Cold Kill (40 page)

‘Don’t look at me,’ said Button. ‘You need to take it up with our home secretary.’

‘Your capital city is now so foreigner-friendly they call it Londonistan, you know?’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Button patiently. ‘It’s part of being a multicultural society.’

‘Anyway, the ones with British citizenship wouldn’t be recorded entering or leaving the country, so we started to look further afield,’ said Yokely.

There was a discreet knock at the door, which was opened by a young blonde woman carrying a tray with a mug of coffee, a pot of tea, a jug of milk and a bowl of packets of sugar and sweetener. Yokely smiled at the woman and took it from her. He put it on the table, waited until she had closed the door behind her, then resumed. ‘We looked for countries where there had been terrorist incidents and started cross-checking the coming and going of the family members. As you can imagine, it took time. Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk,’ said Button.

‘Am I right that the Queen puts the milk in first?’

Button smiled. ‘I’ve heard she does, yes.’

‘And why would that be, do you think? Doesn’t it make sense to put the tea in first so that you can see how strong it is before you add the milk?’

‘I think it’s to do with the flavour,’ said Button. ‘If you add cold milk to hot tea, the milk scalds and tastes bitter. If you add the hot tea to the cold milk, the temperature of the milk rises slowly, so it doesn’t scald.’

Yokely nodded as he added a splash of milk to Button’s cup. ‘Okay, but if that’s the case, why does everybody add milk to coffee? Coffee’s just as hot as tea, isn’t it?’ He poured tea into the cup, then handed it to her.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Tea has a subtle flavour that can be spoiled by scalded milk. Coffee is more . . . robust.’

‘I’ve always been a coffee-drinker,’ said Yokely. He sipped and smacked his lips. ‘I can’t function without a high caffeine level.’

‘There’s more caffeine in tea than there is in coffee,’ said Button.

Yokely arched an eyebrow. ‘I didn’t know that,’ he said.

‘Well, you live and learn.’

‘And then you die and forget it all,’ said Yokely. He chuckled and put his mug on the table. ‘Anyway, enough chit-chat. The family are all well travelled. Rich Saudis like to stay away from their own country during the really hot season, and there are perks to being on the move during Ramadan. Like no fasting. Anyway, we came up with several possibilities, so then it was a matter of getting DNA samples on the quiet. That was fun, I can tell you. We had guys posing as waiters, garbage-collectors, hairdressers. No stone unturned, as they say.’ He gestured with his thumb at the two-way mirror. ‘I have to hang my head in shame and admit that we used a lady of the night to get Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed there. I won’t bore you with the details but we took a perfect sample from him last night. Anyway, we struck gold. He was in the bomber’s flat, no question. And as you’ll see from the file there, he’s been in and out of countries where some pretty heavy stuff has gone down. Madrid. London. Bali. And the kicker was that he was in Australia just before the bombings there.’

Button’s mobile rang and she smiled apologetically at the American. She looked at the screen: Shepherd. ‘Do you mind if I take this?’ she asked.

‘Please,’ said Yokely. He gestured at the door. ‘Do you need some privacy?’

Button shook her head and accepted the call. ‘Dan, I’m in a meeting, can I get back to you?’

‘It’s urgent,’ said Shepherd.

‘Go ahead.’ She mouthed, ‘Sorry,’ to Yokely. He waved away her apology.

‘I’ve just spotted one of the faces on your board,’ said Shepherd, ‘going in to see the Uddin brothers.’

‘Which one?’

‘It was one of the pictures with no name. Colour. Light brown hair, long face, brown eyes. Dimple in his chin. It wasn’t a surveillance picture, more official, head and shoulders staring at the camera.’

Button knew there was no need to ask Shepherd if he was sure. His memory was near-photographic and he had not hesitated when he gave the description. ‘On his own?’

‘Just him. He definitely knew where he was going so I’m figuring he’d been there before. My guess is that he’s picking up a passport.’

‘Okay. I’ll get a colleague to send the photographs to your mobile. Tell him which man you’ve seen. He’ll give you a name and let me know who it is. It might take half an hour or so, but stay there. Is Sharpe with you?’

‘Yes. He’s got his car.’

‘I’ll get other surveillance around there
ASAP
. If he moves, stick with him.’ She ended the call. ‘I’m sorry, Richard, one of my people has spotted someone on our watch list. Give me a minute, will you?’

‘No problem,’ said Yokely. ‘I could do with a visit to the men’s room anyway. You go right ahead.’

The American left the room while Button phoned her number two in the SOCA undercover unit. David Bingham was in his early fifties and had moved with her from MI5. Like Button, he had worked closely with Patsy Ellis and had been her number two in Five’s Belfast office for two years. He was a safe pair of hands, trustworthy and a good friend. She told him what she needed and Bingham promised to get on to it immediately.

‘Call me as soon as you have a positive ID,’ she said. She glanced through the window at the Saudi, who was frowning at the four plasma screens. ‘David, my mobile might well be off. Leave a message or text me if it is, okay?’

‘Will do, Charlie. Talk soon.’

As Bingham cut the connection, Yokely came back into the room. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.

‘Everything’s fine,’ she said. ‘Sorry about the interruption.’ She nodded at the Saudi in the next room. ‘All you’ve got at the moment is a link between him and the bomber. Nothing concrete.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Yokely. ‘But this isn’t about making a case against him. That’s for later, if we ever decide to put him on trial. Here’s the clincher, Charlie. When we busted him in the Savoy early this morning, we found a first-class ticket to Dubai for a midday flight. Today. Which means that whatever he’s got planned is almost certainly under way. The clock, as they say, is very much ticking.’ He put a Bluetooth headset into his ear and handed a matching one to Button. ‘Okay, let’s get started.’

Shepherd looked at the picture on the screen of his mobile phone. It was a white male, brown hair and brown eyes, but he wasn’t the man who’d walked into the Uddin brothers’ office. He sent a text message to David Bingham.
NO
. He sipped his coffee and waited for the next photograph. So far he’d rejected three. There couldn’t be too many more because most of the men on the whiteboard had black hair and Shepherd was sure about the dimple in the man’s chin.

He was sitting in a coffee shop overlooking the row where the
bureau de change
was. He had a seat by the window and a copy of the
Evening Standard
in front of him. There was no doubt in his mind that the man he’d seen was one of the faces on Button’s whiteboard. Shepherd was annoyed to have to deal with Button’s number two, whom he’d never met. Al-Qaeda terrorists, Button had said. Men and women who moved under the radar of the intelligence services. Now Shepherd had found one, and she had switched off her phone. Hargrove would never have acted so unprofessionally.

Shepherd tensed as he saw the man walk out of the doorway at the side of the
bureau de change
. He phoned Sharpe as he walked out of the coffee shop, leaving behind his newspaper.

‘Razor, he’s on the move. Heading north on the Edgware Road.’

‘Got that. What do you want me to do?’

‘Stay put,’ said Shepherd. ‘He’s heading against the traffic but he might jump into a cab.’

‘No sign of our back-up?’

‘Bingham says it’s on its way,’ said Shepherd.

‘Promises, promises,’ said Sharpe.

Shepherd kept on his side of the road, matching his pace to that of his quarry. He kept the phone pressed to his ear. ‘Still heading west.’

‘I should leave the car, Spider,’ said Sharpe. ‘One on one always comes to grief, you know that.’

‘Let’s make sure he’s not heading for a vehicle or a cab,’ said Shepherd.

‘At least I should start driving your way,’ said Sharpe.

‘Okay, but steer clear of the Edgware Road. It’s backed up to Marble Arch and if you get stuck there you’ll be screwed.’

The phone clicked in Shepherd’s ear. ‘I’ve got a text message, I’ll call you back,’ he said. He cut the connection and called up the message. Another picture from Bingham. He texted back
NO
.

Shepherd called Button’s number and was put straight through to her voicemail. He left a brief message saying that the man was on the move and that he was following. Then he redialled Sharpe. ‘Where are you, Razor?’

‘Praed Street. I’ll hang a right and cut back down Sussex Gardens. Where’s your man?’

‘Still heading along Edgware Road. Shit.’

‘What?’

‘The Tube. There’s two stations, Circle and Bakerloo. If he goes down one I won’t be able to use the mobile.’

‘There’s nowhere to park here. I’m stuck with the car.’

‘I know.’

Shepherd hurried across the road and quickened his pace. The man was striding purposefully ahead. He looked at his watch as he walked so Shepherd decided he had a deadline, wherever he was going.

‘Razor, listen. If I go underground and lose the signal, keep your phone clear and I’ll call again as soon as we surface. Call Button and tell her what’s happening. Put the rest of the surveillance team on standby. He’s crossing under the Marylebone flyover now. That rules out the Circle Line station. He’s still walking against the traffic so it’s either the Bakerloo Line or he’ll stay on foot.’

‘Are you sure you shouldn’t just bust him now?’

‘For what? Buying a passport? If he’s a terrorist, Button will want to know where he’s going and who he meets. SO13 will want to know exactly what he’s up to.’ SO13: the Anti-terrorist Branch.

Ahead of him the man hurried across the road. The traffic-lights were red but the green man was flashing. Shepherd cursed under his breath. It was a busy intersection with the traffic gearing up to drive onto the A40. If he got caught on the wrong side of the lights he’d be stuck for several minutes.

He ran across the road just as the traffic started to move. A van driver banged on his horn and the man Shepherd was following turned. Shepherd stopped running and turned sharp right, head down, the mobile phone pressed to his ear.

‘What happened?’ asked Sharpe.

‘Just making a twat of myself,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m having to pull back.’

Shepherd headed back to the Edgware Road, more cautiously this time. There was no sign of his quarry and he hurried down the road towards the Tube station, slowed and looked into it. The man was taking a ticket from the machine.

Shepherd ducked back. ‘He’s on the Tube,’ he whispered into the phone. ‘I’m going after him.’

‘Any guess if he’ll go north or south?’

‘Hell, Razor, toss a coin. Or stay put. I’ll phone you as soon as I’m above ground again. Call Button and tell her where I am.’

Shepherd cut the connection and slipped the mobile into his coat. He dug out a handful of change and walked into the station. The man he was following had passed through the ticket barrier and was heading for the lift. Shepherd selected a day ticket that would cover all six zones of the Tube system, then fed the coins into the machine.

As the machine spat out his ticket he heard the lift doors rattle shut. There were emergency stairs to the left of the lift, and a notice warning that there were 125 steps to the platforms. Shepherd had no choice – by the time the next lift arrived his quarry might be on a train. He ran down the spiral staircase, three at a time, covered by CCTV cameras every thirty feet or so. He wondered if anyone was watching and what they thought about the crazy guy running hell for leather down the stairs.

Heading down didn’t require too much physical effort but he had to concentrate: one wrong step would send him tumbling. He tried to keep track of the number of stairs as he hurtled down. Sixty. Eighty. A hundred. He wondered how quickly the lift would descend – it had probably been designed for reliability and passenger numbers rather than speed. A hundred and twenty-five.

Ahead of him a sign indicated the direction of the two platforms. To the left, Harrow and Wealdstone. The North. To the right, Elephant and Castle. The South. Shepherd stood still and listened. He heard a rumble to his right and walked in that direction. He reached the platform as the train roared into the station. He caught a glimpse of the driver, a ginger-haired man with square-rimmed spectacles, then the carriages whizzed by. Fewer than a dozen passengers were waiting to board and Shepherd quickly scanned their faces. The man wasn’t there. The train stopped and three middle-aged women got off with five young children in tow. Shepherd waited until the train doors had closed, then walked away. That left the northbound platform. He took out his mobile even though there was no signal so far underground. He tapped out a message to Sharpe,
NORTH
, then put the phone back into his coat. It would keep trying to send the message until there was a clear signal.

He waited where he was until he heard the rumble of a train on the northbound track, then moved on to the platform. A breeze from the tunnel to his right heralded the imminent arrival of the train and a few seconds later it appeared, brakes screeching as it slowed to a halt. Shepherd’s quarry was at the far end of the platform, at the rear of the train. Shepherd walked slowly down the platform, hands deep in his pockets, and boarded the second carriage from the end. He sat close to the door that linked the two carriages so that he had a good view of the man, then ignored him as the door shut. There was no need to keep him under observation; all Shepherd wanted to know was at which station the man left the train.