‘The thing is, this guy being who he is, I think he’ll be better organised.’
‘What do you think he is?’
Shepherd flashed him a tight smile. ‘I think he’s al-Qaeda,’ he said.
Singh held up the cutting. ‘Then put this in the system and red-flag it, put everyone on it.’
‘It’s not as simple as that.’
‘It never is with you.’
‘At this stage, all I want to do is to confirm my suspicions. I haven’t seen this guy face to face for more than ten years. The eye’s a giveaway, but I’m sure he’s not the only Afghan with a dodgy eye. And I don’t want to be responsible for ruining someone’s life on a hunch.’
Singh put down the cutting and sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Shepherd’s face. ‘Why do I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me?’ he said quietly.
‘That’s why this comes under the heading of a favour,’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s definitely al-Qaeda?’
‘The last time I saw him was in Pakistan, outside of an al-Qaeda money house. And he shot me. He killed a young SAS captain.’
Singh whistled softly. ‘I’m starting to wish I hadn’t asked.’
‘Maybe we could both forget we had this conversation,’ said Shepherd. He leaned forward to grab the cutting but Singh held it out of his reach. ‘I’m serious, Amar, I shouldn’t have asked you.’
‘What else are friends for?’ said Singh. ‘You want to know if it’s definitely him, right?’
‘Exactly.’
‘OK. That I can probably help you with. But as to what happens after that, I definitely don’t want to know.’
‘That’d probably be best,’ said Shepherd.
‘And it goes without saying that mum’s the word.’
‘My lips are sealed,’ said Shepherd.
Singh grinned. ‘Then let’s have a go,’ he said. ‘Did you run the photograph through the Border Force’s computer?’
‘No. Just the name.’
‘They’ve started taking photographs and fingerprints of anyone applying for a visa, so I’ll run the picture through their database.’ He wrinkled his nose as he studied the cutting. ‘What I’ll do is scan the picture first and see if we can clean it up, improve the resolution. I can also run a cross-check with the DVLC database and the Identity and Passport Service which will ID him if he has a British passport or driving licence. Don’t suppose you’ve got a photograph or a date of birth?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘That picture is all I’ve got.’
‘I can pass it through the PNC, which will flag him if he’s ever been arrested here, and there’s our own naughty-boys database. And the facial recognition systems at all the airports, of course. Assuming he flew into the country.’
‘Any idea how long it’ll take?’
Singh wrinkled his nose. ‘Increasing the resolution will take the best part of a day. That’s computerised, there’s no way of speeding that up. The cross-checking should be a few hours at most for the databases – the airports will take longer because it involves CCTV. Are you in a hurry?’
‘The sooner the better, obviously. I really appreciate this, Amar.’
Singh held up his hand. ‘It’s no biggie,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a useful test of our facial recognition systems, anyway. We’re always looking for ways to tweak it.’ He looked at his watch. ‘OK, you need to let me get started on your car. I’ll have it and the vests at your place tomorrow.’
‘Maybe liaise with the armoury, they’re giving me a Glock.’
‘Two birds with one stone.’
Shepherd woke early, and it took a few seconds lying in the darkness before he remembered where he was. And who he was. He was Tony Ryan, a Metropolitan Police firearms officer, and he was lying in his one-bedroom flat in Hampstead. As flats went it was just about OK, with a bedroom just large enough to take a double bed, a sitting room with a sofa, an armchair, a coffee table and a thirty-two-inch television. The last time he’d used the flat he’d been a journalist and they’d given him the full Sky package, and he was pleased to see that hadn’t changed. When he’d been passing himself off as freelance journalist John Whitehill the flat had been full of art books and news magazines. Whoever had dressed the flat for his Tony Ryan legend had gone much more butch, with photographs of Shepherd with various weapons on the walls and military books lining the shelves. The contents of the wardrobe had changed; Whitehill’s corduroy jackets and check shirts had gone, replaced with dark suits, white shirts and ties for work, and polo shirts and chinos for casual wear. There was no bath in the bathroom, but there was a power shower which more than made up for it, and he wasn’t in the least inconvenienced by the tiny kitchen as cooking was never high up on his agenda.
The one really good thing about the flat was its proximity to Hampstead Heath. Its near-800 acres of woods and hills were the perfect setting for a run. He’d left his rucksack and boots in Hereford but there were still some of his old clothes from the last time he’d stayed in the flat, tucked away in carrier bags at the bottom of the wardrobe. He found an old pair of trainers, baggy tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt that had once been white but was now a shabby grey. He pulled them on, let himself out of the flat and went for a run, arriving at the Heath just as dawn broke. There were already plenty of other joggers around, and a fair number of dog-walkers. Shepherd ran a mile at a medium pace to loosen up, then stepped up a gear and ran close to his maximum pace for another mile. He had soon worked up a sweat despite the chill in the air. He dropped to the ground and did fifty sit-ups and fifty press-ups before resuming his run, another two miles at full speed. The lack of a rucksack full of newspaper-wrapped bricks and his old army boots meant that he could run faster than usual. He overtook a tight group of young runners in spandex shorts, tight vests and headbands, then ran up a long slope, maintaining the same pace, enjoying the feel of his muscles starting to burn. At the top of the slope he dropped and did another set of sit-ups and press-ups, and then he headed home.
He arrived back at the flat an hour after he’d left. He shaved and showered and changed into one of the dark blue suits that the dresser had left, along with a white shirt and a tie of red and dark blue stripes. There was a choice of three pairs of shoes, all black and all with laces, and he choose the pair that looked most comfortable. He had just made himself a bacon sandwich when his Tony Ryan mobile phone rang. It was Mark Whitehouse, one of the MI5 armourers. ‘Delivery for Mr Ryan,’ said the armourer. ‘And I have a very nice X5 for you.’
‘Where are you?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Just turning into your street,’ said Whitehouse. ‘Where do you want it?’
‘Anywhere you can find a spot,’ said Shepherd. ‘Parking’s tight here at the best of times.’
Shepherd managed to bolt down his bacon sandwich before his door entryphone buzzed. He pressed the button to open the door downstairs. Whitehouse was with one of the men from the car pool. He introduced himself as Ian McAdam and handed Shepherd the keys to the X5 and asked him to sign a form on a clipboard. ‘All yours,’ said McAdam. ‘There’s a number in the glove compartment to call if you have any problems but she’s only got twenty thousand miles on the clock and we’ve never had any problems with her.’ He was in his twenties, with gelled hair and a small gold earring in his left ear. He nodded at Whitehouse. ‘I’ll wait down with the car – I saw a traffic warden down the road.’
McAdam headed down the stairs. ‘I’m running him back to Thames House,’ said Whitehouse. He was in his sixties, a former soldier who had been wounded in the Falklands War and who had gone on to serve as one of MI5’s armourers for almost twenty years. He had thinning grey hair and a shabby brown suit. Shepherd realised that he wasn’t wearing his trademark thick-lensed glasses. ‘You lost the spectacles, Mark?’