Stephen Leather - Dead Men

‘Interesting,’ said Salih. ‘Intelligence agents don’t change horse mid-career.’

‘SOCA needed staff, and the traditional police are too set in their ways,’ said Merkulov. ‘They recruited from MI5,MI6 and various private-sector agencies. Button had run undercover operatives for MI5 so they approached her to run SOCA’s undercover unit.’

‘SOCA works throughout the UK, right?’

‘Country-wide,’ said the Russian. ‘The undercover unit mounts its own investigations but also accepts assignments from individual forces.’

‘Tell me about SOCA,’ said Salih.

‘Just under four and a half thousand employees. It was set up in 2006 when the British Government merged the National Crime Squad, the National Criminal Intelligence Service, the investigative sections of Customs and Excise and the Immigration Service.’

‘Do we know where she’s working at the moment?’

‘No. The problem is that SOCA is so new I have few contacts within it. I hope to rectify that over the next few months. I can tell you that she isn’t based at SOCA headquarters. In fact, she doesn’t appear to operate out of a permanent base and seems to have no ancillary staff reporting directly to her. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.’

Salih sipped his water and carefully placed his glass on the table. ‘And the American?’

‘I have photographs, and the contents of his SVR file, which is substantial. Unfortunately, it’s also light on personal information. His details were cleansed during his time with the CIA so there’s nothing of his early life on file. No birth certificate, no education or service record. There is a good chance that Richard Yokely isn’t his real name. We know what he has done, and we know where he has been but, like all of the men who work for black operations, we have no real idea of who he is.’

‘Do you know his present location?’

The Russian looked pained. ‘I’m afraid not, my friend. Yokely flies in and out of countries without documentation and, like Button, he has no permanent base. We see him visiting embassies around the world, and there are photographs of him on rendition flights to Egypt, the Ukraine and Pakistan. He is a frequent visitor to Guantanamo Bay, of course. And to Iraq and Afghanistan.’

‘What about locating him? How would I go about doing that?’

‘We could put the word out, but frankly, my friend, I am loath to do that. A man like Yokely will have contacts around the world and he would soon know that someone was on his trail. It would be the same if someone started asking questions about me. It would not be long before I received a phone call tipping me off.’

‘So we would know where he is, but he would know that we’re looking for him?’

‘Exactly.’

‘What about his phone?’

‘He uses disposable Sim cards or secure satellite phones,’ said the Russian.

‘Would you be able to get me a current number?’

‘At a price. Do you want to contact him?’

‘It’s a possibility. See what you can do.’

The waitress brought their food and the two men waited until she’d gone before continuing their conversation.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been more helpful,’ said Merkulov.

Salih knew that the Russian’s professional pride had been dented. ‘If it was easy, Viktor, anyone would be able to do what we do.’ He speared a chip with his fork. ‘Obviously I want you to keep a watching brief. And there’ll be a bonus on anything you can get for me.’

Merkulov picked up his glass and clinked it against Salih’s. ‘Always a pleasure to deal with a professional,’ he said.

Shepherd drove into the city centre and parked his Audi in a multi-storey car park. He found a locksmith in a side road off Great Victoria Street and handed over the two keys he’d taken from Elaine’s kitchen. The elderly man behind the counter copied them while he waited.

When he got back to his house, Elaine’s car had gone. He parked in front of his garage and switched off his engine. It was late afternoon. He took out his mobile phone and called Elaine. When she answered she was obviously driving. ‘I hope you’re on hands-free,’ he said.

‘Hi, Jamie. Yeah, I’m fine.’

‘Just wondered if we could have a chat this afternoon about the stuff you gave me.’

‘I’d love to,’ said Elaine, ‘but I’m off to see a client now and probably won’t be back until six.’

‘Maybe tomorrow, then,’ said Shepherd. ‘Drive carefully.’ He cut the connection. It was just after four o’clock. He climbed out and walked across the grass to her front door, checking that no one was watching. He took the newly cut keys from his pocket and let himself in. The burglar alarm beeped softly. He shut the door, went down the hallway and tapped in the four-digit security code. The beeping stopped. Shepherd took a deep breath. What he was doing was totally illegal and he knew that in entering her house without a search warrant he risked blowing the whole operation, but he also knew that he wasn’t going to get anywhere by taking Elaine Carter out for an occasional drink.

He went into the kitchen and replaced the keys he’d taken. He knew he shouldn’t stay in the house for more than thirty minutes, in case she returned early. Where would she hide a gun? He kept his own weapon in a locked drawer, but Elaine would have to be more circumspect because she could never be sure that the police wouldn’t turn up with a search warrant. He smiled to himself. That, of course, assumed she was guilty and was using her husband’s service revolver to murder his killers. If she didn’t have the gun, he could search the house until kingdom come and not find anything. He looked at the key box and wondered whether he should start with the garden shed. He decided against it. Elaine had been married to a cop so she’d know how cops think. The shed was one of the first places they’d look. Garden sheds were also vulnerable to break-ins, so if she had it she’d be more likely to hide it in the house. People tended to conceal guns in the same sort of places that drug-dealers hid their wares – under floorboards, behind skirting, in toilet cisterns and water tanks, in the back of stereos and televisions. Or buried in the back garden. Shepherd realised he was wasting time. He would do it methodically and search one room at a time.

Charlotte Button’s mobile rang and she picked it up off the bedside table. It was her husband. ‘Graham, I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier,’ she said. ‘I was rushed off my feet.’

‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘Belfast. I’m staying at the Europa but use the mobile because I’m not in the room much.’

‘It’s a good thing I trust you because you’re behaving like an unfaithful wife,’ said Pickering, but she could tell he was joking.

‘I wish I had time for a lover,’ she said. ‘It’s been non-stop the last few days.’

‘All for the greater good, I’m sure,’ said Pickering, with a touch of irony. ‘Zoe phoned yesterday. She’s lost her mobile.’

‘What? She’s only had it a couple of months.’

‘I’m just the messenger, darling,’ said Pickering. ‘She made a reversed-charge call from the school to my office, bless her, and asked if you’d call her back. I did try her mobile number but it’s not ringing.’

‘I’ll phone the school tomorrow,’ said Button. ‘Did she sound okay?’

‘Same as usual,’ said Pickering. ‘Getting information out of her is like getting blood from a stone.’ He chuckled drily. ‘Just like her mother.’

‘What about you? Everything okay?’

‘Only just got home and I’m knackered,’ said Pickering. ‘There’s a small chain in Ascot that we might be able to buy if we can get the financing lined up.’