Live Fire (27 page)

‘Exactly,’ said Sharpe. ‘You’re under cover as Ricky Knight, a bank robber on the run in the sex capital of the world. Knight would be taking full advantage of what’s on offer, so by not dipping your wick you’re out of character. You’re putting the operation at risk by clinging to your virginity.’

‘I’m hardly a virgin.’

‘In Pattaya you are, and if the Brothers Grim realise it, they’ll smell a rat.’

In the space of less than a minute, Sharpe had managed to spin the conversation around and now he was making it sound as if Shepherd was the one in the wrong. And the hell of it was that his argument was convincing. ‘I’m leaving,’ he said. ‘I’ll phone you when I get back.’

‘I’ll be counting the minutes,’ said Sharpe.

Shepherd ended the call. He’d forgotten to tell Sharpe that Charlie had said he could move into a better hotel. He considered calling him back, then thought better of it. It would serve him right to stay where he was for a while.

The red and white pole stayed down as Shepherd drove up to the compound entrance in his Jeep. One of the two guards walked over, holding a clipboard, and Shepherd wound down the window. ‘ID card,’ said the guard. It wasn’t one of the men who had been on the gate the first time Shepherd had visited.

Shepherd frowned. ‘I don’t have one.’

‘Passport? Driving licence?’ The guard had the world-weary look of policemen everywhere, and a Glock holstered on his hip.

Shepherd took his John Westlake passport from his pocket and showed it to the guard. He checked the name against a list on his clipboard and Shepherd’s face against the photograph on the licence, then nodded curtly and handed it back. He spoke to his colleague and the second guard raised the pole. Both men saluted as Shepherd drove through the gate.

Yates was waiting for him at the top of the stairs leading to the main building, wearing an oversized shirt, covered with different-coloured elephants, and baggy shorts. ‘We’re in the bar,’ he said. ‘Come on through.’

Shepherd jogged up the stairs. Yates clapped him on the back and ushered him through the hall. ‘How many people are coming?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Lots,’ said Yates. They walked by the chill-out room. There was no sound, no buzz of conversation, no clink of glasses, no sign of any sort of party in progress. Shepherd slowed but Yates put a hand in the small of his back, pushing him forward. ‘Mickey’s going to be doing the cooking and he’s a magician with the old charcoal,’ said Yates. Shepherd knew that Yates was talking to cover his nerves. Something was wrong, very wrong, and it was too late for Shepherd to do anything about it. ‘He had the steaks flown in from Australia, no expense spared,’ continued Yates. Shepherd heard the tension in his voice.

They walked into the bar. Mickey and Mark were standing in the middle of the room with their hands on their hips, wearing Nike tracksuits; Mickey’s was red and Mark’s was blue. Wilson was by the pool table, holding a cue in both hands. Black was sitting on a bar stool but slid off it as Yates closed the door to the bar.

‘What’s up, guys?’ asked Shepherd. He heard the uncertainty in his voice but forced himself to smile as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

‘Don’t give me that, you slag,’ said Mickey, walking towards him with his fists bunched. ‘We know what you’re up to.’

Shepherd stared at him unflinchingly. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Did you think you’d get away with it?’ said Mickey, his face just inches from Shepherd’s. ‘Did you think you could pull the wool over our eyes like we were born fucking yesterday?’

‘Mickey, what the hell is wrong?’

Mickey jabbed his finger at Shepherd’s nose. ‘Don’t you “Mickey” me, you lying slag.’

‘Let me sort him out, Mickey,’ said Mark. He grabbed the pool cue from Wilson and strode towards Shepherd, swinging it from side to side. ‘We know who you are,’ said Mark. ‘And we don’t like slags who take the piss.’

Shepherd’s pulse raced but he fought to keep his voice steady. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

Mark pointed the cue at Shepherd’s face. ‘You slag,’ he hissed.

‘Don’t hit him here,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ll never get the blood out of the floors. Take him outside, do it on the patio.’

‘Up,’ said Mark, gesturing at Shepherd with the pool cue. Wilson had picked up a second cue and was holding it like a club.

‘I don’t know what you guys have been taking, but you’re making a big mistake.’

‘You’re the one who’s made the mistake,’ said Mark. ‘Now get up.’

Shepherd’s mind whirled. Was Mark telling the truth? Had he made a mistake? Had the bent copper in London kept on digging and turned up his true identity? If that was the case, why hadn’t Charlie warned him? ‘This is crazy, guys,’ said Shepherd. He raised his hands, showing his palms, wanting to appear as non-threatening as possible.

Mark stepped back, keeping the pool cue aimed at Shepherd’s face. Mickey picked up his bottle of Singha and took a swig. ‘We’re going to beat the shit out of you, you lying bastard. Then we’re going to bury you out back.’

‘Guys, this is madness,’ said Shepherd. ‘If I’ve done something to piss you off, just let me know what it is and we’ll sort it out.’

‘Outside,’ said Mark, waving the cue menacingly.

Shepherd glanced around for anything he could use as a weapon but there was nothing within reach other than two crystal ashtrays on the coffee-table.

‘Outside,’ Mark repeated.

Shepherd did as he was told, stepping through the french windows onto the terrace. A slight breeze ruffled his hair. He heard Mickey and Mark step onto the tiles behind him. Shepherd took a deep breath. He could run for the low wall at the end of the pool, and if he made it that far he could keep low and duck between the palm trees, get to the wall, and if he hit it hard enough he might be able to scramble over the top. He exhaled slowly. Mark was behind him, and there was every chance that as soon as he started to run, the cue would smash down on the back of his head. And even if he made the wall it was topped with razor wire. He forced himself to relax.

‘Keep your hands up,’ said Mark.

Shepherd slowly raised his arms. Mark was close, maybe close enough to reach if he swung around and lashed out with his foot.

‘Anything you want to say?’ asked Mickey. ‘Anything you want to tell us?’

Mark and Wilson raised their pool cues, hatred in their eyes.

Shepherd wondered what he was getting at. If he knew Shepherd was an undercover SOCA agent he’d have said so already. And he doubted that the Moores would take the risk of killing an undercover officer, even in Thailand. And in the unlikely event that they did decide it was worth killing him, they were hardly likely do it in their own home. He smiled to himself. The brothers were winding him up. He lowered his hands. ‘You bastards,’ he said. ‘You had me going. You know my little secret, yeah?’

Mickey pointed at Shepherd’s face. ‘We know you’re not John bloody Westlake, that’s for sure. What did you think, Ricky? Thought we were born yesterday, did you?’

Mark and Wilson lowered their cues, hatred replaced with malicious grins. ‘Had you going, didn’t we?’

‘Having someone threaten to beat my brains out always gets me going,’ said Shepherd. He shook his head. ‘You bastards.’

Mickey put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Come on, let’s have a drink,’ he said, guiding him back into the villa. ‘We’ve got something we want to run by you.’

Once they were inside Mark went to get cold beers from the fridge.

‘Why did you give us all that guff about you being a car thief?’ said Mickey as he collapsed onto one of the sofas. ‘You ashamed of being a pavement artist?’

Shepherd smiled at that. It wasn’t a phrase he’d heard in a long time. ‘I’m on the run, Mickey. Probably best that I don’t broadcast what I do for a living.’

‘The way I see it, Ricky, what we do for a living is nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve been inside, you’ve seen the sort of scum that’s behind bars in England. Drug-dealers, kiddy-fiddlers, rapists. Compared with them, we’re princes.’

‘I didn’t start robbing banks for the glory, Mickey. I needed the sodding money.’

Mark walked over with bottles of Singha. He handed one to Shepherd and put another in front of Mickey.

‘You know what I mean,’ said Mickey, picking up his beer. ‘You never hurt anyone, right? Not really. You went in with a shooter but it was a tool of the trade. I bet you never pulled the trigger in anger.’

‘You pull the trigger, you leave forensics. Everyone knows that,’ said Shepherd.

‘Exactly,’ said Mickey. ‘That’s what I always tell Mark. If we wanted to shoot at civilians, we’d have joined the police.’ He threw back his head and guffawed at his own joke.

Shepherd leaned forward, holding his bottle with both hands. ‘What are you saying, Mickey? Are you telling me we’re in the same line of business?’

Mickey looked at his brother. ‘He doesn’t know who we are.’

Mark sat next to Shepherd. ‘That’s because we’ve never been caught, Ricky. Unlike you.’

‘We’re low-profile villains who commit high-profile jobs,’ said Mickey. ‘Mark’s right, we’ve never been caught. No one’s looking for us, our money’s in the banking system, we can come and go as we please.’

‘Would you have done anything I might have heard about?’

‘One of the reasons we’ve never been caught is because we don’t tell tales,’ he said. ‘We plan everything down to the last detail, we always have an escape route and we only work with people we trust.’

‘Yeah, that’s what’s always let me down,’ said Shepherd. ‘Other bloody people. Anyway, at least now I can forget about pretending to be someone else.’ He raised his bottle in salute. ‘To ordinary decent criminals.’

The brothers raised their bottles in unison. ‘Ordinary decent criminals,’ they echoed.

Shepherd tapped the four-digit code into his burglar-alarm console, then unlocked the french windows to the patio and stood by the waterfall at the end of the swimming-pool as he phoned Charlotte Button.

‘I hope you’re calling with good news,’ she said, as soon as she answered.

‘I’m in,’ he said. ‘Sort of.’

‘Sort of?’

‘They’ve told me what they do but they haven’t told me what they’ve got planned. They just told me who they are and we had a barbecue.’

‘Very civilised,’ said Button. ‘Did you get to see the Professor?’

‘He wasn’t there. And they didn’t mention him. They said they’d done some high-profile robberies that were well planned but they wouldn’t go into details.’

‘We’ll keep a watch for him at Heathrow,’ said Button. ‘So, are you okay?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘They’re not the easiest of guys to hang out with. Mark’s got a short fuse so I’m on eggshells.’

‘Hopefully it won’t be too much longer. In the meantime, any info you can pick up about the job will be gratefully received.’

‘I’m on it,’ said Shepherd. ‘How are you going to play it, Charlie? Are you going to let it run all the way?’

‘Let’s see what they’ve got planned,’ she said. ‘No point in counting chickens. You take care, you hear?’

‘Always,’ said Shepherd. He ended the call and stood by the pool, listening to the insects chirping. It got louder and louder until he could almost feel the vibrations on his skin. In the far distance he could hear the dull thudding of rock music and the occasional shriek of laughter. There was never a moment of silence in Pattaya. The bars were open day and night, and there were always people in the streets, no matter what the hour. Even in his secluded villa he could hear motorcycles buzzing along the roads, dogs barking and howling in the distance, cars and trucks sounding horns.

He went back inside to his bedroom and put his phone on the bedside table. He didn’t feel like sleeping so he switched on the television. He flicked through the channels. There was a large satellite dish on the roof and he had access to more than five hundred, but he couldn’t find anything he wanted to watch.

He heard another phone ringing. It was his home mobile, the one he used for personal calls. He’d left it in the bathroom and hurried to get it. It was Liam. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Shepherd, his heart racing.

‘Nothing, really,’ said Liam. ‘I mean, I’m okay.’

Relief washed over him. His reaction had been irrational, of course. If anything had happened to Liam, he wouldn’t have been making the call. ‘I’m glad you called,’ he said. ‘I’ve been missing you.’

‘When are you coming back, Dad?’

It was a good question, he thought. He had been accepted by the Moores but that was only the first step in what promised to be a long operation. It could take weeks, months even, he had no way of knowing. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said truthfully.

‘You sound funny,’ said Liam. ‘Like you’re drunk.’

Shepherd wasn’t drunk, but he’d put away half a dozen beers with the Moores and their team. ‘I’m just tired,’ he lied. ‘It’s late here.’

‘What time is it?’

It was just after two o’clock in the morning. ‘Very late,’ said Shepherd. ‘I was just going to sleep. How’s school?’

‘School’s school,’ said Liam.

‘Gran and Granddad looking after you?’

‘Sure, but it’s not the same as being at home. I want you to come back, Dad.’

‘I will, as soon as this job’s finished, I promise. And I’ll take time off. We can have a holiday.’

‘I’ve got school, Dad.’

‘Okay, when school’s finished. We’ll go to Eurodisney or something.’

‘You’ll have another job by then,’ said Liam, reproachfully. ‘You always have another job.’

‘I’ll make the time,’ said Shepherd. ‘Have you done your homework?’

Liam sighed. ‘Yes, I’ve done my homework. You always change the subject when you know you’re in the wrong.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘You’d make a good policeman,’ he said. ‘You’ve got excellent interrogation skills.’

‘I don’t want to be a policeman,’ said Liam. ‘It’s a lousy job. You have no life.’

Shepherd knew his son was trying to hurt him, but there was an element of truth in what he was saying. His work as an undercover agent was all-consuming, and it did mean he spent long periods away from home. But Shepherd loved his job; he loved the challenges it presented and the buzz he got from doing it well. But that wasn’t something he could explain to an eleven-year-old boy who missed his father. ‘What do you want to do?’ he asked.