Hot Blood: The Fourth Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Read online

  ‘No more than usual,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll get over it.’

  The Major had booked a suite of offices in a building close to the BBC’s Broadcasting House in Portland Place. Shepherd took the Tube to Regent’s Park, left the station and walked through the park for fifteen minutes. Once he was satisfied that no one was following him, he walked south down Portland Place, heading for the office block. Several yards ahead of him, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, a middle-aged Chinese woman was holding her hands out, palms up, chanting. Across the road a bored armed policeman stood, feet planted shoulder-width apart, in front of the Chinese Embassy. There was always at least one protester demonstrating against the Chinese government’s torture of dissidents. Shepherd wondered if the woman thought she could change government policy or if she was there to prove that someone cared. The lone policeman was a token presence, rather than a serious security measure, and there was something very British about the stand-off. Shepherd doubted that the Chinese would have been so tolerant if the woman had been in her own country.

  He reached the office block and did a final check that he hadn’t been followed. There was an intercom at the main door and Shepherd pressed the buzzer for the second floor. Armstrong answered and let him in.

  When Shepherd arrived Major Gannon was sitting at the head of a large boardroom table drinking a mug of coffee. His satellite phone was on a smaller table by the window that looked out over the road. Whiteboards had been attached to three walls, displaying newspaper cuttings, photographs and satellite images of Baghdad. On the fourth wall there was a large-scale map of Iraq. Armstrong was pouring coffee and O’Brien was rummaging through a selection of Marks & Spencer sandwiches. As usual, Shortt was the last to arrive and hurried in, apologising profusely.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ said Gannon. ‘This will be our HQ.’ He pointed to a door on his left. ‘There’s a couple of camp beds in there, and a bathroom. I’ll be either here or at the Duke of York Barracks, but my mobile will always be switched on.’ He gestured at two laptop computers on a side-table in the far corner of the room. ‘They’ve got broadband and I’ve rigged up access to the Regiment’s databases.’ The Major bent down, swung a briefcase on to the table and clicked open the locks to reveal bundles of twenty-pound notes. ‘There’s cash here, more if we need it.’ He closed the briefcase. ‘Where do we stand with the video?’

  ‘You were right, boss,’ said Armstrong, lighting a cigarette. ‘Al-Jazeera got it first, but we’re not sure how and they’re not prepared to give us any help on that front.’

  ‘What can you tell us about al-Jazeera?’ asked the Major.

  ‘It’s the largest Arabic news channel in the Middle East,’ said Armstrong. ‘It means the Island, or the Peninsula. Based in Qatar, it’s been around for just over ten years. Tends to show sensational pictures of bodies and the like on its news channel, but also runs sport and children’s channels. They came on to the radar after nine/eleven when they broadcast video statements by Bin Laden and his chums. They run a website, too. Aljazeera.net. Not to be confused with Aljazeera.com, which runs really inflammatory stuff.’

  ‘Bush hates them,’ interjected Shortt. He rubbed his moustache. ‘In 2001 the US bombed al-Jazeera’s offices in Afghanistan and a couple of years later they shelled a hotel in Iraq where the only guests were al-Jazeera journalists. They’ve put several of their journalists in prison and the US-backed government in Iraq has banned the network from reporting there. In 2004, Bush is supposed to have talked about bombing their HQ in Qatar.’

  ‘Am I the only one who doesn’t know where Qatar is?’ asked O’Brien, running a hand over his shaved head.

  ‘It’s a tiny state in the Persian Gulf,’ said Shepherd. ‘Population just over half a million, it borders Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates. The capital is Doha. So, are al-Jazeera good guys or bad guys?’

  ‘They’re neutral,’ said Armstrong, flicking ash into a crystal ashtray. O’Brien coughed pointedly and waved smoke away from his face. ‘They’re an Arab news service, doing the same sort of job that CNN and the BBC do. It’s just that America doesn’t like the Arab point of view being broadcast. They’ve also upset pretty much every Arab government in the Middle East at some time or another. For instance, they were the first Arab station to broadcast interviews with Israeli officials.’

  ‘So why do they always get the hostage videos?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘Because if they were sent to CNN there’s no guarantee they’d be shown, and if they were, a bloody good chance that they’d been sent to the CIA first,’ said Armstrong. ‘The BBC would probably refuse to broadcast them on grounds of taste. But al-Jazeera airs them and makes them available to other news agencies.’

  ‘How does the video get to the station?’ asked the Major.

  ‘That’s the problem,’ said Armstrong. ‘They won’t say. I phoned their news desk in Qatar and I’ve spoken to senior management, but they’re not prepared to give any details.’

  ‘We need to know how they got the video,’ said the Major. ‘It’s the only link we have to Geordie.’

  Shortt slid a sheet of paper across the table to him. ‘They have a correspondent here in London whose brother works on the news desk in Qatar,’ he said. ‘His name is Basharat al-Sabah.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him yet?’

  ‘If we call him up, he’ll give us the standard line,’ said Shortt. ‘Unless we get … creative.’

  ‘Creative?’ said Shepherd.

  Shortt placed his hands flat on the table. ‘We’re going to have to decide here and now how far we’re prepared to go to get what we need,’ he said. ‘If I phone this guy, I’ll get the bum’s rush. If I turn up on his doorstep, he’ll close the door in my face. If I pretend to be a cop or a spook he won’t be intimidated. He’s a journalist so he knows the ropes.’

  ‘Spider could go in. He’s a real cop,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said the Major. ‘If he makes a complaint, Spider’s job’ll be on the line. I don’t suppose we know what he looks like?’

  Shortt grinned and slid another sheet of paper across the table. It was a copy of a Qatar passport. ‘A mate in Immigration got it for me,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no suggestion that this guy’s a terrorist?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘He’s snow white,’ said Shortt. ‘He’s got a degree in political science, and I ran a CRO check on him through a tame cop. He’s never been in trouble, not so much as a parking ticket. His immigration status is clean, and he’s worked for several newspapers in London. He even did a work-experience stint on the Guardian.’

  ‘Family?’ asked the Major.

  ‘Not married. Most of his family are in Qatar, but he has a brother who’s a doctor in Saudi Arabia.’ Shortt sat back in his chair. ‘Here’s the thing. This al-Sabah is a model citizen, the sort of guy you’d happily let your sister go out with, if you had a sister, but he’s got the information we need. And even if he hasn’t, he’s got a direct line to a man who has, his brother, Tabarak al-Sabah. The question we’ve got to answer is how far we’re prepared to go to get that information.’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve got a plan, Jimbo,’ said the Major.

  Shortt grinned. ‘I have,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.’

  O’Brien slowed the Transit van as he drove past Brixton Prison. He nodded at the high wall to his right. ‘If this goes wrong, we could end up in there,’ he said.

  ‘First, it won’t go wrong,’ said the Major, beside him in the front passenger seat, ‘and second, do you think any prison could hold the five of us?’

  ‘The boss is right,’ said Shortt, from the back. ‘We busted into a prison to get Spider out once before, so I don’t think we’d have any problems getting ourselves out.’

  ‘Like I said, it won’t come to that,’ said the Major. ‘Take a left ahead, Martin.’

  O’Brien indicated and they turned off Brixton Hill. ‘Number twenty-fou
r,’ said Shortt. He was sitting on the floor of the van, Shepherd to his left and Armstrong to his right.

  ‘Are we sure he’s going to be walking home?’ asked O’Brien. He brought the van to a halt down the road from number twenty-four. It was mid-way along a terrace of Victorian houses with weathered bricks, slate roofs and front doors that opened on to the street.

  ‘He doesn’t have a car, so he’ll be on the Victoria Line home,’ said Shortt.

  ‘Unless he gets a lift from a colleague,’ said O’Brien.

  ‘If he gets a lift, we’ll get him in the house,’ said Shortt. ‘He’s in the office today – I checked. And he was in at ten so I figure with a nine-hour day he’ll be here some time in the next hour or so.’

  ‘Unless he goes out for a drink after work,’ said O’Brien.

  ‘He’s a Muslim, so he doesn’t drink,’ said Shortt. ‘What’s with all the doom and gloom, anyway, Martin? Is your blood sugar getting low?’

  ‘Let’s relax,’ said the Major. ‘He’ll be here some time tonight, no matter how he comes.’

  ‘Anyone else in the house?’ asked Shepherd.

  ‘It’s rented. I phoned a couple of times during the day and no one answered,’ said Shortt.

  Armstrong took out a Browning Hi-power semi-automatic and checked the action.

  ‘No one gets hurt,’ said the Major.

  ‘The magazine’s empty,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘We do what we have to do, but I don’t want him in hospital,’ said the Major. ‘If he gets hurt, the police’ll be called in.’

  ‘The cops are already here,’ laughed Shortt, and jerked a thumb at Shepherd.

  Shepherd flashed him a sarcastic smile. He was far from happy at what they were about to do, but he knew they had no choice. He was a policeman, but Geordie Mitchell was a friend and Shepherd would do whatever it took to save his life.

  O’Brien switched on the radio and flicked through the channels until he found one playing bland seventies music. The men listened to the Police, Elton John, and the Eagles as they waited.

  It was close to nine o’clock when the Major switched it off. ‘This could be him,’ he said, looking in the wing mirror.

  O’Brien twisted round in his seat. A man in his early thirties was walking from the direction of the Tube. He was wearing a green parka with a fur-trimmed hood and carrying a brown leather briefcase. He had slicked-back black hair and a Saddam Hussein-style moustache. O’Brien had the photocopy of Basharat’s passport on the dashboard and passed it to the Major. ‘Looks like him,’ he said.

  ‘Right, here we go,’ said the Major. He watched in the mirror as Basharat strode towards his house. ‘Start the engine, Martin.’

  O’Brien turned on the ignition.

  ‘Fifty feet,’ said the Major.

  Shepherd, Shortt and Armstrong pulled on ski masks. They were already wearing gloves.

  ‘Forty feet,’ said the Major.

  Shepherd took a deep breath. There was no going back once the van door opened.

  ‘Thirty feet,’ said the Major.

  Shortt slid across to the side of the van.

  ‘Go,’ said the Major. ‘Go, go, go.’

  Shortt opened the side door and jumped out on to the pavement, followed by Shepherd and Armstrong. Basharat stopped when he saw them, his mouth open in surprise. Shortt reached him first, grabbed his left arm and jerked him towards the van. Basharat started to yell but Shepherd clamped a hand over his mouth and seized the hood of his parka with the other. Between them, they hauled him towards Armstrong at the van’s door.

  Shortt scrambled in, pulling Basharat after him. Shepherd’s hand slipped from the man’s mouth, but before he could shout, Shortt slammed him on to the floor and put a hand round his throat.

  Shepherd and Armstrong piled in and Shepherd pulled the door shut as O’Brien drove off.

  Shortt took his hand off Basharat’s throat.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ the Arab hissed.

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Armstrong, shoving the barrel of his gun under the captive’s chin.

  ‘Are you Israelis?’ he asked. ‘If so, there’s been some sort of mistake. I’m just a journalist.’

  Armstrong put his masked face close to the Arab’s. ‘If you say one more thing, I’ll smash your fucking teeth with the butt of this gun. Understand?’

  The man nodded.

  Shortt picked up a roll of electrical tape and used it to bind Basharat’s wrists together behind his back. Then Shepherd pulled a sack over his head. ‘Breathe slowly and you’ll be all right,’ he said. There was no sound from the Arab. ‘Nod if you understand,’ he added. The sack moved up and down.

  O’Brien drove south out of London, heading to a farm in Surrey that the Major had cased that morning. It had been put up for auction after the death of its owner. The livestock had gone and the house was empty. The nearest neighbour was half a mile away, a cottage occupied by an old lady and her six cats.

  Following the Major’s directions, O’Brien turned off the main road, drove through two villages then down a rutted track. He switched off the van’s lights and slowed while his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. They passed an auctioneer’s sign, then a smaller one that gave the farm’s name. O’Brien brought the van to a standstill: there was a barred metal gate across the track and the Major got out to open it.

  The farmhouse was a two-storey building with a line of outhouses jutting from the right-hand side. There was a large corrugated metal barn and, lined up in front of it, a range of agricultural equipment, including a tractor and several ploughs. O’Brien parked in front of the barn. ‘Get him out,’ said the Major.

  Shortt opened the van’s rear doors. Armstrong and Shepherd seized an arm each and dragged Basharat out. It had started to rain and the Arab slipped on the wet grass as they frogmarched him towards the barn. Shortt hurried ahead and pulled open the wooden door for Armstrong and Shepherd to haul Basharat inside. Shepherd wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of pigs. Shortt switched on a flashlight and played the beam around the interior. There were metal pens to the right and storage bins to the left. Fluorescent lights hung from rafters that ran the length of the barn.

  ‘Down on the floor,’ hissed Armstrong. When Basharat hesitated, Armstrong kicked his legs from under him and the Arab fell. He landed heavily, his shoulder and head slamming against concrete.

  The Major helped Shortt to shut the door, then pulled out his own flashlight. He motioned for Shortt to put his ski mask back on, then pointed at Shepherd and signalled for him to remove Basharat’s hood.

  Shepherd did so and Basharat coughed, then tried to sit up but Armstrong planted a foot on his chest and forced him back to the floor. The Major stood by the door, his arms folded.

  Armstrong glared at Basharat. ‘We’re going to ask you some questions,’ he said. ‘Tell us what we want to know and you’ll be free to go.’ He pointed his gun at the Arab’s head. ‘If you don’t tell us what we want to know, you’ll die in this place. You’ll die and we’ll bury you in a field and no one will ever find your body.’

  ‘I’m a journalist,’ said Basharat. ‘I’m just a journalist.’

  ‘The videos of the hostages in Iraq – where do they come from?’

  ‘What?’ Basharat frowned.

  Shortt stepped forward and kicked him in the ribs. Basharat screamed. ‘Just answer his questions!’ shouted Shortt.

  ‘How do the videos get to the station?’ asked the Major.

  ‘Which videos?’ asked Basharat.

  Shortt kicked him again.

  Tears streamed down the Arab’s face. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘The videos of the hostages,’ said the Major. ‘How do they get to the TV station?’ He walked over to stand next to Armstrong.

  ‘It depends,’ said Basharat.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Sometimes we get a disk. A DVD or a CD. Sometimes it comes through the Internet.’

  ‘You know the Brit who wa
s taken last week – the one being held by the Holy Martyrs of Islam?’

  ‘I saw the story, but I didn’t work on it.’

  ‘How did that video get to the station?’

  ‘I don’t know. How would I know? I’m a correspondent, I don’t work on the desk.’

  The Major paced up and down at Basharat’s feet. ‘What about the American journalist, the one who was beheaded? How did the station get that video?’

  ‘That was a DVD.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘My brother told me. He works on the news desk in Qatar. We spoke about it at the time.’

  ‘And how did the DVD get to the station?’ asked the Major.

  ‘From our correspondent in Dubai. It was delivered to his office.’

  ‘Hand-delivered?’

  ‘I don’t know. It could have been or it could have been mailed.’

  ‘Why do you think it went to the Dubai office?’ asked the Major.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Basharat. ‘To muddy the waters, I suppose. The CIA watch our head office, bug our phones, follow us to see who we meet.’ He squinted up at the Major. ‘You’re not Israelis, are you? Are you CIA? MI5?’

  Shortt stepped forward to kick Basharat again, and the Arab tried to roll out of the way – ‘Okay, okay, okay.’

  ‘So the DVD went to your office in Dubai. Then what?’ said the Major.

  ‘Someone loaded it into a computer then zapped it over to our news desk. They edited it, then put it on air and on to our website.’

  The Major stared down at Basharat. ‘What happened to the DVD? Did you pass it on to the authorities?’

  ‘What authorities?’

  ‘The police? The Americans?’

  ‘We’re journalists. We protect our sources.’

  ‘Even when they’re terrorists?’ asked Armstrong.

  ‘We’re journalists,’ repeated Basharat. ‘We just report on what’s happening.’

  ‘You broadcast videos of people being murdered,’ said Armstrong.

  ‘But that’s all we do,’ said Basharat. ‘We report on the people killed by the insurgents, and we report on the killings carried out by the coalition forces.’