‘And how is it in anyone’s interests for you to undermine Sam Hargrove?’

  ‘That’s not what’s happening here,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘We’re mounting an operation to check the standing of an undercover agent who is supposed to be investigating one of the world’s most successful – and ruthless – drug dealers.’

  ‘Behind Sam’s back.’

  ‘If Sam Hargrove has a problem in his unit, he needs to know.’

  ‘But you’re not telling him you’re checking up on him.’

  ‘Because that’s not what’s happening here.’

  ‘You’re playing with words. You suspect that one of his operatives has betrayed his trust. If that’s the case, why don’t you tell him?’

  ‘He seems to think everything is proceeding as normal.’

  ‘There you go again, playing with words. Why are you doing this behind his back? That’s a simple enough question.’

  ‘And the answer is simple enough. Hargrove seems happy with the intelligence he’s getting back from his operative. We aren’t. So we’re running a check to see how accurate Lisa’s intelligence-gathering is. This started as an NCA investigation into a drug dealer but there are now other ramifications that mean Five is taking much more of an interest.’

  Shepherd sighed. ‘Getting information from you is like pulling teeth. What ramifications?’

  ‘Well, for a start, Meyer is buying some of his heroin from the Taliban. Not directly, obviously, there’s a middle man involved, but his money is funding the Taliban. Plus he’s started using the Hawala system to move his money. You know how that works, of course.’ He sipped his wine and smacked his lips in appreciation.

  ‘Obviously.’ Hawala was a method of transferring money without it actually leaving the country. You went to a hawala broker and handed over your cash. You were given a code or a note, which could be redeemed with any other broker anywhere in the world. It was all based on trust and while it was predominantly used in the Middle East, Africa and India, there were hawala brokers around the world.

  ‘So, then, you can understand that Meyer’s money is now moving around a system that is also used by Islamic State and al-Qaeda.’

  ‘That’s a stretch,’ said Shepherd. ‘The whole point of the hawala system is that money isn’t physically moved around.’

  ‘Nevertheless he’s dealing with people who are dealing with terrorists. That’s guilt by association. The point I’m making is that this has moved well beyond the NCA’s capabilities and we need to be more proactive.’

  ‘So take the case off them and get Sam to pull Lisa out.’

  ‘That would be counter-productive if she’s still a productive asset.’

  Shepherd sighed. Willoughby-Brown was going around in circles. Arguing with the man was like trying to grab mist. ‘Let’s suppose I discover that Lisa has turned, what then?’

  Willoughby-Brown frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I find out that she’s gone over to the dark side. What happens?’

  ‘To her? Or to Hargrove?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘It depends. In Lisa’s case, on whether or not she can still be useful to us. If she’s gone bad, she’s facing a long prison sentence. We can use that for leverage.’

  ‘Turn her into a double agent?’

  ‘If Meyer trusts her we can use that to our advantage.’

  ‘And if she has gone bad, what happens to Hargrove?’

  Willoughby-Brown’s fork hovered over his lasagne. ‘That’s not up to me. That would be a police matter.’

  ‘The NCA aren’t going to be happy if one of their undercover operatives has gone over to the other side.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘Which would put Sam in a difficult position, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘You’re asking hypothetical questions, Daniel.’

  ‘I’m trying to find out where I stand. I worked for Sam when I was an undercover cop, and when he was with the Serious Organised Crime Agency. He’s one of the good guys. Now you’re asking me to betray him.’

  ‘When did I say that? Lisa Wilson is the focus of this case. And her connection to Meyer. That’s all that needs concern you.’

  ‘It’s about the consequences, Jeremy. Everything we do has consequences and I don’t want to be responsible for jeopardising Sam’s career.’

  ‘You’re over-thinking this. As usual.’

  ‘You’ve already shafted one of my bosses. I’m not going to help you do it again.’

  Willoughby-Brown’s eyes narrowed. ‘If you’ll forgive the metaphor, you’re sailing a tad too close to the wind.’

  ‘I’m serious, Jeremy.’

  ‘So am I. I understand that when you were a police officer, and when you were with SOCA, you got to choose your assignments. But you don’t work for the police any more. You’re employed by the Security Service where the arrangements are less flexible. The choice you have is to work for MI5, or not. If at any time you feel unable or unwilling to carry out the duties assigned to you, you’re perfectly entitled to quit.’

  Shepherd gritted his teeth but didn’t say anything. Quitting wasn’t something he intended to do on the spur of the moment, and if he ever left MI5 he would make sure he had another job lined up first.

  ‘Are we clear, Daniel?’ asked Willoughby-Brown. He put down his knife and fork and Shepherd realised he’d finished his lasagne while he was only halfway through his sausages and mash.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Shepherd, his voice a dull monotone.

  Willoughby-Brown took out a pack of small cigars. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you make us another cup of coffee while I smoke one of these on deck?’

  ‘We’re not driving back to London?’

  Willoughby-Brown laughed. ‘You need to experience a night in a bunk, and we’ll go out again at first light to check that everything I’ve taught you has sunk in.’

  ‘Are you serious? Aren’t there hotels nearby?’

  ‘We’re teaching you to be a sailor,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘And you’ll be surprised by how comfortable it is.’

  ‘I snore,’ said Shepherd. He really didn’t see the point of sleeping on a cramped boat with Willoughby-Brown when Brighton was full of perfectly good hotels.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘So do I.’

  Standing groaned and opened his eyes. He looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa. He sat up and rubbed his face, then went over to the table and picked up his phone. No missed calls and no messages. He called his sister’s number but it went straight through to voicemail again. He didn’t know what to say so he ended the call. Then he realised he had to say something so he hit redial. ‘Lexi, hey, it’s Matt. I’m in London. Give me a call, yeah?’

  He was hungry so he left the apartment and went downstairs. There was a different Indian girl on Reception – she looked as if she might be the older sister of the girl who had checked him in. He headed out and walked to Queensway, the area’s main shopping street. It was busy with a vibrant mix of tourists and locals, and within two minutes he had heard half a dozen languages spoken. He walked past several Chinese restaurants, with glossy roast ducks hanging by their necks in the window. He’d never been a fan of Chinese food, or Asian food generally. He’d eaten mainly army food over the past eight years, which was bland at best, so spicy dishes tended not to agree with him. He reached an Italian restaurant, sat at a table by the window and ate spaghetti carbonara, drank two bottles of Peroni beer, then had a coffee as he watched the world go by. He kept his phone on the table in front of him, but there were no calls and no texts.

  He got back to his apartment at eleven, thought about folding the bed down but decided not to bother and slept fully clothed with the television on.

  Shepherd had slept in some pretty uncomfortable places during his years in the SAS, so any night when he didn’t freeze, get bitten by the local insects or have to sleep on rocks or sand was a good one. But the cabin was cramped and he felt as if he was sleeping in a coffin, while the boat creaked and groaned as it moved on the water. He doubted he slept for more than four or five hours in total, and never for more than an hour at a time. When sleep eluded him, he read the books on seamanship that Willoughby-Brown had given him. He heard the other man get up at just after six, then some pretty unpleasant noises from the toilet, and eventually Willoughby-Brown was banging and crashing in the galley. Shepherd hadn’t bothered taking off his clothes so he pulled on his training shoes and joined him.

  ‘Not much choice for breakfast, I’m afraid,’ said Willoughby-Brown, plonking two boxes of cereal onto the table. ‘Weetabix or Alpen.’

  ‘Alpen always reminds me of hamster food,’ said Shepherd. He helped himself to two Weetabix and slopped milk over them, then sat down and tucked in. Willoughby-Brown had made coffee and took it onto the deck to drink it while he smoked. Shepherd joined him once he’d finished his cereal.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ asked Shepherd, sitting down on the opposite side of the wheel. There were sailors on several of the boats to either side of Second Wind, mainly middle-aged men in windbreakers and thick pullovers, busying themselves with jobs that needed doing on boats.

  ‘We’ll go out for a few hours and I’ll put you through your paces. Then you’re off to Florida.’

  ‘Meyer’s in Florida?’

  ‘You’re not ready to meet him yet,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘We need to get you familiar with big boats and that’s out of my league. I’ve arranged for a guy in Jacksonville to show you the ropes. His name’s Barry Minister – most people call him BM.’

  ‘Seems a long way to go for a sailing lesson,’ said Shepherd.

  Willoughby-Brown blew a tight plume of bluish smoke up at the mainsail. ‘One, he’s the best in the business, Nothing he doesn’t know about sailing. Two, we can trust him. I’ve used him before and he’s one hundred per cent reliable. Three, you’re unlikely to bump into any of Meyer’s contacts in Jacksonville. Four …’ He looked across at Shepherd. ‘Do I need a four?’

  ‘I wasn’t trying to second-guess you, Jeremy,’ said Shepherd, ‘just pointing out it’s a long way to go, that’s all.’

  ‘You were a lot more flexible when you weren’t having sex on a regular basis,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

  ‘Well, to be fair, I haven’t been home for nearly three months – at least, not for more than a day or two.’

  ‘And the au pair’s missing you?’

  Willoughby-Brown grinned and Shepherd knew he was trying to rile him. He refused to give the man the satisfaction and smiled easily. ‘Katra will be fine. Just I could do with a few days R and R.’

  ‘You don’t find sailing relaxing?’

  ‘No, Jeremy, I don’t.’

  ‘I find it the most relaxing thing in the world, Daniel. The sky above, the water below, the sails full of wind, completely responsible for my own destiny.’

  ‘Master of your own domain?’

  ‘You clearly don’t get it.’

  Shepherd shrugged. ‘It’s transport. A way of getting from one place to another, and generally not an efficient way of doing it.’

  Willoughby-Brown sighed. ‘Clearly you don’t see the romance of it.’

  ‘Clearly not.’

  Willoughby-Brown flicked what was left of his cigar over the side into the water. He didn’t look happy. ‘Okay, let’s get started. I’ll untie us. You take the wheel.’

  ‘Aye, aye, Captain.’

  Debbie in the colonel’s office had given Standing a list of three therapists in London. One was a woman – Dr Sharon Doyle – with a string of letters after her name and an office in Harley Street. He figured that if he was going to spend hours in therapy he’d rather it was a woman – at least he’d have something pleasant to look at. When he phoned for an appointment, the receptionist already knew who he was and said there was a slot free at three o’clock. Standing hadn’t expected her to be available so soon but he had nothing else to do so he caught the Tube to Regent’s Park and was in Dr Doyle’s office at three o’clock prompt.

  Dr Doyle was indeed pleasant to look at, a pretty brunette in her early thirties with her hair in a bob, and full lips that always seemed to be on the verge of smiling. Standing had expected a sofa but there were two winged armchairs either side of a low coffee-table on which there were two bottles of Evian water and crystal tumblers. She was holding a notepad and a Mont Blanc pen, and shook hands with him before waving him to the chair that faced the door. ‘So, I’m assuming you know how this works,’ she said. ‘We’re going to chat over the next few weeks and together see what we can do to improve your anger-management skills. I’ve signed the Official Secrets Act so anything you tell me is confidential and will stay that way, though obviously there are things you shouldn’t and mustn’t tell me.’

  ‘You see a lot of guys from the Regiment?’

  She nodded. ‘Some serving and others who have left. The job you do is stressful, to say the least, but returning to civilian life can be even more so.’

  ‘A lot of guys can’t cope,’ he said. ‘I’ll be honest. I’m not sure that I could. I really don’t want to leave the Regiment, Dr Doyle. It’s my life. My whole life. I don’t have anything else.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we start with a little background? Tell me about your family situation.’

  ‘I don’t really have a family.’

  ‘Mother? Father?’

  ‘Sure. Everyone has a mother and father, don’t they?’

  Dr Doyle smiled. ‘I meant are you close? Did you have a happy childhood?’

  ‘No. And no.’

  She looked at him expectantly and eventually he saw there was no point in not talking. ‘My dad was a bastard,’ he said quietly. ‘He still is, probably. He beat me up when I was a kid and knocked my mother around. He ended up killing her.’

  Dr Doyle’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘He was in the kitchen, shouting at her the way he always did when he was angry with her. He punched her, like he always did. I guess he forgot that he was holding a knife. Killed her instantly. It went straight into her heart. He phoned the police and sat down next her.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘In the next room, watching TV with the sound turned up, like we always had it when they were fighting.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and my sister. She was three.’

  ‘And how old were you?’

  ‘Eleven.’

  ‘That must have been awful.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. Things don’t seem so bad with hindsight. We were still watching TV when the police came. I remember them taking him away in handcuffs. I remember the blood on his shirt and his hands. But I don’t think we knew what had happened. There was this really nice policewoman who sat with us. Wendy, her name was.’ He smiled. ‘Funny that. I don’t remember much about that day, but I remember Wendy. Then in the evening a woman from the council came and took us away. We never went home.’

  ‘That must have been terrible.’

  ‘Like I said, time numbs you. I remember Lexi crying herself to sleep. We were put with a foster family for a few weeks, then something happened and we were moved to another. That was shit. They were just in it for the money and the food was crap. The guy was just plain creepy. He kept trying to get into the bathroom, and once when I was watching TV, he put his hand on my knee. I punched him in the face and the next day I was moved to another family.’

  Dr Doyle frowned. ‘They split you up?’

  ‘They didn’t care. I was put with another couple who were using fostering as a business. They had six boys in three bedrooms, sleeping in bunk beds. Cornflakes for breakfast, egg and chips for dinner. Sometimes just the chips. I had to move school, and then I was moved again a few months later. It became a pattern.’

  ‘And how often did you get to see your sister?’

  ‘Once a month, maybe. But then she was adopted and I saw less of her.’

  ‘And your father? What happened to him?’

  ‘Life imprisonment,’ said Standing. ‘But, these days, life doesn’t mean life. He might be out again in another ten years.’

  ‘You’ve never been to see him?’

  ‘Why would I? He knocked me around and he killed my mum.’

  ‘For closure. To have him apologise for what he did, maybe.’

  ‘Apologising won’t bring my mum back.’

  ‘You sound angry.’

  Standing’s eyes narrowed. ‘Of course I’m fucking angry. He killed my mum and I lost my sister. I’ve a lot to be angry about.’ He realised he was clenching his fists. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For getting angry.’

  ‘Anger is a perfectly reasonable emotion,’ said Dr Doyle. ‘Everyone gets angry. It’s how we control the anger that matters. And you controlled it, just then. You took a deep breath and you weren’t angry any more.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Do you get angry a lot?’

  Standing laughed harshly. ‘Isn’t that why I’m here?’

  ‘You’re here not because you get angry but because you have problems controlling your anger.’

  Standing reached for a bottle of water and drank from it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m a soldier,’ he said. ‘If I didn’t get angry, I’d be a pretty crap one. If you’re in a firefight, you don’t have time to stop, think and control your emotions. You react. You move. You fight back.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Dr Doyle. ‘From what I hear you’re a brilliant soldier. You react instinctively. You know where to move, what to do and how to react. I’m told that time and time again you’ve saved the lives of your colleagues.’

  Standing nodded. ‘I’m good under fire,’

  ‘Oh, no, Matt. You’re not good. I’m told you’re a natural. You’re able to assess risks and calculate angles. You know where’s safe and where to fire from, where the enemies are and where you need to be. They teach tactics and strategies but with you the rulebook goes out of the window, doesn’t it? You do it without thinking.’

 

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