The Killing Ground (10 page)

“But of course. Nice to talk to you. Good-bye for now.”

“And what was all that about?” Chomsky asked himself as he stepped out into the road.

V O L K O V C A U G H T L E V I N a few moments later, after he had stepped out of the rain into a quiet bar called Kelly’s. It was an old-fashioned sort of a place with comfortable booths giving privacy. He was greeted with familiarity by a barman named Mick, who brought him a large Bushmills whiskey.

Chomsky entered the bar at that moment. “Same for me, Mick.” He took off his raincoat. “Guess who’s just been on the phone to me?”

“Shock me,” Levin said.

“Volkov.”

At the same moment, Levin’s mobile rang. He answered it and smiled and leaned close to Chomsky so that he could hear it was Volkov.

“General, what a pleasure,” Levin said amiably.

“Ah, Chomsky has joined you. You are still close?”

“Siamese twins.”

“This is good. How are you?”

“In excellent spirits. Rain in Dublin is curiously refreshing, and the

T H E K I L L I N G G R O U N D

79

girls are more than beautiful, they have Irish charm. Life couldn’t be better. Where are you, Moscow?”

“No, Paris. I’m with President Putin at the Brussels Conference. He was asking after you, Igor.”

“Really?” Levin said.

“Yes, Charles Ferguson was in Brussels, too, with the British Prime Minister. It jogged Putin’s memory. Ferguson’s people have been an intolerable nuisance.”

“You could say that.”

“Plus Blake Johnson. My original order was to get rid of the lot of them, but we only succeeded with Superintendent Hannah Bernstein.”

The mention made Levin feel uncomfortable, always had in spite of the fact that all he had done there was chauffeur an IRA hit man to Heathrow Airport.

“What’s this all about?” he asked.

“Why, I miss your valuable services, you and the boys. The President wants you. I told him you’d decamped to Dublin and that it was difficult.”

“And what did he say?”

“To tell you that your President needs you and Russia needs you.

Think about it. Good help is hard to find, and you’re the best. It’s amazing how frequently people let you down.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll give you an example. A few days ago, Blake Johnson was in London, available to all, walking down the street. Lhuzkov and Max Chekov arranged for a couple of would-be assassins to take care of him. Instead, Dillon and Salter took care of them. It was ludicrous.
Yo u
would never have let that happen.”

“Like you said, good help is hard to find. Never mind, General, if at first you don’t succeed. You know the rest.”

“My poor Levin, you must find life infinitely boring not being in the game. Just think about what I’ve said. We’ll speak again.”

80

J A C K H I G G I N S

“The old bastard,” Chomsky said. “We’ll speak again.” He waved to the barman. “Same again, Mick.”

“Interesting, though,” Levin said. “A piece of crap like Max Chekov in charge of Belov International. I’ve been following that one closely.”

“Nothing changes, it would seem,” Chomsky said. “I wonder . . . do you think he’s called Popov?”

“A good point. Don’t tell Popov about our conversations with Volkov.

Just see if he mentions his. In fact, why don’t you phone him now?”

Chomsky did, finding Popov still with Mary in the cocktail bar of the hotel.

“Hello. It’s me,” Chomsky said in English. “I’m just having a drink with Igor and then we’re going to a show. Do you want to join us?”

Popov didn’t even hesitate. “Not tonight, thanks. I’m about to have dinner with Mary.”

“That’s all right then. So, how are things with you? Anything new?”

“No, just the same old thing.”

“Okay, just thought I’d ask. Have a good time!”

He slipped his mobile into his pocket. “He’s having dinner again with the girl from the office.”

“He’s getting serious,” Levin said.

“No, I don’t think so. Not if the way he’s talked in the past is anything to go by.”

“But he didn’t mention Volkov, did he? It’s inconceivable that the General would have spoken to us and not to him.”

“Which shows he’s stupid, then. Surely he would know that we’d assume that he had.” Chomsky shrugged. “What does it prove?”

“That maybe—just maybe—friend Popov is in Volkov’s pocket, has been since we left London. I knew one of you was. I’m satisfied it isn’t you. Circumstances indicate otherwise.”

“Thanks very much. Is there any reason why it matters?”

“I think Volkov’s approach indicates that there could be. But

T H E K I L L I N G G R O U N D

81

enough.” Levin got up. “The delights of James Bond await. We’ll dine afterwards.”

M I C H A E L F L Y N N was in his early fifties, almost six feet tall, a powerful figure of a man in an excellent suit of Donegal tweed, his face strong and purposeful, the face of a man who didn’t waste time on anything. His office at Scamrock Security had paneled walls of oak, dark green velvet curtains at the windows, green velvet carpet, the desk and furniture speaking of a successful man who liked to be exact. In the great days of revolution, he had been, for a while, chief of staff in the Provisional IRA, although prison had followed that.

Those days were far behind him. Now he was a successful business-man, head of a company offering its expertise in the field of international security.

He looked out the window at the rain, but he was in a cheerful mood.

Business was good, the death business—with all the wars and rumors of wars, it was the kind of world in which his business could only thrive.

He returned to his desk, took the stopper out of a cut glass decanter and poured whiskey into a glass, and then his mobile sounded, the special one he kept only in his inside pocket.

“Yes,” he said.

“Mr. Flynn, this is Volkov.”

“Sweet Jesus.” Flynn swallowed the whiskey and poured another. “It’s been a while since I heard from you.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “So what can I do for you?”

“Oh, I just wanted to keep you informed. As you know, I have a direct pipeline to al-Qaeda.”

“The Broker, right?”

“Yes. He has informed me that an associate of mine, Abdul Rashid, was car-bombed in Baghdad. It was a Sunni operation.”

“So how does this touch me?”

82

J A C K H I G G I N S

“A man you supplied worked for him. His name was Terence O’Malley, a Provo.”

“The schoolmaster. A good man. Came from Bangor. What happened?”

“He was killed in a firefight with a man named Sean Dillon and a London gangster called Billy Salter. Have you heard of them?”

“You could say that. Dillon and I were comrades in the old days.

Salter I know only by reputation. What was it about?”

“A personal matter. Old Rashid had kidnapped his granddaughter from England, a girl of thirteen. Apparently, Dillon and Salter were trying to get her back. A good deed in a naughty world.”

“That sounds like Sean Dillon. Mad as a hatter.”

“Anyway, I thought you should know.”

“I appreciate it. Listen,” Flynn said. “The new company, Belov International. Does it need security work?”

“As a matter of fact, it probably does, especially at the Irish end, Drumore Place. That’s a good idea, Flynn. We’ll speak about it later. Good-bye for now.”

Flynn sat there thinking about it. A pity about O’Malley. A good comrade and big for the Cause, but like so many, unable to handle a future without it.

He poured another whiskey and raised his glass. “Here’s to you, Terence, rest in peace.”

He emptied his glass, put on a trench coat and went out.

K U W A I T T H E E M P T Y

Q U A R T E R L O N D O N

5 KUWAIT WAS KUWAIT, THE OIL WELLS WORKING AWAY, the visible signs of war no longer in evidence. Desert Storm had been a long time ago. Hussein had checked on the satellite phone and before arrival had been given instructions to a part of the airport some distance away from the terminals used for Jumbos and other passenger planes.

The Land Rovers moved through a number of parked cargo planes and finally reached a place of separate hangars and private planes, parked with precision.

The one on the end was an old Hawk eight-seater and a man in stained overalls came down the steps from the interior. He was American from his accent.

“My name’s Grant. Mr. Rashid?”

“That’s me,” Rashid said.

“She’s all yours. Are you familiar with this aircraft?”

“I’m familiar with many aircraft types. Have I anything to sign?”

“No, everything’s taken care of.” He opened an envelope and took a document out. “I’ll return your pilot’s license.”

It was an excellent forgery, but Hussein made no comment on that.

“My thanks. Flying down to Hazar, how long would it take in such a plane?”

“Two and a half hours, maybe three. How experienced are you at desert flying?”

“I’ve flown many times in Morocco and Algeria.”

“This is the Empty Quarter. Winds of great force can come out of nowhere, so be careful.”

“I have flown in the area south of here and I’m familiar with the land-marks and the airport.”

86

J A C K H I G G I N S

“Good. Anyway, I photocopied a section of the map for you, just in case you need it—the route there and the airport between Hazar town and the small coastal village of Kafkar on the bluff overlooking it.”

“Thank you. Right, let’s get on board,” Hussein ordered Jasmine and Sara. They went up the steps, followed by Khazid. Hamid and Hussein passed weaponry up to him, several AK rifles, some Uzi machine pistols and assault bags loaded with ammunition and grenades and three or four shoulder-fired missiles.

“Are you guys expecting a war or something?”

“I thought there was always a war of some kind in the Empty Quarter.”

“That’s true.”

“My family is Rashid Shipping. As I’m sure you know, piracy is not unheard of.”

“Tell me about it. If you’d just sign the manifest, you can be on your way.”

Hussein was the last to board, heaving up the steps and closing the hatch behind him.

Jasmine and Sara had already discovered a large basket and were examining it. “Plenty of food in here and good bread,” Jasmine said. Sara opened another one and took out a bottle. “You can tell he was American,” she said. “Wine, red and white, whiskey and brandy. Hardly what the Prophet, whose name be praised, would recommend.”

“I’ve always found the Prophet very understanding,” said young Hamid, who had been an artist before taking up the gun.

“Well, each man makes his own arrangements.” Hussein eased himself into the pilot’s seat. He unfolded the map Grant had given him and Sara said, “Can I get in the copilot’s seat?”

“Why not.”

She did and he said, “You can help navigate. Just follow the red line that the American, Grant, has drawn.”

“What’s this?” she asked and ran her finger a good hundred miles or more along the line.

T H E K I L L I N G G R O U N D

87

“Saint Anthony’s Hospice. It’s a Christian monastery that’s served the trunk road across the desert since before Islam. There are only twenty or thirty men there now, Greek Orthodox in strange black robes. Fifty miles further on is the Oasis of Fuad with what’s called Saint Anthony’s Well. In ancient times, they served travelers of all religions.”

He pressed the starter and the engines rattled into life, first the port, then the starboard. “Fasten your seat belts,” he called, as he boosted speed and they roared down the runway. Sara was excited and grabbed his arm.

“Oh, this is so thrilling.” She stared out at great mountains of sand dunes extending into infinity.

“A bit different from Baghdad.”

“Oh yes, very different. No war.”

He leveled out at ten thousand feet and put the automatic pilot on.

Although there was air conditioning, on such an old plane it was not perfect. Hussein was wearing dark aviator’s sunglasses and a tan suit of fine Egyptian linen. He removed the jacket and revealed a shoulder holster under his left armpit holding a Beretta pistol.

Sara looked upon him. Hussein had been very careful in his dealings with her during the months she had been at the villa. As far as he was concerned, she knew nothing of his background other than the fact that he’d attended Harvard to qualify as a doctor and the war had prevented it.

But she was a remarkably astute young lady, soon to be fourteen, as she was fond of pointing out to people, and could not fail to notice the enormous respect with which he was treated by other people, and not just at the villa. Even important politicians and imams treated him as special. The truth was that she loved her father very dearly and he had been the most important man in her life. He had strong principles; you somehow took it for granted that anything he did was exactly the right thing for you. No argument needed.

Hussein was exactly the same. By religion, she had been baptized and raised as a Christian. She had no intention of changing that, al-

88

J A C K H I G G I N S

though she had never argued about it with her grandfather, being per-ceptive enough to realize it would get her nowhere, and intelligent enough to understand she was embroiled in a complicated problem.

She liked Hussein very much as her cousin, but the idea that at an appropriate age it would lead to marriage was something she had no intention of taking seriously. Her father would find a solution; all she had to do was wait.

The war, of course, was the war, but she was in a strange position. It was on the television every time you turned it on and it was also on the streets, very real, and it wouldn’t go away. Even the death of her grandfather had failed to shock her. Many members of the household staff had been killed on the streets one way or another during her time in Baghdad.