‘What’s been done on the ground?’ asked Shortt, rubbing his moustache.
‘My guys are gathering intel. The Blackwater boys are on the case. We have a number of shared contracts and I’ve got a pretty good relationship with their top brass. But once they’re dug in, the militants aren’t going to put their heads above ground until Geordie’s dead.’ He pulled a face as if he had a sour taste in his mouth. ‘I’m sorry, guys, it doesn’t look good.’
‘What about the military?’ said Armstrong.
‘They’re looking, but you have to know what it’s like out there. The American troops ride around in convoys and hardly ever get out of their Humvees. The locals are on the ground, but with the best will in the world they’re not going to stumble across Geordie. Our best bet is going to be human intel, either an informer or someone who gets hauled in for something else and wants to cut a deal.’
‘Yeah, or maybe we could call in a psychic,’ said Shortt, bitterly.
‘Easy, Jimbo,’ said the Major. ‘No need to go shooting the messenger. John’s just telling us the way things stand.’
‘I’m heading straight back there,’ said Muller. ‘I wanted to brief you guys, and I’m paying a courtesy call on Geordie’s brother. But then I’ll be in Baghdad until this is over. One way or the other.’
‘Let’s suppose we identify the guys who are holding him,’ said the Major. ‘What are our options?’
‘If we know who they are, we can reach out to them through groups they might be sympathetic to. Religious figures, for instance. It’s a question of who should make the approach.’
‘Has that worked in the past?’ asked Shepherd.
‘A few times,’ said Muller. ‘It depends on the agenda of the hostage-takers. Sometimes they’ll make more capital out of showing they can be reasonable. Or it could be seen as a way of boosting the status of someone sympathetic to their aims. Like I said, it’s a minefield.’
A mobile phone rang. Shepherd winced and fished his two out of his jacket pocket. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to take this,’ he said, and hurried out of the room.
‘That Graham May?’ asked a voice. Youngish, a nasal Birmingham whine.
‘Who wants to know?’ said Shepherd, shutting the door behind him.
‘A friend of a friend said you might be able to supply us with what we need.’
‘Do I know you?’
‘No, but I’ve got the cash.’
‘Who gave you my number?’ asked Shepherd. He was an underworld arms dealer and they were suspicious of anyone they hadn’t dealt with before.
‘A friend of mine,’ said the voice.
‘Yeah, well, unless he’s a friend of mine, and a bloody good one at that, we’re going to end this conversation right now.’
‘You are May, right?’
‘Like I said, who the hell are you?’
‘My name’s…’ the voice hesitated ‘… Tom.’
‘Tom?’
‘Yeah, Tom.’
‘Tom, Tom, the piper’s son?’
‘What?’
‘I don’t know anyone called Tom. This conversation is over-’
‘Wait! Wait!’ said the man, panicking.
Shepherd smiled to himself. ‘Tom’ was behaving like a rank amateur.
‘The man who gave me your name said I wasn’t to tell you who he is.’
‘That makes no sense at all,’ said Shepherd.
‘He gave me your number and your name.’
‘And what is it you want?’
‘To buy some gear from you. I already said.’
‘I know that, you moron. I meant what exactly do you want to buy?’
‘I want to talk to you, in person.’
‘You are talking to me in person,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s how phones work. Now, get to the point or piss off.’
‘I mean, I want to meet you. To talk about what we want to buy. We haven’t done this before.’
‘That’s blindingly obvious,’ said Shepherd.
‘So we want to meet you, face to face, see if we can trust you.’
‘I’m the one who should be worried about trust,’ said Shepherd. ‘Where do you want to meet?’
‘We thought maybe Hyde Park. Near the memorial to Princess Diana.’
‘We? How many of you are there?’
‘Two.’
‘Tom and Jerry?’
‘What?’
‘You’re Tom, right? Is your mate Jerry?’
‘No, his name’s… James.’
‘Tom and James?’
‘Yes. Tom and James.’
‘And how will I recognise you?’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m assuming you don’t know what I look like.’
‘Better you tell me what you look like.’
‘I’m devilishly good-looking with a twinkle in my eye,’ said Shepherd. ‘Does that help? Of course it doesn’t. Look, be at the memorial tomorrow at noon. You and your mate carry a copy of the Financial Times and the Guardian. One each. And stand together. I’ll approach you. If I spot anything I don’t like, you won’t see me for dust. Understand?’
‘Okay. Yeah.’
‘Tomorrow, then,’ said Shepherd. He ended the call and put away the phone.
Back in the room, the Major was leaning back in his chair, tapping a pen on the table.
‘Do we have a plan?’ asked Shepherd.
‘We’re working on it,’ said the Major.
There were three loud bangs on the door. ‘Please stand against the wall, Colin,’ shouted Kamil.
Mitchell stood up, went to the far wall and stood against it, arms outstretched. The door opened. Kamil was holding a paper plate loaded with rice and chunks of lamb, and a bottle of water. Behind him, a man in a ski mask held an AK-47. It was feeding time.
Kamil walked into the centre of the room and sat down cross-legged. He placed the food in front of him and beckoned Mitchell to join him. ‘I shall eat with you, Colin,’ he said.
Mitchell hadn’t told Kamil that nobody had called him Colin since he’d left school. Even his brother called him Geordie. It had been his army nickname, and once his parents had passed away it had been the only name he answered to. But he wanted Kamil to keep calling him Colin. It was a constant reminder that he was the enemy; an enemy that Mitchell would have to kill if he was to escape from his prison.
‘Can you play chess?’ asked Kamil.
Mitchell nodded.
Kamil reached into a pocket and brought out a travel chess set, a plastic board that folded in half with circular magnetic pieces. He placed it on the floor and set out the pieces as Mitchell chewed a chunk of lamb.
‘How long have you been in Baghdad?’ asked Kamil.
‘Six months, just about,’ said Mitchell.
‘Can you speak any Arabic?’
‘ Allahu Akbar,’ said Mitchell.
‘Ah, good,’ said Kamil. ‘God is great.’
‘ Inshallah.’
‘God willing,’ said Kamil, nodding. ‘If you speak only two phrases in Arabic, they are the two to know. “God is great” and “God willing”. He is all powerful and everything that happens is because of Him.’
‘You believe that, do you?’ asked Mitchell.
‘Of course. All Muslims do. And all Christians do, too. Are you not a Christian?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mitchell. He used his fingers to shovel rice into his mouth. Sometimes they gave him a plastic spoon and sometimes they didn’t.
‘Either you are or you aren’t,’ said Kamil. He finished placing the pieces on the board and waved for Mitchell to go first. Mitchell pushed his king’s pawn two spaces forward. ‘I was christened a Catholic,’ said Mitchell, ‘but I’m lapsed.’
‘You don’t believe in God any more?’ said Kamil. He moved his king’s pawn.
‘Not the sort of God my parents believed in,’ said Mitchell.
‘What sort of God do you believe in, then?’
‘It’s hard to say,’ said Mitchell.
They played for a while in silence. Within the first half-dozen moves Mitchell realised that Kamil was by far the better player. He was methodical and stared at the board for a full two minutes before each move. Mitchell played impulsively and rarely looked more than a couple of moves ahead. He had never much cared for board games and preferred to play cards, ideally for money. ‘Have you always been a Muslim?’ he asked.
‘Of course,’ said Kamil.