‘I am asking you again, Mr Ahmed. Would you please tell me what you have been planning while you have been in this country?’
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ said the Saudi. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Well, then,’ she said, as cheerfully as a Girl Guide leader. ‘Let’s get started. Please remove your clothing.’
The man walked up to a three-storey house that seemed to have been converted into small flats or bedsits. There were twenty-odd bells by the front door, but he had a key. Shepherd watched from the pavement as he let himself into the house. He had walked from Kilburn Park station to Kilburn High Road, then headed north, turned off on to Willesden Lane, then right into a residential street. As Shepherd had followed him, he’d checked that the phone had sent the text message to Sharpe. It had. And as the man went inside the house, Shepherd dialled Sharpe’s number.
‘Got him,’ said Shepherd. He gave Sharpe the address.
‘Should be there in fifteen minutes,’ said Sharpe. ‘I headed your way as soon as I got the text. Traffic’s hellish, though, and back-up’s still on the way.’
‘Do you know where?’
‘Button’s mobile is off. I’ve left a message.’
‘What the hell is she playing at? Doesn’t she realise how serious this is?’
‘Don’t shoot the messenger, Spider. I’ll try again. Are you staying put?’
‘There’s probably a back way out but he’s not on to me so I’m thinking he’ll come out the front, if he comes out at all. I’ve got to go, Razor. I’ll call you back. Try Button again. Tell her what’s happening. I’ll call Bingham.’
There were three text messages on his mobile, all from Bingham. Shepherd checked the first. The picture was of a man with brown hair but he was a good ten years older than the one he’d followed to the house. Shepherd sent a message back. NO. He opened the second message and his heart raced. It was the man. No question about it. He pressed the button to call Bingham, who answered on the second ring. ‘You’ve got him?’
‘Second of those last three you sent,’ said Shepherd.
‘Give me a minute,’ said Bingham. Shepherd walked away from the house. There was nowhere in the street where anyone would have reason to loiter. He’d have to keep moving. He heard Bingham rustling paper. A file, maybe. Or a notebook.
‘Interesting,’ said Bingham. ‘He’s a Yank.’
‘No way.’
‘Joe Hagerman,’ said Bingham. ‘The Americans have been after him ever since he was sighted in Afghanistan during the war there. He was in a training camp in Pakistan, then disappeared under the radar two years ago. You have him in sight?’
‘He’s just gone inside a house in Kilburn,’ said Shepherd. ‘Jimmy Sharpe’s on his way and there’s supposed to be back-up coming.’
‘There are two cars heading your way but they’re stuck in traffic.’
‘Is Button stuck in traffic too?’
‘She’s otherwise engaged, I’m afraid.’
‘She should be on top of this,’ said Shepherd.
‘She’s handed it to me until she’s available,’ said Bingham.
‘Yeah, well, with respect, I don’t know you. I barely know her. Sharpe tells me her phone’s off.’
‘That’s true. I’ve been trying to update her on your progress but I’m not getting through.’
‘That’s not good enough. This guy’s a terrorist, a possible al-Qaeda operative, and she’s not contactable?’
‘Look, Dan, I’m not in a position to tell you what Charlotte’s doing, but you have my word that she won’t have turned off her mobile lightly.’
Shepherd stopped walking, then turned back to the house. He cursed.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Bingham.
‘Hagerman’s just come out and he’s got a suitcase with him.’
Hagerman had exchanged his raincoat for a hooded duffel coat. He was holding a medium-sized hard-shelled case. It had an extendable arm so that it could be pulled along on its built-in wheels, but he was carrying it. He started to walk briskly along the main road.
‘He’s on the move,’ Shepherd said, into the phone. ‘Back towards Kilburn High Road. I’m going to have to talk to Sharpe.’
Hagerman was carrying his case, alternating it between his left and right hands. Shepherd was about fifty feet behind, matching his speed, stopping occasionally to look in shop windows. He dialled Sharpe’s number. ‘Razor, where the hell are you?’ he said.
‘Maida Vale, should be with you in five minutes.’
‘He’s heading for the Tube. Two black cabs have gone by and he ignored them. He’s got a heavy case so I’m thinking he can’t be walking too far, which means he’s back on the Tube. If he goes to Paddington he can be at Heathrow in fifteen minutes. Where the hell’s the back-up?’
‘Stuck in traffic,’ said Sharpe.
‘This is a monumental cock-up.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Kilburn High Road. Three minutes from the Tube station.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
Shepherd cursed. Once they went underground again he’d lose contact with Sharpe. ‘Are you near Maida Vale Tube station?’
‘Just passing it.’
‘Okay. Stop the car. You’ve got to get on the train. Let me run the numbers. Three minutes to the station. One minute to get tickets, one minute down to the platform. Three minutes for the train to get from here to you. You get the first train that pulls into Maida Vale after eight minutes from now. I’ll be close to the centre of the train.’
‘Got you.’
‘Call Bingham and tell him what we’re doing.’
‘What about the back-up?’
‘What fucking back-up?’ Shepherd cut the connection. Ahead of him, Hagerman had quickened his pace. Shepherd cursed and hurried after him.
‘It doesn’t look that painful, actually,’ said Button. She sipped her tea. She was looking through the two-way mirror into the next room where the Saudi was sitting naked on the floor with his legs apart at a thirty-degree angle, his face pressed to the ground, his neck tied to his calves with webbing strips. The two men stood behind him, arms folded.
Yokely smiled thinly and adjusted the cuffs of his starched white shirt. ‘You should try it some time, Charlie,’ he said. ‘It’s known as “Stewed Chicken with a Bent Neck” by the guys at the Zhangshi Education and Reformation Camp. Believe me, it hurts.’
‘The technique is used at Guantanamo Bay, is it?’
‘Sadly, no,’ said Yokely. ‘I suggested it but was overruled.’ He took off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair.
Button had taken off her Bluetooth headset. It was uncomfortable and made her ear sweat. ‘How long do we leave him like that?’ she asked Yokely.
‘In an ideal world, eight or nine hours. But this isn’t an ideal world.’ He picked up his mug, took a sip of coffee and grimaced. ‘It’s instant,’ he complained.
‘So drink tea,’ said Button.
‘I hate tea more than I hate instant coffee. After this is over we should go for a walk in Hyde Park. There’s a place by the Serpentine that does a great cup of coffee.’
Broken Nose kicked the Saudi in the side, hard.
‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ she said quietly.
Yokely walked over to the observation window and watched as Scarred Lip kicked him in the left thigh. The Saudi screamed. ‘You’re not doing it, Charlie,’ said the American. ‘You’re supervising. There’s a difference. It’s important that he sees his fate is in the hands of a woman.’
‘Because he’s a Saudi?’
Yokely shook his head. ‘Because he’s a man,’ he said. ‘With same-sex torture, there’s always an element of competition. The subject wants to prove he’s better than the man who’s causing his pain. His adrenaline kicks in and he becomes determined to take as much as he can.’