Hot Blood

by Stephen Leather

  ‘It’s worse than that,’ said Bosch, picking up her knife again. ‘The fundamentalists are using the place as a training ground. They’re coming here in their thousands. More than half the suicide-bombers in Iraq are Saudis. Less than a quarter of the insurgents killed here are Iraqi, the rest are all foreign fighters. Terrorists come here from around the world to cut their teeth and once they move on they’ll be taking the jihad to the West, big-time. What you’ve had so far in Europe is just a taste of what’s coming. You know your history, right? What happened in Afghanistan?’

  Shepherd knew what had happened in Afghanistan, all right: he’d taken a bullet in the shoulder and almost died. ‘I guess so,’ he said. He put down his knife and fork. He had barely touched his breakfast.

  ‘Back in the eighties, the Soviets were the bad guys and Uncle Sam wanted them out of Afghanistan,’ continued Bosch. ‘The Americans poured money into the Afghan Mujahideen, effectively funding a guerrilla campaign that was ultimately successful. After the Russians pulled out, the Mujahideen didn’t lay down their weapons. Far from it. They declared a global jihad and went off in search of new battles. Remember the attack on the World Trade Center in 1993? The men behind it were connected to a group that collected money for the Afghan jihad. Talk about chickens coming home to roost. Other Mujahideen went back to Algeria to set up the Armed Islamic Group, which ended up murdering thousands of Algerian civilians in their attempt to set up an Islamist state. Another group left Afghanistan for Egypt to start a terror campaign that killed thousands of Egyptians. More Mujahideen left to set up the Abu Sayyaf group in the Philippines. And let’s not forget the most successful graduate of the Afghan conflict, Osama bin Laden himself. He turned against his former masters big-time. Most of the bad shit that’s happened in the world goes back to what happened in Afghanistan – the Twin Towers, the London Tube bombings, Bali.’

  Shepherd sat back and stretched out his legs. ‘And that’s what’s happening here, isn’t it? It’s a breeding ground for terrorists.’

  ‘On a bigger scale than Afghanistan, in a place where the enemy is the United States, Britain, Australia and the rest of the coalition forces. The Americans have captured insurgents with British passports, French, Dutch, almost the entire EU spectrum. They’re learning urban warfare, how to make improvised explosive devices, how to brainwash suicide-bombers, how to kidnap, and once they’ve graduated they’ll take their jihad to the West, spreading like a virus.’ The South African grinned. ‘You’re fucked, you just don’t know it yet.’

  ‘You paint a pretty picture,’ said Shepherd, ‘but you don’t seem particularly worried.’

  ‘The crazier the world gets, the more work there is for me,’ she explained. ‘I get paid in dollars and I spend in rand. You should visit my game farm some time. Two hundred acres and Iraq paid for it.’

  ‘It’s an ill wind,’ said Shepherd.

  O’Brien pointed at Shepherd’s plate with his fork. ‘Are you going to eat the sausages?’ he asked. Shepherd shook his head. O’Brien stabbed them and transferred them to his plate.

  ‘You should think about it,’ said Bosch, ‘you and Martin. Guys like you with your SAS training, you’d get work out here no problem.’ She leaned over and squeezed Shepherd’s forearm. ‘Have to fatten you up a bit first.’ She laughed.

  The Major walked into the kitchen. ‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘As I ever will be,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Let’s go and see John, get you kitted out,’ said the Major.

  Shepherd stood up. Bosch smiled up at him. ‘Good luck, Spider,’ she said.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ he said, and wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

  He walked into the courtyard with the Major. ‘You sure about this?’ asked Gannon.

  ‘It’s a bit late to change my mind now,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘No one would blame you if you did.’

  Three helicopters flew overhead, low enough to ruffle the tops of the date palms. They were Hueys, American-made Bell UH-1Hs but with the markings of the Iraqi air force.

  ‘It’s Geordie’s only chance,’ said Shepherd. ‘If our roles were reversed, he wouldn’t hesitate.’

  ‘Yeah, well, he was always the headstrong one.’

  ‘He saved my life. I owe him.’

  The Major clapped Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘We’ll be close by.’

  ‘Not too close,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘I won’t let anything happen to you.’

  ‘Thanks, boss.’

  The Major hugged Shepherd, who squeezed him in return. ‘Let’s not get over-emotional,’ he said. ‘If all goes to plan we’ll be back here in a few days having a beer with Geordie and laughing about it.’

  They went to the main office building and found Muller sitting behind a massive oak desk, tapping at his computer keyboard. He stood up as the two men walked in. ‘Ready to go?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.

  Muller picked up a laminated card and handed it to him. ‘This is a company ID card. I’ve used the name on the passport you gave me.’ He gave Shepherd two printed letters. ‘Some company correspondence. Just shove it in your pocket.’ Shepherd did so, and put the card into his wallet. His passport was in the back pocket of his jeans. Muller went over to a metal gun cabinet, unlocked it and took out a Glock pistol in a nylon holster. He gave it to Shepherd, who strapped the holster to his belt. Muller handed Shepherd a company transceiver. ‘The frequency is preset,’ he said. ‘And now the big question. Do you want something more than the Glock? An Uzi, maybe?’

  Shepherd glanced at the Major. ‘I’m thinking less is better.’

  ‘The less firepower you’ve got, the less likely they are to start shooting,’ said the Major. ‘You’ve got to be armed because that’s what they’d expect, but an Uzi might worry them.’

  ‘That’s how I read it,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they see the gun on my hip and that I’m not pulling it, there’s no reason for them to start shooting. I send out all the right signals and they assume I’m a victim.’

  ‘Playing a role,’ said Muller.

  ‘It’s what I do,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Is your transmitter on?’ asked the Major.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Let’s do it,’ said the Major. ‘Gives us a chance to test it.’

  Shepherd sat down on a wooden chair and removed his left boot. He pulled back the insole. Nestled in a hollow below it was the small transmitter Button had given him in London. It was the size of a couple of two-pound coins, joined by a quarter-inch length of wire, encased in a slim plastic case.

  ‘Can I see it?’ asked Muller.

  Shepherd gave it to him. Muller squinted at the transmitter. He could see a regular phone Sim card set into a metal disc, a battery and a tiny circuit board set into a second. ‘There’s not much to it,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all you need,’ said Shepherd. ‘The battery is mercury, which gives us more power than lithium ones, and it operates on the eight hundred megahertz cellphone frequency.’

  ‘No antenna?’

  ‘The metal that the Sim card sits in acts as one.’ He pointed at the second disc. ‘This is a GPS receiver that picks up the two point four gigahertz signal from the satellites overhead. It can pick up its longitude and latitude and uses the Sim card to transmit the information as a data call.’

  ‘It phones in?’

  ‘That’s exactly what it does. Every ten minutes it makes a ten-second call downloading its position to a computer. Yokely’s going to be monitoring the signal locally but the Iraqi phone system has commercial transponder coverage across most of the country, so unless Geordie’s being held in the middle of the desert you’ll know where I am to a few metres.’ He opened the case, flicked a tiny switch and snapped it shut. ‘Do you want to tell Richard it’s on?’ he asked the Major. ‘We ran a test yesterday but I’d rather be safe than sorry.’

  ‘Will do.’ Gannon to
ok out his mobile phone and called Yokely. He had a brief conversation, then said, ‘He’ll check and get back to us.’

  Shepherd put the transmitter back into his boot and the boot back on to his foot.

  ‘You know they’ll take your boots off you,’ said Muller.

  ‘But hopefully not right away,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘How long’s the battery good for?’ asked Muller.

  ‘A couple of weeks, give or take,’ said Shepherd. ‘Should be more than enough.’ He tied his shoelace.

  ‘And you know where you’re going?’ asked Muller.

  Shepherd grinned. ‘You’re worrying too much, John,’ he said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘I’m worried you might get lost, that’s all. It’s dangerous out there,’ said Muller, gesturing with his thumb at the metal gate that led to the outside.

  ‘You keep saying. It’s a minefield.’

  ‘I meant that it’s an easy city to get lost in if you don’t know the language.’

  ‘I won’t get lost. I’ve been looking at street maps and satellite images of the city and my memory is almost photographic,’ said Shepherd. He stood up and walked up and down. The transmitter fitted perfectly into the slot in the sole of his boot and he couldn’t feel it. The only way someone would find it was by taking off his boot and removing the insole. He doubted anyone would bother to do that.

  ‘Did your American friend get clearance for the curfew?’ asked Muller.

  ‘He’s passed on descriptions of all your vehicles and registration numbers and says no one will bother us,’ said the Major.

  ‘He can do that?’ asked Muller.

  ‘He carries a lot of weight,’ said the Major.

  ‘He better had because they tend to shoot first and ask questions later after dark out here.’

  ‘Relax, John,’ said Shepherd.

  Muller rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I just keep thinking of what Geordie’s facing. And if we screw up, you’ll be in the same position.’

  ‘No one’s going to screw up,’ said Shepherd, coolly. He took the Glock from its holster and checked the action. Then he ejected the magazine. It was fully loaded but if everything went to plan he wouldn’t even pull the gun from its holster.

  ‘He’s right, John,’ said the Major. ‘We’ll be on him every step of the way. Let’s get the vehicle ready.’

  As they walked outside, the Major’s mobile rang. He listened for a few seconds, then put it away. ‘Yokely says the tracker’s working fine,’ he said, ‘and he wants you to wave.’

  Shepherd frowned. ‘He wants what?’

  ‘He wants us all to wave,’ said the Major. He craned his neck and gazed up into the near-cloudless sky. In the far distance an airliner left a white trail as it headed west but nothing else was in the air. The Major waved, as did Shepherd.

  ‘You’re both mad,’ said Muller.

  ‘Just wave,’ said Shepherd, ‘and say “cheese”. We want to keep our guardian angel happy.’

  Shepherd drove the Toyota Land Cruiser slowly down the road. He reached for the bottle of water on the passenger seat and drank from it. He was wearing body armour, and even with the air-conditioning on full blast he was sweating. He was entering Dora, the suburb in the south of Baghdad that, according to Muller, was controlled by Sunni insurgents and was a virtual no-go area for the coalition forces. Muller had said that IED attacks took place there virtually every day and the Americans drove through at speed, rarely venturing there on foot. The population of the suburb was almost half a million, a mixture of Sunnis, Shias and Christians, with the Sunnis in the majority. The suburb opened into countryside to the south, giving the insurgents an easy escape route. There were huge farms and luxurious villas, many of which had been owned by Saddam Hussein’s family and officials. Shepherd wasn’t out in the farmland, though. Geordie had been taken in the built-up area of the suburb, so that was where he was driving.

  Shepherd passed a group of young men wearing dishdashas who all glared at him. He picked up the transceiver and pushed the transmit button. ‘Okay, I’m getting ready to start the show. Are you in place?’

  The transceiver crackled. ‘We’re here,’ said the Major. ‘I’ve just spoken to Yokely and he has you on the GPS and the eye in the sky. Whenever you’re ready, Spider.’

  Shepherd put the transceiver back on the dashboard. His hands were wet with sweat and he wiped them one at a time on the legs of his jeans. He glanced into his rear-view mirror. There were no vehicles behind him. The Major and the rest of the team were keeping their distance. Their plan would only work if it looked as though Shepherd was on his own. He took a right turn into a narrow street that was filled with pedestrians, all Iraqi. There were women wearing full burkhas, covered from head to foot in black, there were men in grimy dishdashas, a far cry from the gleaming robes he’d seen in Dubai, and plenty more in Western clothes.

  He drove past a canal, a stagnant waterway overgrown with weeds, into which bare-chested children were jumping. Two little girls yelled and waved at him as he went by.

  The buildings on either side of the street were run-down, with broken windows and peeling paintwork. The cars parked at the roadside were all old and rusting; several had been broken into and stripped. Shepherd figured the road was too busy to stop but he pumped the accelerator, making the Land Cruiser lurch. Heads turned to stare. He slowed the vehicle to a crawl, then pumped the accelerator again. He looked into his rear-view mirror. There was a taxi some fifty yards behind him, white with bright orange quarter panels. Three men sat inside it, two in the front.

  Shepherd saw an intersection ahead and turned right, made the car jump forward and pulled in at the side of the road. The taxi drove by, all three men looking in his direction. He took a swig of water.

  He turned to put the bottle back on the passenger seat and flinched as he saw a bearded man in a grey dishdasha staring at him through the window. He smiled, revealing two gold front teeth. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘How are you doing?’ said Shepherd. It was difficult to judge the man’s age. His skin was dark brown and leathery, but his eyes were bright and inquisitive. He could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty.

  ‘You have a problem?’ said the man.

  Shepherd opened the door and stepped out into the street. Almost everyone within a hundred feet had stopped walking and was watching him with open hostility. Shepherd heard a roar then saw two F16 bombers flying just below the cloud line.

  ‘There is something wrong with your vehicle?’ said the man.

  ‘The transmission, I think,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘On the Land Cruiser it is usually very reliable,’ said the man. ‘The Japanese make excellent cars.’

  ‘You’re a mechanic?’

  ‘Cars were a hobby when I was young,’ said the man, ‘but I cannot afford one now.’ He gestured at the vehicle. ‘May I try?’

  ‘I don’t think you’ll be able to do anything,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You never know,’ said the man, ‘but if I cannot find out what’s wrong, I have a good friend who is a mechanic and I can call him for you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Shepherd, suddenly guilty at having lied to a man who was clearly a good Samaritan.

  ‘Dora is not a safe place for you, you know that?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The people here, many do not like the Americans.’

  ‘I’m British,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘They care more about the colour of your skin than they do about your passport,’ said the man. He held out his hand. ‘My name is Nouri.’

  ‘Peter,’ said Shepherd, using the name in his passport. He shook the man’s hand. ‘Look, let me have another go. Maybe it was just overheating.’

  ‘The transmission should not overheat,’ said Nouri.

  ‘I’ll give it a go anyway,’ said Shepherd.

  Another taxi drove down the road and slowed as it passed the Land Cruiser. It had the same white and orange paint as the
first Shepherd had seen but two women in burkhas sat in the back, with a net bag of vegetables on the front passenger seat.

  ‘You seem nervous, my friend,’ said Nouri.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re travelling alone? That is unusual for a Westerner.’

  ‘I was on my way to pick up three of our employees,’ said Shepherd. ‘Then I got lost and my car started playing up.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Shepherd named a street two miles away.

  Nouri smiled and pointed back the way Shepherd had come. ‘You need to go back to the crossroads, straight on for two miles, then left. Don’t you have a map?’

  Shepherd shook his head.

  ‘I shall draw you one,’ said Nouri. He pulled a scrap of paper from inside his dishdasha and a well-chewed ballpoint pen. He put the paper on the bonnet of the car and quickly drew a rough sketch map, with all the names in Arabic and underneath an English transliteration.

  ‘Why is your English so good?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘I was a teacher,’ said Nouri. ‘My school was bombed during the war so now I do some translating for charities. It does not pay well but it is the only job I can get these days. Things will improve in time, Inshallah.’ He gave the hand-drawn map to Shepherd.

  Two men in flannel shirts and long, baggy pants were edging closer to the Land Cruiser. One reached into a pocket, pulled out a mobile phone and made a call. He stared at Shepherd as he spoke into the phone.

  Nouri saw what Shepherd was looking at and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not worry,’ he said, and walked over to the two men, stood in front of them and spoke to them in a hushed voice. Shepherd looked around. More than fifty people were now openly staring at him. Most were men and the few women were all dressed from head to foot in black burkhas. Clearly they were poor, with grubby clothing and shabby footwear. Shepherd could feel hostility pouring off them. He reached for the door handle. Nouri turned and smiled reassuringly, then made a small patting motion with his hand as if he was quietening a spooked horse. ‘Everything is okay,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll give the car another try,’ said Shepherd. ‘The transmission might have cooled down.’