“What do you want?”

“Your company has two people in custody. You’re going to help us to release them.”

“Who?”

“The first one is Mackenzie West.”

Duffy laughed bitterly. “You know I can’t do that.”

Beatrix stared at him, hard. “You just need to tell me where he is.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You don’t need to ask me that.”

He flinched, anger and frustration on his face. He knew he was finished. He nodded at Faulkner and tried to change the subject. “He’s with the Group?”

“Yes.”

“So he’s here for West, then? That’s the mission?”

“Never mind that,” Faulkner said.

“I know—you can’t say. It doesn’t matter. I know that’s why you’re here. MI6 wants to stir things up so that the Iraqis cancel the lease and give it to BP. We knew that was coming.”

“Are you going to help us?” Faulkner said.

He looked at him with a derisive sneer. “What are you? Number Ten? Number Eleven?”

Faulkner said nothing.

“You’re Twelve, aren’t you?”

He scowled at him.

“Jesus. They sent you a baby,” Duffy said, grinning at Beatrix. “What are you, his wet nurse?”

Faulkner glowered.

“Who’s the new commanding officer?” Duffy asked.

Faulkner gritted his teeth.

Duffy turned back to Beatrix. “It’s Michael Pope, isn’t it? I know he didn’t have all that much to choose from after what you and Milton did to that team in Russia, but, my God, seriously?”

“You know about Russia?” she said.

“We know all about that.”

Beatrix seized on that. “Control told you?”

He looked her with a sudden glint of cunning. “You know that I know where he is, don’t you? I know he’s the one you really want. He’s responsible for what happened to you. What would you say if I gave him up? I could tell you where he is and how you could get to him. Would that be enough for you and me to call it quits?”

“For you and me to be quits, I’d have to shoot your lovely wife in the head and then I’d have to shoot you. So no, that wouldn’t make us quits. It wouldn’t even be close.”

“Come on!”

“Where’s West?”

“Go to Hell.”

“Last chance, Duffy. Where is he?”

“Fuck you.” He spat at her and then craned his head so that he could look back at Faulkner. “And fuck you, too.”

“Okay.”

Beatrix stepped back. Sascha Duffy’s chair was behind an overturned table. Beatrix reached down to pick up the table and pushed it so that the edge bumped up against the woman’s chest. She took out one of her throwing knives and, going around behind her, she sliced through the cable tie. She reached out, fastened her fingers around Sascha’s right wrist and pressed her hand down against the table. Duffy started to protest, but she raised her left hand to forestall him.

She was reluctant to involve the woman. She had no wish to hurt her. After all, she had done nothing to her. Beatrix was quite certain that she had never even heard her name before. Her involvement was just bad luck. It was unfortunate that she was married to Duffy. It was unfortunate that she was here, with him, in Basra. It was unfortunate that she could be used as a lever against him.