Stephen Leather - Dead Men

As the Predator continued to bank to the left, still flying low, Nichols centred the nose-cone camera on the burning Mercedes. The car was lying on its side and clouds of black smoke were being blown across the road by the desert wind. The Landcruiser had run off the road to avoid the explosion. The Gurkha bodyguards were standing in the sand, their hands on their heads as they stared helplessly at the wreckage.

Yokely’s face tightened as he watched the car burn. He had known the bodyguard sitting in the front passenger seat of Othman’s car. He had been a former Navy Seal who had served with Delta Force and worked with Yokely on an anti-drugs operation in Colombia during the mid-nineties. Unlike Yokely, Rick Dawson had quit working for the Government and moved into the more lucrative private sector. It was simply bad luck that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but it had been his choice. No one had forced him to work for Othman. There was no way that Yokely could have warned him of what was to happen. The bodyguard would have had to come up with some excuse to get himself off the convoy, which might have tipped off the target.

‘Who was he?’ asked Howell, interrupting Yokely’s train of thought.

‘Just an angry old man,’ said Yokely. ‘He won’t be missed.’

The phone rang, dragging Shepherd out of a dreamless sleep. He groped for the receiver, fumbled, and pressed it to his ear. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Daniel Shepherd?’ It was a woman, upper class. Her voice alone could have frozen water.

‘Who is this?’ growled Shepherd. The only person who ever called him Daniel was his mother-in-law, but this definitely wasn’t Moira.

‘Hold the line, please, Mr Shepherd. I have the Prime Minister for you.’

‘What?’ said Shepherd. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Music started to play. Classical, something with lots of violins. ‘Hello?’ said Shepherd.

He wondered if this was a practical joke, but then a man was on the line and he knew immediately that it wasn’t a prank. He recognised the Prime Minister’s measured tones and the soft Scottish burr he’d heard so many times on news broadcasts.

‘Sorry to call you so late, Mr Shepherd, but I’ve been trying to get our Education Bill through and I’m having to grease an awful lot of wheels.’

Shepherd tried to focus on the digital clock on his bedside table. It was just after one o’clock. ‘That’s all right, sir. Not a problem.’

‘I’ve been asked to give you a call to reassure you that we are aware of the approach that has recently been made to you by your American counterparts.’

‘Right, sir. Thank you.’

‘The fight against terrorism is one we absolutely have to win. There’s no question about that. And sometimes measures have to be taken that fall outside the remit of our law-enforcement agencies.’ The Prime Minister spoke slowly, almost as if he was reading from a script.

‘I understand, sir.’

‘We’re very grateful for the work you’ve done for us in the past, your exemplary army career and the excellent job you’ve done as a police officer and with SOCA. There’s no pressure on you to accept the offer that has been made. All I’m doing is calling to let you know that if you do accept, you do so with our blessing and that you will be accorded whatever protection we’re able to offer. Subject to total deniability, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Shepherd.

‘So, that’s it, then. Good night, and God bless.’

‘Good night, sir.’

The line went dead and Shepherd hung up. Richard Yokely had been right. He did have friends in high places.