Hot Blood (25 page)

The Sniper shook the bottle of cleaning solution to make sure that the contents were thoroughly mixed: drinking water, ammonium carbonate and potassium bichromate. The solution was used for cleaning the inside of the barrel. He placed the bottle on the table next to the rifle, with a small can of rifle oil for cleaning and lubricating the weapon’s moving parts, a scouring rod for cleaning the bore, and some cloths, which were spotless. He had a chest full of new ones, and threw them away after one use. It was one of his many eccentricities.

When the Sniper had been in the Republican Guard, he had been taught to clean his weapon immediately after he had fired it. But now that he was on his own crusade, he had his own way of doing things. He still cleaned and oiled the weapon each evening, but he did it again in the morning. It was as much a part of his routine as his personal ablutions. The Sniper was a good Muslim and he prayed five times each day, and before he prayed, he bathed. And he had always bathed before he went out on a mission. He had washed his body from head to foot, then washed his hair three times, then washed his body again. When he had started his crusade against the occupying Americans, he had decided to accord his weapon the same treatment he gave his body.

His schedule was the same each day. He rose, bathed and prayed. Then he ate a simple breakfast of bread and fruit. He stripped and cleaned the weapon, taking at least an hour to do the job. Then he bathed again, prayed and went out to kill. It was what he did. It was his life.

He had no regrets about what he was doing. The infidels had no right to be in his country – they were not even Muslims – and he would continue to kill them, one by one, until they left. That they would leave one day was beyond doubt. Iraq was not their country and the longer they stayed the more they were hated and the more they died. He picked up the rifle and began to disassemble it, humming to himself.

John Muller opened the small stepladder and steadied it against the wall. He nodded at the Major, who was wearing a pair of dark slacks, black training shoes and a dark shirt with long sleeves. He had a Glock in a nylon holster tucked into the small of his back and next to it a transceiver from which a black wire ran up to an earpiece. He pulled on a pair of black leather gloves and a ski mask, patted Muller on the back, then climbed the ladder and pulled himself on to the wall. He grunted, slid over and a second later there was a dull thud as he hit the ground.

Shepherd pulled on his own ski mask. Like the Major he was wearing dark clothing, with a holstered Glock and a transceiver with an earpiece. He moved smoothly up the stepladder, hauled himself on to the wall and dropped down on the other side, his knees bending to absorb the shock. He was in a clump of half a dozen date palms, their trunks as thick as a man’s waist. The Major signed for him to move to his right. In quick succession Shortt, Armstrong and O’Brien dropped down to join them. Shortt and O’Brien had Glocks, but Armstrong had the Taser in a black nylon holster clipped to his belt.

The Major pointed at Shortt and O’Brien, and signalled for them to move along the side of the house. The two men slipped away in a low crouch, keeping close to the wall. The Major nodded at Shepherd and Armstrong, then headed through the date palms towards the rear of the house. They moved from palm to palm, keeping low, their feet making no sound on the close-cropped grass.

Shepherd looked up. The windows were blank, the curtains drawn. An airliner flew high overhead, navigation lights flashing. The garden wasn’t overlooked, so no one could see them moving to the conservatory at the rear of the house. There was no CCTV camera, and no sign of an alarm box. The top of the wall they’d climbed over had been smooth: in London broken glass would have been set into the concrete, or metal spikes. Muller had known what he was talking about when he’d said that the average Dubai resident didn’t expect intruders.

The Major reached the conservatory door and waited for Armstrong and Shepherd to join him before he gripped the handle and twisted. He swore softly when he found that it was locked.

Armstrong took a piece of sticky-backed plastic from his pocket, tore off the protective film and pressed it gently against the glass close to the handle. He waited until another airliner was flying overhead, then took a deep breath and jabbed his elbow at the centre of the patch. The glass made a dull crumpling sound as it broke. Carefully, Armstrong peeled back the plastic while Shepherd held his gloved hands underneath it to catch any loose shards. The Major reached inside, found the key in the lock, and turned it. He pushed open the door and crept inside.

Shepherd followed him. As they moved through the conservatory, Shepherd pulled out a little black box with two stubby antennae – the mobile-phone jammer. He pressed a switch on the side and a green light blinked. The jammer would kill all mobile-phone signals within a radius of thirty metres in case anything went wrong and Fariq tried to call the police. Muller had already cut the landlines to the house – he had a transceiver that matched those carried by the Major and Shepherd and it wouldn’t be affected by the jammer. He would use it to warn them of any police activity in the area.

The french windows linking the conservatory to the spacious sitting room weren’t locked, as Muller had predicted. The Major eased them open and the three men moved silently into the house, switching on small Magnalite torches. The Major pointed at the hallway, and Armstrong moved on tiptoe towards the front door.

Shepherd noticed a huge oil painting above a shoulder-height marble fireplace. It was a family group, Fariq standing behind his wife, his hand on her shoulder, and in front of them their three children. Evidently it had been commissioned a few years earlier and the artist had done a good job. Despite the stiff pose, the faces were real and natural, and the love and pride the man felt for his family poured out of the canvas. In the painting, Fariq had an honest face. There was perhaps a touch of arrogance, but it wasn’t the face of a schemer or a liar. He looked like a good man, and Shepherd had just broken into his house and was about to go up the stairs with a loaded gun. He felt as if Fariq’s dark brown eyes were burning into his own and forced himself to move on. The Major was looking at him, his Glock in his hand, and Shepherd went past him, towards the hallway. Gannon always knew what was on Shepherd’s mind and the last thing Shepherd wanted just then was a heart-to-heart about the morality of what they were about to do. He reached behind him and pulled out his Glock.

Armstrong was already on his way back, accompanied by O’Brien and Shortt. The Major indicated that Armstrong should head for the kitchen, then waited for O’Brien and Shortt to unholster their weapons and started to go up the stairs.

The Major was on the left of the sweeping staircase, with Shepherd on the right. It was made of thick marble slabs and their trainers made no sound on it. There were large framed photographs on the walls: Fariq with his sons, Fariq with his daughter, a younger Fariq on his wedding day, his wife with beautiful olive skin, doe-like eyes with lashes that seemed to go on for ever, and hair that glistened as the light from the Major’s torch passed over it.

Shepherd and the Major reached the top of the staircase and moved towards the master bedroom, O’Brien following. Shortt waited at the head of the stairs.

The Major eased his fingers round the door handle, nodded at Shepherd and pushed the door open a few inches. From inside the room they could hear gentle snoring. The Major pushed the door wide. The room was in near darkness and the two men waited a minute to allow their eyes to get accustomed to it, then crept across the threshold. The bed was on the far side of the room, with an ornate carved headboard and a matching wooden chest at the foot. To the left a sliding panelled door led to the dressing area and bathroom. The windows were covered with thick curtains. Fariq lay on his back on the left of the bed. His wife was facing away from him, her hair forming a black curtain over the pillow.

Shepherd moved to her side of the bed. The Major crept to Fariq, and aimed his gun at the man’s face, his finger on the trigger. Shepherd slid his Glock back into its holster and took a roll of insulation tape from his pocket. He had already doubled over the end of the tape so that he could grip it easily with his gloved fingers. He put it on the bedside table, close to a glass of water on a white marble coaster, then took a deep breath to steady himself.

He exhaled slowly, then reached across the sleeping woman, cupped his right hand over her mouth and clamped the left at the back of her neck. Her eyes opened and she kicked out. Shepherd pulled her out of the bed, tightening his grip on her mouth. She flailed with her arms, her hands curled into talons. Shepherd kept her off balance, moving her from side to side so that she couldn’t grab him, then swept her feet from under her and lowered her to the ground. Her foot caught the bedside table, which scraped across the floor. A second later, the water glass smashed.

Fariq woke with a start. The Major grabbed his hair and pushed the barrel of his Glock under the man’s chin. ‘Say nothing,’ he hissed.

Shepherd put his knee in the small of the wife’s back. He kept his right hand over her mouth and groped behind him with the other for the roll of insulation tape. She struggled, thrashing from side to side, and Shepherd leaned down so that his mouth was just inches from her right ear. ‘Stop moving,’ he said. ‘Stop moving or I’ll shoot you.’

‘Fuck you,’ she said, through clenched teeth, and continued to struggle. Shepherd was surprised to hear an American accent.

‘I just want to tie you up,’ he whispered. ‘We’re not here to hurt you.’

Her foot lashed out at the bedside table again and the lamp wobbled.

‘Please, don’t hurt my wife,’ said Fariq, his voice shaky.

‘Shut up!’ hissed the Major.

Shepherd managed to get the woman’s hands together behind her back but she continued to wriggle about so much that he couldn’t reach for the insulation tape. He shuffled forward, used his thighs to pin her arms to her sides, then grabbed the roll of tape.

‘Get off me!’ she shouted, and Shepherd clamped his hand over her mouth. She tried to bite him, but he cupped his hand so that she couldn’t.

He could smell her perfume and saw sweat glistening on her neck. ‘Think of your daughter,’ he murmured. The woman stiffened. ‘Think of what we could do to her if you continue to mess us around like this.’

She twisted her head to the side. ‘You’re not a man,’ she said slowly, then fell silent and lay still. She offered no resistance as Shepherd bound her wrists. He felt his cheeks redden under his ski mask and his stomach was churning. She was right. He wasn’t behaving like a man. He’d threatened a child. He’d spoken instinctively, going for the one thing he knew would stop a mother in her tracks, but he was ashamed. He was behaving as badly as any of the criminals he’d ever put behind bars. There was nothing lower than a man who threatened someone’s family, and that was what he’d done. Part of him wanted to apologise, to tell her that he’d spoken in anger and frustration and that he’d never, ever, consider hurting a child, but it was too late. He’d said it and nothing he could do would take it back.

He gripped her shoulders and lifted her to her feet. She glared at him and Shepherd knew that if she’d had a knife in her hand she’d have thrust it into his chest and smiled as she’d twisted the blade. She hated him and he knew that he deserved it. He pushed her back so that she sat down on the bed, still glaring at him.

‘Finally,’ said O’Brien, who was standing by the door.

‘What did you want me to do? Knock her out?’ said Shepherd.

‘Who are you?’ asked Fariq. ‘What do you want?’

He tried to sit up but the Major pushed him down and tapped the barrel of his Glock against Fariq’s head. ‘Keep quiet while we get everyone settled. Any more noise from you and we’ll gag you and your wife.’ He looked at O’Brien. ‘Get the girl.’

‘Wait,’ said Shepherd. ‘Maybe it’d be better if we let the mother do it.’

‘I can handle a seven-year-old,’ said O’Brien.

‘I was thinking from the child’s point of view,’ said Shepherd. ‘If you go thundering in there with your mask on you’ll scare her half to death. You don’t look much like Santa Claus.’

‘What’s your plan?’ asked the Major.

‘I’ll take the mother in. The mother can put her at ease.’

‘I wouldn’t recommend untying her, not after all the effort it took to tie her up,’ said the Major.

‘Why do you want my daughter?’ asked Fariq’s wife.

‘We don’t want her,’ said Shepherd. ‘We just need to keep you together.’

‘Why? What are you going to do?’ Her voice was low and deep, almost a whisper, and there was no trace of fear in it.

‘We need you in one place. We’re going to take you to the servants’ quarters where you’ll be safe.’

‘Safe from what?’

‘Look, all I want to do is move you and your daughter to the servants’ quarters. I’ll happily send
him
in to grab your daughter but I’d imagine that would be pretty traumatic for her.’

‘It’s pretty traumatic for all of us,’ said the woman. ‘Why don’t you get the hell out of our house and we’ll all be a lot happier?’

Shepherd fought the urge to smile. He motioned for her to stand up and she did as she was told. Fariq tried to sit up again but this time Shepherd pushed him back. ‘Not you,’ he said.

‘Where are you taking my wife?’ he asked.

‘I told you not to talk,’ said the Major.

Shepherd held the woman’s upper arm and walked her to the door. ‘You’re hurting me,’ she said.

‘Live with it,’ said Shepherd. He took her into the hallway. Shortt was outside the daughter’s bedroom. ‘I’m letting the mother talk to her first,’ said Shepherd. Shortt moved to the side. Shepherd kept his grip on the woman as he reached for the door handle. ‘Just tell her there’s nothing to worry about, and that she’s to do as we say.’