Hot Blood by Stephen Leather Read Free Book Online Page B

camera. Before he switched it on, he had pulled on a ski mask. Again he had apologised to Mitchell, explaining that it was important he wasn’t recognised. Five of the captors had lined up in front of the banner. Two were holding Kalashnikovs, one had a Russian-made RPG – Mitchell had smiled inwardly at the sight of it. If it had gone off in the confined space they would all have been killed. It was clearly for show, but he wondered who they were trying to impress.
    For a full three minutes Kamil had addressed the camera, speaking in Arabic. Mitchell only knew a few words of the language and wasn’t able to follow what was being said, but he could tell that Kamil wasn’t promising to release him. Several times Kamil pointed at Mitchell, and once at the banner. When he did that, the guy with the RPG shook it menacingly above his head and all five men chanted in unison.
    Throughout Kamil’s speech, Mitchell stared defiantly at the lens. He was determined not to show any fear. In any case, he was apprehensive, rather than scared. He was in a dire situation, no doubt about that, but he was sure he wouldn’t die that day.
    He was right. After Kamil had finished his speech he had switched off the camera, removed his mask and helped Mitchell to his feet. He had untied him and thanked him for his co-operation. ‘This will soon be over and you will be back with your family,’ Kamil had promised. He had looked Mitchell in the eyes as he’d said it, and had patted his shoulder reassuringly, but Mitchell didn’t doubt that the other man was lying.
    Over the following days Kamil had been pleasant and polite. He always called Mitchell by his first name – he had found the driving licence in Mitchell’s wallet. When he brought the food and water he would sit cross-legged on the floor as Mitchell ate and make small-talk. He asked Mitchell what football team he supported and what cities he knew in England. He talked about English weather, English beer and English food. He never mentioned politics or religion, and didn’t ask about Mitchell’s work in Iraq or his military background. Mitchell had the feeling that his captors didn’t know he was a former soldier or that he had served with the SAS. More likely, they didn’t care. All they cared about was that he was British and that he was their prisoner.
    Shepherd walked through Harrods’ food hall, surrounded by wide-eyed tourists and well-heeled housewives. He wandered past a refrigerated display of fish from around the world, glossy-eyed, open-mouthed and ready for the kitchen. He wasn’t there to look at the produce, though: he wanted to confirm that he wasn’t being tailed – it was second nature. He did a fifteen-minute sweep through the store, then headed outside and took a circuitous route to the red-brick mansion block that housed the Special Forces Club. The plaque that had once identified it had been taken down in the wake of the terrorist attacks in America and the exterior was identical to the rest of the upmarket residences in the street.
    The stocky former SAS staff sergeant who manned the reception desk grinned at him as he signed in. ‘Nice day for it, sir.’
    ‘Nice day for what, Sandy?’ asked Shepherd.
    Sandy shrugged. ‘Whatever you had mind, sir.’ The ‘sir’ was ironic – there were no ranks in the club.
    Shepherd scanned the names of those who had signed in that day. ‘Mr Yokely not arrived?’
    ‘Yokely, sir?’
    ‘American.’
    Sandy raised one eyebrow. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Mr Yokely doesn’t sign in.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Far too important for that, I’m told,’ said Sandy.
    ‘Seriously?’
    ‘Security issue. The committee okayed it so I put up with it. You know what the Yanks are like – scared of their own shadows half the time.’
    Shepherd chuckled and headed upstairs.
    Yokely was standing at the bar, nursing a vodka and tonic. When he saw Shepherd, he said, with a faint southern drawl, ‘I always expect you to abseil in