‘Do you want our guys out?’
‘Let’s see if the locals can handle it. It’s no big deal, just a fender-bender. If they can’t handle that then we’ve been wasting our time out here.’
‘Lighten up, Jeff,’ said Hubbard.
‘I’ve got a bad feeling, that’s all,’ said Keizer.
The girl banged on his window and yelled at him in Arabic.
‘What’s wrong?’ Keizer asked her, but she just shook her head.
She pointed at the intersection and said something in Arabic, then wiped her eyes.
‘I can’t understand you,’ he said.
‘Open the window, Jeff,’ said Hubbard.
‘She could be an insurgent,’ said Keizer.
‘She’s a kid, and she doesn’t have a weapon,’ said Hubbard. ‘Scared of a child now, are you?’
‘It’s not about being scared, it’s about following procedure.’
Hubbard grinned and clucked like a chicken.
‘Screw you, Mother,’ said Keizer.
The child put her face close to the window. She was sobbing and now he could make out what she was saying: ‘Please, please, please, please . . .’
She was younger than Keizer had first thought. Twelve, eleven, maybe. ‘Okay, okay,’ said Keizer. He pressed the button to wind down the window. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked her.
The girl took a step back as the window wound down. She was still making sobbing noises but Keizer saw that her cheeks weren’t wet. There were no tears.
The bullet smacked into the centre of his forehead. The back of his skull exploded, splattering blood and brain matter over Hubbard. Hubbard screamed and scrambled for the window control. Keizer slumped forward, what was left of his head smacking into the steering-wheel. The girl held on to her headscarf and ran down the road, away from the convoy, her bare feet slapping against the Tarmac.
It was almost midnight. Shepherd and Bosch were alone in the main room at the guesthouse. Yokely had left an hour earlier and the Major had gone to the kitchen with O’Brien for a late-night snack. Armstrong, Shortt and the other South Africans had turned in. The plan was that they would head out just after dawn but Shepherd didn’t feel sleepy and Bosch seemed disinclined to go to her room.
She was drinking a Corona lager from the bottle with a piece of lime pushed down the neck. It was her sixth or seventh, Shepherd hadn’t been counting, but they didn’t seem to have had any effect on her. He was drinking Jameson’s with ice and soda and wasn’t trying to keep up. They were sitting together on a black sofa and had propped their feet on the low table in front of them.
‘You’re taking one hell of a risk,’ said Bosch. ‘If anything goes wrong, you’ll both be dead. And the way those bastards kill isn’t pretty.’
‘I owe it to him to try,’ said Shepherd.
‘All for one and one for all, the Three Musketeers crap?’
Shepherd took a swig of whiskey. ‘There’s more to it than that.’
‘He’s your gay lover?’
‘You’re a funny girl, Carol.’
‘Just trying to lighten the moment, you being about to ride into the valley of death and all.’
Shepherd chuckled. ‘Geordie saved my life in Afghanistan ten years ago. Another century.’
‘Threw himself in front of a bullet for you?’
‘Dug one out of my shoulder and patched me up, then carried me to a helicopter. He was the medic in my brick.’
‘Brick?’
‘That’s what we call our four-man units. He was the medic. A captain had just been hit by a sniper and I was holding him while he died. Big mistake on my part, I should have been looking for cover but I stayed with the captain and got hit in the shoulder probably by the same sniper.’
‘Can I see the scar?’
‘What?’
‘Come on, you show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’
‘I don’t want to see yours.’
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Please.’
‘If it’ll shut you up.’ He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it back to reveal the scar just below his right shoulder. ‘Satisfied?’
Bosch moved closer and ran a fingertip along it. ‘Nice,’ she said. She put her hand on his shoulder and turned him so that she could see his back. ‘No exit wound,’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ said Shepherd. ‘It hit the bone and went downwards. Just missed an artery. Geordie got it out and stopped the bleeding.’
‘Tampon?’
‘What?’
‘Best thing to plug a bullet hole. Can’t beat them.’
‘I’m pretty sure he used a regular field dressing. If he’d used a tampon he’d have told me. And I’d have got stuck with a new nickname.’
Bosch ran her finger across the scar again. ‘I’m guessing a 5.45mm round?’
‘Good guess,’ said Shepherd, admiringly.
‘AK-74?’
‘And you know your assault rifles. Most people assume it was an AK-47.’
‘I’m a big fan of the AK-74,’ said Bosch, ‘but you don’t want to go firing one out here. The Yanks hear it, they’ll assume you’re with the bad guys.’
Shepherd buttoned his shirt. ‘If it wasn’t for Geordie, I’d have died in the desert. Like I said, I owe him big-time.’
The Major came out of the kitchen. ‘Everything okay?’ he said.
‘Spider was just showing me his war wound,’ said Bosch.
‘He does that with all the girls,’ said the Major. ‘I don’t want to sound like anyone’s father but it’s getting late and we’re up at five tomorrow. I’m heading up.’
‘I was about to turn in too,’ said Shepherd, standing up.
Bosch raised her bottle. ‘I’ll finish this first. Sleep well, Spider.’
‘You too.’
Bosch blew him a kiss. Shepherd and the Major walked together to the stairs. ‘You okay?’ the Major asked.
‘Fine,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ll be happier once we’re under way, that’s for sure.’ They went up the stairs together.
‘You’ve got a good team behind you,’ said the Major. ‘The best.’
‘I know. It’ll be fine.’
‘I’m supposed to be the one giving the pep talk.’
‘I don’t need one,’ said Shepherd. ‘I know what the risks are, and I know what I have to do. We just roll the dice and see what happens.’
They arrived at Shepherd’s room. The Major held out his right hand, clenched into a fist. Shepherd banged his own against it. ‘See you tomorrow,’ said the Major.
Shepherd went into his room. He had just finished showering when there was a knock at the door. He assumed it was the Major and frowned as he wrapped a towel round his waist. He opened the door.
It was Carol Bosch, with the bottle of Jameson’s. ‘I thought I’d come and show you my scars,’ she said.
‘There’s no need,’ he said. ‘Really.’
She ran her hand down her left thigh. ‘I’ve got a really interesting knife wound here that I think you’d find fascinating.’
‘Carol . . .’
Bosch pushed the door open and slipped inside. ‘Where are the glasses?’ she asked.
Shepherd closed the door. ‘You’re impossible,’ he said.
‘Here they are,’ she said picking two glasses off the bedside table. She poured two slugs of whiskey and handed one to him. ‘Nice towel,’ she said, and clinked her glass against his. ‘To being shot,’ she said, ‘and surviving.’
Shepherd sighed, but drank to her toast.
Bosch put her glass down on the bedside table and began to undo her dress.
‘What is this? A condemned man’s last request?’ asked Shepherd.
‘This isn’t about you,’ she said. ‘Have you any idea how difficult it is to find a half-decent man out here?’
‘Surprisingly enough, no,’ he said.
She stepped forward, slipped her right hand behind his neck and kissed him. For a second Shepherd resisted, but her tong
ue probed between his teeth and he felt himself grow hard. She ran her other hand down the towel and between his legs.
Shepherd broke away. ‘Carol—’
‘What?’
‘There’s something you should know.’
‘Well, we’ve already decided you’re not gay. And you’re not wearing a wedding ring.’
‘I work undercover,’ said Shepherd. ‘Undercover cops don’t wear wedding rings.’
‘If you’re married, it doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’m not asking for lifelong commitment. I just want to have sex with you.’
‘She died,’ said Shepherd. ‘Three years ago.’
Suddenly Bosch looked concerned. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I loved her.’
‘Okay. I loved my husband, too, right up to the point I found him in bed with our maid. But this isn’t about my ex-husband or your wife, this is about you and me.’ She grabbed him and kissed him again. This time Shepherd kissed her back. Bosch pushed him towards the bed.
Shepherd put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Carol, wait—’
‘Now what?’
‘I haven’t had sex for a while.’
‘Shame,’ she said. ‘How long?’
‘A while.’
‘A month?’
Shepherd shook his head.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘A year?’
‘A bit longer.’
‘How much longer?’
Shepherd swallowed. ‘Since Sue died.’
‘Three years?’
‘Thereabouts.’
Bosch’s jaw dropped. ‘Wow,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘Three years?’ she repeated. ‘Thirty-six months?’
‘Or thereabouts.’
‘You must really have loved her.’
‘I did. I do. I always will. Just because she died doesn’t mean I stopped loving her.’
Bosch looked into his eyes, her hand still between his legs. ‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ she said. ‘This isn’t about love. It’s lust. That’s all.’
‘Got it,’ said Shepherd.
‘And you’re okay?’
Despite himself, Shepherd laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m okay.’
Bosch kissed him, then pushed him back on to the bed, holding the towel. She tossed it aside and took off her dress. ‘Three years,’ she said, in wonder. ‘Fasten your seat-belt. This is going to be one hell of a ride.’
Mitchell lifted up his shirt and examined his damaged ribs. It hurt if he took a deep breath but he was sure that they weren’t broken. He thought a couple were cracked, but other than that he hadn’t been badly hurt. He had urinated into the plastic bucket and there had been no sign of blood so at least his kidneys were unscathed.
He sat down slowly, then lay back. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to do a sit-up. The muscles in his side burned but he forced himself up.
He didn’t care about the pain. It meant nothing. For the first time since he’d been snatched he didn’t feel alone. Somewhere out there his friends were on the case. Mitchell was sure that Spider Shepherd would have been behind the kidnapping, probably with Billy Armstrong, Martin O’Brien and Jimbo Shortt. And, if he’d been able to get himself away from the Increment, Major Gannon would be running the show. Mitchell grunted and lowered his shoulders back to the floor. It hurt a lot more going down than it did coming up. It had been worth the beating for Mitchell to discover that his friends were fighting to free him and, from what Kamil had said, they were fighting dirty. They had kidnapped the brother of a man who was holding him hostage. That meant they knew the identity of at least one of his captors. And if they knew one they might be able to identify the rest and there was a chance they would locate the basement. It was an outside chance, but it was a chance. He took a deep breath and did a second sit-up, faster this time. It still hurt, but not as much.
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.’
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