The Death Trade

10

In spite of the early hour, Roper completed an incisive account of the Kantara affair and forwarded it to the Cabinet Office, where the Cabinet secretary, Henry Frankel, another night owl, devoured it and forwarded it to the Prime Minister, which led to a command performance for Charles Ferguson at Downing Street at 6:45 a.m. This meant that Ferguson, who had spent the night at Holland Park, was forced to rise at 5:30. He went to the computer room and found Roper roaming world news and drinking tea, the room, as usual, thick with cigarette smoke.

“Ridiculous bloody time for anyone to have to get up,” Ferguson said, helping himself to tea. “The Prime Minister must be mad. What is our faithful troops in Algeria’s next move?”

“They’ve already made it,” Roper said. “One hour ahead of us. They rose at the crack of dawn, said farewell to Ras Kasar, and are well on the way to Majorca. I’ve alerted Lacey and Parry, the Gulfstream will be fueled up and ready to go. Allowing for weather, they should be back here late afternoon.”

“Excellent. They can get straight on to a thorough examination of Emza Khan’s past,” Ferguson said. “But I’d better be off. Can’t keep the Prime Minister waiting.”

Ferguson found Henry Frankel sitting outside the Prime Minister’s study, reading a file. He glanced up and smiled. “Roper’s account of the Kantara affair. Marvelous stuff, the Prime Minister read it twice. You look a little strained, Charles.”

“Not my idea of fun, this time in the morning, Henry. I haven’t had my breakfast.”

“I make no apology, the PM’s got an unbelievably full day. Now, let’s go in.”

Frankel poured coffee for all of them, and the Prime Minister said, “Fascinating report, remarkable performances from Dillon and Sara Gideon. Young Salter’s a cheeky sod, discovering the arms like that. He might have told you sooner, but then I suppose his background is rather unusual.”

“You mean his years as a gangster?” Ferguson said. “That was then, now he’s a valued member of the Secret Intelligence Service. And things were happening rather quickly out there. He saved us from having to pursue Kantara to Cyprus-Syrian waters to dispose of her.”

“So there’s no doubt it was Kantara which went down?”

“No doubt at all.”

“Do you think this might cause a question in the House of Commons?”

“I don’t see why. These waters are a war zone, plenty of ships dumping arms at night. The Kantara was just another casualty.”

The Prime Minister held up Roper’s report. “And Dillon, Salter, and Captain Gideon are convinced this Captain Rajavi was al-Qaeda?”

“Absolutely,” Ferguson said.

“And Yousef and Rasoul went down with the ship?”

“Not Yousef. He died in a hand-to-hand fight with Captain Gideon.”

“Good God,” the Prime Minister said. “Was that really necessary?”

“The name of the game,” Ferguson said. “And Rasoul ran for it.”

“Do you think he managed to get to shore?”

“I don’t see how. We left in the only available boat, and it was too far to swim.”

“So he must have perished with the rest of the crew?”

“I’d say so.”

“So what were they doing on the Kantara?”

“Yousef was running away from the threat of prison, Rasoul must have been looking after him.”

“And where does Emza Khan fit into all this?”

“Yousef disappeared from the clinic where he was receiving treatment. Khan insisted to the police that he had no knowledge of his son’s whereabouts.”

“How would he explain their presence on an al-Qaeda boat?” the Prime Minister asked.

“I imagine he would blame his man, Rasoul, insist he had no knowledge of Rasoul’s links to al-Qaeda. Iran wouldn’t touch al-Qaeda with a bargepole, and Khan has always supported that attitude.”

“Will they still believe him?”

“I think so,” Ferguson said. “Khan’s always been very vocal on the matter, a pillar of attack against al-Qaeda. But—”

Henry Frankel cut in, “Yes, but. Didn’t somebody say that if you exhausted all sensible and logical explanations to any problem, then the answer had to be the most improbable?”

“Yes, I’ve heard something like that,” the Prime Minister said. “But what are you saying?”

“That he lied to the police about not knowing where his son and his servant had gone. That it was no coincidence the Kantara was the boat they chose. He’s as guilty as sin.”

Ferguson smiled. “I completely agree.”

The Prime Minister smiled back. “Never cared for him anyway.” He leaned across and shook hands. “Now you must excuse me.”

In the corridor outside, Henry Frankel grinned and said, “Oh, I did like that.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got forty minutes. Toast and marmalade, two boiled eggs, choice of coffee or tea. Can I send you away happy?”

“Just lead the way,” Ferguson said and followed him downstairs.

He was in a cheerful mood when he returned to Holland Park and told Roper what had been discussed at Downing Street.

“That’s fine,” Roper said. “But remember that as far as Tehran is concerned, there are other ways to look at this. That Khan’s well-known drunk of a son absconded rather than face the humiliation of a police court makes Emza an object of pity. The fact that his servant, Rasoul, vanished with Yousef could be admired as an example of Arab loyalty.”

“Fair enough, but I want to create a real profile of the man. Go through his computer, access his diary. If you dig deep enough, there’s bound to be some sort of indication of his nastier side. Where exactly is he now, home?”

“No, the Aziz clinic. He’s been diagnosed with insomnia, panic attacks, and bouts of depression.”

“My heart bleeds for him. Are the telephones on our side?”

“Oh yes, so we can snoop on the landlines, but what about the mobiles? Our Codex Fours are encrypted. Don’t tell me al-Qaeda hasn’t got something similar.”

“Understood. Meantime, we have assets who are agency nurses. Get one in to keep an eye on him.”

In fact, Emza Khan, after a troubled night, had opted for an early breakfast. Afterward, although it was raining, he had borrowed a raincoat and umbrella and was walking in the clinic gardens, hoping to clear his head, when his mobile phone trembled in his pocket. As Roper had surmised, it was encrypted, a present from al-Qaeda.

The Master said, “There are no words to express my sorrow at the loss of your son. All I can say is it was his time.”

Emza Khan sobbed for a moment, so great was his emotion. “Bless you, Master, for your kindness, but all I feel is my need for revenge, not only on that whore who murdered him but on Ferguson and all his people.”

“And you shall have it, but you must be patient, and above all, you must be strong. I have news. Rasoul will arrive from Oran soon.”

Emza Khan said, “Allah is good to me, I can speak with him?”

“No, you may not. In the eyes of the world, he is dead. Everyone thinks he went down on the Kantara, and so they will not be searching for him.”

“Where will Rasoul go?”

“When he flies in from Oran, Ali Saif will pick him up and take him to the Army of God center in Pound Street, where he can pose as a religious student. Saif will act under my instructions, not yours. You are forbidden even to try to contact Rasoul. Do you understand?”

“I do, Master, but what are my orders?”

“Your story is clear. You son absconded to avoid the shame of a possible prison sentence. Rasoul, who had known him since childhood, vanished with him. You have no idea where they have gone, and they haven’t been in touch. No one can prove otherwise, so go home, back to your work, and behave normally.”

“And Tehran?”

“A family matter, as far as they are concerned. All you will find is sympathy, but only if you keep the true facts to yourself. No one can link you to the Kantara except Rasoul.”

“And Dr. Aziz,” Emza Khan said. “Remember, he was at the penthouse when Rasoul’s call came in…?”

“The good doctor will be dealt with.”

Emza Khan said, “And what of Colonel Declan Rashid?”

“He is to know nothing. He is no friend to our cause. In fact, I must tell you that a day will come when serious measures will have to be taken against him.”

“If that is the will of the council in this matter, who am I to say no? I am at your orders.”

“Good — be strong.”

Emza Khan’s phone went quiet. He put it in his pocket, took a deep breath, and returned to the clinic.

When the Master phoned Pound Street that afternoon Ali Saif was not prepared for the litany of woe he was about to hear.

He said, “This is incredible. So much bad fortune in such a short time.”

“Obviously, I do not expect you to spend any time weeping for Emza Khan or Rasoul, not after what he did to Fatima Le Bon. But personal considerations must be cast aside for the good of our cause.”

Saif managed the right answer. “As always, I am at your command.”

“So you will meet Rasoul when he arrives at Heathrow and bring him to Pound Street. I shall phone at three o’clock and give him his orders. If you leave now, you should be back in time to take my call.”

“Of course, Master.” Saif got to his feet and went out of the door on the run.

At Heathrow, Rasoul met up with Saif with no difficulty. With his wad of dollars, he had purchased fresh clothes at Oran’s airport, a bag and a light raincoat for London’s March weather. Several days’ growth of beard had been taken care of by a visit to the barber. So, in spite of his scarred face, he looked respectable enough.

Remembering Fatima, Ali Saif was conscious of a burning hate for the man, but he stayed calm. “A good flight?” he asked as they drove away.

“What do you think, you stupid Egyptian pig?” Rasoul said. “I can’t wait to get to the penthouse.”

“Well, you will have to. We’re going to the Army of God at Pound Street.”

Rasoul exploded. “Who says so?”

“The Master.” Saif was enjoying himself, swinging through the traffic and rain. “He’s just put Emza Khan in his place, and he’s waiting to do it to you.”

“Now, look here…” Rasoul was beginning to bluster, but tailed off.

“That’s better,” Saif said. “Go carefully. He’s not used to people who say no.”

A point that the Master himself made over the phone.

“I don’t like you or your arrogant and bullying ways,” he told Rasoul. “Your behavior on Kantara left much to be desired.”

“Not true, Master, I was protective of Yousef in every way,” Rasoul said.

“I was in constant telephone communication with Captain Rajavi, who told me different. You will obey Ali Saif, because his orders are my orders. If he has reason to put your name to the Brotherhood, scores of believers out there on the street would be happy to cut your throat in the name of Osama.”

Rasoul almost had a bowel movement. He was a thug and a bully, but also, as Sara had found on the Kantara, a coward.

His voice rose in panic. “Master, there is no need for this.”

“I am sure there isn’t,” the Master told him. “Now, give the phone to Saif and go and wait for him.”

Rasoul did exactly as he was told. Saif said, “What are your orders?”

“Put him in one of the students’ rooms, they’re private and comfortable enough.”

“I would remind you that students work for their keep.”

“The idea of Rasoul in the kitchen is certainly amusing, but we have the Aziz problem to take care of. I’m afraid the doctor has to go. Unfortunately for him, he knows too much. Sooner rather than later, I think.”

“So you would prefer Rasoul to handle it?”

“It would give him something to do. Not the knife, a broken neck, I think. Have him take Aziz’s credit cards and mobile phone. A simple mugging.”

“His clinic in Mayfair — he has to walk through the garden to get to his car.”

“What could be better,” the Master said. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands.”

Saif sat there thinking about it, then became aware of Rasoul still waiting in the corner. He stood, hands folded, for once a look of resignation on his face.

Saif said, “I’d almost forgotten about you.”

Rasoul said, “What happens now?”

“I’ll show you to your room, explain our system. You’ll be a religious student who performs light duties when required. The Master thought you might find that rather boring, so he’s come up with a special task for you.”

“And what would that be?” Rasoul asked.

So Ali Saif told him, not that it needed much explaining, Rasoul obviously being so familiar with Aziz and his comings and goings. “Think you can handle that?” Saif asked.

Rasoul’s face didn’t even flicker. “A piece of cake,” he said and went out.

It was bad March weather and early-evening dark when Aziz finished visiting his patients, accompanied by a nursing sister. He ended up in the entrance hall of the clinic, where his Burberry, umbrella, and briefcase waited. As he dressed, the sister opened the front door, revealing rain bouncing on the steps.

“Not fit for man nor beast, Sister,” he said, putting up his umbrella.

“I know and I’ll be following soon. Good night, Doctor.”

Rasoul, in the shadows of a summer house, had seen Aziz clearly in the lights of the front-door porch, waited until the doctor passed, then went after him. Aziz hurried toward the balustrade overlooking the carpark, the steps going down, a camera on a stand to one side, though Rasoul had put that out of action.

“A moment, Doctor,” he called.

Aziz glanced back and paused. “Oh, it’s you, Rasoul, so you’re back. What’s up? Is something wrong with Emza Khan?”

“No, Doctor, only with you.”

Rasoul grabbed him, spinning him around, and as Aziz dropped the briefcase, slipped his left arm around to throttle, while the right hand grabbed the chin, jerking sideways with an audible click, breaking the neck. Aziz died instantly. Rasoul eased him down, felt for the wallet, found it and the mobile phone in a breast pocket, turned, and hurried away.

It was little more than five minutes later that the nursing sister finished her shift and, on her way to her car, discovered Aziz lying there. A tour in the Army Medical Corps in Afghanistan had inured her to such situations. A quick check established that Aziz was dead, and she went hurrying back to the clinic to alert security.

Saif emptied the wallet and counted. “One hundred and twenty pounds, a driver’s license, and three credit cards.”

“And this.” Rasoul took a mobile phone from his pocket and pushed it across.

“Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” Saif told him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rasoul asked.

“It’s from the Christian Bible, I was being ironic. You wouldn’t understand.” He pushed the money, the cards, and the mobile together. “So this is the measure of a man’s life, brought to an end by you. Does that ever worry you?”

“Not in the slightest. I was doing what the big man wanted.”

“And I can tell you now how to really please him. This Billy Salter, who sank the Kantara, lives with his uncle, Harry Salter, in their pub, the Dark Man by the Thames at Wapping. If you wanted to make your bones with the Master, the death of Salter would definitely help. You still have that Walther I gave you in your pocket, don’t you?”

Rasoul nodded, turned, and went out.

The apparent mugging and murder of Aziz was mentioned on the evening crime statistics from Scotland Yard. Roper saw it and reported it to Ferguson, who was going out to dinner.

“Could it be just be an opportunist mugging that went too far?”

“If so, it’d be an awfully big coincidence. Especially since his neck was broken by an expert.”

“Well, that takes care of that. If you find out any more, let me know.”

Roper called Dillon, too. There was music and voices. “Where are you?” Roper asked.

“At the Dark Man with Harry, Billy, and Sara. What’s up?” Roper told him, and Dillon laughed and echoed Roper: “A bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? And you know what I think about those. Look, why don’t you join us? Get Tony Doyle to bring you down.”

“All right, I will,” Roper said. “I’ll be with you in half an hour.”

Rasoul got a taxi and left it on Wapping High Street, pausing in the entrance to the lane with the sign that indicated Cable Wharf down by the Thames and Harry Salter’s beloved pub, the Dark Man.

There were still plenty of ancient warehouses awaiting development, and he kept to the shadows, moving down toward where the cars were parked. There was music on the night air, laughter from an open window. He stayed among the vehicles, quite close for a few minutes, then approached a window and peered in. He saw them at once — Dillon, Harry Salter, and Sara — Baxter and Hall, the two minders, propping up the wall. It occurred to him that a hand grenade would have been the end of all of them, but that was not to be.

As he turned away, a van arrived, although it meant nothing to Rasoul, who eased back among the parked vehicles. He watched as the black driver in army uniform honked his horn and operated a hydraulic device, which opened the rear and deposited Roper in his wheelchair.

The door of the pub opened and the others appeared, standing in the light and laughing. Rasoul could have chosen anyone, even the woman, but what Saif had said about the Master and Billy Salter took control. Dillon and Billy were spinning Roper around in the chair, laughing uproariously. Rasoul, down on one knee, fired twice, catching Billy in the back and sending him sprawling. The cough of the silenced weapon had been drowned by the laughter.

It stopped, and they crowded in, sitting Billy up, four of the men between them. Rasoul was more excited than he had ever been, but then Billy was on his feet, someone taking off his jacket, then the shirt and the nylon-and-titanium vest was plain to see.

Rasoul was already easing back into the darkness as pistols were drawn and someone called, “He must have been close. Two rounds in the vest.”

But Rasoul was already fading into the comforting darkness back to the old warehouses, until he finally reached Wapping High Street again, where he flagged down a cab.

They sat in the sitting room of the Dark Man, Billy stripped to the waist while Sara attended to the two heavy bruises on his back. Dillon was holding the vest, extracting one of the two rounds embedded in it, holding it up to the light.

“Walther PPK, unmistakable, silenced version. Lucky you were wearing it, Billy.”

“Dillon, I’m ashamed to say I haven’t showered and changed since I put it on in Algeria at the crack of dawn this morning.”

Harry was handing out drinks. “Here’s to you, my son,” he told Billy. “Remember the old saying: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Here’s to the Wilkinson Sword Company. A work of genius, that vest.”

“But who do you think was behind it, Sean?” Sara asked.

“I think it’s all related to Emza Khan and al-Qaeda. I don’t believe for a moment that Aziz was mugged. He was executed, just as somebody just tried to execute you, Billy.”

“Al-Qaeda?” Sara asked.

“I’m convinced of it.” Dillon tossed back his Bushmills. “And from now on, I’d say it’s titanium vests at all times for everyone here.”

At Park Lane, George Hagen was well into his night shift when a police car drove in and an energetic man in a trench coat jumped out.

“Detective Inspector Howard, Mr. Khan’s expecting me. Where’s the lift?” Hagen showed him. Howard called, “Wait here, Sergeant,” then departed for the penthouse.

“Can I ask what’s up?” Hagen asked.

“It seems Mr. Khan was a patient at the Aziz clinic,” the sergeant told him and got out of the car.

“That’s right. He’s only got back this afternoon.”

“Aziz was mugged earlier this evening in the clinic garden on his way to his car. Whoever did it went too far. He’s dead.”

“That will shock Mr. Khan. Aziz was his regular doctor, in and out of here all the time. So what’s the inspector after with Mr. Khan?”

“Just to see if he’d noticed anyone hanging round in the garden or the cars when he was there, that kind of thing. I think the geezer who did it is long gone and running for his life. Probably wanted a few quid for drugs, now he’s facing a life sentence for murder.”

“Well, there’s no answer to that,” Hagen said, and the lift door opened and Howard appeared. “Are you his driver?” he asked.

“No, I’m the night porter.”

“Well, keep an eye on him. He’s taken the death of this Dr. Aziz to heart.”

“I can imagine he would,” Hagen said. “They were very close.”

“So it would appear. Right, Sergeant, let’s get moving.” Howard got in the car, and they moved out into the rain.

At Pound Street, Saif went down to the kitchen for fresh coffee and Rasoul came in through the back door, wet through and looking miserable.

“So how did you make out? Is Billy Salter dead and gone?” Saif asked.

“No, damn you,” Rasoul said. “But I shot the bastard twice in the back. His friends came running, Dillon, that damn woman, but it turned out he was wearing a vest.”

Saif was surprised. “Well, full marks for trying. I’d say you were lucky to get away.”

He walked to the door, and Rasoul said, “Will you tell the Master?”

“He’ll already know,” Saif said. “This city is a sieve, we have sympathizers everywhere. That’s why French Intelligence calls it Londistan. Help yourself to coffee, tea, or anything else you fancy.”

He walked back whistling cheerfully. Poor Rasoul, so near and yet so far.

Sometime after the police had gone, Hagen checked his watch. It would be somewhere after eleven in Tehran. He was going to send a text but decided to try calling, and Declan answered at once, his voice low.

“Who’s there?”

“George, Colonel. I have more news. Dr. Aziz murdered by a mugger in the garden of his clinic. Isn’t that terrible?”

“But not surprising. I don’t think it was a mugger,” Declan said. “But to be frank, I’ve had a pretty extraordinary day myself, so I’ve got to go, George.”

George closed his mobile and said softly, “Well, that’s a turnup for the book. What in hell is going on?”

11

The minister of war’s hair was snow white, his face tanned, and he wore the blue suit and striped tie beloved of politicians the world over. He brushed Declan’s apologies to one side and shook hands with enthusiasm.

“A great honor, Colonel Rashid, as always. Let’s go outside.”

The windows stood open to the terrace and there was a table under an umbrella. Ali ben Levi rose to meet them. At sixty-four and still soldiering because of the national commitment, he was an imposing figure in paratroop uniform. He and Declan were old comrades.

“As you can see,” the minister said. “We have coffee, sandwiches, fruit, so take what you like, but let me get down to business. As you know, General ben Levi is commander of the army’s secret police. I propose to appoint you his second-in-command immediately in the rank of full colonel.”

Declan was bewildered. “Naturally, I’m honored, Minister, but why?”

“Because I don’t like the Security Services or the Secret Service, and I prefer to keep military business under my control.”

“What kind of business?” Declan asked.

“The possibility of nuclear war, for example. Simon Husseini — you know him, I understand?”

Declan nodded. “I accompanied Emza Khan to Paris to see Simon Husseini receive the Legion of Honor.”

“And did you meet him to talk to, get to know him, I mean?”

“It was only a weekend, but Khan arranged a cocktail party. We talked, but I didn’t really get to know him.”

Declan glanced at ben Levi, who looked solemn, then turned back to the minister. “What is it? What’s happened?”

“He’s disappeared.”

“You mean cleared off, left everything?” Declan shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. He made it clear to me the distaste he felt for his work, but he planned to soldier on because of his mother and daughter. They’re being held under house arrest.”

“Yes, well, they aren’t any longer,” the minister said and nodded to ben Levi. “Tell him.”

“They are dead,” the general said.

Declan frowned. “When did this happen?”

“The day he and Wali Vahidi, his bodyguard, got back to Tehran, Husseini returned to the nuclear compound at Qazvin, while Vahidi called in on his mother and daughter. Vahidi was driving them to an appointment when a truck came out of a side road without stopping.” General ben Levi shrugged. “The driver was drunk and Husseini’s mother and daughter were killed outright. Vahidi is in the military hospital and not expected to live.”

Declan turned to the minister. “How did Husseini react?”

“The Security Services did not inform him that the two women were dead. To be fair, nobody knew what to do in the circumstances.”

Declan said, “Which meant he was prevented from attending their funerals, am I right?”

General ben Levi said, “The experiment he was engaged in was of absolute critical importance. We’re close to production of the bomb the government is placing so much hope on. But now — the situation is different. There is nothing to keep Husseini from fleeing.”

“Which seems to be exactly what he’s done.”

“How did he find out what happened?” Declan asked.

General ben Levi passed a letter across. “He sent this to the minister. It says he was lied to when he asked about Vahidi, and then he got an anonymous phone call telling him the truth.”

Declan flipped through. It was all there, the anger and the anguish and the promise that he would make every effort to leave Iran and die trying if that was necessary.

Declan handed the letter back. “I can’t say I blame him.”

“Look, I don’t like it any more than you do,” the minister said. “And I’m sure I speak for the general, too, but we live in troubled times and do the best we can with the cards we’re dealt.”

“I am not a religious man, but the business of the funeral leaves a nasty taste. The Irish half of me is disgusted and the Bedouin is far from happy. To deny him the chance to bury his mother and daughter negated not only his Koranic rights but his duty as a Muslim.” He struggled with his emotions. “What do you want me to do?”

“Find him,” the minister said. “I’ve cut the Security Services out of it completely.” The minister snapped his fingers at ben Levi, who produced an envelope, which was passed to Declan. “This is a warrant, signed by the President, ordering anyone to help you in any way you ask.”

Declan read it. “Impressive.” He put it into his briefcase.

“Where will you start?” the minister asked.

“With Wali Vahidi. When I spoke to him in Paris, I was impressed. He has an excellent army record, a first-class police record.”

“Then I’d get moving if I were you,” ben Levi said. “My impression was that Vahidi’s not long for this world.”

“Aren’t we all?” Declan Rashid said. “Good morning, gentlemen,” and he walked out.

The military hospital was a good one, which Declan knew well from personal experience. The doctor responsible for Vahidi’s care was a Major Hakim, who read the presidential warrant and jumped to attention.

“A great honor to meet you, Colonel,” he said and led the way to a private room at the end of the corridor, where a male nurse sat outside.

The room was in half darkness. Vahidi lay there, eyes closed, his vital signs endlessly repeating on electronic screens, connected to tubes, drips, and oxygen that were very probably the only things keeping him alive.

Hakim said, “You know this man, Colonel?”

“Yes, I do. He had an excellent record in the Iraq war. What can you tell me?”

“That he’s not got long.”

Vahidi opened sunken eyes, dull with pain, stared at Declan and smiled. “Colonel Rashid,” he croaked. “Where did you come from?”

“I’m sorry to see you like this.” Declan turned to Hakim. “I’d like a little privacy here, Major.”

“Of course.” Hakim brought a chair for him. “The nurse will get me when you’re ready.”

Declan sat down. “A bad business.”

“You can say that again. I had the Security Service bastards in here discussing me. I know they didn’t inform Husseini about the accident. But what are you doing here?”

“Husseini has disappeared. They’re keeping it an army matter. I’ve been transferred to the secret police with instructions to find him. Apparently, someone called him anonymously to tell him what happened.”

Vahidi was silent for a moment. “That was me,” he croaked. “One of the nurses left her mobile on the side table. I gave him a call. He didn’t recognize me because my voice is so rough.”

“He sent a letter to the minister saying he was leaving. That he would die trying if necessary.”

“I’ve known him a long time, and I’m sure he means that. I felt he deserved the truth about his family. On the other hand, I’m torn. I’m sorry for him, but we’re constantly presented with the threat of war. Other people have the bomb, so why not us?” Vahidi asked. “Your father died for our country, and surely you are just as much a patriot as he was.”

“It’s not that easy for me, I’m struggling with a split personality,” Declan said. “For the moment, I’m a colonel in the Iranian Army, but if I do catch up with him, maybe I’ll tell him to keep on running.” There was more silence.

“Oh, what the hell,” Vahidi said. “He has passports in another name. I found them one day. Both French and Lebanese. He used his mother’s surname, LeBlanc. Ali LeBlanc.”

Declan said, “Why didn’t you confiscate these when you found them?”

“Because there was no need. They were from his past, and I thought he’d just kept them renewed. If I’d raised the issue, it would indicate I’d spent time rooting about in his private things and spoiled our friendship. If you want to find him… I’d look in Lebanon. He’s had a place in Beirut for many years, in the Rue Rivoli.”

“Thank you, Wali,” Declan said.

“For some reason, I’m more worried about him than about what remains of the rest of my life. When you see him, tell him I’m sorry for everything and my part in it.”

“And then what do I do?”

“The right thing, the honorable thing.”

“Which is what?”

“You’ll know that when the time comes,” and he closed his eyes.

Declan took a small gadget called a dissembler from his pocket, pressed a button that destroyed any recording made in the room, then went outside.

He said to the nurse, “He’s just going back to sleep. Thank Major Hakim.”

He walked away, and Hakim, who’d been listening in the next room behind a half-open door, emerged and said to the nurse, “You’re sure you’ve got it on the remote?”

The man opened his jacket, revealing the radio listening device. “Yes, I checked.”

“All right. I’m going in.”

He entered Vahidi’s room, found him sleeping again, breathing hoarsely. Hakim looked down at him and said softly, “There is one God and Osama is his Prophet.” Then he adjusted some tubes and left, walking away, the nurse already gone.

Five minutes later, the alarm sounded, harsh and ugly. In a few moments, the corridor was all action, nurses first and then the crash team crowding into Wali Vahidi’s room, none of which was any help at all.

Declan’s next visit was to Tehran’s airport. At the sight of the presidential warrant, the chief security officer put his people straight to work. They had no difficulty finding Husseini’s departure on an early-morning flight to Baghdad the previous day.

Then they traced the continuing flight to Aleppo using the French passport in the name of Ali LeBlanc, and the hiring of a Citroën car for the onward journey. Some judicious computer work indicated that his entry into Lebanon had been at the border town of Wadi Khalid early that morning, after which he had taken a taxi, Declan assumed to Beirut.

It wouldn’t be a good idea to go in uniform, so Declan gave his driver instructions to take him back to his apartment so he could change. While he was there, the phone rang. It was ben Levi.

“Did you hear the news from the hospital?”

“No, what?” Declan asked him.

“Apparently, Wali Vahidi died shortly after you left. I’ve had a Major Hakim in touch. He says that in spite of a crash team responding to Vahidi’s relapse, they couldn’t save him. How was he when you saw him?”

“Very weak, but our talk was worthwhile.”

“So do you know where he went?”

It was at that moment that Declan Rashid surprised himself. “It’s early yet. There are some things to check out, but I’ll need time.”

“As long as it takes,” ben Levi told him. “And whatever it costs. Go anywhere you like, but find him.”

“Thank you, General, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Ben Levi hung up.

“Now, why did I say that?” Declan asked softly.

There was no answer except that something was stirring inside him. He phoned the secret police headquarters and asked for the duty officer, who came on, full of enthusiasm.

“I’ve just seen your promotion, Colonel. My name is Captain Selim, and it’s a privilege to serve under you. How can I help?”

“My assignment is top secret. How do I get to Beirut as fast as possible?”

“By high-speed executive jet, Colonel. We fly twice a day, with general mail and private and confidential material for the embassy. There is room for a passenger or two. You could go this afternoon.”

“I won’t be in uniform, but it would be necessary for me to be armed.”

“That will be no problem.”

“Who is the military attaché in Beirut?”

“Captain Shah, a good officer, one of our own.”

“Tell him to meet me, but no one else. I don’t want any fuss. Get me a room at the Tropicana, and a Range Rover with a couple of AK-47s. Stress that secrecy is essential.”

“As you command, Colonel.”

Declan hung up, checked his large canvas holdall, slipped in a small traveling laptop for note-taking. He was wearing a black shirt now over a titanium vest, a summer suit, and ankle boots of soft leather. In the bag was a similar suit of fawn linen, a couple of extra shirts and underwear, a toiletries bag, and a holstered Glock pistol. A soldier traveling light. The final thing he took, from a locked drawer beside his bed, was a Colt .25, which he slipped into his waistband at the small of his back. A pair of Ray-Bans meant for desert conditions and he was ready to go.

When he went out and stood waiting for the lift, he had the strangest of feelings. It was as if he was leaving something behind when it should have been that he was starting out on something new. For some reason, it made him unaccountably cheerful as he hurried out to his limousine and told the driver to take him to the airport.

As Simon Husseini was being driven to Beirut, two and a half thousand miles away in London, Sara Gideon was just finishing a late breakfast. Her grandfather was away, chairing a seminar on comparative religion at St. Hughes College, Oxford. She was hoping for some flying time, and then Roper came on the phone.

“If you’re interested, Ferguson’s had to do some fast packing. He’ll be out of our hair for at least a week to ten days.”

“Tell me,” she said.

“The Cabinet Office phoned him in the middle of the night. The PM wants him to help the Foreign Secretary with some UN committee about the Middle East.”

“Is he on his way?” she said.

“Already gone in the foreign minister’s plane. Can’t even use his own Gulfstream. He’s not pleased at all.”

“But you are,” Sara said.

“Well, it’s nice to be off the lead occasionally. You know the old saying. When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

“So what are we going to do? Concentrate on Emza Khan?”

“The computer can do that,” Roper said. “It’s only a question of time before he comes tumbling down like Humpty Dumpty. Why don’t you join me and we’ll try and work something out together.”

“Why not?” she said. “But give me a little while. I feel like a nice brisk walk through Hyde Park. I’ll see you soon.”

It had rained earlier and would again, wind stirring the trees and not too many people abroad in such brisk March weather. She wore a flying suit and boots, a black bomber jacket, in all a rather dashing figure, and was happy striding along, when her Codex trembled in her pocket with the special signal. She answered, and found Simon Husseini calling.

“You didn’t block your location,” she said. “I can see you’re in Beirut. Did you mean to do that?”

“No, I was careless,” he replied. “I didn’t expect to have to use this special phone you gave me in Paris so soon. Where are you?”

They talked for several minutes, and she heard the awful news about his family. As she tried to digest it, she turned and started to walk back home. “Why Beirut?”

“I’ve had a place in the old quarter for years, in Rue Rivoli. Bibi, my housekeeper, lives in the place permanently. This is the first time I’ve been back for some years, for obvious reasons.”

“And you got to Lebanon using your own name?”

“No, no, I have passports with another name. LeBlanc was my mother’s maiden name, so I’m Ali LeBlanc.”

“So what’s your plan? I imagine the Iranians are already chasing you,” she said as she went up the steps to Highfield House and opened the front door. “What comes next?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said. “I’d planned something like this for years, but never for these dreadful circumstances. I suppose I’m running away from that as much as anything else.”

She was into her grandfather’s study now and sat at the desk. “So what do you want from us?”

“I don’t think your General Ferguson will be very helpful. I’ve no intention of carrying on with my nuclear work. I know I’m older, but I’m returning to medicine, and that hardly makes me of interest to any of the great powers.”

“Never mind any of that now. The main thing is to get you safe,” Sara said. “I guarantee you they’ll find out about Beirut, may even be on their way already.” She paused. “When we talked in Paris, you mentioned your old friend, the philosopher John Mikali, who’d had an influence on you. In old age, he has given up his professorships to serve as a priest at St. Anthony’s Hospice in the Saudi Arabian desert. If you could join him, no one would suspect, and perhaps he could sort out some of your head problems.”

“How would I get there?”

“During the war with Saddam Hussein, the Saudi Air Force laid down an airstrip for jet fighters needing an emergency landing. It’s at al-Shaba, right next door to the hospice. It’s no longer manned, but they left a communication facility in the hospital powered by solar panels, which is supposed to support a satellite phone. The trouble is that with the extreme desert weather patterns, it hardly ever works. I had our Army Air Corps check it out for me once. But we’d have no difficulty landing a jet at al-Shaba.”

“Where would such an aircraft come from?”

“The other year, the Gideon Bank was approached by an Israeli firm seeking investment to help them enter the executive jet market, with the intention of producing a quality aircraft on the same level as the Gulfstream or Falcon. We approved of their ambition, and when they suggested we call the result the Gideon, we were happy to oblige. We now have a small fleet ourselves, which we keep at Northolt. Chief pilot Don Renard has a DFC from the Gulf War. Jane Green, like me, is an old Afghan hand. I’ll tell them I’ll need one Gideon for hazardous duty. I’ll call you when I’m in the air.”

At Pound Street, one of Ali Saif’s daily tasks was to make coherent sense of the mass of information passed to him and his associates by well-wishers. He was engaged in doing this at the same time Sara was leaving for the airport, when the Master called him.

“Are you sitting down, Saif?”

“That bad?” Saif said. “You’d better tell me.”

The Master did — everything that had been learned at the hospital — and Saif said at once, “What an incredibly stupid way to handle the situation. Husseini must loathe those responsible.”

“I should imagine so, not that it helps.”

“Forgive me for asking, Master, but is all this information sound? His false identity, Beirut, his street address?”

“The surgeon handling the bodyguard, Vahidi, in the military hospital is one of our assets. He knew a man like Rashid would wipe Vahidi’s room clean of recordings, so it was a stroke of genius to have someone recording it remotely. Yes, it is all sound.”

“Do you want me to go to Beirut?”

“No need. We have an excellent branch of the Army of God there run by a true believer named Jemal Nadim. I have dealt with him before.”

“So this Jemal Nadim and his people, they will kidnap Husseini?”

“Exactly, and dispose of Colonel Rashid. Then Husseini will be working for us. Tell me, how is Rasoul doing?”

“He takes young students for physical training in the gym.”

“I think we should leave him there, for now. However, Cyrus Holdings has a very sizable port unit in Beirut. I think the chairman should show his face and meet with our people. If Khan gives you the slightest problem, let him speak to me. I will also make clear to Jemal Nadim that you are my middleman on this. Any problems, he can sort them out with you. I’ll also leave you with a special number with which to contact me. This is a big one and we must get it right.”

“Of course, Master,” Saif told him.

“I’ve good faith in you, Saif, you’ve come a long way.”

He switched off. Saif said softly, “The bastard, saying things like that to make you feel warm and cozy. God dammit, it’s almost sexy. Ah, well…” He poured a brandy, lit a cigarette, and then decided to go around to the penthouse and confront Khan, for the pleasure of being able to tell him what to do.

At the same time, Sara was driving a Mini Cooper toward Northolt Aerodrome when her mobile cut in. Roper said, “I got tired of waiting, where are you?”

He was sitting in front of his screens, Dillon enjoying a cup of tea and flipping through a newspaper, when Sara replied.

“I was walking across Hyde Park to come and join you when I had a call from Simon Husseini.”

“But how could that be?” Roper demanded. “What about his bodyguard, Vahidi?”

“Vahidi’s in the hospital, Giles, and Husseini’s mother and daughter are dead.” She explained what Husseini had told her. “He’s got out of Iran and reached Beirut, and I’m riding to the rescue, just like one of those Western movies. Isn’t it exciting?”

“Not when the Indians catch up with you, so be careful. Okay, I admit that Ferguson isn’t likely to go berserk at your pulling off a coup that brings Simon Husseini to us.”

“I’m afraid he’s going to have to be disappointed. Simon isn’t interested in any of that. His intention is to move back into research on medical isotopes and to renounce his nuclear work. And if that’s what he wants, it’s all right with me. I was never keen on our government wanting him to do the exact same thing for us as he’s been doing in Iran. That’s why I’m going on one of my own planes, and I don’t care what Major General Charles Ferguson says or thinks.”

“Oh, I think I can tell you, Captain. He’d remind you that you’re a serving officer in the British Army who would certainly rate a court-martial if she persisted in such action.”

“All I can say is, bring it on.”

Roper exploded with anger and frustration. “It may sound corny, but you’re greatly loved in this neck of the woods. Will you at least promise to stay in touch while I try to work things on this end?”

“You’re a great guy, Giles Roper, and a true hero, which is why I love you, too, but I’ve got to do this, I’ve no choice.”

“Okay, damn you, but stay in touch, I beg you,” he implored her.

“I’ll try. Over and out,” she said.

Dillon had heard every word, and was already opening a cupboard and taking out a military bag, his contingency kit for jobs in a hurry, containing weapons, passport, and finance.

“Where’s she going from?” he demanded of Roper, whose fingers danced over the computer keys.

“Northolt, one of the Gideon planes. Pilots are Don Renard and Jane Green. They’re booked out in forty-five minutes, to Beirut.”

But Dillon was already running out of the door, calling, “Tony, where are you? I need Northolt like yesterday. Where’s the Alfa?”

Sergeant Doyle came down the corridor on the run. “Right outside the front door, sir.”

“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

In the computer room, there was sudden relief on Roper’s face as the engine roared and faded away. Roper reached for the whiskey and murmured, “Sometimes you frighten me, Sara. However sound your intentions, you always need backup, because in our game, going solo is the loneliest place on the planet. Damn you, why won’t you learn that?” He swallowed his whiskey and smiled wryly.

At Northolt, with Sara aboard and Don Renard at the controls, Jane Green was about to close the airstair door when the Alfa roared across the tarmac, skidded to a halt, and Dillon jumped out, bag in hand, went up the steps and smiled.

“Jane, isn’t it? I’m Sean Dillon. Room for one more?”

“It’s okay, Jane,” Sara called. “Like all actors, he’s particularly fond of the dramatic entrance.”

Dillon moved up the aisle, stowed his bag, and sat across from her. “You shouldn’t do it, love, not to Giles Roper. He’s always been afraid you were going to come to a bad end.”

“You are a bastard, Sean.”

“There’s no one I’d rather go to war with than you, but two is always better than one, so give me time to get my breath and find a drink and perhaps you could fill me in on what’s happening.”

She shook her head, produced her Codex, and called Roper. “Just to let you know that this little Irish so-and-so made it with about one minute to spare and we’re now on our way. I’m sorry if I caused you any worry.”

She switched off and said to Dillon, who was emptying two miniatures into a glass, “So what do you want to know?”

Ali Saif had visited the Khan’s penthouse on a number of occasions and had met George Hagen in his usual role, and so was surprised on ringing the doorbell to have Hagen answer it, wearing Rasoul’s green apron.

“Hello, George, this is a turnup for the books. Going up in the world, are you?”

“Not funny, Ali. With his son dead, Rasoul a mystery, and poor old Aziz murdered not fifteen minutes’ walk away, Khan is depressed and reaching for the vodka bottle every five minutes. I’m still night porter, but I’m helping out. I use the staff bedroom on the landing. Go right in, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Emza Khan was in his chair by the terrace window, looking terrible, in bad need of a shave, and stinking of booze. His shirt and baggy trousers looked as if they had been slept in. He glared at Saif, tried to sound belligerent, and failed completely.

“What do you want?”

“Is that the new perfume, urine and vodka? Most unpleasant. It will never catch on.”

“How dare you?” Emza Khan tried to get up. Saif shoved him down.

“Simon Husseini has fled from Iran and reached Beirut, and Declan Rashid is hot on his trail. The whole thing’s blown up.”

Khan was horrified. “In the name of Allah, what’s to be done?”

“We’ll leave him out of it. A creature like you doesn’t deserve to mention his name. So let’s stick to the Master, who wants you in Beirut.” Khan opened his mouth, and Saif said, “Shut up and listen.”

By the time he had finished, Emza Khan had sobered considerably. “You think it’s true that Colonel Rashid is still unaware of my connection with al-Qaeda?”

“So it would appear, though I wouldn’t rely on it continuing, not with a man like Rashid on the job,” Saif said.

“And this Jemal Nadim? His people will kidnap Husseini and dispose of Declan Rashid?” In a way, he was lively again. “This is good, I can see that. What do we do with Husseini?”

“That’s why he wants you there with your executive jet. To deliver him wherever the council decides.” Saif lit a cigarette, a certain contempt on his face. “It’s something of a coup for you. Osama would be proud.”

Emza Khan actually took it seriously and got up. “I must phone the office and get things moving at once.”

“I’ll leave you to it. Let me know when you’re going, but I’d make it sooner rather than later, if I were you. I’d hate to see the Master disappointed.” He opened the door and turned. “Don’t forget the clothes. Strip and put them down the trash chute. The stink would frighten people away. And for the love of Allah, please bathe.”

Emza Khan was oblivious to the scorn in Saif’s voice, but George Hagan was not, for with the kitchen door ajar, he had heard every word. That Emza Khan would soon be on his way to Beirut was interesting in itself, but his reasons for going, the fact that he was involved with al-Qaeda, were so astonishing that Hagen hurried to his room, called Declan at once and found him in the backseat of the Falcon, reading a magazine.

“Thank God I’ve got you, Colonel,” Hagen told him. “Where are you, can we talk?”

“Yes, George, I’m the sole passenger on a private jet proceeding to Beirut.”

“Gawd almighty,” Hagan said. “You ain’t going to believe this, but you’re going to have company.”

“And who would that be?”

“Emza Khan.”

Declan laughed out loud. “What’s the joke, George?”

“No joke, Colonel, and there’s worse to come. What would you say if I told you Emza Khan was involved with al-Qaeda big-time?”

A tiny smile touched Declan Rashid’s mouth. “If that’s so, George, tell me more.”

George did, while Declan listened intently. Because of his time at the Iranian Embassy in London as military attaché, he was familiar with some of the players, had met Ali Saif, had visited the Army of God headquarters at the Pound Street Mosque. It was Emza Khan’s favorite charity. One could now see why. A cloak of good works to mask the excesses of al-Qaeda. What had motivated Khan to embark on this path? Well, it was irrelevant, really. What was important was that Declan now knew pretty well all those involved in this game and could take appropriate action.

“That’s about it, Colonel,” Hagen said finally.

“You’ve no idea how grateful I am, George,” Declan said. “You could well have saved my life in advance. Take the greatest care and watch your back.”

“I will, Colonel, and you do the same.”

Declan switched off his phone, leaned back, and opened the bar box behind him. He took out a couple of cold vodka miniatures, opened them, and poured the contents into a plastic tumbler, thinking of Emza Khan with a certain anger.

“Right, you bastard, bring it on,” and he swallowed the vodka down.

So Bibi left Husseini resting at Maison Bleue and walked down through the alleys of the old quarter to the Beirut waterfront, which was busy as usual.

Café Marco had air-conditioning, but most of the locals preferred to savor the sun outside, leaving Omar Kerim on his own in a corner booth going over his books.

The waiter behind the bar reading the newspaper said, “He’s busy.”

“No, he isn’t,” Omar called. “Not for Bibi. Send her over and bring a sherbet — she loves those, don’t you, darling?”

He had olive skin, a dark mustache, and black hair plaited into a pigtail. His linen suit of light brown was as creased as it was supposed to be, and his half smile and good teeth made him enormously attractive. On the marble-topped table was a Walther PPK, ready for a quick response to anyone attempting a hit on Beirut’s most notorious gangsters, which had, on occasion, happened.

“So how’s life, Bibi?” he asked as the waiter brought her sherbet.

“That’s what I’ve come to tell you. It’s very strange.” She sucked on her straw. “You know my circumstances. Well, the man who owns my house, Ali LeBlanc, has just walked in after five years.”

“That’s interesting,” Omar said. “Where’s he been? What did he have to say?”

So she told him everything, responding readily to his careful probing, and when she’d finished he looked very thoughtful indeed.

“Bibi, my love, I smell politics here. I think we should adjourn next door and speak to my good friend Jemal Nadim.”

The man in question sat at a cluttered desk in the small office, small and bearded, with round steel John Lennon spectacles. The only overtly Arab thing about him was the black-and-white-checkered head scarf, which set off dramatically his plain white shirt and khaki trousers, and yet this man controlled everything that happened concerning al-Qaeda in the entire city of Beirut.

“Bibi has a puzzle to unravel,” Omar explained. “I can’t help, but I thought you might, as there appears to be a political element to it.”

“So tell me, Bibi,” Jemal ordered.

She did, and he listened politely. When she was finished, he smiled. “Ali LeBlanc is a most important man, Bibi, you have been privileged to serve him. Now return to Café Marco, tell them Omar Kerim’s order is that you can have anything you want. We will tell you later what we expect you to do.”

She left at once, pure delight on her face. “A simple soul,” Jemal said, “and easily pleased.”

“Am I permitted to know what this is all about?” Omar inquired.

“Certainly, but first let me explain something. I knew of Bibi’s situation before you brought her in. I’ve emphasized to you recently, al-Qaeda’s tentacles reach out everywhere.”

“So I accept that,” Omar said. “But where is it taking us?”

“Less than an hour ago, I had a call from a man we only know as the Master, who represents the council of our great movement, even in Western Europe. He has given me orders which I am delighted to obey, especially as I know you’ll be pleased to assist me in this matter.”

“For a price, of course,” Omar said. “I mean, a man has to live.”

“I knew I could rely on that grasping soul of yours.”

“So what do we have to do?”

“Kill one man and kidnap another.”

Omar laughed. “Is that all? I thought it was going to be something difficult.”

“But this is more important to al-Qaeda and our future than anything I’ve ever been involved in, so sit back and I’ll explain.”

When he was finished, Omar said, “This Emza Khan who’s on his way, he sounds like big stuff. Is his connection with us for real?”

“It must be. It’s his plane that will fly Husseini out of Lebanon to wherever the council wants him to go. His money doesn’t buy him special privileges. He must obey the call of Obama when needed, like any other supporter of a great cause.”

“I take your point,” Omar said. “So how do we handle this?”

“We’ll keep it simple,” Jemal said. “You and your thugs deal with the colonel in some alley — make it look like a street robbery. Bibi will slip something in Husseini’s drink, and we’ll bundle him into a car.”

“When will this be?” Omar demanded.

“Obviously, we must wait for Emza Khan, but sooner rather than later. Once we have Husseini, we get him out of Lebanon fast. Too many people, the Iranians in particular, want him back. Let’s go talk to Bibi.”

They moved out into the glare of the sun, turned toward Café Marco, and saw Bibi sitting with Simon Husseini, for Jemal recognized him at once.

“It’s Husseini,” he said. “There was a photo in Le Monde a week or so ago, receiving some honor.”

“Shall we go and speak to them?” Omar asked.

“Why not?” Jemal said.

As they got close, Bibi was talking in an animated way to Husseini and, noticing their approach, rose to greet them. “There you are. This is my friend, Ali LeBlanc. Ali, this is Omar Kerim, the owner of Café Marco, and Jemal Nadim, who runs the Army of God charity in Beirut.”

“Sit, Bibi, please,” Omar said and shook Husseini’s hand. “Good to meet you.”

“I echo that,” Jemal said. “You have been long absent, I understand?”

“Business took me abroad, but I think I can say I am home for good now.” Husseini’s mobile rang and he answered it, listened, then said, “I’ll call you back.” He smiled at everyone. “Bibi, I must go. Gentlemen, I hope we meet again.” He crossed the road through the crowd and went toward the breakwater.

The two men sat down. “You like him, don’t you, Bibi?” Jemal said.

“He is a good man, this I know because of kindness many years ago, and he has supplied me with a wonderful home.”

“Yes, but all is not what it seems,” Omar said. “And he is not the man you think he is.”

She looked alarmed. “Can this be so?”

“So I believe,” Jemal told her. “Watch him carefully.” He produced a card and gave it to her. “If new people visit, or anything different happens, phone me at once.”

She was anxious to please now and nodded her head energetically. “I promise.”

“Accept my blessing, Bibi. There is one God and Osama is his Prophet,” and he and Omar walked away.

It had been Sara calling from the plane, and Husseini leaned on the wall above the harbor now and talked to her. “When do you expect to arrive?”

“Two and a half hours.”

“I look forward to seeing you.”

“Well, as it happens, you’re seeing Sean Dillon, too. He joined me at the last minute, just as I was leaving. He and Roper are my main associates, and they were concerned I had no backup. You must realize I’ve acted on my own initiative in this matter. General Ferguson is away. God knows how he’ll react when he finds out.”

“With anger, I suspect,” Husseini said. “But I think Dillon was right to come along. I saw some bad things on my travels.”

“How is it in Beirut?”

“Lots of sunshine, and everyone seems to be having a good time, though I know, having traveled through it, that just outside the city is hell on earth. Anyway, what’s the plan?”

“I thought we’d start fresh tomorrow and make for St. Anthony’s.”

“And tonight?”

“My pilot says that the airport is nine kilometers from the center of Beirut. He says that some place called the Tropicana on the waterfront is the place to stay.”

“I haven’t been, but I’ve heard of it,” Husseini said. “So when do I see you?”

“We’ll definitely have dinner tonight, but can a taxi reach your house?”

“Oh yes, it stands in a small square.”

“I’d like to see it. We’ll drop by on the way to the hotel. The driver can wait for us.”

“Excellent,” Husseini said. “See you then.”

He stayed there, thinking how grateful he was, for the prospect of meeting Father John Mikali again meant so much to him, and the chance of an answer to the way his life should go. He stared out at the shipping in the harbor, absurdly happy.

At the airport, the mail plane from Tehran nosed into the VIP section where Captain Shah waited eagerly. He wore sunglasses, and was in civilian clothes: a navy blue blazer, white shirt, and striped tie. When the airstair door opened and Declan came down the steps, Shah had to restrain the impulse to salute.

“Colonel Rashid, an honor, sir.”

“Good to meet you. Is everything in order?”

“I trust so, Colonel. If you’ll follow me, the Range Rover is waiting. I’ve driven it myself. I’ll deliver you to the Tropicana and walk back to the embassy. It isn’t far. Allow me to take your luggage.”

They reached the Range Rover and got in. Declan took the envelope from his pocket. “The presidential warrant. You’ve probably never seen one, but for the sake of protocol, take a look.”

Shah did as he was told, then handed it back. “Remarkable, Colonel, I feel a part of history.”

“It is absolutely top secret, the reason for me being here, you’ll have to take my word for it.” As they drove away, Declan added, “The AK-47s? Any trouble with that?”

“Not at all.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Declan told him, taking in the scenery as they drove into the city.

They seemed to reach their destination in no time. Shah parked the Range Rover, gave him the keys, and departed reluctantly, leaving the colonel to book in. A duty manager escorted him to a pleasant suite with a view of the harbor.

He stood looking at it for a moment, considering his next move. He was suddenly aware of an overwhelming tiredness, his exertions of the past twenty-four hours catching up with him, took off his jacket, lay on the bed, and was promptly asleep.

12

Jemal Nadim’s sources were unmatched, information constantly flooding in from the airport, streets, and harbor. He was aware of the arrival of Colonel Declan Rashid, a hero who stirred his Arab soul and yet who refused to believe as he did. And then there was Captain Sara Gideon, who greatly intrigued him, as did her unexpected passenger, Sean Dillon. Thanks to his new friendship with Ali Saif in London, Jemal knew all about the man who had been the Provisional IRA’s most feared enforcer.

The prospect of Emza Khan did not faze him in the slightest. The loud voice on the telephone, the bullying tone — a hint of insecurity there. Kerim’s people hanging about the Tropicana for signs of movement from Colonel Rashid had orders to rough him up, if the opportunity arose. The news from the taxi driver who’d picked up Sara and Dillon, that she’d asked him to take them to the Rue Rivoli and wait, meant that all contingencies were covered and Jemal could sit back and enjoy developments.

The taxi driver parked at the side of the small square, Sara got out and was immediately impressed with the vivid blue of the house, which seemed to tower into the sky. The door was opened at once by Bibi, who had obviously been waiting. In her black silk dress and white chador, she looked striking but seemed shy.

“I am Bibi, I am pleased to meet you.”

Her English seemed halting and strained, and Sara took a chance and said in very fluent French, “And I, you. We’re a little late. This is Monsieur Dillon.”

Bibi was delighted and the French flowed. “It does not matter, not at all. This way.”

The lift passed through five floors to the penthouse apartment. Sara took in the blue-and-white awnings, the staggering view over the city to the harbor, and Simon Husseini himself, wearing linen slacks and a deep blue shirt, and now moving to meet Sara, arms outstretched.

“You’re here.” He drew her to the couch. “I can’t believe it. Champagne, Bibi, I put a bottle in the icebox. Mr. Dillon, we only met briefly in Paris.”

Bibi moved to the kitchen and left them alone to talk, taking her time over the champagne and listening to the conversation, which she could hear perfectly. Sara was doing the talking.

“My senior pilot, Don Renard, flew jet fighters in Desert Storm, he knows that kind of country well. He’ll plot a course tomorrow for Qatar and put down at al-Shaba, using the old Saudi emergency landing strip.”

“Which wasn’t there when I knew it,” Husseini said.

“After the end of the war, when the Saudi Air Force vacated the place, they left an energy system in the hospice powered by the sun, also a satellite phone. My Codex mobile is so advanced that it can link with it, and we managed to hunt the number down online. The trouble is it hardly ever works, due to desert weather. On the way over from London, I got my pilot to try dozens of times without success, and then we had a hit.”

“And you managed to get in touch?” Husseini demanded.

“Yes, but the reception was very bad and eventually cut off, and it proved impossible to get back. However, it was with a monk emailed Father Andrew, whose English was basic, but spoke Greek, which I speak a little myself. He told me there are only fifteen of them serving the hospice these days, but they actually have a doctor, aged seventy-five. Father Mikali is at present in the infirmary with a chest infection. I don’t suppose that’s too good for a ninety-year-old man,” Sara said. “There’s always the danger of pneumonia.”

“There would be if we were in dear old Ireland with the rain constantly intervening,” Dillon said. “But I wouldn’t have thought that would be such a problem with desert conditions.”

“That’s true,” Husseini said. “So let me make a suggestion. Speak to the desk at the Tropicana, ask them to find a doctor who could prescribe the best drugs for the infection, and we could take them with us.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Dillon said.

“And so we shall.” Husseini reached for the champagne bottle.

Bibi made her move, found her linen shopping bag, and came in from the kitchen. “I need a few things from the market.”

“Tonight my friends and I dine at the Tropicana, Bibi,” Husseini said. “Tomorrow we fly out to the backcountry for a few days. You’ll be all right, won’t you?”

“But of course,” she said, hurried out, and they heard the lift descend.

“So where were we?” Sara asked.

Declan Rashid had come awake with a start, instantly aware, the mark of a true soldier. He lay there on the bed, thinking of the situation. There was Emza Khan to look forward to, although he had no knowledge when that would be. Of course, Khan wouldn’t realize that Declan knew of his al-Qaeda link, which would make for an interesting situation. In the meantime, it seemed to him a good idea to go in search of Husseini’s place in Rue Rivoli. He got up, tidied himself, slipped the Colt .25 into his waistband, and left.

Early evening, the sun going down, still crowded. An obliging doorman indicated a street on the other side of the square that climbed up through the old quarter and told him he would find Rue Rivoli at the top. Declan thanked him and walked away, and the doorman nodded to two men seated at an adjacent pavement café. They might have been twins with their sunglasses, white T-shirts, and jeans, except for the fact that one had shoulder-length hair and the other’s skull was shaved.

They got up and followed him through the crowds, to the narrow alley on the left climbing up through the old quarter. The one with the shaved head said, “So Omar said to rough him up.”

“That’s right,” the other replied. “That’s a great suit he’s wearing. Egyptian linen, I’d say. It might be worth stripping him.”

“I know one thing,” his friend said. “I smell money here.” They increased their pace as Declan moved faster.

He paused at the end of the street, looking up at a sign with Rue Rivoli on it and an arrow pointing across to a small square. He saw a taxi parked in a corner and the deep blue tower that must be Husseini’s.

“Isn’t that a grand sight,” he said to himself in English and with a pronounced Irish accent. “Sweet Jesus, but my mam would have liked that.”

So they rushed him, the one with a shaven head, slightly ahead of the other because of the narrowness of the alley, reaching out. Declan grabbed the right wrist, locking the arm so that the man bent over, then ran him face-first into a nearby doorway. He bounced back, nose squashed, blood on his mouth.

His friend paused, pulled a knife from his pocket, and sprang the blade. Declan pulled the Colt .25. “If you’re good, I won’t shoot you in the kneecap, because I need you to help your friend down the alley.”

His use of Arabic caught the men by surprise. “I thought you were a Westerner.”

“You thought wrong. My father was Bedu from the Empty Quarter, and his family before him.”

The man closed the blade and put the knife into his pocket. “A Bedu.” He shook his head. “A bad-luck day for me indeed. What happens now?”

“You’ll tell me who put you up to this, I’ll let you go and you’ll take this fool with you.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll cripple you,” Declan said calmly. “Leave you both here to crawl.”

“I guess you leave me no choice. All right — his name is Omar Kerim. He’s the greatest thief in the city, and he paid us to follow you if you went for a walk and rough you up.”

Declan put his Colt away, took out his wallet, and extracted an American one-hundred-dollar bill, which he held out. “Take it, and take this worthless idiot with you. Tell Omar Kerim that if he doesn’t stay out of this affair, he’s a dead man walking.”

“Aren’t we all, Colonel? But I’ll tell him.” He pulled his friend up, pushed him in front, and followed him down the alley.

Declan turned away, heard voices, and the door of the house opened. Dillon stepped out and whistled to the driver. Declan was amazed to see him and stepped back as the taxi moved toward Dillon and then Husseini joined him. There was laughter, the voices clear, and then the greatest shock of all, as Sara Gideon appeared. For a wild moment, he thought he was delusional, but only for a moment.

Sara laughed again and said clearly to the driver, “You can take us to the Tropicana now.”

Declan backed away, allowing the alley to swallow him up, turned, and started to walk down toward the harbor, trying to make sense of what he’d seen. Dillon and Sara together in Paris made perfect sense, because they’d both represented the Ministry of Defence, but surely if they’d had any other kind of contact, he’d have noted it.

He was thinking so hard that he almost missed Bibi sitting at a coffee table outside Café Marco with two men, neither of whom he knew. He noted a large advertisement for what was described as Omar Kerim’s Special Cabaret Night, the photograph on it matched exactly one of the men sitting with Bibi. It seemed highly probable that this was the same Omar his attacker had mentioned.

He hurried on to the Tropicana, approached reception, and inquired if Sara and Dillon were staying. They confirmed it for him, and also the fact that they were expected for dinner in the main restaurant in half an hour.

He went to his suite to freshen up and give himself time to decide how to handle the situation, but decided there was only one way, which was head-on. After all, unless he was greatly mistaken, he had some extraordinary information for all of them.

They were in the bar area, he saw that at once, because to his surprise Dillon was sitting at the piano, feeling out a few chords while the maître d’ looked on approvingly. Satisfied with the piano, Dillon eased into an upbeat version of “As Time Goes By” and called out, “Remember the Paradise Club, Sara? Let’s see if you can still strut your stuff.”

Laughing, she got up, mounted three carpeted steps, and joined in, her voice deep and rich. The regular drummer came running, and a moment later, a double bass player. People were clapping, shouting their approval, and Dillon kept it going, another chorus, and then the moment came when she saw Declan in the entrance starting to clap, hands high. The look of astonishment on her face was something to see. She stood looking at him.

Someone shouted, “Get on with it, kiss him, then let’s have another chorus.”

So she did, on the cheek, and ran back to Dillon, calling, “One more time, and give it all you’ve got.”

He did, the sound echoing up to the roof, while Declan went and dropped into a chair next to Husseini and grinned. “Haven’t we met before somewhere?”

Husseini smiled. “What is this, Colonel, have you come to arrest me?”

“How on earth could I?” Declan asked. “We’re in a foreign country.” He reached for the champagne bottle in the ice bucket. “Can I have a glass?”

“You can have two if you like,” Husseini told him, and they started to laugh.

Later, the three of them listened as he explained what he was doing there. “So you see,” he said to Husseini, “I have my orders, but what can I do about it? Lebanon isn’t Iran. In the last few words I had with Vahidi as he lay dying, I told him that if I did catch up with you, I might well suggest you keep running. He then offered me the information that has led me here so quickly.” He looked serious now. “I believe he was murdered. Pushed into the next world.”

“And who do you think did it?” Sara asked. “This General ben Levi you’ve mentioned?”

“Oh no, but al-Qaeda would,” Declan told her.

Dillon said, “To what purpose?”

“To help get their hands on that bomb of Simon’s. And here’s a question for you and Sean, Sara. What would you say if I told you that Emza Khan is up to his neck in al-Qaeda?”

Sara turned to Sean and smiled savagely. “I knew it, Sean, I damn well knew it. It’s what I was trying to suggest to Ferguson, and he knew I was right.”

“Just hang on.” Dillon turned to Declan. “Where’s your proof?”

“To start with, I have a spy in his household, but you can ask Khan himself. He’s due to join us on the spurious excuse of visiting Cyrus Holdings in Beirut. He’ll be expecting to see me, but not you.” He took an envelope from his pocket. “Rather than explaining it all, I’ve written everything down. Read this. You’ll find it very revealing.”

“Give it here,” Dillon said. Declan flicked it across, and Sara and Husseini squeezed in to read what was inside.

Declan waved to the wine waiter. “Another bottle of champagne. I think we’re going to need it.”

When they were done, Dillon said, “I never liked him, but his business success seemed to speak for itself. I mean, he’s a billionaire, for God’s sake.”

“The epitome of the man who had everything,” Sara said.

“And threw in his lot with al-Qaeda,” Declan said. “The act of a maniac.”

“And one of incredible stupidity,” Declan said. “To put yourself in the hands of such people is an act of suicide.”

“Well, I’ll drink to that,” Dillon said, reached for the bottle, and refilled the glasses. “So where does this leave us?”

“With the fact that Emza Khan is to arrive soon to supervise the kidnapping of Simon Husseini and arrange his onward passage to wherever the al-Qaeda council decides.”

“And what about the rest of us?” Sara asked.

“Oh, the rough stuff will be carried out by gangsters, Omar Kerim and his men under the direction of Jemal Nadim.”

“So they could get nasty,” Sara said.

“Already have,” Declan told her. “I took a walk up toward Rue Rivoli earlier and was followed all the way from the Tropicana by two of Omar’s men, who attacked me.”

“You don’t look damaged.”

“I’m a paratrooper. They were clowns. The first one broke his nose falling into a door, the second was persuaded by my suggestion that I put a bullet in the kneecap to inform on Omar.”

“The kneecap? That’s a ritual IRA punishment,” she said.

“For God’s sake, woman,” Dillon told her, “his mother was Irish. Now, enough of this. What’s our next move?”

“I’ve already been through that when we were at Simon’s,” Sara said. “Don Renard plots a course for Qatar. On the way, we put down in the desert on the emergency landing strip at al-Shaba and visit St. Anthony’s.”

“And then what?” Dillon asked. “I mean, what next for Simon Husseini? Does he decide to be a novice and end his days in the desert?” He turned to Husseini. “I hope you don’t mind me raising the point.”

“And don’t think I’m unaware of it,” Husseini told him. “To be honest, I’ve just taken this odyssey step by step. As you know, the beginning just happened, and I’m not sure about the ending now.”

“And none of us will be until we experience it,” Declan put in. He turned to Sara. “Am I right that you discussed the flight plan for the trip to St. Anthony’s while you were at Husseini’s?”

“That’s right,” Sara said. “Why do you ask?”

“Was Bibi present?”

Husseini said, “Yes, she met Sara and Dillon, served us drinks, then left to go to the market.”

“Then we’ve got trouble. When I was walking back to meet you at the Tropicana, I saw her sitting at a table outside Café Marco, deep in conversation with two men. One of them was definitely Omar. The other had steel glasses and an Arab head cloth.”

“Jemal Nadim,” Husseini said.

“So it’s looking as if al-Qaeda has their hooks in her,” Declan told him.

Sara said, “But let’s accept that’s the way it is and leave it alone. Don’t let Bibi know we’re on to her. You can tell her we’re not leaving until eleven o’clock in the morning, while I check with Don at the airport and arrange a six a.m. start, or something like that.”

“That sounds good to me,” Dillon said. “So Emza Khan and his crew find out we’re not around for kidnapping or murder, but as they’ll know our destination, thanks to Bibi, they’ll simply follow us.”

“We’ll sort that out when it happens,” Declan said. “For the moment, am I the only one who realizes we haven’t eaten? Can we go in now?”

There was laughter, they went up the stairs into the dining room, and Sara half turned to him. “It seems it was right what you said to Vahidi. That if you caught up with Husseini, maybe you’d tell him to keep on running.”

“Yes, it must be confusing for you.”

“More so for you, I think. It must be very difficult.” She took his right hand and squeezed it. “We’re on your side, Declan.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Well, you guys get started. I don’t want a first course anyway, but I want to call Don at his airport hotel. I’ll join you later.”

She found Renard with no difficulty, he and Jane Green comfortable enough at the airport where they could keep an eye on preparations for the onward flight. Sara had been frank in warning Don that they could expect hazardous duty. She’d left open what that entailed, but what was developing — that was something else again.

“Is Jane there?”

“She sure is.”

“Well, put this on speaker and listen well. Both of you are still serving officers on the reserve?”

“That’s correct,” they chorused.

“Then as an operative of the Secret Intelligence Service, I can invoke the Official Secrets Act. Do you agree to be bound by that?”

“Of course,” Don said as Jane joined in with, “Absolutely.”

“All right. As you’ve known for some time, Don, I work with Sean Dillon under the command of General Charles Ferguson directly for the Prime Minister. Anything we touch is of prime importance.”

“That’s what I’ve always understood.”

“We’ve joined up with Colonel Declan Rashid of the Iranian Army. Our task is to get Simon Husseini in one piece to this St. Anthony’s Hospice I’ve mentioned. The problem is, I’ve just heard there’s a Falcon coming in from the UK carrying Emza Khan, chairman of Cyrus Holdings.”

“We know him well,” Don said. “Often flies out of Northolt. Just let me check, there’s a screen in the room. Yes, it’s due in an hour, and a couple of right bastards in the cockpit.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because they are,” Jane called. “They’re ex — Russian Air Force. Ivan Kerimov and Dimitri Lisin. Good pilots, but they’re all hands, if you follow me, and drink like fish. It’s said they’re something to do with Russian intelligence, but that could be gossip.”

“So, in a way, they’re like you two, up for hazardous duty.”

“I suppose there could be something in that,” Jane agreed.

“To cut to the chase,” Sara said. “What would an old Afghanistan hand say if I told her that we have positive proof that Emza Khan is seriously involved with al-Qaeda?”

“That would sound absurd coming from anyone else,” Don said. “But from you, I’ve got to believe it. Does that hold for you, Jane?”

“Of course it does,” Jane said. “Where is this going?”

“He could make a lot of trouble for us. We’re making sure that people think we’re flying out at eleven tomorrow. How early could we make it if we wanted to catch them napping?”

“Six o’clock is good,” Don said. “We could just hang in there, with everyone on board, then suddenly decide to go.”

Jane cut in. “Once they know we’ve gone, though, I’m sure they’ll get their act together fast. Those Russians are good, I’ve got to admit that.”

“Point taken. We’ll see you round dawn, then.”

Next she contacted Holland Park.

“Damn you, Sara Gideon, I’ve never been so worried. You drive a man mad,” Roper told her.

Sara cut in, “Shut up, Giles, time is limited. Have you spoken to Ferguson yet? If so, I expect he’s frothing at the mouth.”

“Actually, he was strangely calm. I told him about Husseini’s call, your wild decision to go, and Dillon’s hot pursuit. His actual words were ‘Thank God Dillon is there to watch her back. I suppose she’ll be in touch when she’s got something to say. Is it all right if I go back to work now?’”

“See if he’s more impressed with this. Declan Rashid turned up from Tehran with orders from the minister of war to get his hands on Husseini and bring him back.”

“Well, he managed that pretty damn quick.”

“Declan got information from Husseini’s security man that led him straight to Beirut.”

“So it’s Declan, is it? You seem to be terribly chummy with what I know Dillon describes as the enemy.”

“He’s no more the enemy than I am. He’s an Iranian citizen whose mother was Irish.”

Roper said, “Sara, my love, it’s obvious to me that you’re so much on Rashid’s side that the only conclusion must be that you fancy him. He’s had an outstanding record with the Iranian Army, he’s likely to make general one of these days. Why would he throw all that away?”

“Because he’s on our side, Giles. And what I’m going to tell you now will have General Charles Ferguson gasping to hear more.”

“So what would that be?” Roper sounded weary. “Get on with it, Sara.”

“We’ve uncovered a plot, thanks to Declan, an al-Qaeda plot to murder him and then kidnap Simon Husseini. I’m sure you realized for what purpose: They want the bomb.”

Roper stayed surprisingly calm. “And when is all this due to happen?”

“There’s a Falcon out of London, flying here with a top man appointed by the council. His aircraft will transport Husseini to wherever his masters order. He’s arriving here in an hour, flown in, I’m told, by a couple of very questionable Russian pilots named Ivan Kerimov and Dimitri Lisin. I’d note the names in your files for future reference. I’d have thought Cyrus Holdings could have found a better class of pilot, but then, I suppose they suit their boss’s purpose.”

Roper said, “Hang on, where are we going with this?”

“Let me be the first to break the good news,” Sara said. “Thanks to Declan, we now know that Emza Khan is up to his neck in al-Qaeda. But Emza Khan doesn’t realize that Declan is here, and knows what he is.”

“And presumably, he isn’t aware of you and Dillon being around, either.”

“I’m afraid not. Poor him.”

“So what happens when the big confrontation takes place?”

“Not much, I hope. We’re going to get the hell out of here tomorrow, fly down to Saudi, and drop in at a place called St. Anthony’s Hospice.” She explained why, and finished with, “I hope you’ve been recording all this, Giles.”

“Of course I have. I’ll knock it all into shape and get it to Ferguson as quickly as possible. It’s going to make the old devil’s day. It explains so much.”

“Everybody else is having dinner right now, but I wanted to get it all to you to keep Ferguson happy, if such a thing were possible.”

“Take care. You never know where you are with Russians.”

“I know what you mean. Now I’m going to go eat. Bye, Giles.”

She went. Roper punched a button on one of his computers and watched as it transcribed his recording of the exchange with Sara into print. It was certainly going to make Ferguson sit up and take notice.

The dinner had reached the brandy and coffee stage when Sara arrived. Dillon said, “What kept you?”

“I was talking to the hotel doctor on the phone. I told him about Father Mikali, and he’s having a load of special drugs sent round at once.”

The maître d’ approached, concerned. “Madame has missed dinner. What may I do?”

“Scrambled eggs and a tossed salad,” Sara told him. “If there’s any champagne left, pour me a glass; if not, find a fresh bottle.”

“You haven’t answered,” Dillon told her. “The doctor couldn’t have taken that long.”

“I was also reporting in to Roper and bringing him up to date on where we are in this rather convoluted affair.”

“An apt description,” Declan said.

“He’s spoken to Ferguson, who took the brief account of my rebellion and Dillon’s pursuit with extraordinary calm. I’ve given Roper a full and frank account, including your situations as I see them, Declan and Simon.”

Husseini said, “I would imagine the information about Emza Khan will disturb Ferguson greatly.”

“Oh, not at all,” Sara said. “He’ll be pleased to have been proved right. He’s been convinced for a long time that there was something dodgy about Khan.”

At that moment the maître d’ appeared in person bearing the tossed salad and scrambled eggs, followed by the wine waiter with another bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. They served them with a flourish.

“Thank you, it looks marvelous,” Sara said. “Am I right, aren’t you expecting Mr. Emza Khan tonight?”

“Indeed we are,” the maître d’ told her. “In fact, I’ve just had notice from the airport that they landed forty-five minutes ago. Is Madame familiar with this gentleman?”

“Yes, I think you could say that,” Sara said. “But I’d better eat my eggs before they get cold,” and she proceeded to do so.

“Are they good?” Dillon asked.

“Excellent.”

“Well, enjoy them while you can. When you have a moment, turn around. You’ll find Khan in the flesh.”

The maître d’ was in the act of bowing to Emza Khan, who looked transfixed as both Husseini and Declan stood up. His face was a mixture of shock and horror. The two Russians stood behind him, tough, cynical-looking individuals, sporting an unshaven look but handsome in uniform, each of them with four gold rings on his sleeve.

The maître d’ moved, leading the way toward a booth at the back of the room. Sara remained seated as they approached, with Dillon, Husseini, and Declan standing behind her.

Dillon smiled cheerfully. “The top of the morning to you, Emza.”

Emza paused, his voice low, as he ignored Dillon and spoke to Husseini and Declan.

“You’ve disgraced your family and your regiment,” he hissed at Declan. “And you, Husseini, have betrayed your country. May you rot in hell for your perfidy.” He glared at Sara. “You murdered my son, you whore. I’ll see you burn in hell for that.”

He continued to follow the maître d’, and Kerimov glanced admiringly at Sara and said in Russian to his friend, “Now, there’s a real woman for you. I wonder if anything is on offer?”

“Careful, you stupid idiot,” she said in Russian. “Continue to keep company with a dog like Emza Khan, you’re likely to catch fleas.”

Both of them were startled by her fluency, and Kerimov clapped and replied in Russian, “Thank you for such excellent advice. We’ll take it.”

He and his partner moved to join Khan at the end of the room, and Dillon, Husseini, and Declan sat down as the wine waiter hurried over to freshen the drinks. Husseini said, “What on earth is Khan up to? He’s acting as if he’s in the clear. It doesn’t make sense.”

Sara said, “It does if you consider the spot the Iranian government is in. It’s only been a little more than a week since that accident in Tehran, but the word’s getting out. They’ve got to find a way to contain it, and the last thing they need is a scandal.”

“So what are they waiting for, these people in Tehran?” Husseini demanded.

“They’re desperately hoping that Declan will manage to get his hands on you,” Sara said. “And the ironic thing is that he has, just not the way they expected.”

“Which raises the question, what are you going to do?” Dillon said to Declan. “Where would you go?”

“As has been said, I have an Irish passport,” Declan told him. “What hasn’t, is that my mother inherited a country estate near Galway from an uncle on her mother’s side. It came to me on her death and is managed by lawyers, who are family cousins.”

“God help us, but I’ve difficulty in seeing you playing the squireen in a tweed cap, fishing for trout in Galway,” Dillon told him.

Declan said, “So many years of war, and the possibility of death has taught me that the only way of coping is to take each day as it comes. So, enough of talking. We know what lies ahead tomorrow, so let Emza Khan see us retire for the night to grab four or five hours before sneaking out at dawn.”

“Let’s do it.” Sara stood up, glanced at the enemy, and walked out, pausing to shake hands with the maître d’. “Lovely meal,” she said loud enough to be heard at Khan’s table. “We’re leaving for Qatar in the morning, flying out around eleven. We’ll have a late breakfast with you before we go.”

“A pleasure to serve you,” he said.

Dillon muttered, “Excellent performance, full marks.”

She half turned, smiled at him, and led the way out.

The meal was excellent, but for Emza Khan, the pilots were the problem, drinking huge amounts of vodka and talking to each other in Russian. He didn’t speak the language, which was good, because their opinion of him was low. When his phone sounded it came as a relief, and he went out to the terrace and discovered it was the Master.

“I know what’s going on, so just listen. I gather that Husseini has a burning need to visit this Father John Mikali at St. Anthony’s Hospice. Our need, on the other hand, is to kidnap Husseini and dispose of Rashid.”

“Which is why we will follow them to the hospice and confront them there,” Khan said.

“I have a better idea. Leave before them. When they arrive and find you holding Mikali hostage, the effect on Husseini will be dramatic, especially when the threat is to blow out the old man’s brains. Husseini would do an exchange on the instant, I promise you.”

“But, of course, Master,” Emza Khan said. “Husseini is the kind of holy fool who would sacrifice himself.”

“No need for a gang of cutthroats. I’d take Jemal and Omar to back you up, but no more. After all, you have the Russians.”

“Yes, that would do it.”

“I’ll speak to Jemal and order him to report to you as soon as possible with Omar, but I think speed is of the essence here, so get moving and don’t take no for an answer from those Russians. I can only envy your inevitable success.”

Renewed in spirit, Emza Khan bustled into the restaurant and said, “Things have changed, so follow me to my suite to discuss it.”

“Discuss what?” Kerimov demanded.

“Oh, the extra money I’m putting into your worthless pockets,” and suddenly he was the old Emza Khan again, and smiling as he led the way out.