‘I’m a bit antsy about doing it out in the open,’ said Shepherd. ‘No back-up if things go wrong, nowhere to mount surveillance cameras or mics.’
‘You could wire up the odd sheep,’ said the Major. ‘Or if you want I could get a couple of our snipers in ghillie suits close by.’
‘I’m not sure that Hargrove wants a full-blown SAS operation. But I’ll suggest it.’
‘Have you thought about suppressors?’
‘For the Yugos?’
‘Sure. We’ve been running tests on them and they work a treat. You still get a bang, of course, but you lose most of the crack. And if your targets are planning mayhem in a public place then suppressors would be a big help. And from your point of view, it would cut down a lot of the noise when you’re test firing. Just a thought.’
‘And a bloody good one, Boss. I’ll run all this by Hargrove and let you know. How much notice will you need?’
‘Providing I get it okayed in principle, a few hours at most. You take care, Spider.’
Shepherd woke up early on Monday morning and went for a run around Hampstead Heath in his old army boots, the weighted rucksack on his back. He got back to his flat and showered and changed into a polo shirt and black jeans. He realised that he’d missed a call while he was in the shower — Charlotte Button. He called her back.
‘Just checking in to see how things are progressing with Chaudhry and Malik,’ Button said.
‘I’m seeing them this afternoon. I get the feeling that it’s stalled a bit.’
‘It was never going to be a short-term operation,’ she said. ‘It will start moving eventually. It has to. They wouldn’t put the two of them through all that training and then not use them.’
‘Unless there’s a trust issue.’
‘Have they suggested that?’
‘No, that’s just me thinking out loud.’
‘We could think about pushing things forward,’ said Button.
‘In what way?’
‘They could start making a few suggestions themselves.’
‘I’d advise against that,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’ve been led every step of the way ever since they were recruited. I don’t think now’s the time for them to be coming up with ideas.’
‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Button. ‘But it has gone very quiet. There’s almost no chatter that we can find.’
‘That could be a sign that something big is being planned,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s see how I get on with them this afternoon.’
‘Good,’ said Button. ‘And how are things going on with Sam Hargrove?’
Shepherd filled her in on what had happened at the boxing evening.
She listened without interruption until he mentioned the forty AK-47s. ‘Sorry, did you say fourteen or forty?’
‘Forty,’ said Shepherd. ‘And they asked about grenades and bulletproof vests.’
‘What are their names?’
‘Simon Kettering and Paul Thompson. The Brummie cops think they’re responsible for a racist attack a while back.’
‘A murder?’
‘A beating.’
‘Big jump from that to forty AK-47s. And the grenade thing’s a worry. Sam made it sound as if it was a small arms buy.’
‘That’s what we all thought. It was only over the brandy and the cigars that they brought out their shopping list. Sam’s as surprised as we are.’
‘So what happens next?’ asked Button.
‘That’s up to the Birmingham cops, I guess, but it looks like we set up a deal and then bust them.’
‘Good luck with it,’ said Button. ‘Just let me know where you are.’
‘No problem,’ said Shepherd.
He ended the call and looked at his watch. He’d arranged to meet Chaudhry and Malik at three o’clock so he had time to kill. That was the biggest drawback of the job that Button had given him. Babysitting the two men meant that most of the time he was just sitting around doing nothing but waiting for the phone to ring. He wasn’t enjoying being a handler; he much preferred the adrenaline rush of being undercover. He switched on his TV and flicked through the channels, trying to find something interesting to watch. He gave up after five minutes and went over to the bookcase at the side of the fireplace. The books there had been selected by Damien Plant as the sort of books that would be owned be a freelance journalist, so mostly they were non-fiction, reference books and biographies. Tony Blair’s autobiography was there, and as Plant was a diehard Conservative Shepherd figured that there had been an element of sarcasm in the choice, especially as a yellow sticker on the front cover showed that the price had been slashed to one pound. He took it over to the sofa, flopped down, and started to read.
Chaudhry fiddled with his tie for the hundredth time since he’d sat down at the table. He was in the Pizza Express down the road from the university and close to Trafalgar Square. The restaurant was on two levels and he actually preferred the basement level, which was larger and with more room between the two tables, but sitting at a table on the ground floor meant that he got a clear view of the entrance. He’d arranged to see Jamila at seven but had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and ordered a bottle of sparkling water, ice and lemon. Despite the water his throat felt dry and scratchy and it hurt when he swallowed. He could feel his hands sweating and he wiped them on his trousers, grateful that he’d liberally sprayed himself with deodorant before leaving the King’s campus.
He’d done as his father had asked and made contact with Jamila on Facebook. She had accepted his friendship within an hour and he’d immediately gone to her page. There were several dozen photographs of her with her family, on holiday, and doing her volunteer work in Pakistan. Most of her friends seemed to be either girls or fellow students at UCL. Her hobbies were tennis and the theatre and she liked listening to Rihanna and Lady Gaga. In none of the photographs did she seem to have a boyfriend and her relationship status was single.
They’d messaged each other back and forth through Facebook and posted stuff on each other’s walls, mainly music videos that they liked or YouTube videos of animals doing stupid things. Then one day she’d said that she was having a boring week and he offered to take her for a meal and she’d accepted. So they still hadn’t spoken, and he wasn’t a hundred per cent certain that he would recognise her in a crowd. The pictures on her Facebook page gave off mixed messages. In Pakistan she was never without a headscarf and had her arms and legs covered, but there were pictures of her playing tennis on a grass court wearing very short shorts.
He swirled the ice cubes around his glass with his finger and when he looked up he realised that he’d been wrong to think that he wouldn’t recognise her in a crowd. She was standing at the entrance, looking around, her chin up confidently, a slight smile on her face. Her skin was a rich caramel colour, her hair black and glossy, longer than it was in her pictures, but her eyes were her most striking feature: so brown they were almost black, with lashes that were so long they might have belonged to a cartoon character.
She was wearing a long coat and had a Louis Vuitton bag over her left shoulder, and as she turned in his direction the coat opened to reveal a tight skirt that ended just above the knee, the legs of a catwalk model and black high heels. As he looked up from the shoes he realised that she was looking at him and he stood up. His hand knocked against his glass and the water spilled over his trousers. He jumped back, cursing, and the glass fell on to the tiled floor, shattering into a dozen pieces. All the diners turned to look at the noise and Chaudhry felt his cheeks redden. He bent down to pick up the pieces of glass but a blonde waitress rushed over and said that she’d take care of it for him. As Chaudhry picked up his napkin and pressed it against the damp patch on his trousers, Jamila walked up to him.
‘Oh dear, are you okay?’ she asked, and Chaudhry was amazed to hear a Scottish accent until he remembered that she was from Glasgow.
‘Sure. Yes. No problem.’ He carried on dabbing at his groin. ‘I’m such a klutz.’