The Death Trade (5 page)

So he went to his study, fed the report Declan had given him through the coded transcriber, punched a button and sent it on its way to room 13 at Pound Street Methodist Chapel, now the headquarters of the Army of God charity, where it was received by Ali Saif, an Egyptian with an English grandmother, which under familial law granted him a United Kingdom passport.

Saif was senior lecturer in archaeology at London University. Specializing in the four-hundred-year occupation of Britain by the Romans was his passion. Involvement with the Army of God and belief in the gospel of Osama bin Laden was his religion, which in itself contained enough excitement for any man.

His study room was packed with three state-of-the-art computers, a transcriber, and various other gadgets, no expense spared, for one thing al-Qaeda was not short of was money.

He sat behind a Victorian desk in a swing chair, twenty-five years of age and already a Ph.D. He wore a khaki summer suit, tinted horn-rimmed glasses that suited his aquiline face, and long black hair that almost reached his shoulders. Just now he was drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette, leaning back in his chair, looking at two computer screens. One showed Declan Rashid's background list of Ferguson's people. Based on this, he had used his skill to pull out the original information, which was now on his second screen, pictures of all the protagonists included.

And what an interesting lot they were, particularly Sean Dillon, the man who'd tried to blow up the British War Cabinet during the Gulf War and almost succeeded. A top IRA enforcer for many years, who ended up in the hands of Serbs and was saved by Ferguson from execution on the understanding that he would serve under him as a member of the Prime Minister's private security squad.

Dillon's score was remarkable. He seemed to have killed anybody and everybody, without fear or favor. One week an assassination, the next, flying some old turboprop plane loaded with medical drugs for children into a war zone.

Some guilt there perhaps, but the important fact was they had all been a considerable nuisance for some years to al-Qaeda. Obviously, punishment was what Emza Khan wanted, and considering the size of his contribution to the war chest, he was entitled to see it duly administered.

As regards the trip to Paris, he would alert the right people there, but obviously what Khan was seeking here in London was something more immediate and certainly more final. The Army of God had assets employed in hospitals, every level of local government, theaters, cinemas, restaurants, and bars. It took Ali Saif only seconds to find one working as a cleaner at the Blue Angel, a Yemeni who had witnessed the fracas and seen Dillon and Sara eventually leave in a cab with a Pakistani driver.

Within fifteen minutes, Ali Saif was in touch with that man and had established that he had dropped Sara Gideon and Dillon at what Saif knew was the Holland Park safe house. They could well be staying the night, but the possibility that they might not was too tantalizing to ignore, so he turned again to his computers.

The man he called was propped up on a bed in a warehouse development by the Thames. He wore shabby jeans and jacket, was unshaven, and had black tousled hair. He was smoking a cigarette and reading the
Times
newspaper.

The Egyptian's voice rang out. “Abu, this is Saif. I have something for you, most urgent. The information coming your way now, facts and photos. The man is immensely dangerous, the woman is a decorated veteran of the war in Afghanistan. I'd advise taking Farouk on this one, but whatever you do, do it now. There's a big pay packet waiting,
very
big.”

Abu swung his legs to the floor, went to the computer where the text and photos were still printing. He had a quick look at Dillon and Sara and made a call on his mobile.

The answering voice said, “Get lost, I'm in bed.” There was the murmur of a woman's voice.

“Abu here, Farouk, kick the bitch out. I have a hit for AQ, man and woman, big, big money. Fifteen minutes. Long enough to get here from your apartment. If you're not here, I'll go alone using the London cab, but I'd rather leave that to you. You may be a stupid sod because your mother dropped you on your head or something, but you're a genius at handling anything with four wheels. I'll be backup on the Montesa.”

The famous Spanish dirt bikes had been specially created to aid farmers and shepherds in the high country of the Pyrenees, and could do half a mile an hour over rough ground and considerably faster if need be. It had a stripped-down look and Abu was besotted with his and refused to ride anything else.

He didn't wait for a reply from Farouk, but pulled on heavy biker's boots, unlocked the outside door, went into a small study, operated an old-fashioned safe, and took out two Glocks, a couple of boxes of ammunition, and two silencers, sat down at the desk, and loaded the weapons expertly. Then he removed his denim jacket, opened the wardrobe, and produced two lightweight bulletproof vests. He pulled one on quickly, then took down a black leather biker's jacket and zipped it up.

Moments later, footsteps thundered up the stairs outside, the door crashed open, and Farouk stumbled in, the twin of Abu in appearance and dress except for his shaven head.

“So there you are,” Abu said. “Daft bastard. In bed with a tart again. Get your vest on and check those two photos and the details. When we get to this Holland Park place, we simply sit and wait for them to come out. Dillon's car is a ten-year-old souped-up Mini, color Ferrari red.”

Farouk said, “Nobody could be as good as this Dillon. I mean, he's a small guy and around fifty years of age. As for the woman, it's got to be a joke?”

“Ali Saif is from Cairo, like you and me, and if he says Dillon is hell on wheels, he is. As for the woman, even if you hate the Brits, they don't award the Military Cross lightly. Now, stuff that Glock in your pocket, don't forget your silencer, and let's go and do this.”

I
t started to rain at about three-thirty, when Dillon and Sara looked in on Roper. “So there you are,” he said. “Was that nice?”

“Perfect,” Sara told him. “What about the general?”

“All quiet since he went to bed.” Roper lit one of his eternal cigarettes and poured himself a whiskey shot.

“Excellent idea,” Dillon said. “I'll drop Sara off at her place and see you tomorrow, to finalize the trip.”

“Two-thirty from Farley Field, the Gulfstream to waft you off to Paris and the joys of the Ritz. What a way to earn a living.”

“I know, Giles, and so kind of you to remind us how lucky we are,” Sara told him.

“Let's hope your luck lasts when you leave. My security cameras outside have noted a London black cab that pulled up and parked amongst the plane trees halfway down the street about twenty minutes ago. It's still there. There it is, on screen three.”

“He could be early for a pickup in one of those Victorian villas on the other side of the road,” Sara said, and at that moment Farouk got out of the cab in spite of the pouring rain and relieved himself into the bushes.

Roper went in for a close-up. “A large young man in grubby denims and kicking boots, the kind who only shaves his skull, never his face. What's he doing out there?”

Dillon shrugged. “He
could
be a hard-rock laborer on some building site. But let's go and see. Is that all right with you, girl?”

“Absolutely,” Sara said and led the way out.

They stood in the porch for a moment, the rain bouncing from the flagstone of the courtyard. “God help us, but it's like Belfast on a wet Saturday night. Even an umbrella won't do you much good. Let's see what's in the cloakroom.”

There was an ample choice hanging from the pegs in there, and Sara selected a khaki anorak and jungle hat to go with it that was so soft, it crushed in the hand. Dillon helped himself to a military trench coat and an old black trilby hat.

“Will I do?” he asked.

“If you want to look like a French gangster in one of those old Jean Gabin movies.”

He smiled wickedly. “But that's exactly what I was hoping for.”

He took her arm and they ran through the rain to the Mini.

—

A
bu was in a small car park outside a burger bar on the main road, one of several bikers and truck drivers. He and Farouk had a highly sophisticated device in the left ear that allowed them to communicate with each other, and it was Farouk who used it first.

“The main gate is moving, so I'm getting out of here now. I'll pull in on the main road.

“Excellent, and I'll be on your tail unless it turns out to be a false alarm. Remember to switch on your For Hire lights so you look nice and normal.”

Roper picked up the cab on his security camera the moment it moved and called Dillon on his radio. “You've got traffic, Sean, take care.”

On the main road, Farouk had pulled in to the curb, switching his For Hire lights on, and was immediately approached by a middle-aged couple. He turned them away, saying he was booked, and the Mini flashed by a moment later. He allowed three or four cars to pass before pulling out, and Abu did the same thing so that he hung well back, relying on Farouk to give him a running commentary as to where their quarry was going.

Meanwhile, Dillon, handling the Mini carefully in the pouring rain, had Roper on the line.

“He's definitely on your tail, Sean. What do you intend to do about it? Are you sure the cab is the only vehicle you have to contend with?”

“It's all your security cameras noted. A few cars, the odd van or truck behind, is all. It's early morning, remember.”

“What about Sara?”

“Just now she's reloading her Colt .25.”

“Never mind that. What's going to happen to her?”

“Well, I can't take her home to Mayfair, because gunfire at this hour in the morning would certainly disturb the neighbors.”

“You could drop her off at the Dorchester?”

“Get real, Giles,” Sara told him. “I'm going where Sean is, so no arguments.”

“I'll come back to you on that,” Dillon told him. “Just now, I want to try some heavy driving. I'll leave the radio on so you can monitor.”

—

S
ara said, “Are we aiming for your place?”

“Let's say the general direction, then I'm going to divert down to the Thames. There are some decaying warehouses on Butler's Wharf. A couple of cobbled streets, a few alleys, and the warehouses waiting to be knocked down. With development money being in short supply these days, everything is locked up. I often do my early-morning run down there, and I know it well.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“Bottom of the hill is the big gate into the yard of an old warehouse. It's been smashed open by someone so you could drive inside.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because if someone was pursuing you at speed and you swerved into that yard, the only way the cab would have to go would be straight along the wharf. As that collapsed halfway along two years ago, they'd go straight over the end to drop forty foot into the Thames.”

“My God,” she said. “And that's the best you have to offer? You must be crazy.”

“That's what everyone says, so let's get on with it. Driving should be fun, don't you agree? I've had this little beauty for years and it's been supercharged, which gives you quite a turn of speed, so let's do it, shall we?”

He dropped a gear, slammed his foot down, and the engine roared as he swerved out of the tail of traffic and took off. Farouk was caught napping, but only for a moment, then smiled in delight.

“You want to play games, do you? Well, let's see what you've got,” and he pulled out of what traffic there was and roared after Dillon, leaving Abu far behind.

—

B
elted in tightly, Sara braced herself with both hands as they swung off the High Street into a network of mean lanes and run-down houses, with lights still on in some of them, Dillon working the wheel and the brake pedal expertly, sliding on cobbles slippery in the rain.

Farouk, on his tail, was enjoying himself, because this bastard was as good as anyone he had ever raced against and that was meat and drink to him. He drove as he hadn't driven for years, and Abu, far behind because he'd been totally caught out, was shouting loud in Farouk's ear, demanding answers.

“He's broken away,” Farouk told him. “We're headed down to the Thames. It looks like he's trying to shake me off in the warren above Butler's Wharf. I don't know what he's playing at, but he's a hell of a driver.”

“But what would he be trying to do down there?” Abu called.

“I haven't the slightest idea,” Farouk replied.

“Well, take care. This guy is special, I told you.”

Dillon turned into Butler Walk and slowed, the narrow alley dropping steeply, just the odd streetlight still working, the warehouse below. What was left of the wharf jutted out into the river, lights sparkling on the other side, a couple of tugs moving toward the estuary, lights on.

Farouk roared in behind him, Dillon glanced sideways at Sara, who braced herself, a fierce look on her face, and nodded. He stamped hard, gunning the engine, and they plunged down, gathering momentum. At the head of the wharf was a single light, and it seemed to rush toward them.

Farouk followed, giving it everything he had, teeth bared as he shouted, “I've got you, you bastard.”

The lamp and the light were suddenly larger, but it illuminated the entrance to the warehouse on the left, the two wooden gates standing half open, and Dillon stamped on the brake pedal, jerked the hand brake, spinning the Mini around to slide in through the entrance, bouncing the gates and sliding to a halt.

Farouk, desperately trying to brake too late, hurtled along the wharf and over the edge and plunged down into the Thames. Dillon slid from behind the wheel, ran out of the yard onto the wharf, but there was only darkness down there, and he turned and went back to see how Sara was doing.

From the top of the alley, Abu had witnessed what had happened and was filled with rage. He had tried to impress on Farouk how dangerous Dillon was, but his friend wouldn't listen. Now he was dead. There was only vengeance left, and with Allah's blessing, Abu intended to have it. He switched off the motor, eased the hand brake, and sitting astride, freewheeled down the alley.

—

D
illon, returning to the yard, discovered Sara struggling with her seat belt, which had jammed because of the impact the Mini had suffered when bouncing the half-open gates aside. She'd lowered the window, and he leaned down.

“Are you okay?”

“I will be when I've cut myself out.” She was struggling in the confined space, trying to find the flick-knife in her right boot, when suddenly the Montesa swerved silently into the yard at a surprising speed.

“Behind you, Sean,” she cried.

The Montesa slid sideways, and as Dillon turned, Abu swung his arm in a powerful blow that had him on his knees. Abu let the bike fall, kicked Dillon in the body, turned and wrenched the Mini door open.

“Get out, bitch,” he said, drawing his Glock. “I want you to watch. My name is Abu, and mark it well.”

Dillon had raised himself to one knee, his right hand under his jacket feeling for the Walther against his back.

Abu said, “There is only one God and Osama is his Prophet.”

Sara found the flick-knife, sprang the blade, slicing the seat belt in a second, reached out of the open door and stabbed Abu in the back of the leg, withdrew the razor-sharp blade, and stabbed at the base of his right buttock before tumbling out against him.

He howled in agony, kicking at her, discharging the Glock twice into the ground. Dillon's hand swung up and he shot him in the center of his forehead, hurling him back against the Mini. He slid to the ground and sat there, eyes open.

Sara said, “I wonder what he's staring at?”

“Who knows?” Dillon said. “Eternity, if there is anything out there.” He closed Abu's eyes. “You're a remarkable woman, and you saved my life.”

She lifted her hands. “Look at them, Sean, not even the hint of a shake. Would you say that was normal?”

“What it indicates is that you're a warrior of the Old Testament Sword of the Lord–and–Gideon variety, and thank heaven for it.”

The rain became heavy and driving, and Dillon took her hand and they ran to the shelter of a deep doorway, where Sara said, “It's as if something's trying to wash it all away, the blood, everything. What happens now? Nobody seems to be interested.”

“They wouldn't be,” Dillon said. “Not in what's happening in a wasteland like this, a mile away from the main road and civilization.”

He produced his silver cigarette case, put one in his mouth. Sara said, “Give me one.”

“You don't smoke.”

“Now and then.” She snapped her fingers. “Come on!”

She took the one he offered, his Zippo flared, and she inhaled without coughing. “When did all this start?” he demanded.

“Afghanistan,” she said. “A godsend on occasions.”

“I can see where it would be,” he told her. “So enjoy, while I speak to Roper.”

Which he did, hurrying across to another doorway and calling in, giving Roper a swift and accurate account of events.

Sara was sitting on a ledge in the corner of the doorway when he went back. “Teague and the disposal team will be here in half an hour. You'll just have to hang on. Would you like another cigarette?”

“Why not.” He gave her one, and she said, “Our own private undertaker.”

“Abu will be six pounds of gray ash about two hours from now.”

“And how long has Ferguson been getting away with this?”

“Since Ireland and the Troubles. He was annoyed by really bad guys evading punishment because of human rights lawyers and the like. So, in a sense, we stopped taking prisoners. It saves a hell of a lot of court time. You don't approve, do you?”

“Don't be too sure about that. Afghanistan was a cruel taskmaster. Perhaps it dulled the senses. Exposure to the butchery of children, innocent civilians, made one indifferent to the lives of those who had murdered them. If anything, a quick bullet seemed too easy for them.”

“Had anything happened to make you feel that?”

“Six months before the fuss at Abusan when they gave me an MC, I was on a similar gig with three brigade reconnaissance guys. We touched on a village called Mira and came under fire from the Taliban. We poured it in, they gave up. We found fourteen dead, mainly children. It looked like two families, with four young women who appeared to have been raped.”

“And the Taliban?”

“They stood there, hands on heads, impassive and unconcerned as I passed along the line, Glock in hand. I reached the last one, and he smiled and pursed his lips as if to kiss me, so I shot him between the eyes and worked my way backward, taking out all four.”

It was quiet there in the rain, and Dillon said softly, “And what did your three companions do?”

“There wasn't much they could do, it had happened so quickly. They swore to keep their mouths shut, not that it mattered. BRF duties are some of the most dangerous in the army. They were dead, one by one, over the next four months.”

“Which leaves you alone with your guilty secret?”

“Not quite, Sean, now that I've told you.”

Dillon put an arm around her shoulders. “I'm glad you did, girl, perhaps I can help carry your burden.”

“But there
is
no burden,” she said. “Those men deserved what they got. I don't feel the slightest guilt in the matter, so what does that say about me?”

Dillon actually laughed. “God save us, Sara, I can't help you there, being in the same boat.” He passed her the pack of cigarettes. “Have another if you want, I'm going to check out the Mini.”