photographic,’ said Shepherd. He stood up and walked up and down. The transmitter fitted perfectly into the slot in the sole of his boot and he couldn’t feel it. The only way someone would find it was by taking off his boot and removing the insole. He doubted anyone would bother to do that.
‘Did your American friend get clearance for the curfew?’ asked Muller.
‘He’s passed on descriptions of all your vehicles and registration numbers and says no one will bother us,’ said the Major.
‘He can do that?’ asked Muller.
‘He carries a lot of weight,’ said the Major.
‘He better had because they tend to shoot first and ask questions later after dark out here.’
‘Relax, John,’ said Shepherd.
Muller rubbed the back of his neck. ‘I just keep thinking of what Geordie’s facing. And if we screw up, you’ll be in the same position.’
‘No one’s going to screw up,’ said Shepherd, coolly. He took the Glock from its holster and checked the action. Then he ejected the magazine. It was fully loaded but if everything went to plan he wouldn’t even pull the gun from its holster.
‘He’s right, John,’ said the Major. ‘We’ll be on him every step of the way. Let’s get the vehicle ready.’
As they walked outside, the Major’s mobile rang. He listened for a few seconds, then put it away. ‘Yokely says the tracker’s working fine,’ he said, ‘and he wants you to wave.’
Shepherd frowned. ‘He wants what?’
‘He wants us all to wave,’ said the Major. He craned his neck and gazed up into the near-cloudless sky. In the far distance an airliner left a white trail as it headed west but nothing else was in the air. The Major waved, as did Shepherd.
‘You’re both mad,’ said Muller.
‘Just wave,’ said Shepherd, ‘and say “cheese”. We want to keep our guardian angel happy.’
Shepherd drove the Toyota Land Cruiser slowly down the road. He reached for the bottle of water on the passenger seat and drank from it. He was wearing body armour, and even with the air-conditioning on full blast he was sweating. He was entering Dora, the suburb in the south of Baghdad that, according to Muller, was controlled by Sunni insurgents and was a virtual no-go area for the coalition forces. Muller had said that IED attacks took place there virtually every day and the Americans drove through at speed, rarely venturing there on foot. The population of the suburb was almost half a million, a mixture of Sunnis, Shias and Christians, with the Sunnis in the majority. The suburb opened into countryside to the south, giving the insurgents an easy escape route. There were huge farms and luxurious villas, many of which had been owned by Saddam Hussein’s family and officials. Shepherd wasn’t out in the farmland, though. Geordie had been taken in the built-up area of the suburb, so that was where he was driving.
Shepherd passed a group of young men wearing dishdasha s who all glared at him. He picked up the transceiver and pushed the transmit button. ‘Okay, I’m getting ready to start the show. Are you in place?’
The transceiver crackled. ‘We’re here,’ said the Major. ‘I’ve just spoken to Yokely and he has you on the GPS and the eye in the sky. Whenever you’re ready, Spider.’
Shepherd put the transceiver back on the dashboard. His hands were wet with sweat and he wiped them one at a time on the legs of his jeans. He glanced into his rear-view mirror. There were no vehicles behind him. The Major and the rest of the team were keeping their distance. Their plan would only work if it looked as though Shepherd was on his own. He took a right turn into a narrow street that was filled with pedestrians, all Iraqi. There were women wearing full burkhas, covered from head to foot in black, there were men in grimy dishdasha s, a far cry from the gleaming robes he’d seen in Dubai, and plenty more in Western clothes.
He drove past a canal, a stagnant waterway overgrown with weeds, into which bare-chested children were jumping. Two little girls yelled and waved at him as he went by.
The buildings on either side of the street were run-down, with broken windows and peeling paintwork. The cars parked at the roadside were all old and rusting; several had been broken into and stripped. Shepherd figured the road was too busy to stop but he pumped the accelerator, making the Land Cruiser lurch. Heads turned to stare. He slowed the vehicle to a crawl, then pumped the accelerator again. He looked into his rear-view mirror. There was a taxi some fifty yards behind him, white with bright orange quarter panels. Three men sat inside it, two in the front.
Shepherd saw an intersection ahead and turned right, made the car jump forward and pulled in at the side of the road. The taxi drove by, all three men looking in his direction. He took a swig of water.
He turned to put the bottle back on the passenger seat and flinched as he saw a bearded man in a grey dishdasha staring at him through the window. He smiled, revealing two gold front teeth. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘How are you doing?’ said Shepherd. It was difficult to judge the man’s age. His skin was dark brown and leathery, but his eyes were bright and inquisitive. He could have been anywhere between thirty and sixty.
‘You have a problem?’ said the man.
Shepherd opened the door and stepped out into the street. Almost everyone within a hundred feet had stopped walking and was watching him with open hostility. Shepherd heard a roar then saw two F16 bombers flying just below the cloud line.
‘There is something wrong with your vehicle?’ said the man.
‘The transmission, I think,’ said Shepherd.
‘On the Land Cruiser it is usually very reliable,’ said the man. ‘The Japanese make excellent cars.’
‘You’re a mechanic?’
‘Cars were a hobby when I was young,’ said the man, ‘but I cannot afford one now.’ He gestured at the vehicle. ‘May I try?’
‘I don’t think you’ll be able to do anything,’ said Shepherd.
‘You never know,’ said the man, ‘but if I cannot find out what’s wrong, I have a good friend who is a mechanic and I can call him for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Shepherd, suddenly guilty at having lied to a man who was clearly a good Samaritan.
‘Dora is not a safe place for you, you know that?’
‘Why?’
‘The people here, many do not like the Americans.’
‘I’m British,’ said Shepherd.
‘They care more about the colour of your skin than they do about your passport,’ said the man. He held out his hand. ‘My name is Nouri.’
‘Peter,’ said Shepherd, using the name in his passport. He shook the man’s hand. ‘Look, let me have another go. Maybe it was just overheating.’
‘The transmission should not overheat,’ said Nouri.
‘I’ll give it a go anyway,’ said Shepherd.
Another taxi drove down the road and slowed as it passed the Land Cruiser. It had the same white and orange paint as the first Shepherd had seen but two women in burkhas sat in the back, with a net bag of vegetables on the front passenger seat.
‘You seem nervous, my friend,’ said Nouri.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re travelling alone? That is unusual for a Westerner.’
‘I was on my way to pick up three of our employees,’ said Shepherd. ‘Then I got lost and my car started playing up.’
‘Where are you going?’
Shepherd named a street two miles away.
Nouri smiled and pointed back the way Shepherd had come. ‘You need to go back to the crossroads, straight on for two miles, then left. Don’t you have a map?’
Shepherd shook his head.
‘I shall draw you one,’ said Nouri. He pulled a scrap of paper from inside his dishdasha and a well-chewed ballpoint pen. He put the paper on the bonnet of the car and quickly drew a rough sketch map, with all the names in Arabic and underneath an English transliteration.
‘Why is your English so good?’ asked Shepherd.
