Warrenpoint.’ He ordered a pint of Guinness.
‘So, you’re here to revisit your roots, O’Yokely, is that it?’
‘Nothing so mundane, I’m afraid,’ said Yokely, in his regular Southern drawl. He was wearing a long tweed coat over a brown wool suit and brown leather shoes with tassels. He stuck out his hand and Shepherd shook it. The chunky class ring on Yokely’s right ring finger bit into his palm.
Yokely paid for their drinks and they went to a corner table. He sipped his Guinness and wiped a line of white foam from his upper lip. ‘Never tastes the same outside of Ireland,’ he said. ‘They do a great steak and Guinness pie upstairs, with diddly-diddly music if you’re lucky.’
‘How did you get my number, Richard? It’s a pay-as-you-go and it’s only been valid for the past week or so.’
‘A long story.’
‘I’ll give you my home number and a pay-as-you-go you can call,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I’d rather you didn’t contact me on operational phones in future.’
Yokely flashed him a mock salute. ‘Message received and understood.’
‘I’m serious,’ said Shepherd. ‘For all you knew I might have been surrounded by armed crack-dealers when you sent me that SMS.’
‘Actually, I knew exactly where you were and what you were doing,’ said Yokely. ‘And you’ve got more to worry about than drug-dealers, believe me.’
‘You should also be aware that everything said in the vicinity of that operational phone is recorded,’ said Shepherd.
‘Got it.’
‘And what do you mean, I’ve got more to worry about than drug-dealers? Why do you always talk in riddles? What’s going on?’
‘Smile, Spider,’ said Yokely. ‘We’re just a couple of tourists shooting the breeze. That’s why I chose this place.’ He sipped his Guinness, then wiped his upper lip on his sleeve. ‘We’re just a Yank and a Brit on the tourist trail. This place was built fifty years before the founding fathers signed our Constitution, did you know that? We don’t have anything this old back in the States. Did you know the United Irishmen planned the 1798 Rising here? It’s a real piece of history.’
‘Funny how the world changes, isn’t it?’ said Shepherd. ‘Terrorists become folk heroes, providing they get what they want and enough time passes.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re becoming cynical in your old age.’
‘My job is to put murderers behind bars,’ said Shepherd. ‘You can see why I’d be frustrated when my government decides to set them free early for political reasons.’
‘Is that why you’re here?’ asked Yokely. ‘To put murderers behind bars?’
Shepherd narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘Do you know why I’m here?’
Yokely raised his glass. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Do you know everything I do?’
‘Pretty much.’ The American grinned.
‘You know we have laws against stalking,’ said Shepherd.
‘So sue me. Anyway, you should be thinking of me more as a guardian angel than a stalker.’
‘That’s why you’re here, is it?’ said Shepherd. ‘To protect me?’
‘Spider, I just wanted to get in touch without going through the lovely Charlie,’ Yokely said. ‘I needed a chat, man to man.’
‘She’s already warned me about going behind her back,’ said Shepherd.
‘Behind her back, over her head, between her legs, she can’t dictate who you speak to in your own time.’
‘Strictly speaking, I’m on SOCA time and Charlie’s my boss.’
Yokely reached inside his jacket pocket and gave him a photograph of two men in traditional Arab dress: flowing white robes, headdresses and sandals. One was in his sixties or seventies, the other in his thirties. There was a strong facial resemblance so Shepherd figured they were father and son. The two men were sitting at a cafe table, glasses of tea in front of them. The older man was smoking a cigarette and looking at the other with amusement. Shepherd stared at the faces. He hadn’t seen either man before.
‘The old guy is Othman bin Mahmuud al-Ahmed,’ said Yokely. ‘He made a fortune acting as a middle man for the Saudi Royal Family. Weapons, ships, property investments. Semi-retired, these days, but he still has incredible contacts across the Arab world. And probably a few senators in his pocket. We know of two MPs who live well above their means thanks to Othman’s generosity and he was a regular visitor to Number Ten during the Thatcher years.’
Shepherd handed back the photograph and Yokely slid it inside his jacket.
‘Othman wants Charlie dead,’ said the American, flatly.
‘Shit,’ said Shepherd.
‘He has deep pockets and he knows people. Generally speaking, what Othman wants, Othman gets.’
‘You’ve told Charlie, right?’
‘No,’ said Yokely. ‘And I’m not planning to.’
‘What?’
‘The sort of people Othman will send to kill her aren’t going to be put off by a couple of uniforms standing outside her front door,’ said Yokely.
‘You can’t play with her life like this,’ hissed Shepherd.
‘Hear me out,’ said Yokely. ‘The other man in the photograph is Abdal Jabbaar bin Othman al-Ahmed. British citizen, don’t you know?’ he said, in a passable upper-class English accent. ‘Courtesy of his dad’s money, of course. Eton-educated, followed by a spell at the London School of Economics. Now dead. And the father blames Charlie.’
‘Because?’
‘Because he’s a vindictive shit who needs to blame someone,’ said Yokely. ‘Abdal Jabbaar was behind some of the biggest al-Qaeda atrocities in recent years, including the London Tube bombings and the attack on the Eurostar. He killed himself three months ago in a prison in the Ukraine. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as they say. He was responsible for the deaths of several hundred civilians and I for one would happily dance on his grave.’
‘So how did he die?’
‘Suicide, I’m told.’ Shepherd cocked an eyebrow and Yokely put up his hands. ‘Cross my heart, Spider. He slashed his wrists.’
‘So why does he blame Charlie?’
‘She interrogated him a while back, before we shipped him off to Guantanamo Bay.’ He smiled without warmth. ‘It was a robust interrogation.’
‘If you sent him to Guantanamo Bay, what the hell was he doing in the Ukraine?’
‘We needed to be more forceful with our interrogation, and the Ukrainians are more . . .’
‘Forceful?’ Shepherd filled in.
‘I was going to say flexible,’ said Yokely.
‘So flexible that he killed himself?’
‘He wasn’t being tortured, Spider.’
‘I’m guessing that depends on your definition of torture,’ said Shepherd. ‘Why was Charlie involved in his interrogation?’
‘Her language skills. She’s fluent in Arabic. Plus she’s a woman. Plus we had to do it on the hoof. We were under time constraints.’
‘So you were involved?’
‘We had him in the American embassy. He was behind the bombs on the Eurostar but we didn’t know what the target was.’
Shepherd drained his glass and put it on the table. ‘Can I take a shot in the dark here and venture a guess that you’re on Othman’s hit list, too?’
‘I was coming to that,’ he said.
‘I’m sure you were.’
