Hot Blood (12 page)

‘Makes sense,’ said Sharpe.

‘Why, Razor, I’m so glad you approve,’ said Button. ‘Any questions?’

Shepherd tapped the whiteboard. ‘These names, are they real?’

‘They’re the names the Branch gave me with the photographs,’ said Button.

‘If we don’t know them, what’s our connection? Who’s going to make the call?’ said Shepherd.

‘The agent is going to be putting your name forward tomorrow, but on the basis that a friend of his says you might be in a position to supply weapons. One of the gang members will make the call.’

‘So the man who calls won’t necessarily be the agent?’ said Sharpe. Button gave him a withering look and he held up his hands. ‘Just thinking aloud,’ he said.

‘What sort of weapons?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Submachine pistols,’ said Button. ‘The intel suggests they’re planning an attack on a shopping mall.’

‘What the hell are they thinking?’ asked Sharpe.

‘It’s terrorism,’ said Button. ‘They’re probably not thinking about anything other than causing the maximum amount of terror. And shooting families out shopping is as good a way of doing it as any.’

‘And we’re going to supply the weapons, are we?’ asked Shepherd.

‘You make contact and set up a buy. Once the buy is set up we’ll decide how to play it.’

‘We’ll decide, or the Branch?’ asked Shepherd.

‘It’s their operation,’ said Button.

‘That’s my worry,’ said Shepherd. ‘If it’s a SOCA operation, we have control. Suppose they decide we sell the guns, then something goes wrong and people die? Which fan is the shit going to hit? I don’t want it heading in my direction.’

‘Let’s take it one step at a time, Spider. I’ll be watching your back.’

Shepherd hadn’t been working with Charlotte Button long enough to trust her as a matter of course, but she was his boss and he had no choice other than to give her the benefit of the doubt.

‘Okay, then,’ said Button. ‘Give me a call as soon as you have a meet set up. Everything else okay?’

‘No problems here,’ said Sharpe.

‘Everything okay in your life, Spider?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.

‘Nothing on your mind?’

Shepherd wondered if she was getting at something, then decided she was simply checking on his welfare. ‘The sale of my house is taking for ever, but other than that everything’s just fine.’

‘You know what they say, moving house is just about the most stressful thing you can go through. That and bereavement.’ A look of horror passed over her face as she realised what she’d said. She reached out to touch his arm. ‘I’m sorry, I said that without thinking. I’m an idiot.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Caroline Stockmann said the same thing. People can’t tread on eggshells around me for ever. And you’re right, moving house is stressful. But it’s going okay.’ Selling his house had been hard, but it hadn’t come within a million miles of the pain Shepherd had felt when Sue died. He wouldn’t tell Button that, of course. He wouldn’t tell her about the nights he’d cried himself to sleep either, or that the worst moments came when he’d wake up after dreaming about her, only for the memory of her death to hit him again. Each time it happened was like the first. But as the years passed the dreams had become less frequent and the pain had numbed. He would never forget Sue, he had loved her too much for that, but he had meant what he’d said to Button. He didn’t expect people to pussyfoot around him. His wife had died. He had dealt with it and his son had dealt with the loss of his mother. End of story. They were moving on now, and selling the house was part of the process.

‘I won’t be putting any more cases your way until the Branch operation is over,’ she said, ‘so work your move round that.’

‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd. He felt a twinge of guilt at not mentioning Geordie’s kidnapping, but at least he hadn’t lied.

‘Oh, and Caroline was impressed with you,’ said Button. ‘Very impressed.’

There were two pots of coffee on the hotplate. One regular and one decaffeinated. Shepherd poured himself a cup of regular. He had never seen the point of removing caffeine from coffee. It made as much sense as taking the alcohol out of whiskey. ‘Get me one, Spider,’ called O’Brien, who was spreading strawberry jam over a croissant. Armstrong and Shortt were sitting at the long table, flicking through the day’s newspapers. Whenever they came across an article about Mitchell they ripped it out and stuck it on one of the whiteboards. An ashtray filled with cigarette butts sat in front of Armstrong.

Shepherd poured coffee for O’Brien and gave it to him. He picked up one of the torn-out articles. It was from the
Daily Telegraph
, a report on the Foreign Secretary’s reaction to the kidnapping. ‘This is a very, very difficult and very worrying situation,’ said the politician. ‘We remain in touch with his family.’ He had been speaking at a press conference and had been asked if the government would be prepared to pay a ransom for Mitchell’s release. His reply had been emphatic: ‘The government of the United Kingdom does not pay ransoms.’ According to the article’s author, sources close to the Foreign Secretary were convinced that the militant group intended to kill Mitchell, come what may.

The door to the conference room opened and the Major ushered in a tall man with swept-back grey hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. The Major was carrying his sat-phone and his companion had a brown leather document case tucked under one arm. The Major closed the door and put the phone on the floor. ‘This is John Muller,’ he said. ‘He heads up the company Geordie works for.’

Muller shook hands with them all, then took off his jacket and sat down next to the Major at the head of the table. O’Brien poured a mug of coffee for him as he rolled up his shirtsleeves.

‘John’s here to give us a quick briefing on what’s happened over in Iraq,’ said the Major.

Muller stirred his coffee. ‘Geordie was in charge of security for a fifty-kilometre length of pipeline,’ he said. ‘Most of it was underground. There were a couple of pumping stations, and he also ran security for our personnel. He had about a hundred Iraqis under him, along with a dozen expats, mainly South African. He was driving back to our compound with three Iraqis. They were killed and he was bundled into a vehicle and driven away.’

‘Was Geordie the target, then?’ asked O’Brien.

‘Almost certainly not. They’d just taken one of our executives to the airport and it wasn’t his responsibility. A South African was supposed to do it but he was sick. Geordie was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

‘He was armed, right?’ said the Major.

‘Of course,’ said Muller. ‘But the abductors blew up my men’s Jeep with an improvised explosive device.’

‘Were they planning to kill them, or was it about taking a hostage?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Personally, I think they were out to kill them. Then they saw Geordie and decided to take him and sell him on to a fundamentalist group. It was opportunistic. If they’d been planning a kidnap from the start, I don’t think they’d have used the IED.’

‘I’m missing something here,’ said Shepherd. ‘Are the guys who took Geordie criminals or fundamentalists?’

‘Almost certainly criminals,’ said Muller. ‘Or at least guys who are motivated by money. They would have sold Geordie on to the fundamentalists.’

‘So why are criminals setting off IEDs?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Because there are bounties on offer,’ said Muller. ‘There’s a whole load of wealthy fundamentalists out there funding the trouble. They’re the same guys who pay off the families of suicide-bombers. The going rate is three thousand dinars if they toss a hand grenade at an infidel. That’s about three dollars. They get two hundred thousand dinars if they fire an RPG and up to a million if they take out a vehicle with an IED. The guys who took Geordie were after the million, but when they saw they had a live foreigner they knew they’d be able to get even more.’

‘But there was no ransom demand after they took him?’ said the Major.

‘The first I heard was the video on al-Jazeera,’ said Muller. ‘It was never a question of money. We’ve offered a reward for his safe return but we’ve had no response. It’s purely political.’

‘There’s no way that your company can negotiate for his release?’ asked Armstrong. He flicked open his pack of Marlboro, tossed a cigarette into the air, caught it between his lips, then lit it.

Muller shook his head. ‘There’s no one to negotiate with,’ he said. ‘It’s a fucking minefield over there, literally and figuratively. There’s no central organisation we can deal with, and we’ve no idea who has any sort of influence on the various groups. The militants are in a state of constant flux, too. I liken it to a virus, constantly evolving. We have a hard time keeping track of who’s who. The Holy Martyrs of Islam only came to light when they kidnapped the Lake boy. The main group out there is called Al-Qaeda In Iraq, and used to be led by a Jordanian, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi. They killed an Egyptian envoy and a couple of Algerian diplomats a while back. Al-Zarqawi was killed some time ago but his group is still active. Thing is, they usually target the hostages they take, but it looks as if Geordie’s abduction was opportunistic – they blasted his vehicle and he could easily have died, so we don’t think al-Zarqawi’s mob’s behind it. But there are dozens of other groups out there who are just as dangerous. Al-Jaysh al-Islami fi Iraq, The Islamic Army in Iraq kidnapped an American recently; seized two French journalists and killed an Italian in 2004. They’ve probably butchered a dozen people in the last three years. The Ansar al-Sunnah Army killed a Japanese security manager and a Turkish contractor. The Islamic Army of Iraq seized two French journalists, and killed a dozen Nepalese workers. The al-Saraya Mujahideen took a group of Japanese and Italians two years ago. Al-Tawhid wal-Jihad, which translates as Unity and Holy War, has abducted and decapitated seven civilian contractors. The Green Battalion killed an Italian security guard. The Holders of the Black Banners have been taking hostages but so far haven’t killed any. Ditto the Islamic Movement for Iraq’s Mujahideen. Those are the groups that issue the demands and perform the executions, but they rarely carry out the initial kidnappings.’

‘Criminal gangs, right?’ said Shepherd.

‘Exactly. The insurgents who captured Geordie have probably passed him on to one of the militant groups. Probably got money for him.’

‘If we can get to them, could we pay them off?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Almost certainly not,’ said Muller. ‘I’m sorry, guys, but these bastards aren’t in it for the money. We’ve put the word out that we’ll pay half a mill for his return, but it won’t do any good. Between you and me and these four walls, the reward is just public-relations bullshit.’

‘Is there any way of telling which side this group is on?’ asked Shepherd.

‘They’re almost certainly Sunnis,’ said Muller. ‘They pretty much ran Iraq when Saddam was in charge. Most of the Sunni clerics in Iraq regard the
jihad
as a legitimate reaction to what they see as the American invasion of their country whereas the Shias tend to regard the Americans as a temporary presence. So the attacks on the coalition troops tend to be from Sunni insurgents. The Shias make up most of the Iraqi Army and police force, which is why there are so many attacks against them. More than thirty thousand dead so far.’

‘What’s been done on the ground?’ asked Shortt, rubbing his moustache.

‘My guys are gathering intel. The Blackwater boys are on the case. We have a number of shared contracts and I’ve got a pretty good relationship with their top brass. But once they’re dug in, the militants aren’t going to put their heads above ground until Geordie’s dead.’ He pulled a face as if he had a sour taste in his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, guys, it doesn’t look good.’

‘What about the military?’ said Armstrong.

‘They’re looking, but you have to know what it’s like out there. The American troops ride around in convoys and hardly ever get out of their Humvees. The locals are on the ground, but with the best will in the world they’re not going to stumble across Geordie. Our best bet is going to be human intel, either an informer or someone who gets hauled in for something else and wants to cut a deal.’

‘Yeah, or maybe we could call in a psychic,’ said Shortt, bitterly.

‘Easy, Jimbo,’ said the Major. ‘No need to go shooting the messenger. John’s just telling us the way things stand.’

‘I’m heading straight back there,’ said Muller. ‘I wanted to brief you guys, and I’m paying a courtesy call on Geordie’s brother. But then I’ll be in Baghdad until this is over. One way or the other.’

‘Let’s suppose we identify the guys who are holding him,’ said the Major. ‘What are our options?’

‘If we know who they are, we can reach out to them through groups they might be sympathetic to. Religious figures, for instance. It’s a question of who should make the approach.’

‘Has that worked in the past?’ asked Shepherd.

‘A few times,’ said Muller. ‘It depends on the agenda of the hostage-takers. Sometimes they’ll make more capital out of showing they can be reasonable. Or it could be seen as a way of boosting the status of someone sympathetic to their aims. Like I said, it’s a minefield.’

A mobile phone rang. Shepherd winced and fished his two out of his jacket pocket. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to take this,’ he said, and hurried out of the room.

‘That Graham May?’ asked a voice. Youngish, a nasal Birmingham whine.

‘Who wants to know?’ said Shepherd, shutting the door behind him.

‘A friend of a friend said you might be able to supply us with what we need.’

‘Do I know you?’

‘No, but I’ve got the cash.’

‘Who gave you my number?’ asked Shepherd. He was an underworld arms dealer and they were suspicious of anyone they hadn’t dealt with before.

‘A friend of mine,’ said the voice.

‘Yeah, well, unless he’s a friend of mine, and a bloody good one at that, we’re going to end this conversation right now.’