Stephen Leather - False Friends

‘I’ll run it by them,’ said Shepherd. ‘Do you want to tell the superintendent that the case has moved up a notch?’

‘I think we have to,’ said Hargrove. ‘We’ve gone from a couple of wideboys buying a few guns to something much more serious. I’ll have a word with Fenby too. I want to know how the hell he managed to miss the fact that they’re looking to equip a small army.’

‘I don’t think it’s Ray’s fault,’ said Shepherd. ‘They were sounding us out, making sure we could be trusted, and the question of numbers came up when we were discussing price. They wanted a discount for volume.’

‘And you gave them a price for a grenade?’

‘I said I’d put out some feelers. I figured it’d be best not to appear too keen.’

He ended the call, then went through to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. All the champagne he’d drunk was playing havoc with his stomach so he popped a couple of Rennies into his mouth and chewed them as he made himself a cup of coffee. He carried it through to the sitting room and dropped down on to the sofa, then called the Major on his mobile.

‘We’re ready to go,’ said Shepherd.

‘I’ve got half a dozen Yugos for you, plus ammunition,’ said the Major.

‘I know this is short notice, but how are you fixed for grenades?’

‘Bloody hell, Spider. Are these guys going to war?’

‘Everyone keeps asking that,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can you help us out?’

‘By grenades I assume you don’t just mean flash-bangs.’

‘The real thing,’ said Shepherd. ‘What do you have on the base?’

‘We mainly use the L109A1 but we have all the Nato stuff for familiarisation. And we’ve got a store of white phosphorus grenades.’

‘Anything that could have come from the former Yugoslavia?’

‘We’ve got display models of the Yugoslavian M-75 and M-93.’

‘But not active grenades?’

‘Not last time I checked. But I’ll run through the inventory, see what we’ve got.’

‘Can I run something else by you? The buyers want to test fire the weapons before they buy. Hargrove is suggesting we do it out in the open. Can you think of somewhere?’

‘Plenty of options around our old stamping ground, the Brecon Beacons. I can make sure we don’t have any exercises on the day you do it. And the farmers out there are used to loud bangs.’

‘I’m a bit antsy about doing it out in the open,’ said Shepherd. ‘No back-up if things go wrong, nowhere to mount surveillance cameras or mics.’

‘You could wire up the odd sheep,’ said the Major. ‘Or if you want I could get a couple of our snipers in ghillie suits close by.’

‘I’m not sure that Hargrove wants a full-blown SAS operation. But I’ll suggest it.’

‘Have you thought about suppressors?’

‘For the Yugos?’

‘Sure. We’ve been running tests on them and they work a treat. You still get a bang, of course, but you lose most of the crack. And if your targets are planning mayhem in a public place then suppressors would be a big help. And from your point of view, it would cut down a lot of the noise when you’re test firing. Just a thought.’

‘And a bloody good one, Boss. I’ll run all this by Hargrove and let you know. How much notice will you need?’

‘Providing I get it okayed in principle, a few hours at most. You take care, Spider.’

Shepherd woke up early on Monday morning and went for a run around Hampstead Heath in his old army boots, the weighted rucksack on his back. He got back to his flat and showered and changed into a polo shirt and black jeans. He realised that he’d missed a call while he was in the shower — Charlotte Button. He called her back.

‘Just checking in to see how things are progressing with Chaudhry and Malik,’ Button said.

‘I’m seeing them this afternoon. I get the feeling that it’s stalled a bit.’

‘It was never going to be a short-term operation,’ she said. ‘It will start moving eventually. It has to. They wouldn’t put the two of them through all that training and then not use them.’

‘Unless there’s a trust issue.’

‘Have they suggested that?’

‘No, that’s just me thinking out loud.’

‘We could think about pushing things forward,’ said Button.

‘In what way?’

‘They could start making a few suggestions themselves.’

‘I’d advise against that,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’ve been led every step of the way ever since they were recruited. I don’t think now’s the time for them to be coming up with ideas.’

‘I suppose you’re right,’ said Button. ‘But it has gone very quiet. There’s almost no chatter that we can find.’

‘That could be a sign that something big is being planned,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s see how I get on with them this afternoon.’

‘Good,’ said Button. ‘And how are things going on with Sam Hargrove?’

Shepherd filled her in on what had happened at the boxing evening.

She listened without interruption until he mentioned the forty AK-47s. ‘Sorry, did you say fourteen or forty?’

‘Forty,’ said Shepherd. ‘And they asked about grenades and bulletproof vests.’

‘What are their names?’

‘Simon Kettering and Paul Thompson. The Brummie cops think they’re responsible for a racist attack a while back.’

‘A murder?’

‘A beating.’

‘Big jump from that to forty AK-47s. And the grenade thing’s a worry. Sam made it sound as if it was a small arms buy.’

‘That’s what we all thought. It was only over the brandy and the cigars that they brought out their shopping list. Sam’s as surprised as we are.’

‘So what happens next?’ asked Button.

‘That’s up to the Birmingham cops, I guess, but it looks like we set up a deal and then bust them.’

‘Good luck with it,’ said Button. ‘Just let me know where you are.’

‘No problem,’ said Shepherd.

He ended the call and looked at his watch. He’d arranged to meet Chaudhry and Malik at three o’clock so he had time to kill. That was the biggest drawback of the job that Button had given him. Babysitting the two men meant that most of the time he was just sitting around doing nothing but waiting for the phone to ring. He wasn’t enjoying being a handler; he much preferred the adrenaline rush of being undercover. He switched on his TV and flicked through the channels, trying to find something interesting to watch. He gave up after five minutes and went over to the bookcase at the side of the fireplace. The books there had been selected by Damien Plant as the sort of books that would be owned be a freelance journalist, so mostly they were non-fiction, reference books and biographies. Tony Blair’s autobiography was there, and as Plant was a diehard Conservative Shepherd figured that there had been an element of sarcasm in the choice, especially as a yellow sticker on the front cover showed that the price had been slashed to one pound. He took it over to the sofa, flopped down, and started to read.

Chaudhry fiddled with his tie for the hundredth time since he’d sat down at the table. He was in the Pizza Express down the road from the university and close to Trafalgar Square. The restaurant was on two levels and he actually preferred the basement level, which was larger and with more room between the two tables, but sitting at a table on the ground floor meant that he got a clear view of the entrance. He’d arranged to see Jamila at seven but had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and ordered a bottle of sparkling water, ice and lemon. Despite the water his throat felt dry and scratchy and it hurt when he swallowed. He could feel his hands sweating and he wiped them on his trousers, grateful that he’d liberally sprayed himself with deodorant before leaving the King’s campus.