The Death Trade

13

It was no problem for Kerimov to obtain a new departure slot from the Rafic Hariri Airport. The flight plan was for Qatar, eight hundred miles away and mainly over desert. The stop-off at the emergency airstrip close to the St. Anthony’s Hospice at al-Shaba was technically illegal, but air traffic control was notoriously easygoing in Arab airspace. Many pilots simply vanished from the air if it suited them to switch off communication for a period.

Things had gone exactly as the Master had suggested. He had spoken to Jemal, who had accepted without a moment’s argument, and Jemal had persuaded Omar that it could do him a lot of good in the council’s eyes.

An approach by Kerimov to the right person, a greasing of palms, and they had taken off at three-thirty in the morning. They had an eight-hundred-mile flight ahead of them, but as Kerimov said, they were in no hurry, had already won the engagement.

They were having a small drinks party in the cabin, Emza Khan, Jemal, and Omar. Kerimov joined them, leaving Lisin in the cockpit sitting back reading a magazine while the plane flew on autopilot.

In the cabin, Khan had a martini cocktail, Kerimov vodka, and so did Omar. Only Jemal refused a drink, although he did smoke Turkish cigarettes. He was indulging in one now and examining an old National Geographic magazine. He passed it to Emza Khan.

“There’s a five-page article on this St. Anthony’s Hospice. Apparently, it’s run by Greek Orthodox monks. It’s at a small oasis, a well that hasn’t run dry in several hundred years.”

Khan examined it. “How did it start?”

Jemal said, “Food and lodging for travelers going south to the Oman. They offered medical aid as well, a tradition.”

“Why Greek monks?” Emza Khan asked. “I could never see the point of that. Living at the back of beyond in total desolation. What does it prove?”

“Jesus Christ spent forty days and nights in the wilderness, we are told in the Christian Bible, and found truth when God spoke to him. The monks seek the same salvation.”

“They must be soft in the head,” Khan said. “And I thought this Father Mikali was supposed to be someone special.”

Jemal said, “I was at the Sorbonne in Paris in my youth, studying comparative religion. He was a professor, wrote books, everybody respected him.”

He suddenly recognized how much he disliked Khan, particularly when Khan said harshly, “Then why did he retire to such a godforsaken place at his age?”

“Because the search for Allah and meaning and purpose is never-ending,” Jemal told him. “But enough of this, let’s move on. What is our plan when we land?”

Kerimov said, “As far as I’m concerned, the important thing is making sure the Falcon is safe and secure and ready to get us out of here when we’re ready to leave.”

“What are you saying?” Omar demanded.

“That Lisin and I aren’t here to do any shooting, we’re here to guard the plane and make sure it’s available for a quick departure.”

“That’s not good enough,” Emza Khan told him. “We had an agreement.”

“Lisin and I were in the military. We’ve seen things go wrong for the stupidest of reasons too many times, so this isn’t up for argument.”

Omar took over. “We’ve got all the right weapons, so there’s no problem there. The enemy are fifteen monks, the eldest ninety and the others very probably close behind him.” He turned to Jemal. “I know where I stand, I kill people for a living, but what about you, old friend?”

“I can handle it,” Jemal said. “But I’m sure it won’t be necessary.” He glanced at Emza Khan. “What about you, have you ever fired a gun?”

“You know who I am. It’s never been necessary,” Khan said. “I’m perfectly content for you two to handle matters.”

Jemal said, “Somehow, I thought that’s what you’d say.” He got up. “I don’t know what the rest of you are going to do, but I’m taking one of those backseats for a couple of hours’ sleep. I’d advise you to do the same.”

Which they did, Ivan Kerimov taking a front one up by the cockpit, Omar on the opposite of Jemal, and Emza Khan halfway along, easing his chair back and thinking about things as someone dimmed the lights.

He was considering his problematical future. With Husseini on his hands, he had two interesting options. On the one hand, he was a man desperately wanted by al-Qaeda. On the other hand, the government in Tehran would be only too willing to pardon past sins when the prize he was offering was Husseini and his bomb. So — what should he do? He lay back a little farther, closed his eyes, and started analyzing the situation again.

Earlier, at Rafic Hariri, Jane Green stirred and came half awake as she heard a plane take off, quite loud, then die away into the distance. She lay there wondering about it, made to get up, and then another plane took off, so she drifted into sleep again. An hour passed and she came awake with a jerk to a knock on the door, and when she got up and opened it, found Sara standing there.

“What’s happened?” Jane asked, coming awake fast.

“They’ve stolen a march on us.” Sara brushed past. “Got out of here around three-thirty with a flight plan for Qatar. It didn’t feature on the screen until a short while ago. So much for us hoping to make a quick departure around six. We got here, went to check on our plane, and discovered their Falcon gone.”

Jane was dressing hurriedly. “What are the guys doing?”

“Buying a fast takeoff on my behalf,” Sara said. “There are times when owning a bank has its uses.”

“I’m sure that’s true.” Jane grabbed her old military bag, ran around the room recovering the few things she’d unpacked, and stuffed them in. “Right, ready to go. Afghanistan was a good learning curve.”

“You can say that again,” Sara told her. “Now, let’s go and see how our gallant lads have progressed.”

They hurried to the lift, and as they got in, Sara’s Codex sounded. As they descended, Dillon said, “It’s taken care of. Ready to go.”

“I’m with Jane now and we’re on our way,” she said. “Did you have enough cash to handle it?”

“You know I always keep five thousand dollars in my contingency kit. I’m taking care of it. No worries. Just get yourselves down here.”

Don Renard was in the cockpit of the Gideon, turning the engines over, and Simon Husseini was already on board. Declan was standing by the steps up the airstair with Dillon. There was a doorway nearby, a light above it. A man stepped out in a porter’s uniform and nodded, another in similar garb lurking behind him.

“They would appear to be waiting for you,” Declan commented.

Dillon went to meet them, Declan followed him, and as they approached the doorway, Dillon said, “Congratulations on your efficiency, Abu, you’ve organized things damn quickly.” He took a roll of bills from his pocket. “So what’s the damage? You said a thousand.”

The man behind Abu said, “Oh, I think you can do a lot better than that.” He stepped around his friend and produced some kind of pistol. Declan moved with incredible speed, twisting it savagely out of the man’s grip and at the same moment forming a Phoenix Fist with his right hand, stabbing into the temple, knocking the man out on the instant.

The first one was horrified. “Listen, there’s been a mistake.”

“Yes, and you made it.” Dillon peeled ten one-hundred-dollar bills from his roll and dropped them fluttering down at the man’s feet. “There you are, a thousand dollars. I always keep my promises.”

The man was mesmerized. “Yes, I can see that.”

Next, Dillon produced his Colt .25. “This holds hollow-point cartridges. If I decided to shoot you in the kneecap, it would blow it clean off.”

The man was panic-stricken. “Please, tell me what I must do to atone.”

“Oh, that’s simple enough. How many people were on the Falcon that left earlier?”

“Two pilots and three passengers.”

“And who were they?”

The man was all eagerness now. “I’ve never seen the pilots before, but I was told they were Russian and the boss man was Muslim, but a stranger to me.”

“And the other two?”

“Omar Kerim, a dangerous man to know, and Jemal Nadim.”

“And what does he do?”

“He runs the Army of God.”

“I see, there is one God and his Prophet is Osama.” There was instant terror on the face in the yellow light. “Oh, go on, get out of it,” Dillon said. “And take your friend with you.” He turned to Declan. “Nice move, Colonel, you must show me sometime.”

The two women were just arriving, and Jane boarded instantly. Sara said, “Problems, Sean?”

“Not so you’d notice, but let’s get out of here while the going’s good. The trouble these days is the way sympathizers to Osama’s message turn up at every level of society.”

Jane peered out. “Come on, best we get moving.”

They went up the steps, and the airstair door closed. Jane joined Don Renard in the cockpit, they started to roll even before the others had settled themselves, turned into position, roared down the runway, and lifted, climbing into the comforting darkness.

Dillon peered out and back at the lights of the airport. “So a not-so-fond farewell to Beirut. In the circumstances, I don’t think we should rely on being welcomed back.” He smiled wryly at Husseini. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got more important things to think about,” Husseini told him, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

Half an hour into the flight, Don Renard emerged from the cockpit to find Husseini still apparently dozing and the others enjoying a pot of black coffee. He helped himself and said, “Even if we push our speed as far as we can, we’ll still be landing at least an hour and a half after the opposition. What are we going to do?”

“Tell me something,” Sara said. “How many times did you try to connect me and my Codex to their satellite phone system on the flight from London?”

“Dozens,” he said. “Any kind of bad weather affects the system. I think the one time we did get through was just a fluke.”

Declan, peering out, said, “You can’t find fault with it tonight. Remember that I have Bedouin forefathers from the Oman and the Empty Quarter, so I have a feel for how things work round here. To start with, the moon is full and looks different from the norm, and there is a total lack of wind.”

“Then let’s have another go, Don,” Sara said. “If we could warn them to expect unwelcome visitors, it would be good.”

He vanished into the cockpit, and Husseini said, “At least I could know how Mikali is doing.”

“You might even get to speak to him,” Dillon said.

“Well, we’ll see, shall we?” Sara said, and they sat, waiting, as the plane droned on into the night.

At St. Anthony’s Hospice, the enormous moon had moved on from the west, bathing everything in harsh white light. In the oasis fed by the well, goats and camels stirred, and Brother Andrew, reading an English primer, picked up his lantern and started back toward the hospice. He was not concerned if the animals were restless, for there was nowhere for them to go in all that desolation.

At thirty, he was by far the youngest member of the order, a male nurse in Athens whose wife had died in childbirth. Having lost his way in life, the offer of a place in the order from his uncle, Abbot Joseph, had brought him to the hospice.

He entered the ancient buildings through a rear door and walked along a corridor that brought him to the infirmary. Seated at the center table, dozing, was Father Peter, so small that he seemed swallowed up by his black robes. In his mid-seventies, he had once been an army doctor. There was a row of beds, six of them empty, and Father John Mikali in the seventh, his eyes closed.

He wore a black cowl, so that only the face and silver beard showed. His skin was almost transparent, drawn tightly over the cheekbones in a noble face. His eyes suddenly opened, and he smiled and his voice was still strong.

Andrew asked in English, “How are you, Father? Any pain at the moment?”

“Not as bad as it has been.”

“We still have an ample supply of morphine, thanks to the battle packs the Saudi Air Force left us.”

“I can manage at the moment,” Mikali said. “But I must say your English improves daily. Speak it as often as you can.”

“That’s due to you, Father.”

“Not at all. Speak it aloud to yourself, if that’s the only way. It’s the road to fluency, I assure you.”

Before Andrew could reply, Brother Damien came in from the kitchen. An octogenarian, with a white apron over his black robe, he was carrying a two-handed small beaker.

“Get this down you and you’ll feel much better,” he told Mikali.

Andrew said, “What is it, what’s so special?”

“It’s a tisane of honey, fruit juice, and tea. Guaranteed to bring him back to life,” Damien answered. “Raise him if you can.”

Andrew managed to sit Mikali up, thanks to a back support, and Damien stood beside him, clutching the beaker in both hands, pouring carefully.

He paused and said, “Is that good?”

“Excellent,” Mikali told him. “I’ll have a little more.”

But before Damien could pour, there was the sound of a bell from outside and Andrew swung around, amazement on his face.

“Blessed Mary,” he said. “It’s the satellite phone system.”

“Now, who can that be?” Father Mikali asked. “Better answer it before they go away again, whoever they are. It’s the first call we’ve had in a couple of months.”

Andrew ran out into the corridor, opened the black oak door to the vestry, and hurried in. The stone walls had been painted white. There were shelves stacked with manuscript registers and books and various religious vestments hanging from rails. There were also two wooden desks, one with an old-fashioned typewriter, paper stacked beside it, all very businesslike; the other contained the telephone equipment, which was also old, with a fixed microphone.

Andrew sat down and flicked a switch. “This is St. Anthony’s Hospice.”

He had spoken in Greek, and Sara Gideon answered in the same language. “I am receiving you loud and clear.” She changed to English. “I am the woman who was asking after Father Mikali. Do you remember me?”

“Of course,” Andrew said. “Who are you?”

“Tell me first, is he still with you?”

“Yes, he is, a patient in the infirmary.”

“We have one of his oldest friends on board my plane, Simon Husseini. It’s of vital importance that he speak to Father Mikali. Will you tell him?”

“Yes, but he’ll need to come to this phone, and that means the wheelchair. This is so exciting. We seldom get calls, so please be patient.”

He ran back to the ward where they were all waiting, and his Uncle Joseph, the abbot, had arrived, disturbed by the bell sounding from the vestry. “What is it?” he demanded.

“A call from a plane which intends to land here,” Andrew told him, running to an ancient wheelchair in the corner, swinging it around, and approaching Mikali. “Apparently, an old friend of yours is coming to see you, Father,” he told Mikali. “A Simon Husseini.”

There was astonishment on Mikali’s face. “Simon on his way here? I can’t believe it.”

“But you must come now.” Andrew pulled the bedcovers aside. “Let me ease you into the wheelchair. I’m afraid we may lose the connection.”

Abbot Joseph said to the rest, “You must leave the vestry clear and listen from the corridor.”

He waved everyone to one side to allow Andrew and Mikali free passage and followed, with the others trailing beside.

On the Gideon, the door to the cockpit stood open and, thanks to the genius who had produced the Codex, with the speaker switched on, everyone on board was able to follow the conversation that now took place. In the vestry at the hospice, it was the same, thanks to the transmitter loudspeaker. The abbot and Brother Andrew stood on either side of Mikali in his wheelchair, while, the word having spread, a dozen brothers crowded together in the corridor.

Mikali spoke into the microphone, a certain caution in his voice. “Simon Husseini, can this be you?”

“Oh yes, Father. I assure you it’s me, and I can prove it. As a young lecturer at the Sorbonne, I was one of the very first to be exposed to your concept of essential goodness, because you gave me a typescript to consider before the famous book was published.”

Mikali laughed in delight. “Yes, I did, and you presented me with a review within twenty-four hours. So, Simon, I have followed your career with the greatest interest and I know the predicament you have found yourself in with the Iranian government. How are your dear mother and your daughter? Well, I trust?”

“No, they were recently killed in a road accident in Tehran.”

Mikali was shocked. “My dear friend, what can I say? May they rest in peace. But this changes everything for you, I think?”

“I’m running away from a situation I can’t face in order to see you and find out if you can offer me a solution,” Husseini carried on. “I’ve created in theory the possibility of a nuclear bomb four times more powerful than any at present existing. My government wants it, probably Russia and China, and certainly the UK and America. I’ve even got al-Qaeda wanting it.”

“So what is your problem?” Mikali asked.

“What if I don’t want anyone to have it? What if I destroy my own work?”

“My dear friend, that’s a quixotic approach indeed which would do you little good. A scientist is like an explorer, searching for something that already exists. To destroy your case notes would be pointless. Someone else would just come along. Let me put it this way: Einstein didn’t create relativity, he discovered it.”

“So where does that leave your theory that essential goodness is the most important building block in life, Father?”

“Let me ask you a question,” Mikali said. “Who are these people on the plane with you?”

“Good people, and on my side.”

“And you were coming to seek my advice and for no other reason?”

“That was the idea, but al-Qaeda discovered our intention, stole a march on us, and intend to land at al-Shaba to ambush us. It’s me they want.

“Then why are you bothering to come?”

“Well, we can’t just leave you to handle such a thing on your own.”

There was a crackling over the sound system, a slight buzz, and the Gideon was buffeted by a sudden wind.

“Ah, I see now.” Mikali raised his voice. “You’re coming to save us. A perfect example of essential goodness in action. When may we expect these people you speak of?”

“In an hour or so. On their plane are two pilots and three passengers. There would be no profit in them harming you or your people, as long as you avoid confrontation. It’s me they want, not you. We will be there, I promise you, an hour and a half after they arrive.”

“And will you leave with them?” Mikali asked.

But to that, there could be no answer, for the crackling over the sound system developed into a roaring that drowned out any intelligible conversation.

Mikali said to the abbot, “It’s unlikely we’ll get them back. I suggest you order everyone into the infirmary, and, with your permission, I’d like to try to explain to them what’s going on. I don’t think we’ve got long before the plane that Husseini warned us against gets here.”

“Of course.” The abbot raised his voice. “I want you all in the infirmary as quickly as possible. Now, go.”

Whispering to each other, they turned obediently and did as ordered, followed by the abbot, and Andrew pushing the wheelchair. They crowded into the infirmary, and Mikali addressed them.

“Very soon now, a plane will land on the airstrip and some of the men on board will come to see us, particularly me. They are not good people, but do as they say and I don’t think any harm will come to you. They are waiting for another plane to arrive. If they speak to you, don’t mention that you know the second plane will be coming. Speak Greek between yourselves. I suspect they can’t, and will tend to leave you alone. The people on the other plane are our friends. I can’t tell you what will happen when they arrive, because I don’t know. May God bless all of us.”

The brothers were murmuring among themselves, and some looked anxious. The abbot said, “We are all brothers in the sight of God. He will help us get through this. Now, go about your usual work and we’ll see what happens.”

On the Gideon, Don Renard glanced out of the cockpit into the cabin. “I’m afraid we’ve lost it again.”

“Don’t worry, what we got was useful,” Sara told him. “We know what’s going on at the hospice now.”

“And that’s fine,” Dillon said. “But it makes one thing clear. That there’s nothing the brothers can do to help themselves.”

“True,” Declan said. “And they can’t help us, either. When Emza Khan and his friends arrive, the brothers will have no option but to comply with their demands. They’re only pawns in this game. Al-Qaeda only wants Husseini, and they want him alive. He’s absolutely no use to them dead.”

Dillon said grimly, “And he’s no use to them alive if he’s not willing to toe the line and produce that bomb.”

There was silence for a while, Declan frowning slightly, Dillon glancing from one to another, Husseini perfectly calm, and Sara looking troubled.

Husseini said to her, “You attended the Military Academy at Sandhurst. Didn’t they have a saying: Difficult decisions are the privilege of rank?”

“Yes, they do,” she said.

“Good, I must bear that in mind.” He sat down in the seat opposite Dillon, reached for his bag, opened it, and produced a small black-and-silver notebook, a tiny green light throbbing in it. He also took out a pad and an envelope.

Dillon said, “Is that notebook electronic?”

“A Sonic,” Husseini told him. “It can only be opened by a code word. It’s very useful for preserving the important things in life.”

He wrote quickly on the pad as the Gideon droned on, tore out the sheet, folded it, then put it in the envelope, sealed it, and passed it to Dillon.

“What’s this?” Dillon asked.

“We live in dangerous times. The contents are self-explanatory. I give it to you because you are the great survivor. You’ll know when it’s right to open it.”

Dillon frowned, but put it into an inside pocket. Husseini dropped the pad into his bag, slipped the Sonic into his left jacket pocket, closed his eyes, and leaned back.

It was just after six a.m. when the Cyrus Holdings Falcon came in low from the north at four thousand feet and descending. There was no sun, dark cloud formations blanketing the area, a rumble of thunder in the distance, and as they went down, it became obvious that there was considerable wind at ground level.

They came in at a thousand feet, but the desert below looked uninviting, and then they saw the oasis and palm trees. Kerimov, who had the control column, took her right down to St. Anthony’s Hospice, looming out of the early-morning gloom, lights at various windows, camels and goats scattering, and Kerimov and Lisin laughing.

“That’s wakened the sods up,” Kerimov said. “What a dump.”

“You can say that again,” Lisin agreed.

Kerimov turned and came back at six hundred feet, and several brothers appeared through the front door of the hospice and stood, staring up.

“That’s given them a shake,” Kerimov said. “Down we go.”

Emza Khan, Jemal, and Omar had seen all this from the cabin windows. Khan said, “What kind of people would live in such a place?”

“Well, they’ve been doing it for a thousand years or more,” Jemal said. “They believe in God, but in their own way.”

Kerimov swung around into the wind and dropped down to an aircraft hangar, a few concrete buildings on each side and a small control tower. He kept going, as far as he could take it, halting about a hundred and fifty yards from the hospice.

When Kerimov switched off, Lisin opened the door and went down the steps. With the engine stopped, the only sound was the moaning of the wind in the thornbushes and around the derelict buildings. Kerimov emerged and stood halfway down the steps.

“There’s something spooky about a decaying airfield. I’m not sure why, but it makes me feel strange.”

Lisin said, “Jet fighters used it for emergency landings in Desert Storm. Probably a few good men died here.” Kerimov stiffened. “There’s a small welcoming committee. We’d better get back inside and prepare to receive them.”

Omar was bringing out weapons, three AK-47s, four Makarovs. Jemal said to Kerimov, “During the flight, you did try that satellite number I gave you for the hospice?”

“Several times, but it didn’t work. Deserts can be difficult places for reception.”

Omar said, “Never mind that. There’s a Makarov each for you, and you can take one of the AKs. You’re still not coming with us?”

“Absolutely not. I’ve given you my reasons, and they’re sound.”

“Enough of this,” Emza Khan said. “I’m perfectly content for you and Omar to take care of this,” he told Jemal. “A few Greek monks can’t possibly give us a problem.” He peered outside. “And here they are.”

Brother Andrew was standing at the bottom of the steps with the Brothers Mark and Luke. Emza Khan appeared and stared down at them, frowning.

He said, “Allah aid me, they probably don’t even speak English.”

“I do,” Andrew said. “But you are right. We are a Greek order and most of my brothers speak only Greek. Abbot Joseph has sent me to inquire as to your purpose in visiting us.”

“You have a priest here, a Father John Mikali. I want to see him. He is here, I presume?”

“Oh yes, a patient in the infirmary.”

“Let’s go.”

“Of course.”

Andrew and his brothers started off and Emza Khan followed, Jemal and Omar walking together, each with an AK-47 at the ready.

They found Mikali in his wheelchair, a blanket over his knees, another around his shoulders. The abbot stood to one side, Father Peter the other. Jemal and Omar stood on either side of the door, rifles ready.

Andrew said, “This is Abbot Joseph, and the other, Father Peter, our doctor.” Stretching the truth, he added, “I need to translate if you wish to talk to them. You wished to meet Father John Mikali. This is he, and he does speak English.”

“Who are you people?” Mikali demanded. “What do you want with me?”

“My name is Emza Khan and I don’t want you, I want a man named Simon Husseini, who is on his way here to see you. You and he are old friends, and don’t try to deny it.”

“Why should I, but what do you want him for?”

“That’s nothing to do with you. He should be here in about an hour and a half.”

“What do you intend to do with him?”

“Fly away to another country. Behave yourselves for the next few hours and nothing will happen to you. Don’t, and I’ll have the abbot shot.”

“That’s hard to argue with,” Mikali said.

On the Gideon, they were holding a council of war, and Husseini was speaking.

“I’m worried about everyone in the hospice, and not just John Mikali. It’s my fault that they are all greatly at risk from these people, so what do I do about it? It’s me that Emza Khan and al-Qaeda want.”

“Yes, to make the bomb for them,” Declan said. “Say no, and I don’t think you’d last long once they got to work on you.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“They will be armed to the teeth, and we’ll be, too,” Declan said. “There are three spare bulletproof vests on this plane available to anyone who doesn’t have one. We challenge them, very close up, weapons ready. Few people can stand that, even soldiers.”

Dillon said, “Lots of shouting. What do you say, Sara?”

“In Afghanistan, we called it a face-off,” she told him. “I’ve seen it work a time or two, and I’ve seen it a total disaster.”

Jane Green had been watching and listening by the open cockpit door. She said now, “What about our Russian chums? Are you sure they’ll stick with the aircraft and not go on the prowl?”

“Absolutely, and for the same reason as you. You can’t take a risk that someone might have a go at the plane, and that’s the last thing we want in such a remote area.”

“So how do you think the Russians will play?”

“They’ll stay on their plane and wait,” Dillon put in. “As long as their wages are safe, they’re happy.”

Jane said, “I’ll discuss it with Don, we should be there in forty minutes.” She returned to the cockpit.

Husseini was the only one not wearing a bulletproof vest, so Sara found one and threw it over to him. “Get it on, and that’s an order.”

“If you say so, but I’m leaving the gunplay to you,” he said and went alone to the restroom to change.

He locked the door, sat on a stool, and considered the state of play. Possible carnage in a face-to-face gun battle, the likelihood of many deaths, and all because of him and who he was. There was something he could do about that, of course. He’d been thinking about it for some time. So he called Emza Khan on his mobile and found him in the courtyard of the hospice, inspecting the jeep.

“Who is this?” Khan asked warily.

“In your circumstances, your best friend,” Husseini told him.

In a kind of reflex, Khan said, “How did you get this number?”

“This is Simon Husseini. You gave it to me in Paris.”

“Where are you?”

“In the toilet on the Gideon. We’re quite close to you. We’ll land soon.”

“So why are you calling me, what are you up to?” Khan demanded.

“Gunplay is not for me. This whole business has gone sour. What I’d like to do is get the hell out of here on your plane, but forget all this al-Qaeda nonsense. If you turn up with me in Tehran, you’ll be a hero to the government. All follies wiped clean.”

Emza Khan felt a flow of energy released, a kind of joy, because Husseini was so obviously right. “But what would happen to you?”

“They’ll be so happy to get me back, they’ll give me anything I desire, dancing girls, the works. Where are you, anyway?”

“I’m just looking over an old jeep the Saudis left here, but never mind that, how do we handle things?”

“When we land, Sara Gideon, Dillon, and the colonel will be armed to the teeth. I won’t take part. Once they’ve gone, I’ll cross to your Falcon. You must phone Kerimov and tell him to expect me.”

“But what about the two pilots on your plane?”

“I’ll find a way to slip out, but if not, I’ll shoot them. You won’t have any problem at all at the hospice. Wait for the Gideon woman and her two friends to get about two-thirds of the way on their walk from the plane to the hospice, then you and your people can jump in that jeep and drive like hell to your Falcon. I’ll be ready and waiting on board, and we can get out of this damn place.”

“This is brilliant,” Khan said. “I think it could work.”

“It will,” Husseini told him. “I’ll leave you to pass the good word to your two henchmen, and I’ll see you later.”

Dillon had found a bottle of Bushmills whiskey in the kitchen area, poured two large ones, and went and sat opposite Declan.

“Your Muslim half may say no, Colonel, but your Irish half says yes, and in the circumstances, the Irish half wins. So here’s to you.”

“And to you, my friend,” Declan Rashid said.

Sara was across from them, a holstered Glock on her hip. She was writing in her daybook. Husseini came down the aisle, dropped the bulletproof vest on the seat opposite her, and sat next to it.

“I can’t use this, so I’m returning it,” he said. “As I said, I’m leaving the gunplay to you, and I’m not going to join you on your first venture into the hospice. You’ve got enough to do without having to protect an unarmed man.”

“I understand,” she said and smiled. “You’re too valuable to lose, Simon.”

He turned to the other two. “I’m also a terrible coward who is frightened to death of firearms.”

At the same moment, Jane Green’s voice echoed throughout the cabin. “Fasten your seat belts, we’re going to descend.”

From the hospice end of the runway, Kerimov and Lisin watched the landing, Lisin with approval. “Very nice, just what you’d expect from their military experience.”

Kerimov had received a call on his mobile the moment the Gideon had started its descent, and he was listening intently. Lisin watched, puzzled. Finally, Kerimov said, “Of course, Mr. Khan, we’ll be ready and waiting.”

He switched off and turned to Lisin. “Khan says to get ready now for a flight to Tehran.”

Lisin was astounded. “When for?”

“Sometime during the next half hour.”

“That’s crazy,” Lisin said. “What in hell is going on?”

Kerimov told him, and when he’d finished, Lisin shook his head. “Nineteen years I’ve been flying planes, but I’ve never known the likes of this. Is Emza Khan all right in the head?”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” Kerimov said. “But he pays top dollar, so whatever he wants, he gets. That means you better go and open the airstair door to receive Simon Husseini when he decides to join us.”

The Gideon slowed down and took a position parallel to Khan’s plane. Kerimov, looking across to the cockpit, recognized Jane Green, and raised a hand in salute. She returned it, and at the same time Lisin slid into the left-hand seat.

“Our door’s open, but Husseini’s going to find it difficult not to be seen from their cockpit when he makes his move.”

At that moment, the door opened in the other plane, the steps came down, and Sara Gideon descended, dressed for war, holding an AK-47 at port, followed by Dillon and Declan Rashid, similarly attired. They glanced across, had a brief conversation, and started to walk toward the hospice.

Jane Green and Renard were watching the progress of Sara and her companions through binoculars, so Kerimov produced his own from a locker and examined the other pilots, who were concentrating so closely on following the progress of Sara and company that they failed to notice Husseini slip out. He ducked under the Falcon and disappeared. A few moments later, he opened the door of the cockpit, smiled at the Russians, and said, “Permission to board, Captain.”

In the courtyard of the hospice, standing outside the open door, Emza Khan looked out through the arched gate toward the two planes, side by side, watching the progress of Sara, Dillon, and Declan Rashid. Brother Andrew was behind Mikali in his wheelchair, Abbot Joseph and Father Peter next to him, and most of the brothers close together in the yard.

The jeep stood ready near at hand, Jemal behind the wheel and Omar sitting next to him, gripping an AK-47. Emza Khan’s lips were moving, as if counting, as he stared out at the approaching figures.

Suddenly, he shook everyone around him by shouting, “Let’s go,” running to the jeep, and heaving himself into the rear.

Jemal gunned the motor and roared out of the entrance with plenty of wheelspin, raising a cloud of choking sand. As they neared his enemies, Khan was unable to resist a shot at Sara, gripped a rail, and stood up, trying to take aim. Dillon, immediately aware of what he was trying to do, hurled himself at Sara, knocking her out of the way. Khan fired twice, creasing the side of Dillon’s left shoulder.

The jeep swerved away and rushed at full speed toward the Falcon, which already had its engines turning over. Jemal braked and leapt out, turned to help Khan mount the steps, and it was Simon Husseini who leaned out to pull him in. Jemal and Omar followed, and Lisin closed the door. Kerimov increased speed, turning in a wide circle, and started down the runway for takeoff.

Inside, Husseini led the way to a corner table close to the kitchen area. He had an ice bucket on the floor with a bottle of prime Russian vodka, and there were two tumblers in the table rack. He filled them and pushed one across to Khan, who drank it greedily. He looked terrible, sweat trickling down — his face coated with sand.

“So you were right,” he gasped, clutching the arm of his seat as the Falcon started to climb. “The whole thing worked like a charm. Tehran next stop.”

“Yes, they’ll be delighted to get their hands on me, especially as they’ll have found nothing on my computers.”

Khan said, “You mean you wiped them clean?”

“No, there was nothing there in the first place. It’s all in my head.”

Khan was astonished. “I can’t believe that.”

“However, all my discoveries, the mathematics, the equations, the calculations, the key that opened everything up to a new level — all the things that I didn’t want anyone to have, even the good guys — have been recorded.”

“But you’ve got it somewhere?” Khan said. “You must have.”

“Of course.” Husseini produced the small black-and-silver notebook with the green light throbbing in it that he’d shown Sean Dillon. “An electronic notebook. It can only be opened by a code word. Like this, for example.”

He tapped some buttons, and the green turned to red. “There we go. Do you want to know what my code word is? A six-letter word — Semtex. Czechoslovakia’s gift to the world, a present from Osama, whose name be praised. It’s the explosive no terrorist should be without.”

The slight smile on Emza Khan’s face vanished, his mouth opened to cry out, but it was too late. There was a massive explosion and the Falcon disintegrated, a ball of fire that blossomed into an enormous scarlet-and-yellow flower as it descended over the desert.

Sara, Dillon, and Declan had continued toward the hospice and were in when the explosion took place, the sight of the fire descending unforgettable.

Dillon stood there, clutching his shoulder, blood passing between his fingers. Sara turned to him, her face bleak. “What’s happened? I don’t understand.”

Dillon said, “I’ve an idea we’ll soon find out.” He faltered, and Declan grabbed him. “I could do with a doctor. It’s a good thing this Father Peter used to be in the army.”

Father Peter attended him in a side room at the infirmary, aided by Brother Andrew. Declan and Sara, the abbot and Father Mikali, in his wheelchair, were drinking strong black tea when Andrew appeared.

“Seventeen stitches and he refused chloroform. Insisted that a local anesthetic would be enough. He was unlucky. Bulletproof vests seldom cover the arms.”

“We have a private hospital facility for our people called Rosedene,” Sara said. “Professor Charles Bellamy runs it. Many people think him the finest general surgeon in London.”

Andrew said, “Believe me, I think he will approve of Father Peter’s work,” and Dillon walked in behind him, leaning on a walking stick, his left arm in a sling.

“Sean, you shouldn’t be up,” Sara scolded him. “Sit down at once.”

Which he did, and at that moment, there was the sound of the jeep arriving in the courtyard, and a moment later, Jane Green entered, her face grave.

“Don’s guarding the plane.” She nodded at Sean. “I can see you’ve suffered.”

“I’ll survive,” Dillon told her. “It could have been worse.”

“No, it couldn’t, so brace yourselves,” she said. “Don and I were so busy watching you advance on the hospice that we didn’t notice Husseini was gone. When they roared back in the jeep, we witnessed them all scrambling into the Falcon. It was a hell of a shock when Husseini appeared from inside and pulled in Emza Khan.”

“What? Simon was on their plane? But why?” Sara demanded. “It makes no sense.”

“Or all the sense in the world,” Dillon said. “He was always very conscious that it was his very existence that was center of all the troubles, that and the bomb. He talked to us about it. And then he wrote a note, sealed it in an envelope, and gave it to me. He said the contents were self-explanatory and that I would know when to open it.” He shrugged. “As I’ve only got one good hand, in the circumstances, I’ll hand it to you, Father,” he said to Mikali.

The old priest read it, then handed it to Sara, his face sorrowful. “He says he couldn’t bear the thought of more good people dying over him. So he tricked Emza Khan into believing he wanted to return to Tehran.”

“He must have been planning this for some time,” said Rashid. “Got hold of an explosive somehow.”

“That poor, poor man,” said Sara.

“He’s certainly set back Iran’s nuclear program,” said Rashid.

“But for how long?” Dillon said. “Anyway, I think it’s time we got out of here.”

Jane Green said to Andrew, “That’s what Don wants me to raise with you. There was mention of a large stock of aviation fuel here somewhere?”

“Yes, that’s true. It hasn’t been used for a long time, but it should be fine.”

“Great,” she said. “I’d appreciate getting started. We’ll follow you up to the hangar if you’d get your people up there. I’ll take the others in the jeep. Dillon’s not fit for that walk.”

As they went out, Sara turned and said to Mikali, “He was a good man, Father, did we do right by him?”

“Let’s just say he did what he thought was right by us, and leave it at that.”

She shook her head, took a deep breath, and walked out.