given him, must have been cleared byYokely. That meant Yokely wanted Salih to know who Shepherd was and where he lived. It felt like a trap, but why set a trap when Yokely would have known that Salih was meeting Merkulov at the canal? Merkulov had made it clear he was having trouble getting information out of SOCA, yet he appeared to have had no problem in identifying Shepherd’s landline. That suggested Yokely had fed him information. But why? Did Yokely know Shepherd?
Salih had been considering killing someone close to Button as a way of bringing her out into the open. Her husband was a possibility, as was her daughter, and now the man called Daniel Shepherd was an option. If Shepherd was her agent, she would surely attend his funeral. Was Yokely presenting Shepherd as a target? Salih sat up and shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Did that mean Yokely wanted Button dead? Was he clearing the way for Salih in the hope that he would be satisfied with just the one hit? That made no sense, no sense at all.
The possibility had occurred to Salih that Yokely wanted the Russian dead and had sent Merkulov to the meeting knowing that Salih would kill him. That would explain why no one had been at the canal watching him. But it didn’t explain why the Russian had given Salih the phone records and the address. Salih rubbed his temples. Maybe he was thinking too much. Maybe Yokely didn’t care about Daniel Shepherd. Maybe he didn’t even know who he was. Maybe Yokely assumed that Salih was naive or stupid and had sent Merkulov to pump him for information. Salih lay down again. Was he overthinking the situation? Was he starting to get paranoid, seeing death in shadows when they were only shadows, nothing more? Surely if Yokely knew that Salih was trying to kill him, he would have had Salih arrested or worse. Salih and Merkulov had conspired to commit murder, and in England that carried the same sentence as perpetration of the act. So what was Yokely after? Did he want to know who had taken out the contract on him? Was that why he had sent Merkulov to the meeting?
Salih’s mind whirled and he tried to relax, to allow his subconscious to get to work on the puzzle. His instincts had stood him in good stead in the past and he knew they would do so again. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing deeply. Yokely was a professional, a man used to running black operations for the American Government. If he wanted Salih dead, he would have him killed without a moment’s hesitation. So, the fact that Salih was still alive suggested that Yokely did not know he had been paid to kill him. So the American had not turned Merkulov. But if not Yokely, then who? Or had it all been a terrible mistake? Had the Russian simply been too inquisitive? Had Salih simply misread his curiosity? If he had, then, far from being a trap, the Daniel Shepherd details might be an opportunity he could make good use of.
Salih rolled off the bed and padded into the bathroom. First he would cleanse himself. Then he would pray. And then he would phone Tariq.
Shepherd caught an early-morning flight from George Best Belfast City airport to Birmingham. The British Midland flight was packed and the woman in the seat in front of him reclined it as soon as the wheels left the runway. Shepherd closed his eyes and tried to think pleasant thoughts until the plane landed. He had only a Nike gym bag with him so he walked straight from the plane to the arrivals area where Martin O’Brien was waiting for him, his shaven head glistening under the overhead lights. He grinned and the two men hugged. ‘How’s Belfast?’ asked the Irishman.
‘It’s changed,’ said Shepherd. ‘You wouldn’t recognise it. No one’s shooting at you, for a start.’
‘Yeah,’ agreed O’Brien. ‘A few years ago whoever would have thought that Belfast would be the safe place to go?’
‘Crime rate’s on the up. Before, they used to search them on the way into the shops. Now they search them on the way out.’ They walked together to the car park. Shepherd peered at O’Brien’s stomach. ‘Are you losing weight?’
‘I’m in training,’ said O’Brien. ‘I’m doing the Marathon des Sables next year.’
‘Get the hell out of here,’ said Shepherd. The Marathon des Sables was the toughest footrace in the world, a hundred and fifty miles across the desert in North Africa, run over six days with all supplies carried in a rucksack. It was equivalent to five and a half regular marathons with temperatures up to a hundred and twenty degrees.
‘I needed the challenge,’ said O’Brien.
‘You’re mad,’ said Shepherd.
‘You should do it with me,’ said O’Brien. ‘You still run, don’t you?’
‘I run, sure, but the Marathon des Sables isn’t about running. It’s about punishing yourself.’
‘It’s fifty per cent mental,’ said O’Brien. ‘If you think you can do it, you can.’
‘Yes, Grasshopper. But that doesn’t mean that if you believe you can fly you can jump off a tall building without there being consequences.’ He slapped O’Brien’s back. ‘Seriously, though, I admire you. How old are you now?’
‘Screw you, Spider.’
Hereford was just under fifty miles from Birmingham airport and O’Brien’s Mercedes made good time. It was a little before six when they pulled up in front of the White Hart and he switched off the engine. ‘I’ve got two guys for you to meet,’ said O’Brien. ‘They left the Regiment a couple of years back and spend most of their time in Iraq now, working for Blackwater. Serious money. Jack was a demolitions expert, and Billy was a linguist, fluent in seven languages including Arabic and Farsi.’
‘I can’t afford Iraq wages, Martin.’
‘They both have places in Hereford and they’re killing time before they head out to Baghdad again. They’re happy to do it as a favour. Plus I told them you’re a cop and that you’ll take care of any parking tickets, speeding fines and the like.’
‘And get them off the odd murder charge?’
‘Can you do that?’ asked O’Brien.
‘No, I bloody well can’t,’ said Shepherd.
‘They’re good guys,’ said O’Brien, climbing out of the Mercedes. ‘Regiment wasn’t happy about them leaving but there’s not much they can do when security companies are paying five times what the army offers.’
He took Shepherd through a back door into the pub where three men in their sixties were sitting on stools at the bar. They glanced across as O’Brien and Shepherd walked in, then returned to their conversation. The barman had the look of a former sergeant major with bulging forearms and world-weary eyes. He nodded at O’Brien, who nodded back.
A man in his early thirties was sitting at a corner table, two half-finished pints of bitter in front of him. When he saw O’Brien he stood up. He was a couple of inches taller than Shepherd and a few pounds lighter, with broad shoulders and wavy brown hair that didn’t appear to have been combed in a few days. He was wearing a grey sports jacket over faded blue jeans.
‘Spider, this is Jack Bradford.’ Bradford was also wearing the Rolex Submariner with the black bezel favoured by SAS troopers.
‘Thanks for agreeing to this,’ said Shepherd.
‘Pleasure,’ said Bradford.
‘Where’s Billy?’ asked O’Brien.
Bradford gestured at the men’s room. ‘Taking a leak. Bladder like a marble, my brother.’
‘What are you drinking?’
Bradford asked for another pint of bitter and Shepherd for a Jameson’s with soda and ice. ‘Billy’ll have a pint, too,’ said Bradford.
O’Brien went to the bar and Shepherd sat down. Bradford took out a pack of Silk Cut and stuck one into his mouth. ‘Smoke?’ he asked.
‘No,’said Shepherd. ‘Yes,’he corrected himself. He grinned awkwardly. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘Giving up?’
‘Just starting,’ said Shepherd. He took one of Bradford’s cigarettes and Bradford lit it for him with a battered Zippo. ‘Martin says you’re working in Iraq.’
‘Yeah, bloody madhouse it is too. American contractors riding around like cowboys, armed to the teeth and acting like they’re in the movies. I tell you, you’ve more chance of being shot by a trigger-happy Yank than you have of being blown up by an insurgent.’
‘What are you doing out there?’
‘Security,’ said Bradford. ‘Escorting clients to and from the airport, making sure that their homes and workplaces are secure. Babysitting basically. But it pays well.’
