SDillon 20 - The Death Trade

by Jack Higgins

  There was footage of the Dakota at the old airfield at Fuad, trucks drawing up, delivering cargo to the plane. Caspar Selim, in khaki uniform, was supervising the loading. A Tuareg galloped up, dismounted to talk to him, then turned to look into the camera, and it was Daniel Holley.

  “Oh my God,” Sara said.

  “Yes, he does look rather dashing,” Ferguson said. “All that’s missing are Beau Geste, his two brothers, and the Foreign Legion at Fort Zinderneuf.”

  Holley was suddenly closer to the camera, smiling and nodding, and then there was a loud explosion and the screen went dark.

  Roper said, “Don’t get alarmed, that was nothing serious. We’ve talked to him several times since.”

  Ferguson said to Sara, “He’s calling my office on Skype an hour and a half from now. You can take it first and have a chat. I’ll speak to him after.”

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  “Good. Now allow me to explain what Holley is doing running this affair. Then we’ll see what Maggie Hall has to offer for lunch.”

  —

  Holley talked to her from the back of a Sand Cruiser, using a highly sophisticated laptop.

  “You’re looking good,” he said. “It was impossible to keep in touch. The Algerians want a low profile on this for obvious reasons. It’s lucky that Timbuktu is such a vast distance from the real world, a dot on the horizon of one of the greatest deserts on earth.”

  “You don’t need to apologize,” she said.

  “It’s just that what we are saving is so remarkable. Centuries-old copies of the Koran, manuscripts produced by master painters, precious things of every description. You don’t have to be a Muslim to recognize wonderful works of art. These savages we’re fighting, the vandals operating under al-Qaeda’s leadership, would destroy these amazing things because they don’t fit in with their own vision of Islam.”

  “Well, take care.” She tried to sound jolly. “We’d hate to lose you.”

  “What about you and Dillon? Roper was telling me. The car chase in London, the two al-Qaeda hit men. What was that all about?”

  “They just want revenge.”

  “And Paris and the Ritz?”

  “It’s the beast stirring, they want payback for past hurts.”

  “Well, you take care.”

  “Will I see you soon?”

  “Not for a while. There’s a lot to be done, and UN help is not on offer like it used to be. We’ll sort something out.”

  “Of course we will.” There was little hope in her voice. “Ferguson wants a word with you. We’ll talk again.”

  —

  Holley apologized to Ferguson for the fact that he would not be available for the foreseeable future, and Ferguson assured him again that they’d be able to cope. “This work you’re doing is of prime importance. Nothing must be allowed to get in the way of that.”

  Holley clicked off, and Ferguson took out a file, extracted some papers, went through them, then picked up his desk phone and called Roper.

  “Are they still here, Sara, Billy, and Dillon?”

  “They decided to have a swim and a steam before they left.”

  “Excellent. I want to have a word before they go.”

  “I’ll see to it. Anything I can do?”

  “There will be. Holley’s just made it clear he’s not going to be available for some time.”

  “Which is not unreasonable,” Roper said. “This Timbuktu business is pretty important.”

  “Yes, but his specialized knowledge of the shipping business is what produced the Petra Project. We’ll meet in the computer room to discuss where we go from here.”

  —

  They sat and listened while Ferguson talked. “I know we’ve discussed this briefly, but let me go back to the beginning. As you know, nobody knows more about the shipping business in the Mediterranean than Daniel Holley. Malik Shipping’s fleet contains passenger vessels as well as general cargo, and carries everything from frozen food, automobiles, and farm produce, to military hardware. But there’s a second level of the shipping business that’s just as important as the first. Old rust buckets, owned by individuals, working a host of small ports from Morocco to Egypt, meeting the needs of local communities. They’re known as Petra boats, have been for years.”

  “Why is that?” Sara asked.

  “During the Second World War, North Africa became a pretty lively place. Concrete piers were built in scores of small ports, and a Greek firm called Petra Brothers established basic handling facilities amd accommodation.”

  “Are they still around?” Dillon asked.

  “Not for years. These days most of the facilities in each port are owned locally, but things are busier than ever. The Syrian situation, for instance, has produced a lively night trade in arms for the rebels.”

  “Isn’t that good?” Billy said.

  “Not if it’s al-Qaeda providing the weapons. Their goal is to get a foothold in the movement, with the intention of eventually taking over.”

  Sara said, “And Daniel believes these Petra boats are involved?”

  “Some of them definitely cross into Lebanese and Syrian waters, and there are whispers of arms being landed by night.”

  “But they may be good guys,” Billy said.

  “Anything is possible.” Ferguson reached for Roper’s bottle of scotch, poured a shot, and tossed it down.

  “Feel free with my whiskey, why don’t you, and tell us what you intend,” Roper said.

  “Daniel is convinced that al-Qaeda intends to come to power in any future Syria by penetrating the Free Syrian Army. He believes it of crucial importance to recognize that.”

  “I can see how he would,” Roper said.

  “He’s left me a file listing ships that might be involved. Holley took just over a hundred Petra ships with details of their voyages over the past three months and fed them into a computer. Only twelve of them visited Lebanese waters over three months, and only once or twice—but the Kantara out of Oran visited on six occasions. That’s twice a month.”

  There was silence for a moment, then Roper said, “Okay, so you’ve got me interested. What happens now?”

  Ferguson said, “Sean—Billy. Remember your exploits in the Khufra along the Algerian coast?”

  “Jesus, who could forget?” Billy said. “I’ll remember that till my dying day.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not asking you to go back. There’s a place ninety miles west of Algiers toward Tunisia. It’s called Ras Kasar. It’s one of the regular small ports on the Petra boats’ schedule, and the Kantara is due to call in for a couple of days next Friday.”

  “Are you sure about that?” Dillon asked.

  “That’s what Daniel’s computer says, but I’ve chosen that particular port for a special reason. There’s a hotel there called the Paradise Club, run by a Greek named Andrew Adano. He used to work for me when I was in Army Intelligence in Cairo years ago.”

  “How long is it since you’ve spoken to him?” Sara asked.

  “Many years, until I found his details on Holley’s list of ports and phoned him. He’s sound as a bell, so I’ve no qualms about using him. It’s not quite the holiday season, so the hotel is quiet, but there are water sports, diving. The ships don’t get in the way. He tells me they drop anchor in the outer harbor. When the season gets going, they even have seaplanes landing.”

  “It’s obviously quite taken your fancy, Charles. When are you going?” Roper asked.

  “Still interested?”

  “I’m just envious,” Roper said. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed the wheelchair, but it does tend to limit things. Have you told Adano what this is all about?”

  “No, but I’m open to discussion about it. What’s your opinion?”

  “How sound is he?”

  “Absolutely first class. Backed me, pistol in hand, when we were attacked by three drug-crazy fedayeen in Cairo. Took a bullet in his left thigh.”

  “Okay, that certai
nly counts for something. Don’t mention al-Qaeda, though, it just might put the fear of God in him. Tell him you suspect the Kantara might be carrying drugs.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “So does the fact that I’m going to need Billy with me,” Dillon said. “If the ships are moved in the outer harbor, we’ll only get to inspect the Kantara for any sign of arms by swimming underwater.”

  Sara said, “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much good to you there, Sean. I just haven’t had the training.”

  “One wrong move in the diving game and you’re dead, it’s as simple as that.” Her disappointment showed. “I’ll need you anyway. It’s always good to have a second pilot.”

  She looked at him in astonishment, and Ferguson said, “What was that you said?”

  “Lacey and Parry can deliver us to Palma Airport. You have an asset in Majorca, Charles, a Greek called Yanni Christou? I had dealings with him in IRA days. His firm, Trade Winds, rents out some old Eagle floatplanes. I estimate a flight of two hundred miles should have us at Ras Kasar.”

  Sara said, “But I’ve never flown a floatplane.”

  “That’s what I like about you,” he said. “You didn’t say I can’t fly a floatplane. I’ll show you. Trust me. I read the reports when you got your Army Air Corps wings. It said natural pilot.”

  “There you are,” Ferguson said. “Can’t argue with that. I’d better go call Adano and get this show on the road.”

  —

  Emza Khan had returned from Paris to a serious problem. In spite of the supervision of Dr. Aziz and the constant attention of a sixteen-stone male nurse named Hawkins, Yousef had worked his way through two bottles of champagne and one of vodka, then locked Hawkins in the bedroom, descended to the garage, punched the night porter, taken a Mercedes, and driven down toward Shepherd Market, bouncing off several parked cars.

  A blood test showed him to be four times over the limit. Dr. Aziz had assumed medical responsibility for him, thus extracting him from a cell, but his future with the courts looked black. For the moment, he was in the Aziz Private Nursing Home a few streets from Park Lane, where Khan sat fuming in his penthouse apartment.

  Needing someone to kick, he was not able to resist calling Saif at Pound Street, to take him to task over Fatima, but not to express any regret for her death.

  He found Saif sad and subdued, for the Egyptian had been truly shocked to read a small item in Le Monde on the recovery of her body from the Seine, a sure sign the DGSE was setting the whole thing up as suicide and thus easily dismissed.

  Khan, who had read the same piece online, said, “You should be ashamed to have used a tart for such a task, a common street poule. It makes me doubt your ability to serve, Saif, or your worthiness.”

  Saif replied in an agitated voice, “Why don’t you go fuck yourself? She killed four times for the Cause. What have you ever done, you lousy bastard? She was worth ten of you.”

  Khan was enraged. “Damn you, Saif, you are a walking dead man for saying that. I have the power, make no mistake.” He slammed down the receiver.

  Ali Saif was not ashamed to cry, to let the tears flow as he sat at his desk. Shortly after that call, he received another. It was the Master, who said, “Are you all right?”

  Saif had difficulty choking back the sobs, but finally managed. “I’m sorry, Master, a weakness, she was a good friend.”

  “Nothing to be ashamed of. I saw the piece in Le Monde. I was sure they’d spin it that way. The fortunes of war. She was a soldier and took a soldier’s risks, as you and I do. It is a shame that Emza Khan’s man was so quick to execute her. An animal, I’m afraid. One would have hoped Khan would have had some control over him. Indeed, Rasoul seems to have had approval for what he did.”

  Ali Saif was horrified. “That is the truth? But why did he do it?”

  “Rasoul is a bully and uninterested in the true path of Osama, only in the pursuit of power. He will be dealt with in due course.” What he had said about Khan he truly believed, but blaming Rasoul for Fatima’s death was a lie for which he made no apology. Everything had a purpose.

  They had a rule that all telephone calls must be recorded. The Master said, “Play me the call.”

  Which Saif did, Emza Khan’s harsh and ugly words echoing. There was a strange quiet when it finished.

  The Master said calmly, “He is a small man, you are not. Always remember that. Your day will come. Osama blesses you.”

  Next he called Khan and found him at home, seated by the sliding windows to the terrace, reading the Times. Khan was so flustered that he stood.

  “Master, what can I do for you?”

  “I’ve seen the results of your Petra plan. So simple in principle—yet it works. The Kantara has made six successful deliveries by night in three months. You are to be congratulated. I’ll make sure this is known. As I’ve said before, only an outstanding businessman is capable of this level of planning.”

  Khan was overwhelmed and could barely speak. “Master—what can I say?”

  “I could use a firsthand report, Emza. Someone to take a trip on the boat itself.”

  “I wish I could do it, but I can’t spare the time. My poor efforts for the Cause consume me.”

  “Indeed, we are so grateful, and so is your country’s government. How is your son? There were problems with his health, as I recall?”

  The Master, of course, had already been informed of the fix Khan was in with Yousef. Khan hesitated.

  “Perhaps a trip round the Mediterranean in the Kantara would put roses in his cheeks?”

  “What . . . what an excellent idea,” Khan said. “Do you think he’d be welcome? I mean, it’s a working boat. No passengers.”

  “We’ll soon change that. I admit I’ve never met Captain Rajavi, but we’ve spoken many times. After all, I am his employer. I’ll see that he calls you. The latest voyage started from Oran a few days ago, but your son could join at any of the ports.”

  “He’ll be absolutely thrilled. Can I send my bodyguard with him, Rasoul?”

  “Of course, but send my blessings to Yousef. I hope he has a wonderful time.”

  “Allah bless you, Master.”

  “He always does, my friend, every day of my life.”

  —

  David Rajavi was sitting in the captain’s chair of the wheelhouse of the Kantara and his bosun, Abu, a Somali, took the wheel. He was enjoying a cigarette and a cup of coffee when his mobile sounded.

  “Where are you?” the Master asked.

  “Just three miles out from a small port called Boukara, east of Algiers, where I intend to drop anchor for the night. What can I do for you?”

  “My friends are delighted with what you’ve achieved. The weapons you landed have reached the right destination.”

  “That’s good to know,” Rajavi told him. “But I truly believe it’s only the beginning. What can I do for you?”

  “You mean, ‘What can I do for the Cause?’”

  “I would have thought that by now you would know that I regard them as one and the same.”

  “Excellent. I want you to call Emza. Tell him you’d be happy to have his son, Yousef, and his bodyguard, Rasoul, join you during the next couple of days.”

  “Oh dear,” Rajavi said. “We’ll have to padlock the drinks locker. That won’t go down well with the kind of crew I run.”

  “It could be worse,” the Master said. “You stop at plenty of ports, there’s leave.”

  “I suppose so, but I don’t know how the crew is going to take a spoiled young man like Yousef, a drunk who’s only avoided prison for rape because the girls were bought off by Daddy.”

  “So why not put him to work?” the Master said.

  “He’d break an arm or a leg before we knew what was happening, especially if he still had access to booze.” Rajavi snorted. “You know what drunks are like.”

  “Of course,” the Master said. “On the other hand, he might do us all a favor and break his neck.”

/>   There was silence for a moment, then Rajavi said, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Let me explain. However unpleasant, Emza Khan is important to our cause because of his billions, his connection with the Iranian government, and the status this gives him in Washington and London. His two sons killed in the war with Iraq is a matter for sorrow, but also pride, as is his relationship with one of Iran’s greatest war heroes, Colonel Declan Rashid. The only fly in the ointment is Yousef himself, for rather obvious and disgusting reasons. Our cause could do without him. Do I make myself plain?”

  “Very much so,” David Rajavi told him.

  “Excellent,” the Master said. “Call Emza Khan and make the arrangements.”

  “Consider it done,” Rajavi said and, when the Master had gone, lit a cigarette and sat there thinking about it.

  Abu, the bosun, said, “Trouble, Captain?”

  “It could be,” Rajavi said. “We’ve got to pick up a passenger and his minder somewhere during the voyage, and the nearest way I can describe him to you is an alcoholic schoolboy who can’t keep his pants buttoned. The problem is what to do with him.”

  Abu roared with laughter. “It’s simple, Captain, throw him overboard.”

  Rajavi shook his head. “You’ve no idea how much sense that makes, Abu.” He picked up his mobile and called Emza Khan.

  —

  At Highfield Court, Sara was in her bedroom busy packing when there was a knock on the door and Sadie Cohen looked in. “Daniel’s downstairs on Skype in your granddad’s study. The rabbi’s out, by the way, and not due back until late.”

  Sara hurried down the stairs, went into the study, and sat in front of the screen on the large Victorian desk. Daniel, still dressed as a Turareg, stared out at her. There was some faint shooting in the background and a distant explosion. He was unshaven, dirty and sweating, eyes wild.

  “Daniel, you look so tired,” she said.

  “Never mind that,” he told her. “Ferguson’s just told me about you, Dillon, and Billy flying off to Ras Kasar tomorrow.”