The Death Trade

8

The Gulfstream landed at Palma just before noon and taxied to the private planes section where Dillon, peering out, noticed the blue van, and the sign on the side that said Trade Winds. Yanni Christou leaned against it, smoking a cigarette, black hair in a ponytail, a bushy mustache on his tanned face. He was sixty years old and yet had the kind of tough look that would make anyone adopt a cautious approach.

Parry opened the airstair door and Dillon led the way down, walking toward Christou, who flung his arms wide. “You bastard, I couldn’t believe it.” He grabbed Dillon and kissed him on both cheeks.

“I’ve told you before, why not try shaving if you’re going to do that? This is my associate, Billy Salter.”

Billy removed his mirror sunglasses and held out his hand and Christou nodded. “Welcome, young one, I don’t need to ask what you do for a living.”

His gaze took in Sara as she stood at the top of the steps, and he stopped smiling. “God in heaven, you’ve brought a real woman with you.”

“How right you are,” Dillon told him as she limped toward them. “Meet Captain Sara Gideon, Yanni. An Afghanistan veteran with the scars to prove it and the medals.”

Christou kissed her hand. “It saddens me to see you in bad company. The things I could tell you about Dillon would shock you to the core. On the other hand, he did break my nephew Christoff out of a jail where Turkish bastards were holding him on false evidence!”

“Dillon was telling us what a great flyer you are, a Greek Navy pilot in your day?” Sara said in Greek.

“Until I punched my commanding officer in an argument over a woman, and I can’t believe you speak Greek.”

“Some people have a thing for mathematics, mine is languages. I’ve taken my wings in the British Army Air Corps, but Dillon tells me I am to be second pilot on one of your Eagles. My problem is I’ve never flown a floatplane.”

Yanni Christou, who had been passing the luggage into the van, paused, and the smile on his face was something to see. “Then it will be my pleasure to show you.”

Torina was a small port, the pier stretching out and turning at the end to enclose the harbor. There were fishing boats at anchor, several more drawn up on the beach, a scattering of white houses behind, a cantina café with a large terrace and tables, the awnings and umbrellas being put away for the moment, for this was the off-season and rain and sudden storms were not unknown.

Billy with his orange juice, and Dillon with an ice-cold lager, watched the Eagle come in low over the sea, then drop down parallel to the pier, and Dillon said, “That was close to perfect.” The floatplane coasted toward the sands, and he added, “Let’s see how she copes with beaching.”

It was their second day, for Yanni Christou had lost no time in getting Sara into the air on the afternoon of their arrival and Dillon had had the sense to leave them to it. Sara had taken it very seriously and so had Yanni, and it showed, although there had been a few early belly landings into the sea the first day until darkness had forced them to abandon their efforts.

It had rained during the morning, but not enough to prevent further flying, and the improvement began to show. Now, coasting in toward the beach, she reached for the undercarriage lever and dropped the wheels beneath the floats, as she had done many times that day. Everything worked just right and the Eagle came in with a wave behind it, moved up the ramp, halted, and she switched off.

“What a woman. Let’s go and celebrate.” Christou opened the cabin door, stepped on the wing, and looked up at the terrace to see Dillon and Billy, whose clapping echoed across the water.

“We’re coming up for a glass of wine,” Christou called. “Make it something good,” and he turned and offered his hand to Sara.

The Kantara was moored in the outer harbor of Boukara, and David Rajavi stood at the rail, watching the ship’s tender approaching, Abu at the tiller. It carried Rasoul and Yousef and a number of suitcases. Rajavi smiled slightly, then went up the ladder to the captain’s cabin behind the wheelhouse, where he started to consult his charts.

Yousef entered. He wore Ray-Bans, an expensive black bomber jacket over a black Armani shirt, and designer jeans. The watch on his left wrist was a gold Rolex. Behind him, Rasoul wore a khaki suit of crumpled linen that made him look overweight.

“Are you Rajavi, the captain of this heap of junk?” Yousef demanded.

“I suppose I am, in a manner of speaking,” Rajavi told him. “What can I do for you?”

“You can show us to our cabin,” Rasoul growled. “Mr. Khan is tired, and so am I. We’ve been traveling for eighteen hours straight to get here from London.”

“Well, at least you’ve been doing it privately. I’d have thought that a blessing,” Rajavi said. “We’re short a first officer this trip, and there are two bunks in his cabin, so you can have it while we sort things out.”

“Okay, it will have to do for the moment,” Yousef said. “Where is it?”

“Just one thing,” Rajavi opened the ship’s manifest and held out a pen. “I made it clear to your father we don’t take passengers, it’s illegal. You’ll have to sign on as crew members.”

“What the hell’s going on here?” Rasoul said, but Yousef was aching for a drink and in no mood to wait any longer.

“Anything you say, Captain. If we could be shown to our cabin and given some help with the luggage, we’ll get on with it.” He signed with a flourish and passed the pen to Rasoul, who was looking mutinous. “Do it and let’s get out of here.”

Rasoul did as he was told, and Rajavi said, “Abu will take a couple of your bags and show you the way. Perhaps you could follow him with the others?”

Which they did, following Abu to where he kicked open a door and led the way into the cabin, one bunk above the other, a washbasin and a toilet in the corner, the aroma from which left something to be desired.

“And this is it?” Rasoul said.

“Unless you’d like to slop in with the other eleven crew members?” Abu said. “Chow is in a couple of hours, the dining saloon is below the main ladder and everyone just pitches in.”

He went out, slamming the door, and Rasoul said, “This is terrible, and it stinks in here. We must call your father.”

“We’ll call nobody,” said Yousef, wrestling a suitcase open and revealing several bottles of vodka. “Nothing could be as bad as this, so it can only get better.” He unscrewed the cap of the first bottle and swallowed deep. “Allah forgive me, but that’s wonderful.” He took another long pull, and Rasoul crouched on a stool in the corner and watched him in horror.

By the time the chow gong sounded below, Yousef was drunk out of his mind. “Food,” he snarled. “Let’s go and get some food.”

He threw off Rasoul, who tried to restrain him, shoved him out of the way, and slipped down the ladder to the dining saloon, where stew was being ladled out to a line of men. He staggered up, clutching at people, managed to knock the stew over, and became a target for kicks and punches from everyone.

As Abu picked him up and slapped him, Rajavi appeared and surveyed the mess, Rasoul groveling beside it. “Get him on deck,” the captain said. “Plus the luggage. Just save a few clothes, basic stuff. Everything else goes over the side.”

They hauled Yousef up to the main deck, Rasoul protesting, stripped him of his finery, looped a rope under his arms, and dropped him over the side, dunking him up and down in the sea until he was half dead.

Rasoul was weeping. “What have you done?”

“Probably saved his life.” Rajavi held up a black purse. “His cash, gold Rolex, two mobile phones, and passport. I’ll keep them.” He turned to Abu. “Wrap the poor sod in blankets and let him sleep. Tomorrow, work clothes and start both of them scrubbing decks.”

Rasoul said, “You don’t realize how important his father is to al-Qaeda. He will destroy you for this.”

“Really?” Rajavi laughed. “He bows to the Master, does he not? Well, so do I, you fool. Now, help get him down to the cabin and do your best for him.”

In the café on the terrace, the owner, Anita by name, had discovered a couple of bottles of Veuve Cliquot, a decent French champagne that had been left over from a wedding. She put it in the icebox in the kitchen, while she and Sara fried mackerel and rice, potatoes and onions.

The weather had deteriorated, no blue skies here, but lowering, dark clouds and thunder on the horizon like distant drums, and then the rains came and suddenly everything was fresh and clean and the champagne was all gone.

Yanni Christou had discussed the purpose of their visit in Ras Kasar with Dillon. “I wish you well, all of you, in this affair. If I can help in any way, you know I will.” He called to Anita. “You still have a bottle of ouzo. We’ll have a shot each for luck.”

“Not me,” Billy said.

Yanni, who was slightly drunk, said, “I remember, you don’t drink.”

“He just kills people, but only when necessary,” Dillon said.

“Well, there is no answer to that except go with God, the lot of you.”

Things were still wet and gray the following morning, but Christou checked with the weather people at Palma Airport, who assured him that it would improve the closer they got to the Algerian coast. They decided to go for it, Dillon sitting back and letting Sara take off. When they were airborne, she forgot to raise the wheels into the floats and was annoyed with herself when he had to mention it.

“How could I be so stupid?” she said.

“I bet you don’t do it again,” Dillon told her. “These Eagles were specially developed for use by bush pilots in the far north of Canada, but you’ll find they’re really sweet to fly, and if your engine conks out, you can always land in the sea.”

“Thank you, Sean, that’s very comforting.”

“Come off it, Sara, you’re thoroughly enjoying yourself.”

And he was right, she realized that, the rain bouncing off the windscreen, the wipers fighting to keep it clear, the wind outside struggling to get in, the plane rocking, the need to fight to hold it for a while — it was all meat and drink for her.

She turned to glance at Dillon and found him smiling. “You can switch to autopilot for a while if you want.”

“Like hell I will.” She grinned. “But I’d appreciate a cup of coffee from that thermos.”

Emza Khan called the Master in some distress. “I’ve had a visit from two policemen, an inspector and a sergeant, in search of my son.”

“Indeed?” the Master said. “I suppose their rank indicates the importance they attach to this affair. What did you tell them?”

“That the last I saw of him was in the Aziz clinic from which he had disappeared. That I have no idea of his whereabouts and he has not been in touch.”

“And that is the way it must stay. You know what Scotland Yard is like. The higher you are, the more they’d enjoy pulling you down, especially because you’re a Muslim.”

“But I’d be telling the truth, I haven’t had a word from him and Rasoul.”

“But you do know exactly where they are. May I remind you that mobile phones can be a curse. Unless they’re encrypted at both ends, they are the most traceable things in the world. Everything you say is out there in the ether. This is no time for your son, or indeed Captain Rajavi, to be calling you, and I would suggest you leave them to get on with it.”

“You really think so?” Khan asked.

“Absolutely. Trust me in this.”

“Then I must be guided by you,” Khan said with some reluctance and switched off.

The Master called Rajavi on a personal encrypted link and found him in a rainstorm on the bridge wearing foul-weather rig.

“How are you?”

“At the moment, it’s raining rather hard.”

“And your new crew members?”

“Swabbing the foredeck.”

“Well, that must be different for them.”

Looking down at Rasoul and Yousef, struggling with large brooms in the pouring rain, soaked to the skin, while Abu, in oilskins, supervised them, a knotted rope in his hand, Rajavi was inclined to agree.

“Who knows, it may be the making of the boy.”

“I suppose so,” the Master said. “It’s all a question of survival, I suppose. I’ll be in touch, but don’t speak to Khan, that’s essential.”

Two hours out of Majorca and approaching the Algerian coast, the weather had changed, as if high summer had come out to welcome them. Dillon had left ninety percent of the flying to Sara, allowing her to get thoroughly comfortable with the amphibian experience. They drifted into perfection at five thousand feet, in a velvet blue sky, the sea below constantly changing colors from blue to green, and all the reefs and shoals visible.

A tailwind for the past half hour meant they had made better time than Dillon had expected, and as the coast loomed large, he suggested she go down to a thousand feet and take her time, which she did, and Ras Kasar appeared on the port side.

The old Arab town behind the harbor was the usual cascade of buildings climbing up the hillside, but fronting the beach was a pier and the inner harbor, several fishing boats, and what appeared to be a dive center.

“Things look pretty quiet down there,” Billy said.

“All these places are the same in the off-season, Billy,” Dillon told him. “That would be the Paradise Club just above the beach with the terrace and the tables with a few umbrellas out. No more than half a dozen people sitting there and a man in original British Army shorts and a straw hat gazing up at us, who I suspect is Andrew Adano.”

There was no airstrip, only amphibians allowed, so there was also no control tower, just a windsock on a pole, and Sara throttled back, drifted in, and dropped into a perfect landing outside the inner harbor.

Billy nodded his approval. “Bloody marvelous.”

She entered the harbor, found a ramp and taxied toward it, dropping the wheels, and ran up onto the ramp, braked, and switched off. The man in the straw hat came down the steps from the hotel.

“Andrew Adano,” he called cheerfully. “Welcome to Ras Kasar.”

Sara found her room very Arabian, small but comfortable with a private bathroom. She quickly unpacked, then showered, dressed in a cool khaki linen jumpsuit. She opened the door to the terrace, looked over the balcony, and found the others seated under an umbrella.

“Remember me?” she called.

Dillon glanced up. “We’ve been waiting. Come and have something to eat.”

There were onions cooked with roast lamb, rice and peppers, couscous to follow, steam rising from the semolina, and a great bowl of peeled fruits to go with it. Ice-cold Chablis complemented the meal, the French influence on most things Algerian still surviving.

Adano, when talk had touched on diving, admitted to being sixty, but was muscular and fit-looking. “I take care of what business there is in the off-season. When things pick up, I bring in young guys to handle the pressure.”

“It sounds good,” Dillon said. “So it’s the holiday trade, a few fishing boats from the town, and how much shipping?”

“You know the story of the Petra boats. That’s about it — one at a time. General cargo, quite a lot of farming machinery, that kind of thing.” He poured another glass of wine for Dillon and Sara. “As Ferguson has explained, more than one boat probably delivers arms by night, but the Kantara seems a different case entirely.”

“What do you think of the al-Qaeda connection?” Sara asked.

“Obviously, bad news. They’re devious bastards, capable of anything.” He looked at his watch. “The Kantara is due between four and five.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “Now, since Sara and I are supposed to be checking out the entertainment possibilities at the Paradise Club, we’d appreciate looking at your piano.”

“You mean you take it that seriously? I didn’t realize.” Adano got up and led the way into a coal-dark bar, mirrors behind all the shelves, rows of bottles, the whole place stuffed with cane furniture. A couple of waiters were setting tables for the evening and a barman was on duty. A grand piano sat on a small stage with a set of drums.

Adano said, “One of the waiters can play those, but I’m short a double bass player.”

Dillon examined the piano. “Schiedmayer. Very nice. You don’t see these on the market much. Lovely tone.” He sat down and played a few chords. “It’s famous for always staying in tune.”

Sara lifted the lid and propped it up. “Come on, Sean, let’s be having you.”

“How about ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’? Does that send you?”

“You’re too kind,” she said, pulled a stool forward as his hands moved into the intro, sat down, and launched into that first famous line: I get no kick from champagne, and now he pushed her at a driving pace. The barman and waiters were mesmerized and three cooks appeared from the kitchen to see what was going on. The entire place was jumping.

It ended on a high, everyone cheered, and Andrew Adano said, “My God, that was marvelous. There’s no chance of you being free for the season, I fear?”

“I’m afraid not,” Billy told him. “They’ve got pressing engagements.”

“Ah, well, I suppose I’d better take you down to have a look at the boats and the dive center.”

There were two thirty-five-foot sport fisherman boats, each with a flying bridge and dozens of air tanks stacked in their holders in the stern. Everything was shipshape and in very well-kept condition.

Billy said, “This is as good as it gets.”

“Well, it’s got to be these days if you want to get anywhere at all,” Adano said. “What qualifications have you got, Billy?”

“Master diver.” Billy shrugged. “Same with Dillon. But I’ve got the paramedic qualifications, too, which he hasn’t bothered with. He isn’t interested in saving life, only taking it.”

“As usual, you exaggerate,” Dillon said. “But let’s get down to what happens tonight. Where shall we go?”

“Why not upon one of the flying bridges?” Adano said. “You can look to the outer harbor, where the Kantara will be lying at anchor, while we talk.”

He found some cold lager in the vessel’s icebox and orange juice for Billy, and they sat there, drinking and talking.

Dillon said, “What do you think, Sara?”

“If we invade Kantara, drop some Semtex in the hold and blow her up, I don’t think the Algerian government will be very pleased, especially if it wasn’t carrying arms at all.”

“A fair point,” Dillon said. “So what do you suggest?”

“Someone should board by night and see what’s in the hold.”

“Easier said than done,” Billy put in.

“If you use the underwater approach. But if you look along the pier, you’ll see a fast inflatable with a silent running motor. Last year, I passed the handling course on that craft with the Royal Marines. I could take you out there in the dark and wait for you.”

Dillon said, “Come to think of it, that would make a lot of sense.”

Adano said, “I agree. Let’s go and lay claim to the boat while we can.”

The Kantara approached at four with a triple hoot from its foghorn, but did not immediately drop anchor in the outer harbor. Instead, it eased in beside the end of the long pier, sprang its crane hoist, and swung three farm tractors out onto the pier, where men were waiting to drive them away.

It was slow work, several crew members struggling to handle each one, supervised by Abu the bosun, Captain Rajavi directing from the bridge, a megaphone in one hand. Standing to one side, looking very much the worse for wear in shabby, dirty clothes, were Rasoul and Yousef.

A small crowd of Arabs had gathered, farmers and fishermen, a few hotel workers, a dozen or so residents. Adano, Sara, Dillon, and Billy were there, too, but back a ways — even so, they were spotted. It was Yousef who recognized Sara first, which was surprising because the only time he had seen her in the past was when he was drunk.

He grabbed Rasoul by the arm. “Look who’s here. That stupid woman from the Blue Angel in Shepherd Market, the one who stuck a gun in my face.”

Not that Rasoul needed to be told who Sara and Dillon were, not after Paris. “Allah preserve us,” he said. “What can they be doing here? And that’s Dillon with her.”

“What do you think it means?” Yousef asked hoarsely.

“It’s crazy,” Rasoul said. “It doesn’t make sense.” His face was puzzled. “Unless it’s something to do with the Kantara. That must be it, the only possible explanation, especially when you remember these people all work for British Intelligence. I must speak to the captain. This could be to our advantage.”

Sara hadn’t noticed them, but Dillon did, and he grabbed Sara by the hand, started pulling her away, and she said, “What are you doing?”

“I’ve just seen Rasoul, Emza Khan’s minder, and the drunken son, Yousef. I’m hoping Rasoul didn’t notice us. He’d be bound to recognize you.”

“Trouble?” Adano asked.

Billy said, “What’s going on?”

“Sean thinks he’s seen Emza Khan’s hard man and the drunken son, up there on deck,” Sara said. “How were they dressed?”

“Working clothes, just like the other sailors,” Dillon told her.

“Emza Khan’s a billionaire. Why would his son be there dressed like that?”

They’d reached the steps to the terrace. Dillon said, “I haven’t the slightest idea, but it’s them and I want to know what they’re doing there.”

“But what could they be doing on a boat we suspect of peddling arms for al-Qaeda?” Sara’s frustration was starting to rise to the surface. “Emza Khan is notoriously anti-al-Qaeda, as is the government he represents.”

Adano joined in. “Maybe they didn’t recognize you.”

“And if they did?” Dillon asked.

“Then we deal with that when it comes.”

“I’ll go along with that,” Dillon said and turned to Sara and Billy. “As we used to say in Belfast, just make sure you carry a pistol in your pocket.”

Rasoul, followed by Yousef, had managed to avoid the bosun and scramble up the ladder to the captain’s cabin behind the wheelhouse, where Rajavi repelled boarders.

“Get back on deck at once,” he called down to Abu. “Pull these fools out of here.”

Rasoul clutched at him. “In the sacred name of Osama, Captain, I beg you to listen to both of us, for something strange and mysterious has happened.”

He was desperate and it showed, sweat running down his face, all of which Rajavi took in with a kind of resignation.

“If you are wasting my time, I’ll have Abu take a knotted rope to you. Get on with it, you fool,” and he was smiling.

Which Rasoul did, and very quickly, his story replacing that Rajavi smile with a deep frown. “You’re sure about these people being British security agents?”

“A few days ago, I was in Paris with Emza Khan, staying in the same hotel as these people, the Ritz. The woman is a British Army captain in the Intelligence Corps. I need hardly remind you that my employer’s position is a delicate one.”

Rajavi told him, “Wait here.”

He went out. Rasoul went to the door, noted Rajavi walking to Abu on the tween deck, then returned to Yousef. The large black bag that Rajavi had filled with their valuables was lying on the deck, and Rasoul opened it. No point in snatching the gold Rolex or the two mobile phones, but the thick wad of American hundred-dollar bills was tempting. A thousand wouldn’t be missed. He counted out ten bills, slipped them in a pocket and closed up the bag again.

“Just keep quiet and go along with me,” he said to Yousef.

Rajavi returned. “You two stay here. I’ll go to the hotel later to check things out. Meanwhile, I want you to behave yourselves. If you don’t, I’ll put you in irons. Back to your cabin now.”

They went with a certain excitement. Rasoul explored drawers, found a waterproof plastic bag, and rolled the money up inside.

“What are you doing that for?” Yousef demanded.

“To preserve it from rough treatment or immersion in water, this useful roll of American dollars. It might be the saving of us. For now, we just wait.”

The unloading of the tractors had finished, followed by a considerable amount of canned foods and produce. Darkness was very quickly descending, and to Adano’s surprise, the Kantara didn’t retire to the outer harbor, but stayed snug against the end of the pier. They all stood up on the terrace with him, taking turns examining the boat through Adano’s night glasses.

Billy appeared, wearing ankle boots, jeans, and a dark sweater, a longshoreman’s knitted cap pulled down over his skull. He was also wearing a backpack. He accepted the night glasses from Dillon and took a look.

“A watchman on the stern deck who shouldn’t be smoking, but is. Not a soul on the upper decks, and the bridge and wheelhouse in darkness.”

He passed the night glasses to Sara, and Dillon said, “What are you up to dressed like that?”

“The original river rat, me, Dillon. There’s nothing I don’t know about nicking from moored ships. Compared to that, this is a piece of cake.” He produced a Walther, cocked it and slipped it into his waistband at the rear and under the sweater. “They’ll all be at their evening meal.”

“What the hell is this all about?” Dillon demanded.

“You want to know definitely that there’s a cargo of arms somewhere on that ship, so I’m going to find out where.”

“Now, just a minute,” Dillon began, but didn’t get any further, because Billy ran away very fast, hugging the side wall of the pier. Dillon watched him go and passed the night glasses to Adano.

Sara said, “Is this just a little bit crazy, or is there method to his madness?”

“He doesn’t need to waste time searching,” Dillon told her. “Not if he’s ruthless enough, and our Billy is certainly that. All he needs to do is to suggest the watchman lead him to the weapons and offer him a bullet in the kneecap if he doesn’t. He can do that without warning the rest of the crew, because his Walther is silenced. There he goes.”

Billy moved into view under a light, then melted into the dark, and Sara said, “Doesn’t anything frighten him?”

“The first time I worked with Billy, we needed to parachute in over a house in Cornwall where Blake Johnson was in mortal danger. Billy volunteered without hesitation, which was quite something, as he’d never had any training. Does that remind you of anyone?”

Billy went up the gangway, shoulders hunched, head down, hands in his pockets, aware of the pungent tobacco smell, aware of the tip of the burning cigarette, and also aware at the last minute, as he approached, that the smoker was a woman who was sitting on the watchman’s knee.

Typical of many Algerian women of both French and Arab extraction, the woman spoke English, and she and the watchman were murmuring together in that language.

The man flicked on a torch.

“Who the hell are you?”

Billy struck him across the face. “Shut up or I’ll kill both of you, do you understand?”

The watchman said, “Don’t hurt her. My ship comes in here often. She’s a regular of mine.”

Billy turned to her. “Is that true?”

“I’m just a poule, but yes, we are friends.”

“Well, if he’s a good boy, I’ll bring him back to you unharmed. All he needs to do is show me where they stow the arms they’re carrying on this ship. My gun is silenced, and if you raise a fuss, then I’d have to kill both of you.”

She had a kind of Arab calmness to her, turned to the watchman, and said, “No need for that, is there? You will do as he says?”

“Sure, why not? I’ve just about had enough of this old tub. And if guys like you are around, I’d imagine our time is short anyway.” The watchman held out his hand. “I’ll show you on one condition. That I can leave with her.”

“My pleasure,” Billy told him.

In the tween decks, he showed Billy the sliding bulkhead, which revealed an Aladdin’s cave of weaponry. Boxes of rocket-propelled grenades, the ubiquitous AK-47 rifles, plus a supply of general-purpose machine guns, just right for mounting on Land Rovers. Stacks of ammunition, hand grenades, and Stinger missiles completed the picture. Billy told the watchman to wait outside, did what he had to, closed the door and followed him.

It took no more than fifteen minutes and they were back on deck, where the woman was still waiting. “I think we should go now,” she said and took the watchman’s arm as a door opened in the bowels of the ship and music erupted.

They went hurriedly. Billy paused to let them get ahead and then slipped down the gangplank and started to run back along the side of the pier toward the Paradise Club and his friends on the terrace.

“So what was that all about?” Sara asked Billy when he joined them.

“The watchman had a poule on his lap, and she was the one smoking the cigarette. Love won out in the end, he showed me a false hold crammed with arms, and I allowed them to slide off into the sunset.” He grinned. “Obviously, not exactly like that — I mean it’s dark, but you get the picture.”

“I think so,” Sara said. “You didn’t have to shoot him.”

“Which makes a change,” Dillon said. “So, except for his absence, no one on the ship is aware of what happened?”

“So it would appear,” Billy told him.

“Now we wait and see what happens.”

9

Captain David Rajavi looked more than respectable in the summer uniform of a captain in the Merchant Navy. They’d made up a uniform for Abu, the bosun, consisting of a peaked cap in navy blue, a khaki shirt with black tie, and a navy blue pea jacket.

“Yes, very nice,” Rajavi said after looking him over. “Your face is still ugly enough to frighten the Devil himself. There isn’t too much we can do about that, but on the other hand, it has its advantages.”

They were in the captain’s cabin, Rasoul and Yousef sitting on two chairs in a corner, and Rajavi said to them, “You just sit tight. I’m going to go face the enemy, see where that gets us. I’ve an idea that it might be good for us to move on sooner rather than later.”

It was Rasoul who answered. “We are in your hands, Captain.”

“I’m glad you see it that way.” He picked up the internal phone and called down to the chief engineer. “I’d like you to make ready for Kantara to put to sea, Mr. Stagg.”

The Scottish burr sounded comforting. “And when would that be, Captain?”

“Within the next hour. I’m going to just pop in at the Paradise Club first.”

“In your best uniform, no doubt.”

“Of course. We mustn’t let the side down. But I want your assurance that if I want a quick departure, I’ll get one. Two long blasts on the foghorn as you cast off.”

“If that’s what you want,” the old Scot said, “that’s what you’ll get.”

“Thank you.” Rajavi put on his cap and that, plus a certain amount of gold braid, made him look rather handsome and dashing. He led the way down the gangway to where a Land Rover waited. Abu opened the door for him, the captain got in, and the Somali slipped behind the wheel and drove away.

“Park at the bottom of the terrace steps and be ready for a very fast exit.”

“What you want, you get, Captain, you know that. So it’s to be the woman?”

“I think she could prove to be the key to the whole thing. A mine of information… and a very useful hostage.”

They were at the bottom of the steps in a few minutes. Abu had to maneuver skillfully because of a couple of parked motorcycles, but he finally ended up pointing the right way for a quick departure.

“Good man. Here we go.” Rajavi started up the steps, climbing toward the sound of piped music, Abu following him, a light duster coat over his left arm.

The bar and dining room was distinctly overstaffed. No more than a dozen hotel guests were scattered around the cane tables, but with half a dozen waiters and three barmen serving them.

Adano, wearing a white tuxedo, was standing at the end of the bar next to the open glass doors leading on to the terrace. Rajavi moved in without hesitation, Abu remaining outside by the steps.

Adano held out a hand. “Captain Rajavi, isn’t it? We saw you a couple of times last month.”

“Yes indeed,” Rajavi said.

Adano made the introductions. “Sara Gideon and Sean Dillon of the Playwright Production Co. We’re considering improving our entertainment facilities. Mr. Salter here is interested in developing a diving business.”

“How interesting,” Rajavi said to Sara. “You provide acts for cabaret, is that the idea?”

Adano said, “Yes, but actually they do a very good act themselves.”

“Indeed? I’d be fascinated to hear them.”

There was a slight challenge there, or so it seemed to Adano, who dismissed it by saying to Sara and Dillon, “How about something for Captain Rajavi?”

“Why not?” Sara turned to Dillon. “Do you recall a film called To Have and Have Not?”

“Great novel by Ernest Hemingway,” Dillon said. “Bogart played a sea captain. His girlfriend in the movie, Lauren Bacall, sang a number called ‘How Little We Know.’”

“Would you happen to know it?”

There was a certain skepticism on Rajavi’s face, but Dillon said, “For you, anything. I love that movie.”

He stepped onstage, sat down, raised the lid, and his fingers felt for the beginning. One of the waiters, a boy of sixteen named Javier, dropped his napkin, ran to the stage, and started to play the drums. Slow and sensual, the music had people mesmerized. When Sara started to sing, there was instant applause.

When she finished, there were cries for her to repeat it, so she did. After that, people made requests, calling out titles, and Sara complied, ending up singing by popular demand “As Time Goes By” from the film Casablanca.

But enough was enough. Adano said, “My God, I could fill the place with you two during the season.”

Sara smiled and said, “If it were only possible, Andrew,” and walked out on the terrace.

Abu was still standing at the top of the steps, the duster coat draped over an arm, and Rajavi went after her, followed by the waiter, Javier, who had played the drums. He offered her a glass of champagne on a tray, which she took, and he retreated to the open glass door and watched her, fascinated.

Rajavi said, “You are a remarkably talented young woman.”

Sara said, “I learned to play guitar as a child, and singing came naturally.”

“There’s more to it than that, Captain Gideon. I think you are a woman of many talents.” A foghorn sounded mournfully twice.

She knew instantly what was happening, but in the same moment, he shoved her hard toward Abu, who punched her in the side of the face with such savagery that she was momentarily stunned, then tossed the duster coat over her head. Abu slung her over his left shoulder and went headlong down the steps to the Land Rover, followed by Rajavi.

Javier ran into Adano and the others. “The men from the ship have run off with Miss Gideon.”

Billy and Dillon ran through to the terrace, Adano trailing, reached the head of the steps, to see Rajavi vanishing inside the Land Rover after Abu and Sara. The engine started, and the vehicle roared into life and made for the Kantara, clearly visible in the lights on the pier.

Billy arrived at the bottom of the steps first, swung a leg over the first motorcycle, and a moment later, it roared into life. Dillon just had time to leap on the pillion and they were away in pursuit. In the distance, they saw the Land Rover stop.

The two men pulled Sara out between them and rushed up the gangway onto the ship, which was just casting off. They dragged her across the deck and mounted to the bridge.

As the ship drifted away from the pier, Billy aimed for the gangway, which was inclined upward. He accelerated and they soared over the rails, landing on the deck and sliding sideways. They kicked free and let the machine skid away. In the darkness, the ship seemed to be lit up like a Christmas tree.

At the upper-deck rail above them, two sailors appeared holding automatic shotguns. Both Dillon’s Glock and Billy’s Walther fired instantly. Their silencers on, they knocked the sailors back without a sound, their shotguns flying.

Someone called in English above them, “For Christ’s sake, keep your heads down.”

There was a sudden silence, and Dillon said, “Let’s find Sara, they were taking her up to the bridge. I’ll cover you as you go up that ladder.”

Billy nodded, ran crouching across the deck. Someone glanced over the bridge rail, a porthole to one side. Dillon fired at once, the only sound glass splintering. “If you do that again, I’ll kill you,” he called. “We’ve come for the woman. If you don’t have her, stay out of it.”

It was Rasoul who had peered over. He and Yousef crouched behind the rail while Rajavi and Abu dragged Sara to where the door to the wheelhouse stood wide, brightly lit in the darkness, showing Chief Engineer Stagg at the wheel. “I’ll need some help if we’re to get out of here,” Rajavi said.

Rajavi’s arm hugged Sara’s neck, who was already regaining her senses as he squeezed and dragged her in to Stagg, followed by Abu, who tied her wrists with twine, and Rasoul and Yousef, out on the rail, heard nothing of the exchange that followed.

“Do I alter to the emergency course, make for Turkish Cyprus, or not?” Stagg asked.

Rajavi nodded to Abu. “We’ll do that. You stay and help the chief engineer, I’ll go round the ship and rally the troops.”

“What about the woman?”

“I’ll get those two fools outside to look after her.” He dragged her out into the captain’s cabin, shoved her into a chair, and called to Rasoul and Yousef, “Get in here!”

They appeared, and he said, “Obviously, this woman is not our friend.” He opened a drawer in the desk and produced a revolver. “It’s nice and simple and loaded. You just pull the trigger.”

“But Dillon and the other man, what happens there?” Rasoul demanded.

“The ship, as you may have noticed, is starting to swing, which means we’ll be pointing out to sea very shortly. Dillon and his young friend won’t last long on their own.” He opened a small door in the corner, which gave entrance to a spiral staircase. “I’ll be back soon,” he said and disappeared.

“So what are we going to do?” Yousef demanded.

Rasoul was examining the pistol. “Suddenly, everything is different,” he said.

Behind them, sitting in the chair Rajavi had thrust her into, Sara reached down with her bound hands to withdraw the flick-knife from the sheath around her right ankle. She pressed the button, and the razor-sharp blade jumped into view, slicing her bonds instantly. She pushed the blade back in and stood, the knife concealed in her hand.

They turned to look at her. “You’re not laughing now, bitch,” Yousef said and snatched the pistol from Rasoul’s hand. “I could put a bullet in you, but then, with a long sea voyage ahead of us, it might be to my taste to put something else into you.” He stroked her cheek with the pistol barrel. “Would you like that, eh?”

“You sick bastard,” Sara said, springing the flick-knife and ramming it under his chin. His eyes rolled as he dropped the weapon, choked on his own blood, and fell to the floor. She picked up the pistol, and Rasoul, terrified, staggered back, hands raised.

“Please, no, this whole affair has been nothing to do with me. I was at my Master’s bidding. I am a simple servant.”

“Just shut up.” Sara opened the small door in the corner. “Get down there and stay out of the way, or I’ll kill you.”

Rasoul did, without a moment’s hesitation, and Sara flung open the door into the wheelhouse and confronted Stagg and Abu. The Somali reached in his pocket.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you. I’ve still got blood on my hands from Yousef. Put your weapon on the floor, kick it over, then slow this tub right down.” They stood there gaping at her, uncertain what to do. “It’s time scum like you learned to take women seriously.”

That was too much for Abu, who said, “Who do you think you are?”

Sara shot the lobe off his left ear instantly.

Abu grabbed it, howling, blood spurting between his fingers, and Dillon said as he walked in behind her, “That’s who she is.”

Billy appeared from the darkness. “There’s a ship’s tender tied to the end of the passenger steps on the port side. Big outboard motor. We can get back with no trouble.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and gave it to Abu. “Here, hold that on it and shut up. I say we go.”

“Agreed,” Dillon said. “As there hasn’t been any sign of Captain Rajavi, I can only conclude he’s decided that discretion really is the best part of valor. We’ll vacate the premises, although taking the tender with us.”

“Never mind, Dad,” Billy said to Stagg. “There is one God and his Prophet is Osama.”

“Don’t give me that kind of crap,” Stagg told him. “I’m just a ship’s engineer, son.”

Rasoul had sat at the top of the spiral staircase, listening through the door. He was certain only of one thing. He had no intention of remaining on the Kantara. When all was quiet, he went out and discovered that someone had bolted the wheelhouse door, leaving Stagg and Abu inside. He decided to leave them to Rajavi, but sought out the captain’s black bag, remembering that it contained not only a considerable wad of cash and two mobiles, but also his and Yousef’s passports. By now familiar with the ship, he located the tender in spite of the darkness and before the others. He burrowed under a pile of tarpaulins in the prow and waited.

Sara, Dillon, and Billy appeared after fifteen minutes. “Let’s just get out of here,” Sara said. “It’s been fraught, to say the least.”

“Yousef was a despicable human being and no loss,” Dillon told her.

“I wouldn’t try telling that to his father if I were you,” Sara said impatiently. “Let’s get back to some sort of civilization.”

The engine rumbled and they were on their way. Swathed in tarpaulins, Rasoul had heard only the murmur of voices, but the sound of the running engine wiped out all conversation.

“Well, there she goes, the Kantara,” Dillon said. “God knows where she’s bound for after this, but I shan’t be wishing her well.”

“I know where she’s going,” Sara said. “I heard the chief engineer asking if he should change course to Turkish Cyprus.”

“I can see the point of that,” Dillon said. “Easy routes across to Turkey, Lebanon, Syria, perfect if you’re running in guns by night. I should imagine Ferguson would want us to dispose of her when she gets there.”

“Well, he’ll have to wait,” Billy said. “As far as I’m concerned, I’m hoping our friend Adano has got something good for supper.”

“Well, you’ll soon see,” Dillon said as he sat in the stern, grasping the tiller. “There he is now, standing by the Land Rover with what looks like three or four members of his staff and a few curious locals.”

“Do you think there’s likely to be any repercussions from the local police force?” Sara asked.

“Not really,” Dillon told her. “This is Algeria. In a place like this, they’re usually ten miles down the coast dealing with something else, or pretending they are.” They were close in now, and he called, “She’s safe and sound, and guess what? We’ve brought you a present of a ship’s tender.”

The Land Rover drove them back to the hotel. It was suddenly very quiet on the water, no one around at all. The tarpaulins in the tender heaved, and Rasoul stood up and walked away, vanishing into the shadows beside the pier.

He had money, a passport, and a mobile phone, but the prospect of calling Emza Khan to tell him that his son had been stabbed to death by Captain Sara Gideon was more than he could handle for the moment. Listening to men in the crew on Kantara speaking of Ras Kasar, there had been mention of the coastal railway passing only three miles inland. He would make for that, a ticket for Oran, and then a flight to London. His problem was what to do when he eventually reached there, but he pushed that thought away and continued to walk.

On the Kantara, Rajavi returned to the captain’s cabin with four armed sailors and was met only with carnage. Yousef lay there in a pool of blood, and it was a badly damaged Abu who unbolted the door to the wheelhouse.

Stagg was smoking his pipe at the wheel, his face remarkably cheerful in the light of the binnacle. “Ah, there you are,” he said. “Trying to do something about Abu. He can’t stop moaning. I’ve changed to the emergency course, so I could do with somebody to spell me.”

Rajavi nodded to one of the men. “Take the wheel, Selim.” He added to Stagg, “Have you seen what’s happened to the son?”

Stagg went into the cabin with him, looked down at Yousef, and shook his head. “The woman will have been responsible for that. She came in here like a raging maniac and shot off part of Abu’s ear.”

“You’ll find what you need to patch him up in the bathroom,” Rajavi told him.

“Right, I’ll see to it,” Stagg said. “But what about young Yousef?”

“We’ve got body bags. These guys can put him in one. We’ll hang on till we’re another few miles farther out, then he gets the deep six.”

“Fine. I’ll take charge of that for you,” Stagg said. “What are you going to tell his father?”

“I don’t know. There’s someone else I need to inform first, and anyway, I’ve got a more immediate problem. The man, Rasoul, doesn’t seem to be around.” Rajavi frowned. “Just a minute.” He quickly searched his desk. “He’s gone, dammit.”

“How do you know?” Stagg asked.

“The bag with the passports and cash isn’t where I left it. Rasoul must have found it and cleared off.”

“The Brits left in the ship’s tender,” Stagg said. “Maybe Rasoul concealed himself on board.”

“What does it matter?” Rajavi said. “This whole trip’s been bad luck for us. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

He went up on the top deck, breathing in the good salt air to clear his head, then smoked a cigarette for a while. It was a mess, whichever way you looked at it, but there was no point trying to avoid the inevitable any longer. He stepped back into a doorway as it started to rain and called the Master.

As usual, the reply was instant. “Yes?”

“Rajavi. I have nothing but bad news for you.”

“Then tell me.”

Rajavi did.

When he was finished, there was a pause, then the Master said, “Well, Ferguson and his people certainly have been busy. So, Yousef is dead, Emza Khan doesn’t know, and this man, Rasoul, seems to have disappeared.”

“He’s certainly not on this ship, Master.”

“All right. Tell me, to all intents and purposes, is there any reason the Kantara can’t go about her ordinary and legitimate business?”

“None at all.”

“No one has reason to inspect you for illegal arms?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Good. Who else knows about the emergency course for Turkish Cyprus?”

“The chief engineer and the bosun, that’s all. And they’re entirely reliable.”

“All right,” the Master said. “You have my blessing. Keep in touch.”

Rajavi looked down as a door on the lower deck opened and Abu appeared, his ear heavily bandaged, followed by four seamen carrying Yousef in a black bag on a stretcher. Walking behind them was Conrad Stagg, holding an umbrella.

Abu paused, glanced up, and saw Rajavi. “Permission to carry on, Captain?”

Stagg looked up and Rajavi saw that he held a Bible in his left hand. He called up, “Aren’t you going to join us, Captain?”

Rajavi could have made the point that Yousef was a Muslim and a Christian Bible was not the Koran, but what did it matter in the grand scheme of things? All that was important was to do the decent thing, and he went down the steps and joined them on the lower deck.

Rasoul sat in a first-class apartment of the night train to Oran, brooding. He was going to have to speak to Emza Khan at some point but simply couldn’t face it. A waiter entered, a tray around his neck, with cups, holding a pot with one hand.

“Coffee, effendi?”

“Have you anything stronger?” Rasoul asked.

“It’s against regulations.”

The lies flowed easily. “I go to Oran to comfort my brother and his wife. Their son has died of cancer, only fourteen years old.” He took out a twenty-dollar bill.

The waiter produced half a bottle of vodka with a Russian label and the transaction took place.

“Allah will reward you for this,” Rasoul said. “My relatives will thank you.”

“No need for that,” the waiter said. “I believe in your money, not the story.”

The vodka caught the back of Rasoul’s throat and he coughed harshly. When it subsided, he started drinking again, quickly disposing of half the bottle. He felt as if he was floating but so clearheaded. It had been wrong to think as he had done. Emza Khan needed to be told of Yousef’s death. It was only right. He found his mobile and punched in the number.

It was midnight. Dr. Aziz was just about to administer an injection when Khan’s mobile rang. “Get that for me,” he said.

Aziz did, listened, then handed it to him. “Rasoul.”

Khan was stunned — neither Yousef nor Rasoul was supposed to call — then prepared his face and held out his hand. “News at last. Allah is merciful!”

Aziz retreated to the sitting room. He was closing the old-fashioned Gladstone bag containing his medical equipment when he heard a howl of agony, and Emza Khan appeared in the bedroom door, clutching the mobile.

“Yousef is dead!” He was holding out the mobile.

Shocked, the Indian took it from him and said, “This is Aziz. Are you sure?”

“Oh yes, murdered by a bitch from hell on the Kantara. It was the British Army officer from Paris.”

“Where are you now?”

“Algeria on a night train to Oran. I’ll be there tomorrow if everything goes smoothly. I’ll have more information then. Understand, the whole business must stay confidential, especially the fact that I am alive.”

“Of course.”

Aziz had never experienced the raw pain that poured out of Khan as the doctor led him back to bed. “My son is dead,” he croaked, and appeared to be choking. “What am I going to do?”

Aziz pushed him back onto the bed, primed a syringe with a knockout drug from his bag, and injected it into Khan’s left wrist. Khan tried to sit up, and Aziz eased him back. “For several hours, the pain will cease to exist. Your problem and mine, as your doctor, is what to do when you are awake.”

Khan gazed at him blankly, then his eyes closed. Aziz left him, let himself out, and went down in the lift to the basement garage. George Hagen, the night porter, was just cleaning the windows of the doctor’s Mini Cooper with a chamois leather.

“Cup of tea, Doctor?”

“Not this time, George, I’ve got to return soon to keep an eye on him.” He took out his mobile, walked to the entrance, and called the night sister at the clinic. “I’m on my way. Mr. Khan has just heard that his son passed away in unfortunate circumstances. I’ve had to knock him out for a few hours.”

“Very well, Doctor. Just let us know if there’s anything we need to do.”

He returned to the Mini Cooper. “Thanks, George, I’ll be back.”

He drove away, deep in thought. Hagen was deep in thought, too. A Dubliner who had served in the Irish Guards, he had enjoyed a close relationship with Colonel Declan Rashid, who had saved him from being sacked by a drunken Yousef on a number of occasions. This had led to an arrangement between them, for Hagen to call Declan if anything unusual happened in the Khan household.

Hagen had already passed on the news of Yousef’s most recent brush with the law and the way he and Rasoul had dropped out of sight. Having overheard the doctor’s conversation at the clinic, it was obvious that he should pass this tragic news on, too. But he was too early, with Rashid in Iran. He’d give it a while yet.

Back in her bedroom at the Paradise Club, Sara stripped, tossed her jumpsuit and underwear into a laundry basket, then stood under the hottest shower she could stand, washing the ship smell from her body, soaking away the tension. When she held up her hands, there still wasn’t even a hint of a shake. After what she’d done to Yousef and Abu, how could that be normal? Dillon had said it proved her to be a warrior. She pushed the thought away, went downstairs, and found Dillon and Billy sitting at a corner table on the terrace with Adano.

She sat down, looked out to sea, and the Kantara wasn’t even a light on the horizon. “So she’s fled into the night,” Sara said. “And, frankly, I’m starving.”

“Taken care of,” Adano told her as the waiters arrived. “Smoked salmon, chopped onions, and scrambled eggs. I thought you might enjoy something light after your endeavors.”

“Enjoy,” Dillon told her, pouring more champagne. “And afterward, we have a surprise for you.”

“And what would that be?” she asked.

“Courtesy of Andrew Adano, we’re talking to Ferguson and Roper on Skype in an hour.”

Roper and Ferguson sat side by side and Adano crowded in with Sara, Dillon, and Billy.

Ferguson said, “First, can I thank you, Andrew, for looking after my people in the way you have? It’s deeply appreciated.”

“My pleasure, General.”

“Now, Sara,” Ferguson said. “What happened to this man, Rasoul?”

“He broke down in sheer terror after I’d killed Yousef,” Sara said. “So I threw him out of the captain’s cabin. He must be somewhere on the ship.”

“Was it necessary to kill Yousef?”

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” she said. “I did the world a favor. He was a walking pustule.”

“Perhaps you should have disposed of Rasoul while you were at it,” Ferguson told her. “But never mind.”

Sara said quickly, “There’s a matter I’d like to raise before you go, General.”

“And what’s that, Captain?”

“We’ve established beyond doubt that Kantara is a tool of al-Qaeda. So why were Yousef and Rasoul on that ship? It raises a question about Emza Khan, doesn’t it?”

“It does indeed, and I can assure you, that point will be discussed at Cabinet Office level at Downing Street. Major Roper and I intend to get to the bottom of it as soon as we can. That’s all I can say at the moment.”

A mobile alarm suddenly sounded, and Billy took out his Codex and checked it. “If I could have a word, General, before you go. I’ve rather wasted your time listening to you all.”

“What on earth are you talking about,” Ferguson demanded.

“The Semtex you provided in the Gulfstream seat and the timers of assorted lengths? I was wearing a backpack when I boarded the Kantara and made the watchman show me where the arms were. I left two blocks of Semtex in the bulkhead.”

“Oh my God,” Ferguson said. “Tell me.”

“A five-hour timer pencil in each one.” The Codex beeped again and he held it up. “Wonderful gadgets these. Five hours exactly. I think you’ll find that’s good night Vienna to the Kantara.”

Ferguson turned to Roper, “Could you check on that, Major?”

There was a slight smile on Roper’s face. “You’re a young bastard, Billy Salter.”

“Always have been.”

“Damn his eyes, he can’t even have a drink on it,” Dillon said.

Billy grinned. “No, but my friends can. Sleep well, General.” He reached over and switched off.

It was five o’clock London time when George Hagen tried Colonel Declan Rashid on his mobile and found him at his Tehran apartment. Declan was in uniform, ready for a day at the War Office, and was just about to leave.

“I’ve not got much time, George,” he said. “I’ve a meeting with the minister. Can it wait?”

“I don’t think so, Colonel. The thing is, Yousef’s dead and Mr. Khan’s in a bad way.”

Declan was shocked. “When did this happen?”

Hagen told him everything he knew, which wasn’t much, concluding with the information that Aziz had returned to the apartment and was there now. Declan said, “You were right to let me know.”

He hung up, then phoned the War Office and made his excuses, then called London. A woman answered who proved to be a nurse, and Declan told her to put Dr. Aziz on the phone.

“Colonel Rashid,” Aziz said. “Rasoul told me to keep it all confidential, especially about him still being alive, but obviously that wouldn’t apply to you. I’ve had to drug Emza Khan quite heavily.”

“But how did this happen and where? You must know something.”

“Yousef was to face several severe driving charges committed while terribly drunk. This time there was a prospect of prison, and then he absconded from my clinic, which made his re-arrest inevitable. To avoid this, Rasoul took him away.”

“And the idea was that Emza Khan could say he had no idea where they had gone and be believed? I don’t think the police would buy that.”

“I can assure you that I did, Colonel, I have my license to consider,” Aziz said. “I had not the slightest idea where they were until Rasoul called here with his terrible news.”

“And why were you there?”

“Emza Khan has been constantly unwell. I was treating him when Rasoul called with the bad news, which he refused to believe and passed the phone to me.”

“And what did Rasoul say?”

“I’ll never forget it. That they had been on a ship called the Kantara and that Yousef had been murdered by a bitch from hell, a British Army officer that he and Emza had met in Paris.”

Declan Rashid was thunderstruck. “You are sure of this?” A stupid question, because he knew already that Aziz must have been to have said it.

“Oh yes,” Aziz said. “I’ll remember it till my dying day.”

“Okay, but don’t tell Rasoul you’ve spoken to me. We’ll keep this between us.” The colonel turned off his mobile, then sat down at his computer.

He had access to a great deal of classified information, and when he inserted Kantara, there it was on a list of vessels known to deliver arms by night in Lebanese and Syrian waters, and it was suspected of a link to al-Qaeda. But there was more — news of a ship exploding and going to the bottom off the Cyprus coast. Wreckage had clearly proved it to be the Kantara. Swift justice indeed by someone who was obviously anti-al-Qaeda, and it could only mean British Intelligence and Ferguson.

So where did that leave Emza Khan? And what about the involvement of Sara Gideon? Certainly not a bitch from hell, so there was a lot more to the story than that. He went and stood staring out of the window, thinking of her, but also trying to make sense out of a situation that didn’t seem to have any sense to it at all.

At that moment, his mobile sounded. It was General Ali ben Levi calling from the War Office. “The minister is expecting you, Colonel, are you aware of that?”

“Profound apologies, General,” Declan said. “I’ll be there quite quickly.”

“I’d advise it, Colonel, it’s a matter of grave urgency,” ben Levi said. “I’ve sent a limousine.”

“I’m on my way.”

Declan got his briefcase, left his apartment, and made for the elevator. Emza Khan, the Kantara with al-Qaeda associations, Yousef and Rasoul and Sara Gideon — they were all in his thoughts far too much. What was he getting into here and what could the minister expect of him? At least he’d soon find out.