Hot Blood Page 21

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we have no choice,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You are scared of a woman?’ she said.

  ‘Not scared, just careful,’ said Shepherd. ‘If your hands are tied you’re less likely to try something. And my colleague over there is a lot less understanding than I am.’ He pulled the roll of insulation tape from his pocket.

  ‘You’re not tying my daughter up, are you?’

  ‘We have to.’

  Fatima laid her on the sofa, and the little girl curled up with her leopard. Fatima stroked her hair. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I won’t let them hurt you.’ She held out her hands and Shepherd bound her wrists together.

  ‘If I was you, I’d do them behind her back,’ said Armstrong. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

  ‘Put that out!’ snapped Fatima.

  ‘Go screw yourself,’ said Armstrong. He took a long pull on his cigarette and blew smoke at her.

  ‘You do not smoke in my house,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll do what the hell I want,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Put it out,’ said Shepherd, quietly.

  ‘What?’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Let’s not annoy them more than we have to.’

  ‘You’re getting soft in your old age,’ said Armstrong, but he stubbed the cigarette out on the sole of his trainer.

  ‘And take the butt with you,’ said Shepherd. ‘DNA.’ He checked that the tape wasn’t too tight around the woman’s wrists, then put the roll back into his pocket. ‘Now, do you want me to bring you anything from the kitchen?’ he asked.

  ‘A knife,’ she said drily. ‘A big knife.’

  Shepherd grinned. He left Shortt in the sitting room with Armstrong. He reflected wryly that one man on his own probably wouldn’t be able to keep Fatima under control.

  The Major was waiting for him in the master bedroom. ‘Okay?’ he said.

  ‘All under control,’ said Shepherd, ‘but she’s a handful.’

  The Major waved his Glock at Fariq and told him to sit on a chair beside a large gilt mirror. He was wearing yellow silk pyjamas, and his belly wobbled as he sat down. ‘Right, Fariq, we can end this quickly and painlessly,’ he said. ‘If you tell us what we want to know, we’ll be out of here.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Fariq.

  ‘I suggest you listen carefully to what I’m saying,’ continued the Major. ‘This isn’t about you, it’s about your brother. We need to contact him, and once we have, we’ll leave you and your family alone.’

  ‘What have you done with my wife?’

  ‘She’s fine, and so is your daughter. We’re not here to cause anyone any harm. We just want to talk to your brother.’

  ‘I have four brothers,’ said Fariq.

  ‘Wafeeq.’

  ‘I haven’t seen Wafeeq for three years,’ said Fariq.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I just said, I don’t know.’

  ‘No, you said you hadn’t seen him. That doesn’t mean you don’t know where he is.’

  ‘You are playing with words,’ said Fariq. ‘I’m telling you the truth. I do not know where he is. If I knew, I’d tell you. I swear.’

  The Major prodded Fariq in the chest with the Glock. ‘We’re not playing anything,’ he said menacingly. ‘Now, where is Wafeeq?’

  ‘Iraq, I assume.’

  ‘Where in Iraq?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Does he have a house there?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think so?’

  ‘We are not close. I see him at family functions, that’s all. Three years ago there was a funeral for an uncle. That was when I saw him last.’

  ‘Do you have a phone number for him?’

  Fariq shook his head.

  ‘What about other family members? Do you have the number of anyone who would know how to contact him?’

  ‘We are not a close family.’

  ‘Where’s your mobile?’ asked the Major.

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Your mobile phone – your cellphone.’ The Major mimed putting a phone to his ear.

  ‘It’s there.’ Fariq nodded at the bedside table.

  The Major gestured to Shepherd, who went to the table where a new-model Motorola lay next to a diamond-encrusted gold Rolex watch. Shepherd picked up the sleek black phone and flipped it open, examined the screen, then shook his head.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked the Major.

  ‘It’s Arabic,’ said Shepherd. ‘Everything’s Arabic, even the menu.’

  ‘Can’t you change the language?’

  ‘Sure, but that won’t convert the data in the phone book. That’ll stay Arabic.’

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ said Fariq. ‘I don’t have Wafeeq’s number.’

  ‘I’d prefer that we check that for ourselves,’ said the Major. ‘Where’s your Filofax? Your business diary – whatever you use to keep track of your movements?’

  ‘You’re wasting your time,’ repeated Fariq.

  The Major stuck the barrel of his Glock under Fariq’s chin. ‘It’s our time to waste,’ he hissed. ‘Now, tell me where your Filofax is.’

  ‘The study. Downstairs. On my desk.’

  Shepherd hurried out and down the stairs. The study was to the left of the main hallway, a book-lined room with leather chairs and a large oak desk with an IBM laptop computer. The leatherbound Filofax was next to the laptop. Shepherd picked it up and flicked through the pages. All the writing was Arabic. He sat down at the desk and switched on the laptop. Once it had booted up he scanned the icons. All were in English. He clicked on the Outlook Express icon and smiled when he saw that everything was in English. He went through the address book, but there was nothing for Wafeeq, then the inbox and the messages-sent folder. There was nothing to or from Fariq’s brother.

  He closed Outlook Express and found a folder containing letters that Fariq had written. Half were in Arabic, the others in English. The latter were business-related and none were to anyone called Wafeeq. Shepherd left the computer and went back upstairs.

  ‘What took you so long?’ said the Major, when Shepherd walked into the master bedroom.

  ‘I was checking his computer,’ said Shepherd. ‘His emails are in English. There was nothing from his brother that I can see.’ He showed the Filofax to the Major. ‘This is all Arabic, too.’

  ‘Take it outside with the phone. See if he can make sense of it.’

  Shepherd knew that ‘he’ meant Halim. He was the only one in the group who could read Arabic. Shortt spoke a bit and understood some, but he couldn’t read or write it. Shepherd took off his ski mask, headed downstairs and walked along the main drive to the gate. There was a large gate for vehicles and a smaller one set into the wall. It was bolted but not locked. Shepherd drew back the bolt and stepped on to the pavement. A top-of-the-range Mercedes with heavily tinted windows drove by and Shepherd turned his face away. He walked briskly along the pavement, then down the side-road where Muller had parked the Land Cruiser. Muller was sitting in the front passenger seat, Halim next to him, both hands on the steering-wheel.

  ‘Everything okay?’ asked Muller, as Shepherd climbed in.

  ‘The house is secure, but we’re not getting anywhere yet,’ said Shepherd. He gave the Filofax and mobile phone to Halim and asked him to check if there was any entry for Wafeeq.

  ‘How’s Fariq taking it?’

  ‘Not happy, but cooperating. His wife’s a hard nut.’

  ‘Just one kid?’

  ‘The daughter,’ said Shepherd. ‘Fariq says he’s had no contact with his brother.’

  Halim handed back the phone. ‘All the Iraq numbers are business-related except three, which are women’s names,’ he said.

  ‘He could be using a coded name,’ said Muller.

  ‘That’s possible,’ agreed Shepherd. ‘Or he could have memorised the number. Either way, we’ll have to get pretty heavy to get
the truth out of him.’

  Halim flicked through the pages of the Filofax.

  ‘If he’s lying, he’ll probably come up with the number when we record the video,’ said Shepherd. ‘We’ve made it clear that all we want is a contact number for his brother. Once we make the video we move it up a notch.’

  Halim gave Shepherd the Filofax. ‘There is nothing in there for Wafeeq,’ he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Not if she believes her husband will die.’

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

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

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

  ‘So we take her too.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘You are Americans? British? Israelis?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Yes.’

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

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

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

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

  Fariq nodded.

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

  ‘I understand,’ said Fariq.

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

  ‘Yes.’

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

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

  ‘Do you understand what I said?’

  Fariq nodded fearfully.

  The Major gestured with the Glock.

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ said Fariq.

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

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

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

  ‘Colin Mitchell.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘You’re his blood,’ said the Major.

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Then do as we say.’

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

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

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

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

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