Dark Forces (15 page)

Shepherd arrived back at Heathrow airport just after nine o’clock in the evening. It had been a rushed journey. Craig Parker had driven at breakneck speed to the airport where the Hercules had been warming up its engines as Shepherd boarded. It had got him into Istanbul just forty-five minutes before a Turkish Airways direct flight to London. The plane was almost full and the only available seats were right at the back by the toilets. It wasn’t a pleasant flight, only marginally more comfortable than the jumpseat on the Hercules, but he’d been in worse places and was just grateful to get back to London.

He caught a black cab to Battersea, showered and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. He was woken by the sound of his mobile ringing. He sat up and peered at the screen. Seven o’clock in the morning. The number was being withheld but it was his work phone and he could think of only one person who would call him at that hour. ‘Hello, Jeremy,’ he said, running his hand through his hair.

‘How did you know it was me?’ asked Willoughby-Brown.

‘Lucky guess.’

‘How did it go?’

‘All good,’ said Shepherd.

‘You saw his intel?’

‘Yes.’

‘Excellent. We need to meet, obviously. You’re still averse to coming into Thames House?’

‘I’d be happier meeting elsewhere.’

‘How about breakfast?’

‘Sure, if it’s out of the way.’

‘Ah, I was going to suggest the Savoy.’

‘Of course you were. There’s a greasy spoon two roads down from where I am. The tables at the back are tucked out of the way. I’ll see you there at eight thirty.’

‘Sounds salubrious.’

‘It isn’t. But the grub’s good.’

‘I’ll be there,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

Shepherd shaved, showered and pulled on black jeans. He made himself a coffee, then spent the next half-hour at his laptop, typing out the details of the passports Yusuf had shown him. Then he grabbed his coat and headed out. Willoughby-Brown was already sitting at a table at the back, facing the door, which annoyed Shepherd: he needed to keep an eye on anyone coming or going and couldn’t do that with his back to the door. That meant Willoughby-Brown was an idiot who didn’t know basic tradecraft or he’d done it deliberately to put Shepherd on the back foot. Shepherd decided not to make an issue of it and sat down. A Polish waitress came over. Willoughby-Brown ordered tea and toast, Shepherd a full English and coffee.

‘Not worried about your waistline, Daniel?’

Shepherd smiled. ‘What do you weigh?’

Willoughby-Brown grinned and patted his stomach. He was at least twenty kilos overweight whereas Shepherd was fit and trim. ‘Fair point,’ he said. ‘But I’ve earned these extra pounds.’

‘By sitting at a desk?’

‘That’s where the real work is done, these days.’

‘I wish I’d known that before I went all the way to Turkey to interview an asset,’ said Shepherd. ‘We could have done it by email.’

‘There’s no need to get frosty with me, Daniel,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘I was just making the point that you’re unlikely to keep your admirable physique eating a full English.’

‘I haven’t eaten anything since I was on the plane yesterday afternoon, and I barely touched that. Plus I’ll be out running later today.’

‘You run every day?’

‘Pretty much. Got into the habit with the SAS. It’s the best exercise there is.’

‘I always get bored on the treadmill. Even when you’re watching the TV, it just feels like wasted time.’

‘You need to run outside. Your feet have to be on the road or grass, hitting a real surface, not a rubber band.’

‘Maybe I’ll give it a try,’ said Willoughby-Brown. But Shepherd could tell from the man’s voice that it was never going to happen. Willoughby-Brown was no more likely to go for a run than he was to sprout wings and fly around the café.

The waitress came over with their drinks. Willoughby-Brown added two spoons of sugar and stirred methodically. ‘So, do you think Yusuf is in serious danger or is he over-egging the pudding?’

‘He says there’s an IS commander after his blood,’ said Shepherd. ‘But he drives to and from his villa in a battered old Renault with no security. There’s security at his villa, but just a couple of guys with Kalashnikovs. I would have thought if he really believed his life was in danger he’d have more. On the other hand, he’s moved his wife and children to a safe location. But that’s not really the point, is it? He’s trading safe passage for the intel he has, and the intel seems good to me.’

The waitress returned with their food. She put a plate with two slices of toast in front of Willoughby-Brown and Shepherd’s full English in front of him. Two eggs, two sausages, bacon, mushrooms, beans and fried bread. Shepherd pushed the fried bread to the side of the plate.

‘And exactly how good is his information?’ asked Willoughby-Brown, buttering his toast.

‘He showed me copies of all the passports he’s fixed up for the ones he thinks are jihadists. He doesn’t know about my memory, obviously – I just took a quick look and gave them back.’

‘But you have all the information? Passport numbers, dates of birth, all the good stuff?’

Shepherd put down his knife and handed Willoughby-Brown a blue plastic thumb drive. ‘I transcribed everything I saw onto this,’ he said.

‘What about their photographs?’

‘I can remember them all. And I’d recognise them if I saw them.’

‘What about working with one of our artists? Could you get them to draw the faces?’

‘I don’t see why not. But it might be easier to liaise with the Syrian government. All the passports were issued by the Syrian embassy in Ankara. We have the names and dates, so they’d be able to supply the photographs.’

‘I’m not sure how cooperative the Syrians would be, frankly,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘But we have other options.’ He weighed the thumb drive in his palm. ‘And that’s all he has? The forty-eight here?’

‘That’s all he showed me.’

‘That’s not what I’m asking, Daniel. Do you think he’s holding something back for a rainy day? Something he can produce down the line to squeeze a little more out of us?’

‘I don’t think so, no.’ Willoughby-Brown slipped the thumb drive into his pocket, then pointed at one of Shepherd’s sausages. ‘Are you going to eat that?’

‘I was planning to, but help yourself.’

Willoughby-Brown picked up the sausage and took a bite. ‘So the well is dry, effectively.’

Shepherd frowned. ‘I don’t follow you.’

‘I mean we have everything he has. You saw all his intel. Everything you saw you’ve passed on to us. There’s nothing more to be had.’

Shepherd’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, are you?’

Willoughby-Brown grinned, took another bite of sausage and swallowed. ‘And what do you think I’m suggesting, pray tell?’

‘You’re considering throwing Yusuf to the wolves.’

‘And that would be a bad thing, why?’

‘Are you serious?’ said Shepherd. ‘The guy risks his life to help us and you’re going to turn your back on him?’

‘Well, now, to be fair, he’s not approached us out of the goodness of his heart. He wants money, he wants passports, he wants transport. His total bill will be close to a million pounds by the time he’s finished. So let’s not harp on about his altruism. And let’s not forget that he’s been instrumental in helping what he admits are forty-eight IS fighters into Europe. Do you think he’d be coming to us if he wasn’t in the shit?’

‘It’s a betrayal, Jeremy.’ He put down his knife and fork. He’d lost his appetite.

‘That’s subjective, Daniel. If you were to talk to Islamic State, they’d probably say Yusuf is betraying them. We’re in the betrayal business. That’s what we do.’

‘Since when?” said Shepherd. ‘He’s a source. We protect our sources.’

‘No. We use our sources in the best interests of our country. We’ve done that. We’ve spoken to him and he gave us his intel. That would seem to me to bring the matter to a close.’

‘Jeremy, will you listen to yourself? If you betray Yusuf after what he’s done for us, no one will ever trust Five again.’

Willoughby-Brown laughed. ‘I hardly think Yusuf will go around telling everyone what happened. I mean, come on now. What’s he going to say? That he showed us intel on Islamic State and we didn’t pay him? He’d be signing his own death warrant. No, he’ll keep quiet. And he still has his intel. Maybe he can get the French to take him in.’

‘You’re a bastard, you really are.’

‘Sticks and stones, Daniel.’

‘You planned this right from the start, didn’t you? You sent me because of my memory. You knew that once I had sight of his intel we wouldn’t need him.’

‘You’re overthinking things, as usual.’

‘Is that why you sent Shuttleworth?’

Willoughby-Brown looked confused. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Shuttleworth’s an idiot. Presumably you know that. You sent him precisely because he wouldn’t be able to handle Yusuf. Yusuf recognised Shuttleworth for what he was and demanded to see someone from London, and that allowed you to send me. Yusuf thought he was running the show but actually it was you, being your usual devious self.’

Willoughby-Brown chuckled. ‘Now you’re entering the realms of fantasy,’ he said. ‘Look, in a way it serves him right. If he’d played his cards a bit closer to his chest, he wouldn’t be in this state, would he?’ He finished off the sausage and wiped his hands on a paper napkin.

‘He’s only got himself to blame?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I was being ironic, Jeremy.’

‘I wasn’t. He’s a people-trafficker, Daniel. He trades in other people’s misery. And he knew he was helping jihadists get into Europe. He knew it and he went ahead and did it, for cold, hard cash. He took copies as an insurance policy, not because he wanted to help the West. If he hadn’t felt threatened we’d probably never have heard from him. He should count himself lucky I don’t pick up the phone and call the Americans. They’d grab him and put him in an orange jumpsuit any day of the week.’

Shepherd shook his head grimly but didn’t say anything. He knew it would be pointless. Willoughby-Brown grinned, obviously thinking he’d won the argument. ‘So, at least now you can get back to concentrating on the O’Neill brothers. You caught the sun while you were in Turkey. You’ll need a story for that.’

Shepherd stood up. ‘Are we done?’

‘Oh, come on, Daniel, don’t leave angry.’

Shepherd would have liked nothing better than to smack him in the mouth but he knew that if he did it would be the end of his career. He walked out of the café and stormed off down the street.

Mohammed al-Hussain spent the night in a terraced house on the outskirts of Athens. The men who had picked him up at the marina spoke limited English but they were friendly and did all they could to make him comfortable. They had prepared a bed for him in the basement, given him a prayer mat and shown him the Qibla, the direction of the revered shrine in Mecca’s Great Mosque. They provided food – lamb kebabs, deep-fried cheese, pitta bread and grapes – and left him alone. There was a small shower room where he washed and cleaned his teeth. When he had dressed again, he went into the main room and prayed, ate most of the food and climbed into bed.

They woke him early the next morning with a tray of bread, boiled eggs and goat’s cheese and told him that in two hours they would be leaving for the airport. He showered, prayed, then ate his breakfast. Later they came with a change of clothing – a dark blue suit, which fitted him perfectly, a white shirt and a blue tie. They gave him a pair of black shoes, which were comfortable albeit a little loose, and a briefcase containing brochures from hotels in Athens, menus from several restaurants and a change of clothes.

They took him upstairs and outside to a waiting Toyota saloon. One of the men who had met him at the marina sat in the back with him but said nothing during the journey. When they reached Athens airport the man gave him an Air France business-class ticket and an envelope containing several hundred euros. Al-Hussain got out of the car and walked into the terminal without a backward look.

Shepherd took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and spent fifteen minutes wandering around Leicester Square. His anti-surveillance was more out of habit than a serious worry that he was being followed. Sheekey’s was in St Martin’s Court, the heart of the capital’s Theatreland. It was an old-fashioned fish restaurant and oyster bar, and he had been there many times over the years. He arrived at the restaurant five minutes early but Howard Wedekind was already sitting at a corner table with a half-empty bottle of pink champagne in front of him.

‘You weren’t joking about the bubbly,’ said Shepherd, as he sat down opposite the accountant.

‘I’m having the lobster, too,’ said Wedekind.

Shepherd put up his hands in mock-surrender. ‘Whatever it takes to keep you sweet, Howard.’

‘What was so important that you had to flee the coop?’ asked Wedekind. ‘You knew that Tommy had a job for you. You give me all that guff about wanting to be on the team, then bugger off.’

‘I was away for a day, Howard. Something that needed to be taken care of.’ A waiter appeared at his shoulder and began pouring champagne into a flute. Shepherd waved for him to stop. ‘Gin and tonic, please.’

The waiter began reeling off a list of gins but Shepherd held up a hand to silence him. ‘Whichever bottle is closest to the barman’s hand will be fine,’ he said.

The waiter nodded and walked away. Shepherd leaned closer to Wedekind. ‘A guy owes me money and I needed to sort it out,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to tell Tommy because it makes me look like a prick.’

‘What’s the story? I can’t believe somebody didn’t pay you for a job.’

Shepherd chuckled. ‘Nah, he’s an accountant. They’re all robbing bastards in my experience, no offence.’

‘None taken. But how come he owes you money?’

‘He’s been doing a bit of laundry for me. Taking my cash and getting it into the banking system for seventy-five pence on the pound. Except the last two payments didn’t make it into my Jersey account.’

Wedekind shook his head. ‘Seventy-five pence on the pound? Are you serious?’

‘Best deal I could get,’ said Shepherd. ‘The guy before that only gave me sixty pence on the pound. Though to be fair he got the money into my account within forty-eight hours and he never let me down.’