‘What, then? I understand you’re anxious about their safety. That’s what happens to handlers. You get attached. You care.’
Shepherd smiled tightly.
‘And before you ask, yes, I care when I’m running you. Every handler does. You’re not chess pieces that we move around as part of the greater game. What you’re feeling is totally natural. A sort of reverse Stockholm Effect. Every handler goes through it. Which is why every handler in turn has a supervisor who can keep an eye on the bigger picture. And that’s what I’m doing now. You’re close to these guys. That goes with the territory. But I am taking a broader view, and I think you’re worrying unnecessarily.’
‘What about bugging their flat? A tracker in Malik’s car? Letting Amar work his magic on their mobile phones?’
‘And what if any of that hi-tech stuff is discovered? Then they are in trouble. Big trouble.’
Shepherd sighed. Button was right. She was telling him exactly what he’d said to Chaudhry and Malik. A GPS in the car or in their phones would be a dead giveaway. Chaudhry and Malik weren’t professionals; they were just young men doing what they thought was right, and they’d never be able to lie their way out of trouble. When Shepherd worked undercover everything was a lie from his name onwards. Lying didn’t exactly come naturally to him but he was proficient at it. The big advantage that Chaudhry and Malik had was that they were real. Everything about them was genuine. That was their strength — and their weakness.
‘I hear you,’ he said.
‘I know these guys too, don’t forget. I’m not as close as you are, obviously, but I do care what happens to them. And there’s no way I’d put them in the line of fire. I really do believe that increasing their security now would do more harm than good. At the moment the only link between them and us is you. And your legend as John Whitehill, freelance journalist, is watertight. Anyone who checks up on you will find a website, dozens of articles in magazines and journals, and a rented flat in Hampstead. The worst accusation that could be levelled against them is that they’ve talked to a journalist. But that all changes if anyone finds one of our gizmos.’
‘So we just leave things as they are?’
‘Our friends over at GCHQ are listening for chatter,’ she said. ‘If we get any sense that there’s a witch hunt going on then we can rethink. We’ll put an extra watch at the borders, and check on the usual suspects here.’
‘Forgive me if that doesn’t inspire me with confidence,’ said Shepherd. ‘Our borders still leak, we both know that. Known terrorists have walked into the country without anyone batting an eyelid.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’
‘And GCHQ listening for chatter didn’t stop the London tube bombings.’
‘Exactly,’ said Button. ‘That’s why what Chaudhry and Malik are doing is so important. They’ve got the inside track on a major terrorist attack that no one, absolutely no one, is aware of. We need them, Spider. We need their intel.’
Shepherd nodded. ‘You’re right.’
Button grinned. ‘That’s good to hear,’ she said. ‘Look, I understand your concerns, but I think the chance of anyone connecting them to what happened in Pakistan is remote. If it makes you feel better, why not give them a security briefing, give them some tips about what to watch out for. That’s why I wanted you involved, to share your expertise. They’re virgins at this and you’ve been around the block a few times.’
‘That’s the truth,’ he said. ‘Okay, let’s do that. But you really need to keep your ear to the ground, Charlie. Any intel at all that they might be at risk and we pull them out, right?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way.’
After the meeting with Button, Shepherd went up to the sixth floor to talk to Damien Plant, one of MI5’s top dressers. Plant was a one-stop shop for everything needed to back up a legend. He could supply any paperwork from a driving licence and passport to a utility bill or credit card, in any name and with any address and date of birth. His department also supplied homes and offices, vehicles, furniture, clothing and jewellery. There was almost nothing that Damien and his team couldn’t provide.
Plant shook Shepherd’s hand and waved him to a chair. He was in his early thirties, with sunbed-brown skin and a shaved head, and he was wearing a black linen jacket and blue Versace jeans. His desk was piled high with catalogues and fashion magazines and his walls were lined with reference books.
He sipped from a bottle of Evian and swung his feet up on to his desk. ‘You’re not here to complain about your flat, are you?’ he said. ‘I was working to a very tight budget and you can’t blame me for that. And when we set it up we had no idea the operation would go on for as long as it has.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Shepherd.
‘I know, but there’s barely enough room to swing a cat. If I’d known you were going to be there for a year I would have tried to fix up a bigger place. Within budget, of course.’
‘I’ve not been there much over the last few months, the operation had gone quiet,’ said Shepherd. ‘But on the plus side, it’s great to be so near the Heath.’
‘I love Hampstead,’ said Plant. ‘Used to go cottaging there in my misspent youth.’
Shepherd wasn’t sure if Plant was joking or not. ‘Funnily enough I was in the Willie not that long ago,’ he said.
‘You should have told me you were on the turn,’ said Plant, raising one eyebrow. ‘I could have taken you out and shown you the ropes.’
‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before I go down that route,’ said Shepherd. ‘It was a business meeting. About this job, as it happens. Basically I’m an arms dealer, so pretty much none of the John Whitehill props work, especially the clothing. The job’s actually for the Met but Charlie’s fixed it up so she’ll sign off on it.’
‘I trust you, Spider,’ said Plant and he reached over to pick up a clipboard and pen. ‘Full wardrobe?’ he asked, the camp act completely forgotten.
‘I guess, but I’m probably going to be in character only a couple of times so no need to go overboard on the number of outfits.’
‘Suits?’
‘One suit. A name. Whatever you think.’
‘Paul Smith should work. I’ll see what I can get in the way of a leather jacket. Shirts? Ties?’
Shepherd sighed. He hated the feel of a tie round his neck but there were some times when it was necessary. ‘Maybe. What do you think?’
‘We could do Miami Vice and put you in a T-shirt, show off your abs. Well-cut suit over it.’
Shepherd grimaced. Given the choice between a tight T-shirt and a tie, on balance he’d prefer the tie. ‘Tie, I guess. And good shoes.’
‘Bally, I think,’ said Plant. ‘What about jewellery? That watch has to go, of course.’
Shepherd held up his left hand. He was wearing a cheap Casio, which was the sort of watch that a freelance journalist would wear but it wouldn’t do for an arms dealer with criminal connections. ‘I’ll wear my own Submariner,’ he said.
Plant looked pained. ‘I’d advise against the Submariner,’ he said. ‘You’ve got the steel model, with the black bezel, right?’
Shepherd nodded. It was the watch that he’d worn ever since he’d been with the SAS.
‘See, that screams military. You’d be stressing the action-man aspect when you’re playing a villain. With villains it’s all about show so I’d go for a gold Cartier. Or a Patek Philippe. Something that says you’re wearing twenty or thirty grand on your wrist and you don’t give a shit.’
‘Okay,’ said Shepherd.
‘And I’m thinking a gold chain for your right wrist. Maybe a ring?’
‘And a money clip,’ said Shepherd. ‘Something gold.’
Plant scribbled on his clipboard again. ‘And what’s your legend? English? London?’
‘Yes. Former soldier; did some contracting work out in Iraq six or seven years ago, now self-employed.’
‘Car?’
‘You know, I think we can leave that. There’s no need to overcomplicate things. I’ll be with a Met guy so he can take care of the transport.’