‘What if we don’t hear from them?’ asked Shepherd.
‘We’re screwed,’ said the Major. ‘But let’s not assume the worst. There’s still time.’
‘There’s time today and tomorrow. But what if two days pass and we hear nothing? Do we have a Plan B?’
O’Brien came in from the kitchen. ‘What’s that about a Plan B?’ he said.
‘We don’t have one,’ said Shepherd. ‘That’s the point.’
‘Nothing from the bad guys?’ said O’Brien.
‘It could be that Wafeeq would be happy to see his brother dead,’ said Shepherd. ‘Or it might make him so angry that he kills Geordie on the spot.’
‘Let’s stick with Plan A for a bit longer,’ said the Major.
‘Yeah, but we don’t have a Plan B, do we?’
‘Maybe we do,’ said Muller. He picked up one of the framed photographs and took it to the Major. It was a wedding photograph: Fariq and his wife, with an elderly couple standing to Fariq’s left and another couple, slightly younger, to his wife’s right. ‘I’m guessing that’s the parents. His and hers.’
The Major took the photograph from him. ‘You recognise someone?’
‘The guy standing by Fariq’s wife is a top Sunni politician, one of the survivors of Saddam’s regime. The Americans helped groom him for government because they need someone speaking for the Sunni minority.’
‘So she’d be his daughter, presumably?’ said Shepherd.
‘Let me Google it,’ said Muller.
‘Try the computer in his study,’ said Shepherd.
Muller took back the photograph and headed for the study.
‘If he’s right, we might have that Plan B,’ said the Major.
‘The wife?’ said Shepherd.
‘A guy like him would probably have a direct line to the Sunni insurrectionists. Put pressure on him and he can put pressure on them.’
‘By pressure you mean put her in the orange jumpsuit?’
‘Have you got a problem with that?’
Shepherd slotted the magazine into the butt of the Glock. ‘I guess not,’ he said.
‘It’s no different from what we’ve done so far,’ said the Major. ‘We just make another video.’
Shepherd’s mobile rang. Jimmy Sharpe. ‘Razor, what’s up?’ he asked.
‘You’re the man, Spider. You’re the bloody man.’
‘I’m busy with something, Razor. Can we keep this short?’
‘I don’t know what you said to the shrink but the pressure’s off.’
‘Stockmann?’
‘Yeah. She’s had a change of heart and that’s got to be down to you.’
‘I’m glad it worked out. But we’ve got to have a chat when I get back.’
‘Where are you?’ asked Sharpe.
‘Working on something,’ said Shepherd. ‘Personal. I’ll be back in a day or two. And we have to talk, Razor, your language has got to change.’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’
‘I’m serious. That was the deal I reached with Stockmann. She revises her report, but you have to watch what you say.’
‘No more Pakis?’
‘Razor…’
‘I was joking. Yeah, we’ll have a chat when you get back. You can teach me how to be more politically correct.’
‘I’m looking forward to it,’ said Shepherd. He cut the connection.
‘Problem?’ asked the Major.
‘Just house-training a dinosaur,’ said Shepherd.
Dean Hepburn opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He waved it at Richard Yokely. ‘A quick one?’ he said.
‘Why not?’
Hepburn pulled two glasses from the drawer and poured two hefty slugs into them. He handed one to Yokely and they clinked. ‘To the bad old days,’ he said.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Yokely. ‘I remember them well.’ He sipped his Jack Daniel’s. ‘The new technology’s all well and good, but it takes a lot of the fun out of it.’
Hepburn swung his feet on to his desk and balanced the glass on his expanding waistline. ‘I hate it here,’ he said. ‘They don’t let me drink in the office.’
‘Bastards,’ said Yokely.
‘If it wasn’t for the pension, I’d go freelance. But I’ve got three kids in college and a wife who wants a holiday home in Florida.’
‘The NSA’s not so bad, Dean,’ said Yokely. ‘At least you don’t spend half your life at thirty thousand feet.’
‘And what brings you to Crypto City?’
Crypto City was what the forty thousand or so employees of the National Security Agency called their huge headquarters in Forte Meade, Maryland, half-way between Baltimore and Washington. More than fifty buildings, hidden from prying eyes with acres of carefully planted trees. Some of the best brains from the country’s top universities worked in the NSA’s offices and laboratories. However, Hepburn was not a graduate of one of America’s leading educational establishments: like Yokely, his training ground had been Nicaragua, Colombia, Panama and Afghanistan.
‘A little off-the-record help,’ said Yokely. ‘I’m looking for any traffic regarding an Iraqi by the name of Wafeeq bin Said al-Hadi, and his brother Fariq.’
Hepburn scribbled down the two names.
‘Location?’
‘Wafeeq is in Iraq. Fariq is in Dubai. You’ll see traffic saying he’s been kidnapped in Baghdad but my intel is that he’s in Dubai.’
‘And what are you expecting?’
‘If I’m really lucky you’ll hear Wafeeq, but he’s a pro so I won’t be holding my breath.’
‘Is this connected with the Colin Mitchell kidnapping you asked me to keep an eye on?’
Yokely chuckled softly. ‘That’s the million-dollar question,’ he said.
‘I’ll take that as yes,’ said Hepburn. Behind him a poster for Breakfast at Tiffany’s, with a coyly smiling Audrey Hepburn, was stuck to the wall. He claimed that the actress was a distant cousin but Yokely had run a few checks and could find no blood link. Not that it mattered – there was no point in spoiling a good story.
‘I doubt there’ll be much international phone traffic,’ said Yokely, ‘but if they use the Internet something might go through the satellites.’
Most of the telecommunications traffic into the United States came via one of thirty Intelsat satellites that circled the Earth some twenty-two thousand miles above the equator. Calls from the Middle East, Europe and Africa were beamed down to AT amp;T’s ground station in West Virginia whence they were routed round the country. The NSA had its own listening station fifty miles from the phone company’s station. Like its Fort Meade headquarters, the station, and its massive gleaming white parabolic dishes, was shielded from prying eyes by thick woodland. Its signals, and those from another in Brewster, Washington, which monitored traffic from Asia, were sent to Fort Meade for analysis. The agency’s supercomputers sifted through the millions of daily calls and transmissions for key words or voices, and anything red-flagged was passed on to human experts for analysis.
‘I’ll put a watch on it for you. Any idea who he might contact?’
‘The usual suspects,’ said Yokely. ‘Frankly, I think what’s more likely is that there’ll be local traffic. Can you get the Baghdad CSG on the case?’
The Cryptologic Support Group was a miniature version of the NSA that could be sent into trouble spots for as long as they were needed. They monitored all phone and radio communications in their area and sent the data to Forte Meade for processing. A large CSG contingent was based in the Green Zone in Baghdad.
‘I’ll get them right on to it,’ said Hepburn. ‘What’s your interest?’
‘Wafeeq is in the hostage business. His brother Fariq has been kidnapped.’
‘I suppose the irony isn’t lost on him,’ said Hepburn.
‘Wafeeq is going to want to know what’s happened to his brother so there’s a chance he’ll let his guard down.’
Hepburn tapped on his computer keyboard. He sipped his Jack Daniel’s as he studied the screen. ‘Wafeeq is known, and there’s a list of numbers that he’s used before. He’s a heavy hitter, all right.’ He looked at Yokely. ‘If we get a trace on him, do I go public?’
‘I’d prefer a quiet word,’ said Yokely. ‘Lets me consider my options.’
‘So it’s unofficial?’
‘Totally.’
‘Cool.’ Hepburn tapped away at the keyboard again. ‘Nothing on the brother.’