‘Don’t tell me they’re victimless crimes,’ said Sharpe, wagging a warning finger at Shepherd. ‘They wave shotguns around and they kick the shit out of anyone who gets in their way.’
‘They’re villains, sure, and we’ll put them away for their villainy. But, Razor, they’re not evil. They’re not trafficking in human misery, be it prostitution or hard drugs. I’m not saying they’re Robin Hoods because they’re not, but they’re not bad people. Not in the grand scheme of things.’
‘They’re breaking the law, and we’re paid to uphold it.’
‘Well, maybe we could be doing better things, that’s all I’m saying.’ He sighed. ‘I’m starting to think maybe Moira was right.’
‘Moira?’
‘My mother-in-law. She wanted to know why I was being sent to Thailand when there was so much shit going on in England.’
‘She said “shit” did she?’ Sharpe guffawed.
‘No, but that’s what she meant. And, let’s face it, she’s right. We’ve got disaffected Muslims planning God knows what, we’ve got kids being knifed on our streets, a murder rate in London higher than New York, and drugs everywhere. And what are we doing? We’re on the trail of a group of guys who steal from financial institutions. The City is full of guys with fewer morals than the Moore brothers, but because they wear suits and have the right accents, they get away with murder.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t mean that literally.’
‘You’re forgetting the guns, Spider. Merchant bankers only wave shotguns around if they’re shooting pheasants.’
‘Right, and when they get caught taking chances with other people’s cash, the Government bails them out with taxpayers’ money.’
Sharpe sipped his drink. ‘When was the last time you saw Caroline Stockmann?’ he asked quietly.
‘Why do I need to see the office shrink?’ asked Shepherd, quickly. Too quickly, he realised. He took a deep breath and held the glass to his forehead. ‘Why’s it so hot in here?’ he asked.
‘Because the aircon’s seized up, and don’t change the subject.’ He raised his glass and grinned mischievously. ‘Don’t forget I’ve been on the same interrogation courses as you.’
‘How is a chinwag with a psychiatrist going to help me?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Because what you’re going through is textbook Stockholm syndrome.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Shepherd.
‘You’re a long way from home, Spider. Away from your friends and family in an unfamiliar environment. The people you’re closest to right now are the Moore brothers, and you’ve always been good at empathising. That’s why you’re such a good undercover agent. But, if you ask me, this time you’ve gone a bit too far.’
‘Screw you, Razor. I didn’t come here for a character reading.’
‘Subconsciously you did. And I’m saying that to you as a friend. A real friend.’
‘You’re saying I’ve crossed the line,’ said Shepherd. He smiled ruefully. ‘You think I’ve gone over to the dark side.’
‘Aye, Luke Skywalker, and if you do that the force will no longer be with you.’ He grinned. ‘Look, you’ll be fine. You just need to take a step back and re-evaluate your situation. And stay focused. We’re out here to get the Moore brothers and their crew. Everything else is a distraction.’
Shepherd rested his head against the back of the chair and gazed up at the ceiling. ‘You’re right,’ he said.
‘You sound surprised,’ said Sharpe. ‘You know what you need?’
‘A few weeks’ holiday with my son,’ said Shepherd.
‘A massage,’ said Sharpe. ‘A nice soapy massage. It’ll relieve all that tension.’
Shepherd chuckled. ‘You are bloody incorrigible.’
Bradshaw studied the map as Kundi drove the rented Citroën van slowly down the dual carriageway on the outskirts of Nice. ‘I don’t like left-hand drives,’ said Kundi.
‘You’re doing fine,’ said Bradshaw.
Talwar was in the back of the van with the boxes containing the Grail and the Stinger missiles. They had stopped at a supermarket and bought two dozen cases of beer and wine, which they’d stacked around the weaponry.
Bradshaw glanced at his Casio wristwatch. The Motorail train for Calais wasn’t due to leave for another hour. Everything was on schedule. He took out his mobile phone and switched it on. He didn’t trust mobiles: the Government’s intelligence agencies could listen in to every conversation made and read every text sent, and they could locate any user within minutes, but he was on the move and he had to stay in touch with Chaudhry so he had no choice. He didn’t store any numbers in it and he kept it switched off when he wasn’t using it. He waited until the phone had powered up and tapped out Chaudhry’s number. He answered on the third ring, and didn’t identify himself. ‘We’re on our way,’ said Bradshaw.
‘Did everything go okay?’ asked Chaudhry.
‘Everything is on schedule. We’ll see you in Calais.’ Bradshaw cut the connection and switched off the phone.
Shepherd was in Tony’s Gym, running hard on a treadmill, when his mobile rang. He’d left it on the console of his running machine and squinted at the display. It was Mickey. He pressed the green button to take the call, and slowed the treadmill to four kilometres an hour. ‘Hi, Mickey, what’s up?’
‘Are you on the job, mate?’ asked Mickey.
‘I’m running,’ said Shepherd.
‘Who’s after you?’
‘I’m in the gym,’ said Shepherd.
‘You need to get home and pack your toothbrush,’ said Mickey. ‘We’re off to Arms ’R Us.’
‘Where exactly are we going?’ asked Shepherd.
‘We’ll tell you at the airport. Mark’s driving around to pick you up.’
‘I need my passport, right?’
Mickey chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, Mark’s got it. Just pack for a day or two, hand luggage only so we don’t have to piss around checking in bags.’
As soon as Mickey ended the call, Shepherd stepped off the treadmill and phoned Sharpe. ‘So we don’t know what name you’re flying under or where you’re going?’ said Sharpe.
‘That’s right, so I need you at the airport to report back to Charlie because I might not be able to call. Tell her the flight I’m on and leave it up to her to arrange surveillance if she wants it.’
‘Do you want me to get on the flight?’
‘No need,’ said Shepherd. ‘I think they trust me, I’ll be back here in two days. They’re going to pick me up at the villa so I’m thinking we’ll be at the airport in about three hours. You’d better head off there now.’
‘On my way,’ said Sharpe.
Shepherd cut the connection and went straight to his Jeep without changing. He drove quickly back to his villa. There was no sign of Mark so he took a quick shower and changed into a clean polo shirt and jeans. As he was about to pack his holdall, a car horn sounded outside the villa, three long blasts. Shepherd hurried down the driveway to the gates, used his remote control and they creaked open. ‘Give me a couple of minutes to get my shit together,’ he called.
Mark wound down the window. ‘We’ve got time for a beer,’ he said. He switched off the engine and followed Shepherd into the villa. ‘Not a bad place,’ he said, looking around. ‘But you’re paying too much.’
‘Mickey said you had my passport.’
Mark reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled it out. He handed it over. The picture was Shepherd’s but the name was Graham Moreton. Shepherd examined the passport. It looked genuine and had been issued by the British Embassy in Bangkok.
‘It’s real and it’s in the system,’ said Mark. ‘We’ve got a guy in the embassy. He isn’t cheap but he’s sound.’
‘A Brit?’
‘Thai.’
Shepherd slipped it into his shirt pocket. ‘So, where are we off to?’
Mark tapped the side of his nose. ‘Need to know.’
‘Give me a clue so I know what to pack,’ said Shepherd. ‘Hot, cold, raining, snow?’
‘Germany,’ said Mark. ‘Where’s the kitchen?’
‘Over there,’ said Shepherd, pointing. ‘Beer’s in the fridge.’
Shepherd went to the master bedroom and threw two clean shirts, underwear and two pairs of socks into his holdall with his washbag. He decided against taking his UK mobile phone with him, locked it in the wardrobe safe and grabbed a sports jacket off its hanger. Then he went to join Mark by the pool. ‘Nice enough gaff, this,’ said Mark. ‘Pool’s a bit small but the view’s all right.’
‘I’m not much of a swimmer,’ said Shepherd. ‘So, who else is on this trip?’
‘Just you, me and Mickey,’ said Mark. He finished his beer and tossed the bottle into the pool. ‘What?’ he said, when he saw the disgust on Shepherd’s face. ‘You said you weren’t much of a swimmer. Anyway, you’ve got a poolboy, haven’t you? Come on, let’s go.’
Mark drove at his usual breakneck pace and ninety minutes later they were pulling up in the long-stay car park at the airport. He locked the Range Rover and they walked together to Departures. Mickey was already there and took them to the Lufthansa check-in desk. Shepherd didn’t see Jimmy Sharpe, which meant one of two things – he was watching from a discreet hiding-place or he hadn’t made it to the airport in time. Mickey had booked them into business class on the direct flight to Munich and they went through Immigration to sit in the lounge before the flight boarded. They talked about football, the bars and the weather. The one thing they didn’t talk about was the reason for the trip.
Kundi edged the Citroën van down the rails to the ground. ‘Easy does it,’ said Bradshaw. Ahead, two little blonde girls were waving at them from the back of a Mercedes estate car. Bradshaw waved back. Immediately the two little girls put their fingers in their mouths and pulled faces at him, waggling their tongues and staring at him cross-eyed. Bradshaw laughed. ‘Kids,’ he said. The Mercedes accelerated, the little girls continuing to pull faces until they were out of sight.
Bradshaw took his mobile phone from his pocket, switched it on and tapped out Chaudhry’s number. The call went straight to voicemail. Bradshaw switched off his phone and put it away. He had a map on his lap and traced the route from the Motorail depot to the ferry terminal. He glanced at his watch. ‘Are you hungry, brothers?’ he asked.
‘I could eat,’ Kundi said.
‘Me too,’ said Talwar. He nodded so enthusiastically that his glasses slid down his nose. He pushed them back up again.
‘We’ll stop on the way,’ said Bradshaw.
They had spent the night in a four-berth couchette on the train from Nice. It was the most efficient way of getting the van and its contents across the country. There had been no security checks getting on or off the train, and the service had operated with an efficiency that put British train operators to shame.
They stopped at a small roadside café and ordered steak and chips, freshly baked bread and orange juice. While they were waiting for their meal, Bradshaw took out his phone and switched it on again. This time Chaudhry answered. ‘Where are you, brother?’ asked Bradshaw.
‘Just driving away from the Eurotunnel terminal,’ said Chaudhry. He was bringing one of his father’s delivery vans from England. ‘Shouldn’t be long before I’m there.’
Bradshaw scanned the car park from the café window. There were only half a dozen vehicles in it and there was an area behind a rubbish skip that wasn’t overlooked by the road. He gave Chaudhry directions to the café, then ordered three cappuccinos from the grey-haired waiter. They were just finishing their coffee when Chaudhry arrived. Bradshaw went out and showed him where to park, then brought him inside.
‘Is everything okay?’ whispered Chaudhry, as they sat down.
‘Everything is going as planned,’ said Bradshaw. ‘We have an hour before we’re due at the ferry terminal, so you have time to eat and then we’ll transfer the equipment to your van.’
‘I don’t see why we have to fly back while you and Samil go on the ferry,’ said Talwar.
‘Because two men in a delivery van will arouse no suspicion,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Four men, especially when three are Asian, will attract attention.’
‘That’s racist,’ said Kundi.
‘Of course it’s racist,’ said Bradshaw, ‘so we fly below their racist radar. Samil and I are just two delivery drivers heading home. Samil will be using his family’s van and his licence and insurance are in order. You and Talwar return the rented van and fly back to England. The infidels are none the wiser.’
‘You are right, brother. I’m sorry.’ Kundi took out a packet of cigarettes but Talwar pointed at a French no-smoking sign. He sighed and put it away.
‘There’s nothing to be sorry about,’ Bradshaw said. ‘You are a true warrior for Islam. And soon we will show the world what true warriors can achieve.’
Shepherd followed the Moore brothers off the plane. ‘Now what?’ he said. A sign pointed to Immigration but the brothers seemed in no hurry to leave the airport.
Mickey grinned. ‘We can grab a bite to eat here,’ he said. ‘That food on the plane, couldn’t touch it.’
The brothers had flown together at the front of the business-class section and Shepherd had been in the middle with an empty seat next to him. He’d watched a movie and slept a little but he was still dog tired. ‘Where are we going, Mickey?’ asked Shepherd, ‘And don’t give me any of that need-to-know crap.’
‘Sarajevo,’ said Mickey. ‘There’s an arms dealer who can get us RPGs.’
‘And you need me because . . .?’
‘Because you’ll be able to tell us if the gear is kosher,’ said Mickey. He pointed at a coffee shop. ‘Come on – I need caffeine. How much do you think they fine you if you light up in a German airport?’
Chaudhry drove off the ferry in first gear. ‘What if they stop us?’ he asked. Ahead, half a dozen Customs officers, in yellow fluorescent jackets, were looking carefully at the vehicles as they moved slowly down the ramp onto the Dover quayside.
‘They won’t,’ said Bradshaw.
‘How can you be so sure?’ said Chaudhry. ‘We have weapons in the back, and if they find them they’ll throw away the key.’
Bradshaw could hear the rising panic in the other man’s voice, and his forehead was bathed in sweat. ‘They’re not looking for weapons,’ he said coldly. ‘They’re looking for drugs, and we don’t fit the profile for drug smugglers.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘Because you’re Asian and I’m not – it’s not a mix that’s normally associated with drug smugglers. Because we’re in a totally legitimate van with the name of your father’s company on the side. Because we’re both clean-shaven and dressed casually. Because we’re both looking totally relaxed. Smile, brother. Think calm thoughts and smile.’