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.
Yokely grinned. ‘Dan, this is Bob Winmill,’ he said. ‘He’s with the sixteenth Military Police Brigade and is the power behind the throne here.’
Winmill shook hands with Shepherd. ‘Like “windmill” but without the d in the middle,’ he said. His little finger was missing and there were burn scars round his wrist, but his grip was strong. ‘Welcome to our facility, Dan,’ said Winmill.
‘I assume our man’s in the hardsite?’ said Yokely.
‘He is now,’ said Winmill. ‘We had him in Camp Redemption but we moved him last night.’ He saw Shepherd’s confusion. ‘Sorry, Dan,’ he said. ‘The hardsite is the old part of the prison, the cell box complexes. It’s where Saddam kept his prisoners. We’ve had them refitted to US specifications, but because we can’t pack them in the way he did, they now hold only a fraction of our inmates. The rest we keep in tents in compounds. We’ve just under three thousand in Camp Redemption. We only put the most dangerous prisoners and those with intelligence value in the hardsite.’ He waved at the building to their left. ‘He’s in there now.’
‘So he’s not dangerous?’ said Shepherd, putting on his jacket.
‘We found traces of explosives on his clothes. To be honest, that means nothing out here, but it’s enough to hold him for as long as we want. He hasn’t told us much, but we don’t really know what to ask him.’
‘He was in a group called the Islamic Followers of Truth, right?’ said Yokely.
‘That came from another inmate,’ said Winmill. ‘The intel is probably good but the group was more criminal than insurgent so we didn’t pack him off to Guantanamo.’
‘What can you tell us about him?’ asked Shepherd.
‘He’s twenty-six, a Sunni, and this is his second time inside the prison. Eight years ago he was a guest of Saddam Hussein, serving time for robbery. He was released in 2002 after Saddam announced an amnesty for most of the country’s prisoners.’
‘What incentives can I offer him?’ asked Yokely.
‘A room with a view,’ said Winmill. ‘A change of clothes, maybe.’
‘Early release?’
‘It’s that important?’
Yokely looked at Shepherd. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It is.’
‘It’s not as if we caught him with a detonator in his hand, and the Egyptian electricians the group was holding were released unharmed. If it helps, I don’t see why we couldn’t send him on his way.’
‘We’ll see how it goes,’ said Yokely. ‘Thanks, Bob. I owe you one.’
‘You owe me several,’ said Winmill, ‘but who’s counting? Come on, I’ll walk you in.’
He took them to a metal door, unlocked it with a key on a chain attached to his belt, pulled it open and waved the two men through.
A corridor ran the length of the ground floor. At regular intervals, barred doors opened on to individual cells. Each was about four metres wide and eight deep. Winmill locked the door behind them and took them down the corridor. Shepherd looked into a cell as they walked by. Four Iraqis were sitting on the floor, looking out through the bars. All four were wearing traditional long white dishdashas. ‘I’ve got him in an interview room on the second floor,’ said Winmill. ‘We’ve had him there since this morning and we haven’t told him why.’
‘Does he speak English?’ asked Yokely.
‘Some,’ said Winmill.
‘I’d like to try it without an interpreter first,’ said Yokely.
‘Fine by me,’ said Winmill. Two uniformed military policemen walked by, their shirts perfectly ironed and their boots gleaming. They nodded at Winmill, who nodded back.
At the end of the corridor they came to another locked door. Winmill unlocked it with the key he’d used previously. The three went through and he relocked it.
‘Do you video your interviews?’ asked Shepherd.
‘No,’ said Winmill. ‘The only record is what is written down by the interrogating officers.’
‘And we won’t be writing anything down,’ said Yokely. ‘I’ve already explained that we’re not really here.’
‘Just a mirage,’ laughed Winmill. ‘See the cell there?’ He indicated a cell to their left. ‘Andy McNab was held there for a while. The Bravo Two Zero guy. Great book. You want to know how the Iraqis treated their prisoners, read it. What happened here, what they called abuse, was a tiny fraction of what Saddam’s people did.’
They headed up a flight of stairs and Winmill unlocked yet another door. They went through and found a uniformed military policeman standing outside a metal door, an M16 rifle at his side. Unlike the doors on the ground floor, which were composed of bars, the one being guarded was solid with a square observation hatch at eye level. ‘Any idea how long you’ll be?’ asked Winmill.
‘How long’s a piece of string?’ asked Yokely.
‘Okay, let the guard know when you’re done and he’ll call me to come and get you. Try not to break anything this time, Richard.’
‘That guy fell off his chair. How many times do I have to tell you?’ He turned to Shepherd. ‘A prisoner gets one small fracture and they make out you’re the Spanish Inquisition.’
‘Things are different here now. We’re more accountable. Even you OGA guys.’
Yokely threw him a mock salute. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. Winmill shook his head and walked back to the stairs, twirling his key chain. ‘I thought we’d do this as good cop, bad cop,’ said Yokely. ‘We’ll tell him you’re Mitchell’s brother, and at some point you should get heavy with him. I’ll threaten to leave him alone with you. Then we’ll play it by ear.’
‘Any limits?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Yokely. ‘No one’s going to be photographing you. You can go as far as you want… You’re not listening to any of this, are you, son?’ he asked the guard.
‘Deaf as a post, sir,’ said the man, staring straight ahead.
‘Okay, let’s do it.’
The guard opened the door for them. Umar was sitting at a plastic-topped table, his hands clasped as if in prayer. He had a thick, straggly beard and his head had been shaved although the hair was now starting to grow back. He was wearing a grubby dishdasha and plastic flip-flops.
The guard closed the door behind them and Yokely put his case on the table and unzipped it. He took out a sleek grey laptop with no manufacturer’s logo, opened it and switched it on. Umar watched him, but said nothing. Yokely sat down, folded his arms and waited for the computer to boot up. Shepherd stood by the door and continued to stare at the Arab, who steadfastly refused to look at him. Once the computer was running, Yokely turned the screen so that it was facing Umar. He pressed a button and a video began to play. It was jerky and grainy, and showed five men, in green fatigues with scarves covering their faces, standing over three terrified men who were kneeling. Four of the men in fatigues were holding Kalashnikovs, the fifth an RPG above his head. There was no sound but the men in fatigues were clearly chanting. Yokely froze the picture. ‘The Islamic Followers of Truth,’ said Yokely. He smiled at Umar. ‘But, of course, you know that.’ He tapped his finger on the figure furthest to the right. ‘This, we think, is you.’
Umar stared at the video but said nothing.
‘The three Egyptians were released six weeks after this video was taken. How much ransom did you get?’
Umar remained silent.
‘Quite right,’ said Yokely. ‘None of my business. Besides, the money doesn’t concern me.’ He tapped the man who was holding the RPG. ‘What does concern me is this man. We want to know who he is.’
Umar continued to gaze at the screen, his chest barely moving as he breathed. Yokely tapped a button on the keyboard and the video started to play. ‘After the hostages were released, the Islamic Followers of Truth were never heard from again. A cynic might think that the group was only formed to carry out the kidnapping and that once the money had been paid they disbanded.’ The screen went blank. Yokely tapped another button and a second video started. ‘I doubt you’ve seen this seeing as how you’ve been behind bars for the last few months.’ He let the Mitchell video play in full before he spoke again. ‘Have you heard of the Holy Martyrs of Islam?’
