Still Umar said nothing.
‘You do speak English, don’t you?’ asked Yokely, frowning. ‘Please say you do because I really don’t want to have to get an interpreter involved.’
Umar stared at Yokely, then slowly closed his eyes.
‘I do hope that doesn’t mean you’re being uncooperative,’ said the American. He pointed at Shepherd, even though Umar’s eyes were still closed. ‘This man is the brother of the man being held hostage,’ said Yokely. ‘The man who will be beheaded in the not-too-distant future. If you continue to be uncooperative, he’s going to be a very angry man.’ Yokely stood up and stretched. ‘I think I’ll just visit the men’s room,’ he said. He banged on the cell door and the guard unlocked it.
Shepherd moved aside to let Yokely leave. Yokely gave him a broad wink as he slipped out of the door.
Shepherd took off his leather jacket and put it on the back of the chair. Umar opened his eyes a fraction, then closed them again. Shepherd shut the laptop and slid it across the table. He walked in front of the Iraqi and stood looking down at him. Umar squinted up at him, then yelped as Shepherd grabbed him by the neck of his dishdasha and yanked him to his feet, then pushed him backwards. The Iraqi tumbled over the chair and hit the floor. Shepherd kicked the chair away, bent down and hauled him to his feet. ‘No,’ was all the Iraqi managed to say before Shepherd slammed him against the wall. His legs buckled and he slumped to the floor, leaving a smear of blood on the plaster. Shepherd grabbed him and pulled him up again. He knew that Umar hadn’t hit the wall hard enough to be knocked unconscious. He pushed him back against the table and slapped him across the face. ‘I’ll kill you,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll kill you here and now.’ Umar tried to get up but Shepherd slapped him again. ‘They’re going to kill my brother,’ he said, ‘so you tell me what you know or I’ll kill you, so help me I will.’
Umar put up his hands to ward off the blows, but Shepherd was too strong for him. He screamed and Shepherd clamped his hand over the man’s mouth, then twisted him round and slammed him against the wall once more. He pushed his mouth close to the man’s ear. ‘He’s not coming back until you’ve told me what I want to know, or you’re dead,’ hissed Shepherd. ‘And I don’t think he cares either way.’
Umar tried to push himself away from the wall. Shepherd used the man’s momentum to swing him round, then grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm savagely. Umar bent low to take the pressure off his arm but Shepherd reversed the lock and forced him back. Umar screamed in pain and Shepherd stamped on his instep. Umar yelled louder and his right leg buckled. Shepherd let him fall, then kicked him hard in the back, twice. Umar curled up into a ball.
Shepherd dropped down on top of him, trapping the Arab’s arms with his thighs. Umar thrashed from side to side but Shepherd was too heavy for him. He put his hands round the man’s throat and squeezed, felt the cartilage click and relaxed a little, not wanting to do permanent damage, but he kept enough pressure on to stop him breathing.
Umar’s mouth opened and closed and his eyes bulged. Shepherd counted in his head to twenty and removed his hands. Umar gasped for breath.
‘Talk,’ said Shepherd. ‘Or I’ll kill you.’ Flecks of his saliva peppered the man’s face.
Umar shook his head, so Shepherd started to strangle him again, staring into his eyes, watching for the moment when he would begin to lose consciousness. Just as his victim was about to pass out, Shepherd took his hands away, pulled him to his feet, grabbed him by the dishdasha and threw him up against the wall.
Umar was panting and there was blood on his lips. ‘Please, no more,’ he gasped.
‘Talk,’ said Shepherd. He took away his right hand and bunched it into a fist. ‘Or don’t talk. I’m happy enough to beat you to a pulp.’
‘Enough,’ said Umar. The strength had gone from his legs and only Shepherd’s grip kept him upright.
‘The man holding the RPG?’ said Shepherd. ‘You know him?’
‘Yes, I know him,’ said Umar, rubbing away tears.
‘He was in your group? The Islamic Followers of Truth?’
Umar was still gasping for breath. Shepherd raised his hand to slap him and Umar covered his face. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He wanted to kill the Egyptians. He said it was more important that we kill them than take the money.’
‘But you wanted the ransom?’
Umar nodded, and started to sob, tears running down his cheeks. Shepherd helped him to the table, picked up the chair, and sat him down. ‘What happened to the group?’ he asked.
‘There was no group. We wanted money for the Egyptians. That is all. Once we had the money, it was over.’
‘The man with the RPG, who is he?’
‘His name is Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi.’
‘And he wanted to kill the Egyptians?’
‘He said he didn’t care about the money. He is very religious. We just wanted the money.’
‘What do you know about the Holy Martyrs of Islam?’
‘Nothing,’ said Umar. He lowered his hands. ‘I swear I know nothing. I have never heard of them.’
The door opened. Yokely was holding a plastic bottle of water. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘He’s given me the name,’ said Shepherd.
‘Anything else?’
‘I don’t think he knows any more.’
Yokely put the water on the table and picked up the laptop. ‘Let’s be on our way,’ he said. He gestured at Umar. ‘Did you promise him anything?’
‘We never got round to it,’ said Shepherd.
Yokely put the laptop away. ‘Bob’ll be pleased to hear that,’ he said.
The flight out of Baghdad was as hair-raising as the landing had been. The Gulfstream went up at an almost impossibly high rate of climb in a tight corkscrew that nearly had Shepherd throwing up again. When they were at cruising altitude Yokely unfastened his seat-belt and made coffee.
There were two other passengers on the flight. One was an Arab who had clearly been drugged. Handcuffed and manacled, in khaki fatigues, he was carried on to the plane by two soldiers. A black nylon blindfold covered his eyes but he was unconscious and stayed that way, his head slumped against the side of his seat, a trickle of saliva dripping down his clothing.
He was accompanied by an American in black, with impenetrable sunglasses. He had nodded at Yokely and Shepherd as he’d boarded the plane but hadn’t said a word to them. He sat next to the Arab and read a copy of Newsweek. Yokely offered him coffee, but he shook his head and continued to read.
Yokely hadn’t asked Shepherd what had happened in the room. He hadn’t had to. Shepherd wasn’t proud of what he’d done, but he wasn’t ashamed either. The man he’d assaulted was a terrorist, there was no doubt about that, and he’d had the name Shepherd wanted, which justified what he’d done. Shepherd hadn’t enjoyed acting like a thug – he didn’t take pleasure in inflicting pain. His performance in the prison had been just that – a performance, an act. He had been playing a role, as he did whenever he went under cover. He’d done it well, too, because it had been clear from the fear on Umar’s face that he believed Shepherd would kill him.
Yokely handed him a cup of coffee.
‘You do a lot of this sort of thing?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Define your terms,’ said Yokely.
‘Transporting prisoners around the world.’
‘It’s not unusual,’ said Yokely, ‘but I’m more often involved with information retrieval than I am with transportation.’
‘Interrogation,’ said Shepherd.
‘Retrieval covers a multitude of sins,’ said Yokely.
‘Can I ask you something?’ said Shepherd.
‘Fire away.’
‘Does it worry you, what you do?’
‘I could ask the same of you, couldn’t I?’