Shepherd’s left hand grabbed the boy’s wrist and twisted savagely. At the same time he hit his throat with the back of his right hand, hard enough to cause intense pain but not to splinter the cartilage. The knife dropped from the youth’s fingers and clattered on the floor of the carriage. His hands went to his throat, as his mouth opened and closed like that of a stranded goldfish. Shepherd grabbed his jacket and lowered him on to his seat. The others sat where they were, too stunned by the violence to move. Shepherd kept his eyes on them as he bent to pick up the knife. He retracted the blade, then slid it into the back pocket of his jeans and sat down.
The train burst out of the tunnel and into Victoria. The injured youth’s two friends helped him out on to the platform. They jeered at Shepherd as the doors closed and made obscene gestures, but he could see the fear in their eyes.
The train moved off. The businessman with the briefcase nodded approval but Shepherd ignored him: he took no pride in his ability to use violence, even when it was controlled – he could easily have put the youth in hospital, or worse. But now he’d attracted attention, and that was never a good thing. He felt the knife pressing into his backside. It was an offensive weapon: just carrying it could have earned the boy a prison sentence. Shepherd had seen from the look in his eyes that he would have used it without any thought of the consequences. It made no sense to stab someone on the Tube for a watch and a mobile: every platform and exit was covered by CCTV cameras.
The train plunged into the tunnel. Did he really make a difference? Shepherd wondered. Would anything he did as an undercover cop make the world a better place? He’d stopped a suicide-bomber, but al-Qaeda continued to wage war against the West. He’d put drug-dealers behind bars, but cocaine and heroin continued to flood into the country. He’d put away armed robbers, murderers and fraudsters, but for every one he put away there were a dozen more to take their place. As a soldier he’d fought in wars, and wars could be won and lost. But the war against crime was never-ending because the fight was against human nature. He sighed. What the hell? It was his job, and he could only do it to the best of his ability. If the world was going to hell in a basket, that was the world’s problem, not his.
He got off the train at Embankment, walked out of the station and down to the Thames, where he stood and watched the London Eye, the huge ferris wheel that dominated the South Bank. He glanced around, searching for any faces he might recognise from the train but saw none and began to walk slowly across Westminster Bridge, with the Houses of Parliament to his right. The wind tugged at his hair and he turned up the collar of his leather jacket.
Hargrove preferred to meet in public places – sporting events were a favourite, or tourist attractions. In the unlikely event that either of them was followed, a watcher would stand out among sports fans or tourists.
Hargrove was sitting at a table outside a cafe with a cup of coffee, wrapped up against the cold in a long black coat and a scarlet scarf. Shepherd ordered a cappuccino and sat next to him.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Hargrove.
Shepherd told him what had happened on the Tube.
‘Bastards,’ said the superintendent.
‘It’s the way of the world,’ said Shepherd. ‘Kids with no hope and nothing to lose. Crime is pretty much their only option and once they take that route they either end up in prison or dead.’
‘By choice, Spider. Let’s not forget that. Everyone makes choices.’
‘Maybe.’ He sighed. ‘He pulled a knife on me in a Tube train.’
‘He was lucky you only winded him. You could have done a lot worse.’
Shepherd smiled. ‘Yeah. I’m sure he sees it that way. He’ll be on liquids for a week.’ A pretty blonde waitress brought him his coffee and he waited until she’d left before he leaned towards Hargrove. ‘Any joy identifying the guys from yesterday?’
The superintendent took two photographs from the inside pocket of his coat and laid them in front of Shepherd. They were surveillance pictures, taken from high up with a long lens. In one the thickset Asian was taking the rucksack from Shepherd. In the other, the taller, thinner man was watching as Shepherd flicked through the banknotes in the sports bag. Hargrove tapped the man with the rucksack. ‘Salik Uddin,’ he said. ‘British passport, but born in Bang ladesh. Like ninety per cent of Bangladeshis in this country, he’s from the Sylhert region.’
‘One of the world’s wettest climates,’ said Shepherd. He grinned. ‘Just one of those stupid bits of information I can’t forget.’
‘Married with four children,’ continued Hargrove. ‘Runs several bureaux de change in and around the Edgware Road.’ He tapped the second photograph. ‘His older brother, Matiur Uddin. Not British yet, but he has leave to remain through marriage to a Bangladeshi woman who does have citizenship.’
‘ Bureaux de change? Makes sense. They ship in the counterfeit euros, run them through their shops and into the banking system.’
‘We’re going to put the bureaux under surveillance, see who else they’re dealing with. We’ll run checks on their banks and contacts, put their whole operation under the microscope.’
‘I guess the notes alone aren’t enough to bust them.’
‘We don’t have any evidence that they’ve opened the cans. Anyway, we’d like them for conspiracy and to bust the French end so that we can find out where the notes are coming from.’
‘I’ll make a call this afternoon, see if I can get them to bite on the boat plan. If they agree, I’m going to need a crash course in driving the bloody thing.’
‘It’s in hand,’ said Hargrove. He picked up the photographs and slipped them back into his pocket.
Shepherd sipped his coffee. ‘I get the feeling there’s something else,’ he said.
‘Something else?’
‘Some other reason for you getting me here. Or am I being paranoid?’
The superintendent smiled. ‘I’m that transparent, am I?’ He exhaled through pursed lips. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Spider, but I’m leaving the unit. I’m sorry I couldn’t give you more warning’.
‘What happened?’ asked Shepherd. ‘I thought everything was hunky-dory.’
‘The unit’s being co-opted into the Serious Organised Crime Agency.’
‘The British FBI, right?’
‘That’s the plan,’ said Hargrove. ‘Targeting drug-traffickers, people smugglers, paedophile networks, international fraudsters. The sort of stuff we do at a local level. SOCA’s going to go after the big fish and they want to hit the ground running. They figured the best way to do that was to absorb our unit.’
Shepherd scowled. ‘Why fix something that’s not broke?’ he said.
‘We’re a victim of our own success,’ said the superintendent. ‘SOCA’s going to need some major successes to justify its funding and they reckon a few good undercover operations will do that.’
‘The reason we’ve been so successful is because we’ve never blown our own trumpet,’ said Shepherd. ‘We always let the local cops take the credit. We’re never in the papers. We never give evidence.’
‘I explained all that,’ said Hargrove, ‘but the world is changing. The powers that be need to show they’re being effective.’
‘So we’ll be dragged out at press conferences, will we? It doesn’t work like that, and you know it.’
‘No one’s going to blow your cover, Spider,’ said Hargrove, ‘but SOCA wants to be able to show that it’s doing its job.’
‘This is madness.’
‘It could be a major step up for you,’ said Hargrove. ‘Bigger operations, bigger targets. Bigger challenges. SOCA will have more resources than my unit. More manpower.’
‘The more people involved, the more chance of a leak,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s why your unit works so well. Hell, I don’t even know half the guys who work for you and they don’t know me. Once we’re part of a bigger bureaucracy, who knows who’ll be looking at my file?’
‘What do you want, Spider? You want them to put you in uniform? You’re still employed by the Met, remember. Officially they can put you where they want you.’
Shepherd’s jaw dropped. ‘Is that what they’re saying? I join SOCA or I start wearing a pointy helmet? Fuck that.’ He grimaced, as if he had a bad taste in his mouth. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ said the superintendent. ‘But it’s a done deal. In two months’ time my unit becomes part of SOCA and there’s nothing you or I can do about it.’
‘And you can’t get some form of autonomy for the unit? Special circumstances and all that.’
