Hot Blood (40 page)

When Shepherd woke up he was alone in the bed. He rolled over and stared at the ceiling. The last thing he remembered was curling up with Carol in his arms and kissing her shoulder. She had been right. It had been one hell of a ride. She was passionate and aggressive in a way that Sue had never been, and vocal with it, at times screaming his name, at others cursing him, alternating between kissing and biting. Afterwards, as she had lain in his arms, Shepherd was surprised at the lack of guilt he felt. As he stared up at the ceiling he realised it was because he loved Sue, and knew he always would. What had happened between him and Carol had been purely physical.

He got out of bed, shaved and showered, then dressed and went downstairs. O’Brien was in the kitchen, frying eggs. The middle-aged Iraqi woman who normally cooked for the occupants of the house was hovering at his shoulder. ‘Fry-up, Spider?’ asked O’Brien.

Shepherd didn’t know when he’d be eating again so he nodded. ‘Please.’ He poured himself a large mug of coffee and added a splash of milk.

‘They can’t fry eggs out here,’ said O’Brien. ‘They just heat them from below so the yolks don’t cook.’ He used a spatula to splash hot fat on to them. ‘It’s not going to be a full fry-up. They haven’t got any bacon and the sausages are lamb.’

‘She’s a Muslim,’ said Shepherd, nodding at the cook. ‘She can’t touch pork.’

‘She doesn’t have to touch it, just cook it,’ said O’Brien.

‘You’re missing the point,’ said Shepherd. He sat at the kitchen table and sipped his coffee.

‘You okay?’ asked O’Brien.

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.

‘Sleep well?’

‘Like a log.’

‘Was it my imagination or did I see Carol creeping out of your room this morning?’

‘Screw you, Martin.’

‘Okay, I get it. None of my business. But you are one jammy bastard. She’s fit.’

Shepherd took another sip of his coffee. Carol Bosch appeared at the doorway. She had changed into clean fatigues and was carrying her flak-jacket, helmet and shotgun. A holstered automatic hung on her hip, and a large hunting knife was strapped to her right leg.

‘Speak of the devil,’ said O’Brien.

‘What’s that?’ asked Bosch, as she sat down at the table and winked at Shepherd.

‘I just asked if Spider thought you’d want breakfast in bed,’ said O’Brien.

‘I’d be careful how I talked to a woman wielding a shotgun,’ said Bosch.

‘How do you like your eggs?’ asked O’Brien, with a grin.

‘As they come,’ she said. She put her gun on the table. ‘How’s it going, Spider?’

‘I’m okay.’

‘Butterflies?’

Shepherd shrugged. ‘With you guys watching my back, I’ll be fine.’

O’Brien put plates of food in front of them. Fried eggs, tomatoes, lamb sausages and fried bread. He put his own plate on the table and sat down. ‘How long have you been in Baghdad?’ he asked Bosch.

‘Almost two years,’ she said. ‘I’ve been with John for the past eighteen months.’

‘Good money?’

Bosch grinned. ‘Bloody good,’ she said. ‘A thousand dollars a day basic, plus overtime, plus lots of paid time off and flights home. And there’s nothing to spend your money on here so everything you earn goes straight into the bank.’

‘How’s it going to end?’ asked Shepherd. ‘Everyone I talk to says we’re wasting our time in Iraq.’

‘Everyone’s right,’ said Bosch. ‘You can’t force these people to live together. The only guy who could do that was Saddam and now he’s out of the equation.’

‘You’re saying democracy won’t work here?’ asked O’Brien, through a mouthful of egg and sausage.

‘I’m saying these people don’t understand democracy,’ said Bosch. ‘Look what happened to Yugoslavia. So long as you have a hard man forcing people to live together, they get on with it. Take away the hard man and they kill each other.’ She sliced her sausage into neat sections, popped a piece into her mouth and swallowed it without chewing. ‘When Saddam was in power, the Sunnis ran Iraq. They account for barely a fifth of the population. Once we have elections, power transfers to the majority Shias. Which leaves them with scores to settle.’ She put down her knife and held up her index finger. ‘Possible scenarios down the line,’ she said. ‘Number one. All-out civil war, with the Sunni, Shia and Kurdish factions fighting it out to the death.’ She held up two fingers. ‘Two. The Shias take over Iraq, override the wishes of the Sunnis and the Kurds and align the country with Syria, Iran and Lebanon’s Hezbollah.’ She grinned. ‘How stable would the Middle East be then?’

‘Not very,’ said Shepherd.

‘I was being rhetorical,’ she said. She held up three fingers. ‘Three. Through some miracle, democracy holds, but with the three factions infighting all the way. To keep the masses happy they’re constantly picking fights with their neighbours. The Iraqi Kurds hate Turkey, the Iraqi Sunnis hate Shia-dominated Iran and the Shias in Iraq hate the Sunnis in Jordan. To make it worse, there are three factions within the Shias, all jostling for power. Saddam was a bastard, but a weak government barely holding together three warring factions would be just as destabilising to the region.’

‘So it’s a nightmare all round?’

‘It’s worse than that,’ said Bosch, picking up her knife again. ‘The fundamentalists are using the place as a training ground. They’re coming here in their thousands. More than half the suicide-bombers in Iraq are Saudis. Less than a quarter of the insurgents killed here are Iraqi, the rest are all foreign fighters. Terrorists come here from around the world to cut their teeth and once they move on they’ll be taking the
jihad
to the West, big-time. What you’ve had so far in Europe is just a taste of what’s coming. You know your history, right? What happened in Afghanistan?’

Shepherd knew what had happened in Afghanistan, all right: he’d taken a bullet in the shoulder and almost died. ‘I guess so,’ he said. He put down his knife and fork. He had barely touched his breakfast.

‘Back in the eighties, the Soviets were the bad guys and Uncle Sam wanted them out of Afghanistan,’ continued Bosch. ‘The Americans poured money into the Afghan Mujahideen, effectively funding a guerrilla campaign that was ultimately successful. After the Russians pulled out, the Mujahideen didn’t lay down their weapons. Far from it. They declared a global
jihad
and went off in search of new battles. Remember the attack on the World Trade Center in 1993? The men behind it were connected to a group that collected money for the Afghan
jihad
. Talk about chickens coming home to roost. Other Mujahideen went back to Algeria to set up the Armed Islamic Group, which ended up murdering thousands of Algerian civilians in their attempt to set up an Islamist state. Another group left Afghanistan for Egypt to start a terror campaign that killed thousands of Egyptians. More Mujahideen left to set up the Abu Sayyaf group in the Philippines. And let’s not forget the most successful graduate of the Afghan conflict, Osama bin Laden himself. He turned against his former masters big-time. Most of the bad shit that’s happened in the world goes back to what happened in Afghanistan – the Twin Towers, the London Tube bombings, Bali.’

Shepherd sat back and stretched out his legs. ‘And that’s what’s happening here, isn’t it? It’s a breeding ground for terrorists.’

‘On a bigger scale than Afghanistan, in a place where the enemy is the United States, Britain, Australia and the rest of the coalition forces. The Americans have captured insurgents with British passports, French, Dutch, almost the entire EU spectrum. They’re learning urban warfare, how to make improvised explosive devices, how to brainwash suicide-bombers, how to kidnap, and once they’ve graduated they’ll take their
jihad
to the West, spreading like a virus.’ The South African grinned. ‘You’re fucked, you just don’t know it yet.’

‘You paint a pretty picture,’ said Shepherd, ‘but you don’t seem particularly worried.’

‘The crazier the world gets, the more work there is for me,’ she explained. ‘I get paid in dollars and I spend in rand. You should visit my game farm some time. Two hundred acres and Iraq paid for it.’

‘It’s an ill wind,’ said Shepherd.

O’Brien pointed at Shepherd’s plate with his fork. ‘Are you going to eat the sausages?’ he asked. Shepherd shook his head. O’Brien stabbed them and transferred them to his plate.

‘You should think about it,’ said Bosch, ‘you and Martin. Guys like you with your SAS training, you’d get work out here no problem.’ She leaned over and squeezed Shepherd’s forearm. ‘Have to fatten you up a bit first.’ She laughed.

The Major walked into the kitchen. ‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘Are you ready?’

‘As I ever will be,’ said Shepherd.

‘Let’s go and see John, get you kitted out,’ said the Major.

Shepherd stood up. Bosch smiled up at him. ‘Good luck, Spider,’ she said.

‘It’ll be fine,’ he said, and wished he felt as confident as he sounded.

He walked into the courtyard with the Major. ‘You sure about this?’ asked Gannon.

‘It’s a bit late to change my mind now,’ said Shepherd.

‘No one would blame you if you did.’

Three helicopters flew overhead, low enough to ruffle the tops of the date palms. They were Hueys, American-made Bell UH-1Hs but with the markings of the Iraqi air force.

‘It’s Geordie’s only chance,’ said Shepherd. ‘If our roles were reversed, he wouldn’t hesitate.’

‘Yeah, well, he was always the headstrong one.’

‘He saved my life. I owe him.’

The Major clapped Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘We’ll be close by.’

‘Not too close,’ said Shepherd.

‘I won’t let anything happen to you.’

‘Thanks, boss.’

The Major hugged Shepherd, who squeezed him in return. ‘Let’s not get over-emotional,’ he said. ‘If all goes to plan we’ll be back here in a few days having a beer with Geordie and laughing about it.’

They went to the main office building and found Muller sitting behind a massive oak desk, tapping at his computer keyboard. He stood up as the two men walked in. ‘Ready to go?’ he asked.

‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.

Muller picked up a laminated card and handed it to him. ‘This is a company ID card. I’ve used the name on the passport you gave me.’ He gave Shepherd two printed letters. ‘Some company correspondence. Just shove it in your pocket.’ Shepherd did so, and put the card into his wallet. His passport was in the back pocket of his jeans. Muller went over to a metal gun cabinet, unlocked it and took out a Glock pistol in a nylon holster. He gave it to Shepherd, who strapped the holster to his belt. Muller handed Shepherd a company transceiver. ‘The frequency is preset,’ he said. ‘And now the big question. Do you want something more than the Glock? An Uzi, maybe?’

Shepherd glanced at the Major. ‘I’m thinking less is better.’

‘The less firepower you’ve got, the less likely they are to start shooting,’ said the Major. ‘You’ve got to be armed because that’s what they’d expect, but an Uzi might worry them.’

‘That’s how I read it,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they see the gun on my hip and that I’m not pulling it, there’s no reason for them to start shooting. I send out all the right signals and they assume I’m a victim.’

‘Playing a role,’ said Muller.

‘It’s what I do,’ said Shepherd.

‘Is your transmitter on?’ asked the Major.

‘Not yet,’ said Shepherd.

‘Let’s do it,’ said the Major. ‘Gives us a chance to test it.’

Shepherd sat down on a wooden chair and removed his left boot. He pulled back the insole. Nestled in a hollow below it was the small transmitter Button had given him in London. It was the size of a couple of two-pound coins, joined by a quarter-inch length of wire, encased in a slim plastic case.

‘Can I see it?’ asked Muller.

Shepherd gave it to him. Muller squinted at the transmitter. He could see a regular phone Sim card set into a metal disc, a battery and a tiny circuit board set into a second. ‘There’s not much to it,’ he said.

‘It’s all you need,’ said Shepherd. ‘The battery is mercury, which gives us more power than lithium ones, and it operates on the eight hundred megahertz cellphone frequency.’

‘No antenna?’

‘The metal that the Sim card sits in acts as one.’ He pointed at the second disc. ‘This is a GPS receiver that picks up the two point four gigahertz signal from the satellites overhead. It can pick up its longitude and latitude and uses the Sim card to transmit the information as a data call.’

‘It phones in?’

‘That’s exactly what it does. Every ten minutes it makes a ten-second call downloading its position to a computer. Yokely’s going to be monitoring the signal locally but the Iraqi phone system has commercial transponder coverage across most of the country, so unless Geordie’s being held in the middle of the desert you’ll know where I am to a few metres.’ He opened the case, flicked a tiny switch and snapped it shut. ‘Do you want to tell Richard it’s on?’ he asked the Major. ‘We ran a test yesterday but I’d rather be safe than sorry.’

‘Will do.’ Gannon took out his mobile phone and called Yokely. He had a brief conversation, then said, ‘He’ll check and get back to us.’

Shepherd put the transmitter back into his boot and the boot back on to his foot.

‘You know they’ll take your boots off you,’ said Muller.

‘But hopefully not right away,’ said Shepherd.

‘How long’s the battery good for?’ asked Muller.

‘A couple of weeks, give or take,’ said Shepherd. ‘Should be more than enough.’ He tied his shoelace.

‘And you know where you’re going?’ asked Muller.

Shepherd grinned. ‘You’re worrying too much, John,’ he said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

‘I’m worried you might get lost, that’s all. It’s dangerous out there,’ said Muller, gesturing with his thumb at the metal gate that led to the outside.

‘You keep saying. It’s a minefield.’