Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller (43 page)

‘You won’t mind if I check the money,’ said Harper from the front passenger seat.

‘You’re not getting paid until we’ve seen the rockets,’ said O’Brien.

‘That’s not a problem, but can the dog at least see the rabbit, as you English say?’

‘We’re fecking Irish,’ growled O’Brien.

‘My apologies,’ said Harper. ‘A slip of the tongue. I sometimes realise my English is not as good as I think it is.’

Walsh unzipped the holdall. Harper twisted around and reached inside, pulling out a wad of bank-fresh
€
500 notes. He flicked through the wad then pulled out a single banknote and checked it carefully.

‘They’re real enough,’ said O’Brien.

Harper nodded, gave the notes back to Walsh, and twisted around in his seat. Maggie May drove off. Harper dozed during the drive but woke with a start when Maggie May slapped him on the leg. ‘We’re here,’ she said.

Harper opened his eyes. Ahead of them were the marshalling yards. There were hundreds of flatbed and boxcar rail wagons on the maze of branching lines and sidings, all waiting to be shunted into packages so that they could be distributed around the various other rail yards all over Germany.

‘Where do we go?’ asked Maggie May.

Harper pulled out his mobile and called Zelda. ‘We’re here,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’

In the distance, headlights flashed twice. Before Harper could say anything, Maggie May was already heading towards Zelda’s Audi.

The SUV parked next to the Audi and Harper and O’Brien climbed out. ‘Where’s the truck?’ asked O’Brien, looking around.

Harper went over to talk to Zelda. ‘The truck is about half a mile down the road,’ she said. ‘Billy Big and Hansfree are in a black Mercedes parked next to it.’

O’Brien came up behind Harper. ‘Where is it? Where’s the fecking truck?’

‘Not far,’ said Harper. ‘We’ll drive down.’

O’Brien shook his head. ‘Nah, Michael can stay here with the money. I’ll check the equipment. If it’s okay you come back and get the cash.’

‘If that’s what you want …’ said Harper.

‘That’s the way it’s going to be,’ said O’Brien emphatically. ‘We’ll use her car,’ he said, pointing at the Audi.

‘Fine,’ said Harper.

O’Brien went over to tell Walsh what was happening, then hurried back and got into the front of the Audi next to Zelda, leaving Harper to climb into the back. Zelda drove slowly around the cinder tracks in the freight yard towards a loading ramp. Towards the far end of the yard they could see railway workers coupling and uncoupling wagons and shunting engines clanking to and fro, but the centre portion of the complex seemed almost entirely deserted.

In the distance Harper saw a large grey truck with the name of a bakery firm on the side and a cartoon of a loaf of bread. Next to it was a black Mercedes.

The Audi parked alongside the truck. O’Brien looked over at the Mercedes. ‘Who are those guys?’ he asked.

‘Two of my team, keeping an eye on the truck,’ said Harper. ‘That’s a very valuable cargo,’ he said.

‘You’re telling me,’ said O’Brien. ‘Tell them to piss off. I don’t want them looking over my shoulder.’

Harper got out of the car. He waved for Billy Whisper to get out of the cab of the truck and to join Billy Big and Hansfree in the Mercedes. O’Brien waited until the Mercedes had driven off before getting out of the Audi and walking over to the truck with Harper. Harper pulled open the truck’s rear doors. Inside were the launchers, wrapped in green canvas held down with ropes. Either side of the launchers were green metal containers which held the rockets.

‘I’m going to need to open some of the containers,’ said O’Brien.

‘Help yourself, I’ll give you a hand.’ Harper turned his back on O’Brien and took the biker’s knife from his pocket. He pulled out the blade and in one smooth movement turned and slashed O’Brien across the throat. It was the most efficient way of doing the job. The thick coat meant that a stab to the heart would have been problematic at best, and by cutting the throat he was able to simultaneously ensure that there were no cries or screams.

Blood spurted down the front of O’Brien’s coat. His eyes were wide and staring but the life was already draining from them. Bloody froth began to ooze from the gaping wound in his throat and then he sank to his knees, his arms loose at his side. Harper dropped the knife as he waited for O’Brien to die. It took no more than ten seconds. O’Brien pitched forward, twitched, and then went still.

Harper knelt down, taking care to avoid the pool of thick blood that was soaking into the ground. He took the Makarov from his holster and pressed O’Brien’s lifeless fingers all around the gun. He ejected the clip and pressed that to O’Brien’s fingers, then removed the first three rounds and one by one pressed them to his fingers before putting them back in the clip and slotting the clip back into the gun. He rubbed the handle of the gun roughly against O’Brien’s palm to maximise the DNA transfer, then he carefully slipped the man’s index finger on to the trigger. He slid the gun back into his underarm holster, then took out the Ziploc bag containing the hair he’d pulled from the head of the unconscious biker. He put the hair into O’Brien’s right hand and made it into a fist. He stood up and surveyed his handiwork for several seconds, then carefully rolled the body over so that it was lying on top of the knife.

It wasn’t a perfect crime scene by any means, but it would do.

He checked that he hadn’t picked up any of O’Brien’s blood, then went over to the Mercedes and climbed into the back.

Hansfree drove back to Zelda’s Audi.

‘All done?’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ said Harper.

‘Seems a lot of trouble just to kill a man,’ she said as he climbed into the car.

‘It’s about telling a story,’ said Harper. ‘It’s not just about the man, it’s about wrecking his organisation.’

‘Best I don’t know the details,’ said Zelda.

She drove him back to the waiting SUV and parked some distance away. The Mercedes was by the entrance to the yards, its engine running. ‘I won’t be long,’ he said as he got out. Zelda kept her hands on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

Harper walked slowly over to the SUV. Maggie May gave him a wave and he waved back. Walsh wound down the window as Harper walked up to the SUV. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked.

‘All good,’ said Harper.

‘Where’s Declan?’

‘He’s staying with the gear. I think he’s frightened I might take it off him.’ Harper nodded at Maggie May. ‘You can head back to the hotel with the guys. It’s been a pleasure, as always.’

Maggie May climbed out of the SUV and blew Harper a kiss. ‘You’ve got my number.’

‘Damn right,’ said Harper. He waved her goodbye and she jogged over to the Mercedes and climbed into the back. Harper leaned through the window of the SUV and held out his left hand. ‘Give me the bag and I’ll be on my way,’ he said.

‘Not until I’ve spoken to Declan.’

‘You are the suspicious type, aren’t you?’ laughed Harper. ‘Okay, you can use my phone.’ He reached into his jacket, pulled out the Makarov, and shot Walsh in the face. Blood splattered across the rear window of the SUV and what was left of Walsh’s head slumped back against the seat. Harper grabbed the bag with his left hand and pulled it from Walsh’s lifeless grip. ‘Pleasure doing business with you,’ he said.

The Mercedes drove off. Hansfree would already be making the anonymous call to the authorities, tipping them off that he had heard a gunshot at the Michendorf Bahnhof yards. As Harper walked away from the SUV he tossed the gun into a clump of bushes. Even a cursory search would turn it up, leading the German police to the obvious conclusion that Declan O’Brien had shot his partner and had then been killed by a neo-Nazi biker who would no doubt proclaim his innocence loudly and often. It would be messy but the cops would be keen to tie it up as quickly as possible.

It was a short walk to where Zelda was waiting in her Audi. He climbed into the front and unzipped the bag to show her the money inside. She grinned. ‘Nice,’ she said.

‘I’ll leave it all with you,’ he said. ‘Transfer my share to my Singapore account.’

‘I love it that you trust me,’ she said.

He zipped the bag up and tossed it behind her seat. ‘Where would life be without trust?’ he said.

‘It does seem a shame giving up perfectly good weaponry for no obvious reason,’ she said.

‘The cops will need the evidence,’ said Harper. ‘Plus you got a good price. A very good price.’

She sighed wistfully. ‘I suppose so. Now where do you want me to drop you?’

‘The airport,’ he said. ‘I’m out of here.’

Zelda put the car into gear and pulled away from the kerb. ‘You’re going to have to keep your head down for a while,’ Harper said to her.

‘I know.’

‘I’m hoping the cops will think it was neo-Nazis who were selling the rockets. But there probably aren’t too many dealers who can get their hands on them.’

‘Don’t worry, Lex, I’ve plenty of friends in the Bundespolizei. I’m safe.’

‘And in future, be careful who you deal with.’

‘Dangerous men like yourself, you mean?’ She flashed him a sly smile.

Harper chuckled. ‘I mean terrorists,’ he said. ‘Guns you can get away with, but explosives and heavy-duty stuff like the Katyushas, that’s a whole different ball game. They’re not going to let you sell stuff like that to the jihadists.’

‘Who do you mean by “they”, Lex?’

‘The Americans. The Brits. The Europeans.’

‘Are you telling me something officially here, Lex? Are you warning me off?’

He smiled and shook his head. ‘I’m just a friend offering advice. This operation has been for the greater good; at the end of the day we’ve saved lives and made the world a slightly safer place.’

‘And made ourselves some money.’

His grin widened. ‘Well, yes. I’m not arguing with you there. I’m just saying that in future, make sure the weapons you sell don’t get used against friendly targets. If you’re going to drag more of those Katyushas out of cold storage, make sure they go to Africa or the Middle East. I’d hate there to be … repercussions.’

Zelda nodded but didn’t say anything for a while. ‘I’m glad you’re my friend, Lex,’ she said eventually.

‘That’s mutual, Zelda.’

She dropped him at the airport with a kiss on the cheek. Harper took a flight to Warsaw, squashed into a seat next to a morbidly obese Pole who reeked of vodka, and spent the entire flight eating Polish sausage and dill pickles out of a waxed-paper carton. Escaping with some relief at the end of the flight, Harper bought a first-class ticket to Bangkok via Dubai and after checking in, he found an Internet terminal and slipped a couple of coins into the slot to buy himself ten minutes’ access. He accessed the drafts folder that he and Button used to communicate, and left a one word message in it:
DONE
.

Two hours later he was settling himself in his seat in the first-class cabin and asking for a glass of champagne.

A
mar Singh handed Shepherd an iPhone. ‘It’s the same as the one I gave you at Heathrow,’ he said. ‘Records but doesn’t transmit.’

‘He’s suspicious of all phones,’ said Shepherd. ‘Even though we’ll be outside, I’m pretty sure he’ll just take it off me.’

‘Hopefully a bodyguard will take it and stay close,’ said Button. She was sitting on a sofa by the window, a cup of tea on the table in front of her. ‘If he keeps it on himself then it’s even better for us, but that’s probably unlikely.’

They were in a modern hotel a short walk from Vondelpark, Amsterdam’s largest park, the place where Smit had agreed to meet Shepherd. Or rather had agreed to talk with Frederik Olsen, aggrieved contract killer and the man who had signed on to kill the president of Russia. Smit had refused at first and had only agreed when Shepherd had said that if he didn’t, he would pull out and keep the deposit.

‘You can’t do that, it’s unprofessional,’ the Dutchman had shouted down the phone.

‘What’s happened to me is unprofessional, so if we don’t meet now, it’s all off,’ had been Shepherd’s reply.

The Dutchman had sworn and hung up, but he had phoned back ten minutes later and agreed to meet the following day close to the east entrance of Vondelpark. The park was Amsterdam’s equivalent to London’s Hyde Park, full of dog walkers, joggers and rollerbladers year round, often full to the brim during a hot summer’s day. There were frequent free concerts at the park’s open-air theatre and bandstand, and lots of play areas for children. Like most of the country it was constantly fighting a battle against the encroaching sea and had to be pretty much rebuilt every thirty years or so to prevent it becoming one vast pond.

Shepherd had flown over on a KLM flight and Button and Singh had been waiting at the hotel. According to Button there were already half a dozen MI5 surveillance people in place, along with an equal number of Russian watchers, and hi-tech parabolic surveillance microphones and high-definition video cameras had been set up on various buildings overlooking the park.

‘Our second line of attack is your coat,’ said Singh, handing a black woollen overcoat to Shepherd. ‘See if you can spot anything out of the ordinary.’

Shepherd had a good look and squeezed it between his fingers but nothing felt or looked unusual.

‘The middle button is a microphone, but there’s no way you can tell by looking at it,’ said Singh. ‘There’s a small wire in the material of the coat that helps transmit the signal to a receiver in the heel of your shoe.’ He handed a pair of black shoes to Shepherd. ‘The wire looks like a thread so even if the button is pulled out it doesn’t look suspicious. The heel is totally sealed and there is the capacity and battery to record for a week. There is a camera version but it’s temperamental whereas this one is tried and tested.’

‘Can the signal from the mic be jammed?’

‘It’s possible but very unlikely as it’s not on any frequency used by phones or regular bugs. It’s more akin to Bluetooth. And it won’t trigger a metal detector, no matter how sensitive.’

Shepherd nodded and sat down to take off his shoes and replace them with the ones Singh had given him.