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  ‘Who are we here to see?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘An Iraqi by the name of Umar al-Tikriti,’ said Yokely. ‘I’ve reason to believe that he knows the guy holding the RPG in the video of your friend.’

  ‘And he’ll tell us who he is?’

  Yokely grinned. ‘Hopefully, if we play it right,’ he said.

  The inner gate rattled open and the two Humvees drove into a central courtyard. The soldier opened the rear door and Shepherd and Yokely climbed out. Shepherd shaded his eyes against the unrelenting sun. His shirt was soaked under the body armour and he was holding his leather jacket.

  ‘You can strip the Kevlar off now, gentlemen,’ said the soldier. ‘You’re among friends here.’

  Shepherd and Yokely took off their helmets and armour and tossed them into the back of the Humvee. Yokely picked up his laptop computer case.

  A tall man with close-cropped red hair, freckles and desert camouflage fatigues strode across the courtyard holding a clipboard and a transceiver. ‘Can’t keep you away, can we?’ he said.

  Yokely grinned. ‘Dan, this is Bob Winmill,’ he said. ‘He’s with the sixteenth Military Police Brigade and is the power behind the throne here.’

  Winmill shook hands with Shepherd. ‘Like “windmill” but without the d in the middle,’ he said. His little finger was missing and there were burn scars round his wrist, but his grip was strong. ‘Welcome to our facility, Dan,’ said Winmill.

  ‘I assume our man’s in the hardsite?’ said Yokely.

  ‘He is now,’ said Winmill. ‘We had him in Camp Redemption but we moved him last night.’ He saw Shepherd’s confusion. ‘Sorry, Dan,’ he said. ‘The hardsite is the old part of the prison, the cell box complexes. It’s where Saddam kept his prisoners. We’ve had them refitted to US specifications, but because we can’t pack them in the way he did, they now hold only a fraction of our inmates. The rest we keep in tents in compounds. We’ve just under three thousand in Camp Redemption. We only put the most dangerous prisoners and those with intelligence value in the hardsite.’ He waved at the building to their left. ‘He’s in there now.’

  ‘So he’s not dangerous?’ said Shepherd, putting on his jacket.

  ‘We found traces of explosives on his clothes. To be honest, that means nothing out here, but it’s enough to hold him for as long as we want. He hasn’t told us much, but we don’t really know what to ask him.’

  ‘He was in a group called the Islamic Followers of Truth, right?’ said Yokely.

  ‘That came from another inmate,’ said Winmill. ‘The intel is probably good but the group was more criminal than insurgent so we didn’t pack him off to Guantánamo.’

  ‘What can you tell us about him?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘He’s twenty-six, a Sunni, and this is his second time inside the prison. Eight years ago he was a guest of Saddam Hussein, serving time for robbery. He was released in 2002 after Saddam announced an amnesty for most of the country’s prisoners.’

  ‘What incentives can I offer him?’ asked Yokely.

  ‘A room with a view,’ said Winmill. ‘A change of clothes, maybe.’

  ‘Early release?’

  ‘It’s that important?’

  Yokely looked at Shepherd. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is.’

  ‘It’s not as if we caught him with a detonator in his hand, and the Egyptian electricians the group was holding were released unharmed. If it helps, I don’t see why we couldn’t send him on his way.’

  ‘We’ll see how it goes,’ said Yokely. ‘Thanks, Bob. I owe you one.’

  ‘You owe me several,’ said Winmill, ‘but who’s counting? Come on, I’ll walk you in.’

  He took them to a metal door, unlocked it with a key on a chain attached to his belt, pulled it open and waved the two men through.

  A corridor ran the length of the ground floor. At regular intervals, barred doors opened on to individual cells. Each was about four metres wide and eight deep. Winmill locked the door behind them and took them down the corridor. Shepherd looked into a cell as they walked by. Four Iraqis were sitting on the floor, looking out through the bars. All four were wearing traditional long white dishdashas. ‘I’ve got him in an interview room on the second floor,’ said Winmill. ‘We’ve had him there since this morning and we haven’t told him why.’

  ‘Does he speak English?’ asked Yokely.

  ‘Some,’ said Winmill.

  ‘I’d like to try it without an interpreter first,’ said Yokely.

  ‘Fine by me,’ said Winmill. Two uniformed military policemen walked by, their shirts perfectly ironed and their boots gleaming. They nodded at Winmill, who nodded back.

  At the end of the corridor they came to another locked door. Winmill unlocked it with the key he’d used previously. The three went through and he relocked it.

  ‘Do you video your interviews?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘No,’ said Winmill. ‘The only record is what is written down by the interrogating officers.’

  ‘And we won’t be writing anything down,’ said Yokely. ‘I’ve already explained that we’re not really here.’

  ‘Just a mirage,’ laughed Winmill. ‘See the cell there?’ He indicated a cell to their left. ‘Andy McNab was held there for a while. The Bravo Two Zero guy. Great book. You want to know how the Iraqis treated their prisoners, read it. What happened here, what they called abuse, was a tiny fraction of what Saddam’s people did.’

  They headed up a flight of stairs and Winmill unlocked yet another door. They went through and found a uniformed military policeman standing outside a metal door, an M16 rifle at his side. Unlike the doors on the ground floor, which were composed of bars, the one being guarded was solid with a square observation hatch at eye level. ‘Any idea how long you’ll be?’ asked Winmill.

  ‘How long’s a piece of string?’ asked Yokely.

  ‘Okay, let the guard know when you’re done and he’ll call me to come and get you. Try not to break anything this time, Richard.’

  ‘That guy fell off his chair. How many times do I have to tell you?’ He turned to Shepherd. ‘A prisoner gets one small fracture and they make out you’re the Spanish Inquisition.’

  ‘Things are different here now. We’re more accountable. Even you OGA guys.’

  Yokely threw him a mock salute. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. Winmill shook his head and walked back to the stairs, twirling his key chain. ‘I thought we’d do this as good cop, bad cop,’ said Yokely. ‘We’ll tell him you’re Mitchell’s brother, and at some point you should get heavy with him. I’ll threaten to leave him alone with you. Then we’ll play it by ear.’

  ‘Any limits?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Yokely. ‘No one’s going to be photographing you. You can go as far as you want … You’re not listening to any of this, are you, son?’ he asked the guard.

  ‘Deaf as a post, sir,’ said the man, staring straight ahead.

  ‘Okay, let’s do it.’

  The guard opened the door for them. Umar was sitting at a plastic-topped table, his hands clasped as if in prayer. He had a thick, straggly beard and his head had been shaved although the hair was now starting to grow back. He was wearing a grubby dishdasha and plastic flip-flops.

  The guard closed the door behind them and Yokely put his case on the table and unzipped it. He took out a sleek grey laptop with no manufacturer’s logo, opened it and switched it on. Umar watched him, but said nothing. Yokely sat down, folded his arms and waited for the computer to boot up. Shepherd stood by the door and continued to stare at the Arab, who steadfastly refused to look at him. Once the computer was running, Yokely turned the screen so that it was facing Umar. He pressed a button and a video began to play. It was jerky and grainy, and showed five men, in green fatigues with scarves covering their faces, standing over three terrified men who were kneeling. Four of the men in fatigues were holding Kalashnikovs, the fifth an RPG above his head. There was no sound but the men in fatigues were clearly chanting. Yokely froze the pi
cture. ‘The Islamic Followers of Truth,’ said Yokely. He smiled at Umar. ‘But, of course, you know that.’ He tapped his finger on the figure furthest to the right. ‘This, we think, is you.’

  Umar stared at the video but said nothing.

  ‘The three Egyptians were released six weeks after this video was taken. How much ransom did you get?’

  Umar remained silent.

  ‘Quite right,’ said Yokely. ‘None of my business. Besides, the money doesn’t concern me.’ He tapped the man who was holding the RPG. ‘What does concern me is this man. We want to know who he is.’

  Umar continued to gaze at the screen, his chest barely moving as he breathed. Yokely tapped a button on the keyboard and the video started to play. ‘After the hostages were released, the Islamic Followers of Truth were never heard from again. A cynic might think that the group was only formed to carry out the kidnapping and that once the money had been paid they disbanded.’ The screen went blank. Yokely tapped another button and a second video started. ‘I doubt you’ve seen this seeing as how you’ve been behind bars for the last few months.’ He let the Mitchell video play in full before he spoke again. ‘Have you heard of the Holy Martyrs of Islam?’

  Still Umar said nothing.

  ‘You do speak English, don’t you?’ asked Yokely, frowning. ‘Please say you do because I really don’t want to have to get an interpreter involved.’

  Umar stared at Yokely, then slowly closed his eyes.

  ‘I do hope that doesn’t mean you’re being uncooperative,’ said the American. He pointed at Shepherd, even though Umar’s eyes were still closed. ‘This man is the brother of the man being held hostage,’ said Yokely. ‘The man who will be beheaded in the not-too-distant future. If you continue to be uncooperative, he’s going to be a very angry man.’ Yokely stood up and stretched. ‘I think I’ll just visit the men’s room,’ he said. He banged on the cell door and the guard unlocked it.

  Shepherd moved aside to let Yokely leave. Yokely gave him a broad wink as he slipped out of the door.

  Shepherd took off his leather jacket and put it on the back of the chair. Umar opened his eyes a fraction, then closed them again. Shepherd shut the laptop and slid it across the table. He walked in front of the Iraqi and stood looking down at him. Umar squinted up at him, then yelped as Shepherd grabbed him by the neck of his dishdasha and yanked him to his feet, then pushed him backwards. The Iraqi tumbled over the chair and hit the floor. Shepherd kicked the chair away, bent down and hauled him to his feet. ‘No,’ was all the Iraqi managed to say before Shepherd slammed him against the wall. His legs buckled and he slumped to the floor, leaving a smear of blood on the plaster. Shepherd grabbed him and pulled him up again. He knew that Umar hadn’t hit the wall hard enough to be knocked unconscious. He pushed him back against the table and slapped him across the face. ‘I’ll kill you,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll kill you here and now.’ Umar tried to get up but Shepherd slapped him again. ‘They’re going to kill my brother,’ he said, ‘so you tell me what you know or I’ll kill you, so help me I will.’

  Umar put up his hands to ward off the blows, but Shepherd was too strong for him. He screamed and Shepherd clamped his hand over the man’s mouth, then twisted him round and slammed him against the wall once more. He pushed his mouth close to the man’s ear. ‘He’s not coming back until you’ve told me what I want to know, or you’re dead,’ hissed Shepherd. ‘And I don’t think he cares either way.’

  Umar tried to push himself away from the wall. Shepherd used the man’s momentum to swing him round, then grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm savagely. Umar bent low to take the pressure off his arm but Shepherd reversed the lock and forced him back. Umar screamed in pain and Shepherd stamped on his instep. Umar yelled louder and his right leg buckled. Shepherd let him fall, then kicked him hard in the back, twice. Umar curled up into a ball.

  Shepherd dropped down on top of him, trapping the Arab’s arms with his thighs. Umar thrashed from side to side but Shepherd was too heavy for him. He put his hands round the man’s throat and squeezed, felt the cartilage click and relaxed a little, not wanting to do permanent damage, but he kept enough pressure on to stop him breathing.

  Umar’s mouth opened and closed and his eyes bulged. Shepherd counted in his head to twenty and removed his hands. Umar gasped for breath.

  ‘Talk,’ said Shepherd. ‘Or I’ll kill you.’ Flecks of his saliva peppered the man’s face.

  Umar shook his head, so Shepherd started to strangle him again, staring into his eyes, watching for the moment when he would begin to lose consciousness. Just as his victim was about to pass out, Shepherd took his hands away, pulled him to his feet, grabbed him by the dishdasha and threw him up against the wall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘But you wanted the ransom?’

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

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

  ‘The man with the RPG, who is he?’

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

  ‘And he wanted to kill the Egyptians?’

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I don’t think he knows any more.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Yokely handed him a cup of coffee.

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

  ‘Define your terms,’ said Yokely.

  ‘Transporting prisoners around the world.’

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

  ‘Interrogation,’ said Shepherd.

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

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ said Shepherd.

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Does it worry you, what you do?’

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

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

  ‘Pace?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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