Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘The Albanians are tough bastards,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m going to need back-up I can trust.’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ said Hargrove. ‘It’s starting to look like this is a serious currency ring. There’s a North Korean embassy in Tirana, Albania’s capital. If the North Koreans wanted to flood Europe with fake euros, the Albanian Mafia could do it efficiently for them, with Albanian asylum-seekers flooding into Fortress Europe. The Uddin brothers are just a small part of it.’ He rubbed his knee. ‘One thing I won’t miss about this job is sitting in the back of this bloody van. Do you want a lift home?’

‘I’m parked in a multi-storey down the road,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll be fine.’

‘How was the food?’ asked Singh. ‘My mouth was watering hearing that guy run through the menu.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘It was bloody good, actually. The guys like to eat.’

‘You seemed to be enjoying yourself,’ said Hargrove.

‘They’re easy to relax with,’ said Shepherd. ‘They’re not your regular villains – they don’t have that edge so you don’t keep expecting them to fly off the handle.’

‘Not getting soft, are you, Spider?’ asked Hargrove.

Shepherd grunted dismissively. ‘They’re a pleasant change from the drug-dealing scumbags and blaggers I’m used to dealing with. I didn’t say they don’t deserve to be put away for what they’re doing.’ He climbed out of the van. ‘I’ll call you when they give me details of the meet,’ he said, and slammed the door. He turned up the collar of his pea coat and headed towards the car park.

It was Friday morning when Salik rang, a little after nine. Shepherd had just got back from his run. He’d picked up the Daily Mail and the Daily Telegraph from his local newsagent, with a cappuccino and two almond croissants from the delicatessen but had to leave them untouched as Salik wanted to see him within the hour. Speaker’s Corner again.

He showered and shaved, put on Tony Corke’s clothes and drove to Marble Arch. He had decided against wearing the bulletproof vest. He phoned Hargrove on the way but the superintendent confirmed what Shepherd already knew: that there had been no time to put any surveillance in place. The meeting would go unmonitored and there would be no backup.

‘It’s your call, Spider,’ said Hargrove.

‘It’s in the open – if he was up to something he’d have picked somewhere more private,’ said Shepherd.

‘Call me when you’re through,’ said Hargrove. ‘If you feel it’s necessary, I can get Sharpe and Joyce to head your way.’

‘It’ll probably be over by the time they turn up,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. He probably just wants a chat about the boat.’

‘If you change your mind, call me,’ said Hargrove.

Shepherd parked in a multi-storey and took a circuitous route to Speaker’s Corner. Salik Uddin was sitting on the bench where Shepherd had waited for him. He was wearing a camel coat with the collar turned up and peeling an orange. ‘Tony,’ he said, ‘thank you for coming.’

Shepherd sat down. Salik offered him a piece of fruit but he shook his head.

‘Vitamin C,’ said Salik. ‘It keeps colds at bay.’

Shepherd smiled. ‘My mother used to say that,’ he said, ‘but I had just as many colds as the other kids.’

Salik smiled and popped a segment into his mouth. ‘Mothers always know best.’ He chewed slowly. ‘So, where are you staying in London?’

‘A mate’s spare bedroom,’ said Shepherd. ‘His wife walked out too, so we’ve a lot in common. Thanks for the meal the other night. Best Indian food I’ve ever had.’

‘Bangladeshi food,’ corrected Salik.

‘Sorry,’ said Shepherd. ‘Best Bangladeshi food I’ve ever eaten.’

Salik reached into one of the side pockets of his jacket and took out a brand new British passport. He handed it to Shepherd. ‘That was quick,’ Shepherd said.

‘We get fast-track treatment,’ said Salik.

‘That’s why it costs so much, I guess.’

Salik smiled. ‘Ten thousand pounds for a genuine British passport is cheap, my friend. I spent five times that on legal fees for my application and Matiur has spent twice as much and doesn’t even have citizenship yet.’

Shepherd opened the passport and flicked to the back. The photograph he’d taken at Paddington station grinned up at him. The date of birth made him thirty-three and the name was Peter Devereux. Place of birth, Bristol. Shepherd ran his fingers over the lamination, and examined the pages.

‘Don’t worry, it is the real thing,’ said Salik, as if reading his mind. ‘It’s not a copy or a facsimile, or your photograph stuck in someone else’s passport.’

‘If it’s so easy, why doesn’t Matiur just buy one? Why does he bother going through the whole legal process?’

‘He is already in the system – has been for the past five years. We have only had our contact in the Passport Agency for the past three years. You see, at the moment the only real identifying feature in a passport is the photograph. But soon they’ll be biometric, with either fingerprints or retinal scans incorporated. When that happens anyone who is in the system twice will be spotted. Anyway, travelling isn’t a problem as Matiur has permanent residency, so he’s happy with the way things are. He will get citizenship. It’s just a matter of time.’

Shepherd put away the passport. ‘Okay, I’ll head off back to Dover.’

‘Actually, there’s something I need you to do first.’ Salik’s hand disappeared inside his coat again and reappeared with a white envelope.

Shepherd took it and opened it. Inside, a dark blue folder contained a Eurostar ticket. ‘What’s this?’ he said.

‘Your train leaves Waterloo at nine minutes past one,’ said Salik. ‘You have plenty of time to get to the station.’

Shepherd stared at the ticket. It was in the name of Peter Devereux. ‘You can’t do this!’ he exploded.

‘What do you mean?’ said Salik, evidently confused by his outburst.

‘Have me running off to Paris at the drop of a hat.’

‘You’ll be back by this evening,’ said Salik, patiently. ‘They will meet you in Paris. You will be there for three hours and you will be back in London by ten o’clock.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘The men who are arranging the shipment. They want to meet you. I have already emailed them your photograph.’

‘You did what?’ Shepherd was genuinely alarmed. As Tony Corke he had no reason to refuse to go to Paris to meet the Albanians. But as Dan Shepherd, undercover cop, he knew that the Albanians wouldn’t think twice about killing him if they knew his true identity. And now they had his photograph.

‘Just so they’ll be able to spot you. They need to know what you look like.’

‘Salik, I’ve got things to do.’

‘A few hours, that’s all. Less than three hours there, three hours back.’

Shepherd stood up. ‘God damn it, you can’t treat me like some sort of servant!’

‘You are working for me, remember?’ said Salik, quietly. His voice had hardened. ‘And the Albanians will not do business with men they do not know. You will go, or we are through.’ He stared at Shepherd with unblinking brown eyes.

Shepherd had been backed into a corner. Tony Corke had no valid reason for refusing to go. He needed the money – and Salik was right: he was no more than a hired hand. ‘Okay,’ he said.

Salik smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s a formality. Just go over, show your face, and they’ll put the consignment together.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You’d better be going,’ he said. ‘The traffic’s pretty heavy over the river so if I were you I’d get the Tube.’