Once he’d joined the Regiment, Mitchell had been on more courses with the JSIU. They’d taught him what was likely to happen if he was captured by an enemy who wasn’t bound by the rules of the Geneva Convention. And they’d taught him the skills that would ensure the best chance of survival. But nothing the interrogation experts had taught him had prepared him for what he had been through since he had been brought to the basement.
His initial capture had been by the book: an AK-47 aimed at his chest, a hood pulled roughly over his head, something hard slammed against his temple, and waking up in the back of a van with his hands and feet bound. He’d been kept tied and hooded for the first forty-eight hours, he figured, though it had been hard to keep track of time. He’d been given water to drink through a straw but no food, and no one had said anything to him. He’d been moved from the van to a place that smelled of diesel oil where he’d slept on a dusty concrete floor, then put into the boot of a car and taken to another location where he’d slept on a damp carpet. There, a dog had woken him by licking his hands. Then he was put into a rattling van, with what felt like crates piled round him, and driven for hours to a third location: a room with windows that had been covered with sheets of plywood. He’d been tied to a wooden chair and they had taken his watch, wallet, shoes and belt. The hood had been removed and he had been given cold boiled rice with a piece of barbecued fish.
He’d asked who they were and what they wanted, but their only response was to slap him with gloved hands. After he’d eaten they had left the hood off but sealed his mouth with duct tape. His captors wore ski masks and said nothing to him. He stayed tied to the chair for a day and half a night, then the hood was put back on and he was hit from behind. He’d feigned unconsciousness but they’d hit him again and he’d passed out for real.
When he woke up he was in the basement and everything had changed. He hadn’t been bound or gagged. He’d been given food, plenty of water and the paperback book. One of the rules of surviving a hostage situation was to befriend your captors so that they related to you as a human being, not just as a captive, but instead one of the men introduced himself to Mitchell. He said his name was Kamil and apologised for what had happened. He spoke reasonably good English and had a smile that Mitchell was sure would win him more than his fair share of female admirers. Nothing would happen to him, Kamil had promised. A number of hostages had been taken at different locations around the country, but they would all be released within a few weeks. He said he would make Mitchell’s stay as pleasant as possible under the circumstances. If Mitchell had any requests for reading matter, Kamil would do what he could to provide it. He was sorry about the poor quality of the food, he said, but assured Mitchell that his captors would eat the same provisions. Mitchell had asked for a beer and Kamil had laughed, then patted his shoulder. They were like two old friends chatting, but for the man in the doorway cradling an
AK-47.
Mitchell didn’t believe Kamil’s assurances. Few hostages were released in Iraq. Most ended up dead. Kamil never raised his voice, never threatened Mitchell, never questioned him. Mitchell knew why. They didn’t need anything from him: he was a pawn in whatever game they were playing.
Kamil was the only one of his captors to reveal his face. The others wore ski masks when they were in the room. Mitchell reckoned there were six in addition to Kamil, perhaps seven. There had been five and Kamil in the basement when they had made the video. It had been on the morning of his second day there. They had fed him first: a paper plate of rice with some sort of lamb stew and a paper cup filled with chunks of pickled mango. Then Kamil had brought in a Panasonic video-camera on a tripod and placed it close to the wall on the right of the door. He’d pinned a sheet, on which was printed Arabic script, to the wall on the left. Then he had given Mitchell an orange jumpsuit and asked him to put it on. It had been a request and Mitchell had complied. He was sure that they intended to kill him at some point but there was nothing to be gained from confrontation. He would have to choose his moment to make a stand. Of one thing he was sure: when they came to kill him he would fight back.
Kamil had asked Mitchell to kneel, then tied his wrists together. For a brief moment Mitchell thought he’d misjudged the situation and that they were about to kill him, but he held on to the thought that first they would want to show the world they had him. He had knelt on the hard concrete floor and stared into Kamil’s eyes, looking for any sign that his new-found friend had murder on his mind. Mitchell knew that with his hands tied behind his back his options were limited, but he could do a lot of damage with his feet.
Kamil had thanked him, then gone to the camera. Before he switched it on, he had pulled on a ski mask. Again he had apologised to Mitchell, explaining that it was important he wasn’t recognised. Five of the captors had lined up in front of the banner. Two were holding Kalashnikovs, one had a Russian-made RPG – Mitchell had smiled inwardly at the sight of it. If it had gone off in the confined space they would all have been killed. It was clearly for show, but he wondered who they were trying to impress.
For a full three minutes Kamil had addressed the camera, speaking in Arabic. Mitchell only knew a few words of the language and wasn’t able to follow what was being said, but he could tell that Kamil wasn’t promising to release him. Several times Kamil pointed at Mitchell, and once at the banner. When he did that, the guy with the RPG shook it menacingly above his head and all five men chanted in unison.
Throughout Kamil’s speech, Mitchell stared defiantly at the lens. He was determined not to show any fear. In any case, he was apprehensive, rather than scared. He was in a dire situation, no doubt about that, but he was sure he wouldn’t die that day.
He was right. After Kamil had finished his speech he had switched off the camera, removed his mask and helped Mitchell to his feet. He had untied him and thanked him for his co-operation. ‘This will soon be over and you will be back with your family,’ Kamil had promised. He had looked Mitchell in the eyes as he’d said it, and had patted his shoulder reassuringly, but Mitchell didn’t doubt that the other man was lying.
Over the following days Kamil had been pleasant and polite. He always called Mitchell by his first name – he had found the driving licence in Mitchell’s wallet. When he brought the food and water he would sit cross-legged on the floor as Mitchell ate and make small-talk. He asked Mitchell what football team he supported and what cities he knew in England. He talked about English weather, English beer and English food. He never mentioned politics or religion, and didn’t ask about Mitchell’s work in Iraq or his military background. Mitchell had the feeling that his captors didn’t know he was a former soldier or that he had served with the SAS. More likely, they didn’t care. All they cared about was that he was British and that he was their prisoner.
Shepherd walked through Harrods’ food hall, surrounded by wide-eyed tourists and well-heeled housewives. He wandered past a refrigerated display of fish from around the world, glossy-eyed, open-mouthed and ready for the kitchen. He wasn’t there to look at the produce, though: he wanted to confirm that he wasn’t being tailed – it was second nature. He did a fifteen-minute sweep through the store, then headed outside and took a circuitous route to the red-brick mansion block that housed the Special Forces Club. The plaque that had once identified it had been taken down in the wake of the terrorist attacks in America and the exterior was identical to the rest of the upmarket residences in the street.