He held the shoulders of the jumpsuit and put in his right leg, then the left. He straightened and pulled the overalls up to his waist. He didn’t want to die in the basement. It had been days since he’d smelled fresh air, or seen the sky, or heard birdsong. He wanted to see his parents, his brother, his friends.
He felt as if he was going to pass out and sat down on the wooden chair. Kamil appeared in front of him, holding a plastic bottle of water. ‘Here,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Johnny. He unscrewed the blue plastic cap and raised the bottle to his lips. He drank slowly, wanting to extend the moment into infinity. So long as he was drinking, he was alive. He swallowed, and continued to drink.
Kamil held out his hand for the bottle. Johnny gave it to him, then wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He wriggled his arms into the jumpsuit and pulled up the zipper.
‘Good,’ said Kamil. He patted Johnny’s shoulder. ‘Stand up, please, and move in front of the banner.’
Johnny did as he was told. He knew the significance of the jumpsuit. It was identical to those the Americans forced the detainees to wear in Guantanamo Bay. It was a statement. That the hostages in Iraq were retribution for what was going on in Cuba. He stood in front of the banner. The two men with ski masks had taken position at either side of it, arms folded across their chests.
‘Hands behind your back, please, Johnny,’ said Kamil.
Johnny did as he was told. They had bound his hands behind his back the last time they had videoed him, but he knew that this time was different. He swallowed and almost gagged. His mouth had dried again.
Kamil used a plastic tie to bind his wrists. It cut into his flesh but Johnny didn’t protest.
Kamil helped Johnny into a kneeling position, then patted his shoulder again. He walked over to the video- camera and checked the fitting that attached it to the tripod. Then he bent down and peered through the viewfinder. The door opened and four men filed in, wearing khaki jumpsuits and ski masks. Two were carrying AK- 47s. The last to walk into the room closed the door and stood with his back to it.
Kamil straightened up. He smiled and nodded at Johnny. Johnny tried to smile back but knew he looked terrified. His knees were hurting and the plastic tie bit into his wrists.
Kamil walked round the tripod, pulling a ski mask out of his pocket.
Johnny closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He began reciting the Lord’s Prayer in his head, not wanting to offend the men in the room by speaking it aloud: Our Father, who art in heaven…
Johnny opened his eyes. Kamil pulled on the ski mask. He motioned for the men to gather in front of the banner.
Hallowed be thy name… Johnny bit down on his lower lip. Maybe they really were just making another video outlining their demands. Maybe there’d just be threats and gestures and then they’d switch off the camera, he’d take off the jumpsuit and go back to reading The Da Vinci Code and playing chess with Kamil. Part of him desperately wanted to believe it, but it was the fourteenth day and on the fourteenth day they’d said he would die.
Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…
Kamil began to speak to the camera in Arabic, waving his hand. In all the time they’d spent in the basement, he had been soft-spoken and polite, but he became a different person with the ski mask on and the camera running. His voice had a hard edge, and every now and again spittle would spray from his lips. He pointed at the banner, and at the men behind him, and then he pointed at Johnny. He screamed in Arabic that it was Bush’s fault that Johnny was going to die, his voice loaded with venom and hatred.
The Lord’s Prayer continued to loop through Johnny’s mind, faster and faster. Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us… He focused on the words, taking refuge in the repetition, trying to blot out where he was and what was happening.
Kamil turned to face the camera and continued to rant. The men standing in front of the banner were chanting: ‘ Allahu Akbar.’ God is great.
Johnny began to breathe faster. He concentrated on the Lord’s Prayer, using the words to blot out everything else from his mind. Lead us not into temptation…
The men moved towards Johnny. ‘ Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.’ They moved like zombies, their eyes wide and unseeing, their hands at their sides.
Johnny tried to get to his feet but his calves cramped and he fell on his side. He coughed as he breathed in dust from the floor. The sandals of the men walking towards him made a swishing sound as they shuffled nearer. It was all over, he knew. Tears sprang to his eyes at the unfairness of it all. He had never harmed them – he had never hurt anyone. He was just a journalist, in Iraq to report on what was happening there. Almost without exception the articles he wrote were against the American-led occupation of the country. Our Father, who art in heaven… Killing him wouldn’t end the war one day sooner. Nothing would change, it made no sense at all. Hallowed be thy name…
His eyes misted. He tried to lift himself off the ground but the strength had gone from his limbs. He rolled on to his back, gasping for breath. Five pairs of uncaring eyes stared down at him. ‘ Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar.’
A sixth ski mask appeared. It was Kamil. There was no recognition in his eyes: he wore the blank stare of the other five men. He was muttering, too: ‘ Allahu Akbar.’ God is great. There was something in Kamil’s hand. Something that glittered under the fluorescent lights. A knife.
Johnny tried to roll over but hands grabbed him. One of the men sat on his legs. Another pinned his left arm to the ground. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. All he could hear was the chanting of the men who were going to kill him. He tried to blank out their voices. He didn’t want to die hearing their voices. Hearing them praising their God. The Lord’s Prayer whirled faster and faster through his mind. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…
The knife sliced through Johnny’s throat. There was surprisingly little pain, just a burning sensation. Then he felt blood gush down his neck and heard a roar of triumph from Kamil. He couldn’t feel his body, he realised. Everything had gone numb. The knife flashed in front of his eyes and he felt it hack through his windpipe and then everything went black.
The Jaguar pulled up in front of the warehouse. There were two men in the car. The driver was Ian Corben, in his mid-thirties and wearing a sheepskin jacket. He switched off the engine, took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. ‘Into the lion’s den,’ he muttered.
His companion was a few years older and several kilos heavier. Conor O’Sullivan had left Ireland as a teenager and had lost most of his Galway accent, but he had the black hair, blue eyes and easy charm of a young Pierce Brosnan. His movie-star features were marred only by a jagged scar under his chin. ‘Relax,’ he said.
‘We don’t know them. They might-’
‘They came through for Mickey Burgess,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘It’ll be fine. Pop the boot.’ He climbed out of the Jaguar and adjusted the cuffs of his cashmere overcoat. The boot clicked open and he took out a Manchester United holdall. The two men stood looking at the metal-clad warehouse, with identical buildings, ‘To Let’ signs above the entrances, at either side.
‘If it’s a trap, we’re fucked,’ said Corben.
O’Sullivan smiled easily. ‘It’s a business transaction,’ he said. ‘Pure and simple.’
‘Yeah, but we’re walking in with a bagful of cash and no back-up.’
‘They insisted. Two of us and two of them.’
‘Yeah, well, we should be the ones setting the rules.’
O’Sullivan thrust the bag at Corben. ‘Here, carry this. You’re supposed to be the muscle.’
‘Second-in-command is how I remember the job description.’
‘I don’t recall advertising the position,’ said O’Sullivan. He glanced at his watch. ‘Come on, we’re late.’
They walked towards the metal doors of the warehouse’s loading bay. O’Sullivan whistled softly. He didn’t want to startle anyone inside. He eased himself through the gap between the doors. Corben followed.
Two men were waiting for them, in bomber jackets and jeans. The older one, a heavy-set man in his fifties, was wearing bright yellow Timberland boots; the younger, slightly taller man had on scruffy training shoes and was holding a paddle-shaped black object in his left hand. O’Sullivan knew their names – Graham May and Paul Lomas – but he didn’t know which was which. He scanned his surroundings. There were no obvious hiding-places. The warehouse was empty, except for three metal tables against one wall. He relaxed a little.
Corben stood behind him, swinging the holdall. O’Sullivan flashed his companion a quick smile.
