through the window.’ He was in his late forties with short grey hair and thin lips that looked cruel even when they curled into what passed for a smile. He wore a chunky college ring on his right hand, a dark blue blazer, a gleaming white shirt and the same blue tie with black stripes that he’d been wearing the last time they’d met almost a year previously. The shoes were the same, too. Black leather with tassels.
‘Thanks for coming, Richard.’
‘You were lucky I was in town,’ said Yokely. ‘Jameson’s, soda and ice?’
‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd.
Yokely smiled and Shepherd realised that the American wanted recognition for having remembered his drink. He didn’t rise to the bait. His own memory was virtually faultless, but he figured that the American had simply made notes of what had happened at their last meeting. He seemed the type to keep a file on everyone he met.
Yokely glanced at his wristwatch – a Rolex Submariner, the fiftieth-anniversary edition with the green bezel. ‘I can’t stay long,’ he said. ‘A chopper’s waiting to take me up to Prestwick. I’m supposed to meet a flight from Afghanistan and then I’m off to Cuba.’ He snorted. ‘Pity the CIA doesn’t give frequent-flier miles.’
‘Rendition, they call it – right? Taking suspects to countries where torture isn’t illegal?’
Yokely grinned wolfishly. ‘It isn’t called torture, these days. It’s coercive interrogation. And don’t go all holier-than-thou on me because it was you guys who invented rendition, way back in 1684.’
‘I assume there’s nothing I can say to stop you telling me the story?’ said Shepherd.
Yokely’s grin widened. ‘Torture was outlawed in England in 1640, but it stayed legal in bonnie Scotland until the Act of Union in 1707. Now, in 1684 you guys had a suspect and a less than co-operative witness to the attempted assassination of Charles II. They were shipped north of the border and, as a direct result of information obtained under torture, the suspect was tried, convicted and executed. Rendition worked for you then and it works for us now.’ He ordered the whiskey for Shepherd, then motioned to a sofa in a quiet corner. They walked across to it and sat down. Yokely swirled the ice in his glass. ‘I’m guessing this isn’t social,’ he said.
Shepherd was sure Yokely knew why he’d asked for the meeting, so the American must be relishing the opportunity to make him sing for his supper. ‘Geordie Mitchell,’ he said. Yokely pulled a face.
The barman brought the whiskey and Shepherd waited until he had gone back to the bar before he went on. ‘He’s just been taken hostage in Iraq.’
‘Ah,’ said Yokely. ‘He’s one of yours, is he? According to the TV, he’s a civilian contractor.’
‘He left the Sass a few years back.’
‘And I guess he’s not shouting about his special-forces background, under the circumstances. The government seems to be keeping that information under its hat, too.’
‘They’re not doing much.’
‘Not much they can do,’ said the American. ‘You see what they did to that journalist? Just a kid. Father had money, would’ve paid anything to get the boy back, but they weren’t interested. It’s not about money.’
‘What is it about?’ asked Shepherd.
‘They want us all dead,’ said Yokely, flatly. ‘They want us all dead or they want us on our hands and knees praying to Allah five times a day. To them that seems a reasonable request. Hell, they figure they’re saving our souls.’
‘You believe that?’
Yokely took two gulps of his drink. ‘I’m not sure what I believe any more, other than that we’re right and they’re wrong. A world run by Islamic fundamentalists is not a world I’d want any part of. If the roles were reversed and it was the mad mullahs in charge, I’d probably be setting off bombs myself. I’d kill to protect my way of life, no question.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Hell, I already have done. You
‘Thanks for coming, Richard.’
‘You were lucky I was in town,’ said Yokely. ‘Jameson’s, soda and ice?’
‘Thanks,’ said Shepherd.
Yokely smiled and Shepherd realised that the American wanted recognition for having remembered his drink. He didn’t rise to the bait. His own memory was virtually faultless, but he figured that the American had simply made notes of what had happened at their last meeting. He seemed the type to keep a file on everyone he met.
Yokely glanced at his wristwatch – a Rolex Submariner, the fiftieth-anniversary edition with the green bezel. ‘I can’t stay long,’ he said. ‘A chopper’s waiting to take me up to Prestwick. I’m supposed to meet a flight from Afghanistan and then I’m off to Cuba.’ He snorted. ‘Pity the CIA doesn’t give frequent-flier miles.’
‘Rendition, they call it – right? Taking suspects to countries where torture isn’t illegal?’
Yokely grinned wolfishly. ‘It isn’t called torture, these days. It’s coercive interrogation. And don’t go all holier-than-thou on me because it was you guys who invented rendition, way back in 1684.’
‘I assume there’s nothing I can say to stop you telling me the story?’ said Shepherd.
Yokely’s grin widened. ‘Torture was outlawed in England in 1640, but it stayed legal in bonnie Scotland until the Act of Union in 1707. Now, in 1684 you guys had a suspect and a less than co-operative witness to the attempted assassination of Charles II. They were shipped north of the border and, as a direct result of information obtained under torture, the suspect was tried, convicted and executed. Rendition worked for you then and it works for us now.’ He ordered the whiskey for Shepherd, then motioned to a sofa in a quiet corner. They walked across to it and sat down. Yokely swirled the ice in his glass. ‘I’m guessing this isn’t social,’ he said.
Shepherd was sure Yokely knew why he’d asked for the meeting, so the American must be relishing the opportunity to make him sing for his supper. ‘Geordie Mitchell,’ he said. Yokely pulled a face.
The barman brought the whiskey and Shepherd waited until he had gone back to the bar before he went on. ‘He’s just been taken hostage in Iraq.’
‘Ah,’ said Yokely. ‘He’s one of yours, is he? According to the TV, he’s a civilian contractor.’
‘He left the Sass a few years back.’
‘And I guess he’s not shouting about his special-forces background, under the circumstances. The government seems to be keeping that information under its hat, too.’
‘They’re not doing much.’
‘Not much they can do,’ said the American. ‘You see what they did to that journalist? Just a kid. Father had money, would’ve paid anything to get the boy back, but they weren’t interested. It’s not about money.’
‘What is it about?’ asked Shepherd.
‘They want us all dead,’ said Yokely, flatly. ‘They want us all dead or they want us on our hands and knees praying to Allah five times a day. To them that seems a reasonable request. Hell, they figure they’re saving our souls.’
‘You believe that?’
Yokely took two gulps of his drink. ‘I’m not sure what I believe any more, other than that we’re right and they’re wrong. A world run by Islamic fundamentalists is not a world I’d want any part of. If the roles were reversed and it was the mad mullahs in charge, I’d probably be setting off bombs myself. I’d kill to protect my way of life, no question.’ He smiled thinly. ‘Hell, I already have done. You
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