‘He is already in the system – has been for the past five years. We have only had our contact in the Passport Agency for the past three years. You see, at the moment the only real identifying feature in a passport is the photograph. But soon they’ll be biometric, with either fingerprints or retinal scans incorporated. When that happens anyone who is in the system twice will be spotted. Anyway, travelling isn’t a problem as Matiur has permanent residency, so he’s happy with the way things are. He will get citizenship. It’s just a matter of time.’
Shepherd put away the passport. ‘Okay, I’ll head off back to Dover.’
‘Actually, there’s something I need you to do first.’ Salik’s hand disappeared inside his coat again and reappeared with a white envelope.
Shepherd took it and opened it. Inside, a dark blue folder contained a Eurostar ticket. ‘What’s this?’ he said.
‘Your train leaves Waterloo at nine minutes past one,’ said Salik. ‘You have plenty of time to get to the station.’
Shepherd stared at the ticket. It was in the name of Peter Devereux. ‘You can’t do this!’ he exploded.
‘What do you mean?’ said Salik, evidently confused by his outburst.
‘Have me running off to Paris at the drop of a hat.’
‘You’ll be back by this evening,’ said Salik, patiently. ‘They will meet you in Paris. You will be there for three hours and you will be back in London by ten o’clock.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘The men who are arranging the shipment. They want to meet you. I have already emailed them your photograph.’
‘You did what?’ Shepherd was genuinely alarmed. As Tony Corke he had no reason to refuse to go to Paris to meet the Albanians. But as Dan Shepherd, undercover cop, he knew that the Albanians wouldn’t think twice about killing him if they knew his true identity. And now they had his photograph.
‘Just so they’ll be able to spot you. They need to know what you look like.’
‘Salik, I’ve got things to do.’
‘A few hours, that’s all. Less than three hours there, three hours back.’
Shepherd stood up. ‘God damn it, you can’t treat me like some sort of servant!’
‘You are working for me, remember?’ said Salik, quietly. His voice had hardened. ‘And the Albanians will not do business with men they do not know. You will go, or we are through.’ He stared at Shepherd with unblinking brown eyes.
Shepherd had been backed into a corner. Tony Corke had no valid reason for refusing to go. He needed the money – and Salik was right: he was no more than a hired hand. ‘Okay,’ he said.
Salik smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s a formality. Just go over, show your face, and they’ll put the consignment together.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’d better be going,’ he said. ‘The traffic’s pretty heavy over the river so if I were you I’d get the Tube.’
Shepherd forced a smile. ‘I’ll call you tonight, let you know how I got on.’
He headed out of the park. He decided against using the Tube and flagged down a black cab. His mobile wouldn’t work on the Underground and he had some urgent calls to make.
The Saudi stirred his coffee slowly and looked out of the window. The street outside was filled with housewives loaded with shopping, office workers stealing time from their employers to run personal errands, youngsters in hooded tops smoking cigarettes furtively, planning their next shoplifting trip. A slim leather briefcase stood at his feet.
He sipped his coffee. Strong and bitter, as he liked it. He checked his watch. It was time. He had spent an hour in the coffee shop and was on his third espresso. He was sure that no one was watching the building opposite. He picked up his mobile. The Sim card was new and this was the first time he had used it. It would also be the last: later on that day he would destroy it. The way in which the authorities allowed the liberal use of untraceable phonecards made no sense to the Saudi. Disposable Sim cards were used by terrorists, drug-dealers, money-launderers, by anyone who wanted to communicate without detection. Mobile phones were also used to detonate bombs, but governments in the West allowed anyone to buy a Sim card without identifying themselves. The Saudi had two dozen in his briefcase, not one of which could be traced back to him. It was greed, pure and simple: the phone companies made money, and so did the governments – from tax, and from the licences they auctioned to the phone companies. No one wanted to kill the golden goose.
He tapped out a number. The man who answered didn’t identify himself. He said simply, ‘Yes?’
‘Our meeting for tomorrow is still on schedule?’ asked the Saudi.
‘The following day would be better,’ said the man.
The Saudi ended the call. He finished his coffee and picked up his briefcase, then walked across the street. Between a shop selling bric-a-brac and an off-licence, a door led up to the shabby flats above. There were eight buttons in two rows of four. There had once been paper stickers on the buttons with typed names but now they were all illegible. Someone had written the number ‘2’ on one in pencil. The Saudi pressed it. Almost immediately the door lock buzzed. The Saudi pushed his way in and climbed a set of bare wooden stairs to the second floor. The man he was there to meet had already opened the door. ‘ Allahu akbar,’ he said.
‘ Allahu akbar,’ said the Saudi, and walked into the flat.
The man was a Chechen. He had fought for his own people against the Russians, and in Bosnia. It was while he was fighting Serbs in the former Yugoslavia that he was approached by a representative of a Saudi charity. Two weeks later he was in Pakistan. Initially he was trained in the use of explosives but gradually his instructors realised that Ilyas could be used for greater things. His commitment to the Muslim cause, the fact that he had no living family and hated all things Western made him the perfect candidate to join the ranks of the shahid. They began to groom him to sacrifice his life for the jihad. He was shown videos recorded by shahids who gone to sit in heaven with Allah, then guided through the Koran and shown that there could be no greater glory than to die for Islam.
It was the Saudi who had realised that Ilyas was too valuable to be thrown away on a suicide mission, no matter how important the target. He had fair hair and green eyes, and spoke excellent English, albeit with a strong accent. No one would suspect he wasn’t European until they heard his voice. He was fearless, trained in the use of most arms from pistols to rocket-propelled grenades, a skilled driver and mechanic.
The flat where Ilyas had been staying for the past month was small but clean: a cramped sitting room with a futon and a coffee table, tiny bedroom with a single bed, and a cooking area with a double hotplate, a microwave and fridge. A copy of the Koran lay open on the coffee table.
An orange fluorescent jacket hung over a chair with ‘ NETWORK RAIL ’ on the back. Next to it stood a large blue metal toolbox with patches of rust on the sides.
The Saudi went to the futon and sat down. He placed his briefcase on the coffee table and opened it. Ilyas picked up the Koran and sat with it in his hands as the Saudi got out eight detonators and put them on the table. There were six triggers in the briefcase, which he laid beside the detonators; only four would be needed but the Saudi had included two spares. There were four nine-volt batteries, with enough wiring and connectors to complete four trigger circuits.
Ilyas studied the components and nodded slowly. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘When?’
‘Soon,’ said the Saudi. ‘ Inshallah.’
Shepherd sat holding his mobile phone as the driver of the black cab negotiated the traffic heading south. He had a serious problem and wasn’t sure how to deal with it. He’d only taken the Tony Corke mobile with him to the meeting. It was bugged and Hargrove had been listening to the conversation, assuming he’d been able to hear it through the pea coat. But Shepherd needed to talk to him. If he used the phone to call Hargrove, there’d be a record on the Sim card. He could delete the number afterwards but an electronics expert would be able to retrieve it. If the Albanians checked the phone when he arrived in Paris, they might want to know whom he’d called. Worse, they might even check the phone, and if they discovered the transmitter it would all be over.