by Jack Higgins
Saif managed the right answer. “As always, I am at your command.”
“So you will meet Rasoul when he arrives at Heathrow and bring him to Pound Street. I shall phone at three o’clock and give him his orders. If you leave now, you should be back in time to take my call.”
“Of course, Master.” Saif got to his feet and went out of the door on the run.
* * *
At Heathrow, Rasoul met up with Saif with no difficulty. With his wad of dollars, he had purchased fresh clothes at Oran’s airport, a bag and a light raincoat for London’s March weather. Several days’ growth of beard had been taken care of by a visit to the barber. So, in spite of his scarred face, he looked respectable enough.
Remembering Fatima, Ali Saif was conscious of a burning hate for the man, but he stayed calm. “A good flight?” he asked as they drove away.
“What do you think, you stupid Egyptian pig?” Rasoul said. “I can’t wait to get to the penthouse.”
“Well, you will have to. We’re going to the Army of God at Pound Street.”
Rasoul exploded. “Who says so?”
“The Master.” Saif was enjoying himself, swinging through the traffic and rain. “He’s just put Emza Khan in his place, and he’s waiting to do it to you.”
“Now, look here…” Rasoul was beginning to bluster, but tailed off.
“That’s better,” Saif said. “Go carefully. He’s not used to people who say no.”
* * *
A point that the Master himself made over the phone.
“I don’t like you or your arrogant and bullying ways,” he told Rasoul. “Your behavior on Kantara left much to be desired.”
“Not true, Master, I was protective of Yousef in every way,” Rasoul said.
“I was in constant telephone communication with Captain Rajavi, who told me different. You will obey Ali Saif, because his orders are my orders. If he has reason to put your name to the Brotherhood, scores of believers out there on the street would be happy to cut your throat in the name of Osama.”
Rasoul almost had a bowel movement. He was a thug and a bully, but also, as Sara had found on the Kantara, a coward.
His voice rose in panic. “Master, there is no need for this.”
“I am sure there isn’t,” the Master told him. “Now, give the phone to Saif and go and wait for him.”
Rasoul did exactly as he was told. Saif said, “What are your orders?”
“Put him in one of the students’ rooms, they’re private and comfortable enough.”
“I would remind you that students work for their keep.”
“The idea of Rasoul in the kitchen is certainly amusing, but we have the Aziz problem to take care of. I’m afraid the doctor has to go. Unfortunately for him, he knows too much. Sooner rather than later, I think.”
“So you would prefer Rasoul to handle it?”
“It would give him something to do. Not the knife, a broken neck, I think. Have him take Aziz’s credit cards and mobile phone. A simple mugging.”
“His clinic in Mayfair — he has to walk through the garden to get to his car.”
“What could be better,” the Master said. “I’ll leave it in your capable hands.”
Saif sat there thinking about it, then became aware of Rasoul still waiting in the corner. He stood, hands folded, for once a look of resignation on his face.
Saif said, “I’d almost forgotten about you.”
Rasoul said, “What happens now?”
“I’ll show you to your room, explain our system. You’ll be a religious student who performs light duties when required. The Master thought you might find that rather boring, so he’s come up with a special task for you.”
“And what would that be?” Rasoul asked.
So Ali Saif told him, not that it needed much explaining, Rasoul obviously being so familiar with Aziz and his comings and goings. “Think you can handle that?” Saif asked.
Rasoul’s face didn’t even flicker. “A piece of cake,” he said and went out.
* * *
It was bad March weather and early-evening dark when Aziz finished visiting his patients, accompanied by a nursing sister. He ended up in the entrance hall of the clinic, where his Burberry, umbrella, and briefcase waited. As he dressed, the sister opened the front door, revealing rain bouncing on the steps.
“Not fit for man nor beast, Sister,” he said, putting up his umbrella.
“I know and I’ll be following soon. Good night, Doctor.”
Rasoul, in the shadows of a summer house, had seen Aziz clearly in the lights of the front-door porch, waited until the doctor passed, then went after him. Aziz hurried toward the balustrade overlooking the carpark, the steps going down, a camera on a stand to one side, though Rasoul had put that out of action.
“A moment, Doctor,” he called.
Aziz glanced back and paused. “Oh, it’s you, Rasoul, so you’re back. What’s up? Is something wrong with Emza Khan?”
“No, Doctor, only with you.”
Rasoul grabbed him, spinning him around, and as Aziz dropped the briefcase, slipped his left arm around to throttle, while the right hand grabbed the chin, jerking sideways with an audible click, breaking the neck. Aziz died instantly. Rasoul eased him down, felt for the wallet, found it and the mobile phone in a breast pocket, turned, and hurried away.
It was little more than five minutes later that the nursing sister finished her shift and, on her way to her car, discovered Aziz lying there. A tour in the Army Medical Corps in Afghanistan had inured her to such situations. A quick check established that Aziz was dead, and she went hurrying back to the clinic to alert security.
* * *
Saif emptied the wallet and counted. “One hundred and twenty pounds, a driver’s license, and three credit cards.”
“And this.” Rasoul took a mobile phone from his pocket and pushed it across.
“Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” Saif told him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rasoul asked.
“It’s from the Christian Bible, I was being ironic. You wouldn’t understand.” He pushed the money, the cards, and the mobile together. “So this is the measure of a man’s life, brought to an end by you. Does that ever worry you?”
“Not in the slightest. I was doing what the big man wanted.”
“And I can tell you now how to really please him. This Billy Salter, who sank the Kantara, lives with his uncle, Harry Salter, in their pub, the Dark Man by the Thames at Wapping. If you wanted to make your bones with the Master, the death of Salter would definitely help. You still have that Walther I gave you in your pocket, don’t you?”
Rasoul nodded, turned, and went out.
* * *
The apparent mugging and murder of Aziz was mentioned on the evening crime statistics from Scotland Yard. Roper saw it and reported it to Ferguson, who was going out to dinner.
“Could it be just be an opportunist mugging that went too far?”
“If so, it’d be an awfully big coincidence. Especially since his neck was broken by an expert.”
“Well, that takes care of that. If you find out any more, let me know.”
Roper called Dillon, too. There was music and voices. “Where are you?” Roper asked.
“At the Dark Man with Harry, Billy, and Sara. What’s up?” Roper told him, and Dillon laughed and echoed Roper: “A bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? And you know what I think about those. Look, why don’t you join us? Get Tony Doyle to bring you down.”
“All right, I will,” Roper said. “I’ll be with you in half an hour.”
* * *
Rasoul got a taxi and left it on Wapping High Street, pausing in the entrance to the lane with the sign that indicated Cable Wharf down by the Thames and Harry Salter’s beloved pub, the Dark Man.
There were still plenty of ancient warehouses awaiting development, and he kept to the shadows, moving down toward where the cars were parked. There was music on the ni
ght air, laughter from an open window. He stayed among the vehicles, quite close for a few minutes, then approached a window and peered in. He saw them at once — Dillon, Harry Salter, and Sara — Baxter and Hall, the two minders, propping up the wall. It occurred to him that a hand grenade would have been the end of all of them, but that was not to be.
As he turned away, a van arrived, although it meant nothing to Rasoul, who eased back among the parked vehicles. He watched as the black driver in army uniform honked his horn and operated a hydraulic device, which opened the rear and deposited Roper in his wheelchair.
The door of the pub opened and the others appeared, standing in the light and laughing. Rasoul could have chosen anyone, even the woman, but what Saif had said about the Master and Billy Salter took control. Dillon and Billy were spinning Roper around in the chair, laughing uproariously. Rasoul, down on one knee, fired twice, catching Billy in the back and sending him sprawling. The cough of the silenced weapon had been drowned by the laughter.
It stopped, and they crowded in, sitting Billy up, four of the men between them. Rasoul was more excited than he had ever been, but then Billy was on his feet, someone taking off his jacket, then the shirt and the nylon-and-titanium vest was plain to see.
Rasoul was already easing back into the darkness as pistols were drawn and someone called, “He must have been close. Two rounds in the vest.”
But Rasoul was already fading into the comforting darkness back to the old warehouses, until he finally reached Wapping High Street again, where he flagged down a cab.
* * *
They sat in the sitting room of the Dark Man, Billy stripped to the waist while Sara attended to the two heavy bruises on his back. Dillon was holding the vest, extracting one of the two rounds embedded in it, holding it up to the light.
“Walther PPK, unmistakable, silenced version. Lucky you were wearing it, Billy.”
“Dillon, I’m ashamed to say I haven’t showered and changed since I put it on in Algeria at the crack of dawn this morning.”
Harry was handing out drinks. “Here’s to you, my son,” he told Billy. “Remember the old saying: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Here’s to the Wilkinson Sword Company. A work of genius, that vest.”
“But who do you think was behind it, Sean?” Sara asked.
“I think it’s all related to Emza Khan and al-Qaeda. I don’t believe for a moment that Aziz was mugged. He was executed, just as somebody just tried to execute you, Billy.”
“Al-Qaeda?” Sara asked.
“I’m convinced of it.” Dillon tossed back his Bushmills. “And from now on, I’d say it’s titanium vests at all times for everyone here.”
* * *
At Park Lane, George Hagen was well into his night shift when a police car drove in and an energetic man in a trench coat jumped out.
“Detective Inspector Howard, Mr. Khan’s expecting me. Where’s the lift?” Hagen showed him. Howard called, “Wait here, Sergeant,” then departed for the penthouse.
“Can I ask what’s up?” Hagen asked.
“It seems Mr. Khan was a patient at the Aziz clinic,” the sergeant told him and got out of the car.
“That’s right. He’s only got back this afternoon.”
“Aziz was mugged earlier this evening in the clinic garden on his way to his car. Whoever did it went too far. He’s dead.”
“That will shock Mr. Khan. Aziz was his regular doctor, in and out of here all the time. So what’s the inspector after with Mr. Khan?”
“Just to see if he’d noticed anyone hanging round in the garden or the cars when he was there, that kind of thing. I think the geezer who did it is long gone and running for his life. Probably wanted a few quid for drugs, now he’s facing a life sentence for murder.”
“Well, there’s no answer to that,” Hagen said, and the lift door opened and Howard appeared. “Are you his driver?” he asked.
“No, I’m the night porter.”
“Well, keep an eye on him. He’s taken the death of this Dr. Aziz to heart.”
“I can imagine he would,” Hagen said. “They were very close.”
“So it would appear. Right, Sergeant, let’s get moving.” Howard got in the car, and they moved out into the rain.
* * *
At Pound Street, Saif went down to the kitchen for fresh coffee and Rasoul came in through the back door, wet through and looking miserable.
“So how did you make out? Is Billy Salter dead and gone?” Saif asked.
“No, damn you,” Rasoul said. “But I shot the bastard twice in the back. His friends came running, Dillon, that damn woman, but it turned out he was wearing a vest.”
Saif was surprised. “Well, full marks for trying. I’d say you were lucky to get away.”
He walked to the door, and Rasoul said, “Will you tell the Master?”
“He’ll already know,” Saif said. “This city is a sieve, we have sympathizers everywhere. That’s why French Intelligence calls it Londistan. Help yourself to coffee, tea, or anything else you fancy.”
He walked back whistling cheerfully. Poor Rasoul, so near and yet so far.
* * *
Sometime after the police had gone, Hagen checked his watch. It would be somewhere after eleven in Tehran. He was going to send a text but decided to try calling, and Declan answered at once, his voice low.
“Who’s there?”
“George, Colonel. I have more news. Dr. Aziz murdered by a mugger in the garden of his clinic. Isn’t that terrible?”
“But not surprising. I don’t think it was a mugger,” Declan said. “But to be frank, I’ve had a pretty extraordinary day myself, so I’ve got to go, George.”
George closed his mobile and said softly, “Well, that’s a turnup for the book. What in hell is going on?”
11
The minister of war’s hair was snow white, his face tanned, and he wore the blue suit and striped tie beloved of politicians the world over. He brushed Declan’s apologies to one side and shook hands with enthusiasm.
“A great honor, Colonel Rashid, as always. Let’s go outside.”
The windows stood open to the terrace and there was a table under an umbrella. Ali ben Levi rose to meet them. At sixty-four and still soldiering because of the national commitment, he was an imposing figure in paratroop uniform. He and Declan were old comrades.
“As you can see,” the minister said. “We have coffee, sandwiches, fruit, so take what you like, but let me get down to business. As you know, General ben Levi is commander of the army’s secret police. I propose to appoint you his second-in-command immediately in the rank of full colonel.”
Declan was bewildered. “Naturally, I’m honored, Minister, but why?”
“Because I don’t like the Security Services or the Secret Service, and I prefer to keep military business under my control.”
“What kind of business?” Declan asked.
“The possibility of nuclear war, for example. Simon Husseini — you know him, I understand?”
Declan nodded. “I accompanied Emza Khan to Paris to see Simon Husseini receive the Legion of Honor.”
“And did you meet him to talk to, get to know him, I mean?”
“It was only a weekend, but Khan arranged a cocktail party. We talked, but I didn’t really get to know him.”
Declan glanced at ben Levi, who looked solemn, then turned back to the minister. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“He’s disappeared.”
“You mean cleared off, left everything?” Declan shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. He made it clear to me the distaste he felt for his work, but he planned to soldier on because of his mother and daughter. They’re being held under house arrest.”
“Yes, well, they aren’t any longer,” the minister said and nodded to ben Levi. “Tell him.”
“They are dead,” the general said.
Declan frowned. “When did this happen?”
“The day he and Wali
Vahidi, his bodyguard, got back to Tehran, Husseini returned to the nuclear compound at Qazvin, while Vahidi called in on his mother and daughter. Vahidi was driving them to an appointment when a truck came out of a side road without stopping.” General ben Levi shrugged. “The driver was drunk and Husseini’s mother and daughter were killed outright. Vahidi is in the military hospital and not expected to live.”
Declan turned to the minister. “How did Husseini react?”
“The Security Services did not inform him that the two women were dead. To be fair, nobody knew what to do in the circumstances.”
Declan said, “Which meant he was prevented from attending their funerals, am I right?”
General ben Levi said, “The experiment he was engaged in was of absolute critical importance. We’re close to production of the bomb the government is placing so much hope on. But now — the situation is different. There is nothing to keep Husseini from fleeing.”
“Which seems to be exactly what he’s done.”
“How did he find out what happened?” Declan asked.
General ben Levi passed a letter across. “He sent this to the minister. It says he was lied to when he asked about Vahidi, and then he got an anonymous phone call telling him the truth.”
Declan flipped through. It was all there, the anger and the anguish and the promise that he would make every effort to leave Iran and die trying if that was necessary.
Declan handed the letter back. “I can’t say I blame him.”
“Look, I don’t like it any more than you do,” the minister said. “And I’m sure I speak for the general, too, but we live in troubled times and do the best we can with the cards we’re dealt.”
“I am not a religious man, but the business of the funeral leaves a nasty taste. The Irish half of me is disgusted and the Bedouin is far from happy. To deny him the chance to bury his mother and daughter negated not only his Koranic rights but his duty as a Muslim.” He struggled with his emotions. “What do you want me to do?”
“Find him,” the minister said. “I’ve cut the Security Services out of it completely.” The minister snapped his fingers at ben Levi, who produced an envelope, which was passed to Declan. “This is a warrant, signed by the President, ordering anyone to help you in any way you ask.”