‘There’s someone else who might be very useful.’
Button passed him four more photos. ‘There are a few more people you need to be able to ID.’ They were all thickset, tough-looking men, in their mid-thirties to mid-forties.
‘Nice-looking boys,’ Harper said. ‘I’m guessing they’re the muscle.’
She nodded. ‘Some or all of them will probably be bodyguarding the targets.’
‘So, no dramas if any of them get caught in the crossfire?’
‘None at all,’ Button said. ‘They’ve all got form: bombings, knee-cappings, shootings, arson. Nasty pieces of work, one and all.’
‘Right, it’ll take me forty-eight hours to sort out a plan and brief my team,’ Harper said. ‘Then we’re in business.’
As Button snapped her briefcase shut, they heard a furious argument erupting down the hallway, with a woman screaming obscenities and a man’s voice swearing back. A door slammed with a violence that made the walls shake and they heard heavy footsteps going down the stairs. Button gave a weary shake of her head. ‘Right, I’ll have a Swiss passport in the name of Müller and the rest of your legend delivered to you by this time tomorrow. Same place?’
‘Why not?’ Harper, said with a broad smile. ‘It’s already starting to feel like home.’
Button put her coat back on, flashed him a tight smile, and left. Harper stood at the window, peering through a crack in the curtains to watch her go. He saw her pull three anti-surveillance moves as she headed down the road and he nodded his approval. She might well be behind a desk most of the time, but Charlie Button had never forgotten her tradecraft.
Harper waited fifteen minutes then put on his coat and took a walk to a nearby park, a patch of urban wasteland with its patchy grass strewn with litter, broken glass and blackened patches where fires had been lit. A group of half a dozen youths in hoodies gave him curious looks and muttered to each other, but Harper stared at them until they looked away. He made four calls on one phone and then removed the SIM card, broke it in half, and tossed it into an overflowing waste bin.
T hey took Shepherd to Islington Police Station in the back of a windowless van with his wrists bound together with plastic ties. Two hard-faced specialist firearms officers sat in the back with him, cradling their carbines. That seemed like overkill and he doubted that they’d even be able to get a shot off in the confines of the van, but he said nothing. There was nothing he could say. They were just cogs in the machine and weren’t able to make any decisions that would affect the outcome of what was happening. Even if he could convince them that he was an MI5 officer they didn’t have the authority to release him. Shepherd just went into shutdown mode, sitting quietly with his head down as he waited for it all to be over. They had taken the transceiver off him, and the earpiece, but he’d had just enough time to tell Brewer that he was about to be taken into custody.
The armed cops said nothing; they just stared at him stonily. Even if he spoke to them he doubted they would reply. He hadn’t been cautioned or charged which meant that anything he did say would only cause them problems down the line. They knew that everything had to be done by the book, which meant that any questioning had to comply with the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.
The van stopped and he heard a metal gate rattle back then the van moved forward and stopped again. He heard muffled voices and then the rear doors opened and a uniformed officer in a stab-vest unlocked the cage to allow one of the armed officers out. The second armed officer motioned for Shepherd to get out. Shepherd shuffled along the bench seat and stepped down. He was grabbed by the arms by two more officers and pulled roughly away from the van. He blinked in the sunlight. There were half a dozen armed officers all pointing their weapons at him. He was in a police car park and
Button passed him four more photos. ‘There are a few more people you need to be able to ID.’ They were all thickset, tough-looking men, in their mid-thirties to mid-forties.
‘Nice-looking boys,’ Harper said. ‘I’m guessing they’re the muscle.’
She nodded. ‘Some or all of them will probably be bodyguarding the targets.’
‘So, no dramas if any of them get caught in the crossfire?’
‘None at all,’ Button said. ‘They’ve all got form: bombings, knee-cappings, shootings, arson. Nasty pieces of work, one and all.’
‘Right, it’ll take me forty-eight hours to sort out a plan and brief my team,’ Harper said. ‘Then we’re in business.’
As Button snapped her briefcase shut, they heard a furious argument erupting down the hallway, with a woman screaming obscenities and a man’s voice swearing back. A door slammed with a violence that made the walls shake and they heard heavy footsteps going down the stairs. Button gave a weary shake of her head. ‘Right, I’ll have a Swiss passport in the name of Müller and the rest of your legend delivered to you by this time tomorrow. Same place?’
‘Why not?’ Harper, said with a broad smile. ‘It’s already starting to feel like home.’
Button put her coat back on, flashed him a tight smile, and left. Harper stood at the window, peering through a crack in the curtains to watch her go. He saw her pull three anti-surveillance moves as she headed down the road and he nodded his approval. She might well be behind a desk most of the time, but Charlie Button had never forgotten her tradecraft.
Harper waited fifteen minutes then put on his coat and took a walk to a nearby park, a patch of urban wasteland with its patchy grass strewn with litter, broken glass and blackened patches where fires had been lit. A group of half a dozen youths in hoodies gave him curious looks and muttered to each other, but Harper stared at them until they looked away. He made four calls on one phone and then removed the SIM card, broke it in half, and tossed it into an overflowing waste bin.
T hey took Shepherd to Islington Police Station in the back of a windowless van with his wrists bound together with plastic ties. Two hard-faced specialist firearms officers sat in the back with him, cradling their carbines. That seemed like overkill and he doubted that they’d even be able to get a shot off in the confines of the van, but he said nothing. There was nothing he could say. They were just cogs in the machine and weren’t able to make any decisions that would affect the outcome of what was happening. Even if he could convince them that he was an MI5 officer they didn’t have the authority to release him. Shepherd just went into shutdown mode, sitting quietly with his head down as he waited for it all to be over. They had taken the transceiver off him, and the earpiece, but he’d had just enough time to tell Brewer that he was about to be taken into custody.
The armed cops said nothing; they just stared at him stonily. Even if he spoke to them he doubted they would reply. He hadn’t been cautioned or charged which meant that anything he did say would only cause them problems down the line. They knew that everything had to be done by the book, which meant that any questioning had to comply with the Police and Criminal Evidence Act.
The van stopped and he heard a metal gate rattle back then the van moved forward and stopped again. He heard muffled voices and then the rear doors opened and a uniformed officer in a stab-vest unlocked the cage to allow one of the armed officers out. The second armed officer motioned for Shepherd to get out. Shepherd shuffled along the bench seat and stepped down. He was grabbed by the arms by two more officers and pulled roughly away from the van. He blinked in the sunlight. There were half a dozen armed officers all pointing their weapons at him. He was in a police car park and
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