Dark Forces (21 page)

García nodded but didn’t say anything.

‘Kolarac has taken the money, but you’re going to have to pay the Serbs’ hospital bills. They’re not exactly happy, but I think they know that, tough as they are, they can’t win an all-out war with the Russians.’

García forced a smile. ‘So it’s all okay?’

‘It’s getting there,’ said Shepherd. ‘You need to put two hundred thousand euros into the company account. I’ll say the money’s back and leave it at that. If you want to tell the O’Neill brothers that the Russian paid up, that’s between you and them. I’m pretty sure they won’t ask any questions.’

‘What about the Serbs being shot? What will you tell them?’

‘They won’t know about the Serbs and I don’t see that I need to be the one to tell them.’

‘And what do I say about Jake?’

‘Providing they get the cash back I don’t think they’ll care much. If they press you, just say things got heated and a gun went off, almost by accident, but now everyone’s cool.’

‘They’ll be happy with that?’

‘They’ll be happy that the money’s been paid and everything’s back the way it used to be. But you have to make sure there’s no repeat of this. You can get away with it once, if you’re lucky, but if it happens again … The ball’s in your court.’

‘We’ll rethink the automated players,’ said García.

‘I assume by “rethink” you mean you’ll stop doing it,’ said Shepherd. ‘If the brothers find out you’ve been cheating you’ll soon have them on your case.’

‘We were only trying to maximise profits,’ said García.

‘And you ended up in a gang war,’ Shepherd reminded him. He sipped his coffee. ‘You need to keep a tighter grip on Jake. Initiative is all well and good but getting those Serbs involved was a big mistake.’ He put down his cup and stood up. ‘Hopefully we won’t be seeing each other again,’ he said, and walked away, leaving García mopping his brow.

Yusuf felt the van lurch to the left, then rattle over rough ground. ‘Please, this is some mistake,’ he said. ‘You have the wrong man.’ Something had slammed against the side of his head, stunning him. He had seen only two men but he knew there were more. The two he had seen had appeared in front of him as he walked out of the coffee shop. One had produced an AK-47 from under his robes. The other had a handgun. An old revolver. Then the sack had been pulled over his head and he had been bundled into a van that smelt of rotten fruit. As it had driven away he had been rolled onto his belly, his wrists tied behind his back. No one had spoken and at least an hour had passed. He had asked what they wanted, had offered them money, but the only response had been the blow to his head.

The van slowed. Then he heard the beep of a horn and the sound of a gate rattling back. The van drove forward, turned sharply to the left and braked. The rear doors opened and he was dragged roughly outside. He stumbled, and one of the men holding him cursed. He had lost one of his sandals and his bare foot scraped across rough concrete. Behind him he heard the van drive away.

A door banged open and he was thrown forward. He tripped and fell, turning at the last second to avoid smashing his face. He lay there, panting. He heard voices. Then he was dragged to his feet and the hood was ripped from his head. He stood blinking, trying to focus. He was in a large room facing a window that looked into a walled yard. There was a figure in front of him. Yusuf screwed up his eyes and shook his head. There was another figure to his right, holding something. A video-camera. ‘Please, who are you and what do you want?’ he asked.

The two men who had him by the arms pushed him down to his knees.

‘We know what you did, Yusuf,’ growled the man in front of him.

Yusuf recognised him from articles in the online edition of the
Zamar
newspaper. He was a Turk, Mohammed Demir, but for the last few years he had been in Syria, leading a battalion of more than four hundred Islamic State fighters. He was in his thirties but looked much older: the fierce desert sun had turned his skin the texture of old leather. He had a long, straggly beard and his cheeks were pocked with old acne scars. He was wearing a grubby white kaftan and had a webbing ammunition belt around his waist.

‘
Assalamu alaykum wa rahmatu Allahi wa barakaatuhu
,’ said Yusuf.

Demir stared down at him with unblinking brown eyes. ‘
Wa alaykum alsalam
,’ he growled. And upon you be peace. ‘Tell me, Yusuf, how do those words not burn your mouth? How can you wish me peace when you have been plotting against me and my Islamic State brothers?’

Yusuf frowned. ‘There’s some mistake, brother. I am a good Muslim. I wish you no harm and you surely know how much I have done to further the cause of your brothers in arms.’

Demir stuck his thumbs into his webbing belt and thrust out his chest. ‘You are a traitor to Islam, and you will burn in Hell,’ he said.

‘My friend, there has been some mistake. I am on your side. I hate the infidel with a passion that burns like the sun. I am a true Muslim and as such would never, ever side with the infidel, please, you—’

Demir slapped him across the face and Yusuf tasted blood. ‘You demean yourself with your lies,’ said Demir.

‘Please, there has been a mistake. May Allah strike me dead if I am lying.’

‘Allah would not bother himself with the likes of you,’ said Demir. ‘We shall do that. And you will die like an infidel dog and your corpse will be treated with contempt.’

‘Please, don’t do this,’ begged Yusuf.

‘If you want forgiveness, ask it of Allah, for it is only Allah who can judge you,’ said Demir. ‘But I think you will be pleading to deaf ears.’

‘I have money,’ said Yusuf. ‘Or papers? You want passports? I can get you passports for any country you want.’

Demir sneered at him. ‘What use do I have for a passport? Do you think I showed a passport to come here? The world belongs to Allah and his servants need no passports.’ He fumbled in his robes and pulled out a smartphone. He tapped on it and grinned. ‘I want you to see this. I want you to see the results of your treachery. You need to know what your actions have caused.’ He turned the screen towards Yusuf. It was his wife, her eyes wide and fearful, her cheeks wet with tears. ‘Esma,’ he whispered. ‘Please, no.’

Two men were holding her, forcing her to her knees. There was a third man behind her, with a knife.

‘Please, no,’ said Yusuf.

‘They raped her first, and as they raped her they told her what you had done.’

Esma was begging for her life. Yusuf closed his eyes. It was a recording, it was in the past. His beloved Esma was dead already.

‘Open your eyes,’ said Demir. ‘She died because of you. The least you can do is to see how she met her end.’

Yusuf opened his tear-filled eyes. The man with the knife grinned savagely as he placed the blade against Esma’s throat and whipped it to the side. Blood spurted down her neck and Yusuf groaned. The man with the knife was holding her hair and he jerked her head back and sawed with the knife, hacking through the flesh and bone until the head came away and the body slumped to the floor. The man grinned as he swung it around. Esma’s eyes were still open.

‘Your fault,’ said Demir. ‘You are to blame.’

Whoever was holding the phone began to move. They had killed her in the main bedroom of the villa. Yusuf could barely breathe. It was as if a steel band around his chest was tightening. The phone lurched as the man walked down the corridor. Heading for the bedrooms where his children slept. ‘Please, no, don’t do this,’ he said, though he knew that it had already been done. He looked up at his tormentor. ‘Kill me now,’ he said. ‘If you have any mercy in your heart, kill me now.’

‘Your children were told what you did, and they were told that they were paying the price for your greed and dishonesty.’

‘Please, just end it now,’ muttered Yusuf. ‘Kill me now.’

‘They were raped, too. The boy and the girls. They screamed and they begged for their lives but they were told that there could be no mercy for them because of what you had done. You betrayed your faith, you betrayed your Muslim brothers, and they paid the price.’

A door was pushed open. It was his son’s room. Little Hasan. The phone went inside. There was a figure on the floor. Naked and smeared with blood. It wasn’t Hasan. It was Ayse. Eight years old. Her hair was covering her face.

Yusuf looked away. ‘Just kill me,’ he whispered.

‘The boy seemed to enjoy it, my men tell me. Was he gay, do you think? Such a sin to have a gay child. Your only son was gay, and he died being fucked up the arse so I doubt he’ll be going to Heaven any time soon.’

Yusuf sobbed uncontrollably.

‘Your daughters weren’t so happy, I’m told. They died screaming and begging and saying it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they were being punished for something you did. That’s what they said. They were told to beg forgiveness from Allah for your actions and they did. They were such good little girls, weren’t they? So unlucky that they had you for a father. Think of their last moments, Yusuf. Beaten. Abused. Raped. Because of you, Yusuf. Because of what you did.’

All the strength had drained from Yusuf and if it hadn’t been for the two men holding his arms he would have slumped to the floor.

‘Look at the screen, Yusuf. See what you have done.’

Yusuf raised his head and moaned when he saw the two blood-stained figures lying across the bed like broken dolls. He howled with despair and then a hand yanked his head back and out of the corner of an eye he saw the flash of the blade that would end his life. His last thought was of his wife and children, the horrors they had endured. It had been his fault. He deserved to die and to be cast into the fires of Hell for eternity.

Shepherd switched on his phone as he walked off the plane. There was a text from Willoughby-Brown:
Am in the car park. Level 3.

Shepherd was using his Terry Taylor passport and joined the ePassport queue. The MI5-supplied passport was real, it was just the details that weren’t, and the automated facial-recognition system opened the barrier.

He walked out into Arrivals, then to the car park and went up to Level 3. He looked up and down and a minivan flashed its lights. It was the last vehicle Shepherd expected to see Willoughby-Brown using and he frowned as he walked over. As he drew near, a side door slid back, revealing a plush interior with two large leather armchairs at either side of a polished table. Willoughby-Brown was sitting at the rear, facing a flat-screen television, with a laptop on the table in front of him. He grinned and indicated the seat facing him as Shepherd climbed in. The door closed electronically.

‘There’s water on your right and snacks on the left,’ said Willoughby-Brown, as the van moved off. ‘All mod cons.’

‘This is an office car?’ asked Shepherd.

‘For a certain paygrade, yes,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘London traffic being what it is, you can get work done while you’re on the move.’ He gestured at the screen above Shepherd’s head. ‘I have access to all but the most sensitive files and it has a built-in encrypted sat-phone. I sometimes think I could park it in my driveway and work from home.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Shepherd.

‘The only downside is that smoking is
verboten
. It’s classed as a place of work. Not for me but for the driver.’ He gestured at the man behind the steering wheel, who was insulated from them with a thick glass panel. ‘Soundproof and bulletproof,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘There’s an intercom you use to talk to him. And the sides can withstand an RPG. How about that?’

‘Amazing,’ said Shepherd.

‘And we’d survive a landmine,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘Not that we’re expecting landmines in the capital.’

‘It could happen,’ said Shepherd.

‘Well, let’s look on the bright side, shall we? How did you get on? I hope you didn’t go all SAS on the Rock.’

Shepherd looked sideways at him, scornful of the attempt at humour. Back in 1988 the SAS had killed three IRA terrorists in Gibraltar as they were planning a car-bomb attack at the changing of the guard ceremony outside the governor’s residence. All three were shot after being challenged and were later found to be unarmed, and no bomb was ever found on Gibraltar, though a large amount of explosives were later discovered in a car across the border in Spain. So far as the SAS were concerned, it was a valid operation, and an inquest in Gibraltar ruled that the men had acted lawfully. Either way, Shepherd didn’t think it was something to be joking about. He smiled thinly, refusing to rise to the bait. ‘Before my time,’ he said.

‘Obviously,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘So you didn’t have to shoot anybody, I hope.’ The van accelerated away from the airport.

Shepherd settled back in his seat. ‘All good,’ he said. ‘I sorted everything out for the brothers so hopefully that’ll open a few more doors for me. Something you need to know is that Wedekind says the brothers have money in Gibraltar, along with property including hotels.’

‘Good to know,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

‘The downside is that he’s confirmed they’re being clever about tucking assets away. They use trusts and all sorts of financial shenanigans, he says. And I get the feeling he doesn’t know too much about it.’

‘I thought you said he was their money man.’

‘He’s one of their money men. And they use him to pass on instructions. But the serious money-laundering is done by someone else.’

‘That’s annoying,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

‘I’ve asked for an introduction but he’s going to have to clear it with the brothers.’

‘Which will take time.’

‘I can’t try to speed things up – I’ll look too desperate. But I get the feeling that Wedekind is in regular touch with them, so his calls or emails might point the way. But even if we do get him to roll on the brothers he’s probably not got much hard information.’

‘They’re a devious bunch, that’s for sure.’

‘That’s why they’ve survived for so long,’ said Shepherd. ‘Even with all the work we’ve put in, most of what we’ve got is hearsay. On the subject of hearsay, Marty pretty much confirmed the family has judges and cops on the payroll.’