‘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-four,’ 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.