local police station with a chief inspector who owed him a few favours. The man promised to get the laptop to the Leeds hotel by nightfall. Hargrove thanked him and headed off to meet the surveillance van. It would soon be time for Shepherd's meeting with Angie Kerr.
Shepherd parked his Volvo in a space well away from the building. Supermarket car parks were his favourite place for a meeting. No one was surprised to see a man sitting alone in his car: they assumed that he was waiting for his wife.
There were always plenty of people about, which meant that faces tended not to be recognised.
Hargrove's surveillance van drove slowly round the car park, then reversed into a space in the far corner.
'Check for sound,' said Shepherd. The van's lights flashed once. There were two microphones, one in the passenger side ventilation duct, the other in the hands-free telephone.
'Check for vision,' he said. The van's lights flashed again.
There were two tiny video cameras in the car, one down in the passenger-side footwell, the other in the overhead light fitting. Both microphones and cameras were linked to a transmitter in the boot of the Volvo and the sound and images could be heard and seen up to a mile away. Shepherd had a gun under the passenger seat, a SIG-Sauer with seven cartridges in the clip. He wasn't expecting trouble from Angie,
but her husband was a different matter.
I He scanned the vehicles in the car park. Nothing out of the ordinary. He slid into character. He was Tony Nelson,
hitman for hire. Former paratrooper turned mercenary who'd fought for the highest bidder in the Balkans before moving into private practice. No wife, no children, parents long since dead, in a car accident caused by a drunk driver, and a sister he hadn't seen for ten years. There was nothing about Tony Nelson that Shepherd didn't know; there was no question that could be asked of him to which he didn't know the answer. That was the way it had to be.
Shepherd saw Angie at the wheel of a Jaguar, crawling between the ranks of parked cars. A large red motorcycle peeled away from the supermarket entrance and headed down the road. A woman in a Mini sounded her horn impatiently,
but Angie continued to drive slowly until she spotted Shepherd at the wheel of the Volvo. She smiled instinctively,
then bit her lower lip and looked away as she remembered she wasn't supposed to acknowledge him until she'd been inside the supermarket.
She found a parking space and walked into the shop. She was wearing a well-cut blazer over a white polo-neck sweater,
faded blue denims and high-heeled boots. Her body language screamed that she knew Shepherd was watching her: her back was ramrod straight and her right hand gripped the strap of her shoulder-bag as if her life depended on it.
Shepherd knew that looking relaxed when you were scared was one of the hardest things to pull off. Feigning anger,
aggression, fear or any strong emotion was easy, but being normal when your life was on the line was a skill that came only with years of experience.
Shepherd placed his gloved hands on the steering-wheel and waited for her to reappear. He glanced at the surveillance van. The cab was empty. The driver had moved into the back and was probably waiting to snap Angie with a long 87 lens. Hargrove would be sitting with his headphones on and sipping the Evian water he always had by his side on surveillance operations.
When Shepherd looked back at the supermarket. Angie was already heading his way. He avoided eye-contact until she slid into the passenger seat. 'It's the last car I'd expect you to have,' she said.
'That's why I drive it,' said Shepherd. 'It's a family car so anyone driving one is assumed to be a family man.'
'Your whole life is like that, I suppose,' she said. 'Layers and layers of disguise. Do you even know who you are?'
It was a good question, thought Shepherd, one that got to the heart of his undercover work. He had assumed so many identities over
Shepherd parked his Volvo in a space well away from the building. Supermarket car parks were his favourite place for a meeting. No one was surprised to see a man sitting alone in his car: they assumed that he was waiting for his wife.
There were always plenty of people about, which meant that faces tended not to be recognised.
Hargrove's surveillance van drove slowly round the car park, then reversed into a space in the far corner.
'Check for sound,' said Shepherd. The van's lights flashed once. There were two microphones, one in the passenger side ventilation duct, the other in the hands-free telephone.
'Check for vision,' he said. The van's lights flashed again.
There were two tiny video cameras in the car, one down in the passenger-side footwell, the other in the overhead light fitting. Both microphones and cameras were linked to a transmitter in the boot of the Volvo and the sound and images could be heard and seen up to a mile away. Shepherd had a gun under the passenger seat, a SIG-Sauer with seven cartridges in the clip. He wasn't expecting trouble from Angie,
but her husband was a different matter.
I He scanned the vehicles in the car park. Nothing out of the ordinary. He slid into character. He was Tony Nelson,
hitman for hire. Former paratrooper turned mercenary who'd fought for the highest bidder in the Balkans before moving into private practice. No wife, no children, parents long since dead, in a car accident caused by a drunk driver, and a sister he hadn't seen for ten years. There was nothing about Tony Nelson that Shepherd didn't know; there was no question that could be asked of him to which he didn't know the answer. That was the way it had to be.
Shepherd saw Angie at the wheel of a Jaguar, crawling between the ranks of parked cars. A large red motorcycle peeled away from the supermarket entrance and headed down the road. A woman in a Mini sounded her horn impatiently,
but Angie continued to drive slowly until she spotted Shepherd at the wheel of the Volvo. She smiled instinctively,
then bit her lower lip and looked away as she remembered she wasn't supposed to acknowledge him until she'd been inside the supermarket.
She found a parking space and walked into the shop. She was wearing a well-cut blazer over a white polo-neck sweater,
faded blue denims and high-heeled boots. Her body language screamed that she knew Shepherd was watching her: her back was ramrod straight and her right hand gripped the strap of her shoulder-bag as if her life depended on it.
Shepherd knew that looking relaxed when you were scared was one of the hardest things to pull off. Feigning anger,
aggression, fear or any strong emotion was easy, but being normal when your life was on the line was a skill that came only with years of experience.
Shepherd placed his gloved hands on the steering-wheel and waited for her to reappear. He glanced at the surveillance van. The cab was empty. The driver had moved into the back and was probably waiting to snap Angie with a long 87 lens. Hargrove would be sitting with his headphones on and sipping the Evian water he always had by his side on surveillance operations.
When Shepherd looked back at the supermarket. Angie was already heading his way. He avoided eye-contact until she slid into the passenger seat. 'It's the last car I'd expect you to have,' she said.
'That's why I drive it,' said Shepherd. 'It's a family car so anyone driving one is assumed to be a family man.'
'Your whole life is like that, I suppose,' she said. 'Layers and layers of disguise. Do you even know who you are?'
It was a good question, thought Shepherd, one that got to the heart of his undercover work. He had assumed so many identities over
Similar Books
