The Death Trade (7 page)

She was absolutely right, of course, and he said, “So what's the answer?”

“There's nowhere for me to hide, either.”

“Particularly as Khan has your address, the bastard insisted.”

“So I'll just have to get on with it. Tell me everything about their reason for being here in Paris, the whole story. At least that will mean I'll be prepared for anything that comes along.”

T
he Gulfstream lifted off at Farley Field at 2:30 that afternoon bound for Charles de Gaulle Airport. Sara and Dillon held conference on board together, Roper on Skype on the large screen with Ferguson.

“Any thoughts about last night's events?” Ferguson asked.

“I've thought about it,” Roper said, “but can't see that it has any relevance to our Paris trip. One of the hit men made the al-Qaeda connection clear. This was all about revenge, and they were waiting outside Holland Park to exact it for the many times in the past when we've done al-Qaeda great harm. It was only last year we foiled the plot to blow up the President on his visit to Parliament and managed to dispose of Mullah Ali Selim, one of their biggest operators in London.”

“I agree.”

“As far as they're concerned, we're targets for life because of past misdeeds,” Dillon said. “But in Paris, it's a great day for Iran, their scientist receiving the Legion of Honor. The last thing al-Qaeda would want to do is rock
that
particular boat.”

Sara said, “What do you
really
expect, General? We've already accepted that Husseini will never leave his mother and daughter in the lurch, it isn't in his nature. So what can I offer him, or to be practical, what could Britain offer him?”

“Besides the joys of London, Oxford, and Cambridge? Freedom to continue his research. The government's ready and willing to provide him with an experimental nuclear facility right here.”

“But how could this happy circumstance be achieved?”

“It would take time and careful planning, but I believe the SAS could handle it.”

“Giving Britain sole access to a nuclear bomb of a power way beyond anything existing,” Sara pointed out.

“My thoughts exactly. It could lead to a whole new era of peace of a kind we haven't known in many years.”

“You think so?” Sara said. “What if Husseini has other ideas once you break him out? What if he prefers Harvard or Yale to Oxford or Cambridge? Would he be free to make his own choice?”

Ferguson sighed heavily. “You really are being very difficult.”

“But am I right in my conclusions? Have the SAS spirit Simon Husseini, his mother and daughter out of Tehran, fly them to some safe house in England, and, hey presto, we're going to be a great little country again, a power in the world, and all down to Simon Husseini's spanking new nuclear bomb.”

Roper laughed out loud on the screen. “Brilliant, Sara, well done.”

Dillon clapped hands. “I couldn't put it better myself.”

“Shut up, the lot of you, and be practical,” Ferguson told them. “There are an awful lot of bad people out there who would love to get their hands on what we think Husseini may have developed. Are you seriously telling me you wouldn't prefer Britain to control it in partnership with our friends in Washington? Can you think of anyone better?”

It was Sara who gave him an answer before either Roper or Dillon could. “You don't get the point, General, which is, what if Husseini didn't want
anyone
to have it?”

“Nonsense,” Ferguson said. “What's done can't be undone, the genie's escaped from the bottle and can't be shoved back inside. Husseini could burn his research records and blow his brains out, but sooner or later, someone would come along to untangle the puzzle again.”

“Fair enough,” Sara said. “Give me a chance to get close enough to Husseini and I'll put it to him exactly as you have to me.”

“And you think he'll go for it?” Roper asked her.

“Not the man I knew as a guest in my grandfather's house,” Sara said. “But who knows? Life has been hard on him, and I expect his responsibility for his mother and daughter weighs heavily.”

“If he says no to what is the only offer of help that's going, he'll find the future grim indeed,” Ferguson said. “His mother's eighty-six and can't expect to last much longer, but his daughter's forty and, in spite of her poor health, could last at least twenty years. There's no chance at all of the poor blighter doing a runner. So all he can expect from his future is to live and die in Tehran.”

Roper cut in, “We'll see about that. I've had Claude Duval on from Charles de Gaulle, where he's waiting to greet you. I've booked you a large suite on the fourth floor, because Husseini always takes a two-bedroom suite on that floor. It was a matter of luck, they had a cancellation.”

“And the others?” Dillon inquired.

“Our friends from Iran are on the fifth. Emza Khan and his so-called valet, this Rasoul Rahim, are also in a two-bedroom suite.”

“Valet, my backside,” Dillon said. “Rasoul is all bully boy—Khan's minder, I'd say. What about the colonel?”

“Next door to them.”

“And Husseini? Is he in Paris yet?”

“According to Duval, they arrived last night, Wali Vahidi in charge as usual.”

“I found Vahidi's file interesting,” Sara said. “Have you got his photo there?”

“Of course.”

Around fifty with a bushy mustache, Wali Vahidi looked like somebody's uncle, solid and dependable. “It would seem the Husseinis are the only family he's got,” Sara commented.

“You could be right.” Ferguson nodded. “He's Husseini's bodyguard, that's true, but also his protector. That bears thought. Anyway, it's time for us to let you get on with it. I've every confidence in you. Keep in touch.”

“Take care,” Roper called. “And watch your backs.”

—

A
t Charles de Gaulle, the Gulfstream taxied toward a secluded part of the airport reserved for flights of an official nature. It was raining and Colonel Claude Duval stood outside the private entrance into the VIP concourse, wearing a navy blue trench coat, holding a large umbrella. Porters in waterproofs had rushed to recover the luggage from the Gulfstream, and Sara and Dillon, each with an umbrella held up against the driving rain, joined him.

“
Bonne chance,
dear friends,” Duval said. “For some reason, this brings back the memory of many funerals I have attended.”

“The rain”—Sara ducked into the porch and closed her umbrella—“and these things always seem to go together.”

He kissed her on both cheeks. “Sara, I can only say you have been worth waiting for.”

Dillon shook his hand. “Now then, Claude, don't let your mad passion run away with you. Where are we going?”

“A private room, a light lunch, a little champagne to celebrate seeing you two again.”

“Why, Claude,” Sara said. “You certainly know how to keep a girl happy.”

“No, Sara, my darling, I know how to keep
both
of you happy, and when you are happy enough, I expect you to tell me exactly what you are doing here and why.”

—

H
e took them to a small, luxurious private bar. A handsome young waiter resplendent in a white jacket greeted them, the young woman behind the bar wore the same kind of jacket.

“This is only used for the most important of VIPs,” Claude told them. “And Jules and Julie are completely at your service. . . . I should point out that they are also officers of the DGSE, so you can speak fully.”

The two young agents smiled, Claude nodded, Julie opened a bottle of Dom Perignon behind the bar, and Jules brought three glasses on a tray.

Dillon said, “Well, here we are again. Confusion to the enemy.” He raised his glass in a toast.
“Vive la France.”
Sara and Duval joined him. Dillon sipped a little, then emptied the glass. “Pure magic, God bless the monks who invented Dom Perignon. I'll have another.”

Jules obliged, topped the others up, too, and Duval said, “Have I been Mister Nice Guy for long enough? Can we sit down and discuss what's going on?”

“Fair enough,” Dillon said.

He and Sara sat together on a couch, a glass table between them and Claude, who said, “To start with, the news on the grapevine is that you had a brush with an al-Qaeda hit squad down by the Thames.”

Dillon turned to Sara. “Terrible, isn't it, the way these rumors circulate. Would you be knowing anything about that?”

“Don't waste my time, Sean,” said Duval. “Two dead. I congratulate you, and you, Sara, but does it mean al-Qaeda is likely to carry this further, and in Paris? I need to know.”

Sara took over. “Of course you do, so shut up, Sean.” She carried on. “As I understand it, even before my time, Ferguson's people have been a thorn in al-Qaeda's side. They have a lot of scores to settle with us. We think the hit squad hanging around Holland Park last night were on the prowl for anyone who came out, and it had nothing to do with what we're here for.”

Dillon joined in. “It's a big day for Husseini and Iran. Al-Qaeda wouldn't want any trouble with Tehran just now.”

“Well, let's hope that some stupid individual doesn't jump the gun.” Duval held up his empty glass for more. “So, as they say at passport control, what is the purpose of your visit?”

“Sweet Jesus, Claude,” Dillon said. “It's stretching it more than a little to expect us to tell you that.”

It was then that Sara shocked them. “Dillon, enough of this subterfuge. We use it all the time in our business, and I for one am sick of it, in spite of what my superiors say.”

“What are you suggesting?” Dillon asked her.

“That we take a chance on Claude being a decent human being who knows the difference between right and wrong, and come right out with exactly what we're doing here.”

Claude was astonished. “So, you want to stand the whole system on its head?”

“Why not a little honesty for a change?” Sara asked him. “It's common knowledge that Iran wants a nuclear bomb and that Simon Husseini is working on it, with his mother and daughter held under house arrest to make sure he behaves himself.”

“I know all this, and it's a bastard,” Claude said.

“Husseini is also an old friend of my grandfather and me, so I intend to meet him and find out if he'd be interested in a future in England, if we could get him and the two women out.”

“And how would you do that?”

“The SAS might be able to arrange it,” Dillon put in.

“Never,” Claude said. “Impossible.”

“That's what they said about Osama bin Laden.”

Sara pointed out, “And look what happened there. Put it this way: As an old friend of Husseini, I'd like to see if he's happy. If he says he is, then that's it as far as I'm concerned.”

“Though there are people,” Dillon said, “who would rather put a bullet in his head than leave him working for his country. Anyway, Claude, how do you feel about this?”

“Oh, Sara has answered me. I think I'll go the rebel route myself—any way I can help your enterprise, I will.”

“That's wonderful,” she said. “You're a star.”

“There's a little more to it than that. I greeted Husseini when his plane arrived last night and liked him at once. His bodyguard, this Wali Vahidi, isn't a bad guy, just an old-fashioned copper.”

“So what are you getting at?” Dillon asked.

“That I much prefer you all over our Iranian friends who flew in before you. Emza Khan is a loud-voiced toad, and Rasoul Rahim should be in the nearest cell.”

“And Colonel Declan Rashid?” Sara asked.

“I'd read of his exploits with admiration, and was even more impressed on meeting him.” Duval shrugged. “The only problem is that he keeps such bad company.”

“Well, he doesn't have much choice,” Sara said.

Duval carried on. “Husseini is guarded by Vahidi at the hotel at all times, his phone calls monitored. At the Palace, you'll be on line with twenty foreign observers privileged to be presented by me, because I'm doing the whole line. Husseini's certain to recognize you, but smart enough to keep quiet.” He passed her a small square of paper. “You don't salute, so give him that when you shake hands. It says you are staying at the Ritz and will be in touch.”

“A masterstroke,” Dillon told him. “But what about Vahidi?”

“We'll arrange to spike whatever he drinks. There's an old hand in the room-service section who has worked for Ferguson for years—but also for me.”

“That's very convenient,” Sara said.

“Isn't it?” Claude Duval laughed. “But now we eat!”

—

I
n his suite on the fourth floor of the Ritz, Simon Husseini sat at a Bechstein grand piano, feeling his way into the final fifteen minutes of George Gershwin's
Rhapsody in Blue
,
trying to remember it since he didn't have the music. The melody soared, thrilling Husseini as it always did. He was oblivious to everything, including the ring of the telephone, which Wali Vahidi hurried from his bedroom to answer.

He talked through the music, holding out the phone. “He wants us upstairs.”

“He'll have to wait,” Husseini shouted.

Vahidi shrugged, spoke into the phone, then put it down. Husseini moved into the final crescendo and came to the end.

He was pleased with himself, and smiling. “You know, Vahidi, I can sometimes be rather good, I think.”

“You can be very good, but I doubt whether it will be appreciated. Khan slammed down the phone.”

“Did he indeed?” Husseini said, and there was a thunderous knock on the door.

“Here we go.” Vahidi went and opened it.

Emza Khan marched in, obviously in a rage, followed by Rasoul and Rashid, who wasn't in uniform and wore a tan suit, white shirt, and striped tie.

“I can see you've decided to be your usual awkward self,” Khan told Husseini. “It's outrageous that I am forced to come to you, and not you to me. You're getting above yourself again. I shouldn't have to remind you of your position and that of your mother and daughter.”