Black Ops: The 12th Spider Shepherd Thriller (27 page)

‘An ex-Soviet airbase,’ Harper said, pausing in the entrance. ‘We won’t be disturbed here.’

Zelda led the way into the building and as soon as they were inside, two of her ex-Stasi henchmen slid the heavy steel doors shut again. The clang as they met made Walsh jump. A generator stood at the far end, its engine running, powering the lights that illuminated what the men had come to see. Covered by an old camouflaged tarpaulin, the Katyusha rocket was spaced across three folding tables that had been erected in the middle of the empty shelter. Behind the table, dressed in an immaculate white lab coat, and presiding over his apparatus like a stage magician preparing for a show, stood a stoop-shouldered, wispy-haired, middle-aged man, who Harper assumed was the weapons technician.

The atmosphere inside the shelter could scarcely have been more tense. Harper was confident that his surveillance team would give him ample warning on his phone if any danger threatened, but Walsh and O’Brien, shut off from sight and sound of the outside world, sealed in the tomb-like concrete bunker, looked increasingly nervous. Walsh directed baleful looks at Harper and at the two ex-Stasi men at the doors, who returned the glares with interest, hitching up the supposedly concealed weapons they had stuffed in their waistbands.

‘Let’s all relax, shall we?’ Harper said. ‘We’re here to do business. Zelda? Can we get the show on the road?’

She nodded to the technician who, after a theatrical pause, dramatically flung back the tarpaulin cover that had been concealing the weapon. The malevolent-looking cylindrical rocket, still with its Soviet markings in Cyrillic script, was about fifteen feet long, with four large and four smaller fins interrupting the sleek lines of its gunmetal-grey casing, which culminated in a needle-sharp point. At the back of the rocket was the booster, shaped like a large calor gas cylinder with a broad conical exhaust jutting from it. There were two other items on the tables: a large heavy-duty vehicle battery and a box with switches and illuminated dials, and wires connecting it to the rocket.

The technician waited while O’Brien and Walsh walked right around the rocket examining it minutely. Walsh steeled himself to touch it gingerly with his fingertips, as if frightened that a mere touch would be enough to detonate it. As they stepped back, Zelda gave another nod and the technician connected the control box to the battery. As soon as he did so, the lights on the control panel began to blink and flash, and the rocket started to make a bleeping sound. It increased rapidly in volume, going from the bleep to a high-pitched whine that set Harper’s teeth on edge. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he said, pressing his fingers into his ears. ‘Every dog for twenty miles must be howling by now.’ The noise still kept increasing, finally peaking in an ear-piercing, teeth-rattling, banshee wail. Inside the bunker, with the sound reverberating from the closed steel blast doors and the concrete walls and roof that were several feet thick, the noise was almost unbearable.

Yelling to make himself heard above the din, the technician told them in heavily accented English that the rocket had already gone through its various self-analysis systems and was now ready to fire. He gestured towards the control box. ‘If I was now to press this red firing button,’ he said, moving his finger towards it, ‘the propellant in the body of the rocket would ignite and after flying for thirty metres the warhead would become live. In fact, if I were to press this button now we would all be dead before we could blink.’

Nervous even before the demonstration had begun, deranged by the appalling noise and terrified by the thought that the rocket might explode, Walsh was now close to total meltdown. He began screaming at the technician to turn it off, then sprinted for the steel doors and began scrabbling at the locks with his hands, trying desperately to get out of the shelter. The ex-Stasi men looked to Zelda for guidance and then took his arms and pinned them to his sides to stop him opening the doors, which only increased his panic and frenzy, and it was all they could do to hold on to him. Even O’Brien was white-faced, with sweat breaking out on his brow.

Harper had heard and seen enough and shouted to the technician to shut the rocket down. The technician hesitated, first looking towards Zelda for her approval. With a faint smile on her face, apparently impervious to the dreadful howling noise of the rocket, she was watching Walsh, who was still trying to wrestle free of the ex-Stasi men and drag the steel doors open, and did not at first see the technician’s mute appeal for her assent.

Harper shouted at him again. ‘Shut it down now!’

The technician flicked a couple of switches on the control box, shutting down the power. The bowel-loosening howling noise wound its way back down through the octaves and finally ceased altogether. The sudden silence was almost as shocking as the terrifying noise that had preceded it.

Walsh regained his composure and shook off the two men holding his arms.

‘So, you can see that it works,’ said Harper. ‘Time for you to pay the piper and we’ll talk about delivery.’

O’Brien shook his head. ‘All we’ve seen and heard so far is something that looks like a rocket and makes a loud whining noise,’ he said. ‘We need to see the thing fired. We have to know that they function. I’ll look a right prick if I ship them over to Ireland and we find out they don’t work.’

Harper thought fast. ‘We’re not test firing pistols here. These are very valuable and expensive items of equipment and I’m not in the habit of firing one just for the entertainment of my clients. Besides, even out here it’s likely to attract attention. These are not pop-guns. When a Katyusha rocket detonates, the explosion can be heard several miles away and it will bring police and army buzzing around us thicker than flies on a corpse.’

‘It’s a deal-breaker,’ said O’Brien. He looked over at Walsh and Walsh nodded in agreement.

Harper took Zelda to one side. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘You’re right, we can’t do a live firing here,’ she said. ‘But there may be a solution. The Bundeswehr – the German army – inherited a very large number of Katyushas left over from when the NVA – the old East German regime’s Nationale Volksarmee – was disbanded. As I’m sure you know, all weapons have a certain shelf life and, as with all other military equipment, they have to stage regular test firings to reassure themselves about the weapons’ continued viability. I’m sure it will be possible for us to view one of these firings. Let me see when the next one is.’

‘You can get us in?’

‘I’ve got good army contacts.’ She nodded at the two men. ‘Think that’ll be good enough for them?’

‘It’ll have to be,’ he said. He went over to O’Brien and Walsh. ‘I can get you into a test firing. But it’ll take time. And money.’

‘We’ll wait,’ said O’Brien.

‘Here? Or in Dublin?’

Walsh and O’Brien looked at each other. ‘We can stay tonight, but if it looks as if it’s going to be more than a few days we’ll head back to Dublin,’ said Walsh.

‘How much is this going to cost?’ asked O’Brien.

‘Let me find out what we can arrange, then we’ll discuss the cost,’ answered Harper.

O’Brien nodded at him. ‘Call us when you have a date. But we don’t pay anything until we’ve seen one go bang.’

‘Deal,’ said Harper. He told the two Billys to run them back to their hotel.

‘What do you think?’ Zelda asked as they watched the SUV drive away. ‘Will they come back?’

‘For sure,’ said Harper. ‘They want what we’ve got.’

‘And you’re going to let them take the Katyushas to Ireland? You know the damage they can do, Lex?’

‘They won’t get anywhere near Ireland, trust me. They’ll be stopped at the docks in Germany. Maximum publicity, maximum embarrassment, but we’ll have our money so all’s good.’

‘We could have just taken the money off them today.’

‘Fifty grand? That’s nothing. There’s more to come, Zelda. And this isn’t just about the money. There’s more going on here.’

‘I don’t suppose you’d tell me,’ she said, and laughed.

‘I could tell you,’ said Harper. ‘But then I’d have to kill you.’

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. ‘When some people say that, they’re joking.’

Harper grinned and pinched her arm gently. ‘So am I,’ he said.

She shook her head. ‘I’m not so sure,’ she said. ‘So I’d rather not know.’

He laughed out loud and hugged her. Then he took out the 50,000 euros and gave them to her. ‘Here, have this on account.’

‘You’re a sweetheart, Lex,’ she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

S
hepherd had arranged to meet Jimmy Sharpe in the Prince Albert pub, on Albert Bridge Road, a ten-minute walk from his flat. Sharpe was perched on a stool by the bar and Shepherd joined him. Sharpe was already halfway through a pint of lager and Shepherd slipped on to the adjoining stool and ordered a Jameson with ice and soda from a barman.

‘Thanks for coming,’ said Shepherd, clapping Sharpe on the back.

‘No problem,’ said Sharpe. ‘I’ve not much on at the moment anyway. Mainly admin. So is this about the Liam thing?’

‘No. I’ve had to put that on hold, but if all goes to plan I’ll be in to see the Leeds cops on Monday. This is something else.’

‘I’m all ears.’

Shepherd’s drink arrived and he took a sip before quickly filling in Sharpe about his meeting with Willoughby-Brown. Sharpe listened in silence, but by the time Shepherd had finished his brow was furrowed and he was staring at him in amazement.

‘Bloody hell, that’s a turn-up for the books,’ said Sharpe once Shepherd had finished. ‘But I have to say, I’ve never trusted the fragrant Ms Button.’ He drained his glass and waved at the barman for a replacement.

‘She’s been a good boss,’ said Shepherd. ‘Always had my back.’

‘Because you’ve always done exactly what she wanted. Plus she needs you.’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘You never really liked her though, to be fair.’

‘Because I never fell for her charms.’

‘But I did, is that what you mean?’

‘You did tend to be a lovesick puppy around her,’ said Sharpe. He held up his hands when he saw the angry look flash across Shepherd’s face. ‘Don’t take offence, I just meant you were always closer to her than I was.’

‘She’s been a good boss, Razor, and now I’m supposed to betray her.’

‘From what you’ve said, all they want you to do is contact Harper and get him to come clean.’

‘It sounds simple enough, I know. But she’s my boss. And a friend.’

‘So tell her what’s going on.’

‘I can’t say anything to her, Willoughby-Brown has made sure of that. The DG is watching over my shoulder, if I try anything like that they’ll hang me out to dry.’

‘You could just tell Willoughby-Brown to go fuck himself.’

‘And then what?’

‘The Met will always have you back at the drop of the proverbial hat. And the National Crime Agency would snap you up.’ The barman put Sharpe’s pint down in front of him and Sharpe nodded his thanks.

‘If it was just Willoughby-Brown then maybe,’ said Shepherd. ‘But this is official now. The problem is that if I refuse to help them then they can get me for obstruction of justice or even conspiracy. Hell’s bells, it could even be considered treason. And if I try to warn Charlie then at the very least it’ll be a breach of the Official Secrets Act. That would mean prison, and after that no one would touch me with a bargepole.’ He grimaced. ‘I’m between a rock and a hard place.’

Sharpe grunted and sipped his pint.

‘That bastard Willoughby-Brown has had it in for me for years. And that’s despite the fact that I helped haul his nuts out of the fire last year.’

Sharpe raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

‘One of his assets got caught on the Pakistan–Afghanistan border and I went into rescue him,’ said Shepherd. ‘Almost bought it myself, and this is the way he shows his gratitude. It stinks, Razor.’

‘Yeah, well you know as well as I do that these days it’s every man for himself. It’s the same in the cops.’ He took another pull on his pint, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. ‘What do you want from me?’

‘I just wanted to tell someone, that’s all. But even telling you is a breach of the Official Secrets Act. I don’t know, Razor. It’s burning me up inside and I just wanted to share.’

‘I don’t have to hug you, do I?’

Shepherd chuckled. ‘No, that’d be above and beyond.’

‘Because I will, if it’ll help.’

‘You’re an idiot. But thanks.’ Shepherd leaned over and clinked his glass against Sharpe’s. ‘I’m going to have to work this out myself.’

‘What’s your plan?’

Shepherd sighed. ‘Willoughby-Brown wants me to go over and talk to Harper in Berlin. I have to go. And I’ll have to talk to him. But other than that …’ He shrugged. ‘I just hate going behind Charlie’s back.’

‘Like you said, you don’t have a choice.’

‘Yeah, but that doesn’t make me feel any better about it.’

‘If it wasn’t you, it would be someone else.’

‘I bloody well wish Willoughby-Brown had gone to someone else.’

‘He picked you because you’re close to her, I suppose.’

‘To be honest, it’s because Harper’s a friend. Lex isn’t the sort of guy who takes kindly to strangers. I’m assuming Willoughby-Brown knows that.’

‘What’s Harper’s story?’

‘He was a spotter with me in Afghanistan. He was a youngster then, with the paras. He could have joined the regiment, no question, but he chose the dark path.’

‘The what?’

‘He took to crime, like a duck to water. Armed robbery at first and then he moved on to trafficking. Marijuana, mainly.’

‘And this guy’s a mate?’

‘We go back a long way. It’s not as if we hang out, I see him once in a blue moon. But other than the fact he’s a career criminal, he’s a good guy. So yeah, he’s a mate. Doubt he’d offer me a hug, though.’

‘And do you think he’ll turn on Charlie?’

‘I don’t know. Like me, he’ll be between a rock and a hard place. And they really could put him away for a long time, if they wanted. Lex is careful, but if they put the full resources of MI5 on him, he wouldn’t last long.’

‘In a way that’d be the best thing all round,’ said Sharpe. ‘If he gives evidence against her, you’ll be well out of it.’