Yokely picked up his mug and walked out of the room, down a corridor past two armed marines, and through a door. There were two plasma flat-screen TVs on the wall, relaying images from the two CCTV cameras in the interrogation room. A tall man with receding grey hair was sipping a can of Sprite as he watched the Saudi stare at the plate of fried chicken. ‘Ten bucks says he takes a piece,’ he said. Carl Bulmer was the type to bet on which of two raindrops would be first to reach the bottom of a windowpane.
‘You’re throwing your money away,’ said Yokely. ‘He knows we’re watching him.’
Bulmer was with the CIA, a twenty-year veteran of South America, Afghanistan and Iraq. Not that his CIA credentials were ever referred to in the Guantanamo Bay camp. The CIA operatives were described as OGA personnel, working for Other Government Agencies. It was, as Yokely knew, a rose by any other name. Bulmer wore the standard OGA attire of long-sleeved black shirt, black trousers and impenetrable sunglasses. It was as much a uniform as the orange jumpsuits they forced the inmates to wear.
‘If you don’t want to bet, fine,’ said Bulmer. He stretched out his legs and balanced his can of Sprite on his lap as he watched the Saudi.
Yokely raised his eyebrows. ‘Want to bet a hundred?’
Bulmer hesitated, then nodded acceptance. ‘A hundred it is.’ He kept his eyes on the screen. ‘I heard you were in The Hague a while back,’ he said.
‘My itinerary is classified these days,’ said Yokely. ‘You know how it is.’
‘Day you flew out, Slobodan Milosoevice had a heart-attack.’
‘An unhappy coincidence.’ Yokely laughed. ‘No great loss to the world.’
‘Word is that the two events were not unconnected.’
Yokely chuckled. ‘A butterfly flaps its wings in China and there’s a hurricane in Florida?’
‘I think the word is that the connection is a bit closer than that.’
Yokely continued to chuckle but said nothing.
Bulmer levelled a finger at the monitor. ‘You know, he said more to you in there in five minutes than he’s said to us in six months,’ said Bulmer.
‘I’m not sure that death threats count as conversation,’ said Yokely, helping himself to a bottle of water from a small fridge beside one of the desks.
‘You got him angry. That’s a start.’
‘I killed his brother and cousin,’ said Yokely, ‘but if he hates me enough, he might open up to you.’
‘Anything specific?’
‘The Holy Martyrs of Islam,’ said Yokely. ‘They’re new boys on the block but they’ve started killing hostages in Iraq.’
‘Yeah, the Lake boy. Just goes to show, all the money in the world won’t help if these bastards get you. What’s your interest?’
‘Nothing special,’ said Yokely. ‘Just want to do a favour for a friend.’ He nodded at the screen. ‘Are we putting a time limit on this, by the way?’
Bulmer glanced at a digital clock up on the wall. ‘Half an hour?’
‘Up to you,’ said Yokely. ‘He’s never going to eat it. He seems to think he can get information out – what do you think?’
‘He’s in solitary most of the time.’ Bulmer drank the last of his Sprite, crumpled the can with one hand and tossed it into a wastepaper basket on the far side of the room. He pumped his fist in the air. ‘I think he was bluffing.’
‘Yeah, me too. He’s got an ego and we can use that. He’s not seen anyone from the embassy, has he?’
‘Which? He’s got dual, right? Saudi and British?’
‘I don’t think the British Embassy staff would pass on messages to al-Qaeda, do you?’
‘Two-faced lot, the Brits,’ said Bulmer.
‘That’s the French, Carl. Anyone from the Saudi lot been to see him?’
Bulmer leaned forward and tapped on his computer keyboard. A spreadsheet filled the screen and he stared at it, brow furrowed. ‘No visitors,’ he said. ‘No requests for visits, either.’
‘Okay, so just check that he doesn’t come into contact with any other inmates.’
‘Richard, please, don’t teach me how to suck eggs,’ said Bulmer. ‘I know what solitary means.’
‘There’s solitary and there’s solitary,’ said Yokely. ‘I don’t want anyone even to hear him fart.’ He headed for the door.
‘Aren’t you going to wait and see if he eats the chicken?’ asked Bulmer.
‘I trust you,’ said Yokely. ‘Send me a cheque.’
Shepherd opened one of the three metal cases and looked at the handguns inside. Two Ingrams. Four magazines. He ran a hand over them and remembered the old cliche: guns don’t kill people, people kill people. Like most cliches, it was true. But when it came to killing people, guns made the job a whole lot easier. Knives were too personal: it was hard to look a man in the eye and shove one into his chest. Guns could kill at a distance: you just pointed and pulled the trigger. Technology did the rest. And the Ingram was one of the best, just pray and spray. It wasn’t even necessary to aim it because its rapid rate of fire meant that anything within range would be ripped apart. Killing with a gun was a relatively simple matter. But coping with the emotional burden afterwards… That was different. He closed the case with a dull thud. The other two contained spare magazines and a hundred rounds. Button had decided they shouldn’t come up with all the weapons and ammunition up front but make the guys work for it. It would give the Branch detectives a chance to follow the weapons back to Birmingham. If they knew that more weapons and ammunition were on the way, Ali and Fazal would probably wait to launch their attack.
‘The world is going to hell in a handbasket,’ said Sharpe, pacing up and down by the entrance to the warehouse.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Shepherd.
‘It means the world’s going crazy,’ said Sharpe scornfully.
‘I know what it means, but what’s the story with the handbasket? What the hell’s a handbasket?’
‘A basket that you hold in your hand,’ said Sharpe, patiently.
‘Right. So how does the world fit into it? And who’s taking it to hell?’
‘It’s an expression,’ said Sharpe.
‘I know it’s an expression, Razor. I’m just saying, it’s an expression that doesn’t make the least bit of sense.’
‘You’re missing the point.’
‘No, Razor, you’re not getting to the point. What’s got you all riled up this time?’
‘Did you see the racial-identity memo that came round?’
‘I don’t read memos,’ said Shepherd. ‘I figured if it was important someone would talk to me about it.’
‘You write reports, don’t you?’
‘Sure.’
‘So you need to know how to describe the bad guys. And the PC brigade have gone and moved the goalposts again. We used to know where we were, right? You and I are IC One males. Anyone from the Mediterranean is IC Two, blacks are IC Three, Asians are IC Four, Chinks are IC Five and Ragheads are IC Six.’
‘You did go on the course, didn’t you?’ asked Shepherd.
‘What course?’
‘The course about not offending ethnic minorities,’ said Shepherd.
‘I’m not saying it to their faces,’ said Sharpe.
‘But you would, wouldn’t you?’
‘The point I’m trying to make is that the six classifications were all you needed. You’re on the trail of two Yardies and you hit the radio to say that they’re IC Three males. Do you know what the Yardies are now?’
‘B Ones,’ said Shepherd. ‘M One if they’re mixed race.’
Sharpe’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you hadn’t read the memo?’
‘The classifications were changed a while back.’
‘And you know how many there are now?’
‘Sixteen,’ said Shepherd. ‘Plus one.’
‘The one is if the bad guy doesn’t want to say where he’s from. How stupid is that?’
‘If they don’t say, we get to guess. That’s all the plus one means.’
