The Death Trade

2

The wind roared as waves crashed in on the shore of the Nantucket beach but failed to drown the sound of the helicopter as it landed up at the house.

Former President Jack Cazalet said to his Secret Service man, Dalton, “Have General Ferguson brought straight down.”

Dalton nodded, cell phone to his ear, and Cazalet turned to meet the demands of his cherished flatcoat, Murchison. He picked up another stick to toss into the sea, and it was instantly retrieved and dropped at his feet as the jeep braked and Major General Charles Ferguson emerged.

“The salt is bad for his skin, Mr. President, he’ll need a good hosing. I’ve said that a few times over the years.” He held out his hand.

“So you have, old friend,” Cazalet told him. “Which can only mean that Murchison is getting a bit long in the tooth. You can cut out the title, by the way — there can only be one Mr. President.”

“Who offered me the use of his helicopter when he heard I was coming to New York, and suggested I drop in and see you on the way. I’m supposed to offer an opinion or two on the Middle East to some UN select committee or other.”

“Will the President be there, too?”

“No, he’s on his way to the UK to spend a couple of days at the Prime Minister’s country retreat at Chequers. Then on to Berlin, Brussels, perhaps Paris.”

“Oh, the times I’ve spent at Chequers.” Cazalet laughed. “I used to love that place. I’ve been asked to put in an appearance at the UN myself — but I imagine you knew that.”

“Yes, I can’t deny it,” Ferguson said.

“I expected nothing less from the commander of the British Prime Minister’s private army. Isn’t that what they still call you people in the death trade?” He smiled. “You’ll stay the night, of course, and accept a lift in my helicopter to New York tomorrow?”

“That’s more than kind,” Ferguson said.

Lightning flickered on the horizon, thunder rumbled, it started to pour with rain. “Another stormy night,” said Cazalet. “Let’s get up to the house for the comforts of a decent drink, a log fire, and the turkey dinner Mrs. Boulder has been slaving over all afternoon.”

“That’s the best offer I’ve had in a very long time,” Ferguson said.

“In you get, then.” Cazalet smiled. “Let’s see if we can reach the point where I’ve flattered you sufficiently that you can tell me why you’ve really come to see me.”

The dinner was everything Cazalet had promised. The coffee and port were served, Murchison steamed on the rug in front of the fire, and Dalton sat at the end of the small bar by the archway to the kitchen at his usual state of readiness.

“Well, it’s an interesting situation,” Ferguson said. “It concerns a man named Simon Husseini. He was born in Iran to a French mother, his father an Iranian doctor who died of cancer years ago. Husseini followed in his father’s footsteps, and his work on medical isotopes has saved thousands of lives.”

“Good for him,” Cazalet said.

“Yes. But as one of the world’s great experts in the field of uranium enrichment, his masters insisted that he extend his research into nuclear weapons research.”

“And he agreed?”

“No choice. He’s a widower, but his ancient mother is still alive and living with his forty-year-old daughter, who’s an invalid. They’re under house arrest in Tehran.”

Cazalet was not smiling now. “The suffering some people have to go through. So how do things stand?”

“Very badly. The word is he could be close to making a nuclear bomb, and, worse, one that is cheap and four times as effective as anything else on the planet.”

Dalton looked startled, and Cazalet said, “God in heaven. How sound is this information? Is there real substance to it, or is it just bogeymen stuff put out by the Iranians to frighten the pants off us?”

“That’s what we’ve got to establish,” Ferguson said. “One of our people has a connection with Husseini, very tenuous at best, but it provides the hope, rather slight at the moment, I admit, of my people touching base with him.”

“Then make it happen right this instant, General, before the whole damn world blows up in our faces.”

Ferguson nodded. “I thought you’d say that, sir. In fact, as we’ve been talking, I’ve already changed my mind about this trip. The UN committee is just going to have to get on without me. As soon as we get to New York tomorrow, I’m heading straight back to London.”

“Very sensible,” Cazalet said. “And since it’ll be an early start, I think we’d better close the shop and go to bed. But not before you tell me about this connection of yours….”

At the Holland Park safe house in London, Roper sat in his wheelchair in the computer room, drinking tea and smoking a cigarette, when Ferguson, wearing pajamas and a bathrobe, called him on Skype.

“There you are,” he said. “What time have you got?”

“It’s four o’clock in the morning in London, people tucked up in their beds, the sane ones anyway.”

Ferguson said, “I’m at Jack Cazalet’s beach house on Nantucket. It sounds like the storm of the century’s outside trying to get in.”

“That must be interesting. How is the great man?”

“Not best pleased at the news I bore about Husseini. At least, he wants us to get moving on it right away. Some of the people I’ve talked to seem not to want to believe it could even happen. I get an idea that’s even the way the CIA sees it.”

Roper said, “I can’t blame them, in a way. The possibilities are horrendous. No sensible person would want to face the kind of future that would bring. Did you tell him about—”

“Yes. I mentioned Husseini’s history as an academic ten years ago, when he was a professor at London University.”

“Where he met a certain Rabbi Nathan Gideon and his granddaughter, a young second lieutenant out of the Military Academy at Sandhurst named Sara Gideon. Who now works for us.”

“Correct. And I’ve actually figured out how we can use her. Did you know that Husseini is due in Paris this Friday to receive the Legion of Honor?”

“No, I didn’t. That’s a surprise, that he’s being allowed out of Iran,” Roper said. “But maybe not. His work on medical isotopes has saved a great many lives, his mother is French — from the Iranian government’s point of view, the signal it sends letting him accept the award is: Look what nice people we are.”

“Except that they’ve got his mother and daughter in Tehran under threat and they know Husseini’s not the kind of man to let anything happen to them. He’s totally trapped,” Ferguson pointed out. “But still, there might be an opening. That’s why I’m arranging for Sara to be on the guest list at the Élysée Palace. She’ll stay at the Ritz, which is where Husseini will be.”

“Together with his minders,” Roper said.

“Of course. But I’m betting there might not be as many of them as we might think. With his mother and daughter held hostage, there’s no need. We have an asset at the Ritz named Henri Laval. He told me that when Husseini visited a year ago to lecture at the Sorbonne, he had only one man with him, a Wali Vahidi, who stayed with him in a two-bedroom suite.”

“Do I look him up or have you already done that?” Roper asked.

“Wali Vahidi, thirty years a policeman of one kind or another. He’s been Husseini’s bodyguard for eight years, sees to his every need, more like a valet, but I’d be wary of taking that too much for granted. He saw plenty of action in the war with Iraq and survived being wounded. He holds a captain’s rank in the military police, so he can look after himself.”

“What does Sara think of all this?”

“I haven’t told her yet,” Ferguson said. “I left a message to say I’d be back for breakfast on Thursday morning, and that you and I would like to call in at ten-thirty. It would be interesting to get her grandfather’s input, too, since he knew Husseini so well. You could also check with Colonel Claude Duval to see what kind of security French Intelligence is putting on Friday night at the Élysée Palace. He’s in London at the moment.”

“Is that all?” Roper asked.

“You have something to contribute?”

“Yes, I think she needs backup. What do you think of sending Daniel Holley with her? Though we’d have to find out where he is — in Algiers or deep in the Sahara, for all I know.”

Ferguson said, “No. Those two enjoy what people of a romantic turn of mind describe as a relationship, and I don’t want anything getting in the way of this serious business. I agree she should have backup, though.”

“So what’s the answer?”

“To send Dillon with her, of course. Good night, Giles, I’m going back to bed for another hour or so,” and he switched off.

At six-thirty, Roper phoned Claude Duval, who was annoyed and showed it. “Whoever you are, it’s too early and I don’t want to know.”

“It’s Roper, you miserable wretch. Did she say no last night, whoever she was?”

“Something like that.” Duval laughed. “What in hell do you want, Giles?”

“The Legion of Honor award to Simon Husseini at the Élysée Palace on Friday night. Will you be attending?”

“Should I?” Duval’s tone of voice had changed.

“Sara Gideon will be there with Dillon.”

Duval was completely alert now. “What for?”

“Ten years ago, he was a friend of her grandfather, the famous Rabbi Nathan Gideon. Sara was just out of the military academy and met Husseini. Now she just wants to say hello to him if she gets a chance.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that, mon ami?”

“Of course. Do you seriously expect her to persuade him not to return to Iran?”

“Of course not. He’d never leave his mother and daughter behind.”

“So Sara and Sean can turn up?”

“Yes, of course they can come, and what’s more, I’ll go myself, if only for the pleasure of meeting the divine Sara again.”

“You’re a diamond, Claude. I’d kiss you on both cheeks if you were close enough.”

“Like hell you will.” Duval laughed. “You’re definitely up to something, Giles, and I’ll find out if it’s the last thing I do.”

Tony Doyle, back from military court duty at the Ministry of Defence on Thursday morning, didn’t bother to change out of his uniform. He helped Roper and his wheelchair into the back of the van using the hydraulic lift, and they were turning into the drive of Highfield Court exactly at ten-thirty, to find Ferguson’s Daimler parked in the drive, the chauffeur at the wheel. The front door opened and Mrs. Cohen appeared.

“Major Roper, how are you?” she asked, for they had become good friends.

“All the better for seeing you, Sadie,” he said as the two men eased the wheelchair into the hall.

“They’re waiting for you in the study,” she said, opening the large mahogany door. “In you go. They’re on the coffee, but I know you like a decent cup of tea, so I’ll go and get you one.”

Roper felt the usual conscious pleasure on entering the beautiful Victorian library with the crowded bookshelves, the paneled walls and Turkish carpets, the welcoming fire.

Nathan Gideon was a wise man and looked it. He had a gray fringe of beard, white hair topped by a black velvet yarmulke, and he wore an old velvet smoking jacket that Roper had seen many times. He seemed to have stepped in from another age entirely.

He shook Roper’s hand. “You look well, Giles.”

“No, I don’t. As usual, you are far too kind,” Roper told him. “We both know I’ll never look anything like well again.”

“My dear boy, feeling sorry for ourselves, are we?”

“Of course.” Roper produced some of his special painkillers and crunched them.

Sara, who had been sitting opposite Ferguson by the fire, stood up, poured a whiskey, and brought it to him.

“Wash them down, Giles.” She kissed him on the head and turned back to her seat.

She was wearing a one-piece flying suit and boots. Roper said, “I must say you look terribly dashing in that gear.”

“That’s nice of you,” she said. “I just passed my practical navigation test doing a takeoff while it was still dark. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is as dawn breaks. I’m grateful you arranged for me to learn to fly with the Army Air Corps, General.”

“I believe in people extending themselves,” Ferguson told her. “Maybe it’s to your advantage, but who knows when it could suit my purposes, too.” He turned to Roper. “Nathan and Sara and I were just discussing Husseini.”

“So what’s your opinion?” Roper asked the rabbi.

“Simon is a fine doctor. His interest in matters nuclear fascinated him because of the medical possibilities, and that was what led him to his pioneering work on medical isotopes. He’s spoken of the awesome powers generated by nuclear energy as the Breath of Allah, which must surely have endeared him to Islamic opinion.”

“I’m sure it did,” Ferguson agreed.

“However, further studies showed how quickly it could be turned into a weapons-grade material, which was exactly what his masters were hoping for, and, as you know, it was impossible for him to argue because they had his family,” Nathan Gideon said.

“The fact that they’re allowing him to venture into the outside world only proves how serious the threats must be to his mother and daughter,” Sara put in.

“You’re dealing with a regime that doesn’t stop at stoning a woman to death,” Roper pointed out.

Ferguson said, “Have you spoken to Claude Duval?”

“Yes, I have, he’s on our side and intends to be there himself. But let’s get clear now what we’re expecting to come out of this.” He turned to Sara. “The ball is in your court.”

She sat there, looking intense and troubled. “I always remember Simon as a lovely man. I’d just like to hear him tell me out of his own lips what he would like done to solve this situation. I have a horrible feeling that not much can be done and we’ll be at a stalemate, but I’d still like to try.”

“And so you shall,” Ferguson told her. “And it’s of vital importance that you do, because if he really has made progress beyond the theoretical in his nuclear experiments, it’s essential that we get our hands on his results before Iran does.”

“But what if he doesn’t agree? What if he’s faced with something so terrible that he’d rather nobody had it at all?” Sara asked.

Ferguson said calmly, “It’d be too late. He could destroy his case notes, all records of his findings, and it would do him little good. A scientist discovers what already exists. Eventually, someone else would follow in Husseini’s footsteps.”

She took a deep breath and said sadly, “I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m afraid I usually am, Captain.” Ferguson got up. “I’m sure you’d agree, Nathan.”

The rabbi, looking rather troubled, nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

Ferguson said, “Thank you for your input. We’ll get on. We’ve much to do, and in limited time.” He kissed Sara on the cheek. “I can see this is getting to you, but be of good heart. There’s a solution to everything, I’ve always found. We’ll see you at Holland Park early this evening, Dillon and the Salters and we three. Maggie will produce one of her special meals and we’ll discuss the future. It’s been very useful, Rabbi, my sincere thanks.”

Roper was already moving out in his wheelchair, and Ferguson followed him.

It was just after six that evening when the taxi dropped Sara at Holland Park. It always reminded her of a nursing home or something similar, although the razor wire, high walls, and numerous cameras indicated a different agenda. She didn’t have to do anything except wait to be identified. The Judas Gate in the massive front entrance clicked open, she stepped inside, and it closed behind her. She crossed the courtyard to the front door, went in and made her way to the computer room, where she found Roper in his wheelchair in front of the screens. She removed her military trench coat.

“Where is everybody?” she asked.

“The boss is in his office, the Salters haven’t turned up yet, and the music wafting through from the dining room is Dillon on the piano. It pains me to say it, but the wretch is really quite good.”

“No, he isn’t, he’s damn good,” Sara called as she went out along the corridor and turned into the dining room.

Dillon, at the piano, was just finishing “Blue Moon” while Maggie Hall was laying a table for dinner.

“Don’t exaggerate, Sara,” he said. “I play acceptable barroom piano, that’s all.”

“Don’t you be stupid,” Maggie Hall said. “You’re better than that and you know it, so why pretend?”

She moved off to the kitchen. Dillon said, “There you go, she should be my agent. What would you like?”

“What about ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’?”

“Why not?”

He started to play, and she listened and said, “Could you up the tempo?”

He did, attacking it hard, and she started to sing, surfing the rhythm, her voice lifting, and Maggie Hall emerged from the kitchen and stood there, staring. The music soared and came to an end. Maggie clapped vigorously and called, “Right on.”

Dillon was astonished. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“I learned to play guitar at twelve and I loved singing, but just for me. I don’t advertise.”

“Well, you should. Any cocktail bar I’ve ever been in would snap you up.”

Clapping broke out from behind, Sara turned and found the Salters standing in the doorway.

“Marvelous,” Harry Salter said. “I’d give you a booking any time for my restaurant.”

“Harry’s Place, Sara,” Billy told her. “You haven’t been yet, very classy. We’ll take you.”

“Some other time.” Ferguson appeared behind them. “But not now. There’s work to be done. Back to Roper, if you please.”

For half an hour, Roper ran a compilation of film featuring Simon Husseini, mostly garnered from news reports. It finished, and Ferguson said, “Well, there you are. That’s our man.”

“Looks a decent enough chap to me,” Billy observed.

Harry said, “Do I take it we can be certain he’s not out to blow up the bleeding world, then?”

“He’s a decent man who’s in a very bad situation and doesn’t know what to do about it.”

“The way I see it, there’s not much he can do,” Dillon said.

“I’ve got film of an Élysée Palace ceremony coming up,” Roper said. “Just for information.”

They saw a place crowded with people, many of them in uniform or ecclesiastical wear, palace guards in full uniform, a glittering scene, sparkling chandeliers. People who were to be decorated sat near the front and went forward in turn for the President of France to pin on the insignia of the Legion of Honor or whatever. Finally, Roper switched off.

“So there you are,” Ferguson said. “What do you think?”

“An awful lot of people,” Sara said. “Difficult to make contact with our man.”

“Or perhaps the crowded situation would make it easier. There’s a buffet, champagne. It would depend on how long you wanted to be in contact with him. Perhaps a few snatched moments is all you could expect.”

That was Ferguson, and Dillon said, “There might be an opportunity at the hotel. We’ll just have to see.”

“Perhaps Duval could be useful there,” Ferguson said.

“He’s a sly fox, that one.” Dillon grinned. “So he may have a useful idea or two. How are we going to Paris?”

“The Gulfstream from Farley Field. My asset is at the Ritz, an aging waiter named Henri Laval. He knows the hotel backward. Can be very useful. You’ll be given his mobile number.”

“Well, if his help would lead us to a meeting of some sort with Husseini, it will be more than welcome.”

“Excellent,” Ferguson said. “Now we’ll eat and I’ll tell you what else I’m planning for the future.”

Maggie Hall had excelled herself. Onion soup, poached salmon, Jersey new potatoes and salad, a choice of cheese or strawberries, backed up by Laurent-Perrier champagne.

“You’ve been too nice to us entirely,” Dillon said as coffee and tea arrived. “So what’s this about future plans?” he asked Ferguson.

“AQ. Two letters only, but we all know they stand for ‘al-Qaeda.’ Osama may be dead, but in a worldwide sense he lives on and is as potent as ever. His jihadist message appeals to people in every country and from all levels of society. He made them think they were fighting for a just cause, doing something worthwhile with their lives. The purity of terror excuses all guilt from the message. That also has great appeal. Take the Army of God organization. It’s a perfectly legitimate charity, dedicated to the welfare of Muslims in many countries. Right here in London, it operates from an old Methodist chapel in Pound Street, and its welfare work is first class.”

“And we know from past experience,” Dillon said, “that certain areas of its activity are directly linked to al-Qaeda.”

“Which would shock many wealthy Muslim businessmen, people so rich that we can count them as being beyond reproach, who provide considerable financial support, based on the fact that the charity promotes interfaith involvement with Christians and Jews and sources at a government level.”

“Which would seem to me to muddy the waters nicely,” Sara put in.

“Where is this leading?” Dillon asked.

“Many in al-Qaeda’s hierarchy have been assassinated in Pakistan and elsewhere by Reaper drones and similar weapons. But sometimes a different approach is needed. Because of his knowledge of shipping in the Mediterranean, Daniel Holley has been able to give me names of tramp steamers and rust buckets delivering arms of every description on behalf of al-Qaeda.”

Sara nodded. “So you want us to—”

“Board some of them at night, drop a few blocks of Semtex into the hold, and sink them. We’ve done it before. Many times over the years, haven’t we, Billy?”

“You’re right,” Billy said. “A few times, Dillon and me. Twice in Beirut.” He turned to Dillon. “Get the diving suits out again.”

Harry said, “I’m not sure that’s wise, my son; you’ve been damaged enough in your time. Professor Bellamy would like you to take it easy.”

“That was over a year ago.” Billy nodded to Dillon. “You up for it?”

“I wouldn’t be asking you to pair up with Dillon,” Ferguson said. “I was considering you and Holley when he’s available.” Before Billy or anyone was able to say anything, he carried on. “I was thinking of Sara and Dillon teaming up for something else. In fact, having seen you in action together earlier at the piano, I think it’s an excellent idea. But we’ll get to that later. We’ll have some more champagne now.”

Maggie had been standing at the back, already opening a fresh bottle. She poured it into glasses and went around with the tray.

Ferguson said, “I must say you all seem rather subdued. Why don’t you give us a suitable toast, Sean?”

“You’re too kind,” Dillon told him. “Considering what you’ve just discussed, I’d say something appropriate would be: We, who could be about to die, salute you.”

3

Ferguson left first, then the Salters. Roper retired to the computer room and Dillon decided to use the sauna. Sara chose the quiet of the library and sat checking everything she could find on Husseini. She spent an hour in this way, then returned to the computer room, where she found Roper at the screens.

“Still here?” he said.

She explained what she’d been doing, and he nodded approvingly. “Nothing like being prepared.”

“I thought I knew him, but there was a lot I didn’t,” she said. “What are you up to?”

“Same thing, in a way. Having a look at his Iranian masters.”

“That’s interesting,” she said. “Can I see?”

“Of course you can. I’ll put them up in sequence. There’s the President. There’s the Council of Guardians, which enjoys a lot of influence.”

“Who’s that man?”

“Well, according to their official release in Paris, they seem to be expecting a few people from London to be joining them. This chap, Emza Khan, is one of the businessmen who support the Army of God charity.”

“Can he be trusted?” Sara asked. “Or is there an al-Qaeda connection?”

“I’m famous for not trusting anyone,” Roper said, “but I tend to think Khan’s on our side. He’s a billionaire, the chairman of Cyrus Holdings, which is responsible for Iran’s oil and gas interests and many other things. The headquarters is in London. He’ll be seventy next birthday.”

Khan stared grimly at Sara from the screen, the once powerful body straining to get out of the excellent suit. Sara said, “He looks like he likes to have his own way and normally gets it. Who’s the bearded thing in the black suit behind him? That’s a hell of a scar bisecting the left side of his face. “

“His name is Rasoul Rahim, Khan’s bodyguard and thug. Reputedly, he kills people for him whenever necessary.”

“Of course he does.” Dillon appeared, wearing a toweling robe. “He’ll drop in on the Ritz like a lead weight. On the other hand, one sliding stamp of the foot downward will dislodge the kneecap of even a seventeen-stone rugby player. Remember that, girl dear, if you’re trying your aikido on him.”

“And you say Khan’s on our side?” said Sara.

“You can’t always choose your friends,” said Roper.

Another image appeared on-screen, a laughing young man, black tie loose, quite obviously drunk, his arms around a couple of women, the three of them looking the worse for wear.

“And who’s this, the pride of the nightclub circuit?” Dillon demanded. “What about his Muslim principles?”

“Gone out of the window where the drink is concerned,” Roper told him. “That’s the son, Yousef. Educated at Harrow, where he twice almost got the heave-ho. Several court appearances for drink driving, brawling. Twice accused of rape by different girls who changed their minds and wouldn’t continue to give evidence. He’s twenty-six.”

“Obviously bought off by Daddy,” Sara said. “The girls.”

“What would you expect?” Roper added. “Can you stand another?”

“Do we have to?” Dillon inquired.

“Well, you have to travel hopefully,” Roper said. “And if you do, sometimes you get a surprise.”

A picture appeared of a man in some sort of army summer uniform, medals making a brave show. He was of medium height, with a bronze aquiline face, black hair, a peaked cap in his hands. His gaze was direct and somber, but to Sara’s disquiet she found him rather attractive.

“Lieutenant Colonel Declan Rashid,” Roper said. “Military attaché at the Iranian Embassy at 16 Princes Gate right here in good old London town. You know what Muslims are like about family being so important. He’s some sort of third or fourth cousin of the Khans.”

“Well, that’s hardly his fault,” Sara said.

Dillon cut in, “But where in the hell did he get the Irish name?”

“His mother was a strong-willed young Irish doctor from Cork named Rosaleen Collins, and his father couldn’t deny her anything, which explains where the name Declan comes in. The Rashids weren’t Iranians, they were from Oman originally, Bedouins.”

“Which means they’re warriors,” Dillon said.

“Certainly as far as his father, Hassan Rashid, was concerned. He rose to brigadier general in the Iranian Army. Remember, they were at war with Iraq for eight years.”

“Why do I sense the worst coming?” Dillon asked.

“Because it did. He was killed in nineteen eighty-six, and unfortunately his wife was with him. She’d visited behind the lines, they went for a spin in a spotter plane and were shot down.”

Sara said, “So how old was Declan?”

“Sixteen, and an only child. His mother hadn’t been able to have any more children.”

“It must have been hell for him.”

“It was,” Roper said. “I’ve got the photo to prove it.”

The boy in the photo wore desert combat fatigues and the red beret of a paratrooper, a pistol strapped to his right knee, an AK-47 assault rifle crooked in his left arm. The eyes were haunting in the young face, the cheeks hollow.

Sara took a deep breath. “What happened?”

“He was at school here in London at St. Paul’s, flew back to Iran right away, but missed the funeral. After that, he simply joined the queue of peasant boys at the recruiting office, of which there were many, joined up, and kept his head down to avoid the search for him. There was another two years of war, during which he jumped five times into ‘action’ without having been trained for it. It was during the second year that Emza Khan traced him and he was promoted to the officers corps. He was an acting captain at the end of the war and all of eighteen. He’s forty-two now and unmarried.”

There was silence after that for the moment. Dillon said, “Well, all I can say is it must be the Irish in him. Having said that, I’d buy him a drink anytime.”

Sara said, “A remarkable story, and you’ve gone to a lot of trouble telling us. Is there a reason?”

“The handout from the London Embassy’s press office covers the award of the Legion of Honor to Simon Husseini and makes the point that Emza Khan, Chairman of Cyrus, will be visiting to support him.”

“Is Khan’s son going?”

“I shouldn’t imagine so, with his track record. They wouldn’t want any more scandal. However, the military attaché from Princes Gate, Lieutenant Colonel Declan Rashid, respected war hero, will be in attendance, all staying at the Ritz.”

“It will be just like old home week,” Dillon put in.

“But isn’t this going to be rather obvious?” Sara asked. “Our presence there?”

Dillon said, “There isn’t an embassy in London that doesn’t know about Charles Ferguson’s motley crew. They know who we are and we know who they are. The real work in our line of business is finding out what everyone else is up to, and that includes our friends. Take Claude Duval. A strong right arm to us, but France will always come first.”

“I suppose you’re right, although it does get complicated on occasion,” Sara said.

“It’s a damn sight better than Afghanistan, and you’ve got the permanent limp to prove it. So content yourself. If you don’t mind waiting till I change, you can drop me off at my place on the way home. We’ll share a cab. You’ve had too much to drink.”

She laughed out loud. “You’ve got the cheek of the devil, Sean Dillon.”

“It’s been said before.” He grinned. “But think of the pleasure it gives you helping out a poor ould fella like me.” He was gone before she could reply.

Emza Khan had purchased the apartment on top of a tower in Park Lane because it was within walking distance of the Dorchester and it pleased him to have all of the amenities of one of the world’s great hotels so close to hand. As time went on, he’d fallen in love with the rural sweep of Hyde Park. Finally, the city by night captivated him, the lights stretching into the darkness as if stars had come down from heaven to please him.

Just now he was sitting by the open sliding windows to the terrace, drinking a Virgin Mary, not that he was averse to adding vodka to it if he wished. As chairman of Cyrus Holdings and incredibly wealthy, he was only lacking in life where family was concerned. Two sons killed in the war with Iraq, a third, Yousef, a libertine and drunk who disgraced himself with whores and refused to take anything seriously. Which left Khan with only Declan Rashid, a remote cousin of the family clan, but a man who would make any father proud, except for one thing — careful discussion with the colonel had indicated that he had not been moved by the words of Osama bin Laden, had not warmed to him at all.

This was a pity and a complete reversal of what had happened to Emza Khan, whose conversion had been quite genuine after hearing Osama speak for the first time. He had immediately contacted the right people, made it clear that he believed in the great man completely, and was soon serving him as required. After Osama’s murder, which was how Khan saw it, he had placed himself at the disposal of those carrying on the holy work of their deceased leader via the Army of God. Following instructions, Khan had declared his opposition to al-Qaeda in newspaper and television interviews, and so now that was the public perception of him, and by everyone around him, including Declan Rashid. It would have been absurd, after all, to have believed otherwise, and al-Qaeda was hardly popular with the Iranian government.

He was involved right now with extremely important work concerning the delivery of arms to various places in the Mediterranean. He had thought of involving Yousef in it, but hesitated, concerned at the consequences if failure occurred. That al-Qaeda could be unforgiving in such circumstances was a known fact.

Rasoul Rahim came in from the kitchen, a green barman’s apron over his black suit, his beard perfectly trimmed, the scar vivid on the left cheek.

“You still look like an undertaker in spite of that ridiculous apron,” Khan told him.

Rasoul didn’t even smile. “How may I serve you?”

“As Yousef is taking his time about getting here, I can only fear the worst. We’ll give him another half hour, then you must go and search his usual haunts in Shepherd Market. In the meantime, mix me a Bloody Mary, and don’t forget the colonel intends to drop by on his way home from the embassy with the schedule for the Paris trip.”

Rasoul nodded and returned to the kitchen.

Dillon and Sara, sharing a cab on their way to their respective homes, were driving along Curzon Street when Dillon told the driver to turn into Shepherd Market and drop them at the Blue Angel.

“It’s a piano bar,” he informed Sara. “One of the best in London, with one of the greatest players in the business.”

“You rogue, Sean.” She shook her head. “You intended this all the time.”

“Me darling Sara, do I look that sort of a guy?”

“Absolutely,” she told him.

At the same moment, Declan Rashid was turning into the underground garage at Emza Khan’s building. As he got out, George, the night porter, joined him.

“I think you should know that young Yousef’s on the loose, Colonel.”

Declan said, “Is he bad?”

“Drunk as a lord, sir. I refused to give him his car keys and he tried to punch me. Then he said he didn’t need the car because he’d find what he wanted in Shepherd Market. He said he’d get me sacked.”

“Good work, George, and hang on to those keys. Don’t worry about your job, I’ll see to it.”

He was back in the car in seconds and reversing. It was only a matter of a few hundred yards through empty streets and he turned into Shepherd Market, parked, and saw Yousef at once in the middle of a cobbled alley approaching the Blue Angel, swaying drunkenly. He called his name as Yousef got the door open, and ran to join him, arriving just after him. As he entered, Declan was immediately aware of a woman singing.

Earlier, Dillon and Sara had been greeted by the sound of a great driving piano backed by a trio. Most people had faded away at the lateness of the hour, just a couple of dozen aficionados left. Dillon was welcomed at once by the gray-haired black piano player, who called to them.

“Hey, Dillon, my man, get up here. Who have you got there, old buddy?”

“My very special date. A captain in the British Army.”

The pianist leaned over, still playing, and kissed her on the cheek.

“That can’t be right. This rascal is IRA. Those guys never retire. Once in, never out, ain’t that so, Dillon?”

Dillon said to Sara, “Jacko St. Clair, off a boat from New Orleans.”

“That’s true, honey, only it was about thirty years ago. Are you for real? Is it true what he says?”

“I’m afraid so,” she told him.

Dillon cut in, “She’s got a great voice, Jacko.”

“You mean she sings with you? Some of that cocktail bar stuff?”

“Tell the barman that, for this time only, we’ll do it for free.”

Jacko got up. “Be my guest.”

Dillon sat down, nodded at the trio, and smiled at Sara. “Show them what you’ve got, I’ll do the intro strong, just so you get used to it.” He turned to the trio. “You get that, guys? Then we’ll do it again with her joining in. Just remember, Sara, the hero of Abusan can do anything.”

His hands moved into the driving rhythm of Cole Porter’s “Night and Day,” and as Sara swept in powerfully, people in the audience started to clap. The outside door swung open with a crash. Yousef Khan stumbled, fell on his knees, and then turned and grabbed at Declan Rashid, pulling himself up.

“What’s going on, and why is that silly bitch making such a row?”

Declan said, “Remember your manners. We’re leaving now.”

Yousef slapped him in the face, snarling, “You stupid Bedu peasant, why don’t you stumble out of here and find some goats to milk?”

Sara, who had stopped singing, moved close to him, followed by Dillon. “The only one getting out of here is you, you piece of camel dung,” she told Yousef in Farsi.

He pulled away from Declan and tried to grab her. Immediately, a Colt .25 was in her right hand and rammed up under his chin. A warrant card was produced from her left pocket and held high for the audience to see.

“Do I have to arrest him, Colonel, or can you persuade him to go? I’m an officer of the Security Services.”

Rasoul appeared in the open doorway, the ugly scarred face intimidating. “What’s going on?”

Declan ignored him and said to her, “I’m sorry for this trouble.”

“Not as much as he is,” she said. “I believe he’s wet himself.”

“Damn you, whore.” Yousef’s drunken rage boiled over and he struggled to get at her.

Declan pulled him around and shook him. “Control yourself, fool.” Yousef spat in his face and Declan hit him very hard, a short and sharp punch, catching him as Yousef’s eyes rolled and he started to slide.

Rasoul was outraged. “How dare you do that? His father shall hear of it.”

“I’m frightened to death,” Declan told him and shoved Yousef into the big man’s arms. “Get him out of here, put him in my car, and wait for me.”

Rasoul hesitated, then pulled Yousef up over his right shoulder, and Declan turned to Sara and Dillon. “You are a remarkable lady. I won’t forget you.”

“Or we you, Colonel.” That’s a mean right hand you’ve got there,” Dillon told him. He grinned at Sara. “Ferguson ought to hire him.”

“Your lesson may even do that young man some good,” Sara said.

“But you don’t think it will?” He smiled. “I would agree with you completely, which is very sad for his family. But I must go. His father will be waiting impatiently to hear how badly he’s behaved this time. A habit, I fear.”

He left, the door closed, and Sara turned to Dillon. “Let’s do it again. I don’t like disappointing such a good audience.”

“Right on, honey,” Jacko called. “And I do believe the barman is offering a free drink to everyone who stays.”

“That clinches it.” She turned and went to where the band was arranging itself, as the audience settled and Dillon eased behind the piano. He was smiling crookedly as he looked at her.

“What’s that smile for?” she said as she picked up her mike.

“I enjoyed seeing you in action.” He shook his head. “No wonder they gave you the Military Cross. Now let’s get down to business.”

His hands slammed into the keys, fingers searching as he launched into that driving rhythm for the second time that night.

They went up in the elevator to Emza Khan’s apartment, Declan Rashid leading the way, Rasoul with Yousef draped around him. Emza Khan was sitting in a winged chair by the terrace window reading the Financial Times. He tossed it to one side and jumped to his feet.

“What is it, what happened?” He was totally dismayed.

“Ask the colonel,” Rasoul said angrily. “The one who beat him.”

“Is this true?” Khan demanded.

Declan had two main obligations in his life. One was to his country and its army, in which he had served so gallantly. The other was to the head of his extended family, which meant kissing the hand of Emza Khan and, by tradition, obeying him in all things. The truth was that his Irish half was finding it extremely difficult to follow such a path.

He said to Khan, “Listen to this creature’s lies if you must, but Yousef behaved like a drunken sot, tried to attack a young woman who turned out to be an army officer. She had to draw a weapon on him, I took appropriate action and knocked him out. If you want to call in Dr. Aziz to check him over, that’s your privilege.”

Khan turned to Rasoul. “Get Aziz now. No more arguments, and take Yousef to his bedroom.” Which Rasoul did. Khan carried on, “It is most unfortunate, the drinking. It’s a sickness, a known fact. I had great hopes for him.” He shook his head sadly. “He was such a lovely boy. I was hoping to take him to Paris. What do you think?”

“God help the chambermaids at the Ritz if you do. I’ve other things on my mind, like finding out who these people we were involved with tonight are. A name was mentioned, Ferguson. If he’s who I think he is, we need to know. I’ll borrow your office and computer to link into the embassy.”

“Help yourself to what you need,” Khan said. “We’ll speak later. I must check on Yousef.”

He went out.

As the cab turned a corner, Sara leaned against Dillon, eyes closed, and they stayed that way as she murmured, “Are we there? I need my bed.”

“So I can see. Can you remember what happened?”

Her eyes opened. “Sean, for your personal information, I like a drink, but never get drunk. So, yes, I remember everything, however improbable it appeared at the time.”

“Colonel Declan Rashid and a rotten young bastard called Yousef Khan, do you recall them?”

“Of course I do, and the colonel was far more interesting. Why do you ask?”

He got the door open for her. “I just wanted to remind you he’s the enemy.”

She got out. “He joined the paratroopers at sixteen and jumped into action five times without any training. Why would anyone do that?”

“Perhaps he had a death wish.” Dillon smiled bleakly, followed her, and paid the driver, who drove away.

Sara turned, found herself facing not her own front door but the Judas Gate in the entrance to Holland Park. Dillon opened it for her, pressing a button on his Codex.

“What’s going on, Sean?” she demanded.

“Oh, I need to bring Roper up to date on what happened, and we’re not all that far from your place. You could have a steam for a while in the spa, even stay in the guest wing, or I can drop you home when I’ve spoken to Roper.”

She sighed. “All right.”

They crossed the courtyard and opened the front door, but were surprised to hear Ferguson’s voice echoing from the computer room.

“I wonder what he’s doing here,” Dillon said. “Do you want to face him?”

“No, thanks, the steam room sounds fine.”

“Okay, off you go. I’ll handle it.”

She vanished along the corridor into the shadows, and Dillon stood at the door of the computer room, listening, and then went in.

“Holy Mother, and me thinking you’d wrapped up for the night.”

“Oh, we never close,” Roper told him.

Ferguson said, “I went home to get some essential papers. I’m due at the Cabinet Office first thing in the morning to brief the Prime Minister on Simon Husseini. I thought I’d come back here and use one of the guest rooms so I’d get an early start.”

“So what’s your story?” Roper asked. “If you have one at all.”

“Oh, I certainly do,” Dillon said. “Though there are aspects of it that may not get your seal of approval.”

“That sounds sinister,” Ferguson said. “Better get it over with and tell us the worst.”

He was smiling when he said that, but not when Dillon was finished. “That’s incredible. We were only discussing the Iranians earlier and then they go and turn up in the flesh.”

“Carl Jung called it synchronicity,” Dillon told him. “Events that have a coincidence in time, so that it’s understandable to imagine some deeper meaning involved.”

“Nonsense,” Ferguson told him. “Pure coincidence. Emza Khan lives in Park Lane just up the road from Shepherd Market, where his son is a well-known drunk in local bars and clubs. The fact that Declan Rashid turns up, obviously trying to clean up the mess Yousef Khan has created for his father, should surprise no one.”

“Well, let’s put it down to the romantic in me,” Dillon said.

“Nothing romantic about it. Things got very much out of hand, and that Captain Sara Gideon drew her pistol in a public place is to be deplored. The Iranians will be taking a close interest in what we are doing, which was the last thing I wanted.”

“Or was it?”

Ferguson frowned. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“That you’re a master of guile and wickedness, always stirring the pot.”

Ferguson wasn’t in the least put out, just smiled cheerfully. “Of course I am, and one never knows what’s going to bubble up to the surface. Take Paris and Simon Husseini. Anything could happen, the possibilities are endless.” He swallowed the last of his whiskey, got up. “Must get some sleep. See you at breakfast.”

Roper said, “What do you think he’s up to?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Dillon said. “When I do, I’ll let you know.”

He moved to the door, and Roper said, “Are you staying?”

“I don’t think so. Sara’s downstairs having a steam. She preferred not to face Ferguson at this stage.”

“I don’t blame her.”

“I’ll join her and take her home in the Mini when she’s ready.”

He went out quickly, leaving Roper to his screens.

At Park Lane, Declan Rashid, a slight smile on his face, read the computer report on Ferguson and company that the printer had ejected. When he was finished, he made another copy and went in search of Khan and found him in the sitting room, talking to Dr. Aziz, a small cheerful Indian with skin like brown parchment.

“I’ve given him a shot of morphine, which will keep him sleeping for eight to ten hours. Nothing broken, but he’ll have a bad bruise,” Aziz said.

“That was me,” Declan told him.

“Quite a punch, Colonel.” Aziz smiled.

“Which he richly deserved,” Declan told him.

“I’m sure you’re right. Drink will be the death of him.” He turned to Khan. “But I’m tired of telling you that. I’ll call again in the morning.”

“I’m very grateful,” Khan said. “Anything he needs. I’ve got to go to Paris for three days, and I’ll need Rasoul with me. Can you arrange a nurse?”

“No problem.”

“I think the male variety would be advisable in the circumstances,” Declan Rashid said and turned to Khan. “I mean it for the best, naturally.”

“Of course,” Khan said. “See to it as you think fit, Doctor. Show the doctor out, Rasoul.”

Rasoul, who had been glowering in the background, did as he was told, and Declan joined Khan over by the great windows and offered the report.

“No, we’ll have a martini,” Khan told him, moving toward the bar area. “You can read it to me.”

Which Declan did as Khan mixed the cocktails, listening as Rasoul, standing against the wall beside the kitchen door, took it all in, too. Declan finished, and Khan passed him the vodka martini.

“What extraordinary people,” he said. “Even the woman is beyond belief. Owner, in effect, of the Gideon Bank, and with this amazing war record.” He sipped his drink. “The fact that her parents died in a Hamas bus bombing would indicate to me that she is hardly likely to warm to Arabs in general.”

Rasoul, listing intently, couldn’t help jumping in. “Do not forget that she is a Jew and not worthy of serious consideration.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Declan told him. “Her exploits in Afghanistan speak for themselves. When the Taliban ambushed that convoy at Abusan, she was as good as any man behind that heavy machine gun. Three special forces men to protect her, two of whom died, the third wounded, and she was wounded herself and left with a permanent limp. Forty-two dead Taliban when they counted the corpses.”

“Which leads me to ask whose side you are on in the struggle for Islamism in the world today. A Taliban should be looked on as your brother. There is only one God and Osama is his Prophet, or do you renounce that, too?” Rasoul demanded.

There was a moment of complete stillness, horror on Khan’s face at the dreadful slip of the tongue, and sudden desperation on Rasoul’s as he realized what he had said.

Declan smiled gently. “An error on your part, I’m sure, but the Prophet, whose name be praised, is merciful and will forgive a sinner.”

Khan exploded with rage at Rasoul’s slip, for any reference to Osama bin Laden, particularly when it involved Declan, was the last thing he and his masters needed.

He shouted, “What nonsense are you talking? Get out of my sight.”

Rasoul bowed his head. Forgive me.” He turned and hurried away into the kitchen.

Emza Khan said, “A stupid fool, but I keep him on because of his ability to handle Yousef, you know that.”

“Of course I do, so no need to apologize,” Declan told him. “I’m leaving now. I’ll see you tomorrow, and then Paris next stop. I’ll brief you on the plane in the morning about Husseini.”

“I look forward to it, it should be fun,” Khan said. “Particularly the whores.”

“I’m sure they’re waiting for you in eager anticipation,” Declan Rashid said with considerable irony. “I’ll say good night.”

While waiting for the lift, he considered what had happened. In rage, anything Rasoul said was likely to be the truth, for he was that sort of person, so what did his slip of the tongue mean? And Emza Khan’s angry dressing-down of Rasoul had been a little over the top, or had it? Declan shook his head. Any suggestion that Khan could treat the memory of Osama bin Laden seriously was patently absurd. Making money had been the ruling obsession in his life. He was hardly likely to change now, not with the government and the Council of Guardians to contend with in Tehran. The last thing they wanted getting its hands on power was al-Qaeda.

He dismissed it from his mind and a few minutes later was driving his car out of the underground garage, joining the two-o’clock-in-the-morning traffic and thinking, somewhat to his surprise, of Sara Gideon.

Emza Khan read the details about Ferguson and his people that Declan had provided. When he was finished, he thought about it for a while. Charles Ferguson and his people had been a considerable nuisance to al-Qaeda, foiling many carefully planned enterprises over the past few years, and Dillon was something else again, murdering many of their best people. Now there was the Jewish woman of untold wealth, which offended him. How many decent Muslim men had she killed? She deserved to die, and so did her friends.

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.”

4

It 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.

Abu 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.”

Sara 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.

Belted 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.

Dillon, 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.”

His clothes were completely soaked now, and Abu had slumped onto his side. Dillon pulled the body away from the car and laid the corpse out on its back.

He crossed himself and, remembering Abu’s final words, murmured, “You’ll know all about it now, son.”

He turned to the Mini and inspected it as best he could. The passenger door required a bang to close it, but the fact that the gates standing half open had bounced out of the way on the Mini’s passage into the yard meant there was little damage. The lights still worked, and he found that he could drive it around the yard. As he was doing that, a large black van coasted in silently and four men in black overalls got out.

“Good to see you in one piece, Mr. Dillon,” the man in charge said. “No injuries, I trust?”

Dillon shook hands. “I’m in perfect working order, and so is Captain Gideon, Mr. Teague.”

“A pleasure to see you, ma’am,” Teague said as Sara approached.

Two of his colleagues were already easing Abu into a black body bag, the third had righted the Montesa and was wheeling it to the rear of the van.

“No problem with the bike, we’ll dispose of it, but I’d be obliged if you would show me what happened with the London cab.”

Which Dillon did, Sara following them. They stood on the broken end of the wharf, and Teague shone a powerful torch. “Forty feet down and possibly a depth of thirty feet. Remember, the Thames is fiercely tidal, so the wreck of the cab could be swept away. No exchange of fire?”

“Absolutely not,” Dillon told him.

“So if it ever was examined — say, by the river police — it would pass as a very unfortunate accident.”

“Which you could say it was, in a manner of speaking,” Dillon told him.

“So that’s what we’ll leave it as.” Teague turned to Sara. “What a world we live in, ma’am. So pleased you’re in one piece. The Mini being usable, Mr. Dillon, I presume you’ll be driving back to Holland Park?”

Dillon turned to Sara. “Would you rather go home?”

“I think that would be a good idea. I’ve got to face them sometime, put on a show of normality.” She held out her hand to Teague. “I’m sure we’ll meet again, but I hope it’s later rather than sooner.”

She went to the Mini, and Teague said, “A remarkable lady.”

“You can say that again. That al-Qaeda assassin had me in his sights, and she took him on with a spring blade. Saved my life.”

“So you owe her, and big-time. Always remember that, my friend.” Teague shook hands, went to the van where the others waited, got in, and was driven away.

Dillon went to the Mini, where he found Sara behind the wheel. He slipped into the passenger seat. His only comment was “When you drop a gear and put your foot down hard, there’s a huge power surge. It’s the supercharger.”

“Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind,” she told him, switched on, and drove away. He selected a CD and music drifted out. Fred Astaire. As the intro played, Sara joined in, singing softly: “There may be trouble ahead / But while there’s music and moonlight and love and romance / Let’s face the music and dance.”

“Great lyrics,” Dillon said.

“A lesson for everybody.” She hummed along and never said another word until they reached South Audley Street and Highfield Court, where she drove into the drive. Dillon got out as she moved halfway to the house and turned. “Night bless, Sean, it’s been a sincere sensation. See you later.”

“Take it easy,” he said, got behind the wheel, and reversed out of the drive.

The front door opened to her, and Sadie, wrapped in a dressing gown, stood to one side as Sara entered and closed the door behind her. “It must be four o’clock in the morning, and you’ve been drinking, I can smell it.”

“And singing in a piano bar.” Sara made for the stairs. “Is Granddad all right?”

“Went to his bed hours ago. Honestly, Sara, I don’t know what’s to become of you.”

“That’s easy, Sadie, I’m going to Paris, so let me get to my bed and a few hours’ sleep while I can.”

By now at the top of the stairs, she got the door of her room open, kicked off her boots, flung herself on the bed, still in her clothes, and was instantly asleep.

At Holland Park, Dillon found Ferguson in a dressing gown and sitting with Roper, being served tea and bacon sandwiches by Sergeant Tony Doyle, who greeted Dillon cheerfully before anyone else could.

“I expect you might fancy the same, Mr. Dillon.”

“Tony, you’ve got it exactly right,” Dillon told him. “But I think I’ve earned a Bushmills first.”

Roper passed him the bottle. “Help yourself.”

“And then I’d like an explanation.” Ferguson was annoyed, and it showed. “What in the hell have you been getting up to now? And what were you doing involving Captain Gideon?”

“You can rein in your horses right there, Charles. You had retired for the night, I was due to run Sara home, Giles here noticed a suspicious London cab hanging around. It could have been something or nothing, but ended up very much a something.”

“In what way precisely?”

“A man called Abu informed me that there is only one God and Osama is his Prophet. He had his Glock on me, and I was on my knees at the time.”

Ferguson frowned. “Al-Qaeda was behind this?”

“I should say so,” Dillon told him. “Sara saved me by stabbing Abu a couple of times, giving me the chance to shoot him. I’d managed to attract his backup man into taking a dive off the local wharf into the Thames, so you could argue that a fine time was enjoyed by one and all.”

“Including Sara Gideon.” There was a small and quizzical smile on Roper’s face, a query: “Is she okay?”

“Absolutely,” Dillon said. “I’ve just delivered her to Highfield, where I imagine she’s gone straight to bed.”

“Which doesn’t surprise me at all, having heard all that,” Ferguson said. “So, al-Qaeda on our backs again, gentlemen. Rather unexpected, I’d have thought.”

“But they haven’t put anything our way for some time,” Roper said. “So why now?”

“Maybe they’ve got wind of your interest in those Mediterranean rust buckets, Charles,” Dillon said. “That would certainly add a new dimension to things. There’s really nothing else that would interest them as regards our present activities.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Roper told him. “This Simon Husseini business. Al-Qaeda would be happy to know why we are so interested in him.”

“So would I,” Dillon said. “But not now. I’m going to bed in the guest wing to get some sleep while the going’s good.”

He departed, and Roper said, “Well, there you are, General. I wouldn’t mind knowing what Paris is all about, but I expect you’ll tell us in your own good time.”

“Well, we certainly aren’t going to try to snatch him,” Ferguson told him. “That’s not on the agenda at all, because of his mother and daughter.”

“Which only leaves trying to turn him?”

“Leave it, Major, I’m not prepared to discuss it. I’m going back to bed, which seems the fashionable thing to do.”

He went out, and Roper smiled. So that was it? Trying to bring Husseini on our side. Someone should have told Ferguson the Cold War is over. The tactics it had bred wouldn’t work anymore, but the old boy was stubborn. Better to leave him to find out for himself.

Ali Saif, at his desk in his room at Pound Street, had been in the extraordinary position of being able to follow most of the events that had taken place, from Dillon and Sara’s departure at Holland Park to the final bloodbath of Butler’s Wharf. The earpieces Farouk and Abu wore were the reason, for they were so sophisticated that Ali Saif had a ringside seat to everything via his incredible receiving equipment.

He was part of the action at all times, heard Farouk’s howl of dismay as he went off the end of Butler’s Wharf and a great deal of what transpired in the courtyard of the warehouse between Abu, Dillon, and Sara.

To him, the most shocking thing of all was Abu telling Dillon that there was one God and Osama was his Prophet, making it clear to Dillon, and through him Ferguson, that the real enemy in this affair was al-Qaeda. Very stupid of Abu to do that, but to be charitable, one should not speak ill of the dead.

But the arrival of Teague and the disposal team and what he heard of them, until they bagged Abu, really shocked him. The sheer ruthlessness of these people showed Ferguson’s organization in a new light to him. He had never cared for the Iranian, a loudmouthed bully who preferred to get bad news sooner rather than later, so Ali Saif decided to give it to him in spite of the time.

In his bedroom at Park Lane, Emza Khan, rudely awakened, snarled into the phone, “Who in the hell is it at this hour?”

“It’s Ali Saif. You said you’d like to be kept informed. I’m afraid we’ve had problems.”

“Of what kind?” Khan said.

So Ali Saif told him.

When he was finished, Khan exploded with rage. “This is not acceptable. What Ferguson and his people are doing is appalling, and what’s more, they seem to get away with it on a regular basis. Can’t al-Qaeda do something to stop them?”

“I’m sure we can, given time. All this new information gives us insight on the way they operate. We’ll come up with a plan of action while you’re away in Paris.”

“Along with Ferguson, the woman Gideon, and Dillon. Are you telling me you can’t deal with them in Paris? Is not al-Qaeda as powerful there as here?”

“Oh yes,” Ali Saif told him. “Very much so.”

“Then speak to the right people, do something about it. Paris is full of narrow alleys and dark corners. Try and damage the woman, I should like to see her suffer, at the very least.”

“At your command,” Ali told him. “We will see what can be done.”

“See that you do. Another woman, perhaps, who could get close to her. Do you have such a person?”

“Yes, if she’s available.”

“Who is she, what’s her name?”

Saif was trapped, afraid to argue. “Fatima Le Bon.”

“Excellent, I like the sound of that. So she lives in Paris? What’s her address, phone number? Be quick, you idiot. I want to go back to sleep.”

With great reluctance but a certain amount of fear, Saif told him, “She’s true to the Cause.”

“She’d better be. It would be a pity to have to send Rasoul to visit her and have a quiet word. Good night,” and Khan slammed down the phone.

Ali Saif poured coffee, then produced a bottle of cognac from a drawer and poured a generous measure into a cut-glass tumbler. What fools these mortals be. That was Shakespeare, a man who had words to cover every situation, and Khan was a fool in spite of his wealth. Ali Saif was not a religious man, but al-Qaeda had supplied him with the right kind of action, a battle of wits, a great and wonderful game, and he had enjoyed every minute of it.

He produced a coded mobile and dialed a number in Paris. It was answered quite quickly. “Osama,” he said.

“Is risen” was the reply in French, and it was a woman’s voice. “Who are you seeking?”

“Fatima Le Bon, for Ali Saif,” he replied in English.

She answered in the same language. “You’ve got a nerve, you Egyptian pig. I ended up in police hands again after that last drug bust. I thought I was going down for five years.”

“Which you didn’t,” he said. “Discharged with a clean bill of health. Now, who do you think made that possible?”

“Okay,” she said. “So AQ had a hand in it.”

“Exactly, because we have sympathizers everywhere. I notice you’ve still held on to that special mobile phone I gave you last time when I was over. That’s good, and it proves you’re a good Muslim girl who believes in Osama.”

“A bad Muslim girl who’s French Algerian, didn’t understand what Osama was talking about, and was bewildered when you turned up at that night court with a lawyer when I was charged with slashing that disgusting pimp Louis Le Croix’s cheek.”

“A charge which was thrown out of court when your lawyer presented evidence that the knife was Le Croix’s, who was sentenced to five years, which he richly deserved for a litany of foul deeds, particularly where women were concerned.”

“The evidence against him was false, and I’ve been paying you off ever since.”

“Nonsense, you enjoy the game, just like me, especially when it’s filth like Le Croix who meet a bad end.”

“Screw you, Saif. So what is it this time?”

“There’s a lady in London giving us a problem.”

“By us, you mean al-Qaeda?”

“Of course. She’s staying at the Ritz.”

“And you’d like her damaged? Does this mean permanently?”

“Fatima, we are at war with the world. She is a soldier on the other side, which makes her fair game because she is our enemy. Her name is Captain Sara Gideon.”

“You know what? Something tells me you fancy her.”

“I admire her, certainly.” He took a deep breath. “She’s a British Army officer, an Afghanistan veteran, one of the few to be decorated. She now works for an intelligence outfit run by a General Ferguson. Her partner is a Sean Dillon, once an IRA enforcer, and make no mistake, they’re good. They’ve just seen off permanently two of my best hit men. She and Dillon will be at the Ritz tomorrow.”

Fatima laughed out loud. “And you expect poor little me to take that lot on?”

“Fatima, my love, not me, but the man I work for, who shall remain nameless, insists on some sort of revenge and suggests that Paris is just the place for it. He’s told me to try and damage the woman, as he would like to see her suffer.”

“Now I understand you,” Fatima told him. “You’re like the students who joined the Red Brigade years ago, went round blowing things up and assassinating people, just for the thrill of it.” She laughed out loud again. “Your chickens have come home to roost, Saif, because if you don’t do your duty by al-Qaeda, they’ll hang you out to dry and there’s nowhere you’ll be able to hide. They’re great throat-cutters, an Arab tradition.”

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.”