The Killing Ground (17 page)

“It would appear so. He came several times. They talked about it, the pilots, and the aircraft’s insignia was definitely UN.”

“Which I don’t believe for a moment. I’ll tell you what I think. Dillon and Salter went to Baghdad, and we know what happened there.

They then went back to London, probably having found out we were on our way to Hazar.”

“So?”

“You’ve been involved in enough of my exploits in the past to know that the one essential ingredient is surprise. What greater surprise for them than attempting to snatch Sara from us virtually the moment we arrived? Who in the hell would have expected it?”

“Yes—but there are still mysteries here. There must have been some sort of communication between them and Sara?”

“Possibly, but we’ll never know without being told. Be a good soldier now. Go to the hospital and stand vigil for me.”

“And you?”

“You think it ends here, this business?” Hussein shook his head. “Not if I can help it. Off you go and leave me to speak to the one man in the world who can truly help me.”

T H E B R O K E R F O U N D little to comfort him at the news. Volkov had already called him with word about Max Chekov’s unfortunate fate, some of the best doctors in London struggling to save his leg.

“What the hell is going on?” Volkov wanted to know. “This could have a huge effect on our future plans.”

“You hardly need to make the point,” the Broker said. “But it confirms what I suspected. Salter and his associates are totally ruthless men. Together with Dillon and Billy Salter, they pose a real threat.”

“Then I suggest you do something about it,” Volkov said. “It’s hardly 138

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the kind of news that will please President Putin,” and he ended the conversation.

The Broker sat there, brooding. An important kill was what was needed. Obviously, to see Harry Salter stone-cold dead in the market would be good, but Ferguson—that really would be something. But for that, he needed Hussein more than ever. Even Putin would be impressed with Ferguson out of the way. He reached for his phone and called Hussein, only to receive the shocking news about Sara.

As Hussein spoke, he sat there, trying to take it all in, part of him unwilling to believe what had happened. When the account was finished, the Broker said, “What do you want to do?”

“You wanted me to come to England anyway and deal with Ferguson. This would suit me very much. And not just for personal revenge.

I refuse to leave Sara, wherever she is. I made a promise, a sacred oath to her grandfather. I intend to carry it out.”

“And so you shall. I will arrange things. General support in the UK

will be from the Army of God network of spies and informers. I had meant to send Professor Dreq Khan to Hazar. I’ll call him back at once to London and put him to work. He will be useful to you.”

“How do I come?”

“Plane to Paris, then the Channel Tunnel. You brought your special flight bag from Baghdad. The black one?”

“Of course.”

“Use the British passport. Hugh Darcy. I like that one. Get yourself a blazer. You’ll look like an English gentleman who’s been on holiday.

The passport will support that. I’ll arrange what happens to you when you reach London with Khan. When will you come?”

“Tomorrow if I can, but it depends on my uncle’s health at the moment. This business has hit him hard.”

“I look forward to hearing from you.”

They disconnected, and the Broker called Professor Khan in Brussels, catching him at his hotel on his way out to dinner. He quickly filled him in on the situation in Hazar.

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“My God,” Khan said. “I can’t believe that Caspar has managed to re-gain his daughter.”

“Helped by thoroughly ruthless men, which you would do well to remember. There is no point in your going to Hazar now. You are ordered back to London.”

“But Ferguson would move heaven and earth to get his hands on me.”

“Ferguson’s got nothing to hold you on, you know that. He can’t touch you. You’ll book out of your hotel in the morning and catch the first flight to London. Is that clear? Osama himself has an interest in this affair.”

Which was enough. “Of course. I’ll do as you say.”

“And await further instructions.”

I N T H E G U L F S T R E A M , everything had gone smoothly. After sleeping for five or six hours, Sara had awakened, had something to eat and talked a great deal with her father and Hal Stone and later, responded to some gentle probing from Dillon and even Billy.

She seemed very calm. Partly it was her nature, but Dillon considered it likely that to a certain extent, it was also a kind of denial of what had gone before.

When you thought about it, the original circumstances had been extraordinary. The kidnap itself, the transfer to the war zone, the constant daily violence of Baghdad itself. Every impossible bad thing had been visited on her, the apparent genuine affection of her grandfather and yet leg irons, and then the final act in Hazar. The killing of Ali ben Levi when he laid hands on her, the sudden realization that Hussein was the Hammer of God, this Arab fantasy figure from newspapers and television. The events that had developed with the
Sultan
and the shocking deaths of Hamid and Hassim, so close that there were bloodstains on her clothing.

For an adult to cope with what had happened to her in the few 140

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months since the kidnapping would have been a near impossibility; for a young girl, little more than a child to most people, what hope? She dropped off to sleep again and Dillon, turning in his seat to pour a Bushmills, found Hal Stone observing him.

“What do you think?” the professor asked. “How in the hell is she ever going to get over what’s happened?”

Her father was also dozing, an arm around her, and Dillon looked at them again. “There’s the mother, a pretty remarkable lady, but I don’t know.” He shook his head. “She’s got a lot to cut free from.”

“Hussein Rashid, for one thing.”

“Oh, him most of all,” Dillon said.

Hal Stone nodded. “At least there’s a few thousand miles between them, and little likelihood of her ever having to see him again.”

“Let’s hope so,” Dillon said, and Lacey’s voice over the intercom announced, “Farley Field in fifteen minutes. It’s midnight right now, so that means we’re moving into a new day, and if you’re listening, Sara, God bless and welcome home.”

She sat up next to her father, slightly dazed as the plane coasted down. What happened next was all a strange confusion in which everything happened in slow motion: the Gulfstream landing, Parry opening the door, people outside, rain falling quite fast, then going down the steps ahead of her father and her mother crying out her name and throwing her arms about her fiercely.

T H E Y W E R E A L L T A K E N to the Holland Park safe house. Sitting across from Charles Ferguson, her arms around Sara, Molly Rashid said,

“What now?”

“You try to put some sanity into your lives again. At least you’ve nothing to fear from this man anymore. We’ve seen to that. Here’s the early edition of the
Times
.”

There was the photo of Hussein without his sunglasses on the ex-

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treme bottom of the front page in the left-hand corner. The few lines of text said, “Known associate of Osama bin Laden.”

Sara said, “But that’s Hussein.” There was panic on her face.

Ferguson said, “You’ve nothing to worry about. With this photo in all the papers he’d never dare come to England.”

“Hussein Rashid, Hammer of God.” Sara’s voice was suddenly very small and she buried her face against her mother.

The electronic gate swung open at Holland Park and they turned in, and several thousand miles away in the hospital at Hazar, Hussein and Khazid stood smoking on a balcony, the glass door open behind them to a corridor. Two nurses sat at a small table opposite, sipping tea, ready for backup if necessary. A door opened, Aziz came out, and there was a glimpse behind him of Jemal festooned with cables and tubes, two more nurses at his bedside.

“How is he?” Hussein asked.

“We are in God’s hands,” Aziz told him. “That’s all I can say.”

At that moment, an alarm sounded, jarring, ugly, frightening. Aziz ran back into the room, followed by the two nurses in the corridor. The entire crash team was at work in seconds, Hussein and Khazid watching at the door. Not that any of it did the slightest good.

“Time of death . . .”

“Immaterial.” Hussein stood looking down at his uncle, then leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

“See, my friend,” he said to Dr. Aziz. “They killed Hamid and Hassim to get Sara, now they kill my uncle. We can’t have that, can we, Khazid?” He covered his uncle’s face with the nearest sheet, turned and went out.

8 IT WAS IN HUSSEIN’S FAVOR THAT HIS RELIGION DEMANDED

so brief a period for the disposal of the body, no matter how important the individual. He needed action now, needed to get on with it, needed to channel the rage inside him.

The body was brought to the house and displayed in the entrance hall. The people who arranged such things worked through the night.

The Imam himself came to supervise, giving Hussein his blessing, of course, and not just because of his prowess in the war. He was, after all, not only the head of Rashid Shipping now, but of the clan itself, the pos-sessor of great wealth, and his importance was shown by a new deference to him.

“So what will you do now about Sara?” the Imam asked.

“As Allah wills.”

“You do not think her beyond hope?”

“Of course not. There were cruel influences at work.”

“What do you intend? A return to the war zone?”

“We’ll see.” Hussein was keeping his own counsel. “Let’s bury my uncle first.”

The Imam departed and Hussein went out onto the terrace and lit a cigarette. Khazid, who had been listening, followed him.

“You wish to follow them to England, don’t you?”

Hussein smiled. “Now why would I do that?”

“Because it would be the most reckless thing to do. Can I come with you?”

“Why would you want to do such a thing?”

“Because we’re friends who have been through hell together. Because

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I appreciate it could be a one-on-one mission but that you also need one person you can really rely on.”

“And you think that should be you?”

“It has been before. How do you plan to go?”

“Paris. Train to London.”

“I have both French and British passports, both excellent forgeries.

And I speak French. Your alias?”

“Hugh Darcy, what the English call a toff. I used the passport last time I was in London and found the regimental tie of an English Guards officer tucked in my briefing case. It was the Broker’s joke. The English still can’t help touching their forelocks to a gentleman.”

“The Queen’s son himself has served in such a regiment in Afghanistan,” Khazid said.

“There you are, then. Okay, my friend, you can come as far as Paris.

I’m not promising anything more. Now go and lie down. It’ll be dawn soon, and we have three men to bury.”

“Something we’re good at, something we’ve grown very used to.”

“Go on, little brother, good night.”

Khazid went and Hussein stood there thinking about it, then he went into the entrance hall where they had finished presenting his uncle. He’d given the orders. No wailing women. At this stage, male servants only.

Family members could join in on the morning, but for the moment, no.

He was restless, uncertain, and then he did a strange thing. He went into his uncle’s small study, where there was a liquor cabinet for non-Muslim guests. He opened the lacquered doors and surveyed the contents, finally selecting a bottle of ice-cold Dom Pérignon champagne he found in the bar fridge. There was a strange excitement in him as he got a glass and walked out onto the terrace. He stood there, thumbing the cork out.

Of course it was wrong, he knew that, but the night was dark and he had two comrades and his uncle to bury. Allah was merciful, Allah would understand. He raised his glass to Hassim and Hamid, then emptied the glass of champagne and threw the bottle from the terrace.

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“Go to a good death, my friends, and watch over me in England,”

he called.

R O P E R S A W T H E L O C A L radio and television reports of the death of Jemal Rashid from a heart attack. There was television coverage of the cortege on its route to the mosque, Hussein leading the way. Roper recorded it and reported in to Ferguson, who was having breakfast at Cavendish Place.

“He won’t like it,” Ferguson said. “He’ll blame us. The old boy died as a direct result of the affair.”

“Exactly.”

“What time did Doyle deliver the Rashids to Hampstead?”

“About three o’clock. We’ll have to inform them.”

“I know. Dammit—I’ll do it.”

At the house in Gulf Road, Caspar Rashid hadn’t followed his wife to bed. She’d taken Sara. He couldn’t sleep, and when the
Daily Telegraph
was shoved through the front door, he found Hussein in a corner of the front page, just like in the
Times.
And then the phone rang and it was Ferguson.

“Not very good news.” He told Caspar of the old man’s death.

Caspar Rashid sat there taking it in. “Dear God,” he said, “is there no end?”

W A I T I N G A T T H E A I R P O R T in Paris, Dreq Khan bought a copy of the
Times
and nearly had a heart attack. He examined the papers on the newsstand and found Hussein’s face staring out at him everywhere.

Shortly afterwards the Broker phoned him.

Khan said, “Have you seen the London papers?”

“Yes.”