The Ninth Step - John Milton #8 (John Milton Thrillers) by Mark Dawson Page A

surveillance operations with as many as ten cars, enough assets to ensure that the target would never see the same tail car twice. They didn’t have the manpower for that tonight, but the three vehicles that they did have would be more than enough for the job.
    “A little closer,” Shepherd said.
    Hicks gripped the wheel just a little tighter.
    “Closer. He’s pulling away.”
    “I know what I’m doing,” Hicks said in as even a tone as he could manage, doing his best to mask his discomfort and irritation. Shepherd had provided a constant stream of unwelcome advice ever since they had started the pursuit. Hicks was more than capable of tailing a single vehicle through the streets of London.
    Shepherd was oblivious. “What do you reckon that was all about back there?”
    It was the second time Shepherd had asked him that. “He was thirsty. Fancied a cup of tea. I don’t know, Shepherd. What do you think?”
    Shepherd tapped his fingers against his knee and then turned to look at him across the cabin. “That’s not what you think, though, is it? What was it?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Something bothered you back there. When Fabian came out with the other man. What was it? You recognise him?”
    Hicks stared dead ahead at the lights of the cars ahead of them. “I don’t know…” He started to speak, then shook his head. “I thought I did, but I was wrong.”
    “Who’d you think it was?”
    “Someone from the army.”
    “And it’s not? You’re sure about that?”
    “Yeah,” he said. “I’m seeing things.”
    But that was a lie. He had recognised Milton at once. He hadn’t seen him for years, but there was no mistaking him. So why didn’t he say something? Why didn’t he admit that he knew who Milton was?
    Shepherd changed the subject. “The general told you what Isaacs gets up to?”
    “I know. He’s a pervert.”
    “That’s an understatement. He’s a pervert, all right. A rapist, too. Kids. Boys, mostly. Higgins has evidence that proves at least some of it. Photographs and videos.”
    “He didn’t say that. He said it was just protection.”
    “One thing you need to know about the general,” Shepherd said. “He doesn’t do anything unless he can get something out of it. And I’m fine with that. I paid my mortgage off with his money. I bought my Lexus, cash. I took my woman to the Maldives, first class all the way. I’m not going to rock the boat.”
    The taxi slowed for a red light and rolled to a stop. They stopped, too, three cars behind it.
    “Where did he get the evidence?” Hicks asked.
    “He had a brother. He’s dead now, got shot during some funny business the old man will hint at if you get him drunk enough. The brother used to be in the Met. Head of the Diplomatic Protection squad. Top brass. Most of this is gossip, but Isaacs made his money in Saudi during the ’70s. I heard that the company got into hot water, and there was a suggestion that the regime wanted him dead. Higgins’s brother was Isaacs’s personal protection officer when he was a minister. Followed him around, drove him to meetings, the usual. From what I heard, Isaacs had this idea that he could trust him to keep quiet about the things he got up to in his private life. That was crazy, obviously, and, I’m just guessing here, but it sounds like the Higgins boys decided they’d get some evidence on what a nasty little shit he is just in case it might be useful later.”
    The lights changed and Fabian pulled away.
    “Blackmail, then,” Hicks said as he squeezed down on the accelerator.
    “Of course it’s blackmail, but you can dress it up any way you want. The way I heard it, they told Isaacs and the others that they had seen the evidence. They said they’d make sure it never came to light if they paid them. Think about it: these men, the longer it went on and nothing came to light, the more they trusted Higgins and his brother. The more they felt grateful to them. The more they felt like they