The Death Trade

14

The Gideon lifted off from al-Shaba very fast and climbed up to forty thousand feet, with Don Renard at the controls while Jane Green plotted the three-thousand-mile trip northwest that would eventually end in London. Dillon had been made as comfortable as possible, lying back in a half-reclined corner seat, a blanket over his legs. Filled with morphine thanks to Saudi medical supplies, he still had his hand around a tumbler of whiskey and dozed.

Declan appear to be asleep, but as for Sara, she made a pot of black coffee, drank two cups of it, waiting for the plane to settle in flight, then she opened her laptop and tried Roper on Skype. It was the middle of the afternoon in London, and her appearance took him by surprise.

“It’s good to see you, Sara, though I must say you look as if you’ve been through the wringer,” he told her.

“It would. It got rather nasty.”

“Go on, tell me the worst.”

Which she did, and Roper was astounded. “It’s one of the most remarkable stories I’ve ever heard. And in the end, nobody gets the Husseini bomb, including our side. And the blow to al-Qaeda is beyond price.”

“Let’s hope Ferguson’s as pleased as you are,” Sara said.

Roper nodded. “No doubt about that. How are you feeling? It must have been a shock to the system, Emza Khan trying to knock you off.”

“He truly hated me, Giles. I was the whore who murdered his son. He’d have never left it alone.”

“What about Colonel Rashid? How is he going to come out of all this?” Roper asked.

“His superiors won’t be impressed with the way he handled things, I suppose,” Sara said.

“I’d say that’s an understatement.”

“Is there any word from Daniel? What’s happening with this Timbuktu affair?” Sara carried on.

“The UN couldn’t find any African countries to send troops.” Roper shrugged. “Daniel and his freebooters have done a great job, but they’re in the process of withdrawing under orders from Algiers.”

“It’s certainly made the Algerian government look good,” Sara told him. “Well, I’m glad he’s safe. I’m going to have a drink now and try to sleep. Bye for now.”

She helped herself to brandy from the small bar, mixing it with ginger ale. Declan opened his eyes and said, “What’s that?”

“A Horse’s Neck,” she told him. “Popular with officers in the Royal Navy since time immemorial. I thought you were asleep.”

“Dozing. You were reporting in?”

“To Roper.”

“After he got over his astonishment, I imagine his big question was, what about Colonel Declan Rashid?”

“Yes, you were discussed, so what are you going to do?”

“First of all, report in to my commanding officer in true army fashion. I’ll do that now.”

“Do you want me to step out?” Sara asked.

“No, I’d like you to stay, and I’m sure Mr. Dillon hasn’t missed a word of everything said in the past half hour.”

“God bless you for the kind word, your honor,” Dillon murmured. So Declan took out his mobile, put it on speaker, and called the general.

“General ben Levi? Colonel Declan Rashid reporting.”

“And where the hell have you been for the last four days?” ben Levi demanded.

“Three and a half, actually,” Declan said. “I discovered where Husseini had gone on the same day you gave me my orders. That was thanks to Vahidi, just before he was murdered.”

“What nonsense is this?”

“Oh, he was murdered, all right, and probably by al-Qaeda. But we won’t argue. At the moment, I’m traveling on an executive jet over the Saudi Arabian desert. Four hours ago, to the south of us, Simon Husseini blew himself and some interesting companions to hell by activating an explosive charge that destroyed the Falcon in which he was traveling.” Declan laughed harshly. “Do you think that’s more nonsense? Do you want the full story on that, too?”

“Yes, Colonel Rashid,” the general said hoarsely. “Everything.”

Declan took him at his word and gave him a military-style report, omitting nothing. When he finished, there was a pause before ben Levi spoke.

“An excellent report, Colonel, I would have expected no less from you.”

“You’ll pass it on to the minister?”

“Of course. We’ll have to figure out what to do with this. I think I’ll suggest putting a security blanket over the whole business, especially Husseini’s death. You know the sort of thing? The great man must have seclusion, buries himself in his work, never gives interviews. Then we’ll still seem like a threat to the world.”

“Ingenious, General,” Declan said drily. “I take your point.”

“So when can we expect to see you report back for duty?”

“Actually, I don’t think my return would be advisable,” Declan said. “After all, I know what happened, I was aware what Emza Khan was, a traitor to his country, and I know why Simon Husseini did what he did. No, it’s London next stop for me, General. I’ve always carried my Irish passport for years, even in battle, as a good-luck charm. I won’t even have to seek asylum. I’m an Irish citizen.”

Ali ben Levi raised his voice. “Colonel Rashid, you’re a serving officer of the Iranian Army. You can’t do this.”

“Try me,” Declan Rashid told him and switched off.

“My word, but that was the Irish half speaking,” Dillon said. “Your mother would be proud of you. You can take up residence at Holland Park until you find your feet, or there’s my cottage in Stable Mews and glad to have you. Now, get yourself a drink and another for me, for you’ve earned it.”

“What kind of man is General ben Levi?” Sara asked. “Will he be all right?”

“Made his bones in the war with Iraq: Eight years of that and huge casualties made rare opportunities for dedicated men. Commissioned from the ranks and never looked back. Takes life seriously. He ought to be fine. It’ll certainly be interesting to hear the Iranian spin on this in the coming days.” He tapped his phone. “I also took the precaution of recording our phone call. You never know when it’ll come in handy.”

“And let me send it on to Roper,” Sara said. “Ferguson will be very interested.”

“It’s all happening,” Rashid said cheerfully and passed a glass of Scotch across to Dillon. “That should help to ease the pain.”

Dillon tasted it. “Well, it isn’t Irish whiskey, but it will do to take along.”

General Ali ben Levi sat at his desk, considering what had happened and trying to take it all in, especially Declan Rashid’s astonishing act of defiance. From any soldier, it was an action completely unacceptable. In other circumstances, he would have reached for the phone to inform the minister. That was not possible, and there were reasons.

He was a man of the people who genuinely loved his country. It was the army which had made him, supported him on the long climb to the top, given him prestige and position at the highest levels of society. And yet he hated what he had found there. The rapacious oil billionaires whose vast wealth made it so easy to corrupt those around them at every level. And then Osama bin Laden had descended on the world of Islam to astonish Muslims around the globe in a manner none had experienced before, offering a life of sacrifice. Ali ben Levi had embraced it completely, had served al-Qaeda with all his heart, so he phoned Dr. Ali Saif at Pound Street Mosque in London.

Saif was at his desk when his phone went. He’d gotten into the habit of screening all calls and discarding those he didn’t want, but when Ali ben Levi spoke, he jumped to attention.

“We seem to have been here before, Saif.”

“Ah, is it that bad, Master? Tell me the worst,” Saif said.

So Ali ben Levi did, and in detail. When he was finished, Saif said, “Emza Khan and Husseini dead, and not a word on television or in the press. You’re sitting tight on this for a moment?”

“I hope I can afford to. After all, they were killed in a plane blown to smithereens over one of the most desolate deserts in the world. There could be a substantial delay before it’s reported. I’m not sure what I’m doing. I must consider what’s best for al-Qaeda, and I haven’t had a chance to inform the council yet.”

“It’s a difficult one, particularly this new problem with Colonel Rashid,” Saif said. “A pity you aren’t here to handle it yourself.”

“That’s true, but it’s all sudden and needs careful thinking about. We’ll speak again.”

He sat there considering, particularly Saif’s point that it was a pity he wasn’t there. He could do something about that. Filled with sudden energy, he picked up his desk phone and contacted the secret police HQ.

“Embassy, please,” he said to the officer in charge. “Is there anything going to London today?”

“Yes, General, we have a Falcon with confidential dispatches and two junior ministers from the Diplomatic Service.”

“How long does it take?”

“Between ten and eleven hours, depending on weather. It leaves in fifty minutes.”

“No, it doesn’t. You’ll hold it until I get there.”

Ali ben Levi went through the outer office without stopping, saying to the duty aide, “If the minister needs me, I’ll be away for three days on a high-priority project and you don’t know where.”

He was gone, the door banging behind him before the aide could reply.

It was obviously going to be evening before the Gideon got in, and Roper was going through all the information he had on the business and nodded to himself. One thing was missing: a face-to-face with Dr. Ali Saif. Considering it now, he realized he’d been leaving him alone to see what he would do and Saif had responded by not doing very much. Roper pressed his buzzer, and Tony Doyle appeared wearing the full uniform of a staff sergeant in the Royal Military Police, including the red cap.

“Sorry, Major, I’ve only just got back from court duty at the Ministry of Defence,” he said. “If you can give me a minute, I’ll go and change.”

“No, you won’t,” Roper said. “You look very impressive, and I love the medals. I’d like you to take me on a fishing trip.”

“Sir?”

“At Pound Street, and the Army of God. When you push me in there, that uniform will scare the hell out of them.”

“My pleasure, Major.” Doyle smiled. “It sounds like fun.”

“Yes, but remember I need you suitably severe, if not menacing.”

“My pleasure, sir,” Tony Doyle said. “Shall we proceed?”

At Pound Street, Doyle lowered the wheelchair on the hydraulic lift. They ventured inside, ignoring the astonished scores of Muslim students, and found a receptionist, who asked what they wanted and insisted on showing the way, to the point of opening Saif’s door and ushering them inside.

Saif, a cigarette in his mouth and editing a typescript, glanced up, totally thrown. Tony Doyle stood to one side, and Roper took charge of his chair and eased up to the desk.

“Dr. Saif, a great pleasure. My name is Roper and I work for Charles Ferguson. I read your book The Later Years, about what happened when the Romans left Britain, with great pleasure. How nice to find someone who still smokes. Do you think I could have one?”

Ali Saif was bemused and offered a cigarette automatically. “Of course.”

Roper accepted a light and smiled. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time.”

Saif blanched, face turning very pale, choked for a moment on his cigarette smoke, coughed several times. “It’s nice to meet you,” he managed to say.

“No, it isn’t, it’s awful to meet me, because it means the game’s up and the thought of sharing a cell with some hulk with the hots for you, or venturing into the showers on D landing, is flashing before your eyes.”

Ali Saif looked ghastly and Roper carried on. “But I’m here to tell you it doesn’t need to be like that, to show you a better way.”

Ali looked dazed, but suddenly opened a drawer, took out a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler, poured a large one, and poured it down. He shivered, took another tumbler from the drawer, poured, then pushed it across to Roper.

“Very civil of you.” Roper drank, and Saif joined him in another. He was calmer now. “So what are we talking about?”

“Your personal achievements as a scholar, historian, and author are a matter of record. The educational facilities for the charity side of this institution are excellent, and your fund-raising abilities legendary.”

Saif smiled painfully. “Don’t overdo it, Major.”

Roper ignored him. “All this while working ceaselessly under the direction of a member of the al-Qaeda council who is known only as the Master.”

Saif tried to conceal his alarm by taking another drink. “I don’t know where you’ve got all that from.”

Roper said, “I notice your desk phone, as I would expect from a clever chap like you, has a recording device which means that all your calls are on it. Would I be right?”

There was real desperation on Saif’s face now, and he grabbed at the phone, and Roper snapped his fingers. “Sergeant.”

Tony Doyle was around the desk in a second, one arm about the neck, pushing the phone across to Roper with his free hand. “Now, you be a nice gentleman and calm down,” he told Saif.

Roper said, “You are getting upset. I’d say it’s because you and the Master have had words recently. Shall we have a look?” He ran things back, and within a very short time, there it was.

“Damn you,” Saif said.

“Taken care of a long time ago. Now, shut up and we’ll listen.” Which he did, fascinated. “My goodness,” he said when it was finished. “What unlooked-for treasure.”

“So what happens now, the Tower of London?” Saif asked bitterly.

“Actually, that was where we shot spies in the Second World War,” Roper said. “But I’ve a feeling that if you are a very good boy, you might emerge from all this with a smile on your face. General Charles Ferguson can be a very forgiving man in the right circumstances, especially to those who can be useful to him.”

Dr. Ali Saif brightened considerably. “You really think so?”

“I don’t see why not. We’ll discuss the details later. Just be smart, Saif.” He took out a card and flicked it across the desk. “My number if you need me.”

“You mean you’re not going to charge me or anything?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, and you’re not going to do a runner, are you? We’ll be watching you, and anyway, where would you go? Let’s get back now, Tony,” he said to Doyle, switched on his chair and led the way out.

Saif sat there bewildered, and yet by some miracle a door had been opened for him. He was grateful for that. What he needed now was a real drink to celebrate, preferably at the pub across the street. He got up, found his raincoat, and left, switching off the light.

It wasn’t full darkness, that would come later, but it was gloomy enough, as a door creaked and light leaked in from the book stockroom. It was a shortcut to Saif’s office from the gymnasium and teaching areas. Rasoul habitually used it when he needed to see Saif. It had been a few inches ajar when he’d arrived, and it was the sight of Tony Doyle’s military police uniform that had brought him up short. He had held back and listened, had heard everything.

The news of Emza Khan’s death was the worst shock he’d had to endure in his entire life. It was that he now faced the loss of a life of privilege, money, and power. The truth was that Khan had been his mentor, a man so powerful that the connection itself had made Rasoul a somebody, a man to be feared by other people.

He went to Saif’s desk, switched on a lamp, sat down, and found the whiskey. He poured a large one, drinking it slowly. He was alive, and yet to others he was a dead man, a ghost. And he planned to return the favor. Roper, Dillon, Ferguson, perhaps even the Jewish whore who had murdered Yousef Khan would all be targets. He had his Walther PPK in his locker with a silencer and several clips of cartridges. He nodded slowly and poured another whiskey. All debts would be paid.

Iran’s courier aircraft had a contract that allowed them to use the Northolt airfield when it suited. Ali ben Levi had been treated like royalty during the trip, had made it clear to the crew and other passengers that he was on a top-secret mission. The fact that he was who he was meant that he was accepted without query, including the offer of a lift in the embassy limousine. He simply asked for a taxi and left for central London.

He was wearing a polo-neck sweater and gabardine suit and a Burberry trench coat. He carried a small military bag that he’d been allowed to bring through without a search. Sitting there in the back of the taxi, he checked inside the bag surreptitiously, feeling the bulk of the Walther PPK for a moment. Compact and smaller than some, but devastating in the hands of an expert. He looked out into the falling darkness, the constant traffic. He’d enjoyed happy times here in the past, loved London, but that was then; now was Saif at Pound Street and any information he could give on Declan Rashid’s whereabouts.

Sara, Dillon, and Declan were enjoying a drink in the computer room at Holland Park when Roper rolled in.

“Thank God you’re back in one piece,” he said. “Except for you, Dillon. You know our policy with any kind of damage. You report to Professor Bellamy at Rosedene and let him assess the situation. You’d be a fool not to take advantage of his skills.”

“I will, Giles, I swear it. I just want to hear exactly where we are with things, then I’ll be up to Rosedene like a shot.”

Sara turned to Roper. “You think you’ve come across something. Tell us.”

“I have a recording I’d like to play to you, of a telephone conversation between Dr. Ali Saif and his al-Qaeda asset, the man known to him as the Master. Just listen.”

They all did. When it was finished, Sara said, “What’s the point?”

“All right. Now listen to the conversation between General Ali ben Levi and Colonel Rashid here.

Even before it finished, Sara said, “Oh my God, it’s the same man.”

“Of course it is,” Roper said. “Condemned by his own voice.”

“I’ve known him for years,” Declan said. “It’s hard to take in, hard to explain how wrong one could be about somebody, but it has to be faced.”

“And there’s even more to consider, you know. My computers are programmed to send me any interesting information. It appears that General Ali ben Levi has just arrived at Northolt an hour ago on an Iranian Embassy courier run. He hailed a taxi and is headed for downtown London.”

Dillon said, “So why’s he here? Do you think he’s doing a runner, Colonel?”

“I was going to say, not the man I knew,” Declan said. “But now I wonder if I ever knew him at all.”

Saif had spent close to an hour in the pub considering his predicament, and his final conclusion was definitely that it could have been a lot worse. A pragmatist at heart, he realized that one chapter in his life had closed, but if he behaved himself, something worthwhile could be on offer, especially if he played his cards right.

So he was cheerful enough as he opened the door of his office and turned on the light, and there was Rasoul sitting behind the desk, the Browning in his right hand and the whiskey tumbler in his left.

“So there you are, you bastard,” he said. “I’ve been waiting. Get in here and close the door.”

Saif knew fear, real fear at the angry and drink-sodden face, but desperately forced a smile. “Why, Rasoul, what’s this?”

“Don’t try to make a fool out of me. I was in the book room when the major in the wheelchair was turning you inside out. I heard all of that phone conversation, what the Master said to you about what Ferguson’s people had done to Emza Khan. I should kill you right now, except I’d rather it was Ferguson or that Jewish whore.”

Ali ben Levi had arrived at Pound Street to find no one on the desk, but an obliging student had pointed the way to Saif’s office. He’d paused, aware of voices inside, had taken the Walther from his bag, was holding it at his side when he opened the door with his left and stepped in. For a moment, it was a tableau frozen in time. Himself, Saif, and Rasoul at the desk with the Browning in his hand.

It was the sight of the gun that did it. Ali ben Levi started to raise his too late, and Rasoul shot him in the heart, knocking him back against the door, and he slid to the floor.

Saif was terrified, expecting to be next at any moment, but Rasoul came around the desk, dropped to one knee, fished in the dead man’s pockets, and found a passport. “Iranian and a general. Some sort of military police. Do you know this man?”

“I swear to you, I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

“Well, the way I see it, he must have something to do with this whole bloody business. We’ll hide him in the storeroom, so do that now.”

Saif did as he was told, dragging the dead man across the floor and into the storeroom, turning the key in the door.

“That’s good,” Rasoul said. “I remember Roper giving you his number, so you can call him now and tell him you know where this General Ali ben Levi is. If it doesn’t mean anything to them, it won’t matter. On the other hand, it might.”

“Is that all?”

“No. I’m interested in pulling Ferguson or some of his people in.”

“And how do I do that?”

“Tell Roper and his friends that if they want to see a dead man walking, Rasoul is back, and he’s shot someone dead at your office. He’ll be waiting for them himself at Emza Khan’s penthouse in Park Lane.”

He was drunk, sweating, eyes glittering, and obviously quite mad. Saif said, “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”

“Of course not. I want you to be there and see me in action with those swine.” He laughed harshly and stroked Saif’s face with the barrel of the Walther. “Then I might kill you. So make the call and then we’ll get out of here in that Citroën van of yours and try for Park Lane before they get there.”

At Holland Park, there was the briefest of discussions. “No time to call in more troops,” Roper said.

“You can count on me, my friend,” Declan Rashid said. “Just provide a weapon.”

“There you are,” Sara told Roper firmly. “We’ve got plenty of those here.”

“And don’t try to keep me out of it,” Dillon said. “It’s my left arm in a sling, and the right’s in perfect working order, so let’s get on with it.”

“Damn you, Sean,” Roper told him. “But I don’t have much choice and time is of the essence, so why aren’t you roaring out of the front gate now? Only, for God’s sake, take care.”

“I always knew you were a big softie at heart,” Dillon said and led the way out.

Seconds later, the Alfa Romeo’s engine burst into life and faded into the night.

Suddenly, Roper was alone. This was always the worst time, the waiting. For something to do, he phoned Mr. Teague. “Major Roper here. I need a disposal unit at the Army of God headquarters at Pound Street, the storeroom in Dr. Ali Saif’s office. Grade A security, this one. I’d appreciate your most urgent attention.”

“I’m sure there will be no problem, Major. I’ll keep you informed.”

And Teague did. It seemed like only minutes later that he called Roper and asked, “Do you know anybody named ben Levi?”

Absorbing the information, Roper poured a large whiskey to settle his nerves and lit a cigarette, for his bomb-battered body needed any relief he could find, and now he sat there wondering what was happening at Park Lane.

The penthouse was in darkness as Saif turned off Park Lane into the underground garage. Rasoul said, “That’s no good. I need the lights on to make them think I’m up there.” He passed Saif a key. “Jump in that lift, press express, and you’re there in no time. Put all the lights on.”

“Do I come back?”

“You’d only be in the way, so stay out of it. I’m going to surprise them. Now, clear off.”

Which Saif did, and as he stepped into the lift, in the bravest act of his life he shouted, “I don’t know if you’re there, but he’s going to ambush you!”

“You bastard,” Rasoul cried and fired at the door as it closed.

Sara, crouched down in the Alfa, kicked the door open, followed by Declan, both of them gun in hand. Rasoul pivoted, firing wildly; she fired back, clipping his left arm, and then she slipped on an oil patch.

“I’ve got you now, whore.” As Declan bent over her protectively, Rasoul shot him in the back twice, then advanced, Walther raised, his left arm hanging.

The rear door of a station wagon opposite was kicked open, and Sean Dillon sat up, one arm still in a sling, a Glock in the other hand, and shot Rasoul in the center of the forehead, lifting him off his feet to fall on his back.

There had been little noise, just the dull thud of silenced weapons exchanging fire, then the whirring of the lift descending. Saif appeared cautiously and then ran forward, paused to look down at Rasoul, then approached Declan on the ground, leaning against the Alfa, Sara crouching beside him, trying to stem blood with her scarf.

Saif said, “Is it bad?”

“We’ll have to see,” Sara told him. “But you were great. Thanks for having the guts to stand up to that bastard.”

Dillon, on his Codex, was calling in to Roper. “Declan Rashid’s taken one bullet at least. Sara and I each got a piece of Rasoul, so we’ll need disposal. You’ll be pleased to know Dr. Ali Saif came through for us big-time.”

“Thanks, Sean, I’ll see you back at the ranch.”

“Probably Rosedene,” Dillon said. “I could do with Bellamy myself.”

“And when you all do get back here? I might have some news for you.” And he hung up.

Roper sat there, thinking about it, poured himself a whiskey, then phoned Ferguson to tell him the good news. Then he sent for Tony Doyle to come and take him to the wet room for the total treatment, steam, shower, fresh clothes, and was back in the computer room when Sara called him from Rosedene.

“One bullet was stopped by Declan’s vest, but another was lower down and on the hip below the vest. Bellamy says it’s going to take time and therapy. Apparently, he’s been wounded several times over the years. Can I ask you what’s going to happen to him, Giles? Have you discussed it with Ferguson?”

“There’s no need, Sara. Declan Rashid has Irish citizenship through his mother, so he doesn’t need to ask permission to live in Ireland or London or any other part of the United Kingdom. He is here by right.”

“And I can tell him that?”

“Of course, although I fear it may complicate your love life.”

“Oh, I’ll take that as it comes,” she said and rang off.

Roper sat there, wondering whether to talk to Ferguson again and deciding not to. Dr. Ali Saif was going to be a useful asset in spite of, or because of, his past. One had to be a pragmatist. This war on terrorism seemed never-ending, and he thought of what Sara had said about Declan. That he’d been wounded several times over the years.

“Haven’t we all?” he said softly and poured himself another drink.