The Death Trade

5

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

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

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

“I agree.”

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

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

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

“But how could this happy circumstance be achieved?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the others?” Dillon inquired.

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

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

“Next door to them.”

“And Husseini? Is he in Paris yet?”

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

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fair enough,” Dillon said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you suggesting?” Dillon asked her.

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

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

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

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

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

“And how would you do that?”

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

“Never,” Claude said. “Impossible.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Colonel Declan Rashid?” Sara asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s very convenient,” Sara said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And I shouldn’t have to remind you of how crucially important to the state I am. Can you do what I do?”

Rasoul said, “How dare you?” He took a threatening step. Declan Rashid grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and sent him staggering.

Husseini and Khan still confronted each other. “Is there any man in Iran who can do what I do?” said Husseini.

“Damn you to hell,” Emza Khan told him. “My day will come.” He turned to Declan. “Fill him in on what’s expected of him tonight. I want everything to run smoothly. Everybody will be watching on television. Try to make this idiot see sense.”

He crossed to the door, opened it, and Rasoul ran after him. Husseini smiled at Declan Rashid. “I enjoyed that.”

“I’m sure you did,” Declan said. “I’d try not to make a habit of it if I were you. He really is very powerful.”

Wali Vahidi was also smiling, if only slightly. “We have a bar and kitchen next door. May I get you a drink or perhaps coffee?”

“Coffee would be fine,” Declan said and moved to the piano, where Husseini had started into “St. Louis Blues.”

“You play well. Jazz as well as the classics.”

“Oh, that’s the French side of me. I got it from my mother. The music has always been a great solace to me, helps keep me sane.”

“I’m sorry for your situation,” Declan said. “I really am. Your mother and daughter—”

Husseini cut him off. “I know you are, because you’re a decent man, but never let me hear you say that again. If the wrong person heard, it could be the end of you. Oh, Wali Vahidi is reasonable enough, but Rasoul is foul and Emza Khan is not used to people disagreeing with him.”

Vahidi entered with coffee on a tray and served it on a low table. They sat down, and he poured.

Declan said, “Tehran sees what’s happening tonight as a statement about Iran itself to the rest of the world.”

Husseini was immediately irritable. “I’m sorry, but I can’t make it happen the way they would like. I wish it wasn’t so damned important.”

“Well, it is.” Declan took a packet from his breast pocket and unfolded it. “This is the official observers list. There’ll be over two hundred attachés from embassies all over Paris showing interest in you.”

“For one reason only. Because I got famous for work on medical isotopes and parleyed it into the nuclear field and they all want to know how.”

“That’s true,” Declan agreed. “And I won’t deny that a lot of these people have been brought in from their countries because of you.”

“Like the USA, Germany, the Russian Federation, and, of course, the United Kingdom. Their intelligence desks will all be empty for the great occasion.”

“I hear what you say, and there is a certain amount of truth there, but the London end of things isn’t busy. Perhaps they’re no longer concerned in matters nuclear. They’ve sent two observers from the Ministry of Defence, that’s all. A Sean Dillon and a Captain Sara Gideon.”

Simon Husseini’s cup was being topped up by Vahidi when Sara’s name was spoken, and he knew immediately that it had to be that young officer from ten years ago, just out of Sandhurst and gifted at languages.

He picked up the cup and drank his coffee slowly, giving Declan Rashid time to make a comment if he wished, but he did not, and Husseini realized that could only be because there was no comment to make. His Iranian handlers had failed to make a connection between him and Sara. Could there be any significance to her presence? Only one thing was obvious. She was there because he was. He refused to believe anything else.

Declan said, “She was decorated in Afghanistan.”

“Good heavens,” Husseini replied. “That is rather unusual for a young woman, isn’t it?” He turned to Vahidi, who waited by the door. “I think we’ll go down to the health club. I could have a steam bath and prepare myself for tonight.”

Declan said, “A sound idea. I’ll let you get on with it.” He moved to the door, Vahidi opened it, and he went out.

“You’re joining me?” Husseini asked the bodyguard.

“Of course,” Vahidi said. “Remember, we must be ready to leave at five.”

Henri Laval was in his sixties, his white hair perfectly groomed, his uniform impeccable. As a senior room-service waiter for many years, he prided himself on knowing what his guests wanted before they knew themselves. He was astute and cunning and made a great deal of money, and yet seated in the rear of Duval’s Citroën while the colonel talked and the driver ignored him, he felt his palms sweat.

“So, report anything and everything to do with the Iranian party to me, and also to Ferguson’s people. Your avaricious soul will adore Captain Gideon — she’s not just a pretty face, she owns a bank. Now, get out of here and remember what mobile phones are for.”

“You may rely on me, Colonel,” Laval told him. “I’ll not let you down.”

He scrambled out into the heavy rain, cursing as he put up his umbrella. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? He was fine at just doing his job and pleasing people. The flics, the police, were bad enough. The passing of a few banknotes always helped there, but you didn’t argue with the French Secret Service, the dreaded DGSE. They were a law unto themselves, those people, not that he could do much about it.

He’d already had a brush with the Iranians earlier, a luggage problem. Emza Khan had bellowed at him and Rasoul had thrown him out, and it was obvious the kind of man he was. He’d delivered a bottle of complimentary champagne to the Husseini suite, but Vahidi had taken it at the door. Which left Ferguson’s people. As he went down the side street toward one of the service entrances, he moved to the narrow pavement to avoid being splashed, but the driver showed consideration and slowed. It was a small Fiat van with a canvas roof, and a panel on the side read “The Flower Bower.” Fatima Le Bon wound down the window and looked out.

“Henri, my lovely, how goes it?”

He peered from under his umbrella, frowning, and then smiled in recognition. “Fatima, it’s you. What’s this, finished working the streets at last? Did the flics get too much for you?”

“They surely did,” she said. “So now I’m in the flower-delivery business, and it suits me just fine.”

An embroidered patch said “The Flower Bower” in gold on one side of her blue jacket, and the top buttons on the blue blouse she was wearing were undone enough for Henri to see her cleavage. He warmed to her instantly, reached in and took her hand.

“It’s good to see old friends. Perhaps we could have a drink one night at Marco’s bar around the corner.”

“I’d love that, Henri.” She squeezed his hand. “I could be seeing a lot of you now I’m doing this job.”

“Perhaps later,” he said and took a card from his wallet. “That’s mine. Just show it to anyone who queries you and tell them to call me. Say you’re attached to my staff.”

“I’ll do that,” she said. “You’re the best, Henri.”

She watched him go up to the service entrance and enter, and then she drove away. It had been a lucky meeting. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to get him on his knees begging for it. She drove away down another side street, parked and sat under the canopy of a bar, had a brandy and coffee, and smoked a cigarette.

The flower gambit was something she’d used before, and it worked well. In the old days, when money was good, she’d been sensible enough to buy an apartment down by the Seine at one of the places where barges were permanently moored and people lived on them. It was nice down there, especially at night, with Notre Dame floodlit not too far away.

Her apartment had a garage in which she kept the Fiat for general use, clipping the side panel in place when she was working the flower scam. If you wore some uniform and were attractive, you melted into the hubbub of a great hotel, especially if you were clasping a large bunch of flowers obviously intended for delivery. It worked in elevators, on corridors.

In addition, since her computer skills allowed her to extract names of individual guests and their room numbers, a nice bouquet covered your back nicely on the odd occasion that someone stopped you.

So far, so good. Now it was into battle again. She paid her bill, returned to the Fiat, got in, and drove back toward the hotel.

Dillon was reading Le Monde and catching up on world news while Sara got ready for the evening at the Élysée Palace. When the door buzzed, he got up, went to answer it, and found Fatima standing there with a beautiful bunch of red roses.

She smiled, and spoke in English. “So sorry to bother you. I hope I’ve got it right. Flowers for Captain Sara Gideon.”

Dillon gave her his best smile. “You’ll have to make do with me, chérie. The woman of the house is at the other end of the suite in her room, preparing for an evening out.”

“No, she isn’t, Sean. Who is it?” Sara cried.

“Flowers for you?” he called back to her.

A moment later, Sara came in from her bedroom in full uniform and walked toward them, smiling. “Can I help?”

Fatima took in the uniform and the medal ribbons, glanced at the lethal-looking man beside her, and suddenly was unsure of herself. She was aware of the Walther in her waistband under the blue jacket, digging into the small of her back.

“Are those for me? How lovely. Who are they from?” Sara asked.

“I don’t know,” Fatima told her. “The card just says ‘Sincere good wishes.’”

She held them out and Sara took them. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Not at all,” Fatima replied. It was still possible, of course — but Dillon was right there, and there was something about Sara that Fatima hadn’t expected. So she smiled again. “Have a lovely evening,” she said, turned and walked away.

Dillon said, “Nice-looking lady.”

“I had noticed,” Sara said. “But to more important matters. How are we going to handle it if we bump into the Iranians tonight?”

“You’ve met Declan Rashid and that slob Rasoul. The only fresh face is Emza Khan, but you’ve seen his photo. They know who we are, but they may not know about your connection with Husseini. Just ignore them.” Dillon shrugged and smiled wickedly. “Unless bumping into the handsome Declan gives you a problem.”

“You think so?” Sara asked. “Actually, my only problem is you, Sean. I’m going to put my flowers in water and you can clear off and get yourself ready. Wear the blue suit, with a white shirt and the Brigade of Guards tie. That way, nobody could ever believe you were the pride of the IRA.”

6

Fatima returned to her flat, made coffee, had another brandy, and sat there by the window, looking down the sloping cobbled alley toward the River Seine, considering what had happened. It wasn’t Saif she was worried about, for she had known him long enough to understand the complexity of the man, knew already that he would accept any explanation for her failure that she would offer. But, in spite of his joking manner, he was trapped by how far he had been drawn into the dark doings of al-Qaeda. There was a price to be paid for that, and to a lesser degree the same thing applied to her.

Any reluctance to phone him was swept away by the fact that her mobile sounded at that very moment, and there he was.

“I thought I’d call and see how things are going,” he said.

Fatima took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and told him.

When she had finished, he said, “You’ve got enormous guts to tell me that. I understand, but the boss man in our organization won’t. I don’t just mean a loudmouth like Emza Khan, I mean the top brass here in Europe, and there’s even an order higher than them.”

“I can see that those kind of people might not understand.”

“Why should they? You were close enough to pull out your Walther at point-blank range and blow Sara Gideon away. You had a good chance to dispose of Sean Dillon, too, before he managed to draw the weapon he was undoubtedly carrying.”

“I know, Saif,” she said. “I just froze. There was this strong young woman with medals any man would be proud to wear. To have pulled the trigger would have been… wrong somehow. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Saif laughed so much that there were tears in his eyes. “My God, Fatima, you’re so right, and you’re not being ridiculous at all. What are we? We kill people in the name of our cause, and is that enough? I don’t think so anymore. It’s a can of worms, not only for me but for you.”

“And is there no way out for us?”

“None whatsoever. Al-Qaeda infects the world like a plague and there’s no place to hide. We’d simply be hunted down. So, keep your mouth shut and I’ll keep mine. I won’t mention a word to Emza Khan, but I’m afraid we must continue to follow our original orders. Do you understand me? Look upon it as an assassination, which sounds more respectable. After all, we are fighting a war.”

“I’ll try to remember that.”

“Well, good luck to you, and good luck to me also,” Saif said and switched off.

The assembly at the Élysée Palace was as fascinating as you’d expect: palace guards to rival London’s Household Cavalry, uniforms of many nations on display, beautifully turned-out women, well-dressed men, chandeliers sparkling, and a military band playing.

“You’ve got to give it to the French,” Dillon told her. “They certainly do this kind of thing with style.”

“And panache,” Sara said. “I always expect King Louis the Fourteenth to enter with a fanfare of trumpets.”

“Oh, that will happen quite soon,” Dillon said. “Except that it’ll be the President, not the Sun King.”

There were people standing at the back of the hall, music, laughter, and lots of conversation. In front of the crowd where the aisle down through the rows of crowded chairs began, Claude Duval stood in full uniform to marshal the line of observers. He saw Dillon and Sara and beckoned.

“Off you go,” Dillon told her. “Best of luck.”

The crowd parted to let her through, and people noted her good looks, her uniform and medals. Duval, very serious, very military, placed her about halfway in line and one of his aides led them to the front of the audience facing the platform in front of an empty row.

Duval waited at a side door on the right. The music of the band ended with a flourish and a voice over the loudspeaker echoed, “Please rise to welcome Dr. Simon Husseini.”

Everyone stood and applauded as Husseini entered. Of medium height, he wore a black suit and college tie but looked older than his mid-sixties, mainly because his white hair was too long. There was a kind of melancholy to him, and his smile seemed strained as he waved to the crowd. He and Duval spoke together, and then a voice echoed from the loudspeaker again.

“Please be seated.”

The band played music softly and Husseini and Duval started along the line of observers, not all of whom were in uniform. Sara’s stomach was hollow, her throat was dry, and she tried to swallow to moisten it, aware of the voices as they approached, speaking in French, of course, and then the moment came.

“Capitaine Sara Gideon,” Duval said.

He was standing slightly back from Husseini’s left shoulder, his face calm, giving nothing away, but Husseini knew her, of course, it was in the eyes, she could tell that instantly. The slight smile was no more than was required and he shook her hand, aware as he did so of the folded slip.

“I’m enchanted to meet you, Capitaine,” he said in French. “Your medals pay homage to your extraordinary bravery.”

“A privilege to meet you, Doctor,” she replied in the same language.

“No, Capitaine, the privilege is mine.” He passed on, Duval nodded and followed.

What came afterward meant little to her, for the meeting had had a profound effect, the emotion of seeing him again after so many years. The fanfare sounded, the President entered, several people were called up to receive awards, and then Husseini, and then suddenly, it was all over. People stood up and milled around, some making their way toward the champagne on offer. Duval, passing her, saluted, speaking formally in case they were heard by anyone close.

“So kind of you to come, Captain. We are very grateful.” Then he quickly murmured in a quiet voice, “I’ll speak to you later.”

He turned away and Dillon pushed through, reached her, and smiled. “Did it work, did he recognize you?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I’ve never been more certain. Where is he now?”

“Behind you,” Dillon said, “with our Iranian friends. That gargoyle Rasoul is pushing his way through the crowd, followed by Khan and Husseini. Wali Vahidi and Declan Rashid are bringing up the rear, and doesn’t he look good in uniform. I think he’s got even more medals than you.”

“You can’t take anything seriously for a moment, can you, Sean?” She turned to see the Iranian group pass by and she was recognized, no doubt about that. Rasoul scowled, Khan glared, and Husseini ignored her. Dillon and Declan smiled, swept a little close by pressure of the crowd.

“Captain Gideon, a pleasure to see you again, and you, Mr. Dillon.”

“God save the good work, Colonel,” Dillon told him, pushing people away. “But, one Irishman to a half Irishman, we do seem to meet up in some funny old places.”

“So it would appear.” Declan Rashid was laughing, and then was swept away after the others.

“You like him, don’t you?” Dillon said.

“I suppose I do.” Sara nodded. “He’s an easy man to like. A fine soldier, decent, honorable.”

“I agree,” Dillon said. “There’s only one problem. In spite of the difference between him and Rasoul, they’re on the same side. Never forget that.”

“I’m not likely to if you keep reminding me. I think I know my duty.”

“So you could shoot him if necessary?”

She frowned. “You are a bastard, Sean, even on your good days.”

“Yes, I worry about that constantly.” He gave her his special smile.

“And you can forget the blarney, the Irish charm isn’t going to work on this occasion.”

“God save us, but you’ve seen through me at last.” He tightened his grip on her, fending people off.

She laughed. “You clown,” she said. “Let’s get back to the hotel and see what Claude Duval has for us.”

The small champagne party booked by Emza Khan took place in Husseini’s suite. It was all waiting when they returned, and Henri dismissed the staff and served the champagne himself. He was hoping that the party would be of short duration, for downstairs in his office, Fatima was waiting. He had found her in the bar at nearby Marco’s when he had gone in for a sandwich and a glass of wine, sitting there in her blue uniform. Temptation had proved too much for Henri, and he now had the prospect of untold delights later.

Duval had assured him that the pill he had provided for Vahidi would dissolve instantly and induce a deep sleep within an hour of its being administered. Vahidi would awake in five hours or so refreshed and unaware of what had happened to him. Henri, offering the tray, managed to leave Vahidi till last, the pill concealed in his right palm, dropped at the correct moment as Vahidi looked left at Emza Khan, who was obviously about to speak.

“To the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

“Iran.”

“I think that went well,” Khan said, holding his glass out for a top-up and turned to Husseini, who had gone to the piano and was sitting down. “I warned you to be sensible, and you were. I suppose we can call that some sort of progress.”

“Then you would be wrong.” Husseini was playing a little Bach, ice-cold stuff as his fingers rippled over the keys. “Your flight from London was short, mine from Tehran rather long. I’m overtired and bored, and I felt that way all during the ceremony. I wanted it to end as soon as possible, and that’s why I behaved myself as the lies floated round me. I wanted to shout out the truth to the world.”

“But you can’t, can you?” Emza Khan snarled. “Because you know what will happen to your mother and daughter.”

“Oh, I know that well enough,” Husseini told him. “With ghouls like you lurking in the wings, just wishing for the order to do them harm.”

Emza Khan cuffed him. “Learn your place, dog.”

Husseini slapped Khan in the face. “You learn yours first. If anything happens to me here, you won’t be back in London, you’ll be trying to explain your miserable self in front of a government tribunal in Tehran.”

Rasoul moved in, pulling his Master to one side, his right hand slamming the keyboard lid down. Husseini managed to snatch his hands away, and Rasoul drew a Webley revolver from his pocket. Declan moved with astonishing speed, stamped behind Rasoul’s right leg, punching him in the kidneys, grabbing him by the collar. Off balance, he fell to the floor.

Declan picked up the weapon and put a foot in Rasoul’s back, holding him down. He looked at Khan, his face cold and hard as he said, “If anything happens to Husseini, we will all be held responsible. The consequences will be as bad for you, in spite of all your money, as they will be for me.”

There was sudden fear on Khan’s face, and he kicked Rasoul. “Control yourself, you animal. On your feet now.”

Rasoul heaved himself up, panting. “I’m sorry.”

“Take him back to his room,” Declan ordered. “I’ll speak to him again later.”

Khan went, pushing Rasoul in front of him, Declan closing the door behind them. Husseini said, “That was well done. I’ll have another glass.”

Henri, who had stood beside the champagne bar during the whole fracas, said, “Certainly, sir, what about you gentlemen?”

Vahidi, who was yawning hugely, said, “Oh no, I’ve had too much already. You do as you want, I’m for bed.” He shambled to his bedroom at the other end of the room, called good night, and went in.

“A night for surprises,” Husseini said, and Declan Rashid laughed. “Not really, that’s the trouble. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He left, and Husseini said, “A night to remember.”

Henri said, “I’ve seen it all before, or variations of it, during forty years in the hotel trade. Was there anything else?”

“Could you leave clearing the room until the morning?”

“Yes, I could, but I’d like to check the welfare of the gentleman next door. He didn’t seem too good to me.”

He didn’t wait for Husseini’s permission, went and opened Vahidi’s door, found the light still on and Vahidi, still wearing his suit, lying on the bed and snoring gently.

Behind him in the doorway, Husseini said, “Is he all right?”

“Oh yes, sir, just one too many.”

He switched off the light, and Husseini said, “I’ll say good night.”

Henri, seizing the moment, said, “Actually, I do have a surprise for you, sir. A young lady desires a word with you and hopes you may remember her. Captain Sara Gideon.”

Husseini was stunned. “Where is she?”

“Just along the corridor. I can call her on the telephone.”

“But my bodyguard.”

“Is out for about five hours. A sleeping pill in his champagne.”

“What desecration.” Husseini smiled as he had not smiled in years. “But bring her on, Henri, bring her on.”

It was Dillon who answered the house phone in their suite where the two of them had been waiting, hoping against hope. Sara wore jeans, ankle boots, and a heavy sweater that concealed a Glock in the belt holster.

“It’s ready and waiting,” Dillon told her. “Just a few yards up the corridor. I could come with you?”

“I know you mean well, Sean, but I can handle it.”

“Of course you can.”

Her smile was radiant. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. You’re learning.”

He smiled. “Go on, get out of it, go and save the world.”

The corridor was quiet as she walked along, paused at the door, took a deep breath, and pressed the buzzer. It was Henri who opened the door.

“Welcome, Captain,” he said. “Please come in.”

She did and found Husseini standing by the piano. He stared at her, face drawn. “Sara?”

“Yes, it is me, Simon,” she said. A huge smile exploded on his face and he stepped close and threw his arms about her.

Henri said, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go below to my room, sir.” He produced his card and put it on the coffee table by the door. “That has my mobile number. Call me if you need me, the captain can explain everything.”

He let himself out, went down in the lift, and found Fatima lying on the small bed in the corner of his office, sleeping. He’d had enough to drink, nips of champagne, so he opened the large thermos he kept primed with strong black coffee, enjoyed a cup, smoked a Gitane, and studied Fatima and saw that she was quite lovely and that that he admired her much more than he’d realized. Could this be love? A long time coming. She turned to the wall, and he lay down beside her and closed his eyes.

Simon Husseini and Sara sat on the couch, and he held her hands. “It’s wonderful to see you, but what is this all about? Your achievements as a soldier speak for themselves, but who are you really?”

Suddenly, Sara was tired of pretense, because he deserved better. “I’m not employed on the battlefield anymore. I’m a member of the Security Services. My boss is Major General Charles Ferguson and we work personally for the Prime Minister.”

“The Prime Minister? My goodness, it’s that important, is it? So what do you want?”

“We know about your personal situation, about your mother and daughter. Tomorrow morning, you’ll fly back to Tehran, call in on them, then return to your work in the mountains.”

“Because I have no choice.”

“What if you did? What if we arranged for the SAS to snatch your mother and daughter from their villa, and you from the research unit, and have you on a plane to London before Tehran knew it?”

He laughed. “What a sensation that would be.”

“You don’t think it’s possible?”

“Anything is possible. The prospect of my mother and daughter enjoying the calm of life in Hampstead instead of Tehran would be a vast improvement. But there is also me to consider, and what I want.”

“What’s troubling you?” she asked.

“My work on medical isotopes led me to great recognition because people from all over the world benefited from the discovery. I called it the Breath of Allah. Now that work has developed into the ability to create a nuclear bomb many times more powerful than anything existing. Is that the Breath of Allah as well? More likely mere mortals misrepresenting Allah’s purpose.”

“So you still believe in essential goodness?”

“I cling to the thought desperately. I first came across it thirty-five years ago from my tutor in moral philosophy at the Sorbonne, a Greek Orthodox priest and monk called Father John Mikali. Although a Christian, he had no difficulty in comparing essential goodness with the Breath of Allah.”

“What happened to him?”

“Still alive at ninety. He lives in the Hospice of St. Anthony as a member of the small community that has served the caravan trail, southwards from Kuwait through Saudi Arabia to the Gulf States and the Empty Quarter, since ancient times.”

“How extraordinary,” Sara said.

“If anyone had a solution to my problem, it would be he.”

“So you turn down the idea I’ve put to you?”

“If it succeeded and I arrived in London, the Prime Minister and your General Ferguson would want to fly me away to some hidden establishment, where I’d have to carry on the same work I’ve been doing in Iran, in gratitude for spiriting me, my mother, and daughter out of Tehran. This is a false hope. I have no intention of continuing my work. I would turn my back on it. Return to my medical interests, if that were possible.”

“I can understand that perfectly,” Sara said.

“Have I made life awkward for you? It’s not exactly the kind of news Ferguson will want to hear.”

“He’ll just have to accept it.”

“So, end of story?”

“Not you and me privately. In spite of all the things you have said, it’s an uncertain world and you’ve no idea what may happen to you.” She took a box from her pocket. “You don’t need to look at it now, there are instructions inside.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s a Codex mobile phone, the same that links all our operatives together. It’s totally encrypted. You’ll find my source number noted for you. Call me anytime, day or night, this year, next year. Promise me you will do this.”

He hugged her tightly. “Of course I will. You are a wonderful girl, Sara Gideon.”

“Safe flight in the morning,” she said. “But I’d better go and get a little sleep myself. We’ll be returning to London.” She moved to the door. “God bless, Simon.”

She opened it, stepped out, was gone.

Earlier, Emza Khan, Rasoul, and Declan Rashid had returned to the suite on the fifth floor, Rasoul obviously drunk and decidedly mutinous.

Emza Khan struck him across the face. “When you disgrace yourself, you disgrace me. Remember that, you fool. Now, get to bed.”

Rasoul glared at Declan as he went past toward his bedroom. Declan said, “I’m beginning to think he’s proving to be more trouble than he’s worth. He’s like a human attack dog.”

“An excellent description. There are ways in which he earns his keep,” Khan told him. “I’m going to bed now. I’ll see you in the morning. Let yourself out.”

Which Declan did, while in the second bedroom of the next suite, Rasoul was sampling miniatures from the minibar that made him angrier than ever. He lay on the bed, watched television for a while, finally got up, opened his door to the corridor, and went out on the prowl.

Fatima came awake with a start, realized where she was, and discovered Henri lying beside her. She gently eased herself up, opened the door to the small toilet in the corner, stood at the washbasin examining herself in the mirror, then splashed a little water on her face and dabbed it away with the hand towel.

She went out, uncertain what to do, restless and ill at ease. She stood there looking down at Henri. Poor old goat, she thought, what would he think if he knew that his girlfriend carried a Walther and sometimes killed people? In a way, it reminded her of Sara up there on the fourth floor, and she decided to take a look.

The hotel was quiet and still as she listened at Sara’s suite, then walked down to Husseini’s, where at that moment Sara was saying good night. To Fatima, it was just the sound of voices, so she carried on, turned the corridor and walked into Rasoul, who had opened the door to a storage room for bed linen at the bottom of the stairs.

Thoroughly drunk now, he grabbed her with one hand and reached into her shoulder bag with the other, finding some business cards. “Fatima Le Bon,” he read. “A Muslim girl on the game. Shocking.”

She struck out at him with her right hand while the left scrabbled for the Walther, found it, and dropped it. He glanced down. “What have we got here? I think you’ve some explaining to do.” He started pushing her back into the storeroom and began to ruck up her skirt.

She struggled, not crying out, because the last thing she wanted was trouble. Sara, leaving Husseini’s suite to return to her own, became aware of the muffled sounds of struggle. She turned, took a few quick paces to the corner, and saw what was happening.

Rasoul gazed at her stupidly. “What do you want, bitch? Mind your own business.”

She pulled out the Glock and struck him across the arm so that he howled, shoving Fatima away from him. Sara rammed the Glock under his chin and was aware of the sound of someone hurriedly descending the stairs.

Declan Rashid, in a black tracksuit, arrived in a rush. He took in the scene with extraordinary calm. “What’s been happening?”

Sara stood back and reholstered her Glock. “Assault, battery, intention to rape, take your pick, Colonel. He jumped this lady as she was walking along the corridor.”

He picked up the Walther. “And who does this belong to?”

“To me, of course.” Fatima took it from him and put it in her shoulder bag. “I’m a poule, Colonel, out on the night shift. The weapon is for protection. There are some bad people about.”

“As you can see,” Sara told him.

“Indeed I can.” Declan Rashid turned to Rasoul, who was nursing his arm. “Get upstairs. Your boss is waiting for you and is not pleased.”

Rasoul staggered away, and Declan smiled. “As Mr. Dillon said at the Élysée Palace, Captain Gideon, we do seem to meet up in some funny old places.”

“We do indeed.” She smiled. “But it’s been a long night, so I’m going to bed after I’ve seen Miss Le Bon on her way.”

“Of course.” He smiled again, then followed Rasoul up the stairs.

The two women went along the corridor to the rear lift. Fatima said, “You needn’t come any further. I’ve got my car downstairs.”

“You’re not a poule,” Sara said. “You brought me flowers earlier today.”

Fatima was suddenly more tired than she had ever been and she said, “Damn you, Sara Gideon, for being so nice, and damn you for saving me from that piece of shit just now.” She took the Walther from her shoulder bag. “You know what this was for? To assassinate you and maybe your friend, Dillon, when I delivered the flowers.”

Sara, very calm, very controlled, for nothing surprised her after what she’d seen in Afghanistan, said, “And who were the flowers from?”

Fatima dropped the Walther back in her bag and said wearily, “There is one God and his Prophet is Osama.”

Sara shook her head. “That’s a large burden.”

“And a heavy price to pay for having got involved in the Cause in the first place.” Fatima pressed the button, stepped in, and turned when the doors opened. “Good-bye, Captain Gideon. I don’t expect we’ll see each other again.”

The doors closed, Sara stood there for a moment thinking about it, then returned to the suite to report to Dillon.

At the same time in Emza Khan’s suite, Rasoul stood dejectedly, waiting for the ax to fall. Declan told Khan what had happened, and Khan gave Rasoul the habitual backhanded slap in the face, “You can leave him to me, I’ll handle it,” he told the colonel.

Declan went off to his own suite, thinking of Sara, a mystery her being there and not properly explained at all, and then there was the other woman. Since when did a hotel poule carry a Walther? Perhaps time would tell, and he got on the bed without getting undressed and went to sleep.

Next door, Emza Khan was examining Rasoul. “Look at you, you drunken sot. You, who are supposed to care for Yousef with his drink problem. How can I trust you ever again? And all this business with the French prostitute.”

“But she was Algerian-French, to judge by her name.”

Emza Khan frowned. “Which was?”

“Fatima Le Bon. I saw her business card. She sells flowers.”

“But Fatima Le Bon is the name of the al-Qaeda agent who was supposed to see to this Captain Sara Gideon. Something smells of rotten fish here. How come the two women ended together?”

“Will you talk to Saif?” Rasoul asked.

“No, someone rather more important.”

He dialed a number, a voice answered. “Why have you called?”

Khan told him, “Is Saif in any way derelict, Master?”

“No. The woman has killed before. It’s not Saif’s fault she failed this time. We’ll take care of it.”

“Of course, Master,” Khan said hastily. “My only concern is serving our cause and, in that way, my country.”

“The leaders of which will hang you high in the middle of Tehran for crows to feast on if they ever discover what their premier businessman is up to.”

For Emza Khan, it had become clearer what he had gotten himself into. Genuinely moved by Osama’s message, he had offered his services to the right people for romantic reasons. Well-received because of his enormous wealth, he had soon discovered he had to obey orders like anyone else. There was no turning back from his chosen path, which had left him completely at the orders of the Master, a voice that could be coming from anywhere in the world.

“We’ll speak of the Petra project when you are back in London. Thanks to a sympathizer on the staff at army headquarters in Tehran, Colonel Rashid will find he has been called back for a few weeks to advise on a training program for new recruits. This will get him out from under your feet for a while.”

“I’m grateful for that. He is certainly not an Islamist, and his attitude toward the Gideon woman is questionable.”

“I would have thought it obvious: the stirrings of desire. We’ll speak again when you’re in London.”

Khan said, “But what about the Le Bon woman?”

“Leave it to me, we’ll take care of it.”

“But when?” Khan asked.

“At once, of course.” The voice was tinged with irritation. “Good night.”

Back in Henri’s office, Fatima lay down beside him and fell into a troubled sleep. She finally wakened to discover that well over an hour had elapsed and he was still out to the world. This was no good at all. She got up and left the office, went to where she’d left her Fiat, got in and drove away. She had to go to her apartment. A couple of suitcases, essential things, would be enough, and the biscuit tin with her mad money. Then the open road to wherever. It didn’t really matter. She had a despairing feeling that it wouldn’t make any difference whatever she chose.

Arriving at her building, Fatima pressed the hand control and the door lifted with the usual eerie creak. For some reason, the light hadn’t come on, but she drove in and switched off the engine. Before she could get out, a man who had obviously been in the back of the van since the hotel reared up, hands of such power sliding around her neck that it was broken instantly, her life ending in a matter of seconds.

He got out of the Fiat, the diffused light from a nearby streetlamp helping him. He wore a trench coat and cap, and looked perfectly respectable when he leaned in, eased Fatima into the passenger seat, got behind the wheel, reversed out, and started down the cobbled street toward the lights of the Seine below. Rain drifted across the river in a solid curtain, although plenty of lights glowed through it. He moved away from a section with houseboats tied up, drove along to a small dark quay with a slipway at the end. He paused the Fiat at the top, eased Fatima behind the wheel, switched on the engine again, then reached across her for the umbrella and to release the hand brake and slam the door. The Fiat started to roll and finally veered over the edge toward the end, sliding under the water on its side. The rain increased in force, so he turned up his collar, raised the umbrella, and walked briskly away.

Sara and Dillon reported to Roper because they knew that he’d be available, despite the hour, sitting there in the computer room in front of his screens at Holland Park.

“What do you think, Giles?” Sara asked.

“Fascinating stuff, but I’d say the next step is to speak to Duval.”

“Who’ll be in bed at this hour,” Dillon said.

“So are all sane people, he’ll just have to wake up. I’ll call him and get back to you.”

Duval was his usual grouchy self when he answered Roper’s call, but soon livened up at the news of Sara’s confrontation and not just at the business with Rasoul. What Fatima had said about her al-Qaeda connection brought him immediately to life.

“I’ll get on to it at once. I’ll be in touch the moment I have anything.”

“Does that apply to the Iranians, too?” Dillon asked.

“I don’t see why not. But let me make one thing clear. I’ll bring in full DGSE powers, which supersede any police investigation. We go in hard, Dillon, you know that, possibly harder than any other Western power, and our Parliament usually supports us. So don’t call me, I’ll call you when I’m ready. Have a good night,” he added ironically, and was gone.

“So what about Ferguson?” Sara asked. “He’ll raise the roof over this.”

“That’s Roper’s job.” Dillon glanced at his watch. “Two-thirty. I think I’ll lie on the bed and leave all the action to the French.”

“An excellent thought. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

The following morning, Paris was shrouded in the same heavy driving rain of the night before. No word from Duval, so they ordered breakfast from room service, and they were just finishing when their pilot, Squadron Leader Lacey, called Dillon’s mobile.

“It’s a foul morning, but there’s no reason we can’t take off. We’ll see you at Charles de Gaulle in an hour and a half.”

Dillon had put it on speaker, and Sara called, “Are you sure about that? We’re expecting a call from Colonel Duval. For certain reasons, there’s a question of permission.”

“All I know is we’ve had this slot booked since yesterday and he’s just phoned to say we can use it and he’ll meet you there.”

“Okay, old son,” Dillon said. “We’re on our way.”

Sara said, “What do you think is going on?”

“Full DGSE powers is heady stuff.” Dillon shrugged. “Perhaps the powers that be want to pretend it never happened. We’ll soon know.”

In the private bar overlooking the runways at Charles de Gaulle, rain driving against the windows, Sara sat close to Dillon as Claude Duval explained what had happened to Fatima Le Bon.

“God help us, but the bastards were on to her quick,” Dillon said.

“My dear Sean, there’s a problem here,” Duval said. “Within forty minutes of our retrieving the body, she was on a slab at the Santé Morgue undergoing a postmortem. Her neck was broken, she’d drunk a great deal of wine. To the rest of the world, she careered down the hill, exited on the slipway, and drove into the river.”

Dillon said, “Claude, she admitted being a member of al-Qaeda, under orders to assassinate Sara. Why would she say that if it wasn’t true?”

“There’s no mention of anything like that on her police record. Prostitution, drug offenses, yes, but never a hint of anything more serious.” Claude looked at Sara. “You understand our dilemma. The Iranian party, down there in the corner waiting for their plane, disclaim any involvement with al-Qaeda, and that is official government policy anyway. None of them left the hotel last night after the business with you, Sara, we’ve established that. Husseini and his bodyguard have already left for Tehran.”

Sara turned to Dillon, eyes burning. “Give me a cigarette, and don’t tell me you don’t have one.”

Without a word, he took out his old silver case, gave her one, and his Zippo flared. She inhaled deeply, and then she exploded. “I’ve never looked at a more obvious setup in my life. She told me she was al-Qaeda and I was her target. God dammit, Claude, she didn’t die crashing into the Seine, she was already dead.”

She stood up, sending coffee cups flying, wrenched open the glass door leading to the balcony, and stood under the canopy in the heavy rain.

“She’s got a point,” Dillon said.

Duval shrugged. “More than that, old friend, she’s right, but I’ve a feeling we’ll probably never prove it.” He got up and shook hands. “Tell Sara I’m sorry.”

“I’ll see you to your car,” Dillon told him.

As they exited through the glass doors into the concourse, Colonel Declan Rashid got up from the table where he had been sitting with his two companions.

“Where are you going?” Emza Khan demanded.

“To speak to the lady.”

“No, you will not,” Khan told him. “I forbid it.”

Declan ignored him. He wasn’t in uniform, wore the fawn suit, and the only military thing about him was the trench coat that hung from his shoulders. He opened the door and joined her under the canopy.

“Captain Gideon?”

“Go on, tell me you don’t like women smoking. Does the Koran forbid that, too?”

“Probably in a way it does, but I must admit that I am not a religious man. I’ve seen too many bad things in my life, and I’m sure you know that my mother was Irish.”

She took a last quick puff and flicked the cigarette butt into space. “The smokes helped with the stress in Afghanistan. What did Duval say about Fatima?”

“That it’d been suggested that she was involved with al-Qaeda,” Declan said.

“I expect that shook up Khan.”

“Exactly. If there is one Islamic country where they are not encouraged, it is Iran.”

“And what’s your attitude?”

“I never bought the Osama message.” He smiled slightly. “But why would you believe me?”

“After that little fracas last night when you went away with Rasoul, Fatima told me she’d been sent to the hotel by al-Qaeda to assassinate me. She actually delivered flowers to my suite, but she said she just couldn’t do it, then or later, especially after I saved her from that drunken oaf of yours.”

He wasn’t smiling now. “Not mine, I assure you. Colonel Duval was not as explicit as you have been. He just said there was a possibility that she was al-Qaeda. I assume you told him she had confessed to you?”

“Oh yes.”

“Then why did he not mention it to Emza Khan and me?” And then he saw it. “But you knew what she was and did nothing about it, didn’t arrest her when she confessed, and I suspect you probably hoped she’d get away. That’s the whole point, isn’t it? I believe you were giving her a chance to make a run for it. To this DGSE colonel, you present a problem. You don’t follow the rules, and that means you can’t be trusted. You are a wild card, Captain. I wonder if Charles Ferguson will take kindly to your approach.” He looked up. “But here comes Mr. Dillon in a hurry.”

Dillon pulled open the door. “There you are. Everything all right? We’re ready to go. The luggage is on board.”

She retrieved her shoulder bag from the table and shook hands with Declan Rashid. “Good-bye, Colonel, I’ll remember what you said.”

He smiled gravely, then she turned and started to half run with Dillon. “What was that all about?” Dillon asked her.

“Everything that’s happened, the whole business with Fatima, it was news to the Iranians. Claude Duval didn’t tell them about her confession to me.”

“The ould sod,” Dillon said. “Why would he do that?”

“Declan says it’s because I’m a wild card and not to be trusted.”

“Declan, is it?”

She ignored the remark. “He has no time for Osama, that’s for sure.”

“So he says, but remember what I told you. He’s the enemy.”

“Oh, I hear you, Sean, but my God, he’s a lovely man,” she said.