we can continue. You are from Bradford?’
Rafiq nodded. ‘I was studying to be a dentist.’ He smiled. ‘I suppose I still am. I’ve got another year to go.’
‘It is a good profession,’ said Hammad. ‘My uncle, he is a dentist. So which team do you support?’
‘Team?’
‘Football. I support Chelsea. Chelsea are a great team.’
Rafiq smiled. ‘Arsenal,’ he said, scratching his beard.
‘Arsenal? You’re from Bradford.’
‘Bradford are shit,’ said Rafiq. ‘My dad was an Arsenal fan. Don’t ask me why.’
The others began to shout out the names of their favourite teams as six thousand feet overhead the unmanned drone continued on its way, beaming footage of the countryside up to a satellite and from there to Creech Air Force Base in Nevada, where a team of three operators stared at a bank of screens. One of the operators was handling the controls, keeping the drone on a steady course to the east. It was a routine patrol and the operators weren’t expecting to see anything. They kept a watchful eye on the screens but spent the time discussing the merits of various blackjack strategies. The base was an hour’s drive from Las Vegas and the operators were planning to hit the casinos at the weekend. As they argued over what to do with a pair of eights, they saw the roof of the goatherd’s cottage and the thirty or so goats walking listlessly in the afternoon sun as they searched for scrub to sustain themselves, but that was all.
The doorbell rang and Shepherd went to answer it. It was Caroline Stockmann, wearing a beige trenchcoat and a woolly hat that looked as if it might double as a tea cosy. She was carrying a battered leather briefcase and a rolled-up copy of
The
Economist
. ‘Hope I’m not too early,’ she said. ‘I thought it would take longer to get here from the station but there was a minicab waiting.’
‘I’ve got nothing else on today,’ said Shepherd. ‘Maybe a run later on.’
He took her coat and put it on a hook by the door before showing her through to the sitting room. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Lovely,’ said the psychiatrist.
Shepherd went through to the kitchen and made two coffees. When he took them back to the sitting room, Stockmann was sitting on the sofa with a notebook on her lap. She was wearing a pair of square-rimmed glasses and she looked over the top of them as she took the mug of coffee.
‘So how is everything?’ she asked as he sat down.
‘All good,’ said Shepherd, crossing his legs. He remembered that she was an expert at reading body language and she might take the leg-crossing as being defensive so he uncrossed them and smiled.
‘So you’re forty this year?’
Shepherd shrugged, figuring that the question was rhetorical and that there would be a follow-up whether he answered or not.
‘Any thoughts on that?’
‘Planning on buying me a gift, Caroline?’
‘I could certainly run to a bottle of Jameson’s,’ said the psychologist. ‘The reason I was asking is that forty is often seen as a milestone. People often set themselves targets that they want to have achieved by that age.’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘I’m not a great one for setting targets,’ he said.
‘I find that strange,’ she said. ‘I doubt that you would have got into the SAS if you were worried about testing yourself.’
‘I wanted to join the Regiment, but I wasn’t concerned at how old I was when I did it. I would have been just as happy if I’d joined at twenty-seven as I was getting in at twenty-two.’
‘Is there anything you haven’t done yet that you wished you had done by forty?’
‘A threesome with Angelina Jolie and Jessica Alba would have been nice,’ he said. He grinned. ‘Joking,’ he added. ‘Career-wise, no, I’m all good. I’ve been lucky. I’ve been in the SAS, been a cop, worked for SOCA and now I work for MI5. Barely a dull moment.’
‘For much of that time you’ve worked undercover,’ she said. ‘How have you found
Rafiq nodded. ‘I was studying to be a dentist.’ He smiled. ‘I suppose I still am. I’ve got another year to go.’
‘It is a good profession,’ said Hammad. ‘My uncle, he is a dentist. So which team do you support?’
‘Team?’
‘Football. I support Chelsea. Chelsea are a great team.’
Rafiq smiled. ‘Arsenal,’ he said, scratching his beard.
‘Arsenal? You’re from Bradford.’
‘Bradford are shit,’ said Rafiq. ‘My dad was an Arsenal fan. Don’t ask me why.’
The others began to shout out the names of their favourite teams as six thousand feet overhead the unmanned drone continued on its way, beaming footage of the countryside up to a satellite and from there to Creech Air Force Base in Nevada, where a team of three operators stared at a bank of screens. One of the operators was handling the controls, keeping the drone on a steady course to the east. It was a routine patrol and the operators weren’t expecting to see anything. They kept a watchful eye on the screens but spent the time discussing the merits of various blackjack strategies. The base was an hour’s drive from Las Vegas and the operators were planning to hit the casinos at the weekend. As they argued over what to do with a pair of eights, they saw the roof of the goatherd’s cottage and the thirty or so goats walking listlessly in the afternoon sun as they searched for scrub to sustain themselves, but that was all.
The doorbell rang and Shepherd went to answer it. It was Caroline Stockmann, wearing a beige trenchcoat and a woolly hat that looked as if it might double as a tea cosy. She was carrying a battered leather briefcase and a rolled-up copy of
The
Economist
. ‘Hope I’m not too early,’ she said. ‘I thought it would take longer to get here from the station but there was a minicab waiting.’
‘I’ve got nothing else on today,’ said Shepherd. ‘Maybe a run later on.’
He took her coat and put it on a hook by the door before showing her through to the sitting room. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’
‘Lovely,’ said the psychiatrist.
Shepherd went through to the kitchen and made two coffees. When he took them back to the sitting room, Stockmann was sitting on the sofa with a notebook on her lap. She was wearing a pair of square-rimmed glasses and she looked over the top of them as she took the mug of coffee.
‘So how is everything?’ she asked as he sat down.
‘All good,’ said Shepherd, crossing his legs. He remembered that she was an expert at reading body language and she might take the leg-crossing as being defensive so he uncrossed them and smiled.
‘So you’re forty this year?’
Shepherd shrugged, figuring that the question was rhetorical and that there would be a follow-up whether he answered or not.
‘Any thoughts on that?’
‘Planning on buying me a gift, Caroline?’
‘I could certainly run to a bottle of Jameson’s,’ said the psychologist. ‘The reason I was asking is that forty is often seen as a milestone. People often set themselves targets that they want to have achieved by that age.’
Shepherd shrugged. ‘I’m not a great one for setting targets,’ he said.
‘I find that strange,’ she said. ‘I doubt that you would have got into the SAS if you were worried about testing yourself.’
‘I wanted to join the Regiment, but I wasn’t concerned at how old I was when I did it. I would have been just as happy if I’d joined at twenty-seven as I was getting in at twenty-two.’
‘Is there anything you haven’t done yet that you wished you had done by forty?’
‘A threesome with Angelina Jolie and Jessica Alba would have been nice,’ he said. He grinned. ‘Joking,’ he added. ‘Career-wise, no, I’m all good. I’ve been lucky. I’ve been in the SAS, been a cop, worked for SOCA and now I work for MI5. Barely a dull moment.’
‘For much of that time you’ve worked undercover,’ she said. ‘How have you found
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