Free Hot Blood by Stephen Leather Page B

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.
    ‘Let’s run by my house,’ said Shepherd. ‘I’ve got broadband.’
    Shortt rolled Basharat over and bound his wrists with insulation tape. Then he and Armstrong helped the man to his feet.
    ‘Why are you doing this?’ asked Basharat, his voice muffled by the hood.
    ‘You don’t want to know,’ said Shortt. He put his face close to the Arab’s ear. ‘If we told you, we’d have to kill you,’ he whispered.
    As Shortt and Armstrong bundled Basharat outside, the Major put his arm around Shepherd’s shoulders. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m not happy about it,’ said Shepherd, ‘but it had to be done.’
    ‘We didn’t hurt him, not really.’
    ‘We scared him shitless and maybe cracked a couple of ribs.’ They walked together towards the door. ‘How far would we have gone, boss,’ asked Shepherd, ‘if push had come to shove?’
    ‘Hypothetical question. No point going there.’
    ‘The guy’s done nothing wrong,’ Shepherd said. ‘He’s just a journalist doing his job.’
    ‘And Geordie was doing his,’ said the Major. ‘We did what we had to do, Spider. Now, let’s get that email and Basharat can go home.’
    Geordie Mitchell paced up and down, swinging his arms. He always thought better when he was on