by Jack Higgins
The waiter produced half a bottle of vodka with a Russian label and the transaction took place.
“Allah will reward you for this,” Rasoul said. “My relatives will thank you.”
“No need for that,” the waiter said. “I believe in your money, not the story.”
The vodka caught the back of Rasoul’s throat and he coughed harshly. When it subsided, he started drinking again, quickly disposing of half the bottle. He felt as if he was floating but so clearheaded. It had been wrong to think as he had done. Emza Khan needed to be told of Yousef’s death. It was only right. He found his mobile and punched in the number.
—
It was midnight. Dr. Aziz was just about to administer an injection when Khan’s mobile rang. “Get that for me,” he said.
Aziz did, listened, then handed it to him. “Rasoul.”
Khan was stunned—neither Yousef nor Rasoul was supposed to call—then prepared his face and held out his hand. “News at last. Allah is merciful!”
Aziz retreated to the sitting room. He was closing the old-fashioned Gladstone bag containing his medical equipment when he heard a howl of agony, and Emza Khan appeared in the bedroom door, clutching the mobile.
“Yousef is dead!” He was holding out the mobile.
Shocked, the Indian took it from him and said, “This is Aziz. Are you sure?”
“Oh yes, murdered by a bitch from hell on the Kantara. It was the British Army officer from Paris.”
“Where are you now?”
“Algeria on a night train to Oran. I’ll be there tomorrow if everything goes smoothly. I’ll have more information then. Understand, the whole business must stay confidential, especially the fact that I am alive.”
“Of course.”
Aziz had never experienced the raw pain that poured out of Khan as the doctor led him back to bed. “My son is dead,” he croaked, and appeared to be choking. “What am I going to do?”
Aziz pushed him back onto the bed, primed a syringe with a knockout drug from his bag, and injected it into Khan’s left wrist. Khan tried to sit up, and Aziz eased him back. “For several hours, the pain will cease to exist. Your problem and mine, as your doctor, is what to do when you are awake.”
Khan gazed at him blankly, then his eyes closed. Aziz left him, let himself out, and went down in the lift to the basement garage. George Hagen, the night porter, was just cleaning the windows of the doctor’s Mini Cooper with a chamois leather.
“Cup of tea, Doctor?”
“Not this time, George, I’ve got to return soon to keep an eye on him.” He took out his mobile, walked to the entrance, and called the night sister at the clinic. “I’m on my way. Mr. Khan has just heard that his son passed away in unfortunate circumstances. I’ve had to knock him out for a few hours.”
“Very well, Doctor. Just let us know if there’s anything we need to do.”
He returned to the Mini Cooper. “Thanks, George, I’ll be back.”
He drove away, deep in thought. Hagen was deep in thought, too. A Dubliner who had served in the Irish Guards, he had enjoyed a close relationship with Colonel Declan Rashid, who had saved him from being sacked by a drunken Yousef on a number of occasions. This had led to an arrangement between them, for Hagen to call Declan if anything unusual happened in the Khan household.
Hagen had already passed on the news of Yousef’s most recent brush with the law and the way he and Rasoul had dropped out of sight. Having overheard the doctor’s conversation at the clinic, it was obvious that he should pass this tragic news on, too. But he was too early, with Rashid in Iran. He’d give it a while yet.
—
Back in her bedroom at the Paradise Club, Sara stripped, tossed her jumpsuit and underwear into a laundry basket, then stood under the hottest shower she could stand, washing the ship smell from her body, soaking away the tension. When she held up her hands, there still wasn’t even a hint of a shake. After what she’d done to Yousef and Abu, how could that be normal? Dillon had said it proved her to be a warrior. She pushed the thought away, went downstairs, and found Dillon and Billy sitting at a corner table on the terrace with Adano.
She sat down, looked out to sea, and the Kantara wasn’t even a light on the horizon. “So she’s fled into the night,” Sara said. “And, frankly, I’m starving.”
“Taken care of,” Adano told her as the waiters arrived. “Smoked salmon, chopped onions, and scrambled eggs. I thought you might enjoy something light after your endeavors.”
“Enjoy,” Dillon told her, pouring more champagne. “And afterward, we have a surprise for you.”
“And what would that be?” she asked.
“Courtesy of Andrew Adano, we’re talking to Ferguson and Roper on Skype in an hour.”
—
Roper and Ferguson sat side by side and Adano crowded in with Sara, Dillon, and Billy.
Ferguson said, “First, can I thank you, Andrew, for looking after my people in the way you have? It’s deeply appreciated.”
“My pleasure, General.”
“Now, Sara,” Ferguson said. “What happened to this man, Rasoul?”
“He broke down in sheer terror after I’d killed Yousef,” Sara said. “So I threw him out of the captain’s cabin. He must be somewhere on the ship.”
“Was it necessary to kill Yousef?”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” she said. “I did the world a favor. He was a walking pustule.”
“Perhaps you should have disposed of Rasoul while you were at it,” Ferguson told her. “But never mind.”
Sara said quickly, “There’s a matter I’d like to raise before you go, General.”
“And what’s that, Captain?”
“We’ve established beyond doubt that Kantara is a tool of al-Qaeda. So why were Yousef and Rasoul on that ship? It raises a question about Emza Khan, doesn’t it?”
“It does indeed, and I can assure you, that point will be discussed at Cabinet Office level at Downing Street. Major Roper and I intend to get to the bottom of it as soon as we can. That’s all I can say at the moment.”
A mobile alarm suddenly sounded, and Billy took out his Codex and checked it. “If I could have a word, General, before you go. I’ve rather wasted your time listening to you all.”
“What on earth are you talking about,” Ferguson demanded.
“The Semtex you provided in the Gulfstream seat and the timers of assorted lengths? I was wearing a backpack when I boarded the Kantara and made the watchman show me where the arms were. I left two blocks of Semtex in the bulkhead.”
“Oh my God,” Ferguson said. “Tell me.”
“A five-hour timer pencil in each one.” The Codex beeped again and he held it up. “Wonderful gadgets these. Five hours exactly. I think you’ll find that’s good night Vienna to the Kantara.”
Ferguson turned to Roper, “Could you check on that, Major?”
There was a slight smile on Roper’s face. “You’re a young bastard, Billy Salter.”
“Always have been.”
“Damn his eyes, he can’t even have a drink on it,” Dillon said.
Billy grinned. “No, but my friends can. Sleep well, General.” He reached over and switched off.
—
It was five o’clock London time when George Hagen tried Colonel Declan Rashid on his mobile and found him at his Tehran apartment. Declan was in uniform, ready for a day at the War Office, and was just about to leave.
“I’ve not got much time, George,” he said. “I’ve a meeting with the minister. Can it wait?”
“I don’t think so, Colonel. The thing is, Yousef’s dead and Mr. Khan’s in a bad way.”
Declan was shocked. “When did this happen?”
Hagen told him everything he knew, which wasn’t much, concluding with the information that Aziz had returned to the apartment and was there now. Declan said, “You were right to let me know.”
He hung up, then phoned the War Office and made his
excuses, then called London. A woman answered who proved to be a nurse, and Declan told her to put Dr. Aziz on the phone.
“Colonel Rashid,” Aziz said. “Rasoul told me to keep it all confidential, especially about him still being alive, but obviously that wouldn’t apply to you. I’ve had to drug Emza Khan quite heavily.”
“But how did this happen and where? You must know something.”
“Yousef was to face several severe driving charges committed while terribly drunk. This time there was a prospect of prison, and then he absconded from my clinic, which made his re-arrest inevitable. To avoid this, Rasoul took him away.”
“And the idea was that Emza Khan could say he had no idea where they had gone and be believed? I don’t think the police would buy that.”
“I can assure you that I did, Colonel, I have my license to consider,” Aziz said. “I had not the slightest idea where they were until Rasoul called here with his terrible news.”
“And why were you there?”
“Emza Khan has been constantly unwell. I was treating him when Rasoul called with the bad news, which he refused to believe and passed the phone to me.”
“And what did Rasoul say?”
“I’ll never forget it. That they had been on a ship called the Kantara and that Yousef had been murdered by a bitch from hell, a British Army officer that he and Emza had met in Paris.”
Declan Rashid was thunderstruck. “You are sure of this?” A stupid question, because he knew already that Aziz must have been to have said it.
“Oh yes,” Aziz said. “I’ll remember it till my dying day.”
“Okay, but don’t tell Rasoul you’ve spoken to me. We’ll keep this between us.” The colonel turned off his mobile, then sat down at his computer.
He had access to a great deal of classified information, and when he inserted Kantara, there it was on a list of vessels known to deliver arms by night in Lebanese and Syrian waters, and it was suspected of a link to al-Qaeda. But there was more—news of a ship exploding and going to the bottom off the Cyprus coast. Wreckage had clearly proved it to be the Kantara. Swift justice indeed by someone who was obviously anti-al-Qaeda, and it could only mean British Intelligence and Ferguson.
So where did that leave Emza Khan? And what about the involvement of Sara Gideon? Certainly not a bitch from hell, so there was a lot more to the story than that. He went and stood staring out of the window, thinking of her, but also trying to make sense out of a situation that didn’t seem to have any sense to it at all.
At that moment, his mobile sounded. It was General Ali ben Levi calling from the War Office. “The minister is expecting you, Colonel, are you aware of that?”
“Profound apologies, General,” Declan said. “I’ll be there quite quickly.”
“I’d advise it, Colonel, it’s a matter of grave urgency,” ben Levi said. “I’ve sent a limousine.”
“I’m on my way.”
Declan got his briefcase, left his apartment, and made for the elevator. Emza Khan, the Kantara with al-Qaeda associations, Yousef and Rasoul and Sara Gideon—they were all in his thoughts far too much. What was he getting into here and what could the minister expect of him? At least he’d soon find out.
LONDON
IRAN
BEIRUT
10
In spite of the early hour, Roper completed an incisive account of the Kantara affair and forwarded it to the Cabinet Office, where the Cabinet secretary, Henry Frankel, another night owl, devoured it and forwarded it to the Prime Minister, which led to a command performance for Charles Ferguson at Downing Street at 6:45 a.m. This meant that Ferguson, who had spent the night at Holland Park, was forced to rise at 5:30. He went to the computer room and found Roper roaming world news and drinking tea, the room, as usual, thick with cigarette smoke.
“Ridiculous bloody time for anyone to have to get up,” Ferguson said, helping himself to tea. “The Prime Minister must be mad. What is our faithful troops in Algeria’s next move?”
“They’ve already made it,” Roper said. “One hour ahead of us. They rose at the crack of dawn, said farewell to Ras Kasar, and are well on the way to Majorca. I’ve alerted Lacey and Parry, the Gulfstream will be fueled up and ready to go. Allowing for weather, they should be back here late afternoon.”
“Excellent. They can get straight on to a thorough examination of Emza Khan’s past,” Ferguson said. “But I’d better be off. Can’t keep the Prime Minister waiting.”
—
Ferguson found Henry Frankel sitting outside the Prime Minister’s study, reading a file. He glanced up and smiled. “Roper’s account of the Kantara affair. Marvelous stuff, the Prime Minister read it twice. You look a little strained, Charles.”
“Not my idea of fun, this time in the morning, Henry. I haven’t had my breakfast.”
“I make no apology, the PM’s got an unbelievably full day. Now, let’s go in.”
—
Frankel poured coffee for all of them, and the Prime Minister said, “Fascinating report, remarkable performances from Dillon and Sara Gideon. Young Salter’s a cheeky sod, discovering the arms like that. He might have told you sooner, but then I suppose his background is rather unusual.”
“You mean his years as a gangster?” Ferguson said. “That was then, now he’s a valued member of the Secret Intelligence Service. And things were happening rather quickly out there. He saved us from having to pursue Kantara to Cyprus-Syrian waters to dispose of her.”
“So there’s no doubt it was Kantara which went down?”
“No doubt at all.”
“Do you think this might cause a question in the House of Commons?”
“I don’t see why. These waters are a war zone, plenty of ships dumping arms at night. The Kantara was just another casualty.”
The Prime Minister held up Roper’s report. “And Dillon, Salter, and Captain Gideon are convinced this Captain Rajavi was al-Qaeda?”
“Absolutely,” Ferguson said.
“And Yousef and Rasoul went down with the ship?”
“Not Yousef. He died in a hand-to-hand fight with Captain Gideon.”
“Good God,” the Prime Minister said. “Was that really necessary?”
“The name of the game,” Ferguson said. “And Rasoul ran for it.”
“Do you think he managed to get to shore?”
“I don’t see how. We left in the only available boat, and it was too far to swim.”
“So he must have perished with the rest of the crew?”
“I’d say so.”
“So what were they doing on the Kantara?”
“Yousef was running away from the threat of prison, Rasoul must have been looking after him.”
“And where does Emza Khan fit into all this?”
“Yousef disappeared from the clinic where he was receiving treatment. Khan insisted to the police that he had no knowledge of his son’s whereabouts.”
“How would he explain their presence on an al-Qaeda boat?” the Prime Minister asked.
“I imagine he would blame his man, Rasoul, insist he had no knowledge of Rasoul’s links to al-Qaeda. Iran wouldn’t touch al-Qaeda with a bargepole, and Khan has always supported that attitude.”
“Will they still believe him?”
“I think so,” Ferguson said. “Khan’s always been very vocal on the matter, a pillar of attack against al-Qaeda. But—”
Henry Frankel cut in, “Yes, but. Didn’t somebody say that if you exhausted all sensible and logical explanations to any problem, then the answer had to be the most improbable?”
“Yes, I’ve heard something like that,” the Prime Minister said. “But what are you saying?”
“That he lied to the police about not knowing where his son and his servant had gone. That it was no coincidence the Kantara was the boat they chose. He’s as guilty as sin.”
Ferguson smiled. “I completely agree.”
The Prime Minister smiled back. “Never cared for him anyway.” H
e leaned across and shook hands. “Now you must excuse me.”
In the corridor outside, Henry Frankel grinned and said, “Oh, I did like that.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got forty minutes. Toast and marmalade, two boiled eggs, choice of coffee or tea. Can I send you away happy?”
“Just lead the way,” Ferguson said and followed him downstairs.
—
He was in a cheerful mood when he returned to Holland Park and told Roper what had been discussed at Downing Street.
“That’s fine,” Roper said. “But remember that as far as Tehran is concerned, there are other ways to look at this. That Khan’s well-known drunk of a son absconded rather than face the humiliation of a police court makes Emza an object of pity. The fact that his servant, Rasoul, vanished with Yousef could be admired as an example of Arab loyalty.”
“Fair enough, but I want to create a real profile of the man. Go through his computer, access his diary. If you dig deep enough, there’s bound to be some sort of indication of his nastier side. Where exactly is he now, home?”
“No, the Aziz clinic. He’s been diagnosed with insomnia, panic attacks, and bouts of depression.”
“My heart bleeds for him. Are the telephones on our side?”
“Oh yes, so we can snoop on the landlines, but what about the mobiles? Our Codex Fours are encrypted. Don’t tell me al-Qaeda hasn’t got something similar.”
“Understood. Meantime, we have assets who are agency nurses. Get one in to keep an eye on him.”
—
In fact, Emza Khan, after a troubled night, had opted for an early breakfast. Afterward, although it was raining, he had borrowed a raincoat and umbrella and was walking in the clinic gardens, hoping to clear his head, when his mobile phone trembled in his pocket. As Roper had surmised, it was encrypted, a present from al-Qaeda.
The Master said, “There are no words to express my sorrow at the loss of your son. All I can say is it was his time.”
Emza Khan sobbed for a moment, so great was his emotion. “Bless you, Master, for your kindness, but all I feel is my need for revenge, not only on that whore who murdered him but on Ferguson and all his people.”
