'No wires or pressure-pads on top of the wall, no infrared sensors and no lasers,' he reported.
'Excellent,' Zebari muttered. 'They probably just rely on the dogs. Let's go.'
The two men ascended the ladder and climbed on to the top of the wall to sit with their legs astride it. Then Hammad lifted the ladder up and lowered it to the ground inside the courtyard.
They descended swiftly, and Zebari jogged round to the front of the house to check that the two dogs were sleeping peacefully. Then they ran together towards the rear of the property.
In the centre of the back wall of the house was a substantial ancient wooden door, decorated with a random pattern picked out in steel studs and fitted with a massive old lock. Zebari pointed at it, but Hammad shook his head decisively.
'Possibly alarmed,' he said, and turned his attention to the windows on either side. Like those in many Moroccan houses, these were square and quite small, as a protection against the intense heat of the sun. Hammad stood on tiptoe and used his pencil torch to carefully inspect the frame, checking for wires or contacts that might be linked to an alarm system.
'There it is,' he muttered. 'A simple break–no-break contact if the window's opened, but there's no sensor on the glass. I'll go in that way so I can open the back door from the inside.'
He stepped down from the window, took out a roll of sticky tape and plastered several lengths on the centre of the pane, leaving a short length sticking out that he could hold on to. He ran a diamond-tipped glass cutter firmly around the very edge of the glass, as close to the window frame as possible, and then rapped on the edge of the pane with his fist. With a cracking sound, the entire pane of glass shifted inwards and Hammad was able to slide it out of the frame. No alarms sounded.
He placed the glass against the wall a safe distance away and then, with Zebari's help, he hoisted himself up and wriggled through the frame and into the property. Zebari passed him the fabric bag of tools, and waited.
Less than three minutes later, having disabled the alarm system, Hammad unlocked the back door of the house and swung it open just wide enough for Zebari to slip inside.
Zebari led the way down a short corridor, Hammad checking each door carefully for wires or any other sign of an alarm system before opening it, and using a torch to check the rooms. The third door he opened led into a long room with cabinets along all four walls: it looked like an exhibition room in a museum.
'Show me the picture again,' he muttered, flashing the beam from his pencil torch over the rows of wooden cabinets, their glass fronts reflecting the light around the room.
Zebari pulled an A4-size colour print from his pocket, unfolded it and passed it over. Dexter had sent him the picture by email the previous evening.
For a few seconds, Hammad stared at the image on the paper, then nodded and stepped across to the first of the cabinets on his right. Zebari turned left and began his own search.
Four minutes later, it was clear to both of them that the tablet wasn't on display in any of the cabinets in the room.
'What now?' Hammad hissed.
'We keep on looking,' Zebari told him, leading the way out of the room and further down the corridor.
At the very end was a set of double doors. Zebari opened them and stepped into the room.
'There,' he breathed, and pointed.
The room was obviously used for meetings or perhaps social gatherings. Strewn across the floor were roughly twenty large cushions, upon which guests could sit comfortably cross-legged in the traditional Arab fashion. Decorating the plain white walls were a number of rugs and tapestries, evidently old and very valuable. But what had caught Zebari's attention was a single glass-topped cabinet located at one end of the long room.
The two men hurried across to it and looked down. Inside the cabinet was a clear plastic plinth and beside it a card bearing a colour photograph of a small oblong grey object and a text in Arabic.
'No tablet,' Hammad whispered.
Zebari pulled out the photograph again and held it above the display case, flicking the beam of his torch from the image on the paper to that on the card in front of them.
'No, but I'll take that card anyway. Is there an alarm?' he asked.
Hammad carefully examined the back and sides of the display case. 'I can't see any wires apart from the power cable for the light.' He pointed at a short fluorescent tube mounted at the rear of the case. Then he turned his attention to the catch that secured the glass top. 'Nothing there either,' he said.
'Good,' Zebari muttered. He reached down, unclipped the catch and lifted the lid. He gestured to Hammad to support it, then reached into the cabinet.
'Wait,' Hammad whispered urgently, looking at the back of the cabinet, which was now revealed by the lifted lid. 'I think that's an infra-red sensor.'
But it was too late. Immediately, security lights flared on around the outside of the property, most of the house lights came on and a siren began to wail.
'Out the back door,' Zebari ordered, grabbing the card and sliding it into his pocket. 'Run!'
They pelted down the corridor, wrenched open the back door of the house and ran for the ladder propped against the boundary wall. Zebari reached it first, Hammad right behind him.
Once on the top of the wall, Zebari grasped the rough stone with both hands and lowered himself as far as he could on the outside of the wall, then let go. He consciously bent his knees as he hit the ground, absorbing the shock of the impact with his legs. He toppled sideways and rolled once, then climbed to his feet, unhurt.
Then a volley of shots rang out from the other side of the wall.
From his precarious perch near the top of the ladder, Hammad looked back into the grounds of the property. Three men had appeared, two from around the front of the house and one from the back, and all of them were firing pistols.
He never stood a chance. Silhouetted in his dark clothing against the sheer white paint of the boundary wall, Hammad was hit almost immediately. He tumbled sideways, screaming with pain as he crashed to the ground.
Outside the property, Zebari ran for his life, heading for the safety of the car. But even as he did so, he heard more shots echoing from behind him as one of his pursuers reached the top of the ladder and began firing.
26
'That's the wrong answer – again,' the tall man with the paralysed face snarled. He stepped forward and delivered a stinging backhand blow to the wounded man who sat directly in front of him, his arms and legs firmly bound to the upright chair, his battered head slumped down onto his chest.
Amer Hammad was dying, and he knew it. He just wasn't sure whether the tall man would finally lose patience with him and put a bullet through his head, or if he'd die before that from blood loss.
When the three guards had dragged him back to the house, the first thing they did was call their boss. Then they'd lashed his wrists together and roughly bandaged the gaping wound in his left thigh where the bullet had ripped through the muscles and torn a deep furrow. That had reduced – but hadn't stopped – the bleeding, and Hammad could see a slowly spreading pool of blood on the floor beneath him.
The interrogation was taking place in a small square building in one corner of the compound. The dark stains that discoloured the flaking concrete floor were mute evidence that the building had been used before, for similar purposes.
'I'll ask you once more,' the tall man snapped. 'Who were you with, and what were you looking for?'
Hammad shook his head and said nothing.
The tall man stared down at him for a long moment, then picked up a length of wood from the floor. One end of it had been sharpened to a point. His captive watched him through half-closed, bruised, bloody and terrified eyes.
The tall man rested the sharpened end of the wood quite gently on the blood-sodden bandage wrapped around Hammad's thigh and smiled, the paralysed right side of his face barely moving.
'You probably think I've hurt you enough, my friend, but the truth is I've hardly started. Before I've finished with you, you'll be begging for death.'
As he spoke, he steadily increased the pressure on the length of wood, twisting and driving the end of it through the bandages and deep into the open wound.
