‘There’s no need for them to do that,’ said Button. ‘So far as they’re concerned the rehearsal went perfectly. I understand your concerns, but we need to let this run a while longer.’
‘You’re the boss, Charlie,’ said Shepherd.
‘Don’t worry, I know where the buck stops,’ she said.
‘There’s something else I need to talk to you about.’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Kettering just phoned to say that he wants to hook me up with a German guy.’
Button’s eyes widened. ‘That’s brilliant, Spider.’
‘Is it, though? He says he wants to link me up with him in London tomorrow and that we could be talking about a big arms sale. But my Spidey sense is tingling.’
‘What’s the problem?’
Shepherd grimaced. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t feel right. It came out of the blue and now it’s rush, rush, rush. And the timing is off. It would make more sense for them to wait until we’ve delivered the first order.’
‘What does Fenby say?’
‘His phone’s off,’ said Shepherd. ‘Went straight through to voicemail. I left a message for him to call me.’
Button toyed with a small gold stud earring as she looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You realise it would move the investigation up a notch,’ she said. ‘If we could link Kettering and Thompson to terrorist groups in Europe.’
‘I know, I know. I wish I could be more enthusiastic. But. .’ He raised his hands and then let them fall back on to the table. ‘It just doesn’t feel right.’
Button stopped playing with her earring and nodded slowly. ‘Then we go with your instincts,’ she said.
‘I just don’t want to screw it up because of a hunch.’
‘What about Sam? Have you spoken to him?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘He’s not going to be able to advise me, and if I do go sticking my head into the lion’s den I don’t want the Brummie cops watching my back.’
‘So you’re thinking of meeting them? Even though you have doubts?’
Shepherd rubbed his chin. ‘If I don’t Kettering’s going to know there’s something wrong, isn’t he? I might be able to play for time, but if I refuse to meet the German then there’s every chance he’ll pull out of our deal, which means everything goes tits up.’ He sat back and sighed. ‘I don’t have a choice, do I? It’s a rock and a hard place.’
‘We can minimise the risks,’ said Button.
‘I’ll have to talk to Razor. Kettering wants him there too.’
‘But he can’t tell Sam. You realise that, don’t you?’
Shepherd smiled ruefully. ‘I hope you can see the irony of that,’ he said. ‘You tell Sam Hargrove to keep Razor in the dark, and now you want Razor to lie to Sam.’
‘Point taken,’ said Button. ‘What would you rather do? Is it better to tell Sam and have him lie to the Birmingham cops, or keep him in the dark?’
‘If it all goes wrong he’s going to find out anyway.’
‘So you want me to fill him in? I’m happy enough to do that. Though it might well mean that MI5 takes over the entire operation.’
‘To be honest, it looks like we’re heading that way whatever happens,’ said Shepherd. He ran his hands through his hair. ‘Okay, Razor and I go to the meeting. Five provides the back-up. You fill Sam in.’
‘Where and when are you going to see them?’
Shepherd shrugged ‘He’s going to let me know first thing tomorrow.’
‘And what do you want in the way of support?’ asked Button.
‘Armed back-up, close but not obtrusive. And I’ll go to see Amar and fix myself up with a GPS tracker and audio.’
‘Whatever you need,’ said Button.
‘Guns is what we’ll need, Charlie.’
‘You want to be armed?’
‘It’ll fit in with our legends. We’re underground arms dealers. No reason we couldn’t be carrying.’
Button grimaced. ‘I don’t see that we can authorise Razor to carry a weapon.’
‘But it’s not a problem for me, right?’
‘It’s a lot of paperwork, but I’ll make it happen,’ said Button. ‘But, please, try not to shoot anyone.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Shepherd.
Abu al Khayr tapped on the steering wheel as he looked up and down the street. It was early evening, the pavements were crowded and there was a steady stream of people pouring out of the tube station. ‘What if he doesn’t come?’ he asked.
Khalid was sitting in the passenger seat, toying with a subha, a string of Muslim prayer beads. There were one hundred wooden beads on the string, one as big as a pea and the rest about a third of the size. Some of the beads were made of a wood that was as black as polished coal, and others were a dark brown, close to the colour of Khalid’s own skin. The small beads were there so that he could keep track of the ninety-nine times that he repeated the name of Allah whenever he prayed. He wasn’t praying as he sat in the van; he fingered the beads merely from habit. The beads had been a gift from his father on the day that he had turned eighteen, and he had carried them every day since. ‘He’ll come,’ said Khalid. ‘He thinks we’re going to eat. He never turns down free food.’
‘And you think he’s a traitor?’
Khalid continued to let the beads slip through his fingers one at a time. ‘I’m not sure. But traitor or not, we have to do what we have to do.’
Abu al Khayr nodded. ‘You are right, brother. We can’t afford any weak links, not at this stage.’
Khalid looked at the digital clock in the dashboard. It was seven o’clock.
‘There he is,’ said Abu al Khayr. He nodded at the entrance to the tube.
Khalid smiled when he saw the three men crossing the road towards the van. The man in the middle was Tariq Jamot, a regular at the Dynevor Road mosque. He worked for a tyre and exhaust centre and his fondness for fast food meant that he was a good fifty pounds overweight and had earned the nickname Fat Boy. The men either side of him were taller and leaner. All were second-generation Pakistanis, though only Jamot was London-born; his companions had grown up in Leeds. Fat Boy trusted the men he was with; there was no question of that. They often prayed together and they had attended the extra lessons that the mullah held in the mosque late into the night after last prayers. That was where they had been selected for further training and offered the chance to go to Pakistan. All had accepted the offer and all had returned committed to jihad and prepared to give their lives for the faith. Except that when the call had come, Fat Boy had been found wanting. The two men with Fat Boy had both arrived at St Pancras, ready and willing to do whatever had been asked of them. Fat Boy had received the call but had stayed at home, claiming that he was unwell.
Khalid waved through the open window and the three men waved back.
‘Lamb to the slaughter,’ murmured Abu al Khayr.
‘Hush, brother,’ said Khalid, still fingering the beads. ‘And smile.’
Abu al Khayr smiled and revved the engine as the three men got into the van through the side door and took their seats, Fat Boy still in the middle.
‘I have booked a table at a restaurant owned by a friend of mine,’ said Khalid, twisting round in his seat. ‘He makes the best chapli kebabs in London.’
‘My favourite,’ said Fat Boy, rubbing his hands together.
Khalid smiled. He knew that.
The five men chatted and joked as Abu al Khayr drove to the restaurant in Seven Sisters, a couple of miles north of Stoke Newington. The traffic was heavy but even so they pulled up in an alley at the rear of the restaurant after just fifteen minutes.
The three men in the back climbed out and Khalid joined them. ‘I’ll find somewhere to park,’ said Abu al Khayr, and he drove off.
