Stephen Leather - Cold Kill

‘With the questioning?’ said Button.

‘With the physical side of it,’ said the American. The corridor came to a T-junction and he steered her to the left.

‘Physical side?’

‘From the intelligence we have, he’s not going to want to talk,’ said Yokely. ‘Of course, you might prove us wrong, in which case I’ll happily eat whatever item of headwear you have available.’

‘I don’t follow you,’ said Button. ‘If I’m running the interrogation, what exactly will your men be doing?’

Yokely looked pained. ‘Charlie, the man you’ll be talking to might well be responsible for the deaths of hundreds of people. And may be planning to kill hundreds more. We won’t be using kid gloves. I don’t want you going in there under any illusions. The interrogation is going to be quite robust.’

‘Robust?’

‘Hard core,’ said Yokely. ‘We’re going to do whatever it takes to get him to talk.’

‘Within the law, right?’ said Button, apprehensively.

Yokely smiled without warmth. ‘Let’s just see how it goes,’ he said.

‘And I conduct the interrogation in Arabic?’

Yokely shook his head. ‘No. English. But show him that you speak Arabic. I want him to know that you understand the way he thinks. You don’t become fluent in a language without understanding a country’s culture.’

‘So I’m a Western woman, but one who understands Arab ways?’

‘Exactly.’

‘If he’s with al-Qaeda, he’s not going to respond to questioning.’

‘That’s a distinct possibility,’ said the American. ‘But we should give him the opportunity to co-operate. He knows we’ll never let him go now that we have him so we can offer him a way out. A new identity. Money. Whatever it takes.’

‘But again, if he’s al-Qaeda that’s not going to work. They’re fanatics. Most of them are prepared to die for their cause. Their religion promises them eternity in heaven if they die as martyrs.’

‘Agreed.’

‘So if he won’t talk, and he refuses to be bribed, what then?’

‘Then we get robust,’ said Yokely. ‘Don’t worry, my men are experts. You’ll just watch, and learn.’

‘What about playing him the Barney song? Isn’t that what you do in Guantanamo Bay?’

‘You can mock, Charlie, but it works. It takes time, but exposure to banal music over long periods can bring on disorientation. And disorientation is half the battle. Problem is, we don’t have the time. You can try talking to him, but I think you’ll find that we’ll have no choice other than to get physical.’

Salik smiled and passed a brand-new UK passport to Shepherd. ‘So, now I suppose I should call you Christopher,’ he said.

‘That’s the idea,’ said Shepherd. He opened the passport and examined the photograph and details. It was as perfect as the last passport Salik had given him.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Salik.

‘I’m not sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can’t sell the house until the court case is over. I might just have to walk away from it.’

‘Your fingerprints will always be on file,’ said Salik. ‘If ever you get caught by the police again, they’ll know you’re Tony Corke.’

‘I don’t plan to get caught again,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got the money you’ve given me and that’s enough to start over. Spain, maybe. Or France.’ He grinned. ‘Maybe I’ll go and work for Kreshnik.’

Salik’s smile evaporated. ‘I hope that’s a joke, Tony,’ he said. ‘Kreshnik is a dangerous man.’

‘You introduced me to him.’

‘No, he said he wanted to meet you. It wasn’t my idea for you to go to Paris, you know that. I do business with him, but at arm’s length. Anyway, he’s happy now. We can do more business together, Tony. You and Matiur and me. We trust each other, and we won’t let each other down. You can make serious money, enough to start a new life anywhere in the world.’

‘What we do is safe,’ said Matiur. ‘It’s clean. We’re not hurting anybody. We’re not dealing with drugs, or arms, or profiting from the misery of others. And we can pay you well.’

Shepherd nodded, but didn’t say anything. He slid the passport into the top pocket of his shirt. He had a plastic Ziploc bag in his jacket pocket and he’d transfer the passport to that when he was outside.

‘What are you doing at the weekend, Tony?’ asked Salik.

‘Why? Are you ready for another run?’

Salik laughed. ‘It’s always work with you, isn’t it? No, it’s my wife’s birthday on Saturday and there’s going to be a big party. It’s supposed to be a surprise but I’m pretty sure she knows what’s happening. It’ll be in the afternoon and there’ll be lots of children. Bring your boy.’

Shepherd pretended to consider the offer. Then he nodded. ‘I’m not sure if my ex-wife will let me have him for the weekend but, yeah, I’ll be there.’

‘Excellent,’ said Salik. He gave Shepherd a printed invitation. ‘Don’t bother with a present or anything, just come.’

Shepherd thanked him and put the card into his coat pocket. He stood up, suddenly feeling guilty at what he was doing. He shook hands with Salik. ‘See you,’ he said.

‘On Saturday,’ said Salik.

‘On Saturday,’ repeated Shepherd, although he knew he would not be at the party.

Matiur stepped forward and hugged Shepherd, patting his back.

Shepherd stiffened, but relaxed when he remembered he wasn’t wearing a wire. Button had only wanted him to collect the passport. They already had everything they needed to put the Uddin brothers away.

He went downstairs. Part of him was relieved that he wouldn’t have to see them again, but another part was sorry he wouldn’t be going to the party. He liked Salik, and under other circumstances he could imagine them being friends. But Salik liked Tony Corke, and Tony Corke was only a role Shepherd had been playing. After today he would cease to exist. In a few weeks, or months, Salik’s world would collapse around him, and it would all be Shepherd’s fault. He didn’t want to dwell on his betrayal of Salik Uddin.

As he walked out of the stairwell and into the street a man in a beige raincoat stepped aside to let him go by.

‘Thanks,’ muttered Shepherd.

The man grunted. He had his head down but Shepherd caught a glimpse of his face. Light brown hair, a long face with a dimpled chin, brown eyes. It was a face Shepherd had seen before. He looked over his shoulder but all he saw was the man’s back disappearing up the stairs.

Shepherd walked down the road and stopped outside a mobile-phone shop. He stared into the window, unseeing, as he flicked mentally through his memory files, searching for that face. It wasn’t someone he’d met, or spoken to, he was sure. And it wasn’t a computer file he’d seen. It was a photograph – but where? And when? Then the correct neurones fired and Shepherd remembered. He took out his mobile and phoned Sharpe. ‘Razor, are you in the car?’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. Where are you?’

‘Still parked up. Did everything go okay?’

‘I’ve got the passport, but something’s cropped up. I’ve just seen a face I recognise.’

‘Who?’

‘That’s the problem,’ said Shepherd. ‘I recognise the face but I don’t know the name. It’s a terrorist that Button’s on the lookout for. She had his photograph up on some sort of hit list.’

‘What sort of terrorist?’

‘Al-Qaeda.’

‘Shit.’

‘Exactly. Look, you hang fire there. I’m staying put until I’ve spoken to Button.’

Shepherd cut the connection and phoned Button.

Yokely and Button gazed through the glass window at the man sitting in the room next door. He was an Arab in his early thirties, good-looking with jet-black hair and piercing black eyes. He was wearing a well-cut suit and a crisp white shirt, buttoned with no tie. He sat with his legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded across his chest.