Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘We get the medals,’ said Shepherd.

‘Ah, yes, the medals,’ said the Major.

‘And we know we’ve got right on our side.’ Shepherd raised his glass to the Major. ‘So that’s all right, then.’

The two men clinked their glasses.

‘What about you?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Much on?’

‘Still looking after the Increment,’ said the Major. ‘I’m doing such a good job, apparently, that they don’t want me to do anything else.’ The Increment was the government’s best-kept secret: a group of highly trained special forces soldiers who were used on operations considered too dangerous for Britain’s security services, MI5 and MI6. The Major headed the unit from the Duke of York Barracks in London, close to Sloane Square. Calls from MI5 and MI6, and the prime minister’s office, came through on the satellite phone, which was never far from his side. The Major was able to draw on all the resources of the Special Air Service and the Special Boat Service, plus any other experts he required. ‘I keep telling them I’m too long in the tooth for all this action stuff, but they just pat me on the back and say I’m the best man for the job.’

‘It’s good to be wanted,’ said Shepherd.

‘Which is why I asked you here,’ said the Major. ‘Somebody wants you. Or, at least, a chat with you.’

‘About?’

‘That’s need-to-know, and apparently I don’t need to know.’

‘Terrific,’ said Shepherd.

The Major sipped his drink. ‘He’s here now.’

Shepherd smiled tightly. ‘The guy at the bar behind me? American, late forties, grey hair cut short, thin lips, class ring on his right hand, Rolex Submariner watch, the anniversary model with the green bezel, grey suit, pink shirt, blue tie with black stripes, black loafers with tassels, drinking gin and tonic?’

The Major grinned. ‘You and your photographic memory,’ he said. ‘But it’s vodka he’s drinking, not gin. How did you know he was a Yank?’

‘The class ring’s very American. And he’s reading the International Herald Tribune,’ said Shepherd. ‘Elementary, my dear Watson.’

The Major smiled. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘He’s very American.’

‘FBI, CIA, DEA?’

‘None of the above. He used to be CIA but now he’s something in Homeland Security. A special unit ans werable to someone at the White House.’ The Major picked up his metal briefcase and stood up. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said. ‘It’s for your ears only, he says.’

‘Secret Squirrel?’

The Major clapped Shepherd’s shoulder and headed for the door. On the way out he nodded to the man at the bar, who slid off his stool and carried his drink to Shepherd’s table. ‘Thanks for this, Dan,’ he said. He held out his hand. ‘Richard Yokely.’ He had a slight Southern drawl.

Shepherd shook his hand.

‘Can I get you another drink?’ asked Yokely.

‘I’m fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m surprised to see an American drinking alcohol. I thought, these days, you weren’t allowed any vices.’

‘I’m sure my secret’s safe with you,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’m old school. I reckon it’s more about the results a man gets than his appearance.’ He leaned across the table. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but I still enjoy the odd cigar.’ He chuckled, sat back in his chair and stretched out his legs. ‘So, thanks for coming. I’ve heard a lot about you, Dan. All good.’

‘That’s a worry,’ said Shepherd, ‘since I’m supposed to be undercover.’

‘We’re on the same side,’ said Yokely. ‘I get to see some very secret files. And your name was mentioned in glowing terms.’

‘And who is it you work for?’

The American shrugged carelessly. ‘I don’t have a business card, as such,’ he said. ‘Or an office. Truth be told, I’m more of a facilitator.’

‘For whom?’

Another shrug. And a slight smile. ‘For the government. In the same way that your Superintendent Hargrove is answerable to the Home Office, I answer directly to the head of Homeland Security. It’s a very tight chain of command. I talk to my boss, he talks to the President. Sometimes I talk to the President direct. And in the same way that your unit doesn’t have a name or any of those cute initials they like to give everything now, I don’t have a designated department.’ He grinned. ‘I’m just little old me. The be-all and end-all.’

‘And your brief?’

‘To save the free world, Dan. To make the world a safer place.’ He took a sip of his vodka and tonic, then swirled the ice round his glass with his index finger. ‘What you did, down in the Tube, that was one hell of a thing.’

Shepherd said nothing.

‘You saved a lot of lives,’ said Yokely.

‘I killed a man,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yes, you did,’ said the American. ‘You shot him in the back of the head. And some. Would you care to run it by me?’

Shepherd looked at Yokely for several seconds, then nodded slowly. That Gannon had arranged the meeting meant that Yokely could be trusted. Shepherd just wished he knew what the meeting was about. ‘I was working undercover, infiltrating an armed-response unit,’ he said. ‘As part of that operation I was on the Underground. Armed. There were four suicide-bombers primed to detonate at the same time. One was killed above ground – by muggers, as it happened. One went off above ground. One detonated on a platform at Liverpool Street station. I killed the fourth.’

Yokely grinned.

‘What’s funny?’ asked Shepherd, quickly. Too quickly. He’d sounded defensive.

‘Your terminology is much more forthright than I’m used to,’ said the American. ‘The guys I work with would never be so up-front. They’d refer to it as “terminating the objective” or “managing the situation” or something equally banal.’

‘I killed him,’ said Shepherd flatly. ‘Shot him seven times.’

‘You didn’t think that was overkill?’

‘The two bombs that went off killed forty-seven people and injured more than a hundred others,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can’t take any chances with suicide-bombers. Even mortally wounded, they can still press the trigger. You have to keep firing until you’re sure, absolutely sure, they’re dead. Or in a non-living situation, as your guys would probably say.’

‘You shot him from behind,’ said Yokely.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘So you couldn’t see if he was holding the trigger?’

‘It was a fair assumption.’

‘In fact,’ said Yokely, slowly, ‘you couldn’t even be sure that he was a suicide-bomber. Not from what you could see.’

‘He was wearing a vest packed with explosives,’ said Shepherd. ‘There was a timing device too, so that if he was incapacitated, the device would still explode.’

Yokely held up a hand. ‘Please don’t get me wrong, Dan. I’m not suggesting it wasn’t a totally righteous kill. You deserve a medal for what you did, no doubt about it. I’m just interested in the mechanics of what happened.’

‘I identified the target. I killed him before he could detonate the bomb. End of story.’

‘I suppose it would be trite to ask if you had any regrets.’

‘Regrets?’

‘About killing a man in cold blood.’

‘No one kills in cold blood,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s a fallacy. The adrenaline courses through the system, the heart races, the hands shake. You can train to suppress the body’s natural reactions, but no one kills coldly.’

‘You’ve killed before, right?’

‘In combat. Under fire.’

‘So what happened on the Tube, that was the first time you’d shot an unarmed man?’

‘Like I said, he wasn’t exactly unarmed,’ said Shepherd. ‘He was wired up with a dozen pounds of high explosive.’