The Killing Ground (6 page)

“Tough nut to crack.”

“But not impossible.” On the river, a forty-foot speedboat flashed past. “Because of the state of things in the city, the boat business is booming. It avoids roadside bombs. Ex-Navy guys, SAS, former Green Berets, are all at it.”

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“Who have you got?” Dillon demanded.

“A rogue named Jack Savage. He was a sergeant-major in the Special Boat Service, Royal Marines. Used to specialize in operations against the IRA during the Irish troubles, knocking off trawlers and the like running guns in the Irish Sea. I’ve negotiated an extremely large fee, for which he’ll organize everything. You’ll meet him in Baghdad.”

“Where?”

“A club down by the river. He owns it in partnership with a wife named Rawan Savage, originally Rawan Feleyah, she’s Druze. He’s named it the River Room. Tells me it reminds him of the Savoy. I’ve filled him in on the situation. He’ll have the right sort of plan worked out.”

“You mean an approach from the Tigris?”

“He and other vessels travel up and down, particularly at night, on good business and bad.”

Dillon nodded and turned to Billy. “Run me down to Wapping. Let’s fill Harry in. You know he likes that.”

“He’ll try and come, too,” warned Billy, “He’s done that before.”

“Tell me about it.” Dillon said to Greta, “You’d better try to prise the good doctor from her husband.”

Greta went to their room, and Molly and Caspar rose to greet her.

“Time to go. You won’t be seeing each other again until this whole thing is over. How do you feel about that?”

“As Allah wills,” he said.

“For a man who doesn’t follow his religion, you reflect on Allah a lot.”

“You could be right, but we are all at the mercy of events. This will be a violent affair?”

“If things go right, it could go very simply.”

“And if they go wrong, people will die. Even Sara could die.”

“There are always risks. But let me tell you about the man you’re dealing with, Sean Dillon. He was the most feared enforcer the Provisional IRA ever had.”

“And what went wrong?”

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“During the war in Bosnia, he flew a private plane into Serbia carrying medical supplies for children. He was shot down and facing death when Charles Ferguson arrived. Ferguson blackmailed Dillon into joining his organization, and then did a deal with his captors.”

“What kind of people inhabit your world?” Molly Rashid asked in a kind of horror.

“People who are prepared to do whatever is necessary. We must go.

You said you were on call at the hospital.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you want to visit the house?”

“No, not really. I have everything I need.”

“Good, I’ll drop you, then check to see that all is well. I’ll see you again at the end of the afternoon. I have your mobile number.”

The rest of the journey passed in silence. At the hospital, Molly Rashid took the umbrella she was offered, opened it and stood looking down. “You must have killed people yourself.”

“Many times,” Greta said serenely. “I’m in the death business; but then so are you. I’d have thought you’d have got used to it by now.”

Molly Rashid smiled sadly. “I imagined I was in the life business, but it seems I was misinformed.”

She turned toward the hospital entrance and Abu came out and down the steps. “Abu,” she called. “Where are you going? I thought you were on duty?”

He smiled at them both. “Ladies. No, I’ve got this afternoon off. A friend is picking me up,” and at that moment the yellow van appeared, carrying just the driver, an Arab with a pockmarked face. “This is Jamal.

I often help him in my spare time.”

Jamal, who looked like the kind of man who was permanently angry, nodded unwillingly, Abu climbed in beside him, and they drove away.

Greta said to Molly, “I’ll see you later,” and followed them.

The traffic was light at that time of the afternoon and, on a hunch, she drove straight to the Rashids’ house, parked in the garage and locked the door. She went upstairs to the highest window in the house and

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only a few minutes later, she could see the yellow van pause across the road as Abu got out and came across and the van moved away and parked under the trees.

Greta nodded. Better to let Abu make a forced entrance. Information on Caspar Rashid? That must be what he was after. She listened to the sudden crash of a pantry window, then retreated to the master bedroom and concealed herself in the refuge.

She could hear him moving around and finally entering the bedroom. Then he used his mobile phone and spoke in Arabic to Jamal.

Thanks to her service in Iraq, she spoke fair Arabic herself.

“There’s no one here. No, wait for me, you have your orders. I’m going to search the study, see if I can find anything for Professor Khan.

Just stay by the canal.”

Greta took her Walther from the waist holster and twisted the Carswell silencer on the muzzle. She stepped out into the corridor. He was toward the far end, a pistol hanging in his right hand.

“Surprise, surprise,” she said softly in Arabic. “Nice of you to call. Dr.

Rashid is not at home, but I’m her minder.”

He swung round, thunderstruck, and for a moment seemed dazed.

She continued in English. “Caspar Rashid isn’t at home, either: we’ve got him, which must make you Army of God people mad as hell. And who’s Professor Khan?”

It was like an explosion, his face contorted, his hand started to lift, and she shot him between the eyes, a dull thud, and he fell backward, dead instantly.

She followed procedure as she had been taught, got through to Roper on her Codex Four.

“Where are you? What’s up?”

“I’ve got a disposal. I’m at the Rashid house alone. The Abu boy broke in armed. I’d no choice.”

“They’ll be on their way immediately. He’ll be six pounds of gray ash at the crematorium in a matter of hours.”

“Should I tell her when I see her at the hospital?”

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“If I judge her right, no. She’s not like us. She’s one of the good people. Corpses aren’t part of her world.”

T H E Y W E R E E X C E L L E N T , the men in dark suits, they might have been undertakers all their lives. Abu’s head was wrapped, he was body-bagged, and one of the men cleaned the corridor, which luckily was var-nished wood.

“You’d hardly notice, Major.” He produced a throw rug and laid it down. “There you are.”

She saw them out, then walked down the track beside the canal.

Jamal was sitting behind the wheel and she leaned down.

He started violently and she tapped the Walther on the van. “Don’t try anything,” she said in Arabic. “The Army of God is one man down.

I’ve shot Abu dead and my people have taken him away. If he’s lucky, all those virgins are waiting in Paradise; if not, you’ve all been sold a bill of goods.”

“But who are you?” he asked in English.

“British intelligence. And I’ve got a message for you to deliver. Tell your boss, Professor Khan, we’re on to him. His little army is out of business, starting today, or you’ll all be following in Abu’s footsteps. Is that clear?”

Jamal said nothing, but his forehead was sweating. Greta turned and walked away, the engine started up behind her and she heard the van squeal off.

H E R C O D E X W E N T and Roper said, “We’re all set. We even replaced the window and swept up the glass, so there should be no sign of what went on. You okay on your end?”

“Yes. Tell me, Roper, does the name of a Professor Khan mean anything to you? It certainly did to Abu and Jamal the van driver.”

“No, it doesn’t ring a bell.”

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“I think if you put said professor through the wringer, you might get a surprise.”

“I might just do that.”

Which he did and immediately opened an incredible can of worms.

W H E N M O L L Y R A S H I D came out of the hospital, it was close to eight o’clock and it was wet and miserable out. She slid into the car. “I’m absolutely bushed.”

“Hard day?” Greta asked.

“Never stopped. One operation after another. Frankly, all I want is a sandwich and then bed. What about you?”

“Oh, the usual kind of day. Bloody boring.” Greta laughed as she drove away. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

B A G H D A D

3 THE DEAL ROPER HAD MADE WITH JACK SAVAGE HAD

been enough to make him sit up and take notice, especially as the payment would be in American dollars. They had known each other well during the Irish troubles, Roper up to his ears in bomb disposal work, Savage chasing gun runners by night in the Irish Sea. When they had discussed Roper’s requirements Roper had told him of Dillon and Billy, of Sara Rashid, and their intention of spiriting her away. Savage couldn’t care less what they were up to, the deal was so good there was no way he was turning it down.

His wife, Rawan, saw things differently. A couple of years ago, Abdul Rashid had used his connections to spirit her parents out of Iraq to Jor-dan after extremists had burned their houseboat on the river. She owed him one.

When her husband explained what their guests would be doing when they arrived, she made it clear she didn’t approve.

“Listen,” he said. “I’m not turning down a payday like this, and the connection with British intelligence is likely to be worth even more in the future. Just get that through your head.”

“Bastard,” she said, “Money—that’s all you care about. You can sleep on the deck tonight.”

“I’m not missing much. It suits me fine.” He grabbed a couple of rugs, a bottle of scotch and went on deck.

The only major point that Roper had got wrong was that Sara Rashid wouldn’t be running anywhere, because her grandfather had arranged to have her fitted with leg irons after her persistent attempts to escape.

She had been locked in a bedroom for most of each day. For exercise she was given the chance to walk in the gardens and orange groves, but 50

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there were guards with her armed with AK assault rifles, and her cousin Hussein, who one day would marry her, was always one of them.

She was treated with due respect by the guards, in fact by all the servants, for her grandfather was not only rich but powerful, his connections with Osama bin Laden and the Army of God well known.

His love for Sara was genuine and very deep, especially since the death of his own wife, one of seventy-two other people killed in a car bombing in downtown Baghdad. The fact that Sara was of mixed race, he could accept, but his son forswearing his religion, that was an abom-ination.

Sara, mature beyond her years, sat in her room and, with little better to do, improved her Arabic, and contemplated what her grandfather had told her, that they would eventually be forced to join the exodus of middle-class Iraqis from Baghdad. Hazar would be their destination, to join her grandfather’s brother, Jemal, head of the family in that country. They were rich, and the Rashid Bedouins lived in the Empty Quarter, one of the most ferocious deserts in the world. It would be a guarantee of safety.

So, that was the way things would probably work out. Outside now on one of her walks, the wind off the water played with the wonderful silk scarf that framed her face. She was pretty and she knew it. Hussein adored her and she took full advantage of that fact.

“Do you want to return to your room?”

“Not yet. Who is that?” She pointed to a shabby motor launch approaching. As it slowed and drifted into the jetty, she saw that it was a woman at the wheel, dressed in Western style, her hair tied back, wearing a khaki bush shirt and pants and a shoulder holster under her left arm. The woman tossed a line and one of the men caught it and tied up.

The launch had an English name—
Eagle
.

“Hussein, how are you?” she said.

“I’d rather be doing my final year at medical school, but there you are. The war, the war, the bloody war. This is Sara. Sara, this is Rawan Savage.”

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She turned to Sara. “I’ve known you were here for some months, but we’ve never had an opportunity to meet. My, you are pretty, aren’t you?”

All this was delivered in English.

Sara said, “Were you born in Baghdad?”

“Yes, but to a Druze family.” She turned to face Hussein. “I need to see your uncle right away, Hussein. Can I go up?”

“Of course. He’s in the orange grove.”

“Until I see you again,” she said to Sara, and started up the steps leading through the oranges to where Rashid was seated.

Rashid greeted her courteously, and leaned close to her while she spoke, and when she had finished, he placed his hand on her head in a blessing. She stood up and returned to the boat. He called to Hussein.

“Wait for me here,” Hussein said and mounted the steps. “Uncle?”

“See Sara goes to her room and I’ll send women to help her pack.”

“Pack, Uncle?”

“I’ve prepared for this day for months. It is time for us to go. She’ll need a woman, take Jasmine. We’ll need two Land Rovers, I think, three of the men to assist with security. You’re in charge.”

“But where are we to go?”

“Kuwait. Only four hundred miles by road. The instructions are in the briefcase I’ll give you. My people there will make all arrangements for your onward flight to my brother Jemal in Hazar.”

“But why, Uncle?”

“Rawan brought me disturbing news. That her husband is engaged in a plot with two men from England, named Dillon and Salter, to kidnap Sara and return her to my son in London.”

“This cannot be,” Hussein said.

“I have made what I trust will be a suitable greeting for them. She informs me they arrive later today.”