The Killing Ground

Chapter 8

IT WAS IN HUSSEIN’S FAVOR THAT HIS RELIGION DEMANDED so brief a period for the disposal of the body, no matter how important the individual. He needed action now, needed to get on with it, needed to channel the rage inside him. The body was brought to the house and displayed in the entrance hall. The people who arranged such things worked through the night. The Imam himself came to supervise, giving Hussein his blessing, of course, and not just because of his prowess in the war. He was, after all, not only the head of Rashid Shipping now, but of the clan itself, the possessor of great wealth, and his importance was shown by a new deference to him.

“So what will you do now about Sara?” the Imam asked.

“As Allah wills.”

“You do not think her beyond hope?”

“Of course not. There were cruel influences at work.”

“What do you intend? A return to the war zone?”

“We’ll see.” Hussein was keeping his own counsel. “Let’s bury my uncle first.” The Imam departed and Hussein went out onto the terrace and lit a cigarette. Khazid, who had been listening, followed him. “You wish to follow them to England, don’t you?” Hussein smiled. “Now why would I do that?”

“Because it would be the most reckless thing to do. Can I come with you?”

“Why would you want to do such a thing?”

“Because we’re friends who have been through hell together. Because I appreciate it could be a one-on-one mission but that you also need one person you can really rely on.”

“And you think that should be you?”

“It has been before. How do you plan to go?”

“ Paris. Train to London.”

“I have both French and British passports, both excellent forgeries. And I speak French. Your alias?”

“Hugh Darcy, what the English call a toff. I used the passport last time I was in London and found the regimental tie of an English Guards officer tucked in my briefing case. It was the Broker’s joke. The English still can’t help touching their forelocks to a gentleman.”

“The Queen’s son himself has served in such a regiment in Afghanistan,” Khazid said.

“There you are, then. Okay, my friend, you can come as far as Paris. I’m not promising anything more. Now go and lie down. It’ll be dawn soon, and we have three men to bury.”

“Something we’re good at, something we’ve grown very used to.”

“Go on, little brother, good night.”

Khazid went and Hussein stood there thinking about it, then he went into the entrance hall where they had finished presenting his uncle. He’d given the orders. No wailing women. At this stage, male servants only. Family members could join in on the morning, but for the moment, no.

He was restless, uncertain, and then he did a strange thing. He went into his uncle’s small study, where there was a liquor cabinet for non-Muslim guests. He opened the lacquered doors and surveyed the contents, finally selecting a bottle of ice-cold Dom Pérignon champagne he found in the bar fridge. There was a strange excitement in him as he got a glass and walked out onto the terrace. He stood there, thumbing the cork out.

Of course it was wrong, he knew that, but the night was dark and he had two comrades and his uncle to bury. Allah was merciful, Allah would understand. He raised his glass to Hassim and Hamid, then emptied the glass of champagne and threw the bottle from the terrace.

“Go to a good death, my friends, and watch over me in England,” he called.

ROPER SAW THE LOCAL radio and television reports of the death of Jemal Rashid from a heart attack. There was television coverage of the cortege on its route to the mosque, Hussein leading the way. Roper recorded it and reported in to Ferguson, who was having breakfast at Cavendish Place.

“He won’t like it,” Ferguson said. “He’ll blame us. The old boy died as a direct result of the affair.”

“Exactly.”

“What time did Doyle deliver the Rashids to Hampstead?”

“About three o’clock. We’ll have to inform them.”

“I know. Dammit-I’ll do it.”

At the house in Gulf Road, Caspar Rashid hadn’t followed his wife to bed. She’d taken Sara. He couldn’t sleep, and when the Daily Telegraph was shoved through the front door, he found Hussein in a corner of the front page, just like in the Times. And then the phone rang and it was Ferguson.

“Not very good news.” He told Caspar of the old man’s death.

Caspar Rashid sat there taking it in. “Dear God,” he said, “is there no end?”

WAITING AT THE AIRPORT in Paris, Dreq Khan bought a copy of the Times and nearly had a heart attack. He examined the papers on the newsstand and found Hussein’s face staring out at him everywhere. Shortly afterwards the Broker phoned him.

Khan said, “Have you seen the London papers?”

“Yes.”

“This must change everything. Obviously Hussein Rashid can’t go to London. In fact, I wonder where he can go.”

“It changes nothing. You will still go to London and you will wait to hear from me. You still believe in the power of Osama?”

“Of course.”

“Now, get on your flight.”

He switched his phone off and hesitated. No, Hussein would be busy with the funeral. He’d leave it till later.

A STRANGE THING HAPPENED at the cemetery in Hazar. It rained suddenly, a real tropical downpour that prevented the wild exuberance that usually marked funerals. Hassim and Hamid had been wrapped in the green flag of Islam, as was proper for soldiers, the old man in something more subdued, and the rain fell and washed the dead, and Hussein and Khazid took their turns with a spade and shoveled dirt and said goodbye in their own way. Then it was back to the house for Hussein to receive condolences. Finally, about three o’clock in the afternoon, there was some peace.

Sitting on the terrace, having a coffee with Khazid, Hussein’s phone went and it was the Broker.

“I knew you’d be busy with the funeral, so I didn’t try to get you earlier.”

“What is it?”

“Trouble. Obviously, Ferguson ’s used his power in certain quarters. Your face appears in a number of British newspapers, reported to be a known associate of Osama bin Laden, and possibly in Britain.”

“A clever bastard, Ferguson. This is to make it impossible for me to go. But it won’t stop me.”

“If we try to put new plans into motion, it will be difficult and very awkward, not to say expensive.”

“Don’t talk to me of expense. I know that Osama has great funds. I am a rich man myself from the death of my uncle. I’m going to England with you or without you, and I’m taking Khazid with me.”

“All right, all right. I’ll get to work on it.”

“I can’t wait; you must understand that.”

“I do. We’ll get you to Algeria. There are many ways to move you around from there. Hold tight. I’ll be back to you.”

AT HOLLAND PARK, Roper sat at his computers and showed the TV footage of the funeral cortege in Hazar to Greta.

“What did Ferguson say?” she wanted to know.

“Poor sod.”

“Is that all?”

“Absolutely. He’s gone to the Ministry of Defence for the rest of the day. Pass me the scotch.”

“You’re worse than a Russian with his vodka.”

“We drink for different reasons. What do you think?”

“About Hussein? Surely he’s all washed up. Never mind coming to Britain, if he puts foot on a Baghdad street, he’s a dead man.”

“You think so?” He lit a cigarette. “I’m wondering…after the Hannah Bernstein affair last year, when Igor Levin dumped his Russian masters and legged it to good old Dublin with his two sergeants, he phoned me and gave me his number.”

“A sort of challenge?”

“In a way. We couldn’t track him legally in Dublin. I’ve spoken to him on the odd occasion, late at night, feeling cheesed off.”

“You never said.”

“I didn’t think Ferguson would like it. The point is, I’ve told him about our current experience with our Russian friends and he’s obliged me on occasion with his personal opinion. He knows quite a bit about what’s been going on, with the Broker and all that.”

“Does he know who the Broker is?”

“I’ve told you-nobody does.”

“Does he know about Chekov?”

“Not from me-but I feel like telling him.”

“Well, don’t stop because of me,” and she went and got herself a vodka.

LEVIN WAS SITTING in the corner of Kelly’s bar waiting for Chomsky, when his mobile went and Roper said, “It’s me, homing in like Spock from cyberspace.”

“Tell me what happened in Baghdad. Did it get anywhere?”

“Let me give you a quick recap.” When he was finished, he added, “What do you think?”

“I think you’ve got trouble, my friend. He’ll be on somebody’s doorstep before you know it. It’s good to know Dillon and Billy can still cut the mustard.”

“More to the point, so can Harry. Greta’s standing right next to me. Let her tell you.”

“Hey, lovely,” he said. “So you’re speaking to me?”

“I didn’t know I could, you rogue.”

“Do you still love me?”

“Naturally.”

“So what’s this about Harry?”

She told him, and was thoroughly amused. “Chekov on sticks. So much for the Moscow Mafia in London. Chomsky has just joined me. He sends his best.”

Roper had put the call on the speaker. “Dillon and Billy aren’t here. They’ve gone to see Harry at the Dark Man. He’s put Ruby Moon behind the bar. Remember her?”

“How could I forget? Now, I’ve got something interesting to tell you. Enough for now but I just want to mention something. Remember friend Popov? He now works for Michael Flynn at a firm called Scam-rock Security.”

“Yes, used to be chief of staff of the Provisional IRA years ago. A bit of a bruiser. What’s your point?”

“This Broker, the mystery man who fronts for Osama, is apparently also heavily involved with Michael Flynn, who, it would seem, is in the mercenary business.”

“I could have told you about the mercenary bit.”

“But not the Broker, who is involved with Volkov. I don’t know what’s going to happen at Drumore with Belov International, but they will need a decent bunch to keep our soldiers out.”

“The decent bunch being ex-Provos.”

“I think you’ll find Flynn is after the work.”

“Interesting.”

“And, I happen to know that Volkov got Popov the job at Scamrock, and as we’ve said, Volkov means the Broker and the Broker means Osama.”

“Did Popov tell you he got the job from Volkov?”

Chomsky’s voice was heard over the speaker, “No, he didn’t, the bastard. I’ve got my ear to Igor’s phone, Roper. I’ll deal with Popov.”

It was Greta who cut in. “No, don’t be stupid, Chomsky. You wait, see just what his involvement is before making a move.”

“Sorry, Major,” Chomsky said. “You’re right.”

“Of course she is,” Levin said. “Take care, my friends. And call again.”

Roper switched off. “Well, that was interesting, you must admit.”

“Yes, very much so,” Charles Ferguson said from the doorway. “The things the help gets up to when one’s away.”

“Oh, dear,” Roper said.

“Well, it could be.” Charles Ferguson smiled. “But I always wanted to get my hands on Levin, as you well know. He’s too good to be sitting around on his backside.”

“Well, there you are then. As for me, I need a break. If Sergeant Doyle is available, he can run me to the Dark Man.”

“And I’ll go with you,” Greta said.

“All right, you talked me into it.”

DOYLE PHONED AHEAD, and when they got to the pub there was a booth waiting for them. They crowded round two tables, Ruby supervising things, Baxter and Hall as usual propping up the wall.

“My goodness, you did well in the car park affray,” Ferguson said. “For you, Harry, it’s a return to your old form.”

“It never went away,” Billy said. “It was just like the old days.”

“Yes, I was a very naughty boy in my youth,” Harry said. “Let’s have a drink, my love. Champagne all round.” He made as if he would slap Ruby’s bottom, but managed to stop himself in time.

She smiled. “That’s a good boy, Harry,” and went off for the champagne.

Roper lit a cigarette and Greta said, “What will you do when they ban the cigarettes?”

Roper shrugged. “I’ll figure out something. By the way, General. Item of news from Heathrow which may interest you. Professor Dreq Khan is back. Flew in from Brussels today.”

“That is interesting.”

“That bastard is untouchable,” Dillon said.

“And he knows it,” Roper put in.

“Makes you wonder why he’s come back,” Greta said.

“If that means could there be a purpose to his return, I’m sure there is,” Roper said, and Ruby arrived with the champagne on a trolley.

AT ALI HASSIM’S CORNER SHOP near Gulf Road, Professor Khan drew up in an Audi and went inside. Ali himself was behind the counter with a young girl in a smock, a niqab covering her entire face except for the eyes.

“Professor,” he said in Arabic. “What a surprise.” He nodded to the girl. “Come on,” he told Khan and led the way into the small back room.

They sat opposite each other at the table.

“I thought you were to go to Hazar?” Ali said.

“Yes, but the news from Hazar is bad.”

“I’ve heard wild rumors. Can it be so?”

“Absolutely.”

“So the Rashid girl is once again at the house in Gulf Road.”

“The father, assisted by devils from hell, abducted her from Hazar. She’d gone there with her cousin and future husband, Hussein Rashid.”

“The Hammer of God himself. Praise be his name.”

“Praise indeed. They had left Baghdad, where her grandfather was killed by a car bomb in his Mercedes planted by Sunni dogs.”

“Curse them,” Ali said. “What happened in Hazar?”

Khan gave him as close an account as he was capable of.

“So what happens now?” Ali inquired. “Hussein Rashid is what he is and a great man, but there aren’t just newspaper photos. One of my sweepers had to go to Hampstead police station for the new business, and there were two photos on the big notice board in the Most Wanted section. He could never come to England now.”

“So it would seem.” Khan got up. “I must go.”

Ali accompanied him to the street door and stood by the Audi. Khan said,“You never heard a word from Abu?” In fact he knew perfectly well that Abu was dead, shot by Greta Novikova, for Jamal had told him, but there had seemed little point informing Ali Hassim. There were more important considerations, and he had sworn Jamal to secrecy.

Ali Hassim was remarkably calm in his reply. “I think they murdered him. It is the only explanation. If he was alive somewhere, he would have let us know by now.”

“May you meet in Paradise. I’ll be in touch.”

As he got in the Audi, Ali said, “Things go badly, am I right?”

“No. It is just a minor setback. Hold true to your faith in Allah and in Osama.”

“Always that.” Ali closed the door for him and Khan drove away.

NOT LONG AFTERWARD there was an emergency at the hospital and Molly Rashid was called. In an effort to return to some sort of normalcy, the three of them had intended to go to the cinema together, but the child in question at the hospital was only seven, heart valves were involved, and Molly really was very good at that.

So off she went, and when Caspar suggested just the two of them going to the cinema, Sara said she’d rather not. He tried talking to her as they worked their way through the light salad Molly had left for supper, but he got little response.

Afterward, in the main drawing room by the fire, he tried to make conversation and failed miserably when he tried to discuss the future; it had disastrous results. His hesitant mention of school drew a totally negative result. She actually came alive.

“Do you really think that would be appropriate, Daddy? School blazer, jolly hockey sticks?”

“But look, love, you’ll have to go to school. The law demands it.”

“The law!” There was a kind of fire in her eyes. “What’s that? All I saw for months were people shot, saw it on a regular basis. Your mother was killed along with seventy-two people in a market bombing in downtown Baghdad, your father in a car bomb by Sunnis.”

“I know, darling.” He tried to take her hand. She pulled away. “You say Sunni as if you hate them.”

“Why not? At the villa, including servants we had over forty people, because those who lost their homes brought their families. People lived in tents in the grounds, and every week without fail, somebody was killed. There were always three or four. One week was bad-ten in another market bombing.” She shrugged, “And the dead were replaced by more refugees. It was a cycle. It never stopped. There was no time for school. I don’t think I’ll ever find time for it again.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

She said, “I think I’ll go to bed.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, you’ve got to look on the bright side.” She actually managed a smile. “I’ve just thought of something good. At school, we do our advanced level certificates in a few years. Just think, I could probably do Advanced Arabic right now and get an A. Good night.”

He sat there thinking about it, and the terrible thing was that in spite of his learning, his degree, the books he had written, there was nothing he could do about it.

He stood quietly in the hall for a while, then went upstairs and tiptoed to her bedroom door. She was crying, he could hear that well enough.

As he went back downstairs, he’d never felt so helpless in his life.

HUSSEIN, FRUSTRATED AND ANGRY, hired a private jet from a company in Kuwait, a Citation X, a twin-engined plane requiring two pilots. The owners of the company were good Muslims, so it wasn’t just a question of money when they realized who he was. The aircraft was reputed to be the fastest commercial jet in the world since the Concorde’s departure. It was due the following day, but like everyone in the Broker’s world, he had no means of getting in touch with him and could only wait.

At last the call came and he took it, angry. “What in hell is going on? I’ve already booked a private jet; it’s coming tomorrow morning.”

“Excellent. I have a destination for you.”

“Where?”

“ Algeria, just as I said. You, of course, did your combat training there in the camps. So did Dillon thirty years ago when he was nineteen and first joined the IRA. Do you know an area called the Khufra, on the coast?”

“No, I was in the desert two hundred miles west. It had a bad reputation. Why would we go there?”

“In a way, it’s a message from me to Major Roper that I’m on to him.

Ferguson ’s people had a hard time of it there last year. They’re still wanted by the Algerian police for several murders. Anyway, it’s a bad place, hundreds of miles of marsh, creeks, lots of boats and a hotbed of smuggling and drug-running. There is an airstrip, old hangars, a basic control tower.”

“And where do we go from there?”

“You will be met by Major Hakim Mahmoud of the Algerian Secret Police. Taking a bribe is second nature to him.”

“So there is no moral aim to anything he does?”

“Money talks, Hussein.”

“I’ve nothing against a thief, but he must be an honest thief. I have no time to find this out by experience.”

“Well, my experience has been satisfactory.”

Hussein thought about it. “Another thing, this business of leaving all communication on your side has to stop. I need to be able to communicate with you if things go wrong.”

“No-my privacy is nonnegotiable, even for you. It has always been so and so it will remain.”

“Then I’ll make my own arrangements.”

“You won’t be able to.”

“Look, let’s discuss this. With my face plastered all over the papers, I’m not very hopeful that I can get to England from France by any known airline or train. You must have some sort of plan for the final approach.”

“Yes, a small boat under cover of darkness from a port called Saint-Denis in Brittany. There’s a man named George Romano, English, used to be in the Navy. He specializes in high-priced clients who need to get into England the hard way.”

“Will he have weapons?”

“I presume you’ll carry pistols, but any heavy stuff you need you’ll get in England. It’s all provided for there. A man called Darcus Wellington. He was an actor for years, he still pops up in old British black-andwhite films on television, but his homosexuality sent him to prison for a few years. That was his downfall and crime followed. He also has a flair for makeup, which you’ll find very useful; I’m hoping he may be able to disguise you in some way.”

“Excellent. Now how do we get from Khufra in Algeria to Saint-Denis in Brittany?”

“Mahmoud is sorting that out now. He intends to place you as passengers on a small plane making a smuggling run to France. The drop will be at a private airfield where a car will be provided. You can drive to Saint-Denis. If Roper checks Hazar, when he sees a Citation X booked, he’ll suspect it’s for you. If he traces it to Algeria, it will simply fly away again.”

“Leaving us to our anonymity?”

“You’ve described it exactly, so no need for concern.”

“I suppose not.” There was reluctance in Hussein’s voice.

“There you are, then. You may download all this onto your laptop.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Yes, your special flight bag, the black one you brought from Baghdad.”

“What about it?”

“When you open it, you will find hidden in the lining of the bottom right-hand corner a gold and enamel brooch. Rather pretty. It slides open and a button is inside. If you press it, I will always call you straight back. You alone have such a device.”

“You bastard.”

“I’ve been called that before.” The Broker switched off.