‘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.’
The engine noise quietened as the pilot throttled back, then the left wing dipped and the jet went into a steep left turn. Shepherd’s stomach churned as the nose pointed down and they began a dive, still turning to the left.
‘Yee-ha!’ bellowed Yokely.
Shepherd tasted bile at the back of his throat and he swallowed. The last thing he wanted was to throw up in front of the American. The jet levelled, still in a dive, but as soon as it had levelled out the left wing dipped again and the plane banked so sharply that Shepherd was thrown to the side. Their downward spiral continued, the plane descending so quickly that Shepherd was continually working his jaw to equalise the pressure in his eardrums. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he asked.
‘It’s the safest way to get down,’ said Yokely. ‘The insurgents have a habit of shooting at planes coming in to land.’
The plane levelled, then banked once more. It broke through the clouds but all that Shepherd could see through the window was the desert spinning round. His stomach heaved and he took a deep breath.
‘The sick bags are under the table,’
said Yokely.
‘I’m fine,’ said Shepherd.
Their rate of descent increased as they got closer to the ground and they were diving so steeply that Shepherd couldn’t see how they’d be able to pull up in time but at the last minute the wings levelled, the nose came up and the plane’s wheels slammed on to the ground. The jet taxied off the runway and made a series of turns that took it away from the main terminal building, then came to a halt.
‘Welcome to Baghdad,’ said Yokely.
Shepherd opened his mouth to reply but felt nauseous again and instead took a deep breath.
The captain came out and opened the main door. Outside were two dirt-encrusted Humvees, engines running. ‘Our chariots await,’ said Yokely. He was carrying a laptop computer case. Shepherd followed him out. Within seconds his face was bathed in sweat.
At the bottom of the stairs an American soldier, a huge man made even bigger by his helmet, goggles and body armour, cradled an M16 in his arms. ‘Good to see you back, Mr Yokely,’ he said, in a broad Southern drawl.
‘They can’t keep me away, Matt,’ replied Yokely, patting him on the shoulder.
‘Gear’s in the rear,’ said the soldier.
Shepherd followed Yokely to the second Humvee and climbed into the back. Two sets of body armour and two helmets lay on the floor. Yokely handed a set to Shepherd and the two men struggled to put it all on in the confines of the vehicle.
The soldier grinned at them from the doorway. ‘The armour’s a pain but it’s necessary,’ he said. ‘Three men were killed yesterday when an IED went off just two miles from here.’
‘No problem,’ said Shepherd, tightening the straps that adjusted the collar. He sat down on a narrow seat of torn, dirty canvas over foam rubber. The soldier climbed in and sat next to him. He pulled the door closed and sat with the M16 between his legs. Behind the driver a blue cooler was filled with water bottles. Everything in the vehicle was covered with reddish dust.
‘Much happening?’ asked Yokely, as the Humvee drove away from the plane.
‘Same old, same old,’ said the soldier. ‘How long are you here for this time?’
‘Flying visit,’ said Yokely, fastening the strap of his helmet.
They reached the airport perimeter. The barrier went up as they approached and the two Humvees roared through and out on to the road.
‘That’s it?’ asked Shepherd. ‘No Passport Control, no Customs?’
‘I don’t exist,’ said Yokely, adjusting the straps of his body armour. ‘And as long as you’re with me, neither do you.’
The Humvee picked up speed. Through the window Shepherd saw a convoy of trucks heading towards the airport, topped and tailed by nineteen-ton eight-wheeler Stryker light-armoured vehicles, their 105mm cannons sweeping the roadsides. Metal mesh screens were wrapped round them, offering some protection against rocket-propelled grenades. In the middle of the convoy there were three soft-skinned Nissan pick-up trucks in which uniformed Iraqi troops were strap-hanging. None was wearing body armour although they had Kevlar helmets. Shepherd glimpsed one of the drivers as they raced by, an Arab wearing a baseball cap the wrong away around and headphones. His head was bobbing back and forth in time with whatever music he was listening to.
A strip of land more than a hundred feet wide separated the carriageways, sandy reddish soil dotted with dried grass. Emaciated cattle grazed on what little vegetation there was, seemingly oblivious to the speeding traffic.
‘Can you tell me where we’re going? Or is that classified?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Now we’re on the ground I can tell you,’ said the American. ‘The Baghdad Central Detention Centre.’
‘That would be Abu Ghraib prison, right?’
‘The name changed a while back,’ said Yokely, ‘but yes. That’s where our man is being held.’
‘That’s where you abuse your prisoners, isn’t it?’
Yokely chuckled at Shepherd’s attempt to rile him. ‘In 1984 alone, Saddam Hussein had more than four thousand men executed there, so let’s not make out that a bit of teasing is on a par with what the great dictator got up to. He held his enemies for up to twenty years, often packed fifty into a tiny cell with standing room only, and he used a lot as guinea pigs in his chemical and biological weapons programmes. And while we’re on the subject, it’s worth mentioning that you Brits built the place for him.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ admitted Shepherd.
‘Back in the swinging sixties, when the West was more than happy to do business with Iraq,’ said Yokely. ‘Funny old world, isn’t it?’ He tightened the Velcro straps on his body armour. ‘Most of our troops take out the reinforcing plates,’ he said. ‘They complain about the weight.’
‘They’re heavy all right,’ said Shepherd, ‘but given the choice between carrying a few extra pounds or taking a bullet in the chest . . .’ He banged his fist against the Kevlar chest plate.
‘It’s not snipers you’ve got to worry about,’ said Yokely, as the Humvees accelerated past a pick-up truck with half a dozen live goats in the back. ‘They call this road Sniper’s Alley but most of the casualties are from IEDs. The insurgents rarely use snipers.’ He grinned. ‘And you know who’s to blame for the boom in IEDs?’ he said. ‘No pun intended.’
‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me,’ said Shepherd.
‘One of yours,’ said the American. ‘Lawrence of Arabia. The fag who drove the motorcycle. Way back in the Arab Revolt of 1916 to 1918. He pioneered the use of explosives as a terrorist tool. He blew up seventeen of the Turks’ locomotives over a four-month period and after that they were scared shitless of travelling by train. Fear’s the greatest tool of a terrorist, and IEDs are a great way of spreading fear. The insurgents here have taken what Lawrence did and raised it to the tenth power. Do you have any idea how much the Department of Defense spent last year on counter-IED measures?’
‘Again, I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’
‘Three and a half billion bucks. That’s billion, not million.’
Shepherd raised his eyebrows. ‘That’s one hell of a lot of money, all right.’
Yokely smacked his palm against the side of the Humvee. ‘They’ve just poured almost four hundred million dollars into reinforcing these babies. Imagine what you and I could do with that amount of money.’
‘Retire?’
Yokely chuckled. ‘You’ll never retire,’ he said. ‘You’re the same as me. You love the thrill of the chase, the eternal struggle between good and evil.’
‘I don’t see life as simply as that,’ said Shepherd.
‘You won’t admit it, but you’re addicted to the adrenaline rush,’ said Yokely. ‘We all are.’ They drove past the burned-out shell of a saloon car. ‘The IED is the terrorist’s weapon of the future,’ he said. ‘They’re perfecting the technique here, but before long they’ll be using them all over the States and Europe.’
‘We’ve had that before, with the IRA,’ said Shepherd.
‘Different animal,’ said Yokely. ‘The IRA were interested in spectaculars. Big showy explosions and, more often than not, they gave warnings. The fundamentalists are concentrating on small explosions designed to kill and maim. No warnings. Imagine the havoc devices like that would wreak on our freeways. Or in New York City. Or London. They already account for two-thirds of all American combat deaths in Iraq. And how many of the bastards placing the devices do we catch? Hardly any. The bad guys love odds like that. Maximum terror, minimum risk. It’s a hell of a lot easier to recruit a guy to plant IEDs than it is to recruit a suicide-bomber. I tell you, they can fight like this for ever. It doesn’t matter how many troops we send, how much equipment we give them, we can’t win. Because the enemy is untargetable. Overwhelming firepower is all well and good, but in Iraq we’ve got nothing to shoot at.’
The Humvee slowed to walking pace. Ahead a flock of bleating sheep were wandering across the road, guided by two Iraqis wearing dusty dishdashas, their heads swathed in black
and white checked scarves. ‘You have to be careful of livestock out here,’ said the driver, over his shoulder.
‘Ambushes?’ said Shepherd.
The driver grinned. ‘Ambushes we can handle,’ he said. ‘It’s the compensation claims that bust our balls. If you kill a sheep, you don’t just pay to replace the animal. You have to pay for the generations of sheep that would have been produced by the animal you killed. So you run over one and you pay out twenty thousand dollars.’
The drive from the airport to the prison took just over half an hour. They were waved through several roadblocks manned by American and Iraqi soldiers, and barrelled across road junctions without slowing. The first time they came to a complete stop was when they pulled up in front of a sandbagged barrier outside the main entrance to the prison.
Two soldiers with M16s spoke to the driver of the first Humvee, then a red and white striped pole was raised to allow both vehicles to approach the main gate. It rattled back and the Humvees drove through. Ahead, a second metal gate barred their way until the one behind was shut. Two more soldiers with M16s looked down on them. Both men wore impenetrable sunglasses.
‘Who are we here to see?’ said Shepherd.
‘An Iraqi by the name of Umar al-Tikriti,’ said Yokely. ‘I’ve reason to believe that he knows the guy holding the RPG in the video of your friend.’
‘And he’ll tell us who he is?’
Yokely grinned. ‘Hopefully, if we play it right,’ he said.
The inner gate rattled open and the two Humvees drove into a central courtyard. The soldier opened the rear door and Shepherd and Yokely climbed out. Shepherd shaded his eyes against the unrelenting sun. His shirt was soaked under the body armour and he was holding his leather jacket.
‘You can strip the Kevlar off now, gentlemen,’ said the soldier. ‘You’re among friends here.’
Shepherd and Yokely took off their helmets and armour and tossed them into the back of the Humvee. Yokely picked up his laptop computer case.
A tall man with close-cropped red hair, freckles and desert camouflage fatigues strode across the courtyard holding a clipboard and a transceiver. ‘Can’t keep you away, can we?’ he said.
Hot Blood ss-4 Page 15
