Hot Blood (27 page)

‘I think he’s probably telling the truth,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t think he’s a hard-line Muslim. The house is Western and the daughter speaks good English, so I’m guessing she goes to an international school. Anyway, if he was hard-line he wouldn’t live in Dubai, which is relatively Western, and for Western read “decadent”.’

‘You think Wafeeq would resent his brother’s lifestyle?’ asked Muller.

‘That’s what I’m thinking,’ said Shepherd. ‘What do you think, Halim?’

‘It would be hard for a fundamentalist to remain close to someone with more liberal views,’ said Halim. ‘Even a brother.’

‘Which means we go to Plan B,’ said Muller.

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Shepherd. ‘And life is going to get complicated.’

‘I’ll come in with you,’ said Muller. ‘Halim can hold the fort here.’ He handed his transceiver to Halim and followed Shepherd into the house. Shepherd told Muller to wait in the kitchen and went upstairs to the master bedroom. Fariq was still sitting in the chair, his hands tied. The Major was by the bed and Shortt was at the window, peering through the curtains.

‘A word,’ said Shepherd to the Major, who followed him out of the bedroom, down the stairs and into the kitchen. Shepherd pulled up his ski mask and the Major did the same. Both men were bathed in sweat and had flecks of wool sticking to their cheeks. ‘There’s nothing for Wafeeq in the Filofax or the phone. I reckon he’s telling the truth.’

‘Okay,’ said the Major. ‘That means we do as we planned – take him away and make the video.’

‘We can’t leave the wife here,’ said Shepherd. ‘She’s as hard as nails. She’ll go straight to the cops.’

‘Not if she believes her husband will die.’

‘She knows we’re Brits and that we won’t chop his head off.’

‘She thinks we’re Brits, but she doesn’t know for sure. But who we are doesn’t matter. She’ll believe it’s a kidnap for ransom. It’s up to us to convince her that if she comes up with a ransom she’ll get him back. That’ll give us time to work on getting the brother.’

‘So we’re gambling on how much she loves him? For all we know she’d like nothing better than to have him out of the way. She’s a Muslim so she can’t divorce him, remember?’

‘So we take her too.’

‘And leave their daughter behind? You think she’s going to behave rationally? She’s a seven-year-old – and you’ll be leaving her with the old couple. Will they care about anything other than where next month’s salary’s coming from? If we take Fariq and his wife, who’s to say the old couple won’t just run off with the family silver? Or go running straight to the police? You see where I’m going with this, don’t you? The only way to make sure that the cops aren’t called in is to keep all five under wraps. And there’s no way we can get them all out of here.’

‘So we stay put, is that what you’re suggesting?’

‘We keep the husband in the bedroom, the wife and everyone else stay in the servants’ quarters under guard. That way they’re all together so no one panics. John stays outside and can tip us off if we have visitors. If anyone does call we let the old man answer the door and all he’s got to do is say that the family’s away and won’t be back for a few days. We make the video and keep them under wraps here. I know it’s not what we planned, but I don’t think we can risk splitting them up.’

The Major nodded thoughtfully as he considered what Shepherd had suggested. ‘Okay,’ he said eventually. ‘You’re right.’ He nodded at John. ‘Can you bring in the gear?’

Muller went back out to the car while Shepherd and the Major went back upstairs. Shortt had his gun levelled at Fariq’s chest.

As they walked into the bedroom, Fariq said, ‘Can I see my wife and daughter?’

‘Soon,’ said Shepherd, pulling his gun out of its holster.

‘You are Americans? British? Israelis?’

‘Don’t worry about who we are,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just do as you’re told.’

‘I don’t know where my brother is, you must believe me, but I am sure of one thing. He is not in Dubai.’

Shepherd gestured with the gun. ‘Shut up,’ he said.

Fariq opened his mouth to say something, but Shepherd pointed the gun at his chest. The man sagged in the chair, head bowed.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. The Major opened it and took a black nylon backpack from Muller. He unzipped it and pulled out an orange jumpsuit, which he tossed to Shepherd. Shepherd put the barrel of his gun under Fariq’s chin. ‘Listen to me carefully,’ he said. ‘We need you to put this on. Understand?’

‘What do you want?’ asked Fariq. ‘If you want money, I have money.’

Shepherd pushed the gun harder under the man’s chin. ‘We just want you to put this on. Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘We have your wife, and we have your daughter, so please don’t do anything stupid.’ He untied Fariq’s hands and thrust the jumpsuit at him. ‘Now put it on.’

Fariq stood up, took off his pyjama jacket, then turned around as he slid off his trousers. The rolls of fat at his waist jiggled as he put on the jumpsuit. He turned back to zip it up. ‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked.

Shepherd reached over to touch the man’s hair. Fariq flinched. ‘Stay where you are,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’ He messed Fariq’s hair, then looked at the Major, who took a digital video-camera out of the backpack and went to Fariq.

‘Listen to me, and listen to me very carefully. I want you to identify yourself, and I want you to say what day it is. You are to speak in Arabic.’ The Major nodded at Shortt. ‘My colleague here speaks reasonable Arabic, but we will be showing the video to a native speaker before we send it on so if you say anything that I haven’t told you to say your family will suffer. Do you understand?’

Fariq nodded.

‘I’d like to hear you say that you understand,’ said the Major.

‘I understand,’ said Fariq.

‘So, you identify yourself, and you say what the date is. Use yesterday’s date. Yesterday’s date,’ he repeated. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I want you to say that you are in Iraq, that you have been kidnapped and that you will be killed within forty-eight hours if the Holy Martyrs of Islam do not release the civilian contractor called Colin Mitchell.’

Fariq began to tremble. ‘Please, you can’t do this to me,’ he said.

‘Do you understand what I said?’

Fariq nodded fearfully.

The Major gestured with the Glock.

‘Yes, I understand,’ said Fariq.

‘Repeat it to me, in English,’ said the Major.

‘I have been kidnapped in Iraq and I will be killed within forty-eight hours if the Holy Martyrs of Islam do not release the civilian contractor called Colin Martin.’

‘Colin Mitchell,’ said the Major. ‘His name is Colin Mitchell.’

‘Colin Mitchell.’

‘You are to say that in Arabic. And if you add anything – anything at all – your family will suffer.’

‘Who are you?’ said Fariq. ‘Why are you doing this? I know nothing about the Holy Martyrs of Islam. And I have never heard of this Colin Mitchell.’

‘Just do as you’re told,’ said the Major.

‘You can’t treat me like this. I’m not a terrorist – I’m nothing to do with what’s going on in Iraq. That’s why my family are here. We have made a new life in Dubai.’

‘Your brother is threatening to kill an innocent man. We are doing the same.’

‘But it’s nothing to do with me,’ wailed Fariq, tears welling in his eyes, ‘and it’s nothing to do with my family. My brother is like a stranger to me. Do you think he’ll care if you threaten me? If he’s a terrorist, like you say, he won’t stop what he’s doing because of me.’

‘You’re his blood,’ said the Major.

‘It won’t make any difference. Look, why don’t you offer to pay a ransom for the return of your friend? I have money. I’ll pay. A million dollars. Two million dollars. I will give you the money and you can give it to them. Just let my family go, please.’ Fariq fell off the chair on to his knees and clasped his hands together. ‘Please, I beg of you, you’re a good man, I understand that you’re only trying to help your friend, so let me help you. Don’t hurt my family – please!’ Tears ran down his cheeks and he threw himself forward, placing his forehead on the Major’s feet. ‘Please, I beg of you.’

The Major took a step back but Fariq grabbed his ankles. The Major almost fell but steadied himself against the wall.

Shepherd loosened the man’s grip and helped him to his feet. Fariq sobbed and held on to Shepherd’s shoulders. ‘I don’t want to die!’ he cried.

Shepherd lifted Fariq’s head so that he was looking into his eyes. ‘Be a man,’ he said quietly.

Tears were streaming down the Arab’s face now. ‘Please, don’t kill me.’

‘Then do as we say.’

‘I will – I will! But let my family go. They have done nothing.’

‘You know we can’t do that, Fariq,’ Shepherd said. ‘We all have to stay together. And crying isn’t going to achieve anything. Just do as you’re told and everything will work out fine.’ He turned to the Major. ‘Where shall we do it?’

The Major pointed at one of the walls on which a picture hung: a desert scene, a lone Bedouin leading a camel away from an oasis. ‘Move that and we’ve got a blank wall.’

Shortt took it down and tossed it on to the bed. He pulled out the picture hook, and moved a winged chair to the side. Fariq had stopped sobbing but the tears still flowed. Shepherd led him to the wall and stood him with his back to it.

The Major held up the video-camera. ‘You remember what you have to say?’ he asked.

Fariq nodded.

‘Colin Mitchell, remember?’

Fariq nodded again. ‘Colin Mitchell,’ he repeated.

Shortt moved to stand next to the Major. He frowned at Fariq and aimed his Glock at the man’s groin.

The Major pressed ‘record’ and Fariq started talking, but after a few seconds he was stammering and blubbering, then collapsed against the wall, his hands over his face.

Shepherd stepped forward and pulled him to his feet. The Major stopped recording.

‘We could use the wife,’ said Shortt.

‘No!’ said Fariq. ‘I can do it.’ He wiped his face with his hands and took a couple of deep breaths. ‘I can do it,’ he repeated to himself.

The Major pressed ‘record’ again. Fariq spoke more confidently this time as he stared fearfully into the camera lens. His voice was wavering and there was no doubting his turmoil, but he continued to speak, and after twenty seconds or so Shepherd heard him say Mitchell’s name. He talked for almost a minute, then dried up. ‘Was that okay?’ he asked Shepherd.

Shepherd looked at Shortt. ‘Sounded okay,’ said Shortt.

Shepherd smiled. ‘Well done,’ he said.

‘Now can we go?’ asked Fariq.

‘You know that’s not possible,’ said Shepherd, patiently. ‘You can’t go until this is over.’

‘You can let my family go. They won’t do anything as long as you have me.’

‘You’re all staying here,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s the way it has to be.’

‘My brother doesn’t know me any more,’ said Fariq.

‘Yeah, you said,’ said Shepherd. ‘Now shut up or I’ll gag you. You can get changed.’

‘Do I have to wear my pyjamas?’

‘Whatever you like.’

The Major was checking the recording.

‘Okay?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Looks fine,’ said the Major. He handed the camera to Shortt. ‘Get our guy to look it over. Anything suspicious, anything not a hundred per cent kosher, I want to know.’

Shortt took the camera and headed for the stairs.

Shepherd waited until Fariq had pulled on a pair of trousers and a white shirt then bound his hands behind his back and took his arm. ‘We’re going to the servants’ quarters,’ he said. ‘You can stay with your family.’

‘Thank you,’ said Fariq.

‘Don’t thank me,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s easier for us to keep you in one place.’

‘You’re a good man,’ whispered Fariq. ‘I know you are.’

‘I’m not a good man,’ said Shepherd, ‘and don’t bother trying to play me. Now, move.’ He pushed Fariq out of the door, along the hallway and down the stairs.

O’Brien was in the kitchen, inspecting the contents of a huge stainless-steel refrigerator. ‘Do you want anything?’ he asked Shepherd.

‘I’m okay.’ Shepherd’s stomach was churning.

‘It’s mostly Arab food,’ said O’Brien.

‘It would be,’ said Shepherd.

‘Hey, Fariq, where do you keep the bread?’ asked O’Brien.

‘It’s in the cupboard there, by the coffee-maker. If you want, my cook can prepare something for you.’

‘She’s staying where she is,’ said Shepherd, and pushed Fariq across the kitchen towards the stairs to the servants’ quarters. ‘Coming up,’ he called.

Armstrong was waiting at the entrance to the sitting room with the Taser.

He stepped aside to allow Fariq and Shepherd into the room.

Fariq sighed with relief when he saw his wife and daughter sitting on the sofa. ‘
Anaa aasif
,’ he said. ‘
Saamihnii
.’

‘English!’ snapped Armstrong. ‘Speak only English.’

‘He was saying he’s sorry,’ said Fariq’s wife. ‘He was apologising for you, you moron.’

Armstrong pointed the gun at her. ‘I warned you, shut up!’ he said.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said, her chin up. ‘You don’t like it when we speak Arabic and you don’t like it when we speak English.’

‘Don’t, darling. They’ll leave soon.’ Fariq smiled at his daughter. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. The little girl’s wrists had been bound together with tape.

‘
Al-umuur aadiyya
,’ she said, close to tears.

‘English, little one, these men want us to speak English so that they can understand what we’re saying.’

‘Did they hurt you?’ she said.

‘No.’

‘But you’ve been crying.’

‘I was worried about you, that’s all.’