Hot Blood

by Stephen Leather

  ‘They’re worried about mines,’ said Yokely, as he reached them.

  ‘And you’re not?’ asked Shepherd.

  Yokely grinned. ‘I had my palm read by a gypsy psychic a while back,’ he said. ‘She said I’d live to a ripe old age and I believe her.’ He slapped Shepherd on the back. ‘Good to see you’re okay, Spider,’ he said. ‘You had us worried for a while.’

  ‘What about Geordie? Do we know where he is?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Yokely. He pushed past Shepherd and went into the kitchen. Bosch and Shortt were standing by the sink. ‘Where are the Arabs?’ he asked.

  The Major pointed at the door that led to the hallway.

  ‘The front room,’ said Jordan.

  ‘Anyone dead?’

  ‘Two,’ said the Major. ‘They were busy giving Spider a hard time and didn’t hear us coming.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Yokely. ‘Be a sweetheart and get me some rope, will you, Carol?’

  ‘I am not your fucking sweetheart,’ said Bosch.

  ‘It’s an expression,’ said Yokely, unabashed.

  ‘Yeah, well, so is “go fuck yourself”. Get your own bloody rope,’ said Bosch.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ said Shortt.

  ‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ said Yokely. He winked at Bosch and went along the hallway to the front room, Shepherd and the Major following. The four Arabs were kneeling on the floor. Muller was covering them with his Glock and Jordan had his Uzi trained on them.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ said Yokely. He reached into his body armour and brought out a handful of black plastic zip-ties. He walked behind the line of kneeling men and, one by one, bound their wrists.

  In the corner of the sitting room a circular wooden table was surrounded by half a dozen small wooden stools. Yokely placed one in front of each kneeling man.

  Shortt returned with a coil of rope and handed it to him. Yokely went into the kitchen and came back with a knife. He cut four long pieces of rope.

  ‘What are you doing, Richard?’ asked the Major.

  ‘Information retrieval,’ said Yokely. He made a loop at the end of a piece of rope and checked the slip-knot. ‘Jimbo, tell them to stand on the stools, would you?’

  Shortt glanced at the Major then barked at the men in Arabic. They looked back at him, confused and fearful.

  ‘Tell them that if they don’t stand on the stools, they’ll be shot,’ said Yokely. He started work on a second length of rope.

  Shortt translated. O’Brien walked into the sitting room, holding his Glock. ‘What’s occurring?’ he asked.

  ‘Martin, help these guys on to the stools, will you?’ Yokely checked the second noose and started on the third.

  ‘Pleasure,’ said O’Brien. He grabbed the first by the scruff of his flannel shirt and dragged him towards them. The old man climbed up and stood there trembling.

  Muller waved his gun at the other three Iraqis, who got to their feet unsteadily and climbed on to the stools.

  Bosch walked in from the hallway. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked.

  ‘Carol …’ said Jordan.

  ‘Don’t “Carol” me,’ said Bosch. ‘You can see what he’s doing, can’t you?’

  ‘Pat, will you and Joe take her outside, please?’ said Yokely, as he tested the third noose. ‘Secure the perimeter.’

  ‘Screw you,’ said Bosch.

  Jordan put a hand on her arm but she shook it off angrily. ‘He can’t do this.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can,’ said Yokely. ‘I can and I will.’ He turned to Muller. ‘John, please take your people outside.’

  ‘I’m staying,’ said Muller.

  ‘I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’re civilians and I want all civilians out of here. It’s for my own peace of mind, not yours.’

  ‘You don’t want witnesses,’ said Bosch.

  ‘Carol, sweetheart, you’re beginning to piss me off,’ said Yokely. ‘If you’re not outside within the next ten seconds, I’ll make a phone call that will have you on the next plane out of this country.’

  ‘Let’s go, Carol,’ said Muller.

  ‘You can’t let him treat us like this,’ said Bosch.

  Muller put his arm round her shoulders and led her back to the kitchen. Jordan followed, flicking the safety catch on his Uzi. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, guys,’ said Haschka, as he closed the door.

  Yokely started work on the fourth noose. ‘If any of you guys don’t have the stomach for this, you’re welcome to go with them. Except you, Jimbo. I’ll need you to translate.’

  ‘I’m staying anyway,’ said Shortt.

  ‘Me too,’ said O’Brien.

  ‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ said the Major.

  Yokely looked at Shepherd. ‘Spider?’

  Shepherd knew that what was about to happen was illegal and immoral, that it went against everything he believed in. But only minutes earlier the men standing on the stools had been torturing him and planning to kill him in the most brutal way imaginable for no other reason than his nationality. What Yokely was planning to do was evil, but it was a necessary evil, because the four men were the only hope they had of finding Geordie. ‘Go ahead,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Yokely grinned. ‘I think deep down you’ve always wanted to know what I do,’ he said. ‘Watch and learn.’

  He tossed the loose ends of the ropes over the wooden beam that ran the length of the sitting room. The nooses dangled in front of the Iraqis as Yokely gathered up the loose ends and tied them to the bars on the window, methodically checking that each was secure.

  The old man with the withered arm began to plead in his own language. ‘No need to translate,’ Yokely said to Shortt. ‘I get the drift.’ He walked along the line of Iraqis and fitted the nooses round their necks, then stood back to admire his handiwork. ‘I think that’ll do, don’t you, Spider?’

  ‘I guess so,’ said Shepherd. ‘It depends what you’ve got in mind.’

  Yokely chuckled and pulled a bundle of papers out of his body armour, then walked up and down in front of the four men, who were trembling with fear. ‘Translate, please, Jimbo,’ said Yokely. He stopped in front of a man who had been caught downstairs. He was in his thirties, with a goatee beard and a white dishdasha. Yokely held up a sheet of paper. There were several lines of type and a photograph of two men sitting in a car. ‘Tell him this photograph shows him meeting a man called Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi last year in Baghdad.’

  Shortt translated as Yokely flicked through his printouts. When Shortt finished speaking, the man started to talk quickly.

  ‘He says he isn’t the man in the photograph and that he has never met anyone called Wafeeq,’ said Shortt.

  Yokely went to stand in front of the man with the withered arm. He studied one of the sheets of paper, then grinned up at him. ‘Your name is Yuusof Abd al-Nuuh. You have three children and seven grandchildren. Last year you spoke to Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi. Just chit-chat. Or code. We’re not sure which. But we know you spoke to him.’

  Shortt translated. The old man closed his eyes and began to mutter to himself. The man on the middle stool was the biggest of the four, with bulging forearms and a thick neck. He was staring straight ahead, eyes blank, mouth wide open. ‘This guy, I don’t know who he is,’ said Yokely, walking over to stand in front of him. He kicked the stool away and the man fell. The rope snapped round his neck and cut deep into the flesh. The man’s legs kicked and his body shuddered but the noose was so tight that not a sound escaped from his mouth.

  ‘What the fuck?’ shouted O’Brien.

  The man stopped kicking and his body swung gently from the beam. A damp patch spread round the groin and drops of urine trickled down his left leg on to the tiled floor.

  ‘Then there were three,’ said Yokely. He walked to the man with the withered arm and stared up at him. ‘So, Yuusof Abd al-Nuuh, what do you think? Can you bring yourself to tell me
where I’ll find Wafeeq?’ Yokely consulted his watch. ‘You see, time’s running out, and the fact that Wafeeq found the transmitter means he’s probably going to do something pretty terrible to a friend of ours.’ Yokely put his right foot against the stool and gave it a push. The man wobbled and started to hyperventilate.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted the man at the far right of the group – the man with the shaved head and the dishdasha. ‘Leave him alone.’

  Yokely smiled and took his foot off the stool. He walked over to the man who had spoken and leafed through the printouts. ‘Ah, yes, of course,’ he said. ‘You’re one of Yuusof’s sons, aren’t you? And you can speak English. Excellent.’ He read through the information on the sheet he was holding. ‘According to this, you’ve never met Wafeeq and there’s no record of you phoning him.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘So you’re not much use to me, really, are you?’ He rested his foot on the side of the stool and turned to the father. ‘Jimbo, explain to the old man that I’m going to kill his boy unless he tells me where I can find Wafeeq.’

  Jimbo translated. The father sagged and the rope tightened round his neck. Then he whispered something in Arabic.

  ‘What did he say, Jimbo?’

  ‘He said okay, he’ll talk.’

  Yokely grinned triumphantly. He pushed the stool, which shuddered. The man yelped and struggled to keep his balance. ‘Tell him to be quick about it, Jimbo.’

  Wafeeq parked the van and walked quickly to the house. Rahman jogged to keep up with him. Wafeeq always had Rahman with him when he left the house. He had served with Saddam Hussein’s Republican Guard and Wafeeq had once seen him kill a man with his bare hands. Azeem was standing at one of the bedroom windows and waved. Wafeeq waved back. Sulaymaan opened the front door as he reached it. ‘Where is the hostage?’ he asked.

  Wafeeq ignored him. He strode along the hallway and into the main room. Kamil was on his hands and knees on a prayer mat, his forehead on the ground.

  ‘We have to move,’ said Wafeeq. ‘Abdul-Nasir is downstairs?’

  ‘Of course.’ Kamil straightened and frowned at him. ‘What has happened?’ he asked.

  ‘The man they caught worked for the same company as Mitchell. He had a transmitting device. They are hunting us, my friend.’

  Kamil stood and rolled up the prayer mat. ‘But we knew that. We knew they would look for him. No one will find him here. Inshallah.’

  ‘This is different,’ said Wafeeq. ‘The man was different. We kill the infidel and we leave. Now.’

  ‘But then everything will have been for nothing.’

  ‘No, we just bring forward the deadline. We say that the intransigence of the British government has brought about the death of their subject. We film his death and then we leave.’

  The Major and O’Brien pushed the two Arabs into the back of the Land Cruiser, their hands tied behind their backs. Shortt climbed into the driving seat and O’Brien got in beside him. ‘We’ll be right behind you, Jimbo,’ said the Major.

  ‘Right, boss,’ said Shortt. He put the 464 into gear and drove off down the road.

  The Major went over to Yokely and Shepherd, who were waiting by the second Land Cruiser. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  ‘Why don’t we call in a chopper?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘We can drive in twenty minutes,’ said Yokely, ‘and I don’t want Wafeeq any more spooked than he already is. If he hears choppers, he’ll run. We need to get in place first. I’ve already called in troops, so we’ll have the perimeter secured.’

  ‘That doesn’t help Geordie,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘We’ve got time, trust me,’ said Yokely.

  ‘This isn’t just about capturing Wafeeq, is it?’ said Shepherd.

  Yokely put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s about getting Geordie out of harm’s way,’ he said. ‘Wafeeq is the icing on the cake.’

  ‘That had better be true,’ said Shepherd.

  Muller walked up with an Uzi. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he said.

  ‘John, this is now becoming a military operation. Like I said before, you’re a civilian.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, I’m the civilian who has the keys to that vehicle, so without me you’re going nowhere.’ Muller held up the keys to the Land Cruiser and jingled them.

  ‘We don’t have time to argue,’ said Yokely.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Muller. He pulled open the driver’s door and climbed in. ‘So shut the fuck up and get in.’

  Yokely opened his mouth to argue but the Major spoke first. ‘John’s okay,’ he said.

  ‘It’s on your head, then,’ said Yokely. He got into the front passenger seat and took out his mobile. The Major and Shepherd got into the back. As Muller started the engine and drove away from the house, Yokely phoned Simon Nichols. ‘Simon, do you have visual on us?’ he asked.

  ‘We have you,’ said Nichols.

  ‘Follow us and let us know if there are any roadblocks ahead.’

  ‘I’ll give you plenty of warning,’ said Nichols. ‘How’s Shepherd?’

  ‘All very James Bond,’ said Yokely. ‘Stirred but not shaken.’

  ‘Does he know how lucky he is?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Yokely. ‘He knows.’

  ‘Couldn’t help but notice that you put two of the Iraqis in the first Land Cruiser,’ said Nichols. ‘What’s that about?’

  Yokely grinned. ‘Watch and learn,’ he said.

  The Sniper watched with a growing sense of amazement. What he was seeing made no sense at all. He was lying on an inflatable bed, covered with a piece of sacking. He had chosen the vantage-point carefully. The building below him was six storeys tall and he could see for miles. There were two main roads each within six hundred metres of the building, both used regularly by American troops. There was a fire escape at the rear, which offered a quick way down to a labyrinth of alleyways. He had used the rooftop four months earlier when he had killed an officer leading a foot patrol – shot him in the small of the back as he bent down to tie a shoelace, shattering the spine just below the body armour.

  Two patrols had driven along the nearest main road but they had been moving too quickly. The Sniper didn’t waste bullets: he only shot when he was sure he would make a kill, and he had the patience to wait as long as it took. He had two bottles of water in the shade of a chimney-stack, and a plastic bag in case he needed to defecate. The Spotter was lying next to him on a rush mat. Like the Sniper, he was staring at the house some three hundred metres away, wondering what was going on.

  They had watched the two Land Cruisers drive up together and park round the corner from the house. Ten minutes after they had arrived, an army Humvee joined them. A soldier climbed out of a Land Cruiser and went to talk to the soldiers in the Humvee. Shortly afterwards two Bradley fighting vehicles arrived with another Humvee. A dozen soldiers in full body armour climbed out and gathered round an officer.

  Two helicopters had flown in from the south, then gone into a slow, banking turn that brought them in to a hover about a mile away from the military vehicles. The Sniper recognised them: they were Blackhawks, MH-60L Direct Action Penetrators. They each came equipped with two 7.62mm Miniguns, electrically driven Gatling guns that could fire up to four thousand rounds a minute, and M261 nineteen-tube rocket-launchers, capable of firing a wide range of rockets including armour and bunker penetration and anti-personnel flechette warheads that could rip apart an entire platoon, accurate up to two miles. There was also a 30mm chain gun, which could fire 625 high-explosive rounds a minute with pinpoint accuracy, and two M272 launchers each with four 100-pound Hellfire missiles that could destroy a tank five miles away at the touch of a button. The DAP Blackhawks had been equipped for special-forces operations and were just about the most deadly machines operating in Iraq.

  It was what had happened next that had mystified the Sniper. Two civilians wearing body armour had pulled two Iraqis out of the back of a Land Cruiser. One of the Iraqis had been given a handgun and the other a Kalashnikov. The
n a Westerner in shirt and trousers climbed out of the second Land Cruiser. He kept his hands behind his back as if his wrists had been tied, but from his vantage-point the Sniper could see a handgun tucked into his belt in the small of his back.

  The two Iraqis and the Westerner walked to the house. The American soldiers fanned out, spreading round the street and taking up vantage-points. They appeared to be preparing to storm the house. The Bradley fighting vehicles kept their engines running, ready to move closer to the house, and the Blackhawks continued to hover. The Sniper knew better than to fire while the hunter-killer helicopters were in the vicinity: they were equipped with a full-range of visual, infrared and radar sensors. If they even suspected he was on the roof, they would have no hesitation in destroying the building, no matter who else was in it.

  ‘What do you think is happening?’ asked the Spotter.

  ‘I have no idea,’ said the Sniper. ‘But I am sure we will find a target before too long. Inshallah.’

  Kamil banged on the door. ‘Colin, stand against the wall, please,’ he shouted. He pressed his eye to the spyhole and watched as Mitchell followed his instructions. Then he unbolted the door and opened it. Behind him, Rahman and Azeem waited, their faces covered with shemagh scarves. Azeem was holding a Kal ashnikov, the safety off.

  Mitchell stared at the assault rifle. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing. We just need to make another video,’ said Kamil. He walked across the basement and handed the orange jumpsuit to Mitchell. ‘Put this on, please.’

  ‘What sort of video?’ asked Mitchell.

  Wafeeq walked into the basement carrying the video-camera and its tripod. ‘Do as you’re told or we will kill you now,’ he snarled.

  ‘It’s better to keep him calm,’ Kamil said in Arabic.

  ‘You are too soft on them,’ said Wafeeq, also in Arabic. ‘They are the infidel. They deserve to die.’