Evans had punched Andy again, two blows to the stomach, and Billy had the other bodyguard in a vicious headlock and was punching him repeatedly in the face. Page was standing with his mouth wide open while Ollie was hiding behind him, clutching the briefcase to his chest.
Shepherd stepped to the side and went up on the balls of his feet as the driver charged towards him. The man’s neck was almost as thick as his head and his chest was like a barrel. Shepherd figured the guy would absorb pretty much anything he threw at him. The driver saw Shepherd was blocking his way and started to roar. Shepherd waited until he was almost on top of them, then brought his foot crashing into the man’s knee, which snapped like a twig. He followed through with the blow so that the man fell to the ground. He rolled onto his back, then tried to get to his feet. Shepherd kicked him in the side and he fell again with a grunt.
Billy had turned the second bodyguard’s face to mush and when he released his grip on the man’s neck he dropped like a stone. Billy rushed over to help Evans and began punching Andy in the back, over the kidneys.
‘Paul, come on, there’s no need for this!’ shouted Page, as Andy fell to the ground and the two men started kicking him.
Evans stopped, mid-kick. ‘This is down to you!’ he shouted. ‘Pay your debts, mate!’
‘I will! I promise!’ said Page. ‘Just leave him be, okay.’
Evans was panting with the exertion. He grabbed Billy and pulled him away from the man on the ground.
‘Tommy wants his money,’ said Evans, pointing a finger at Page’s face.
‘I’ll get it, I swear,’ said Page.
‘Two days,’ said Evans. ‘You get up to date with your payments within forty-eight hours or we’ll be back and next time it’ll be you we kick the shit out of, understand?’
Page nodded fearfully.
‘Well, fuck off,’ said Evans. ‘And take your little girl with you – he’s pissed himself.’
Ollie was trembling, still hiding behind Page.
‘How am I going to get home?’ asked Page. ‘Look what you’ve done to my driver!’ He pointed to the man at Shepherd’s feet.
‘You can Uber it,’ said Evans.
‘Yeah, that’ll work – I get a man called Mohammed to drive me home.’
‘Don’t get fucking shirty with me, Simon. If you’d paid what you owe you wouldn’t be in this position.’
‘I can drive,’ said Ollie, his voice shaking.
‘Get the keys,’ said Page, indicating the prostrate driver, who was moaning quietly.
Ollie knelt down and went through the man’s pockets with no luck.
‘The keys are probably in the car,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s still running.’
Ollie stood up and headed for it with Page. They got in and drove off.
Evans grinned and lit a cigarette, then offered one to Billy. ‘I suppose that could have gone better,’ he said. His grin widened. ‘But it feels good, doing a bit of the old rough-and-tumble, doesn’t it?’
Billy laughed, and Shepherd followed suit.
‘Drinks at the Mayfair?’ said Evans.
‘Why not?’ said Shepherd. He really wanted to get away and phone Willoughby-Brown but leaving early wasn’t an option. He and Billy followed Evans out of the alley and back to the Range Rover. They drove north of the river and parked around the corner from the Mayfair.
The bar was busy but there was plenty of room in the VIP area where Marty was holding court over bottles of Cristal. He waved Evans over as soon as he saw him. They had a quick conversation, then Marty patted him on the back.
Shepherd ordered a gin and tonic from a waitress and asked Billy what he wanted. ‘Guinness.’ The waitress smiled and went off to get their drinks. A hand fell on his shoulder – Marty’s. ‘Paul says you gave a guy twice your size a good kicking.’
Shepherd grinned. ‘Yeah, well, you know what they say, the bigger they are …’
‘He was an animal,’ said Evans.
‘You and Billy didn’t do so bad,’ said Shepherd. ‘And from the look on Page’s face, I reckon he’ll fall over himself to pay you. He damn near shat himself.’
Marty chuckled. ‘Nice one, Terry.’
‘Cheers, Marty.’ Shepherd glanced around. ‘Where’s Tommy?’
‘Fucked off back to Dubai.’
‘I don’t get it. What’s the attraction?’
‘Have you been?’ asked Marty.
‘A couple of times. Bloody hot and nothing but sand.’
‘That’s what I keep telling him,’ Marty agreed, ‘but Tommy fucking loves it out there. He’s got a huge villa with a pool, booze, hookers on tap, and he likes the food. Some of the best restaurants in the world, out in the Emirates.’
‘Plus you can’t be extradited from Dubai,’ said Evans.
Marty smiled. ‘Providing you don’t break any local laws, they don’t extradite. Ever.’
‘Tommy’s worried about something?’ asked Shepherd.
‘He’s just careful. Plus he’s put a few noses out of joint here over the years and it’s easier to protect yourself there. He goes back and forward but Dubai is his home now pretty much.’
‘And his missus is OK with it?’
‘He looks after her. They’ve been married for twenty years and we O’Neills are good Catholic boys at heart …’ He patted Shepherd on the back. ‘So, you’re coming to the fight?’
‘Sure. Paul’s got ringside seats.’
‘From the sound of it, maybe we should be putting you in the ring with Kuznetsov.’
‘Only if I can kick him in the balls,’ said Shepherd. ‘What about Tommy? Is he coming?’
‘You couldn’t keep him away,’ said Marty. He put his head close to Shepherd’s ear and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Howard says you’ve got some laundry that wants doing?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Told me the guy I use is ripping me off.’
‘How much do you want to put in?’
‘Long term about half a mill. Short term, I’ve got a hundred in cash I need to get legit.’
Marty nodded. ‘Okay, well, Tommy and I are cool with you using our guy. I’ll get Howard to link you up. He’s an Indian but he’s good and he’s never let us down.’
‘Brilliant, Marty, thanks. I owe you.’
‘Forget about it. You’re one of the family now.’
The waitress returned with drinks for Shepherd and Billy. Marty clapped Shepherd on the back. ‘You’re a good guy, Terry. One of the best.’
Shepherd raised his glass. ‘So are you, mate,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to be on your team.’
‘Fucking right,’ said Marty. ‘Best team in London.’
Shepherd had the black cab drop him half a mile from the Mayfair. Evans and the O’Neills had called it a night shortly before two o’clock and were heading home. Shepherd had flagged down a cab but didn’t want to have a conversation with the driver listening in so he gave the man a fiver, got out and called Willoughby-Brown as he walked down the street. His boss sounded half asleep when he answered so Shepherd spoke slowly and clearly. ‘Have you heard of Simon Page? Used to be with England First?’
‘Sure. Right-wing anti-immigration anti-Muslim activist. He was a bit of a firebrand in his youth and he’s on our watch list but he’s reasonably well-behaved, these days. What time is it?’
‘Just after two. Earlier this evening I saw him speak in South London. He had a slide presentation and one of the photographs had two of Yusuf’s guys on it.’
‘You’re sure?’ asked Willoughby-Brown. He laughed but immediately corrected himself. ‘Sorry, I keep forgetting your trick memory. Of course you’re sure. Where were they?’
‘That’s the problem, I don’t know. They were in front of a mosque but I don’t know where it was. The pictures were on a laptop and the laptop’s in his car. A Mercedes.’ Shepherd gave him the number. ‘Not sure if the car is his or not. There was a driver. Page’s assistant, a guy called Ollie, was carrying the laptop in a metal case the last time I saw it. He got in the car with Page.’
‘Brand of laptop?’
‘A Sony, I think. Grey.’
‘How long ago did you see it?’
‘A few hours. I couldn’t get away any sooner.’
‘Any idea where the car was headed?’
‘No. Sorry.’
‘No problem, I’m sure we’ve got an address on file. Okay, I’m on it.’ There was no trace of tiredness in his voice now: he was firing on all cylinders.
‘And the brothers have given me the go-ahead to meet their main money man. Wedekind’s going to arrange it. I’ve said a hundred grand and they’re okay.’
‘At least that’s less than half a million,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘But you’d better not lose it. Now what about Tommy?’
‘Back to Dubai. But I’m sure he’ll be back for the big fight.’
‘We might want to think about getting you wired up.’
‘No point. They always have anti-surveillance stuff around.’
‘So get Tommy around to your flat.’
‘For drinks and nibbles?’ He laughed harshly. ‘I’m not his best mate. I’ve only met him a few times. Marty’s a better bet.’
‘We want them both, Daniel. This is a two-headed monster. There’s no point in just lopping off one of the heads.’
He ended the call. Shepherd put the phone away and went looking for another black cab.
‘I’m going to have mine rare,’ said Liam. ‘Just take the horns and hoofs off and slap it on the plate.’ He was the second man in the patrol, a few yards behind the Vallon man, named after the metal detector he was holding. They were only a few hundred yards from base, heading home after six hours on patrol. Liam was wearing full body armour, a tan-coloured Mark 7 combat helmet and carrying an SA80 assault rifle.
Shepherd knew that the Vallon picked up only three-quarters of the IEDs the jihadists planted – some contained hardly any metal and so escaped detection. Relying on it could be a fatal mistake. Vigilance was essential, even on the way home.
The Vallon laughed. ‘We’re not getting steaks,’ he said. ‘It’ll be Spam. Spam, Spam, Spam. Steak is a myth. Like unicorns.’
‘Guys, focus,’ said Shepherd. He was bringing up the rear. Tail End Charlie. He spent most of his time walking backwards, checking that no one was coming up behind them. No one paid him any attention. Hardly surprising: they were kids and Shepherd – even though he was in his very early forties – was the old man. Like Liam, he was cradling an SA80.
‘Chips or baked potato?’ asked the number-three man. He was a Liverpudlian, a big, broad-shouldered guy, carrying the patrol’s heavy weaponry, a Minimi belt-fed light machine-gun.
‘Let’s stay focused, guys,’ said Shepherd. ‘We can talk about food when we’re back at base.’
‘Gotta be chips,’ said Liam. ‘Loads of chips.’
‘You need to lay off the carbs, Liam,’ said the fourth man. He was another big guy, well over six feet tall with receding hair and slab-like teeth. It seemed that no matter what Shepherd said they were going to continue their conversation.
Shepherd faced the front and looked right and left for any signs that the ground had been disturbed. Rocks that had been piled up, or dips in the soil. Sometimes the jihadists poured water into the dips. Sometimes they piled garbage on top. Sometimes the IEDs were in the garbage – explosives packed into a tin can or drink carton could easily blow off a leg.
‘You can’t have steak without chips,’ said Liam. ‘That’s like scrambled eggs without cheese.’
‘Guys, seriously, stop talking about food,’ snapped Shepherd. ‘Stay full on until we’re back in the compound.’
Again he was ignored, as if they hadn’t heard him.
‘It could all be bollocks,’ said the soldier in front of Shepherd. He was barely out of his teens, ginger-haired and stick-thin. ‘I can’t see them flying in sirloin steaks.’
‘I heard it from one of the cooks,’ said Liam. ‘The horse’s mouth.’
‘Yeah,’ said the Liverpudlian ‘That’ll be fucking right. Horse meat.’
Shepherd looked over his shoulder. ‘Guys, cut the chat!’ he shouted. ‘This is—’
The explosion knocked him backwards and his weapon slipped from his hands. He hit the ground hard. His ears were ringing and tears stung his eyes as he rolled over and got up on his hands and knees. His throat burned and he tasted blood as he coughed. ‘Liam!’ he shouted.
He heard a groan to his left and crawled over to him. It was the lad from Liverpool, his face and chest a bloody mess. Half his left leg was missing and all that remained of his left arm was a stump gushing blood. As Shepherd bent over the man he gasped and went still.
Shepherd struggled to his feet. The air was thick with dust and he couldn’t see more than a few feet. There were no shots or shouts to suggest they were under attack. It had been a big explosion, and from the look of the Liverpudlian he had been at the heart of it. It could have been detonated by wire or the man might have stood on it. Shepherd bent down and picked up his carbine. ‘Liam!’ he shouted.
There was no reply. Shepherd moved forward in a low crouch, expecting to hear the crack of enemy fire at any point.
‘Liam!’ he shouted again.
There was another body sprawled on the sand. It was the guy who had taken point with the metal detector. He was lying face down, the back of his head a bloody pulp. Shepherd knelt beside him but one glance was enough to convince him that the man was dead.
‘Dad?’
Liam was off to the left, lying on his back, his carbine at his feet. He tried to sit up but fell back and grunted. Shepherd hurried over to him. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I don’t think so, Dad.’
‘Are you hit?’
‘My stomach hurts.’
Shepherd ripped open Liam’s body armour and grimaced when he saw the damage to his abdomen.
‘Is it bad?’ asked Liam.
Shepherd didn’t answer. He pulled out a trauma pack, ripped it open and slapped it onto the gaping wound.
‘Dad, I’m cold.’
‘It’s okay, Liam. We’re going to get you help.’ He looked around but they were alone in the desert.
‘I’m so cold.’
‘It’s okay. The medics will be here in a sec.’ He peered left and right but couldn’t see more than a few feet. ‘Help!’ he screamed, at the top of his voice. ‘We need a medic! Medic!’
His voice didn’t carry, no matter how hard he screamed. He looked down at Liam. His eyes were open now and he was smiling. ‘Goodbye, Dad.’
‘You’re not going anywhere, Liam. Stay with me.’
‘I’m going, Dad. I can’t stay.’ Blood began to trickle from between his lips. His chest heaved and red froth erupted from his mouth.
‘Liam, no!’ screamed Shepherd.