know and you’ll be free to go.’ He pointed his gun at the Arab’s head. ‘If you don’t tell us what we want to know, you’ll die in this place. You’ll die and we’ll bury you in a field and no one will ever find your body.’
‘I’m a journalist,’ said Basharat. ‘I’m just a journalist.’
‘The videos of the hostages in Iraq – where do they come from?’
‘What?’ Basharat frowned.
Shortt stepped forward and kicked him in the ribs. Basharat screamed. ‘Just answer his questions!’ shouted Shortt.
‘How do the videos get to the station?’ asked the Major.
‘Which videos?’ asked Basharat.
Shortt kicked him again.
Tears streamed down the Arab’s face. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘The videos of the hostages,’ said the Major. ‘How do they get to the TV station?’ He walked over to stand next to Armstrong.
‘It depends,’ said Basharat.
‘On what?’
‘Sometimes we get a disk. A DVD or a CD. Sometimes it comes through the Internet.’
‘You know the Brit who was taken last week – the one being held by the Holy Martyrs of Islam?’
‘I saw the story, but I didn’t work on it.’
‘How did that video get to the station?’
‘I don’t know. How would I know? I’m a correspondent, I don’t work on the desk.’
The Major paced up and down at Basharat’s feet. ‘What about the American journalist, the one who was beheaded? How did the station get that video?’
‘That was a DVD.’
‘How do you know?’
‘My brother told me. He works on the news desk in Qatar. We spoke about it at the time.’
‘And how did the DVD get to the station?’ asked the Major.
‘From our correspondent in Dubai. It was delivered to his office.’
‘Hand-delivered?’
‘I don’t know. It could have been or it could have been mailed.’
‘Why do you think it went to the Dubai office?’ asked the Major.
‘I don’t know,’ said Basharat. ‘To muddy the waters, I suppose. The CIA watch our head office, bug our phones, follow us to see who we meet.’ He squinted up at the Major. ‘You’re not Israelis, are you? Are you CIA? MI5?’
Shortt stepped forward to kick Basharat again, and the Arab tried to roll out of the way – ‘Okay, okay, okay.’
‘So the DVD went to your office in Dubai. Then what?’ said the Major.
‘Someone loaded it into a computer then zapped it over to our news desk. They edited it, then put it on air and on to our website.’
The Major stared down at Basharat. ‘What happened to the DVD? Did you pass it on to the authorities?’
‘What authorities?’
‘The police? The Americans?’
‘We’re journalists. We protect our sources.’
‘Even when they’re terrorists?’ asked Armstrong.
‘We’re journalists,’ repeated Basharat. ‘We just report on what’s happening.’
‘You broadcast videos of people being murdered,’ said Armstrong.
‘But that’s all we do,’ said Basharat. ‘We report on the people killed by the insurgents, and we report on the killings carried out by the coalition forces.’
‘We need to know how the latest video got to the station,’ said the Major.
‘I told you, I don’t know. I assume it came the same way as the Lake video.’
‘We have to be sure. I need you to phone your brother and ask him how he got the latest video.’
‘It’s the middle of the night in Qatar.’
Shortt kicked Basharat in the ribs. He yelped.
The Major knelt down, went through Basharat’s pockets and pulled out his mobile phone. ‘Tell him you’re doing a story on Mitchell’s kidnapping. Tell him a source has told you that the British government might be making a statement first thing tomorrow and you want some background.’
Shepherd and Shortt helped the man to sit up. Shortt used a Swiss Army knife to cut the tape binding his wrists.
‘When you talk to your brother, do you normally speak English?’
Basharat shook his head.
‘Okay,’ said the Major. He gestured at Shortt. ‘He speaks Arabic. Not fluently, but well enough to follow what you’re saying.’
Basharat looked at Shortt, who spoke a few clipped words in Arabic, then grinned. ‘I told him what I’ll do to his mother if he screws us around.’
‘If he even suspects you’re tipping your brother off, you’ll get a bullet in your head,’ said the Major. ‘Do you understand?’
Basharat nodded sullenly. The Major handed him the phone. Armstrong aimed the gun squarely at the Arab’s face, his finger on the trigger.
Basharat scrolled through the phone’s address book, then hit the green button. He put the phone to his ear, then spoke rapidly in Arabic. It was clear from his tone that he was apologising for waking his brother. Then he was talking in a more measured tone, trying to avoid looking at the gun.
Shortt was listening intently. The Major hadn’t been bluffing: Shortt did speak some Arabic but Shepherd was aware that his knowledge of the language was basic, to say the least.
Basharat’s voice was trembling and he kept taking deep breaths, trying to steady himself. He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he spoke. Eventually he ended the call.
‘Well done,’ said the Major, taking the phone from him. ‘What did he say?’
‘The video came attached to an email,’ said Basharat. ‘A Yahoo account. It was about four minutes long. My brother says there was nothing special on the bits they didn’t broadcast.’
‘Who sent it?’
‘The group holding him. The Holy Martyrs of Islam.’
The Major held out the phone. ‘Call him back. Get him to forward the email to you.’
‘He’s mad enough at me as it is,’ said Basharat.
‘Well, you’ll have to decide which is the least dangerous option,’ said the Major. ‘Your brother being angry with you, or me and these guys. I doubt your brother’ll put a bullet in your head.’
Armstrong tapped the gun barrel against Basharat’s head to emphasise the point.
‘He’s at home. The email will be on his office computer.’
‘Tell him it’s important, that you need it now – tell him what the hell you like but we want that email and we want it now. Do you have a personal email account? Yahoo or Hotmail?’
Basharat nodded. ‘I’ve got a g-mail account.’
‘Tell him you’re working at home so he should send it to your personal account.’
Basharat took the phone and called his brother again. Shepherd could hear the tension in his voice, and sweat was pouring down his face. He spoke earnestly, his brow furrowed, then fell silent for a while. When he spoke again, he was clearly imploring his brother to do as he asked. Eventually he sighed with relief and switched off the phone. ‘He’ll do it,’ he said. ‘It’ll take him about half an hour.’
‘Good,’ said the Major. He opened Basharat’s mobile phone, stripped out the battery and tossed the phone back to the Arab.
‘What happens to me now?’ asked Basharat, looking fearfully at the gun in Armstrong’s hand.
‘We pick up your email and then you’re free to go,’ said the Major. He gestured at Shortt, who pulled the hood back over the Arab’s head.
‘We need a computer,’ said the Major.
