The Killing Ground

by Jack Higgins

  “Do I take that as a compliment?” Ruby asked.

  “Absolutely. Now shut up.” He turned to Harry. “We’re going to Baghdad again.”

  “Wonderful,” Harry said. “The troops are coming home, but my nephew and some wild Irishman have to do the exact opposite.”

  “It’s worthwhile.” He went through the details. “The girl is just a kid, thirteen, for Christ’s sake, so if Roper has worked a way we might pull it off, then I’m for it. Frankly, the more I think of that kid and what her future is likely to be, the more I’m inclined to go for it.” He got up. “I’m going to bed now, before I fall down.”

  He went out, there was silence, and Harry said, “Very stubborn, my nephew. What would you say, Ruby?”

  “I’d say he needs a good night’s sleep.” She carried the coffee things to the bar. “But I’d also like to say that I think he’s marvelous, and on that, I’m going to bed, too.”

  And she walked out.

  * * * *

  HAMPSTEAD AT SIX O’CLOCK in the morning, Greta Novikova was moving through rain-soaked streets that were relatively empty. A Mini Cooper, dark blue, a couple of years old, was what she preferred, the engine lethal. The house was easy enough to find, with its large, old-fashioned Edwardian railings. She called Roper.

  “I’m here.”

  “I’ll give her a nudge,” and after a few moments she heard over a voice box, “Gate opening.”

  It revealed a fine driveway lined by poplars, a gracious Edwardian house standing at the far end, with terraces and French windows.

  Greta had left her phone on. “Fantastic. That’s worth four or five million, easily.”

  “Clever lady, four and a half. But when his great-grandfather bought the place it went for one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. Gasp away, that’s inflation on the housing market for you.”

  Molly Rashid opened the front door at the top of the terrace steps, her hand outstretched. “Major Novikova. Welcome.”

  “It’s so beautiful.”

  “The house? Oh, we’re very happy here. My husband worships the place and so does my daughter.”

  It was as if everything was normal. Greta looked around, noticing dramatic paintings everywhere, and Yorkshire stone on the floor, which from the warmth was heated underneath.

  “Kitchen’s at the end of the corridor,” Molly said. “I’ll make us a brew unless you would prefer coffee.”

  “I’m Russian, remember, a tea person.”

  “It’s so useful having a husband who is a Bedouin. Rashids are great tea drinkers. Go on, five minutes. Poke your nose anywhere. See if you can see why there’s no bathroom in the main bedroom.”

  Greta moved quite quickly from bedroom to bedroom, several bathrooms and dressing rooms, all beautifully decorated, a cheerful full-size stuffed bear standing on the landing.

  Finally, she reached the master bedroom, which was a work of art, with a superb dressing room next door. She returned to the bedroom and looked thoughtfully at the wardrobe mirrored doors. She opened them one by one, and suddenly a section swung back disclosing a hidden bathroom, a joy in contrasting marbles. She went downstairs, to find Molly sitting at one of the bar stools dispensing tea. “How did you get on?”

  “I found it, after a thorough search. It’s a refuge, I presume?”

  “Well, I’ve never had to use it in that way. The idea of needing it for such a purpose fills me with alarm. Why does it have to be us?”

  “Your husband is a man of some distinction in the world, therefore of great use for the dark side of the Muslim world. Positive publicity would emerge if he went public supporting extremism. Instead, he turns away from his faith, spurns it. That makes him a traitor in their world. Fundamentalists, or many of them, do not wish to acknowledge their Britishness, even when born here.” She got up. “I think we better get moving.”

  A few minutes later, they were drawing out of the main gate. “How far did you say it was to Abu’s shop?”

  “Five minutes, that’s all. The traffic at that time of night is very sparse. We’ll actually pass it, so I’ll show you.” She did, pulling to a halt on the other side of the road. There was a yellow painted van parked outside the shop, with a sign that said CLEANSING DEPARTMENT. Two men stood beside it with Arabic features and yellow oilskins, not surprising because of the rain, and then a third man in a yellow oilskin appeared, pushing a yellow painted wheelie bin, spades and brushes falling out of it. They exchanged words, and the van drove away.

  “Now that’s strange,” Molly said.

  “What is?”

  “That third man was Abu. He’s supposed to be on shift today.”

  “Maybe he works a second job,” Greta said, but she didn’t believe that for a moment. “I’ll call Roper,” she said.

  She did, and he returned her call fifteen minutes later. “You’re getting nervous, ladies. They’ve got half a dozen vans traveling the area and checking drains. It’s a monthly exercise.”

  “All right,” Greta said. “We’ll see you soon, then. What about breakfast?”

  “Taken care of. Tony’s Café round the corner in Arch Street. Takeaway delivery. Congealed scrambled egg, bacon, toast long since past its best. I’d like to take someone on to cook, but I haven’t the authority. I also lack the genius that allows General Charles Ferguson, DSO, Military Cross, to select middle-aged women with rosy cheeks to run a successful canteen, like Mrs. Grant did. Unfortunately, she’s gone to a better place, or wasn’t that her funeral I went to three weeks ago?”

  “You’re mad, Roper,” Greta said.

  “I have been ever since I met you, dear girl. It’s a privilege to serve you. Until then…”

  Greta was laughing hugely. “He’s such a fool.”

  “All bluff,” Molly said.

  “Oh, yes, there’s no hope. All those lives he saved and what was his return? A burned face and severed spine. Shrapnel still in five places. A wife who dumped him. It’s true. Dillon told me when we were drinking too much one night. Apparently, she simply couldn’t cope.”

  “She was young, weak and vulnerable. It happens. To have done what he has is proof that Major Roper is a remarkable man. Don’t think that beneath the surface, there must be a man who is cursed by his suffering. He is a survivor.”

  “Tell me about it. You’re a nice lady with a good heart. I, on the other hand, served in Chechnya, Afghanistan and Iraq. I still haven’t discovered what that means about me. When I have, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Molly said.

  “Don’t be. In a strange way, I rather enjoyed it. I wonder what that makes me?” and she turned into the safe house and waited for the gate.

  * * * *

  THE BREAKFAST FROM TONY’S was delivered to Sergeant Doyle in a vacuum-packed carrying box, and he allowed Molly to join her husband in his cell. The others made do with the committee table in the conference room. After they were all done, Roper asked the Rashids to join them in the conference room.

  “We’ll finish our coffee in a civilized way and then I’ll fill you all in,” he said. “I’m expecting a couple of people who are essential if we’re ever going to get off the ground.”

  A moment later, the doorbell sounded and Sergeant Doyle returned with two fit-looking men in leather bomber jackets. The RAF mustaches said it all. Greetings were exchanged and Roper made the introductions.

  “Squadron Leader Lacey, AFC, and Flight Lieutenant Parry, AFC. They’ll be flying the Gulfstream. They specialize in operations for our outfit.”

  “Anything and everything,” Lacey said.

  Dillon, who had a flask of Bushmills in his pocket, took it out, unscrewed the cap and toasted them. “There’s just one small correction. It seems that our two distinguished pilots have not one but two Air Force Crosses apiece.”

  They both looked at him dumbfounded.

  “Harry always reads the Times. It appears you’ve been gazetted in this morning’s issue, something about covert
operations. Can’t imagine where they got that from,” Billy said.

  Dillon said, “To many more happy landings,” and raised the flask.

  Many more congratulations followed, until Roper opened a briefcase and took out a document pouch. “All right, Squadron Leader, this is for you. Flight details to Baghdad. It’s rather like that job we did a year and a half ago. Your passengers are Billy and Dillon. The purpose of the trip is contained in that file. You’ll wait for them, and on the return there’ll be one other passenger, a thirteen-year-old girl being held under restraint in Iraq. Dillon and Billy will recover her and bring her back home.”

  Lacey said, “The situation in Baghdad is still very rough. In the last two weeks, seven helicopters have been downed. Naturally, we’ll do our best, though.”

  “We know you will.”

  “When, sir?”

  “I’d say within the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Right, Major. Anything more?”

  Roper put a little mystery into his voice. “Squadron Leader, you will have seen many war films where the hero, being asked to do some deed of daring, is told it could win the war for us. Well, this is rather like that. There are security repercussions that would be hugely favorable for us if we can pull it off.”

  They took that very seriously indeed. “Just let us get on with it. We’ll get straight up to Farley now.”

  * * * *

  DILLON TURNED TO RASHID. “Caspar, you should know that Billy and I had dealings with the Rashid tribe ourselves the other year. With Paul, the Earl of Loch Dhu, and his sister, Lady Kate, both of them in turn, the leaders of the tribe.”

  “When they were still alive,” Billy put in.

  Caspar stiffened. “Did you have anything to do with that? The events were a huge shock to the people.”

  “It nearly cost them a railway bridge,” Billy said. “You probably know it-the Bacu? Spans a five-hundred-foot gorge, constructed during World War Two. The bridge almost got blown up.”

  Rashid was most disturbed. “The earl and his sister were killed. That was you?”

  “My friend, you’re not telling us your secrets, why should I tell you ours?”

  “Incredible view from the bridge,” Billy said.

  Molly said slowly, “Are you trying to tell us you executed them?”

  “Notice the interesting scar on Billy’s face?” said Dillon. “That was Kate Rashid, as well as two bullets in the pelvic girdle and another in the neck. I know the rights and wrongs of these things are difficult to handle, but that’s the way it was. Believe me when I tell you, they were very bad people. Perhaps you should retire to your husband’s holding cell and try to come to terms with it.”

  Roper said, “And we are the good guys, Doctor. Confusing, isn’t it?”

  * * * *

  DOYLE APPEARED to escort them and Roper said, “You might as well sit in on this, Greta. The Rashid Villa is north of the city in Amara, and thanks to the genius of my equipment, I can show you it now. Amazing what we owe to the satellite. Look and marvel, children.”

  The villa was obviously the home of a wealthy man. There was no sign of bomb damage, it was surrounded by palm trees in clumps, and there was a sizable orange grove, plus lemons and olives. Boats drifted along the Tigris. “All very peaceful.”

  “You’d never think a war was going on,” Billy said. “Look carefully. Some women on the house terrace. Go through the orange and lemon groves. At least half a dozen male workers and the main gate is fortified. Three men down there, and I’ll bet those rifles they are carrying are AKs. A few tents in the grounds, though.”

  “Tough nut to crack.”

  “But not impossible.” On the river, a forty-foot speedboat flashed past. “Because of the state of things in the city, the boat business is booming. It avoids roadside bombs. Ex-Navy guys, SAS, former Green Berets, are all at it.”

  “Who have you got?” Dillon demanded.

  “A rogue named Jack Savage. He was a sergeant-major in the Special Boat Service, Royal Marines. Used to specialize in operations against the IRA during the Irish troubles, knocking off trawlers and the like running guns in the Irish Sea. I’ve negotiated an extremely large fee, for which he’ll organize everything. You’ll meet him in Baghdad.”

  “Where?”

  “A club down by the river. He owns it in partnership with a wife named Rawan Savage, originally Rawan Feleyah, she’s Druze. He’s named it the River Room. Tells me it reminds him of the Savoy. I’ve filled him in on the situation. He’ll have the right sort of plan worked out.”

  “You mean an approach from the Tigris?”

  “He and other vessels travel up and down, particularly at night, on good business and bad.”

  Dillon nodded and turned to Billy. “Run me down to Wapping. Let’s fill Harry in. You know he likes that.”

  “He’ll try and come, too,” warned Billy, “He’s done that before.”

  “Tell me about it.” Dillon said to Greta, “You’d better try to prise the good doctor from her husband.”

  Greta went to their room, and Molly and Caspar rose to greet her. “Time to go. You won’t be seeing each other again until this whole thing is over. How do you feel about that?”

  “As Allah wills,” he said.

  “For a man who doesn’t follow his religion, you reflect on Allah a lot.”

  “You could be right, but we are all at the mercy of events. This will be a violent affair?”

  “If things go right, it could go very simply.”

  “And if they go wrong, people will die. Even Sara could die.”

  “There are always risks. But let me tell you about the man you’re dealing with, Sean Dillon. He was the most feared enforcer the Provisional IRA ever had.”

  “And what went wrong?”

  “During the war in Bosnia, he flew a private plane into Serbia carrying medical supplies for children. He was shot down and facing death when Charles Ferguson arrived. Ferguson blackmailed Dillon into joining his organization, and then did a deal with his captors.”

  “What kind of people inhabit your world?” Molly Rashid asked in a kind of horror.

  “People who are prepared to do whatever is necessary. We must go. You said you were on call at the hospital.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Do you want to visit the house?”

  “No, not really. I have everything I need.”

  “Good, I’ll drop you, then check to see that all is well. I’ll see you again at the end of the afternoon. I have your mobile number.”

  The rest of the journey passed in silence. At the hospital, Molly Rashid took the umbrella she was offered, opened it and stood looking down. “You must have killed people yourself.”

  “Many times,” Greta said serenely. “I’m in the death business; but then so are you. I’d have thought you’d have got used to it by now.”

  Molly Rashid smiled sadly. “I imagined I was in the life business, but it seems I was misinformed.”

  She turned toward the hospital entrance and Abu came out and down the steps. “Abu,” she called. “Where are you going? I thought you were on duty?”

  He smiled at them both. “Ladies. No, I’ve got this afternoon off. A friend is picking me up,” and at that moment the yellow van appeared, carrying just the driver, an Arab with a pockmarked face. “This is Jamal. I often help him in my spare time.”

  Jamal, who looked like the kind of man who was permanently angry, nodded unwillingly, Abu climbed in beside him, and they drove away. Greta said to Molly, “I’ll see you later,” and followed them.

  The traffic was light at that time of the afternoon and, on a hunch, she drove straight to the Rashids’ house, parked in the garage and locked the door. She went upstairs to the highest window in the house and only a few minutes later, she could see the yellow van pause across the road as Abu got out and came across and the van moved away and parked under the trees.

  Greta nodded. Better to let Abu make a forced entra
nce. Information on Caspar Rashid? That must be what he was after. She listened to the sudden crash of a pantry window, then retreated to the master bedroom and concealed herself in the refuge.

  She could hear him moving around and finally entering the bedroom. Then he used his mobile phone and spoke in Arabic to Jamal. Thanks to her service in Iraq, she spoke fair Arabic herself.

  “There’s no one here. No, wait for me, you have your orders. I’m going to search the study, see if I can find anything for Professor Khan. Just stay by the canal.”

  Greta took her Walther from the waist holster and twisted the Cars-well silencer on the muzzle. She stepped out into the corridor. He was toward the far end, a pistol hanging in his right hand.

  “Surprise, surprise,” she said softly in Arabic. “Nice of you to call. Dr. Rashid is not at home, but I’m her minder.”

  He swung round, thunderstruck, and for a moment seemed dazed. She continued in English. “Caspar Rashid isn’t at home, either: we’ve got him, which must make you Army of God people mad as hell. And who’s Professor Khan?”

  It was like an explosion, his face contorted, his hand started to lift, and she shot him between the eyes, a dull thud, and he fell backward, dead instantly.

  She followed procedure as she had been taught, got through to Roper on her Codex Four.

  “Where are you? What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a disposal. I’m at the Rashid house alone. The Abu boy broke in armed. I’d no choice.”

  “They’ll be on their way immediately. He’ll be six pounds of gray ash at the crematorium in a matter of hours.”

  “Should I tell her when I see her at the hospital?”

  “If I judge her right, no. She’s not like us. She’s one of the good people. Corpses aren’t part of her world.”

  * * * *

  THEY WERE EXCELLENT, the men in dark suits, they might have been undertakers all their lives. Abu’s head was wrapped, he was body-bagged, and one of the men cleaned the corridor, which luckily was varnished wood.