Shepherd looked at Shortt.
‘I didn’t follow it all but they asked for the wife first,’ said Shortt. ‘Then they wanted to know when he’d last heard from the husband. He stuck to the script, as far as I can tell.’
Shepherd patted Yazid on his shoulder. ‘You did well,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’
‘I did it because you said my wife might die if I didn’t,’ he said flatly.
‘I’m sorry about this,’ said Shepherd. ‘I really don’t want to hurt anyone.’
‘Then why are you carrying guns and wearing masks?’ asked Yazid.
Shortt pushed him in the back. ‘Come on, upstairs,’ he said.
‘Hey, easy with him, he’s an old man,’ said Shepherd.
‘If he keeps his mouth shut, I’ll go easy on him,’ said Shortt. ‘And you don’t have to justify yourself to him. We’re doing what we’re doing and that’s the end of it.’
Shepherd wanted to argue, but he knew there was no point. And there was no way to justify what they were doing. Nothing he could say to make their actions morally or legally right. He went back into the kitchen and picked up the transceiver as Shortt and Yazid went to the servants’ quarters. He switched it on and pressed ‘transmit’. ‘All clear,’ he said. ‘They’ve gone.’
Mitchell heard shouting behind the locked door, and the sound of a round being chambered. Then he heard more shouting and a key rattling in the lock. He was sitting with his back to the wall, the paperback book in his lap. His stomach turned over as he realised that his time might have come. There was no shouted command for him to stand against the wall but the door was flung open and one of the men was there, holding a Kalashnikov. He didn’t have his face covered and Mitchell saw rotting teeth and a scar that zigzagged across the right cheek. The man screamed something at him in Arabic. Mitchell had no idea what he was talking about, but his intention was clear.
He struggled to his feet but his left leg cramped and he stumbled against the wall. As he pushed himself up the man slammed the butt of the Kalashnikov into his stomach and he pitched forward, the taste of bile in his mouth. As he fell forward the man hit him again, this time on the back of the neck. Mitchell hit the ground hard and fought to stay conscious. He tried to roll on to his back, but the man kicked him in the ribs. Mitchell grunted and tried to grab his assailant’s leg. The man stepped back and pushed the barrel into Mitchell’s throat. Mitchell lashed out with his foot and caught him in the groin. He fell back and the Kalashnikov went off. The bullet smacked into the concrete just inches from Mitchell’s head. The noise was deafening and his ears were ringing as he rolled on to his front and pushed himself up.
‘You bastard!’ screamed the Arab, in heavily accented English. He brought the gun to bear on his stomach and Mitchell kicked out, knocking the barrel to the side. He took a step forward but the kick in the ribs had slowed him down and the Arab slammed the butt of the Kalashnikov into his sternum.
Mitchell slumped to the ground. By design or luck the blow had disabled him: he opened his mouth but couldn’t breathe. The Arab pointed the Kalashnikov at his face and screamed again. Mitchell was unable to move or speak, and waited for the bullet to end his life. The Arab screamed again and his finger tightened on the trigger. The only thought that went through Mitchell’s head was that at least it would be quick, and that dying from a bullet to the brain was a thousand times quicker than being beheaded. He closed his eyes.
He heard more shouts from outside the room, then rapid footsteps. He opened his eyes and saw Kamil blocking the man’s way. ‘Wafeeq, tawaqqaf!’ he shouted.
The man glared at Mitchell over Kamil’s shoulder. ‘ Sa’ aqtuluk! ’ he screamed. ‘I’m going to kill you!’
‘ Isghi limaa aquuluh,’ said Kamil, softly.
‘ Ihtamm binwaa huwa min sha’nik,’ said the man, gesturing with the Kalashnikov and trying to get past him.
Kamil pulled at Wafeeq’s arm, then wrapped his arms around him and whispered in his ear. Gradually Wafeeq calmed, but he still had his finger on the trigger. Mitchell lay where he was, not wanting to attract attention to himself. Kamil might have calmed the man down, but he still had a loaded assault rifle in his hands.
Kamil kept talking to Wafeeq as he led him to the door and ushered him out. Mitchell crawled to the wall and sat against it. His ribs hurt and, gingerly, he pressed his side where Wafeeq had kicked him. Nothing seemed broken. He turned his head slowly from side to side checking for damage to his neck. Again, there was pain but nothing serious.
A figure appeared in the doorway and Mitchell flinched, then realised it was Kamil. He was carrying a cloth and a bottle of water. He closed the door, hurried over to him and knelt down beside him. ‘I am sorry for what happened,’ he said. He opened the bottle of water, poured some over the cloth and dabbed it on Mitchell’s face. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Thanks to you,’ said Mitchell. ‘He was going to kill me.’
‘I only just got back,’ said Kamil. ‘The others, they are too afraid of him to try to stop him.’
‘What set him off?’ asked Mitchell.
‘His brother has been kidnapped,’ said Kamil.
‘Well, now, isn’t that ironic?’ said Mitchell, bitterly. He took the bottle of water from Kamil and drank slowly, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘But I don’t see why his brother being kidnapped gets him ticked off at me.’
‘The people who have taken his brother say that he will be killed unless you are released.’
‘What?’ said Mitchell. It was the last thing he’d expected to hear.
‘There is a video of his brother saying that unless you are set free, he will be killed. Do you know who would have done such a thing?’
Mitchell was genuinely confused. ‘Kamil, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Who are you, Colin?’ said Kamil.
‘You know who I am. I’m just a guy out here trying to make a living.’
‘A security guard?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yet you have friends who are willing to kill to set you free?’
Mitchell stared at him. Suddenly he knew what had happened and fought the urge to smile. That was it. He had friends who would kill to set him free. ‘Kamil, I swear to you, on my mother’s life, I have no idea what’s going on,’ he said. He had no problem with lying to the Arab and, if he got the chance, he would have no hesitation in killing him.
Muller walked around the sitting room. ‘The waiting’s driving me crazy,’ he said. He stopped by the grand piano and peered at a collection of photographs in ornate silver frames. It had been a full thirty-six hours since the video had gone online and there had been no news from Mitchell’s captors.
‘Yeah, well, at least you’re not in a basement wearing an orange jumpsuit,’ said Armstrong, who was stretched out on one of the sofas smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine. Shepherd was sitting at the desk, stripping his Glock and watching CNN with the sound muted on a plasma TV. If there was anything about Geordie, he expected to see it on the American news channel first, although he had been checking the al-Jazeera website every hour on the computer in Fariq’s study.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Muller.
‘Nothing,’ said Armstrong. He blew a smoke ring up at the ceiling.
‘No, what do you mean?’
‘I mean we’re all sick of waiting, but we’re not the ones whose lives are on the line.’
‘Leave it, Billy,’ said Shepherd.
‘Geordie’s the one at risk here, so let’s not complain about waiting.’
‘I wasn’t complaining,’ said Muller. ‘I just wish things were moving, that’s all.’
‘You and me both,’ said Armstrong, putting down his magazine. ‘You don’t hear me bitching and moaning. And I’m not the one who got Geordie kidnapped.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Muller.
Armstrong swung his feet off the sofa. He dropped his cigarette onto the floor and stamped on it. ‘It was your company he was working for. Geordie’s a pro so he’d have known what he was doing, which means one of your guys let their guard down.’
‘Leave it out, Billy,’ said Shepherd.
‘I don’t need you to fight my battles,’ said Muller. He went over to Armstrong and pointed a finger at his face.
