Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller (23 page)

‘Then find someone who is prepared to do it for that. If you want me it’s five. And from where I stand, it doesn’t look to me as if you have too many options.’

‘You are not the only contract killer out there.’

Shepherd smiled. ‘I know that. But how many are available right now? And how many would be prepared to accept a target like Putin? And how many of those would be prepared to step into someone else’s plan?’

Smit stared at him with unblinking eyes.

‘And let’s not forget all the money you’ve paid to get to this point. If you don’t find someone to do the job, all that money will have been wasted. You’ve got three weeks to find someone. And you know you need a pro. I’m here. I’m available.’

‘But you are expensive.’

‘You get what you pay for.’ Shepherd shrugged. ‘Look, it’s your call. I’m not haggling, I’ve told you my price. If you can pay it then we can move forward. If not, then it’s been nice knowing you.’

‘Except that now you know who the target is.’

‘But that’s all I know. And trust me, I’m not the sort to go running to the cops.’

Smit’s eyes narrowed. ‘This is not how I normally do business.’

‘I guess not. But this is a bit of a special case, isn’t it?’

S
hepherd flew back to London late on Sunday evening. As he passed through immigration his mobile beeped to let him know he had received a text message. It was Button.
I’M OUTSIDE
.

She was waiting for him at the wheel of a white Audi. ‘I thought I’d debrief you and give you a lift,’ she said as he climbed in.

‘It’s on,’ he said. ‘Smit has confirmed that Putin is the target. And he already has a plan. The problem is, he won’t tell me what it is yet. He says he’ll give me the information closer to the time.’

‘But it’s definitely London?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘For sure. In three weeks, he said.’

‘Then the options are limited. Putin is flying in solely for the G8 meeting. He’ll fly in, be driven from the airport to the hotel, then spend the day at the meeting before flying out later that night.’

‘They tested me on sniping and explosives. It’s only a hunch but I wondered if they plan to use an explosion to change his route, send him down a street where I’ll be waiting with a rifle. Smit said they know the hotel Putin will be using which means they can work out possible routes.’

‘That still leaves a lot of possibilities. When will he fully brief you?’

‘He didn’t say. He said he’d pay the deposit into my account. Maybe that’ll be traceable?’

‘I seriously doubt it,’ Button said, driving out of the airport and joining the main road into London. ‘We’ll try, obviously. But I doubt the money will come from a Lucas Smit account marked “payment for Putin assassination”. We need something tangible, Spider. A recording. Proof.’

‘My word isn’t good enough?’

She laughed. ‘You know as well as I do that we don’t want you in court. Especially not a court in Holland.’ She tapped the steering wheel as she drove. ‘Let’s see what he does next,’ she said.

‘He won’t say anything over the phone, Charlie. He’s as paranoid as hell. Wouldn’t travel in the same car as me and the only time he’d say anything was in this secure room in his house.’

‘I’ll talk to Amar to see if he has any bright ideas.’ She flashed him a sly look that he pretended not to notice. ‘How did you get on with Faith?’

‘She was good. Very professional.’

‘Pretty girl.’

He looked across at her. ‘I’m assuming that’s why you used her.’

‘It was,’ she said. ‘Most definitely.’

O
’Brien and Walsh arrived in Paris expecting to be met by Harper. Instead, they were greeted by a car service driver. He was one of Harper’s ex-para mates, now working on the Circuit, and picking up a very nice pay packet for five minutes’ work – holding a placard with O’Brien’s cover name on it, handing them two train tickets to Berlin and telling them to look out for another driver with a similar message there. It was almost a nine-hour train journey and on arrival in Berlin, the man waiting for them handed them a new pay-as-you-go mobile phone with one pre-programmed number, and two more rail tickets on a local stopping train to the grimy East German town where Harper was waiting. Tired, hungry and frustrated, O’Brien looked ready to explode with rage, but the bearer of the message merely shrugged and then vanished into the crowds. The two men made their bad-tempered way to the platform for their train, and as they were about to discover, it was a journey that took two more hours, in an outside temperature that was well below freezing. They didn’t see the two Billys behind them, making sure that they weren’t being followed or accompanied by heavies.

As soon as O’Brien boarded the local train, he phoned the pre-programmed number and launched into a foul-mouthed tirade at Harper.

Harper didn’t apologise. ‘It’s a necessary security precaution so don’t get your knickers in a twist. Your security is normally your own concern but I need to reassure myself that I’m not jeopardising my own security by doing business with you. Okay?’

‘I hate feckin’ trains,’ said O’Brien. ‘If you’d wanted me in Berlin I could have just flown to Berlin.’

‘My men have been making sure that you are not being followed. If you were, we would not be having this conversation. I’m now happy to go ahead with our business and once you reach your destination, I assure you that you will find that your little bit of discomfort has been worthwhile. But if you’re that unhappy you can just fuck off back to Ireland.’

He broke the connection before O’Brien could reply.

Two minutes later and O’Brien called back. ‘Okay, okay, we’ll be there,’ he said.

‘I’m here, ready and waiting,’ said Harper.

While awaiting their arrival, Harper gave the heavies their final briefing, with Zelda translating for him. ‘All I need you to do,’ he said, ‘is stand outside the steel doors and look menacing. Don’t speak even if spoken to, and don’t let anyone near the building unless I give the okay.’

Paying cash, he had booked the two men a twin room at the best hotel in town – though that wasn’t saying much. Hansfree had already installed listening devices in it so they could monitor the New IRA men’s conversation. Harper’s last preparation before they arrived was to slip the Makarov into his shoulder holster, under his jacket. He wasn’t expecting trouble but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be prepared for it.

By the time the two men drew up in the taxi that Harper had sent to collect them from the station, they had been travelling for over sixteen hours and O’Brien in particular was in an even filthier mood that was only partly eased by the large glass of schnapps that Harper thrust into his hand. Walsh looked grey with cold as he clutched the briefcase he was holding protectively to his chest. A steel chain connected the handle to his wrist. Night had long since fallen, plunging the temperature even lower and Harper could see the American trying to suppress his shivers.

‘We’re very hungry,’ Walsh said. ‘We’ve been travelling for ever.’

Harper nodded, putting on a sympathetic expression. ‘We’ll have some food shortly, but let’s take care of our business first.’

Instead of leading them down the stairs at the back of the office, he steered them back out of the front door and made them walk up the narrow, cobbled street at the side, into the teeth of the wind-driven snow flurries that stung their skin like handfuls of grit. Thick icicles hung from the gutters above them and their footsteps rang like iron on the frozen ground. Harper hid a smile as he heard Walsh slipping and sliding on the ice in his expensive, leather-soled shoes and finally taking a crashing fall. He picked himself up, cursing, and dabbed at blood seeping from a graze on his hand with his handkerchief. The two hulking bodyguards loitering by the steel doors, stamping their feet against the cold, stood to attention as Harper and the two men approached, but as instructed, they remained silent and made no move to help Walsh as he struggled the last few yards.

The two Germans stepped aside only enough to let them through in single file, once more blocking the view of the inside of the storeroom from anyone passing by, though only the most desperate need would have brought anyone out on to the streets on such a freezing night. The bodyguards swung the steel doors shut behind them as Harper led the others into the weapons store but the temperature was barely any warmer inside.

Harper gestured towards the crates at one side of the room. ‘Those are yours,’ he said.

O’Brien was about to pick up one of the AK-47s when Harper grabbed his arm. ‘I thought you said you were professionals,’ he said. ‘If that ever falls into the wrong hands, one fingerprint will be enough to earn you twenty years in jail.’ He held the box of disposable gloves out to him. ‘Wear a pair of these.’

O’Brien glared at him, but did as he was told. He checked several of the weapons and nodded with approval.

Walsh had also pulled on a pair of disposable gloves and while O’Brien showed off his skills with an AK-47 by stripping it down and then reassembling it, Walsh checked the contents of the crates, counting the rifles, grenades and slabs of plastic explosive.

‘I hope you’re not going to want to count the ammunition as well,’ Harper said, ‘or we’ll be here all night. Trust me, it’s all there. I’m hardly likely to be trying to cheat you on this when we have a much bigger deal in the offing.’

O’Brien was just finishing reassembling the AK-47, but as he snapped the breech shut, his expression changed as he realised he had caught the forefinger of his disposable glove in the breech. As he tried to jerk it free, there was a tearing sound and the glove ripped.

‘If that finger has touched the breech,’ Harper said, ‘you’d better get polishing because if the shipment gets intercepted, even a partial print could be enough to get you banged up.’

O’Brien pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began rubbing frantically at the breech and barrel.

‘I hope there’s no DNA on that handkerchief,’ Harper added, maliciously twisting the knife. ‘And while you’re at it, you’d better check that there isn’t a bit of the glove still trapped in the breech, because that might be carrying a partial of your forefinger too.’

Despite the cold, beads of sweat were now standing out on O’Brien’s forehead and he directed a look of pure evil at Harper, but did as he said. It took him another minute before he could work the breech open and remove the fragment of rubber glove that was indeed trapped there.

Walsh was now so cold that his teeth were chattering and he shot Harper a grateful look when he suggested completing their business somewhere warmer. He led them back to the office, sat them down and poured them both another glass of schnapps.

‘So,’ Harper said, ‘we just need you to arrange collection of the weapons and then, providing there are no hitches at that stage, phase one will be complete.’

‘The collection would have been a bit easier and a bit quicker if I hadn’t had to divert my men to Paris on what turned out to be a wild feckin’ goose chase,’ O’Brien said, glaring at him. ‘I’ve already sent them to Berlin but to get them here’s going to take at least another two hours.’

Harper shrugged. ‘I apologise for the inconvenience, but I had to reassure myself that you were as professional about your security as I am about mine. My men were observing you and carrying out counter surveillance at each stage of your journey to ensure that you were not being followed.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Rather than waiting here in the cold for them, I suggest we go to the hotel I’ve booked for you. It’s not quite up to the standard of our hotel in Monte Carlo, but at least there’s hot food and a warm fire.’

The hotel seemed to double as the local nightclub and the bar was packed with what looked to be a broad cross-section of the area’s lowlife humanity: petty criminals, thugs, gangsters, prostitutes, drug dealers, and less easily definable types. Just like a Wild West saloon, the place fell silent as Harper and the two men entered, with every head turning to stare at them, probably assessing whether they were undercover cops, rival gangsters, or tourists who had strayed into the wrong part of town: turkeys ripe for plucking. Seeing no obvious threat or opportunity, the locals resumed their conversations while Harper settled the men at a corner table, bought them some beer and more schnapps and ordered them some food. As they sat there, to O’Brien’s mounting irritation, Walsh kept his chained briefcase on his lap and was constantly glancing around.

‘For feck’s sake,’ O’Brien said. ‘Will you stop feckin’ fidgeting? You couldn’t be more conspicuous if you’d walked in stark bollock naked.’

When the food arrived – steaming bowls of soup with black bread – O’Brien sniffed at it apprehensively.

‘It’s Kohlsuppe – cabbage soup,’ Harper said. ‘It’s a German speciality and tastes better than it sounds.’

They sat mostly in silence, eating, drinking and watching the lowlifes. They had been there almost three hours when O’Brien’s mobile rang. ‘They’re at the station,’ he said, handing Harper the phone.

Harper gave them directions, then drained his drink and stood up. ‘Let’s go.’

By the time they got back to the weapons store, a white van was already parked outside. Zelda’s thugs still stood, impassive, by the steel doors.

‘Jesus,’ Walsh said, pulling his coat tighter around him. ‘Do Germans never feel the cold?’

At a nod from Harper, the thugs swung the steel doors open as the van backed up to them. As he walked inside with O’Brien and Walsh, Harper eased his jacket open a fraction, feeling the reassuring weight of the Makarov under his arm. He stood to one side, assessing the two solidly built Irishmen who had emerged from the van. Harper’s experienced eye noted that one of them had a pistol tucked into his waistband under his windcheater and Harper kept a wary eye on him, but the Irishmen only seemed focused on the weapon crates. As they began to screw down the lids, Harper held up his hand. ‘Just one more formality, before we go any further. I take it you’re happy with the shipment? In which case, the balance of the price – a hundred thousand euros – is now due.’

Walsh glanced at O’Brien for approval, then unlocked his briefcase and took out a bulky manila envelope. Harper opened it, riffled through the thick stack of five-hundred euro banknotes it contained and then slipped it into his jacket pocket. It took no more than five minutes to load the crates and the drivers then set off at once on their journey to whatever port they had chosen. O’Brien and Walsh did not expose themselves to unnecessary risks by going with them.