Hard Landing (43 page)

Carpenter looked over Shepherd’s shoulder and nodded at Gilchrist. Shepherd tightened his grip on Carpenter’s throat. It would be so easy to kill him. One punch. The cartilage would spear the soft brain tissue, severing blood vessels, and bringing about almost instantaneous death. But what then? Would killing him get Liam back? Carpenter glared at him. There was anger in his eyes now, but still no sign of fear.

Shepherd released him. Gilchrist took a step towards Shepherd but Carpenter held up his hand. ‘It’s okay,’ he croaked. ‘Leave it.’

Gilchrist backed away. ‘Watch the door,’ said Carpenter. He unscrewed the top of a bottle of Highland Spring water and drank deeply, then wiped his mouth. Gilchrist went back out on to the landing. Carpenter took another drink. Shepherd stood at the foot of his bed.

Carpenter put down the bottle. ‘I understandyour anger, Dan. If I was in your place I’d be angry, too. I’d lash out. I’d do exactly what you’re doing. But in my heart I’d know that getting angry wouldn’t get my boy back.’

‘You hurt him and you’re dead.’

‘The whole point of this is that Liam doesn’t get hurt,’ said Carpenter. ‘You get me out of here and you get your boy back. Everyone gains. The only way Liam gets hurt is if I have to stay behind bars. If that happens we all lose. You lose your boy and I lose my freedom.’

‘I’ll do what I can, but if it goes wrong, if I fail, then you’re not to hurt him.’

Carpenter said nothing.

‘Did you hear me?’

‘I heard you. But you’ve no bargaining power here, Dan. I hold all the cards. And just so there’s no misunderstanding, my men on the outside will kill Liam if anything happens to me in here.’ He pointed a finger at Shepherd’s face. ‘I’ll put down what just happened to the stress you’re under, but you touch me again and I’ll have your boy slapped around.’

Shepherd said nothing.

‘Did you hear me, Dan?’

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘I understand.’

‘Good man. Now, tell me exactly what you’ve got planned.’

There were three phones on Major Allan Gannon’s desk. One was a general line that went through the switchboard at the Duke of York barracks in London, another was a direct line to SAS headquarters in Hereford, and the third connected him to the Special Boat Squadron base in Lympstone. Next to his desk, on a table of its own, was the briefcase containing the secure satellite phone they called the Almighty. It never left Gannon’s side. It rarely rang, but when it did, all hell usually broke loose. The only people who had access to it were the Prime Minister, the Cabinet Office, and the chiefs of MI
5
and MI
6
. And they didn’t call Gannon for a chat about the weather.

It had been several weeks since the Almighty had rung, and Gannon felt like a caged lion. Three-quarters of the SAS personnel had gone to Iraq, and half had been in country before hostilities had officially commenced. But Gannon had been told in no uncertain terms that his services were required in the UK in case of a local terrorist incident. He and his team had waited for the expected terrorist backlash but none had been forthcoming and Gannon had spent the Iraqi war watching reporters in flak jackets describe the offensive on BBC World, Sky News and CNN.

He stood up, walked to the window and stared out through the bomb-proof blinds at the parade-ground, where a lone soldier on a discipline charge stood ramrod straight, his weapon at his side, sweating under the midday sun. He’d been standing at attention for three hours, ever since he’d been marched out by a grim-looking sergeant-major. Gannon had grinned when he’d seen the sergeant-major giving the squaddie a dressing-down. Standing still for three hours wasn’t what Gannon would consider a punishment. A beating by six SAS troopers, now that was a lesson the young man would never forget.

A phone rang. Not the Almighty. The Almighty’s commanding call to arms could never be confused with a regular telephone’s half-hearted warble. It was the creamcoloured phone. The switchboard line. He picked up, knowing that, more likely than not, it would be a wrong number.

‘Gannon,’ he said, into the receiver.

‘Major Allan Gannon?’ said a voice. Scottish. Not a voice Gannon recognised.

‘Yes?’

‘My name’s Sharpe, Jimmy Sharpe. You don’t know me but I’m calling on behalf of a mutual friend who needs your help. Spider Shepherd.’

Gannon reached for a pad attached to a metal clipboard. It was stamped ‘Eyes Only – Top Secret. Not For Distribution’. Strictly speaking the pad was only for official work, but Gannon doubted that anyone would mind. ‘What does he need?’ asked Gannon.

Shepherd’s name was on the gym list again, presumably because Lloyd-Davies had been pulling strings on his behalf. His main motivation for using the gym had been to get close to Carpenter, but that had been blown out of the water. He had stopped carrying the Walkman. There was no longer any point. He’d left a message with Uncle Richard, telling him that things were progressing slowly. He just hoped Hargrove didn’t decide the investigation had stalled and to pull him out.

He waited at the bubble. Amelia Heartfield was inside, talking to Tony Stafford. She was crying, brushing away tears with the back of her hand. Bill Barnes was standing at the stairs wearing his England football strip with a towel round his neck.

‘What’s wrong with her?’ asked Shepherd, indicating Amelia.

‘Rathbone’s been killed,’ said Barnes.

‘How?’

‘Mugged. Knifed.’

‘What?’

‘He was walking his dog. They found him stabbed. No wallet, no watch.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘I tell ya, Bob, you’re safer in here sometimes, the way the world is,’ Barnes went on. ‘He was okay, was Rathbone. Fair. Treated us like people, not numbers. That’s rare in here.’

Carpenter came down from the threes with his bottle of Highland Spring. He ignored Shepherd and went to stand by the barred door.

‘They know who did it?’ asked Shepherd.

Barnes shook his head. ‘It’s in the
Evening Standard
. Stabbed in the chest and had his throat cut. Police are appealing for witnesses, blah, blah, blah.’

Shepherd frowned. Stabbed in the chest and a cut throat? It sounded like two assailants, but if it had been a mugging and there were two of them there’d have been no need for that degree of violence.

Amelia came out of the bubble and unlocked the door to the secure corridor. She checked the eight names of the men on the gym list, then escorted them down the secure corridor. Shepherd walked with Barnes, who wouldn’t stop talking, but that was fine. Shepherd let the words wash over him. Carpenter brought up the rear of the group. Shepherd didn’t turn to look at him but he could feel the man’s eyes boring into his back.

As soon as they’d been checked in, Shepherd went over to a treadmill and started running. Carpenter appeared at his side and stabbed the stop button. Shepherd slowed to a halt. Carpenter leaned close to him. ‘You heard what happened to Rathbone, yeah?’

‘That was you?’

‘What the fuck do you think? Time’s running out, Shepherd. You get me out of here or your kid gets the same.’

Shepherd glared at Carpenter. ‘It’s in hand.’

‘It’d better be,’ said Carpenter. He jabbed at the treadmill’s start button and walked away as Shepherd started running again.

Moira banged on the door with the flat of her hand. ‘Moira, please,’ said her husband. He was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. ‘You’ll just annoy them.’ Liam was sitting next to him, his head against his grandfather’s shoulder.

‘Liam needs food,’ said Moira, ‘and water. And we need to be able to use a toilet.’ She glanced at the red plastic bucket and toilet roll in the far corner of the basement. ‘We’re not using that.’ She banged on the door again. ‘You out there! Come here!’

‘Moira, they’ve got guns.’

She ignored him and continued to bang on the door. She stopped when she heard footsteps on the other side of the door.

‘Now what?’ said a muffled voice.

‘We need food,’ Moira shouted. ‘My grandson’s hungry.’

‘I’m all right, Gran,’ said Liam.

‘Stand away from the door,’ said the voice. Moira did as she was told and they heard the sound of bolts being drawn back. The door opened. Despite his mask she knew it was the man with the gleaming white teeth. She didn’t understand why they were bothering to hide their faces because she’d seen them when they’d walked up the garden path with Tom. She didn’t have the best memory for faces but she’d never forget those two men after what they’d done. They’d called her a bitch in her own house and waved a gun in her face, bundled them into the back of a van and made them pull hoods over their heads, terrorised young Liam and threatened to shoot them all if they didn’t do as they were told.

‘What do you want?’ said the man.

‘I want you to let us go, but I suppose that’s out of the question, so I want food and something to drink, and I want to use the loo. A real loo, not that bucket.’

‘We’ll bring you food later.’ He was holding his pistol and pointed it at the bucket. ‘Use that or keep your fucking legs crossed.’

‘How dare you speak to me like that?’ said Moira.

The man pushed her in the chest. She gasped and staggered backwards.

‘Don’t you hit my gran!’ shouted Liam. He rushed across the basement and kicked the man in the shins. The man lashed out with his foot and caught Liam in the groin. He screamed and fell to the concrete floor.

Tom pushed himself to his feet and walked over to the man, his hands bunching into fists. ‘There’s no need for that,’ he said. ‘Hitting women and children, you should be ashamed of yourself.’

The man raised the gun and slashed it across Tom’s head. He grunted and dropped to his knees, then fell sideways next to the wall, blood trickling down his cheek.

Moira screamed and knelt down beside him. ‘You’ve killed him!’ Liam was crying, his knees drawn up to his chest.

‘He’s not dead!’ yelled the man. ‘But carry on the way you are and you fucking well will be. This isn’t a fucking game. If I get a phone call telling me to put a bullet in your heads, then that’s what I’ll do. You are this close to being dead.’

Tom put a hand to his head and groaned. ‘Thank God,’ said Moira. She leaned over and held Liam’s hand. ‘It’s okay, Liam. It’s okay.’

The man bent down and poked her in the back with the gun. ‘No, it’s not okay. It’s as far from okay as you can get. Now, shut up or I’ll give you what I gave your fucking husband.’ He jabbed her with the gun again, spat at her, then stamped out and bolted the door.

Tears ran down Moira’s face as she comforted Liam. She stared at the door and, for the first time in her life, she wished another person dead.

Shepherd pulled on his yellow sash and joined the queue of prisoners waiting to go into the visiting room. The Welsh officer who’d originally escorted him from reception to the remand wing was patting down prisoners. Shepherd smelt garlic on the man’s breath as he carried out the search. He figured that few prisoners would be trying to smuggle anything out of the prison, the contraband would all be coming in.

His visitor was already seated. He was a big man with a strong chin, wide shoulders and a nose that looked as if it had been broken at least once. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses and kept his head down as Shepherd walked to the table. He waited until Shepherd had sat down before he said anything. Then he leaned across the table so that his mouth was only a few inches away from Shepherd’s ear. ‘Fuck me, Spider, I always knew you’d come to a bad end, but I never thought you’d end up behind bars.’

‘Thanks for coming, Major,’ Shepherd murmured.

‘Do you want to fill me in on what the hell you’re doing in here?’ said Gannon.

Shepherd looked around the visitors’ room. One prison officer was at the far end of the room but he seemed more interested in two married couples who were kissing as if their lives depended on it. The Welsh guard was still patting down arrivals at the door. Keeping his voice low, Shepherd told Gannon everything. The robbery. The new assignment. Gerald Carpenter. Sue’s death. And Liam’s kidnapping.

Gannon listened in silence, his face tightening as he learned of Sue’s accident, eyes hardening as Shepherd told him what had happened to his son. When he had finished, Gannon gave a soft whistle. ‘You’ve packed a lot into the last few weeks,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about Sue. No one told the Regiment.’

‘No one outside my team knows. There won’t even be a funeral until after this is all over.’

‘And who knows about Liam?’

‘You, me and Carpenter.’

‘What is it you want, Spider?’ asked Gannon.

‘I want to get out of here.’

The SAS major nodded slowly. ‘Consider it done,’ he said.

Gannon slotted the slide cartridge into the projector while Martin O’Brien poured coffee from a pewter pot into five dainty cups. O’Brien was in his late thirties, broad-shouldered, and he’d put on a few pounds since he’d last served with the major. He was now doing close-protection work with World Bank executives, and two years of lunches in expensive restaurants and overnighters in five-star hotels had taken a toll on his waistline.

O’Brien handed cups of coffee to Geordie Mitchell and Billy Armstrong. Mitchell and Armstrong had left the Regiment a decade ago, but were still trim and fit. Mitchell ran ten kilometres a day with a rucksack filled with housebricks, and Armstrong swam two miles in the sea every morning. Mitchell was doing something shady out in the Far East, and Armstrong ran survival courses down in Cornwall. Mitchell sipped his coffee. He grimaced as it hit a bad tooth. He had a mouthful of crowns, half of them gold. Armstrong ran a hand through his receding hair and stretched out his long legs.

Gannon looked at his Rolex Submariner. Only one member of the group was absent but he wasn’t surprised: Jimbo Shortt was a notoriously bad timekeeper. He knew more about tele-and radio communications than anyone else Gannon had met so he would be invaluable for what he had planned. All four knew Shepherd well and had agreed to drop everything when Gannon had told them of his predicament. Shortt had the furthest to come: he was teaching close-quarter combat techniques to Ukrainian SWAT teams but had promised to get on the next flight to the UK.