Free Hot Blood by Stephen Leather Page A

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