Hot Blood: The Fourth Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery)

by Stephen Leather

  ‘I understand,’ said Yazid, rubbing his wrists. He was still wearing his pyjamas.

  ‘Get changed quickly,’ said Shepherd. He waited while the old man pulled on a pair of brown trousers and a wool shirt.

  ‘I haven’t shaved,’ he said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Shepherd took the man’s arm and led him out of the bedroom. Fariq, his wife and daughter were sitting together on the sofa, bound and gagged. Fatima glared at Shepherd as he walked by. The Major was standing at the top of the stairs with Shortt, both holding their Glocks.

  ‘Okay?’ said the Major.

  ‘He understands,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I will do as you ask,’ said the old man. ‘I will make them go away.’

  The Major put the transceiver to his mouth. ‘Sitrep, John.’

  ‘They’re walking up to the gate. No weapons drawn, it looks like a friendly visit.’

  There was a buzzing sound in the hallway. ‘The intercom,’ said the old man.

  ‘Answer it, and open the gate,’ said the Major. Yazid went down the stairs with Shepherd beside him and Shortt following. O’Brien was in the kitchen, Glock drawn, eating an egg sandwich.

  ‘Keep the back covered,’ said Shepherd. ‘It looks like there’s only the three coming to the front door, but just in case, yeah?’

  ‘I’m on it,’ said O’Brien, through a mouthful of food.

  Shepherd and Shortt took the old man into the hallway and he showed them where the intercom was. He pressed a button and kept his eyes on Shepherd as he listened to the officer on the intercom. Then he pressed a chrome button. ‘They are coming in,’ he said.

  ‘They didn’t say what they wanted,’ said Shortt. ‘They just asked to come in.’

  Shepherd put a hand on Yazid’s arm. ‘You are not to let them into the house,’ he said. ‘On no account are they to come inside. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Behind them the transceiver crackled. ‘They’re inside the gate,’ said Muller.

  Shepherd hurried into the kitchen and picked up the transceiver. ‘Radio silence until they’ve gone,’ he said, and switched off the device. He got back into the hallway as the front doorbell rang.

  Shepherd ducked into the study with his Glock at the ready. Shortt nodded at Yazid and pointed at the door. Then he stood in the corner behind the door, the gun aimed at the old man’s stomach.

  Yazid opened the door. Only one of the policemen spoke and Shepherd assumed it was the officer. The old man replied in Arabic. He sounded deferential but firm, and there was a lot of head-shaking. He kept a tight grip on the door. The conversation went on in Arabic for several minutes, then the old man smiled and started to close the door, head bobbing. Shepherd half expected to hear the officer protest and force his way in, but eventually the door clicked shut and Yazid sighed. ‘They have gone,’ he said.

  Shepherd looked at Shortt.

  ‘I didn’t follow it all but they asked for the wife first,’ said Shortt. ‘Then they wanted to know when he’d last heard from the husband. He stuck to the script, as far as I can tell.’

  Shepherd patted Yazid on his shoulder. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I did it because you said my wife might die if I didn’t,’ he said flatly.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ said Shepherd. ‘I really don’t want to hurt anyone.’

  ‘Then why are you carrying guns and wearing masks?’ asked Yazid.

  Shortt pushed him in the back. ‘Come on, upstairs,’ he said.

  ‘Hey, easy with him, he’s an old man,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘If he keeps his mouth shut, I’ll go easy on him,’ said Shortt. ‘And you don’t have to justify yourself to him. We’re doing what we’re doing and that’s the end of it.’

  Shepherd wanted to argue, but he knew there was no point. And there was no way to justify what they were doing. Nothing he could say to make their actions morally or legally right. He went back into the kitchen and picked up the transceiver as Shortt and Yazid went to the servants’ quarters. He switched it on and pressed ‘transmit’. ‘All clear,’ he said. ‘They’ve gone.’

  Mitchell heard shouting behind the locked door, and the sound of a round being chambered. Then he heard more shouting and a key rattling in the lock. He was sitting with his back to the wall, the paperback book in his lap. His stomach turned over as he realised that his time might have come. There was no shouted command for him to stand against the wall but the door was flung open and one of the men was there, holding a Kalashnikov. He didn’t have his face covered and Mitchell saw rotting teeth and a scar that zigzagged across the right cheek. The man screamed something at him in Arabic. Mitchell had no idea what he was talking about, but his intention was clear.

  He struggled to his feet but his left leg cramped and he stumbled against the wall. As he pushed himself up the man slammed the butt of the Kalashnikov into his stomach and he pitched forward, the taste of bile in his mouth. As he fell forward the man hit him again, this time on the back of the neck. Mitchell hit the ground hard and fought to stay conscious. He tried to roll on to his back, but the man kicked him in the ribs. Mitchell grunted and tried to grab his assailant’s leg. The man stepped back and pushed the barrel into Mitchell’s throat. Mitchell lashed out with his foot and caught him in the groin. He fell back and the Kalashnikov went off. The bullet smacked into the concrete just inches from Mitchell’s head. The noise was deafening and his ears were ringing as he rolled on to his front and pushed himself up.

  ‘You bastard!’ screamed the Arab, in heavily accented English. He brought the gun to bear on his stomach and Mitchell kicked out, knocking the barrel to the side. He took a step forward but the kick in the ribs had slowed him down and the Arab slammed the butt of the Kalashnikov into his sternum.

  Mitchell slumped to the ground. By design or luck the blow had disabled him: he opened his mouth but couldn’t breathe. The Arab pointed the Kalashnikov at his face and screamed again. Mitchell was unable to move or speak, and waited for the bullet to end his life. The Arab screamed again and his finger tightened on the trigger. The only thought that went through Mitchell’s head was that at least it would be quick, and that dying from a bullet to the brain was a thousand times quicker than being beheaded. He closed his eyes.

  He heard more shouts from outside the room, then rapid footsteps. He opened his eyes and saw Kamil blocking the man’s way. ‘Wafeeq, tawaqqaf!’ he shouted.

  The man glared at Mitchell over Kamil’s shoulder. ‘Sa’ aqtuluk!’ he screamed. ‘I’m going to kill you!’

  ‘Isghi limaa aquuluh,’ said Kamil, softly.

  ‘Ihtamm binwaa huwa min sha’nik,’ said the man, gesturing with the Kalashnikov and trying to get past him.

  Kamil pulled at Wafeeq’s arm, then wrapped his arms around him and whispered in his ear. Gradually Wafeeq calmed, but he still had his finger on the trigger. Mitchell lay where he was, not wanting to attract attention to himself. Kamil might have calmed the man down, but he still had a loaded assault rifle in his hands.

  Kamil kept talking to Wafeeq as he led him to the door and ushered him out. Mitchell crawled to the wall and sat against it. His ribs hurt and, gingerly, he pressed his side where Wafeeq had kicked him. Nothing seemed broken. He turned his head slowly from side to side checking for damage to his neck. Again, there was pain but nothing serious.

  A figure appeared in the doorway and Mitchell flinched, then realised it was Kamil. He was carrying a cloth and a bottle of water. He closed the door, hurried over to him and knelt down beside him. ‘I am sorry for what happened,’ he said. He opened the bottle of water, poured some over the cloth and dabbed it on Mitchell’s face. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Thanks to you,’ said Mitchell. ‘He was going to kill me.’

  ‘I only just got back,’ said Kamil. ‘The others, they are too afraid of him to try to stop him.’

  ‘What set him off?’ asked Mitchell.

  ‘His brother has
been kidnapped,’ said Kamil.

  ‘Well, now, isn’t that ironic?’ said Mitchell, bitterly. He took the bottle of water from Kamil and drank slowly, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘But I don’t see why his brother being kidnapped gets him ticked off at me.’

  ‘The people who have taken his brother say that he will be killed unless you are released.’

  ‘What?’ said Mitchell. It was the last thing he’d expected to hear.

  ‘There is a video of his brother saying that unless you are set free, he will be killed. Do you know who would have done such a thing?’

  Mitchell was genuinely confused. ‘Kamil, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Who are you, Colin?’ said Kamil.

  ‘You know who I am. I’m just a guy out here trying to make a living.’

  ‘A security guard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yet you have friends who are willing to kill to set you free?’

  Mitchell stared at him. Suddenly he knew what had happened and fought the urge to smile. That was it. He had friends who would kill to set him free. ‘Kamil, I swear to you, on my mother’s life, I have no idea what’s going on,’ he said. He had no problem with lying to the Arab and, if he got the chance, he would have no hesitation in killing him.

  Muller walked around the sitting room. ‘The waiting’s driving me crazy,’ he said. He stopped by the grand piano and peered at a collection of photographs in ornate silver frames. It had been a full thirty-six hours since the video had gone online and there had been no news from Mitchell’s captors.

  ‘Yeah, well, at least you’re not in a basement wearing an orange jumpsuit,’ said Armstrong, who was stretched out on one of the sofas smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine. Shepherd was sitting at the desk, stripping his Glock and watching CNN with the sound muted on a plasma TV. If there was anything about Geordie, he expected to see it on the American news channel first, although he had been checking the al-Jazeera website every hour on the computer in Fariq’s study.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Muller.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Armstrong. He blew a smoke ring up at the ceiling.

  ‘No, what do you mean?’

  ‘I mean we’re all sick of waiting, but we’re not the ones whose lives are on the line.’

  ‘Leave it, Billy,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Geordie’s the one at risk here, so let’s not complain about waiting.’

  ‘I wasn’t complaining,’ said Muller. ‘I just wish things were moving, that’s all.’

  ‘You and me both,’ said Armstrong, putting down his magazine. ‘You don’t hear me bitching and moaning. And I’m not the one who got Geordie kidnapped.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Muller.

  Armstrong swung his feet off the sofa. He dropped his cigarette onto the floor and stamped on it. ‘It was your company he was working for. Geordie’s a pro so he’d have known what he was doing, which means one of your guys let their guard down.’

  ‘Leave it out, Billy,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I don’t need you to fight my battles,’ said Muller. He went over to Armstrong and pointed a finger at his face. ‘It was an IED that took out their vehicle. Don’t blame me for that.’

  ‘Get your finger out of my face or I’ll break it,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Billy, come on,’ said Shepherd.

  Armstrong stood up, his hands loose at his side, fingers curled. It wasn’t an overly aggressive stance, but Shepherd knew he was a heartbeat away from laying into the American.

  ‘We’re all tense,’ said Shepherd. ‘Let’s not start taking it out on each other.’

  ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ said Muller, slowly and deliberately.

  ‘Billy, why don’t you go up and relieve Martin?’ said Shepherd. ‘He probably wants to eat by now.’

  They heard footsteps from the kitchen and the Major walked in with a mug of coffee. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Armstrong, lighting another cigarette.

  ‘Just a discussion about strategy,’ said Muller. ‘No big deal.’ He turned and went back to the piano.

  ‘Everything okay?’ the Major asked Shepherd.

  ‘Sure. Billy was just going up to relieve Martin.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said the Major. ‘He gets cranky if he doesn’t get a snack at this time of the day.’ Armstrong headed for the servants’ quarters. ‘There’s coffee in the kitchen if you want it,’ the Major said to Shepherd.

  ‘I’m okay,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Nothing on the website?’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘They’ve got to be monitoring all the usual channels to see what reaction their kidnapping is having, so they must know by now that we’ve got him.’

  Muller walked over to a large gilt sideboard on which more than a dozen framed photographs were lined up like soldiers on parade, larger than the ones on the piano.

  ‘What if we don’t hear from them?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘We’re screwed,’ said the Major. ‘But let’s not assume the worst. There’s still time.’

  ‘There’s time today and tomorrow. But what if two days pass and we hear nothing? Do we have a Plan B?’

  O’Brien came in from the kitchen. ‘What’s that about a Plan B?’ he said.

  ‘We don’t have one,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s the point.’

  ‘Nothing from the bad guys?’ said O’Brien.

  ‘It could be that Wafeeq would be happy to see his brother dead,’ said Shepherd. ‘Or it might make him so angry that he kills Geordie on the spot.’

  ‘Let’s stick with Plan A for a bit longer,’ said the Major.

  ‘Yeah, but we don’t have a Plan B, do we?’

  ‘Maybe we do,’ said Muller. He picked up one of the framed photographs and took it to the Major. It was a wedding photograph: Fariq and his wife, with an elderly couple standing to Fariq’s left and another couple, slightly younger, to his wife’s right. ‘I’m guessing that’s the parents. His and hers.’

  The Major took the photograph from him. ‘You recognise someone?’

  ‘The guy standing by Fariq’s wife is a top Sunni politician, one of the survivors of Saddam’s regime. The Americans helped groom him for government because they need someone speaking for the Sunni minority.’

  ‘So she’d be his daughter, presumably?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Let me Google it,’ said Muller.

  ‘Try the computer in his study,’ said Shepherd.

  Muller took back the photograph and headed for the study.

  ‘If he’s right, we might have that Plan B,’ said the Major.

  ‘The wife?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘A guy like him would probably have a direct line to the Sunni insurrectionists. Put pressure on him and he can put pressure on them.’

  ‘By pressure you mean put her in the orange jumpsuit?’

  ‘Have you got a problem with that?’

  Shepherd slotted the magazine into the butt of the Glock. ‘I guess not,’ he said.

  ‘It’s no different from what we’ve done so far,’ said the Major. ‘We just make another video.’

  Shepherd’s mobile rang. Jimmy Sharpe. ‘Razor, what’s up?’ he asked.

  ‘You’re the man, Spider. You’re the bloody man.’

  ‘I’m busy with something, Razor. Can we keep this short?’

  ‘I don’t know what you said to the shrink but the pressure’s off.’

  ‘Stockmann?’

  ‘Yeah. She’s had a change of heart and that’s got to be down to you.’

  ‘I’m glad it worked out. But we’ve got to have a chat when I get back.’

  ‘Where are you?’ asked Sharpe.

  ‘Working on something,’ said Shepherd. ‘Personal. I’ll be back in a day or two. And we have to talk, Razor, your language has got to change.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

  ‘I’m serious. That was the deal I reached with
Stockmann. She revises her report, but you have to watch what you say.’

  ‘No more Pakis?’

  ‘Razor …’

  ‘I was joking. Yeah, we’ll have a chat when you get back. You can teach me how to be more politically correct.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Shepherd. He cut the connection.

  ‘Problem?’ asked the Major.

  ‘Just house-training a dinosaur,’ said Shepherd.

  Dean Hepburn opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He waved it at Richard Yokely. ‘A quick one?’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  Hepburn pulled two glasses from the drawer and poured two hefty slugs into them. He handed one to Yokely and they clinked. ‘To the bad old days,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Yokely. ‘I remember them well.’ He sipped his Jack Daniel’s. ‘The new technology’s all well and good, but it takes a lot of the fun out of it.’

  Hepburn swung his feet on to his desk and balanced the glass on his expanding waistline. ‘I hate it here,’ he said. ‘They don’t let me drink in the office.’

  ‘Bastards,’ said Yokely.

  ‘If it wasn’t for the pension, I’d go freelance. But I’ve got three kids in college and a wife who wants a holiday home in Florida.’

  ‘The NSA’s not so bad, Dean,’ said Yokely. ‘At least you don’t spend half your life at thirty thousand feet.’

  ‘And what brings you to Crypto City?’

  Crypto City was what the forty thousand or so employees of the National Security Agency called their huge headquarters in Forte Meade, Maryland, half-way between Baltimore and Washington. More than fifty buildings, hidden from prying eyes with acres of carefully planted trees. Some of the best brains from the country’s top universities worked in the NSA’s offices and laboratories. However, Hepburn was not a graduate of one of America’s leading educational establishments: like Yokely, his training ground had been Nicaragua, Colombia, Panama and Afghanistan.

  ‘A little off-the-record help,’ said Yokely. ‘I’m looking for any traffic regarding an Iraqi by the name of Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi, and his brother Fariq.’