Stephen Leather - False Friends

Chaudhry could see the irony in the fact that all three of them were British citizens, but it was clearly lost on Khalid. No matter how long he lived in the UK, Khalid would never think of himself as British. The British, like the Americans, were the enemy.

‘Do you know what happened, brother?’

‘I know that The Sheik died bravely with the name of Allah on his lips,’ said Khalid. ‘And that the kafir that killed him will burn in hell for all eternity.’

‘How did they know where he was?’ asked Malik.

‘They are saying that a courier led them to the compound, but who knows? The Americans always lie. And they have satellites in the sky that can read a number plate. Or it could have been the Pakistani military who betrayed him.’

‘You think they knew he was there?’

‘How could they not, brother? He was not in London, where strangers are ignored. People would see who came and went. Do you think they would not ask who was living behind such high walls?’

‘But why would they betray him?’

Khalid shrugged. ‘For money. For influence. Who knows?’

‘May they also burn in hell,’ said Malik.

‘Inshallah,’ agreed Khalid. God willing.

Chaudhry stirred two heaped spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. ‘And what about us, brother?’ he asked. ‘How much longer must we wait?’

‘Not much longer,’ said Khalid. ‘Your impatience is understandable but you are resources that must not be squandered. You will not be used until the time is right.’

‘And how will we be used?’ asked Malik. ‘Can you at least tell us that?’

‘When I know, you will know,’ said Khalid.

‘All the training we did, and yet now it’s as if it never happened,’ said Malik. ‘I had assumed that by this time we’d. .’ He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.

‘Brother, I understand your frustration. But we cannot rush. We never do. That is why we are so successful. We watch, we wait, we bide our time and only when we are sure of victory do we strike. We could give you arms now and tell you to storm the American Embassy and you might kill a few kafirs and it would be a news story for a couple of days, but then life would go on and you would soon be forgotten. That’s not what we are about, brothers. What we want is another Nine-Eleven.’

Malik frowned. ‘Planes, you mean? We’re going to crash planes?’

Khalid looked around as if he feared they were being overheard, then he shook his head. ‘No, brothers. This is not about planes. Nor do we plan to make you martyrs. You are no shahid. You are warriors, warriors who will strike again and again.’ He reached across the table and held each of them by the hand, his nails digging into their flesh. ‘What we are planning, brothers, will change the world for ever, you have my word on that.’

‘When?’ asked Malik.

‘All in good time,’ said Khalid. ‘We will strike when the time is right and not before.’

It was early September when Sam Hargrove called. Shepherd had spent the weekend in Hereford and was on his way back to London when his mobile rang and he took the call using his hands-free. ‘Can you talk?’ asked Hargrove. He spoke with no introduction because he had no way of knowing if Shepherd was alone.

‘I’m driving, but yes, go ahead,’ said Shepherd. ‘Charlie told me back in May that you might be calling.’

‘The operation I’m working on has taken longer than I expected,’ said Hargrove. ‘It’s just about coming together now. Are you in London? Be handy to have a chat.’

‘I’m here most of the time at the moment, so whenever works for you is fine,’ said Shepherd.

‘Sooner rather than later,’ said Hargrove. ‘I don’t suppose I could persuade you to swing by Broadway?’

Broadway was where New Scotland Yard was based, just down the road from St James’s Park tube station.

‘I’d rather not,’ said Shepherd. ‘The job I’m on is local and I’m keeping a low profile.’

‘Where’s your base?’

‘Hampstead.’

‘Anywhere near the King William? A colleague told me that’s a good place for a meet.’

‘No problem. It’s just round the corner from my flat.’

‘We can catch up over a drink,’ said Hargrove. ‘How’s an hour from now for you?’

‘Traffic’s not great,’ said Shepherd, ‘but yeah, I should be able to make it.’

Shepherd ended the call. The traffic wasn’t as bad as he’d thought and he had more than enough time to find a resident’s parking space close to his flat and to grab a Jameson’s and soda and a corner table before Hargrove arrived.

Hargrove seemed a bit heavier since Shepherd had last seen him and his overcoat was a little tighter round his midriff. As he walked into the pub he undid the buttons of his coat and revealed a dark-blue pinstriped suit, a crisp white shirt and a tie with light and dark blue stripes. He looked around, saw Shepherd at the table and waved. He ran a hand through his greying hair as he walked over, and when they shook hands his cuff edged out of his jacket sleeve revealing a gold cufflink in the shape of a cricket bat.

‘You’re looking well,’ said Hargrove.

‘You too,’ said Shepherd. He grinned over at his former boss. ‘You know this is the oldest gay bar in London?’

‘I didn’t know that,’ said Hargrove, looking around. There were no women in the pub, although that wasn’t especially unusual for London. But the clientele was mainly under thirty, well groomed and with a fashion sense that was definitely a cut above that found in the average London hostelry. Hargrove chuckled. ‘I see what you mean.’

‘It’s not called the Willie for nothing,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s been an openly gay venue since the 1930s, back in the day when they sent you down for being gay. But they’re not prejudiced, they’ll serve anyone. So what can I get you?’

Hargrove rubbed his stomach. ‘I’ve had to give up the beer,’ he said. ‘Cutting back on the calories. Gin and slimline tonic will be fine. Ice and a slice.’

He took off his coat, draped it over the back of a chair and sat down. He was adjusting the creases of his trousers when Shepherd returned with his drink.

‘Still running?’ asked Hargrove.

‘I’m on the Heath every day, pretty much.’

‘You still doing that thing with a rucksack full of bricks?’

‘Builds stamina,’ said Shepherd. He clinked his glass against Hargrove’s. ‘Anyway, good to see you.’

‘And you,’ said Hargrove. The two men drank. Hargrove smacked his lips and put down his glass. He patted his stomach again. ‘I’m going to have to start doing something.’

‘Running is good,’ said Shepherd. ‘With or without the bricks.’

‘It’s the wife that’s the problem,’ said Hargrove, stretching out his legs. ‘She’s been watching all those cooking shows. Loves Gordon Ramsay. Anyway, she started cooking herself and went on a few courses and I have to say she’s brilliant. She was always a good cook but this last year she’s moved up to a whole new level. Can’t remember the last time I ate out. It’s like having my own Michelin-starred restaurant. But I hate to think what my cholesterol levels are like.’ He sipped his gin and tonic. ‘So how are things with the fragrant Charlotte Button?’

‘We have our ups and downs, but generally it’s good,’ said Shepherd. ‘The last year I’ve been hand-holding a couple of guys who are undercover. They’re amateurs so I have to watch them every step of the way.’

‘That’ll be a change for you, seeing life from the other side.’

‘Tell me about it. I hadn’t realised just how much ego-stroking had to be done.’

‘You never needed much,’ said Hargrove. ‘I nearly gave you a call when I heard you were leaving SOCA but then you decided to go with her to Five and I figured it would be disrespectful to poke my nose in.’