Hot Blood (21 page)

Umar was panting and there was blood on his lips. ‘Please, no more,’ he gasped.

‘Talk,’ said Shepherd. He took away his right hand and bunched it into a fist. ‘Or don’t talk. I’m happy enough to beat you to a pulp.’

‘Enough,’ said Umar. The strength had gone from his legs and only Shepherd’s grip kept him upright.

‘The man holding the RPG?’ said Shepherd. ‘You know him?’

‘Yes, I know him,’ said Umar, rubbing away tears.

‘He was in your group? The Islamic Followers of Truth?’

Umar was still gasping for breath. Shepherd raised his hand to slap him and Umar covered his face. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He wanted to kill the Egyptians. He said it was more important that we kill them than take the money.’

‘But you wanted the ransom?’

Umar nodded, and started to sob, tears running down his cheeks. Shepherd helped him to the table, picked up the chair, and sat him down. ‘What happened to the group?’ he asked.

‘There was no group. We wanted money for the Egyptians. That is all. Once we had the money, it was over.’

‘The man with the RPG, who is he?’

‘His name is Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi.’

‘And he wanted to kill the Egyptians?’

‘He said he didn’t care about the money. He is very religious. We just wanted the money.’

‘What do you know about the Holy Martyrs of Islam?’

‘Nothing,’ said Umar. He lowered his hands. ‘I swear I know nothing. I have never heard of them.’

The door opened. Yokely was holding a plastic bottle of water. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘He’s given me the name,’ said Shepherd.

‘Anything else?’

‘I don’t think he knows any more.’

Yokely put the water on the table and picked up the laptop. ‘Let’s be on our way,’ he said. He gestured at Umar. ‘Did you promise him anything?’

‘We never got round to it,’ said Shepherd.

Yokely put the laptop away. ‘Bob’ll be pleased to hear that,’ he said.

The flight out of Baghdad was as hair-raising as the landing had been. The Gulfstream went up at an almost impossibly high rate of climb in a tight corkscrew that nearly had Shepherd throwing up again. When they were at cruising altitude Yokely unfastened his seat-belt and made coffee.

There were two other passengers on the flight. One was an Arab who had clearly been drugged. Handcuffed and manacled, in khaki fatigues, he was carried on to the plane by two soldiers. A black nylon blindfold covered his eyes but he was unconscious and stayed that way, his head slumped against the side of his seat, a trickle of saliva dripping down his clothing.

He was accompanied by an American in black, with impenetrable sunglasses. He had nodded at Yokely and Shepherd as he’d boarded the plane but hadn’t said a word to them. He sat next to the Arab and read a copy of
Newsweek
. Yokely offered him coffee, but he shook his head and continued to read.

Yokely hadn’t asked Shepherd what had happened in the room. He hadn’t had to. Shepherd wasn’t proud of what he’d done, but he wasn’t ashamed either. The man he’d assaulted was a terrorist, there was no doubt about that, and he’d had the name Shepherd wanted, which justified what he’d done. Shepherd hadn’t enjoyed acting like a thug – he didn’t take pleasure in inflicting pain. His performance in the prison had been just that – a performance, an act. He had been playing a role, as he did whenever he went under cover. He’d done it well, too, because it had been clear from the fear on Umar’s face that he believed Shepherd would kill him.

Yokely handed him a cup of coffee.

‘You do a lot of this sort of thing?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Define your terms,’ said Yokely.

‘Transporting prisoners around the world.’

‘It’s not unusual,’ said Yokely, ‘but I’m more often involved with information retrieval than I am with transportation.’

‘Interrogation,’ said Shepherd.

‘Retrieval covers a multitude of sins,’ said Yokely.

‘Can I ask you something?’ said Shepherd.

‘Fire away.’

‘Does it worry you, what you do?’

‘I could ask the same of you, couldn’t I?’

‘We’re bound by different rules, though,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m an undercover cop. I’ve got to follow PACE.’

‘Pace?’

‘The Police and Criminal Evidence Act of 1984, which defines what we can and can’t do. You don’t seem to follow any rules. You operate outside the normal structure of things.’

‘What are you saying? That because you follow the rules you don’t need a conscience?’

‘I have a conscience, but most of the time I’m following rules rather than my conscience. It seems to me that you make your own rules.’

‘I’m not a maverick. I’ve got a boss – a very big boss – but I’m not micromanaged the way you cops are. Don’t all the rules and regulations get to you? All the paperwork?’

‘It’s a nuisance but it’s got to be done. There have to be checks and balances.’

‘The bad guys don’t see it that way. If they don’t follow rules, why should we?’

‘But how do you know who the bad guys are if they don’t go to trial?’

Yokely grinned. ‘That’s where information retrieval comes in,’ he said. ‘You’re not going all liberal on me, are you? This is a war. We’re not playing games. The winners win and the losers die. And I for one am glad that I’m not bound by the same rules you are.’

‘Yeah, maybe you’re right, it’s the rules and regulations that give me a sense of fairness. Providing I follow the rules, everything I do is morally justifiable.’

‘Sure. Let’s not forget that you’ve killed in the line of duty. Anyone else who kills gets put in jail. You got an award.’

Shepherd sipped his coffee.

‘My offer’s still open,’ said the American, quietly. ‘I can use a man like you.’

‘I need rules,’ said Shepherd. ‘I really do. I’m not sure how I’d be able to cope in an arena where there are no checks and balances.’

‘You need a strong moral centre,’ said Yokely. ‘You need to believe one hundred per cent that you’re right.’

‘Isn’t that what most dictators would say?’ said Shepherd.

Yokely pointed a warning finger at Shepherd, but he was smiling. ‘Now you’re trying to upset me,’ he said. ‘You’re very good at that.’

When the plane started to descend, Shepherd looked at his wristwatch. They had been in the air for less than three hours. Fifteen minutes later they landed at an airfield that appeared to be in the middle of nowhere. ‘Where are we?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Classified,’ said Yokely.

‘Yeah, right,’ said Shepherd. ‘You could tell me, but you’d have to kill me.’

‘No, I just won’t tell you,’ said Yokely. ‘I’m serious, Spider. It’s classified.’

The pilot emerged from the cockpit to open the door. Two soldiers in green uniforms and peaked caps entered the cabin and walked to the back of the plane, their gleaming boots squeaking with each step. Shepherd didn’t recognise the uniforms or insignia but they were definitely from one of the former Soviet Union countries.

They picked up the unconscious Arab and dragged him to the front of the plane. The man in black followed them, carrying his magazine. Yokely flashed him a mock salute as he went by and the man saluted back. Shepherd looked out of the window. The soldiers dragged the Arab across the Tarmac towards a waiting vehicle. Shepherd couldn’t identify the uniforms but he knew the vehicle: it was an open-topped Waz, the Russian equivalent of a Jeep. The soldiers threw him across the back seat and climbed into the front. The man in black was talking to a uniformed officer. Both were smoking.

The pilot closed the door and went back into the cockpit. They taxied to the runway and were soon in the air again. Shepherd fell asleep and didn’t wake until the wheels touched the runway. ‘Where are we?’ he asked, rubbing his eyes. ‘Or is it still classified?’

‘Gatwick,’ said Yokely. ‘I’m just dropping you here.’

‘Where are you going?’

Yokely grinned. ‘Sadly, that’s classified,’ he said. ‘While you were asleep I had my guys in Langley run some basic checks on Wafeeq and the driver who’ll take you back into London has an envelope for you. There’s a picture, I gather. The rest is up to you.’

As he left the plane Shepherd shook the American’s hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I owe you one.’

‘Yes, you do,’ said Yokely. ‘And don’t think I won’t remember.’

The pilot closed the door as Shepherd walked away from the plane. A Lexus was waiting for him, this time a white one, and the driver was black, in a grey suit. He handed Shepherd an envelope and held open the rear door. Shepherd climbed in.

He called the Major on his mobile. Gannon was at the office in Portland Place, with Armstrong, Shortt and O’Brien. Shepherd said he was on his way and ended the call.

The Lexus drove to the airport perimeter where a uniformed security guard, accompanied by two police officers cradling MP5s, waved them through without asking for identification. Shepherd stared out of the window, trying to gather his thoughts. It was hard to believe that in less than eighteen hours he’d flown to Baghdad on a plane that probably didn’t officially exist, then assaulted and beaten up a man for information with absolutely no comeback, and delivered another prisoner to a country where he was sure to be tortured. And it had all been arranged by a man who seemed able to travel the world without Customs and immigration checks. Shepherd wondered how much power Yokely had. He seemed to be beyond all limits.

Shepherd opened the envelope. Inside he found a computer printout with a few paragraphs of type and a blurry surveillance photograph of two Arabs drinking coffee at an open-air café. One had been circled with a black pen.

The driver dropped him in Portland Place. Shepherd pressed the intercom buzzer and was let in.

The Major was sitting at the head of the table, talking into a mobile phone. He waved at Shepherd to take a seat. O’Brien was pouring coffee and asked Shepherd if he wanted some.

‘Cheers, Martin,’ said Shepherd. There was a stack of Marks & Spencer sandwiches and rolls next to the coffee maker and Shepherd helped himself to a salmon and cucumber sandwich before sitting at the table.

The Major ended his call. ‘How did it go?’ he asked Shepherd.

‘I’ve identified one of the men in Geordie’s video – the one with the RPG,’ said Shepherd. ‘His name is Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi. He’s almost certainly in Iraq, but no one knows where exactly.’ He opened the manila envelope. ‘This is all I have, picture-wise.’

‘Where did you get it?’ asked O’Brien.

‘Friends in high places,’ said Shepherd, and exchanged a look with the Major. Gannon knew where the information had come from but Richard Yokely was protective of his privacy.

‘So we know who, but we don’t know where,’ said Armstrong. He took out a Marlboro, tossed it into the air and just managed to catch it between his lips.

Shepherd tapped the computer printout. ‘According to this, he’s got a brother in Dubai, a legitimate businessman. He’s not hiding so we can get to him.’

‘John Muller’s got an office in Dubai,’ said the Major. ‘He’s visiting Geordie’s brother but he’ll be in London tonight. I’ll get him on the case. What’s the guy’s name?’

Shepherd slid the printout across the table to the Major. ‘It’s all there,’ he said.

‘Diane, isn’t that your boyfriend over there?’ said the sergeant, nodding at the group of civilian contractors who were piling out of an SUV. Three were Americans but the fourth was a good-looking Iraqi. His name was Kevnar and he described himself as a Kurd, rather than as an Iraqi. He was in his late twenties and Diane Beavis thought he was just about the most attractive man she’d ever seen. He looked like the young Omar Sharif in the movie
Doctor Zhivago
. It was one of her all-time favourites. And, like Omar Sharif in the movie, Kevnar was a doctor. At least, he’d trained as a doctor. Now he worked as a translator for an American logistics company. Doctors were much needed in Baghdad but they were paid about two hundred dollars a month by the government. Translating earned him three times as much. She’d laughed at his name the first time he’d introduced himself because it sounded so like Kevlar, the bullet-proof material that had saved so many American lives.

‘He’s not my boyfriend, Sarge,’ she said, flushing. She’d met Kevnar a few times and he always had a smile for her; they’d chatted twice. She doubted he’d be interested in her. She was thirty-seven next birthday and had been career army for eleven years. She’d had the occasional sexual partner over the past decade but no one who could have been described as a boyfriend. She was pretty much resigned to spinster-hood and had persuaded herself that she’d never wanted children anyway.

‘Go on, we can spare you for five,’ said the sergeant. They were waiting to rendezvous with an Iraqi repair crew who were going out to fix a mobile phone mast on the outskirts of the city. The last time a crew had gone out their truck had been blown apart by an RPG and the phone company had requested armed support.

‘Thanks, Sarge,’ she said. John Petrocelli was career army, too, but had only joined up five years ago. He was on the fast-track to greater things, but Beavis had more or less given up on promotion, as she had marriage and motherhood. She’d joined as a grunt and she’d leave as one.

It was her second tour of duty in Iraq, and she was enjoying it as much as the first. Iraq was one of the few theatres where women were put in combat roles, usually on searches and raids. The reason was simple: many Iraqi women were covered from head to foot in the traditional burkha and would resist to the death any attempt by a man to search them. But they had to be searched because the burkha was perfect for concealing weapons and explosives. This meant that on every mission involving potential contact with locals there had to be at least one woman in the unit.

Beavis had come under fire several times and had already been awarded the Combat Action Badge. Many of her male colleagues complained about being in Iraq. They hated the heat, the food, the lack of entertainment and, most of all, being pitted against enemies who refused to fight like men. Combat in Iraq consisted of ambushes, sniper attacks and IEDs. The insurgents specialised in sneak attacks and killing from a distance, taking lives without risking their own. It wasn’t a form of combat for which the infantry had trained, and it meant that every time they left the Green Zone they were in a constant state of tension, not knowing if or when they would be under attack. Beavis had never complained about being posted to Iraq. It was stressful, and at times uncomfortable, but she had never felt more alive than when she was out on patrol with an M16 in her hands.