The Killing Ground

ALGERIA
FRANCE
Chapter 9

THE CITATION ARRIVED ON SCHEDULE, BEARING TWO PILOTS named Selim and Ahmadi, who came down to the house after they arrived and sat on the terrace with Hussein and Khazid and drank coffee.

“You know who I am?” Hussein asked.

Selim did the talking. “Yes. We are here to serve you. It is an honor.

Are you familiar with the plane?”

“No, but I hear great things about it. I am a pilot myself.”

“Excellent.” Eager to please, Selim added, “You could try the controls. It’s an experience flying this plane, I can tell you.”

“I’m sure it is, but there’s no time to play. Your job is to get us to our destination, drop us off and then you clear off. Is that understood?” Ahmadi, the younger one, looked disappointed, but Selim was all business. “And the destination?”

“ Algeria.” Hussein opened a file on the table, “All the details are there. I’ll leave you to work out your flight plan.” And he walked away, Khazid following him.

They went into the study, sat on either side of the desk, and Hussein opened a drawer, produced a couple of Walthers plus silencers and pushed one across. Two Colt.25s followed from the drawer and they started to load them.

“You said you would promise me nothing beyond Paris,” Khazid said. “So I did.”

“Now my future seems an inevitability.” Hussein had downloaded his laptop and discussed everything with him. “So it would appear. Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. I am proud to serve.” Khazid finished loading one of the Colts. “But I was thinking ahead to England and heavy artillery.”

“I’ve given you all the details. This Darcus Wellington will be taking care of our needs.”

“Darcus Wellington-such a ridiculous name. I marvel that such a person could involve himself in someone like the Broker’s business.”

“Oh, I don’t know. In a way, it’s rather like his playacting in films, I suppose, only in this case, it’s serious business.”

“And real bullets.” Khazid slammed the magazine into the butt of the Walther. “What next?”

“Finish your packing. Travel light. I’ll have a word with the pilots. Let’s say we leave in one hour. Does that suit you?”

“Absolutely.” They walked out into the great entrance hall. “Here we go. Into the war zone again,” Khazid said. “Why us?”

Hussein put an arm about his shoulder. “Because, little brother, Allah has ordained it. Though, to be honest, I can no longer look at religion in the same way I once did. It provides no solace for me.”

“So the business of war? Why do we take part in it?”

“Because it is our nature.”

“And is that all?”

“I’m afraid so. Now go and get ready.”

AT HIS COMPUTERS, Roper had inserted a trace element on aircraft movement at Hazar, though it was no big deal, since traffic was so light. He was being served bacon sandwiches and tea by Sergeant Doyle when the signal sounded.

“Get Dillon for me,” he said.

“He’s in the dining room with the Major.”

Doyle cleared off and Roper checked into a series of screen images. Dillon and Greta appeared.

“What’s the good word?” Dillon demanded.

“Citation X left Kuwait under charter to Rashid Shipping, landed at Hazar three hours ago. It’s departed under a flight plan taking it to Khufra in Algeria.”

“Not that dump. What in the hell does he have to go there for?”

“Let’s look at this. If he’s on his way to anywhere, you can bet the Broker has organized it. Chartering the Citation was a way of Hussein saying, ‘It’s me-what are you going to do about it,’ because he and the Broker know we must be watching.”

“But why Khufra?” Greta said. “Look what we went through there last year.”

“The Broker knows that and he knows I’m monitoring him, so it’s his way of mocking me. And I know that you know that kind of thing. Khufra, by its nature, is a hotbed of smuggling and drug-running, by boat as well as air, and it’s a perfect place for Hussein to drop out of sight. My bet is the Citation leaves him there.”

“And what happens to him?” Greta asked.

“Across the water, Spain is convenient. Who knows?”

“One thing is certain,” she said. “He can’t be coming to England, not with his face plastered all over the place.”

“Well, he isn’t going to stay in Algeria, there wouldn’t be any point. As for France, that’s a possibility.”

“Actually, some of the papers on the Continent picked up the picture, too,” Roper said. He tapped some keys and page four of the previous day’s Paris Soir appeared, with Hussein’s photo. “There you are, page four, but it’s enough.”

“So what’s his next move?” Dillon asked.

“I think he’ll keep his head down,” Greta said.

“No,” Dillon said. “There is one thing I’m sure of. Hiring the Citation, flaunting it with the trip to Algeria, it has to have reason to it. He has a purpose, and sooner or later it’s bound to become clear what that purpose is. We’ll just have to wait.”

AT THE HAMPSHIRE HOUSE, Molly and Caspar, in the kitchen, discussed Sara. They could see Sara in the garden on a bench on the terrace, reading a book.

“She’s pretending,” Caspar said. “You can tell.”

“Have you discussed school again with her?” Molly asked.

“For God’s sake, it’s far too soon for that. She’d need a new school anyway, fresh faces, another environment, perhaps a boarding school.”

“Whatever it is, it’s got to be faced, this situation.” Molly reached for the coffeepot and poured another cup. “And appropriate treatment found.”

“You’re talking about her as if she’s a patient,” Caspar said, “but that’s what doctors do, I suppose. Personally, I think we need to make a firm decision.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Tell her we’ve decided she needn’t go back to her old school and needn’t go back to any school for six months. Let her vegetate, find her own feet.”

Beyond his wife through the window, he saw that Sara had gone from the bench. She was, in fact, in the hall, but he didn’t know that.

Molly said, “I don’t think that’s any good at all. To be frank with you, I had a long chat on the phone this morning with Professor Janet Hard-castle. She was very interested in the case and has offered to take her on.”

In spite of the fact that the lady in question was one of the most eminent psychiatrists in the country, Caspar was not impressed.

“Dammit, Molly, psychiatrists now. What about some simple loving kindness? We should stop trying to understand until she understands herself, because she is capable of that. She’s a hugely intelligent girl.”

Sara appeared at the door. “Oh, that’s all right. I don’t mind playing word games with Professor Hardcastle, but I’m still not going back to school. I feel like a rest now. I’ll go to my room.”

She put the book she had been reading on the side and went out. Caspar picked it up, glanced at his wife and held it out to her without a word. It was the Koran in Arabic.

ROPER HAD ENJOYED his chat with Igor Levin, the former boy wonder of the GRU, for Levin also had medals from all those dubious Kremlin wars, had sweated in Afghanistan, had got close enough to a Chechen general to cut his throat. Roper remembered him as a so-called commercial attaché working for GRU head of station Colonel Boris Lhuzkov in London, so now, on a whim, he contacted Lhuzkov on his private number at the Embassy of the Russian Federation situated in Kensington Gardens.

Lhuzkov answered at once in Russian, and Roper, who actually spoke rather decent Russian, said in English, “Cut that out, Boris.”

“Who is it?” Boris asked.

“Roper.”

“My God-to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Nothing special. I was just talking to Igor Levin in Dublin and that put me in mind of you.”

As every attempt made by Lhuzkov to contact Levin had been rebuffed, he was intrigued. “How is Igor?”

“Just enjoying life. As for his pals, Chomsky works for lawyers and Popov is with a security firm. But then you know this.”

“Do I?”

“The thing is, I’d have thought that futile attempt to knock off Blake Johnson would have taught you Russians a lesson. So what was all this nonsense with Stransky and his goons at Harry’s Place? And Chekov? I’m shocked. Have they succeeded in saving the leg, by the way?”

“My dear Giles, I have no comment at this time.”

“I bet you haven’t, and what’s with Giles? How did you discover that? It’s a closely guarded secret.”

“Like any good spy, I have my sources. May I also make a comment? There are people who think that Boris Lhuzkov is a stumblebum-an old buffer long past his best, if there ever was a best. But Ivan Stransky has a brain the size of a pea, and as for Chekov, his brain is between his legs. To anyone with half a brain, the size of Harry Salter’s property empire and bank balance should have given pause for thought all by themselves.”

“I for one never fell for your act, Boris. Anyway, is there going to be a new chief executive officer at Belov International? Because the one you’ve got now can’t do much more than go over to Drumore Place and sit on the terrace in a wheelchair, an umbrella over his head. Mind you, he’d be all right for the weekends. It only rains five days a week in Ireland.”

Lhuzkov finally managed to stop laughing. “God, but you’ve cheered me up.”

“So who’s going to run the show? You can tell me.”

“Of course. They’ve managed to save Chekov’s leg, but real recovery will take a very long time. I might as well tell you, because you’ll find out anyway. General Volkov will assume command for the moment.”

“Surprise, surprise, the President’s right-hand man.”

“Exactly. Anything else?”

“Yes-for Volkov’s ears, and perhaps for his friend the Broker.”

Lhuzkov’s voice changed slightly to careful. “Yes?”

“You’ve seen the press releases in the newspapers on Hussein Rashid?”

“I could hardly miss them.”

“How about the full story on the other Rashid-the English wife, the thirteen-year-old daughter kidnapped by Army of God fanatics for the grandfather in Iraq? It’s Hussein who’s supposed to marry her when she comes of age.”

“I’ve heard certain whispers.”

“Well, Hussein took the girl down to Hazar, and Dillon and Billy and the child’s father swooped down and stole her from right under his nose and flew off to good old Blighty, leaving two of his best men dead.”

“Oh, dear. Let me put my supposedly stupid mind to this. These photos in the newspapers? They are supposed to keep him out of Britain?”

“Something like that, just for the moment and to make the family feel secure.”

“I’m not so sure it will work.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s the Hammer of God. He won’t want to let his audience down.”

“That’s what I think, too,” Roper said.

“Do you mind if I share all this with Volkov?”

“That’s why I told you.”At that moment, Greta came in. “Greta sends her best. She’s thriving.”

“My God, how I miss that girl. Such a beauty.”

Roper switched off and Greta said, “Who was that?”

“Lhuzkov.” Roper smiled. “I was feeling lonely.”

THE CITATION CROSSED Saudi Arabia, Egypt, then northern Libya, following the coast at enormous speed and most of the time at fifty thousand feet. Selim invited Hussein to take the controls when they were over Libya, and, changing his mind, Hussein did for a while, reveling in it.

Later, much later as they approached their destination, Selim came back to consult him. “I’m worried about fuel. Oran is only a couple of hundred miles away from Khufra. I think we should stop and refuel there.”

Hussein thought about it. Private planes like the Citation were used only by the rich and always received preferential treatment. They should be safe enough.

“All right.”

So Oran it was. He used the British passport and Khazid a French one in the name of Henri Duval. They got out to stretch their legs. Ahmadi took their passports to the office for them, but he was waved away.

“So simple,” Khazid said.

“Yes, but not to be taken for granted,” Hussein said. “There could be a time when they’re all over us.”

“As Allah wills.”

“Perhaps, but what if it’s all actually in our own hands?”

“I am a simple man, my friend. I accept what I know and do what I’m told.”

“And I prefer you that way.” Hussein climbed back in the plane, Khazid followed, then they soared again into an evening sky, climbing to no more than ten thousand feet. Later, they saw the marshes of the Khufra sprawled on the desert below, the creeks stretching out to the sea, here and there a dhow, sails bulging in the wind, and sometimes, motorboats and the odd freighter.

They descended to not more than a thousand feet, and Selim saw the runway to the left of them, the control tower and two hangars, but oddly there was no contact from the control tower. Selim circled again and passed over the town and small harbor. There was a jetty at one point, an old Eagle floatplane tied up beside it.

Selim said, “An Eagle Amphibian. You can lower the wheels beneath the floats and taxi out of the water onto a shore. Years old, but sturdy. They were built for bush flying in places like Canada.”

He slowed right down and they almost seemed to hang there suspended. “Strange, still no response from the tower.” Hussein pondered, every sense alert. “This is what you do. Land, go to the far end of the runway and turn for your takeoff. We’ll get out. Ahmadi closes the hatch and we wait. If the right people are here, they’ll come for us. If there is a problem, I fire a shot and you get the hell out of here.”

Selim immediately protested. “We can’t leave you. It would be a great shame.”

“I order it, my friend. This is our business.” He put an arm around Khazid. “We’re very good at it.”

“Then I obey you with deep regret,” Selim said.

They circled the runway but nothing moved. It was strange, great reeds piling in higher than a man and getting darker by the minute, the two hangars with doors open but no sign of life.

“Down we go,” Hussein said. “You take both flight bags.”

“Good thing we travel light.” Khazid smiled.

“You need a suit, you buy a suit, that’s my motto. Here we go again, little brother.”

The Citation dropped in and rolled along the runway, and it started to turn at the far end, the reeds turbulent in the jet stream. Ahmadi came and turned the handle, thrusting the hatch out as the steps fell. Khazid went down, crouching in the blast. Hussein followed, turned to glance up at Ahmadi, and there was a roaring and two Land Rovers emerged from one of the hangars at full speed and turned onto the runway.

“Close it!” Hussein called, and Ahmadi did as he was told, slamming the hatch shut. Hussein pulled out his Walther, firing into the air, and Selim boosted power and roared down the runway and the Land Rovers swerved to each side. The Citation rose, lifted at the end of the runway, and Khazid was already turning.

“Into the reeds-go now. Keep in touch with your mobile. I’ll hold them off.”

Hussein turned, took careful aim and shot the front offside tire of the leading vehicle. It swerved violently, throwing the man next to the driver out. The other swerved past and came on, four men in some kind of khaki police uniform.

Hussein fired again, this time at the second Land Rover, splintering the windshield, and he turned and plunged into the reeds and immediately fell foul of a rusting cable, hidden in the undergrowth. He went headlong and they were all over him, boot and fist everywhere. He was pulled to his feet, and someone found his Walther but not the Colt. He had left that in his flight bag with Khazid.

An overweight, bearded captain appeared to be in charge. One of the men gave him the Walther. “Nice one. I appreciate your gift.”

“Think nothing of it.”

“Ah, a cool customer. You are here to see Major Hakim Mahmoud of the Algerian Secret Police?”

“If he’s available.”

“Oh, yes. You must be an important man. That was a wonderful plane.” One of his men emerged from the reeds. “Any sign of him?”

“No, he’s gone, Captain.”

“Never mind.” The three men in the other Land Rover were fitting the spare tire. “I’ll be in the office, but hurry up, I want to get back to the fort. They say it’s going to rain.” He turned to Hussein, “I am Captain Ali. I’m sure we’ll get along.” He patted his face. “You are a handsome young man.” Hussein got in the Land Rover between two policemen and they drove away.

BEHIND THEM, well hidden in the reeds, Khazid had heard everything and watched them go, leaving the three men wrestling with the damaged tire. One of them was a sergeant, the one who had been thrown out of the vehicle. Khazid got his Walther out, unzipped his case and found a Carswell silencer. Quickly he screwed it in place just as the two men on the tire had it fixed.

“Good,” the sergeant said. “Let’s go.”

Khazid put down the flight bags and stepped out of the reeds, Walther in hand. He whistled, they all turned, and he shot the sergeant between the eyes. The other two were completely shocked.

“The captain said he was going to the office. Where is that?”

“The bottom of the control tower,” one man said.

“Excellent. Now this fort he mentioned?”

The second man was shaking with fear, so it was left to the other again. “The old Foreign Legion fort a half a mile down the road to the left.”

“Thank you.”

Khazid shot both of them dead, not because of any conscious cruelty, but because he had no choice in the matter if he was to rescue his friend in one piece. He put the flight bags in the passenger seat, pausing only to pull up the canvas roof of the Land Rover because it would give him some sort of cover. He drove away along the runway toward the control tower, taking his time, but when he got there, the other Land Rover had gone.

It was dark now, with no need for caution. The door was unlocked. He opened it and found a light switch. It was a reception area. He went behind a counter, opened the door marked OFFICE and turned on the light.

The man behind the desk was seated in a swivel chair, and from the state of him had obviously had a bad time of it, his hands handcuffed behind his back. His final end had been a bullet in the head. He was presumably Major Hakim Mahmoud. Khazid looked around him. There was a large flashlight on the table, which worked when he tried it. He left it on, switched off the light and went out to the Land Rover. Now for the fort.

IT WAS COLD, surprisingly cold, and Hussein shivered as three of the policemen manhandled him out of the Land Rover. There was a fort, he could see that. The green and white flag with the red crescent and star, the flag of Algeria, flared in the lights from the battlements over his head, and there were two lighted braziers on either side of the gate they passed through, a sentry with a rifle beside each brazier.

They paused at the bottom of some steps leading up to the battlements and got Hussein out. Captain Ali was seated on a stone bench drinking whiskey. He was obviously that kind of Muslim. Hussein felt only contempt. The man resembled a disease you wanted to stamp out.

“Major Hakim Mahmoud was a bad man-an evil man. He traded with drug dealers, all things evil, always his hand out for money. So, if you dealt with him, you must be both very wicked and very rich.”

“Not really.”

“I want to know who you are and your companions.”

“It’s against the rules.”

“Rules? So you want to play games? You think you must now brace yourself to bear some physical force, don’t you? Well, it’s not necessary. In the old days, they trained Foreign Legionnaires here, hard men who needed to be controlled, but the French were very practical people. They had the Hole over by the wall there. Very uncomfortable.”

“I’m sure it is.”

“I mean, rats-you either like them or you don’t.”

“Very intelligent creatures, rats,” Hussein told him.

Above the Hole was a windlass coiled with rope, a turning handle. “Two of you up here and bring a light and we’ll let you see what you’re up against.” One of the policemen was already holding a robe.

They made Hussein put his foot in a kind of stirrup and lowered him. It was cold and damp, rain drifting down, and he landed in two feet of water. They tossed the robe down to him and he put it on. There was a scurrying sound. The rope was pulled back up.

He sat on a stone shelf, switched on the light and found two rats, eyes glinting in the beam. They seemed curiously friendly.

“Now behave yourselves,” he said in Arabic.

The rain increased its force and he shook his head. “Khazid, where are you?” he said softly.

KHAZID DROVE down the road in the heavy rain, grateful for the canvas roof. He could see the fort up ahead, the flag hanging limply in the rain. There wasn’t a sentry box, just a stone alcove from the old days, a sentry sitting smoking a cigarette, another one standing beside him. They stopped and looked at Khazid curiously. The one who was standing came forward. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Secret police. Where would I find Captain Ali and the prisoner he just brought in from the airfield?”

The policeman raised his rifle a little. “Secret police? I don’t know you.”

The Walther with the silencer was on the seat beside him. Khazid picked it up and shot the policeman between the eyes. The other man cried out and leaped to his feet.

Khazid said,“Stand still, I don’t want to miss you.” The man was terrified and dropped his rifle. “So tell me.”

“He put the prisoner in the Hole. It’s on the battlements. I don’t know where he is himself. He may be in the fort.”

Khazid got out and left the Land Rover where it was. “This place, the Hole,” he said to the sentry. “Lead the way.”

Which the man did, mounting the stairs to the battlements. There was no sign of Captain Ali, but there were lights down in the barracks and laughter. The Hole was self-evident, with its windlass.

“Are you in one piece, brother?” Khazid called.

“Other than the rats trying for the odd nibble, I’m fine,” Hussein called. “I’ve missed you, little brother.”

“I’m sure you did,” Khazid nodded to the policeman. “Lower the stirrup.”

The man exerted himself on the creaking ancient handle, the rope went down and Hussein called, “That’s fine,” and said to the rats, “Good-bye, my friends.” The windlass creaked again, the man pushing against the weight, and Hussein emerged.

“I stink like an old sow.”

“But you’re in one piece, which is more than I can say for the late Major Hakim Mahmoud.”

“May he rest in peace. Remind me to let the Broker know.”

“He should have known.”

A door banged; a moment later there were footsteps at the other end of the battlements and Captain Ali appeared, looking rather incongruous, an umbrella over his head. He was humming to himself and looking down, but not for long.

“It’s you,” he said stupidly.

“Yes, it is.” Hussein patted his pockets and found the Walther.

But strangely enough, fat Ali didn’t show fear, although that could have been because of the bottle of whiskey in his left hand.

“I knew you were somebody special, just from that plane. If you’re going to shoot me, at least tell me who you are.”

“My name is Hussein Rashid. They know me in Baghdad.”

“Merciful heaven, they know you everywhere in the Arab world.”

“I should kill you, but I was trained in Algerian camps.”

“Which makes us brothers in a way,” Ali said eagerly.

“Anything but. Down you go. The rats are waiting.”

“My thanks. You are a great man.”

Ali stuck his foot in the stirrup. It took all the policeman’s strength to control the weight and Khazid had to help.

Ali’s voice echoed up. “I see what you mean. I don’t know what you are up to, but go to a good grave, my friend.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Hussein said to Khazid. He nodded at the frightened policeman. “Bring him with you.”

They went down to the Land Rover and the dead man. The policeman was terrified, expecting death at any minute.

Hussein said, “Which way to town?” The man pointed. “There’s been enough killing for one night. Run like hell,” and the man took off.

Khazid said, “I’d say we’re in a bad fix. We need to get out of here fast and Brittany is a hell of a long way off.”

Hussein got in beside him. “I’ve had an idea. What about flying out?”

Khazid started the engine. “But we haven’t got a plane.”

“Who says we haven’t?” They drove quickly away.

THERE WAS A BOARD on a building at the end of the jetty that said CANAIR, whatever that was supposed to mean, but no lights showed at any of the windows beneath it and everything was quiet. Here and there was a light in some of the craft moored in the harbor, and occasionally the sound of faint laughter from the cafés in the web of narrow streets, but they didn’t care about any of that.

Khazid had the flashlight he had taken from the control tower and they used it to examine the pod enclosing the fuel tanks. It was so old-fashioned there was a dipstick. It registered about two-thirds full.

“Not bad,” Hussein said.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“The Balearic Islands- Majorca, the largest, would be best. The airport at Palma operates international flights, dozens a day, awash with tourists. There are flights to almost anywhere.”

“Are you saying we take a chance on a direct flight to England?”

“No, that would be too much of a risk, but there are plenty of flights from Majorca to France, crammed with holidaymakers going home. That’s a different proposition.”

On the far side of the harbor, a police car turned onto the far jetty and two officers got out. A moment later, another came down from the town and parked behind it.

“Do you think that could be trouble?” Khazid asked. “Maybe the captain is covering his back. We did leave several dead men.”

“I’ve no intention of waiting to find out. Get in.”

He got the door open, Khazid slipped the line, pulled it in and joined him. They strapped themselves in and Hussein fired the engine and let the plane float away. He started to taxi through the darkness toward the harbor entrance, which was well lit. He moved near the pier, and beyond was only darkness.

Khazid was looking out and saw one of the police cars racing round. “I think we’ve managed to attract some police attention.”

“Well, whatever they want, it’s too late now.” Hussein turned into the wind and boosted power. He pulled back the column at exactly the right moment and the Eagle climbed effortlessly over the darkness of the sea and lifted. Here and there were the lights of a boat of some sort.

“How long to Majorca?” Khazid asked.

“I’ll take my time. I’ll use less fuel if I don’t push this old bucket too hard. Besides, I like it. Maybe three and a half hours-something like that. Then we’ll check the plane situation at Palma. I’ve got a good feeling. It all worked out. It could have been much worse.” He leveled off at five thousand feet and put the plane on automatic. “God, I stink.” He looked down at the soiled suit. “I don’t know what Armani would think.”

“You’re the man who said if you need a suit, you buy a suit. You’ll be okay at the airport.”

“Yes, Palma ’s sophisticated enough. I expect the airport’s full of boutiques. Open my flight bag for me. In the bottom right corner there’s a brooch in the lining.” Khazid found it and Hussein slid back the top and found the button.

“Our lifeline to the Broker.” He pressed it and put the brooch in his pocket.

IT WAS AMAZING how quickly the response came, and the Broker listened quietly to Hussein’s story.

“A pity about Major Hakim Mahmoud. A valued ally.”

“You’ll replace him soon enough.”

“So what happens now?”

“We’ll park the seaplane when we get there, then we’ll go to the airport. You check on flights for us and call me back.”

A half hour later, the Broker did. “I’ve checked. There are a lot of flights to French destinations including a number of cheap basic flights to provincial airports. Flights of the kind where they pack you in and don’t even offer a cup of coffee, but they don’t give a damn who you are. One such destination is Rennes, which is less than fifty miles by train from Saint-Malo on the Brittany coast. Saint-Denis is only twelve miles outside of Saint-Malo. That should be your best bet. The booking is your affair.”

“The insolence of this man is unique,” Khazid said. “With his so-called perfect world showing signs of cracking, his condescension is breathtaking.”

“Don’t let it get to you.” Hussein put things back on manual. “Try and get some sleep. I’m going to fly the plane.” He took the control column, leaned back and started to enjoy himself.

FOUR O’CLOCK, a half-moon giving everything a faint luminosity, they came in from the sea at five hundred feet, turning parallel to the coast looking for just the right sort of place. It was Khazid who finally noticed one, a small crescent-shaped cove beneath a steep headland at the north end of the island. There were many opulent villas on the coast on either side of it and a lonely jetty, no boats tied up.

“The kind of place tourists with hire boats may use. Most of the villas have their own. I think people will think an item like a private aircraft properly belongs to somebody in a rich man’s area like this.”

“It does have a certain logic.”

Hussein landed on the sea beyond the cove and taxied in, his engines reduced to a muted rumble. They coasted in and he cut the engines, allowing small waves to edge the plane against the jetty, then opened the door and got out, followed by Khazid with the curved rope of the line in one hand. He tied up, then got the two flight bags, passing his to Hussein. There was a line of steps and a decent path beyond.

A pine wood was at the top and the path led them through it to an extensive vineyard beyond. There were villas here and there, cottages, but it was a scattered sort of landscape.

“Coats off,” Hussein said. “Try to fit in, look casual.”

The sky was pink, then gold, the sun rose, and they saw people occasionally in the distance. It was all incredibly beautiful. Reaching the main road, they came to their first village, and already life was stirring.

“Well?” Khazid said. “What next?”

“I don’t know.” At that moment, they came to the end of the village and found an inn with a pleasant garden, a young woman brushing a terrace.

She smiled and said good morning in Spanish, and Hussein answered in English. Khazid followed, putting on a slight French accent.

“Good morning, mademoiselle. I see no sign of a bus service.”

“Not until noon. Do you have a problem?”

He said smoothly, “Our problem is a hire car which gave up the ghost on us, I’m afraid, and I’ve tried their number, but there is no reply.”

“And we have a plane at noon,” Hussein said.

“Oh, I see. So you need to get to Palma?”

“As soon as possible.”

“As it happens, my barman, Juan, is going to town in the truck for supplies after he’s had his breakfast. I’m sure you could come to an agreement with him. I’ll go and have a word. Perhaps you would like some coffee and rolls while you’re waiting?”

She went out and they sat at a small table. “We do have another problem,” Hussein said. “The plane we didn’t get, the one doing some sort of drug run from Khufra to France, was going to drop us off illegally- which meant that we could still keep our weapons.”

“So no guns,” Khazid said.

“And none from Romano. Everything we need will be provided by Darcus Wellington, that’s what the Broker said.”

“Okay. Let’s get it over with.” Khazid transferred the two Walthers and the Colt.25s into his pockets. “It breaks my heart, but if it must be done…” He shrugged. “I’ll go and find a drain.”

He moved into the vineyard beside the garden and disappeared. The girl returned with coffee, rolls and marmalade. She wrinkled her nose. “What happened to you?”

“I was trying to fix the car and fell into a ditch beside it.”

“If you want to use the washroom, feel free. It’s the door next to the bar. There’s a shower.”

So in he went, saying hello to a young man, presumably Juan, cleaning the bar top. In the washroom, he examined himself, a sorry sight, then stripped his clothes and showered and toweled himself vigorously, which made him look better, although the clothes were still dreadful. When he went back, Khazid was flirting outrageously with the girl and drinking red wine she had supplied.

“Come on, mon ami,” he said. “Try a glass. It’s good for the heart.” And Hussein, knowing what he was trying to do, took the wine down manfully.

Juan appeared, good-byes were said and they got in the rear of the open truck, their backs against the driver’s cabin, and departed.

“Nice girl,” Khazid said. “Just think. A couple of real desperadoes like us and she never knew.”

“Better for her, I think, much better.” Hussein leaned back and closed his eyes in the early morning sun.

AT THE AIRPORT, they gave Juan fifty dollars, then searched the numerous shops and selected a men’s boutique. Hussein kept his flight bag, but gave Khazid his British passport on the off chance they’d allow him to get both tickets. No one knew better than he did how slipshod matters of security could be, especially when dealing with large numbers of people.

In the boutique, the proprietor and an assistant who was obviously his boyfriend tut-tutted when he explained about the accident and set about clothing him from head to toe. Underwear, socks of silk, shirts, white and blue, an expensive tan summer suit from Armani and tan brogues finished things off. He stood and examined himself in the mirror. Yes, it would do for now. He noticed a khaki trench coat on a rail, bought that, too, and was just paying for it all when Khazid returned.

“My goodness, but you look stylish,” he said.

“Flattery is the last thing I need. What about the tickets?”

“Easy. The girl was French, and I do French well. Two tickets in row E, taking off for Rennes at eleven-thirty. We’re returning holiday-makers.”

“Good. Hide those extra passports in the special compartment in your flight bag; we’ll buy a suitcase, put both flight bags inside so they can go in the hold. I’m going to speak to the Broker.”

Which he did, calling him in with the panic button, sitting in the corner of the airport lounge when they spoke.

“We had to dispose of our guns, an unlooked-for problem.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that, but you’ll be all right when you reach England. Darcus Wellington may surprise you.”

“You’ll confirm to George Romano we’re on the way?”

“All taken care of.”

The Broker departed, and Hussein said to Khazid, “A decent meal, I think, is what we need now.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” They made their way to one of the restaurants.