Stephen Leather - False Friends

‘This is Klaus,’ said Kettering.

Klaus held out his hand and shook with Shepherd. He had a strong grip but Shepherd’s was just as firm. ‘Good to meet you,’ said Klaus.

‘You don’t sound very German,’ said Shepherd.

‘I went to school in England,’ said Klaus. ‘And my mother is English.’ He shook hands with Sharpe, then headed for the stairs. ‘I’ll tell the captain to get going,’ he said.

Shepherd realised that the engines were running. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked Kettering.

‘We’re going for a spin,’ said Kettering.

‘Like fuck we are,’ said Shepherd. ‘You wanted a chat in private, fine. You want to drink bubbly on your boat, all well and good. But I’m fucked if I’m going out to sea.’

‘It’s not the sea, mate,’ said Thompson. ‘It’s only the Channel. People swim across it.’

‘What are you scared of, Garry?’ asked Kettering.

‘I’m not scared. I just don’t like being pissed around. I’m more than happy to talk business with Klaus, and if he wants a demonstration I can arrange that. But I don’t have time to go messing about on boats.’

‘We can talk just as easily here, right?’ said Sharpe, stretching out his legs. He looked around. ‘Where’s the bubbly? Let’s crack open a bottle and get down to business.’

‘Guys, come on now, this is a great boat,’ said Thompson. ‘Let’s just take her out for an hour or so. We can fish.’

‘Fish?’

‘It’s got rods and everything,’ said Thompson.

Shepherd looked over at Sharpe. Sharpe was smiling but Shepherd could see the tension in his eyes. Something was wrong. Something was definitely wrong. ‘I’d really rather stay moored up,’ said Shepherd.

Klaus came back down the stairs. He headed out on to the rear deck and began untying the ropes that kept the boat moored to the jetty.

‘Relax, Garry,’ said Thompson.

‘I just don’t like surprises,’ said Shepherd.

Thompson stood up and patted him on the back. ‘A few glasses of bubbly will soon get you relaxed,’ he said. ‘Come on, sit down.’

‘Guys, no one said we were going out to sea. I’m not happy about this.’

Kettering reached inside his jacket and took out his leather cigar case. He opened it to reveal four thick cigars and he offered one to Shepherd.

‘I don’t want a fucking cigar,’ said Shepherd.

‘You need to relax, Garry. Get some sea air in your lungs.’

‘Make up your fucking mind, will you? Do you want me smoking or breathing in sea air? This is fucked up, Simon. This isn’t how professionals do business.’ He looked over at Sharpe again, trying to get a read on what his partner was thinking. If they were going to pull out they had to do it now, while they were still in port. And if he was going to call for help it would have to be done within the next minute or two.

Sharpe was still smiling but his eyes had narrowed. Then he gave a small shrug and clasped his hands behind his neck. He was leaving the decision up to Shepherd.

Klaus came back into the cabin. ‘Okay?’ he said.

Shepherd nodded. ‘I guess so,’ he said reluctantly.

‘Great,’ said Thompson. ‘I’ll get the bubbly.’

He went into the galley and opened a large stainless-steel fridge. Shepherd sat down on a beige leather bench seat under a long window. The engines roared and the boat reversed away from the jetty. Thompson pulled out a bottle of Bollinger and grabbed five glasses off a tray as Kettering lit a cigar.

Shepherd was trying to get a read on Kettering and Thompson but was failing. They seemed relaxed enough and their bonhomie appeared genuine. It could be that they just wanted to go out on the boat, and they were right that there would be no chance of them being overheard out at sea. Though of course they weren’t taking into consideration the fact that Shepherd’s phone was broadcasting everything that was being said back to Thames House and to the back-up teams in the hotel and in the coffee shop. Shepherd had no idea what the MI5 teams were doing but he assumed that they had now left both places.

Thompson popped the cork too enthusiastically and champagne sprayed over the floor before he started pouring it into the glasses. Klaus took a glass and gave it to Sharpe, then took one for himself, while Thompson gave glasses to Shepherd and Kettering before filling his own.

Kettering stood up and held his glass high. ‘To the future,’ he said. ‘And to the men who will shape it.’

They all stood up, raised their glasses in salute and then drank. It was good champagne, Shepherd knew, but he couldn’t taste it. His mind was racing, still trying to work out what was going on. If Klaus was a German then Shepherd was a Dutchman.

Kettering looked out of the rear windows at the marina in the distance. ‘When will we be in international waters, do you think? Twelve miles, isn’t it?’

‘We’re not going out twelve bloody miles, I hope,’ said Shepherd.

Klaus was staring at Sharpe with a sly smile on his face. Sharpe hadn’t noticed but the way the man was staring gave Shepherd an uncomfortable feeling. The atmosphere had changed now that they were out at sea.

Thompson was holding the empty champagne bottle, his feet planted shoulder-width apart. He caught Shepherd’s look and smiled but his eyes stayed hard.

‘You really don’t remember me, do you?’ asked Klaus, still staring at Sharpe, his voice a low growl.

Everything appeared to slow down as Shepherd’s adrenal glands kicked into overdrive. He swallowed and even that seemed to happen in slow motion, and he realised that the dull thud he could hear was the sound of his own heart. Thompson was hefting the bottle as if he was about to throw it; Kettering was holding his cigar in one hand and his champagne glass in the other, blowing a cloud of smoke up at the ceiling; Sharpe was turning to look at Klaus, frowning; Klaus’s grin was turning into a snarl.

Shepherd reached for the zipper of his bomber jacket, trying to make the move look casual. Time started to move at its normal speed again and he forced a smile. ‘Lads, I can’t stay too long,’ he said.

‘You fucking slag!’ Klaus shouted at Sharpe. ‘There’s only one thing worse than a grass and that’s a fucking undercover cop.’ He reached behind his back and pulled out a revolver. Sharpe stepped towards Klaus, pulling back his fist but Thompson smashed the champagne bottle against the side of his head and he dropped to the floor like a stone.

Klaus swung the gun round to point it at Shepherd and Shepherd raised his hands. He still had the glass of champagne in his right hand. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ he asked.

‘Your pal’s a cop,’ said Klaus.

‘Like fuck he is,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve known him for donkey’s. He’s no grass.’

‘I said cop,’ said Klaus. ‘He works for the Met. Came across him a year or so ago. He was involved with a group of guys bringing in cannabis from Morocco. Customs grabbed the lot but when the dust cleared there was no sign of him. And he wasn’t James Gracie back then. Alistair something or other. I was always on the fringes so I never spoke to him, but it was him all right, no question.’

‘Well, that’s fucking news to me,’ said Shepherd, keeping his hands in the air. He nodded his chin at the glass he was holding. ‘I want to put my hands down, is that okay?’

‘No, it’s not fucking okay,’ said Thompson. He strode over and took the champagne off him, then pushed him down on to the bench seat. ‘Put your hands behind your head and cross your ankles.’

‘What?’

‘You heard him,’ said Klaus. ‘Sit the fuck down, put your hands behind your head and cross your fucking ankles.’