Fatima glared at him over the top of her daughter’s head. ‘You so much as touch me and I’ll kill you!’ she said. Her daughter began to sob. ‘Now see what you’ve done,’ she hissed at Armstrong.
‘If anyone’s upsetting your daughter, it’s you,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can we calm down? Nobody’s going to hurt you. Now, please, sit on the sofa.’
Fatima looked as if she might refuse but her daughter was still sobbing so she sat.
‘We’re going to have to tie your hands again now,’ said Shepherd.
‘No,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, but we have no choice,’ said Shepherd.
‘You are scared of a woman?’ she said.
‘Not scared, just careful,’ said Shepherd. ‘If your hands are tied you’re less likely to try something. And my colleague over there is a lot less understanding than I am.’ He pulled the roll of insulation tape from his pocket.
‘You’re not tying my daughter up, are you?’
‘We have to.’
Fatima laid her on the sofa, and the little girl curled up with her leopard. Fatima stroked her hair. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I won’t let them hurt you.’ She held out her hands and Shepherd bound her wrists together.
‘If I was you, I’d do them behind her back,’ said Armstrong. He took out a cigarette and lit it.
‘Put that out!’ snapped Fatima.
‘Go screw yourself,’ said Armstrong. He took a long pull on his cigarette and blew smoke at her.
‘You do not smoke in my house,’ she said.
‘I’ll do what the hell I want,’ said Armstrong.
‘Put it out,’ said Shepherd, quietly.
‘What?’ said Armstrong.
‘Let’s not annoy them more than we have to.’
‘You’re getting soft in your old age,’ said Armstrong, but he stubbed the cigarette out on the sole of his trainer.
‘And take the butt with you,’ said Shepherd. ‘DNA.’ He checked that the tape wasn’t too tight around the woman’s wrists, then put the roll back into his pocket. ‘Now, do you want me to bring you anything from the kitchen?’ he asked.
‘A knife,’ she said drily. ‘A big knife.’
Shepherd grinned. He left Shortt in the sitting room with Armstrong. He reflected wryly that one man on his own probably wouldn’t be able to keep Fatima under control.
The Major was waiting for him in the master bedroom. ‘Okay?’ he said.
‘All under control,’ said Shepherd, ‘but she’s a handful.’
The Major waved his Glock at Fariq and told him to sit on a chair beside a large gilt mirror. He was wearing yellow silk pyjamas, and his belly wobbled as he sat down. ‘Right, Fariq, we can end this quickly and painlessly,’ he said. ‘If you tell us what we want to know, we’ll be out of here.’
‘Who are you?’ asked Fariq.
‘I suggest you listen carefully to what I’m saying,’ continued the Major. ‘This isn’t about you, it’s about your brother. We need to contact him, and once we have, we’ll leave you and your family alone.’
‘What have you done with my wife?’
‘She’s fine, and so is your daughter. We’re not here to cause anyone any harm. We just want to talk to your brother.’
‘I have four brothers,’ said Fariq.
‘Wafeeq.’
‘I haven’t seen Wafeeq for three years,’ said Fariq.
‘Where is he?’
‘I just said, I don’t know.’
‘No, you said you hadn’t seen him. That doesn’t mean you don’t know where he is.’
‘You are playing with words,’ said Fariq. ‘I’m telling you the truth. I do not know where he is. If I knew, I’d tell you. I swear.’
The Major prodded Fariq in the chest with the Glock. ‘We’re not playing anything,’ he said menacingly. ‘Now, where is Wafeeq?’
‘Iraq, I assume.’
‘Where in Iraq?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Does he have a house there?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You don’t think so?’
‘We are not close. I see him at family functions, that’s all. Three years ago there was a funeral for an uncle. That was when I saw him last.’
‘Do you have a phone number for him?’
Fariq shook his head.
‘What about other family members? Do you have the number of anyone who would know how to contact him?’
‘We are not a close family.’
‘Where’s your mobile?’ asked the Major.
‘My what?’
‘Your mobile phone – your cellphone.’ The Major mimed putting a phone to his ear.
‘It’s there.’ Fariq nodded at the bedside table.
The Major gestured to Shepherd, who went to the table where a new-model Motorola lay next to a diamond-encrusted gold Rolex watch. Shepherd picked up the sleek black phone and flipped it open, examined the screen, then shook his head.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked the Major.
‘It’s Arabic,’ said Shepherd. ‘Everything’s Arabic, even the menu.’
‘Can’t you change the language?’
‘Sure, but that won’t convert the data in the phone book. That’ll stay Arabic.’
‘You’re wasting your time,’ said Fariq. ‘I don’t have Wafeeq’s number.’
‘I’d prefer that we check that for ourselves,’ said the Major. ‘Where’s your Filofax? Your business diary – whatever you use to keep track of your movements?’
‘You’re wasting your time,’ repeated Fariq.
The Major stuck the barrel of his Glock under Fariq’s chin. ‘It’s our time to waste,’ he hissed. ‘Now, tell me where your Filofax is.’
‘The study. Downstairs. On my desk.’
Shepherd hurried out and down the stairs. The study was to the left of the main hallway, a book-lined room with leather chairs and a large oak desk with an IBM laptop computer. The leatherbound Filofax was next to the laptop. Shepherd picked it up and flicked through the pages. All the writing was Arabic. He sat down at the desk and switched on the laptop. Once it had booted up he scanned the icons. All were in English. He clicked on the Outlook Express icon and smiled when he saw that everything was in English. He went through the address book, but there was nothing for Wafeeq, then the inbox and the messages-sent folder. There was nothing to or from Fariq’s brother.
He closed Outlook Express and found a folder containing letters that Fariq had written. Half were in Arabic, the others in English. The latter were business-related and none were to anyone called Wafeeq. Shepherd left the computer and went back upstairs.
‘What took you so long?’ said the Major, when Shepherd walked into the master bedroom.
‘I was checking his computer,’ said Shepherd. ‘His emails are in English. There was nothing from his brother that I can see.’ He showed the Filofax to the Major. ‘This is all Arabic, too.’
‘Take it outside with the phone. See if he can make sense of it.’
Shepherd knew that ‘he’ meant Halim. He was the only one in the group who could read Arabic. Shortt spoke a bit and understood some, but he couldn’t read or write it. Shepherd took off his ski mask, headed downstairs and walked along the main drive to the gate. There was a large gate for vehicles and a smaller one set into the wall. It was bolted but not locked. Shepherd drew back the bolt and stepped on to the pavement. A top-of-the-range Mercedes with heavily tinted windows drove by and Shepherd turned his face away. He walked briskly along the pavement, then down the side-road where Muller had parked the Land Cruiser. Muller was sitting in the front passenger seat, Halim next to him, both hands on the steering-wheel.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Muller, as Shepherd climbed in.
‘The house is secure, but we’re not getting anywhere yet,’ said Shepherd. He gave the Filofax and mobile phone to Halim and asked him to check if there was any entry for Wafeeq.
‘How’s Fariq taking it?’
‘Not happy, but co-operating. His wife’s a hard nut.’
‘Just one kid?’
‘The daughter,’ said Shepherd. ‘Fariq says he’s had no contact with his brother.’
Halim handed back the phone. ‘All the Iraq numbers are business-related except three, which are women’s names,’ he said.
‘He could be using a coded name,’ said Muller.
‘That’s possible,’ agreed Shepherd. ‘Or he could have memorised the number. Either way, we’ll have to get pretty heavy to get the truth out of him.’