Hot Blood (7 page)

‘As little as you do, I’d guess,’ said Yokely. ‘The names these people use mean nothing.’

‘When the Lake boy was taken, your people must have looked into it.’

‘Johnny Lake was a journalist who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Plus the stories he was filing weren’t going down well in the Oval Office.’

‘So the government didn’t care?’

‘They cared, of course they did. The boy’s father was a heavy hitter, with friends on Capitol Hill, but there’s a limit to the resources they can put into one missing kid. Don’t get me wrong. They looked. And they looked hard. But, so far as I know, no one had ever heard of the Holy Martyrs of Islam.’

‘We need to know where Geordie is and who’s got him. We’re analysing the video, and we’ll be talking to his employer so we can gather basic intel on what’s happening on the ground. But we need higher-level intel. Electronic traffic and satellite imagery.’

‘Sounds like you’re planning a war,’ said the American.

‘We’re just mapping out our options,’ said Shepherd.

‘You find him, then what?’

‘We’ll cross chickens and count bridges when the time comes,’ he said. ‘Can you help?’

‘Sure,’ said Yokely. ‘I’ve got a direct line to the NSA. But why do you need me? You can get the electronic traffic through GCHQ. They’re part of Echelon so they have access to all telecommunications and the Internet.’

‘It’ll take too long to go through official channels,’ said Shepherd. ‘Paperwork in triplicate, and they’d want to know why we’re involved.’

‘But presumably your government’s on the case. They must be looking for your man.’

‘You’d think so, but he’s not military, remember?’

‘What about your old regiment?’

‘They can’t help officially,’ said Shepherd. ‘Unofficially they’ll do what has to be done. But first we need to know where he is.’

‘Any idea what’s being done officially?’

‘Downing Street will probably appeal to the kidnappers, but reject any demands they make. The US military will be looking for him, but again Geordie’s just a contractor, out there for the money.’

‘Guarding a pipeline, they said on CNN.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Wrong place, wrong time.’

‘Yeah. There’s no suggestion that it was personal. At this stage we’re not sure how well planned the kidnapping was but we’re hoping there was phone chatter. What about satellite imagery?’

‘I’ll see what the NSA has. We might get lucky.’

‘And we could do with any intel your contacts have on the Holy Martyrs of Islam. All we’ve got so far is what’s been in the media, which is pretty much zero. Plus we need any info on other militant groups known to be operating in the area where Geordie was taken. According to the TV, he was taken in a place called Dora.’

‘I know it,’ said Yokely. ‘It’s a Sunni stronghold on the southern tip of Baghdad. Dangerous place.’ He sipped his drink. ‘You’ve seen
The Godfather
? The first one? Was Marlon Brando great in that movie or what?’

‘Yeah. I saw it. And I get it.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I know how the world works, Richard. You do this for me and at some point you’ll be asking me for a favour.’

‘And when that time comes?’

‘I repay my debts. In full.’

A triumphant smile spread across Yokely’s face. ‘It’s always a pleasure dealing with a professional.’

Shepherd raised his glass in salute. He felt as if he’d just done a deal with the devil. He knew that Yokely would call in the marker, sooner rather than later, and that he would have no choice other than to do whatever the American wanted. Shepherd wasn’t happy to be in Yokely’s debt, but the only thing that mattered was rescuing Geordie and the American was the one man who might be able to help.

‘You know, I’ve got a lot of respect for you, Spider,’ said Yokely. ‘I admire the way you handled yourself down the Tube, and on the Eurostar. Both times you did what you had to do.’

Shepherd said nothing.

‘I know we’re not exactly best buddies, but I want to talk to you as a friend.’

‘Go ahead,’ said Shepherd.

Yokely took a gulp of his drink. ‘He’s almost certainly going to die. You know that?’

‘Not necessarily. There have been almost two hundred and fifty foreign hostages taken over the past three years. Eighty-six have been killed. That suggests odds of three to one, survival wise.’

‘Except that your friend is in the hands of militants. The survival rate at that level is virtually non-existent. And you know as well as I do that so far this year only two Westerners have been released. And how many have been butchered? Twenty-five? They’re getting more vicious, not less.’

‘Are you telling me we’re wasting our time?’

‘It’s a mess out there, Spider. I’ll do what I can to help, but Iraq’s not my battlefield, and there isn’t a day goes by when I don’t thank the Lord for it. My war is against the terrorist threat, and that’s hard enough. But in Iraq there’s no way of knowing who’s friend and who’s foe. The enemy doesn’t wear a uniform, doesn’t follow any of the rules of war. When we first moved into Iraq, the CIA reckoned we’d be facing five thousand insurgents. By the summer of 2004 they’d raised that estimate to twenty thousand. By the winter it had grown to a hundred thousand. Now you can pretty much take any number and double it. And we’re not facing a unified enemy. There are Sunni insurgents who want Iraq to go back to the way it was before Saddam was kicked out. There are Baathists from the Return Party, the Fedayeen militia units that kept Saddam in power, Shia guerrillas and, on top of that, all the foreign mercenaries who’ve flooded into the country. Any one of those groups could be behind the Holy Martyrs of Islam. Or it might not be insurgents. It might be a maverick fundamentalist group, Saudis or Algerians, out to cause as much trouble as they can. If they’re fundamentalists, then there’ll be no negotiating with them. They’ll want to kill your friend to cause a backlash that’ll unite Muslims against the West.’

‘We’re going to do what we can,’ said Shepherd. ‘Whatever it takes.’

‘I empathise, Spider, I really do. If it was one of my friends out there in an orange jumpsuit, I’d be doing the same. But you have to be realistic. I’ll get you whatever intel I can, but be aware that you’re probably flogging a dead horse.’

Shepherd drained his glass and stood up. ‘Give me a call as soon as you have anything,’ he said.

‘Now I’ve offended you,’ said Yokely.

‘No more than usual,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll get over it.’

The Major had booked a suite of offices in a building close to the BBC’s Broadcasting House in Portland Place. Shepherd took the Tube to Regent’s Park, left the station and walked through the park for fifteen minutes. Once he was satisfied that no one was following him, he walked south down Portland Place, heading for the office block. Several yards ahead of him, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, a middle-aged Chinese woman was holding her hands out, palms up, chanting. Across the road a bored armed policeman stood, feet planted shoulder-width apart, in front of the Chinese Embassy. There was always at least one protester demonstrating against the Chinese government’s torture of dissidents. Shepherd wondered if the woman thought she could change government policy or if she was there to prove that someone cared. The lone policeman was a token presence, rather than a serious security measure, and there was something very British about the stand-off. Shepherd doubted that the Chinese would have been so tolerant if the woman had been in her own country.

He reached the office block and did a final check that he hadn’t been followed. There was an intercom at the main door and Shepherd pressed the buzzer for the second floor. Armstrong answered and let him in.

When Shepherd arrived Major Gannon was sitting at the head of a large boardroom table drinking a mug of coffee. His satellite phone was on a smaller table by the window that looked out over the road. Whiteboards had been attached to three walls, displaying newspaper cuttings, photographs and satellite images of Baghdad. On the fourth wall there was a large-scale map of Iraq. Armstrong was pouring coffee and O’Brien was rummaging through a selection of Marks & Spencer sandwiches. As usual, Shortt was the last to arrive and hurried in, apologising profusely.

‘Let’s get started,’ said Gannon. ‘This will be our HQ.’ He pointed to a door on his left. ‘There’s a couple of camp beds in there, and a bathroom. I’ll be either here or at the Duke of York Barracks, but my mobile will always be switched on.’ He gestured at two laptop computers on a side-table in the far corner of the room. ‘They’ve got broadband and I’ve rigged up access to the Regiment’s databases.’ The Major bent down, swung a briefcase on to the table and clicked open the locks to reveal bundles of twenty-pound notes. ‘There’s cash here, more if we need it.’ He closed the briefcase. ‘Where do we stand with the video?’

‘You were right, boss,’ said Armstrong, lighting a cigarette. ‘Al-Jazeera got it first, but we’re not sure how and they’re not prepared to give us any help on that front.’

‘What can you tell us about al-Jazeera?’ asked the Major.

‘It’s the largest Arabic news channel in the Middle East,’ said Armstrong. ‘It means the Island, or the Peninsula. Based in Qatar, it’s been around for just over ten years. Tends to show sensational pictures of bodies and the like on its news channel, but also runs sport and children’s channels. They came on to the radar after nine/eleven when they broadcast video statements by Bin Laden and his chums. They run a website, too. Aljazeera.net. Not to be confused with Aljazeera.com, which runs really inflammatory stuff.’

‘Bush hates them,’ interjected Shortt. He rubbed his moustache. ‘In 2001 the US bombed al-Jazeera’s offices in Afghanistan and a couple of years later they shelled a hotel in Iraq where the only guests were al-Jazeera journalists. They’ve put several of their journalists in prison and the US-backed government in Iraq has banned the network from reporting there. In 2004, Bush is supposed to have talked about bombing their HQ in Qatar.’

‘Am I the only one who doesn’t know where Qatar is?’ asked O’Brien, running a hand over his shaved head.

‘It’s a tiny state in the Persian Gulf,’ said Shepherd. ‘Population just over half a million, it borders Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates. The capital is Doha. So, are al-Jazeera good guys or bad guys?’

‘They’re neutral,’ said Armstrong, flicking ash into a crystal ashtray. O’Brien coughed pointedly and waved smoke away from his face. ‘They’re an Arab news service, doing the same sort of job that CNN and the BBC do. It’s just that America doesn’t like the Arab point of view being broadcast. They’ve also upset pretty much every Arab government in the Middle East at some time or another. For instance, they were the first Arab station to broadcast interviews with Israeli officials.’

‘So why do they always get the hostage videos?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Because if they were sent to CNN there’s no guarantee they’d be shown, and if they were, a bloody good chance that they’d been sent to the CIA first,’ said Armstrong. ‘The BBC would probably refuse to broadcast them on grounds of taste. But al-Jazeera airs them and makes them available to other news agencies.’

‘How does the video get to the station?’ asked the Major.

‘That’s the problem,’ said Armstrong. ‘They won’t say. I phoned their news desk in Qatar and I’ve spoken to senior management, but they’re not prepared to give any details.’

‘We need to know how they got the video,’ said the Major. ‘It’s the only link we have to Geordie.’

Shortt slid a sheet of paper across the table to him. ‘They have a correspondent here in London whose brother works on the news desk in Qatar,’ he said. ‘His name is Basharat al-Sabah.’

‘Have you spoken to him yet?’

‘If we call him up, he’ll give us the standard line,’ said Shortt. ‘Unless we get . . . creative.’

‘Creative?’ said Shepherd.

Shortt placed his hands flat on the table. ‘We’re going to have to decide here and now how far we’re prepared to go to get what we need,’ he said. ‘If I phone this guy, I’ll get the bum’s rush. If I turn up on his doorstep, he’ll close the door in my face. If I pretend to be a cop or a spook he won’t be intimidated. He’s a journalist so he knows the ropes.’

‘Spider could go in. He’s a real cop,’ said Armstrong.

‘Absolutely not,’ said the Major. ‘If he makes a complaint, Spider’s job’ll be on the line. I don’t suppose we know what he looks like?’

Shortt grinned and slid another sheet of paper across the table. It was a copy of a Qatar passport. ‘A mate in Immigration got it for me,’ he said.

‘There’s no suggestion that this guy’s a terrorist?’ asked Shepherd.

‘He’s snow white,’ said Shortt. ‘He’s got a degree in political science, and I ran a CRO check on him through a tame cop. He’s never been in trouble, not so much as a parking ticket. His immigration status is clean, and he’s worked for several newspapers in London. He even did a work-experience stint on the
Guardian
.’

‘Family?’ asked the Major.

‘Not married. Most of his family are in Qatar, but he has a brother who’s a doctor in Saudi Arabia.’ Shortt sat back in his chair. ‘Here’s the thing. This al-Sabah is a model citizen, the sort of guy you’d happily let your sister go out with, if you had a sister, but he’s got the information we need. And even if he hasn’t, he’s got a direct line to a man who has, his brother, Tabarak al-Sabah. The question we’ve got to answer is how far we’re prepared to go to get that information.’

‘Sounds like you’ve got a plan, Jimbo,’ said the Major.

Shortt grinned. ‘I have,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.’

O’Brien slowed the Transit van as he drove past Brixton Prison. He nodded at the high wall to his right. ‘If this goes wrong, we could end up in there,’ he said.

‘First, it won’t go wrong,’ said the Major, beside him in the front passenger seat, ‘and second, do you think any prison could hold the five of us?’