Spider Shepherd 10 - True Colours (11 page)

‘Which would be an admission that we can’t protect him.’

‘But why are we protecting him, that’s the question, isn’t it? Because he’s a friend of the PM’s. How much do you think he’s given them in political donations?’

Button smiled and nodded to concede the point. ‘Actually, he’s an equal opportunity donor,’ she said. ‘He gave a million pounds to all three political parties.’

‘Hedging his bets? So no matter who runs the country, they’re beholden to him?’ Shepherd sighed. ‘Don’t you feel sometimes that we’re behaving like a Third World banana republic, selling ourselves to the highest bidder?’

‘I hear what you’re saying, Spider, but you have to realise that men like Peter Grechko are now world citizens. The normal rules don’t apply to them. And wherever they settle, there’s a trickle-down factor that only benefits their host country. If they start to believe that the UK isn’t a safe place for them, we stand to lose billions. And let’s not forget that a killer is a killer, no matter who his target is.’

Shepherd held up his hand. ‘You’re right, of course. But if the sniper is a hired hand, even if we do catch him, there’s no reason to think that’ll be the end of it. Whoever is footing the bill can just find someone else.’

‘Let’s worry about that down the line,’ said Button. She finished her tea and flashed him an encouraging smile. ‘First let’s make sure that Peter Grechko has whatever protection he needs. And don’t forget, I want you wearing a vest at all times.’

‘When do I start?’

‘No time like the present,’ she said. ‘Assuming you can pick up the gun and the car tomorrow, you might as well go around and introduce yourself and get the lie of the land.’

‘And this is full-time, right?’

‘Pretty much,’ said Button. ‘Certainly I want you by his side whenever he leaves the house. My understanding is that his home is secure, so providing he’s there you can take a break. We can’t afford anything to go wrong, Spider. If anything happens to Grechko on our watch, our lives won’t be worth living.’

Shepherd said goodbye to Button, but when he reached the lifts he went up and not down. He got out on the sixth floor and walked along to the office of Amar Singh. Singh was in his early thirties and one of MI5’s top technical experts. Shepherd had worked with him at the Serious Organised Crime Agency and they had both moved with Charlotte Button to MI5.

Singh grinned when he saw Shepherd at his door. He hurried from around his desk and hugged him hard. ‘Long time no see, Spider,’ he said. He was in his mid-thirties, wearing an expensive Hugo Boss suit. Shepherd could never work out how Singh managed to spend so much on his clothes when he was the father of three young children. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘Special occasion,’ said Shepherd, dropping down on to a chair. There was a framed photograph of Singh and his family on the desk – his arms protectively around his pretty long-haired wife Mishti and equally gorgeous daughters. The youngest was just over a year old but already had her mother’s smouldering eyes, of a brown so dark that they were almost black. ‘Charlie wanted to brief me
in situ
. So what’s the latest in ballistic protection?’

‘Human or vehicle?’

‘Both,’ said Shepherd.

‘We’ve got some new lightweight vests that are the bee’s knees,’ said Singh. ‘We’ve got them from a company in Israel. They use fabrics infused with nanoparticles, putting them in multiple layers with the weaves in different directions. They stay soft and pliable until the moment of impact, at which point they go harder than Kevlar. The material is so soft the vest can be extended down the upper arms and down to the groin area. They actually look like a thick T-shirt and are as easy to put on and take off.’

‘Sounds perfect,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do they come in blue?’

Singh laughed and scribbled on his notepad. ‘White only,’ he said. ‘They’re not for general release just yet but I’ll get you a couple. What are you, a thirty-eight?’

‘Closer to forty these days,’ said Shepherd. ‘They do work, right?’

Singh laughed again. ‘It’s the high cost that’s holding them back,’ he said. ‘They’re ten times the price of a Kevlar vest at the moment. Our purchasing department is waiting for the cost to come down before placing a major order. What I have is a few samples. I’ve seen them in operation, and they’re really something. They’ll stop any handgun round at any range, and they’ll stop a round from an AK-47 at about fifty feet up. That’s not to say you won’t get bruised, but the round won’t penetrate. As soon as the round hits the fibres they harden, almost instantaneously. But with a high-powered round that means the vest will impact a couple of inches. The skin won’t be broken but it’ll hurt like hell. They have the facility of adding ceramic plates, if you want, of course.’

‘The vest will be fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘And Button wants me to have a bulletproof car.’

‘Of course she does,’ said Singh. ‘You’re one of our most valued employees. What’s the legend?’

‘Police, close protection squad. I’m thinking a four-by-four.’

‘What do you drive these days? BMW X5?’

‘Yeah. But mine’s back in Hereford.’

‘We’ve got several in the pool and I’m pretty sure that one of them is already fully armoured.’

‘Not sure that I need bomb-proofing,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just the glass and ballistic protection in the doors.’

‘When do you need it by?’

‘Today?’

Singh chuckled. ‘Tomorrow morning?’

‘Can you have it dropped off? I’ll be in Hampstead.’

‘Should be able to do that,’ said Singh. ‘Are you on your old mobile?’

‘Yeah, but I’ll be picking up a new one for this job. The legend is Tony Ryan.’

Singh made a note on his pad. Shepherd gave him the address of the Hampstead flat and Singh wrote that down, too.

‘What about the car? Registered to Tony Ryan?’

‘Better make it a Met car,’ said Shepherd. ‘As far as anyone knows I’m on secondment from the Met so that’ll add to the legend.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Singh. ‘Might cut down on the parking tickets, too.’

‘Good point. Can you get a resident’s permit for the car, too, I’ll have to leave it on the street when I’m in Hampstead.’

Singh made another note on his pad.

‘And I need a favour,’ said Shepherd. He reached into his jacket and pulled out the newspaper cutting that Harper had given him. He gave it to Singh and then sat quietly as he read it through. When Singh looked up again, Shepherd leaned across and tapped the face of the man he was sure was Ahmad Khan. ‘I need to identify this man.’

Singh frowned as he reread the story and caption. ‘He’s not mentioned in the article.’

‘He’s not mentioned anywhere,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m fairly certain his name is Ahmad Khan and he’s from Afghanistan. But he could be in the UK under any name or nationality.’ He gestured at the cutting. ‘That was blind luck, he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Though as he’s walking along the pavement, it could well be that he lives in that area of London.’

‘If he’s hiding, he could be long gone by now.’

‘I doubt that he’d be reading the local paper,’ said Shepherd. ‘But the problem is, I have no idea what name he’s using. So here’s my question, starting with what I’ve got – which is that – how do I identify him?’

‘You’ve checked the name you have?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘He’s not on the PNC and he wasn’t issued a visa. Of course, he could be in the country completely illegally and not using any paperwork at all.’

Singh nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s doubtful,’ he said. ‘Even illegals try to get something, a driving licence or an NHS number, something that they can show to the cops.’

‘The thing is, this guy being who he is, I think he’ll be better organised.’

‘What do you think he is?’

Shepherd flashed him a tight smile. ‘I think he’s al-Qaeda,’ he said.

Singh held up the cutting. ‘Then put this in the system and red-flag it, put everyone on it.’

‘It’s not as simple as that.’

‘It never is with you.’

‘At this stage, all I want to do is to confirm my suspicions. I haven’t seen this guy face to face for more than ten years. The eye’s a giveaway, but I’m sure he’s not the only Afghan with a dodgy eye. And I don’t want to be responsible for ruining someone’s life on a hunch.’

Singh put down the cutting and sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Shepherd’s face. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?’ he said quietly.

‘That’s why this comes under the heading of a favour,’ said Shepherd.

‘He’s definitely al-Qaeda?’

‘The last time I saw him was in Pakistan, outside of an al-Qaeda money house. And he shot me. He killed a young SAS captain.’

Singh whistled softly. ‘I’m starting to wish I hadn’t asked.’

‘Maybe we could both forget we had this conversation,’ said Shepherd. He leaned forward to grab the cutting but Singh held it out of his reach. ‘I’m serious, Amar, I shouldn’t have asked you.’

‘What else are friends for?’ said Singh. ‘You want to know if it’s definitely him, right?’

‘Exactly.’

‘OK. That I can probably help you with. But as to what happens after that, I definitely don’t want to know.’

‘That’d probably be best,’ said Shepherd.

‘And it goes without saying that mum’s the word.’

‘My lips are sealed,’ said Shepherd.

Singh grinned. ‘Then let’s have a go,’ he said. ‘Did you run the photograph through the Border Force’s computer?’

‘No. Just the name.’

‘They’ve started taking photographs and fingerprints of anyone applying for a visa, so I’ll run the picture through their database.’ He wrinkled his nose as he studied the cutting. ‘What I’ll do is scan the picture first and see if we can clean it up, improve the resolution. I can also run a cross-check with the DVLC database and the Identity and Passport Service which will ID him if he has a British passport or driving licence. Don’t suppose you’ve got a photograph or a date of birth?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘That picture is all I’ve got.’

‘I can pass it through the PNC, which will flag him if he’s ever been arrested here, and there’s our own naughty-boys database. And the facial recognition systems at all the airports, of course. Assuming he flew into the country.’

‘Any idea how long it’ll take?’

Singh wrinkled his nose. ‘Increasing the resolution will take the best part of a day. That’s computerised, there’s no way of speeding that up. The cross-checking should be a few hours at most for the databases – the airports will take longer because it involves CCTV. Are you in a hurry?’

‘The sooner the better, obviously. I really appreciate this, Amar.’

Singh held up his hand. ‘It’s no biggie,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a useful test of our facial recognition systems, anyway. We’re always looking for ways to tweak it.’ He looked at his watch. ‘OK, you need to let me get started on your car. I’ll have it and the vests at your place tomorrow.’

‘Maybe liaise with the armoury, they’re giving me a Glock.’

‘Two birds with one stone.’

Shepherd woke early, and it took a few seconds lying in the darkness before he remembered where he was. And who he was. He was Tony Ryan, a Metropolitan Police firearms officer, and he was lying in his one-bedroom flat in Hampstead. As flats went it was just about OK, with a bedroom just large enough to take a double bed, a sitting room with a sofa, an armchair, a coffee table and a thirty-two-inch television. The last time he’d used the flat he’d been a journalist and they’d given him the full Sky package, and he was pleased to see that hadn’t changed. When he’d been passing himself off as freelance journalist John Whitehill the flat had been full of art books and news magazines. Whoever had dressed the flat for his Tony Ryan legend had gone much more butch, with photographs of Shepherd with various weapons on the walls and military books lining the shelves. The contents of the wardrobe had changed; Whitehill’s corduroy jackets and check shirts had gone, replaced with dark suits, white shirts and ties for work, and polo shirts and chinos for casual wear. There was no bath in the bathroom, but there was a power shower which more than made up for it, and he wasn’t in the least inconvenienced by the tiny kitchen as cooking was never high up on his agenda.

The one really good thing about the flat was its proximity to Hampstead Heath. Its near-800 acres of woods and hills were the perfect setting for a run. He’d left his rucksack and boots in Hereford but there were still some of his old clothes from the last time he’d stayed in the flat, tucked away in carrier bags at the bottom of the wardrobe. He found an old pair of trainers, baggy tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt that had once been white but was now a shabby grey. He pulled them on, let himself out of the flat and went for a run, arriving at the Heath just as dawn broke. There were already plenty of other joggers around, and a fair number of dog-walkers. Shepherd ran a mile at a medium pace to loosen up, then stepped up a gear and ran close to his maximum pace for another mile. He had soon worked up a sweat despite the chill in the air. He dropped to the ground and did fifty sit-ups and fifty press-ups before resuming his run, another two miles at full speed. The lack of a rucksack full of newspaper-wrapped bricks and his old army boots meant that he could run faster than usual. He overtook a tight group of young runners in spandex shorts, tight vests and headbands, then ran up a long slope, maintaining the same pace, enjoying the feel of his muscles starting to burn. At the top of the slope he dropped and did another set of sit-ups and press-ups, and then he headed home.

He arrived back at the flat an hour after he’d left. He shaved and showered and changed into one of the dark blue suits that the dresser had left, along with a white shirt and a tie of red and dark blue stripes. There was a choice of three pairs of shoes, all black and all with laces, and he choose the pair that looked most comfortable. He had just made himself a bacon sandwich when his Tony Ryan mobile phone rang. It was Mark Whitehouse, one of the MI5 armourers. ‘Delivery for Mr Ryan,’ said the armourer. ‘And I have a very nice X5 for you.’

‘Where are you?’ asked Shepherd.