The Death Trade (22 page)

Andrew sat down and flicked a switch. “This is St. Anthony's Hospice.”

He had spoken in Greek, and Sara Gideon answered in the same language. “I am receiving you loud and clear.” She changed to English. “I am the woman who was asking after Father Mikali. Do you remember me?”

“Of course,” Andrew said. “Who are you?”

“Tell me first, is he still with you?”

“Yes, he is, a patient in the infirmary.”

“We have one of his oldest friends on board my plane, Simon Husseini. It's of vital importance that he speak to Father Mikali. Will you tell him?”

“Yes, but he'll need to come to this phone, and that means the wheelchair. This is so exciting. We seldom get calls, so please be patient.”

He ran back to the ward where they were all waiting, and his Uncle Joseph, the abbot, had arrived, disturbed by the bell sounding from the vestry. “What is it?” he demanded.

“A call from a plane which intends to land here,” Andrew told him, running to an ancient wheelchair in the corner, swinging it around, and approaching Mikali. “Apparently, an old friend of yours is coming to see you, Father,” he told Mikali. “A Simon Husseini.”

There was astonishment on Mikali's face. “Simon on his way here? I can't believe it.”

“But you must come now.” Andrew pulled the bedcovers aside. “Let me ease you into the wheelchair. I'm afraid we may lose the connection.”

Abbot Joseph said to the rest, “You must leave the vestry clear and listen from the corridor.”

He waved everyone to one side to allow Andrew and Mikali free passage and followed, with the others trailing beside.

—

O
n the Gideon, the door to the cockpit stood open and, thanks to the genius who had produced the Codex, with the speaker switched on, everyone on board was able to follow the conversation that now took place. In the vestry at the hospice, it was the same, thanks to the transmitter loudspeaker. The abbot and Brother Andrew stood on either side of Mikali in his wheelchair, while, the word having spread, a dozen brothers crowded together in the corridor.

Mikali spoke into the microphone, a certain caution in his voice. “Simon Husseini, can this be you?”

“Oh yes, Father. I assure you it's me, and I can prove it. As a young lecturer at the Sorbonne, I was one of the very first to be exposed to your concept of essential goodness, because you gave me a typescript to consider before the famous book was published.”

Mikali laughed in delight. “Yes, I did, and you presented me with a review within twenty-four hours. So, Simon, I have followed your career with the greatest interest and I know the predicament you have found yourself in with the Iranian government. How are your dear mother and your daughter? Well, I trust?”

“No, they were recently killed in a road accident in Tehran.”

Mikali was shocked. “My dear friend, what can I say? May they rest in peace. But this changes everything for you, I think?”

“I'm running away from a situation I can't face in order to see you and find out if you can offer me a solution,” Husseini carried on. “I've created in theory the possibility of a nuclear bomb four times more powerful than any at present existing. My government wants it, probably Russia and China, and certainly the UK and America. I've even got al-Qaeda wanting it.”

“So what is your problem?” Mikali asked.

“What if I don't want anyone to have it? What if I destroy my own work?”

“My dear friend, that's a quixotic approach indeed which would do you little good. A scientist is like an explorer, searching for something that already exists. To destroy your case notes would be pointless. Someone else would just come along. Let me put it this way: Einstein didn't create relativity, he discovered it.”

“So where does that leave your theory that essential goodness is the most important building block in life, Father?”

“Let me ask you a question,” Mikali said. “Who are these people on the plane with you?”

“Good people, and on my side.”

“And you were coming to seek my advice and for no other reason?”

“That was the idea, but al-Qaeda discovered our intention, stole a march on us, and intend to land at al-Shaba to ambush us. It's me they want.

“Then why are you bothering to come?”

“Well, we can't just leave you to handle such a thing on your own.”

There was a crackling over the sound system, a slight buzz, and the Gideon was buffeted by a sudden wind.

“Ah, I see now.” Mikali raised his voice. “You're coming to save us. A perfect example of essential goodness in action. When may we expect these people you speak of?”

“In an hour or so. On their plane are two pilots and three passengers. There would be no profit in them harming you or your people, as long as you avoid confrontation. It's me they want, not you. We will be there, I promise you, an hour and a half after they arrive.”

“And will you leave with them?” Mikali asked.

But to that, there could be no answer, for the crackling over the sound system developed into a roaring that drowned out any intelligible conversation.

Mikali said to the abbot, “It's unlikely we'll get them back. I suggest you order everyone into the infirmary, and, with your permission, I'd like to try to explain to them what's going on. I don't think we've got long before the plane that Husseini warned us against gets here.”

“Of course.” The abbot raised his voice. “I want you all in the infirmary as quickly as possible. Now, go.”

Whispering to each other, they turned obediently and did as ordered, followed by the abbot, and Andrew pushing the wheelchair. They crowded into the infirmary, and Mikali addressed them.

“Very soon now, a plane will land on the airstrip and some of the men on board will come to see us, particularly me. They are not good people, but do as they say and I don't think any harm will come to you. They are waiting for another plane to arrive. If they speak to you, don't mention that you know the second plane will be coming. Speak Greek between yourselves. I suspect they can't, and will tend to leave you alone. The people on the other plane
are
our friends. I can't tell you what will happen when they arrive, because I don't know. May God bless all of us.”

The brothers were murmuring among themselves, and some looked anxious. The abbot said, “We are all brothers in the sight of God. He will help us get through this. Now, go about your usual work and we'll see what happens.”

—

O
n the Gideon, Don Renard glanced out of the cockpit into the cabin. “I'm afraid we've lost it again.”

“Don't worry, what we got was useful,” Sara told him. “We know what's going on at the hospice now.”

“And that's fine,” Dillon said. “But it makes one thing clear. That there's nothing the brothers can do to help themselves.”

“True,” Declan said. “And they can't help us, either. When Emza Khan and his friends arrive, the brothers will have no option but to comply with their demands. They're only pawns in this game. Al-Qaeda only wants Husseini, and they want him alive. He's absolutely no use to them dead.”

Dillon said grimly, “And he's no use to them alive if he's not willing to toe the line and produce that bomb.”

There was silence for a while, Declan frowning slightly, Dillon glancing from one to another, Husseini perfectly calm, and Sara looking troubled.

Husseini said to her, “You attended the Military Academy at Sandhurst. Didn't they have a saying: Difficult decisions are the privilege of rank?”

“Yes, they do,” she said.

“Good, I must bear that in mind.” He sat down in the seat opposite Dillon, reached for his bag, opened it, and produced a small black-and-silver notebook, a tiny green light throbbing in it. He also took out a pad and an envelope.

Dillon said, “Is that notebook electronic?”

“A Sonic,” Husseini told him. “It can only be opened by a code word. It's very useful for preserving the important things in life.”

He wrote quickly on the pad as the Gideon droned on, tore out the sheet, folded it, then put it in the envelope, sealed it, and passed it to Dillon.

“What's this?” Dillon asked.

“We live in dangerous times. The contents are self-explanatory. I give it to you because you are the great survivor. You'll know when it's right to open it.”

Dillon frowned, but put it into an inside pocket. Husseini dropped the pad into his bag, slipped the Sonic into his left jacket pocket, closed his eyes, and leaned back.

—

I
t was just after six a.m. when the Cyrus Holdings Falcon came in low from the north at four thousand feet and descending. There was no sun, dark cloud formations blanketing the area, a rumble of thunder in the distance, and as they went down, it became obvious that there was considerable wind at ground level.

They came in at a thousand feet, but the desert below looked uninviting, and then they saw the oasis and palm trees. Kerimov, who had the control column, took her right down to St. Anthony's Hospice, looming out of the early-morning gloom, lights at various windows, camels and goats scattering, and Kerimov and Lisin laughing.

“That's wakened the sods up,” Kerimov said. “What a dump.”

“You can say that again,” Lisin agreed.

Kerimov turned and came back at six hundred feet, and several brothers appeared through the front door of the hospice and stood, staring up.

“That's given them a shake,” Kerimov said. “Down we go.”

Emza Khan, Jemal, and Omar had seen all this from the cabin windows. Khan said, “What kind of people would live in such a place?”

“Well, they've been doing it for a thousand years or more,” Jemal said. “They believe in God, but in their own way.”

Kerimov swung around into the wind and dropped down to an aircraft hangar, a few concrete buildings on each side and a small control tower. He kept going, as far as he could take it, halting about a hundred and fifty yards from the hospice.

When Kerimov switched off, Lisin opened the door and went down the steps. With the engine stopped, the only sound was the moaning of the wind in the thornbushes and around the derelict buildings. Kerimov emerged and stood halfway down the steps.

“There's something spooky about a decaying airfield. I'm not sure why, but it makes me feel strange.”

Lisin said, “Jet fighters used it for emergency landings in Desert Storm. Probably a few good men died here.” Kerimov stiffened. “There's a small welcoming committee. We'd better get back inside and prepare to receive them.”

Omar was bringing out weapons, three AK-47s, four Makarovs. Jemal said to Kerimov, “During the flight, you did try that satellite number I gave you for the hospice?”

“Several times, but it didn't work. Deserts can be difficult places for reception.”

Omar said, “Never mind that. There's a Makarov each for you, and you can take one of the AKs. You're still not coming with us?”

“Absolutely not. I've given you my reasons, and they're sound.”

“Enough of this,” Emza Khan said. “I'm perfectly content for you and Omar to take care of this,” he told Jemal. “A few Greek monks can't possibly give us a problem.” He peered outside. “And here they are.”

Brother Andrew was standing at the bottom of the steps with the Brothers Mark and Luke. Emza Khan appeared and stared down at them, frowning.

He said, “Allah aid me, they probably don't even speak English.”

“I do,” Andrew said. “But you are right. We are a Greek order and most of my brothers speak only Greek. Abbot Joseph has sent me to inquire as to your purpose in visiting us.”

“You have a priest here, a Father John Mikali. I want to see him. He is here, I presume?”

“Oh yes, a patient in the infirmary.”

“Let's go.”

“Of course.”

Andrew and his brothers started off and Emza Khan followed, Jemal and Omar walking together, each with an AK-47 at the ready.

They found Mikali in his wheelchair, a blanket over his knees, another around his shoulders. The abbot stood to one side, Father Peter the other. Jemal and Omar stood on either side of the door, rifles ready.

Andrew said, “This is Abbot Joseph, and the other, Father Peter, our doctor.” Stretching the truth, he added, “I need to translate if you wish to talk to them. You wished to meet Father John Mikali. This is he, and he does speak English.”

“Who are you people?” Mikali demanded. “What do you want with me?”

“My name is Emza Khan and I don't want you, I want a man named Simon Husseini, who is on his way here to see you. You and he are old friends, and don't try to deny it.”

“Why should I, but what do you want him for?”

“That's nothing to do with you. He should be here in about an hour and a half.”

“What do you intend to do with him?”

“Fly away to another country. Behave yourselves for the next few hours and nothing will happen to you. Don't, and I'll have the abbot shot.”

“That's hard to argue with,” Mikali said.

—

O
n the Gideon, they were holding a council of war, and Husseini was speaking.

“I'm worried about everyone in the hospice, and not just John Mikali. It's my fault that they are all greatly at risk from these people, so what do I do about it? It's me that Emza Khan and al-Qaeda want.”

“Yes, to make the bomb for them,” Declan said. “Say no, and I don't think you'd last long once they got to work on you.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“They will be armed to the teeth, and we'll be, too,” Declan said. “There are three spare bulletproof vests on this plane available to anyone who doesn't have one. We challenge them, very close up, weapons ready. Few people can stand that, even soldiers.”