‘How much did they get?’ asked O’Brien, from the back of the Land Cruiser.
‘Fifteen thousand dollars.’
‘Bastards,’ said Muller.
‘They’re not that bright,’ said Yokely.
The Major looked at the second Land Cruiser. ‘Where’s Billy?’ he asked.
‘Looking after the guys in the house. Last I saw he was blowing smoke rings at them.’
‘They’re still alive, then?’ said the Major.
Yokely’s grin widened. ‘Sure. But they won’t be getting any medical attention until this is over.’
‘And you believe they’re not connected to Wafeeq?’
‘They’re criminals, not fundamentalists,’ said Yokely. ‘And they’re not the guys who took Geordie. But the guys they sold Spider to are the guys who moved Geordie on.’
‘So we’re on the right track,’ said Muller.
‘No question,’ said Yokely.
‘What do you think we do now?’ asked the Major.
‘The transmitter’s gone,’ said Yokely. ‘They took his boots. But they didn’t do a full body search on him so he still has the second transmitter.’ He gestured up at the sky. ‘And we still have the Predator. I think we’re well ahead of the game and we can just watch and wait. The new guys have paid fifteen grand for Spider. They won’t want to throw that money away so I reckon they’ll get in touch with Wafeeq and sell him on.’
The Major nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Though I’d be happier if we were closer to where he’s being held.’
‘If we do that we risk showing out,’ said the American. ‘And it’s almost certain they’ll move him. Hopefully to the place they’re keeping Geordie. I’d recommend we wait and see where they take him to next.’
The Major sighed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘It makes sense.’
Yokely pulled a map from inside his body armour, and an aerial photograph of where Shepherd was being kept. ‘The house is marked on the map,’ said Yokely. ‘Look, if you guys wanted to take a break, now would be a good time. Catch up with some sleep, get a bite to eat. As soon as things start to move, I’ll call you.’
‘We’re staying put until this is over,’ said the Major, emphatically.
‘We’re not going anywhere, right enough,’ said O’Brien.
‘I understand,’ said Yokely. He squinted at his wristwatch. ‘I’m going to talk to my NSA guys,’ he said. ‘I need the airwaves monitoring and I want to run a check on the names of the men who’ve got Spider.’
‘Do you need Joe to drive you anywhere?’ asked Muller.
Yokely grinned. ‘I’ve already arranged my ride,’ he said.
Date palms on the far side of the road bent to the left and a dull, thudding sound filled the air. Twin searchlight beams cut through the night and a Blackhawk helicopter dropped slowly from the sky, kicking up whirlwinds of dust in the road.
‘Got to go,’ said Yokely. ‘Catch you later.’ He ran in a half-crouch to the Blackhawk and climbed aboard.
‘How does he do that?’ asked O’Brien.
‘Friends in high places,’ said the Major.
The Blackhawk’s turbines roared and the helicopter lifted off, turned through a hundred and eighty degrees, and leaped into the night sky.
Howell put the Predator into a slow left-hand turn, scanning the readings on the screen in front of him. It was cruising at fifty miles an hour at an altitude of eighteen thousand feet. There was a layer of patchy cloud at nine thousand feet but the sky above the part of the city he was circling was clear. It was early afternoon, and he was eating a cheese and tomato sandwich.
‘A van’s just pulled up in front of the house,’ said Nichols.
Slater leaned over him. ‘See if you can get the registration.’
Nichols twisted the joystick that operated the camera in the belly of the Predator, then tapped on the keyboard. The van’s rear registration plate filled the screen and Nichols wrote it down. ‘I’ll run a check on it,’ he said. He pulled the camera back to get a full view of the car. The driver opened the door, got out and stretched. Nichols pressed a button to get high-resolution snapshots of him. ‘Got you,’ he whispered. He transferred them to the screen in front of Slater. ‘Will, run a check on this guy, too, will you?’
‘Your wish is my command,’ said Slater.
There was a second man in the front passenger seat and when he got out Nichols took several shots of him too. The men banged on the gate and a man in a sweatshirt and baggy trousers came out and let them in. The three walked together into the house.
Shepherd heard the door open and footsteps, then a wooden chair scraping across the ground. There were more footsteps, then hands grabbed his arms and pulled him up roughly. His feet scraped along the floor as he tried to keep his balance, then he was forced on to a chair. He heard the door close. For a few moments he thought they’d left him alone, but then his hood was pulled off.
There were three men in front of him. Shepherd recognised the one in the middle. Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi. His heart raced. The man who was holding Geordie Mitchell hostage was standing in front of him. The man on Wafeeq’s right was in his late sixties and had a withered arm, the wrist emerging stick-like from the sleeve of his sweat-stained flannel shirt. The third man was tall, standing head and shoulders above the two, with a slight stoop as if he lived in constant fear of banging his head.
‘Who are you?’ said Shepherd, playing his role. ‘What do you want?’
‘You are English?’ asked Wafeeq, who was holding his passport and the letter from Muller’s company.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You know Colin Mitchell?’
Shepherd shook his head.
‘You work for the same company,’ said Wafeeq.
‘I’m his replacement,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know of him but I never met him.’
Wafeeq stared at him coldly. Then he turned to the old man on his right and said something in Arabic. The man shook his head and Wafeeq said something else, clearly angry now. He pulled out a gun and pointed it at Shepherd, who stared at him unflinchingly. ‘They should have searched you,’ he said.
‘They did,’ said Shepherd. ‘They took my boots, my gun, my wallet and my radio.’ Wafeeq’s two companions grabbed Shepherd’s arms and pulled him up. One undid his belt and pulled his trousers to his knees. ‘Are you going to rape me – is that it?’ said Shepherd. ‘I heard you lot were into men.’
Wafeeq stepped forward and pistol-whipped him. Shepherd saw the blow coming and managed to move his head and avoid most of the blow, but the barrel glanced along his temple. The skin broke and blood flowed. He wanted Wafeeq angry because then he might forget about the strip-search.
‘You think this is funny?’ said Wafeeq. He pointed the gun at Shepherd’s face. ‘I could kill you now.’
‘Go on, then,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re going to kill me anyway, aren’t you?’
‘That is up to you.’
‘You’ve shown me your faces, so I can identify you.’
Wafeeq threw back his head and laughed. ‘You think I care if you know what I look like? What are you going to do? Tell the police? Do you think I’m scared of them? Do you know how many policemen I’ve killed? How many soldiers?’ He laughed again, then spoke to the two men in Arabic. The old man took a knife from his pocket and used it to cut the ropes binding Shepherd’s wrists. Wafeeq took several steps back, keeping the gun pointing at his face.
The men ripped at his shirt and several buttons popped. They made him bend over, then pulled it off. One shouted and pointed at his back, and Shepherd knew that he had seen the second transmitter. They turned him around and slammed him up against the wall. The tall man ripped the piece of plaster that kept the transmitter stuck to his skin and handed it to Wafeeq.
‘What is this?’ asked Wafeeq.
Shepherd knew there was no point in lying. Even if Wafeeq didn’t know what it was, it wouldn’t take him long to find out
. ‘It’s a transmitter,’ he said. The two men turned him around again so that he was facing Wafeeq, then pushed him back so hard that his head cracked against the wall.
‘Why do you have it?’ asked Wafeeq.
‘The company gave it to us because the other guy was kidnapped. They thought it might help.’
Wafeeq frowned as he studied the electrical circuit. ‘Why did they stick it on your back?’
‘That was my idea,’ said Shepherd.
‘Is it on now?’
‘We switch them on if we get into trouble.’
Wafeeq smiled cruelly. ‘Well, you are in trouble now,’ he said. He dropped the transmitter on to the floor and stamped on it. It shattered into more than a dozen pieces. He said something in Arabic to the two Iraqis and they dragged Shepherd to the chair and pushed him on to it. Wafeeq said something else to the two men, then spat at Shepherd and went out, slamming the door behind him.
‘I don’t speak Arabic,’ said Shepherd. ‘What did he say?’
The man with the withered arm grinned, showing greying teeth. ‘He said we are to torture you to find out what you know.’
The door opened and another man came in, stocky, with a beard and wire-framed glasses. He closed the door and stood there with his arms folded across his chest.
‘I don’t know anything,’ said Shepherd.
‘That does not matter,’ said the old man. ‘He said we are to torture you until you are dead, whether you know anything or not.’
Yokely raised his coffee mug in salute to the screen on the wall. ‘I’d offer you one, Dean, but as you’re ten thousand miles away it’d be cold by the time it got to you.’
Dean Hepburn grinned and held up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. ‘I’d offer to split this with you but I don’t reckon you’re allowed JD in the Green Zone, right?’
‘Sadly, that’s true,’ said Yokely. ‘So, how are things in Crypto City?’
‘Same old,’ said Hepburn. ‘You were lucky I was around. I was heading off when they told me you wanted the satellite link.’ He poured himself a large slug of whiskey.
‘Just wanted to run a few things by you,’ said Yokely. ‘I think I’m going to get my hands on Wafeeq.’
‘Kudos,’ said Hepburn. He raised his glass in a toast.
‘Any traffic?’
‘None from the man. He’s too clued up to the way we operate.’
‘Yeah, the CSG here says the same. He never goes near a phone these days.’
‘Hardly surprising. The last al-Qaeda heavyweight to use a cellphone was al-Zarqawi and we tracked him down and blew him away.’
‘Keep listening anyway. At some point the kidnappers are going to contact Wafeeq so even if they do it through a third party they might mention his name. Also, keep an ear open for anyone talking about Peter Simpson. That’s the name our man is using.’
‘Will do,’ said Hepburn.
Yokely’s mobile rang. He apologised to Hepburn and took the call. It was Nichols. ‘Two men have just arrived at the house,’ said Nichols. ‘We have decent visuals so I’m running an ID.’
‘Great,’ said Yokely. ‘If they move Shepherd, let me know straight away.’ He ended the call and apologised again to Hepburn.
‘Can’t believe it, this link is costing hundreds of dollars a minute and you put me on hold,’ said Hepburn. He raised his glass of Jack Daniel’s. ‘Still, the taxpayer pays, right?’
‘For which I’m eternally grateful,’ said Yokely. ‘Okay, things are moving out here. I need you to run some IDs for me. Are you near a secure terminal?’
‘Beside me,’ said Hepburn.
‘I’m going to send you eight names,’ said Yokely. ‘Three are guys I’ve already spoken to you about but I want to check whether or not they have direct links to Wafeeq.’
‘Why, Richard, you don’t think they’d lie to you, do you?’
Yokely smiled thinly. ‘I’m fairly confident they were telling the truth, but it’s always nice to have confirmation. The other five are new to me. They’re the guys who are currently holding Shepherd. I need full checks and any pictures you have. Obviously I’m especially interested in connections they have with Wafeeq or any one else on the most-wanted list.’
Hepburn put down his glass and tapped on the keyboard next to him. ‘Okay, I’m online. Download the names when you’re ready.’
Shepherd stared at the shattered pieces of the transmitter, his last connection with the outside world.
‘Who are you?’ asked the man with the straggly beard.
‘You know who I am,’ said Shepherd. ‘You have my passport.’
‘Why are you in Iraq?’
‘I’m here to work. Security.’
‘We don’t believe you.’
‘It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. It’s the truth.’
The old man spoke in Arabic to the tall one, who left the room.
Straggly Beard pointed at the broken transmitter. ‘What is that?’
‘I told your friend,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s a transmitter. It shows where I am. My company gave it to me. The man I replaced was kidnapped. The company was worried it might happen again.’
The man laughed, a harsh bark that echoed around the room. ‘It didn’t help you, did it?’
The door opened and the tall man appeared with a length of rope.
‘Look, my company will pay to get me back,’ said Shepherd. ‘Call them. They’ll offer you money.’
‘We have been told what we have to do,’ said Straggly Beard.
‘No one will know,’ said Shepherd. ‘You just take the money and I’ll leave Iraq.’
‘Our friend will know,’ said Straggly Beard. He held out his hand for the rope and the tall man gave it to him. ‘He will know and his retribution will be swift.’ He started to tie Shepherd to the chair. Shepherd tried to stand up but the tall man hurried over and pressed his shoulders down. The old man grabbed Shepherd’s legs and together the three men wrapped the rope round him and knotted it securely. Shepherd struggled but he couldn’t move.
The old man said something in Arabic and all three Iraqis laughed.
Shepherd knew there was no way he could stop what was about to happen. All he could do was hang on and hope that the Major and his men came to his rescue. It was a slim hope, but it was all he had.
Yokely walked past a coffee shop where half a dozen off-duty marines lounged on plastic chairs and sipped cappuccino. Street vendors were selling Persian rugs with Mickey Mouse motifs, T-shirts with slogans such as ‘Who’s Your Baghdaddy?’, Operation Iraqi Freedom beach towels and coffee mugs, and framed banknotes bearing the head of Saddam Hussein. Overhead four Apache attack helicopters rattled west. He looked at an AT&T phone centre where soldiers were lining up to call home. The temperature was climbing towards fifty degrees, and even though he had only been outside for a couple of minutes, sweat was already trickling down the small of his back.
Yokely’s mobile phone rang and he pulled it out of his body armour. It was Simon Nichols. ‘Richard, the two guys who went around to the house have left. They didn’t take your man with them.’
‘Okay,’ said Yokely. ‘Thanks for telling me. Have you identified the visitors?’
‘Still waiting to hear,’ said Nichols. ‘The pictures aren’t as clear as I would have liked so the tech boys are doing some enhancement. As soon as I know, you’ll know. Do you want us to follow them, or stick with the house?’
‘Which way are they heading?’ asked Yokely.
‘North towards Baghdad.’
‘No reading from Spider’s second transmitter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘And no other visitors to the house?’
‘Just the one van.’
‘Okay, stick with the house,’ said Yokely. ‘But as soon as you ID the occupants of the van let me know.’ He ended the call and put away his phone. It was just before midday. He doubted they’d move Shepherd while it was light, which meant he had time for a shower, a
shave and maybe a steak before he headed out to rejoin the Major.
Straggly Beard slapped Shepherd with the flat of his hand. Shepherd moved his head a fraction of a second before the blow but it still hurt like hell and he tasted blood. The man backhanded him, then punched him in the side of the head.
Shepherd slumped, feigning unconsciousness, but the tall man grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Shepherd tried to block out what was happening. He focused on Liam, picturing himself in the park with his boy, playing football, Liam running, his hair flying in the wind, Shepherd matching his pace but not trying to catch up.
Something was pulled over his head and Shepherd opened his eyes. It was a plastic bag. He started to panic and his chest heaved, although he knew that the faster he breathed the quicker he’d use up the air. The bag tightened round his neck. He kicked out but two of the men were behind him and the old man was out of reach. The plastic sucked into his mouth and Shepherd blew out but as soon as he breathed in the plastic was back in his mouth. He shook his head from side to side but whoever was holding the bag kept it in place. His chest burned and he strained against the ropes that kept him tied to the chair but they wouldn’t budge. He rocked the chair back. The pain in his chest was intensifying as if molten metal had been poured down his throat. Condensation was forming inside the bag but he could still see the old man, his lips pulled back in a snarl that showed his uneven grey teeth. He threw back his head and laughed as Shepherd lost consciousness.
The cook was a big man from New Jersey with a tattoo of Jesus on the cross on his right forearm and a floppy chef’s hat. He plopped a huge sirloin steak on Yokely’s plate, then shovelled on French fries and onion rings. ‘Help yourself to sauce,’ he said, pointing at four stainless-steel jugs. ‘Red wine, Roquefort, Béarnaise or just plain gravy.’
Yokely poured some of the red-wine sauce over his steak, picked up a couple of warm wholemeal rolls and looked for an empty table. The canteen was packed. The food in the Green Zone was as good as anything the military got in the United States, and the soldiers were tucking into plates laden with steaks, ribs and pizzas.
Yokely went to a table where two female soldiers were finishing their pasta. One was a blonde sergeant in her early thirties; her companion was younger and prettier. ‘Do you ladies mind if I join you?’ he asked.
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