‘We’re bound by different rules, though,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’m an undercover cop. I’ve got to follow PACE.’
‘Pace?’
‘The Police and Criminal Evidence Act of 1984, which defines what we can and can’t do. You don’t seem to follow any rules. You operate outside the normal structure of things.’
‘What are you saying? That because you follow the rules you don’t need a conscience?’
‘I have a conscience, but most of the time I’m following rules rather than my conscience. It seems to me that you make your own rules.’
‘I’m not a maverick. I’ve got a boss – a very big boss – but I’m not micromanaged the way you cops are. Don’t all the rules and regulations get to you? All the paperwork?’
‘It’s a nuisance but it’s got to be done. There have to be checks and balances.’
‘The bad guys don’t see it that way. If they don’t follow rules, why should we?’
‘But how do you know who the bad guys are if they don’t go to trial?’
Yokely grinned. ‘That’s where information retrieval comes in,’ he said. ‘You’re not going all liberal on me, are you? This is a war. We’re not playing games. The winners win and the losers die. And I for one am glad that I’m not bound by the same rules you are.’
‘Yeah, maybe you’re right, it’s the rules and regulations that give me a sense of fairness. Providing I follow the rules, everything I do is morally justifiable.’
‘Sure. Let’s not forget that you’ve killed in the line of duty. Anyone else who kills gets put in jail. You got an award.’
Shepherd sipped his coffee.
‘My offer’s still open,’ said the American, quietly. ‘I can use a man like you.’
‘I need rules,’ said Shepherd. ‘I really do. I’m not sure how I’d be able to cope in an arena where there are no checks and balances.’
‘You need a strong moral centre,’ said Yokely. ‘You need to believe one hundred per cent that you’re right.’
‘Isn’t that what most dictators would say?’ said Shepherd.
Yokely pointed a warning finger at Shepherd, but he was smiling. ‘Now you’re trying to upset me,’ he said. ‘You’re very good at that.’
When the plane started to descend, Shepherd looked at his wristwatch. They had been in the air for less than three hours. Fifteen minutes later they landed at an airfield that appeared to be in the middle of nowhere. ‘Where are we?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Classified,’ said Yokely.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Shepherd. ‘You could tell me, but you’d have to kill me.’
‘No, I just won’t tell you,’ said Yokely. ‘I’m serious, Spider. It’s classified.’
The pilot emerged from the cockpit to open the door. Two soldiers in green uniforms and peaked caps entered the cabin and walked to the back of the plane, their gleaming boots squeaking with each step. Shepherd didn’t recognise the uniforms or insignia but they were definitely from one of the former Soviet Union countries.
They picked up the unconscious Arab and dragged him to the front of the plane. The man in black followed them, carrying his magazine. Yokely flashed him a mock salute as he went by and the man saluted back. Shepherd looked out of the window. The soldiers dragged the Arab across the Tarmac towards a waiting vehicle. Shepherd couldn’t identify the uniforms but he knew the vehicle: it was an open-topped Waz, the Russian equivalent of a Jeep. The soldiers threw him across the back seat and climbed into the front. The man in black was talking to a uniformed officer. Both were smoking.
The pilot closed the door and went back into the cockpit. They taxied to the runway and were soon in the air again. Shepherd fell asleep and didn’t wake until the wheels touched the runway. ‘Where are we?’ he asked, rubbing his eyes. ‘Or is it still classified?’
‘Gatwick,’ said Yokely. ‘I’m just dropping you here.’
‘Where are you going?’
Yokely grinned. ‘Sadly, that’s classified,’ he said. ‘While you were asleep I had my guys in Langley run some basic checks on Wafeeq and the driver who’ll take you back into London has an envelope for you. There’s a picture, I gather. The rest is up to you.’
As he left the plane Shepherd shook the American’s hand. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I owe you one.’
‘Yes, you do,’ said Yokely. ‘And don’t think I won’t remember.’
The pilot closed the door as Shepherd walked away from the plane. A Lexus was waiting for him, this time a white one, and the driver was black, in a grey suit. He handed Shepherd an envelope and held open the rear door. Shepherd climbed in.
He called the Major on his mobile. Gannon was at the office in Portland Place, with Armstrong, Shortt and O’Brien. Shepherd said he was on his way and ended the call.
The Lexus drove to the airport perimeter where a uniformed security guard, accompanied by two police officers cradling MP5s, waved them through without asking for identification. Shepherd stared out of the window, trying to gather his thoughts. It was hard to believe that in less than eighteen hours he’d flown to Baghdad on a plane that probably didn’t officially exist, then assaulted and beaten up a man for information with absolutely no comeback, and delivered another prisoner to a country where he was sure to be tortured. And it had all been arranged by a man who seemed able to travel the world without Customs and immigration checks. Shepherd wondered how much power Yokely had. He seemed to be beyond all limits.
Shepherd opened the envelope. Inside he found a computer printout with a few paragraphs of type and a blurry surveillance photograph of two Arabs drinking coffee at an open-air cafe. One had been circled with a black pen.
The driver dropped him in Portland Place. Shepherd pressed the intercom buzzer and was let in.
The Major was sitting at the head of the table, talking into a mobile phone. He waved at Shepherd to take a seat. O’Brien was pouring coffee and asked Shepherd if he wanted some.
‘Cheers, Martin,’ said Shepherd. There was a stack of Marks amp; Spencer sandwiches and rolls next to the coffee maker and Shepherd helped himself to a salmon and cucumber sandwich before sitting at the table.
The Major ended his call. ‘How did it go?’ he asked Shepherd.
‘I’ve identified one of the men in Geordie’s video – the one with the RPG,’ said Shepherd. ‘His name is Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi. He’s almost certainly in Iraq, but no one knows where exactly.’ He opened the manila envelope. ‘This is all I have, picture-wise.’
‘Where did you get it?’ asked O’Brien.
‘Friends in high places,’ said Shepherd, and exchanged a look with the Major. Gannon knew where the information had come from but Richard Yokely was protective of his privacy.
‘So we know who, but we don’t know where,’ said Armstrong. He took out a Marlboro, tossed it into the air and just managed to catch it between his lips.
Shepherd tapped the computer printout. ‘According to this, he’s got a brother in Dubai, a legitimate businessman. He’s not hiding so we can get to him.’
‘John Muller’s got an office in Dubai,’ said the Major. ‘He’s visiting Geordie’s brother but he’ll be in London tonight. I’ll get him on the case. What’s the guy’s name?’
Shepherd slid the printout across the table to the Major. ‘It’s all there,’ he said.
‘Diane, isn’t that your boyfriend over there?’ said the sergeant, nodding at the group of civilian contractors who were piling out of an SUV. Three were Americans but the fourth was a good-looking Iraqi. His name was Kevnar and he described himself as a Kurd, rather than as an Iraqi. He was in his late twenties and Diane Beavis thought he was just about the most attractive man she’d ever seen. He looked like the young Omar Sharif in the movie Doctor Zhivago. It was one of her all-time favourites. And, like Omar Sharif in the movie, Kevnar was a doctor. At least, he’d trained as a doctor. Now he worked as a translator for an American logistics company. Doctors were much needed in Baghdad but they were paid about two hundred dollars a month by the government. Translating earned him three times as much. She’d laughed at his name the first time he’d introduced himself because it sounded so like Kevlar, the bullet-proof material that had saved so many American lives.