The Death Trade sd-20

by Jack Higgins

“That’s easy, Sadie, I’m going to Paris, so let me get to my bed and a few hours’ sleep while I can.”

  By now at the top of the stairs, she got the door of her room open, kicked off her boots, flung herself on the bed, still in her clothes, and was instantly asleep.

  * * *

  At Holland Park, Dillon found Ferguson in a dressing gown and sitting with Roper, being served tea and bacon sandwiches by Sergeant Tony Doyle, who greeted Dillon cheerfully before anyone else could.

  “I expect you might fancy the same, Mr. Dillon.”

  “Tony, you’ve got it exactly right,” Dillon told him. “But I think I’ve earned a Bushmills first.”

  Roper passed him the bottle. “Help yourself.”

  “And then I’d like an explanation.” Ferguson was annoyed, and it showed. “What in the hell have you been getting up to now? And what were you doing involving Captain Gideon?”

  “You can rein in your horses right there, Charles. You had retired for the night, I was due to run Sara home, Giles here noticed a suspicious London cab hanging around. It could have been something or nothing, but ended up very much a something.”

  “In what way precisely?”

  “A man called Abu informed me that there is only one God and Osama is his Prophet. He had his Glock on me, and I was on my knees at the time.”

  Ferguson frowned. “Al-Qaeda was behind this?”

  “I should say so,” Dillon told him. “Sara saved me by stabbing Abu a couple of times, giving me the chance to shoot him. I’d managed to attract his backup man into taking a dive off the local wharf into the Thames, so you could argue that a fine time was enjoyed by one and all.”

  “Including Sara Gideon.” There was a small and quizzical smile on Roper’s face, a query: “Is she okay?”

  “Absolutely,” Dillon said. “I’ve just delivered her to Highfield, where I imagine she’s gone straight to bed.”

  “Which doesn’t surprise me at all, having heard all that,” Ferguson said. “So, al-Qaeda on our backs again, gentlemen. Rather unexpected, I’d have thought.”

  “But they haven’t put anything our way for some time,” Roper said. “So why now?”

  “Maybe they’ve got wind of your interest in those Mediterranean rust buckets, Charles,” Dillon said. “That would certainly add a new dimension to things. There’s really nothing else that would interest them as regards our present activities.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” Roper told him. “This Simon Husseini business. Al-Qaeda would be happy to know why we are so interested in him.”

  “So would I,” Dillon said. “But not now. I’m going to bed in the guest wing to get some sleep while the going’s good.”

  He departed, and Roper said, “Well, there you are, General. I wouldn’t mind knowing what Paris is all about, but I expect you’ll tell us in your own good time.”

  “Well, we certainly aren’t going to try to snatch him,” Ferguson told him. “That’s not on the agenda at all, because of his mother and daughter.”

  “Which only leaves trying to turn him?”

  “Leave it, Major, I’m not prepared to discuss it. I’m going back to bed, which seems the fashionable thing to do.”

  He went out, and Roper smiled. So that was it? Trying to bring Husseini on our side. Someone should have told Ferguson the Cold War is over. The tactics it had bred wouldn’t work anymore, but the old boy was stubborn. Better to leave him to find out for himself.

  * * *

  Ali Saif, at his desk in his room at Pound Street, had been in the extraordinary position of being able to follow most of the events that had taken place, from Dillon and Sara’s departure at Holland Park to the final bloodbath of Butler’s Wharf. The earpieces Farouk and Abu wore were the reason, for they were so sophisticated that Ali Saif had a ringside seat to everything via his incredible receiving equipment.

  He was part of the action at all times, heard Farouk’s howl of dismay as he went off the end of Butler’s Wharf and a great deal of what transpired in the courtyard of the warehouse between Abu, Dillon, and Sara.

  To him, the most shocking thing of all was Abu telling Dillon that there was one God and Osama was his Prophet, making it clear to Dillon, and through him Ferguson, that the real enemy in this affair was al-Qaeda. Very stupid of Abu to do that, but to be charitable, one should not speak ill of the dead.

  But the arrival of Teague and the disposal team and what he heard of them, until they bagged Abu, really shocked him. The sheer ruthlessness of these people showed Ferguson’s organization in a new light to him. He had never cared for the Iranian, a loudmouthed bully who preferred to get bad news sooner rather than later, so Ali Saif decided to give it to him in spite of the time.

  In his bedroom at Park Lane, Emza Khan, rudely awakened, snarled into the phone, “Who in the hell is it at this hour?”

  “It’s Ali Saif. You said you’d like to be kept informed. I’m afraid we’ve had problems.”

  “Of what kind?” Khan said.

  So Ali Saif told him.

  * * *

  When he was finished, Khan exploded with rage. “This is not acceptable. What Ferguson and his people are doing is appalling, and what’s more, they seem to get away with it on a regular basis. Can’t al-Qaeda do something to stop them?”

  “I’m sure we can, given time. All this new information gives us insight on the way they operate. We’ll come up with a plan of action while you’re away in Paris.”

  “Along with Ferguson, the woman Gideon, and Dillon. Are you telling me you can’t deal with them in Paris? Is not al-Qaeda as powerful there as here?”

  “Oh yes,” Ali Saif told him. “Very much so.”

  “Then speak to the right people, do something about it. Paris is full of narrow alleys and dark corners. Try and damage the woman, I should like to see her suffer, at the very least.”

  “At your command,” Ali told him. “We will see what can be done.”

  “See that you do. Another woman, perhaps, who could get close to her. Do you have such a person?”

  “Yes, if she’s available.”

  “Who is she, what’s her name?”

  Saif was trapped, afraid to argue. “Fatima Le Bon.”

  “Excellent, I like the sound of that. So she lives in Paris? What’s her address, phone number? Be quick, you idiot. I want to go back to sleep.”

  With great reluctance but a certain amount of fear, Saif told him, “She’s true to the Cause.”

  “She’d better be. It would be a pity to have to send Rasoul to visit her and have a quiet word. Good night,” and Khan slammed down the phone.

  * * *

  Ali Saif poured coffee, then produced a bottle of cognac from a drawer and poured a generous measure into a cut-glass tumbler. What fools these mortals be. That was Shakespeare, a man who had words to cover every situation, and Khan was a fool in spite of his wealth. Ali Saif was not a religious man, but al-Qaeda had supplied him with the right kind of action, a battle of wits, a great and wonderful game, and he had enjoyed every minute of it.

  He produced a coded mobile and dialed a number in Paris. It was answered quite quickly. “Osama,” he said.

  “Is risen” was the reply in French, and it was a woman’s voice. “Who are you seeking?”

  “Fatima Le Bon, for Ali Saif,” he replied in English.

  She answered in the same language. “You’ve got a nerve, you Egyptian pig. I ended up in police hands again after that last drug bust. I thought I was going down for five years.”

  “Which you didn’t,” he said. “Discharged with a clean bill of health. Now, who do you think made that possible?”

  “Okay,” she said. “So AQ had a hand in it.”

  “Exactly, because we have sympathizers everywhere. I notice you’ve still held on to that special mobile phone I gave you last time when I was over. That’s good, and it proves you’re a good Muslim girl who believes in Osama.”

  “A bad Muslim girl who’s Fren
ch Algerian, didn’t understand what Osama was talking about, and was bewildered when you turned up at that night court with a lawyer when I was charged with slashing that disgusting pimp Louis Le Croix’s cheek.”

  “A charge which was thrown out of court when your lawyer presented evidence that the knife was Le Croix’s, who was sentenced to five years, which he richly deserved for a litany of foul deeds, particularly where women were concerned.”

  “The evidence against him was false, and I’ve been paying you off ever since.”

  “Nonsense, you enjoy the game, just like me, especially when it’s filth like Le Croix who meet a bad end.”

  “Screw you, Saif. So what is it this time?”

  “There’s a lady in London giving us a problem.”

  “By us, you mean al-Qaeda?”

  “Of course. She’s staying at the Ritz.”

  “And you’d like her damaged? Does this mean permanently?”

  “Fatima, we are at war with the world. She is a soldier on the other side, which makes her fair game because she is our enemy. Her name is Captain Sara Gideon.”

  “You know what? Something tells me you fancy her.”

  “I admire her, certainly.” He took a deep breath. “She’s a British Army officer, an Afghanistan veteran, one of the few to be decorated. She now works for an intelligence outfit run by a General Ferguson. Her partner is a Sean Dillon, once an IRA enforcer, and make no mistake, they’re good. They’ve just seen off permanently two of my best hit men. She and Dillon will be at the Ritz tomorrow.”

  Fatima laughed out loud. “And you expect poor little me to take that lot on?”

  “Fatima, my love, not me, but the man I work for, who shall remain nameless, insists on some sort of revenge and suggests that Paris is just the place for it. He’s told me to try and damage the woman, as he would like to see her suffer.”

  “Now I understand you,” Fatima told him. “You’re like the students who joined the Red Brigade years ago, went round blowing things up and assassinating people, just for the thrill of it.” She laughed out loud again. “Your chickens have come home to roost, Saif, because if you don’t do your duty by al-Qaeda, they’ll hang you out to dry and there’s nowhere you’ll be able to hide. They’re great throat-cutters, an Arab tradition.”

  She was absolutely right, of course, and he said, “So what’s the answer?”

  “There’s nowhere for me to hide, either.”

  “Particularly as Khan has your address, the bastard insisted.”

  “So I’ll just have to get on with it. Tell me everything about their reason for being here in Paris, the whole story. At least that will mean I’ll be prepared for anything that comes along.”

  PARIS

  5

  The Gulfstream lifted off at Farley Field at 2:30 that afternoon bound for Charles de Gaulle Airport. Sara and Dillon held conference on board together, Roper on Skype on the large screen with Ferguson.

  “Any thoughts about last night’s events?” Ferguson asked.

  “I’ve thought about it,” Roper said, “but can’t see that it has any relevance to our Paris trip. One of the hit men made the al-Qaeda connection clear. This was all about revenge, and they were waiting outside Holland Park to exact it for the many times in the past when we’ve done al-Qaeda great harm. It was only last year we foiled the plot to blow up the President on his visit to Parliament and managed to dispose of Mullah Ali Selim, one of their biggest operators in London.”

  “I agree.”

  “As far as they’re concerned, we’re targets for life because of past misdeeds,” Dillon said. “But in Paris, it’s a great day for Iran, their scientist receiving the Legion of Honor. The last thing al-Qaeda would want to do is rock that particular boat.”

  Sara said, “What do you really expect, General? We’ve already accepted that Husseini will never leave his mother and daughter in the lurch, it isn’t in his nature. So what can I offer him, or to be practical, what could Britain offer him?”

  “Besides the joys of London, Oxford, and Cambridge? Freedom to continue his research. The government’s ready and willing to provide him with an experimental nuclear facility right here.”

  “But how could this happy circumstance be achieved?”

  “It would take time and careful planning, but I believe the SAS could handle it.”

  “Giving Britain sole access to a nuclear bomb of a power way beyond anything existing,” Sara pointed out.

  “My thoughts exactly. It could lead to a whole new era of peace of a kind we haven’t known in many years.”

  “You think so?” Sara said. “What if Husseini has other ideas once you break him out? What if he prefers Harvard or Yale to Oxford or Cambridge? Would he be free to make his own choice?”

  Ferguson sighed heavily. “You really are being very difficult.”

  “But am I right in my conclusions? Have the SAS spirit Simon Husseini, his mother and daughter out of Tehran, fly them to some safe house in England, and, hey presto, we’re going to be a great little country again, a power in the world, and all down to Simon Husseini’s spanking new nuclear bomb.”

  Roper laughed out loud on the screen. “Brilliant, Sara, well done.”

  Dillon clapped hands. “I couldn’t put it better myself.”

  “Shut up, the lot of you, and be practical,” Ferguson told them. “There are an awful lot of bad people out there who would love to get their hands on what we think Husseini may have developed. Are you seriously telling me you wouldn’t prefer Britain to control it in partnership with our friends in Washington? Can you think of anyone better?”

  It was Sara who gave him an answer before either Roper or Dillon could. “You don’t get the point, General, which is, what if Husseini didn’t want anyone to have it?”

  “Nonsense,” Ferguson said. “What’s done can’t be undone, the genie’s escaped from the bottle and can’t be shoved back inside. Husseini could burn his research records and blow his brains out, but sooner or later, someone would come along to untangle the puzzle again.”

  “Fair enough,” Sara said. “Give me a chance to get close enough to Husseini and I’ll put it to him exactly as you have to me.”

  “And you think he’ll go for it?” Roper asked her.

  “Not the man I knew as a guest in my grandfather’s house,” Sara said. “But who knows? Life has been hard on him, and I expect his responsibility for his mother and daughter weighs heavily.”

  “If he says no to what is the only offer of help that’s going, he’ll find the future grim indeed,” Ferguson said. “His mother’s eighty-six and can’t expect to last much longer, but his daughter’s forty and, in spite of her poor health, could last at least twenty years. There’s no chance at all of the poor blighter doing a runner. So all he can expect from his future is to live and die in Tehran.”

  Roper cut in, “We’ll see about that. I’ve had Claude Duval on from Charles de Gaulle, where he’s waiting to greet you. I’ve booked you a large suite on the fourth floor, because Husseini always takes a two-bedroom suite on that floor. It was a matter of luck, they had a cancellation.”

  “And the others?” Dillon inquired.

  “Our friends from Iran are on the fifth. Emza Khan and his so-called valet, this Rasoul Rahim, are also in a two-bedroom suite.”

  “Valet, my backside,” Dillon said. “Rasoul is all bully boy — Khan’s minder, I’d say. What about the colonel?”

  “Next door to them.”

  “And Husseini? Is he in Paris yet?”

  “According to Duval, they arrived last night, Wali Vahidi in charge as usual.”

  “I found Vahidi’s file interesting,” Sara said. “Have you got his photo there?”

  “Of course.”

  Around fifty with a bushy mustache, Wali Vahidi looked like somebody’s uncle, solid and dependable. “It would seem the Husseinis are the only family he’s got,” Sara commented.

  “You could be right.” Ferguson nodded.
“He’s Husseini’s bodyguard, that’s true, but also his protector. That bears thought. Anyway, it’s time for us to let you get on with it. I’ve every confidence in you. Keep in touch.”

  “Take care,” Roper called. “And watch your backs.”

  * * *

  At Charles de Gaulle, the Gulfstream taxied toward a secluded part of the airport reserved for flights of an official nature. It was raining and Colonel Claude Duval stood outside the private entrance into the VIP concourse, wearing a navy blue trench coat, holding a large umbrella. Porters in waterproofs had rushed to recover the luggage from the Gulfstream, and Sara and Dillon, each with an umbrella held up against the driving rain, joined him.

  “Bonne chance, dear friends,” Duval said. “For some reason, this brings back the memory of many funerals I have attended.”

  “The rain”—Sara ducked into the porch and closed her umbrella—“and these things always seem to go together.”

  He kissed her on both cheeks. “Sara, I can only say you have been worth waiting for.”

  Dillon shook his hand. “Now then, Claude, don’t let your mad passion run away with you. Where are we going?”

  “A private room, a light lunch, a little champagne to celebrate seeing you two again.”

  “Why, Claude,” Sara said. “You certainly know how to keep a girl happy.”

  “No, Sara, my darling, I know how to keep both of you happy, and when you are happy enough, I expect you to tell me exactly what you are doing here and why.”

  * * *

  He took them to a small, luxurious private bar. A handsome young waiter resplendent in a white jacket greeted them, the young woman behind the bar wore the same kind of jacket.

  “This is only used for the most important of VIPs,” Claude told them. “And Jules and Julie are completely at your service…. I should point out that they are also officers of the DGSE, so you can speak fully.”

  The two young agents smiled, Claude nodded, Julie opened a bottle of Dom Perignon behind the bar, and Jules brought three glasses on a tray.

  Dillon said, “Well, here we are again. Confusion to the enemy.” He raised his glass in a toast. “Vive la France.” Sara and Duval joined him. Dillon sipped a little, then emptied the glass. “Pure magic, God bless the monks who invented Dom Perignon. I’ll have another.”