Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘Not a team, exactly. More a group of individuals who may or may not work in co-operation on particular assignments.’

‘So I’d just sit at home, waiting for the call?’

Yokely shook his head. ‘You’d be placed with an official body, the Office of Anti-terrorism Assistance, for instance, as a consultant. You’d advise law-enforcement personnel from friendly governments on procedures to deal with terrorism. Bomb detection, crime-scene investigation, VIP protection. All the sort of techniques you’re familiar with. And then, from time to time, we’d draw on you to utilise your particular talent.’

‘You think killing people is a talent?’

‘Most people can’t do it, Dan,’ said the American, in a low whisper. ‘They reckon that up to half the soldiers who stormed the beaches on D-Day were firing high. And you’re doing well if you can get a quarter of the men in a firing squad to hit the target. Human beings aren’t natural killers of their own species. Few animals are. You’re special, Dan. And in return for your services, you’d be very well paid. I’m not sure exactly what salary you’re currently on, but I can guarantee that while you’re working for us you’ll be getting ten times as much. And as much downtime as you need. Full medical and psychiatric back-up.’

Shepherd grimaced. ‘I already have a shrink on my case,’ he said.

‘They’re necessary,’ said Yokely. ‘We’re very well aware of the psychological damage that can be done by taking human life. You won’t be on your own.’

‘And if I get caught?’

‘You’ll have the full backing of the White House,’ said the American. ‘First of all, anything we do will be so well planned, so well thought out, that every eventuality will have been taken into account.’

‘Yeah, and they said the Titanic was unsinkable,’ said Shepherd.

‘Second of all, in the unlikely event that any operative is in the least bit compromised, all it will take is a one-on-one phone call from our big guy to your big guy and it gets smoothed out.’

‘As easy as that?’

‘These are big boys’ games, Dan,’ said Yokely. ‘Big boys’ rules apply.’ He sighed. ‘No one expects you to make up your mind here and now,’ he said. ‘Think about it. Think about whether or not you’re up to it. Whether or not you want to be involved. If so, we can talk again. If not, well, hell, it’s been nice chewing the fat with you. But I want you to know one thing. The world now is a very dangerous place. A lot of innocent people are going to die. As a cop, you’ll be putting away villains – drug-dealers, conmen, thieves. You come and work for us and you’ll really be making a difference.’ Yokely stood up. ‘It’s important work, Dan. It doesn’t come any more important.’

Shepherd didn’t turn to watch the American walk away. He stared at the wall, swirling his whiskey and ice in the glass, trying to pin down how he felt about Yokely’s offer. Could he become a government-sanctioned assassin? Could he kill total strangers for no other reason than that he was told to? Didn’t that put him on the same moral level as a terrorist? Didn’t they kill for what they believed in? Hell, wouldn’t he be worse than a terrorist? He’d be killing for cold, hard cash. He took a long pull at his drink. And it would mean lying to his friends and family. It had been bad enough when he was in the SAS and almost everything was classified. If he worked for Yokely, he’d never be able to tell anyone what he did for a living. It would be worse than working undercover. He’d be living a lie at every minute of every day.

He closed his eyes and leaned back, placing the cold glass against his forehead. The money would be useful, though. A few years at that level and he’d be set up for life. Assuming that men who worked for Yokely were allowed to retire. Any organisation that was geared up for execution without trial would have no qualms about disposing of former employees who knew too much. It would be a tough decision to make. He’d have to think about it. Long and hard. But he was sure of one thing already. He was certain he could the job. And do it well.

Shepherd waited until Liam was asleep before slotting an unused Sim card into one of his phones. He took it upstairs to his bedroom and pulled out the drawer in one of the bedside cabinets. Inside was a small digital recorder to which was attached a length of black plastic-coated wire ending in a small suction cup. He licked the suction cup and pressed it to the back of the mobile. Then, on his work mobile, he called up the text message Hargrove had sent him. He tapped out the number and listened to the ringing tone, then pressed ‘play’ on the recorder. After half a dozen rings the call was answered but nobody spoke. ‘Hello?’ said Shepherd. No one answered. ‘Is anyone there?’

‘Who is this?’ said a voice.

Shepherd couldn’t place the accent. ‘Who am I speaking to?’ he asked.

The line went dead. ‘Great,’ Shepherd muttered. ‘Play hard to get, why don’t you?’

He pressed ‘redial’. Three rings later, the call was answered. Again, no one spoke. ‘Listen, I’ve got something you want,’ said Shepherd. ‘Hang up on me again and I’ll keep it for myself.’

‘Who is this?’ said the voice. Indian, maybe, or Pakistani – even Bangladeshi. There were so many possibilities that it was pointless to guess.

‘I’m the guy who’s got the stuff you were expecting from France.’

‘You’re not Pernaska.’

‘Do I sound like an asylum-seeker?’

‘Where is Pernaska?’

‘The cops have got him.’

The line went quiet as if someone had put a hand over the receiver. After a few seconds, the man spoke again: ‘You have what Pernaska was carrying?’

‘I have all his shit. Including the cans he was supposed to give you.’

‘And how did you get this number?’

‘Because I’m psychic,’ said Shepherd, scornfully. ‘How do you think I got the number?’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’ said the man, patiently.

‘Rudi gave it to me and told me to call you.’

‘Because?’

‘Because the immigration cops have got him under wraps and he was worried you might think he’d gone off with your drugs.’

‘Drugs? What drugs?’

‘Look, I wasn’t born yesterday,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s not cooking oil you wanted brought into the country. Now, do you want it or not?’

‘It is our property. Of course we want it,’ said the man.

‘Well, possession being nine-tenths of the law, strictly speaking it’s my property at the moment.’

The line went quiet again. Then a second voice spoke, deeper than the first, the accent similar. ‘Who is this?’

‘Am I talking to the organ-grinder, finally?’ asked Shepherd.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Are you the guy in charge?’

‘Who are you?’

‘We’re going round in circles here,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got the cans. I assume you want them. How much are you prepared to pay me?’

‘Pay you? For what?’

‘For the cans. For what’s in them?’

‘Have you opened them?’

‘No. But if we don’t get to the point, I will. Now, are we going to do business or not?’

‘How much do you want?’

‘How much are you prepared to pay?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Five thousand pounds.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘I’m not Federal Express,’ he said. ‘If that’s the best you can do, I’m going to get a can-opener.’

‘Twenty,’ said the man, hurriedly. ‘Twenty thousand pounds. That’s my final offer.’

‘That’s more like it.’

‘Now, at least I should know the name of the man I’m giving twenty thousand pounds to.’

‘No names,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t need to know who you are, you don’t need to know who I am.’