by Jack Higgins
“That seems to cover everything,” Dillon said.
“Take care with the cushion on the front seat on the left in the Gulfstream. If you unzip it, you’ll find blocks of Semtex and several tin boxes of pencil timers. I’ve given you a choice on the timers, various lengths for extreme circumstances. One’s a five-hour delay job. Just like the IRA in the old days.”
“That’s it, then,” Dillon said. “The rest depends on the Kantara.”
“Absolutely.” Ferguson nodded. “I need the Gulfstream back here, so Lacey and Parry will miss the joys of Majorca, which won’t please them, but the sooner you’re on your way to Ras Kasar, the better. Anything else?”
Sara said, “Daniel isn’t very pleased.”
There was a troubled silence, and Ferguson said, “When did this happen?”
“He spoke to me on Skype just before I came here.”
“He was angry with me?” Ferguson suggested.
“I’m afraid so. He doesn’t approve of me being involved.”
“That’s not surprising,” Dillon said.
“So where exactly does that leave you, Captain?” Ferguson asked.
“As far as romance is concerned?” Sara got up and reached for her bag. “A non-starter, I’m afraid. There’s certainly no room for it in our line of work. So if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, it’s me for an early night. I think I’m going to have to be on top of my game,” and she went out.
* * *
At the Aziz Private Nursing Home, the doctor was going through accounts in his office when the door burst open and Emza Khan forced his way past the protesting secretary.
“It’s all right,” Aziz said and waved her away.
“I’ve just been up to see him in his room to tell him about this.” He dropped a letter on the desk. “He’s been ordered to appear at Westminster Magistrates Court on five separate counts next Thursday. This time it could mean prison.”
“How did he take it?”
“He seemed genuinely afraid. And sober, for once.”
“He would be, we washed him out. So what do you want to do?”
“I have a commercial interest in a cargo boat. The captain’s agreed to sign him on as a crew member. I think it might be the best thing for him.”
“What does he think about that? Has he agreed to go?”
“Yes. He’s afraid of the idea of prison.”
“Then just take him. If the police inquire, I’ll say he just disappeared. You can say the same thing. They can’t prove otherwise.”
Emza Khan didn’t even say good-bye, the door banged and he was gone.
MAJORCA
ALGERIA
8
The Gulfstream landed at Palma just before noon and taxied to the private planes section where Dillon, peering out, noticed the blue van, and the sign on the side that said Trade Winds. Yanni Christou leaned against it, smoking a cigarette, black hair in a ponytail, a bushy mustache on his tanned face. He was sixty years old and yet had the kind of tough look that would make anyone adopt a cautious approach.
Parry opened the airstair door and Dillon led the way down, walking toward Christou, who flung his arms wide. “You bastard, I couldn’t believe it.” He grabbed Dillon and kissed him on both cheeks.
“I’ve told you before, why not try shaving if you’re going to do that? This is my associate, Billy Salter.”
Billy removed his mirror sunglasses and held out his hand and Christou nodded. “Welcome, young one, I don’t need to ask what you do for a living.”
His gaze took in Sara as she stood at the top of the steps, and he stopped smiling. “God in heaven, you’ve brought a real woman with you.”
“How right you are,” Dillon told him as she limped toward them. “Meet Captain Sara Gideon, Yanni. An Afghanistan veteran with the scars to prove it and the medals.”
Christou kissed her hand. “It saddens me to see you in bad company. The things I could tell you about Dillon would shock you to the core. On the other hand, he did break my nephew Christoff out of a jail where Turkish bastards were holding him on false evidence!”
“Dillon was telling us what a great flyer you are, a Greek Navy pilot in your day?” Sara said in Greek.
“Until I punched my commanding officer in an argument over a woman, and I can’t believe you speak Greek.”
“Some people have a thing for mathematics, mine is languages. I’ve taken my wings in the British Army Air Corps, but Dillon tells me I am to be second pilot on one of your Eagles. My problem is I’ve never flown a floatplane.”
Yanni Christou, who had been passing the luggage into the van, paused, and the smile on his face was something to see. “Then it will be my pleasure to show you.”
* * *
Torina was a small port, the pier stretching out and turning at the end to enclose the harbor. There were fishing boats at anchor, several more drawn up on the beach, a scattering of white houses behind, a cantina café with a large terrace and tables, the awnings and umbrellas being put away for the moment, for this was the off-season and rain and sudden storms were not unknown.
Billy with his orange juice, and Dillon with an ice-cold lager, watched the Eagle come in low over the sea, then drop down parallel to the pier, and Dillon said, “That was close to perfect.” The floatplane coasted toward the sands, and he added, “Let’s see how she copes with beaching.”
It was their second day, for Yanni Christou had lost no time in getting Sara into the air on the afternoon of their arrival and Dillon had had the sense to leave them to it. Sara had taken it very seriously and so had Yanni, and it showed, although there had been a few early belly landings into the sea the first day until darkness had forced them to abandon their efforts.
It had rained during the morning, but not enough to prevent further flying, and the improvement began to show. Now, coasting in toward the beach, she reached for the undercarriage lever and dropped the wheels beneath the floats, as she had done many times that day. Everything worked just right and the Eagle came in with a wave behind it, moved up the ramp, halted, and she switched off.
“What a woman. Let’s go and celebrate.” Christou opened the cabin door, stepped on the wing, and looked up at the terrace to see Dillon and Billy, whose clapping echoed across the water.
“We’re coming up for a glass of wine,” Christou called. “Make it something good,” and he turned and offered his hand to Sara.
* * *
The Kantara was moored in the outer harbor of Boukara, and David Rajavi stood at the rail, watching the ship’s tender approaching, Abu at the tiller. It carried Rasoul and Yousef and a number of suitcases. Rajavi smiled slightly, then went up the ladder to the captain’s cabin behind the wheelhouse, where he started to consult his charts.
Yousef entered. He wore Ray-Bans, an expensive black bomber jacket over a black Armani shirt, and designer jeans. The watch on his left wrist was a gold Rolex. Behind him, Rasoul wore a khaki suit of crumpled linen that made him look overweight.
“Are you Rajavi, the captain of this heap of junk?” Yousef demanded.
“I suppose I am, in a manner of speaking,” Rajavi told him. “What can I do for you?”
“You can show us to our cabin,” Rasoul growled. “Mr. Khan is tired, and so am I. We’ve been traveling for eighteen hours straight to get here from London.”
“Well, at least you’ve been doing it privately. I’d have thought that a blessing,” Rajavi said. “We’re short a first officer this trip, and there are two bunks in his cabin, so you can have it while we sort things out.”
“Okay, it will have to do for the moment,” Yousef said. “Where is it?”
“Just one thing,” Rajavi opened the ship’s manifest and held out a pen. “I made it clear to your father we don’t take passengers, it’s illegal. You’ll have to sign on as crew members.”
“What the hell’s going on here?” Rasoul said, but Yousef was aching for a drink and in no mood to wait any longer.
“Anythi
ng you say, Captain. If we could be shown to our cabin and given some help with the luggage, we’ll get on with it.” He signed with a flourish and passed the pen to Rasoul, who was looking mutinous. “Do it and let’s get out of here.”
Rasoul did as he was told, and Rajavi said, “Abu will take a couple of your bags and show you the way. Perhaps you could follow him with the others?”
Which they did, following Abu to where he kicked open a door and led the way into the cabin, one bunk above the other, a washbasin and a toilet in the corner, the aroma from which left something to be desired.
“And this is it?” Rasoul said.
“Unless you’d like to slop in with the other eleven crew members?” Abu said. “Chow is in a couple of hours, the dining saloon is below the main ladder and everyone just pitches in.”
He went out, slamming the door, and Rasoul said, “This is terrible, and it stinks in here. We must call your father.”
“We’ll call nobody,” said Yousef, wrestling a suitcase open and revealing several bottles of vodka. “Nothing could be as bad as this, so it can only get better.” He unscrewed the cap of the first bottle and swallowed deep. “Allah forgive me, but that’s wonderful.” He took another long pull, and Rasoul crouched on a stool in the corner and watched him in horror.
By the time the chow gong sounded below, Yousef was drunk out of his mind. “Food,” he snarled. “Let’s go and get some food.”
He threw off Rasoul, who tried to restrain him, shoved him out of the way, and slipped down the ladder to the dining saloon, where stew was being ladled out to a line of men. He staggered up, clutching at people, managed to knock the stew over, and became a target for kicks and punches from everyone.
As Abu picked him up and slapped him, Rajavi appeared and surveyed the mess, Rasoul groveling beside it. “Get him on deck,” the captain said. “Plus the luggage. Just save a few clothes, basic stuff. Everything else goes over the side.”
They hauled Yousef up to the main deck, Rasoul protesting, stripped him of his finery, looped a rope under his arms, and dropped him over the side, dunking him up and down in the sea until he was half dead.
Rasoul was weeping. “What have you done?”
“Probably saved his life.” Rajavi held up a black purse. “His cash, gold Rolex, two mobile phones, and passport. I’ll keep them.” He turned to Abu. “Wrap the poor sod in blankets and let him sleep. Tomorrow, work clothes and start both of them scrubbing decks.”
Rasoul said, “You don’t realize how important his father is to al-Qaeda. He will destroy you for this.”
“Really?” Rajavi laughed. “He bows to the Master, does he not? Well, so do I, you fool. Now, help get him down to the cabin and do your best for him.”
* * *
In the café on the terrace, the owner, Anita by name, had discovered a couple of bottles of Veuve Cliquot, a decent French champagne that had been left over from a wedding. She put it in the icebox in the kitchen, while she and Sara fried mackerel and rice, potatoes and onions.
The weather had deteriorated, no blue skies here, but lowering, dark clouds and thunder on the horizon like distant drums, and then the rains came and suddenly everything was fresh and clean and the champagne was all gone.
Yanni Christou had discussed the purpose of their visit in Ras Kasar with Dillon. “I wish you well, all of you, in this affair. If I can help in any way, you know I will.” He called to Anita. “You still have a bottle of ouzo. We’ll have a shot each for luck.”
“Not me,” Billy said.
Yanni, who was slightly drunk, said, “I remember, you don’t drink.”
“He just kills people, but only when necessary,” Dillon said.
“Well, there is no answer to that except go with God, the lot of you.”
* * *
Things were still wet and gray the following morning, but Christou checked with the weather people at Palma Airport, who assured him that it would improve the closer they got to the Algerian coast. They decided to go for it, Dillon sitting back and letting Sara take off. When they were airborne, she forgot to raise the wheels into the floats and was annoyed with herself when he had to mention it.
“How could I be so stupid?” she said.
“I bet you don’t do it again,” Dillon told her. “These Eagles were specially developed for use by bush pilots in the far north of Canada, but you’ll find they’re really sweet to fly, and if your engine conks out, you can always land in the sea.”
“Thank you, Sean, that’s very comforting.”
“Come off it, Sara, you’re thoroughly enjoying yourself.”
And he was right, she realized that, the rain bouncing off the windscreen, the wipers fighting to keep it clear, the wind outside struggling to get in, the plane rocking, the need to fight to hold it for a while — it was all meat and drink for her.
She turned to glance at Dillon and found him smiling. “You can switch to autopilot for a while if you want.”
“Like hell I will.” She grinned. “But I’d appreciate a cup of coffee from that thermos.”
* * *
Emza Khan called the Master in some distress. “I’ve had a visit from two policemen, an inspector and a sergeant, in search of my son.”
“Indeed?” the Master said. “I suppose their rank indicates the importance they attach to this affair. What did you tell them?”
“That the last I saw of him was in the Aziz clinic from which he had disappeared. That I have no idea of his whereabouts and he has not been in touch.”
“And that is the way it must stay. You know what Scotland Yard is like. The higher you are, the more they’d enjoy pulling you down, especially because you’re a Muslim.”
“But I’d be telling the truth, I haven’t had a word from him and Rasoul.”
“But you do know exactly where they are. May I remind you that mobile phones can be a curse. Unless they’re encrypted at both ends, they are the most traceable things in the world. Everything you say is out there in the ether. This is no time for your son, or indeed Captain Rajavi, to be calling you, and I would suggest you leave them to get on with it.”
“You really think so?” Khan asked.
“Absolutely. Trust me in this.”
“Then I must be guided by you,” Khan said with some reluctance and switched off.
* * *
The Master called Rajavi on a personal encrypted link and found him in a rainstorm on the bridge wearing foul-weather rig.
“How are you?”
“At the moment, it’s raining rather hard.”
“And your new crew members?”
“Swabbing the foredeck.”
“Well, that must be different for them.”
Looking down at Rasoul and Yousef, struggling with large brooms in the pouring rain, soaked to the skin, while Abu, in oilskins, supervised them, a knotted rope in his hand, Rajavi was inclined to agree.
“Who knows, it may be the making of the boy.”
“I suppose so,” the Master said. “It’s all a question of survival, I suppose. I’ll be in touch, but don’t speak to Khan, that’s essential.”
* * *
Two hours out of Majorca and approaching the Algerian coast, the weather had changed, as if high summer had come out to welcome them. Dillon had left ninety percent of the flying to Sara, allowing her to get thoroughly comfortable with the amphibian experience. They drifted into perfection at five thousand feet, in a velvet blue sky, the sea below constantly changing colors from blue to green, and all the reefs and shoals visible.
A tailwind for the past half hour meant they had made better time than Dillon had expected, and as the coast loomed large, he suggested she go down to a thousand feet and take her time, which she did, and Ras Kasar appeared on the port side.
The old Arab town behind the harbor was the usual cascade of buildings climbing up the hillside, but fronting the beach was a pier and the inner harbor, several fishing boats, and what appeared to be a dive center.
>
“Things look pretty quiet down there,” Billy said.
“All these places are the same in the off-season, Billy,” Dillon told him. “That would be the Paradise Club just above the beach with the terrace and the tables with a few umbrellas out. No more than half a dozen people sitting there and a man in original British Army shorts and a straw hat gazing up at us, who I suspect is Andrew Adano.”
There was no airstrip, only amphibians allowed, so there was also no control tower, just a windsock on a pole, and Sara throttled back, drifted in, and dropped into a perfect landing outside the inner harbor.
Billy nodded his approval. “Bloody marvelous.”
She entered the harbor, found a ramp and taxied toward it, dropping the wheels, and ran up onto the ramp, braked, and switched off. The man in the straw hat came down the steps from the hotel.
“Andrew Adano,” he called cheerfully. “Welcome to Ras Kasar.”
* * *
Sara found her room very Arabian, small but comfortable with a private bathroom. She quickly unpacked, then showered, dressed in a cool khaki linen jumpsuit. She opened the door to the terrace, looked over the balcony, and found the others seated under an umbrella.
“Remember me?” she called.
Dillon glanced up. “We’ve been waiting. Come and have something to eat.”
* * *
There were onions cooked with roast lamb, rice and peppers, couscous to follow, steam rising from the semolina, and a great bowl of peeled fruits to go with it. Ice-cold Chablis complemented the meal, the French influence on most things Algerian still surviving.
Adano, when talk had touched on diving, admitted to being sixty, but was muscular and fit-looking. “I take care of what business there is in the off-season. When things pick up, I bring in young guys to handle the pressure.”
