The Killing Ground

LONDON
BRUSSELS
Chapter 2

AT HOLLAND PARK, THEY WERE ADMITTED BY SERGEANT Doyle, who was on night duty. “Unexpected guest,” Dillon told him. “Get Henderson out of bed. Billy, you stick Rashid in the interview room and wait. I’ll see if Roper is still up.”

Which he was, roaming cyberspace as usual, Cole Porter sounding softly from a player. He was humming, perfectly happy, with Greta in a nearby chair, browsing through the New Statesman.

“Come into the viewing room, both of you.”

They assembled quickly, all of them, watching through the glass as Billy left Rashid alone in total silence.

“This is Caspar Rashid, a doctor of electronics at London University. He’s forty-two, born in London, and his wife, Molly, is a medical doctor. Hope you’re getting this, Roper. I’d like a full-flow analysis as you record details of the interview. Assist by all means.”

“Of course. Let’s keep it friendly,” Roper said and brought the lights up on both sides of the glass so Rashid could see them as well. “Dr. Rashid, we’re a mixture of military and intelligence personnel. My name is Roper, the lady is Major Greta Novikova of the GRU, and Dillon and Billy Salter you already know.”

“I’m impressed,” Rashid said.

“We belong to a group personally authorized by the Prime Minister. Normal rules do not apply to us, so your complete honesty will be required.” That was Dillon.

Billy laughed. “The only rules we have are not to have any. It saves time.”

“I understand,” said Rashid.

Greta suddenly said in Arabic, “What nonsense is this? The analysis on Major Roper’s flow machine fits no Arab I ever knew. It’s there now.”

Rashid said in good Russian, “Oh, I’m Arab enough, although I prefer Bedouin. I’m a member of the Rashid tribe, based in the Empty Quarter.” He continued in English. “My father was a London heart surgeon from a wealthy family in Baghdad. Money meant nothing to him.”

“And you forswore your faith? Renounced Islam?” Greta asked. “I can’t believe it.”

“My parents moved back to Baghdad nearly thirteen years ago. My marriage to a Christian was a terrible shame for them. Unfortunately for them, I had been left a fortune by my grandmother, so I was independent. She’d even left me the Hampstead house I was born in.”

It was Dillon who said, “And all this without provoking any blow-backs from your fellow Muslims?”

“Many and often. I became what someone once called a Christmas Muslim. Once a year. The kind of electronic engineering I specialize in is linked to the modern railway. I’m well known in my field as an expert. I visit many Muslim areas. I’ve been subject to pressure from extremist colleagues on many occasions at the university and on my travels. I know of things happening in places that would probably disturb you.”

“Such as,” Roper said.

“I will not say. Not until my terms are met. I will only say that eight months ago when I was in Algiers for a week and my wife was on a heavy operating schedule, my daughter was abducted from her prep school at lunchtime, driven to a flying club near London and flown out of the country by agents of the Army of God, backed by al-Qaeda. She was delivered to my father’s villa at Amara, north of Baghdad.”

“Good God, there’s a war on,” Greta said. “Why would he be there instead of getting the hell out of it, a man like him?”

“He’s seen the light, is dedicated to Osama. He allowed Sara to speak to us on the telephone once, but said I would never see her again. Since then, I’ve tried everything and I’ve gotten nowhere.”

“So that’s where we come in,” Roper said.

“No one in any official capacity can help. The place we call Iraq is an inferno,” Rashid said.

“I’m interested in why your father, a man of such wealth and influence, should stay in the war zone. The major is right.”

“He has dedicated himself to the other side, that is the most I will tell you. What I know about the Army of God during the past months and related dealings with al-Qaeda in many areas of the Middle East and North Africa would interest you, Mr. Dillon, particularly as an Irishman.”

“Now you’ve got the pot boiling. What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Not now. You know what I want.”

“What about your wife?” Greta put in.

“She won’t crack, she’s too strong. A great surgeon. Children are her specialty.”

“And she never knew about your problems with the Islamic business and the Army of God?”

“I thought I was protecting her from it, but the abduction of Sara changed all that. She has her work. That is her mainstay.”

There was a long pause.

Dillon said to Roper, “Can it be done?”

“Well, there is the small matter of the war, but we’ll just have to see what we can do. It’s a good thing Ferguson ’s in Brussels, so we don’t have to tell him. Allow Henderson to take this poor sod away for a shower.” He called to Rashid as he stood up, “Your trip to Hazar. You thought it had a purpose, but those Army of God people were playing with you, was that it?”

“I’ve nothing more to say.”

“Good,” Roper said. “Always nice to be reassured.”

SITTING IN THE COMPUTER ROOM, Roper, who liked to think of himself as the planning genius of all time, had a large scotch and smoked for twenty minutes, but he wasn’t taking it easy.

First, he checked on Molly Rashid’s whereabouts. She was a professor of pediatrics at several hospitals, but that night she had performed heart surgery at Great Ormond Street and gone home at midnight.

He also checked the Rashids in Iraq. The villa on the north road beyond the village of Amara outside Baghdad was, according to American sources, still intact and inhabited by the head of the household, Abdul, aged eighty. There were two or three aging females and five or six young men of the AK-carrying variety and many refugees from the bombing. He was also pleased to see a mention of a thirteen-year-old girl named Sara. So, she was still there. Roper had Rashid brought back to the viewing room.

“What now?” Rashid asked.

“Dr. Rashid, we’re now going to call your wife.”

“I can speak to her?” Rashid had brightened.

“I insist on it. I’m afraid it has to be on speakerphone, and I suggest you tell her everything-which I suspect you haven’t.”

There was the heavily magnified sound of a telephone and a woman’s voice. “Caspar? Is that you?” She was well spoken, a timbre to her voice.

Roper said, “Dr. Molly Rashid?”

“Yes, who is this?” She was unsure, uncertain.

“My name is Major Giles Roper.”

Before he could carry on, she said, “Good heavens, I once met you at a charity lunch for the Great Ormond Street Hospital. You’re that wonderful man with all the medals for dealing with bombs.”

She paused, and Roper carried on for her. “The man in the wheelchair.”

“Yes. What on earth do you want at this time of night?”

“Dr. Rashid, I’m here with your husband.”

Rashid broke in, “It’s true. Back from my trip to Hazar. Listen carefully, Molly, these people may be able to help us get Sara back.”

WHEN HE’D FINISHED TALKING, everything was quiet. The exchange had been full and frank.

Roper said, “What do you think, Dr. Rashid?”

“I’m astonished. I knew more than my husband realized of the great pressures he’s suffered from radical Islamic sources. He, I’m sure, didn’t want me to know about such matters, and I allowed him to think I was ignorant. It’s what wives do. The abduction of Sara finished all that. The lack of any legal means to retrieve her from that dreadful war zone has been very hard.”

“Your husband offers us a bargain. If we can retrieve your daughter, he will give us what he swears is incredibly valuable information touching on al-Qaeda and the Army of God. Do you think I should believe him?”

“Major Roper, he has never lied to me. He is a Bedouin. His honor is everything.”

“It would mean him staying here in custody for the period the operation lasts. And you, Dr. Rashid, perhaps you would be better in protective custody, too. We live in a hard and dangerous world.”

“No, thank you. My operating schedule at the hospital would never permit it.”

“After what your husband has indicated about the people he won’t talk about, I think I could suggest a compromise,” Dillon said. “Major Greta Novikova, a valued colleague, is a highly skilled officer experienced in several wars. She could travel with you as security.”

Molly Rashid seemed to hesitate, and her husband said, “Take the offer, please, Molly.”

“All right. Can I see Caspar?”

“Visit, by all means. Major Novikova will arrange to pick you up.” He hung up. “That’s it for this show. Take him to bed.” Henderson took Rashid out.

AFTERWARD, THEY GATHERED to talk it out, while Greta poured tea and vodka, Russian style. “So this is the way it looks to me,” said Dillon. “Roper, you’ll handle logistics from here. Henderson and Doyle will mind Rashid. I know they’ll tell me they can’t bear the sight of any other military police sergeants in this place, anyway. Greta, you’ll guard Molly Rashid.”

“I liked her,” Greta said, handing out vodka.

“Which leaves you and me, Billy boy, to go to Iraq,” Dillon told him.

“Saving the world again.”

“The job of all great men,” Dillon said. “Now, tell me how you see this gig going,” he asked Roper.

“Well, at some stage I imagine it would involve you or Billy kicking the door of that villa open, gun in hand.”

“Very funny, Roper.”

At that moment, Roper’s Codex Four, his secure mobile phone, rang, and he could see it was Harry Salter.

“Harry! What’s up?” he asked.

“Is everyone there?”

“Not for long.”

“Put me on speakerphone and I’ll tell you what’s up.” He waited a moment. “Remember George Moon and his thug Big Harold?”

“Personally, I’ll never forget them,” Roper said.

“Listen and learn, children.” Harry’s voice floated out of the phone. By the time he had finished, everybody was up to date on the events at the Harvest Moon.

At the end, Billy groaned. “Ruby? Ruby Moon at the Dark Man?”

“She’s safely tucked up in bed right now. It could be a lot worse, Billy. It’ll make a man of you, old boy, isn’t that what they say?”

“Not at the school I went to.”

“And it was one of the finest public schools in London, too. I wanted to make a gent of him, teach him how to behave. Look how it turned out.”

“Yes, you’ve created a gentleman gangster. A highwayman!” Roper laughed. “It certainly suits Billy.”

“All right, let’s have you home, Billy. I smell things happening over there. Make an old man happy and tell me all about it.”

“I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” Billy said and clicked off. He turned to Roper and Dillon. “So, what’s the deal?”

“We’ll keep Ferguson out of it entirely,” said Roper. “I’ll arrange false papers-I think you’ll play war correspondents again. I’ll book a flight from Farley Field. Dillon takes the rap for telling Lacey and Parry it’s an unexpected flight, highly secret and so on. The weapons will be supplied by the quartermaster at Farley. I know a firm called Recovery that’ll help us in Baghdad. It’ll just take a call to make sure. I can let you know tomorrow. Off you go.”

“Christ Almighty. Titanium waistcoats again.”

Billy left, and Dillon walked Greta out and watched as Henderson let Billy out of the electronic gates. After he drove away, they went back inside.

“I think I’ll sleep in staff quarters,” Greta said, and at that moment Ferguson ’s voice echoed out of Roper’s computer, and he sounded annoyed.

“Isn’t anyone there?”

GRETA JUMPED, Roper placed a finger on his lips and Dillon poured Bushmills from a bottle on the corner table.

“I’m here, boss. You know us, we never close,” Roper said.

“How’s Brussels?” Dillon put in.

“Bloody boring, but that’s politics for you. As far as the Prime Minister is concerned, though, we’re into another time of the wolf.”

“A second Cold War?” Dillon said.

“I think we’ve known that for a while. General Volkov never leaves Putin’s side, and as for that fat fool Lhuzkov at the embassy, we’ll deal with him later. So things are quiet at the moment?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor, and boring with it.”

“The stage Irishman act is past its sell-by date, Dillon. All right, if that’s all, I’ll say good night. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

He clicked off and Dillon said, “I’m going to bed for a while. Knowing you, you’re going to get started on the false papers.”

“Nothing like a bit of forgery to pass away my lonely night. It’s like something out of Dickens,” and Roper turned to his beloved computers. “Sean-the mystery man from al-Qaeda, the Broker. Do you believe in him?”

“Absolutely,” Dillon said.

Roper smiled. “I’m so pleased. So do I.”

IN THE EMBASSY IN BRUSSELS, Vladimir Putin sat drinking vodka with General Volkov, his most trusted security adviser, and Max Chekov.

“So, things are proceeding well with Belov International?” the President said.

“Of course, Mr. President. Thanks to Belov’s untimely demise, we control oil fields and gas pipelines from Siberia to Norway and over the North Sea to England.” Volkov shrugged. “And we can stop most of those pipelines anytime we want.”

“Stop go, stop go. Play with them,” Chekov put in. “When you think of all the effort in the old days devoted to the threat of the atom bomb.” He shook his head. “Now we can achieve more than we ever dreamed of by just turning off a few taps.”

“Yes,” Putin said. “It was a wonderful gift, when Belov ended up at the bottom of the Irish Sea, thanks to Ferguson ’s people.”

“What’s happened to Belov’s Irish estate?”

Chekov said, “ Drumore Place. I’ve visited it twice. It has been developed for light industry. There’s a decent runway for light aircraft, and a helicopter pad. A nice little harbor. All in all, a useful property for us to have.” He smiled. “And if you ever want to visit and have a drink, there’s a great pub called the George.”

“Strange.” Putin, once a KGB colonel, knew his history. “King George was the man who oppressed the Irish peasantry in the eighteenth century for being Roman Catholic. They hated him for this, so why call their public house the George?”

Chekov said, “I asked the publican, a man called Ryan, the very question. He answered that it was their pub and they liked it the way it was. And let me note: they may all be Catholic by persuasion, but their real religion is the Provisional IRA.”

“Yes.” Putin sniffed at his drink. “Those former IRA men, so violent-and so useful for certain jobs. Well!” He raised his glass, “Let us drink to the future of Belov International.” He nodded toward Chekov. “And to its chief executive officer.”

The vodka went down and another, then Chekov excused himself. Volkov poured another couple of vodkas.

“What do you think of him?” Putin asked.

“Of Chekov?” said Volkov. “He’ll be fine. He’s got a good tough army record. The kind who laughs and kills, you know? And he’s so personally wealthy that he seems totally trustworthy from my point of view- and he’s just unlikely to get too greedy.”

“Good. Now, Volkov, concerning this sorry business with Blake Johnson. You need to check the quality of your staff. Taking on such a prestigious target is only worthwhile if success is certain. Failure is not an option. And I keep seeing that damn Dillon’s name popping up everywhere!”

“Of course, sir, I understand. As for Dillon-he’s an exceptional man.”

“Are you saying we have no such individuals? Whatever happened to Igor Levin, for example?”

Volkov hesitated. “He became unreliable, Mr. President. By the end of the Belov affair, he decamped to Dublin with two GRU sergeants, Chomsky and Popov. Chomsky, I believe, is studying law at Trinity College in Dublin now. It’s difficult.”

“You’re wrong,”Vladimir Putin said. “It’s very simple. Tell them their President needs them and Russia needs them. And if that doesn’t work- well, we have ways of dealing with people who ‘decamp,’ don’t we? As for Ferguson and company, I’m sick of them. It’s time to finish it once and for all. Every time we make headway in our goal, they interfere. Disorder, chaos, anarchy leading to a breakdown in the social order, this should be our aim. Cultivate our Arab friends, let them do the dirty work. Their favorite weapon is the bomb, which means civilian casualties-that’ll stoke the fires of hate for all things Muslim anywhere in Europe. You have my full authority.”

Volkov tried to smile. “I’m very grateful, Mr. President, for everything.”

“I’ll have a vodka with you, then I’ll let you go.”

“My pleasure.”Volkov went to the side table and refilled their glasses, which he brought back.

“I’ve been thinking,” Putin said. “This Arab you’re running in London, Professor Dreq Khan, the Army of God man. He seems almost untouchable, all those committees he’s on in Parliament, all those political connections. He could get away with murder.” He laughed. “Don’t you think?” He raised his glass. “To victory and to Mother Russia,” and he took the vodka down in one easy swallow.

CALLED OUT AT 2:30 A.M. to Warley General Hospital by an A amp;E Department that was two general surgeons short, Molly found herself dealing with far too many drunks and victims of violent attack, many of them women. And some of the patients were scuffling amongst themselves.

On duty, too, was Abu Hassim, a general porter, not tall but strong and wiry, and more than able to look after himself in that brawling crowd. Abu, born in Streatham, had a Cockney edge to his voice although his features were Arab.

He knew Molly, and she knew him enough to nod and say hello because he lived in a corner shop owned by his uncle and aunt half a mile from Molly’s house.

She was hot and sweaty and deadly tired, and as she pushed through the crowd, a man of thirty or so, hugely drunk, screaming and shouting and demanding a doctor, saw her.

“Who’s this babe?” he yelled, and tried to kiss her.

She cried out, “Leave me alone, damn you,” and tried to fight him off.

He slapped her on the side of the face. “Bitch.”

The crowd surged, and a hand pulled her away. It was Abu Hassim, who said, “That’s no way to treat a lady,” took one step forward and head-butted the drunk with great precision. The drunk went backward, and Abu grabbed him by the front of his jacket and eased him into a chair.

She wiped her face with a hand towel.“That was definitely not in the book, but thanks. Abu Hassim, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Doctor. Sorry about that-good thing I was here.”

“It certainly was. But all in a day’s work, I guess. Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

“Not me, I’ve got the morning off.”

“Lucky you.”

He went out into a windswept rainy road. There was no one at the late night bus stop. He waited. In a few minutes, Molly drove out of the main gate at the wheel of a Land Rover. She pulled up and opened the passenger door.

“Get in. It’s the least I can do.”

“Why, thank you,” and he accepted it with every appearance of gratitude.

“I’ve seen you coming out of that corner shop in Delamere Road,” Molly said.

“My uncle and aunt own it.”

“Where are you from?”

“Right here in good old London. I’m a Cockney Muslim.”

“I’m sorry.” She laughed uncertainly.

“Nothing to be sorry about. I like being what I am.”

She felt in deep water for some reason, “Your parents…”

“Are dead,”Abu said. “They were originally from Iraq. Two years ago, they returned for family reasons and were killed in a bombing.”

She felt the most intense shock. “Oh, Abu, that’s terrible.”

“So far to go, and so little time to do it.” His face remained calm. “But as we say: Inshallah, as God wills.”

“I suppose so.” She pulled up outside the shop. “I’ll see you soon.”

She was so nice and he liked her very much. It was such a pity she was what she was, but Allah had placed this duty on him, and he got out.

“Sleep well, Doctor. Allah protect you.” He walked to the side door of the shop and she drove away, more tired than she had ever been and the electronic gates swung open and she was home.

IN THE SHOP, Abu and his uncle embraced. “A foul night and you are wet. Put this on.” The old man handed him a robe. “I’ll put some tea on. Your aunt has been called to Birmingham. Her niece has gone into labor.” He busied himself with the kettle. “Now tell me what has happened.”

Abu held the offered cup of tea between his hands. “Our quarry, Dr. Molly’s husband, the Bedouin Rashid, arrived off the plane from Hazar and was apprehended. We had two sweepers working close enough to the action. He was seen walking away pursued by two individuals, who turned out to be some kind of government officials. This was confirmed by one of our brothers working on a passport desk nearby. He said they were called Dillon and Salter. Another of our people saw them get into an Aston car with Rashid and drive away.”

“What then?”

“Nothing, except that our man got the license number.”

“How do you know all this?”

“My control called me at the hospital to see what the situation was with the wife. Obviously, the police will contact her.” He shook his head. “I like Dr. Molly. She’s a good woman. Why does she have to be one of them?”

Instead of offering an explanation, his uncle said, “Do you weaken in your resolve?”

“Not at all, not before Allah.” Abu shrugged. “I’m going to bed. She has the morning free, so it will be difficult to check the house then. We’ll see.”

His uncle embraced him. “You are a very good boy. Sleep well.”

THE UNCLE FOUND that with age, he slept lightly and he rested on the couch by the fire. He dozed, contemplating the current situation and how lucky he was with the strengthening faith of age, to have such power from Allah. The phone rang.

“Ah, so you are still awake, Ali my brother.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Abu has done well to involve himself with the Rashid woman. Tell him to take the day off from the hospital tomorrow and observe her. One of my agents at Heathrow managed to follow Caspar Rashid to a place in Holland Park. There was a lot of security there.”

The man speaking was Professor Dreq Khan, whose field was Comparative Religion. He was a highly regarded academic in many countries, but especially in London, where he was on many government and interfaith committees. His great secret was his fateful meeting with Osama bin Laden in Afghanistan years before, and the changes in his thinking that had led him to found the Army of God.

“We’ll find out what we can, but if I’m right, I think it would be a waste of time trying to get in. My computer assistants at the university have come up with an owner for the car, who turns out to have been a rather famous criminal in his day, named Harry Salter. He is incredibly rich, but an informant tells me he still gets up to his old tricks. You know what he tells people? Smuggling cigarettes pays the same as heroin, but only gets you six months if caught.”

“ London is truly an amazing place.”

“He has a nephew named Billy Salter, but the computer listing shows nothing for him. I’ll put the word out, though. Perhaps the authorities have wiped his records. In any event, do what you can, and God be with you.”

Ali Hassim sighed, folded his hands and lay back.

AN HOUR OR SO EARLIER, Billy had driven up to the Dark Man. He knew the front door would be locked, so he went through the side door and passed through to the lounge bar, and found Harry sitting by the fire being served coffee by Ruby. They both looked up and she managed to smile, for she had realized Billy might prove to be her greatest obstacle, but Ruby was Ruby and undeniably pretty.

“You were stupid to put up with it, Ruby. He was always a toad and about as appetizing as a corpse. Now, I’m about to break some bad news to my good old uncle Harry. You might as well hear it, too, because since you’ve become a member of the team and live here, you’d wriggle it out of any man wearing well-cut trousers anyway.”

“Do I take that as a compliment?” Ruby asked.

“Absolutely. Now shut up.” He turned to Harry. “We’re going to Baghdad again.”

“Wonderful,” Harry said. “The troops are coming home, but my nephew and some wild Irishman have to do the exact opposite.”

“It’s worthwhile.” He went through the details. “The girl is just a kid, thirteen, for Christ’s sake, so if Roper has worked a way we might pull it off, then I’m for it. Frankly, the more I think of that kid and what her future is likely to be, the more I’m inclined to go for it.” He got up. “I’m going to bed now, before I fall down.”

He went out, there was silence, and Harry said, “Very stubborn, my nephew. What would you say, Ruby?”

“I’d say he needs a good night’s sleep.” She carried the coffee things to the bar. “But I’d also like to say that I think he’s marvelous, and on that, I’m going to bed, too.”

And she walked out.

HAMPSTEAD AT SIX O’CLOCK in the morning, Greta Novikova was moving through rain-soaked streets that were relatively empty. A Mini Cooper, dark blue, a couple of years old, was what she preferred, the engine lethal. The house was easy enough to find, with its large, old-fashioned Edwardian railings. She called Roper.

“I’m here.”

“I’ll give her a nudge,” and after a few moments she heard over a voice box, “Gate opening.”

It revealed a fine driveway lined by poplars, a gracious Edwardian house standing at the far end, with terraces and French windows.

Greta had left her phone on. “Fantastic. That’s worth four or five million, easily.”

“Clever lady, four and a half. But when his great-grandfather bought the place it went for one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. Gasp away, that’s inflation on the housing market for you.”

Molly Rashid opened the front door at the top of the terrace steps, her hand outstretched. “Major Novikova. Welcome.”

“It’s so beautiful.”

“The house? Oh, we’re very happy here. My husband worships the place and so does my daughter.”

It was as if everything was normal. Greta looked around, noticing dramatic paintings everywhere, and Yorkshire stone on the floor, which from the warmth was heated underneath.

“Kitchen’s at the end of the corridor,” Molly said. “I’ll make us a brew unless you would prefer coffee.”

“I’m Russian, remember, a tea person.”

“It’s so useful having a husband who is a Bedouin. Rashids are great tea drinkers. Go on, five minutes. Poke your nose anywhere. See if you can see why there’s no bathroom in the main bedroom.”

Greta moved quite quickly from bedroom to bedroom, several bathrooms and dressing rooms, all beautifully decorated, a cheerful full-size stuffed bear standing on the landing.

Finally, she reached the master bedroom, which was a work of art, with a superb dressing room next door. She returned to the bedroom and looked thoughtfully at the wardrobe mirrored doors. She opened them one by one, and suddenly a section swung back disclosing a hidden bathroom, a joy in contrasting marbles. She went downstairs, to find Molly sitting at one of the bar stools dispensing tea. “How did you get on?”

“I found it, after a thorough search. It’s a refuge, I presume?”

“Well, I’ve never had to use it in that way. The idea of needing it for such a purpose fills me with alarm. Why does it have to be us?”

“Your husband is a man of some distinction in the world, therefore of great use for the dark side of the Muslim world. Positive publicity would emerge if he went public supporting extremism. Instead, he turns away from his faith, spurns it. That makes him a traitor in their world. Fundamentalists, or many of them, do not wish to acknowledge their Britishness, even when born here.” She got up. “I think we better get moving.”

A few minutes later, they were drawing out of the main gate. “How far did you say it was to Abu’s shop?”

“Five minutes, that’s all. The traffic at that time of night is very sparse. We’ll actually pass it, so I’ll show you.” She did, pulling to a halt on the other side of the road. There was a yellow painted van parked outside the shop, with a sign that said CLEANSING DEPARTMENT. Two men stood beside it with Arabic features and yellow oilskins, not surprising because of the rain, and then a third man in a yellow oilskin appeared, pushing a yellow painted wheelie bin, spades and brushes falling out of it. They exchanged words, and the van drove away.

“Now that’s strange,” Molly said.

“What is?”

“That third man was Abu. He’s supposed to be on shift today.”

“Maybe he works a second job,” Greta said, but she didn’t believe that for a moment. “I’ll call Roper,” she said.

She did, and he returned her call fifteen minutes later. “You’re getting nervous, ladies. They’ve got half a dozen vans traveling the area and checking drains. It’s a monthly exercise.”

“All right,” Greta said. “We’ll see you soon, then. What about breakfast?”

“Taken care of. Tony’s Café round the corner in Arch Street. Takeaway delivery. Congealed scrambled egg, bacon, toast long since past its best. I’d like to take someone on to cook, but I haven’t the authority. I also lack the genius that allows General Charles Ferguson, DSO, Military Cross, to select middle-aged women with rosy cheeks to run a successful canteen, like Mrs. Grant did. Unfortunately, she’s gone to a better place, or wasn’t that her funeral I went to three weeks ago?”

“You’re mad, Roper,” Greta said.

“I have been ever since I met you, dear girl. It’s a privilege to serve you. Until then…”

Greta was laughing hugely. “He’s such a fool.”

“All bluff,” Molly said.

“Oh, yes, there’s no hope. All those lives he saved and what was his return? A burned face and severed spine. Shrapnel still in five places. A wife who dumped him. It’s true. Dillon told me when we were drinking too much one night. Apparently, she simply couldn’t cope.”

“She was young, weak and vulnerable. It happens. To have done what he has is proof that Major Roper is a remarkable man. Don’t think that beneath the surface, there must be a man who is cursed by his suffering. He is a survivor.”

“Tell me about it. You’re a nice lady with a good heart. I, on the other hand, served in Chechnya, Afghanistan and Iraq. I still haven’t discovered what that means about me. When I have, I’ll let you know.”

“I’m so sorry,” Molly said.

“Don’t be. In a strange way, I rather enjoyed it. I wonder what that makes me?” and she turned into the safe house and waited for the gate.

THE BREAKFAST FROM TONY’S was delivered to Sergeant Doyle in a vacuum-packed carrying box, and he allowed Molly to join her husband in his cell. The others made do with the committee table in the conference room. After they were all done, Roper asked the Rashids to join them in the conference room.

“We’ll finish our coffee in a civilized way and then I’ll fill you all in,” he said. “I’m expecting a couple of people who are essential if we’re ever going to get off the ground.”

A moment later, the doorbell sounded and Sergeant Doyle returned with two fit-looking men in leather bomber jackets. The RAF mustaches said it all. Greetings were exchanged and Roper made the introductions.

“Squadron Leader Lacey, AFC, and Flight Lieutenant Parry, AFC. They’ll be flying the Gulfstream. They specialize in operations for our outfit.”

“Anything and everything,” Lacey said.

Dillon, who had a flask of Bushmills in his pocket, took it out, unscrewed the cap and toasted them. “There’s just one small correction. It seems that our two distinguished pilots have not one but two Air Force Crosses apiece.”

They both looked at him dumbfounded.

“Harry always reads the Times. It appears you’ve been gazetted in this morning’s issue, something about covert operations. Can’t imagine where they got that from,” Billy said.

Dillon said, “To many more happy landings,” and raised the flask.

Many more congratulations followed, until Roper opened a briefcase and took out a document pouch. “All right, Squadron Leader, this is for you. Flight details to Baghdad. It’s rather like that job we did a year and a half ago. Your passengers are Billy and Dillon. The purpose of the trip is contained in that file. You’ll wait for them, and on the return there’ll be one other passenger, a thirteen-year-old girl being held under restraint in Iraq. Dillon and Billy will recover her and bring her back home.”

Lacey said, “The situation in Baghdad is still very rough. In the last two weeks, seven helicopters have been downed. Naturally, we’ll do our best, though.”

“We know you will.”

“When, sir?”

“I’d say within the next twenty-four hours.”

“Right, Major. Anything more?”

Roper put a little mystery into his voice. “Squadron Leader, you will have seen many war films where the hero, being asked to do some deed of daring, is told it could win the war for us. Well, this is rather like that. There are security repercussions that would be hugely favorable for us if we can pull it off.”

They took that very seriously indeed. “Just let us get on with it. We’ll get straight up to Farley now.”

DILLON TURNED TO RASHID. “Caspar, you should know that Billy and I had dealings with the Rashid tribe ourselves the other year. With Paul, the Earl of Loch Dhu, and his sister, Lady Kate, both of them in turn, the leaders of the tribe.”

“When they were still alive,” Billy put in.

Caspar stiffened. “Did you have anything to do with that? The events were a huge shock to the people.”

“It nearly cost them a railway bridge,” Billy said. “You probably know it-the Bacu? Spans a five-hundred-foot gorge, constructed during World War Two. The bridge almost got blown up.”

Rashid was most disturbed. “The earl and his sister were killed. That was you?”

“My friend, you’re not telling us your secrets, why should I tell you ours?”

“Incredible view from the bridge,” Billy said.

Molly said slowly, “Are you trying to tell us you executed them?”

“Notice the interesting scar on Billy’s face?” said Dillon. “That was Kate Rashid, as well as two bullets in the pelvic girdle and another in the neck. I know the rights and wrongs of these things are difficult to handle, but that’s the way it was. Believe me when I tell you, they were very bad people. Perhaps you should retire to your husband’s holding cell and try to come to terms with it.”

Roper said, “And we are the good guys, Doctor. Confusing, isn’t it?”

DOYLE APPEARED to escort them and Roper said, “You might as well sit in on this, Greta. The Rashid Villa is north of the city in Amara, and thanks to the genius of my equipment, I can show you it now. Amazing what we owe to the satellite. Look and marvel, children.”

The villa was obviously the home of a wealthy man. There was no sign of bomb damage, it was surrounded by palm trees in clumps, and there was a sizable orange grove, plus lemons and olives. Boats drifted along the Tigris. “All very peaceful.”

“You’d never think a war was going on,” Billy said. “Look carefully. Some women on the house terrace. Go through the orange and lemon groves. At least half a dozen male workers and the main gate is fortified. Three men down there, and I’ll bet those rifles they are carrying are AKs. A few tents in the grounds, though.”

“Tough nut to crack.”

“But not impossible.” On the river, a forty-foot speedboat flashed past. “Because of the state of things in the city, the boat business is booming. It avoids roadside bombs. Ex-Navy guys, SAS, former Green Berets, are all at it.”

“Who have you got?” Dillon demanded.

“A rogue named Jack Savage. He was a sergeant-major in the Special Boat Service, Royal Marines. Used to specialize in operations against the IRA during the Irish troubles, knocking off trawlers and the like running guns in the Irish Sea. I’ve negotiated an extremely large fee, for which he’ll organize everything. You’ll meet him in Baghdad.”

“Where?”

“A club down by the river. He owns it in partnership with a wife named Rawan Savage, originally Rawan Feleyah, she’s Druze. He’s named it the River Room. Tells me it reminds him of the Savoy. I’ve filled him in on the situation. He’ll have the right sort of plan worked out.”

“You mean an approach from the Tigris?”

“He and other vessels travel up and down, particularly at night, on good business and bad.”

Dillon nodded and turned to Billy. “Run me down to Wapping. Let’s fill Harry in. You know he likes that.”

“He’ll try and come, too,” warned Billy, “He’s done that before.”

“Tell me about it.” Dillon said to Greta, “You’d better try to prise the good doctor from her husband.”

Greta went to their room, and Molly and Caspar rose to greet her. “Time to go. You won’t be seeing each other again until this whole thing is over. How do you feel about that?”

“As Allah wills,” he said.

“For a man who doesn’t follow his religion, you reflect on Allah a lot.”

“You could be right, but we are all at the mercy of events. This will be a violent affair?”

“If things go right, it could go very simply.”

“And if they go wrong, people will die. Even Sara could die.”

“There are always risks. But let me tell you about the man you’re dealing with, Sean Dillon. He was the most feared enforcer the Provisional IRA ever had.”

“And what went wrong?”

“During the war in Bosnia, he flew a private plane into Serbia carrying medical supplies for children. He was shot down and facing death when Charles Ferguson arrived. Ferguson blackmailed Dillon into joining his organization, and then did a deal with his captors.”

“What kind of people inhabit your world?” Molly Rashid asked in a kind of horror.

“People who are prepared to do whatever is necessary. We must go. You said you were on call at the hospital.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you want to visit the house?”

“No, not really. I have everything I need.”

“Good, I’ll drop you, then check to see that all is well. I’ll see you again at the end of the afternoon. I have your mobile number.”

The rest of the journey passed in silence. At the hospital, Molly Rashid took the umbrella she was offered, opened it and stood looking down. “You must have killed people yourself.”

“Many times,” Greta said serenely. “I’m in the death business; but then so are you. I’d have thought you’d have got used to it by now.”

Molly Rashid smiled sadly. “I imagined I was in the life business, but it seems I was misinformed.”

She turned toward the hospital entrance and Abu came out and down the steps. “Abu,” she called. “Where are you going? I thought you were on duty?”

He smiled at them both. “Ladies. No, I’ve got this afternoon off. A friend is picking me up,” and at that moment the yellow van appeared, carrying just the driver, an Arab with a pockmarked face. “This is Jamal. I often help him in my spare time.”

Jamal, who looked like the kind of man who was permanently angry, nodded unwillingly, Abu climbed in beside him, and they drove away. Greta said to Molly, “I’ll see you later,” and followed them.

The traffic was light at that time of the afternoon and, on a hunch, she drove straight to the Rashids’ house, parked in the garage and locked the door. She went upstairs to the highest window in the house and only a few minutes later, she could see the yellow van pause across the road as Abu got out and came across and the van moved away and parked under the trees.

Greta nodded. Better to let Abu make a forced entrance. Information on Caspar Rashid? That must be what he was after. She listened to the sudden crash of a pantry window, then retreated to the master bedroom and concealed herself in the refuge.

She could hear him moving around and finally entering the bedroom. Then he used his mobile phone and spoke in Arabic to Jamal. Thanks to her service in Iraq, she spoke fair Arabic herself.

“There’s no one here. No, wait for me, you have your orders. I’m going to search the study, see if I can find anything for Professor Khan. Just stay by the canal.”

Greta took her Walther from the waist holster and twisted the Cars-well silencer on the muzzle. She stepped out into the corridor. He was toward the far end, a pistol hanging in his right hand.

“Surprise, surprise,” she said softly in Arabic. “Nice of you to call. Dr. Rashid is not at home, but I’m her minder.”

He swung round, thunderstruck, and for a moment seemed dazed. She continued in English. “Caspar Rashid isn’t at home, either: we’ve got him, which must make you Army of God people mad as hell. And who’s Professor Khan?”

It was like an explosion, his face contorted, his hand started to lift, and she shot him between the eyes, a dull thud, and he fell backward, dead instantly.

She followed procedure as she had been taught, got through to Roper on her Codex Four.

“Where are you? What’s up?”

“I’ve got a disposal. I’m at the Rashid house alone. The Abu boy broke in armed. I’d no choice.”

“They’ll be on their way immediately. He’ll be six pounds of gray ash at the crematorium in a matter of hours.”

“Should I tell her when I see her at the hospital?”

“If I judge her right, no. She’s not like us. She’s one of the good people. Corpses aren’t part of her world.”

THEY WERE EXCELLENT, the men in dark suits, they might have been undertakers all their lives. Abu’s head was wrapped, he was body-bagged, and one of the men cleaned the corridor, which luckily was varnished wood.

“You’d hardly notice, Major.” He produced a throw rug and laid it down. “There you are.”

She saw them out, then walked down the track beside the canal. Jamal was sitting behind the wheel and she leaned down.

He started violently and she tapped the Walther on the van. “Don’t try anything,” she said in Arabic. “The Army of God is one man down. I’ve shot Abu dead and my people have taken him away. If he’s lucky, all those virgins are waiting in Paradise; if not, you’ve all been sold a bill of goods.”

“But who are you?” he asked in English.

“British intelligence. And I’ve got a message for you to deliver. Tell your boss, Professor Khan, we’re on to him. His little army is out of business, starting today, or you’ll all be following in Abu’s footsteps. Is that clear?”

Jamal said nothing, but his forehead was sweating. Greta turned and walked away, the engine started up behind her and she heard the van squeal off.

HER CODEX WENT and Roper said, “We’re all set. We even replaced the window and swept up the glass, so there should be no sign of what went on. You okay on your end?”

“Yes. Tell me, Roper, does the name of a Professor Khan mean anything to you? It certainly did to Abu and Jamal the van driver.”

“No, it doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I think if you put said professor through the wringer, you might get a surprise.”

“I might just do that.”

Which he did and immediately opened an incredible can of worms.

WHEN MOLLY RASHID came out of the hospital, it was close to eight o’clock and it was wet and miserable out. She slid into the car. “I’m absolutely bushed.”

“Hard day?” Greta asked.

“Never stopped. One operation after another. Frankly, all I want is a sandwich and then bed. What about you?”

“Oh, the usual kind of day. Bloody boring.” Greta laughed as she drove away. “Come on, let’s get you home.”