Fair Game (7 page)

When the Arab had finished he opened a door to a room which had once been used as a larder but which now contained only a safe almost as tall as he was. There was an electronic keypad on the door and the Arab tapped out a six-digit number and pulled open the door with a grunt. He put Crazy Boy’s money on to a shelf in the middle, closed the door and joined him at the table. He picked up his glass of tea and toasted Crazy Boy before drinking. ‘So business is good?’ asked the Arab.

‘The ships still sail, the ransoms are paid, all is well with the world.’

‘I hear that the infidels are doing more to protect their ships.’

Crazy Boy shrugged. ‘They try, but there are too many ships and the sea is too large. But you are right, the pickings are not as easy as they once were. Still, he who does not seize opportunity today will be unable to seize tomorrow’s opportunity.’

The Arab smiled. ‘You Somalis have a proverb or saying for every occasion,’ he said.

‘It is the way we pass down our wisdom from generation to generation,’ said Crazy Boy. ‘One of our proverbs is that Somalis never utter a false proverb.’

The Arab chuckled. He poured more tea into Crazy Boy’s glass. ‘Simeon, one of my countrymen would like to meet you. There is a matter he wishes to discuss with you.’

Crazy Boy frowned. ‘And what would that matter be?’

The Arab scratched his beard and smiled apologetically. ‘I am afraid I am a mere middleman in this. He knows that I do business with you and thought that it might make you more comfortable if the approach was made through someone you know.’

‘You spoke to him about me?’ said Crazy Boy, his voice hardening.

‘He approached me, that’s all.’

‘He came here?’

The Arab shook his head as he fingered the beads of the
misbaha
. ‘It was at the mosque. Please don’t worry about this, he is a good man, a good Muslim, and he wanted to make the approach through me rather than to approach you direct because he did not want to cause you any offence.’

‘You told him that I send money to Somalia?’ Crazy Boy’s eyes flashed angrily. ‘This is not acceptable. I do business with you because I don’t want the world and his dog to know what I am doing. That is what I pay you for, privacy.’

The Arab waved his hands as if warding off an attack. ‘Please, no, do not misunderstand me. Of course I did not say anything about what passes between us. I would not stay in business for long if my tongue was as loose as that.’ He put a hand on Crazy Boy’s arm. ‘Brother, all that happened is that he spoke to me after prayers, and asked that I get you to contact him. It was a sign of respect that he did that. I know him and I know you. He merely asked that I pass on a request for a meeting. Our business was not discussed. Nor would I ever talk to anybody about what takes place here.’

Crazy Boy nodded. ‘OK. I’m sorry. Of course I trust you, how could we do this business without trust?’

‘Simeon, we Arabs also have many proverbs, one of which is this: “A foolish man may be known by six things: anger without cause, speech without profit, change without progress, enquiry without object, putting trust in a stranger and mistaking foes for friends.” I hope that by now you consider me a friend. I more than anyone understand that one should not put one’s trust in a stranger, but this man is not a stranger to me. I would trust him with my life. He is a good man and a good Muslim.’

‘But what does he want with me?’

‘To talk, Simeon. Just to talk.’ The Arab took a sip of his tea. ‘His name is Mamoud al-Zahrani. He is staying at the Hilton Hotel in Edgware Road.’

‘So I am summoned, is that it?’

The Arab smiled and shook his head. ‘Of course not, that’s not what I meant. He has a suite there and it’s a convenient place to meet, that’s all.’

‘Who is he, what does he do?’

‘Like me, he is also a middleman, but his connections are more political than mine.’

‘The Saudi royal family, you mean? He speaks for the sheikhs?’

‘He speaks with the sheikhs, but that is not what I meant by political.’ The Arab lowered his voice. ‘All I am asking is that you speak with him, Simeon. Hear what he has to say.’

Crazy Boy nodded. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

Shepherd was sitting in front of the television half-watching a chat show in which a woman pregnant for the fourth time was about to undergo a lie detector test to see if she had been unfaithful to her current boyfriend. The host of the show, with a reptilian smile and a Savile Row suit, was egging the audience on as they shouted abuse at the woman, an overweight bleached blonde in a pink leisure suit and silver ankle boots. Shepherd could tell from the woman’s body language that she wasn’t lying, she wasn’t being unfaithful and the baby was her boyfriend’s. He wondered why anyone would expose themselves to such hatred and ridicule on a show that was presumably seen by millions. The boyfriend was no catch, either, and had the clothes, posture and haircut of a man who’d spent a few years in prison and who would probably be back behind bars before too long. They seemed a well-suited couple, but Shepherd felt sorry for the woman’s kids.

On-screen the woman pushed herself up out of her chair and began screaming insults at someone in the audience, spittle flying from her mouth as she ranted and raved, her belly wobbling like a bowl of jelly. Two security men moved in to stop her diving into the audience, most of whom were now standing up and baying abuse at her. It was the first time in years that he had watched daytime television and Shepherd realised that he hadn’t missed much.

He picked up his remote and clicked through to Sky News. He was sitting on the sofa with his computer on his lap. He’d plugged in the thumb drive that Button had given him and was reading the briefing notes about the freight-forwarding company in Hammersmith and the personnel who were suspected of helping Crazy Boy choose his targets off the coast of Somalia. He wasn’t looking forward to going undercover in an office where the only danger he faced was the risk of a paper cut. As an undercover cop and later as a SOCA operative he’d taken on some of the biggest villains in the country, and in Northern Ireland he’d gone undercover to get close to terrorists, and while he understood the need to bring down a pirate warlord like Crazy Boy, he didn’t think that Button was making the best use of his talents. Still, on the plus side he’d be able to get home at weekends and there’d be no problems phoning Liam each evening.

He heard the phone ring and Katra answered it almost immediately. She came into the sitting room, holding the phone. ‘Caroline Stockmann,’ she said.

Shepherd muted the sound on the television. ‘My favourite psychologist,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I think you know,’ said Stockmann. ‘Charlie thought it might be a good idea if we got together, plus you’re overdue your biannual.’

‘The biannual psychological review was in my police contract and my SOCA contract but I don’t remember seeing it when I signed on with MI5.’

‘And your memory is good, isn’t it?’ said Stockmann.

‘Virtually photographic,’ agreed Shepherd. ‘Eidetic, they call it.’

‘The thing is, Charlie would very much like us to sit down for a while. And as you know, what Charlie wants, Charlie does tend to get. But whatever it may or may not have said in your contract, you do have to have a biannual.’

‘I’m in Hereford, Caroline.’

‘And isn’t that a coincidence.’ She laughed.

Shepherd didn’t say anything for several seconds. ‘Please don’t say you’re stalking me, Caroline.’

‘It’s more of a Muhammad coming to the mountain situation,’ she said.

‘It’s not the first time you’ve said that,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s either that or you claim to be doing some work for the Regiment.’

‘What can I say? It’s as if you can read my mind.’

Shepherd sighed. ‘Where would you like to meet?’

‘How about the same place we met last time I was in your neck of the woods. Not a booth, because I know how much you hate sitting in booths, not being able to push them out of the way and all.’

‘When?’

‘Anytime this afternoon. You give me a time.’

‘Two o’clock.’

‘Two o’clock it is.’

Shepherd put down the phone. ‘Who was that?’ asked Liam.

‘My stalker.’

‘Your stalker?’ Liam gasped. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Joke,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s someone from work.’

‘You said you were on holiday.’

‘I am, she just wants a chat. An hour or two at most.’

‘Is it your boss?’

Shepherd shook his head. ‘No, that’s Charlotte Button. This lady is someone else; she has to do a report on me to say that I’m doing my job OK.’

‘Like a school report?’

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yes, that’s pretty much what it is.’

‘I hope you pass.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘You and me both.’

Shepherd got to the pub early but Stockmann had beaten him to it and had installed herself at a circular table close to the booths that overlooked the car park. ‘The early bird,’ she said, raising a half-full pint of bitter in salute.

‘Excellent tradecraft.’ Shepherd laughed. ‘Always get to the meeting first and sit with your back to the wall.’ They shook hands and then Shepherd went over to the bar and bought a lager shandy, heavy on the lemonade. ‘So what time did you get here?’ he asked as he sat down opposite her.

‘I was already in town when I phoned,’ she said.

‘You were taking a risk, weren’t you? What if I wasn’t around?’

‘Well, first of all I knew you were, and second of all they do a good pint here and serve a ploughman’s lunch that’s one of the best I’ve ever tasted, so it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to be here on my own for a couple of hours.’ She gestured at the remains of a ploughman’s on the table.

‘So I’m guessing you didn’t come all the way over to Hereford just for me?’

The psychologist nodded. ‘I’m here for a few days,’ she said. ‘I actually am doing quite a bit for the Regiment.’

‘Checking that they’re fit for purpose?’

‘To be honest, most of what I’m doing involves former members of the Regiment. Guys who’ve left and are finding it difficult on the outside. You’ve got to look pretty long and hard to find a group of people more prone to suicide than former SAS troopers.’ She sipped her beer.

‘That’s the truth,’ said Shepherd. ‘Going from a full-on life of combat to Civvy Street can be a shock to the system. It was hard enough for me to move into policing. It must be a hell of a lot worse to go to a desk job or working on a building site.’

‘Or just sitting watching TV all day, or in the pub. Not everyone who leaves the Regiment gets another job. You hear about the guys who go back to Afghanistan or Iraq and make a fortune freelancing and everyone knows about the ones who become best-selling authors, but a lot of guys end up on the scrap heap. That’s pretty hard to accept when you’re only in your thirties.’

‘So what do you do, ring them up and ask them out to the pub for a chat, same as you do with me?’

Stockmann chuckled. ‘You’re a whole different ballgame, Dan,’ she said. ‘All I’m doing with you is checking to see that you’re on an even keel. Some of the guys I’m dealing with now, they’re shipwrecks and raising the
Titanic
doesn’t come close.’ She took another sip of her beer and put down her glass. ‘The thing is, they’re not the sort of men who are going to admit that they’ve got a problem, never mind ask for help. But if we can get them back to the Regiment for a reunion or some other excuse, it gives us a chance to put out some feelers and offer them support where they need it, be it financial or psychological.’

Shepherd laughed. ‘You’re a devious sod, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘You get them up here on false pretences, that’s what you’re saying.’

‘We tell a few porkies, yes,’ said Stockmann. ‘But for all the right reasons.’ She nodded at his glass. ‘No Jameson’s today?’

‘I’m hanging out with Liam later,’ he said.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to take you away from your family.’

‘A couple of hours won’t matter much, and it’ll give him time to catch up with video games.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘So I’m guessing that this has more to do with what happened in Northern Ireland than it does with a biannual review that may or may not exist.’

‘It exists, Dan,’ said Stockmann. ‘That wasn’t a porky. But yes, Charlie wants me to raise what happened with you.’

‘What happened? I shot two men, Caroline. Shot them and killed them. And please don’t ask me how I feel about that.’

‘Why? Because feelings don’t come into it?’

‘Because it’s the standard psychiatrist’s question, isn’t it?’ He held up his hand. ‘And before you correct me, I know that you’re a psychologist.’

‘Do you know the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist?’ She answered the question for him. ‘About fifty pounds an hour.’

‘And who gets the better pay?’

Stockmann smiled. ‘The psychiatrist, of course. They’re the real doctors. We psychologists, we’re the ones with the doctorates who can’t prescribe drugs.’

‘I’m sure that Charlie pays you well.’

She shrugged. ‘Frankly, Dan, I don’t do this for the money.’

‘So why do you do it? Public service?’

She smiled thinly. ‘Something like that,’ she said. ‘I do value what you and your colleagues do, and in my own small way I like to think that I’m helping.’ She swirled her beer around her glass. ‘So, have there been any repercussions? After what happened in Northern Ireland.’

‘Job-wise?’

‘You know what I mean, Dan.’

‘Am I sleeping? Yes, like a baby. Am I eating? Like a horse. Do I waste even one second regretting what I did? No.’

‘I’m not sure that’s true, Dan,’ she said quietly. ‘I mean, I’m sure you’re sleeping and that you haven’t lost your appetite, but I know you well enough to know that you don’t take a life without it affecting you in some way.’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘OK, if anything it pisses me off.’

‘It makes you angry?’

‘Being put into the situation is what I’m annoyed at. The guys I killed were stone-cold killers and they’d have killed me if I hadn’t killed them, but it could have been handled differently.’ He drank some of his shandy, not because he wanted to drink but to give himself time to gather his thoughts. Caroline Stockmann had a very easy way about her, but at the end of the day she was there to compile a report on his ability to do his job and she had a mind like a steel trap. ‘How much did Charlie tell you?’