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O’Brien offered him a sandwich but the Major declined.
    ‘Geordie always followed the money,’ said Shortt.
    ‘Twenty thousand dollars a month,’ said the Major. ‘One month’s paid leave for every three served, plus board and lodging over there, so pretty much everything you earn goes into the bank. It’s the new Klondike. We’ve got guys dropping out of the Regiment early so they can sign on in Iraq. Hard to blame them – they get four times the salary plus the chance to use their skills rather than spending all their time training.’
    ‘I’ve been offered three jobs out there,’ said Armstrong. ‘It’s getting harder to turn them down. They’re desperate for good people. Anyone mind if I smoke?’
    ‘I thought you’d given up,’ said Shortt.
    ‘I did,’ said Armstrong. He rolled up his shirtsleeve to reveal a white square on his shoulder. ‘I’m even using the nicotine patches but they make me want to smoke even more.’
    ‘Smoke away,’ said O’Brien, ‘but not over my food.’
    Armstrong offered the pack around but there were no takers. He lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling.
    The Major waved at the television. ‘The money has to be good out there because of the risks. There’ve been ninety-seven kidnappings so far this year, twenty-six of them Westerners. Of the twenty-six, twenty-four have been killed. They’ve followed a similar pattern. Kidnapped. No news for a few days, then a video released with the abductors’ demands – which are usually totally unrealistic – with a deadline. A second, sometimes a third video, as the deadline gets closer, then nothing for as long as a month, after which we get a video of the hostage being killed. Cards on the table, gentlemen. Geordie’s chances do not look good. One of the Westerners who was released was a sixty-eight-year-old nun, the other was married to a Muslim woman and had five Muslim children.’
    ‘Which means what?’ said Shortt.
    ‘Which means that it’s up to us to swing the odds in his favour,’ said the Major. ‘Okay, more cards on the table. Officially there’s nothing I can do. Unofficially every former member of the Regiment currently active in Iraq is being contacted and brought on side. I’ve spoken to army contacts out there, but the British Army is based mainly in Basra and Geordie was kidnapped in the Sunni Triangle and that’s American-controlled. Since Geordie is a civilian contractor, my bosses won’t countenance my using Regimental resources to get him out of the shit. That’s why I’ve called you here. I’m not going to sit on my arse while the Foreign Office huffs and puffs, and I need to know that you all feel the same.’
    ‘Bloody right,’ said Shortt.
    Shepherd and Armstrong muttered agreement. O’Brien had just taken a big bite of a sandwich but he gave the Major a thumbs-up.
    ‘And I also need you to be aware that if we decide to help Geordie, we’re not going to be following the Queensberry Rules or the Geneva Convention,’ said the Major. ‘We’ll be crossing the line.’
    ‘What – again?’ Shortt punched Shepherd’s shoulder. ‘Seems to me that we did that when we got Spider out of bother a while back.’
    Shepherd smiled ruefully. Shortt was right. They had broken the law before. Shepherd owed all the men round the table, big-time. He owed them and he owed Mitchell, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do for them. ‘I’m in,’ he said, ‘whatever it takes.’
    ‘He’d do it for us, no question,’ said O’Brien.
    ‘I feel like the four bloody musketeers here,’ said Armstrong. ‘All for one and one for all.’
    ‘There’s five of us,’ said Shortt. ‘And I’m in.’
    ‘Okay,’ said the Major. ‘The basics are what you saw on the video. Geordie has fourteen days – thirteen and a half, if we’re going to split hairs. He’s being held in Iraq by a group who will, unless we intervene, hack off his head. If past experience is anything to go by, our