizenship yet.’

Shepherd opened the passport and flicked to the back. The photograph he’d taken at Paddington station grinned up at him. The date of birth made him thirty-three and the name was Peter Devereux. Place of birth, Bristol. Shepherd ran his fingers over the lamination, and examined the pages.

‘Don’t worry, it is the real thing,’ said Salik, as if reading his mind. ‘It’s not a copy or a facsimile, or your photograph stuck in someone else’s passport.’

‘If it’s so easy, why doesn’t Matiur just buy one? Why does he bother going through the whole legal process?’

‘He is already in the system – has been for the past five years. We have only had our contact in the Passport Agency for the past three years. You see, at the moment the only real identifying feature in a passport is the photograph. But soon they’ll be biometric, with either fingerprints or retinal scans incorporated. When that happens anyone who is in the system twice will be spotted. Anyway, travelling isn’t a problem as Matiur has permanent residency, so he’s happy with the way things are. He will get citizenship. It’s just a matter of time.’

Shepherd put away the passport. ‘Okay, I’ll head off back to Dover.’

‘Actually, there’s something I need you to do first.’ Salik’s hand disappeared inside his coat again and reappeared with a white envelope.

Shepherd took it and opened it. Inside, a dark blue folder contained a Eurostar ticket. ‘What’s this?’ he said.

‘Your train leaves Waterloo at nine minutes past one,’ said Salik. ‘You have plenty of time to get to the station.’

Shepherd stared at the ticket. It was in the name of Peter Devereux. ‘You can’t do this!’ he exploded.

‘What do you mean?’ said Salik, evidently confused by his outburst.

‘Have me running off to Paris at the drop of a hat.’

‘You’ll be back by this evening,’ said Salik, patiently. ‘They will meet you in Paris. You will be there for three hours and you will be back in London by ten o’clock.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘The men who are arranging the shipment. They want to meet you. I have already emailed them your photograph.’

‘You did what?’ Shepherd was genuinely alarmed. As Tony Corke he had no reason to refuse to go to Paris to meet the Albanians. But as Dan Shepherd, undercover cop, he knew that the Albanians wouldn’t think twice about killing him if they knew his true identity. And now they had his photograph.

‘Just so they’ll be able to spot you. They need to know what you look like.’

‘Salik, I’ve got things to do.’

‘A few hours, that’s all. Less than three hours there, three hours back.’

Shepherd stood up. ‘God damn it, you can’t treat me like some sort of servant!’

‘You are working for me, remember?’ said Salik, quietly. His voice had hardened. ‘And the Albanians will not do business with men they do not know. You will go, or we are through.’ He stared at Shepherd with unblinking brown eyes.

Shepherd had been backed into a corner. Tony Corke had no valid reason for refusing to go. He needed the money – and Salik was right: he was no more than a hired hand. ‘Okay,’ he said.

Salik smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s a formality. Just go over, show your face, and they’ll put the consignment together.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’d better be going,’ he said. ‘The traffic’s pretty heavy over the river so if I were you I’d get the Tube.’

Shepherd forced a smile. ‘I’ll call you tonight, let you know how I got on.’

He headed out of the park. He decided against using the Tube and flagged down a black cab. His mobile wouldn’t work on the Underground and he had some urgent calls to make.

The Saudi stirred his coffee slowly and looked out of the window. The street outside was filled with housewives loaded with shopping, office workers stealing time from their employers to run personal errands, youngsters in hooded tops smoking cigarettes furtively, planning their next shoplifting trip. A slim leather briefcase stood at his feet.

He sipped his coffee. Strong and bitter, as he liked it. He checked his watch. It was time. He had spent an hour in the coffee shop and was on his third espresso. He was sure that no one was watching the building opposite. He picked up his mobile. The Sim card was new and this was the first time he had used it. It would also be the last: later on that day he would destroy it. The way in which the authorities allowed the liberal use of untraceable phonecards made no sense to the Saudi. Disposable Sim cards were used by terrorists, drug-dealers, money-launderers, by anyone who wanted to communicate without detection. Mobile phones were also used to detonate bombs, but governments in the West allowed anyone to buy a Sim card without identifying themselves. The Saudi had two dozen in his briefcase, not one of which could be traced back to him. It was greed, pure and simple: the phone companies made money, and so did the governments – from tax, and from the licences they auctioned to the phone companies. No one wanted to kill the golden goose.

He tapped out a number. The man who answered didn’t identify himself. He said simply, ‘Yes?’

‘Our meeting for tomorrow is still on schedule?’ asked the Saudi.

‘The following day would be better,’ said the man.

The Saudi ended the call. He finished his coffee and picked up his briefcase, then walked across the street. Between a shop selling bric-à-brac and an off-licence, a door led up to the shabby flats above. There were eight buttons in two rows of four. There had once been paper stickers on the buttons with typed names but now they were all illegible. Someone had written the number ‘2’ on one in pencil. The Saudi pressed it. Almost immediately the door lock buzzed. The Saudi pushed his way in and climbed a set of bare wooden stairs to the second floor. The man he was there to meet had already opened the door. ‘
Allahu akbar
,’ he said.

‘
Allahu akbar
,’ said the Saudi, and walked into the flat.

The man was a Chechen. He had fought for his own people against the Russians, and in Bosnia. It was while he was fighting Serbs in the former Yugoslavia that he was approached by a representative of a Saudi charity. Two weeks later he was in Pakistan. Initially he was trained in the use of explosives but gradually his instructors realised that Ilyas could be used for greater things. His commitment to the Muslim cause, the fact that he had no living family and hated all things Western made him the perfect candidate to join the ranks of the
shahid
. They began to groom him to sacrifice his life for the
jihad
. He was shown videos recorded by
shahids
who gone to sit in heaven with Allah, then guided through the Koran and shown that there could be no greater glory than to die for Islam.

It was the Saudi who had realised that Ilyas was too valuable to be thrown away on a suicide mission, no matter how important the target. He had fair hair and green eyes, and spoke excellent English, albeit with a strong accent. No one would suspect he wasn’t European until they heard his voice. He was fearless, trained in the use of most arms from pistols to rocket-propelled grenades, a skilled driver and mechanic.

The flat where Ilyas had been staying for the past month was small but clean: a cramped sitting room with a futon and a coffee table, tiny bedroom with a single bed, and a cooking area with a double hotplate, a microwave and fridge. A copy of the Koran lay open on the coffee table.

An orange fluorescent jacket hung over a chair with ‘
NETWORK RAIL
’ on the back. Next to it stood a large blue metal toolbox with patches of rust on the sides.

The Saudi went to the futon and sat down. He placed his briefcase on the coffee table and opened it. Ilyas picked up the Koran and sat with it in his hands as the Saudi got out eight detonators and put them on the table. There were six triggers in the briefcase, which he laid beside the detonators; only four would be needed but the Saudi had included two spares. There were four nine-volt batteries, with enough wiring and connectors to complete four trigger circuits.