tame cop. He’s never been in trouble, not so much as a parking ticket. His immigration status is clean, and he’s worked for several newspapers in London. He even did a work-experience stint on the Guardian.’
‘Family?’ asked the Major.
‘Not married. Most of his family are in Qatar, but he has a brother who’s a doctor in Saudi Arabia.’ Shortt sat back in his chair. ‘Here’s the thing. This al-Sabah is a model citizen, the sort of guy you’d happily let your sister go out with, if you had a sister, but he’s got the information we need. And even if he hasn’t, he’s got a direct line to a man who has, his brother, Tabarak al-Sabah. The question we’ve got to answer is how far we’re prepared to go to get that information.’
‘Sounds like you’ve got a plan, Jimbo,’ said the Major.
Shortt grinned. ‘I have,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure you’re going to like it.’
O’Brien slowed the Transit van as he drove past Brixton Prison. He nodded at the high wall to his right. ‘If this goes wrong, we could end up in there,’ he said.
‘First, it won’t go wrong,’ said the Major, beside him in the front passenger seat, ‘and second, do you think any prison could hold the five of us?’
‘The boss is right,’ said Shortt, from the back. ‘We busted into a prison to get Spider out once before, so I don’t think we’d have any problems getting ourselves out.’
‘Like I said, it won’t come to that,’ said the Major. ‘Take a left ahead, Martin.’
O’Brien indicated and they turned off Brixton Hill. ‘Number twenty-four,’ said Shortt. He was sitting on the floor of the van, Shepherd to his left and Armstrong to his right.
‘Are we sure he’s going to be walking home?’ asked O’Brien. He brought the van to a halt down the road from number twenty-four. It was mid-way along a terrace of Victorian houses with weathered bricks, slate roofs and front doors that opened on to the street.
‘He doesn’t have a car, so he’ll be on the Victoria Line home,’ said Shortt.
‘Unless he gets a lift from a colleague,’ said O’Brien.
‘If he gets a lift, we’ll get him in the house,’ said Shortt. ‘He’s in the office today – I checked. And he was in at ten so I figure with a nine-hour day he’ll be here some time in the next hour or so.’
‘Unless he goes out for a drink after work,’ said O’Brien.
‘He’s a Muslim, so he doesn’t drink,’ said Shortt. ‘What’s with all the doom and gloom, anyway, Martin? Is your blood sugar getting low?’
‘Let’s relax,’ said the Major. ‘He’ll be here some time tonight, no matter how he comes.’
‘Anyone else in the house?’ asked Shepherd.
‘It’s rented. I phoned a couple of times during the day and no one answered,’ said Shortt.
Armstrong took out a Browning Hi-power semi-automatic and checked the action.
‘No one gets hurt,’ said the Major.
‘The magazine’s empty,’ said Armstrong.
‘We do what we have to do, but I don’t want him in hospital,’ said the Major. ‘If he gets hurt, the police’ll be called in.’
‘The cops are already here,’ laughed Shortt, and jerked a thumb at Shepherd.
Shepherd flashed him a sarcastic smile. He was far from happy at what they were about to do, but he knew they had no choice. He was a policeman, but Geordie Mitchell was a friend and Shepherd would do whatever it took to save his life.
O’Brien switched on the radio and flicked through the channels until he found one playing bland seventies music. The men listened to the Police, Elton John, and the Eagles as they waited.
It was close to nine o’clock when the Major switched it off. ‘This could be him,’ he said, looking in the wing mirror.
O’Brien twisted round in his seat. A man in his early thirties was walking from the direction of the Tube. He was wearing a green parka with a fur-trimmed hood and carrying a brown leather briefcase. He had slicked-back black hair and a Saddam Hussein-style moustache. O’Brien had the photocopy of Basharat’s passport on the dashboard and passed it to the Major. ‘Looks like him,’ he said.
‘Right, here we go,’ said the Major. He watched in the mirror as Basharat strode towards his house. ‘Start the engine, Martin.’
O’Brien turned on the ignition.
‘Fifty feet,’ said the Major.
Shepherd, Shortt and Armstrong pulled on ski masks. They were already wearing gloves.
‘Forty feet,’ said the Major.
Shepherd took a deep breath. There was no going back once the van door opened.
‘Thirty feet,’ said the Major.
Shortt slid across to the side of the van.
‘Go,’ said the Major. ‘Go, go, go.’
Shortt opened the side door and jumped out on to the pavement, followed by Shepherd and Armstrong. Basharat stopped when he saw them, his mouth open in surprise. Shortt reached him first, grabbed his left arm and jerked him towards the van. Basharat started to yell but Shepherd clamped a hand over his mouth and seized the hood of his parka with the other. Between them, they hauled him towards Armstrong at the van’s door.
Shortt scrambled in, pulling Basharat after him. Shepherd’s hand slipped from the man’s mouth, but before he could shout, Shortt slammed him on to the floor and put a hand round his throat.
Shepherd and Armstrong piled in and Shepherd pulled the door shut as O’Brien drove off.
Shortt took his hand off Basharat’s throat.
‘Who the hell are you?’ the Arab hissed.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Armstrong, shoving the barrel of his gun under the captive’s chin.
‘Are you Israelis?’ he asked. ‘If so, there’s been some sort of mistake. I’m just a journalist.’
Armstrong put his masked face close to the Arab’s. ‘If you say one more thing, I’ll smash your fucking teeth with the butt of this gun. Understand?’
The man nodded.
Shortt picked up a roll of electrical tape and used it to bind Basharat’s wrists together behind his back. Then Shepherd pulled a sack over his head. ‘Breathe slowly and you’ll be all right,’ he said. There was no sound from the Arab. ‘Nod if you understand,’ he added. The sack moved up and down.
O’Brien drove south out of London, heading to a farm in Surrey that the Major had cased that morning. It had been put up for auction after the death of its owner. The livestock had gone and the house was empty. The nearest neighbour was half a mile away, a cottage occupied by an old lady and her six cats.
Following the Major’s directions, O’Brien turned off the main road, drove through two villages then down a rutted track. He switched off the van’s lights and slowed while his eyes grew accustomed to the dark. They passed an auctioneer’s sign, then a smaller one that gave the farm’s name. O’Brien brought the van to a standstill: there was a barred metal gate across the track and the Major got out to open it.
The farmhouse was a two-storey building with a line of outhouses jutting from the right-hand side. There was a large corrugated metal barn and, lined up in front of it, a range of agricultural equipment, including a tractor and several ploughs. O’Brien parked in front of the barn. ‘Get him out,’ said the Major.
Shortt opened the van’s rear doors. Armstrong and Shepherd seized an arm each and dragged Basharat out. It had started to rain and the Arab slipped on the wet grass as they frogmarched him towards the barn. Shortt hurried ahead and pulled open the wooden door for Armstrong and Shepherd to haul Basharat inside. Shepherd wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of pigs. Shortt switched on a flashlight and played the beam around the interior. There were metal pens to the right and storage bins to the left. Fluorescent lights hung from rafters that ran the length of the barn.
‘Down on the floor,’ hissed Armstrong. When Basharat hesitated, Armstrong kicked his legs from under him and the Arab fell. He landed heavily, his shoulder and head slamming against concrete.
The Major helped Shortt to shut the door, then pulled out his own flashlight. He motioned for Shortt to put his ski mask back on, then pointed at Shepherd and signalled for him to remove Basharat’s hood.
Shepherd did so and Basharat coughed, then tried to sit up but Armstrong planted a foot on his chest and forced him back to the floor. The Major stood by the door, his arms folded.
Armstrong glared at Basharat. ‘We’re going to ask you some questions,’ he said. ‘Tell us what we want to
