The Killing Ground

Chapter 16

AT HOLLAND PARK ROPER DOZED IN HIS WHEELCHAIR in front of the screens, as he often did through the night.

He usually awakened after an hour or so, checked the screens, then dozed off and usually opened his eyes again when the pain became reasonably unbearable. His ravaged body was long past doctors’ prescriptions, but of course, the cigarettes and what he called the whiskey sups helped.

Sergeant Doyle, on night duty, had peered through the small window in the door, as he did frequently, observed the Major was awake and went to the canteen and made him the kind of bacon and egg sandwich that Roper enjoyed and took it to him. It was just before five o’clock in the morning and he put it down in front of Roper.

“There you go, Major. I didn’t bother with tea. I knew you’d just let it go cold. Have you had a good night?”

“Sit down and join me for a while, Sergeant.” Roper wolfed the sandwich. “Between midnight and dawn is the strangest time of all to be on your own, because all you’ve got is the past and you know you can’t alter that.”

“Would you want to, Major? I’ve spent twenty years of my life a soldier and I’ve never known a finer one than you or a braver.”

“Hunched over all those bombs in good old Ireland until I made the one careless mistake over a silly little parked car?”

“You were doing your duty, getting the job done. We all accept what soldiering means. It comes with the Queen’s shilling and the first time you put on the uniform.”

“Let’s look at that,” Roper said. “You did Irish time?”

“Six tours.”

“Then you know that members of the Provisional IRA considered themselves soldiers. How do you react to that?”

“Not particularly well,” Doyle said, “as I was frequently shot at during my tours of duty by bastards who didn’t wear a uniform.”

“Neither did the French Resistance in the Second World War. The guy who made the bomb that got me was called Murphy. When he ended up in court, he refused to recognize it. Said he was a soldier fighting a war.”

“What happened to him?”

“Three life sentences in the Maze and died of cancer.”

Doyle thought about it. “Where’s this going, Major?”

“Like I said, between midnight and dawn, the past going through your head. I saw some film on television showing a British-born Muslim swearing allegiance to al-Qaeda. He also said he was a soldier fighting a war.”

“I saw that,” Doyle said. “Where does it end?”

“I’d say with our present problem, Hussein Rashid. Put it to him, he’d say exactly the same thing as all of them.”

“Then maybe it’s just an excuse, a cop-out? At least you were blown apart wearing a uniform, Major. That bugger Murphy wasn’t.” He stood up and shrugged. “There’s no solution to it, really. I’m going to make tea now. Want some?”

“Actually, I would.”

Doyle went to the door and paused. “I didn’t tell you it’s started raining outside and the wind’s building up. You might find the Hawk can’t get off at Farley.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it.”

He checked the weather report on television and it wasn’t good, then he accepted the mug of tea from Doyle and poured a whiskey sup in it when he was alone. He pulled Hussein’s photo on screen. It stared back at him, that Che Guevara look.

“Yes, I know that isn’t you anymore, but where the hell are you?”

And closer than he would ever have dreamed possible, at the shop on the edge of West Hampstead, Ali Hassim was tapping on Hussein’s door, a cup of tea in his hand. He put on the light and went in. Hussein was awake.

“It’s earlier than you said, but the weather is not good.” He put the green tea down at the side of the bed.

The window rattled in the wind. Hussein said, “My thanks for the tea, but I must pray for a while. I’ll be ready to leave at the time agreed. If you would turn off the light.”

“Of course.”

Ali went out, tapped on Khazid’s door and went downstairs.

ROPER DOZED AGAIN and came awake to find it was just seven o’clock. At the same time, the Caravanette pulled in at a Little Chef outside Guildford. There was a strong wind and the rain was relentless, but Hussein and Khazid were impervious to it, thanks to the outfits Bolton had purchased. The three-quarter-length anoraks in olive green were hooded with capacious pockets large enough for the silenced Walthers they carried, including spare clips of ammunition. Waterproof bush hats, leggings and heavy boots made short work of the weather.

There were a dozen or so customers scattered around the café, mainly truck drivers from the look of what was in the car park. Hussein and Khazid sat in a corner away from anyone else.

“What do we eat?” Khazid asked.

“Look at the menu. The popular choice is the full English breakfast with a mug of tea.”

“Which includes bacon for a start.”

“In the circumstances, Allah will be merciful. So, go to the counter and in your best broken French, give the order. To be practical, I’m hungry and we have a long day ahead of us.”

Khazid went and spoke to the young girl on duty and returned and sat down. “What do you think of the Caravanette? It’s hardly a getaway car, the engine throbbing when you put your foot down.”

“It could be argued that it would be perfect for such a purpose. What police are usually chasing is the faster traffic, not the vehicle in the slow lane.”

“A debatable point,” Khazid said.

The girl brought the breakfasts and teas on a tray, put everything on the table and departed. “My chief instructor in the camp in Algeria had a saying: Walk, don’t run, whenever possible. Now eat your breakfast, little brother, and shut up.”

IT WAS EIGHT O’CLOCK when Dillon and Billy joined Roper, and his news wasn’t too good. “I’ve had Lacey on. He and Parry have arrived at Farley. It’s not too nice. He certainly thinks it’s not on for a nine-o’clock departure. They’ll just have to wait for a window of opportunity. I’ve spoken to Ferguson. He’s suggested we have a quick breakfast. He’ll be here for an eight-thirty departure.”

“That’s fine,” Dillon said. “Are you going to join us?”

“I don’t think so. I’d a bad night, and then this weather.” He shook his head. “I think I’ll check with Zion while you eat. See you later.”

Dillon and Billy left him for the canteen, and Roper called Levin.

AT THE DINING ROOM at Zion House, Levin, Chomsky and Greta sat at a corner table and rain rattled against the French windows, the terrace outside streaming with it as it fell on the garden extending all the way to the wall, the wood beyond.

There was a certain amount of mist that made everything look a little mysterious. Various trees, masses of rhododendrons, willow trees, an old summerhouse, sheltered pathways running through shrubberies.

Greta, who was drinking coffee and looking out, said, “Rain, bloody rain, but it suits the garden.”

Sara came up behind. “I heard that. It’s like something out of Jane Eyre. Dark and brooding.”

“Would you like to join us?” Greta said.

“No, I’d better go and sit in the far corner. The parents are coming down, I’ll see you later.”

She moved across, waving cheerfully at Captain Bosey and Fletcher and Smith, two of his guards, who were eating together. A little later, Caspar and Molly arrived and joined their daughter. One of the girls, Kitty, took an order and went off to the kitchen.

Levin’s phone went and it was Roper. “How’s the house party proceeding?”

“Rain and even a little mist. Makes the garden look romantic.”

“What about the runway?”

“I can’t see from here. Hang on and I’ll go to the terrace.” Which he did, going out to the hall and helping himself to an umbrella he found behind the door. He opened it and stepped out, giving Roper a running commentary. “There’s no way this rain is going to stop, that’s for sure, but I can see the runway. There is some mist there, certainly. What’s the word from your end?”

“Well, Lacey doesn’t seem to think nine o’clock’s likely. He’ll await a window of opportunity was what he said.”

“Okay, I’ll keep in touch.”

Levin turned, moved back to the house to report to the others.

AT FARLEY FIELD, Jamal had set himself up in the public car park. He parked in a spot from which he could see the arrivals. The Hawk was already parked on the other side of the terminal building.

The yellow van had Telecom on the side and he raised the rear door like a flap against the rain and sat there from half-past seven and waited. He was surrounded by coils of wire, a large tool box was open, and in his yellow oilskins with Telecom on the back, he looked perfectly acceptable.

Ali Hassim, who had phoned several times, tried again at half-past eight. “Still nothing?”

“I’m afraid so. I will contact you the moment I see anything.”

He opened a lunch box and took out a banana and a carton of yogurt, ate it slowly with a spoon, then unpeeled the banana, watching. Time ticked by and suddenly the People Traveller from Holland Park, the vehicle that he had followed on his motorbike when it had taken the Rashids and the three other people to Farley, arrived. He watched it park at the end of the terminal. Three men hurrying for shelter. He knew one was Ferguson because Hassim had shown him a photo.

He phoned Ali instantly. “They’ve arrived, Ferguson definitely and two other men. They were too fast for me, hurrying through the rain.”

“Allah be praised. Phone me again the moment they take off.”

“It may be a while. The weather is not good.”

“So wait and watch.”

IN THE TERMINAL BUILDING, Ferguson talked to Lacey. “What do you think?”

“I don’t hold out any hope of nine o’clock. The flight down there takes an hour, a little more depending on the wind and whether it changes direction. Maybe another half hour. That would give an estimated time of arrival at about ten-thirty. We’ll just have to see. I suggest coffee, General.”

“Oh, very well.” Ferguson wasn’t pleased and phoned Levin.

“Nine o’clock and waiting. Lacey still has hopes. I’ll call you.” He shrugged and said to Dillon and Billy, “Can’t be helped. Let’s find this coffee.”

AT ZION, the Caravanette had arrived twenty minutes earlier and passed through the village as Khazid drove, following Bolton’s instructions, passing the house and the electronic barrier at the estate entrance with the guardhouse beside it.

Farther along, they came to the sprawling country car park surrounded with high hedges and the wood on the other side. There was one thing that Bolton had failed to mention, a brick public convenience. As for the car park, at that moment in time, there wasn’t a single vehicle parked there.

Khazid got out. “I have an idea.”

He went to the public convenience, looked behind and returned. “I think I could squeeze the Caravanette round the back of it?”

“No, we won’t do that,” Hussein said. “Remember what I said? Walk, don’t run. We are harmless eccentrics who prefer to be out in the pouring rain watching birds to sitting at home. We’ve nothing to hide. Just park us there by the wood. The gate guard can’t see down here anyway.”

His phone went. It was Ali, who described the situation at Farley. Hussein took the news quite calmly. “Call me the moment the Hawk leaves.”

“Where are you?”

“Where we are supposed to be. Now don’t bother me until you have news.”

Khazid said, “What’s happening?”

“Jamal at Farley has seen the Hawk waiting and Ferguson and two men arrive, probably Dillon and Billy Salter. He will inform Ali the moment the Hawk takes off. I know that plane, I’ve flown one. I’d say in good weather, it would be here at Zion in an hour, maybe a little more today.”

“Allah preserve us,” Khazid said in awe. “Ferguson himself on the terrace of that house? The British Prime Minister’s head of security, a man with huge links to the American President. What a target. This changes everything. Our place in heaven is assured.”

“It changes nothing,” Hussein told him. “First we need to get into the grounds, fool. So, orders. The large pockets in our anoraks will carry our weapons and additional ammunition with no problem, even your Uzi with the stock folded. We leave the flight bags locked in the Caravanette.

You can carry the canvas bag with the tool kit, I will have my Zeiss glasses around my neck, and then into the wood with us.”

“To watch birds,” Khazid answered.

“Of course, and if any bird-watchers as crazy as us turn up in this weather, remember you’re French.” He led the way along the side of the wood toward the runway end, checking his watch and finding it was just after nine.

Bolton’s instructions had really been very good. Hussein turned into the fringe of pine trees at that point and said, “Stop, I want to take a look.”

He focused the Zeiss glasses that Bolton had procured. They were excellent. He scanned the garden, then checked the terrace extending the whole front of the house, the main door in the center. At that moment, the French window opened and Sara came out and held an umbrella overhead. Caspar stood in the French window, obviously urging her to come in out of the rain. She stayed for a moment, then turned and went in. The French window was closed.

Hussein said hoarsely, “I’ve just seen Sara on the terrace under an umbrella and Caspar behind her. They’ve gone in again. Have a quick look.”

Khazid did, handed them back, and Hussein said, “Let’s get to it.”

Within a few minutes, thanks to Bolton’s briefing, they forced their way through the thicket and found the stone.

“Excellent.” He stamped around, kicking in the grass, and Khazid unfolded the canvas tool kit. There were two small steel spades and two lengthy crowbars ranged along the bottom of the bag. A sledgehammer and a flashlight. There was also a dark green waterproof cape, to hide an open hole if necessary.

Remembering what Bolton had told them he had done, Hussein tapped around in the turf and heard the clang of metal on metal.

“Now the spades,” he said. “Come on, both of us.”

They attacked savagely and the pointed steel blades tore into the turf, turning it over, soon revealing a circular iron manhole. It was worn with the years, pitted, but it was still possible to read the manufacturer’s name: Watson amp; Company, Canal Street, Leeds.

They looked at it in silence. “Amazing,” Khazid said. “After all these years.”

“Try moving it,” Hussein told him.

There was a steel handle in a cup setting in the center. Khazid pushed one of the crowbars through and heaved. Nothing much happened, and at that moment Hussein’s mobile sounded. He answered at once and found Ali there.

“Jamal has just called me. Although the weather is still poor here, the Hawk has just departed. It’s nine-thirty. Does everything go well?”

“We’ve found the entrance, but I’ve no time to talk.” He slipped the phone into his pocket and took the other crowbar from the bag, inserted it and they heaved together without success.

“Take some of the smaller tools, the screwdrivers, and we’ll scrape round the edges of the circle. That was Ali. Jamal reports the Hawk departing nine-thirty.” He scraped away furiously, as did Khazid. “That would mean an ETA of ten-thirty plus the drive from the runway. I’d say they’ll arrive at the house at about ten forty-five. Now put your back into it, little brother.”

And it moved with a strange kind of groan and tilted and broke free and they carried it farther into the thicket and dumped it in the long grass.

“You first,” Hussein said to Khazid and pulled the cape from the tool bag. “I’ll pass it to you. There seem to be rungs down into this thing.”

Khazid did as he was told, the flashlight in one hand. His voice echoed up. “It’s about five foot in diameter. Drop the bag.”

Hussein did so, spread the cape on the ground, went a few steps down the rungs and reached up to pull the cape over the hole. It was green in color, and with any luck, it would be undetected for a very long time.

KHAZID HAD THE FLASHLIGHT OUT and it picked out the tunnel ahead. Its curved sides were concrete and very wet and the drip of water could be heard.

“Must be leakage of some kind,” Khazid said.

He moved ahead, bending over slightly, oblivious in his stout boots to the sludge under his feet. There was a smell, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Rather like walking through a wood in the rain, earthy and damp.

In his head, Hussein moved in slow motion as if in a dream. The sight of Sara under that umbrella had shocked him. It was the reality of her presence after the things that had gone before, the journey from Hazar, so much violence and death. Now she was near and there was little doubt what Khazid would expect to do.

And Khazid was right to expect such a thing. They were soldiers, fighting in a war, one of the worst of modern times that, one way or another, had cost the lives of many thousands of his fellow Iraqis, including his parents. It would be the worst kind of dishonor to fail them all now, even though it would cost him his life. He saw all this so clearly. He was the Hammer of God and he had never failed in his duty.

There was the same kind of ladder in the brick wall. He said to Khazid, “Mount a few rungs with a crowbar and see what you can do. I’ll brace you.”

Khazid put down the lantern and obeyed and mounted to the right level and got to work, as Hussein took his weight. He was having difficulty, but a crack was obvious at the left-hand side of the manhole cover, the decay of the years.

“I can get the end of the crowbar in there. I’ll hold it with one hand while you get the hammer and swing it against the end.” Hussein did exactly that and everything happened in a rush, two or three bricks tumbling down. He jumped out of the way, then pushed his hands into Khazid’s back, holding him firmly, while the manhole cover seemed to slide to one side and a considerable amount of earth showered in.

Hussein shook it off. “Go through, see where we are,” he ordered.

Khazid mounted the rungs farther, pushing the lid right to one side and emerged, heavy rain pouring down, in the middle of a mass of rhododendron bushes surrounded by willow trees and close to a summerhouse styled in the manner of a pagoda. He was hidden from any kind of view, although a narrow path was near at hand, a walkway through the heavy foliage. There was the house, and the front door, the terrace on either side, a glimpse of someone passing the French windows. Although he wasn’t to know, it was Kitty and Ida, setting the dining room tables for lunch.

Khazid slid down into the tunnel and told Hussein what to expect. Hussein mounted a few rungs, paused a moment, then came down.

“Perfect.” He glanced at his watch. It was ten-twenty and the air was filled with the noise of the Hawk landing at the runway. “Ten minutes early. I got it wrong.”

“But we are just in time for Ferguson, is it not so?”

“Absolutely.” Hussein took out the silenced Walther and checked it.

Khazid did the same to his, leaving the Uzi in the other capacious pocket, already loaded with the taped magazines. The hand grenade he had taken from Darcus Wellington’s collection without telling Hussein, he left in his breast pocket.

“So, Sara is no longer a problem?” he said. “It will be Ferguson?”

Hussein nodded slightly. “Yes, Ferguson, because it must be so. I see now I was very wrong where Sara was concerned. My duty lies elsewhere.” He smiled. “Sometimes you see truth more easily than I do. A hard lesson for me to learn.” He kissed Khazid on each cheek. “I will meet you in Paradise, little brother.”

“And I you.” Tears stained Khazid’s face, and he gave his leader a fierce hug.

“Go to a good death,” Hussein told him, waited for Khazid to go up and then followed him.

CAPTAIN BOSEY WAS BY THE RUNWAY, umbrella ready to shield Ferguson from the heavy rain. Dillon and Billy followed behind him and Ferguson turned as Squadron Leader Lacey peered out of the hatch.

“We’ll certainly be here for a few hours, so you and Parry might as well come up to the house.”

“That’s kind of you, sir, but we’ve got things to do.” He turned to Bosey, “Could you come back for us in an hour?”

“I’ll see to it.” Bosey held open the Land Rover door for Ferguson and Dillon and Billy bundled in.

“What a bleeding day,” Billy observed.

“Takes you back to Belfast on a wet Saturday night,” Ferguson added as Bosey drove away. “I must say Lacey and Parry did a fine job. There were times when I flinched.” He turned to Bosey. “How’s everything at the house?”

“Perfect, General, no problems. The Rashids have settled in well and your people seem perfectly happy.”

“Excellent,” Ferguson told him. “Pity about the weather, but I’m sure you have a nice lunch arranged.”

“Oh, you can rely on Mrs. Tetley for that, General.” Bosey drove on.

THE SOUND OF THE HAWK had touched everybody at Zion House with a kind of anticipation, especially Molly Rashid, who was feeling even more unhappy than usual.

“Thank God they’ve got here. I thought it might be canceled by this dreadful weather and I need to have words with General Ferguson.” She was sitting on a sofa beside Caspar and Sara, and the three Russians were chatting in the corner. She stood up. “I’m just bobbing upstairs for a moment.”

“What for, a phone call, Mummy?”

“Yes, I’ll only be a few minutes.” There was instant dismay on her face as she realized her error. The Russians stopped their conversation and Molly, horrified at being caught out, fled.

Caspar said, “What on earth’s going on?”

“Why don’t you ask her?” Sara stood up. “You know how much I like the rain, I’m going for a walk in the garden.”

“You’ll get soaked,” he told her.

“No, I won’t, I shall borrow Igor’s trench coat and take an umbrella.” She turned to the Russians as she walked out. “Taking your trench coat, Igor. I’m just going for a stroll.”

“Do you want any company?” Greta asked.

“Suit yourself,” Sara said.

“I’ll be right with you.”

A few minutes later, they went out the front door, Greta also in a raincoat, linked arms for a moment and paused at the balustrade. Hidden in the rhododendron bushes by the pagoda, Hussein and Khazid saw them emerge, and Hussein raised the Zeiss glasses.

“It’s Sara and some woman.” At that same moment, the Land Rover entered the main gate and started along the driveway. Sara said to Greta, “Oh, damn, here they are. I’m not ready for it yet. Let’s go, just for a few minutes at least.”

“If you like.”

They hurried down the steps and branched off on a path bringing them through to the end of the garden and paused close to the pagoda. They looked back and saw Levin and Chomsky crowding the front door in welcome as Ferguson, Dillon and Billy got out of the back of the Land Rover. There were words exchanged up there, Ferguson turned to the balustrade and peered down, looking for them.

IN THE BUSHES, Khazid couldn’t contain himself. “It’s Ferguson- perfect.” He stepped out of the bushes and faced Sara and Greta, avoiding Hussein’s quick grab, the Walther in his hand, against his leg.

Sara stared at him. “It’s you, Khazid.” She was stunned. “I can’t believe it.”

Hussein stepped out and took off his bush hat. “Hello, Sara, it’s a long way from home.”

She stared at him. “Good heavens, Hussein, what have you done to yourself?”

“Everything changes, cousin.”

She said, “I don’t know how you got here, but I’ve no intention of going anywhere with you.”

“So the Hammer of God has fallen so low?”

And she said the strangest thing. “Oh, Hussein, you’re such a good man, in spite of yourself.”

“Enough of this nonsense,” Khazid said, took the grenade from his pocket and hurled it up toward the balustrade, where it bounced off the steps and rolled backward into a flower bed and exploded.

There was total confusion, everyone ducking, weapons appearing in their hands, Greta, who was carrying her own Walther in her raincoat pocket, drew it. Khazid grabbed her wrist, but she discharged twice, slicing his left shoulder, the second shot catching Hussein in the stomach as he stood to the side.

Khazid shot Greta at point-blank range in the body and she was hurled away to fall on her back. He went completely berserk, pulled out the Uzi and ran wildly up through the garden, calling out Ferguson’s name at the top of his voice, and Dillon and Billy pumped one round after another into him.

Sara shouted wildly, hands up, “No more! Stop it, now!”

Her parents had emerged from the house and Molly tried to run forward, but Ferguson called, “Cease firing.”

Sara looked at Greta, then called, “Come and get Major Novikova at once, but no violence, please.” She turned to face Hussein, old beyond her years, aged by experience.

“What now, cousin?” she said.

He was leaning against the pagoda and turned inside, a hand to his stomach, blood oozing. “How did you know where we were?” she asked.

“An unwise call to your mother’s hospital, a nurse, sympathetic to our cause who overheard. But no matter, this is our final meeting, Sara. May Allah bless you all your days, but go now, obey me in my last request.”

“No more killing,” she said. “It is enough.”

She turned as Dillon, Billy and Levin arrived and walked past them, as Levin knelt over Greta. She went calmly up the steps and her mother grabbed her.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, but no more phone calls, Mummy, they cost too much. Telling Dr. Samson where you were was a lousy idea. It got into the wrong hands.” She walked into the hall and went upstairs.

There was a kind of horror on Molly’s face as she realized the implication. Caspar said, “What on earth did she mean?”

“That somehow what has happened here was my fault. I rang Dr. Samson at the hospital a number of times on an extra mobile I keep in my bag. I couldn’t help myself.”

“How could you do that?” He shook his head. “So stupid.” She turned wearily and went inside. He sighed, and went after her.

HUSSEIN WAS STILL IN THE PAGODA, fumbling at his anorak, the blood oozing more than ever between his fingers, but when he finally stood up and lurched outside, the Walther was in his right hand.

“Mr. Dillon, Mr. Salter.” They faced him, weapons ready. His hand swung up and each of them shot twice, throwing him backward, the Walther flying to one side.

He was instantly dead. Billy picked up the Walther, inspected it and turned to Dillon as Ferguson appeared. “It was empty.”

Dillon’s face was bleak. “Poor bastard, he’d nowhere else to go.” He turned to Ferguson, “Greta?”

“Levin thinks she’ll be all right. Ambulance on its way.”

“And the bodies?”

“The usual disposal team. I’ll send in the order to Roper now. Hussein Rashid and this chap Khazid cease to exist. It never happened.”

Dillon nodded. “Do you ever wonder what it’s all about?”

“No, I’ve no bloody time, it’s the world we live in, it’s what we have to do to survive these days, with enemies like the Broker and Osama, Khan and people like him. So let’s get back to London and get on with it.”

He turned and walked away, as an ambulance drew up on the terrace and three paramedics piled out, came down the steps and hurried to where Levin crouched over Greta.

Dillon turned to Billy. “Okay, you heard the man,” and they followed Ferguson up to the terrace and into the house.