The Death Trade sd-20

by Jack Higgins

He left, the door closed, and Sara turned to Dillon. “Let’s do it again. I don’t like disappointing such a good audience.”

  “Right on, honey,” Jacko called. “And I do believe the barman is offering a free drink to everyone who stays.”

  “That clinches it.” She turned and went to where the band was arranging itself, as the audience settled and Dillon eased behind the piano. He was smiling crookedly as he looked at her.

  “What’s that smile for?” she said as she picked up her mike.

  “I enjoyed seeing you in action.” He shook his head. “No wonder they gave you the Military Cross. Now let’s get down to business.”

  His hands slammed into the keys, fingers searching as he launched into that driving rhythm for the second time that night.

  * * *

  They went up in the elevator to Emza Khan’s apartment, Declan Rashid leading the way, Rasoul with Yousef draped around him. Emza Khan was sitting in a winged chair by the terrace window reading the Financial Times. He tossed it to one side and jumped to his feet.

  “What is it, what happened?” He was totally dismayed.

  “Ask the colonel,” Rasoul said angrily. “The one who beat him.”

  “Is this true?” Khan demanded.

  Declan had two main obligations in his life. One was to his country and its army, in which he had served so gallantly. The other was to the head of his extended family, which meant kissing the hand of Emza Khan and, by tradition, obeying him in all things. The truth was that his Irish half was finding it extremely difficult to follow such a path.

  He said to Khan, “Listen to this creature’s lies if you must, but Yousef behaved like a drunken sot, tried to attack a young woman who turned out to be an army officer. She had to draw a weapon on him, I took appropriate action and knocked him out. If you want to call in Dr. Aziz to check him over, that’s your privilege.”

  Khan turned to Rasoul. “Get Aziz now. No more arguments, and take Yousef to his bedroom.” Which Rasoul did. Khan carried on, “It is most unfortunate, the drinking. It’s a sickness, a known fact. I had great hopes for him.” He shook his head sadly. “He was such a lovely boy. I was hoping to take him to Paris. What do you think?”

  “God help the chambermaids at the Ritz if you do. I’ve other things on my mind, like finding out who these people we were involved with tonight are. A name was mentioned, Ferguson. If he’s who I think he is, we need to know. I’ll borrow your office and computer to link into the embassy.”

  “Help yourself to what you need,” Khan said. “We’ll speak later. I must check on Yousef.”

  He went out.

  * * *

  As the cab turned a corner, Sara leaned against Dillon, eyes closed, and they stayed that way as she murmured, “Are we there? I need my bed.”

  “So I can see. Can you remember what happened?”

  Her eyes opened. “Sean, for your personal information, I like a drink, but never get drunk. So, yes, I remember everything, however improbable it appeared at the time.”

  “Colonel Declan Rashid and a rotten young bastard called Yousef Khan, do you recall them?”

  “Of course I do, and the colonel was far more interesting. Why do you ask?”

  He got the door open for her. “I just wanted to remind you he’s the enemy.”

  She got out. “He joined the paratroopers at sixteen and jumped into action five times without any training. Why would anyone do that?”

  “Perhaps he had a death wish.” Dillon smiled bleakly, followed her, and paid the driver, who drove away.

  Sara turned, found herself facing not her own front door but the Judas Gate in the entrance to Holland Park. Dillon opened it for her, pressing a button on his Codex.

  “What’s going on, Sean?” she demanded.

  “Oh, I need to bring Roper up to date on what happened, and we’re not all that far from your place. You could have a steam for a while in the spa, even stay in the guest wing, or I can drop you home when I’ve spoken to Roper.”

  She sighed. “All right.”

  They crossed the courtyard and opened the front door, but were surprised to hear Ferguson’s voice echoing from the computer room.

  “I wonder what he’s doing here,” Dillon said. “Do you want to face him?”

  “No, thanks, the steam room sounds fine.”

  “Okay, off you go. I’ll handle it.”

  She vanished along the corridor into the shadows, and Dillon stood at the door of the computer room, listening, and then went in.

  “Holy Mother, and me thinking you’d wrapped up for the night.”

  “Oh, we never close,” Roper told him.

  Ferguson said, “I went home to get some essential papers. I’m due at the Cabinet Office first thing in the morning to brief the Prime Minister on Simon Husseini. I thought I’d come back here and use one of the guest rooms so I’d get an early start.”

  “So what’s your story?” Roper asked. “If you have one at all.”

  “Oh, I certainly do,” Dillon said. “Though there are aspects of it that may not get your seal of approval.”

  “That sounds sinister,” Ferguson said. “Better get it over with and tell us the worst.”

  He was smiling when he said that, but not when Dillon was finished. “That’s incredible. We were only discussing the Iranians earlier and then they go and turn up in the flesh.”

  “Carl Jung called it synchronicity,” Dillon told him. “Events that have a coincidence in time, so that it’s understandable to imagine some deeper meaning involved.”

  “Nonsense,” Ferguson told him. “Pure coincidence. Emza Khan lives in Park Lane just up the road from Shepherd Market, where his son is a well-known drunk in local bars and clubs. The fact that Declan Rashid turns up, obviously trying to clean up the mess Yousef Khan has created for his father, should surprise no one.”

  “Well, let’s put it down to the romantic in me,” Dillon said.

  “Nothing romantic about it. Things got very much out of hand, and that Captain Sara Gideon drew her pistol in a public place is to be deplored. The Iranians will be taking a close interest in what we are doing, which was the last thing I wanted.”

  “Or was it?”

  Ferguson frowned. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you’re a master of guile and wickedness, always stirring the pot.”

  Ferguson wasn’t in the least put out, just smiled cheerfully. “Of course I am, and one never knows what’s going to bubble up to the surface. Take Paris and Simon Husseini. Anything could happen, the possibilities are endless.” He swallowed the last of his whiskey, got up. “Must get some sleep. See you at breakfast.”

  Roper said, “What do you think he’s up to?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Dillon said. “When I do, I’ll let you know.”

  He moved to the door, and Roper said, “Are you staying?”

  “I don’t think so. Sara’s downstairs having a steam. She preferred not to face Ferguson at this stage.”

  “I don’t blame her.”

  “I’ll join her and take her home in the Mini when she’s ready.”

  He went out quickly, leaving Roper to his screens.

  * * *

  At Park Lane, Declan Rashid, a slight smile on his face, read the computer report on Ferguson and company that the printer had ejected. When he was finished, he made another copy and went in search of Khan and found him in the sitting room, talking to Dr. Aziz, a small cheerful Indian with skin like brown parchment.

  “I’ve given him a shot of morphine, which will keep him sleeping for eight to ten hours. Nothing broken, but he’ll have a bad bruise,” Aziz said.

  “That was me,” Declan told him.

  “Quite a punch, Colonel.” Aziz smiled.

  “Which he richly deserved,” Declan told him.

  “I’m sure you’re right. Drink will be the death of him.” He turned to Khan. “But I’m tired of telling you that. I’ll call again in the morn
ing.”

  “I’m very grateful,” Khan said. “Anything he needs. I’ve got to go to Paris for three days, and I’ll need Rasoul with me. Can you arrange a nurse?”

  “No problem.”

  “I think the male variety would be advisable in the circumstances,” Declan Rashid said and turned to Khan. “I mean it for the best, naturally.”

  “Of course,” Khan said. “See to it as you think fit, Doctor. Show the doctor out, Rasoul.”

  Rasoul, who had been glowering in the background, did as he was told, and Declan joined Khan over by the great windows and offered the report.

  “No, we’ll have a martini,” Khan told him, moving toward the bar area. “You can read it to me.”

  Which Declan did as Khan mixed the cocktails, listening as Rasoul, standing against the wall beside the kitchen door, took it all in, too. Declan finished, and Khan passed him the vodka martini.

  “What extraordinary people,” he said. “Even the woman is beyond belief. Owner, in effect, of the Gideon Bank, and with this amazing war record.” He sipped his drink. “The fact that her parents died in a Hamas bus bombing would indicate to me that she is hardly likely to warm to Arabs in general.”

  Rasoul, listing intently, couldn’t help jumping in. “Do not forget that she is a Jew and not worthy of serious consideration.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Declan told him. “Her exploits in Afghanistan speak for themselves. When the Taliban ambushed that convoy at Abusan, she was as good as any man behind that heavy machine gun. Three special forces men to protect her, two of whom died, the third wounded, and she was wounded herself and left with a permanent limp. Forty-two dead Taliban when they counted the corpses.”

  “Which leads me to ask whose side you are on in the struggle for Islamism in the world today. A Taliban should be looked on as your brother. There is only one God and Osama is his Prophet, or do you renounce that, too?” Rasoul demanded.

  There was a moment of complete stillness, horror on Khan’s face at the dreadful slip of the tongue, and sudden desperation on Rasoul’s as he realized what he had said.

  Declan smiled gently. “An error on your part, I’m sure, but the Prophet, whose name be praised, is merciful and will forgive a sinner.”

  Khan exploded with rage at Rasoul’s slip, for any reference to Osama bin Laden, particularly when it involved Declan, was the last thing he and his masters needed.

  He shouted, “What nonsense are you talking? Get out of my sight.”

  Rasoul bowed his head. Forgive me.” He turned and hurried away into the kitchen.

  Emza Khan said, “A stupid fool, but I keep him on because of his ability to handle Yousef, you know that.”

  “Of course I do, so no need to apologize,” Declan told him. “I’m leaving now. I’ll see you tomorrow, and then Paris next stop. I’ll brief you on the plane in the morning about Husseini.”

  “I look forward to it, it should be fun,” Khan said. “Particularly the whores.”

  “I’m sure they’re waiting for you in eager anticipation,” Declan Rashid said with considerable irony. “I’ll say good night.”

  * * *

  While waiting for the lift, he considered what had happened. In rage, anything Rasoul said was likely to be the truth, for he was that sort of person, so what did his slip of the tongue mean? And Emza Khan’s angry dressing-down of Rasoul had been a little over the top, or had it? Declan shook his head. Any suggestion that Khan could treat the memory of Osama bin Laden seriously was patently absurd. Making money had been the ruling obsession in his life. He was hardly likely to change now, not with the government and the Council of Guardians to contend with in Tehran. The last thing they wanted getting its hands on power was al-Qaeda.

  He dismissed it from his mind and a few minutes later was driving his car out of the underground garage, joining the two-o’clock-in-the-morning traffic and thinking, somewhat to his surprise, of Sara Gideon.

  * * *

  Emza Khan read the details about Ferguson and his people that Declan had provided. When he was finished, he thought about it for a while. Charles Ferguson and his people had been a considerable nuisance to al-Qaeda, foiling many carefully planned enterprises over the past few years, and Dillon was something else again, murdering many of their best people. Now there was the Jewish woman of untold wealth, which offended him. How many decent Muslim men had she killed? She deserved to die, and so did her friends.

  So he went to his study, fed the report Declan had given him through the coded transcriber, punched a button and sent it on its way to room 13 at Pound Street Methodist Chapel, now the headquarters of the Army of God charity, where it was received by Ali Saif, an Egyptian with an English grandmother, which under familial law granted him a United Kingdom passport.

  Saif was senior lecturer in archaeology at London University. Specializing in the four-hundred-year occupation of Britain by the Romans was his passion. Involvement with the Army of God and belief in the gospel of Osama bin Laden was his religion, which in itself contained enough excitement for any man.

  His study room was packed with three state-of-the-art computers, a transcriber, and various other gadgets, no expense spared, for one thing al-Qaeda was not short of was money.

  He sat behind a Victorian desk in a swing chair, twenty-five years of age and already a Ph.D. He wore a khaki summer suit, tinted horn-rimmed glasses that suited his aquiline face, and long black hair that almost reached his shoulders. Just now he was drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette, leaning back in his chair, looking at two computer screens. One showed Declan Rashid’s background list of Ferguson’s people. Based on this, he had used his skill to pull out the original information, which was now on his second screen, pictures of all the protagonists included.

  And what an interesting lot they were, particularly Sean Dillon, the man who’d tried to blow up the British War Cabinet during the Gulf War and almost succeeded. A top IRA enforcer for many years, who ended up in the hands of Serbs and was saved by Ferguson from execution on the understanding that he would serve under him as a member of the Prime Minister’s private security squad.

  Dillon’s score was remarkable. He seemed to have killed anybody and everybody, without fear or favor. One week an assassination, the next, flying some old turboprop plane loaded with medical drugs for children into a war zone.

  Some guilt there perhaps, but the important fact was they had all been a considerable nuisance for some years to al-Qaeda. Obviously, punishment was what Emza Khan wanted, and considering the size of his contribution to the war chest, he was entitled to see it duly administered.

  As regards the trip to Paris, he would alert the right people there, but obviously what Khan was seeking here in London was something more immediate and certainly more final. The Army of God had assets employed in hospitals, every level of local government, theaters, cinemas, restaurants, and bars. It took Ali Saif only seconds to find one working as a cleaner at the Blue Angel, a Yemeni who had witnessed the fracas and seen Dillon and Sara eventually leave in a cab with a Pakistani driver.

  Within fifteen minutes, Ali Saif was in touch with that man and had established that he had dropped Sara Gideon and Dillon at what Saif knew was the Holland Park safe house. They could well be staying the night, but the possibility that they might not was too tantalizing to ignore, so he turned again to his computers.

  The man he called was propped up on a bed in a warehouse development by the Thames. He wore shabby jeans and jacket, was unshaven, and had black tousled hair. He was smoking a cigarette and reading the Times newspaper.

  The Egyptian’s voice rang out. “Abu, this is Saif. I have something for you, most urgent. The information coming your way now, facts and photos. The man is immensely dangerous, the woman is a decorated veteran of the war in Afghanistan. I’d advise taking Farouk on this one, but whatever you do, do it now. There’s a big pay packet waiting, very big.”

  Abu swung his legs to the floor, went to the computer where th
e text and photos were still printing. He had a quick look at Dillon and Sara and made a call on his mobile.

  The answering voice said, “Get lost, I’m in bed.” There was the murmur of a woman’s voice.

  “Abu here, Farouk, kick the bitch out. I have a hit for AQ, man and woman, big, big money. Fifteen minutes. Long enough to get here from your apartment. If you’re not here, I’ll go alone using the London cab, but I’d rather leave that to you. You may be a stupid sod because your mother dropped you on your head or something, but you’re a genius at handling anything with four wheels. I’ll be backup on the Montesa.”

  The famous Spanish dirt bikes had been specially created to aid farmers and shepherds in the high country of the Pyrenees, and could do half a mile an hour over rough ground and considerably faster if need be. It had a stripped-down look and Abu was besotted with his and refused to ride anything else.

  He didn’t wait for a reply from Farouk, but pulled on heavy biker’s boots, unlocked the outside door, went into a small study, operated an old-fashioned safe, and took out two Glocks, a couple of boxes of ammunition, and two silencers, sat down at the desk, and loaded the weapons expertly. Then he removed his denim jacket, opened the wardrobe, and produced two lightweight bulletproof vests. He pulled one on quickly, then took down a black leather biker’s jacket and zipped it up.

  Moments later, footsteps thundered up the stairs outside, the door crashed open, and Farouk stumbled in, the twin of Abu in appearance and dress except for his shaven head.

  “So there you are,” Abu said. “Daft bastard. In bed with a tart again. Get your vest on and check those two photos and the details. When we get to this Holland Park place, we simply sit and wait for them to come out. Dillon’s car is a ten-year-old souped-up Mini, color Ferrari red.”

  Farouk said, “Nobody could be as good as this Dillon. I mean, he’s a small guy and around fifty years of age. As for the woman, it’s got to be a joke?”

  “Ali Saif is from Cairo, like you and me, and if he says Dillon is hell on wheels, he is. As for the woman, even if you hate the Brits, they don’t award the Military Cross lightly. Now, stuff that Glock in your pocket, don’t forget your silencer, and let’s go and do this.”