where she was from. ‘Sorry,’ he said to Gannon. ‘I’ve got to get an au pair fixed up sharpish.’
‘Couldn’t get one for me, could you? I could do with something to keep me warm at night.’
‘She’ll be cooking, ironing and babysitting Liam. That’ll be her lot,’ said Shepherd. ‘She’ll probably turn out to be a twenty-stone Romanian weight-lifter, but looks are pretty low on my list of requirements.’
Shepherd spent all morning in the Killing House under the supervision of the major and a counterterrorism instructor, a grizzled sergeant whom Shepherd remembered from his days in the SAS. They broke for lunch at one and the major took Shepherd to the mess. A special-projects team, a captain and fifteen troopers, were at an adjoining table and clearly curious as to who the major was with.
‘So, what do you think of the new place?’ asked Gannon, as he started on a plate of sausage and chips.
‘More space than the old barracks,’ said Shepherd. ‘Food’s the same as it ever was, though.’
‘Funnily enough, it used to be the RAF’s catering school,’ said Gannon, stabbing at a sausage. ‘They didn’t leave any chefs behind so we’re stuck with our old guys. Still, it’s only fuel, isn’t it?’
‘That was one of the first things I noticed when I left the Regiment,’ said Shepherd. ‘The weight started to go on. I put on ten pounds in the first month.’
‘All the coffee and doughnuts you cops eat, I suppose.’
‘Soldiering burns up the calories. Police work is less physical, certainly the sort I do.’
‘Stressful, though.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so. Long-term stress. In the Sass, the stress comes in bursts mainly. Bang, bang, bang, then it’s all over and you wait for the shit to hit the fan again. In undercover work it’s constant. Even when a case is over there’s still the worry that someone might find out who you are and what you did.’
‘Revenge, you mean?’
Shepherd buttered a chunk of bread. ‘You’re on your own if it goes tits up,’ he said. ‘In the Sass you’ve got the Regiment to take care of you. Safety in numbers.’
‘Cops take care of their own, don’t they?’
‘Uniforms, maybe, but I’m in a special unit. Most people don’t even know I’m a cop.’
‘Armed?’
‘If it goes with my cover. But as Dan Shepherd, no, I’m not supposed to carry a gun.’
‘Not supposed to?’
Shepherd chuckled. ‘Some rules are meant to be broken,’ he said. ‘Anyone sneaks into my home in the middle of the night, they’d better be wearing body armour.’
They finished their lunch and walked back to the Killing House, past the ammunition stores and the briefing room they called the Kremlin. As always Gannon was carrying his sat phone.
‘How much longer will you be heading up the Increment?’ asked Shepherd.
‘It’s open-ended,’ said the major. ‘Apparently I’m doing such a good job they want me there until I retire or kick the bucket.’
‘All this al-Qaeda activity must keep you in the firing line,’ said Shepherd.
‘You don’t know half of it, Spider. Five is asking us to do some pretty heavy stuff, these days. Stuff we’d never have got away with in the old days.’
‘Difficult to get a handle on what they want, isn’t it?’
‘You knew where you were with the Provos – Brits out, a united Ireland. Simple. Everyone knew what they wanted, and why the British wouldn’t give it to them. What the hell does al-Qaeda want? No one really knows. Death to infidels? The Yanks out of Saudi? Every woman in the world wearing a veil? And the way they wage war is so alien. Suicide bombers? Killing women and children? The Provos could be evil bastards at times, but the al-Qaeda lot are something else. How the hell are you supposed to deal with a suicide bomber?’
‘It’s a sick business, all right.’
‘It’s going to happen here, Spider. Sooner or later. Five are working overtime to keep the lid on it, but there’s only so much they can do. And when it happens it’ll be big.’
‘Spectaculars, the IRA called them,’ said Shepherd. ‘Always hated that. Almost glamorised what they did. A bomb’s a bomb. Casualties are casualties.’
‘But even they drew the line at planes. Or trains. They could have put a bomb on a British Airways flight whenever they wanted. The Dublin to Belfast train was a sitting target. But they never went for it. You know why?’
‘They followed rules, I guess,’ said Shepherd.
‘They regarded it as a war and they followed the rules of war. Most of the time. But al-Qaeda has no rules. The end justifies the means, no matter what the means are. They’ll blow up a school if it serves their purpose. A football ground. The more horrific the better. They’ve got guys out in North Korea trying to buy uranium to build a dirty bomb. They were in Russia for anthrax. They’ve got cells all over the world stockpiling explosives. It’s like trying to treat cancer. You take out one tumour and another one grows somewhere else. You’re always one step behind, trying to catch up. At least with the Provos we knew who the bad guys were. We had the RUC on our side and we had real intel. You know how many Arabs they had working for MI5 on 9/11?’
‘I’d guess none.’
‘You’d guess right. They had a few Arab speakers but they were white Oxbridge graduates. It’s no wonder intelligence in that area is so weak. Still is, as far as I can see. Most of what’s in the MI5 files that go across my desk is guesswork.’ He lifted the sat phone. ‘I just carry this around and wait for it to ring.’
They reached the Killing House. ‘Question,’ said Shepherd.
‘Fire away.’
‘How do you handle a suicide bomber?’
‘You don’t,’ said the major. ‘You can’t. They want to die, so there’s nothing you can say to them, no way you can apply pressure. You have to take them out with as few casualties as possible.’
‘So you slot them, end of story?’
‘Head shot because the explosive is generally strapped to their body. But even then, chances are they’ll go bang. They normally hold the trigger and all they have to do is press it. Even with a clean head shot the hand can spasm and set it off. Plus there’s plan B.’
‘Plan B?’
‘Whoever sends the bomber into play usually has a fallback position. Either a timer or a remote-control trigger. They often use mobile phones.’
‘So slotting the guy doesn’t necessarily make the bomb safe?’
‘The guy can be dead on the ground and you still can’t go near him, not before the bomb-disposal guys. The only way to deal with them is to take them out before they get to their target area. Once they’re in place, you’re screwed. The Israelis deal with them on a daily basis and the only defence they’ve got is public vigilance. You see a Palestinian wearing a bulky jacket, you scream like hell and run for it.’
The sergeant was at the entrance to the Killing House, carrying an MP5. He nodded at Shepherd. ‘You ready for round two, Spider?’
Shepherd grinned. He relished working with professional soldiers again. Undercover work was solitary. He met Hargrove, he occasionally worked with other agents if the particular job required it, but generally he was alone. The comradeship of the Regiment was one of the things he missed most about it.
‘We’ll run through some group hostage situations,’ said Gannon.‘Then I’ve arranged for sniper training.’
‘Excellent,’ said Shepherd. That was another thing he missed about the SAS. The chance to play with big boys’ toys.
When the sergeant called time on the exercises in the Killing House Shepherd was exhausted. He’d been working with four troopers from the counterterrorism wing and they’d pushed him hard. He drank from a plastic bottle of water and spat on the ground. ‘Nothing like the taste of cordite, is there?’ said Gannon.
‘How did it look?’
‘You’ll fit right in to SO19,’ said Gannon. ‘Not quite up to our high standards, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Shepherd. He handed his weapon to the sergeant.
‘We’re going to have to leave the sniping,’ said Gannon.‘I’ve got to head back to London. Chopper’s ready now.’
Shepherd looked at his watch and groaned. He hadn’t realised how long he’d been in the Killing House. He pulled out his mobile phone and called Moira.
