Mitchell didn’t believe Kamil’s assurances. Few hostages were released in Iraq. Most ended up dead. Kamil never raised his voice, never threatened Mitchell, never questioned him. Mitchell knew why. They didn’t need anything from him: he was a pawn in whatever game they were playing.
Kamil was the only one of his captors to reveal his face. The others wore ski masks when they were in the room. Mitchell reckoned there were six in addition to Kamil, perhaps seven. There had been five and Kamil in the basement when they had made the video. It had been on the morning of his second day there. They had fed him first: a paper plate of rice with some sort of lamb stew and a paper cup filled with chunks of pickled mango. Then Kamil had brought in a Panasonic video-camera on a tripod and placed it close to the wall on the right of the door. He’d pinned a sheet, on which was printed Arabic script, to the wall on the left. Then he had given Mitchell an orange jumpsuit and asked him to put it on. It had been a request and Mitchell had complied. He was sure that they intended to kill him at some point but there was nothing to be gained from confrontation. He would have to choose his moment to make a stand. Of one thing he was sure: when they came to kill him he would fight back.
Kamil had asked Mitchell to kneel, then tied his wrists together. For a brief moment Mitchell thought he’d misjudged the situation and that they were about to kill him, but he held on to the thought that first they would want to show the world they had him. He had knelt on the hard concrete floor and stared into Kamil’s eyes, looking for any sign that his new-found friend had murder on his mind. Mitchell knew that with his hands tied behind his back his options were limited, but he could do a lot of damage with his feet.
Kamil had thanked him, then gone to the camera. Before he switched it on, he had pulled on a ski mask. Again he had apologised to Mitchell, explaining that it was important he wasn’t recognised. Five of the captors had lined up in front of the banner. Two were holding Kalashnikovs, one had a Russian-made RPG – Mitchell had smiled inwardly at the sight of it. If it had gone off in the confined space they would all have been killed. It was clearly for show, but he wondered who they were trying to impress.
For a full three minutes Kamil had addressed the camera, speaking in Arabic. Mitchell only knew a few words of the language and wasn’t able to follow what was being said, but he could tell that Kamil wasn’t promising to release him. Several times Kamil pointed at Mitchell, and once at the banner. When he did that, the guy with the RPG shook it menacingly above his head and all five men chanted in unison.
Throughout Kamil’s speech, Mitchell stared defiantly at the lens. He was determined not to show any fear. In any case, he was apprehensive, rather than scared. He was in a dire situation, no doubt about that, but he was sure he wouldn’t die that day.
He was right. After Kamil had finished his speech he had switched off the camera, removed his mask and helped Mitchell to his feet. He had untied him and thanked him for his cooperation. ‘This will soon be over and you will be back with your family,’ Kamil had promised. He had looked Mitchell in the eyes as he’d said it, and had patted his shoulder reassuringly, but Mitchell didn’t doubt that the other man was lying.
Over the following days Kamil had been pleasant and polite. He always called Mitchell by his first name – he had found the driving licence in Mitchell’s wallet. When he brought the food and water he would sit cross-legged on the floor as Mitchell ate and make small-talk. He asked Mitchell what football team he supported and what cities he knew in England. He talked about English weather, English beer and English food. He never mentioned politics or religion, and didn’t ask about Mitchell’s work in Iraq or his military background. Mitchell had the feeling that his captors didn’t know he was a former soldier or that he had served with the SAS. More likely, they didn’t care. All they cared about was that he was British and that he was their prisoner.
Shepherd walked through Harrods’ food hall, surrounded by wide-eyed tourists and well-heeled housewives. He wandered past a refrigerated display of fish from around the world, glossy-eyed, open-mouthed and ready for the kitchen. He wasn’t there to look at the produce, though: he wanted to confirm that he wasn’t being tailed – it was second nature. He did a fifteen-minute sweep through the store, then headed outside and took a circuitous route to the red-brick mansion block that housed the Special Forces Club. The plaque that had once identified it had been taken down in the wake of the terrorist attacks in America and the exterior was identical to the rest of the upmarket residences in the street.
The stocky former SAS staff sergeant who manned the reception desk grinned at him as he signed in. ‘Nice day for it, sir.’
‘Nice day for what, Sandy?’ asked Shepherd.
Sandy shrugged. ‘Whatever you had mind, sir.’ The ‘sir’ was ironic – there were no ranks in the club.
Shepherd scanned the names of those who had signed in that day. ‘Mr Yokely not arrived?’
‘Yokely, sir?’
‘American.’
Sandy raised one eyebrow. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Mr Yokely doesn’t sign in.’
‘Really?’
‘Far too important for that, I’m told,’ said Sandy.
‘Seriously?’
‘Security issue. The committee okayed it so I put up with it. You know what the Yanks are like – scared of their own shadows half the time.’
Shepherd chuckled and headed upstairs.
Yokely was standing at the bar, nursing a vodka and tonic. When he saw Shepherd, he said, with a faint southern drawl, ‘I always expect you to abseil in through the window.’ He was in his late forties with short grey hair and thin lips that looked cruel even when they curled into what passed for a smile. He wore a chunky college ring on his right hand, a dark blue blazer, a gleaming white shirt and the same blue tie with black stripes that he’d been wearing the last time they’d met almost a year previously. The shoes were the same, too. Black leather with tassels.
‘Thanks for coming, Richard.’
‘You were lucky I was in town,’ said Yokely. ‘Jameson’s, soda and ice?’
‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd.
Yokely smiled and Shepherd realised that the American wanted recognition for having remembered his drink. He didn’t rise to the bait. His own memory was virtually faultless, but he figured that the American had simply made notes of what had happened at their last meeting. He seemed the type to keep a file on everyone he met.
Yokely glanced at his wristwatch – a Rolex Submariner, the fiftieth-anniversary edition with the green bezel. ‘I can’t stay long,’ he said. ‘A chopper’s waiting to take me up to Prestwick. I’m supposed to meet a flight from Afghanistan and then I’m off to Cuba.’ He snorted. ‘Pity the CIA doesn’t give frequent-flier miles.’
‘Rendition, they call it – right? Taking suspects to countries where torture isn’t illegal?’
Yokely grinned wolfishly. ‘It isn’t called torture, these days. It’s coercive interrogation. And don’t go all holier-than-thou on me because it was you guys who invented rendition, way back in 1684.’
‘I assume there’s nothing I can say to stop you telling me the story?’ said Shepherd.
Yokely’s grin widened. ‘Torture was outlawed in England in 1640, but it stayed legal in bonnie Scotland until the Act of Union in 1707. Now, in 1684 you guys had a suspect and a less than cooperative witness to the attempted assassination of Charles II. They were shipped north of the border and, as a direct result of information obtained under torture, the suspect was tried, convicted and executed. Rendition worked for you then and it works for us now.’ He ordered the whiskey for Shepherd, then motioned to a sofa in a quiet corner. They walked across to it and sat down. Yokely swirled the ice in his glass. ‘I’m guessing this isn’t social,’ he said.
Shepherd was sure Yokely knew why he’d asked for the meeting, so the American must be relishing the opportunity to make him sing for his supper. ‘Geordie Mitchell,’ he said. Yokely pulled a face.
The ba
rman brought the whiskey and Shepherd waited until he had gone back to the bar before he went on. ‘He’s just been taken hostage in Iraq.’
‘Ah,’ said Yokely. ‘He’s one of yours, is he? According to the TV, he’s a civilian contractor.’
‘He left the Sass a few years back.’
‘And I guess he’s not shouting about his special-forces background, under the circumstances. The government seems to be keeping that information under its hat, too.’
‘They’re not doing much.’
‘Not much they can do,’ said the American. ‘You see what they did to that journalist? Just a kid. Father had money, would’ve paid anything to get the boy back, but they weren’t interested. It’s not about money.’
‘What is it about?’ asked Shepherd.
‘They want us all dead,’ said Yokely, flatly. ‘They want us all dead or they want us on our hands and knees praying to Allah five times a day. To them that seems a reasonable request. Hell, they figure they’re saving our souls.’
‘You believe that?’
Yokely took two gulps of his drink. ‘I’m not sure what I believe any more, other than that we’re right and they’re wrong. A world run by Islamic fundamentalists is not a world I’d want any part of. If the roles were reversed and it was the mad mullahs in charge, I’d probably be setting off bombs myself. I’d kill to protect my way of life, no question.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Hell, I already have done. You too.’
The American was watching Shepherd over the top of his glass. Shepherd didn’t react to the barb. Yes, Shepherd had killed, but not to protect an ideology. He’d killed when he was in the SAS, as a soldier on military operations. He’d killed as a policeman, to save others. But that was his job: it was what he was paid to do. It had nothing to do with ideologies. Shepherd had only met Yokely once, but he knew the American regarded the war against terrorism as a holy crusade, which he was prepared to win at any price.
‘So, what do you want from me, Spider? The US government isn’t going to go in to bat for a Brit. Not that it would do any good if they did. Your best bet would be to find him an Irish grandmother.’
‘He isn’t Irish,’ said Shepherd. ‘If anyone’s going to help Geordie, it’ll be us.’
‘Us?’
‘His friends,’ said Shepherd, quietly.
Yokely’s eyes narrowed. ‘A dangerous road to go down.’
‘That’s for us to worry about,’ said Shepherd. ‘We need intel, and we can’t get it here.’
‘But I’m the oracle so you’ve come to me?’
‘We just need information.’
‘What sort of information?’
Shepherd drained his glass. ‘Another?’ he asked.
‘You trying to keep me in suspense?’ said the American. He lifted his glass. ‘Vodka and tonic with all the trimmings. I keep asking for lime but they give me lemon.’
Shepherd went to the bar for fresh drinks. When he returned he sat down and gave Yokely his glass. ‘What do you know about the Holy Martyrs of Islam?’ he asked.
‘As little as you do, I’d guess,’ said Yokely. ‘The names these people use mean nothing.’
‘When the Lake boy was taken, your people must have looked into it.’
‘Johnny Lake was a journalist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Plus the stories he was filing weren’t going down well in the Oval Office.’
‘So the government didn’t care?’
‘They cared, of course they did. The boy’s father was a heavy hitter, with friends on Capitol Hill, but there’s a limit to the resources they can put into one missing kid. Don’t get me wrong. They looked. And they looked hard. But, so far as I know, no one had ever heard of the Holy Martyrs of Islam.’
‘We need to know where Geordie is and who’s got him. We’re analysing the video, and we’ll be talking to his employer so we can gather basic intel on what’s happening on the ground. But we need higher-level intel. Electronic traffic and satellite imagery.’
‘Sounds like you’re planning a war,’ said the American.
‘We’re just mapping out our options,’ said Shepherd.
‘You find him, then what?’
‘We’ll cross chickens and count bridges when the time comes,’ he said. ‘Can you help?’
‘Sure,’ said Yokely. ‘I’ve got a direct line to the NSA. But why do you need me? You can get the electronic traffic through GCHQ. They’re part of Echelon so they have access to all telecommunications and the Internet.’
‘It’ll take too long to go through official channels,’ said Shepherd. ‘Paperwork in triplicate, and they’d want to know why we’re involved.’
‘But presumably your government’s on the case. They must be looking for your man.’
‘You’d think so, but he’s not military, remember?’
‘What about your old regiment?’
‘They can’t help officially,’ said Shepherd. ‘Unofficially they’ll do what has to be done. But first we need to know where he is.’
‘Any idea what’s being done officially?’
‘Downing Street will probably appeal to the kidnappers, but reject any demands they make. The US military will be looking for him, but again Geordie’s just a contractor, out there for the money.’
‘Guarding a pipeline, they said on CNN.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Wrong place, wrong time.’
‘Yeah. There’s no suggestion that it was personal. At this stage we’re not sure how well planned the kidnapping was but we’re hoping there was phone chatter. What about satellite imagery?’
‘I’ll see what the NSA has. We might get lucky.’
‘And we could do with any intel your contacts have on the Holy Martyrs of Islam. All we’ve got so far is what’s been in the media, which is pretty much zero. Plus we need any info on other militant groups known to be operating in the area where Geordie was taken. According to the TV, he was taken in a place called Dora.’
‘I know it,’ said Yokely. ‘It’s a Sunni stronghold on the southern tip of Baghdad. Dangerous place.’ He sipped his drink. ‘You’ve seen The Godfather? The first one? Was Marlon Brando great in that movie or what?’
‘Yeah. I saw it. And I get it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I know how the world works, Richard. You do this for me and at some point you’ll be asking me for a favour.’
‘And when that time comes?’
‘I repay my debts. In full.’
A triumphant smile spread across Yokely’s face. ‘It’s always a pleasure dealing with a professional.’
Shepherd raised his glass in salute. He felt as if he’d just done a deal with the devil. He knew that Yokely would call in the marker, sooner rather than later, and that he would have no choice other than to do whatever the American wanted. Shepherd wasn’t happy to be in Yokely’s debt, but the only thing that mattered was rescuing Geordie and the American was the one man who might be able to help.
‘You know, I’ve got a lot of respect for you, Spider,’ said Yokely. ‘I admire the way you handled yourself down the Tube, and on the Eurostar. Both times you did what you had to do.’
Shepherd said nothing.
‘I know we’re not exactly best buddies, but I want to talk to you as a friend.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Shepherd.
Yokely took a gulp of his drink. ‘He’s almost certainly going to die. You know that?’
‘Not necessarily. There have been almost two hundred and fifty foreign hostages taken over the past three years. Eighty-six have been killed. That suggests odds of three to one, survival wise.’
‘Except that your friend is in the hands of militants. The survival rate at that level is virtually non-existent. And you know as well as I do that so far this year only two Westerners have been released. And how many have been butchered? Twenty-five? They’re getting more vicious, not less.’
‘Are you telling me we’re wasting our time?’
‘It
’s a mess out there, Spider. I’ll do what I can to help, but Iraq’s not my battlefield, and there isn’t a day goes by when I don’t thank the Lord for it. My war is against the terrorist threat, and that’s hard enough. But in Iraq there’s no way of knowing who’s friend and who’s foe. The enemy doesn’t wear a uniform, doesn’t follow any of the rules of war. When we first moved into Iraq, the CIA reckoned we’d be facing five thousand insurgents. By the summer of 2004 they’d raised that estimate to twenty thousand. By the winter it had grown to a hundred thousand. Now you can pretty much take any number and double it. And we’re not facing a unified enemy. There are Sunni insurgents who want Iraq to go back to the way it was before Saddam was kicked out. There are Baathists from the Return Party, the Fedayeen militia units that kept Saddam in power, Shia guerrillas and, on top of that, all the foreign mercenaries who’ve flooded into the country. Any one of those groups could be behind the Holy Martyrs of Islam. Or it might not be insurgents. It might be a maverick fundamentalist group, Saudis or Algerians, out to cause as much trouble as they can. If they’re fundamentalists, then there’ll be no negotiating with them. They’ll want to kill your friend to cause a backlash that’ll unite Muslims against the West.’
‘We’re going to do what we can,’ said Shepherd. ‘Whatever it takes.’
‘I empathise, Spider, I really do. If it was one of my friends out there in an orange jumpsuit, I’d be doing the same. But you have to be realistic. I’ll get you whatever intel I can, but be aware that you’re probably flogging a dead horse.’
Shepherd drained his glass and stood up. ‘Give me a call as soon as you have anything,’ he said.
‘Now I’ve offended you,’ said Yokely.
‘No more than usual,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll get over it.’
The Major had booked a suite of offices in a building close to the BBC’s Broadcasting House in Portland Place. Shepherd took the Tube to Regent’s Park, left the station and walked through the park for fifteen minutes. Once he was satisfied that no one was following him, he walked south down Portland Place, heading for the office block. Several yards ahead of him, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, a middle-aged Chinese woman was holding her hands out, palms up, chanting. Across the road a bored armed policeman stood, feet planted shoulder-width apart, in front of the Chinese Embassy. There was always at least one protester demonstrating against the Chinese government’s torture of dissidents. Shepherd wondered if the woman thought she could change government policy or if she was there to prove that someone cared. The lone policeman was a token presence, rather than a serious security measure, and there was something very British about the stand-off. Shepherd doubted that the Chinese would have been so tolerant if the woman had been in her own country.
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