Shepherd gave her a ten-dollar bill, and as she was leaving, his mobile beeped. It was a text: Doolittle’s 4 p.m.

  ‘What’s Doolittle’s?’ he asked the girl.

  ‘It’s a restaurant and bar on the other side of the bay.’

  ‘How do I get there?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a free ferry from the marina,’ she said. ‘It goes back and forth all day and night.’

  Shepherd thanked her with another ten-dollar bill and she left. He opened the fridge and took out a bottle of water, then went out onto the terrace. He was sure it was no coincidence that the text message had arrived just as he had checked in. He sipped his water and looked out over the sea. There were a dozen yachts and catamarans in front of him, most moored in the middle of the bay. A few had dropped anchor close to the mangroves at the base of the hill. There were people on several of the boats but no one appeared to be looking his way.

  A dozen people were sitting and lying around the pool, six couples, the youngest of whom were in their forties. Most had tans that suggested they were no strangers to sunbathing, and almost all had cocktails close by. Young waiters flitted to and fro, attending to the needs of their guests. Shepherd wondered what their daily wage was, and how close that would be to the cost of a single cocktail.

  The hairs were standing up on the back of his neck, letting him know that his subconscious was pretty sure he was being watched. He smiled to himself and took another sip of water. He was going to have to be careful what he did and what he said. If he was being watched, there was a good chance that he was being listened to as well. He decided against phoning Willoughby-Brown from the suite, just to be on the safe side, and walked down to the marina before calling.

  Willoughby-Brown answered almost immediately. ‘I’m here,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m due to meet Meyer at four o’clock local time.’

  ‘Keep me posted,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

  ‘How’s the Standing thing going?’

  ‘Funny you should ask,’ said Willoughby-Brown. ‘He put two of my men in hospital yesterday.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘They were trying to bring him in but underestimated his abilities, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I can hear the satisfaction in your voice, Daniel,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

  ‘Sorry, but the SAS and Five are chalk and cheese when it comes to rough and tumble. How many men did you send?’

  ‘Four. And a driver.’

  ‘Armed?’

  ‘Handguns.’

  ‘I would have sent cops in, with Tasers. You know our people are always reluctant to fire their guns – it’s not what they’re trained for.’

  ‘Hindsight is always fifty-fifty, of course,’ said Willoughby-Brown.

  ‘Twenty-twenty,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Perfect vision.’

  Willoughby-Brown sighed. ‘I’ll talk to you after your meeting with Meyer,’ he said, and ended the call, clearly miffed at being corrected.

  Shepherd walked slowly back to his suite, deep in thought. It didn’t make sense that Willoughby-Brown had sent MI5 officers to apprehend Standing. They had no powers of arrest, and clearly what Standing was doing was against the law. That being the case, Willoughby-Brown could have used armed cops or anti-terrorist officers, who would have used overwhelming force to ensure that Standing was taken quietly. For some reason Willoughby-Brown wanted to keep Standing in-house, and he was clearly unwilling to explain to Shepherd why that was.

  Standing parked his bike in the multi-storey at King’s Cross and went back to his hotel, picking up a pack of beer on the way. He still had untouched sandwiches in his room so he ate them and drank one of the beers while he watched the news. There was still nothing about the attack in Wembley, and no mention of the attempted kidnapping near Harley Street. MI5 was clearly keeping the news under wraps, which would work to his advantage. If they went public and his photograph was plastered across newspapers and television, it wouldn’t be long before someone recognised him and turned him in.

  He picked up the gun and stripped it, then reassembled it and checked the action. It was in perfect condition, as if it had never been fired. It was a Glock 21, a full-sized .45 pistol with thirteen rounds in the magazine. It had a 4.6-inch barrel, weighed 26 ounces, and it took 5.5 pounds of pressure to pull the trigger. There hadn’t been a round chambered in the gun when he’d taken it off the man in the van, which suggested he hadn’t intended to use it. The Glock’s triggersafety mechanism meant that it was perfectly safe to carry it with a round in the chamber. And at the time, the man’s finger had always been outside the trigger guard. Standing had known immediately that they had no intention of shooting him – the guns were to intimidate him, nothing more. He smiled to himself as he slotted in the magazine. It would take more than a gun to intimidate him. Guns on their own weren’t in the least bit threatening, it was the people holding them who wielded the power. A gun was a tool, nothing more.

  He slid it under the pillow, lay down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling, wondering what to do next. He’d beaten the spooks twice, but he doubted he’d manage it a third time. They weren’t going to give up. But neither was Standing. He was determined to follow this through to the bitter end.

  Shepherd walked down to the marina, There were dozens of multi-million-pound yachts and power boats moored up and many more at anchor in the bay At the far end of the marina there was a jetty with large signs advertising the various restaurants that were dotted around. Shepherd headed towards it. He passed a motor launch where a group of bare-chested young men were drinking beer, and nodded to a man in his sixties who was cleaning the rails of his twin-masted yacht. Everyone he met was smiling, a by-product of the Caribbean sunshine and the idyllic setting.

  A small ferry, with bench seats enough to sit a dozen people at most, was tethered to the jetty. An awning round the top advertised Doolittle’s. The driver was standing in front of the wheel and he grinned at Shepherd. ‘Doolittle’s?’

  ‘Terrific,’ said Shepherd, climbing aboard. An elderly couple were already sitting down, holding hands like teenage lovers. They smiled at Shepherd. He smiled back and sat on the opposite side of the ferry. A few seconds later they were pulling away from the jetty and heading across the bay.

  After just five minutes the ferry executed a perfect turn and came to a halt inches from the wooden jetty next to an open-sided bar with a sign confirming that he had indeed arrived at Doolittle’s. He stepped off the boat and walked towards the bar. A beautiful young woman with dreadlocks, wearing a tight-fitting dress, flashed him a beaming smile and asked if he was there to eat or drink, but before he could reply there was a shout from across the bar. Meyer and Lisa were playing pool at one of two red-felted tables. Lisa jumped up and down and waved. Shepherd grinned at the woman with dreadlocks. ‘I’m with them,’ he said.

  ‘Clearly,’ she said, with a smile. ‘And I’m guessing you’ll be wanting another bottle of Cristal.’

  ‘The drink has been flowing, has it?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Let’s just say they came for breakfast and haven’t stopped,’ she said, with a wink.

  Shepherd went over to the pool tables. Lisa rushed over and hugged him, and he shook hands with Meyer, who was wearing white jeans and a blue-patterned long-sleeved Ted Baker shirt.

  ‘How’s the room?’ asked Meyer.

  ‘The suite? Awesome.’

  ‘It’s a great place.’

  ‘Are you staying there?’

  Meyer shook his head. ‘You know me and hotels.’ He pointed at a large catamaran in the bay ‘I’m staying on her. I’ll show you around tomorrow. The owner’s a pal of Putin’s and you won’t believe the sort of stuff he’s got below decks. Gold taps, I kid you not. And he’s got bar stools upholstered with whale foreskin.’ He pointed a finger at Shepherd, who shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’m not making that up!’

  ‘That’s not the one I’ll be sailing, is it?’

  Meyer gestured to the other side of the bay, where a smaller catamaran was moored to a buoy. ‘That’s yours, assuming you’re up for it.’

  Shepherd grinned. ‘I wouldn’t have flown all the way here if I wasn’t,’ he said.

  Lisa poured champagne into a glass and gave it to him. She raised hers. ‘To Paradise!’ she said.

  The two men clinked their glasses against hers. ‘You like it here?’ asked Shepherd. ‘St Lucia?’

  Lisa waved a hand around. ‘What’s not to like?’ she said, slurring her words slightly.

  ‘So, how about a bite to eat?’ asked Meyer. ‘Then I’ll show you your boat.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Shepherd.

  A table had already been set for them overlooking the bay. They all had steaks with thick-cut chips and onion rings, and another bottle of Cristal. As always, Meyer was the perfect host, telling stories and making them laugh, but never saying anything that could be used against him in a court of law. He was religious about only discussing business at sea, and while he told plenty of stories about the criminals he’d met over the years and the crimes they’d committed, he kept quiet about his own transgressions. He seemed happy to hold court, which suited Shepherd. He was more than capable of telling war stories, and his near-perfect memory meant he had hundreds of tales and anecdotes that he could roll out if necessary, but as a general rule when working under cover the less you said the better.

  They finished the meal with coffee, and Meyer and Lisa shared an ice cream. It was close to five o’clock when Meyer waved for the bill and they walked to where the small ferryboat was waiting for them. Meyer helped Lisa on and they sat together on the starboard side. Shepherd sat facing them. Lisa seemed a little worse for wear. Meyer had been drinking but not as heavily as usual, and as always Shepherd had been careful with his alcohol intake. ‘This is the life,’ said Meyer. He waved up at the villas looking down on the bay ‘Good food, good friends, and the prospect of us making a lot of money. Perfect day or what?’

  Shepherd faked a grin. ‘Perfect.’

  Meyer patted Lisa’s leg. ‘What about you? Good day, right?’

  Lisa nodded. ‘The best,’ she said. She rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

  Some of the villas on the hillside were magnificent. Traditional wooden buildings with sloping roofs and wraparound terraces were interspersed with modern glass and metal constructions that gleamed in the sun. ‘You never thought of getting a place here?’ asked Shepherd, indicating the hill.

  Meyer shook his head. ‘I don’t own property. If you own it, they can take it off you.’

  ‘They?’

  ‘The cops, the government. If they ever did make a case against me, the first thing they’d do is seize my assets. All my cash is in offshore accounts and trusts, well hidden.’

  ‘Smart,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Plus, if they know where you live, they can plant bugs and cameras and God knows what. And if you have a place you need staff and they can always be got at.’

  ‘You’re starting to sound a bit paranoid,’ said Shepherd.

  Meyer grinned. ‘Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me,’ he said. ‘But if you do plan to get up to mischief, a boat is the place to be.’

  The ferry approached a large catamaran from the rear. There were two men already on board but they had their backs to the ferry. ‘This is your boat,’ said Meyer.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Fifty feet?’

  ‘Give or take.’

  It was called Plain Sailing and was registered in the Cayman Islands. The ferry drew up next to the port hull and Meyer climbed over first. He held out his hand for Lisa and helped her on board, then did the same for Shepherd. The ferry moved away, heading back to Doolittle’s.

  Meyer walked across the cockpit. The two men still had their backs to them, facing towards the bow. They turned as Meyer came up to them. ‘So, these guys brought the boat over from Colombia,’ said Meyer, and Shepherd knew immediately that he was up to something because one of the men was Oscar Lopez. Lopez was wearing the same hat and sunglasses he’d had on at the marina in Marbella. And, as far as Shepherd knew, Lopez wasn’t a sailor. He was wearing a baggy shirt with a palm tree design. It was so loose that Shepherd couldn’t tell if he was carrying a gun, and he didn’t seem the type who would welcome a hug. He nodded at Shepherd and grunted.

  Meyer pointed at the other man. ‘This is Jose. Jose Alvarez. He’s the captain.’

  Alvarez grinned at Shepherd and threw him a mock salute ‘Good to meet you,’ he said, with a heavy Colombian accent.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Shepherd.

  Meyer nodded at Lopez. ‘And this is Diego. He doesn’t speak much English.’ Another lie. Shepherd had a bad feeling about the way things were going. Lopez was an enforcer. A killer. And he was a long way from home. There had to be a reason why he was on the boat, and Shepherd was sure it wasn’t for the sea air.

  He looked around nonchalantly. ‘Nice boat,’ he said. He sounded calm but his mind was racing, considering his options.

  ‘It’s very similar to Windchaser, but about ten feet shorter,’ said Meyer. ‘You can sail it single-handed, but I figure you’d be better picking up a deckhand here. There are always sailors passing through, looking for a charter.’

  Lisa had found the fridge and opened it. ‘There’s no champagne,’ she said, and pouted.

  ‘It’s not a party boat, honey,’ said Meyer. ‘Grab me a beer.’

  She took out a bottle, popped the cap off with an opener and gave it to him. ‘Jeff?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd, and she gave him a beer, then took one for herself.

  ‘How about you take her out, Jeff?’ said Meyer. ‘See how she handles.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Shepherd. He nodded at Alvarez. ‘Can I have a look at the chart?’

  ‘I use the GPS display,’ said Alvarez.

  He pointed at the screen by the wheel and Shepherd looked at it for several seconds. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s do it.’ He jerked a thumb at Alvarez. ‘Can you do the anchor for me, Captain?’

  Alvarez looked across at Meyer, who nodded, and went to sort out the anchor while Shepherd started the engine. He waited until Alvarez had raised the anchor before pushing the throttle forward and edging the cat out of the bay.

  Alvarez stood behind Shepherd, watching over his shoulder. Meyer and Lisa sat on the bench seat on the starboard side while Lopez stood at the rear of the port hull, leaning against the rail. Shepherd had a very bad feeling about Lopez being onboard. A very, very bad feeling.

  Standing pulled up on his motorbike in the side-street overlooking the minicab office in Kilburn. He’d thrown away his helmet and motorcycle jacket and bought a new helmet from a shop close to King’s Cross station. He’d also bought a Belstaff waxed motorbike jacket and a new pair of gloves, blue instead of black. The MI5 goons hadn’t seen his bike so that wasn’t a problem, but he still paid careful attention to the vehicles and pedestrians in the vicinity. He’d ditched the courier disguise: his plan was to park up for half an hour, then drive somewhere else. There were several side-roads from which he could watch the entrance to the minicab office. It was the worst possible sort of surveillance – he had to watch out for his target while at the same time look out for anyone who was watching him. As he sat and waited, he practised Dr Doyle’s breathing techniques, but he remained totally alert as his heart rate slowed.

  Shepherd sailed the catamaran out to sea. It was similar to the boat he’d practised on in Florida and he had no problems putting it through its paces. Alvarez and Lopez were at the stern and Lisa had gone below deck. ‘So what do you think? Could you sail her to Spain?’ asked Meyer, who was sitting behind the starboard wheel while Shepherd used the port wheel to steer the boat.

  ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd. ‘But why Spain? I could take this all the way to the UK.’

  ‘Spain’s the safer bet,’ said Meyer. ‘There’s more traffic in the Med and it’s easier to blend in. Of course you could take her into any of the south-coast ports but all you need is one nosy local to pick up the phone and you’d be busted. Plus we’ve got a tame boatyard in Marbella where they can strip the drugs out and make the boat good again.’

  ‘Is the stuff on board?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Built into the hulls,’ said Meyer. ‘They do it in Colombia. It’s damn near perfect – you won’t be able to see the joins. They pretty much rebuild the hull with the drugs inside.’

  ‘And how much gear is there?’

  Meyer laughed. ‘Why does that matter?’

  ‘I guess the more there is, the bigger the risk.’

  ‘Nah, that’s bollocks,’ said Meyer. ‘Once you get over a ton it makes no odds.’

  ‘And Customs won’t find it if they come on board?’

  ‘Dogs can’t smell it. You’d have to drill to find it and Customs aren’t going to do that on spec.’

  ‘What about a scan?’

  ‘They’re not geared up for bringing scanners out to boats – they’d have to haul her out of the water to do that and it’d cost an arm and a leg. These days, the only way they catch anyone is from intel and that’s my strong point. Money for old rope. Trust me.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Shepherd. ‘But what about …?’ He nodded at the hatch leading below deck.

  ‘She hasn’t spoken to anyone since we left Spain,’ said Meyer. ‘Seems like her phone developed a fault. I’ve said I’ll buy her a new one but until then she’s got no way of contacting anyone.’

  Lisa came up from below. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he said.

  Lisa looked a little queasy. ‘Are you okay?’ asked Meyer.

  ‘I think I drank too much champagne,’ she said, sitting next to him.

 

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