Stephen Leather: Hot Blood

‘Yeah.’

‘Come and work with me. Four hundred quid a day plus expenses.’

‘And the chance of getting hurt?’

Armstrong grinned. ‘It won’t be me they’ll be shooting at.’

‘I thought you had to throw yourself in front of the bullet.’

‘That’s just public relations,’ said Armstrong. ‘When did you last hear of a bodyguard taking a bullet for a client? The boss is through there.’

Major Gannon was standing at the head of a long beech table that seated eight. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, with a strong chin and wide shoulders. His nose had been broken at least once. He was wearing a tweed jacket, an open-necked white shirt and chinos. He jutted out his chin when Shepherd walked in. ‘Spider. Good man.’ He strode round the table and they shook hands.

A third man was sitting at the table. Martin O’Brien was a former Irish Ranger and an old friend of Shepherd’s, even though they had never served together. As he stood up he ran a hand over his shaved head, then slapped Shepherd on the back. He was a big man, and seemed to have got even bigger since he’d left the army. He was wearing a black polo-neck pullover with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and blue jeans.

‘No sign of Jimbo?’ the Major asked Armstrong.

‘The late Jim Shortt?’ Armstrong laughed. ‘He’d be late for his own funeral.’

Right on cue, there was a quick double-knock on the main door. Shepherd went to open it. Shortt was a heavy-set man with a sweeping Mexican-style moustache. He was holding a black gym bag and grinned when he saw Shepherd. ‘The early worm, hey, Spider?’

‘Hey, hey, the gang’s all here,’ said Shepherd. He jerked a thumb at the bag. ‘Are you staying?’

‘Just got off a plane from Dublin,’ said Shortt. ‘The boss said I could kip here.’ He winked.

There was another knock at the door. Shepherd opened it. This time, a white-jacketed waiter was outside, behind a trolley loaded with pots of coffee and plates of sandwiches. Shepherd stood aside to let him wheel it in. O’Brien hurried over to check the order, then signed the bill. He saw Shepherd grinning at him and glared defiantly. ‘They’re not all for me,’ he said. ‘The boss said to get some grub in.’ He grabbed a handful of sandwiches, sat down next to Armstrong and offered him one. Armstrong shook his head.

Shepherd and Shortt helped themselves to coffee as the Major sat down at the head of the table. ‘Right, let’s get started,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about the cloak-and-dagger, but I obviously can’t use the barracks and I didn’t want to take over anyone’s home so late at night.’ He was based at the Duke of York Barracks, close to Sloane Square. From his office overlooking the parade ground he ran the government’s best-kept secret: the Increment. The Increment was an ad-hoc group of highly trained special-forces soldiers used on operations considered too dangerous for Britain’s security services, MI5 and MI6. The metal briefcase that contained the secure satellite phone they called the Almighty leaned against the wall behind him. The only people who had access to it were the Prime Minister, the Cabinet Office, and the chiefs of MI5 and MI6. When Gannon received a call on it, he could command all the resources of the SAS and the SBS, plus any other experts he needed. ‘I’ll have somewhere else fixed up for us tomorrow, but this will do as a preliminary briefing room. Has everyone seen the video?’

Shortt shook his head.

‘Spider, do the honours, will you, please?’ Gannon pointed at a video-recorder and television on a stand in the corner of the room. Shepherd switched on the television and clicked the remote. The video was the Sky News broadcast that Shepherd had seen just before the Major had phoned. The men watched it in silence. The grainy video of Mitchell and his captors lasted barely a minute. It was followed by a terrorism expert, whom none of them recognised, talking about the dangers facing civilian contractors in Iraq, and a representative of the Muslim Council of Great Britain who denounced the kidnapping and called for Mitchell’s immediate release. ‘Kill it, Spider,’ said the Major. ‘There’s nothing else of interest.’

Shepherd hit ‘Stop’, switched off the television and returned to his seat.

‘Colin?’ said O’Brien. ‘Is that his name, right enough?’ He went over to the trolley for more sandwiches.

‘How long had he been out there?’ asked Armstrong, taking out a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a disposable lighter. He took off his coat and hung it on the back of his chair.

‘It was his third tour,’ said the Major. He went to the trolley and poured himself a cup of black coffee. O’Brien offered him a sandwich but the Major declined.

‘Geordie always followed the money,’ said Shortt.

‘Twenty thousand dollars a month,’ said the Major. ‘One month’s paid leave for every three served, plus board and lodging over there, so pretty much everything you earn goes into the bank. It’s the new Klondike. We’ve got guys dropping out of the Regiment early so they can sign on in Iraq. Hard to blame them – they get four times the salary plus the chance to use their skills rather than spending all their time training.’

‘I’ve been offered three jobs out there,’ said Armstrong. ‘It’s getting harder to turn them down. They’re desperate for good people. Anyone mind if I smoke?’

‘I thought you’d given up,’ said Shortt.

‘I did,’ said Armstrong. He rolled up his shirtsleeve to reveal a white square on his shoulder. ‘I’m even using the nicotine patches but they make me want to smoke even more.’

‘Smoke away,’ said O’Brien, ‘but not over my food.’

Armstrong offered the pack around but there were no takers. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling.

The Major waved at the television. ‘The money has to be good out there because of the risks. There’ve been ninety-seven kidnappings so far this year, twenty-six of them Westerners. Of the twenty-six, twenty-four have been killed. They’ve followed a similar pattern. Kidnapped. No news for a few days, then a video released with the abductors’ demands – which are usually totally unrealistic – with a deadline. A second, sometimes a third video, as the deadline gets closer, then nothing for as long as a month, after which we get a video of the hostage being killed. Cards on the table, gentlemen. Geordie’s chances do not look good. One of the Westerners who was released was a sixty-eight-year-old nun, the other was married to a Muslim woman and had five Muslim children.’

‘Which means what?’ said Shortt.

‘Which means that it’s up to us to swing the odds in his favour,’ said the Major. ‘Okay, more cards on the table. Officially there’s nothing I can do. Unofficially every former member of the Regiment currently active in Iraq is being contacted and brought on side. I’ve spoken to army contacts out there, but the British Army is based mainly in Basra and Geordie was kidnapped in the Sunni Triangle and that’s American-controlled. Since Geordie is a civilian contractor, my bosses won’t countenance my using Regimental resources to get him out of the shit. That’s why I’ve called you here. I’m not going to sit on my arse while the Foreign Office huffs and puffs, and I need to know that you all feel the same.’

‘Bloody right,’ said Shortt.

Shepherd and Armstrong muttered agreement. O’Brien had just taken a big bite of a sandwich but he gave the Major a thumbs-up.

‘And I also need you to be aware that if we decide to help Geordie, we’re not going to be following the Queensberry Rules or the Geneva Convention,’ said the Major. ‘We’ll be crossing the line.’