Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller (17 page)

‘I’ve taken a week’s leave,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’m happy to help.’ He grinned. ‘It’s just like the good old days.’

‘Except that we’ve got no jurisdiction here. This is totally off the books.’

‘We’re putting bad guys away, that’s what counts,’ said Sharpe. ‘Now, are you up for a drink?’

O
’Brien and Walsh and the two IRA thugs they had brought with them as security arrived just as the sun was going down. Harper watched from the balcony of his suite at the Hotel de Paris as they arrived in a grey Audi saloon. He acknowledged the call from reception to say that his guests had arrived, but left them cooling their heels in the lobby for another ten minutes before he went down to meet them. The desk clerk, doorman, concierge and valet parking attendant all greeted Harper with a chorus of ‘Good evening, Herr Müller,’ as he strolled through the lobby and shook hands with the Irishmen and Walsh.

Declan O’Brien, red-faced, with sandy, thinning hair and jowls overlapping his shirt collar, was sweating profusely in a cheap suit that looked to be at least ten years old and two sizes too small for him. His gaze was shrewd and calculating, but he had the look of a heavy drinker and the undigested alcohol on his breath as he greeted Harper confirmed it. The money man, Michael Walsh, was dressed in a sharp suit with a Brooks Brothers shirt and gleaming loafers. His handshake felt boneless and he looked as round and plump as a Pillsbury Doughboy as he stared around him, taking in the lavish decor. The goons with them were two of the IRA thugs whose photos Button had shown him. Harper noted that both were heavyset, with the stern, suspicious expressions that nearly all amateur bodyguards adopted.

He led them to seats in the far corner of the lobby, settled himself in a chair facing out over the room and ordered vintage champagne from a hovering waiter. When the waiter returned Harper tipped him with a
€
50 note and told him, ‘Make sure we’re not disturbed again.’

‘Just before we start,’ O’Brien said, ‘I’ll have to insist on a little precaution, I’m afraid. One of my men here is going to need to check you for hidden microphones. Nothing personal,’ he said hastily as he saw the look in Harper’s eye. ‘But as you’ll appreciate yourself, you can’t be too careful in this line of business.’

‘You’re not patting me down in public,’ said Harper.

‘It’s not about not trusting you,’ said O’Brien.

‘Of course it is,’ said Harper. ‘And that goes both ways. I’ve already looked into both your backgrounds and, rest assured, if I’d found anything to cause me concern, this meeting would not have taken place and you gentlemen would have met with a very unfortunate accident on your way here from the airport. But okay, yes you can pat me down if I can do the same to you. But not here. Let’s just go to the Gents, yeah? At the risk of looking like a couple of queers going for a quick one. Your security can stay put.’

Harper headed for the men’s room with O’Brien and Walsh in tow. The facilities were as opulent as the lobby, with gilded mirrors and elaborate fittings. Harper opened his jacket and undid his shirt and allowed O’Brien to pat him down. Then the two men did the same and Harper frisked them. ‘You realise this is a waste of time,’ said Harper.

O’Brien frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Transmitters these days are the size of a pin. And mobiles can be used to record and transmit even when they’re switched off. For all I know you could have a fake tooth capable of recording everything it hears within ten feet. It’s all James Bond these days. So patting each other down doesn’t really prove a thing.’ He shrugged. ‘Just so you know.’

‘Let’s just say I feel a bit safer,’ said O’Brien.

‘Then we’re all good,’ said Harper, patting him on the back.

They went back to their table and sat down. Harper noticed that one of the bodyguards had gone. He was probably checking Müller’s room.

‘You have no security, Mr Müller?’ O’Brien asked, looking around.

Harper smiled. ‘The fact that you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.’

‘And you speak very good English,’ Walsh added, ‘almost perfect to my admittedly American ear.’ His tone was even and his smile bland, but there was no mistaking the veiled query and implicit threat behind his words: are you really who you claim to be?

Harper gave a self-deprecating smile. ‘Most Germans do. And I went to an international school in Switzerland and university in the UK.’ His expression remained unchanged, but his gaze locked with the American’s. ‘Now, if there are no further questions you need resolving?’ He paused and took a sip of his champagne. ‘So, gentlemen, to business: what exactly is it that I can do for you?’

Walsh shot a nervous glance around them as O’Brien leaned forward. ‘Your man told my daughter you were able to supply all kinds of equipment. We’re looking for big stuff.’

Harper nodded. ‘I can supply you with almost anything, for a price. The question is, how big is big? Since the Soviet Union fell apart there is some very big stuff around. I could probably get you a submarine if you wanted one. Mortars or ground-to-ground missiles, easy as pie.’

‘Missiles would be good,’ said O’Brien, nodding.

‘Are you familiar with the Katyusha rockets? They’re ex-Soviet weapons, originally introduced during the Second World War but regularly upgraded since then. The Soviets fired them from a multiple launcher holding up to forty rockets. It was nicknamed “Stalin’s organ” – not because they resembled his genitals but because a bank of them looked like organ pipes – but they can be fired from any sloping track, even a length of guttering would do. Hezbollah fired off hundreds during the 2006 war in Lebanon and they’re still used in Palestine by Hamas and Islamic Jihad militants firing rockets into Israel. A salvo of them will obliterate everything within a square kilometre, but even a single rocket can cause carnage. The howling sound they make in flight also increases the terror they generate. They’re not one hundred per cent accurate, but used against concentrated enemy forces …’ He paused and cocked an eye at them. ‘… or densely populated urban areas, they can be devastating. And the lack of precise accuracy might even increase their potential as terror weapons, if that’s what you’re looking for.’

O’Brien’s expression did not change an iota, though Harper was sure he was offering him something beyond his wildest dreams. ‘And the price?’

Harper was equally impassive. ‘One point five million dollars each.’

He saw O’Brien exchange glances with his backer, and the faint nod from the American.

‘I work on phased payments,’ Harper said, ‘fifty per cent in advance, fifty per cent on delivery to any destination in mainland Europe, packaged and crated as pipework, machine tools, refrigeration equipment, or whatever you prefer. Shipping to Britain or Ireland, or wherever you want after that, will be your responsibility.’

‘Half in advance?’ Walsh said. ‘I’m not handing over that kind of money up front, without anything to show for it. How do we know we can trust you?’

‘You don’t. But more importantly from my point of view, I don’t know if I can trust you. You came to me, remember? So here’s what I suggest we do. First, we’ll do a small deal, and establish whether we can trust each other. I will supply you with some small arms – Kalashnikovs, ammunition, maybe even grenades or plastic explosive – but no heavy weapons at this stage.’ He held up a hand as O’Brien started to protest. ‘It’ll be in the nature of a test. You’ll get some weapons you can use and if everything goes smoothly and both sides are happy, then we can talk about a shipment of more serious and specialised equipment. You tell me your requirements and I’ll give you a price within a couple of hours at most and deliver the goods within a week.’

The two men held a whispered consultation and then O’Brien gave a reluctant nod. ‘All right then, I’ll give you a list.’ He reached into his pocket for a pen, but Harper stopped him at once. ‘I don’t ever want anything in writing. Just tell me what you want.’

There was another whispered consultation between the two men then O’Brien nodded. ‘We want ten AK-47s, five thousand rounds of ammunition, twenty grenades, detonators, det-cord and fifty kilos of Semtex.’

Harper shrugged. ‘The plastic explosive might be Semtex but we also source it from Russia, France, Greece and Poland, and sometimes American C-4 or British PE-4 comes my way, would that be okay?’

‘The origin doesn’t matter,’ O’Brien growled. ‘Just so long as it does the feckin’ job when it detonates.’

‘Give me a few minutes,’ Harper said, rising to his feet, ‘and I’ll have a price for you for the other stuff.’

Harper went out on to the terrace and took out his phone. He paced up and down as he faked a phone call for several minutes, then walked back into the lobby and sat down, facing the men. ‘The supplies are no problem, the price is two hundred thousand dollars.’

O’Brien raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s a lot more than we were expecting to pay.’

‘The weapons are guaranteed untraceable and they are genuine military supplies, not poor quality copies and knock-offs. You can get AK-47s cheaper elsewhere – you can pick them up in the bazaars of Peshawar for a few dollars, I believe – but to get them to Europe would cost multiples of that in bribes and be done at considerable risk to yourselves. Grenades are less readily available and plastic explosive is really hard to get. The days when you could buy a few kilos from some disgruntled Czech or Russian soldier trying to top up his pay are long gone. So there’s a scarcity value as well as the risk factor.’

He paused, trying to read their body language. ‘Anyway, the price isn’t negotiable,’ he said. ‘Like I said, you came to me. I don’t have to go around drumming up business. Take it or leave it.’

He sat and watched the people filing through the lobby while the two men held yet another whispered consultation and finally O’Brien said, ‘All right.’

Harper reached into his pocket and handed him a BlackBerry. ‘This is encrypted. It cost me two grand so treat it with respect. There is one number programmed on this phone. You will communicate with me only on that number, using only this phone, and you will not give the number to any other person in your organisation, no matter who they are. Nor do you ever speak to anyone else using this phone. And I will speak to one person and one person only. So …’ He looked from O’Brien to Walsh. ‘You two had better decide who’s in charge.’

‘I’m in charge,’ O’Brien said.

‘And any breach of any aspect of this,’ Harper said, ‘and not only is the deal off but I’ll come looking for you.’

O’Brien’s expression showed his anger. ‘You think you can threaten me?’

Harper shrugged. ‘I’m sure you’re quite a big shot in your organisation. But this is my domain; my game, my rules, as I believe you British like to say.’

‘We’re not feckin’ British,’ O’Brien hissed.

Walsh hastily intervened. ‘We appreciate your precautions and we realise that you are protecting our security as well as yours.’

‘Fine, at least we’re on the same page,’ Harper replied. ‘Now enough of business, I’m sure you’ll want to freshen up after your journey. I’ve booked suites for you here and I’ve reserved a table for dinner in the restaurant here, it’s Michelin starred and the chef is one of the best in France. And afterwards, I’d like you to be my guests at Monte Carlo’s famous casino.’ He gave his best smile. ‘Who knows, you might win enough to pay for your shipment.’

S
harpe snapped away with his long-lensed camera as a Turkish man in a long black coat came out of the door that led up to the minicab offices. The man walked a short way along the street and climbed into a Toyota and drove off.

‘They’re busy enough,’ said Sharpe.

They were sitting in their rented Mondeo a hundred yards or so from the kebab shop in Leeds. They had been there for an hour and had photographed a dozen different drivers. The kebab shop was open for business but it was late morning and there had been few customers. Sharpe lowered his camera and looked at the computer printout on his lap.

‘The taxi firm and the kebab shop are in the name of two brothers, Yusuf and Ahmet Yilmaz. Yusuf is older by a couple of years. Yusuf has two sons and four daughters. Ahmet isn’t married.’

‘You know Turkish family names are a relatively new invention,’ said Shepherd. ‘Started in 1934. Before then most male Turks used their dad’s name followed by
oglu
. It means son of.’

‘Aye, we had something similar in Scotland,’ said Sharpe. ‘Neither of them have criminal records, they’ve done a good job of staying below the radar. Using the taxis to deliver is a smart move. And the kebab shop and the taxi business are both cash businesses so there’s no problem getting their ill-gotten gains into the bank. I’m guessing they funnel money back to Turkey, too. They keep a relatively low profile here. They drive second-hand cars, their houses are nothing special.’

‘Smart,’ said Shepherd.

‘How much longer do you want to sit here?’ asked Sharpe. ‘All we’re getting is photographs of drivers and cars.’

‘It’s all grist to the mill,’ said Shepherd. ‘The more we give the Leeds cops, the better.’

‘I could do with a drink.’

‘Let’s give it another hour.’

An hour later, Shepherd and Sharpe were sitting in a pub about a mile away from the kebab house. Sharpe had a pint in front of him, but Shepherd was driving so had ordered a coffee. Shepherd took out a pay-as-you-go phone and tapped out the number that Flynn had given him. It was answered with a growl.

‘Yusuf?’

‘Who wants to know?’

‘I’m a friend of Aidan Flynn. He said you were the go-to guy for a decent amount of blow.’

‘I don’t know you.’

‘Nah, but I’ve got cash and I’m looking for an ounce and I need it now.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Pub called the Royal Oak. In High Street.’

‘Okay, there’ll be a minicab outside in fifteen minutes. The driver’ll send you a text when he’s there. Get in the back, hand over the cash and the driver will give you the gear.’

‘How much?’

‘Eight-fifty.’

‘How pure is that?’

‘It’s good stuff.’

‘Yeah, well if you’re selling it for eight-fifty it’s been cut to fuck. I want it as pure as you get it. An ounce before you cut it.’