The Death Trade (15 page)

“Not really,” Dillon told her. “This is Algeria. In a place like this, they're usually ten miles down the coast dealing with something else, or pretending they are.” They were close in now, and he called, “She's safe and sound, and guess what? We've brought you a present of a ship's tender.”

—

T
he Land Rover drove them back to the hotel. It was suddenly very quiet on the water, no one around at all. The tarpaulins in the tender heaved, and Rasoul stood up and walked away, vanishing into the shadows beside the pier.

He had money, a passport, and a mobile phone, but the prospect of calling Emza Khan to tell him that his son had been stabbed to death by Captain Sara Gideon was more than he could handle for the moment. Listening to men in the crew on
Kantara
speaking of Ras Kasar, there had been mention of the coastal railway passing only three miles inland. He would make for that, a ticket for Oran, and then a flight to London. His problem was what to do when he eventually reached there, but he pushed that thought away and continued to walk.

—

O
n the
Kantara
,
Rajavi returned to the captain's cabin with four armed sailors and was met only with carnage. Yousef lay there in a pool of blood, and it was a badly damaged Abu who unbolted the door to the wheelhouse.

Stagg was smoking his pipe at the wheel, his face remarkably cheerful in the light of the binnacle. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “Trying to do something about Abu. He can't stop moaning. I've changed to the emergency course, so I could do with somebody to spell me.”

Rajavi nodded to one of the men. “Take the wheel, Selim.” He added to Stagg, “Have you seen what's happened to the son?”

Stagg went into the cabin with him, looked down at Yousef, and shook his head. “The woman will have been responsible for that. She came in here like a raging maniac and shot off part of Abu's ear.”

“You'll find what you need to patch him up in the bathroom,” Rajavi told him.

“Right, I'll see to it,” Stagg said. “But what about young Yousef?”

“We've got body bags. These guys can put him in one. We'll hang on till we're another few miles farther out, then he gets the deep six.”

“Fine. I'll take charge of that for you,” Stagg said. “What are you going to tell his father?”

“I don't know. There's someone else I need to inform first, and anyway, I've got a more immediate problem. The man, Rasoul, doesn't seem to be around.” Rajavi frowned. “Just a minute.” He quickly searched his desk. “He's gone, dammit.”

“How do you know?” Stagg asked.

“The bag with the passports and cash isn't where I left it. Rasoul must have found it and cleared off.”

“The Brits left in the ship's tender,” Stagg said. “Maybe Rasoul concealed himself on board.”

“What does it matter?” Rajavi said. “This whole trip's been bad luck for us. Let's get the hell out of here.”

—

H
e went up on the top deck, breathing in the good salt air to clear his head, then smoked a cigarette for a while. It was a mess, whichever way you looked at it, but there was no point trying to avoid the inevitable any longer. He stepped back into a doorway as it started to rain and called the Master.

As usual, the reply was instant. “Yes?”

“Rajavi.
I have nothing but bad news for you.”

“Then tell me.”

Rajavi did.

When he was finished, there was a pause, then the Master said, “Well, Ferguson and his people certainly have been busy. So, Yousef is dead, Emza Khan doesn't know, and this man, Rasoul, seems to have disappeared.”

“He's certainly not on this ship, Master.”

“All right. Tell me, to all intents and purposes, is there any reason the
Kantara
can't go about her ordinary and legitimate business?”

“None at all.”

“No one has reason to inspect you for illegal arms?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good. Who else knows about the emergency course for Turkish Cyprus?”

“The chief engineer and the bosun, that's all. And they're entirely reliable.”

“All right,” the Master said. “You have my blessing. Keep in touch.”

—

R
ajavi looked down as a door on the lower deck opened and Abu appeared, his ear heavily bandaged, followed by four seamen carrying Yousef in a black bag on a stretcher. Walking behind them was Conrad Stagg, holding an umbrella.

Abu paused, glanced up, and saw Rajavi. “Permission to carry on, Captain?”

Stagg looked up and Rajavi saw that he held a Bible in his left hand. He called up, “Aren't you going to join us, Captain?”

Rajavi could have made the point that Yousef was a Muslim and a Christian Bible was not the Koran, but what did it matter in the grand scheme of things? All that was important was to do the decent thing, and he went down the steps and joined them on the lower deck.

—

R
asoul sat in a first-class apartment of the night train to Oran, brooding. He was going to have to speak to Emza Khan at some point but simply couldn't face it. A waiter entered, a tray around his neck, with cups, holding a pot with one hand.

“Coffee,
effendi
?”

“Have you anything stronger?” Rasoul asked.

“It's against regulations.”

The lies flowed easily. “I go to Oran to comfort my brother and his wife. Their son has died of cancer, only fourteen years old.” He took out a twenty-dollar bill.

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.

—

I
t 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.

—

B
ack 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.”

—

R
oper 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.

—

I
t 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.”