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.’
Shepherd sat back and stretched out his legs. ‘And that’s what’s happening here, isn’t it? It’s a breeding ground for terrorists.’
‘On a bigger scale than Afghanistan, in a place where the enemy is the United States, Britain, Australia and the rest of the coalition forces. The Americans have captured insurgents with British passports, French, Dutch, almost the entire EU spectrum. They’re learning urban warfare, how to make improvised explosive devices, how to brainwash suicide-bombers, how to kidnap, and once they’ve graduated they’ll take their jihad to the West, spreading like a virus.’ The South African grinned. ‘You’re fucked, you just don’t know it yet.’
‘You paint a pretty picture,’ said Shepherd, ‘but you don’t seem particularly worried.’
‘The crazier the world gets, the more work there is for me,’ she explained. ‘I get paid in dollars and I spend in rand. You should visit my game farm some time. Two hundred acres and Iraq paid for it.’
‘It’s an ill wind,’ said Shepherd.
O’Brien pointed at Shepherd’s plate with his fork. ‘Are you going to eat the sausages?’ he asked. Shepherd shook his head. O’Brien stabbed them and transferred them to his plate.
‘You should think about it,’ said Bosch, ‘you and Martin. Guys like you with your SAS training, you’d get work out here no problem.’ She leaned over and squeezed Shepherd’s forearm. ‘Have to fatten you up a bit first.’ She laughed.
The Major walked into the kitchen. ‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘Are you ready?’
‘As I ever will be,’ said Shepherd.
‘Let’s go and see John, get you kitted out,’ said the Major.
Shepherd stood up. Bosch smiled up at him. ‘Good luck, Spider,’ she said.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he said, and wished he felt as confident as he sounded.
He walked into the courtyard with the Major. ‘You sure about this?’ asked Gannon.
‘It’s a bit late to change my mind now,’ said Shepherd.
‘No one would blame you if you did.’
Three helicopters flew overhead, low enough to ruffle the tops of the date palms. They were Hueys, American-made Bell UH-1Hs but with the markings of the Iraqi air force.
‘It’s Geordie’s only chance,’ said Shepherd. ‘If our roles were reversed, he wouldn’t hesitate.’
‘Yeah, well, he was always the headstrong one.’
‘He saved my life. I owe him.’
The Major clapped Shepherd on the shoulder. ‘We’ll be close by.’
‘Not too close,’ said Shepherd.
‘I won’t let anything happen to you.’
‘Thanks, boss.’
The Major hugged Shepherd, who squeezed him in return. ‘Let’s not get over-emotional,’ he said. ‘If all goes to plan we’ll be back here in a few days having a beer with Geordie and laughing about it.’
They went to the main office building and found Muller sitting behind a massive oak desk, tapping at his computer keyboard. He stood up as the two men walked in. ‘Ready to go?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ said Shepherd.
Muller picked up a laminated card and handed it to him. ‘This is a company ID card. I’ve used the name on the passport you gave me.’ He gave Shepherd two printed letters. ‘Some company correspondence. Just shove it in your pocket.’ Shepherd did so, and put the card into his wallet. His passport was in the back pocket of his jeans. Muller went over to a metal gun cabinet, unlocked it and took out a Glock pistol in a nylon holster. He gave it to Shepherd, who strapped the holster to his belt. Muller handed Shepherd a company transceiver. ‘The frequency is preset,’ he said. ‘And now the big question. Do you want something more than the Glock? An Uzi, maybe?’
Shepherd glanced at the Major. ‘I’m thinking less is better.’
‘The less firepower you’ve got, the less likely they are to start shooting,’ said the Major. ‘You’ve got to be armed because that’s what they’d expect, but an Uzi might worry them.’
‘That’s how I read it,’ said Shepherd. ‘If they see the gun on my hip and that I’m not pulling it, there’s no reason for them to start shooting. I send out all the right signals and they assume I’m a victim.’
‘Playing a role,’ said Muller.
‘It’s what I do,’ said Shepherd.
‘Is your transmitter on?’ asked the Major.
‘Not yet,’ said Shepherd.
‘Let’s do it,’ said the Major. ‘Gives us a chance to test it.’
Shepherd sat down on a wooden chair and removed his left boot. He pulled back the insole. Nestled in a hollow below it was the small transmitter Button had given him in London. It was the size of a couple of two-pound coins, joined by a quarter-inch length of wire, encased in a slim plastic case.
‘Can I see it?’ asked Muller.
Shepherd gave it to him. Muller squinted at the transmitter. He could see a regular phone Sim card set into a metal disc, a battery and a tiny circuit board set into a second. ‘There’s not much to it,’ he said.
‘It’s all you need,’ said Shepherd. ‘The battery is mercury, which gives us more power than lithium ones, and it operates on the eight hundred megahertz cellphone frequency.’
‘No antenna?’
‘The metal that the Sim card sits in acts as one.’ He pointed at the second disc. ‘This is a GPS receiver that picks up the two point four gigahertz signal from the satellites overhead. It can pick up its longitude and latitude and uses the Sim card to transmit the information as a data call.’
‘It phones in?’
‘That’s exactly what it does. Every ten minutes it makes a ten-second call downloading its position to a computer. Yokely’s going to be monitoring the signal locally but the Iraqi phone system has commercial transponder coverage across most of the country, so unless Geordie’s being held in the middle of the desert you’ll know where I am to a few metres.’ He opened the case, flicked a tiny switch and snapped it shut. ‘Do you want to tell Richard it’s on?’ he asked the Major. ‘We ran a test yesterday but I’d rather be safe than sorry.’
‘Will do.’ Gannon took out his mobile phone and called Yokely. He had a brief conversation, then said, ‘He’ll check and get back to us.’
Shepherd put the transmitter back into his boot and the boot back on to his foot.
‘You know they’ll take your boots off you,’ said Muller.
‘But hopefully not right away,’ said Shepherd.
‘How long’s the battery good for?’ asked Muller.
‘A couple of weeks, give or take,’ said Shepherd. ‘Should be more than enough.’ He tied his shoelace.
‘And you know where you’re going?’ asked Muller.
Shepherd grinned. ‘You’re worrying too much, John,’ he said. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘I’m worried you might get lost, that’s all. It’s dangerous out there,’ said Muller, gesturing with his thumb at the metal gate that led to the outside.
‘You keep saying. It’s a minefield.’
‘I meant that it’s an easy city to get lost in if you don’t know the language.’
‘I won’t get lost. I’ve been looking at street maps and satellite images of the city and my memory is almost
