Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘Because she’s a woman?’

‘Come on, Spider, when was the last time you took orders from one? There’s none in the SAS, right, and precious few in the army. The only time we use women in undercover units is in honey-traps, pretty much.’

‘That’s not true, Razor. There’s plenty of women cops around. Good ones, too.’

Sharpe shook his head. ‘The big villains are all guys. Crime is an XY chromosome business.’

‘Doesn’t mean you can’t use women to get close to them.’

‘That’s what I said. Honey-traps.’

‘Racism and sexism in one day. You’re on a roll.’

‘Don’t get me started on religion!’ laughed Sharpe. He flicked the still-burning cigarette butt through the window.

‘Racism, sexism and littering,’ said Shepherd.

‘No biggie,’ said Sharpe. ‘We’re not cops any more, we’re civil servants, remember? You having second thoughts about Button?’

‘Not because she’s a woman,’ said Shepherd. ‘That didn’t even enter the equation.’

‘What, then?’

‘Her background.’

‘You don’t like upper-class, university-educated, Home Counties, riding-to-hounds types, then?’

‘It’s not about liking. It’s about trusting. It’s about knowing your back’s being watched.’

‘You think she should be here today? You’re only collecting the passport. No need for her to be around for that.’

‘I don’t need babysitting,’ said Shepherd. He took a deep breath. ‘Okay, let me tell you what I think’s wrong about her. She thinks this is a game. Good against evil, cops against robbers. She’s spent her whole working life in MI5, most of it behind a desk, and when she wasn’t behind a desk I’m damned sure she wasn’t getting her hands dirty. She thinks it’s like some huge game of chess, where she sits there like a grandmaster-’

‘Mistress,’ interrupted Sharpe. ‘Grandmistress.’

‘Screw you,’ snarled Shepherd. ‘If you don’t want to talk seriously, go fuck yourself.’

‘Just trying to ease the tension,’ said Sharpe. ‘Besides, the vision of Charlotte Button in thigh-length boots and a whip was too good to pass up.’

‘And what’s that got to do with chess?’

‘Okay, I’ll put my hands up. I was focusing more on the mistress aspect.’

Despite himself Shepherd laughed.

Sharpe lit another cigarette. ‘You think she’s just an academic, is that it?’ asked Sharpe.

‘I think she treats it like a game of chess, and that we’re just pieces she moves around. And if a piece or two have to be sacrificed to win, then so be it.’

‘She said that?’

‘It’s just my take on it. But she did say it was a game.’

‘In what way?’

‘She said “The game moves up a notch” when terrorism’s involved. How can anyone call terrorism a game?’

‘It’s an expression. Like raising your game. Or living to play another day.’

‘That’s what she said. I don’t know, Razor… She’s never fired a gun in anger, never faced a thug with a knife, never walked into a room with half a dozen villains who’d gouge your eyes out if they knew you were a cop. You walked a beat in Glasgow before you were in plain clothes. You’ve been in pubs when fists and bottles were flying, you’ve looked down the barrel of a gun and known that only your ability to bullshit would stop the other guy pulling the trigger. Hargrove had been there, too.’

‘Back when dinosaurs walked the earth, maybe,’ said Sharpe. ‘But, yeah, I know what you mean. Hargrove’s old school.’

‘She isn’t old school. She’s Oxbridge, fast-track promotion, management courses and human- resources bullshit. I don’t think she even knows what it’s like to be hurt. Maybe the odd manicure injury or a twisted ankle when she was getting to grips with high heels, but she’s never killed anyone.’

Sharpe coughed and exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Neither have I, truth be told,’ he said. He made a vain attempt to wave the smoke out of the window.

‘I didn’t mean it that way. It’s about understanding how the real world works. She’s no idea how violent men can be to each other. The damage they can do. I was shit-scared when they put me in that boot, Razor. Logically, I’d talked myself into believing that they had no reason to hurt me, but on a purely physical level, I was scared. I know the damage a bullet can do.’

Sharpe scratched his chin. ‘I’ve no reason to defend the woman, but just because she hasn’t been where the bullets are flying doesn’t mean she’s not up to the job. We should at least give her a chance, right?’

‘Yeah, maybe.’

‘Plus she’s got magnificent breasts.’

‘Razor…’

‘I’m just saying, Hargrove was a great boss, but there wasn’t much in the way of a cleavage, was there?’

As Button walked away from the helicopter, two marines in flak jackets and helmets brandished M16s and one practically screamed at her to show her identification. Button smiled sweetly and produced her MI5 pass. ‘Charlotte Button,’ she said. ‘I gather I’m expected.’

The older of the two marines studied the photograph, compared it with her face, nodded grimly, then handed it back to her. ‘Follow me, ma’am,’ he said. He led her away from the helicopter landing area towards a steel door set in a concrete wall. A third marine already had it open.

As she stepped inside the building, the helicopter’s turbine roared and it clattered up into the afternoon sky. A man was waiting for her in the corridor. He was in his late forties, with short bullet-grey hair and thin lips. He smiled and offered his hand. ‘Richard Yokely,’ he said, with a slight Southern drawl. There was large ring on his right ring finger, and a small gold pin held his dark blue tie in place. ‘Thanks for coming, Ms Button.’

‘It’s Charlie,’ said Button.

‘Then it’s Richard,’ said Yokely. ‘I’m glad you’re not one to stand on formalities. If you don’t mind, we’ll talk as we walk.’ He headed down the corridor. He was wearing a grey suit and black loafers with tassels, which worried Button. Her mother had once warned her never to trust a man with tassels on his shoes. Her mother had been a housewife, and had never wanted to do anything other than raise her family and keep house for her husband, but she was an astute judge of character and had rarely offered her children bad advice.

‘This morning we pulled in a Saudi by the name of Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed,’ said the American. ‘We have reason to believe he’s planning a terrorist incident here in the UK. Under normal circumstances we’d put him on a plane to Guantanamo Bay but there’s a time issue so we want to start the questioning here.’

‘Okay,’ said Button, cautiously.

‘Now, you’re probably wondering why we wanted you on board,’ said Yokely.

‘I’m told you wanted a good-looking female to be part of the interrogation team,’ said Button. ‘In another life, I’d be flattered.’

‘You’re a fluent Arabic speaker,’ said Yokely. ‘That’s why you’re here.’ He grinned. ‘But, yes, we wanted a woman because although he’s Western-educated he’s still a Saudi, and Saudi men are somewhat chauvinistic.’

‘If you call not allowing women to vote and stoning them for adultery, yes, they can be somewhat chauvinistic,’ said Button.

Yokely pulled open a fire door and stepped aside to let her go through first. ‘We took the view that a woman – and, dare I say it, an attractive one? – would put him on the wrong foot and keep him there.’

‘How’s this going to work?’ asked Button.

‘I’d like you to handle the interrogation,’ he said. ‘We’ll have him in an interview room and you’ll be asking the questions. I’ll be in radio contact with you and two of my operatives will be there to assist.’