The Death Trade (24 page)

T
he Gideon lifted off from al-Shaba very fast and climbed up to forty thousand feet, with Don Renard at the controls while Jane Green plotted the three-thousand-mile trip northwest that would eventually end in London. Dillon had been made as comfortable as possible, lying back in a half-reclined corner seat, a blanket over his legs. Filled with morphine thanks to Saudi medical supplies, he still had his hand around a tumbler of whiskey and dozed.

Declan appear to be asleep, but as for Sara, she made a pot of black coffee, drank two cups of it, waiting for the plane to settle in flight, then she opened her laptop and tried Roper on Skype. It was the middle of the afternoon in London, and her appearance took him by surprise.

“It's good to see you, Sara, though I must say you look as if you've been through the wringer,” he told her.

“It would. It got rather nasty.”

“Go on, tell me the worst.”

Which she did, and Roper was astounded. “It's one of the most remarkable stories I've ever heard. And in the end, nobody gets the Husseini bomb, including our side. And the blow to al-Qaeda is beyond price.”

“Let's hope Ferguson's as pleased as you are,” Sara said.

Roper nodded. “No doubt about that. How are you feeling? It must have been a shock to the system, Emza Khan trying to knock you off.”

“He truly hated me, Giles. I was the whore who murdered his son. He'd have never left it alone.”

“What about Colonel Rashid? How is he going to come out of all this?” Roper asked.

“His superiors won't be impressed with the way he handled things, I suppose,” Sara said.

“I'd say that's an understatement.”

“Is there any word from Daniel? What's happening with this Timbuktu affair?” Sara carried on.

“The UN couldn't find any African countries to send troops.” Roper shrugged. “Daniel and his freebooters have done a great job, but they're in the process of withdrawing under orders from Algiers.”

“It's certainly made the Algerian government look good,” Sara told him. “Well, I'm glad he's safe. I'm going to have a drink now and try to sleep. Bye for now.”

She helped herself to brandy from the small bar, mixing it with ginger ale. Declan opened his eyes and said, “What's that?”

“A Horse's Neck,” she told him. “Popular with officers in the Royal Navy since time immemorial. I thought you were asleep.”

“Dozing. You were reporting in?”

“To Roper.”

“After he got over his astonishment, I imagine his big question was, what about Colonel Declan Rashid?”

“Yes, you were discussed, so what
are
you going to do?”

“First of all, report in to my commanding officer in true army fashion. I'll do that now.”

“Do you want me to step out?” Sara asked.

“No, I'd like you to stay, and I'm sure Mr. Dillon hasn't missed a word of everything said in the past half hour.”

“God bless you for the kind word, your honor,” Dillon murmured. So Declan took out his mobile, put it on speaker, and called the general.

“General ben Levi? Colonel Declan Rashid reporting.”

“And where the hell have you been for the last four days?” ben Levi demanded.

“Three and a half, actually,” Declan said. “I discovered where Husseini had gone on the same day you gave me my orders. That was thanks to Vahidi, just before he was murdered.”

“What nonsense is this?”

“Oh, he was murdered, all right, and probably by al-Qaeda. But we won't argue. At the moment, I'm traveling on an executive jet over the Saudi Arabian desert. Four hours ago, to the south of us, Simon Husseini blew himself and some interesting companions to hell by activating an explosive charge that destroyed the Falcon in which he was traveling.” Declan laughed harshly. “Do you think that's more nonsense? Do you want the full story on that, too?”

“Yes, Colonel Rashid,” the general said hoarsely. “Everything.”

Declan took him at his word and gave him a military-style report, omitting nothing. When he finished, there was a pause before ben Levi spoke.

“An excellent report, Colonel, I would have expected no less from you.”

“You'll pass it on to the minister?”

“Of course. We'll have to figure out what to do with this. I think I'll suggest putting a security blanket over the whole business, especially Husseini's death. You know the sort of thing? The great man must have seclusion, buries himself in his work, never gives interviews. Then we'll still seem like a threat to the world.”

“Ingenious, General,” Declan said drily. “I take your point.”

“So when can we expect to see you report back for duty?”

“Actually, I don't think my return would be advisable,” Declan said. “After all, I know what happened, I was aware what Emza Khan was, a traitor to his country, and I know why Simon Husseini did what he did. No, it's London next stop for me, General. I've always carried my Irish passport for years, even in battle, as a good-luck charm. I won't even have to seek asylum. I'm an Irish citizen.”

Ali ben Levi raised his voice. “Colonel Rashid, you're a serving officer of the Iranian Army. You can't do this.”

“Try me,” Declan Rashid told him and switched off.

“My word, but that was the Irish half speaking,” Dillon said. “Your mother would be proud of you. You can take up residence at Holland Park until you find your feet, or there's my cottage in Stable Mews and glad to have you. Now, get yourself a drink and another for me, for you've earned it.”

“What kind of man is General ben Levi?” Sara asked. “Will he be all right?”

“Made his bones in the war with Iraq: Eight years of that and huge casualties made rare opportunities for dedicated men. Commissioned from the ranks and never looked back. Takes life seriously. He ought to be fine. It'll certainly be interesting to hear the Iranian spin on this in the coming days.” He tapped his phone. “I also took the precaution of recording our phone call. You never know when it'll come in handy.”

“And let me send it on to Roper,” Sara said. “Ferguson will be very interested.”

“It's all happening,” Rashid said cheerfully and passed a glass of Scotch across to Dillon. “That should help to ease the pain.”

Dillon tasted it. “Well, it isn't Irish whiskey, but it will do to take along.”

—

G
eneral Ali ben Levi sat at his desk, considering what had happened and trying to take it all in, especially Declan Rashid's astonishing act of defiance. From any soldier, it was an action completely unacceptable. In other circumstances, he would have reached for the phone to inform the minister. That was not possible, and there were reasons.

He was a man of the people who genuinely loved his country. It was the army which had made him, supported him on the long climb to the top, given him prestige and position at the highest levels of society. And yet he hated what he had found there. The rapacious oil billionaires whose vast wealth made it so easy to corrupt those around them at every level. And then Osama bin Laden had descended on the world of Islam to astonish Muslims around the globe in a manner none had experienced before, offering a life of sacrifice. Ali ben Levi had embraced it completely, had served al-Qaeda with all his heart, so he phoned Dr. Ali Saif at Pound Street Mosque in London.

Saif was at his desk when his phone went. He'd gotten into the habit of screening all calls and discarding those he didn't want, but when Ali ben Levi spoke, he jumped to attention.

“We seem to have been here before, Saif.”

“Ah, is it that bad, Master? Tell me the worst,” Saif said.

So Ali ben Levi did, and in detail. When he was finished, Saif said, “Emza Khan and Husseini dead, and not a word on television or in the press. You're sitting tight on this for a moment?”

“I hope I can afford to. After all, they were killed in a plane blown to smithereens over one of the most desolate deserts in the world. There could be a substantial delay before it's reported. I'm not sure what I'm doing. I must consider what's best for al-Qaeda, and I haven't had a chance to inform the council yet.”

“It's a difficult one, particularly this new problem with Colonel Rashid,” Saif said. “A pity you aren't here to handle it yourself.”

“That's true, but it's all sudden and needs careful thinking about. We'll speak again.”

He sat there considering, particularly Saif's point that it was a pity he wasn't there. He could do something about that. Filled with sudden energy, he picked up his desk phone and contacted the secret police HQ.

“Embassy, please,” he said to the officer in charge. “Is there anything going to London today?”

“Yes, General, we have a Falcon with confidential dispatches and two junior ministers from the Diplomatic Service.”

“How long does it take?”

“Between ten and eleven hours, depending on weather. It leaves in fifty minutes.”

“No, it doesn't. You'll hold it until I get there.”

Ali ben Levi went through the outer office without stopping, saying to the duty aide, “If the minister needs me, I'll be away for three days on a high-priority project and you don't know where.”

He was gone, the door banging behind him before the aide could reply.

—

I
t was obviously going to be evening before the Gideon got in, and Roper was going through all the information he had on the business and nodded to himself. One thing was missing: a face-to-face with Dr. Ali Saif. Considering it now, he realized he'd been leaving him alone to see what he would do and Saif had responded by not doing very much. Roper pressed his buzzer, and Tony Doyle appeared wearing the full uniform of a staff sergeant in the Royal Military Police, including the red cap.

“Sorry, Major, I've only just got back from court duty at the Ministry of Defence,” he said. “If you can give me a minute, I'll go and change.”

“No, you won't,” Roper said. “You look very impressive, and I love the medals. I'd like you to take me on a fishing trip.”

“Sir?”

“At Pound Street, and the Army of God. When you push me in there, that uniform will scare the hell out of them.”

“My pleasure, Major.” Doyle smiled. “It sounds like fun.”

“Yes, but remember I need you suitably severe, if not menacing.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Tony Doyle said. “Shall we proceed?”

—

A
t Pound Street, Doyle lowered the wheelchair on the hydraulic lift. They ventured inside, ignoring the astonished scores of Muslim students, and found a receptionist, who asked what they wanted and insisted on showing the way, to the point of opening Saif's door and ushering them inside.

Saif, a cigarette in his mouth and editing a typescript, glanced up, totally thrown. Tony Doyle stood to one side, and Roper took charge of his chair and eased up to the desk.

“Dr. Saif, a great pleasure. My name is Roper and I work for Charles Ferguson. I read your book
The Later Years
,
about what happened when the Romans left Britain, with great pleasure. How nice to find someone who still smokes. Do you think I could have one?”

Ali Saif was bemused and offered a cigarette automatically. “Of course.”

Roper accepted a light and smiled. “I've been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time.”

Saif blanched, face turning very pale, choked for a moment on his cigarette smoke, coughed several times. “It's nice to meet you,” he managed to say.

“No, it isn't, it's awful to meet me, because it means the game's up and the thought of sharing a cell with some hulk with the hots for you, or venturing into the showers on D landing, is flashing before your eyes.”

Ali Saif looked ghastly and Roper carried on. “But I'm here to tell you it doesn't need to be like that, to show you a better way.”

Ali looked dazed, but suddenly opened a drawer, took out a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler, poured a large one, and poured it down. He shivered, took another tumbler from the drawer, poured, then pushed it across to Roper.

“Very civil of you.” Roper drank, and Saif joined him in another. He was calmer now. “So what are we talking about?”

“Your personal achievements as a scholar, historian, and author are a matter of record. The educational facilities for the charity side of this institution are excellent, and your fund-raising abilities legendary.”

Saif smiled painfully. “Don't overdo it, Major.”

Roper ignored him. “All this while working ceaselessly under the direction of a member of the al-Qaeda council who is known only as the Master.”

Saif tried to conceal his alarm by taking another drink. “I don't know where you've got all that from.”

Roper said, “I notice your desk phone, as I would expect from a clever chap like you, has a recording device which means that all your calls are on it. Would I be right?”

There was real desperation on Saif's face now, and he grabbed at the phone, and Roper snapped his fingers. “Sergeant.”

Tony Doyle was around the desk in a second, one arm about the neck, pushing the phone across to Roper with his free hand. “Now, you be a nice gentleman and calm down,” he told Saif.

Roper said, “You
are
getting upset. I'd say it's because you and the Master have had words recently. Shall we have a look?” He ran things back, and within a very short time, there it was.

“Damn you,” Saif said.

“Taken care of a long time ago. Now, shut up and we'll listen.” Which he did, fascinated. “My goodness,” he said when it was finished. “What unlooked-for treasure.”

“So what happens now, the Tower of London?” Saif asked bitterly.

“Actually, that was where we shot spies in the Second World War,” Roper said. “But I've a feeling that if you are a very good boy, you might emerge from all this with a smile on your face. General Charles Ferguson can be a very forgiving man in the right circumstances, especially to those who can be useful to him.”