Spider laughed. ‘You’ve a fair few years left in you yet, boss,’ he said. ‘The mistake you’re making is assuming that they think the way that we do. They don’t. They’re brainwashed, most of them. They’re led into it, trained for it, then, if need be, they’re pushed.’
‘But what are they trying to achieve? Death to all Christians? Because that’s not going to happen. The Islamification of Europe? That’s not going to happen either. And it’s not about Iraq or Afghanistan because that happened long after the attack on the Twin Towers. And most of the troops have already been pulled out. There doesn’t seem to be any objective; and if there’s no objective, if it’s just a religious war, then it’s never going to end, is it?’
‘It’s all becoming a bit Alice in Wonderland,’ said Shepherd. ‘I can’t believe that the London bombers really believed that their actions would change anything. Or that they were going straight to heaven. There’s something else at work. Something self-destructive. Self-hatred, maybe, which spills over to hatred of the world. If you really want to worry about something, Major, think about what’ll happen if they ever get a nuclear weapon. You know that the IRA would never have even contemplated using a nuclear bomb, but these morons will. That’s what I find so scary.’ He laughed harshly. ‘I’ve got my psychological evaluation coming up so I’ll see if the MI5 shrink has any ideas on what it all means.’ He patted the crate. ‘I’ll get the guns back to you tonight.’
‘Good man,’ said the Major. ‘Just be careful, okay?’
‘With the guns?’
The Major shook his head. ‘With the morons you’ll be giving the guns to,’ he said. ‘Guns and civilians are always bad news.’
Shepherd drove from the barracks to Hereford station and waited in the car for twenty minutes until the train from London pulled in. He waited until he saw Jimmy Sharpe emerge from the building before getting out.
Sharpe was dressed casually in a dark-green waterproof Barbour jacket and dark-brown corduroy trousers. He was holding a Marks amp; Spencer carrier bag. ‘Thought I’d bring some sandwiches,’ he said, holding up the bag.
‘I can see you dressed for the country,’ said Shepherd. ‘What’s with the Barbour?’
‘Forecast said it might rain. And I thought this was how you country folk dressed for hunting, shooting and fishing, and we’re going shooting, right?’ Shepherd climbed into the Range Rover and started the engine. Sharpe got into the passenger seat. ‘Gear’s good?’ he asked as he tossed his carrier bag of sandwiches on to the back seat.
‘Just what we needed,’ said Shepherd.
‘Good to have mates in low places,’ said Sharpe, settling into his seat. He looked at his watch. ‘We got time for a pint, do you think?’
‘I’m driving is what I think, Razor.’
‘Yeah, but I’m not.’
‘We can stop for a coffee on the way.’
‘In a pub?’
Shepherd smiled and shook his head. ‘You’re incorrigible,’ he said.
Sharpe grinned with no trace of embarrassment. ‘It fits in with my legend. I’m an incorrigible arms dealer who takes a drink now and again.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Do you think Hargrove will reimburse me for a first-class ticket?’
‘From where?’
‘I was in London. The train was packed and the chavs in standard class were doing my head in. So I sat in first class. But when I showed the conductor guy my warrant card he said he didn’t give a toss who I worked for and made me pay the difference.’
‘Ah yes, there isn’t the respect there used to be,’ said Shepherd, his voice loaded with sarcasm.
‘What do you guys show? You know, when you want to identify yourself?’
Shepherd laughed. ‘The whole point of being in MI5 is that we don’t identify ourselves.’
‘I thought it was MI6 that was the Secret Intelligence Service?’
‘Yeah, well, Five is secretive too. It’s pretty much like Fight Club. The first rule is that we don’t talk about it. And we certainly don’t flash our ID cards to get free rides on public transport.’
‘So how can you prove you’re a spook?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Say you’re caught doing something you shouldn’t and you get pulled by the cops. What do you use as a get-out-of-jail-free card?’
Shepherd chuckled. ‘First of all, I wouldn’t get myself into a situation where the cops would be involved. But if something went wrong, and by some chance it did happen, then I’d stick to whatever cover story I had.’
‘And if they didn’t believe you and you were arrested? They’d fingerprint and DNA you.’
‘Both of which would come back as unknown. But say they did keep me banged up, I’d be allowed my phone call and I’d call it in.’
‘Button, yeah?’
Shepherd shook his head. ‘There’s a hotline we call that’s answered by a duty officer. We explain the problem and the duty officer takes care of it. If it’s the cops then it goes to the commissioner’s office and he sorts it out.’
‘So you could get away with murder, could you?’
‘Bloody hell, Razor, I’m not James Bond and there’s no bloody licence to kill. And it’s all hypothetical anyway. It’s not as if I go around breaking the law.’
Sharpe laughed and jerked his thumb at the boxes in the back of the Range Rover. ‘What’s that back there? Chopped liver?’
Shepherd nodded. ‘Fair point. But if we do get pulled over by the traffic cops then I assume you’ll flash them your warrant card before they start rooting around in the back.’
‘Yeah, that’s one of the benefits of being back with the Met,’ said Sharpe. ‘At least everyone knows what a warrant card is. That SOCA ID was bloody useless.’ He folded his arms. ‘So where are we doing the show?’
‘Out in the Brecon Beacons,’ said Shepherd. He tapped the TomTom unit on his dashboard. ‘Got the location programmed in already. There’s a place we can drive off the road and not be seen. The nearest house is a mile away and the SAS sometimes do live-fire exercises out there so the locals are used to gunfire.’
‘And no back-up? That’s a worry.’
‘Not a problem. We’re not carrying cash so no one’s going to get heavy for three guns and a hand grenade. Plus, you can take care of yourself, can’t you? What do they call it? The Gorbals Kiss?’
Sharpe chuckled. ‘I’d never headbutt anybody, Spider. You know that.’
‘Anyway, Kettering and Thompson didn’t look the heavy sort to me. Cerebral rather than physical. We’ll be okay.’
‘And has Hargrove said anything about when we move in?’
‘I know as much as you do,’ said Shepherd.
Sharpe slowly turned his head, a sly grin on his face. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘What, you think I’ve got some sort of inside track?’
‘Heaven forbid,’ said Sharpe.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ Sharpe shrugged. ‘I’m just starting to feel like a third wheel on this job, that’s all. Hargrove’s gone very quiet ever since you came on board. He doesn’t seem to be talking to me as much as he used to. Not just about this operation, either.’
‘You’re paranoid,’ said Shepherd.
‘Yeah? Well, just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me.’
‘Razor, Hargrove has been talking to me because I’ve got access to the Sass. It’s the only way we can get the weapons we need. Can you imagine the paperwork that we’d need to get assault rifles through the Met?’
‘I guess,’ said Sharpe. He looked at his watch again. ‘How long before we’re there?’
‘Two hours, maybe.’
‘I’ll catch forty winks,’ he said and settled back in his seat.
‘I’ll miss your sparkling conversation,’ said Shepherd.
Shepherd kept the Range Rover at just below the speed limit on the drive from Hereford to the Welsh border and through the national park to the town of Brecon. He stopped at a small pub on the outskirts, woke Sharpe, and drank a cup of strong coffee while Sharpe drank a pint of lager. They sat at a table close to a walk-in stone fireplace and Shepherd waited until the barmaid was out of earshot before taking out a pay-as-you-go mobile and dialling Kettering’s number. ‘We’re about half an hour away,’ said Shepherd. ‘What about you?’