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  ‘And what are you expecting?’

  ‘If I’m really lucky you’ll hear Wafeeq, but he’s a pro so I won’t be holding my breath.’

  ‘Is this connected with the Colin Mitchell kidnapping you asked me to keep an eye on?’

  Yokely chuckled softly. ‘That’s the million-dollar question,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll take that as yes,’ said Hepburn. Behind him a poster for Breakfast at Tiffany’s, with a coyly smiling Audrey Hepburn, was stuck to the wall. He claimed that the actress was a distant cousin but Yokely had run a few checks and could find no blood link. Not that it mattered – there was no point in spoiling a good story.

  ‘I doubt there’ll be much international phone traffic,’ said Yokely, ‘but if they use the Internet something might go through the satellites.’

  Most of the telecommunications traffic into the United States came via one of thirty Intelsat satellites that circled the Earth some twenty-two thousand miles above the equator. Calls from the Middle East, Europe and Africa were beamed down to AT&T’s ground station in West Virginia whence they were routed round the country. The NSA had its own listening station fifty miles from the phone company’s station. Like its Fort Meade headquarters, the station, and its massive gleaming white parabolic dishes, was shielded from prying eyes by thick woodland. Its signals, and those from another in Brewster, Washington, which monitored traffic from Asia, were sent to Fort Meade for analysis. The agency’s supercomputers sifted through the millions of daily calls and transmissions for key words or voices, and anything red-flagged was passed on to human experts for analysis.

  ‘I’ll put a watch on it for you. Any idea who he might contact?’

  ‘The usual suspects,’ said Yokely. ‘Frankly, I think what’s more likely is that there’ll be local traffic. Can you get the Baghdad CSG on the case?’

  The Cryptologic Support Group was a miniature version of the NSA that could be sent into trouble spots for as long as they were needed. They monitored all phone and radio communications in their area and sent the data to Forte Meade for processing. A large CSG contingent was based in the Green Zone in Baghdad.

  ‘I’ll get them right on to it,’ said Hepburn. ‘What’s your interest?’

  ‘Wafeeq is in the hostage business. His brother Fariq has been kidnapped.’

  ‘I suppose the irony isn’t lost on him,’ said Hepburn.

  ‘Wafeeq is going to want to know what’s happened to his brother so there’s a chance he’ll let his guard down.’

  Hepburn tapped on his computer keyboard. He sipped his Jack Daniel’s as he studied the screen. ‘Wafeeq is known, and there’s a list of numbers that he’s used before. He’s a heavy hitter, all right.’ He looked at Yokely. ‘If we get a trace on him, do I go public?’

  ‘I’d prefer a quiet word,’ said Yokely. ‘Lets me consider my options.’

  ‘So it’s unofficial?’

  ‘Totally.’

  ‘Cool.’ Hepburn tapped away at the keyboard again. ‘Nothing on the brother.’

  ‘Fariq’s clean,’ said Yokely, ‘and he won’t be using a phone in the near future. If you put his name into the search engine I’ll need the wheat separating from the chaff.’

  Hepburn nodded. ‘There’ll be a lot of chaff.’

  ‘Well, that’s what billion-dollar supercomputers are for, isn’t it?’

  Hepburn raised his glass in salute. ‘To the great American taxpayer.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Yokely.

  Muller came into the kitchen with a grin on his face. ‘Jackpot,’ he said. ‘Fariq’s wife is the youngest daughter of Abu Bakr al-Pachachi, and that’s him in the photograph. I was so busy looking at Fariq that I didn’t realise who he’d married.’ He handed the framed photograph to the Major, who was sitting at the kitchen table with Shepherd. ‘He’s number two in the Foreign Ministry, he’s met personally with Bush and Blair and is one of the few Sunnis that the Shias respect.’

  ‘Am I the only one here who doesn’t know the difference between a Sunni and a Shia?’ asked O’Brien, buttering a slice of toast.

  ‘Mostly you can’t,’ said Muller. ‘They speak the same language, generally look and dress the same.’

  ‘Like Protestants and Catholics in Northern Ireland then,’ said O’Brien.

  ‘There are funny little differences,’ said Muller. ‘When Sunnis pray they hold their hands towards their chests while Shias have theirs at their sides. The ultra-religious Sunnis are more likely to have long beards and their women will cover themselves like the Saudi women, just revealing their eyes. The Shias are more likely to adopt Western dress. But, really, you’d be hard pushed to tell them apart.’

  ‘So why don’t they get on?’ asked O’Brien. ‘They’re all Iraqis, right?’

  Muller chuckled. ‘Why don’t the Protestants and Catholics get on? They’re all Irish, right? On the surface the issue in Iraq is religious, but at the end of the day it’s about power. The Sunnis had it under Saddam and now that we’re running the show the majority Shias are calling the shots. But the fact that al-Pachachi is a Sunni means he’ll have leverage with the insurrectionists. Hopefully.’

  ‘That explains why the cops came around as quickly as they did,’ said Shepherd. ‘Al-Pachachi must have contacted them as soon as he heard Fariq had been kidnapped.’

  ‘Sure, but it’s his daughter he’s concerned about. Remember, it was her the police asked for first. And if he was bothered about Fariq, he’d have done something already.’

  ‘Maybe he tried.’

  ‘Or maybe he’s pissed off with Fariq for bringing his daughter and grandkids to Dubai,’ said the Major.

  ‘All we’ve got is maybes,’ said Muller, ‘but now we know about his daughter we can put more pressure on him.’

  The Major handed the picture frame to Shepherd. ‘Let’s get her into the study.’ He pulled on his ski mask and went up the stairs to the servants’ quarters, O’Brien following.

  Shepherd looked at the photograph. Assuming their first child had been born a year or so after the marriage, the wedding must have taken place sixteen or seventeen years earlier. The years hadn’t been good to Fariq – his waistline had thickened, his jowls had dropped and his hair had thinned. But Fatima had barely changed. If anything, the woman he had wrestled with in the bedroom was even more beautiful than the shy-looking girl in the picture. She was glacing sideways at her father, as if looking for his approval, while al-Pachachi was staring at the camera, his lips pressed together, one hand resting lightly on his daughter’s shoulder. He was a Saddam Hussein lookalike, jet black hair and thick moustache, square face, the skin pockmarked with old acne scars. His eyes were as hard as flint. He must have been tough to survive in Saddam’s inner circle, but only an astute politician could have managed the switch to the new regime. He went through to the sitting room and put the picture back on the sideboard among the rest of the framed photographs. He picked up another of Fatima and the children standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. The boys were handsome, as tall as their mother even though they were only in their early teens, and with the same soft brown eyes. Fatima was holding her daughter’s hand. They were both wearing long red scarves and gloves.

  Shepherd envied Fariq his family. Three lovely children and a spirited, beautiful wife. Shepherd had lost his wife and he doubted he’d have more children. He had Liam, and he loved him more than life, but there was a world of a difference between single parenthood and being a husband and father. There were several photo albums at his house in Ealing, tucked away in a chest of drawers in the spare bedroom. They were filled with family snaps, usually taken on holidays, at school concerts or sports days. They stopped when Liam was seven. The last ones in the album had been taken on a trip to Wimbledon Common, a picnic sitting under a tree, then kicking a football. Just a family outing, nothing special, except that it had been their last. The day after the picnic Shepherd had gone under cover as an armed robber, and two weeks later he’d been sent to
a Category A prison. While Shepherd had been inside, Sue had died in a senseless traffic accident. Shepherd still couldn’t look through the albums without crying so he kept them hidden away.

  He stared at the photograph of Fatima and her children and wondered what Sue would have said if she’d known what he was doing. She’d never liked his undercover work but at least she had accepted that he was doing a worthwhile job under difficult conditions. He was one of the good guys. He had been a good guy in the SAS and he was a good guy working for SOCA. But in Fariq and Fatima’s sitting room, with a holstered Glock and a ski mask, he wasn’t one of the good guys any more. He went back to the kitchen and up the stairs. He heard Fariq’s wife arguing with the Major before he got to the door that led to the servants’ quarters. ‘I’m staying here with my daughter,’ she was saying.

  ‘I need you in the study,’ said the Major.

  ‘I don’t give a shit where you need me.’

  O’Brien was standing at the doorway. He grinned as Shepherd walked up. ‘Balls of steel, that one,’ he said, gesturing with his Glock.

  Fariq was in the armchair by the window, wrists and ankles taped together; more tape held him to the chair. Fatima’s legs were free, but her wrists were taped. She was sitting on the sofa next to the little girl. Through the door that led to the bedroom, Shepherd could see the old couple, bound but not gagged, watching what was happening in the sitting room.

  Armstrong was standing with the Taser in his hand, but the Major had holstered his Glock. ‘I’m just asking you to go with us to the study. That’s all,’ he said.

  ‘And I’m telling you I want to stay here,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not arguing with you,’ said the Major.

  ‘What are you going to do? Use that stun gun on me?’ she said, nodding at Armstrong’s Taser. ‘Or are you going to shoot me?’

  ‘Darling, please do as they say,’ said her husband.

  Fatima ignored him. ‘This is between you and Fariq,’ she said. ‘It has nothing to do with me.’

  Despite himself, Shepherd smiled. She was outmanned and outgunned but she had no qualms about standing up for herself against five men in ski masks.

  ‘It has just become about you,’ he said. ‘Now, stand up and walk downstairs with me or, God help me, I’ll put you over my shoulder and carry you.’

  ‘Are you proud of yourself,’ she asked, ‘terrorising women and children?’

  ‘You don’t seem terrorised,’ said the Major.

  ‘Do you call yourself men?’ she said. ‘You’re not men. You’re scum.’

  ‘We’re not going to hurt you,’ said the Major. ‘We need to do something in the study.’

  ‘What? What is it you want me to do?’ She glared up at him defiantly.

  ‘I need a word, in private,’ said Shepherd.

  The Major looked around. ‘Now?’

  ‘Yeah, now.’

  The Major nodded. ‘The kitchen,’ he said. ‘Gag her,’ he told Armstrong. ‘And be careful. She bites.’

  The two men went downstairs and took off their ski masks. The Major opened the refrigerator, took out a carton of orange juice and held it up. Shepherd shook his head. The Major poured himself a glass. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.

  Shepherd jerked his thumb at the servants’ quarters. ‘What’s going on up there is the problem. It’s so bloody wrong.’

  The Major took a long pull at his juice. ‘We knew that before we started. We knew we’d be crossing the line.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Shepherd. ‘But we’re moving further and further away from it. I could just about convince myself that threatening Wafeeq’s brother was acceptable, the ends justifying the means and all that, but we’ve got his wife and kid at gunpoint now and we’re threatening to hurt her.’

  ‘We’re not going to harm them, Spider.’

  ‘That’s like an armed robber saying he’s carrying a sawn-off shotgun to scare people. It’s not really the point, is it?’

  ‘So what is the point?’

  ‘She’s right,’ said Shepherd. ‘She said we’re not behaving like men and she’s right. We’re behaving like the terrorists that we despise. What we’ve done is every bit as bad as what those bastards are doing to Geordie. I’m not saying that as a policeman, or talking about the legality of what we’re doing. This has nothing to do with breaking the law, and everything to do with the way we’re behaving. There’s no honour in what we’re doing, and I think it’s time to stop.’

  The Major drank some more of his juice.

  ‘I accepted what we were doing in London,’ continued Shepherd. ‘We needed that information and we needed it quickly. I could convince myself that it was acceptable to kidnap Fariq to put pressure on his brother. But we’ve moved beyond that and I can’t justify what we’re doing any more.’

  The Major put down his glass. ‘You’re right,’ he said.

  ‘But?’

  ‘There’s no “but”, Spider. You’re right.’

  ‘So, what now?’

  The Major folded his arms and leaned against the sink. ‘We either carry on upping the ante, threaten to kill the wife in the hope that her family can influence the kidnappers, or we call it a day.’ He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘Like I said, you’re right. My heart isn’t in threatening women and children – but the way things are, with what little time we have left, I don’t see any other way of getting Geordie out alive.’

  ‘I might have an idea,’ Shepherd said.

  ‘A good one?’

  ‘Better than threatening women and kids,’ said Shepherd.

  Shepherd sat down next to Fatima. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked. She glared at him with undisguised hatred. ‘Are you okay to talk?’ he asked. ‘If I take that gag off you, will you promise not to start shouting and screaming?’ She nodded, but continued to glare at him. Shepherd reached up slowly, undid the gag and pulled it away from her mouth. ‘Fatima, I want to talk to you without you screaming at me or trying to bite me.’

  ‘Just say what you have to,’ she said. ‘You bore me.’ They were alone in the sitting room. The Major and Armstrong had taken Fariq and his daughter to join the old couple in the other room. Shortt and Muller were in the hall.

  ‘Okay. I’m sorry for what’s happened here, and for threatening you and your family. I’m not proud of what we’ve done.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be! You’re scum, worse than—’

  Shepherd put his hand over her mouth and she stopped talking immediately. ‘Please, just let me speak,’ he said, then took away his hand slowly. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed, and her cheeks were flushed. She had been held hostage for two days, had not a trace of makeup on her face, hadn’t combed her hair or showered, but she was still one of the most beautiful women Shepherd had ever seen. He felt sorry for Fariq. He had a stunning wife, but he must spend every waking hour worrying that one day he would lose her.

  ‘What we did was wrong, and I don’t expect you to understand why we did it, but we truly believed that what we were doing was for the best.’ She opened her mouth to speak but Shepherd held up his hand to pre-empt her. ‘What we have to decide now is where we go from here,’ he said.

  ‘I want you out of my house,’ she said quietly, ‘and away from my family.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said Shepherd.

  ‘You are a father. You know how a parent feels when their child is threatened.’

  Shepherd’s mouth fell open. ‘How do you know I’m a father?’ he asked.

  She snorted contemptuously. ‘Men change when they become fathers,’ she said. ‘I see that change in you. Just go.’

  ‘We can’t just go,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s the problem.’

  ‘Because you think I will go to the police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She sneered at him. ‘Of course I will go to the police. What do you think I will do? Forgive and forget?’

  ‘I don’t expect forgiveness, and I’m sure you won’t forget wha
t we did to you.’

  ‘We haven’t seen your faces. You’ve worn masks and gloves all the time you have been here. I’m sure you have been careful to leave no DNA. What can I tell the police? That five Westerners kidnapped us? Do you have any idea how many Westerners there are in Dubai? Hundreds of thousands. I can tell them nothing that will help identify you.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Shepherd. ‘But we’d feel better if no one was looking for us.’

  ‘You want me to promise not to call the police?’

  Shepherd nodded.

  ‘And why would I agree to that?’

  ‘Because if you don’t, you’ll stay tied up here and someone will watch over you with a gun.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For as long as it takes. We won’t be threatening you. We’ll just have to keep you out of circulation until we know it’s safe.’

  ‘But if I tell you we won’t go to the police, you’ll leave?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Why would you believe me? Why wouldn’t I tell you what you want to hear, then call the police as soon as you’ve gone?’

  ‘Because you’ve got something we haven’t,’ said Shepherd. ‘Honour.’

  She looked into his eyes with a slight frown. ‘And if I give my word, you will go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She continued to stare at him, then nodded. ‘Then I give my word,’ she said.

  The Major sat at the head of the table, tapping a pen on the gleaming wood. Muller sat to his right, Armstrong to his left. O’Brien and Shortt stood with their backs to the window. In the distance, a plaintive wail called the faithful to prayer. They had just got back to the Hyatt and they were dog-tired.

  Shepherd sat at the far end of the table, opposite the Major. He was hunched forward, head down over his interlinked fingers. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t have to say anything,’ said the Major. ‘We understand how you feel.’

  ‘Fariq’s not the enemy,’ said Shepherd. ‘He just happens to be from the same gene pool. If we—’