‘Fariq’s clean,’ said Yokely, ‘and he won’t be using a phone in the near future. If you put his name into the search engine I’ll need the wheat separating from the chaff.’
Hepburn nodded. ‘There’ll be a lot of chaff.’
‘Well, that’s what billion-dollar supercomputers are for, isn’t it?’
Hepburn raised his glass in salute. ‘To the great American taxpayer.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Yokely.
Muller came into the kitchen with a grin on his face. ‘Jackpot,’ he said. ‘Fariq’s wife is the youngest daughter of Abu Bakr al-Pachachi, and that’s him in the photograph. I was so busy looking at Fariq that I didn’t realise who he’d married.’ He handed the framed photograph to the Major, who was sitting at the kitchen table with Shepherd. ‘He’s number two in the Foreign Ministry, he’s met personally with Bush and Blair and is one of the few Sunnis that the Shias respect.’
‘Am I the only one here who doesn’t know the difference between a Sunni and a Shia?’ asked O’Brien, buttering a slice of toast.
‘Mostly you can’t,’ said Muller. ‘They speak the same language, generally look and dress the same.’
‘Like Protestants and Catholics in Northern Ireland then,’ said O’Brien.
‘There are funny little differences,’ said Muller. ‘When Sunnis pray they hold their hands towards their chests while Shias have theirs at their sides. The ultra-religious Sunnis are more likely to have long beards and their women will cover themselves like the Saudi women, just revealing their eyes. The Shias are more likely to adopt Western dress. But, really, you’d be hard pushed to tell them apart.’
‘So why don’t they get on?’ asked O’Brien. ‘They’re all Iraqis, right?’
Muller chuckled. ‘Why don’t the Protestants and Catholics get on? They’re all Irish, right? On the surface the issue in Iraq is religious, but at the end of the day it’s about power. The Sunnis had it under Saddam and now that we’re running the show the majority Shias are calling the shots. But the fact that al-Pachachi is a Sunni means he’ll have leverage with the insurrectionists. Hopefully.’
‘That explains why the cops came around as quickly as they did,’ said Shepherd. ‘Al-Pachachi must have contacted them as soon as he heard Fariq had been kidnapped.’
‘Sure, but it’s his daughter he’s concerned about. Remember, it was her the police asked for first. And if he was bothered about Fariq, he’d have done something already.’
‘Maybe he tried.’
‘Or maybe he’s pissed off with Fariq for bringing his daughter and grandkids to Dubai,’ said the Major.
‘All we’ve got is maybes,’ said Muller, ‘but now we know about his daughter we can put more pressure on him.’
The Major handed the picture frame to Shepherd. ‘Let’s get her into the study.’ He pulled on his ski mask and went up the stairs to the servants’ quarters, O’Brien following.
Shepherd looked at the photograph. Assuming their first child had been born a year or so after the marriage, the wedding must have taken place sixteen or seventeen years earlier. The years hadn’t been good to Fariq – his waistline had thickened, his jowls had dropped and his hair had thinned. But Fatima had barely changed. If anything, the woman he had wrestled with in the bedroom was even more beautiful than the shy-looking girl in the picture. She was glacing sideways at her father, as if looking for his approval, while al-Pachachi was staring at the camera, his lips pressed together, one hand resting lightly on his daughter’s shoulder. He was a Saddam Hussein lookalike, jet black hair and thick moustache, square face, the skin pockmarked with old acne scars. His eyes were as hard as flint. He must have been tough to survive in Saddam’s inner circle, but only an astute politician could have managed the switch to the new regime. He went through to the sitting room and put the picture back on the sideboard among the rest of the framed photographs. He picked up another of Fatima and the children standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. The boys were handsome, as tall as their mother even though they were only in their early teens, and with the same soft brown eyes. Fatima was holding her daughter’s hand. They were both wearing long red scarves and gloves.
Shepherd envied Fariq his family. Three lovely children and a spirited, beautiful wife. Shepherd had lost his wife and he doubted he’d have more children. He had Liam, and he loved him more than life, but there was a world of a difference between single parenthood and being a husband and father. There were several photo albums at his house in Ealing, tucked away in a chest of drawers in the spare bedroom. They were filled with family snaps, usually taken on holidays, at school concerts or sports days. They stopped when Liam was seven. The last ones in the album had been taken on a trip to Wimbledon Common, a picnic sitting under a tree, then kicking a football. Just a family outing, nothing special, except that it had been their last. The day after the picnic Shepherd had gone under cover as an armed robber, and two weeks later he’d been sent to a Category A prison. While Shepherd had been inside, Sue had died in a senseless traffic accident. Shepherd still couldn’t look through the albums without crying so he kept them hidden away.
He stared at the photograph of Fatima and her children and wondered what Sue would have said if she’d known what he was doing. She’d never liked his undercover work but at least she had accepted that he was doing a worthwhile job under difficult conditions. He was one of the good guys. He had been a good guy in the SAS and he was a good guy working for SOCA. But in Fariq and Fatima’s sitting room, with a holstered Glock and a ski mask, he wasn’t one of the good guys any more. He went back to the kitchen and up the stairs. He heard Fariq’s wife arguing with the Major before he got to the door that led to the servants’ quarters. ‘I’m staying here with my daughter,’ she was saying.
‘I need you in the study,’ said the Major.
‘I don’t give a shit where you need me.’
O’Brien was standing at the doorway. He grinned as Shepherd walked up. ‘Balls of steel, that one,’ he said, gesturing with his Glock.
Fariq was in the armchair by the window, wrists and ankles taped together; more tape held him to the chair. Fatima’s legs were free, but her wrists were taped. She was sitting on the sofa next to the little girl. Through the door that led to the bedroom, Shepherd could see the old couple, bound but not gagged, watching what was happening in the sitting room.
Armstrong was standing with the Taser in his hand, but the Major had holstered his Glock. ‘I’m just asking you to go with us to the study. That’s all,’ he said.
‘And I’m telling you I want to stay here,’ she said.
‘I’m not arguing with you,’ said the Major.
‘What are you going to do? Use that stun gun on me?’ she said, nodding at Armstrong’s Taser. ‘Or are you going to shoot me?’
‘Darling, please do as they say,’ said her husband.
Fatima ignored him. ‘This is between you and Fariq,’ she said. ‘It has nothing to do with me.’
Despite himself, Shepherd smiled. She was outmanned and outgunned but she had no qualms about standing up for herself against five men in ski masks.
‘It has just become about you,’ he said. ‘Now, stand up and walk downstairs with me or, God help me, I’ll put you over my shoulder and carry you.’
‘Are you proud of yourself,’ she asked, ‘terrorising women and children?’
‘You don’t seem terrorised,’ said the Major.
‘Do you call yourself men?’ she said. ‘You’re not men. You’re scum.’
‘We’re not going to hurt you,’ said the Major. ‘We need to do something in the study.’
‘What? What is it you want me to do?’ She glared up at him defiantly.
‘I need a word, in private,’ said Shepherd.
The Major looked around. ‘Now?’
‘Yeah, now.’
The Major nodded. ‘The kitchen,’ he said. ‘Gag her,’ he told Armstrong. ‘And be careful. She bites.’
The two men went downstairs and took off their ski masks. The Major opened the refrigerator, took out a carton of orange juice and held it up. Shepherd shook his head. The Major poured himself a glass. ‘What’s the problem?’ he asked.