Hot Blood

Stephen Leather
1

Johnny Lake pulled his legs up against his chest and slowly banged the back of his head against the wall. It was the fourteenth day, and on the fourteenth day they had said he would die. There were six men holding him hostage, but he only knew one of them by name. Kamil. Kamil was the leader of the group. His name meant ‘perfect’. He was the one who spoke to the video camera, in accented English. It was Kamil who waved a Kalashnikov and said that the Americans must leave Iraq and that if they didn’t Johnny would be killed. When he was in front of the camera, Kamil wore black-leather gloves and a black-wool ski mask with holes for his eyes and mouth. His companions wore masks, too, or had scarves tied round their faces. They said nothing whenever the camera was on, other than to chant ‘ Allahu Akbar.’ God is great.

His captors weren’t aware that he knew what they planned to do with him. Johnny hadn’t let on that he spoke Arabic. He had studied the language for two years in Chicago and had spent a year in Dubai, then six months in Kuwait City before moving to Baghdad. He was fluent and could read and write the language, but from the moment he’d been forced into the back of a van at gunpoint he hadn’t said a word of Arabic. At first he figured that being able to eavesdrop on their conversations would give him an edge, but all it had done was to fill him with despair. Fourteen days was the deadline they’d set. Two weeks. Three hundred and thirty-six hours.

Johnny knew that there was no chance of Kamil’s demands being met. The coalition forces would stay in Iraq until the Iraqis were capable of governing themselves, and that day was a long way off. Kamil wasn’t stupid, and he’d know that, too. The posturing in front of the camera was for effect, nothing more. It was part of a process – a process that would lead to just one thing: Johnny’s death.

Johnny shivered. He wanted to bang on the door and beg Kamil for his life, but he had begged for the first two days and he knew there was nothing he could say that would change what was going to happen. Johnny had pleaded with Kamil. He’d told him that the stories he filed were always sympathetic to the people of Iraq and that the last two he’d written before his abduction had been about local politicians calling for the early withdrawal of the American troops and their replacement with United Nations peacekeepers.

Kamil had smiled sympathetically and had assured Johnny that nothing would happen to him and that in due course he’d be released. That was what he had said the first time he’d met Johnny. It had been five days after the abduction, and Johnny had been held at a different location each night, always hooded and always trussed up like a chicken. Kamil had been the first person to talk to him, the first person to treat him like a human being and not a piece of meat. But everything Kamil said to him was a lie.

Johnny had heard Kamil talking to his colleagues, and he’d understood every word that Kamil had said to the video-camera. Fourteen days. If the coalition forces did not start to withdraw from Iraq by the fourteenth day, it was the will of Allah that Johnny be killed. Fourteen days. And today was the fourteenth day.

Johnny had asked for a radio and newspapers but Kamil had said that that wasn’t possible. Johnny knew why. The media would report his capture, and the demands of his captors. Kamil had provided him with a paperback book, though. The Da Vinci Code. Johnny had always meant to read it, but had never had the time. Now he had nothing else to do in the basement, but try as he might he couldn’t concentrate on it. Kamil had brought in a travel chess set and they had played several games. Johnny was a reasonable player but he lost every time. All he could think about was the deadline, the deadline that would end with his death. It was impossible to concentrate on anything else.

Johnny knew that Kamil’s demands would not be met, but there was another option: money. Cold, hard cash. Johnny’s father had money. A lot of money. J. J. Lake was a property developer in Chicago and Johnny was sure his father would pay whatever ransom was necessary to get him released. It was all about money, Johnny knew. What had happened in Iraq was everything to do with money and virtually nothing to do with religion. If his captors were offered enough money they would release him. J. J. Lake knew people. He’d met Oprah Winfrey, Donald Trump and politicians right across the country. He’d be calling in favours left, right and centre and pulling whatever strings needed pulling. That was the hope Johnny clung to. If anyone could save him, it was his father.

The newspapers he worked for would be doing their bit, too. So would the rest of the media. Johnny was a journalist and journalists looked after their own. They would put pressure on the government to act. Editorials would be written, questions would be asked, everything the authorities did or didn’t do would be scrutinised. They’d speak to sympathetic Muslims and get them to put pressure on the fundamentalists. Kamil wasn’t stupid. He’d realise there was nothing to be gained by killing Johnny. But if he released him, they’d show the world they could be merciful.

There were three loud bangs on the door. There was no handle on it, and no lock, just a peephole through which his captors could watch him. ‘Stand by the wall, please, Johnny,’ shouted Kamil.

Johnny got to his feet and did as he was told. Every time the door was opened, he had to stand by the far wall with his hands outstretched. Johnny knew it was so that he couldn’t catch them by surprise, but he didn’t know why they bothered. His captors had guns and Johnny wasn’t a fighter. They knew that. He was a journalist and hadn’t been in a fight since he’d left elementary school.

The visit was unexpected. It was early afternoon and he’d been fed two hours earlier. Kamil had brought him a paper plate filled with kubbat burghul, doughy shells of bulgar wheat wrapped round lightly spiced minced meat and onion. He’d shared the meal with Johnny and they’d talked about baseball. Kamil never discussed politics or what was happening in Iraq. Sport, movies and music were pretty much all he talked about. Small-talk. Idle chit-chat to wile away the time until they killed him.

The door opened. Kamil stood in the doorway with an orange jumpsuit. ‘We need another video,’ said Kamil, walking over to him. ‘We need to show that you are still alive.’ He held out the jumpsuit.

‘Okay,’ said Johnny, hesitantly. He lowered his arms but made no attempt to take the jumpsuit.

‘Do not worry, Johnny,’ said Kamil. ‘It is a video, nothing more.’

‘Has my father been in touch yet?’ asked Johnny.

Kamil shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know if he had,’ he said. ‘We don’t talk to anybody.’

‘But if he’s trying to pay a ransom, how will they tell you?’

‘We’ll be told,’ said Kamil. He gestured at the jumpsuit. ‘Put it on, please.’

‘I don’t understand why I have to wear it.’

‘It shows we’re serious,’ said Kamil, patiently. ‘It’s theatre, Johnny. If they see you playing chess and smiling at the camera, no one is going to think you are really in danger.’ He pushed the jumpsuit gently against Johnny’s chest.

‘Am I?’ asked Johnny, quietly. ‘Am I in danger?’ He took the jumpsuit. It was the third time he’d been given it to wear. It was for effect, Kamil had said. He only had to put it on when they were making a video. The rest of the time he was free to wear his own clothes, although they had taken away his belt and shoes.

Kamil smiled. A big, easy smile. ‘You are a journalist. There’s no value in killing a journalist.’

‘Kamil, please, don’t kill me.’

‘Johnny, we’re not going to kill you. I swear. Now put on the jumpsuit.’

Johnny knew that Kamil was lying. He’d interviewed enough politicians and journalists to know when he was being lied to. And Kamil was lying.

‘Please, Kamil,’ said Johnny. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘It’s a video,’ said Kamil, avoiding Johnny’s eye. ‘Just a video.’ He turned away and spoke to his two companions. They nodded and pulled ski masks over their faces so that only their eyes were uncovered.

Johnny felt as if all the strength had drained from his limbs. He looked at the door. The only way out. But there were three of them and it was only in the movies that one man could outfight three. He felt tears sting his eyes and blinked them away. He took deep breaths, trying to quell the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. He wanted to cry, to scream, to beg, to do whatever it took to save his life, but he knew there was nothing he could do.

He held the shoulders of the jumpsuit and put in his right leg, then the left. He straightened and pulled the overalls up to his waist. He didn’t want to die in the basement. It had been days since he’d smelled fresh air, or seen the sky, or heard birdsong. He wanted to see his parents, his brother, his friends.

He felt as if he was going to pass out and sat down on the wooden chair. Kamil appeared in front of him, holding a plastic bottle of water. ‘Here,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ said Johnny. He unscrewed the blue plastic cap and raised the bottle to his lips. He drank slowly, wanting to extend the moment into infinity. So long as he was drinking, he was alive. He swallowed, and continued to drink.

Kamil held out his hand for the bottle. Johnny gave it to him, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He wriggled his arms into the jumpsuit and pulled up the zipper.

‘Good,’ said Kamil. He patted Johnny’s shoulder. ‘Stand up, please, and move in front of the banner.’

Johnny did as he was told. He knew the significance of the jumpsuit. It was identical to those the Americans forced the detainees to wear in Guantanamo Bay. It was a statement. That the hostages in Iraq were retribution for what was going on in Cuba. He stood in front of the banner. The two men with ski masks had taken position at either side of it, arms folded across their chests.

‘Hands behind your back, please, Johnny,’ said Kamil.

Johnny did as he was told. They had bound his hands behind his back the last time they had videoed him, but he knew that this time was different. He swallowed and almost gagged. His mouth had dried again.

Kamil used a plastic tie to bind his wrists. It cut into his flesh but Johnny didn’t protest.

Kamil helped Johnny into a kneeling position, then patted his shoulder again. He walked over to the video-camera and checked the fitting that attached it to the tripod. Then he bent down and peered through the viewfinder. The door opened and four men filed in, wearing khaki jumpsuits and ski masks. Two were carrying AK-47s. The last to walk into the room closed the door and stood with his back to it.

Kamil straightened up. He smiled and nodded at Johnny. Johnny tried to smile back but knew he looked terrified. His knees were hurting and the plastic tie bit into his wrists.

Kamil walked round the tripod, pulling a ski mask out of his pocket.

Johnny closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He began reciting the Lord’s Prayer in his head, not wanting to offend the men in the room by speaking it aloud: Our Father, who art in heaven…

Johnny opened his eyes. Kamil pulled on the ski mask. He motioned for the men to gather in front of the banner.

Hallowed be thy name… Johnny bit down on his lower lip. Maybe they really were just making another video outlining their demands. Maybe there’d just be threats and gestures and then they’d switch off the camera, he’d take off the jumpsuit and go back to reading The Da Vinci Code and playing chess with Kamil. Part of him desperately wanted to believe it, but it was the fourteenth day and on the fourteenth day they’d said he would die.

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…

Kamil began to speak to the camera in Arabic, waving his hand. In all the time they’d spent in the basement, he had been soft-spoken and polite, but he became a different person with the ski mask on and the camera running. His voice had a hard edge, and every now and again spittle would spray from his lips. He pointed at the banner, and at the men behind him, and then he pointed at Johnny. He screamed in Arabic that it was Bush’s fault that Johnny was going to die, his voice loaded with venom and hatred.

The Lord’s Prayer continued to loop through Johnny’s mind, faster and faster. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us… He focused on the words, taking refuge in the repetition, trying to blot out where he was and what was happening.

Kamil turned to face the camera and continued to rant. The men standing in front of the banner were chanting: ‘ Allahu Akbar.’ God is great.

Johnny began to breathe faster. He concentrated on the Lord’s Prayer, using the words to blot out everything else from his mind. Lead us not into temptation…

The men moved towards Johnny. ‘ Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.’ They moved like zombies, their eyes wide and unseeing, their hands at their sides.

Johnny tried to get to his feet but his calves cramped and he fell on his side. He coughed as he breathed in dust from the floor. The sandals of the men walking towards him made a swishing sound as they shuffled nearer. It was all over, he knew. Tears sprang to his eyes at the unfairness of it all. He had never harmed them – he had never hurt anyone. He was just a journalist, in Iraq to report on what was happening there. Almost without exception the articles he wrote were against the American-led occupation of the country. Our Father, who art in heaven… Killing him wouldn’t end the war one day sooner. Nothing would change, it made no sense at all. Hallowed be thy name…

His eyes misted. He tried to lift himself off the ground but the strength had gone from his limbs. He rolled on to his back, gasping for breath. Five pairs of uncaring eyes stared down at him. ‘ Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.’

A sixth ski mask appeared. It was Kamil. There was no recognition in his eyes: he wore the blank stare of the other five men. He was muttering, too: ‘ Allahu Akbar.’ God is great. There was something in Kamil’s hand. Something that glittered under the fluorescent lights. A knife.

Johnny tried to roll over but hands grabbed him. One of the men sat on his legs. Another pinned his left arm to the ground. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. All he could hear was the chanting of the men who were going to kill him. He tried to blank out their voices. He didn’t want to die hearing their voices. Hearing them praising their God. The Lord’s Prayer whirled faster and faster through his mind. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…

The knife sliced through Johnny’s throat. There was surprisingly little pain, just a burning sensation. Then he felt blood gush down his neck and heard a roar of triumph from Kamil. He couldn’t feel his body, he realised. Everything had gone numb. The knife flashed in front of his eyes and he felt it hack through his windpipe and then everything went black.

The Jaguar pulled up in front of the warehouse. There were two men in the car. The driver was Ian Corben, in his mid-thirties and wearing a sheepskin jacket. He switched off the engine, took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. ‘Into the lion’s den,’ he muttered.

His companion was a few years older and several kilos heavier. Conor O’Sullivan had left Ireland as a teenager and had lost most of his Galway accent, but he had the black hair, blue eyes and easy charm of a young Pierce Brosnan. His movie-star features were marred only by a jagged scar under his chin. ‘Relax,’ he said.

‘We don’t know them. They might-’

‘They came through for Mickey Burgess,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘It’ll be fine. Pop the boot.’ He climbed out of the Jaguar and adjusted the cuffs of his cashmere overcoat. The boot clicked open and he took out a Manchester United holdall. The two men stood looking at the metal-clad warehouse, with identical buildings, ‘To Let’ signs above the entrances, at either side.

‘If it’s a trap, we’re fucked,’ said Corben.

O’Sullivan smiled easily. ‘It’s a business transaction,’ he said. ‘Pure and simple.’

‘Yeah, but we’re walking in with a bagful of cash and no back-up.’

‘They insisted. Two of us and two of them.’

‘Yeah, well, we should be the ones setting the rules.’

O’Sullivan thrust the bag at Corben. ‘Here, carry this. You’re supposed to be the muscle.’

‘Second-in-command is how I remember the job description.’

‘I don’t recall advertising the position,’ said O’Sullivan. He glanced at his watch. ‘Come on, we’re late.’

They walked towards the metal doors of the warehouse’s loading bay. O’Sullivan whistled softly. He didn’t want to startle anyone inside. He eased himself through the gap between the doors. Corben followed.

Two men were waiting for them, in bomber jackets and jeans. The older one, a heavy-set man in his fifties, was wearing bright yellow Timberland boots; the younger, slightly taller man had on scruffy training shoes and was holding a paddle-shaped black object in his left hand. O’Sullivan knew their names – Graham May and Paul Lomas – but he didn’t know which was which. He scanned his surroundings. There were no obvious hiding-places. The warehouse was empty, except for three metal tables against one wall. He relaxed a little.

Corben stood behind him, swinging the holdall. O’Sullivan flashed his companion a quick smile.

‘Which one of you is O’Sullivan?’ asked the man in the Timberlands. He had an abrasive Scottish accent.

O’Sullivan raised a hand. ‘That would be me. Conor to my friends.’

‘I’m Paul,’ said the man. He nodded at his younger companion. ‘He’s Graham.’

‘How are you doing?’ said May, although from his tone it was clear that he didn’t care. He gestured at the bag. ‘Is that the cash?’

‘No it’s a Sherman tank,’ sneered Corben.

‘Ian, be nice,’ warned O’Sullivan.

Corben held up the bag. ‘It’s the cash,’ he said. ‘Where are the guns?’

‘Over there,’ said May, gesturing at the tables, on which five metal suitcases were lined up.

O’Sullivan headed towards them.

‘Whoa, hoss,’ said Lomas. ‘First things first.’ He nodded at Corben. ‘Drop the bag, yeah?’

‘What?’ said Corben, frowning.

‘You heard him,’ said May. ‘We need to make a few checks first.’ He gestured at the paddle he was holding. ‘We want to make sure you’re not carrying.’

O’Sullivan realised that the paddle was a metal detector, the sort used to screen passengers at airports. Lomas stood with arms folded, staring stonily at Corben.

May stepped forward and ran the metal detector down O’Sullivan’s coat. It beeped. May raised an eyebrow and O’Sullivan put a hand into his pocket.

‘Slowly,’ warned May.

O’Sullivan’s hand reappeared with a set of car keys. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

‘What do you think?’ snarled Lomas.

O’Sullivan grinned and slipped his keys back into his coat. ‘I think you’re looking for a gun,’ he said. ‘But seeing I’m here to buy guns, that wouldn’t make any sense, would it?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried to rip me off,’ said May. He ran the detector over the back of O’Sullivan’s overcoat.

‘Yeah, but rip you off for what?’ asked O’Sullivan. ‘I’ve got the cash. You’ve got the guns. But if I already had a gun, why would I steal one from you? You see what I’m saying?’

‘I see what you’re saying,’ said May.

‘If anyone’s in danger of being ripped off it’s me.’

‘I got it the first time. But this is the way it’s going to be done, so just shut the fuck up.’

‘Plus, this gizmo picks up wires,’ said Lomas.

O’Sullivan pointed a finger at Lomas. ‘You start calling me a grass and I’m out of here,’ he said. ‘I came to do business, not to be slagged off.’

‘Will you two stop bickering?’ said May. He stepped back. ‘You’re clean.’

‘I know I’m clean,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘I didn’t need you to tell me.’

May went to Corben, whose eyes hardened. ‘This is a liberty,’ he said.

‘Let them play their little games, Ian,’ said O’Sullivan.

‘It’s a fucking liberty,’ said Corben. ‘We came here to do business, didn’t we? It’s like you said, they’ve got the fucking guns and we’ve got the money. We’re the ones taking the risk here.’

May lowered the metal detector. ‘I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ said Corben, narrowing his eyes. ‘You and me both.’ He looked across at O’Sullivan. ‘Let’s knock this on the head.’

‘Ian…’

‘I mean it. This is all shit.’

‘Got something to hide, have you?’ said Lomas.

‘Why don’t we run that thing over you two first?’ said Corben. ‘See what you’ve got to hide.’

‘You’re the visitors,’ said Lomas.

‘Fuck you,’ spat Corben.

‘Yeah? Well, fuck you, too.’

Corben stepped towards Lomas, his right hand bunching into a fist. Lomas shuffled backwards, fumbling inside his jacket. He pulled out an automatic and pointed it at Corben’s face.

‘Easy, easy!’ shouted O’Sullivan.

Corben glared at Lomas, his fist pulled back. ‘I knew this was a set-up.’

‘You started it,’ said Lomas.

‘Will you both just fucking relax?’ said May. ‘We’re not in the bloody playground here.’

‘It’s too late for that,’ said Lomas, still staring at Corben. ‘He’s not right.’

‘I’m not right?’ spat Corben. ‘You’re the one who pulled a gun.’

O’Sullivan had his hands up, showing his palms. ‘Can we all calm down here?’ he said.

‘I’m calm,’ said Lomas. ‘I just want to know what he’s got to hide.’

‘Put the gun down, Paul,’ said May.

‘Not until I’m sure he’s kosher,’ said Lomas. ‘Check him. And the bag.’

‘This is bullshit,’ said Corben.

‘Just go with the flow, Ian,’ said O’Sullivan.

Corben glared at Lomas, took out his mobile phone and car keys, and slowly raised his arms. May ran the metal detector up and down his back and legs, then checked the front of his body. It made no sound.

‘Satisfied?’ asked Corben.

‘No hard feelings?’ said May.

Corben lowered his hands. ‘I’ll decide when there are no hard feelings,’ he said.

‘The bag,’ said Lomas, gesturing with the gun. ‘Check the bag.’

May did as he was told, and again the metal detector made no sound. Lomas put away the gun.

‘I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot,’ said May. He patted O’Sullivan on the back. ‘Situation like this, it’s normal for jitters.’

‘The deal was that we all came unarmed,’ said O’Sullivan, staring pointedly at Lomas.

‘Guns in the cases, guns in a holster, they’re all part of the inventory,’ said May.

‘He pulled a gun on us,’ said O’Sullivan.

‘Like I said, jitters. Come on, let me show you what we’ve got.’

May walked over to the tables with O’Sullivan. Lomas and Corben followed, eyeing each other warily. May opened one of the metal cases. Inside six revolvers nestled in yellow foam rubber. May picked up a short-barrelled weapon and held it out to O’Sullivan, butt first. ‘Spanish-made Astra. 357 Magnum. The foresight has been smoothed down to minimise snagging so it’s a perfect concealed weapon.’

‘No safety,’ said O’Sullivan.

‘It’s got a long double-action pull,’ said May. ‘You’d have to be a right twat to fire it accidentally.’

‘I prefer Smith amp; Wesson,’ said O’Sullivan.

‘Your call,’ said May, taking back the Astra. He put it back in its slot in the foam rubber, and handed O’Sullivan a second revolver. ‘A J Frame. 38 special,’ he said. ‘Five rounds in the cylinder. The Astra takes six.’

‘This is fine,’ said O’Sullivan, flicking out the cylinder and peering down the barrel. He put the gun on the table and pointed at another. ‘That’s an L Frame, right? A. 357 Magnum?’

‘Sure is,’ said May, removing the gun and giving it to him. ‘Same action as the J Frame but the cylinder takes six. It’s a nice gun, but I have to say I prefer the Astra.’

‘How much for the two?’ O’Sullivan sniffed the barrel of the Smith amp; Wesson L Frame.

‘Nine hundred.’

‘This one’s been fired,’ said O’Sullivan.

‘Test firing, that’s all. It’s never been fired in anger.’

‘Nine is steep.’ O’Sullivan gave both of the Smith amp; Wessons to Corben, who broke them down quickly and efficiently.

‘They’re quality guns,’ said May.

‘Nine is still steep.’

‘Take it or leave it,’ said May.

O’Sullivan sighed. ‘Okay. Nine it is. Rounds?’

Corben reassembled the two weapons as fast as he’d stripped them down.

‘I’ll throw in a box of each,’ said May. ‘If you need more they’ll be fifty apiece.’

‘Two boxes of each.’

May smiled. ‘Deal,’ he said. He opened a second metal case to reveal four Glock pistols. ‘Automatics?’

Corben shook his head. ‘They spit casings all over the place. And they jam.’

‘Guns don’t jam,’ said May. ‘Crap ammunition jams. Used properly, a Glock’s as reliable as any revolver.’

‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘We’re happy with the revolvers.’

May closed the lid of the case. He opened a third. There was only one weapon inside, a compact shotgun with a pistol grip at the trigger and a second pistol grip under the front of the barrel. ‘You wanted a sawn-off, but I thought you might appreciate this.’

O’Sullivan picked up the shotgun. ‘Nice.’

‘It’s a Franchi PA3,’ said May. ‘The forward pistol grip helps with the pump-action. Special forces use it to blow the hinges off doors for rapid entry. It’s a twelve gauge, overall length 470mm so it’s easy to conceal. It’s only got a three-round capacity but in my experience you only have to fire it once.’

O’Sullivan sighted down the barrel, then gave the weapon to Corben. ‘Ammunition?’

‘As much as you want.’

‘A couple of dozen will see me right,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘Price?’

‘Twelve for the gun. I’ll throw in the shells.’

‘Twelve hundred quid?’ said Corben. ‘Do me a favour.’

‘Who am I talking to here?’ May asked O’Sullivan. ‘The organ-grinder or the monkey?’

O’Sullivan’s smile hardened. ‘He’s my partner,’ he said, ‘and he knows about guns.’

‘It’s brand new,’ said May. ‘Return it unfired and I’ll pay you nine. So twelve is cheap.’

Corben shook his head. ‘It’s a shotgun, fancy pistol grips or not. A grand. Give us eight if we don’t make it go bang.’

May nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But unfired means unfired. Shots in the air count.’

O’Sullivan flashed May a tight smile. ‘We got it the first time,’ he said. ‘What about the heavy artillery?’

May pulled up the lids of the final two cases. Each contained two submachine-pistols.

Corben whistled softly. ‘Lovely jubbly,’ he said.

May pulled one out and gave it to O’Sullivan. ‘The gang-banger’s favourite,’ he said. ‘The MAC-10. Thirty rounds in the magazine and you can let the lot go faster than you can say “drive-by”.’

‘Sweet,’ said O’Sullivan. He passed it to Corben. ‘Have you got a silencer?’

‘What do you need one for?’

‘To keep the sodding noise down – what do you think I need it for?’

‘I can get you one.’

‘Two,’ said O’Sullivan, picking up the second Ingram.

‘Fifteen hundred apiece,’ said May. He tapped the sub machine-guns in the second case. ‘The Stars are a bit cheaper. Same calibre, same size magazine, a little bit heavier, rate of fire is slower but you can still let rip faster than you can blink.’

‘You keep pushing the Spanish gear, don’t you?’ said Corben. ‘You pick up a job lot?’

‘Spanish armed forces have been using them since 1985,’ said May. ‘Gang-bangers and Hollywood movie producers are the only ones who use the Ingram.’

‘We’ll take the Ingrams,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘And two silencers.’

‘You planning on going to war?’ asked May.

O’Sullivan ignored the question. He ran his eyes over the guns he’d selected. ‘Four thousand nine hundred, right?’

‘Let’s call it a round five grand,’ said May. ‘I’ll give you fifty per cent on the Ingrams if you bring them back unfired.’

O’Sullivan grinned. ‘They’ll be fired,’ he said.

‘I don’t get you, Conor,’ said May. ‘You fret about the Glocks because they eject their rounds, but the Ingrams spit them all over the place.’

‘Horses for courses,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘The shorts are for our next job, the Ingrams are for payback that’s been brewing for some time. Anyway, what do you care?’

‘Just curious,’ said May.

‘Yeah, well, you know what curiosity did to the cat,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘And it’s four thousand nine hundred.’

‘If you want the cases, it’s five grand,’ said May.

O’Sullivan shook his head sadly. ‘You’re a cheap bastard.’

‘It’s a business. I’ve got overheads and expenses. Do you want the cases or not?’

‘Yeah, I want the cases.’

‘Good choice,’ said May. He packed the weapons O’Sullivan had chosen and clicked the cases shut. ‘Now, if we could get the cash sorted…’

O’Sullivan nodded at Corben. Corben retrieved the Manchester United holdall, hefted it on to one of the tables and unzipped it. He took out five bundles of fifty-pound notes. Lomas picked up one and flicked through the notes slowly. He nodded at May.

May grinned and held out his hand. ‘Nice doing business with you, Conor,’ he said.

‘Mutual,’ said O’Sullivan. The two men shook hands.

Lomas and Corben looked at each other with undisguised dislike.

‘Guess they’re not going to kiss and make up,’ said May.

‘Guess not,’ said O’Sullivan. He picked up the case containing the shotgun with his right hand and the holdall with the left, then motioned for Corben to carry the rest. The two men walked towards the door.

‘If you need anything else, you’ve got my number,’ May called after them.

‘Yeah, we’ve got your number,’ muttered Corben.

‘Be nice, Ian,’ said O’Sullivan.

They walked out into the open air. Corben put down his cases and used the remote to open the boot. They loaded the cases, then climbed into the car. O’Sullivan grinned. ‘That went well,’ he said.

The two men watched the Jaguar drive away. ‘That went well,’ said the Scotsman.

‘Until you pulled a gun on them,’ said his companion. ‘What the hell was that about?’

‘He was talking about using the metal detector on us. Shit would well and truly have hit the fan if he had done. Anyway, it worked out all right in the end, didn’t it?’

The Jaguar pulled out of the industrial estate and accelerated towards the nearby motorway. The two men walked back into the warehouse. They took off their jackets and tossed them on to the tables.

They heard footsteps at the door and turned to see Charlotte Button walking confidently towards them, brushing a lock of dark chestnut hair behind her ear to reveal a moulded plastic earpiece. ‘Well done, guys,’ she said. She was wearing a belted fawn raincoat and her high heels clicked on the concrete floor.

An Asian man in his late twenties had followed her. Amar Singh was Button’s technical specialist. He was carrying a briefcase.

‘Sorry about Razor’s improvisation, but there was method in his madness,’ said Dan Shepherd. He unbuttoned his denim shirt to reveal a microphone taped to his shaved chest.

‘I heard,’ said Button. ‘If anything, it added to the scenario. There’s nothing like a loose cannon to ratchet up the authen ticity.’

Singh helped Shepherd to remove the microphone and the transmitter that was taped to the small of his back.

‘You wouldn’t have shot him, would you, Razor?’ teased Button. ‘Please tell me you wouldn’t have blown a two-month operation by putting a bullet in Mr Corben’s chest.’

‘I knew exactly what I was doing.’ Sharpe scowled.

‘You went off menu,’ said Shepherd, rebuttoning his shirt. ‘I always hate it when you do that.’ He grinned to show there was no ill-feeling. He had worked with Sharpe on countless occasions and had total faith in him. It had to be that way when you were under cover.

Four men in black overalls appeared at the doorway, members of the Metropolitan Police’s firearms unit, and began to pack up the weapons. Singh put the transmitting equipment into his briefcase and went to Sharpe, who was taking off his shirt. Like Shepherd, he had also been wearing a transmitter.

Shepherd indicated the roof. ‘Pictures okay?’ The three small cameras that Singh had fitted the previous day were hidden in the metal rafters. They had transmitted pictures to the temporary control centre in one of the adjacent warehouses.

‘Perfect,’ said Button. ‘We’ve everything we need. The transmitters that Amar embedded in the guns are good for seven days so we’ll track them for five and see how many of O’Sullivan’s gang we can pull in. Hopefully one of them will roll over on the Hatton Garden robbery in which case O’Sullivan and Corben will go down for life.’

Three weeks earlier a security guard had been shot in the stomach at close range with a sawn-off shotgun. Half a million pounds’ worth of diamonds and rubies had been stolen, and the man had died in hospital two days later, his wife and three sons at his bedside. O’Sullivan hadn’t fired the fatal shot, but he had orchestrated the robbery, one of more than half a dozen he was thought to have carried out in the previous year. Conor O’Sullivan was a professional criminal who, either through luck or good judgement, had never been to prison. The Serious Organised Crime Agency’s undercover operation was about to change that.

‘Is that it, then?’ asked Sharpe.

‘Keep the mobiles going for a week or so just in case,’ said Button. ‘There’s always a chance that O’Sullivan will spread the good word.’

The men in black overalls carried out the cases containing the weapons and ammunition. One, a burly sergeant with a shaved head, flashed Button a thumbs-up as he walked by. ‘Thanks, Mark,’ she said. ‘I’ll have the paperwork for you by tomorrow morning.’

‘What’s next for us?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Don’t worry, Dan, there’s no rest for the wicked. I’ll have something for you.’ She consulted her watch. ‘I have to be at the Yard this afternoon. I’ll call you both later. But job well done, yeah? O’Sullivan’s needed putting away for years.’ She headed towards the door, then stopped. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, ‘you’ve both got biannuals this month, haven’t you?’

Shepherd and Sharpe nodded. Every six months all SOCA operatives had to be assessed by the unit’s psychologist.

‘We’ve a new psychologist on board,’ said Button. ‘Caroline Stockmann. She’ll be getting in touch to arrange the sessions.’

‘What happened to Kathy Gift?’ asked Shepherd.

‘She’s moved on,’ said Button.

‘To where?’

‘Academia. Bath University.’

‘Couldn’t stand the heat?’ asked Sharpe.

Button’s expression registered disapproval. ‘She got married, actually.’

‘To a man?’ asked Sharpe, unabashed. He raised his hands as if to ward off her glare. ‘Hey, these days, who knows?’

‘Razor, not everyone gets your sense of humour.’

‘But you do, right?’

Button smiled. ‘You’re a bloody dinosaur,’ she said.

‘But dinosaurs have their uses,’ said Sharpe.

‘Actually, they don’t,’ said Button. ‘That’s why they’re extinct.’

‘She got married?’ said Shepherd.

‘It was all quite sudden,’ said Button.

‘Probably up the spout,’ said Sharpe.

‘Jimmy…’ said Button.

‘This Stockmann, what’s her story?’ asked Shepherd.

‘She’s top notch,’ said Button. ‘Very highly qualified. I’ve known her for ten years.’

‘She’s worked with undercover agents before?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Not per se,’ said Button. ‘She was in MI5’s Predictive Behaviour Group.’

‘Which means what?’ said Shepherd.

‘The group is used to determine the way various people might react in a given situation. Generally heads of state. So, if you wanted to know how the Iranian government will react to EU pressure to drop their nuclear programme, you’d ask the PBG. The group has other uses, too. Mostly classified.’

Shepherd groaned. ‘So a spook’ll decide whether or not I’m fit for undercover work.’

‘She’s a highly qualified psychologist who happened to work for the security services,’ said Button. ‘It’s only because she knows me that she’s agreed to work for SOCA. We’re lucky to have her.’

‘It’s not about qualifications,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s about understanding people – understanding what we go through. And if she’s only ever been behind a desk, she’s not going to know what life’s like at the sharp end.’

‘So tell her,’ said Button. ‘That’s the purpose of the biannual, to get everything off your chest.’

‘That’s not strictly true, though, is it?’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s also a test we have to pass to remain on active duty.’

‘Spider, you’re fine. I know you’re fine and you know you’re fine. You have a chat with Caroline and she’ll confirm what we both know.’ She glanced at her watch again. ‘I have to go.’

As she headed for the door, Shepherd saw that Sharpe was grinning at him.

‘What?’ said Shepherd.

‘What happened to Kathy Gift?’ said Sharpe, in a whiny voice.

‘Behave,’ said Shepherd.

‘You had a thing for her, didn’t you?’

‘How old are you, Razor?’

‘Spider and Kathy, sitting in a tree…’ sang Sharpe.

‘Screw you,’ said Shepherd, walking away.

‘… K-I-S-S-I-N-G.’ Sharpe’s voice followed Shepherd out of the warehouse. Button’s black Vauxhall Vectra was driving away. She was in the back, reading something.

‘You okay?’ said Singh, behind him.

Shepherd shrugged. ‘What do you make of her?’ he asked.

‘She’s a good boss,’ said Singh. ‘Gives you room to do your own thing but she’s there when you need her.’

Shepherd nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, she’s growing on me.’ He jerked a thumb at the warehouse. ‘That went well, from start to finish.’

‘She had all the bases covered,’ agreed Singh. ‘I had to laugh at Razor, though. Pulling a gun like that.’

‘Yeah, he’s a bugger sometimes. But he’s a pro.’

‘Fancy a drink?’

‘Nah,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got to get home. Rain check, yeah?’

‘No sweat,’ said Singh. ‘I’ll take Wild Bill Hickok for a drink.’ He turned back to the warehouse. ‘Oy, Razor, d’you fancy a pint?’

‘Do bears shit in the Vatican?’ yelled Sharpe.

Shepherd chuckled and headed for his car.

Shepherd parked the Series Seven BMW in the driveway. He was going to miss Graham May’s vehicle of choice. His own Honda CRV was four years old and he needed to replace it. But a Series Seven was well out of his price range.

The estate agent’s sign in the front garden had ‘ UNDER OFFER ’ across the top. A young couple, looking for somewhere bigger, had offered the asking price, which was double what Shepherd had paid six years earlier. He had made an offer on a house in Hereford, less than a mile from where his in-laws lived.

His son was in the sitting room, eating a sandwich. A glass of orange juice stood in front of him. Liam’s mouth was full so he waved at his father. Shepherd went to the kitchen, made himself a mug of instant coffee, then returned to the sitting room and dropped down on the sofa next to his son. ‘Did you do your homework?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ said Liam, and drank some juice. ‘I had to do a book report.’

‘Which book?’

‘ Animal Farm. George Orwell.’

‘Great story,’ said Shepherd. ‘“Four legs good, two legs bad.”’

‘You’ve read it?’ said Liam, surprised.

‘At school, same as you,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s a classic.’

‘You don’t read books.’

Shepherd raised his eyebrows. ‘What?’

‘You read newspapers.’

Shepherd wanted to argue but his son was right. The last time he’d read a book for pleasure must have been four years ago when he was on holiday in Spain with Sue and Liam. He rarely had time to read these days, and when he did have a few hours to spare more often than not he’d just vegetate in front of the television. In his younger days he’d been an avid reader – Ian Fleming, Len Deighton, Jack Higgins, John le Carre – but his work as an undercover police officer meant he no longer enjoyed crime stories. Real-life police work was never as cut and dried as it appeared in fiction, and the truly guilty rarely got their just deserts.

Before he could reply, Katra came in. She was wearing baggy khaki cargo pants and a loose sweatshirt. With no makeup and her hair tied back in a ponytail she looked younger than her twenty-four years. ‘You’re back early,’ she said. ‘Liam was hungry so I made him a sandwich.’ She was from Slovenia, but she had lived with them in London now for two years so her accent had almost gone.

‘No sweat,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll order a pizza later.’

‘Is it okay if I go to the supermarket?’

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.

Liam picked up the remote control and switched on the television. ‘You don’t have time for TV,’ said Shepherd, as his son flicked through the channels.

‘Anything you want?’ asked Katra.

‘Toothpaste,’ said Shepherd. ‘The stuff for sensitive teeth.’

‘You have toothache?’ asked Katra.

‘Just a twinge,’ said Shepherd.

‘Receding gums,’ said Liam. ‘It happens when you get old.’

‘Older,’ corrected Shepherd.

‘Your hair gets thinner, your skin gets less flexible and your bones weaken.’

‘I’m so glad we had this little chat,’ said Shepherd. He held out his hand for the remote control. ‘Now, give me that and scoot. And I want to see the book report before you go to sleep.’

Liam tossed him the remote control and Shepherd hit the button for BBC1. On the screen a middle-aged man with a mahogany tan and a woman half his age with gleaming teeth were laughing about nothing in particular. On ITV another woman, with equally sparkling teeth, was talking about the weather as if her audience had learning difficulties. It was going to rain in Scotland. Grin. With a chance of hail in Aberdeen. Bigger grin. But London would be sunny. Mega-grin with sly wink. Shepherd flicked to Sky News. More expensive dental work. Two newsreaders, a man and a woman, with tight faces. In a square frame in the top left-hand corner, a man in an orange jumpsuit was kneeling in front of a banner. Shepherd froze. He increased the volume as the frame expanded to fill the screen. The man in the jumpsuit was in his late thirties, his hair close-cropped. He was glaring defiantly at the camera. It had been six months since Shepherd had seen Geordie Mitchell. Then, his hair had been longer, he had been a few pounds heavier and he had been wearing a Chelsea FC shirt, not an orange jumpsuit.

‘A British man working as a security guard in Iraq has been taken hostage by a group calling for the withdrawal of coalition forces from the country,’ said the female newsreader.

Shepherd wondered how the former SAS trooper would have reacted to being described in that way.

‘Last night Colin Mitchell’s captors released a video showing him in apparently good health. They are calling for a complete withdrawal of all British troops from Iraq within the next fourteen days.’

Shepherd hadn’t known that ‘Colin’ was Mitchell’s real name. He’d known him for more than ten years as Geordie.

Two men in dark green overalls, scarves over their faces and cradling Kalashnikovs, were standing behind him. A third was holding aloft a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. A fourth masked man was next to Mitchell, addressing the camera in Arabic. A translation of his rhetoric passed slowly across the bottom of the screen.

‘Mr Mitchell was taken hostage after the vehicle he was travelling in was ambushed and three of his Iraqi colleagues were killed,’ continued the newsreader. ‘He is believed to have been working in Iraq as part of a security detail guarding an oil pipeline running through the north of the country. Mr Mitchell’s abduction comes just weeks after the beheading of American hostage Johnny Lake. All the indications are that the same group is holding Mr Mitchell. Following Mr Lake’s abduction, the American government was given fourteen days to withdraw its troops from Iraq. This morning the Foreign Office refused to comment on Mr Mitchell’s abduction.’

Shepherd’s mobile rang and he put it to his ear as he stared at the screen. ‘Are you watching the news?’ said a voice. It was Major Allan Gannon, Shepherd’s former boss in the SAS.

‘Just seen it,’ said Shepherd.

‘We have to meet.’

‘Absolutely.’

Shepherd got to the Strand Palace Hotel shortly before midnight. Liam was fast asleep and Shepherd had told Katra that he would be back in the early hours. She was used to him coming and going at unusual times so she had said goodnight and that she’d see him in the morning. It had never been as easy getting away when he was married: Sue had wanted to know where he was going, what he’d be doing and how dangerous it was. And she would sit up all night, waiting for him to get back. It was even harder when he was away from home for days at a time. Then he hadn’t always been able to phone her, and even when he did his calls had been hurried and whispered. The difference, of course, was that Sue had been his wife and had loved him, while Katra was an employee.

The Major had booked a suite on the seventh floor. Shepherd knocked on the door. It was opened by a man a couple of inches shorter than him but with a similar physique. Like Shepherd, Billy Armstrong was a keen runner and they had often trained together when they were in the Regiment. ‘Spider, good to see you,’ said Armstrong. He was wearing a brown leather knee-length coat and tight-fitting jeans that were fashionably ripped at the knees. They hugged. It had been more than a year since they’d met.

‘Where are you these days?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Sofia, Bulgaria, babysitting an industrialist who’s only just this side of legal. You still a cop?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Come and work with me. Four hundred quid a day plus expenses.’

‘And the chance of getting hurt?’

Armstrong grinned. ‘It won’t be me they’ll be shooting at.’

‘I thought you had to throw yourself in front of the bullet.’

‘That’s just public relations,’ said Armstrong. ‘When did you last hear of a bodyguard taking a bullet for a client? The boss is through there.’

Major Gannon was standing at the head of a long beech table that seated eight. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, with a strong chin and wide shoulders. His nose had been broken at least once. He was wearing a tweed jacket, an open-necked white shirt and chinos. He jutted out his chin when Shepherd walked in. ‘Spider. Good man.’ He strode round the table and they shook hands.

A third man was sitting at the table. Martin O’Brien was a former Irish Ranger and an old friend of Shepherd’s, even though they had never served together. As he stood up he ran a hand over his shaved head, then slapped Shepherd on the back. He was a big man, and seemed to have got even bigger since he’d left the army. He was wearing a black polo-neck pullover with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and blue jeans.

‘No sign of Jimbo?’ the Major asked Armstrong.

‘The late Jim Shortt?’ Armstrong laughed. ‘He’d be late for his own funeral.’

Right on cue, there was a quick double-knock on the main door. Shepherd went to open it. Shortt was a heavy-set man with a sweeping Mexican-style moustache. He was holding a black gym bag and grinned when he saw Shepherd. ‘The early worm, hey, Spider?’

‘Hey, hey, the gang’s all here,’ said Shepherd. He jerked a thumb at the bag. ‘Are you staying?’

‘Just got off a plane from Dublin,’ said Shortt. ‘The boss said I could kip here.’ He winked.

There was another knock at the door. Shepherd opened it. This time, a white-jacketed waiter was outside, behind a trolley loaded with pots of coffee and plates of sandwiches. Shepherd stood aside to let him wheel it in. O’Brien hurried over to check the order, then signed the bill. He saw Shepherd grinning at him and glared defiantly. ‘They’re not all for me,’ he said. ‘The boss said to get some grub in.’ He grabbed a handful of sandwiches, sat down next to Armstrong and offered him one. Armstrong shook his head.

Shepherd and Shortt helped themselves to coffee as the Major sat down at the head of the table. ‘Right, let’s get started,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about the cloak-and-dagger, but I obviously can’t use the barracks and I didn’t want to take over anyone’s home so late at night.’ He was based at the Duke of York Barracks, close to Sloane Square. From his office overlooking the parade ground he ran the government’s best-kept secret: the Increment. The Increment was an ad-hoc group of highly trained special-forces soldiers used on operations considered too dangerous for Britain’s security services, MI5 and MI6. The metal briefcase that contained the secure satellite phone they called the Almighty leaned against the wall behind him. The only people who had access to it were the Prime Minister, the Cabinet Office, and the chiefs of MI5 and MI6. When Gannon received a call on it, he could command all the resources of the SAS and the SBS, plus any other experts he needed. ‘I’ll have somewhere else fixed up for us tomorrow, but this will do as a preliminary briefing room. Has everyone seen the video?’

Shortt shook his head.

‘Spider, do the honours, will you, please?’ Gannon pointed at a video-recorder and television on a stand in the corner of the room. Shepherd switched on the television and clicked the remote. The video was the Sky News broadcast that Shepherd had seen just before the Major had phoned. The men watched it in silence. The grainy video of Mitchell and his captors lasted barely a minute. It was followed by a terrorism expert, whom none of them recognised, talking about the dangers facing civilian contractors in Iraq, and a representative of the Muslim Council of Great Britain who denounced the kidnapping and called for Mitchell’s immediate release. ‘Kill it, Spider,’ said the Major. ‘There’s nothing else of interest.’

Shepherd hit ‘Stop’, switched off the television and returned to his seat.

‘Colin?’ said O’Brien. ‘Is that his name, right enough?’ He went over to the trolley for more sandwiches.

‘How long had he been out there?’ asked Armstrong, taking out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a disposable lighter. He took off his coat and hung it on the back of his chair.

‘It was his third tour,’ said the Major. He went to the trolley and poured himself a cup of black coffee. O’Brien offered him a sandwich but the Major declined.

‘Geordie always followed the money,’ said Shortt.

‘Twenty thousand dollars a month,’ said the Major. ‘One month’s paid leave for every three served, plus board and lodging over there, so pretty much everything you earn goes into the bank. It’s the new Klondike. We’ve got guys dropping out of the Regiment early so they can sign on in Iraq. Hard to blame them – they get four times the salary plus the chance to use their skills rather than spending all their time training.’

‘I’ve been offered three jobs out there,’ said Armstrong. ‘It’s getting harder to turn them down. They’re desperate for good people. Anyone mind if I smoke?’

‘I thought you’d given up,’ said Shortt.

‘I did,’ said Armstrong. He rolled up his shirtsleeve to reveal a white square on his shoulder. ‘I’m even using the nicotine patches but they make me want to smoke even more.’

‘Smoke away,’ said O’Brien, ‘but not over my food.’

Armstrong offered the pack around but there were no takers. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling.

The Major waved at the television. ‘The money has to be good out there because of the risks. There’ve been ninety-seven kidnappings so far this year, twenty-six of them Westerners. Of the twenty-six, twenty-four have been killed. They’ve followed a similar pattern. Kidnapped. No news for a few days, then a video released with the abductors’ demands – which are usually totally unrealistic – with a deadline. A second, sometimes a third video, as the deadline gets closer, then nothing for as long as a month, after which we get a video of the hostage being killed. Cards on the table, gentlemen. Geordie’s chances do not look good. One of the Westerners who was released was a sixty-eight-year-old nun, the other was married to a Muslim woman and had five Muslim children.’

‘Which means what?’ said Shortt.

‘Which means that it’s up to us to swing the odds in his favour,’ said the Major. ‘Okay, more cards on the table. Officially there’s nothing I can do. Unofficially every former member of the Regiment currently active in Iraq is being contacted and brought on side. I’ve spoken to army contacts out there, but the British Army is based mainly in Basra and Geordie was kidnapped in the Sunni Triangle and that’s American-controlled. Since Geordie is a civilian contractor, my bosses won’t countenance my using Regimental resources to get him out of the shit. That’s why I’ve called you here. I’m not going to sit on my arse while the Foreign Office huffs and puffs, and I need to know that you all feel the same.’

‘Bloody right,’ said Shortt.

Shepherd and Armstrong muttered agreement. O’Brien had just taken a big bite of a sandwich but he gave the Major a thumbs-up.

‘And I also need you to be aware that if we decide to help Geordie, we’re not going to be following the Queensberry Rules or the Geneva Convention,’ said the Major. ‘We’ll be crossing the line.’

‘What – again?’ Shortt punched Shepherd’s shoulder. ‘Seems to me that we did that when we got Spider out of bother a while back.’

Shepherd smiled ruefully. Shortt was right. They had broken the law before. Shepherd owed all the men round the table, big-time. He owed them and he owed Mitchell, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for them. ‘I’m in,’ he said, ‘whatever it takes.’

‘He’d do it for us, no question,’ said O’Brien.

‘I feel like the four bloody musketeers here,’ said Armstrong. ‘All for one and one for all.’

‘There’s five of us,’ said Shortt. ‘And I’m in.’

‘Okay,’ said the Major. ‘The basics are what you saw on the video. Geordie has fourteen days – thirteen and a half, if we’re going to split hairs. He’s being held in Iraq by a group who will, unless we intervene, hack off his head. If past experience is anything to go by, our government will do next to nothing, and pleas for mercy will be ignored. Other than a name on a banner, we don’t know who’s holding him or where he is. We’re three and a half thousand miles away from his location-’

‘Piece of piss, then,’ said Shortt.

The Major ignored the interruption. ‘The only thing we have to go on at the moment is that news broadcast. I’m going to have the video analysed, see if there’s anything on it that might provide a clue as to who his captors are and where they’re keeping him. That’s a long shot, frankly. There’s a banner up behind Geordie that says it’s the Holy Martyrs of Islam – not a name I’ve ever heard of. Any of you know it?’

All four men shook their heads.

‘The problem is, whatever name they use is pretty much immaterial,’ the Major went on. ‘They seem to pluck them out of the air and there are indications of movement between the various groups. Generally low-level criminal gangs seize the hostages, then sell them on to the militant outfits. The criminal gangs are more likely to take cash. Once the political groups are involved it’s not about money any more.’

‘I know this is probably a stupid question, but I don’t suppose his company had kidnap insurance, did they?’ asked Shepherd.

‘No, although they’ve offered a reward of half a million dollars for his return. But, as I said, this isn’t about money. It isn’t even about foreign policy. It’s about terror. The guys holding him want to kill him and they want to do it on camera. The fourteen-day deadline is just a way of generating interest. Now, on a more positive note, the guy Geordie works for is on his way here so we’ll have a briefing from him tomorrow. Meanwhile, any thoughts?’

‘Nuke the lot of them,’ said Shortt.

‘Thanks, Jimbo,’ said the Major. ‘Any serious thoughts?’

‘Are the Yanks on the case?’ asked O’Brien.

‘The military?’ asked the Major. ‘As much as they can be, but one kidnapped British contractor isn’t top of their priorities, not with their own death toll heading towards three thousand.’

Shepherd, Armstrong, O’Brien and Shortt sat back and waited for the Major to continue. The fact that he had called them together meant that he had something in mind.

‘If anything is going to happen, it’s going to be down to us,’ he said. ‘There’s no question of British troops being pulled out, and no question of the government getting involved in any form of negotiations.’

‘Because they don’t negotiate with terrorists,’ said Armstrong, bitterly. ‘Unless they’re Irish, of course. Then they invite them to Downing Street for tea. Bloody Paddies.’

‘Hey,’ said O’Brien. ‘Behave. I’m a Paddy, remember.’

The Major raised a warning eyebrow and Armstrong and O’Brien fell silent. ‘From what I’m told, Geordie’s Sass background won’t be revealed,’ the Major continued. ‘The only family he has is a brother and he knows to keep his head down. The company has been briefed to say only that he served with the army. No details of his career with the Paras or Sass. If the group holding him finds out that he’s former special forces they’ll make it a lot harder for him. Officially Sass can’t be seen to be involved, but unofficially they’ll move heaven and earth to find him. But with Geordie in the Sunni Triangle, we’re going to need American help. Unofficial American help.’

The Major looked pointedly at Shepherd, who knew what he was suggesting and nodded slowly. ‘I’m on it,’ he said.

‘Assuming we do find where they’re keeping him,’ said O’Brien, ‘what then?’

‘Let’s take it one step at a time,’ said the Major.

‘Yeah, but is the plan to let the Yanks try to pull him out, or do our guys go in?’

‘I’d hope it’d be a Sass operation but, like I said, they’re not in the area. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First we’ll find out where he is.’

‘It’s al-Qaeda, right?’ said Shortt. ‘Has to be.’

‘It’s not as simple as that, Jimbo,’ said the Major. ‘There is no al-Qaeda any more, not really. These days, it’s more of a brand than an organisation. All the groups I mentioned have a similar ideology to al-Qaeda, but the days of a criminal mastermind with overall control are long gone. The guys in these groups were probably trained by al-Qaeda in Afghanistan or Pakistan ten years ago, but now they function as autonomous units. In effect, they’ve become a terror franchise. It’s like Burger King. A franchise in Birmingham doesn’t have to call head office every time it cooks a burger. These guys are just out there to cause chaos. If we had an al-Qaeda source, he probably wouldn’t even know where Geordie was being held.’

‘This is a bloody nightmare,’ said Armstrong. ‘Why don’t we just fly over there?’

‘And do what?’ asked the Major. ‘We wouldn’t be able to move around. Any Westerner’s a target. We’ve no intel sources on the ground. No one’s going to talk to us. We’d spend all our time just staying alive. At least here we can take a broader view, see the wood for the trees.’

‘How about Billy and I head to Baghdad?’ said Shortt. ‘At least we’d be on the spot.’ Armstrong nodded in agreement.

‘No one’s going to Iraq,’ said the Major. ‘At least, not yet. We’re only eight hours away. We’ve got just under two weeks, so we don’t have to rush into anything, okay?’

Shortt didn’t look convinced.

‘I want you and Billy trailing the video,’ said the Major. ‘We need to know how it reached the TV stations. The first to get it was al-Jazeera in Qatar. They usually get the kidnap videos first and pass them on to others around the world. If we can follow that video back to the source, we’ll know where Geordie is. Plus, there might be more video with more usable intel on it. I’ll get the pictures we already have analysed, see if there’s anything there to help us. Spider will look into getting American intel on what’s going on in Iraq, and as I said, Geordie’s boss arrives tomorrow so we’ll have a briefing from him.’ The Major stood up. ‘It’ll be okay,’ he said. ‘We’ll bring Geordie home, whatever it takes.’

Geordie Mitchell put down the paperback book he’d been staring at for the past hour. He hadn’t got beyond the first page of The Da Vinci Code. It was creased and there were greasy fingerprints on the cover, and Mitchell couldn’t help wondering who had read it before and if he had lived to finish it.

The room was fifteen paces long and nine wide. There were no windows and only one door. The inside of the door was featureless except for a peephole at head height. There was no lock, and no handle. Other than a threadbare blanket and a blue plastic bucket, there was nothing. When they fed him it was on paper plates and he had to eat with his hands. Water came in paper beakers. He’d been over every inch of the floor and walls and there was nothing he could use as a weapon – except his hands, of course, and his feet, elbows, knees. Mitchell knew a couple of dozen ways to kill with his bare hands, but despatching one of his captors wouldn’t get him out of the basement. He had seen at least six men, and had no way of knowing how many more were upstairs. He could grab one and threaten to kill him unless they let him go, but he doubted they’d be intimidated by threats of violence.

Besides, the chance of catching them unawares was virtually nil. Most of the time he was alone in the basement. When they came to feed him, they shouted through the door that he was to stand against the back wall with his hands out to the side. They wouldn’t open the door until he had complied. One man would come in, usually the one called Kamil, with food or water or to empty the bucket. Kamil was the only one who had spoken to him, and he had always been polite and friendly. While Kamil was in the room a second man, wearing a ski mask, would stand at the door cradling an AK-47, his finger inside the trigger guard. It was an intimidating weapon, but Mitchell found it reassuring. It wasn’t the sort you’d fire in the confines of a basement: there was a high risk of ricochet, the noise would be deafening and it would be hard to manoeuvre, all of which suggested that the men weren’t as professional as he’d first thought.

Mitchell paced round the room on autopilot as he considered his options. During his time on the SAS selection course, he’d gone through Resistance to Interrogation training with the Joint Services Interrogation Unit and passed with flying colours. But it had done nothing to prepare him for what he was going through now.

The training was based on building resistance to physical and mental torture. It came after the Escape and Evasion section of the gruelling SAS selection course – three days of being pursued across the Brecon Beacons by British Army units trying to prove they were every bit as hard as the men who wanted to join the elite special-forces unit. Eventually everyone was caught and handed over to the hard men of the JSIU. The interrogation was open-ended. Mitchell had been grilled for two full days and three nights before he was told that he’d passed and was qualified to wear the SAS badge and beret. It had been sixty hours of hell.

He’d been beasted by four burly paratroopers before he got to the JSIU, so he was already battered and bruised. He’d been stripped naked and doused with icy water. They’d played white noise through huge speakers for hours. They’d shouted at him in languages he didn’t understand. They’d blindfolded him and made him stand spreadeagled against a wall with most of his weight on his arms. He’d been screamed at, punched and had his face submerged in a barrel of water until he’d come close to passing out. He’d been tied naked to a chair and interrogated for hours. Under the rules of the test, he had been able to give only his name, rank and number. Divulging any other information meant instant rejection. The interrogators had tried everything. Screaming at him. Cajoling him. Telling him jokes. Asking him if he wanted food or to sleep. They’d even produced a bottle of beer and told him there was nothing in the rules about accepting a drink. He’d refused it and they’d put a cloth bag over his head and dragged him across a field telling him they were going to bury him alive. They hadn’t, of course. That was one of the flaws in the test. No matter how convincing the JSIU men were, those they interrogated knew it was an act, that they wouldn’t do any permanent damage, and that at some point it would all be over. In the real world bones and teeth were broken – and worse. On the selection course you’d get a little bruised. All you had to do was keep your mouth shut until it was over.

Once he’d joined the Regiment, Mitchell had been on more courses with the JSIU. They’d taught him what was likely to happen if he was captured by an enemy who wasn’t bound by the rules of the Geneva Convention. And they’d taught him the skills that would ensure the best chance of survival. But nothing the interrogation experts had taught him had prepared him for what he had been through since he had been brought to the basement.

His initial capture had been by the book: an AK-47 aimed at his chest, a hood pulled roughly over his head, something hard slammed against his temple, and waking up in the back of a van with his hands and feet bound. He’d been kept tied and hooded for the first forty-eight hours, he figured, though it had been hard to keep track of time. He’d been given water to drink through a straw but no food, and no one had said anything to him. He’d been moved from the van to a place that smelled of diesel oil where he’d slept on a dusty concrete floor, then put into the boot of a car and taken to another location where he’d slept on a damp carpet. There, a dog had woken him by licking his hands. Then he was put into a rattling van, with what felt like crates piled round him, and driven for hours to a third location: a room with windows that had been covered with sheets of plywood. He’d been tied to a wooden chair and they had taken his watch, wallet, shoes and belt. The hood had been removed and he had been given cold boiled rice with a piece of barbecued fish.

He’d asked who they were and what they wanted, but their only response was to slap him with gloved hands. After he’d eaten they had left the hood off but sealed his mouth with duct tape. His captors wore ski masks and said nothing to him. He stayed tied to the chair for a day and half a night, then the hood was put back on and he was hit from behind. He’d feigned unconsciousness but they’d hit him again and he’d passed out for real.

When he woke up he was in the basement and everything had changed. He hadn’t been bound or gagged. He’d been given food, plenty of water and the paperback book. One of the rules of surviving a hostage situation was to befriend your captors so that they related to you as a human being, not just as a captive, but instead one of the men introduced himself to Mitchell. He said his name was Kamil and apologised for what had happened. He spoke reasonably good English and had a smile that Mitchell was sure would win him more than his fair share of female admirers. Nothing would happen to him, Kamil had promised. A number of hostages had been taken at different locations around the country, but they would all be released within a few weeks. He said he would make Mitchell’s stay as pleasant as possible under the circumstances. If Mitchell had any requests for reading matter, Kamil would do what he could to provide it. He was sorry about the poor quality of the food, he said, but assured Mitchell that his captors would eat the same provisions. Mitchell had asked for a beer and Kamil had laughed, then patted his shoulder. They were like two old friends chatting, but for the man in the doorway cradling an