Stephen Leather - Hot Blood

Johnny Lake pulled his legs up against his chest and slowly banged the back of his head against the wall. It was the fourteenth day, and on the fourteenth day they had said he would die. There were six men holding him hostage, but he only knew one of them by name. Kamil. Kamil was the leader of the group. His name meant ‘perfect’. He was the one who spoke to the video camera, in accented English. It was Kamil who waved a Kalashnikov and said that the Americans must leave Iraq and that if they didn’t Johnny would be killed. When he was in front of the camera, Kamil wore black-leather gloves and a black-wool ski mask with holes for his eyes and mouth. His companions wore masks, too, or had scarves tied round their faces. They said nothing whenever the camera was on, other than to chant ‘ Allahu Akbar.’ God is great.

His captors weren’t aware that he knew what they planned to do with him. Johnny hadn’t let on that he spoke Arabic. He had studied the language for two years in Chicago and had spent a year in Dubai, then six months in Kuwait City before moving to Baghdad. He was fluent and could read and write the language, but from the moment he’d been forced into the back of a van at gunpoint he hadn’t said a word of Arabic. At first he figured that being able to eavesdrop on their conversations would give him an edge, but all it had done was to fill him with despair. Fourteen days was the deadline they’d set. Two weeks. Three hundred and thirty-six hours.

Johnny knew that there was no chance of Kamil’s demands being met. The coalition forces would stay in Iraq until the Iraqis were capable of governing themselves, and that day was a long way off. Kamil wasn’t stupid, and he’d know that, too. The posturing in front of the camera was for effect, nothing more. It was part of a process – a process that would lead to just one thing: Johnny’s death.

Johnny shivered. He wanted to bang on the door and beg Kamil for his life, but he had begged for the first two days and he knew there was nothing he could say that would change what was going to happen. Johnny had pleaded with Kamil. He’d told him that the stories he filed were always sympathetic to the people of Iraq and that the last two he’d written before his abduction had been about local politicians calling for the early withdrawal of the American troops and their replacement with United Nations peacekeepers.

Kamil had smiled sympathetically and had assured Johnny that nothing would happen to him and that in due course he’d be released. That was what he had said the first time he’d met Johnny. It had been five days after the abduction, and Johnny had been held at a different location each night, always hooded and always trussed up like a chicken. Kamil had been the first person to talk to him, the first person to treat him like a human being and not a piece of meat. But everything Kamil said to him was a lie.

Johnny had heard Kamil talking to his colleagues, and he’d understood every word that Kamil had said to the video-camera. Fourteen days. If the coalition forces did not start to withdraw from Iraq by the fourteenth day, it was the will of Allah that Johnny be killed. Fourteen days. And today was the fourteenth day.

Johnny had asked for a radio and newspapers but Kamil had said that that wasn’t possible. Johnny knew why. The media would report his capture, and the demands of his captors. Kamil had provided him with a paperback book, though. The Da Vinci Code. Johnny had always meant to read it, but had never had the time. Now he had nothing else to do in the basement, but try as he might he couldn’t concentrate on it. Kamil had brought in a travel chess set and they had played several games. Johnny was a reasonable player but he lost every time. All he could think about was the deadline, the deadline that would end with his death. It was impossible to concentrate on anything else.

Johnny knew that Kamil’s demands would not be met, but there was another option: money. Cold, hard cash. Johnny’s father had money. A lot of money. J. J. Lake was a property developer in Chicago and Johnny was sure his father would pay whatever ransom was necessary to get him released. It was all about money, Johnny knew. What had happened in Iraq was everything to do with money and virtually nothing to do with religion. If his captors were offered enough money they would release him. J. J. Lake knew people. He’d met Oprah Winfrey, Donald Trump and politicians right across the country. He’d be calling in favours left, right and centre and pulling whatever strings needed pulling. That was the hope Johnny clung to. If anyone could save him, it was his father.

The newspapers he worked for would be doing their bit, too. So would the rest of the media. Johnny was a journalist and journalists looked after their own. They would put pressure on the government to act. Editorials would be written, questions would be asked, everything the authorities did or didn’t do would be scrutinised. They’d speak to sympathetic Muslims and get them to put pressure on the fundamentalists. Kamil wasn’t stupid. He’d realise there was nothing to be gained by killing Johnny. But if he released him, they’d show the world they could be merciful.

There were three loud bangs on the door. There was no handle on it, and no lock, just a peephole through which his captors could watch him. ‘Stand by the wall, please, Johnny,’ shouted Kamil.

Johnny got to his feet and did as he was told. Every time the door was opened, he had to stand by the far wall with his hands outstretched. Johnny knew it was so that he couldn’t catch them by surprise, but he didn’t know why they bothered. His captors had guns and Johnny wasn’t a fighter. They knew that. He was a journalist and hadn’t been in a fight since he’d left elementary school.

The visit was unexpected. It was early afternoon and he’d been fed two hours earlier. Kamil had brought him a paper plate filled with kubbat burghul, doughy shells of bulgar wheat wrapped round lightly spiced minced meat and onion. He’d shared the meal with Johnny and they’d talked about baseball. Kamil never discussed politics or what was happening in Iraq. Sport, movies and music were pretty much all he talked about. Small-talk. Idle chit-chat to wile away the time until they killed him.

The door opened. Kamil stood in the doorway with an orange jumpsuit. ‘We need another video,’ said Kamil, walking over to him. ‘We need to show that you are still alive.’ He held out the jumpsuit.

‘Okay,’ said Johnny, hesitantly. He lowered his arms but made no attempt to take the jumpsuit.

‘Do not worry, Johnny,’ said Kamil. ‘It is a video, nothing more.’

‘Has my father been in touch yet?’ asked Johnny.

Kamil shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t know if he had,’ he said. ‘We don’t talk to anybody.’

‘But if he’s trying to pay a ransom, how will they tell you?’

‘We’ll be told,’ said Kamil. He gestured at the jumpsuit. ‘Put it on, please.’

‘I don’t understand why I have to wear it.’

‘It shows we’re serious,’ said Kamil, patiently. ‘It’s theatre, Johnny. If they see you playing chess and smiling at the camera, no one is going to think you are really in danger.’ He pushed the jumpsuit gently against Johnny’s chest.

‘Am I?’ asked Johnny, quietly. ‘Am I in danger?’ He took the jumpsuit. It was the third time he’d been given it to wear. It was for effect, Kamil had said. He only had to put it on when they were making a video. The rest of the time he was free to wear his own clothes, although they had taken away his belt and shoes.

Kamil smiled. A big, easy smile. ‘You are a journalist. There’s no value in killing a journalist.’