Stephen Leather - Hot Blood

‘So it’s good news, bad news?’ asked Yokely.

‘O ye of little faith,’ laughed Cooke. ‘It’s great news. The organisation, or whatever it was, vanished, but we have one of its members in custody. One Umar al-Tikriti.’

‘An illustrious name, indeed,’ said Yokely. Tikriti was Saddam Hussein’s family name, taken from Tikrit, the name of his home town.

‘No relation,’ said Cooke. ‘At least not a close one. Umar was pulled in after a mortar attack on the Green Zone three months ago. He was in the vicinity and chemical tests showed traces of explosives residue on his clothes. He is presently a guest at your old stamping ground, the Baghdad Central Detention Centre. Intel we have says he was a member of the Islamic Followers of Truth, though that came from an informant and Umar has denied it.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ said Yokely.

‘Exactly,’ said Cooke. ‘Seems to me, if you want to know who’s holding that RPG in the video, Umar is the man to talk to.’

‘Marion, you’re an angel,’ said Yokely.

‘I know.’

Three mobile phones in charging units were lined up on the bedside table. The middle one was ringing and Shepherd grabbed for it as he sat up. It was Richard Yokely. ‘You awake?’ asked the American.

Shepherd squinted at the digital clock behind the phones. ‘Richard, it’s three o’clock.’

‘So that’s a yes,’ said Yokely, cheerfully. ‘How do you fancy having a chat with someone who might know one of the guys in your friend’s video?’

‘Is this some sort of riddle?’ asked Shepherd.

‘There’s a car on its way,’ said Yokely. ‘Should be with you in half an hour.’

‘Where am I going?’

‘Oxfordshire,’ said the American. ‘But bring your passport to be on the safe side.’

Shepherd showered, then put on a denim shirt and black jeans. He took a brown leather jacket from the cupboard under the stairs and made himself a coffee.

Katra came into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. She was wearing her bathrobe and had her hair tied up. ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I have to go out. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.’

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Everything’s fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘You go back to bed.’ She headed for the stairs. ‘Oh, Katra, we’ve had a problem with the house sale. It might be that Liam has to stay with his grandparents until I get it sorted.’

‘Okay,’ she said.

‘He’s going to the school in Hereford from Monday – can you make sure he knows?’

‘What about you?’

‘I’ll stay here, you too. I’m really busy at the moment so I’ll need you to show people round.’

‘I thought the house had been sold,’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd, ruefully. ‘So did I.’ The doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be my ride.’ He pulled on his jacket and opened the front door. A thick-set man with a square jaw and a crew-cut, wearing a charcoal grey suit and a Paisley patterned tie, looked at him with unsmiling eyes. ‘Dan Shepherd?’ he asked.

‘That’s me,’ said Shepherd. He closed the door behind him. The man was already walking towards a black Lexus parked in the road. He opened the rear door for Shepherd, who would have preferred to sit in the front but he sensed that the man expected him to get into the back so he climbed in and fastened his seat-belt.

The man was a good driver, clearly a professional. He was also uncommunicative: he virtually ignored Shepherd’s attempts to make small-talk so Shepherd settled back in the leather seat and wondered what in Oxfordshire warranted a visit in the early hours. Just over an hour later he got his answer when he saw a sign for RAF Brize Norton. ‘Oh, terrific.’ He sighed.

The Lexus purred up to the main entrance of the airbase. The driver wound down the window and handed a sheet of paper to a uniformed airman who peered at Shepherd. ‘ID,’ he said. Shepherd handed him his passport. The airman scrutinised it and gave it back with a curt nod. The window rolled up and the Lexus drove on to the airfield.

Yokely was waiting beside a white Gulfstream jet with an American registration number. He was dressed casually in a black leather bomber jacket, khaki trousers and brown loafers with tassels. He grinned as Shepherd got out of the car.

‘What’s going on, Richard?’ asked Shepherd.

‘There’s someone I think you should talk to,’ said the American. The Lexus drove off.

‘Please tell me he’s on the plane.’

‘Ah, if only life were so simple.’ Yokely gripped the handrail of the stairs that led up to the aircraft door. ‘Come on. The captain’s already filed his flight plan.’

‘To where?’

‘Strictly speaking, that’s classified,’ said Yokely.

‘Richard…’

‘Baghdad,’ said Yokely. ‘Now come on, time’s a-wasting.’

Yokely and Shepherd went up the stairs and sat in two leather armchairs facing across a table that was strewn with early editions of the morning newspapers. The captain came out of the cockpit, square-jawed and sporting a crew-cut like the Lexus driver, dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt with yellow and black epaulettes.

‘Five minutes, gentlemen,’ he said, and shut the door. ‘We crash, we die,’ said the pilot. ‘That gets the safety briefing out of the way. Fasten your seat-belts and try not to use the head as there’s blood in there and we haven’t had time to clean it up.’

‘Blood?’ said Shepherd, as the pilot disappeared into the cockpit.

Yokely held up his hands. ‘Nothing to do with me.’

‘This is a rendition flight, is it?’

‘Strictly speaking, it’s only rendition if we’re transporting a prisoner,’ said Yokely. ‘So the answer’s no. But on the way back, now that would be a different kettle of fish.’

‘You’re going to pick someone up?’

‘Again, nothing to do with me,’ said Yokely. ‘We’re just hitching a ride.’

The engines whined and they fastened their seat-belts. The jet taxied to the runway and two minutes later they were climbing through cloud, heading east. Yokely glanced at his watch. ‘Why don’t you get some shut-eye?’ he said. ‘As comfortable as these jets are, the powers-that-be refuse to let us have in-flight entertainment or stewardesses. I can make us a coffee before we land but in the meantime I suggest we get some sleep.’

Shepherd pressed the button to recline the seat and was asleep within minutes.

Shepherd opened his eyes to find Yokely smiling at him. ‘You snore,’ said the American, ‘like a train.’

‘It’s an inherited defence mechanism,’ said Shepherd, stretching his arms. He undid his seat-belt and stood up, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘It goes back to caveman times,’ he said. ‘When a hungry lion wandered by and heard my ancestors snoring he gave them a wide berth, figuring they were as dangerous as he was. The guys who slept silently were eaten. Darwinian selection. That’s why I snore. That’s how I used to explain it to my wife, anyway.’

‘Did she buy it?’

‘Not really.’

Yokely pointed to a mug of coffee on the table. ‘Didn’t know if you took sugar.’

‘I don’t. Thanks. When do we get there?’

‘We’ll be starting our descent in five minutes,’ said Yokely. ‘Best you finish your coffee before we do.’

‘Why’s that?’

Yokely grinned. ‘You haven’t been to Baghdad before, have you?’

‘First time,’ said Shepherd.

‘You’ll need your seat-belt and a strong stomach.’

‘Why?’

‘Now that’d spoil the surprise, wouldn’t it?’

Shepherd swallowed the last of his coffee as the pilot’s voice came over the intercom. ‘Make sure you’re strapped in, gentlemen. We’re heading on down.’