Stephen Leather - Dead Men

Salih smiled. ‘It is a challenge,’ he said. ‘But challenges must be paid for.’

‘And your fee would be?’

Salih’s smile widened. ‘It will depend on the targets,’ he said.

‘The American works for the Government. Former CIA, now in one of the greyer areas of Homeland Security. The woman is a police officer in England.’

‘Not civilians, then,’ said Salih.

‘Civilians are cheaper?’

‘Of course, because they are easier to deal with. I will require two million dollars each. Plus all expenses, which will be considerable.’

‘How considerable?’

‘I will need a quarter of a million dollars in advance. That will be non-refundable, whatever the outcome.’

‘Agreed.’

‘I will make my preparations, and before I go ahead I will require fifty per cent of my fee, the rest to be paid once the job is done.’

‘Also agreed,’ said Aslam. ‘There is something you must do when you kill them.’

‘I am listening,’ said Salih.

‘When they die, they must be told that they are dying because of what they did to Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed and to his brother Abdal Rahmaan. Those must be the last words they hear as they die. Do you understand?’

‘I understand,’ Salih said. He paused briefly. Then, ‘Why did you come to me?’ he asked.

‘Because you are a Muslim,’ said Aslam, meeting his gaze. ‘They must be killed by a Muslim.’ Salih nodded slowly. ‘And because you are very good at what you do. You have never been caught and, as far as I am aware, you have never failed.’

‘Not once,’ said Salih.

‘You are able to move freely between countries and you are, above all else, a professional. So, you are the perfect choice. Now, is there anything you require from me that will assist you?’

‘Just the money,’ said Salih.

‘I can supply you with passports and visas if required.’

‘I have my own sources.’

‘Of course.’ Aslam took an envelope from his jacket pocket and stood up to hand it to Salih. ‘I do not have photographs, unfortunately, but I have accurate descriptions of both parties, full names and some personal details.’

‘That will be enough,’ said Salih, taking the envelope. He dropped it on top of the money and clicked the locks of the attache case. ‘We shall not meet again,’ he said. ‘Unless my fee is not forthcoming, of course.’

Muhammad Aslam chuckled. ‘I heard you had a sense of humour,’ he said.

‘You heard wrong.’

Shepherd pulled up in front of the industrial unit and parked the Audi A6 next to Charlotte Button’s Lexus. The unit was on the outskirts of Liverpool on an industrial estate close to the M57. The car hadn’t been Shepherd’s choice. It had been delivered to his home in Hereford as part of his legend and he regretted having to leave his SUV behind. He was Jamie Pierce, a website designer and computer geek, who was relocating from Bristol to Belfast and who would have no need of an SUV. Along with the car he’d been given a file containing the Jamie Pierce legend, which he’d committed to memory. He was single, had never married and had no children. A man who was more comfortable with computers than with people. One of the hardest things about being under cover was remembering the personal details of his legend and blanking out his own past. In the real world he had a ten-year-old son, and a wife who’d died in a senseless traffic accident, but while he was under cover he had to push them to the back of his mind. Shepherd hated having to pretend that his family had never existed, no matter how necessary it was.

Two other vehicles were parked outside the unit, a fluorescent green VW Beetle and a black Jeep Cherokee with wire wheels. Shepherd didn’t know who owned the Beetle but the Cherokee belonged to Amar Singh, a technician who had worked for the Metropolitan Police but transferred to SOCA at the same time as Shepherd. He climbed out of the car and pushed open the door into the unit. Button and Singh were deep in conversation. A woman with curly blonde hair in a long green dress with a cardigan draped over her shoulders was standing by a pile of furniture with a clipboard. They all looked up as Shepherd walked across the concrete floor. Singh flashed him a thumbs-up. ‘Spider, welcome,’ said Button. ‘This is Jenny Lock, our dresser.’

Shepherd shook hands with Lock. ‘You were at Five with Charlie?’ he asked.

‘I’m freelance,’ she said. ‘I go where the money is.’ She was in her mid-thirties, pretty with flawless skin and long eyelashes.

‘Charlie keeps telling me there’s no money at SOCA,’ said Shepherd.

‘Only when I see your expense claims,’ said Button. She glanced at the furniture and cardboard boxes. ‘I wanted Jenny to go through everything before it gets delivered to Belfast.’

‘Fine by me,’ said Shepherd.

‘What time’s your sailing?’ asked Button.

‘Plenty of time,’ said Shepherd. ‘It leaves at ten thirty so I should get to the port just after nine.’

‘We’ve got the removal firm booked on the morning ferry,’ said Lock,‘so it should be with you early afternoon tomorrow.’ She handed him the clipboard. As a dresser, her job was to provide the accessories that went with his legend. Shepherd inspected the furniture and electrical equipment. There was a Dell computer and monitor in their original boxes, along with a printer and a Sony laptop. ‘We’ve put lots of work-related info on to the hard drives, and set you up with an email address that’s got work-related correspondence. We’ll be sending you stuff every day, and I suggest you reply whenever you can. Neither of the computers are secure, of course, so stay in character with anything you send.’

‘Of course,’ said Shepherd.

‘A lot of Elaine Carter’s friends are police and police wives, so there’s a chance you’ll be checked out,’ said Button.

‘You think someone’ll get into my computers?’

‘Wouldn’t you?’said Button. ‘Given the chance? You know how protective cops can be of their own. And not just the cops. Let’s not forget you’re an Englishman in Belfast. MI5 is still very much active in the province so anyone with an English accent will attract attention. The IRA have disarmed but they’re still active, while the UDF, UVF and the rest of the Unionist boys will be looking at you. Belfast has changed since the Peace Process gained momentum, but both sides are still gathering intelligence.’

‘My legend better be watertight, then.’

‘It’s rock solid,’ said Button. ‘I’ve set up designated phone numbers for three former employers on your CV and we’ve put motoring offences on the PNC. We’ve flagged your details on the computer so if anyone looks at you we’ll know straight away. We’ve used a safe-house in Bristol as your former address and we’ve backdated utility accounts, council-tax payments and the electoral roll. We even put you on a local GP’s list. I’ll give you all the details before you leave.’

‘And the car’s kosher?’

‘You’ve had it since new, and it ties in with the speeding offences. We’ve got backdated parking tickets. We’ll leave the British plates on.’ She nodded at Singh. ‘Amar has rigged up a special mobile for you.’

Singh handed Shepherd a new model Nokia. ‘Stun gun?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Infinity transmitter,’ said Singh. ‘Everything it picks up is sent through the phone system to my receiver, whether or not the phone is switched on.’ Singh grinned. ‘So be careful what you say.’

‘How do I switch it off?’

‘You don’t,’ said Singh.

‘What if I take out the battery?’

Singh sighed. ‘Yes, obviously, if you remove the power source, it won’t be able to transmit.’