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group calling for the withdrawal of coalition forces from the country,’ said the female newsreader.
    Shepherd wondered how the former SAS trooper would have reacted to being described in that way.
    ‘Last night Colin Mitchell’s captors released a video showing him in apparently good health. They are calling for a complete withdrawal of all British troops from Iraq within the next fourteen days.’
    Shepherd hadn’t known that ‘Colin’ was Mitchell’s real name. He’d known him for more than ten years as Geordie.
    Two men in dark green overalls, scarves over their faces and cradling Kalashnikovs, were standing behind him. A third was holding aloft a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. A fourth masked man was next to Mitchell, addressing the camera in Arabic. A translation of his rhetoric passed slowly across the bottom of the screen.
    ‘Mr Mitchell was taken hostage after the vehicle he was travelling in was ambushed and three of his Iraqi colleagues were killed,’ continued the newsreader. ‘He is believed to have been working in Iraq as part of a security detail guarding an oil pipeline running through the north of the country. Mr Mitchell’s abduction comes just weeks after the beheading of American hostage Johnny Lake. All the indications are that the same group is holding Mr Mitchell. Following Mr Lake’s abduction, the American government was given fourteen days to withdraw its troops from Iraq. This morning the Foreign Office refused to comment on Mr Mitchell’s abduction.’
    Shepherd’s mobile rang and he put it to his ear as he stared at the screen. ‘Are you watching the news?’ said a voice. It was Major Allan Gannon, Shepherd’s former boss in the SAS.
    ‘Just seen it,’ said Shepherd.
    ‘We have to meet.’
    ‘Absolutely.’
    Shepherd got to the Strand Palace Hotel shortly before midnight. Liam was fast asleep and Shepherd had told Katra that he would be back in the early hours. She was used to him coming and going at unusual times so she had said goodnight and that she’d see him in the morning. It had never been as easy getting away when he was married: Sue had wanted to know where he was going, what he’d be doing and how dangerous it was. And she would sit up all night, waiting for him to get back. It was even harder when he was away from home for days at a time. Then he hadn’t always been able to phone her, and even when he did his calls had been hurried and whispered. The difference, of course, was that Sue had been his wife and had loved him, while Katra was an employee.
    The Major had booked a suite on the seventh floor. Shepherd knocked on the door. It was opened by a man a couple of inches shorter than him but with a similar physique. Like Shepherd, Billy Armstrong was a keen runner and they had often trained together when they were in the Regiment. ‘Spider, good to see you,’ said Armstrong. He was wearing a brown leather knee-length coat and tight-fitting jeans that were fashionably ripped at the knees. They hugged. It had been more than a year since they’d met.
    ‘Where are you these days?’ asked Shepherd.
    ‘Sofia, Bulgaria, babysitting an industrialist who’s only just this side of legal. You still a cop?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Come and work with me. Four hundred quid a day plus expenses.’
    ‘And the chance of getting hurt?’
    Armstrong grinned. ‘It won’t be me they’ll be shooting at.’
    ‘I thought you had to throw yourself in front of the bullet.’
    ‘That’s just public relations,’ said Armstrong. ‘When did you last hear of a bodyguard taking a bullet for a client? The boss is through there.’
    Major Gannon was standing at the head of a long beech table that seated eight. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, with a strong chin and wide shoulders. His nose had been broken at least once. He was wearing a tweed jacket, an open-necked white shirt and chinos. He jutted out his chin when Shepherd walked in. ‘Spider. Good man.’ He strode