Spider Shepherd 11 - White Lies (8 page)

‘Happy to,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just promise not to ask me any more questions about my love life.’

‘The food could be better, couldn’t it?’ whispered KC. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Hammad was out of earshot. KC was sitting with Rafiq, Sami and Labib, cross-legged around a rough wooden table placed on a grubby green and red
dastarkhwan
that had been spread across the rock floor. They were in a large cave halfway up a hill that overlooked the goatherd’s cottage where they did a lot of their training. Hammad had explained that the drones that flew overhead were equipped with thermal imaging equipment that would show up their bodies in any normal structure, but in the cave they were safe. It was where they ate, slept and prayed, and bathed from water stored in large earthenware jars. The food was filling but not particularly tasty and was brought in each morning in the back of a battered pick-up truck, along with fresh water.

They were eating in traditional style, using their right hands to dip their naan bread into bowls of lentil curry or watery chicken korma and picking up cubes of lamb from kebabs that had been cooked on a small fire at the entrance to the cave. The fire had also been used to heat a kettle for the tea they were drinking. The fire had been quickly extinguished once the meal had been prepared. There was a very low risk of the smoke being spotted but even so the fire was used only for cooking. To keep themselves warm during the cold desert night the men either snuggled into sleeping bags they had brought with them from the UK or wrapped themselves in rough blankets.

‘We’re not here for the food, brother,’ said Rafiq, brushing crumbs from his beard.

‘No, but would it hurt them to give us a decent curry?’ asked Sami, gesturing with contempt at the bowl of korma.

‘And that lamb tastes more like dog to me,’ said Labib.

Labib and Sami spent most of their time outside training with Rafiq and KC because everyone else had problems understanding their near-impenetrable Glaswegian accents.

‘You’ve eaten dog, have you?’ asked KC.

‘You know what I mean,’ said Labib. ‘My dad owns a curry house in Maryhill and he’d be disgusted with this.’

‘Well, Sami seems to be doing all right on it,’ said KC, gesturing at his colleague’s tight-fitting shirt and the buttons that seemed in danger of popping off.

‘I’ve dropped five kilos since I came here,’ said Sami, patting his stomach.

‘How would you know that, brother?’ asked KC. ‘There are no scales here.’

‘I can feel the weight falling off me,’ said Labib.

‘You’re Bangladeshi, right?’ asked Rafiq. ‘They make the best cooks. That’s what my dad always says. Go into any Indian restaurant and you’ll find a Bangladeshi chef in the kitchen.’

Labib laughed. ‘That’s no lie, laddie,’ he said.

‘You’re not a chef, though?’

‘Me, nah, computers. I’ve got two brothers working with my dad, though. It’s good money, a curry house. Pretty much a cash business, too.’ He dabbed a chunk of naan in the lentils, but scowled at it instead of eating it. ‘My dad always says that his father invented chicken tikka masala.’

‘Get away with you,’ said Rafiq.

‘Nah, true. Back in the fifties.’

‘So you’re third-generation?’ asked Rafiq.

‘Yeah, my grandad came over in the early fifties, back when anyone from the Commonwealth could come. He came on his own and started cooking in one of the first curry houses in Glasgow. Earned enough to get his wife over and then brought her whole family.’

‘And he invented chicken tikka masala?’ said Rafiq. ‘Seriously?’

‘That’s what my dad says. Grandad died not long after I was born so I never got the chance to ask him. But the family swear it’s true. He was in the kitchen and a punter sent back his chicken tikka saying that it was too dry.’

‘Chicken tikka is supposed to be dry,’ said Rafiq.

‘Yeah, you know that and I know that but back then punters knew nothing about Indian food. He thought that all dishes were wet curries so assumed that the cook – my grandad – had screwed up. Anyway, Grandad was a nice guy so instead of going and giving the punter what for, he decides to give him what he wanted. He chucked in some tomato soup, yogurt and spices and the rest is history.’

‘That’s awesome,’ said Rafiq. ‘You know it’s the most popular dish in the UK, right? Outsells meat pies, fish and chips, outsells everything.’

Sami nodded. ‘And yet no one out here has ever heard of it.’

‘By here you mean the middle of nowhere?’ said KC.

‘Asia, I mean. No one in India or Bangladesh or Pakistan would know what the hell it was. It’s a completely British dish. And my grandad invented it.’

Rafiq raised his glass of tea. ‘Kudos,’ he said. ‘And God bless your grandad.’

Sami groaned and stretched out his legs. ‘I hate this sitting on the floor business,’ he said. ‘Would it be too much to ask for a table and chairs?’ He stood up and stretched.

‘It’s character-building,’ said KC. ‘Makes us hard.’

‘I’m from Glasgow, don’t forget,’ said Sami. ‘I was born hard.’ His companions laughed and Sami scowled. ‘Carry on laughing and I’ll introduce you to the Glasgow handshake.’

‘What’s that?’ asked KC.

‘Stand up and I’ll show you,’ said Sami. He beckoned at KC. ‘Come on.’

‘Stay where you are, KC,’ said Rafiq. ‘It’s a head-butt. Aka a Glasgow kiss.’

Sami laughed. ‘Damn right,’ he said. He stretched his arms above his head and twisted from side to side. ‘Sitting on the floor wouldn’t be so bad if we at least had cushions. Seriously, I don’t get this sitting on the floor. They did that because they didn’t have furniture. Same as they wiped their arse with their left hand because they didn’t have toilet paper. Now we do have toilet paper that left-hand business is just nonsense.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ hissed Rafiq. ‘You don’t want Hammad hearing you talk like that. He’ll have your balls off.’

‘He’s right,’ said KC. ‘Remember, this isn’t just about weapons training, it’s about making us good jihadists.’

‘And good jihadists wipe their arses with their hands, do they?’ said Sami.

‘Seriously, Sami, you need to be careful,’ whispered Rafiq. ‘These guys don’t fuck about.’

Sami opened his mouth as if he was about to argue, but then he shrugged and sat down again.

KC reached for his tea and leaned towards Rafiq. ‘This is the real thing, isn’t it?’ he said.

Rafiq chuckled. ‘You think this is a game, brother?’

‘You know what I mean,’ said KC. ‘I spent years planning stuff, stuff that would never happen. Crazy stuff.’

‘Like what?’

‘You know. Checking the internet to see how to make ricin, that poison stuff. And botulism, from mussels.’

Rafiq frowned and massaged his forearm. ‘Muscles?’ He knew exactly what KC meant but sometimes it was better to play stupid because that tended to encourage people to talk. His MI6 handler had taught him that.

‘Nah, the shellfish. You can bury them in the ground and they go off and they produce botulism. One drop can kill like a million people or something. We tried it but couldn’t get it to work.’ He laughed. ‘We tried to test it on a cat and the thing went ballistic, biting and scratching.’ He shook his head, still laughing. ‘My mate almost lost an eye. Cats can fight, I tell you.’ He popped a piece of meat into his mouth. ‘I drew up a list of kaffirs I wanted to kill. Cameron, Beckham, Prince Harry, had all their pictures on the walls of my bedroom. My mum got a bit worried, thought maybe I was getting a thing for older white guys.’

‘Beckham?’

KC shrugged. ‘I hate the twat, him and that stick insect wife of his.’

‘Yeah, but a footballer, KC? Come on. Politicians, sure. And I get the point of random kaffirs. But targeting the former England captain, that’s bizarre.’

‘If you want to talk about bizarre, what about the Father Ted guy?’ said Sami.

‘Father Ted?’ repeated Rafiq.

‘The guy that wrote the Father Ted thing. Irish but he lives in London. He took the piss out of Bin Laden after the Americans murdered him. You didn’t hear about that?’

Rafiq shook his head.

‘He wrote the
IT Crowd
thing as well,’ said Labib. ‘Bloody hilarious that was.’

‘Yeah, well, he tweeted that Bin Laden was a big fan of one of his shows and that he was watching an episode when the Americans killed him. Took the piss out of the Sheikh something rotten. Seemed to think it was funny. There was a piece in the
Guardian
with him laughing about it. Me and a group of brothers went down to London. Turns out he’d moved to Norwich but we found where he lived and we were already to make a YouTube video of us cutting his head off when I got the call.’

‘The call?’

‘A friend of a friend of a friend pulled me to one side and told me that I was wasting my time, that no one would care about a dead comedy writer. That’s when I started on this path.’ Sami picked up another piece of meat and chewed on it. ‘What about you? What did you want to do? After they invaded Afghanistan and Iraq, we all wanted to do something, right?’

‘I thought about attacking a shopping mall,’ said Rafiq. ‘I saw what they did in Kenya, when those guys shot the place up. But I couldn’t get a gun.’

‘You’re from London, right?’

Rafiq shook his head. ‘Bradford.’

‘You should have driven to Birmingham,’ said KC. ‘You wouldn’t have any problem picking up a gun in Birmingham, same as Glasgow. Pop into any pub and you’ll find someone to fix you up. Did you ever think about taking out a plane?’

Rafiq nodded. ‘Sure. But these days they check you too carefully, right? You can’t even get nail-clippers on a plane.’

‘A friend of mine had this idea where we get twenty brothers on a plane. Then as the plane is taking off or landing they all get up and move to one side of the plane, then run to and fro. He reckoned it would definitely make it crash.’

Rafiq laughed. ‘And kill twenty brothers at the same time.’

‘Yeah, he hadn’t really thought it through.’

‘I tell you what would work, though,’ said Rafiq. ‘They still let you on with duty-free and cigarette lighters. Two or three brothers with a couple of bottles of brandy each could set fire to a plane mid-flight with no bother. I put together a plan to do that. That’s when I got recruited to this. One of the imams got to hear about me and he hooked me up. Said that I was too valuable to become a
shahid
, that there were better ways to serve Allah.’

‘He’s right,’ said KC. He picked up a piece of naan, dipped it in the korma, and popped it into his mouth. ‘These MANPADS are the dog’s bollocks. We can bring down a whole plane and be away before the wreckage hits the ground. This is what jihad is about, all right.’

Rafiq nodded. ‘I can’t wait. I wish they’d let us know where our targets are.’

‘I reckon we’ll be used locally. I’m a Brummie so they’ll have me at Birmingham Airport. You’ll be at Leeds, maybe.’

‘You’re sure it’ll be a plane?’

‘That’s what the MANPADS are for,’ said KC. ‘You can fire them at buildings, sure, but for the real damage you want a plane. Having said that, it’d be something to fire one at 10 Downing Street, wouldn’t it?’

‘Hell, yeah,’ said Rafiq. ‘I’d be up for it.
Inshallah
.’
Inshallah
. God willing. Even though he knew that pretty much every word that passed his lips was a lie.

Charlotte Button was on her second glass of Pinot Grigio when Caroline Stockmann hurried through the door of the wine bar and over to her table, apologising profusely. ‘I was stuck on the Tube,’ said the psychiatrist, popping her briefcase under the table.

‘Wine?’ asked Button.

‘Wine? A long profanity-laced moan would be more like it.’ She grinned. ‘I’d prefer a beer.’

A sleek blond waitress came over carrying a tray and Stockmann asked what beers they had, listened intently as the waitress rattled off a number of brands. ‘Nothing draught?’ asked Stockmann. ‘A Peroni, then. Thanks.’

The waitress headed towards the bar and Stockmann sighed. ‘It was a body on the line,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Button.

‘The reason the train was held up. They didn’t say suicide, though. They never do. An incident, they called it. I’ve never understood why anyone would choose to end their life by throwing themselves under a train. For one thing, half the time it doesn’t work and you end up crippled and disfigured. But does no one think about the effect it has on the driver?’ She shuddered, then smiled brightly. ‘So, how are you?’

‘I hope that’s not a professional question because we know each other too well for you to be giving me a psychiatric evaluation.’

Stockmann laughed. ‘Perish the thought,’ she said.

Button sipped her wine. ‘So how is Dan?’

Stockmann shrugged. ‘I’ve been wondering how to answer that question,’ she said.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Not as such, no. No real red flags. Just a feeling.’

Button said nothing. She knew that Stockmann would explain what was troubling her in her own good time. The waitress came over and put a bottle of beer and a glass in front of Stockmann. Stockmann smiled her thanks, ignored the glass and picked up the bottle. ‘You know I like Dan,’ she said.

‘We all do,’ said Button.

‘And there’s no question that he’s a good operator.’

‘One of the best,’ agreed Button.

‘He’s very centred, he doesn’t seem to have any vices, he enjoys his work, clearly. If it was the first time I’d given him a biannual I’d probably give him full marks and not give it a second thought. But I’ve been meeting with him for a few years now so I’ve had been able to establish a baseline. That’s my worry, Charlie. The Dan Shepherd I met this week is different. Not hugely different, and to be honest I’m not sure if it’s something to worry about, but he has changed.’

‘We’re all getting older,’ said Button.

‘And not necessarily wiser,’ said Stockmann. ‘What I can say about Dan is that he seemed to be taking more care with his choice of words than he used to.’ She took a sip of beer. ‘It was as if he was telling me what he thought I wanted to hear rather than what he was actually thinking.’

‘You think he was lying?’