Live Fire (32 page)

Both men shook their heads.

Kleintank’s grin widened. ‘Enjoy your freedom,’ he said. ‘Trust me, it goes out of the window when you put a ring on their finger.’

The Mercedes pulled up in front of a weathered stone building with a tiled roof. The upper floors were pockmarked with bullet holes but the tiled roof had been patchily repaired. A man in a sheepskin jerkin pulled open a big wooden door and the car drove inside. The warehouse was piled high with wooden and metal boxes, and a yellow fork-lift truck was parked at the far end of the building. Kleintank got out, Bradshaw and Kundi following him. Three men in leather jackets were sitting at a table playing cards. There were handguns in front of them, and stacks of new banknotes. They stared impassively at Bradshaw and Kundi, then returned to their game.

‘Over here,’ said Kleintank, from beside a stack of wooden boxes. Some had Chinese characters stencilled on the side, others cyrillic lettering. One of the boxes was already open, revealing half a dozen gleaming Kalashnikov assault rifles.

Kleintank pulled back the lids of two boxes standing side by side on the concrete floor. Nestling in straw were two missile-launcher units and two missiles. ‘The Holy Grail,’ said Kleintank. ‘The SA-7, built under licence in Slovakia.’

‘SA-7b, to be precise,’ said Kundi.

‘You know your missile-launchers,’ said Kleintank. ‘You said you wanted two. I can sell you the pair for sixty thousand euros.’

‘They are blue,’ said Kundi.

‘Blue, red, green, the colour doesn’t matter. What matters is that they go bang when you pull the trigger and, believe me, these will go bang.’

Bradshaw put a hand on Kundi’s shoulder. ‘What’s wrong, brother?’ he said.

‘They’re practice weapons,’ said Kundi. ‘That’s what they do in the West – they paint their practice weapons blue.’

Bradshaw’s jaw tightened. ‘What’s going on, Alex? Are these the real thing or not?’

Kleintank held up his hands. ‘They’re not fakes,’ he said. ‘They’re the real McCoy. Those are live one-point-eight-kilogram high-explosive fragmentation warheads with impact fuses.’

‘They’re practice weapons,’ Kundi repeated. ‘I fired one in Pakistan. They are not guided – there is no infrared guidance unit.’

‘But they can be fired,’ insisted Kleintank. ‘They will bring down a bridge or a building.’

‘We’re not interested in shooting at bridges or buildings,’ said Bradshaw.

‘I had two Stingers, but I had a cash buyer,’ said Kleintank. He nodded at the weapons. ‘I could sell them to you for fifty thousand euros the pair. That’s a good price.’

‘They’re not what we want,’ Kundi said.

‘I need to talk to my friend,’ said Bradshaw. He walked with Kundi to the far end of the warehouse.

‘He’s trying to cheat us,’ said Kundi. ‘He knows exactly what he’s selling us.’

‘But they will fire, right?’

Kundi nodded. ‘They will fire. But they are used for training purposes. He is right, you can point one at a building and you’ll hit it, but they’re useless against a moving target. Two were fired at an Israeli passenger jet taking off from Mombasa in 2002 but both missed. The Kenyans found the abandoned launch units near the airport and they were both blue.’

Bradshaw rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

‘What are you thinking?’ asked Kundi.

‘That a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,’ said Bradshaw. They went back to the Dutchman.

Kleintank was talking on his mobile phone but snapped it shut as the two men walked up. ‘So, do we have a deal?’ he asked.

‘They’re not what we want,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Do you know anyone else who might have one with a guidance system? Either a Grail or a Stinger?’

‘You want me to put you in touch with my competition?’ said Kleintank.

‘I just want a missile with a guidance system,’ said Bradshaw, ‘but if you point me in the right direction, I’ll take one of them off your hands.’

‘One is thirty thousand euros,’ said Kleintank.

‘You said fifty thousand for two.’

‘But you don’t want two,’ said Kleintank. ‘If you only take one I have to find another buyer. That takes time, and with every buyer I meet, there are risks.’ He patted one of the wooden crates. ‘These are in demand, but the Americans don’t want them being sold, which means there’s a lot of undercover agents trying to take them off the market. If I show these to the wrong people, I could end up in the Ukraine with a cattle prod up my arse.’

‘I’m not sure how much demand there is for practice weapons,’ said Bradshaw. ‘I only need one like this. I will pay you thirty thousand euros, in cash, if you put me in touch with someone who can sell me one with a guidance system.’

‘You have the money with you?’ asked Kleintank.

‘It’s close by,’ said Bradshaw.

Kleintank wrinkled his nose as if he was considering the offer, but Bradshaw knew he had already made up his mind.

Kleintank nodded. ‘Let me talk to my friend,’ he said. He walked away from them, tapping a number into his mobile phone. As he talked he paced around the card table, occasionally looking at Bradshaw and Kundi. After a few minutes he came back, his phone still in his hand. ‘I have a friend in Nice who can help you,’ he said.

‘Friend or competitor?’ asked Bradshaw.

Kleintank smiled. ‘We’re in the same business – sometimes we compete, sometimes we help each other. Marcel and I were in the Legion together, so I trust him with my life. He does a lot of business with South American nations.’

‘And he has a Grail with a guidance system?’

‘He has a Stinger. Fully operational. Sixty thousand euros.’

‘Tell him we’ll take it,’ Bradshaw said, ‘subject to it being as described.’ He gestured at the practice Grail missiles. ‘Is there any easy way of getting one to Nice so that I can combine the shipments?’

Kleintank grinned. ‘Everything is easy if you have the money,’ he said.

Shepherd was in Tony’s Gym at ten o’clock. He ran on a treadmill for forty-five minutes, then spent half an hour lifting weights, working on tone and fitness rather than building bulk. There was no sign of the Moore brothers or any of their crew. After he’d showered, he left his Jeep in the gym’s car park and took a motorcycle taxi to the beach road where he bought two cappuccinos from Starbucks and walked to Sharpe’s hotel.

Sharpe was wearing nothing but boxer shorts and looked as if he’d had even less sleep than Shepherd. He took the coffee and sat on his bed, running a hand through his unkempt hair.

‘Hangover?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I think there’s something in the beer here,’ said Sharpe.

‘Yeah, it’s called alcohol.’ Shepherd sat down on the chair by the window. ‘Things are moving,’ he said. ‘They’re setting up a big score and it’s going to be soon.’

‘Can’t be soon enough for me,’ said Sharpe. ‘Every time I go outside someone offers me cheap sex or throws a bucket of water over me. It’s too bloody hot and my stomach’s playing up.’ He looked over at Shepherd. ‘Have you noticed that no one chucks water over the cops? The Thais don’t and neither do the Westerners. You see anyone dealing with the cops here, it’s “Yes, sir, no, sir, three bags full, sir,” from the Thais and the Westerners. I saw a big Brit guy on a scooter pulled in for not wearing a helmet and he was as meek as milk. Promised not to do it again, said he was sorry, handed over a couple of hundred baht. Even did that thing they do, putting his hands together like he was praying.’

‘It’s called a
wai
.’

‘Yeah, well, he did that too. There was no cheek, no answering back, no bad language. I’m sure if the same guy had been pulled in back in the UK, he’d have been giving the cop all sorts of abuse. And you know why that is?’

‘I guess a combination of their tight brown uniforms and the big guns on their hips.’

‘Because here they’re scared of the cops, that’s why.’

‘I was right, then.’ Shepherd swung his feet up onto Sharpe’s bed.

‘It’s not the guns,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s respect for the uniform. We’ve lost that back in England. No one respects the police any more. Here, it’s the way it used to be in England fifty years ago.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘You’re an old fart, razor, but you’re not old enough to remember when the police commanded respect.’

‘I’m third-generation police, you know. My dad and his father before him were cops in Glasgow. My granddad’s long gone but I can still remember him and my dad swapping stories. They had real stories, too, not like the cops these days where the most exciting thing they do is to fill out a crime report or appear on
Crimewatch
. Guys like the Moores, they’d have been nipped in the bud with a few clips around the ear when they were kids, and if that hadn’t worked they’d have been nicked on their first or second job. My dad and granddad knew every bad apple on their beat, their names and where they lived, what car they drove and when they were up to no good.’

‘Yeah, things have changed.’

‘You never walked a beat, Spider. I know the SAS is no picnic but you went from abseiling down buildings with a machine-gun to working under cover. You were never throwing drunks into a van on a Saturday night or trying to take a knife off a guy high on crack.’

‘I meant society’s changed,’ said Shepherd. ‘And the police have changed along with it.’

‘Damn right things have changed. Intelligence back then was in the head of the local bobby. Now it’s guys like Kenny Mansfield sitting in their offices and staring at their screens. They might understand the statistics and how to use databases but they don’t understand people. Cops like my dad and his dad, they understood people.’

‘So what’s the solution?’

Sharpe chuckled and sipped his cappuccino. ‘There is no solution, Spider. We just have to accept the way things are and deal with it. But I know one thing for a fact. Before the days of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, and before everything a cop did was subject to public scrutiny, the police did a pretty good job of maintaining law and order, even in a tough city like Glasgow.’

‘Because they could get away with breaking the rules, you mean?’

‘They broke them and they bent them, sure,’ said Sharpe, ‘but my dad and granddad both said the same thing – they never put away someone who didn’t deserve it.’

‘Now you’re starting to sound like a vigilante, Razor,’ said Sharpe.

‘My dad told me about a drug-dealer on his patch, a guy by the name of Willie Mackenzie. Mackenzie was a mid-ranking dealer but he was heading for the big-time. Heroin was his drug of choice, but he’d deal in anything. The Drugs Squad finally got Mackenzie on a GBH charge after he took a razor to one of his competitors. Blinded the guy, scarred him for life. For some reason the judge gave him bail, and over the next two months every witness told the police they’d had a memory lapse. One had his lapse in intensive care, the other forgot everything after someone poured petrol through his letterbox. Mackenzie never stood trial for the GBH.’ Sharpe took another sip of coffee. ‘A couple of months later my dad was on the team that busted a gang bringing in a consignment of heroin from the Continent. The drugs were in a warehouse near the docks. The gang had already started distributing the gear and guess what? Five kilos turned up in the boot of Mackenzie’s car. That, and a statement from one of my dad’s informants that he’d seen Mackenzie at the warehouse, was enough to have him sent down for ten years.’ He waved his paper cup at Shepherd. ‘You’re a great one for fairness, Spider. Now you tell me that what happened isn’t fair.’

‘It’s fair, but it’s not right,’ said Shepherd. ‘There’s a difference.’

‘Mackenzie got what was coming to him and the police made sure it happened.’

‘He must have known your dad set him up.’

Sharpe shrugged. ‘My dad was a hard bastard and he wasn’t scared of a piece of shit like Mackenzie. Not that it made any difference. Mackenzie died in prison, knifed by a lifer.’

‘You’re not thinking about framing the Moore brothers, are you, Razor?’ asked Shepherd, only half joking.

‘Chance’d be a fine thing,’ said Sharpe. ‘Those days are long gone. You know, the only time my dad ever got hurt in the job, he was hit by a car and spent a month in hospital. During that month more than five hundred people came to pay their respects. And the guy who did it, he handed himself into the cops after a week. You know why?’

‘I’m assuming because someone threatened to break his legs.’

Sharpe grinned. ‘And you’d assume right. There was respect back then. Respect for the uniform and respect for the man. They’ve still got it here in Thailand, but we’ve lost it in England.’

‘Maybe you should move here,’ said Shepherd.

‘It’s too hot for me, and that water-throwing thing is a bloody nuisance.’

‘It’s only once a year,’ said Shepherd.

His phone rang. He motioned for Sharpe to stay quiet and took the call.

‘Where are you?’ asked Mickey.

‘On my way to Starbucks for a coffee. What’s up?’

‘Got your passport with you?’

‘Why? Do I need it to buy coffee?’

‘Don’t piss me about, mate. We’re on our way to Phnom Penh – Cambodia.’

‘I know where Phnom Penh is, Mickey. Do you want to tell me why or is it still need-to-know?’

‘We’re booked on a flight this afternoon so you get the hell back to your place and pack. We’ll pick you up.’ Mickey ended the call abruptly.

Shepherd held up the phone, a quizzical look on his face.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Sharpe.

‘I’m going to Cambodia.’

‘What the hell for?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘Too risky,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’d have to scramble to get a ticket. And if they were going to do me harm, they could do it here as easily as in Cambodia.’ He stood up and dropped his Starbucks cup into the overflowing bin. ‘I’ve got to go. Can you tell Charlie what’s happening?’

The Bangkok Airways jet landed smoothly and taxied to the runway. Shepherd was at the front of the plane with Mickey and Mark while Wilson, Yates and Black were by the emergency exit in the middle. When they got off, a Cambodian soldier in creased fatigues was waiting for them. He shook hands with Mickey, who introduced him to Shepherd. ‘This is Wilbur,’ said Mickey. ‘We can never pronounce his name, so that’s what we call him.’