Fat Boy shuddered, and then went still. He wasn’t dead yet, Khalid knew. It was too soon for that. But he was now unconscious and death would follow within minutes.
The men stopped chanting and Khalid stopped recording. He gestured at Fat Boy. ‘And that, brothers, is what happens to anyone who betrays us,’ he said. ‘Let it be known that once you commit yourselves to jihad, there is no going back. One way or another you go to meet your maker. You can go as a martyr and receive your reward in Paradise; or you can go like this piece of cowardly shit, terrified and pissing in your pants.’ He slipped his phone back into his pocket. ‘As soon as he is dead we can dump his body, then we can go and eat.’
Shepherd looked across at Sharpe. ‘You ready?’ he asked.
They were sitting in a Range Rover in the car park of the Seattle Hotel, close to Brighton Marina. Kettering and Thompson had arranged to meet them in the hotel bar. Shepherd had told Kettering that he would have preferred the meeting to have been in London but Kettering had said that the German was insisting on Brighton.
Sharpe grinned. ‘I was born ready,’ he said.
‘I’m serious, Razor,’ said Shepherd. ‘This could very easily turn to shit.’
‘It won’t be the first time,’ said Sharpe. He gestured at Shepherd’s leather jacket, which concealed a Glock in a nylon shoulder holster. ‘Don’t see why I can’t have a gun.’
‘Because you’re a cop, and this isn’t a police operation.’
‘Well, it is, sort of,’ said Sharpe.
‘Yeah, well, even if it was they wouldn’t give you a gun, would they?’ said Shepherd. ‘Those days are long gone. Now you’d have to be in one of the specialist units and you’d have to have your paperwork current, and even then they wouldn’t let you carry in plain clothes.’
‘But you can just get a gun and shove it under your jacket?’
‘That’s the power of Five,’ said Shepherd.
‘Let’s just hope a cop doesn’t spot it,’ said Sharpe. ‘They shoot unarmed Brazilian electricians so they’d have a field day with you.’
‘No one’s going to spot it,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s my fall-back position, that’s all. The meet’s in a hotel bar and I doubt that anyone’s going to be pulling out a gun. Besides, you’ve got a vest so what are you complaining about?’
‘And what if they shoot me in the head?’
‘No one’s going to shoot anyone,’ said Shepherd. He looked at his watch. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
He climbed out of the Range Rover and zipped up his jacket. It would make it harder to pull out the gun but it meant that it would stay well hidden. He took his mobile phone from his pocket and checked that it was on and working. It was a Nokia, and while it was a functioning phone it was also a tracking device and a permanent transmitter. Amar Singh was one of MI5’s best technicians and the phone was his own personal design. Everything that was said within a ten-foot range of the phone would be transmitted to Singh and Button in Thames House. There were two armed MI5 officers in the hotel and two more in a coffee shop close to the marina. They were also listening to the output from the phone that Shepherd was carrying. They had already agreed a warning phrase. If Shepherd were to say the words ‘I can’t stay too long’ then that meant they were to move in with weapons drawn.
Shepherd locked the car and he and Sharpe headed towards the front of the hotel.
‘That’s them, outside,’ said Sharpe.
Shepherd realised that he was right. Kettering and Thompson were standing to the right of the hotel entrance, smoking cigars. Kettering was talking earnestly and Thompson was nodding. Both men were wearing long overcoats and Kettering had a bright-red scarf round his neck.
Thompson spotted them first and he said something to Kettering. Kettering turned and waved.
‘Garry, James, great to see you,’ he said.
‘No problem,’ said Shepherd, shaking hands with them both.
The two men shook hands with Sharpe. ‘Are we going inside?’ he asked.
Kettering held up what was left of his cigar. ‘Can’t smoke in there,’ he said. ‘And it’s busy. Walls have ears and all that. We’ve got somewhere more private fixed up.’ He slapped Sharpe on the back. ‘Hope you’ve got your sea legs.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Shepherd. ‘You said the bar.’
‘Like I said, the bar’s busy,’ said Kettering. He started walking towards the marina. Sharpe followed him down the path but Shepherd stood where he was.
‘Where are you going?’ he called, more for the benefit of the MI5 team than for his own information. Kettering was clearly heading to the boats.
Kettering turned round, took a long pull on his cigar and blew a cloud of bluish smoke before answering. ‘The German who wants to meet you has a boat moored here. That’s not a problem, is it?’
Shepherd grinned. ‘It’s fine by me,’ he said.
‘Good man,’ said Thompson, putting his arm round Shepherd and guiding him towards the marina. ‘We’ve got some bubbly and smoked salmon on board.’
‘Who else is on the boat?’ asked Shepherd, again for the benefit of those listening.
‘Just Klaus,’ said Thompson.
Ahead of them were several dozen large yachts and motor cruisers. ‘Which one?’ said Shepherd.
‘The cruiser, the one with the blue stripe,’ said Thompson. ‘The Laura Lee.’
‘Doesn’t sound very German,’ said Shepherd.
‘He’s chartered it,’ said Thompson. He flicked the butt of his cigar into the water.
Shepherd looked at the boat. It was big, close to a hundred feet long, with a large seating area at the stern and a glass-sided bridge that sloped back sharply. There was a man standing in the bridge looking at them. Short, stocky and wearing a captain’s hat. ‘Is that him?’
‘That’s the captain,’ said Thompson.
‘Who else is on board?’
‘Why?’ asked Thompson. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong. I just like to know who I’m dealing with and you seem to be making it up as we go along. First you say you want to meet in the hotel bar, now we’re on a boat and it’s not just your German buddy. For all I know you’ve got Captain Bligh and the Pirates of the fucking Caribbean on board.’
‘There’s the captain and that’s it,’ said Thompson. ‘And I don’t know what you’re so worried about. What is it? You think we’re going to mug you?’
Kettering and Sharpe had reached the boat and they turned and waited for the other two to join them. There was a short gangplank leading from the jetty to the stern and Sharpe walked over it unsteadily, followed by Kettering.
As Shepherd got closer he looked up at the bridge. The captain flashed him a salute. Shepherd stopped and looked at Thompson. ‘Who’s the captain?’
‘The guy that drives the boat. It’s worth a million bucks. He comes with the charter. The owner doesn’t want amateurs crashing his pride and joy, now does he?’
‘His name,’ said Shepherd. ‘I meant who is he? Do you know him?’
Thompson shrugged. ‘Greig something or other. He works for the German.’ He patted Shepherd on the back. ‘Come on, Garry, chill. Think of how much money you’re going to make out of this.’ Shepherd walked over the gangplank and joined the others.
There was a large sitting area with cream leather seats running round the edge. Sliding doors led through to the main cabin, which was larger than the flat Shepherd was using in Hampstead. The floor was gleaming teak, there was a large LCD screen on one wall and in one corner there was a well-stocked bar. Marble and chrome stairs led up to the bridge and beyond the stairs was a stainless-steel galley.