The Death Trade sd-20

by Jack Higgins

  “Point taken. We’ll see you round dawn, then.”

  Next she contacted Holland Park.

  “Damn you, Sara Gideon, I’ve never been so worried. You drive a man mad,” Roper told her.

  Sara cut in, “Shut up, Giles, time is limited. Have you spoken to Ferguson yet? If so, I expect he’s frothing at the mouth.”

  “Actually, he was strangely calm. I told him about Husseini’s call, your wild decision to go, and Dillon’s hot pursuit. His actual words were ‘Thank God Dillon is there to watch her back. I suppose she’ll be in touch when she’s got something to say. Is it all right if I go back to work now?’”

  “See if he’s more impressed with this. Declan Rashid turned up from Tehran with orders from the minister of war to get his hands on Husseini and bring him back.”

  “Well, he managed that pretty damn quick.”

  “Declan got information from Husseini’s security man that led him straight to Beirut.”

  “So it’s Declan, is it? You seem to be terribly chummy with what I know Dillon describes as the enemy.”

  “He’s no more the enemy than I am. He’s an Iranian citizen whose mother was Irish.”

  Roper said, “Sara, my love, it’s obvious to me that you’re so much on Rashid’s side that the only conclusion must be that you fancy him. He’s had an outstanding record with the Iranian Army, he’s likely to make general one of these days. Why would he throw all that away?”

  “Because he’s on our side, Giles. And what I’m going to tell you now will have General Charles Ferguson gasping to hear more.”

  “So what would that be?” Roper sounded weary. “Get on with it, Sara.”

  “We’ve uncovered a plot, thanks to Declan, an al-Qaeda plot to murder him and then kidnap Simon Husseini. I’m sure you realized for what purpose: They want the bomb.”

  Roper stayed surprisingly calm. “And when is all this due to happen?”

  “There’s a Falcon out of London, flying here with a top man appointed by the council. His aircraft will transport Husseini to wherever his masters order. He’s arriving here in an hour, flown in, I’m told, by a couple of very questionable Russian pilots named Ivan Kerimov and Dimitri Lisin. I’d note the names in your files for future reference. I’d have thought Cyrus Holdings could have found a better class of pilot, but then, I suppose they suit their boss’s purpose.”

  Roper said, “Hang on, where are we going with this?”

  “Let me be the first to break the good news,” Sara said. “Thanks to Declan, we now know that Emza Khan is up to his neck in al-Qaeda. But Emza Khan doesn’t realize that Declan is here, and knows what he is.”

  “And presumably, he isn’t aware of you and Dillon being around, either.”

  “I’m afraid not. Poor him.”

  “So what happens when the big confrontation takes place?”

  “Not much, I hope. We’re going to get the hell out of here tomorrow, fly down to Saudi, and drop in at a place called St. Anthony’s Hospice.” She explained why, and finished with, “I hope you’ve been recording all this, Giles.”

  “Of course I have. I’ll knock it all into shape and get it to Ferguson as quickly as possible. It’s going to make the old devil’s day. It explains so much.”

  “Everybody else is having dinner right now, but I wanted to get it all to you to keep Ferguson happy, if such a thing were possible.”

  “Take care. You never know where you are with Russians.”

  “I know what you mean. Now I’m going to go eat. Bye, Giles.”

  She went. Roper punched a button on one of his computers and watched as it transcribed his recording of the exchange with Sara into print. It was certainly going to make Ferguson sit up and take notice.

  * * *

  The dinner had reached the brandy and coffee stage when Sara arrived. Dillon said, “What kept you?”

  “I was talking to the hotel doctor on the phone. I told him about Father Mikali, and he’s having a load of special drugs sent round at once.”

  The maître d’ approached, concerned. “Madame has missed dinner. What may I do?”

  “Scrambled eggs and a tossed salad,” Sara told him. “If there’s any champagne left, pour me a glass; if not, find a fresh bottle.”

  “You haven’t answered,” Dillon told her. “The doctor couldn’t have taken that long.”

  “I was also reporting in to Roper and bringing him up to date on where we are in this rather convoluted affair.”

  “An apt description,” Declan said.

  “He’s spoken to Ferguson, who took the brief account of my rebellion and Dillon’s pursuit with extraordinary calm. I’ve given Roper a full and frank account, including your situations as I see them, Declan and Simon.”

  Husseini said, “I would imagine the information about Emza Khan will disturb Ferguson greatly.”

  “Oh, not at all,” Sara said. “He’ll be pleased to have been proved right. He’s been convinced for a long time that there was something dodgy about Khan.”

  At that moment the maître d’ appeared in person bearing the tossed salad and scrambled eggs, followed by the wine waiter with another bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. They served them with a flourish.

  “Thank you, it looks marvelous,” Sara said. “Am I right, aren’t you expecting Mr. Emza Khan tonight?”

  “Indeed we are,” the maître d’ told her. “In fact, I’ve just had notice from the airport that they landed forty-five minutes ago. Is Madame familiar with this gentleman?”

  “Yes, I think you could say that,” Sara said. “But I’d better eat my eggs before they get cold,” and she proceeded to do so.

  “Are they good?” Dillon asked.

  “Excellent.”

  “Well, enjoy them while you can. When you have a moment, turn around. You’ll find Khan in the flesh.”

  The maître d’ was in the act of bowing to Emza Khan, who looked transfixed as both Husseini and Declan stood up. His face was a mixture of shock and horror. The two Russians stood behind him, tough, cynical-looking individuals, sporting an unshaven look but handsome in uniform, each of them with four gold rings on his sleeve.

  The maître d’ moved, leading the way toward a booth at the back of the room. Sara remained seated as they approached, with Dillon, Husseini, and Declan standing behind her.

  Dillon smiled cheerfully. “The top of the morning to you, Emza.”

  Emza paused, his voice low, as he ignored Dillon and spoke to Husseini and Declan.

  “You’ve disgraced your family and your regiment,” he hissed at Declan. “And you, Husseini, have betrayed your country. May you rot in hell for your perfidy.” He glared at Sara. “You murdered my son, you whore. I’ll see you burn in hell for that.”

  He continued to follow the maître d’, and Kerimov glanced admiringly at Sara and said in Russian to his friend, “Now, there’s a real woman for you. I wonder if anything is on offer?”

  “Careful, you stupid idiot,” she said in Russian. “Continue to keep company with a dog like Emza Khan, you’re likely to catch fleas.”

  Both of them were startled by her fluency, and Kerimov clapped and replied in Russian, “Thank you for such excellent advice. We’ll take it.”

  He and his partner moved to join Khan at the end of the room, and Dillon, Husseini, and Declan sat down as the wine waiter hurried over to freshen the drinks. Husseini said, “What on earth is Khan up to? He’s acting as if he’s in the clear. It doesn’t make sense.”

  Sara said, “It does if you consider the spot the Iranian government is in. It’s only been a little more than a week since that accident in Tehran, but the word’s getting out. They’ve got to find a way to contain it, and the last thing they need is a scandal.”

  “So what are they waiting for, these people in Tehran?” Husseini demanded.

  “They’re desperately hoping that Declan will manage to get his hands on you,” Sara said. “And the ironic thing is that he has, just not the way the
y expected.”

  “Which raises the question, what are you going to do?” Dillon said to Declan. “Where would you go?”

  “As has been said, I have an Irish passport,” Declan told him. “What hasn’t, is that my mother inherited a country estate near Galway from an uncle on her mother’s side. It came to me on her death and is managed by lawyers, who are family cousins.”

  “God help us, but I’ve difficulty in seeing you playing the squireen in a tweed cap, fishing for trout in Galway,” Dillon told him.

  Declan said, “So many years of war, and the possibility of death has taught me that the only way of coping is to take each day as it comes. So, enough of talking. We know what lies ahead tomorrow, so let Emza Khan see us retire for the night to grab four or five hours before sneaking out at dawn.”

  “Let’s do it.” Sara stood up, glanced at the enemy, and walked out, pausing to shake hands with the maître d’. “Lovely meal,” she said loud enough to be heard at Khan’s table. “We’re leaving for Qatar in the morning, flying out around eleven. We’ll have a late breakfast with you before we go.”

  “A pleasure to serve you,” he said.

  Dillon muttered, “Excellent performance, full marks.”

  She half turned, smiled at him, and led the way out.

  * * *

  The meal was excellent, but for Emza Khan, the pilots were the problem, drinking huge amounts of vodka and talking to each other in Russian. He didn’t speak the language, which was good, because their opinion of him was low. When his phone sounded it came as a relief, and he went out to the terrace and discovered it was the Master.

  “I know what’s going on, so just listen. I gather that Husseini has a burning need to visit this Father John Mikali at St. Anthony’s Hospice. Our need, on the other hand, is to kidnap Husseini and dispose of Rashid.”

  “Which is why we will follow them to the hospice and confront them there,” Khan said.

  “I have a better idea. Leave before them. When they arrive and find you holding Mikali hostage, the effect on Husseini will be dramatic, especially when the threat is to blow out the old man’s brains. Husseini would do an exchange on the instant, I promise you.”

  “But, of course, Master,” Emza Khan said. “Husseini is the kind of holy fool who would sacrifice himself.”

  “No need for a gang of cutthroats. I’d take Jemal and Omar to back you up, but no more. After all, you have the Russians.”

  “Yes, that would do it.”

  “I’ll speak to Jemal and order him to report to you as soon as possible with Omar, but I think speed is of the essence here, so get moving and don’t take no for an answer from those Russians. I can only envy your inevitable success.”

  Renewed in spirit, Emza Khan bustled into the restaurant and said, “Things have changed, so follow me to my suite to discuss it.”

  “Discuss what?” Kerimov demanded.

  “Oh, the extra money I’m putting into your worthless pockets,” and suddenly he was the old Emza Khan again, and smiling as he led the way out.

  ST. ANTHONY’S HOSPICE

  SAUDI ARABIA

  13

  It was no problem for Kerimov to obtain a new departure slot from the Rafic Hariri Airport. The flight plan was for Qatar, eight hundred miles away and mainly over desert. The stop-off at the emergency airstrip close to the St. Anthony’s Hospice at al-Shaba was technically illegal, but air traffic control was notoriously easygoing in Arab airspace. Many pilots simply vanished from the air if it suited them to switch off communication for a period.

  Things had gone exactly as the Master had suggested. He had spoken to Jemal, who had accepted without a moment’s argument, and Jemal had persuaded Omar that it could do him a lot of good in the council’s eyes.

  An approach by Kerimov to the right person, a greasing of palms, and they had taken off at three-thirty in the morning. They had an eight-hundred-mile flight ahead of them, but as Kerimov said, they were in no hurry, had already won the engagement.

  They were having a small drinks party in the cabin, Emza Khan, Jemal, and Omar. Kerimov joined them, leaving Lisin in the cockpit sitting back reading a magazine while the plane flew on autopilot.

  In the cabin, Khan had a martini cocktail, Kerimov vodka, and so did Omar. Only Jemal refused a drink, although he did smoke Turkish cigarettes. He was indulging in one now and examining an old National Geographic magazine. He passed it to Emza Khan.

  “There’s a five-page article on this St. Anthony’s Hospice. Apparently, it’s run by Greek Orthodox monks. It’s at a small oasis, a well that hasn’t run dry in several hundred years.”

  Khan examined it. “How did it start?”

  Jemal said, “Food and lodging for travelers going south to the Oman. They offered medical aid as well, a tradition.”

  “Why Greek monks?” Emza Khan asked. “I could never see the point of that. Living at the back of beyond in total desolation. What does it prove?”

  “Jesus Christ spent forty days and nights in the wilderness, we are told in the Christian Bible, and found truth when God spoke to him. The monks seek the same salvation.”

  “They must be soft in the head,” Khan said. “And I thought this Father Mikali was supposed to be someone special.”

  Jemal said, “I was at the Sorbonne in Paris in my youth, studying comparative religion. He was a professor, wrote books, everybody respected him.”

  He suddenly recognized how much he disliked Khan, particularly when Khan said harshly, “Then why did he retire to such a godforsaken place at his age?”

  “Because the search for Allah and meaning and purpose is never-ending,” Jemal told him. “But enough of this, let’s move on. What is our plan when we land?”

  Kerimov said, “As far as I’m concerned, the important thing is making sure the Falcon is safe and secure and ready to get us out of here when we’re ready to leave.”

  “What are you saying?” Omar demanded.

  “That Lisin and I aren’t here to do any shooting, we’re here to guard the plane and make sure it’s available for a quick departure.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Emza Khan told him. “We had an agreement.”

  “Lisin and I were in the military. We’ve seen things go wrong for the stupidest of reasons too many times, so this isn’t up for argument.”

  Omar took over. “We’ve got all the right weapons, so there’s no problem there. The enemy are fifteen monks, the eldest ninety and the others very probably close behind him.” He turned to Jemal. “I know where I stand, I kill people for a living, but what about you, old friend?”

  “I can handle it,” Jemal said. “But I’m sure it won’t be necessary.” He glanced at Emza Khan. “What about you, have you ever fired a gun?”

  “You know who I am. It’s never been necessary,” Khan said. “I’m perfectly content for you two to handle matters.”

  Jemal said, “Somehow, I thought that’s what you’d say.” He got up. “I don’t know what the rest of you are going to do, but I’m taking one of those backseats for a couple of hours’ sleep. I’d advise you to do the same.”

  Which they did, Ivan Kerimov taking a front one up by the cockpit, Omar on the opposite of Jemal, and Emza Khan halfway along, easing his chair back and thinking about things as someone dimmed the lights.

  He was considering his problematical future. With Husseini on his hands, he had two interesting options. On the one hand, he was a man desperately wanted by al-Qaeda. On the other hand, the government in Tehran would be only too willing to pardon past sins when the prize he was offering was Husseini and his bomb. So — what should he do? He lay back a little farther, closed his eyes, and started analyzing the situation again.

  * * *

  Earlier, at Rafic Hariri, Jane Green stirred and came half awake as she heard a plane take off, quite loud, then die away into the distance. She lay there wondering about it, made to get up, and then another plane took off, so she drifted into sleep again. An hour pas
sed and she came awake with a jerk to a knock on the door, and when she got up and opened it, found Sara standing there.

  “What’s happened?” Jane asked, coming awake fast.

  “They’ve stolen a march on us.” Sara brushed past. “Got out of here around three-thirty with a flight plan for Qatar. It didn’t feature on the screen until a short while ago. So much for us hoping to make a quick departure around six. We got here, went to check on our plane, and discovered their Falcon gone.”

  Jane was dressing hurriedly. “What are the guys doing?”

  “Buying a fast takeoff on my behalf,” Sara said. “There are times when owning a bank has its uses.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.” Jane grabbed her old military bag, ran around the room recovering the few things she’d unpacked, and stuffed them in. “Right, ready to go. Afghanistan was a good learning curve.”

  “You can say that again,” Sara told her. “Now, let’s go and see how our gallant lads have progressed.”

  They hurried to the lift, and as they got in, Sara’s Codex sounded. As they descended, Dillon said, “It’s taken care of. Ready to go.”

  “I’m with Jane now and we’re on our way,” she said. “Did you have enough cash to handle it?”

  “You know I always keep five thousand dollars in my contingency kit. I’m taking care of it. No worries. Just get yourselves down here.”

  * * *

  Don Renard was in the cockpit of the Gideon, turning the engines over, and Simon Husseini was already on board. Declan was standing by the steps up the airstair with Dillon. There was a doorway nearby, a light above it. A man stepped out in a porter’s uniform and nodded, another in similar garb lurking behind him.

  “They would appear to be waiting for you,” Declan commented.

  Dillon went to meet them, Declan followed him, and as they approached the doorway, Dillon said, “Congratulations on your efficiency, Abu, you’ve organized things damn quickly.” He took a roll of bills from his pocket. “So what’s the damage? You said a thousand.”