The Death Trade (18 page)

“Why not?” she said. “But give me a little while. I feel like a nice brisk walk through Hyde Park. I'll see you soon.”

—

I
t had rained earlier and would again, wind stirring the trees and not too many people abroad in such brisk March weather. She wore a flying suit and boots, a black bomber jacket, in all a rather dashing figure, and was happy striding along, when her Codex trembled in her pocket with the special signal. She answered, and found Simon Husseini calling.

“You didn't block your location,” she said. “I can see you're in Beirut. Did you mean to do that?”

“No, I was careless,” he replied. “I didn't expect to have to use this special phone you gave me in Paris so soon. Where are you?”

They talked for several minutes, and she heard the awful news about his family. As she tried to digest it, she turned and started to walk back home. “Why Beirut?”

“I've had a place in the old quarter for years, in Rue Rivoli. Bibi, my housekeeper, lives in the place permanently. This is the first time I've been back for some years, for obvious reasons.”

“And you got to Lebanon using your own name?”

“No, no, I have passports with another name. LeBlanc was my mother's maiden name, so I'm Ali LeBlanc.”

“So what's your plan? I imagine the Iranians are already chasing you,” she said as she went up the steps to Highfield House and opened the front door. “What comes next?”

“I haven't the slightest idea,” he said. “I'd planned something like this for years, but never for these dreadful circumstances. I suppose I'm running away from that as much as anything else.”

She was into her grandfather's study now and sat at the desk. “So what do you want from us?”

“I don't think your General Ferguson will be very helpful. I've no intention of carrying on with my nuclear work. I know I'm older, but I'm returning to medicine, and that hardly makes me of interest to any of the great powers.”

“Never mind any of that now. The main thing is to get you safe,” Sara said. “I guarantee you they'll find out about Beirut, may even be on their way already.” She paused. “When we talked in Paris, you mentioned your old friend, the philosopher John Mikali, who'd had an influence on you. In old age, he has given up his professorships to serve as a priest at St. Anthony's Hospice in the Saudi Arabian desert. If you could join him, no one would suspect, and perhaps he could sort out some of your head problems.”

“How would I get there?”

“During the war with Saddam Hussein, the Saudi Air Force laid down an airstrip for jet fighters needing an emergency landing. It's at al-Shaba, right next door to the hospice. It's no longer manned, but they left a communication facility in the hospital powered by solar panels, which is supposed to support a satellite phone. The trouble is that with the extreme desert weather patterns, it hardly ever works. I had our Army Air Corps check it out for me once. But we'd have no difficulty landing a jet at al-Shaba.”

“Where would such an aircraft come from?”

“The other year, the Gideon Bank was approached by an Israeli firm seeking investment to help them enter the executive jet market, with the intention of producing a quality aircraft on the same level as the Gulfstream or Falcon. We approved of their ambition, and when they suggested we call the result the Gideon, we were happy to oblige. We now have a small fleet ourselves, which we keep at Northolt. Chief pilot Don Renard has a DFC from the Gulf War. Jane Green, like me, is an old Afghan hand. I'll tell them I'll need one Gideon for hazardous duty. I'll call you when I'm in the air.”

—

A
t Pound Street, one of Ali Saif's daily tasks was to make coherent sense of the mass of information passed to him and his associates by well-wishers. He was engaged in doing this at the same time Sara was leaving for the airport, when the Master called him.

“Are you sitting down, Saif?”

“That bad?” Saif said. “You'd better tell me.”

The Master did—everything that had been learned at the hospital—and Saif said at once, “What an incredibly stupid way to handle the situation. Husseini must loathe those responsible.”

“I should imagine so, not that it helps.”

“Forgive me for asking, Master, but is all this information sound? His false identity, Beirut, his street address?”

“The surgeon handling the bodyguard, Vahidi, in the military hospital is one of our assets. He knew a man like Rashid would wipe Vahidi's room clean of recordings, so it was a stroke of genius to have someone recording it remotely. Yes, it is all sound.”

“Do you want me to go to Beirut?”

“No need. We have an excellent branch of the Army of God there run by a true believer named Jemal Nadim. I have dealt with him before.”

“So this Jemal Nadim and his people, they will kidnap Husseini?”

“Exactly, and dispose of Colonel Rashid. Then Husseini will be working for
us
. Tell me, how is Rasoul doing?”

“He takes young students for physical training in the gym.”

“I think we should leave him there, for now. However, Cyrus Holdings has a very sizable port unit in Beirut. I think the chairman should show his face and meet with our people. If Khan gives you the slightest problem, let him speak to me. I will also make clear to Jemal Nadim that you are my middleman on this. Any problems, he can sort them out with you. I'll also leave you with a special number with which to contact me. This is a big one and we must get it right.”

“Of course, Master,” Saif told him.

“I've good faith in you, Saif, you've come a long way.”

He switched off. Saif said softly, “The bastard, saying things like that to make you feel warm and cozy. God dammit, it's almost sexy. Ah, well . . .” He poured a brandy, lit a cigarette, and then decided to go around to the penthouse and confront Khan, for the pleasure of being able to tell him what to do.

—

A
t the same time, Sara was driving a Mini Cooper toward Northolt Aerodrome when her mobile cut in. Roper said, “I got tired of waiting, where are you?”

He was sitting in front of his screens, Dillon enjoying a cup of tea and flipping through a newspaper, when Sara replied.

“I was walking across Hyde Park to come and join you when I had a call from Simon Husseini.”

“But how could that be?” Roper demanded. “What about his bodyguard, Vahidi?”

“Vahidi's in the hospital, Giles, and Husseini's mother and daughter are dead.” She explained what Husseini had told her. “He's got out of Iran and reached Beirut, and I'm riding to the rescue, just like one of those Western movies. Isn't it exciting?”

“Not when the Indians catch up with you, so be careful. Okay, I admit that Ferguson isn't likely to go berserk at your pulling off a coup that brings Simon Husseini to us.”

“I'm afraid he's going to have to be disappointed. Simon isn't interested in any of that. His intention is to move back into research on medical isotopes and to renounce his nuclear work. And if that's what he wants, it's all right with me. I was never keen on our government wanting him to do the exact same thing for us as he's been doing in Iran. That's why I'm going on one of my own planes, and I don't care what Major General Charles Ferguson says or thinks.”

“Oh, I think I can tell you, Captain. He'd remind you that you're a serving officer in the British Army who would certainly rate a court-martial if she persisted in such action.”

“All I can say is, bring it on.”

Roper exploded with anger and frustration. “It may sound corny, but you're greatly loved in this neck of the woods. Will you at least promise to stay in touch while I try to work things on this end?”

“You're a great guy, Giles Roper, and a true hero, which is why I love you, too, but I've got to do this, I've no choice.”

“Okay, damn you, but stay in touch, I beg you,” he implored her.

“I'll try. Over and out,” she said.

Dillon had heard every word, and was already opening a cupboard and taking out a military bag, his contingency kit for jobs in a hurry, containing weapons, passport, and finance.

“Where's she going from?” he demanded of Roper, whose fingers danced over the computer keys.

“Northolt, one of the Gideon planes. Pilots are Don Renard and Jane Green. They're booked out in forty-five minutes, to Beirut.”

But Dillon was already running out of the door, calling, “Tony, where are you? I need Northolt like yesterday. Where's the Alfa?”

Sergeant Doyle came down the corridor on the run. “Right outside the front door, sir.”

“Then let's get the hell out of here.”

In the computer room, there was sudden relief on Roper's face as the engine roared and faded away. Roper reached for the whiskey and murmured, “Sometimes you frighten me, Sara. However sound your intentions, you always need backup, because in our game, going solo is the loneliest place on the planet. Damn you, why won't you learn that?” He swallowed his whiskey and smiled wryly.

—

A
t Northolt, with Sara aboard and Don Renard at the controls, Jane Green was about to close the airstair door when the Alfa roared across the tarmac, skidded to a halt, and Dillon jumped out, bag in hand, went up the steps and smiled.

“Jane, isn't it? I'm Sean Dillon. Room for one more?”

“It's okay, Jane,” Sara called. “Like all actors, he's particularly fond of the dramatic entrance.”

Dillon moved up the aisle, stowed his bag, and sat across from her. “You shouldn't do it, love, not to Giles Roper. He's always been afraid you were going to come to a bad end.”

“You are a bastard, Sean.”

“There's no one I'd rather go to war with than you, but two is always better than one, so give me time to get my breath and find a drink and perhaps you could fill me in on what's happening.”

She shook her head, produced her Codex, and called Roper. “Just to let you know that this little Irish so-and-so made it with about one minute to spare and we're now on our way. I'm sorry if I caused you any worry.”

She switched off and said to Dillon, who was emptying two miniatures into a glass, “So what do you want to know?”

—

A
li Saif had visited the Khan's penthouse on a number of occasions and had met George Hagen in his usual role, and so was surprised on ringing the doorbell to have Hagen answer it, wearing Rasoul's green apron.

“Hello, George, this is a turnup for the books. Going up in the world, are you?”

“Not funny, Ali. With his son dead, Rasoul a mystery, and poor old Aziz murdered not fifteen minutes' walk away, Khan is depressed and reaching for the vodka bottle every five minutes. I'm still night porter, but I'm helping out. I use the staff bedroom on the landing. Go right in, I'll be in the kitchen.”

Emza Khan was in his chair by the terrace window, looking terrible, in bad need of a shave, and stinking of booze. His shirt and baggy trousers looked as if they had been slept in. He glared at Saif, tried to sound belligerent, and failed completely.

“What do
you
want?”

“Is that the new perfume, urine and vodka? Most unpleasant. It will never catch on.”

“How dare you?” Emza Khan tried to get up. Saif shoved him down.

“Simon Husseini has fled from Iran and reached Beirut, and Declan Rashid is hot on his trail. The whole thing's blown up.”

Khan was horrified. “In the name of Allah, what's to be done?”

“We'll leave him out of it. A creature like you doesn't deserve to mention his name. So let's stick to the Master, who wants you in Beirut.” Khan opened his mouth, and Saif said, “Shut up and listen.”

By the time he had finished, Emza Khan had sobered considerably. “You think it's true that Colonel Rashid is still unaware of my connection with al-Qaeda?”

“So it would appear, though I wouldn't rely on it continuing, not with a man like Rashid on the job,” Saif said.

“And this Jemal Nadim? His people will kidnap Husseini and dispose of Declan Rashid?” In a way, he was lively again. “This is good, I can see that. What do we do with Husseini?”

“That's why he wants you there with your executive jet. To deliver him wherever the council decides.” Saif lit a cigarette, a certain contempt on his face. “It's something of a coup for you. Osama would be proud.”

Emza Khan actually took it seriously and got up. “I must phone the office and get things moving at once.”

“I'll leave you to it. Let me know when you're going, but I'd make it sooner rather than later, if I were you. I'd hate to see the Master disappointed.” He opened the door and turned. “Don't forget the clothes. Strip and put them down the trash chute. The stink would frighten people away. And for the love of Allah, please bathe.”

—

E
mza Khan was oblivious to the scorn in Saif's voice, but George Hagan was not, for with the kitchen door ajar, he had heard every word. That Emza Khan would soon be on his way to Beirut was interesting in itself, but his reasons for going, the fact that he was involved with al-Qaeda, were so astonishing that Hagen hurried to his room, called Declan at once and found him in the backseat of the Falcon, reading a magazine.

“Thank God I've got you, Colonel,” Hagen told him. “Where are you, can we talk?”

“Yes, George, I'm the sole passenger on a private jet proceeding to Beirut.”

“Gawd almighty,” Hagan said. “You ain't going to believe this, but you're going to have company.”

“And who would that be?”

“Emza Khan.”

Declan laughed out loud. “What's the joke, George?”

“No joke, Colonel, and there's worse to come. What would you say if I told you Emza Khan was involved with al-Qaeda big-time?”