Stephen Leather - False Friends

‘I haven’t had the chance,’ said his father. He grunted as he pushed himself up off the sofa and walked over to a sideboard that was loaded with framed family photographs. He pulled open a drawer and rooted through the contents.

‘She is gorgeous,’ said his mother. ‘And smart.’

‘Yeah, Dad said she was a microbiologist.’

‘And she’s got such a good heart. She took a gap year to work in an orphanage in Pakistan. Like you did last year. You’ll have so much to talk about.’

‘It wasn’t an orphanage Manraj worked at, it was a hospital,’ said his father.

‘It’s the same thing, giving up your time to help others less fortunate.’ She smiled at Chaudhry in the way that only a proud mother can and Chaudhry’s stomach lurched. He tried to cover his discomfort by sipping his tea.

He’d never lied to his parents before he started working for MI5 but there was no way he could have told them that he had gone to Pakistan to attend an al-Qaeda training camp, where he learned to strip and fire a whole range of weapons, construct explosive devices and manipulate biochemical agents. He’d told his parents that he was volunteering at a country medical centre during his Christmas break and he’d never felt more guilty than when his father had offered to pay for his ticket. The people at MI5 had told him that under no circumstances could he ever tell his parents what he was doing, that to do so would risk his life and theirs. So he had lied, and he hated himself for doing it.

‘Are you okay, honey?’ asked his mother.

Chaudhry forced a smile. ‘I’ve been studying too hard and not sleeping enough,’ he said.

‘Why don’t you stay for the weekend? I’ll feed you up, you can lie in tomorrow and if you need to get some work done you can use your father’s study.’

‘We’ve only just kicked him out of the nest. Don’t say you want him back already,’ said his father. He held up a photograph. ‘Here it is.’ He walked back to the sofa and gave the picture to Chaudhry.

Chaudhry took it. He looked at it for several seconds and then looked back at his father, his eyebrows raised. ‘Wow,’ he said.

Shepherd woke up early on Monday morning, half an hour before his alarm was due to go off. He’d spent the weekend in Hereford and had arrived back in London late on Sunday night. His back was aching, probably from the long drive, so he did a few stretches before heading to the bathroom to clean his teeth. His back was still sore so he decided to go for a run to see if that would loosen it up. He pulled on an old sweatshirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms and went through to the kitchen, where he kept his army boots and weighted rucksack. He figured it best to forgo the rucksack and he went downstairs. He jogged to the Heath, then set off on his regular route: up North End Way and round the Hampstead Heath extension, a large open space to the north-west of the main Heath. In the past it had been farmland and while it wasn’t as pretty as the rest of the Heath it was generally quieter and Shepherd always preferred to run alone. He did two circuits of the extension then cut around West Meadow and down to Parliament Hill Fields. Several running clubs used the Heath and as he got closer to the Parliament Hill athletics track he was overtaken by a group of serious runners, all in hi-tech trainers and Lycra shorts and vests. Several grinned as they overtook Shepherd and he heard one mutter something about Shepherd’s choice of footwear. Shepherd always ran in boots. Running was a survival skill as well as a way of keeping fit and the heavy boots meant that he was able to push himself to his limits faster and more efficiently. He headed east to Dukes Field, skirted the secret garden and then headed north to Cohen’s Fields, increasing the pace until he felt his calf muscles burn.

He reached Kenwood House, the spectacular white-stucco mansion built on the ridge that linked the villages of Hampstead and Highgate. Stopping at the duelling ground where grievances were settled with pistols during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, he dropped to the ground and did a hundred press-ups in four sets of twenty-five. Then he carried on running for another thirty minutes. He slowed to a jog as he headed back to his flat, picking up a copy of the Daily Telegraph and the Daily Mail and a carton of milk on the way.

Back in the flat he showered and shaved, changed into a clean shirt and chinos, then made himself a mug of coffee and flopped down on to the sofa. He sipped his coffee as he scanned the front page of the Telegraph , then turned to page two. His jaw tensed when he saw the headline of the lead story, then he began to curse as he read it. He was only halfway through when he picked up his BlackBerry and called Button.

‘Have you seen the Telegraph ?’ he said as soon as she answered.

‘About an hour ago,’ she said. ‘We’re talking it through as we speak.’

‘And you didn’t think it was worth talking to me?’

‘I don’t think this is the sort of conversation we should be having on an open line,’ she said. ‘Can you come to the office?’

‘I’d prefer somewhere outside,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’ve got an active investigation that means I have to be here all day,’ she replied.

‘Give me an hour,’ he said and cut the connection. He read through the rest of the article and then picked up the Mail . The same story was on page seven.

Charlotte Button kept Shepherd waiting for half an hour in a conference room on the third floor of Thames House, but her apologies when she did finally arrive seemed genuine enough. Shepherd stood up out of politeness but she waved him to sit back down as she dropped into one of the high-backed executive chairs on the opposite side of the highly polished oval oak table. Shepherd had the Telegraph and Mail open in front of him. Button was holding a cup of tea and she placed it carefully on the table.

‘How the hell could this have happened, Charlie? Whose side are the Pakistanis on?’

The thrust of the articles in both papers was the same: an unnamed spokesman for the Inter-Services Intelligence, Pakistan’s premier intelligence agency, had announced that a hand-drawn map had been found in the compound where Bin Laden had been living, a map that could have been left only by the Seals. The map showed the layout of the compound and had floor plans of the main building, including the bedroom where Bin Laden was shot. The spokesman also said that the fact that the Americans had destroyed their own helicopter was a sign that they no longer trusted their Pakistani allies.

‘Their noses were put out of joint because the Americans made them look stupid, or at best incompetent, so this is them getting their own back. They just want to show that the Americans make mistakes.’

‘Even if it means putting our guys in the firing line? And what about the bloody Yanks? What were they thinking? Are their memories so bloody poor that they can’t commit a floor plan to memory?’

‘Spider, you’re blowing this out of all proportion,’ said Button calmly.

Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘I’m what?’

‘Look, you’re right: a mistake was made. The Seals shouldn’t have left the map behind, but Bin Laden’s dead and what’s done is done.’

‘You’re not serious, are you?’ said Shepherd. Button said nothing. She picked up her cup and sipped her tea. ‘Charlie, you don’t need me to spell this out for you, do you?’ Button continued to sip her tea. Shepherd leaned forward, his eyes locked on hers. ‘That piece of paper shows that the Yanks had intel on the inside of that building, intel that couldn’t have come from surveillance or satellites. The only way they could know the layout of the inside of the building is if they’d spoken to someone who’d been inside.’