Spider's Web: A Collection of All-Action Short Stories Read online

  Table of Contents

  Also by Stephen Leather

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1. Hard Evidence

  2. Hiatus

  3. Hard Target

  Read an extract from True Colours

  Also by Stephen Leather

  Pay Off

  The Fireman

  Hungry Ghost

  The Chinaman

  The Vets

  The Long Shot

  The Birthday Girl

  The Double Tap

  The Solitary Man

  The Tunnel Rats

  The Bombmaker

  The Stretch

  Tango One

  The Eyewitness

  Spider Shepherd Thrillers

  Hard Landing

  Soft Target

  Cold Kill

  Hot Blood

  Dead Men

  Live Fire

  Rough Justice

  Fair Game

  False Friends

  True Colours

  Jack Nightingale Supernatural Thrillers

  Nightfall

  Midnight

  Nightmare

  Nightshade

  To find out about these and future titles, visit www.stephenleather.com.

  About the author

  Stephen Leather is one of the UK’s most successful thriller writers, a Sunday Times top ten bestseller, and a top ebook bestselling author. Before becoming a novelist he was a journalist for more than ten years on newspapers such as The Times, the Daily Mail and the South China Morning Post in Hong Kong. He began writing full time in 1992. His bestsellers have been translated into more than ten languages. He has also written for television shows such as London’s Burning, The Knock and the BBC’s Murder in Mind series and two of his books, The Stretch and The Bombmaker, were filmed for TV.

  You can find out more from Stephen’s website www.stephenleather.com, his blog www.stephenleather.blogspot.co.uk and can follow him on Twitter at twitter.com/stephenleather.

  Spider’s Web

  Stephen Leather

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Stephen Leather 2013

  The right of Stephen Leather to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978 1 444 78098 7

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.hodder.co.uk

  HARD EVIDENCE

  Dan ‘Spider’ Shepherd had good days, and he had bad days. One of the advantages of working for MI5 was that life was never boring, but that wasn’t always necessarily a good thing and sometimes there was a price to be paid. His day had started out as a good one but all that had changed when the men in ski masks had bundled him into the back of a Transit van. Now he was hanging by his arms in a basement and it was most definitely turning out to be a bad day. One of his worst.

  They hadn’t taken him without a fight, and his jaw ached where he’d been punched and something had cracked him across the back of his skull. There was duct tape across his mouth, but even if he’d been able to shout for help he doubted that anyone would have heard him. The walls were brick and the only window was set high in the wall and composed of glass blocks that were covered in cobwebs. The floor was bare concrete, and in one corner of the room there was a small pile of what looked like rat droppings.

  They had used a chain to bind his wrists together and then slung it over a metal pipe that ran across the ceiling. It was a good six inches across and made of cast iron. It was probably a waste pipe, and from time to time something gurgled inside. The pipe was strong and the brackets holding the pipe to the concrete ceiling were just as sturdy.

  Shepherd’s heart was pounding as adrenalin continued to course through his system. He consciously slowed his breathing and forced himself to relax. Whatever was happening wasn’t good but at least he was still alive. He needed to think.

  The chain was made up of small links, no more than half an inch long, and they had used a small brass padlock to fasten it around his wrists. His legs were free but they had yanked his arms up so high that he had to keep his legs and back straight to keep the pressure off his shoulders.

  He pulled hard on the chain but the an< pipe was unyielding and all he did was hurt his wrists. The chain was so tight around his wrists that he was already losing the feeling in his fingers. He stared up at the ceiling, wondering whether there was anyone above him. He tried banging the chain against the pipe but it barely made any sound.

  ‘Hello!’ he shouted. ‘Is there anyone there?’ His voice echoed off the walls. Shepherd listened. He couldn’t hear anything outside the basement and he doubted that anyone would be able to hear him. If there had been any chance of his cries being heard they would probably have gagged him.

  Shepherd had no idea who his captors were. The men that had bundled him into the van had been wearing ski masks and gloves and hadn’t said a word from start to finish. They had been professional, that much was clear. There had been an economy of movement that came with practice and familiarity.

  He hadn’t seen them coming. He’d parked his BMW in the car park of a pub where he was due to meet a contact. It was just after ten at night and he’d deliberately parked in an unlit area, which is why he hadn’t seen the three men until they’d emerged from the shadows. Shepherd had managed to get a few punches in but then a fourth man had appeared from nowhere and smacked him in the face, and as Shepherd had turned he’d been hit across the back of the head. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the room, hanging from the pipe.

  There were three cases that he was working on, any one of which could have blown up in his face. He was running an agent who had infiltrated a Somalian drugs gang that was helping fund Al-Shabaab terrorists back in their native Somalia. Ali Sharif, a London-born Somalian, had applied to join MI5 and had been immediately signed up and assigned to an undercover unit. Shepherd had been brought in to run him.

  Shepherd had also recently reprised one of his regular legends, that of Garry Edwards, an arms dealer happy to sell weapons to anyone with money. It was a joint operation with the Metropolitan Police, set up to entrap a group of armed robbers who were planning a raid on a Hatton Garden jewellery firm.

  The third case was mainly surveillance, tracking a Russian assassin who, according to a tip from the Russian intelligence agency, had flown in from New York intent on killing a Russian journalist who had made London her home. The assassin’s name was Viktor Tankov and according to the Russian intel he was a former special forces soldier who had carried out more than a dozen killings. Shepherd had been in charge of a surveillance unit that was keeping a close eye on the Russian since he had arrived in the country.

  They had taken him for a reason, Shepherd was sure of that much at least. If they’d wanted him dead they could have put a bulle
t in his head and left him on the ground, or they could have strangled or knifed him in the van and dumped his body. The fact that he was gagged and bound meant that they needed something from him, probably information.

  He concentrated on his active cases, trying to work out who had imprisoned him.

  Somalian drug dealers generally didn’t bother gathering intelligence; they tended to shoot first and not worry about asking any questions. And if they’d realised that Ali was working for MI5 then they already knew everything.

  The arms case was pretty low level and he doubted that the villains involved would risk making things worse for themselves by adding kidnapping to their crimes.

  That left the Russian assassin, but all the intel that Shepherd had seen suggested that Tankov didn’t work mob-handed. It was possible that thssible the Russian had hired help in London, but if he suspected that he had been blown his best option would have been either to have gone underground or to have returned to Russia or the States. Tankov would gain nothing from abducting Shepherd – unless there was information that he needed to complete his contract.

  He pulled at the chain again, not because he thought it would achieve anything but because he had to do something. It wasn’t in his nature to go out without a fight.

  He gritted his teeth in frustration. Of course, his abduction might not be connected with one of his current cases. It could well be a face from his past. Over the years he’d put hundreds of men and women behind bars and more than a few in the ground. As an undercover police officer he’d wormed his way into the confidences of thieves, robbers and drug dealers only to betray them. Working for the Serious Organised Crime Agency had brought him up against major criminals and terrorists from the Real IRA to al-Qaeda, as had his work with MI5. Any one of his cases could have thrown up someone bent on revenge.

  Shepherd heard a bolt scrape back and he looked across at the door. A second bolt rattled back and he tensed. The door opened slowly, and that was when Shepherd’s day went from bad to worse.

  He recognised Tankov immediately. He had the build of a wrestler on steroids; overdeveloped forearms, a thick neck and a barrel-like chest. He was wearing a tight-fitting Lonsdale T-shirt revealing geometric tattoos on his bulging forearms.

  Behind him was an older man with slicked-back black hair wearing a stained grey sweatshirt and cargo pants. He followed Tankov into the basement and closed the door.

  The Russian put his hands on his hips and sneered at Shepherd.

  ‘I don’t know who you think I am but this is a terrible mistake,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Really?’ said the Russian.

  ‘I’m just a council worker. I’ve never been in trouble with anyone. This is a mistake.’

  ‘You think I’m stupid, do you?’ growled Tankov in a heavy Russian accent. ‘You think I just walked in off a farm, do you?’

  ‘I’ve no idea who you are,’ said Shepherd. ‘I just want to go home.’

  Tankov turned to look at his companion. ‘You hear that? He doesn’t know who I am.’ The Russian chuckled.

  ‘He knows,’ said the man. He had a Scottish accent, a deep growl that suggested he was a heavy smoker.

  Tankov nodded. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘I think he knows.’ He turned to glare at Shepherd. ‘You know,’ he said. He slapped Shepherd across the face. Hard, and the sound echoed around the room like a pistol shot.

  Shepherd tasted blood in his mouth and he swallowed. ‘There’s been a mistake. I work for the council. Environmental Health.’

  The Russian turned to his companion. ‘Was he searched?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Scotsman. He handed the Russian a black leather wallet. The Russian flicked through it, pulling out the credit cards and tossing them on the floor one by one. ‘Garry Edwards,’ he said. He pulled out a driving licence and examined both sides. ‘Looks real,’ he said.

  ‘It is real,’ said Shepherd.

  Tankov flicked the licence through the air and it hit the wall behind Shepherd. ‘Seaank. ̵rch him again,’ he said to his companion. ‘Make sure he’s not wired.’

  ‘Why would I be wired?’ asked Shepherd.

  Tankov threw the wallet at Shepherd; it only just missed hitting him in the face.

  The Scotsman walked up to Shepherd and ripped open his shirt. He stepped to the side and pointed at Shepherd’s exposed abdomen. ‘Satisfied?’ he growled.

  ‘Check his trousers. I want to be sure he’s not wired.’

  ‘He’s not wired,’ said the Scotsman.

  ‘Humour me,’ said Tankov.

  The Scotsman scowled at Tankov, then unzipped Shepherd’s trousers and prodded his boxer shorts.

  ‘Is this some sort of sex thing?’ asked Shepherd.

  The Scotsman grabbed Shepherd’s scrotum and squeezed. ‘You think this is funny?’

  Shepherd winced. ‘I just want to go home,’ he said.

  The Scotsman released his grip and stepped back. ‘He’s not wired,’ he said to Tankov.

  ‘I’m an environmental health officer,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

  Tankov chuckled. ‘Is everything that comes out of your mouth a lie?’ he said. He bent down and peered at Shepherd with cold, hard eyes, as grey as gunmetal. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘I know everything.’

  Shepherd said nothing.

  ‘Your name is Simon Powell and you’re a cop,’ said Tankov, saying each word slowly and precisely, as if relishing passing the information to him. He grinned triumphantly. ‘See?’ he said. He looked over at the other man. ‘See the fear in his eyes? Do you see it?’

  The Scotsman nodded. ‘I see it.’

  Tankov jabbed his finger at Shepherd’s chest. ‘I know everything,’ he said.

  ‘So you can let me go and we can both get on with our lives, can we?’ said Shepherd. The Russian didn’t know that he worked for MI5, nor did he know his real name. And Simon Powell wasn’t an alias he’d ever used.

  The Russian frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘If you know everything then there’s nothing I can tell you so you might as well let me down.’

  The Russian’s frown deepened and he turned to look at the other man again. ‘He thinks we’re going to let him go?’ he said.

  ‘Looks like it,’ said the Scotsman.

  The Russian laughed. ‘Do you think he’s really that stupid?’ He moved his face closer to Shepherd’s. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ he said.

  Shepherd flinched as the man’s rank breath assailed his nostrils. ‘You’re a very successful assassin, you’ve never been caught, so no, I don’t think you’re stupid.’

  ‘So you do know me?’

  ‘Viktor Tankov,’ said Shepherd. ‘Former Russian military, now freelance.’

  ‘And you admit you’re a cop?’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be any point in me denying it, does there?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Told you,’ said the Scotsman.

  ‘Do you know how many men I’ve killed?’ Tankov asked Shepherd.

  ‘A dozen,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘A dozen?’ Tankov looked over at his companion. ‘A dozen in my first year as an independent contractor.’

  ‘I’m guessing you try to keep a low profile,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Those that need to know, know,’ said the Russian. ‘Most of the time no one realises that a killing has taken place. Car accidents. A helicopter once.’

  ‘A helicopter?’

  ‘Stefen Grabosky. Remember him? One of the steel oligarchs. Richer than God.’

  ‘That was an accident,’ said Shepherd. ‘I remember that. It was in California. San Francisco. Metal fatigue, they said.’

  Tankov chuckled. ‘The Americans couldn’t find their backsides in a darkened room,’ he said. ‘Helicopters are dangerous at the best of times. It doesn’t take much to have them shake themselves apart in mid-air. Remove a washer here, loosen a nut there. Add a little something to the fuel or the oil. And when they come down hard there
isn’t much left to examine.’

  ‘And you rigged it? You killed Grabosky?’

  The Russian nodded enthusiastically. ‘For a quarter of a million dollars,’ he said.

  ‘But who would want a steel oligarch dead?’

  The Russian tapped the side of his nose. ‘The quarter of a million buys more than just the job,’ he said. ‘It buys my silence.’

  The Scotsman chuckled. ‘It’s not as if he’s going to tell anyone, is it?’

  The Russian laughed. ‘That is true,’ he said. ‘That is very true.’

  ‘Must have been someone with money to burn,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘My clients are all rich,’ said Tankov. ‘How else could they afford my fees?’

  ‘But even so. A quarter of a million. That’s a lot.’

  The Russian shrugged. ‘You get what you pay for,’ he said.

  ‘You can get someone killed for twenty grand in London.’

  Tankov snarled. ‘That’s like saying you can buy a car for a thousand pounds so why pay a hundred grand for a Bentley. You get what you pay for. You want the best, you have to pay for it.’

  ‘Dead is dead,’ said Shepherd. He arched his back, trying to take the weight off his aching arms.

  ‘As you’re going to find out, sooner rather than later,’ growled the Scotsman.

  ‘What I mean is that it doesn’t matter how much you pay, the victim only dies once,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘It’s not about the death, it’s what happens afterwards,’ said Tankov. ‘That’s what they pay for. If you want a death to look like an accident, I can do that. Or I can make it look as if someone else was responsible for the death. Or I can make a body disappear so that no one ever knows what happened.’

  ‘You’ve done that?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Of course,’ said the Russian. ‘Dismembering bodies au ging bodnd getting rid of the parts is one on my specialities. I always give the client a photograph, as proof.’