Cold Kill (18 page)

‘Green Team here.’ Hargrove tapped the exit closest to Speaker’s Corner. ‘Red Team here. Yellow Team here.’ More nodding. ‘As you probably know, a network of underground tunnels connects the various roads around Marble Arch so bear in mind that we could lose the signal from time to time. But no rushing in to get close. We’ll have all the options covered if and when that happens. Just be on your toes, and if I ask you to move, do it quickly. So, once more with the signals, Spider. Everything’s okay and you’re happy to go with them.’

Spider rubbed the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache.

‘There’s trouble and you want out.’

Shepherd rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand.

‘Got that?’ asked Hargrove. Everyone nodded again. Hargrove glanced at his watch. ‘It’s ten past twelve,’ he said. ‘Spider’s on show at three, so you’ve got plenty of time to get bedded in. And remember, on your toes. We only get one crack at this.’

Jimmy Sharpe flashed Shepherd a thumbs-up as the surveillance teams filed out of the room.

‘I didn’t realise there’d be armed cops,’ said Shepherd. ‘I just hope no one knows me.’ Shepherd had infiltrated an SO19 unit the previous year after rogue armed cops had ripped off a group of North London drug-dealers at gunpoint. It had been the first time he’d investigated cops and he hadn’t enjoyed it.

‘We’re using local guys,’ said Hargrove, ‘and I cross-checked all the names with your SO19 operation. There’s no possibility of any overlap. Now, how about a room-service coffee? We’ve plenty of time before you head off.’

On a Sunday morning Speaker’s Corner was packed with orators standing on soapboxes or folding ladders, shouting their views on the world to anyone who cared to listen. Others wandered around grim-faced with sandwich boards, letting the written word do the shouting for them. But at three o’clock in the afternoon all the bastions of free speech had gone back to their hostels or lonely bedsits, leaving the park to tourists and joggers who preferred to do their running in the open air rather than sweating away on a treadmill watching Sky News.

Shepherd had the rucksack on just one shoulder. It wasn’t as heavy as the brick-filled one he used to build up stamina on his regular fitness runs but the cans dug into his back. It was a cool day, with a soft wind blowing from the north, and leaden clouds threatened rain. He was chewing gum. It was Corke’s habit, not his.

His eyes scanned the tourists wandering round the park – couples walking hand in hand, Japanese tourists clicking away with digital cameras, parents with nagging children queuing for ice-cream, an old tramp in a stained raincoat with a greyhound on a leash. He didn’t see anyone who’d been at the hotel suite and didn’t expect to. If he could spot them, the men he was going to meet might see them, too. Shepherd was sure that Ben wouldn’t come alone. He’d have back-up – at least one heavy, probably more.

He saw an unoccupied bench and sat down, stretching out his legs and placing the rucksack next to him. It was exactly three o’clock, but that didn’t mean Ben would be on time. If he knew what he was doing, he or someone else would be watching from a distance, until he was sure that Shepherd was alone. But Shepherd had to play the role: Tony Corke would get the jitters if everything didn’t go exactly as he’d planned, so he looked at his watch again, then scanned the park. He saw two park-keepers walking along a path, deep in conversation. Shepherd couldn’t tell if they were the real thing or armed police.

He felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and a tingle down his spine. He glanced about, trying to work out what had triggered the alarm signals, and saw a man to his left, walking along with his head down and his hands deep in his coat pockets. A squat, almost square Asian, with a fast-receding hairline and slightly bowed legs. He glanced in Shepherd’s direction, then averted his eyes when he saw that Shepherd was staring at him. Shepherd suppressed a smile. Whoever the man was, he wasn’t well versed in surveillance techniques. Shepherd made a point of consulting his watch again.

The Asian man was walking slowly, eyes on the ground now – Shepherd could feel the anxiety pouring out of him. He looked around, casually, for anything out of the ordinary. There were no other Asians nearby, but Shepherd regarded everyone over the age of ten as a potential threat. He took in faces, clothing, body language. Nothing. The Asian man had stopped and taken a handkerchief out of his coat pocket to wipe his brow. It was a cold afternoon so Shepherd figured he was sweating from nerves.

Shepherd checked his watch again. It was ten past three. The Asian started walking towards him, hands back in his pockets. Shepherd’s mobile rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and studied the screen. It was Ben. Shepherd frowned and took the call. ‘Hello?’ he said. No one spoke. Then the line went dead. The Asian was still striding purposefully towards him. Shepherd realised what had happened: the Asian was Ben and he’d made the call to check that Shepherd was the man he was supposed to meet, keeping his own phone concealed in his pocket. It was a clever move.

Shepherd watched him walk over. ‘You are Bill?’ the Asian asked.

Shepherd put away his phone. ‘Ben?’ He stuck out his hand and Ben stared at it. ‘You can shake hands, can’t you?’ he asked.

There was no strength in Ben’s grip, and it was damp with sweat.

‘The cans are in the rucksack?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Shepherd.

‘I need to see them.’

‘And I want the money,’ said Shepherd. ‘No thirty grand, no cans.’ He grabbed the rucksack straps.

‘I’m not trying to take them. I just want to check that they haven’t been opened,’ said Ben. ‘For all I know they could be empty.’

Shepherd stared at him, playing the hard man. ‘No money. No cans.’

‘I understand that, but I have to be sure. For all I know you’ve emptied them and filled them with rocks.’

Shepherd continued to stare at Ben, then nodded slowly. ‘Okay, but no tricks. Where’s the money?’

‘My associate has it. Once I’ve checked that the cans haven’t been tampered with I’ll phone him.’

Shepherd glared at him. ‘That’s not what we said. I said I’d bring the cans and you’d bring the money.’

‘We don’t know you,’ said Ben. ‘We didn’t know you had the cans. For all we know you could be working for Customs. Or the police. So I make sure, first. Then I phone my associate. Would you take off your jacket, please?’

‘What?’

‘I want to check your jacket.’

Shepherd took off his coat and handed it to him. Ben went through the pockets. He examined Shepherd’s mobile and flicked through the contacts file. ‘You have only my number in this phone?’

‘I bought the Sim card to call you,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want you tracing me.’

Ben handed the phone back. ‘Lift up your pullover, please.’

‘Why?’

‘I want to reassure myself that you are not recording our conversation.’

‘You think I’m a cop?’

‘I don’t know who you are. But if you don’t lift it, I’m walking away.’

Slowly Shepherd did as the man asked, revealing the Kevlar vest.

Ben frowned. ‘What is that?’

‘A bulletproof vest.’

Ben’s frown deepened. ‘Why?’

‘Because I thought you might shoot me.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘You might have thought a bullet was cheaper than thirty grand. I’m not wired for sound. I just want my money.’

Ben held out his hand. ‘Give me your wallet.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘I need to see who you are.’

‘It doesn’t matter who I am. I’m the man with what you want, and that’s all you need to know.’

‘Your wallet,’ repeated the Asian.

Shepherd cursed again, then pulled it out of his jeans and gave it to the man. Ben opened it and flicked through the contents. He pulled out a driving licence. ‘Anthony Corke?’

‘Tony to my friends.’

‘And you live in Dover?’

‘I’m a sailor. I used to work the ferries. Look, do you see a warrant card in there? No. So give me my wallet back and let’s get on with this.’

‘Why did the police let you go?’ asked Ben, examining a Visa card.

‘I’m on bail. If I run, I lose my house.’

‘They’ve charged you?’

‘I was up before a magistrate and I’m back in court in two weeks. I had the house so I got bail. But my solicitor’s costing me an arm and a leg so I need the thirty grand.’

Ben sat down on Shepherd’s left and gave him back his wallet. ‘First let me see the cans.’

Shepherd pushed the rucksack towards him. Ben unfastened the straps and took out a can, looked at it closely, then set it on the ground. He checked the other two, running his fingers over the caps and seams, then put them back into the rucksack.

‘Satisfied?’ asked Shepherd.

Ben reached into his coat. Shepherd tensed but he knew there was next to no chance that the man would pull a gun in a public park, not when he’d have to run with a heavy rucksack. Ben’s hand reappeared with a Nokia mobile. He made a call and said a few words in Bengali, then cut the connection.

‘You’d better not try anything,’ said Shepherd. ‘If you do I’m out of here.’

‘What happened to the boat?’

‘Customs caught it.’

‘What about the people on board?’

‘The asylum-seekers? Immigration have got them. If they play it right and claim asylum they’ll be back on the streets within days and have passports in three years.’

‘And you?’

‘Six months behind bars. Three years if I’m unlucky. Maybe a suspended sentence and a fine. Depends on the judge.’

‘Why did Rudi Pernaska not wait until he was released? Why did he talk to you?’

‘It’s a long story.’

‘I want to know.’

‘Customs and Immigration went through the boat, but they were only interested in the passengers and crew. They weren’t looking for contraband. I was put in a cell with Pernaska and he heard I was getting bail. He didn’t know how long Immigration were going to hold him, and he wasn’t sure they’d grant him asylum. His passport was fake, I think. He told them he was from Kosovo but really he’s Albanian. I guess he was scared that either they’d send him straight back to Albania or that someone would open the cans before they let him out. Anyway, he gave me your number and asked me to phone you.’

‘And the thirty thousand pounds was his idea?’

Shepherd grinned. ‘I thought as I was doing you a favour I ought to get something out of it.’ He saw an Asian man emerge from one of the pedestrian tunnels. He was almost six foot tall and had a long, loping stride. He was wearing a green anorak with the hood up, the sleeves several inches too short for his arms, and carried a black Adidas holdall.

Ben looked across at him. ‘He has your money,’ he said.

‘No tricks,’ said Shepherd.

‘There won’t be any,’ said Ben. ‘We want what’s in those cans. You want your money. We exchange bags and go our separate ways.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’ said Shepherd.

‘What?’

Shepherd patted the rucksack. ‘You took a risk, giving them to an asylum-seeker. Why not just bring them in yourself?’

‘Because all luggage on planes is X-rayed. The Eurostar, too. And Customs make spot-checks on the ferries. Asylum-seekers avoid all such checks.’

‘Not on my boat they didn’t.’

‘That was bad luck,’ said Ben. ‘The chance of it happening was one in a million.’

‘You do it a lot, then – bring cans from the Continent?’

Ben’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why are you so interested?’

‘I might be able to help. What’s in the cans?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘I’m assuming drugs.’

‘You can assume what you want. It’s none of your business.’

The second Asian man drew level with the bench. Ben spoke to him in Bengali and pointed at the rucksack.

‘I’d prefer it if you spoke English,’ said Shepherd.

‘I said that the cans are in good order,’ said Ben.

The second man sat down on the other side of Shepherd and pushed the sports bag towards him. Shepherd unzipped it and peered inside. It contained bundles of twenty-pound notes held together with thick rubber bands. Shepherd glanced around to make sure that no one was watching, then pulled out a note at random. He checked the printing, the silver foil strip, then held it up to examine the watermark. ‘Looks fine to me,’ he said. He put the note back into the bag, then counted the bundles. There were thirty. He flicked through several as if to assure himself they were all made up of twenty-pound notes.

‘Satisfied?’ asked Ben.

Shepherd zipped up the bag and put it on his lap. ‘We’re done,’ he said, and paused. ‘I could help you bring more in, if you wanted,’ he said quietly.

‘Why should we trust you?’ said Ben.

Shepherd lifted the holdall. ‘Because we’ve just done a deal. You’ve got what you wanted and I’ve got my money. You had to pay me because your brilliant smuggling idea came a cropper. What if I could offer you a foolproof way of bringing in as many cans as you want?’

‘Nothing is foolproof,’ said Ben.

Shepherd grinned. ‘I’ve got a boat that’ll outrun anything in the Channel,’ he said. ‘I can get from the Continent to the English coast in under forty minutes.’

‘A speedboat?’

‘Faster than a speedboat, mate. It’ll do eighty, and I’ve got night-vision gear, which means I can go out on a moonless night.’

‘Where is it?’

‘That’s for me to know and you to find out,’ said Shepherd. ‘First we’ve got to talk about how much you’re prepared to pay. And I need to know what you’ve got in those cans.’

‘Why does it matter?’

Shepherd sneered. ‘Because if it’s heroin, I’ll be taking a much bigger risk than if it’s cannabis. I need to know what the risk is before we talk about the reward.’

The tall Asian said something in Bengali, but Ben cut him short with a wave. ‘Let me think about it,’ he said.