The Killing Ground

Chapter 13

THE BREAKFAST WAS REMARKABLE BY ANY STANDARDS. Darcus poached haddocks, scrambled eggs, sliced onion, found a packet of unleavened bread in his icebox and defrosted it. There was yogurt and fruit in plenty and green tea.

“Cooking’s my passion. I’ve worked as a chef in my day, but I lost my temper with the staff too easily. I expected too much.” He started to gather in the crockery and put it in the dishwasher. “I’ve been in show business all my life since I first saw a circus when I was thirteen. There’s nothing I haven’t tried. Cabaret, theater, film. Having a settled home to come back to was always a problem. That’s why Bernard and I bought this place. I mean, it seemed a good idea at the time. We were in summer cabaret at Bournemouth, that’s a seaside town near here. We went for a drive one Sunday and came across this place, a bloody sight different from what it is now, I can tell you. Folly Way just about sums it up.”

He talked endlessly, much of it amusing, and yet there was a certain malice when he touched on people. “Talent, love,” he said to Hussein, “is a curse. It’s something your fellow actors can never forgive. Of course, some things are beyond teaching. Take you. You’ve got an enormous talent.”

“What for?” Hussein asked.

“For killing people. I mean, it’s not a very easy thing to do. You do it remarkably well. You’re a true revolutionary, dedicated to a cause. Che Guevara-that’s who you most resemble. A romantic hero with balls. You even look like Che with that beard.”

“Hey, that’s good,” Khazid said. “I mean, I actually think there could be some truth in that.” He said to Darcus, “There are kids in Baghdad who are proud to wear T-shirts with ‘Hammer of God’ on them.”

“But not his face, love?” Darcus was aghast. “I mean, we couldn’t have that.”

“One day,” Khazid said, “when Iraq is free again, his face will be known to all men.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be the first revolutionary to end up president of his country. Hey, what about George Washington?”

“Exactly,” Khazid said.

Hussein, uncomfortable with all this, said, “Let’s get down to important matters. What about the weaponry?”

“God knows I’ve got enough of that, not that I’ve ever fired a gun in my life. This way, gentlemen.”

He led the way to his study, in the center of the house. The paneled walls of yew were lined with scores of framed photos of the theater, film and television.

“My life in performance, and what a performance. I deserved an Oscar.”

“But what’s this got to do with weaponry?” Hussein asked.

Wellington smiled, and kicked in the bottom of the end paneling, producing a sharp click, and a hidden door moved a couple of inches so you could get your hand in and open it. He pulled it right back and stepped inside and switched on a light, revealing guns and accessories of every kind. “Behold my treasures.” Hussein noted several Walthers, Carswell silencers, Colts, machine pistols such as the very latest model of Uzi, three AKs, a box of hand grenades and even Semtex and a box of pencil fuses, neatly numbered.

“My God,” he said. “You really are going to war.”

“Not me, love. Like I told you, I’ve never fired a gun in my life. You two have a good look and work out what you want. I’ll be in the kitchen doing my chores. Take your time.”

WALTHERS, SILENCERS, COLT.25S in ankle holsters. “The usual,” Khazid said. “Tools of the assassin’s trade.”

“You’re being dramatic,” Hussein told him. “They do the job, and in unfortunate circumstances, they’re easy to get rid of. The jobs ahead of us won’t lend themselves to a sniper.”

“A grenade perhaps?”

“Pointless. No need for it. It’s two individuals we want, not passersby.”

“Okay if I take an Uzi, with folding stock, if it fits in my flight bag?”

Hussein, exasperated, said, “Have it your way. Check the weapons here at the study table. Ammunition, of course, but you needn’t overdo it. We could always call on Khan in London for more.”

AT HOLLAND PARK, Dillon was finishing an early breakfast when Roper called him on the intercom and asked him to come up to the computer room.

“What have you got?” Dillon demanded.

“My contact in the Spanish Secret Service has been in touch. A float-plane stolen in Khufra has turned up dumped in Majorca. Even more interesting, his informant in the police at Khufra tells of a Citation jet the other night dropping two men and taking off again. It seems there was some sort of shootout.”

“Then they stole the floatplane. Hussein’s an expert pilot. It has to be him. But who’s the other man?”

“He left Baghdad with three men. Hamid and Hassim, whom you and Billy shot, and a man named Khazid. And before you ask, let me put those security photos from Kuwait up, but they’re not good, nothing on Khazid.”

“Have we got anything on this Khazid at all?”

“Hussein’s third cousin, and another Rashid. A highly experienced foot soldier. Some sort of cousin to Sara, I suppose, and something in common with her.”

“What would that be?”

“Another half-and-half. His mother was French.”

“Was?”

“Got killed in the first Gulf War with his father, fleeing from Kuwait on the Highway of Death in a car.”

“So-what does it mean?” Dillon said.

“Hang on, there’s more. International airport at Palma, flights to all sorts of destinations. The Spanish have been rather clever. The police checked around the cove where the floatplane came in and it was heard landing. If you then calculate how long it would take to make the airport, we could say about noon, and for men desperate to get the hell out of there, that narrows the time of departure.”

“Which meant the Spanish didn’t have to painstakingly work their way through the tapes for hours.”

“Well, see for yourself.” Roper brought it up on screen, Hussein walking through security, pausing to take off his sunglasses briefly while his boarding ticket was being checked. The man behind him was obviously Khazid, because they were talking, but his face was half-turned away.

“You have the plane?”

“It was one of those low-price efforts, crammed with tourists. There were some empty seats for what was a return journey. They’ve gone to Rennes in France.”

“A staging post to England?”

“Absolutely. Brittany means the Channel Islands, and once on Jersey, it’s British soil. Daily planes to Britain and the South Coast. That’s only conjecture, mind you, but I’d say he’s on his way, and we know what that means.”

Dillon sat there thinking about it. “Right, we pass the word round to everybody. Use all the press contacts to keep his photo going and the line that he could be in the UK.”

“Yes, but the reality is on that word ‘could.’ We’re at a dead stop here, waiting for something to turn up.”

“The only thing that’s going to turn up is Hussein with Khazid. You know it and I know it and we know what the target is going to be. The Rashids in Gulf Road, Hampstead.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“It’s up to Ferguson to decide that. Maybe have them here at the safe house,” Dillon told him.

“Dr. Rashid won’t like that.”

“It could be she hasn’t got much choice in the matter. You’d better speak to Ferguson.”

BY THE TIME FERGUSON had arrived in the Daimler, Roper had called in Billy and Greta, Igor Levin and Chomsky. They all listened gravely as Roper explained the situation.

When he was finished, there were looks. He added, “Of course, this is just a ‘maybe’ situation, we can’t be sure of anything.”

Billy said, “Only of one thing. The bastard’s on his way. I know that and I think everybody else here knows that. The question is, what do we do about it?”

“Move the Rashids from Hampstead, that’s essential, right out of town and away from everything while we hunt him down.”

“Molly won’t like that,” Greta said. “Through everything, she’s stuck to the idea that her work is of prime importance. She won’t want to leave it.”

“I think she’ll have to,” Ferguson told her.

There was a silence, then Greta said, “One thing I still wonder about. What exactly does Hussein intend? To kidnap the girl and take her back?”

“How would he do that?” Levin asked.

“Exactly!”

Billy said, “Maybe he wants to knock off Caspar for his part in saving her?”

“Which would still leave him with the Sara problem.”

Roper said, “Perhaps he doesn’t know himself. We don’t need to go into his background, you all know it. The deaths in his extended family alone would be a sufficient cause for revenge to many people and it’s certainly enough to make him a driven man.”

“And one of the world’s most successful assassins,” Levin put in.

There was another silence, and it was Billy, a gangster and streetwise since his youth, who said, “It might be a lot simpler than we think. Maybe he’s just striking out, hasn’t thought it through.”

“God help us if that’s what it is,” Ferguson said. “If he doesn’t know himself, what chance do we have?”

“None,” Dillon said and turned to Ferguson. “What did you mean when you said the Rashids should be moved from Hampstead and away from everything?”

“We have a country house called Zion House in West Sussex and close to the coast and marshland. It was donated to the Ministry of Defence in the Second World War and used to train SOE agents. Over the years it’s been used by the Ministry for training purposes, but at the moment it’s in a caretaker situation, watched over by half a dozen uniformed security men, all ex-military police run by Captain Bosey.”

Dillon said, “This marshland, what would be the situation there?”

“It’s owned by the National Trust. The bird life is unique. Curlew, redshank and brant geese from Siberia, that sort of thing.”

“Are bird-watchers a problem?”

“Zion House has unique features. High-security fencing on top of the wall, and if you tried to get over that, you’d fry.”

“Sounds a bit harsh.”

“Warning signs everywhere, security cameras. We can’t do more. There’s never been a problem with any attempts at unlawful entry in the twenty or more years that I’ve been responsible for it.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dillon said. “Anything else?”

“There’s a concrete airstrip there at the side of the marsh from SOE days. We could fly the Rashids down from Farley, and any of you lot.”

“It would certainly clear the decks,” Dillon said. “Who would you send?”

“Greta has good contacts with the family. If Levin and Sergeant Chomsky went with her for starters, that would make it a Russian affair.”

There were nods all round. “Sounds good to me,” Dillon said. “Let’s get moving, and sort it with the Rashids.”

“You and Greta come with me, the rest stay. Roper in charge.” Ferguson led the way out.

THEY SAT IN the sitting room at Gulf Road with Caspar, Molly and Sara, and Ferguson explained patiently what the situation was. Greta stood by the window.

“So what is it you’re trying to tell us?” Molly Rashid demanded. “That Hussein is here in England?”

“We believe very strongly that he’s on his way,” Ferguson said. “Hazar to Algeria, stealing the floatplane to Majorca, then Rennes in Brittany. Look at it on the map and it speaks for itself.”

She sounded desperate. “He’d be mad to come, and what for?”

Sara stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go into the garden. Whatever you decide suits me. Zion House sounds fun.”

“This does concern you, darling,” Caspar said.

“Not really,” Sara said calmly. “Hussein won’t do anything to harm me.” She went out and Greta followed.

Molly Rashid started again. “I think you have to realize, General, we’re trying to live as normal a life as possible for Sara’s sake.”

Dillon got up. “Your decision. I’ll just go out on the terrace for a smoke. It’s up to you, General.”

Sara was moving slowly around the garden. Across the road, a sweeper in yellow had noted the arrival of Ferguson ’s Daimler and its occupants and managed a shot with a special camera donated by Khan.

Dillon lit a cigarette and approached Sara and Greta. “Hello, Mr. Dillon, what do you want?” Sara asked.

“I’m interested in what you said about Hussein. How can you be so certain? He’s a very violent man.”

“I suppose you mean all this Hammer of God thing.” She shrugged. “In Baghdad it was in the papers and on television, but not with photos, so I didn’t know it was Hussein. He always looked after me. Made sure people treated me properly.”

“Did he change then?”

“Not really. At the oasis at Fuad in the Empty Quarter, when Ali ben Levi, the bandit, manhandled me, knocked me down, Hussein shot him.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“Ben Levi was a truly evil man. He was whipping a priest for being a Christian. I told him that so was I. That’s when he treated me as he did.”

Dillon smiled bleakly. “In those circumstances, I’d probably have shot him myself. Tell me, I’ve no business asking you this, but what about this Muslim thing and being promised in marriage when you’re of age?”

“That’s nonsense,” she said. “I never took that seriously and I told Hussein so.”

“And he accepted that?”

“He was told. I could do no more.”

Dillon took a deep breath. “You’re a truly remarkable young lady.”

Caspar came out onto the terrace and called, “Come on, Sara, it’s all decided. We’re going to Zion House, flying down.”

His wife appeared. “For a week-seven days only, so come and pack.”

The girl joined them and they went inside and she went upstairs. Ferguson appeared. “I’m going back to Holland Park. You two stay while they pack. I’ll send the People Traveller to pick you all up and take the Rashids to Farley. I’ll arrange for Levin and Chomsky to meet you there.”

He went off and Dillon said, “Sara’s quite a girl.”

“What do you expect, she’s half Bedouin,” Greta told him. “Come into the kitchen and we’ll have a coffee.”

IN HIS SHOP near the corner of Gulf Road, Ali Hassim was acting as middleman for Professor Khan, overseeing a network of sweepers, hospital porters, cabdrivers and even young girls, office personnel at the local hospitals. The sweeper assigned to the Rashid house phoned in.

“They’ve had visitors. Two of them were in the photos Professor Khan showed us. The General and the man Dillon. There was also a woman. The General left in a Daimler car. I’ve got pictures. Dillon and the woman are still there.”

“Any sign of the family?”

“Only the girl, Sara. She was in the garden talking to Dillon.”

“I’m going to send Jamal on his motorcycle just in case they go somewhere. He’ll be with you in minutes.”

The sweeper waited and then the People Traveller turned up, paused at the electronic gates until they opened. It moved inside and the sweeper caught a glimpse of the front door, Caspar Rashid with two suitcases emerging, his wife behind him, then Sara, Greta and Dillon.

At that moment, Jamal arrived on his motorcycle, rode down by the canal and into the trees. “What’s happening?” he called.

“They’re leaving. It looks to me as if they’re all going. I saw suitcases. You must follow.”

“That’s what I’m here for, you fool.”

Jamal waited, his engine turning over. The gates opened and the People Traveller emerged and turned right, and he followed in traffic so heavy it was possible for him to get really close on more than one occasion so that he soon established who was inside.

At Farley Field he had to turn into the public car park as the van paused at the security entrance and was admitted, but he watched its progress to the terminal building, saw them get out and meet with Levin and Chomsky.

A sign at the gate said MINISTRY OF DEFENCE, FARLEY FIELD, RESTRICTED AREA, but in the car park it amused him to see plane spotters. Probably any kind of security breach would have been classed as a violation of their human rights. “Only the English,” he said to himself. “That’s why we will win.”

He took out a pair of Zeiss glasses and spotted an old Hawk, although he didn’t know it. He did get a photo.

On the airfield, Dillon waited for the plane to take off, then got back in the People Traveller and told Sergeant Doyle to take him to Holland Park.

Jamal waited until it had gone, then mounted his motorcycle. There was nothing he could do except return to Ali Hassim at the shop.

Ali hauled him into the back room. “You’re sure they have gone?”

“Definitely. The suitcases mean for some time and the airplane, somewhere far away.”

“So no means of finding out the destination?”

“No way of getting in. I’ve told you, it’s a restricted area. Security guards everywhere. You wouldn’t even get through the gate.”

Ali was upset. “So we really have no idea where they’ve gone?”

“Only that they have gone. I saw this with my own eyes and their house is empty; tell Professor Khan that.”

Ali sighed. “He won’t like it. Anyway go and make yourself a coffee in the kitchen while I give him the bad news, and leave your camera so I can check the photo for the type of plane.”

It didn’t take long and he found it quite quickly in a handbook of small planes: a Hawk, eight-seater, twin engines.

He started to go through a number of photos taken by the sweepers watching the comings and goings at the Rashids’ house since their return, not that there had been many. The most interesting was the man who had turned out to be the archaeologist from Hazar, Professor Hal Stone. Friends to the Brotherhood, academics at London University, had confirmed his identity. A fellow at Corpus Christi College in Cambridge. He had called at the house in Gulf Road in a taxi, which had waited for him and taken him on to King’s Cross Station. Jamal had followed him and watched him board a train for Cambridge. Obviously returning to his work.

All in all, not good news, and he phoned Khan and told him so.

HUSSEIN SAT IN FRONT of the makeup table in Darcus Wellington’s bedroom, naked to the waist. The mirror was very bright with all those small bulbs around it, and the profusion of makeup itself was something alien to Hussein. He found the smell of it distasteful.

Khazid was sitting on a settle by the window, smoking a cigarette. Hussein said, “Open it, then go and find something to do.”

“But I want to watch.”

“And I don’t want you to. Go away.”

Khazid went reluctantly and Darcus put a large towel around Hussein’s shoulders. “The mark of a true actor, love. Makeup is such a private affair. Not something to share. Knowing who you are, that’s the thing.”

“And who am I?” Hussein asked himself. “Hussein Rashid or the Hammer of God?”

Rain fell heavily outside the open window, bringing the smell of rotting vegetation, and Darcus went and closed the window. “If you don’t mind, love, it smells as if the whole world’s dying.”

“Perhaps in some ways it is?” Hussein said.

Garish in his auburn wig, Darcus stood there, arms folded, chin on one hand, and observed him. “The Che Guevara look. Was that a conscious decision on your part?”

“Not that I know of.” Hussein was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“A true romantic, Guevara, he really looked the part. In a way, he gave people what they expected. It was all in the look, love. Was that what you tried to do-give the people what they expected?”

“Where would this be leading?”

“It’s also a question of knowing what you are and still liking yourself. Most actors, of course, would rather be someone else.”

“I am what I am. What I need from you is a new face.”

“Frankly, I have a suspicion that I can achieve that best by removing the mask that’s already there.”

Hussein said, “If that means good-bye, Che Guevara, so be it.”

“And what else must go with that?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”

THE CORRIDOR DOOR SLIGHTLY AJAR, Khazid watched, in a kind of horror, as the man he had served for so long changed before his eyes. Darcus worked at the hair, cutting, thinning particularly, shaping into an entirely different style and much, much shorter.

Then he lathered the entire face and took a cut-throat razor to it, shortened the sideburns, thinning the eyebrows and very carefully removing the fringe of beard and the mustache.

“I’d like you in the bathroom now, love. Don’t be alarmed, you just need a shampoo.”

Khazid dodged into the kitchen and Darcus led the way.

Afterward, back at the mirror and using a hair dryer, he shaped the hair more carefully, took the scissors to it again, then turned Hussein in the swivel chair and did some more work on thinning the eyebrows and used a little dark pencil.

Hussein sat staring at himself, yet not himself. “God almighty, you look so young,” Darcus told him. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“And now you look it and that’s the difference. Put your shirt on.”

He scrabbled around in various drawers and finally found what he was looking for, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, not prescription but clear glass.

“Try these.” Hussein did. “Good, it gives you a hint of the intellectual; you could be a schoolteacher or something.”

“Not the Hammer of God.”

“See for yourself.” Darcus opened a copy of the Times with the original photo in it. “Who could possibly recognize you as you look now from that.”

“Even I don’t,” Hussein said slowly and walked through to the kitchen.

Khazid was waiting for the kettle to boil, standing there, looking out at the rain. He turned and his sense of shock was obvious.

“Merciful heaven, where have you gone?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure it’s you anymore.”

“And maybe it isn’t.” There was a strange smile on Darcus’s face. “Who knows? Remember Pandora’s box?”

“What do you mean?” Khazid said.

“Greek mythology,” Hussein told him. “When the box was opened, it released all sorts of unpleasant things.”

Khazid, uneasy, frowned slightly, and Darcus said, “I’ll make some coffee.”

“And I’ll phone Dreq Khan,” Hussein said to Khazid. “Work out our next stop.”

“Hampstead?” Khazid asked.

“It would seem obvious. After all, as no one knows we are here, one should seize the moment.”

“If you say so, but I think we need to talk, and privately.”

“Of course.”

“You can use the study,” Darcus said, but in the end it was outside on the porch, the door open, the rain pouring down.

“Is there a problem?” Hussein asked.

“Hampstead, Sara, her parents. Surely our primary task, the most important to our cause, is the assassination of General Ferguson and this man Salter, if possible. If we go to London with that in mind, we could succeed because, as you rightly point out, the authorities have no idea that you’re in England. In light of this, I’m in favor of us going to London, but not of a visit to Hampstead. Sara and her parents are a sideshow, cousin. What would you do, shoot her parents? I shouldn’t imagine she’d thank you.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Hussein told him.

“Or break in the house, kidnap her? Then how would you smuggle her out of the country?”

“Professor Khan, the Army of God, the Brotherhood, they all would offer their services. Between us we would find a way.”

“Do you honestly think the fate of this young girl is of the slightest importance to these people? No, but Ferguson ’s head on a platter, the British Prime Minister’s most valued security adviser. That would be a triumph.”

Much of what he said made sense, but Hussein was unable to let go. “I’ll phone Khan now and see what the situation is, then it will be my decision.”

IN ANSWER TO ALI HASSIM’S CALL, Khan had gone round to the shop to discuss the latest development, and it was there that he received the call that he had, if truth be known, been dreading for some time.

He put a hand over his coded mobile and whispered to Ali Hassim, “It’s him, Hussein Rashid himself, and he’s in England.”

“Allah be praised,” Ali said.

Khan returned to the phone. “Where are you?”

“ Dorset -Peel Strand with one of the Broker’s people. A cottage called Folly Way. Khazid and I landed this morning. We intend to come to London.”

“Can this be wise? Your face’s in so many newspapers.”

“That’s been taken care of, no one will recognize me. Trust me in this. Now tell me what the situation is with the Rashids.”

“We monitored them closely, my network of sweepers and informants, even used a motorcycle unit so that cars which left their house in Hampstead could be followed. Because of this, I have the address of the enemy’s safe house in Holland Park. We know where Ferguson and Dillon live, which would obviously be of importance to you.”

Hussein cut in on him. “Get to the point. You appear to have some bad news for me. Spit it out.”

So Khan told him the worst.

Hussein said, “They’ve gone, spirited away you don’t know where and the circumstances indicate only security classified travel?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You didn’t mention the plane.”

“Ali looked it up-a Hawk.”

“A good old workhorse of a plane. I flew one in the badlands in Algeria. I think if they’d been venturing very far, say cross-Channel, they’d have used more than that. I would say the Hawk indicates relatively local travel. Somewhere in the countryside, a reasonable distance from London.”

“Which would be impossible for us to discover,” Khan said.

“So Ferguson and Dillon visited the house in Gulf Road. Anyone else?”

“Yes, Professor Hal Stone.”

“The archaeologist from Hazar. I wonder what he wanted?”

“I think he was saying good-bye. One of my men, Jamal, followed him to King’s Cross, where he caught a train to Cambridge. He’s a professor at Corpus Christi College there. It’s now turned out he’s Ferguson ’s cousin.”

“Is he indeed? He’s been involved in this affair intimately. I’ll bet he possesses all the information we need.”

“You could be right.”

“I think I am. Ali Hassim-tell me about him.” Khan did and when he was finished, Hussein said, “Is he to be trusted?”

“Completely. Few people actually know how important he is.”

“Then I’ll have his address. He may expect me at any time.”

“What is your intention?”

“I’ll visit this Hal Stone at Cambridge University today. Bournemouth is close by to where I am. We’ll go by train.”

“To Cambridge? You’d have to change in London. Is this wise?”

“My dear professor, even I don’t recognize myself. I’ll be in touch.”

He turned and found Khazid watching him, face troubled. “I’ll explain it all later when we’re on the train,” he said. “But I must speak to the Broker.”

HE LIT A CIGARETTE after pressing the panic button and waited, calm and in charge of himself again, and the Broker called him instantly. Very quickly, Hussein explained the situation and his intentions.

“Do you approve?”

“I must say I do. I can’t access the departures from Farley like I used to be able to. It has a special security system. I can only wish you luck in Cambridge. Are you sure of your safety in traveling? Is Darcus that good?”

“Yes is the short answer to that. Good-bye.”

He brushed past Khazid and found Darcus in the kitchen. “We need to get to Bournemouth. I presume there’s a reasonable train service from there?”

“Yes, excellent. When would you be leaving?”

“As soon as you like.”

“Not me, love, I’ve got prostate problems you wouldn’t want to hear about. Our doctor only looks in twice a week, that’s up in Peel Strand village. It’s only half a mile so I usually walk.” He looked at the time. “Ten o’clock and he doesn’t arrive until after lunch.”

“So what’s the alternative?” Khazid asked.

“You can take my car, leave it in the car park at Bournemouth Station and leave the key in the glove compartment. I can’t say fairer than that. I think you’d have to change in London to get to Cambridge, though. Anyway, it’s been great meeting you. Makes life so much more interesting.”

“And lucrative for you?” Hussein said.

“Of course, love, we all need to earn a crust.”

THEY WERE FULLY CLOTHED, flight bags in hand and on their way within fifteen minutes. An old Mini car awaited in the rain by the garage.

“The key’s in, good luck,” Darcus shouted and closed the door.

Hussein got behind the wheel and Khazid slipped off his wristwatch, put it in his raincoat pocket and leaned down. “Sorry-I left my watch in the bathroom. I’ll just be a minute.”

Darcus had told them as part of his good-bye chatter that they’d have to change trains in London for Cambridge, but the only mention of Cambridge had been in Hussein’s supposedly private conversations when he and Khazid had been on the porch, which meant Darcus had been listening.

Khazid stepped onto the porch, opened his flight bag, took out a Walther and screwed on the Carswell. He also eased open the door to the hall, aware of the voice whittering on.

“My goodness, Charlie darling, if you knew what I’ve been up to.”

Khazid whistled softly, Darcus turned. “Oh, my God.” He put the phone down.

Khazid said, “Naughty, Darcus, very.” He shot him between the eyes and turned away.

He threw his flight bag in the back of the Mini and got in, putting on his watch.

“Okay?” Hussein asked.

“Never better,” and they drove away.

THE FLIGHT FROM FARLEY had been placed in the hands of Lacey and Parry by Ferguson ’s direct order for the obvious reasons, that they knew everybody. Levin and Chomsky needed introducing to the Rashids, and Greta took care of that. Sara responded well to Levin and Chomsky, but the one person who wasn’t happy at all was Molly Rashid.

Molly and Caspar were sitting together in the two rear seats and had a conversation, at first just a murmur but increasingly fraught.

“Where on earth is it getting us all?” Molly asked.

“It’s for our own good. Just a week until we see how things develop,” replied Caspar.

“I’ve my work to consider, some of the most important of my life.”

“But the colleagues who’ve stepped in for you are first-class people.”

“That isn’t the point. The Bedford child, for example. Absolutely groundbreaking stuff. I should be hovering over her every day of the week, and where am I? It won’t do, Caspar.”

“The Bedford child has got good people hovering over her, seeing to her every need like we’re doing with our child.”

Sara smiled solemnly at Levin and raised her eyes, then she turned, kneeling on her seat, and said, “Is there any way you could treat this like a holiday in the country, so that we can all get along together, because that’s what I intend to do.” She didn’t wait for an answer, just swiveled round and said, “Tell me some more about the Kremlin, Igor, I think it sounds fascinating.”

Her parents, embarrassed, were reduced to silence, and a moment later Lacey said, “Our short flight is coming to an end, folks. That’s the Sussex coastline over there, the North Sea. You’ll notice quite extensive salt marshes. There’s a village of Zion, but Zion House is three miles outside it and close to the marshes. We’re going down now.”

They descended and moved in at five hundred. The house looked like everything it should be, with gracious gardens, and stone walls surrounding it, some sort of wire running along the top. There was a guardhouse at the gate. The marsh was very near to the house, huge reeds springing out of the water, leading to a dike, the landing strip on the other side of it.

“Is that what they call a grass runway?” she asked Levin.

“No, it’s concrete. Have you done this before?”

“Oh, yes, in the Empty Quarter. We had to land in the sand at Fuad. There was an oil seal trouble in the port engine. Oil was spilling out and burning. You’ve never seen such black smoke. It was lucky Hussein was doing the flying. He’s a wonderful pilot. He let me do the navigating.” She leaned back as they touched down. “I’m really going to enjoy myself here.”

And to that, there was little that anyone could say.

THEY BUMPED DOWN on the concrete runway. There was no hangar, just a wooden hut. The man waiting for them wore a navy blue uniform and a clipped mustache, his cap under his left arm, all very regimental. There was a van beside him.

As they approached, he said, “Captain Rodger Bosey. I run things here. You’re all very welcome. What about you chaps?” he asked the pilots.

“We’re at General Ferguson’s command,” Lacey said, “and he wants a quick return. Things are a bit fraught, so we’ll take off straightaway. See you all soon,” and he and Parry got back in the Hawk.

There were introductions, then they all got in the van and watched the takeoff. “Here we go then, I’ll take you all up to the house and settle you in.”

They turned along a dike and through a fringe of pine trees, the great reeds of the marsh close, trembling in the wind. A little way off there was a group of people in anoraks, sitting on a bank, eating sandwiches.

“Bird-watchers,” Bosey told them. “We get a few of those.”

“Any problem?” Levin said.

“Not really. Sometimes if some rare bird turns up, the numbers increase. They’re completely harmless from my point of view. Some do make a bit of a holiday out of it, stay at a bed-and-breakfast in Zion Village and there’s a place that hires caravans. Harmless eccentrics, in away.”

“Why do you say that?” Sara demanded.

“Well, I remember one of them telling me in the pub that the rooks in the village came from Saint Petersburg in October, the winter there for them being too cold. Starlings, too.”

“Why would that make them eccentric?” Sara asked.

“Doesn’t seem all that likely.”

“The Russians ring birds, too. I’m sure they could do that in Saint Petersburg. Don’t you think so, Igor?” Sara asked.

“Ask Greta, she comes from Saint Petersburg.”

“Yes, they do ring rooks there and they do fly away to avoid the Russian winter. I learned this as a little girl.”

“Well, there you are then,” Sara said, and they pulled up at the gate. A man in a similar uniform to Bosey looked out, then operated the electronic barrier, which rose.

“Hello,” Sara called cheerfully, and he grinned and saluted. “Wasn’t that nice? I feel like the Queen now. You run a good outfit, Captain Bosey.”

Her mother muttered, “For goodness sake, Sara.”

But Bosey, totally charmed, flushed with pleasure, although he couldn’t think of a thing to say.

In a way, it was rather like the old days in that kind of house, for they were greeted on the wide steps by a middle-aged lady whom Bosey introduced as Mrs. Bertha Tetley, the housekeeper, who lived in, as did her support staff, Kitty, Ida and Vera.

“If you follow me, I’ll show you all your rooms. Luncheon will be served soon. This way.” She took them through to the vast hall and led the way upstairs.

“I’ll see you in a moment and we’ll discuss things,” Levin said to Bosey, who nodded.

When Levin and Chomsky went down, they found Bosey in the library. He offered them a drink and they settled for vodka. “Have you been here long?” Levin asked.

“Ten years, and not just for General Ferguson, but I’ve handled jobs for him on a number of occasions, so I’ve come to know him well.”

“You were an army man?”

“Military police.”

“An excellent recommendation. What do you know about this business?”

“General Ferguson told me all I need. We’re providing refuge for the Rashid family, who are apparently under some terrorist threat. A period of one week, longer if needed. I understand that you gentlemen and Miss Novikova are members of General Ferguson’s security outfit and that’s enough for me. We have weaponry on the premises but don’t usually carry it.”

“Good man, and it’s Major Novikova. She outranks us all.” At that moment, she came in. “Just in time for a drink, Major,” Levin said.

He winked at Bosey, who smiled and reached for the vodka bottle. “Thank you, Captain.” She toasted them. “To a pleasant stay and all our troubles over.”

There were voices on the stairs outside, Sara’s clear, and then Caspar and Molly followed her into the library. Sara was in excellent spirits.

“This is nice,” she said and ran to the window. Caspar looked hunted and his wife unhappy. “Is lunch ready?” Caspar asked.

“There’s something we have to get clear first,” Levin said, “And this comes directly from General Ferguson. The house phones are only for use internally. You can’t call London. If we communicate with the outside world, it must be through Captain Bosey and his coded mobile system in the communications room. The staff are not allowed personal mobiles on the premises.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Molly asked.

Her husband said warily, “A call from a mobile phone can be very easily traced.”

“What nonsense, it’s preposterous,” Molly told him.

“At the moment, no one knows where you are,” Greta said patiently. “We’d prefer to leave it that way.”

“So I am not allowed to phone a hospital to check on my patients?”

“For God’s sake.” Caspar took a mobile phone from his pocket and slammed it down on the table. “It’s only for a week.”

Molly took a deep breath and seemed about to explode and then the breath went out of her. She opened her handbag and took out not one but two phones. “If you must, and Sara’s, of course.”

Sara said, “Cheer up, Mummy, we’re going to have a lovely time. Now let’s eat.”

IT WAS AFTER LUNCH that Molly Rashid went up to the bedroom and checked the luggage, which included her doctor’s bag. She opened it, pulled her stethoscope out of the way and revealed the spare mobile and its charger she always kept in there in case of a hospital emergency. At least she could still check on the progress of the Bedford child, but it could wait.