‘Exactly. If potential terrorists are using him, there’d be more to gain from watching and waiting. If it’s just economic migrants, we can bust him and plug the hole. It could be that we pull the Uddin brothers in for the currency-smuggling but leave the passport guy in place. It’s all up in the air.’
‘Okay,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m sorry if it sounds a bit vague, but it’s complex. I know it’d be a lot easier if we were going after a drug-dealer or an armed robber. Catch them in the act and it’s on to the next case. As soon as there’s the possibility of terrorist activity, the game moves up a notch.’
Shepherd frowned. ‘Game?’
‘You know what I mean.’
Shepherd knew exactly what she meant. He’d worked with operatives from the intelligence services before, British and American, and they often treated their cases as an academic exercise. They enjoyed pitting their wits against an enemy who was their intellectual equal, took pleasure in every victory and were embittered by defeat. Button had said ‘game’ and that was what she meant. Her job didn’t involve putting herself in harm’s way: that was what Shepherd was for. He’d be the one on the ground, risking a bullet in the head or a knife in the gut, lying, cheating and doing whatever it took to take down the enemy. He’d be the one walking into the lion’s den with a recording device taped to his back. He didn’t regard what he did as a game. He put away criminals because they hurt other people physically, stole from them or plied them with drugs. Each case was a battle, and while he often doubted that he’d win the war, he was determined to win every battle he fought.
Button could sense Shepherd’s concern. ‘It’s an expression,’ she said.
It was – but it was more than that: it was an attitude. And when you were facing dangerous criminals, it could be a dangerous one. Generally spies didn’t shoot other spies, but drug-dealers most definitely put bullets into undercover cops. When he’d faced Kreshnik in the apartment in Paris, it hadn’t been a game, and it was important that Charlotte Button understood that. ‘No problem,’ he said. He remembered how she’d taken pleasure in telling him she’d followed him to the Ritz. She’d been playing a game then, no question about it.
‘I wasn’t minimising what I’m asking you to do, Dan,’ she said. ‘It really is just an expression.’
‘It’s fine,’ said Shepherd. He looked at the photographs and artists’ impressions on the whiteboard and wondered how many of those men and women thought of the jihad as a game.
Shepherd walked slowly along the pavement, checking reflections in shop windows, more from habit than any fear that he was being followed. The Uddin brothers’ bureau de change was little more than a booth set in a row of shops, with a staircase next to it that led up to the offices. An Asian youth with slicked-back hair was sitting in a glass-fronted cubicle next to an electronic board that listed exchange rates in red numbers. He was engrossed in a book. Plenty of people were walking by, but no one seemed interested in changing money. It was a busy street. There was an Argos, a Woolworth’s, small shops selling electrical equipment and phone cards, and an amusement arcade packed with fruit machines. The bulk of the shoppers were Arabs, and along the street there were several Arab coffee shops with tables on the pavements where men in long white robes sat and sipped strong, sweet coffee and sucked on ornate hookah pipes.
Shepherd crossed the road at a set of traffic-lights. A huddle of women clothed from head to foot in black burkhas, with veiled letterbox slots at eye level, scuttled out of Argos weighed down with bulging carrier-bags. They waved frantically at a black cab and climbed into the back.
The youth didn’t look up from his book as Shepherd walked past him and headed up the stairs to Salik’s office. He had a tight feeling in his stomach. He always did when he was wearing a wire. He could feel the battery pack and the digital recorder in the small of his back, the wire that wound round his waist under his shirt, the microphone taped to his chest. He hated carrying digital recorders, but sometimes they were a necessary evil. Devices like the transmitting mobiles and long-distance microphones were all well and good but the quality was variable. Stand-alone recorders with good-quality microphones were pretty much foolproof, so long as they remained hidden. Shepherd only used them when he was sure he had the trust of the people he was talking to, and he knew the Uddin brothers trusted him. He had just brought in seven million euros of counterfeit currency for them and he hadn’t even insisted on being paid in advance.
On the first floor he came to a white-painted door with a plastic plaque that displayed the name of the bureau de change in large capital letters and underneath it half a dozen other company names in smaller type. Shepherd knocked.
An Asian youth opened the door. He might have been the elder brother of the boy downstairs, although his hair was longer and he was wearing horn-rimmed glasses.
‘I’m here to see Salik and Matiur,’ said Shepherd.
‘Tony, don’t stand on ceremony, come on in,’ called Salik.
The office was spacious, with gunmetal grey blinds covering the windows and desks in three corners, each with a computer and flat-screen monitor on it. There was a bank of half a dozen fax machines on a table under one window and a large oval teak table with eight chairs round it. Salik and Matiur were sitting at the table. A tall, long-spouted earthenware teapot stood in front of them with four handleless mugs.
‘Tony,’ said Salik. He hurried around the table to give Shepherd a hug. Shepherd untangled himself before the other man could feel the concealed recording device. ‘Sunday was perfect – better than perfect.’
The youth sat down at one of the computer terminals and began to tap on the keyboard. Matiur stood up and Shepherd reached out to shake hands. ‘You are a good man,’ said Matiur. ‘A professional.’
‘Well, hopefully we can do it again some time soon,’ said Shepherd.
Salik sat down and picked up the teapot. ‘Have some mint tea,’ he said. ‘We import it.’
Shepherd joined him. ‘You have your fingers in a lot of pies,’ he said, taking a cup.
‘You have to diversify,’ said Salik. ‘Businesses are cyclic. If you have only one, there are peaks and troughs.’ He reached under the table and pulled out a leather briefcase. ‘This is yours, Tony.’ He handed it to Shepherd, who put it on his lap and clicked the two locks. The case was full of bundles of banknotes, fives, tens and twenties. ‘I hope this is all real,’ he said.
Salik and Matiur laughed. ‘You have our money-back guarantee,’ said Salik. ‘Fifty thousand pounds, and it is all real.’
Shepherd took out a bundle and counted it carefully. Tony Corke needed the cash and he’d be sure to count every note. When he’d assured himself that there was fifty thousand pounds in the case, he said, ‘Thanks. Now I need to talk to you.’
‘What about?’ asked Salik.
‘My court case.’ Shepherd closed the briefcase. ‘This is all well and good but my solicitor’s costing me an arm and a leg.’
‘Lawyers are expensive,’ said Salik. ‘Does he think he can keep you out of jail?’
Shepherd scowled. ‘It’d take a miracle to do that, which is why we need to talk.’
‘You want more money? Is that it?’
‘I want Tony Corke to disappear.’
‘But you said you’d lose your house if you run. You had to put it up as surety for your bail, you said.’
‘They’ll take the house, sure, but there’s a big mortgage on it. With the equity in it and the cash, I’d be running away from eighty grand. If I’m going to be doing more runs for you, money won’t be a problem.’
‘So?’
‘I need a new identity. A new life.’
‘You have a passport already.’
‘Yes, but I don’t have a birth certificate to go with it. Or any other paperwork.’ He reached into his coat and pulled out the envelope Button had given him. ‘I’ve got paperwork here on a guy who died a few years ago. He was a friend of a friend. He never had a passport so he’s not in the system, but he has a birth certificate, a school record, a university degree and a national-insurance number. With a passport, I’ll have a ready-to-use new identity.’