Hot Blood

AK-47.’

‘I’m a big fan of the AK-74,’ said Bosch, ‘but you don’t want to go firing one out here. The Yanks hear it, they’ll assume you’re with the bad guys.’

Shepherd buttoned his shirt. ‘If it wasn’t for Geordie, I’d have died in the desert. Like I said, I owe him big-time.’

The Major came out of the kitchen. ‘Everything okay?’ he said.

‘Spider was just showing me his war wound,’ said Bosch.

‘He does that with all the girls,’ said the Major. ‘I don’t want to sound like anyone’s father but it’s getting late and we’re up at five tomorrow. I’m heading up.’

‘I was about to turn in too,’ said Shepherd, standing up.

Bosch raised her bottle. ‘I’ll finish this first. Sleep well, Spider.’

‘You too.’

Bosch blew him a kiss. Shepherd and the Major walked together to the stairs. ‘You okay?’ the Major asked.

‘Fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll be happier once we’re under way, that’s for sure.’ They went up the stairs together.

‘You’ve got a good team behind you,’ said the Major. ‘The best.’

‘I know. It’ll be fine.’

‘I’m supposed to be the one giving the pep talk.’

‘I don’t need one,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know what the risks are, and I know what I have to do. We just roll the dice and see what happens.’

They arrived at Shepherd’s room. The Major held out his right hand, clenched into a fist. Shepherd banged his own against it. ‘See you tomorrow,’ said the Major.

Shepherd went into his room. He had just finished showering when there was a knock at the door. He assumed it was the Major and frowned as he wrapped a towel round his waist. He opened the door.

It was Carol Bosch, with the bottle of Jameson’s. ‘I thought I’d come and show you my scars,’ she said.

‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘Really.’

She ran her hand down her left thigh. ‘I’ve got a really interesting knife wound here that I think you’d find fascinating.’

‘Carol…’

Bosch pushed the door open and slipped inside. ‘Where are the glasses?’ she asked.

Shepherd closed the door. ‘You’re impossible,’ he said.

‘Here they are,’ she said picking two glasses off the bedside table. She poured two slugs of whiskey and handed one to him. ‘Nice towel,’ she said, and clinked her glass against his. ‘To being shot,’ she said, ‘and surviving.’

Shepherd sighed, but drank to her toast.

Bosch put her glass down on the bedside table and began to undo her dress.

‘What is this? A condemned man’s last request?’ asked Shepherd.

‘This isn’t about you,’ she said. ‘Have you any idea how difficult it is to find a half-decent man out here?’

‘Surprisingly enough, no,’ he said.

She stepped forward, slipped her right hand behind his neck and kissed him. For a second Shepherd resisted, but her tongue probed between his teeth and he felt himself grow hard. She ran her other hand down the towel and between his legs.

Shepherd broke away. ‘Carol-’

‘What?’

‘There’s something you should know.’

‘Well, we’ve already decided you’re not gay. And you’re not wearing a wedding ring.’

‘I work undercover,’ said Shepherd. ‘Undercover cops don’t wear wedding rings.’

‘If you’re married, it doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’m not asking for lifelong commitment. I just want to have sex with you.’

‘She died,’ said Shepherd. ‘Three years ago.’

Suddenly Bosch looked concerned. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘I loved her.’

‘Okay. I loved my husband, too, right up to the point I found him in bed with our maid. But this isn’t about my ex-husband or your wife, this is about you and me.’ She grabbed him and kissed him again. This time Shepherd kissed her back. Bosch pushed him towards the bed.

Shepherd put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Carol, wait-’

‘Now what?’

‘I haven’t had sex for a while.’

‘Shame,’ she said. ‘How long?’

‘A while.’

‘A month?’

Shepherd shook his head.

She raised her eyebrows. ‘A year?’

‘A bit longer.’

‘How much longer?’

Shepherd swallowed. ‘Since Sue died.’

‘Three years?’

‘Thereabouts.’

Bosch’s jaw dropped. ‘Wow,’ she said.

‘I know.’

‘Three years?’ she repeated. ‘Thirty-six months?’

‘Or thereabouts.’

‘You must really have loved her.’

‘I did. I do. I always will. Just because she died doesn’t mean I stopped loving her.’

Bosch looked into his eyes, her hand still between his legs. ‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ she said. ‘This isn’t about love. It’s lust. That’s all.’

‘Got it,’ said Shepherd.

‘And you’re okay?’

Despite himself, Shepherd laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m okay.’

Bosch kissed him, then pushed him back on to the bed, holding the towel. She tossed it aside and took off her dress. ‘Three years,’ she said, in wonder. ‘Fasten your seat-belt. This is going to be one hell of a ride.’

Mitchell lifted up his shirt and examined his damaged ribs. It hurt if he took a deep breath but he was sure that they weren’t broken. He thought a couple were cracked, but other than that he hadn’t been badly hurt. He had urinated into the plastic bucket and there had been no sign of blood so at least his kidneys were unscathed.

He sat down slowly, then lay back. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to do a sit-up. The muscles in his side burned but he forced himself up.

He didn’t care about the pain. It meant nothing. For the first time since he’d been snatched he didn’t feel alone. Somewhere out there his friends were on the case. Mitchell was sure that Spider Shepherd would have been behind the kidnapping, probably with Billy Armstrong, Martin O’Brien and Jimbo Shortt. And, if he’d been able to get himself away from the Increment, Major Gannon would be running the show. Mitchell grunted and lowered his shoulders back to the floor. It hurt a lot more going down than it did coming up. It had been worth the beating for Mitchell to discover that his friends were fighting to free him and, from what Kamil had said, they were fighting dirty. They had kidnapped the brother of a man who was holding him hostage. That meant they knew the identity of at least one of his captors. And if they knew one they might be able to identify the rest and there was a chance they would locate the basement. It was an outside chance, but it was a chance. He took a deep breath and did a second sit-up, faster this time. It still hurt, but not as much.

When Shepherd woke up he was alone in the bed. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. The last thing he remembered was curling up with Carol in his arms and kissing her shoulder. She had been right. It had been one hell of a ride. She was passionate and aggressive in a way that Sue had never been, and vocal with it, at times screaming his name, at others cursing him, alternating between kissing and biting. Afterwards, as she had lain in his arms, Shepherd was surprised at the lack of guilt he felt. As he stared up at the ceiling he realised it was because he loved Sue, and knew he always would. What had happened between him and Carol had been purely physical.

He got out of bed, shaved and showered, then dressed and went downstairs. O’Brien was in the kitchen, frying eggs. The middle-aged Iraqi woman who normally cooked for the occupants of the house was hovering at his shoulder. ‘Fry-up, Spider?’ asked O’Brien.

Shepherd didn’t know when he’d be eating again so he nodded. ‘Please.’ He poured himself a large mug of coffee and added a splash of milk.

‘They can’t fry eggs out here,’ said O’Brien. ‘They just heat them from below so the yolks don’t cook.’ He used a spatula to splash hot fat on to them. ‘It’s not going to be a full fry-up. They haven’t got any bacon and the sausages are lamb.’

‘She’s a Muslim,’ said Shepherd, nodding at the cook. ‘She can’t touch pork.’

‘She doesn’t have to touch it, just cook it,’ said O’Brien.

‘You’re missing the point,’ said Shepherd. He sat at the kitchen table and sipped his coffee.

‘You okay?’ asked O’Brien.

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.

‘Sleep well?’

‘Like a log.’

‘Was it my imagination or did I see Carol creeping out of your room this morning?’

‘Screw you, Martin.’

‘Okay, I get it. None of my business. But you are one jammy bastard. She’s fit.’

Shepherd took another sip of his coffee. Carol Bosch appeared at the doorway. She had changed into clean fatigues and was carrying her flak-jacket, helmet and shotgun. A holstered automatic hung on her hip, and a large hunting knife was strapped to her right leg.

‘Speak of the devil,’ said O’Brien.

‘What’s that?’ asked Bosch, as she sat down at the table and winked at Shepherd.

‘I just asked if Spider thought you’d want breakfast in bed,’ said O’Brien.

‘I’d be careful how I talked to a woman wielding a shotgun,’ said Bosch.

‘How do you like your eggs?’ asked O’Brien, with a grin.

‘As they come,’ she said. She put her gun on the table. ‘How’s it going, Spider?’

‘I’m okay.’

‘Butterflies?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘With you guys watching my back, I’ll be fine.’

O’Brien put plates of food in front of them. Fried eggs, tomatoes, lamb sausages and fried bread. He put his own plate on the table and sat down. ‘How long have you been in Baghdad?’ he asked Bosch.

‘Almost two years,’ she said. ‘I’ve been with John for the past eighteen months.’

‘Good money?’

Bosch grinned. ‘Bloody good,’ she said. ‘A thousand dollars a day basic, plus overtime, plus lots of paid time off and flights home. And there’s nothing to spend your money on here so everything you earn goes straight into the bank.’

‘How’s it going to end?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Everyone I talk to says we’re wasting our time in Iraq.’

‘Everyone’s right,’ said Bosch. ‘You can’t force these people to live together. The only guy who could do that was Saddam and now he’s out of the equation.’

‘You’re saying democracy won’t work here?’ asked O’Brien, through a mouthful of egg and sausage.

‘I’m saying these people don’t understand democracy,’ said Bosch. ‘Look what happened to Yugoslavia. So long as you have a hard man forcing people to live together, they get on with it. Take away the hard man and they kill each other.’ She sliced her sausage into neat sections, popped a piece into her mouth and swallowed it without chewing. ‘When Saddam was in power, the Sunnis ran Iraq. They account for barely a fifth of the population. Once we have elections, power transfers to the majority Shias. Which leaves them with scores to settle.’ She put down her knife and held up her index finger. ‘Possible scenarios down the line,’ she said. ‘Number one. All-out civil war, with the Sunni, Shia and Kurdish factions fighting it out to the death.’ She held up two fingers. ‘Two. The Shias take over Iraq, override the wishes of the Sunnis and the Kurds and align the country with Syria, Iran and Lebanon’s Hezbollah.’ She grinned. ‘How stable would the Middle East be then?’

‘Not very,’ said Shepherd.

‘I was being rhetorical,’ she said. She held up three fingers. ‘Three. Through some miracle, democracy holds, but with the three factions infighting all the way. To keep the masses happy they’re constantly picking fights with their neighbours. The Iraqi Kurds hate Turkey, the Iraqi Sunnis hate Shia-dominated Iran and the Shias in Iraq hate the Sunnis in Jordan. To make it worse, there are three factions within the Shias, all jostling for power. Saddam was a bastard, but a weak government barely holding together three warring factions would be just as destabilising to the region.’

‘So it’s a nightmare all round?’

‘It’s worse than that,’ said Bosch, picking up her knife again. ‘The fundamentalists are using the place as a training ground. They’re coming here in their thousands. More than half the suicide-bombers in Iraq are Saudis. Less than a quarter of the insurgents killed here are Iraqi, the rest are all foreign fighters. Terrorists come here from around the world to cut their teeth and once they move on they’ll be taking the jihad to the West, big-time. What you’ve had so far in Europe is just a taste of what’s coming. You know your history, right? What happened in Afghanistan?’

Shepherd knew what had happened in Afghanistan, all right: he’d taken a bullet in the shoulder and almost died. ‘I guess so,’ he said. He put down his knife and fork. He had barely touched his breakfast.

‘Back in the eighties, the Soviets were the bad guys and Uncle Sam wanted them out of Afghanistan,’ continued Bosch. ‘The Americans poured money into the Afghan Mujahideen, effectively funding a guerrilla campaign that was ultimately successful. After the Russians pulled out, the Mujahideen didn’t lay down their weapons. Far from it. They declared a global jihad and went off in search of new battles. Remember the attack on the World Trade Center in 1993? The men behind it were connected to a group that collected money for the Afghan jihad . Talk about chickens coming home to roost. Other Mujahideen went back to Algeria to set up the Armed Islamic Group, which ended up murdering thousands of Algerian civilians in their attempt to set up an Islamist state. Another group left Afghanistan for Egypt to start a terror campaign that killed thousands of Egyptians. More Mujahideen left to set up the Abu Sayyaf group in the Philippines. And let’s not forget the most successful graduate of the Afghan conflict, Osama bin Laden himself. He turned against his former masters big-time. Most of the bad shit that’s happened in the world goes back to what happened in Afghanistan – the Twin Towers, the London Tube bombings, Bali.’

Shepherd sat back and stretched out his legs. ‘And that’s what’s happening here, isn’t it? It’s a breeding ground for terrorists.’

‘On a bigger scale than Afghanistan, in a place where the enemy is the United States, Britain, Australia and the rest of the coalition forces. The Americans have captured insurgents with British passports, French, Dutch, almost the entire EU spectrum. They’re learning urban warfare, how to make improvised explosive devices, how to brainwash suicide-bombers, how to kidnap, and once they’ve graduated they’ll take their jihad to the West, spreading like a virus.’ The South African grinned. ‘You’re fucked, you just don’t know it yet.’

‘You paint a pretty picture,’ said Shepherd, ‘but you don’t seem particularly worried.’

‘The crazier the world gets, the more work there is for me,’ she explained. ‘I get paid in dollars and I spend in rand. You should visit my game farm some time. Two hundred acres and Iraq paid for it.’

‘It’s an ill wind,’ said Shepherd.

O’Brien pointed at Shepherd’s plate with his fork. ‘Are you going to eat the sausages?’ he asked. Shepherd shook his head. O’Brien stabbed them and transferred them to his plate.

‘You should think about it,’ said Bosch, ‘you and Martin. Guys like you with your SAS training, you’d get work out here no problem.’ She leaned over and squeezed Shepherd’s forearm. ‘Have to fatten you up a bit first.’ She laughed.

The Major walked into the kitchen. ‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘Are you ready?’

‘As I ever will be,’ said Shepherd.

‘Let’s go and see John, get you kitted out,’ said the Major.

Shepherd stood up. Bosch smiled up at him. ‘Good luck, Spider,’ she said.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said, and wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

He walked into the courtyard with the Major. ‘You sure about this?’ asked Gannon.

‘It’s a bit late to change my mind now,’ said Shepherd.

‘No one would blame you if you did.’

Three helicopters flew overhead, low enough to ruffle the tops of the date palms. They were Hueys, American-made Bell UH-1Hs but with the markings of the Iraqi air force.

‘It’s Geordie’s only chance,’ said Shepherd. ‘If our roles were reversed, he wouldn’t hesitate.’

‘Yeah, well, he was always the headstrong one.’

‘He saved my life. I owe him.’

The Major clapped Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘We’ll be close by.’

‘Not too close,’ said Shepherd.

‘I won’t let anything happen to you.’

‘Thanks, boss.’

The Major hugged Shepherd, who squeezed him in return. ‘Let’s not get over-emotional,’ he said. ‘If all goes to plan we’ll be back here in a few days having a beer with Geordie and laughing about it.’

They went to the main office building and found Muller sitting behind a massive oak desk, tapping at his computer keyboard. He stood up as the two men walked in. ‘Ready to go?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.

Muller picked up a laminated card and handed it to him. ‘This is a company ID card. I’ve used the name on the passport you gave me.’ He gave Shepherd two printed letters. ‘Some company correspondence. Just shove it in your pocket.’ Shepherd did so, and put the card into his wallet. His passport was in the back pocket of his jeans. Muller went over to a metal gun cabinet, unlocked it and took out a Glock pistol in a nylon holster. He gave it to Shepherd, who strapped the holster to his belt. Muller handed Shepherd a company transceiver. ‘The frequency is preset,’ he said. ‘And now the big question. Do you want something more than the Glock? An Uzi, maybe?’

Shepherd glanced at the Major. ‘I’m thinking less is better.’

‘The less firepower you’ve got, the less likely they are to start shooting,’ said the Major. ‘You’ve got to be armed because that’s what they’d expect, but an Uzi might worry them.’

‘That’s how I read it,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they see the gun on my hip and that I’m not pulling it, there’s no reason for them to start shooting. I send out all the right signals and they assume I’m a victim.’

‘Playing a role,’ said Muller.

‘It’s what I do,’ said Shepherd.

‘Is your transmitter on?’ asked the Major.

‘Not yet,’ said Shepherd.

‘Let’s do it,’ said the Major. ‘Gives us a chance to test it.’

Shepherd sat down on a wooden chair and removed his left boot. He pulled back the insole. Nestled in a hollow below it was the small transmitter Button had given him in London. It was the size of a couple of two-pound coins, joined by a quarter-inch length of wire, encased in a slim plastic case.

‘Can I see it?’ asked Muller.

Shepherd gave it to him. Muller squinted at the transmitter. He could see a regular phone Sim card set into a metal disc, a battery and a tiny circuit board set into a second. ‘There’s not much to it,’ he said.

‘It’s all you need,’ said Shepherd. ‘The battery is mercury, which gives us more power than lithium ones, and it operates on the eight hundred megahertz cellphone frequency.’

‘No antenna?’

‘The metal that the Sim card sits in acts as one.’ He pointed at the second disc. ‘This is a GPS receiver that picks up the two point four gigahertz signal from the satellites overhead. It can pick up its longitude and latitude and uses the Sim card to transmit the information as a data call.’

‘It phones in?’

‘That’s exactly what it does. Every ten minutes it makes a ten-second call downloading its position to a computer. Yokely’s going to be monitoring the signal locally but the Iraqi phone system has commercial transponder coverage across most of the country, so unless Geordie’s being held in the middle of the desert you’ll know where I am to a few metres.’ He opened the case, flicked a tiny switch and snapped it shut. ‘Do you want to tell Richard it’s on?’ he asked the Major. ‘We ran a test yesterday but I’d rather be safe than sorry.’

‘Will do.’ Gannon took out his mobile phone and called Yokely. He had a brief conversation, then said, ‘He’ll check and get back to us.’

Shepherd put the transmitter back into his boot and the boot back on to his foot.

‘You know they’ll take your boots off you,’ said Muller.

‘But hopefully not right away,’ said Shepherd.

‘How long’s the battery good for?’ asked Muller.

‘A couple of weeks, give or take,’ said Shepherd. ‘Should be more than enough.’ He tied his shoelace.

‘And you know where you’re going?’ asked Muller.

Shepherd grinned. ‘You’re worrying too much, John,’ he said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘I’m worried you might get lost, that’s all. It’s dangerous out there,’ said Muller, gesturing with his thumb at the metal gate that led to the outside.

‘You keep saying. It’s a minefield.’

‘I meant that it’s an easy city to get lost in if you don’t know the language.’

‘I won’t get lost. I’ve been looking at street maps and satellite images of the city and my memory is almost photographic,’ said Shepherd. He stood up and walked up and down. The transmitter fitted perfectly into the slot in the sole of his boot and he couldn’t feel it. The only way someone would find it was by taking off his boot and removing the insole. He doubted anyone would bother to do that.

‘Did your American friend get clearance for the curfew?’ asked Muller.

‘He’s passed on descriptions of all your vehicles and registration numbers and says no one will bother us,’ said the Major.

‘He can do that?’ asked Muller.

‘He carries a lot of weight,’ said the Major.

‘He better had because they tend to shoot first and ask questions later after dark out here.’

‘Relax, John,’ said Shepherd.

Muller rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I just keep thinking of what Geordie’s facing. And if we screw up, you’ll be in the same position.’

‘No one’s going to screw up,’ said Shepherd, coolly. He took the Glock from its holster and checked the action. Then he ejected the magazine. It was fully loaded but if everything went to plan he wouldn’t even pull the gun from its holster.

‘He’s right, John,’ said the Major. ‘We’ll be on him every step of the way. Let’s get the vehicle ready.’

As they walked outside, the Major’s mobile rang. He listened for a few seconds, then put it away. ‘Yokely says the tracker’s working fine,’ he said, ‘and he wants you to wave.’

Shepherd frowned. ‘He wants what?’

‘He wants us all to wave,’ said the Major. He craned his neck and gazed up into the near-cloudless sky. In the far distance an airliner left a white trail as it headed west but nothing else was in the air. The Major waved, as did Shepherd.

‘You’re both mad,’ said Muller.

‘Just wave,’ said Shepherd, ‘and say “cheese”. We want to keep our guardian angel happy.’

Shepherd drove the Toyota Land Cruiser slowly down the road. He reached for the bottle of water on the passenger seat and drank from it. He was wearing body armour, and even with the air-conditioning on full blast he was sweating. He was entering Dora, the suburb in the south of Baghdad that, according to Muller, was controlled by Sunni insurgents and was a virtual no-go area for the coalition forces. Muller had said that IED attacks took place there virtually every day and the Americans drove through at speed, rarely venturing there on foot. The population of the suburb was almost half a million, a mixture of Sunnis, Shias and Christians, with the Sunnis in the majority. The suburb opened into countryside to the south, giving the insurgents an easy escape route. There were huge farms and luxurious villas, many of which had been owned by Saddam Hussein’s family and officials. Shepherd wasn’t out in the farmland, though. Geordie had been taken in the built-up area of the suburb, so that was where he was driving.

Shepherd passed a group of young men wearing dishdasha s who all glared at him. He picked up the transceiver and pushed the transmit button. ‘Okay, I’m getting ready to start the show. Are you in place?’

The transceiver crackled. ‘We’re here,’ said the Major. ‘I’ve just spoken to Yokely and he has you on the GPS and the eye in the sky. Whenever you’re ready, Spider.’

Shepherd put the transceiver back on the dashboard. His hands were wet with sweat and he wiped them one at a time on the legs of his jeans. He glanced into his rear-view mirror. There were no vehicles behind him. The Major and the rest of the team were keeping their distance. Their plan would only work if it looked as though Shepherd was on his own. He took a right turn into a narrow street that was filled with pedestrians, all Iraqi. There were women wearing full burkhas, covered from head to foot in black, there were men in grimy dishdasha s, a far cry from the gleaming robes he’d seen in Dubai, and plenty more in Western clothes.

He drove past a canal, a stagnant waterway overgrown with weeds, into which bare-chested children were jumping. Two little girls yelled and waved at him as he went by.

The buildings on either side of the street were run-down, with broken windows and peeling paintwork. The cars parked at the roadside were all old and rusting; several had been broken into and stripped. Shepherd figured the road was too busy to stop but he pumped the accelerator, making the Land Cruiser lurch. Heads turned to stare. He slowed the vehicle to a crawl, then pumped the accelerator again. He looked into his rear-view mirror. There was a taxi some fifty yards behind him, white with bright orange quarter panels. Three men sat inside it, two in the front.

Shepherd saw an intersection ahead and turned right, made the car jump forward and pulled in at the side of the road. The taxi drove by, all three men looking in his direction. He took a swig of water.

He turned to put the bottle back on the passenger seat and flinched as he saw a bearded man in a grey dishdasha staring at him through the window. He smiled, revealing two gold front teeth. ‘Hello,’ he said.

‘How are you doing?’ said Shepherd. It was difficult to judge the man’s age. His skin was dark brown and leathery, but his eyes were bright and inquisitive. He could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty.

‘You have a problem?’ said the man.

Shepherd opened the door and stepped out into the street. Almost everyone within a hundred feet had stopped walking and was watching him with open hostility. Shepherd heard a roar then saw two F16 bombers flying just below the cloud line.

‘There is something wrong with your vehicle?’ said the man.

‘The transmission, I think,’ said Shepherd.

‘On the Land Cruiser it is usually very reliable,’ said the man. ‘The Japanese make excellent cars.’

‘You’re a mechanic?’

‘Cars were a hobby when I was young,’ said the man, ‘but I cannot afford one now.’ He gestured at the vehicle. ‘May I try?’

‘I don’t think you’ll be able to do anything,’ said Shepherd.

‘You never know,’ said the man, ‘but if I cannot find out what’s wrong, I have a good friend who is a mechanic and I can call him for you.’

‘Thank you,’ said Shepherd, suddenly guilty at having lied to a man who was clearly a good Samaritan.

‘Dora is not a safe place for you, you know that?’

‘Why?’

‘The people here, many do not like the Americans.’

‘I’m British,’ said Shepherd.

‘They care more about the colour of your skin than they do about your passport,’ said the man. He held out his hand. ‘My name is Nouri.’

‘Peter,’ said Shepherd, using the name in his passport. He shook the man’s hand. ‘Look, let me have another go. Maybe it was just overheating.’

‘The transmission should not overheat,’ said Nouri.

‘I’ll give it a go anyway,’ said Shepherd.

Another taxi drove down the road and slowed as it passed the Land Cruiser. It had the same white and orange paint as the first Shepherd had seen but two women in burkhas sat in the back, with a net bag of vegetables on the front passenger seat.

‘You seem nervous, my friend,’ said Nouri.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re travelling alone? That is unusual for a Westerner.’

‘I was on my way to pick up three of our employees,’ said Shepherd. ‘Then I got lost and my car started playing up.’

‘Where are you going?’

Shepherd named a street two miles away.

Nouri smiled and pointed back the way Shepherd had come. ‘You need to go back to the crossroads, straight on for two miles, then left. Don’t you have a map?’

Shepherd shook his head.

‘I shall draw you one,’ said Nouri. He pulled a scrap of paper from inside his dishdasha and a well-chewed ballpoint pen. He put the paper on the bonnet of the car and quickly drew a rough sketch map, with all the names in Arabic and underneath an English transliteration.

‘Why is your English so good?’ asked Shepherd.

‘I was a teacher,’ said Nouri. ‘My school was bombed during the war so now I do some translating for charities. It does not pay well but it is the only job I can get these days. Things will improve in time, Inshallah.’ He gave the hand-drawn map to Shepherd.

Two men in flannel shirts and long, baggy pants were edging closer to the Land Cruiser. One reached into a pocket, pulled out a mobile phone and made a call. He stared at Shepherd as he spoke into the phone.

Nouri saw what Shepherd was looking at and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Do not worry,’ he said, and walked over to the two men, stood in front of them and spoke to them in a hushed voice. Shepherd looked around. More than fifty people were now openly staring at him. Most were men and the few women were all dressed from head to foot in black burkhas. Clearly they were poor, with grubby clothing and shabby footwear. Shepherd could feel hostility pouring off them. He reached for the door handle. Nouri turned and smiled reassuringly, then made a small patting motion with his hand as if he was quietening a spooked horse. ‘Everything is okay,’ he said.

‘I’ll give the car another try,’ said Shepherd. ‘The transmission might have cooled down.’

Nouri walked over and stood so close to Shepherd that he could smell the garlic on the man’s breath. ‘They are trouble, those men,’ he said.

‘I think you’re right, Nouri,’ said Shepherd.

‘If the car does not start, I will walk with you down the street. If you are with me, everything will be okay.’

Shepherd climbed into the Land Cruiser, started the engine and edged the vehicle forward. He gave Nouri a smile and a wave, then drove away. He was drenched in sweat and wiped a hand on his trousers before he picked up the transceiver. He clicked ‘transmit’. ‘I’m driving again,’ he said. ‘Continuing north.’

‘What happened?’ asked the Major.

‘I didn’t seem to be flavour of the month,’ said Shepherd, ‘but no one was in a rush to kidnap me.’

‘That was interesting,’ said Simon Nichols, leaning back in his seat to study the bank of screens in front of him. ‘What do you think just happened?’

Richard Yokely sipped his coffee. ‘I reckon Spider found one of the few men in Dora who likes Westerners,’ he said. ‘What are the odds?’

‘Slim,’ said Will Slater who, like Nichols, was studying the screens. ‘Slim to non-existent. That’s Hajji country down there.’ That was the Arabic word for a Muslim who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca, but it had become the standard term used by the military to refer to Iraqi insurgents.

Nichols and Slater were sensor operators, responsible for studying the output from the Predator unmanned aerial vehicle that was circling Baghdad at twenty thousand feet. The drone was transmitting high-resolution real-time images of the city below from cameras so powerful they could easily pick out individual numberplates. A variable-aperture television camera gave them a live feed of what was happening on the ground and an infrared camera supplied real-time images at night or in low-light conditions. A synthetic aperture radar system capable of penetrating cloud and smoke was constantly producing still images that were transmitted to the ground-control station. As well as its hi-tech surveillance equipment, the Predator was equipped with two Hellfire missiles and a multi-spectral targeting system that combined a laser illuminator, laser designator infrared and optical sensors. It could fire its own missiles or pinpoint a target far below for tanks or manned aircraft to attack.

Phillip Howell, a CIA pilot who was one of the best Predator operators in the business, was piloting the twenty-seven-foot long drone. Yokely had asked for him because he had worked with him before and he knew that the surveillance operation would be as challenging as they came. Howell seemed relaxed as he piloted the drone: he had his feet up on a table as his right hand played idly with the joystick. He scanned the screen that showed the readings, but the one he relied on most featured the output from the colour camera in the Predator’s nose cone.

‘How are we doing for fuel, Phil?’ asked Yokely.

Howell looked at the gauge and did a calculation in his head. ‘Seventeen hours, give or take,’ he said. The Predator’s fuel tank held a hundred gallons, enough to keep it in the air for twenty-hours if it was circling or give it a range of 450 miles at its top speed of eighty miles an hour.

It had taken off from Balad airbase, a fifteen-square-mile mini-city just forty miles north-west of Baghdad; since the coalition forces had moved into Iraq it had become the second busiest airport in the world, beaten only by London’s Heathrow. It had two parallel eleven-thousand-foot runways and was surrounded by dusty, parched desert dotted with stumpy eucalyptus trees. The nearby town was a hotbed of Iraqi insurgency and every night mortars rained from the sky – the soldiers stationed there had christened the base ‘Mortaritaville’. Yokely and his three companions were in one of the Predator ground-control stations, a container-sized steel capsule. After they had been launched the Predators weren’t flown by Iraq-based operators but by people seven thousand miles away at Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas. The data transmitted by the drones could also be beamed to US commanders in Saudi Arabia, Qatar or even in the Pentagon. Yokely, however, had insisted on local control. He wanted to be at Howell’s shoulder as the craft prowled over the city, keeping a watchful eye on Spider Shepherd. And the data was for their eyes only. Yokely had no intention that anyone in Washington DC should know what they were doing.

Two air-conditioning units the size of washing-machines hummed at the far end of the capsule. On the opposite wall a line of clocks displayed east-coast time, west-coast time, Iraq, Tokyo and Zulu time.

‘Whose brilliant idea was this?’ asked Slater.

Yokely gestured at the screen. The Land Cruiser was driving slowly down the main road, manoeuvring around two burned-out cars. ‘He came up with it himself.’

Next to the screen showing the real-time video feed a smaller screen presented a computer map of the area with a blinking cursor that positioned the transmitter in Shepherd’s boot. The Predator’s onboard receiver was picking up a burst of GPS data every ten minutes from the transmitter, which was then downloaded to the computer in the ground-control station.

‘He’s mad, you know that?’ said Slater.

‘I expressed my reservations, but he wouldn’t be dissuaded. And let’s not forget it gives us a fighting chance of locating Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi. He’s high on our most-wanted list.’

‘Spider’s a Judas Goat,’ said Nichols. ‘It’s how you catch a man-eating tiger – tether a goat and wait for the tiger to come a-calling. But the snag is…’

‘The goat usually dies,’ Slater finished.

‘Let’s lose the gloom and doom, guys,’ said Yokely. ‘That’s why we’re here, to stop that happening.’

‘Are we looking to capture or kill Wafeeq?’ asked Howell, using the joystick to put the Predator into a gentle roll to the right so that he kept Shepherd’s Land Cruiser in the centre of the camera’s vision.

‘We’ll take it as it comes,’ said Yokely. ‘I’m easy either way.’

‘And your man there? Does he stand more than a snowball’s chance in hell of getting close to this Wafeeq?’

‘If anyone can pull it off, Spider can,’ Yokely told him.

Shepherd braked to allow four young children to cross in front of him, all boys in tattered shirts and threadbare shorts. Only one was wearing sandals. They waved at him and he waved back. One ran to the passenger window. ‘Chewing-gum?’ he shouted. Shepherd shook his head. The three other boys joined him and chorused, ‘Chewing-gum, chewing-gum.’ The oldest couldn’t have been more than twelve.

Shepherd was sorry he didn’t have anything to give them. He thought of Liam, with his PlayStation, his football, his music lessons, the expensive trainers and his iPod. He wanted a laptop computer for Christmas and he’d probably get one. ‘Sorry, guys,’ said Shepherd, holding up his hands. ‘I haven’t got anything.’ They carried on chanting for chewing-gum. Shepherd leaned forward and popped the button to open the glovebox. He fumbled inside and found a roll of mints, wound down the window and gave them to the biggest. They ran off, laughing and shouting. Shepherd couldn’t imagine Liam getting so worked up about a packet of sweets.

He wound up the window and put the vehicle in gear, checking the rear-view mirror as he pulled away. There was a taxi about fifty feet behind him, with three men inside.

He picked up the transceiver. ‘There’s a taxi behind me, I’m pretty sure it was hanging around earlier,’ he said.

‘Roger that,’ said the Major.

Shepherd drove slowly down the road. Few other cars were around. A rusting Vespa scooter loaded with three large Calor-gas bottles overtook him – an elderly man in a faded blue dishdasha was bent over the handlebars, twisting the accelerator as if he was trying to squeeze more power out of the ancient machine. Shepherd checked his mirror again. The taxi was still there, matching his speed. He pumped the accelerator, making the Land Cruiser judder, then put the gearstick into neutral and hit the accelerator again, making the engine roar. He looked in the mirror. The taxi was still there, matching his speed, which was now little more than a crawl. Shepherd took a deep breath. His heart was racing and he could hear the blood pounding in his ears. This was like no other undercover operation he’d ever been on because, for the first time, he was deliberately putting himself in harm’s way.

He braked, took another swig from his water bottle, looking in the mirror as he drank. The taxi had stopped, too. Three women in headscarves and long dresses walked by the Land Cruiser carrying cloth bags filled with bread. They were gossiping and didn’t look at Shepherd as he popped the bonnet and climbed out of the vehicle.

Across the road a concreted area, surrounded by a wire mesh fence, was filled with rusting car bodies, most of which had been raked by gunfire. Two young boys watched him through the fence with wide eyes.

Shepherd peered under the bonnet of the Land Cruiser. Sweat poured down his back under his shirt and body armour and he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. It was in the high forties and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. He stared at the engine. The full realisation of what he was doing hit him. He was in the most dangerous city in the world, offering himself like a lamb to the slaughter. He heard a car door open, then another and another. Three doors. Three men. A few seconds later there were three slams. Shepherd’s heart went into overdrive and he took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to stay calm. His instinct was to reach for his gun but he gripped his right hand into a fist and banged it down on the radiator cap. He was unarmed so there was no reason for them to get violent. He had to play the part right. Scared, confused and not a threat. A victim. He flinched as he heard gunshots, then realised they had been distant. A Kalashnikov. It was followed by the rat-tat-tat of M16s. Then silence.

Shepherd stared at the engine with unseeing eyes. He was listening to the footsteps of the men who had left the taxi. They’d be armed, he had no doubt of that. They’d have seen the logo of Muller’s security company on the Land Cruiser so they’d know he was carrying a weapon – they’d only approach him if they knew they had him outgunned. He heard the scrape of a sandal on the pavement, then a slap, which Shepherd guessed was its owner stepping into the road. That made sense. They’d come at him from both sides, catching him in a pincer movement. Probably distract him from one side, then overpower him from behind. In a perfect world they’d pull a bag over his head and drag him to the taxi, but Shepherd knew that the world was far from perfect and the odds were that they would hurt him. The adrenaline was kicking into his system, giving him the near-irresistible urge for flight or fight. But he couldn’t run or fight: he had to stand his ground, play his role and hope that what they had in mind was hostage-taking, not murder.

He heard rapid footsteps behind him and turned to see a small boy in a faded Liverpool shirt running full pelt with an apple in each hand. A bearded shopkeeper in a striped apron screamed something at him and shook his fist. Shepherd smiled. He hadn’t been averse to nicking the odd apple or orange when he was a kid – until he’d realised that stealing was wrong. The kid kept running and the shopkeeper went back inside.

Shepherd turned back to the engine. A fat man in a dark brown dishdasha walked past briskly, his head covered with a red and white checked shumag scarf. He was followed by an equally overweight woman in a black abayah that covered her from shoulders to feet. She was frowning, clearly unhappy about something – probably that she had to carry two cheap suitcases tied up with string, Shepherd thought. She was breathing heavily and her face was bathed in sweat. The man looked over his shoulder and barked something in Arabic. She nodded and walked faster. Suddenly Shepherd remembered Fariq’s wife and smiled to himself: she was from Baghdad but he couldn’t imagine her covering herself and walking behind her husband. It would probably have been the other way around.

His smile vanished when two men appeared at his right shoulder. Tall, thin men with spindly arms, wearing sweatshirts, cotton trousers and plastic sandals. One had a zigzag scar that ran from his left eye to his chin. His eyes darted from left to right and he was breathing heavily. The other man was calmer and stared at Shepherd with unblinking brown eyes. He had a straggly beard and metal-framed spectacles, and his hands were low, below the wing of the Land Cruiser.

Shepherd could feel hostility pouring from them. Under other circumstances he would have gone into full-attack mode. He’d have pulled his gun and shot them both at the slightest provocation. Even if he hadn’t been armed he was confident he could take them. Both were within reach: he could chop the bearded man across the throat, then step round the car and hit the second, probably a kick to the knee to disable him, then a punch to the nose. Shepherd’s adrenal glands were in overdrive and his legs were trembling, not from fear but because an animal instinct was screaming that it was time to move.

‘Hi,’ he said, playing his role. He was an idiot, lost in a city he didn’t understand, a stupid infidel who was out of his depth and didn’t know it. He forced himself to smile. ‘Engine trouble.’

‘American?’ said the man with glasses.

‘British,’ said Shepherd.

The man wearing glasses lifted his hand. He was holding a gun. Shepherd stared at it. The man’s finger was tight on the trigger. It was a Russian-made 9mm Makarov. The body armour Shepherd was wearing would almost certainly stop a 9mm slug, even at such close range. The man had made a big mistake in pointing it at his chest. If he’d been in attack mode, Shepherd would have been able to grab the gun and pull his own, confident that even if the man’s weapon fired he’d still be able to get in a killing shot. But Shepherd was in victim mode, which meant he had to stand where he was and stare at the gun as if it was the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen. ‘What do you want?’ he said. ‘You want money?’

He heard footsteps as the third man moved along the other side of the Land Cruiser. Soft, careful steps, as if he was walking on tiptoe. Shepherd fought the urge to turn, even though he knew that the man behind him was almost certainly going to hit him – hard. He continued to stare at the gun. If they wanted to kill him they would have done it already: they could have put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. He heard the sound of a foot scuffing along the Tarmac. Close. Very close.

‘I’ll give you my wallet,’ said Shepherd. He slowly lifted his left hand. ‘And you can have my watch.’ The man said nothing. He raised the gun so that it was pointing at Shepherd’s face. Shepherd stared at it, trying to block out what was happening behind him. The Makarov looked like a larger version of the German Walther PP but internally there were many differences. Shepherd was familiar with the weapon and knew how to strip and clean it, but it wasn’t a gun he liked. He heard the man behind him take a breath and knew that the blow was coming. Time seemed to stretch into infinity as he anticipated it. He had no idea if he would be hit with a gun, a cosh or even a brick, but he was sure that it would hurt. He wanted to turn and face his attacker, meet force with force. Every fibre of him fought against standing still, but that was what he had to do so he stared at the gun and pushed his tongue against the roof of his mouth so that he wouldn’t bite it when he was hit. He felt his shoulders tense against the blow he knew was coming, then something hard slammed into his head just behind his ear. He felt as if he’d been struck by a bolt of lightning. His legs went weak, as if all the strength had been sucked out of them, then everything went red and, finally, black.

The Major’s mobile rang and he answered it immediately. ‘Yes, Richard,’ he said. Balad airbase was out of range of the transceivers they were using so they’d decided that mobile phones were the best way to keep in touch. The Major didn’t want to rely on the Iraqi system so he’d asked Muller to bring a satellite phone with him. It sat on the back seat of the Land Cruiser between Muller and O’Brien.

‘He’s been taken,’ said Yokely.

‘How did it happen?’

‘Three Mams cold-cocked him from behind, then dragged him to a taxi. They locked him in the boot. We’ve got a visual on it now and the transmitter’s working fine. They’re heading south.’

‘Mams?’

‘Local jargon. Military-aged males.’

‘Do you think he’s okay?’

‘They hit him once with something small, maybe a gun. He went down straight away. Unless he’s very unlucky he’ll just have a sore head.’

‘Can you get a licence plate?’

‘We’re working on it but they’re in built-up areas and the drone’s high up so we can’t get the angle. Tell John the Land Cruiser is being stripped as we speak. I’ll text you the address but I don’t think there’ll be much left by the time he gets there.’

‘We’ll start heading their way,’ said the Major.

‘No rush,’ said Yokely. ‘I doubt they’ll be going too far so we’ll have a location for you soon. My bet is that they’ll hold him for at least a day until they pass him on.’

The Major thanked Yokely and ended the call. He nodded at Pat Jordan who was in the driving seat, chewing gum. ‘Game on,’ said the Major.

Shepherd was aware of the vibration first, then the smell. He was being shaken from side to side and his head banged against the floor of the boot every time the taxi went over a bump. The smell of the exhaust was sickening and he felt more light-headed with every breath he took. Then he became aware of the noise, the roar of the tyres over Tarmac and the clunk-clunk-clunk of an engine with worn cylinders.

He was lying on his left arm. He rolled over to get his weight off it and tried to look at his watch, but his wrists were tied. He twisted round, trying to find fresher air, pushed his hooded face close to the boot lock and breathed through the gap. He hoped they didn’t plan to keep him there for much longer because the carbon monoxide in the exhaust would kill him as surely as a bullet to the brain. He felt a sharp pain at the back of his head where he’d been hit, and consciousness began to slip away again. He shook his head. He didn’t know if the blow to the head or the carbon monoxide was making him drowsy, but he knew that he had to stay awake. He bit down on his tongue, hard enough to taste blood, using the pain to keep himself focused.

The Major’s mobile rang. It was Yokely. ‘They’ve taken him inside a house,’ said the American.

‘Is he okay?’ asked the Major.

‘They carried him in and he wasn’t moving, but if he was dead they’d have left him in the trunk.’

‘That’s reassuring,’ said the Major, coldly.

‘I’ll text you the co-ordinates but you should keep your distance. He’s still in Dora and Westerners stick out there.’

‘We’ll hang back,’ said the Major.

‘We’re going to bring the plane in for refuelling now,’ said Yokely. ‘Everything seems quiet and I’d rather be up there with a full tank. We’ll be down for about two hours. The transmitter’s still working fine so we’ll know if they move him. I’m getting our NSA guys here to monitor the tracker through the Iraqi phone service.’

‘Any sign of him moving, let me know,’ said the Major. He ended the call, then rang Armstrong to brief him on what the American had said. Armstrong was parked half a mile away in another Land Cruiser with Shortt, Bosch and Haschka.

‘Why doesn’t he have two of those things up?’ asked O’Brien from the back seat when the Major finished his call. He had a KitKat, which he broke into two. He offered half to Gannon, who shook his head. Muller grabbed for it but O’Brien grinned and moved it out of his reach.

‘We’re lucky to have the one, Martin,’ said the Major. ‘They cost over four million dollars each, the ground station is another ten, and they need a ground crew of three working on it full time when it’s in the air. Yokely’s doing it on the quiet because the Yanks wouldn’t want to put that amount of resources into one missing Brit.’

‘He’s a generous guy,’ said O’Brien, popping the last piece of KitKat into his mouth.

‘He’ll want his pound of flesh at some point,’ said the Major, ‘but we need him. We could follow the transmitters using the regular Iraqi phone network but the Predator gives us a visual, too.’

‘I hope he’s okay,’ said Muller.

‘You and me both,’ said the Major.

Shepherd tasted blood in his mouth, turned his head and spat it out, then regretted it because the result was smeared across the inside of the hood. His head was throbbing, the pain was made worse because he was lying on his back. He rolled on to his right side and felt a searing pain in his skull. He took several deep breaths, then lay still and listened. He could hear nothing, not even street noise. He was lying on hard ground, possibly concrete. His wrists were bound behind his back and he had lost all feeling in his fingers. He brought his knees up, then tried to roll over to get up. The strength had gone from his legs and he fell back.

He lay gasping for breath, then heard a door open and footsteps walking across the floor. Hands gripped his shoulders and turned him. Someone pulled up the hood and thrust a plastic bottle towards his mouth. Shepherd drank. It was lukewarm water. The man held the bottle to Shepherd’s lips until he spluttered, then took it away and pulled down the hood. He turned Shepherd around, then pushed him back until he was against the wall. They’d taken off his body armour.

‘Sit,’ said the man.

Shepherd had the feeling he was the tall man with glasses, the one who’d pulled the gun. He slid down the wall and sat with his back to it, his knees against his chest. ‘I need to urinate,’ said Shepherd.

‘What?’ said the man.

‘I need to pee. To piss.’

‘Wet your pants,’ said the man. ‘I am not untying your hands.’

‘Who are you?’

Something hit Shepherd on the side of the head, a hand maybe. The man had slapped him, hard. ‘I will ask questions, not you,’ said the man.

‘Okay,’ said Shepherd, his ears ringing. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What is your name?’

‘Peter Simpson,’ said Shepherd. It was the name in the passport and on the credit cards in his wallet.

‘Where are you from?’

‘Manchester,’ said Shepherd.

‘What are you doing in Baghdad?’

‘I work for a security company,’ said Shepherd.

Shepherd heard paper rustling and realised that the man was flicking through his passport.

‘How long have you been in Iraq?’

‘I arrived yesterday.’

The man chuckled. ‘You are in deep shit, Mr Peter Simpson,’ he said. Shepherd felt the man slap his boots. ‘Timberland?’ asked the man.

Shepherd nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘What size?’ asked the man.

‘They’re on the move,’ said Nichols, nodding at the LCD screen and its real-time view of the house where Shepherd had been kept for the previous twelve hours. Yokely got up from the camp-bed he was lying on and went to stand at the other man’s shoulder. It was night and they were looking at the infrared image from the Predator.

Three figures were moving from the house to the car. The one in the middle was stumbling, held by the other two. ‘He’s walking,’ said Nichols.

Yokely nodded. ‘They must be passing him up the food chain,’ he said. He called the Major’s mobile. ‘They’re moving him now,’ Yokely told him.

‘Is he okay?’

‘He’s walking. They’re putting him in the car.’

‘Excellent,’ said the Major.

‘I’ll let you know which direction once they head off.’ Yokely put his phone away. ‘How’s it going, Phillip?’ he asked the pilot.

‘Hunky-dory,’ said Howell, who was sipping coffee from a chipped white mug. He had been piloting the Predator for more than sixteen hours and had only been able to take his eyes off the screens for the two hours when the drone was on the airfield being refuelled and serviced.

‘Fuel?’

Howell flicked his eyes to the gauge and calculated in his head. ‘Fifteen hours or so.’

Yokely looked at the GPS display. The cursor was blinking steadily. He smiled to himself. So far, so good.

‘I can’t breathe in there,’ said Shepherd, as the two men pushed him into the boot of the car.

‘What?’ said one of the men. It wasn’t the man who’d spoken to him inside – this voice was deeper and gruffer.

‘The exhaust’s leaking,’ said Shepherd. ‘The fumes will kill me.’

‘Hold your breath,’ said the man, and laughed. He grabbed Shepherd’s shirt collar and pushed him towards the boot.

‘If you kill me, I’m not worth anything,’ said Shepherd, quickly. ‘I kept passing out before and I could easily die in there.’

The two men talked to each other in Arabic, arguing. Shepherd heard footsteps as the third of his captors approached, then the voice of the man who’d interrogated him inside.

The man put his face close to Shepherd’s head. ‘What is the problem?’ he said.

‘The exhaust is leaking,’ said Shepherd. ‘The boot gets full of fumes. I kept passing out last time.’

‘You want to travel first class, is that it?’ The man said something to the others, who laughed.

Shepherd opened his mouth but before he could say anything something hard smashed against the side of his head.

Nichols winced. ‘That’s got to have hurt,’ he said. ‘Why did they do it?’

‘Because they’re tough, mean motherfuckers,’ said Yokely.

‘They’ve got him bound and hooded. Hitting him is overkill,’ said Slater.

‘No one said they were nice people,’ said Yokely.

They watched as two of the men put the unconscious Shepherd into the boot while the third got into the driving seat. They slammed the boot shut, then one slid into the passenger seat while the other held back to shut the gates behind them. There was no other traffic in the road.

Howell moved the joystick and put the drone into a lazy left-hand turn. Slater moved his control to keep the car in the centre of the screen. There wasn’t much traffic about so he had no problem following the vehicle, but it still required his full attention.

Yokely pulled up a chair. He moved his head frequently to keep an eye on both screens – the infrared camera view and the GPS monitor.

‘When are you going to move in?’ asked Howell.

‘That’ll be Spider’s call,’ said Yokely.

‘He’d better not leave it too late,’ said Howell.

‘I hear you,’ said Yokely.

When Shepherd came to he was still in the boot. His head ached and he couldn’t feel his hands. The car was driving fast and the road seemed smooth. His mouth was bone-dry and it hurt to swallow. The exhaust smell was overpowering and he rolled over again so that his mouth was close to the boot’s lock. The combination of the hood and the fumes was making him drowsy and he fought to stay awake. ‘Please, God, don’t let me die like this…’ he whispered.

Yokely watched the car on the infrared monitor. It had been driving for almost forty minutes and had now left the city, heading south towards Yusufiyah, a farming area between the rivers Euphrates and Tigris. On the monitor it moved along a road that cut through fields filled with orange and date groves. Yokely looked at the GPS screen. Yusufiyah was a Sunni stronghold, and had been ever since the coalition forces had invaded Iraq. It wasn’t exactly a no-go area for the military but when they went in they went in hard and tended to stay in their vehicles.

The car made a left turn, slowed, stopped at an intersection, then made a right turn. It pulled up in front of a large L-shaped building that was surrounded by a wall. Several vans were parked outside. Two figures came out, opened a gate and the car drove in.

‘Simon, see if you can ID that building,’ said Yokely.

‘I’m on it,’ said Nichols.

‘You think that’s where they’re holding the other guy?’ asked Slater.

‘Difficult to say,’ said Yokely. ‘We watch and wait. Softly, softly, catchy monkey.’

‘See, now, I’ve never understood that expression,’ said Howell, as he put the Predator into a slow left bank. ‘Monkeys are smart and you can’t creep up on one, no matter how slow you take it. You wanna take out a monkey, you shoot it with a tranquilliser gun.’

‘You always were a stickler for detail, Phillip.’

‘Pilots have to be,’ said Howell. ‘Otherwise they forget things like putting their landing gear down.’

The men got out of the car and gathered around the boot. One opened it.

‘He’s not moving,’ said Slater.

‘I see that,’ said Yokely, quietly.

Two ghostly white figures on the screen pulled Shepherd out and carried him into the building. Another closed the gate and followed the others. Yokely divided his attention between the two screens. The GPS monitor continued to blink. They knew where Shepherd was, but not whether he was alive or dead.

The Major’s phone rang. He put it to his ear. ‘Yes, Richard?’

‘It’s good news, and bad news, I’m afraid,’ said the American. ‘We know where he is but he’s not moving.’

‘Shit,’ said the Major.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked O’Brien, from the back seat.

‘He walked out of the building and they hit him before they put him in the trunk,’ said Yokely. ‘Could be he’s just concussed.’

‘But we’ve no way of knowing,’ said the Major.

‘We watch and wait,’ said Yokely. ‘He’s in Yusufiyah, about thirty miles south of Baghdad. Problem is, it’s not as built up as Baghdad and Westerners tend to stick out.’

‘My inclination is to go in now,’ said the Major.

‘I understand that,’ said Yokely, ‘but we’ve got them under surveillance. They can’t go anywhere without us knowing so let’s give it a few more hours.’

‘Okay,’ said the Major, reluctantly, and put away the phone. He explained to Muller, O’Brien and Jordan what had happened.

O’Brien cursed. ‘If he’s dead, we go in and we go in hard, right?’

‘He’s not dead,’ said the Major. He turned to Muller. ‘What can you tell me about Yusufiyah?’

‘It’s full of al-Qaeda militants. They call it the Triangle of Death and it’s a haven for insurgents. Is that where they’ve taken Spider?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said the Major.

‘If anything goes wrong, if he doesn’t get out of this, every one of those bastards gets it,’ said Muller. ‘Every single one.’

Shepherd coughed and pain lanced his skull. He groaned. He could taste blood in his mouth. He was lying on his side on rough matting, which smelled of mould. He coughed again.

‘Do you want water?’ said a heavily accented voice behind him.

Shepherd heard footsteps, then someone pulled at his shoulder and helped him to sit up. His hands were still tied behind him. The hood was lifted and the neck of a plastic bottle was forced between his lips. Shepherd drank for several seconds, then the bottle was taken away. The hood fell back into place. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘You should rest,’ said the man. He helped Shepherd lie down again.

‘My wrists hurt,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can you loosen them?’

‘No,’ said the man.

‘I can’t feel my hands,’ said Shepherd.

‘Shut up,’ said a second voice, harsher than the first. Shepherd heard a rustle of clothing then a foot slammed into his kidney. The blow took him by surprise and he screamed at the pain.

‘There’s movement,’ said Nichols. ‘A guy’s just left the house and gone to the car.’ He was studying the output from the Predator’s infrared sensor. It was eleven o’clock in the evening and the regular video output had shown nothing but darkness since eight.

Yokely got up off the camp-bed and walked over to stand behind him. Two more figures left the house and got into the car. Another went to the gate, pulled it back and the car eased into the street. ‘They’re taking a risk moving him at night,’ said Yokely. ‘It’s well into curfew and if they come across an army patrol, they’ll be shot to pieces.’

Yokely stared at the screen that showed the position of the transmitter hidden in Shepherd’s boot. The cursor was still on the building, which suggested that Shepherd was inside it. It looked as if his kidnappers were returning home, which meant they had handed him over to the next link in the chain.

The figure closed the gate and went back into the building.

‘What do we do?’ asked Howell. ‘Stick with the house or follow the car?’

‘Stay put,’ said Yokely. ‘They’ve sold him to whoever’s in there. The question is, is it Wafeeq or not?’

‘With respect, the question is whether or not your man is still alive,’ said Howell, who was keeping the drone in a gentle left-hand turn some twenty thousand feet above the building.

‘Do try to be a bit more optimistic, Phillip,’ said Yokely.

‘They’ve hit him on the head twice, hard,’ said the pilot.

‘They’re thick-skulled, the Brits,’ said Yokely. ‘How are we doing for fuel?’

‘Thirteen hours or so,’ said Howell.

‘What’s the plan now?’ asked Slater.

‘We see if they move Shepherd on or keep him there.’

‘You’re thinking of going in?’

‘I want all my bases covered,’ said Yokely.

‘Richard, we’ve got a problem,’ said Nichols. He pointed at the GPS monitor. ‘Do you see that?’

‘Yeah, I see it,’ said Yokely. The flashing cursor that showed the position of the transmitter had moved. It was now almost a mile from the house.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked Howell. ‘Is one of those guys your man? And if it is, why did he get into the car willingly?’

The Major’s mobile rang. It was Yokely. ‘We’ve got a problem,’ said the American. ‘According to the GSM, Shepherd’s on the move, back to the first place he was being held.’

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ said the Major. ‘They were passing him up the chain and there’s no reason for him to go back.’ He cursed quietly. ‘The boots?’

‘I guess so. I think the original kidnappers have gone home with their ill-gotten gains, leaving Shepherd in the house without the transmitter.’

‘How’s the visual?’ asked the Major.

‘All we have is the infrared so we’ve no way of knowing what’s going on inside. We don’t know if that’s the place where Geordie Mitchell’s being held or if it’s another half-way house and they’re planning to move Shepherd on again. The infrared doesn’t work in buildings and if we’ve lost the transmitter we’ll have to rely on the visual to see if they take him out.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ asked the Major.

‘We need to know what’s going on inside the building,’ said Yokely. ‘If that’s where they’ve got Geordie, we can get ready to move in. But if it isn’t and it’s just another link in the chain, we have to wait and see.’

‘And I’m sure you want to know if Wafeeq’s in there,’ said the Major.

‘The two are connected, Allan. Let’s not forget that. Look, the Predator can watch the building and we can track the GPS, so at the moment there’s no panic. I’m going to pay the original kidnappers a visit.’

‘To what end?’

‘Information retrieval,’ said Yokely. ‘It’s what I do best.’

‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ said the Major.

‘They can tell me what’s happening inside that building. For all we know they’ve already put him in an orange jumpsuit,’ said Yokely. ‘The three guys who took him off the street are heading home. We can interrogate them and keep them in cold storage until it’s over. I don’t see a downside.’

‘Okay,’ said the Major. What the American proposed made sense, but he was starting to feel that stable doors were being locked after horses had bolted.

‘I’d like to take Armstrong and Shortt with me,’ said Yokely. ‘I’m loath to bring in the heavy guns at this stage. If it becomes a full military operation, alarm bells’ll ring.’

‘Agreed,’ said the Major.

‘I’m about thirty miles away from them so I’ll get a lift out there. Can you call and tell them to expect me?’

‘Roger that,’ said the Major. He ended the call and twisted around in his seat to Muller and O’Brien. ‘It’s got a bit more complicated,’ he said. He could tell from their faces that they had gathered what the problem was.

Shepherd pushed himself backwards on the mat until his head touched a wall. He rolled over and sat up. His head was aching and his captors had given him only one drink of water since they’d taken him out of the car boot so his throat was dry. He listened but couldn’t hear anyone else in the room. He had no way of knowing if they were keeping him in a basement or upstairs, or what was outside the building. ‘Is anyone there?’ he asked. His voice echoed round the room.

Shepherd wiggled his fingers. He couldn’t tell what they had used to bind his wrists together but it was way too tight.

He pushed himself up against the wall and stood, breathing heavily. The floor was hard under his feet. Not wood, concrete maybe. That he no longer had his boots was a worry – a big one.

He moved sideways, keeping his back to the wall, trying to get a sense of how big a space he was in. His hands were so numb that he couldn’t tell if it was bare plaster or wallpaper that he was touching. He rubbed his right foot along the floor. Through his sock he could feel the rough rasp of concrete. He reached a corner and started along the second wall. After half a dozen sideways steps he found a door. He groped for the handle and found it but couldn’t grip. He clenched and unclenched his hands, but couldn’t even feel if his fingers were moving. Three more paces took him to the next corner. The wall had been about six metres long.

He started along the next wall, rubbing it with his shoulders as he moved. It was blank and featureless. He reached the next corner in seven sideways paces. About four metres.

Midway along the fourth wall he found a window. He tapped it with the back of his head and felt the glass rattle. He’d lost all sense of time and the hood was totally lightproof so he had no way of knowing if it was day or night. He doubted they would have left him in a room with a window so he guessed that there was a shutter on it, or bars. He turned to face the window and pressed his forehead against it. Was there a shutter, he wondered, or could he be seen from outside?

The door crashed open. ‘Down on the floor!’ shouted a man. ‘You stay down!’

Shepherd dropped to his knees. ‘I need water,’ he said.

A hand slapped his head and his lip split. ‘You stay down or we will kill you.’ The man grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, dragged him across the floor, then pushed him down on to the mat. ‘You will stay here,’ said the man. ‘You will not move until you are told to.’ Shepherd felt something hard press against his neck through the hood. ‘You know what this is?’ hissed the man.

‘A knife,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yes, a knife. And I can cut your head off as easily as I can kill a chicken. You know that?’

‘Yes,’ said Shepherd.

The man pressed the knife harder against Shepherd’s neck. ‘I can kill you now.’

Shepherd said nothing. There was nothing he could say: his life was in the man’s hands. The one thing he clung to as he felt the knife bite into the hood was that there was nothing to be gained from killing him there and then. If they were going to kill him they’d do it on video so the world could see.

‘Maybe I will. Maybe I will kill you now,’ hissed the man.

‘ Inshallah,’ said Shepherd.

Shepherd felt the knife move away from his throat. ‘What did you say?’ asked the man.

‘ Inshallah,’ said Shepherd. ‘If Allah wants me dead, then you should do what you have to do.’

‘You think I will not kill you?’

‘I think if it’s Allah’s will that you kill me, you will kill me.’

‘You speak Arabic?’

‘No, but I’ve read the Koran.’

‘The Koran is in Arabic,’ said the man.

‘I read a translation,’ said Shepherd. ‘It was in English.’

The man stood up and left the room. He returned two minutes later, raised Shepherd’s hood and thrust a plastic bottle of water between his lips. He drank. The man allowed him to finish it, then took it away and pulled the hood down.

‘Thank you,’ gasped Shepherd.

‘Stay on the floor,’ said the man. ‘If you get up again, I will kill you.’ He left the room and slammed the door.

Armstrong heard the helicopter before he saw it, a sixty-four-foot-long shark-like Blackhawk, twin turbines screaming as the massive rotors kicked up a flurry of dust from the road. It loomed out of the night sky, its twin searchlights scanning the area, then bumped on the ground and a man jumped out. He was wearing body armour over camouflage fatigues and a Kevlar helmet. In his right hand he held an M16 rifle and in the left a set of industrial bolt-cutters. It was only when he ran towards them that Armstrong realised it was Yokely. The helicopter’s turbines roared and it clattered into the air, then banked to the right and disappeared into the night.

Armstrong opened the back door of the Land Cruiser and moved over so that Yokely could sit next to him. ‘I hope Gannon told you I was coming,’ he said.

‘He did,’ said Shortt.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Bosch. She was in the front passenger seat, next to Haschka.

Yokely reached into his body armour and pulled out a map showing the location of the Land Cruiser and the route to the building where Shepherd had first been taken. He gave it to Bosch. ‘Pull in just round the corner and we’ll go in on foot.’

Haschka put the 464 in gear and drove off.

‘Why the military outfit?’ asked Armstrong. He lit a Marlboro and offered the pack to Yokely.

Yokely waved it away. ‘Gives me a certain legitimacy,’ he said.

‘And camouflage,’ said Bosch. She reached over, took one of Armstrong’s cigarettes and waited while he lit it for her.

‘Exactly,’ said Yokely.

Haschka drove the Land Cruiser through the darkened suburbs. There was no street lighting but the 464’s powerful headlights cut through the night, startling the stray dogs and cats that slept on the streets. There were few people around and those there were hurrying along with their heads down. Two military Humvees came around a corner and headed in their direction. Yokely flashed the driver of the lead vehicle a mock salute and the man waved back. Bosch kept the map on her lap and gave Haschka directions. After half an hour she told him to slow down. ‘Two blocks along,’ she said.

Yokely took out his mobile phone. He called Slater’s number. ‘Is it clear, Will?’ he asked. He had told the pilot to swing the Predator over the house and check out the area.

‘There’s no traffic and we don’t see anyone in the street,’ said Slater. ‘No movement around the house.’

‘Thanks,’ said Yokely. ‘Keep a watch until we’ve gained entry, then tell Phillip to head on back.’ Yokely put away the phone and pointed at the next intersection. ‘Hang a right there, Joe, and pull in somewhere quiet.’

Haschka made the turn. Bosch saw an alleyway ahead but before she could say anything Haschka had seen it and was driving down it. He parked and switched off the engine.

They all climbed out. Yokely took out his phone again and called Slater. ‘Do you see us?’

‘We have you on infrared,’ said Slater. ‘No one else on the streets for a hundred yards or so, and that’s two men walking away from you. You’re clear.’

It was a cloudless night and overhead there were a million stars but no sign of the Predator twenty thousand feet above them. ‘We’re going in,’ said Yokely. He ended the call, then nodded at Haschka and Armstrong. ‘We’re clear to go,’ he said. He took out his Glock. ‘You two, Jimbo and I will go into the house.’

‘What about me?’ asked Bosch.

‘Stay with the vehicle,’ said Yokely.

‘You sexist prick,’ said Bosch.

‘Carol, it’s nothing to do with your beautiful chestnut hair or your pert breasts, it’s just that you’ve got a shotgun and if that goes bang every man and his dog will come running.’

‘I thought the plan was not to shoot anybody,’ said Armstrong.

‘Yeah, well, plans change,’ said Yokely. He handed the bolt-cutters to Armstrong. ‘Please don’t argue, Carol. I’m sure there’ll be an opportunity for you to shoot someone down the line.’

Bosch nodded but didn’t look happy at being told to stay behind. She glared at Yokely and climbed back into the Land Cruiser.

The four men went back down the alley, keeping close to the wall. A rat at least two feet long from nose to tail tip scurried purposefully along the opposite side.

They reached the gates and Yokely motioned for Armstrong to use the bolt-cutters on the chain. They made short work of it and Shortt pulled the gate open. Yokely and Armstrong slipped inside. Armstrong placed the bolt-cutters on the ground and pulled out his gun. They moved to the house. It was two storeys high with a flat roof. There were shutters on the windows, all closed, and no lights on inside.

Yokely motioned for Haschka and Shortt to go around to the rear. Armstrong tried the front door. The wood was rotting and the hinges were rusting, but it was locked. It looked as if it wouldn’t take much to break it down but the men inside had guns so they’d have to go in quietly.

They walked around to the left and checked the shuttered windows, which were as badly maintained as the door, but, again, they were all locked. Armstrong pulled at one but it held firm. He looked at Yokely and shook his head. The American pointed to the rear of the house and they kept to the shadows as they crept around the building. Overhead two helicopters flew so close that their rotors were almost touching. The two men stayed still until they had gone, then moved to the back of the building.

Haschka and Shortt had found a loose shutter. They pulled it open and examined the window. The lock looked flimsy so Haschka took out a large hunting knife and worked away at the wood round it. As Yokely and Armstrong walked up, it splintered and Shortt eased open the window. They climbed through one by one and found themselves in a kitchen. There was a stone sink with a single dripping tap and an old refrigerator that was vibrating noisily. Yokely switched on a flashlight, pointed it at Haschka, Shortt and Armstrong, then directed it upstairs. They switched on their own flashlights and headed for the upper floor as the American went through to the sitting room.

Armstrong led the way, his Glock in his right hand. The stairs were stone and led up to a tiled hallway off which were four doors. One was open, revealing a small bathroom.

Armstrong pointed at Haschka, then at the door at the far end. He went to stand outside it. Armstrong pointed at the second door, then at Shortt. He waited until they were all in position, then held up his left hand and counted down from three to one on his fingers. As the final finger went down he twisted the handle, thrust open the door, and walked into the room, his gun arm outstretched. A middle-aged Iraqi lay on a mattress on the floor. Armstrong walked over to him and woke him with a kick to the ribs. He heard shouts from the other rooms as he pointed the gun at the man on the mattress. He had a zigzag scar across the left side of his face. ‘Get up,’ said Armstrong. The man said something in Arabic, then spat at him. Armstrong pistol-whipped him, hauled him to his feet and dragged him to the door.

Shortt and Haschka had the other two men in the hallway. One had a straggly beard and bloodshot eyes, the other was squat with a weightlifter’s forearms. His hair was close-cropped, he had a bushy beard and he was clenching and unclenching his fists. Shortt kept his gun pointed at the man’s face and raised an eyebrow, daring him to get physical.

‘Downstairs,’ said Armstrong.

Yokely was in the front room. There was a line of candles on the mantelpiece and he lit them one by one. There were two cheap brown plastic sofas and stained rugs on the floor and paintings of desert scenes on the walls. Two ornate hookahs stood by one of the sofas and the floor was littered with peanut shells. The American was holding a brown envelope containing US dollars. He flicked through the banknotes. ‘There’s about fifteen thousand.’

Armstrong shook the man he was holding. ‘Fifteen thousand dollars?’ he hissed. ‘You sold him for fifteen thousand dollars? You stupid pricks. We’d have paid you ten times that.’

Yokely shoved the envelope into his back pocket. ‘Get them on their knees,’ he said. He lit several more candles by the shuttered window.

Armstrong, Shortt and Haschka forced their captives on to their knees. Yokely gestured with his gun. ‘I want you to ask them if they’re brothers or just fuck-buddies,’ he said.

Shortt frowned. ‘What?’

‘You’re not hard of hearing, are you, Jimbo? Just ask them if they’re related or lovers?’

Shortt translated. The tallest of the three frowned and said something to him. Shortt repeated what he’d said. The three men pointed at Yokely and shouted.

‘Thought that would get them riled,’ said Yokely.

‘They’re brothers,’ said Shortt.

‘Good. We’ll be keeping it in the family, then,’ said the American. He took a bulbous silencer out of a pocket in his body armour and slowly screwed it to the barrel of his Glock. The brothers stared at it, then all three were talking at once.

‘Tell them to shut up, Jimbo,’ said Yokely.

Shortt barked at them in Arabic and they fell silent.

Yokely pointed at the Timberland boots on the feet of the eldest brother. ‘Ask him where he got the boots,’ he said to Shortt.

Shortt translated. The Iraqi sneered at Yokely and said something, his lip curled back in a snarl.

‘Did he just tell me to go screw myself?’ asked Yokely.

‘Words to that effect,’ said Shortt.

Yokely smiled. He pulled the trigger and shot the man’s left leg. His trousers turned red at the knee and he fell to the floor, screaming.

‘Hey!’ shouted Haschka.

‘Hey what?’ said Yokely.

The man rolled on the floor, holding his injured leg and moaning. Blood was pumping from the wound and pooling on the floorboards where it glistened in the candlelight. His face had gone deathly white – he looked as if he’d bleed out in minutes, Armstrong thought. He undid his belt, pulled it from round his waist, then used it to bind the man’s leg tightly above the knee. ‘I think you hit an artery,’ said Armstrong.

‘Yeah, I know,’ said Yokely.

The other two men stared at their injured brother in horror. The youngest was trembling with fear. Yokely walked over to him and pointed the pistol at his face. ‘Tell him I want to know who he gave Spider to. I want their names. All their names.’

‘Yokely, you can’t do this,’ said Shortt.

‘I can do what the hell I want,’ said Yokely. ‘Now tell him.’

Shortt translated. The man seemed unable to speak and his mouth moved soundlessly. Shortt said something and pointed at Yokely.

Yokely waved his gun menacingly. The man flinched and a dark stain spread across the front of his pants. ‘Tell him I’ll count to five and then I’m going to shoot him too. In the balls.’

‘Yokely-’ said Shortt.

‘Tell him I’m a pretty good shot.’

‘This is madness,’ said Shortt. ‘We didn’t come to shoot unarmed men.’

Yokely turned to Shortt. ‘This is my turf,’ he said. ‘This is where I work. I know how the game’s played here and it isn’t by the Queensberry Rules. These three pieces of shit took Spider off the streets at gunpoint, knocked him unconscious, and sold him for fifteen grand to people who will happily hack off his head with a bread-knife. Let’s not start feeling sorry for them. They’ll kill you as soon as look at you, and think they’re doing it with God’s blessing. So, just do as I ask and tell them I want the names of the men they sold Spider to. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you in the legs.’ He flashed Shortt a cold smile. ‘I mean it.’

‘Do it, Jimbo,’ said Armstrong. He didn’t believe that Yokely would shoot Shortt, but he could see they’d have to increase the pressure if they were to get the men to talk. Spider and Geordie’s lives were on the line and if they didn’t find out where they were they would die horribly. He lit a cigarette and watched as Shortt spoke in Arabic. The man began to wail. He put his palms together and banged his hands against his forehead.

‘Five,’ said Yokely. ‘Four. Three.’ He turned to look at Shortt. ‘You did tell him, right?’

Shortt nodded.

‘Right then,’ said Yokely. ‘Two. One.’ He pulled the trigger and shot the wailing man in the groin. He screamed and fell into a foetal ball, his hands clasped between his legs. His screams turned to sobs.

‘What the hell is your problem?’ shouted Shortt.

Yokely ignored him and pointed his gun at the last remaining brother. ‘Right, Jimbo, I want you to translate and I want to hear you do it without any bleating about human rights or unarmed innocents. This scumbag has watched me shoot both his brothers and he knows who he handed Shepherd over to. I want him to start talking or I’ll put a bullet in his head, and then I’ll start working on that bastard’s bad leg. Tell him it’s his choice.’ He grinned maliciously. ‘Oh, and tell him I’ll slaughter a pig and I’ll drench him in its blood before I bury him in the desert with the carcass on top of him. I understand that means he’ll never get into heaven.’

‘You’re a sick fuck,’ said Shortt.

‘Yes, I am, Jimbo, but I get things done. Now, translate.’

Shortt spoke to the man in Arabic. As his brother before him, the man started to wail.

Shortt continued to talk to him. Armstrong stubbed out his cigarette and checked the wound of the man who had been shot in the groin. He was curled up, breathing in short gasps.

Yokely looked bored as he waited for Shortt to finish, then he aimed at the face of the Iraqi and tightened his finger on the trigger. The terrified man started to babble in Arabic. ‘What’s he saying, Jimbo?’ asked Yokely.

‘He’s saying he’ll talk. He’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’

‘Excellent,’ said Yokely.

‘Here they are,’ said Jordan. He flashed his headlights at the Land Cruiser heading their way. The 4? 4’s lights flashed in reply and it parked on the opposite side of the road. Jordan waved at Haschka and Bosch, who waved back. Yokely climbed out of the rear and jogged across the road towards them.

‘What’s he doing in army gear?’ asked O’Brien.

‘Mr Yokely is a law unto himself,’ said the Major.

‘Nice shoes,’ said Jordan. Though Yokely was in military desert camouflage fatigues, body armour and a Kevlar helmet, he was still wearing his brown loafers with tassels.

‘Yeah, he’s fussy about his footwear,’ said the Major. ‘He’s got dropped arches.’

‘He’s got what?’ said O’Brien.

‘Dropped arches. His shoes have to have orthopaedic inserts. It’s supposed to be a secret, so Mum’s the word.’

The Major wound down the window as Yokely jogged up. The American was grinning. ‘Spider’s okay,’ said Yokely. ‘At least, he was when the Three Stooges handed him over.’

‘And is Wafeeq there?’

‘They say no, they haven’t met him but they’ve heard of him. The guys they sold him to are middle men, known to have connections with some hard-line fundamentalists.’

‘How much did they get?’ asked O’Brien, from the back of the Land Cruiser.

‘Fifteen thousand dollars.’

‘Bastards,’ said Muller.

‘They’re not that bright,’ said Yokely.

The Major looked at the second Land Cruiser. ‘Where’s Billy?’ he asked.

‘Looking after the guys in the house. Last I saw he was blowing smoke rings at them.’

‘They’re still alive, then?’ said the Major.

Yokely’s grin widened. ‘Sure. But they won’t be getting any medical attention until this is over.’

‘And you believe they’re not connected to Wafeeq?’

‘They’re criminals, not fundamentalists,’ said Yokely. ‘And they’re not the guys who took Geordie. But the guys they sold Spider to are the guys who moved Geordie on.’

‘So we’re on the right track,’ said Muller.

‘No question,’ said Yokely.

‘What do you think we do now?’ asked the Major.

‘The transmitter’s gone,’ said Yokely. ‘They took his boots. But they didn’t do a full body search on him so he still has the second transmitter.’ He gestured up at the sky. ‘And we still have the Predator. I think we’re well ahead of the game and we can just watch and wait. The new guys have paid fifteen grand for Spider. They won’t want to throw that money away so I reckon they’ll get in touch with Wafeeq and sell him on.’

The Major nodded thoughtfully. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘Though I’d be happier if we were closer to where he’s being held.’

‘If we do that we risk showing out,’ said the American. ‘And it’s almost certain they’ll move him. Hopefully to the place they’re keeping Geordie. I’d recommend we wait and see where they take him to next.’

The Major sighed. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘It makes sense.’

Yokely pulled a map from inside his body armour, and an aerial photograph of where Shepherd was being kept. ‘The house is marked on the map,’ said Yokely. ‘Look, if you guys wanted to take a break, now would be a good time. Catch up with some sleep, get a bite to eat. As soon as things start to move, I’ll call you.’

‘We’re staying put until this is over,’ said the Major, emphatically.

‘We’re not going anywhere, right enough,’ said O’Brien.

‘I understand,’ said Yokely. He squinted at his wristwatch. ‘I’m going to talk to my NSA guys,’ he said. ‘I need the airwaves monitoring and I want to run a check on the names of the men who’ve got Spider.’

‘Do you need Joe to drive you anywhere?’ asked Muller.

Yokely grinned. ‘I’ve already arranged my ride,’ he said.

Date palms on the far side of the road bent to the left and a dull, thudding sound filled the air. Twin searchlight beams cut through the night and a Blackhawk helicopter dropped slowly from the sky, kicking up whirlwinds of dust in the road.

‘Got to go,’ said Yokely. ‘Catch you later.’ He ran in a half-crouch to the Blackhawk and climbed aboard.

‘How does he do that?’ asked O’Brien.

‘Friends in high places,’ said the Major.

The Blackhawk’s turbines roared and the helicopter lifted off, turned through a hundred and eighty degrees, and leaped into the night sky.

Howell put the Predator into a slow left-hand turn, scanning the readings on the screen in front of him. It was cruising at fifty miles an hour at an altitude of eighteen thousand feet. There was a layer of patchy cloud at nine thousand feet but the sky above the part of the city he was circling was clear. It was early afternoon, and he was eating a cheese and tomato sandwich.

‘A van’s just pulled up in front of the house,’ said Nichols.

Slater leaned over him. ‘See if you can get the registration.’

Nichols twisted the joystick that operated the camera in the belly of the Predator, then tapped on the keyboard. The van’s rear registration plate filled the screen and Nichols wrote it down. ‘I’ll run a check on it,’ he said. He pulled the camera back to get a full view of the car. The driver opened the door, got out and stretched. Nichols pressed a button to get high-resolution snapshots of him. ‘Got you,’ he whispered. He transferred them to the screen in front of Slater. ‘Will, run a check on this guy, too, will you?’

‘Your wish is my command,’ said Slater.

There was a second man in the front passenger seat and when he got out Nichols took several shots of him too. The men banged on the gate and a man in a sweatshirt and baggy trousers came out and let them in. The three walked together into the house.

Shepherd heard the door open and footsteps, then a wooden chair scraping across the ground. There were more footsteps, then hands grabbed his arms and pulled him up roughly. His feet scraped along the floor as he tried to keep his balance, then he was forced on to a chair. He heard the door close. For a few moments he thought they’d left him alone, but then his hood was pulled off.

There were three men in front of him. Shepherd recognised the one in the middle. Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi. His heart raced. The man who was holding Geordie Mitchell hostage was standing in front of him. The man on Wafeeq’s right was in his late sixties and had a withered arm, the wrist emerging stick-like from the sleeve of his sweat-stained flannel shirt. The third man was tall, standing head and shoulders above the two, with a slight stoop as if he lived in constant fear of banging his head.

‘Who are you?’ said Shepherd, playing his role. ‘What do you want?’

‘You are English?’ asked Wafeeq, who was holding his passport and the letter from Muller’s company.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘You know Colin Mitchell?’

Shepherd shook his head.

‘You work for the same company,’ said Wafeeq.

‘I’m his replacement,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know of him but I never met him.’

Wafeeq stared at him coldly. Then he turned to the old man on his right and said something in Arabic. The man shook his head and Wafeeq said something else, clearly angry now. He pulled out a gun and pointed it at Shepherd, who stared at him unflinchingly. ‘They should have searched you,’ he said.

‘They did,’ said Shepherd. ‘They took my boots, my gun, my wallet and my radio.’ Wafeeq’s two companions grabbed Shepherd’s arms and pulled him up. One undid his belt and pulled his trousers to his knees. ‘Are you going to rape me – is that it?’ said Shepherd. ‘I heard you lot were into men.’

Wafeeq stepped forward and pistol-whipped him. Shepherd saw the blow coming and managed to move his head and avoid most of the blow, but the barrel glanced along his temple. The skin broke and blood flowed. He wanted Wafeeq angry because then he might forget about the strip-search.

‘You think this is funny?’ said Wafeeq. He pointed the gun at Shepherd’s face. ‘I could kill you now.’

‘Go on, then,’ said Shepherd. ‘You’re going to kill me anyway, aren’t you?’

‘That is up to you.’

‘You’ve shown me your faces, so I can identify you.’

Wafeeq threw back his head and laughed. ‘You think I care if you know what I look like? What are you going to do? Tell the police? Do you think I’m scared of them? Do you know how many policemen I’ve killed? How many soldiers?’ He laughed again, then spoke to the two men in Arabic. The old man took a knife from his pocket and used it to cut the ropes binding Shepherd’s wrists. Wafeeq took several steps back, keeping the gun pointing at his face.

The men ripped at his shirt and several buttons popped. They made him bend over, then pulled it off. One shouted and pointed at his back, and Shepherd knew that he had seen the second transmitter. They turned him around and slammed him up against the wall. The tall man ripped the piece of plaster that kept the transmitter stuck to his skin and handed it to Wafeeq.

‘What is this?’ asked Wafeeq.

Shepherd knew there was no point in lying. Even if Wafeeq didn’t know what it was, it wouldn’t take him long to find out. ‘It’s a transmitter,’ he said. The two men turned him around again so that he was facing Wafeeq, then pushed him back so hard that his head cracked against the wall.

‘Why do you have it?’ asked Wafeeq.

‘The company gave it to us because the other guy was kidnapped. They thought it might help.’

Wafeeq frowned as he studied the electrical circuit. ‘Why did they stick it on your back?’

‘That was my idea,’ said Shepherd.

‘Is it on now?’

‘We switch them on if we get into trouble.’

Wafeeq smiled cruelly. ‘Well, you are in trouble now,’ he said. He dropped the transmitter on to the floor and stamped on it. It shattered into more than a dozen pieces. He said something in Arabic to the two Iraqis and they dragged Shepherd to the chair and pushed him on to it. Wafeeq said something else to the two men, then spat at Shepherd and went out, slamming the door behind him.

‘I don’t speak Arabic,’ said Shepherd. ‘What did he say?’

The man with the withered arm grinned, showing greying teeth. ‘He said we are to torture you to find out what you know.’

The door opened and another man came in, stocky, with a beard and wire-framed glasses. He closed the door and stood there with his arms folded across his chest.

‘I don’t know anything,’ said Shepherd.

‘That does not matter,’ said the old man. ‘He said we are to torture you until you are dead, whether you know anything or not.’

Yokely raised his coffee mug in salute to the screen on the wall. ‘I’d offer you one, Dean, but as you’re ten thousand miles away it’d be cold by the time it got to you.’

Dean Hepburn grinned and held up a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. ‘I’d offer to split this with you but I don’t reckon you’re allowed JD in the Green Zone, right?’

‘Sadly, that’s true,’ said Yokely. ‘So, how are things in Crypto City?’

‘Same old,’ said Hepburn. ‘You were lucky I was around. I was heading off when they told me you wanted the satellite link.’ He poured himself a large slug of whiskey.

‘Just wanted to run a few things by you,’ said Yokely. ‘I think I’m going to get my hands on Wafeeq.’

‘Kudos,’ said Hepburn. He raised his glass in a toast.

‘Any traffic?’

‘None from the man. He’s too clued up to the way we operate.’

‘Yeah, the CSG here says the same. He never goes near a phone these days.’

‘Hardly surprising. The last al-Qaeda heavyweight to use a cellphone was al-Zarqawi and we tracked him down and blew him away.’

‘Keep listening anyway. At some point the kidnappers are going to contact Wafeeq so even if they do it through a third party they might mention his name. Also, keep an ear open for anyone talking about Peter Simpson. That’s the name our man is using.’

‘Will do,’ said Hepburn.

Yokely’s mobile rang. He apologised to Hepburn and took the call. It was Nichols. ‘Two men have just arrived at the house,’ said Nichols. ‘We have decent visuals so I’m running an ID.’

‘Great,’ said Yokely. ‘If they move Shepherd, let me know straight away.’ He ended the call and apologised again to Hepburn.

‘Can’t believe it, this link is costing hundreds of dollars a minute and you put me on hold,’ said Hepburn. He raised his glass of Jack Daniel’s. ‘Still, the taxpayer pays, right?’

‘For which I’m eternally grateful,’ said Yokely. ‘Okay, things are moving out here. I need you to run some IDs for me. Are you near a secure terminal?’

‘Beside me,’ said Hepburn.

‘I’m going to send you eight names,’ said Yokely. ‘Three are guys I’ve already spoken to you about but I want to check whether or not they have direct links to Wafeeq.’

‘Why, Richard, you don’t think they’d lie to you, do you?’

Yokely smiled thinly. ‘I’m fairly confident they were telling the truth, but it’s always nice to have confirmation. The other five are new to me. They’re the guys who are currently holding Shepherd. I need full checks and any pictures you have. Obviously I’m especially interested in connections they have with Wafeeq or any one else on the most-wanted list.’

Hepburn put down his glass and tapped on the keyboard next to him. ‘Okay, I’m online. Download the names when you’re ready.’

Shepherd stared at the shattered pieces of the transmitter, his last connection with the outside world.

‘Who are you?’ asked the man with the straggly beard.

‘You know who I am,’ said Shepherd. ‘You have my passport.’

‘Why are you in Iraq?’

‘I’m here to work. Security.’

‘We don’t believe you.’

‘It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. It’s the truth.’

The old man spoke in Arabic to the tall one, who left the room.

Straggly Beard pointed at the broken transmitter. ‘What is that?’

‘I told your friend,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s a transmitter. It shows where I am. My company gave it to me. The man I replaced was kidnapped. The company was worried it might happen again.’

The man laughed, a harsh bark that echoed around the room. ‘It didn’t help you, did it?’

The door opened and the tall man appeared with a length of rope.

‘Look, my company will pay to get me back,’ said Shepherd. ‘Call them. They’ll offer you money.’

‘We have been told what we have to do,’ said Straggly Beard.

‘No one will know,’ said Shepherd. ‘You just take the money and I’ll leave Iraq.’

‘Our friend will know,’ said Straggly Beard. He held out his hand for the rope and the tall man gave it to him. ‘He will know and his retribution will be swift.’ He started to tie Shepherd to the chair. Shepherd tried to stand up but the tall man hurried over and pressed his shoulders down. The old man grabbed Shepherd’s legs and together the three men wrapped the rope round him and knotted it securely. Shepherd struggled but he couldn’t move.

The old man said something in Arabic and all three Iraqis laughed.

Shepherd knew there was no way he could stop what was about to happen. All he could do was hang on and hope that the Major and his men came to his rescue. It was a slim hope, but it was all he had.

Yokely walked past a coffee shop where half a dozen off-duty marines lounged on plastic chairs and sipped cappuccino. Street vendors were selling Persian rugs with Mickey Mouse motifs, T-shirts with slogans such as ‘Who’s Your Baghdaddy?’, Operation Iraqi Freedom beach towels and coffee mugs, and framed banknotes bearing the head of Saddam Hussein. Overhead four Apache attack helicopters rattled west. He looked at an AT amp;T phone centre where soldiers were lining up to call home. The temperature was climbing towards fifty degrees, and even though he had only been outside for a couple of minutes, sweat was already trickling down the small of his back.

Yokely’s mobile phone rang and he pulled it out of his body armour. It was Simon Nichols. ‘Richard, the two guys who went around to the house have left. They didn’t take your man with them.’

‘Okay,’ said Yokely. ‘Thanks for telling me. Have you identified the visitors?’

‘Still waiting to hear,’ said Nichols. ‘The pictures aren’t as clear as I would have liked so the tech boys are doing some enhancement. As soon as I know, you’ll know. Do you want us to follow them, or stick with the house?’

‘Which way are they heading?’ asked Yokely.

‘North towards Baghdad.’

‘No reading from Spider’s second transmitter?’

‘Nothing.’

‘And no other visitors to the house?’

‘Just the one van.’

‘Okay, stick with the house,’ said Yokely. ‘But as soon as you ID the occupants of the van let me know.’ He ended the call and put away his phone. It was just before midday. He doubted they’d move Shepherd while it was light, which meant he had time for a shower, a shave and maybe a steak before he headed out to rejoin the Major.

Straggly Beard slapped Shepherd with the flat of his hand. Shepherd moved his head a fraction of a second before the blow but it still hurt like hell and he tasted blood. The man backhanded him, then punched him in the side of the head.

Shepherd slumped, feigning unconsciousness, but the tall man grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Shepherd tried to block out what was happening. He focused on Liam, picturing himself in the park with his boy, playing football, Liam running, his hair flying in the wind, Shepherd matching his pace but not trying to catch up.

Something was pulled over his head and Shepherd opened his eyes. It was a plastic bag. He started to panic and his chest heaved, although he knew that the faster he breathed the quicker he’d use up the air. The bag tightened round his neck. He kicked out but two of the men were behind him and the old man was out of reach. The plastic sucked into his mouth and Shepherd blew out but as soon as he breathed in the plastic was back in his mouth. He shook his head from side to side but whoever was holding the bag kept it in place. His chest burned and he strained against the ropes that kept him tied to the chair but they wouldn’t budge. He rocked the chair back. The pain in his chest was intensifying as if molten metal had been poured down his throat. Condensation was forming inside the bag but he could still see the old man, his lips pulled back in a snarl that showed his uneven grey teeth. He threw back his head and laughed as Shepherd lost consciousness.

The cook was a big man from New Jersey with a tattoo of Jesus on the cross on his right forearm and a floppy chef’s hat. He plopped a huge sirloin steak on Yokely’s plate, then shovelled on French fries and onion rings. ‘Help yourself to sauce,’ he said, pointing at four stainless-steel jugs. ‘Red wine, Roquefort, Bearnaise or just plain gravy.’

Yokely poured some of the red-wine sauce over his steak, picked up a couple of warm wholemeal rolls and looked for an empty table. The canteen was packed. The food in the Green Zone was as good as anything the military got in the United States, and the soldiers were tucking into plates laden with steaks, ribs and pizzas.

Yokely went to a table where two female soldiers were finishing their pasta. One was a blonde sergeant in her early thirties; her companion was younger and prettier. ‘Do you ladies mind if I join you?’ he asked.

The sergeant smiled and waved at the free seats, then carried on talking to her friend. Just as Yokely sat down, his phone rang. It was Nichols again. ‘Richard, one of the visitors was Wafeeq.’

Yokely swore, then made an apologetic gesture as the sergeant flashed him a frosty look. ‘There’s no doubt?’

‘None at all,’ said Nichols.

Yokely cursed again, under his breath this time.

‘What do you want us to do?’ asked Nichols.

‘What can we do, Simon? I presume the van’s gone?’

‘No way we could find it now,’ said Nichols. ‘Needle in a haystack.’

‘How much fuel do you have?’

Yokely heard Nichols talk to Howell, then Nichols was back on the line. ‘Five hours, maybe six.’

‘Stay put,’ said Yokely, getting to his feet. He looked wistfully at his steak but knew he didn’t have time to eat it. He phoned the Major as he walked out of the canteen into the hot sun and explained what had happened.

The Major realised the significance immediately. ‘Wafeeq didn’t take Spider with him? Why not?’

‘Maybe he smelled a rat.’

‘That’s what it looks like. Which means Spider’s in danger. Geordie too. Did the Predator track Wafeeq?’

‘We didn’t know it was him,’ said Yokely. ‘Look, I’m in the Green Zone. I’m going to commandeer a chopper but it’ll still take time. You’re going to have to go in, Allan. Now.’

‘I understand.’

‘I don’t want to start teaching anyone to suck eggs but there’s open farmland behind the house.’

‘Roger that,’ said the Major.

‘I’ll text you the number of the Predator guy and he can give you a visual before you act,’ said Yokely. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can. And try not to kill too many of them. They’re our only link to Wafeeq.’

‘And Geordie,’ said the Major. ‘Let’s not forget him.’

‘I hadn’t,’ said Yokely. ‘But the way things stand, the only way we’ll find him is if we get hold of Wafeeq.’

The Major put the phone away and twisted in his seat. ‘We’ve got to go in now,’ he said.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Muller.

‘Wafeeq came and went but he didn’t take Spider with him. That means one of two things. They’re going to deliver him later, or Wafeeq got spooked. We can’t take the risk so we’ve got to get him now.’ He unfolded the map Yokely had given him. ‘Let’s get out so we can all look at this,’ he said.

They climbed out of the Land Cruiser and the Major held the map on the bonnet. ‘We don’t have time for surveillance. We have to go straight in,’ he said. He stabbed his finger on the map and looked at Jordan. ‘We’re here,’ he said. He moved his finger to the farmland behind the house. ‘We can get to here without being seen from the house.’ He put the aerial photograph on top of the map. ‘That’s where he is. We can come in over the wall and through the back.’ Jordan nodded and slotted a stick of chewing-gum into his mouth.

‘What sort of firepower do they have?’ asked O’Brien.

‘We don’t know.’

‘How many of them?’

‘No idea.’

O’Brien’s brow furrowed. ‘Back-up?’

‘Just us,’ said the Major. ‘We go in fast and we go in hard. But as we’ll have to interrogate them to find out where Geordie is, we’ve got to keep casualties to a minimum.’

‘Why don’t we make it a real challenge and tie our hands behind our backs?’ said O’Brien.

‘No one said it was going to be easy, Martin,’ said the Major. He folded the map. ‘Let’s get to it.’

They piled back into the Land Cruiser and Jordan put his foot down hard on the accelerator. The Major talked to Shortt on the transceiver and told him to get to the house as soon as possible. Shortt took down the directions and reckoned they were fifteen minutes away.

The Major’s mobile phone beeped and he checked the screen. It was a text message from Yokely with a Baghdad mobile-phone number and a name. Simon Nichols. The Major called and introduced himself.

‘The house is quiet on the outside,’ said Nichols. ‘No one has entered or left since Wafeeq.’

‘We’re in a white Land Cruiser, heading south,’ said the Major. ‘We have another unit coming from the east, also a white Land Cruiser.’

‘I’ll keep an eye out for you,’ said Nichols, ‘and I’ll call you if anything happens at the house.’

The Major put the phone on the dashboard and took out his Glock.

Shepherd opened his eyes. His face was wet and when he took a breath he inhaled water. He shook his head and his eyes gradually focused. Straggly Beard was standing in front of him, holding a bucket. Shepherd had lost count of how many times they had suffocated him into unconsciousness. They kept the plastic bag on his head until he passed out, then threw water over him until he came round.

The tall man slapped him across the face. Shepherd spat to clear his mouth and bloody phlegm splattered across the floor.

‘Who are you?’ the man shouted.

‘Peter Simpson.’

‘Your real name.’

Shepherd coughed. ‘That is my real name.’ Shepherd knew that the questions meant nothing. The men weren’t interested in his answers. There was nothing he could tell them that would stop the torture.

The tall man walked towards him, holding the plastic bag. Shepherd moaned. He had lost all sense of time. The light was on and the shutter on the windows behind him was locked so he had no way of knowing if it was day or night. He felt as if the torture had been going on for ever. The bag was dragged down over his head and instinctively he held his breath even though he knew it would do no good. His chest began to heave and burn, he took a breath and the plastic filled his mouth.

The Land Cruiser screeched to a halt and the Major undid his seat-belt. He put the transceiver to his mouth and clicked the transmit button. ‘Jimbo, we’ve arrived.’

There was a buzz of static, then Shortt spoke: ‘We’re five minutes away, boss.’

‘We can’t wait,’ said the Major. ‘We’ll go in the back way. When you get here, come in from the front.’

‘Roger that,’ said Shortt.

The Land Cruiser had stopped on a dirt road. To the left an olive orchard with stubby trees stretched half a mile to the foot of a gently rounded hill. To the right the farmland was less well tended and was mainly rocky soil dotted with date palms. A herd of wild goats looked at the Land Cruiser, then went back to grazing on a clump of brown grass.

‘That’s the house,’ said the Major, pointing through the palms. Two hundred metres away there was a mud-coloured wall, about six feet high, and beyond it a house with a flat roof on top of which stood a large satellite dish.

Jordan put a pair of binoculars to his eyes. ‘I don’t see anyone,’ he said.

The Major phoned Simon Nichols, who told him that no one was outside or on the roof. The Major put away his phone. ‘Okay, let’s do it,’ he said.

The four men ran towards the wall, bent low, guns at the ready.

Shepherd groaned and opened his eyes, blinking. The man with the withered arm spoke in Arabic. Straggly Beard replied and they both looked at Shepherd. Their attitude had changed – Shepherd could see it in their eyes. Straggly Beard put down the bucket and went out of the room.

Withered Arm muttered to the tall guy, who grunted and nodded. Shepherd pulled at his wrists. There was no give in the rope but they weren’t planning to hurt him any more, he knew. They had come to the end of that phase. The two men were staring at him now. He stared back. He knew he could say nothing to stop what was about to happen. He couldn’t threaten them, he couldn’t intimidate them, and he knew that begging wouldn’t work. His mind raced. His wrists were tied and he was in a weakened state. There were at least three of them, maybe more, and they were armed.

Shepherd moved his legs. His boots may have been taken but he could still kick – and he could kick hard. Whatever they were planning to do, he would go down fighting. His heart pounded and he consciously slowed his breathing, not wanting to appear anxious. Giving up wasn’t an option. The thinking part of his brain knew it was hopeless, that he would die at their hands, but he refused to accept the inevitable. He hated the men – hated them with a vengeance – and he would do everything he could to administer as much pain and suffering to them as he could before he died.

The door opened and the tall man came back. He was holding a large knife with a wooden handle and a serrated edge. A bread-knife. He closed the door.

‘My company will pay you,’ said Shepherd, surprised at how calm he sounded. ‘They’ll pay you a lot of money.’

The tall man took a step towards him. The man with the withered arm said something to Straggly Beard, who moved to the right. Withered Arm started to mutter: ‘ Allahu Akbar.’ God is great. Straggly Beard repeated it, then the tall man. All three got themselves into a rhythm. ‘ Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.’

The door opened and a fourth stepped into the room. Shepherd hadn’t seen him before. He was stocky with a shaved head and a beard that went half-way down his chest. He was wearing a floor-length dishdasha and stood with his hands clasped together. He joined in the chant.

Shepherd pulled at his wrists again, even though he knew it was futile. The ropes tying him to the chair were as tight as those binding his arms. He hadn’t tried to stand up but he knew that when he did the chair would force him to bend forward making his head an easy target. He stared at the bread-knife. The man was swinging it back and forth as he chanted. He pulled at his wrists again and felt the rope bite into his flesh. He welcomed the pain: it was a reminder that he was still alive, that blood was still coursing through his veins.

‘ Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.’ They repeated the mantra as if somehow invoking their God legitimised what they were about to do. Shepherd knew that it was also a way of distancing themselves from it. Killing wasn’t easy, and killing with a knife was just about the hardest way to take a life. Guns were easy: you pointed, pulled a trigger, and technology did the rest, but knives had to be used. You had to thrust, hack or saw and keep at it until the blood flowed and the victim died.

The man with the knife was just four feet from the chair. Shepherd could see his Adam’s apple wobbling as he chanted, his right eyelid flickering, and his jaw tightening. The man was preparing himself for what he was about to do.

So was Shepherd. He grunted, bent forward to raise the legs of the chair off the ground, then turned quickly. He yelled, to get his adrenaline flowing, and to shock the men in the room. He bent further down, angling the chair legs up, then powered backwards with all his strength, screaming at full volume. He pushed hard and felt the man with the knife stagger back. Shepherd kept the momentum going and when the man hit the wall Shepherd felt the chair leg sink into his body. Shepherd pushed until he couldn’t go any further, then stepped forward and whirled round. The bread-knife dropped from the man’s hand and he sank to his knees, blood pouring from his stomach. Shepherd turned, bent low and lashed out with his foot. He hit the man in the throat but the kick put him off balance and he staggered forward, trying desperately to regain his footing because he knew that if he fell over he wouldn’t be able to get up.

He slipped on the wet floor and went down on one knee. The man in the dishdasha picked up the knife. He glanced at the man with the withered arm, who nodded. Straggly Beard shouted something in Arabic and pulled a gun from under his sweatshirt. Shepherd dropped low and spun around, lashing out with his right leg. He caught the man at the ankles, tipping him backwards. The gun went off but the bullet buried itself in the ceiling. Shepherd moved backwards and kicked out again, catching him in the knee.

The man with the withered arm grabbed at the chair with his good arm and swung Shepherd round, screaming in Arabic. Shepherd staggered, still bent double – the old man had a strong grip. Shepherd saw the man in the dishdasha waving the knife, a manic look in his eyes, then saw Straggly Beard trying to take aim at him.

The door flew open and a man came into the room bent low with a Glock in his hand. It was the Major. The gun fired twice and Straggly Beard fell to the ground. Another man came in, this one with an Uzi. Jordan raised it but before he could fire O’Brien stepped in and slammed his handgun against the head of the man holding the knife, who went down without a sound. ‘No point in wasting a bullet,’ he said.

The man with the withered arm fell to his knees and began to wail. The Major kicked him in the chest and told him to shut up. He curled up into a ball and sobbed quietly.

Shepherd sighed and sat down heavily. He felt drained, physically and emotionally.

O’Brien grinned. ‘Yet again we pull your nuts out of the fire, Spider.’

The Major walked over to Shepherd, picked up the bread-knife and cut the ropes that were holding him to the chair, then freed his wrists. Shepherd gasped as the blood flowed into his hands and shook them. ‘Are you okay?’ asked the Major.

‘I am now,’ said Shepherd. ‘Did you follow Wafeeq?’

‘No,’ said the Major, ‘but these guys should be able to fill us in. With the right incentive.’

‘Yokely’s on his way, then?’

The Major nodded. He helped Shepherd to his feet. ‘Can you walk?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Shepherd, but he needed the Major’s support to get to the door. Jordan knelt down and examined the man that Shepherd had impaled with the chair leg. Blood was pumping from the wound in his stomach, which meant that an artery had burst. He didn’t have long to live.

‘Get them downstairs, Martin.’

‘Will do, boss.’

‘This one’s dead,’ said Jordan. ‘Or will be soon.’

The Major helped Shepherd down the stairs. At the bottom two Iraqis were lying face down on the floor, their hands clasped over the back of their necks. Muller was covering them with his gun. He grinned at Shepherd. ‘Good to see you, Spider.’

‘You can say that again,’ said Shepherd.

‘There’re two alive upstairs, John,’ said the Major. ‘Get them all in the front room.’

The Major took Shepherd into the kitchen. Half a dozen bottles of water stood on the draining-board and Shepherd unscrewed a cap and drank. As he put the bottle down he saw a face looking in through the window and flinched, then realised it was Carol Bosch. ‘Hey,’ she said, and waved her shotgun.

Shepherd grinned. The kitchen door opened and Shortt came in, his gun at the ready. He relaxed when he saw Shepherd and the Major and holstered the Glock.

‘Tell me, Jimbo, why are you always late?’ asked Shepherd.

‘Traffic was murder,’ said Shortt. ‘Camels, goats, all sorts of shit on the road.’

‘Any excuse,’ said Shepherd, ‘but I’m glad you made it.’

Shortt held up a pair of boots. ‘Thought you might like these,’ he said. ‘The guy who took them from you doesn’t need them any more.’ He tossed them to Shepherd.

‘How did it go?’ asked Haschka, following Shortt into the kitchen, Uzi in his right hand, barrel pointing at the floor.

‘Two dead,’ said the Major. ‘Four still alive.’

‘Are you okay?’ asked Bosch, who was in the doorway, her shotgun at her side.

‘I’ve had better days,’ said Shepherd, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood streaked across it and he wiped it on his jeans. ‘But, yeah, I’m okay. A few minutes later and it would have been a different story.’ He sat down and put on his boots.

‘What went wrong?’ asked Bosch.

‘Wafeeq found the transmitter,’ said Shepherd. ‘I guess he put two and two together.’

O’Brien walked into the kitchen, opened the rattling refrigerator and found a cooked leg of lamb wrapped in Cellophane. He took it out, sniffed, pulled a face and tossed it back. ‘Why don’t these people buy any decent food?’ he growled, and slammed the door.

‘What do you want, Martin?’ asked Shortt. ‘A kebab?’

‘They probably weren’t expecting guests,’ said Bosch. She went to Shepherd and put a hand on his cheek. ‘Still got your rugged good looks.’

Shepherd smiled at her. ‘You too.’

She patted his groin. ‘They didn’t hack off anything down there, did they?’

‘No, it’s fine.’

‘Are you sure? I could check.’

‘Maybe you two should get a room.’ Haschka laughed.

‘Yeah, and maybe you should get a life,’ said Bosch.

The windows started to vibrate and seconds later they heard the rotors of an approaching helicopter.

‘Five will get you ten that’s Yokely,’ said Muller.

‘Doesn’t like bullets, I guess,’ said O’Brien.

‘He was in the Green Zone,’ said the Major.

‘Convenient,’ said O’Brien.

‘Trust me, Richard Yokely isn’t scared of a bit of rough-and-tumble,’ said the Major.

Shepherd went to the kitchen door and looked out across the backyard. A Blackhawk helicopter was hovering above the farmland close to the boundary wall. The helicopter continued to hover a few feet above the ground as Yokely clambered out, holding his M16, and jogged over to let himself in through a wooden gate. He waved at Shepherd as he hurried across the courtyard. The Blackhawk lifted into the air and flew off.

‘They’re worried about mines,’ said Yokely, as he reached them.

‘And you’re not?’ asked Shepherd.

Yokely grinned. ‘I had my palm read by a gypsy psychic a while back,’ he said. ‘She said I’d live to a ripe old age and I believe her.’ He slapped Shepherd on the back. ‘Good to see you’re okay, Spider,’ he said. ‘You had us worried for a while.’

‘What about Geordie? Do we know where he is?’ asked Shepherd.

‘That’s why I’m here,’ said Yokely. He pushed past Shepherd and went into the kitchen. Bosch and Shortt were standing by the sink. ‘Where are the Arabs?’ he asked.

The Major pointed at the door that led to the hallway.

‘The front room,’ said Jordan.

‘Anyone dead?’

‘Two,’ said the Major. ‘They were busy giving Spider a hard time and didn’t hear us coming.’

‘Excellent,’ said Yokely. ‘Be a sweetheart and get me some rope, will you, Carol?’

‘I am not your fucking sweetheart,’ said Bosch.

‘It’s an expression,’ said Yokely, unabashed.

‘Yeah, well, so is “go fuck yourself”. Get your own bloody rope,’ said Bosch.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Shortt.

‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ said Yokely. He winked at Bosch and went along the hallway to the front room, Shepherd and the Major following. The four Arabs were kneeling on the floor. Muller was covering them with his Glock and Jordan had his Uzi trained on them.

‘Let’s get started,’ said Yokely. He reached into his body armour and brought out a handful of black plastic zip-ties. He walked behind the line of kneeling men and, one by one, bound their wrists.

In the corner of the sitting room a circular wooden table was surrounded by half a dozen small wooden stools. Yokely placed one in front of each kneeling man.

Shortt returned with a coil of rope and handed it to him. Yokely went into the kitchen and came back with a knife. He cut four long pieces of rope.

‘What are you doing, Richard?’ asked the Major.

‘Information retrieval,’ said Yokely. He made a loop at the end of a piece of rope and checked the slip-knot. ‘Jimbo, tell them to stand on the stools, would you?’

Shortt glanced at the Major then barked at the men in Arabic. They looked back at him, confused and fearful.

‘Tell them that if they don’t stand on the stools, they’ll be shot,’ said Yokely. He started work on a second length of rope.

Shortt translated. O’Brien walked into the sitting room, holding his Glock. ‘What’s occurring?’ he asked.

‘Martin, help these guys on to the stools, will you?’ Yokely checked the second noose and started on the third.

‘Pleasure,’ said O’Brien. He grabbed the first by the scruff of his flannel shirt and dragged him towards them. The old man climbed up and stood there trembling.

Muller waved his gun at the other three Iraqis, who got to their feet unsteadily and climbed on to the stools.

Bosch walked in from the hallway. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked.

‘Carol…’ said Jordan.

‘Don’t “Carol” me,’ said Bosch. ‘You can see what he’s doing, can’t you?’

‘Pat, will you and Joe take her outside, please?’ said Yokely, as he tested the third noose. ‘Secure the perimeter.’

‘Screw you,’ said Bosch.

Jordan put a hand on her arm but she shook it off angrily. ‘He can’t do this.’

‘I’m afraid I can,’ said Yokely. ‘I can and I will.’ He turned to Muller. ‘John, please take your people outside.’

‘I’m staying,’ said Muller.

‘I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’re civilians and I want all civilians out of here. It’s for my own peace of mind, not yours.’

‘You don’t want witnesses,’ said Bosch.

‘Carol, sweetheart, you’re beginning to piss me off,’ said Yokely. ‘If you’re not outside within the next ten seconds, I’ll make a phone call that will have you on the next plane out of this country.’

‘Let’s go, Carol,’ said Muller.

‘You can’t let him treat us like this,’ said Bosch.

Muller put his arm round her shoulders and led her back to the kitchen. Jordan followed, flicking the safety catch on his Uzi. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, guys,’ said Haschka, as he closed the door.

Yokely started work on the fourth noose. ‘If any of you guys don’t have the stomach for this, you’re welcome to go with them. Except you, Jimbo. I’ll need you to translate.’

‘I’m staying anyway,’ said Shortt.

‘Me too,’ said O’Brien.

‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ said the Major.

Yokely looked at Shepherd. ‘Spider?’

Shepherd knew that what was about to happen was illegal and immoral, that it went against everything he believed in. But only minutes earlier the men standing on the stools had been torturing him and planning to kill him in the most brutal way imaginable for no other reason than his nationality. What Yokely was planning to do was evil, but it was a necessary evil, because the four men were the only hope they had of finding Geordie. ‘Go ahead,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Yokely grinned. ‘I think deep down you’ve always wanted to know what I do,’ he said. ‘Watch and learn.’

He tossed the loose ends of the ropes over the wooden beam that ran the length of the sitting room. The nooses dangled in front of the Iraqis as Yokely gathered up the loose ends and tied them to the bars on the window, methodically checking that each was secure.

The old man with the withered arm began to plead in his own language. ‘No need to translate,’ Yokely said to Shortt. ‘I get the drift.’ He walked along the line of Iraqis and fitted the nooses round their necks, then stood back to admire his handiwork. ‘I think that’ll do, don’t you, Spider?’

‘I guess so,’ said Shepherd. ‘It depends what you’ve got in mind.’

Yokely chuckled and pulled a bundle of papers out of his body armour, then walked up and down in front of the four men, who were trembling with fear. ‘Translate, please, Jimbo,’ said Yokely. He stopped in front of a man who had been caught downstairs. He was in his thirties, with a goatee beard and a white dishdasha. Yokely held up a sheet of paper. There were several lines of type and a photograph of two men sitting in a car. ‘Tell him this photograph shows him meeting a man called Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi last year in Baghdad.’

Shortt translated as Yokely flicked through his printouts. When Shortt finished speaking, the man started to talk quickly.

‘He says he isn’t the man in the photograph and that he has never met anyone called Wafeeq,’ said Shortt.

Yokely went to stand in front of the man with the withered arm. He studied one of the sheets of paper, then grinned up at him. ‘Your name is Yuusof Abd al-Nuuh. You have three children and seven grandchildren. Last year you spoke to Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi. Just chit-chat. Or code. We’re not sure which. But we know you spoke to him.’

Shortt translated. The old man closed his eyes and began to mutter to himself. The man on the middle stool was the biggest of the four, with bulging forearms and a thick neck. He was staring straight ahead, eyes blank, mouth wide open. ‘This guy, I don’t know who he is,’ said Yokely, walking over to stand in front of him. He kicked the stool away and the man fell. The rope snapped round his neck and cut deep into the flesh. The man’s legs kicked and his body shuddered but the noose was so tight that not a sound escaped from his mouth.

‘What the fuck?’ shouted O’Brien.

The man stopped kicking and his body swung gently from the beam. A damp patch spread round the groin and drops of urine trickled down his left leg on to the tiled floor.

‘Then there were three,’ said Yokely. He walked to the man with the withered arm and stared up at him. ‘So, Yuusof Abd al-Nuuh, what do you think? Can you bring yourself to tell me where I’ll find Wafeeq?’ Yokely consulted his watch. ‘You see, time’s running out, and the fact that Wafeeq found the transmitter means he’s probably going to do something pretty terrible to a friend of ours.’ Yokely put his right foot against the stool and gave it a push. The man wobbled and started to hyperventilate.

‘Stop!’ shouted the man at the far right of the group – the man with the shaved head and the dishdasha. ‘Leave him alone.’

Yokely smiled and took his foot off the stool. He walked over to the man who had spoken and leafed through the printouts. ‘Ah, yes, of course,’ he said. ‘You’re one of Yuusof’s sons, aren’t you? And you can speak English. Excellent.’ He read through the information on the sheet he was holding. ‘According to this, you’ve never met Wafeeq and there’s no record of you phoning him.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘So you’re not much use to me, really, are you?’ He rested his foot on the side of the stool and turned to the father. ‘Jimbo, explain to the old man that I’m going to kill his boy unless he tells me where I can find Wafeeq.’

Jimbo translated. The father sagged and the rope tightened round his neck. Then he whispered something in Arabic.

‘What did he say, Jimbo?’

‘He said okay, he’ll talk.’

Yokely grinned triumphantly. He pushed the stool, which shuddered. The man yelped and struggled to keep his balance. ‘Tell him to be quick about it, Jimbo.’

Wafeeq parked the van and walked quickly to the house. Rahman jogged to keep up with him. Wafeeq always had Rahman with him when he left the house. He had served with Saddam Hussein’s Republican Guard and Wafeeq had once seen him kill a man with his bare hands. Azeem was standing at one of the bedroom windows and waved. Wafeeq waved back. Sulaymaan opened the front door as he reached it. ‘Where is the hostage?’ he asked.

Wafeeq ignored him. He strode along the hallway and into the main room. Kamil was on his hands and knees on a prayer mat, his forehead on the ground.

‘We have to move,’ said Wafeeq. ‘Abdul-Nasir is downstairs?’

‘Of course.’ Kamil straightened and frowned at him. ‘What has happened?’ he asked.

‘The man they caught worked for the same company as Mitchell. He had a transmitting device. They are hunting us, my friend.’

Kamil stood and rolled up the prayer mat. ‘But we knew that. We knew they would look for him. No one will find him here. Inshallah.’

‘This is different,’ said Wafeeq. ‘The man was different. We kill the infidel and we leave. Now.’

‘But then everything will have been for nothing.’

‘No, we just bring forward the deadline. We say that the intransigence of the British government has brought about the death of their subject. We film his death and then we leave.’

The Major and O’Brien pushed the two Arabs into the back of the Land Cruiser, their hands tied behind their backs. Shortt climbed into the driving seat and O’Brien got in beside him. ‘We’ll be right behind you, Jimbo,’ said the Major.

‘Right, boss,’ said Shortt. He put the 464 into gear and drove off down the road.

The Major went over to Yokely and Shepherd, who were waiting by the second Land Cruiser. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

‘Why don’t we call in a chopper?’ asked Shepherd.

‘We can drive in twenty minutes,’ said Yokely, ‘and I don’t want Wafeeq any more spooked than he already is. If he hears choppers, he’ll run. We need to get in place first. I’ve already called in troops, so we’ll have the perimeter secured.’

‘That doesn’t help Geordie,’ said Shepherd.

‘We’ve got time, trust me,’ said Yokely.

‘This isn’t just about capturing Wafeeq, is it?’ said Shepherd.

Yokely put a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s about getting Geordie out of harm’s way,’ he said. ‘Wafeeq is the icing on the cake.’

‘That had better be true,’ said Shepherd.

Muller walked up with an Uzi. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he said.

‘John, this is now becoming a military operation. Like I said before, you’re a civilian.’

‘Yeah? Well, I’m the civilian who has the keys to that vehicle, so without me you’re going nowhere.’ Muller held up the keys to the Land Cruiser and jingled them.

‘We don’t have time to argue,’ said Yokely.

‘Exactly,’ said Muller. He pulled open the driver’s door and climbed in. ‘So shut the fuck up and get in.’

Yokely opened his mouth to argue but the Major spoke first. ‘John’s okay,’ he said.

‘It’s on your head, then,’ said Yokely. He got into the front passenger seat and took out his mobile. The Major and Shepherd got into the back. As Muller started the engine and drove away from the house, Yokely phoned Simon Nichols. ‘Simon, do you have visual on us?’ he asked.

‘We have you,’ said Nichols.

‘Follow us and let us know if there are any roadblocks ahead.’

‘I’ll give you plenty of warning,’ said Nichols. ‘How’s Shepherd?’

‘All very James Bond,’ said Yokely. ‘Stirred but not shaken.’

‘Does he know how lucky he is?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Yokely. ‘He knows.’

‘Couldn’t help but notice that you put two of the Iraqis in the first Land Cruiser,’ said Nichols. ‘What’s that about?’

Yokely grinned. ‘Watch and learn,’ he said.

The Sniper watched with a growing sense of amazement. What he was seeing made no sense at all. He was lying on an inflatable bed, covered with a piece of sacking. He had chosen the vantage-point carefully. The building below him was six storeys tall and he could see for miles. There were two main roads each within six hundred metres of the building, both used regularly by American troops. There was a fire escape at the rear, which offered a quick way down to a labyrinth of alleyways. He had used the rooftop four months earlier when he had killed an officer leading a foot patrol – shot him in the small of the back as he bent down to tie a shoelace, shattering the spine just below the body armour.

Two patrols had driven along the nearest main road but they had been moving too quickly. The Sniper didn’t waste bullets: he only shot when he was sure he would make a kill, and he had the patience to wait as long as it took. He had two bottles of water in the shade of a chimney-stack, and a plastic bag in case he needed to defecate. The Spotter was lying next to him on a rush mat. Like the Sniper, he was staring at the house some three hundred metres away, wondering what was going on.

They had watched the two Land Cruisers drive up together and park round the corner from the house. Ten minutes after they had arrived, an army Humvee joined them. A soldier climbed out of a Land Cruiser and went to talk to the soldiers in the Humvee. Shortly afterwards two Bradley fighting vehicles arrived with another Humvee. A dozen soldiers in full body armour climbed out and gathered round an officer.

Two helicopters had flown in from the south, then gone into a slow, banking turn that brought them in to a hover about a mile away from the military vehicles. The Sniper recognised them: they were Blackhawks, MH-60L Direct Action Penetrators. They each came equipped with two 7.62mm Miniguns, electrically driven Gatling guns that could fire up to four thousand rounds a minute, and M261 nineteen-tube rocket-launchers, capable of firing a wide range of rockets including armour and bunker penetration and anti-personnel flechette warheads that could rip apart an entire platoon, accurate up to two miles. There was also a 30mm chain gun, which could fire 625 high-explosive rounds a minute with pinpoint accuracy, and two M272 launchers each with four 100-pound Hellfire missiles that could destroy a tank five miles away at the touch of a button. The DAP Blackhawks had been equipped for special-forces operations and were just about the most deadly machines operating in Iraq.

It was what had happened next that had mystified the Sniper. Two civilians wearing body armour had pulled two Iraqis out of the back of a Land Cruiser. One of the Iraqis had been given a handgun and the other a Kalashnikov. Then a Westerner in shirt and trousers climbed out of the second Land Cruiser. He kept his hands behind his back as if his wrists had been tied, but from his vantage-point the Sniper could see a handgun tucked into his belt in the small of his back.

The two Iraqis and the Westerner walked to the house. The American soldiers fanned out, spreading round the street and taking up vantage-points. They appeared to be preparing to storm the house. The Bradley fighting vehicles kept their engines running, ready to move closer to the house, and the Blackhawks continued to hover. The Sniper knew better than to fire while the hunter-killer helicopters were in the vicinity: they were equipped with a full-range of visual, infrared and radar sensors. If they even suspected he was on the roof, they would have no hesitation in destroying the building, no matter who else was in it.

‘What do you think is happening?’ asked the Spotter.

‘I have no idea,’ said the Sniper. ‘But I am sure we will find a target before too long. Inshallah.’

Kamil banged on the door. ‘Colin, stand against the wall, please,’ he shouted. He pressed his eye to the spyhole and watched as Mitchell followed his instructions. Then he unbolted the door and opened it. Behind him, Rahman and Azeem waited, their faces covered with shemagh scarves. Azeem was holding a Kal ashnikov, the safety off.

Mitchell stared at the assault rifle. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

‘Nothing. We just need to make another video,’ said Kamil. He walked across the basement and handed the orange jumpsuit to Mitchell. ‘Put this on, please.’

‘What sort of video?’ asked Mitchell.

Wafeeq walked into the basement carrying the video-camera and its tripod. ‘Do as you’re told or we will kill you now,’ he snarled.

‘It’s better to keep him calm,’ Kamil said in Arabic.

‘You are too soft on them,’ said Wafeeq, also in Arabic. ‘They are the infidel. They deserve to die.’

‘It is easier if they are calm,’ said Kamil, patiently. ‘If they struggle, it is harder.’ He smiled at Mitchell. ‘Everything is okay, Colin, we just need another video.’

‘Why?’

‘We need more publicity. We need to put more pressure on your government.’

Wafeeq glared at Mitchell as he screwed the camera on to the tripod. Mitchell slowly pulled on the jumpsuit.

‘I will do this one,’ said Wafeeq in Arabic.

Kamil nodded. ‘It’s your choice,’ he said. They heard shouts from upstairs. It was Abdul-Nasir, the youngest of their group and the one most prone to panic.

‘Kamil!’ shouted Abdul-Nasir. ‘Someone’s coming. Quick! Come and see!’

‘Soldiers?’

‘No. Two men with a Westerner.’

‘What?’

‘Come and see.’

Kamil exchanged a look with Wafeeq. ‘Go!’ said Wafeeq, impatiently.

Kamil hurried into the kitchen, went up to the first floor and peered out of the bedroom window that overlooked the front of the house. Two Iraqis were walking down the path to the house. One was holding a pistol, the other had a Kalashnikov. Between them was a Westerner, head bowed, hands tied behind his back. He stumbled as he walked and the man with the Kalashnikov grabbed his arm. Kamil opened the window. ‘What do you want?’ he shouted.

‘Wafeeq said we were to bring him,’ shouted the man with the handgun.

‘He said what?’

‘He said we were to interrogate him, then bring him here.’

‘What is your name?’

‘I am Yuusof Abd al-Nuuh. This is my son.’

‘Wait there.’

Kamil ran downstairs. A Kalashnikov was leaning against the wall in the hall and he picked it up, then hurried down to the basement. ‘Did you tell them to bring the prisoner here?’ he asked Wafeeq.

Wafeeq frowned. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Two men, upstairs. They’ve brought a prisoner with them. A Westerner.’

Wafeeq looked at Mitchell. He was kneeling on the floor in the orange jumpsuit, his hands at his sides, glaring at them defiantly. The video-camera was ready to roll, and Wafeeq was ready to kill. But clearly something was wrong upstairs. He pointed at Mitchell. ‘I will be back for you,’ he said. ‘Come with me,’ he said to Kamil.

The two men hurried out of the basement. Wafeeq told Azeem to lock the door, then ran upstairs with Kamil.

‘His name is Yuusof Abd al-Nuuh, he said you told him to bring the prisoner here after they had interrogated him.’

Wafeeq shook his head impatiently. ‘I said interrogate him and kill him,’ he snapped. ‘Why would I want them to bring him here?’ He shouted towards the front room: ‘Azeem, Sulaymaan, Rahman, get upstairs now. Cover the front of the house.’

The three men ran out of the front room and up the stairs, carrying Kalashnikovs. ‘Azeem!’ shouted Wafeeq. ‘Take the RPG.’ Azeem scurried back to the front room, then reappeared with the weapon. He rushed upstairs after his two colleagues.

‘What do you think is happening?’ Kamil asked Wafeeq.

‘Something smells bad,’ said Wafeeq.

‘Did you tell them where we were?’

‘Of course not.’

There was a loud knock on the front door. Wafeeq switched off the Kalashnikov’s safety catch and nodded for Kamil to open it.

Kamil kept his gun at his side as he pulled back the bolts. Wafeeq stood with the gun on his hip, his finger on the trigger. Kamil took a deep breath and opened the door.

The two Iraqis were holding the Westerner. Yuusof’s face was drenched in sweat and he looked nervous. ‘What are you doing here?’ asked Kamil.

Yuusof said nothing.

‘Speak!’ shouted Kamil, gesturing with his gun.

The Westerner lifted his head and smiled. ‘Surprise,’ he said.

Mitchell got to his feet. He was sure they were getting ready to execute him, and he was equally sure that Wafeeq was going to do it. Something had happened upstairs but he knew it was only a temporary reprieve. They would be back soon and when they did come back they would kill him.

He went to the paperback book, moved it aside and picked up the magnetic chess set. He opened it, took out one of the small plastic-covered metal pieces and knelt by the electric socket. The screws came out easily. He took off the cover and pulled out the wires. He wasn’t sure if they were live so he touched the bare wires together. Sparks flew. He did it again and this time there were no sparks so he figured he’d blown a fuse. He gripped the wire and pulled hard. There was a ripping sound from behind the wall and several feet of wire came out of the hole. He stared at it. He would have given anything right then for a knife or a pair of scissors. He smiled to himself. If he’d had either a knife or scissors he wouldn’t have been messing around with the wire. He bent over, put his head close to the wall and began gnawing at the wire with his teeth.

Shepherd pulled out the Glock and shot the man in the forehead twice in quick succession. He slumped to the ground without a sound. Wafeeq stood in the doorway, holding a Kalashnikov. Shepherd dropped into a crouch and brought the gun to bear on Wafeeq’s chest but before he could fire the door slammed.

The two Iraqis who had walked him to the house dived to the ground and lay face down with their hands over their heads. There were no rounds in their guns and they had been told to stay down until the shooting was over.

Shepherd heard shouts above his head and looked up to see two men at the upstairs windows. One was aiming an RPG, the other had a Kalashnikov. The Kalashnikov fired and bullets sprayed round the gate as one of the Blackhawk helicopters swooped down to hover above the buildings on the far side of the street.

He kicked the door, which burst open, dived inside, rolled over and got to his feet, Glock in both hands. The man with the Kalashnikov had gone, and blood was pooling round the head of the man Shepherd had shot. Outside, he heard the Blackhawk’s massive chain guns burst into life. The high-explosive dual-purpose rounds ripped into the upper floor of the house for five or six seconds, then there was silence. He heard shouts outside, American voices, then M16s being fired, the thump of footsteps below him. He looked around for the door to the basement.

Mitchell had felt the shells smash into the upper floors of the building. Now he could hear the throb of helicopter blades, which meant the Americans were outside, more gunfire – M16s – and shouts and yells.

He had been standing with his back to the wall waiting for Kamil and the rest to come back, but now he knew that all bets were off. He had a length of wire wrapped round his right wrist. When he heard the thump of feet on the stairs, he moved quickly to the far side of the room and stood to the left of the door. It was all about survival now. The Americans had the technology and the manpower. It was only a matter of time before they overpowered his kidnappers. All Mitchell had to do was stay alive until that happened.

He heard the bolts slide back, then more gunfire upstairs. He let the wire swing loose from his wrist.

The door flew back and Mitchell put up a hand to stop it. One of the kidnappers stepped into the room, his Kalashnikov at waist level. Mitchell kicked out at the weapon, knocking away the barrel. It went off and bullets hammered into the far wall, the shots deafening in the confined space. He stepped forward and threw the wire round the man’s neck, caught the free end and pulled it tight. The Kalashnikov went off again and two shots smacked into the ceiling. Mitchell pulled back on the wire and the man lost his balance. He looped the wire round the man’s neck again, then stepped back, pulling it taut. The man twisted, trying to point the weapon at Mitchell, but the wire bit tighter into his throat.

A second figure appeared. It was Wafeeq, holding a Kalashnikov. He pointed it at Mitchell, but before he could fire Mitchell kicked at the door, which slammed shut. The man he was strangling tried to slam the butt of his Kalashnikov against Mitchell’s knee but he moved backwards to avoid the blow.

The door slammed open again. Wafeeq was screaming in Arabic as he pulled the trigger.

Shepherd hurtled down the stairs. There was a doorway to the right and as he reached the bottom of the stairs he heard Wafeeq shouting. He brought up his Glock with both hands as Wafeeq’s Kalashnikov fired a quick burst and the air was filled with the tang of cordite. The door to the basement room was half shut and Shepherd couldn’t see inside so he ran forward and kicked the door open.

Mitchell was in a corner behind an Arab whose torso was peppered with bloody holes. As the door flew open the dead man’s Kalashnikov clattered to the ground.

Wafeeq was standing in the middle of the room, still screaming.

‘Wafeeq!’ yelled Shepherd.

Wafeeq turned and Shepherd fired. The shot missed the back of Wafeeq’s skull by an inch and thwacked into the wall. Wafeeq’s finger tightened on the trigger and Shepherd dropped into a crouch and fired again, hitting him in the shoulder. Wafeeq staggered back. Mitchell dropped the man he was holding, rushed forward and kicked Wafeeq in the small of the back. Wafeeq staggered forward, Shepherd slammed the Glock against his temple and he slumped to the ground without a sound.

Mitchell stood where he was, panting. ‘Bugger me, what took you so long?’ he gasped.

‘You weren’t easy to find,’ said Shepherd. ‘Are you okay?’

Mitchell rubbed his hand down his face. ‘I thought it was all over, Spider.’

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know how you feel.’

‘The Major’s outside?’

‘Yeah. And the guys.’

‘Thanks.’

Shepherd grinned. ‘Don’t get all sentimental on me, Geordie.’ Mitchell gripped him in a bear hug, and Shepherd hugged him back, hard.

The Sniper pressed his eye into the scope’s cup. All he saw was black until his eye was in the correct position, then through the scope he found the target. An American soldier. Superimposed on the soldier was the sight’s reticule. A curved line was marked from one hundred metres to one thousand metres. All the Sniper had to do was aim his rifle so that in the scope the soldier’s feet were at the bottom of the range-finder. The number closest to the target’s head was the distance away in metres. The manufacturer had calibrated the sight for the average height of a Russian soldier back in the early sixties when the rifle was first manufactured, a shade under five feet eight inches. The Sniper knew that the average American soldier was substantially bigger than his Cold War Russian counterpart. Americans were brought up on full-fat milk and fast food diets and most were a good six inches taller than the height for which the scope had been calibrated. It was an easy adjustment to make.

The one-thousand metre line was optimistic, the Sniper knew. The Russians liked to claim that their snipers could hit a man with a Dragunov at a thousand metres, but the Sniper preferred never to work above five hundred. Six hundred on a windless day, perhaps.

He moved the sight slowly down the soldier’s body, and frowned as he reached the man’s feet. He wasn’t wearing army boots: he was wearing brown shoes with tassels. The Sniper had never seen a soldier in footwear like that. He raised the sight again and focused on the man’s face. It didn’t matter what sort of shoes he was wearing. All that mattered was that he was an American soldier and that he would soon be dead.

He forced himself to relax as he stared through the scope. The soldier was four hundred metres away. The wind was negligible and it would be an easy shot. But he had to wait until the helicopters had left.

Yokely watched the marines pile into the house. No shots had been fired for several seconds and from inside he heard shouts of ‘Clear!’ as they moved through the rooms.

‘I should be in there,’ said the Major.

‘It’s a military operation. We’d be in the way,’ said Yokely.

‘They were happy enough for Spider to go in,’ said O’Brien.

‘They needed the diversion,’ said Yokely. ‘Anyway, all’s well that ends well, yeah?’

‘You can say that when Spider and Geordie are out here in one piece,’ said O’Brien.

‘Speak of the devil,’ said Yokely. Two big marines led the pair out of the house. Yokely grinned. ‘They look fine.’

The Major and Yokely went towards them. One of the marines was a captain. ‘Everything okay in there?’ Yokely asked.

‘Four dead,’ said the captain. ‘No casualties on our side.’

‘Excellent,’ said Yokely. ‘Wafeeq?’

‘We’ve a medic working on him now.’ The captain gestured at Spider. ‘He shot him in the shoulder.’

‘He’s okay, though?’

‘His injury isn’t life-threatening,’ said the captain.

‘We’re fine, too. Thanks for asking,’ said Shepherd.

‘I can see that,’ said Yokely. He called up the lead Blackhawk helicopter on his transceiver. ‘Thanks, guys, we can take it from here,’ he said.

‘Roger that,’ said the pilot.

The two helicopters banked and flew south, turbines screaming.

‘Are you okay, Geordie?’ asked the Major.

‘I will be after one of Martin’s fry-ups and a couple of pints.’

Yokely clipped his transceiver on his belt and nodded at him. ‘This is Richard Yokely,’ said the Major. ‘He arranged the heavy artillery for us.’

‘Thanks, Richard,’ said Mitchell.

‘All part of the service,’ said Yokely, with a grin, and saluted Mitchell.

The Sniper frowned as he saw the soldier salute the man in the orange jumpsuit, then realised the significance of what he’d seen. The man in the orange jumpsuit must be an officer. The Iraqis in the house had been keeping a high-ranking officer hostage and the Americans had rescued him.

The Sniper slowly moved the rifle until the head of the man in the orange jumpsuit was in the centre of his sights. He took a breath, slowly let out half, then squeezed the trigger.

The bullet hit the man in the side of the head. His knees buckled and he fell to the ground.

‘ Allahu Akbar,’ whispered the Sniper. A perfect shot.

‘What the hell just happened?’ shouted Simon Nichols, sitting bolt upright. He stared at the real-time video view of the Baghdad city block. The man in the orange jumpsuit was sprawled on the ground. Richard Yokely had dropped into a crouch, scanning the buildings round him. ‘Did Richard just shoot the guy? Is that what happened?’

‘Get a grip,’ said Will Slater. ‘There’s a sniper. Phillip, can you slow it down?’

‘I can drop a few knots but we’re close to stall speed,’ said Howell.

Slater toyed with a joystick and the view on the screen swung to the left. He pulled it back so that he could see more of the city and narrowed his eyes as he stared at the screen. ‘Check the infrared, Simon,’ he said.

Nichols panned the sensor over the scene. He could just make out the figures in the street and hear the engines of the vehicles but the intense heat of the day made it hard to distinguish much.

‘Come on, you bastard,’ muttered Slater. ‘Where are you hiding?’

‘Got him,’ said Nichols. ‘West, about four hundred metres. Two figures on top of a building.’

‘A sniper and his spotter,’ said Slater. He moved the joystick to the left and increased the magnification, found the two figures and zoomed in. The men filled the screen. One was holding a rifle. ‘We have a target confirmed,’ he said.

‘Let’s do it,’ said Howell.

Slater hit the laser illuminator button that bathed the two figures with invisible light. ‘Target locked,’ he said.

‘Missile away,’ said Howell. He pressed the button that launched one of the Predator’s two Hellfire missiles. The Thiokol solid-propellant rocket motor kicked into life and the missile roared away. It had an effective range of almost eight thousand metres but the two men on the roof were much closer than that. Within seconds the five-foot-long missile had reached its maximum speed of Mach 1.3. The laser seeker in its nose locked on to the laser light illuminating the two men and the missile changed direction so that it was heading straight for them. Just behind the sensors and computer in the nose was the missile’s payload, an eight-kilogram charge capable of destroying a tank.

Shepherd knelt beside Mitchell, staring in horror at the wound in his friend’s skull. It was fatal, no doubt about it. Mitchell’s chest was still heaving and his legs were twitching but the movements were reflex. Mitchell was dead, but his body hadn’t realised it yet. The bullet had hit him in the right cheekbone and blown out a big chunk of his head. Clumps of bloody brain matter were smeared across the pavement and his left eye dangled from a blood-filled socket.

Shepherd groped for Mitchell’s hand and squeezed it. ‘I’m sorry, Geordie,’ he whispered. The hand trembled, then went still. The legs stopped twitching. The chest rose and fell for the last time. Blood continued to ooze from the head wound but no longer pulsed. The heart had stopped.

‘Spider, get to cover!’ shouted the Major. He and O’Brien were behind one of the Humvees, while Shortt and two American soldiers had rolled behind the Bradley.

Yokely had stood his ground. He was scanning the surrounding buildings.

‘Richard, get the hell down!’ shouted the Major.

‘Fuck him,’ said Yokely. ‘He doesn’t scare me. Can you see him, Spider?’

Shepherd kept hold of Mitchell’s lifeless hand. Snipers usually operated between two hundred and six hundred metres. Any closer and there was too big a chance of being spotted by the target; further, and the shot was too difficult. Mitchell had been standing with his back to the building when he’d been shot, so Shepherd concentrated on an arc away from Mitchell, his eyes darting from side to side. ‘Where the hell is he?’ he muttered.

‘Spider, get the hell over here!’ shouted the Major.

Shepherd made out a dark shape on the roof of a building. As he stared he caught a flash of light: the sun glinting off a scope. ‘I see him,’ he shouted, and pointed. Yokely squinted and raised his M16.

The Sniper’s finger tightened on the trigger. There was virtually no wind. He took a breath, let half out, then centred his sights on the face of the man kneeling next to the one he’d shot.

‘He sees us,’ said the Spotter.

The Sniper ignored him. The American soldiers had M16s and they were too far away to reach him. The turrets of the Bradleys were pointed in the wrong direction and the men operating the machine-guns on the roofs of the Humvees had ducked inside their vehicles. He had plenty of time to make the kill and escape. All the time in the world. He smiled and started to pull the trigger.

He never heard the Hellfire missile because it was flying at thirty per cent faster than the speed of sound. He never felt the heat of the blast or any pain as the impact fuse detonated the eight kilograms of high explosive and blasted him and his spotter into fragments no bigger than a fingernail in a fraction of a second. One moment he was alive, about to squeeze the trigger and whisper, ‘ Allahu Akbar,’ the next he was dead.

Shepherd flinched at the explosion. Out of the corner of his eye he’d seen the missile streak through the azure sky, leaving behind a thin white trail, but hadn’t realised what it was until the top of the building had exploded in a ball of flame. The noise was deafening and his ears were ringing as the thick plume of smoke spiralled up into the sky.

The Major and O’Brien came out from behind the Humvee. ‘What the hell was that?’ asked Armstrong.

‘A Hellfire missile,’ said Yokely. ‘Courtesy of my guardian angels.’

Shepherd gazed at Geordie. The Sniper was dead. There was no question of that. But so was Geordie Mitchell, and he had been worth a hundred Iraqi snipers.

Three days later

Shepherd checked himself in the hall mirror. Black suit, white shirt, black tie. His funeral outfit. ‘You look very smart, Daniel,’ said Moira, behind him. ‘You should wear a suit more often.’

‘The job doesn’t always call for it, Moira.’

She adjusted his tie. ‘Maybe you should look for a job where a suit is the usual attire.’ She took a step back and flicked a speck off his shoulder. ‘The last time you wore it…’

‘I know,’ he said quickly. Sue’s funeral.

Liam came out of the sitting room. ‘Why can’t I come?’ he asked.

‘It’s a memorial service, not a party,’ said Shepherd. ‘And you didn’t know him. He was someone I knew at work.’

‘How did he die?’ asked Liam.

‘Liam!’ said Moira, shocked. ‘That’s not a polite question to ask.’

‘That’s okay, Moira,’ said Shepherd, and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘He was killed in Iraq.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was shot.’

‘It’s a terrible place,’ said Moira. ‘I don’t understand why our troops are there. That Mr Blair has a lot to answer for.’

‘Was he a soldier, Dad,’ asked Liam, ‘like you?’

‘Yeah. He was in the SAS with me. He helped me when I was shot in Afghanistan.’

‘So that’s why you’re going to his funeral?’

‘It’s not a funeral, Liam. He was cremated in Iraq. This is a memorial service where we all get together and say goodbye to him.’

‘Just be thankful your father isn’t a soldier any more,’ said Moira. ‘He doesn’t have to go to terrible places like Iraq.’

Shepherd’s mobile rang and he took it out of his jacket pocket.

‘I hope that’s not work,’ said Moira, disapprovingly.

‘So do I,’ said Shepherd, and looked at the screen. It was Jimmy Sharpe. He took the call and walked into the sitting room.

‘Have you seen the news?’ asked Sharpe.

‘About you threatening the guy who bought my house?’

‘What?’

‘You know what, Razor. You threatened the guy who bought my house. Threatened to have his company turned over.’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Sharpe. ‘We just had a chat.’

‘Razor, aren’t you in enough trouble already? If Charlie finds out, she’ll hit the roof.’

‘Charlotte Button is going to have a hell of a lot more to worry about than me,’ said Sharpe. ‘It’s on Sky News now but it’ll be all over the media within the next few hours.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘The Birmingham cops have just shot the wannabe terrorists.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Yeah, I called you up to make you laugh. The armed cops went in on the back of local intelligence, something about anthrax or a chemical bomb. The guys had the Ingrams we sold them and it all went tits up. Three dead, one’s in intensive care.’

‘And did they find the bomb?’

‘My guy says no they didn’t. Just the guns.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yeah, deep, deep shit. But I guess we’re in the clear. It was an Anti-Terrorist Branch case, so it’s their fault for not liaising with the local cops. Just thought you’d like to know. Button said you were taking some time off. When are you back in harness?’

‘Next week.’ A car horn blared outside. ‘Razor, I’ve got to go.’ He put his phone away as he went back into the hallway. He pointed at Liam. ‘Is your bedroom tidy? It was a pit this morning.’

‘I tidied it already.’

‘Okay. I’ll be back before it gets dark so we can play football.’ He smiled at Moira. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and kissed her cheek.

She looked at him, surprised. ‘Thank you for what?’ she asked.

‘For everything,’ he said. He had a sudden urge to hug her, but instead he smiled and left the house. He walked over to the Major’s black Range Rover – Armstrong was standing by the front passenger door, finishing a cigarette. He flicked away the butt and climbed into the front. The rear door opened and Shepherd got into the back next to O’Brien and Shortt.

The Major twisted around in the driving seat. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.

‘Fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘Anyone else going?’

‘John Muller’s over with some of his people.’ He grinned. ‘I gather Carol Bosch has come too.’

O’Brien nudged Shepherd in the ribs.

‘A fair few lads from the Regiment have promised to be there, so we should have a good turnout,’ said the Major. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the kerb.

‘Yokely’s not going, then?’ said O’Brien.

‘He’s not big on funerals,’ said the Major.

‘Neither am I,’ said Shepherd.

It was a fifteen-minute drive to St Martin’s, the grey stone church where the SAS honoured its dead. As Shepherd climbed out of the Range Rover he saw a woman in a long black coat standing at the gate to the churchyard. It was Charlotte Button.

‘She’s not after giving you another bollocking, I hope,’ muttered the Major.

‘She’s dressed for a funeral,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, well, I hope it’s not yours,’ said the Major.

Shepherd walked over to her. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ he said.

‘He was a friend of yours so I thought I’d pay my respects,’ she said. She was holding a small black leather Prada bag.

‘Thank you,’ said Shepherd.

‘And I needed a chat,’ she said. ‘Did you hear the news?’

‘Razor phoned me. What’s the story?’

‘It’s a bloody mess. The local cops went in without talking to the Anti-Terrorist Branch. They’d received a tip-off from a well-meaning mullah in one of the local mosques. He’d overheard Asim and Salman talking about anthrax. They went in with armed support and someone grabbed a gun. Details are still a bit sketchy as to who fired first but three of the Asians died and another’s only just hanging on.’

‘What about the informant?’

‘You were right. It was Ali. He’s the one in intensive care. The brothers died, and so did Asim. Fazal was in the bathroom when the cops went in and threw himself into the bath. He’s okay and singing like the proverbial canary. But it looks as if they were enthusiastic amateurs rather than an al-Qaeda cell.’

‘And no anthrax?’

Button shook her head. ‘But there were downloads from the Internet about chemical and biological warfare and homemade explosives.’

‘Any schoolkid has access to that sort of information, these days,’ said Shepherd.

‘It shows intent,’ said Button.

‘They were shot because they had guns, and they had guns because we sold them guns.’

‘Well, like I said, it’s a bloody mess.’

‘Any of that mess heading our way?’ asked Shepherd.

‘It’ll stop at my desk, whatever happens,’ said Button. ‘I don’t think there’s anything we have to worry about, though. It was an SO13 operation, through and through.’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, I’ve got some good news for you.’

‘That’ll make a nice change,’ said Shepherd. She flashed him an icy look, and he grinned. ‘Sorry.’

She wagged a gloved finger at him. ‘I’ve a good mind to cancel your promotion, except that it’s out of my hands.’

‘Promotion?’

‘Detective sergeant, as of today. Nothing to do with me. Sam Hargrove put it through before he left. You were due, I gather. Congratulations.’

‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd.

‘Yeah, well, like I said, it’s nothing do with what’s happened over the past week. If you ever lie to me again, Spider, we’re through. You, more than anyone, know how important it is that we trust each other.’

‘It won’t happen again,’ said Shepherd.

‘It had better not,’ she said. She straightened her shoulders. ‘Right. I suppose I’d better go and say hello to the galloping Major. I just hope he doesn’t give me one of his famous bone-crushing handshakes. You men do like to prove yourselves, don’t you?’

‘It’s the hormones,’ said Shepherd.

Button smiled. ‘Isn’t it just,’ she said, and went to the black Range Rover, her high heels clicking on the pavement.

At about the same time as Shepherd and his colleagues were standing in the pews in St Martin’s Church in Hereford, a Gulfstream jet with an American registration was landing at a military airfield in the north of Ukraine, some eight miles from the nearest population centre.

It was a cold day and flecks of snow were falling when the door opened. A single Russian Jeep, with two soldiers wrapped up in thick green overcoats, was waiting to meet it.

Only two people got off the plane. One was an Arab, blindfolded, shackled and wearing an orange jumpsuit. He moved unsteadily, as if he’d been drugged or badly beaten. His right arm was in a sling. The other man was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and brown loafers with tassels.