The Death Trade (17 page)

“A moment, Doctor,” he called.

Aziz glanced back and paused. “Oh, it's you, Rasoul, so you're back. What's up? Is something wrong with Emza Khan?”

“No, Doctor, only with you.”

Rasoul grabbed him, spinning him around, and as Aziz dropped the briefcase, slipped his left arm around to throttle, while the right hand grabbed the chin, jerking sideways with an audible click, breaking the neck. Aziz died instantly. Rasoul eased him down, felt for the wallet, found it and the mobile phone in a breast pocket, turned, and hurried away.

It was little more than five minutes later that the nursing sister finished her shift and, on her way to her car, discovered Aziz lying there. A tour in the Army Medical Corps in Afghanistan had inured her to such situations. A quick check established that Aziz was dead, and she went hurrying back to the clinic to alert security.

—

S
aif emptied the wallet and counted. “One hundred and twenty pounds, a driver's license, and three credit cards.”

“And this.” Rasoul took a mobile phone from his pocket and pushed it across.

“Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” Saif told him.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Rasoul asked.

“It's from the Christian Bible, I was being ironic. You wouldn't understand.” He pushed the money, the cards, and the mobile together. “So this is the measure of a man's life, brought to an end by you. Does that ever worry you?”

“Not in the slightest. I was doing what the big man wanted.”

“And I can tell you now how to really please him. This Billy Salter, who sank the
Kantara
,
lives with his uncle, Harry Salter, in their pub, the Dark Man
by the Thames at Wapping. If you wanted to make your bones with the Master, the death of Salter would definitely help. You still have that Walther I gave you in your pocket, don't you?”

Rasoul nodded, turned, and went out.

—

T
he apparent mugging and murder of Aziz was mentioned on the evening crime statistics from Scotland Yard. Roper saw it and reported it to Ferguson, who was going out to dinner.

“Could it be just be an opportunist mugging that went too far?”

“If so, it'd be an awfully big coincidence. Especially since his neck was broken by an expert.”

“Well, that takes care of that. If you find out any more, let me know.”

Roper called Dillon, too. There was music and voices. “Where are you?” Roper asked.

“At the Dark Man with Harry, Billy, and Sara. What's up?” Roper told him, and Dillon laughed and echoed Roper: “A bit of a coincidence, isn't it? And you know what I think about those. Look, why don't you join us? Get Tony Doyle to bring you down.”

“All right, I will,” Roper said. “I'll be with you in half an hour.”

—

R
asoul got a taxi and left it on Wapping High Street, pausing in the entrance to the lane with the sign that indicated Cable Wharf down by the Thames and Harry Salter's beloved pub, the Dark Man
.

There were still plenty of ancient warehouses awaiting development, and he kept to the shadows, moving down toward where the cars were parked. There was music on the night air, laughter from an open window. He stayed among the vehicles, quite close for a few minutes, then approached a window and peered in. He saw them at once—Dillon, Harry Salter, and Sara—Baxter and Hall, the two minders, propping up the wall. It occurred to him that a hand grenade would have been the end of all of them, but that was not to be.

As he turned away, a van arrived, although it meant nothing to Rasoul, who eased back among the parked vehicles. He watched as the black driver in army uniform honked his horn and operated a hydraulic device, which opened the rear and deposited Roper in his wheelchair.

The door of the pub opened and the others appeared, standing in the light and laughing. Rasoul could have chosen anyone, even the woman, but what Saif had said about the Master and Billy Salter took control. Dillon and Billy were spinning Roper around in the chair, laughing uproariously. Rasoul, down on one knee, fired twice, catching Billy in the back and sending him sprawling. The cough of the silenced weapon had been drowned by the laughter.

It stopped, and they crowded in, sitting Billy up, four of the men between them. Rasoul was more excited than he had ever been, but then Billy was on his feet, someone taking off his jacket, then the shirt and the nylon-and-titanium vest was plain to see.

Rasoul was already easing back into the darkness as pistols were drawn and someone called, “He must have been close. Two rounds in the vest.”

But Rasoul was already fading into the comforting darkness back to the old warehouses, until he finally reached Wapping High Street again, where he flagged down a cab.

—

T
hey sat in the sitting room of the Dark Man,
Billy stripped to the waist while Sara attended to the two heavy bruises on his back. Dillon was holding the vest, extracting one of the two rounds embedded in it, holding it up to the light.

“Walther PPK, unmistakable, silenced version. Lucky you were wearing it, Billy.”

“Dillon, I'm ashamed to say I haven't showered and changed since I put it on in Algeria at the crack of dawn this morning.”

Harry was handing out drinks. “Here's to you, my son,” he told Billy. “Remember the old saying: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Here's to the Wilkinson Sword Company. A work of genius, that vest.”

“But who do you think was behind it, Sean?” Sara asked.

“I think it's all related to Emza Khan and al-Qaeda. I don't believe for a moment that Aziz was mugged. He was executed, just as somebody just tried to execute you, Billy.”

“Al-Qaeda?” Sara asked.

“I'm convinced of it.” Dillon tossed back his Bushmills. “And from now on, I'd say it's titanium vests at all times for everyone here.”

—

A
t Park Lane, George Hagen was well into his night shift when a police car drove in and an energetic man in a trench coat jumped out.

“Detective Inspector Howard, Mr. Khan's expecting me. Where's the lift?” Hagen showed him. Howard called, “Wait here, Sergeant,” then departed for the penthouse.

“Can I ask what's up?” Hagen asked.

“It seems Mr. Khan was a patient at the Aziz clinic,” the sergeant told him and got out of the car.

“That's right. He's only got back this afternoon.”

“Aziz was mugged earlier this evening in the clinic garden on his way to his car. Whoever did it went too far. He's dead.”

“That will shock Mr. Khan. Aziz was his regular doctor, in and out of here all the time. So what's the inspector after with Mr. Khan?”

“Just to see if he'd noticed anyone hanging round in the garden or the cars when he was there, that kind of thing. I think the geezer who did it is long gone and running for his life. Probably wanted a few quid for drugs, now he's facing a life sentence for murder.”

“Well, there's no answer to that,” Hagen said, and the lift door opened and Howard appeared. “Are you his driver?” he asked.

“No, I'm the night porter.”

“Well, keep an eye on him. He's taken the death of this Dr. Aziz to heart.”

“I can imagine he would,” Hagen said. “They were very close.”

“So it would appear. Right, Sergeant, let's get moving.” Howard got in the car, and they moved out into the rain.

—

A
t Pound Street, Saif went down to the kitchen for fresh coffee and Rasoul came in through the back door, wet through and looking miserable.

“So how did you make out? Is Billy Salter dead and gone?” Saif asked.

“No, damn you,” Rasoul said. “But I shot the bastard twice in the back. His friends came running, Dillon, that damn woman, but it turned out he was wearing a vest.”

Saif was surprised. “Well, full marks for trying. I'd say you were lucky to get away.”

He walked to the door, and Rasoul said, “Will you tell the Master?”

“He'll already know,” Saif said. “This city is a sieve, we have sympathizers everywhere. That's why French Intelligence calls it Londistan. Help yourself to coffee, tea, or anything else you fancy.”

He walked back whistling cheerfully.
Poor Rasoul, so near and yet so far.

—

S
ometime after the police had gone, Hagen checked his watch. It would be somewhere after eleven in Tehran. He was going to send a text but decided to try calling, and Declan answered at once, his voice low.

“Who's there?”

“George, Colonel. I have more news. Dr. Aziz murdered by a mugger in the garden of his clinic. Isn't that terrible?”

“But not surprising. I don't think it was a mugger,” Declan said. “But to be frank, I've had a pretty extraordinary day myself, so I've got to go, George.”

George closed his mobile and said softly, “Well, that's a turnup for the book. What in hell is going on?”

T
he minister of war's hair was snow white, his face tanned, and he wore the blue suit and striped tie beloved of politicians the world over. He brushed Declan's apologies to one side and shook hands with enthusiasm.

“A great honor, Colonel Rashid, as always. Let's go outside.”

The windows stood open to the terrace and there was a table under an umbrella. Ali ben Levi rose to meet them. At sixty-four and still soldiering because of the national commitment, he was an imposing figure in paratroop uniform. He and Declan were old comrades.

“As you can see,” the minister said. “We have coffee, sandwiches, fruit, so take what you like, but let me get down to business. As you know, General ben Levi is commander of the army's secret police. I propose to appoint you his second-in-command immediately in the rank of full colonel.”

Declan was bewildered. “Naturally, I'm honored, Minister, but why?”

“Because I don't like the Security Services or the Secret Service, and I prefer to keep military business under my control.”

“What kind of business?” Declan asked.

“The possibility of nuclear war, for example. Simon Husseini—you know him, I understand?”

Declan nodded. “I accompanied Emza Khan to Paris to see Simon Husseini receive the Legion of Honor.”

“And did you meet him to talk to, get to know him, I mean?”

“It was only a weekend, but Khan arranged a cocktail party. We talked, but I didn't really get to know him.”

Declan glanced at ben Levi, who looked solemn, then turned back to the minister. “What is it? What's happened?”

“He's disappeared.”

“You mean cleared off, left everything?” Declan shook his head. “That doesn't make sense. He made it clear to me the distaste he felt for his work, but he planned to soldier on because of his mother and daughter. They're being held under house arrest.”

“Yes, well, they aren't any longer,” the minister said and nodded to ben Levi. “Tell him.”

“They are dead,” the general said.

Declan frowned. “When did this happen?”

“The day he and Wali Vahidi, his bodyguard, got back to Tehran, Husseini returned to the nuclear compound at Qazvin, while Vahidi called in on his mother and daughter. Vahidi was driving them to an appointment when a truck came out of a side road without stopping.” General ben Levi shrugged. “The driver was drunk and Husseini's mother and daughter were killed outright. Vahidi is in the military hospital and not expected to live.”

Declan turned to the minister. “How did Husseini react?”

“The Security Services did not inform him that the two women were dead. To be fair, nobody knew what to do in the circumstances.”

Declan said, “Which meant he was prevented from attending their funerals, am I right?”

General ben Levi said, “The experiment he was engaged in was of absolute critical importance. We're close to production of the bomb the government is placing so much hope on. But now—the situation is different. There is nothing to keep Husseini from fleeing.”

“Which seems to be exactly what he's done.”

“How did he find out what happened?” Declan asked.

General ben Levi passed a letter across. “He sent this to the minister. It says he was lied to when he asked about Vahidi, and then he got an anonymous phone call telling him the truth.”

Declan flipped through. It was all there, the anger and the anguish and the promise that he would make every effort to leave Iran and die trying if that was necessary.

Declan handed the letter back. “I can't say I blame him.”

“Look, I don't like it any more than you do,” the minister said. “And I'm sure I speak for the general, too, but we live in troubled times and do the best we can with the cards we're dealt.”

“I am not a religious man, but the business of the funeral leaves a nasty taste. The Irish half of me is disgusted and the Bedouin is far from happy. To deny him the chance to bury his mother and daughter negated not only his Koranic rights but his duty as a Muslim.” He struggled with his emotions. “What do you want me to do?”

“Find him,” the minister said. “I've cut the Security Services out of it completely.” The minister snapped his fingers at ben Levi, who produced an envelope, which was passed to Declan. “This is a warrant, signed by the President, ordering anyone to help you in any way you ask.”

Declan read it. “Impressive.” He put it into his briefcase.

“Where will you start?” the minister asked.

“With Wali Vahidi. When I spoke to him in Paris, I was impressed. He has an excellent army record, a first-class police record.”

“Then I'd get moving if I were you,” ben Levi said. “My impression was that Vahidi's not long for this world.”

“Aren't we all?” Declan Rashid said. “Good morning, gentlemen,” and he walked out.

—

T
he military hospital was a good one, which Declan knew well from personal experience. The doctor responsible for Vahidi's care was a Major Hakim, who read the presidential warrant and jumped to attention.

“A great honor to meet you, Colonel,” he said and led the way to a private room at the end of the corridor, where a male nurse sat outside.

The room was in half darkness. Vahidi lay there, eyes closed, his vital signs endlessly repeating on electronic screens, connected to tubes, drips, and oxygen that were very probably the only things keeping him alive.

Hakim said, “You know this man, Colonel?”

“Yes, I do. He had an excellent record in the Iraq war. What can you tell me?”

“That he's not got long.”

Vahidi opened sunken eyes, dull with pain, stared at Declan and smiled. “Colonel Rashid,” he croaked. “Where did you come from?”

“I'm sorry to see you like this.” Declan turned to Hakim. “I'd like a little privacy here, Major.”

“Of course.” Hakim brought a chair for him. “The nurse will get me when you're ready.”

Declan sat down. “A bad business.”

“You can say that again. I had the Security Service bastards in here discussing me. I know they didn't inform Husseini about the accident. But what are you doing here?”

“Husseini has disappeared. They're keeping it an army matter. I've been transferred to the secret police with instructions to find him. Apparently, someone called him anonymously to tell him what happened.”

Vahidi was silent for a moment. “That was me,” he croaked. “One of the nurses left her mobile on the side table. I gave him a call. He didn't recognize me because my voice is so rough.”

“He sent a letter to the minister saying he was leaving. That he would die trying if necessary.”

“I've known him a long time, and I'm sure he means that. I felt he deserved the truth about his family. On the other hand, I'm torn. I'm sorry for him, but we're constantly presented with the threat of war. Other people have the bomb, so why not us?” Vahidi asked. “Your father died for our country, and surely you are just as much a patriot as he was.”

“It's not that easy for me, I'm struggling with a split personality,” Declan said. “For the moment, I'm a colonel in the Iranian Army, but if I do catch up with him, maybe I'll tell him to keep on running.” There was more silence.

“Oh, what the hell,” Vahidi said. “He has passports in another name. I found them one day. Both French and Lebanese. He used his mother's surname, LeBlanc. Ali LeBlanc.”

Declan said, “Why didn't you confiscate these when you found them?”

“Because there was no need. They were from his past, and I thought he'd just kept them renewed. If I'd raised the issue, it would indicate I'd spent time rooting about in his private things and spoiled our friendship. If you want to find him . . . I'd look in Lebanon. He's had a place in Beirut for many years, in the Rue Rivoli.”

“Thank you, Wali,” Declan said.

“For some reason, I'm more worried about him than about what remains of the rest of my life. When you see him, tell him I'm sorry for everything and my part in it.”

“And then what do I do?”

“The right thing, the honorable thing.”

“Which is what?”

“You'll know that when the time comes,” and he closed his eyes.

Declan took a small gadget called a dissembler from his pocket, pressed a button that destroyed any recording made in the room, then went outside.

He said to the nurse, “He's just going back to sleep. Thank Major Hakim.”

He walked away, and Hakim, who'd been listening in the next room behind a half-open door, emerged and said to the nurse, “You're sure you've got it on the remote?”

The man opened his jacket, revealing the radio listening device. “Yes, I checked.”

“All right. I'm going in.”

He entered Vahidi's room, found him sleeping again, breathing hoarsely. Hakim looked down at him and said softly, “There is one God and Osama is his Prophet.” Then he adjusted some tubes and left, walking away, the nurse already gone.

Five minutes later, the alarm sounded, harsh and ugly. In a few moments, the corridor was all action, nurses first and then the crash team crowding into Wali Vahidi's room, none of which was any help at all.

—

D
eclan's next visit was to Tehran's airport. At the sight of the presidential warrant, the chief security officer put his people straight to work. They had no difficulty finding Husseini's departure on an early-morning flight to Baghdad the previous day.

Then they traced the continuing flight to Aleppo using the French passport in the name of Ali LeBlanc, and the hiring of a Citroën car for the onward journey. Some judicious computer work indicated that his entry into Lebanon had been at the border town of Wadi Khalid early that morning, after which he had taken a taxi, Declan assumed to Beirut.

It wouldn't be a good idea to go in uniform, so Declan gave his driver instructions to take him back to his apartment so he could change. While he was there, the phone rang. It was ben Levi.

“Did you hear the news from the hospital?”

“No, what?” Declan asked him.

“Apparently, Wali Vahidi died shortly after you left. I've had a Major Hakim in touch. He says that in spite of a crash team responding to Vahidi's relapse, they couldn't save him. How was he when you saw him?”

“Very weak, but our talk was worthwhile.”

“So do you know where he went?”

It was at that moment that Declan Rashid surprised himself. “It's early yet. There are some things to check out, but I'll need time.”

“As long as it takes,” ben Levi told him. “And whatever it costs. Go anywhere you like, but find him.”

“Thank you, General, that's exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Ben Levi hung up.

“Now, why did I say that?” Declan asked softly.

There was no answer except that something was stirring inside him. He phoned the secret police headquarters and asked for the duty officer, who came on, full of enthusiasm.

“I've just seen your promotion, Colonel. My name is Captain Selim, and it's a privilege to serve under you. How can I help?”

“My assignment is top secret. How do I get to Beirut as fast as possible?”

“By high-speed executive jet, Colonel. We fly twice a day, with general mail and private and confidential material for the embassy. There is room for a passenger or two. You could go this afternoon.”

“I won't be in uniform, but it would be necessary for me to be armed.”

“That will be no problem.”

“Who is the military attaché in Beirut?”

“Captain Shah, a good officer, one of our own.”

“Tell him to meet me, but no one else. I don't want any fuss. Get me a room at the Tropicana, and a Range Rover with a couple of AK-47s. Stress that secrecy is essential.”

“As you command, Colonel.”

Declan hung up, checked his large canvas holdall, slipped in a small traveling laptop for note-taking. He was wearing a black shirt now over a titanium vest, a summer suit, and ankle boots of soft leather. In the bag was a similar suit of fawn linen, a couple of extra shirts and underwear, a toiletries bag, and a holstered Glock pistol. A soldier traveling light. The final thing he took, from a locked drawer beside his bed, was a Colt .25, which he slipped into his waistband at the small of his back. A pair of Ray-Bans meant for desert conditions and he was ready to go.

When he went out and stood waiting for the lift, he had the strangest of feelings. It was as if he was leaving something behind when it should have been that he was starting out on something new. For some reason, it made him unaccountably cheerful as he hurried out to his limousine and told the driver to take him to the airport.

—

A
s Simon Husseini was being driven to Beirut, two and a half thousand miles away in London, Sara Gideon was just finishing a late breakfast. Her grandfather was away, chairing a seminar on comparative religion at St. Hughes College, Oxford. She was hoping for some flying time, and then Roper came on the phone.

“If you're interested, Ferguson's had to do some fast packing. He'll be out of our hair for at least a week to ten days.”

“Tell me,” she said.

“The Cabinet Office phoned him in the middle of the night. The PM wants him to help the Foreign Secretary with some UN committee about the Middle East.”

“Is he on his way?” she said.

“Already gone in the foreign minister's plane. Can't even use his own Gulfstream. He's not pleased at all.”

“But you are,” Sara said.

“Well, it's nice to be off the lead occasionally. You know the old saying. When the cat's away, the mice will play.”

“So what are we going to do? Concentrate on Emza Khan?”

“The computer can do that,” Roper said. “It's only a question of time before he comes tumbling down like Humpty Dumpty. Why don't you join me and we'll try and work something out together.”