by Jack Higgins
Declan read it. “Impressive.” He put it into his briefcase.
“Where will you start?” the minister asked.
“With Wali Vahidi. When I spoke to him in Paris, I was impressed. He has an excellent army record, a first-class police record.”
“Then I’d get moving if I were you,” ben Levi said. “My impression was that Vahidi’s not long for this world.”
“Aren’t we all?” Declan Rashid said. “Good morning, gentlemen,” and he walked out.
* * *
The military hospital was a good one, which Declan knew well from personal experience. The doctor responsible for Vahidi’s care was a Major Hakim, who read the presidential warrant and jumped to attention.
“A great honor to meet you, Colonel,” he said and led the way to a private room at the end of the corridor, where a male nurse sat outside.
The room was in half darkness. Vahidi lay there, eyes closed, his vital signs endlessly repeating on electronic screens, connected to tubes, drips, and oxygen that were very probably the only things keeping him alive.
Hakim said, “You know this man, Colonel?”
“Yes, I do. He had an excellent record in the Iraq war. What can you tell me?”
“That he’s not got long.”
Vahidi opened sunken eyes, dull with pain, stared at Declan and smiled. “Colonel Rashid,” he croaked. “Where did you come from?”
“I’m sorry to see you like this.” Declan turned to Hakim. “I’d like a little privacy here, Major.”
“Of course.” Hakim brought a chair for him. “The nurse will get me when you’re ready.”
Declan sat down. “A bad business.”
“You can say that again. I had the Security Service bastards in here discussing me. I know they didn’t inform Husseini about the accident. But what are you doing here?”
“Husseini has disappeared. They’re keeping it an army matter. I’ve been transferred to the secret police with instructions to find him. Apparently, someone called him anonymously to tell him what happened.”
Vahidi was silent for a moment. “That was me,” he croaked. “One of the nurses left her mobile on the side table. I gave him a call. He didn’t recognize me because my voice is so rough.”
“He sent a letter to the minister saying he was leaving. That he would die trying if necessary.”
“I’ve known him a long time, and I’m sure he means that. I felt he deserved the truth about his family. On the other hand, I’m torn. I’m sorry for him, but we’re constantly presented with the threat of war. Other people have the bomb, so why not us?” Vahidi asked. “Your father died for our country, and surely you are just as much a patriot as he was.”
“It’s not that easy for me, I’m struggling with a split personality,” Declan said. “For the moment, I’m a colonel in the Iranian Army, but if I do catch up with him, maybe I’ll tell him to keep on running.” There was more silence.
“Oh, what the hell,” Vahidi said. “He has passports in another name. I found them one day. Both French and Lebanese. He used his mother’s surname, LeBlanc. Ali LeBlanc.”
Declan said, “Why didn’t you confiscate these when you found them?”
“Because there was no need. They were from his past, and I thought he’d just kept them renewed. If I’d raised the issue, it would indicate I’d spent time rooting about in his private things and spoiled our friendship. If you want to find him… I’d look in Lebanon. He’s had a place in Beirut for many years, in the Rue Rivoli.”
“Thank you, Wali,” Declan said.
“For some reason, I’m more worried about him than about what remains of the rest of my life. When you see him, tell him I’m sorry for everything and my part in it.”
“And then what do I do?”
“The right thing, the honorable thing.”
“Which is what?”
“You’ll know that when the time comes,” and he closed his eyes.
Declan took a small gadget called a dissembler from his pocket, pressed a button that destroyed any recording made in the room, then went outside.
He said to the nurse, “He’s just going back to sleep. Thank Major Hakim.”
He walked away, and Hakim, who’d been listening in the next room behind a half-open door, emerged and said to the nurse, “You’re sure you’ve got it on the remote?”
The man opened his jacket, revealing the radio listening device. “Yes, I checked.”
“All right. I’m going in.”
He entered Vahidi’s room, found him sleeping again, breathing hoarsely. Hakim looked down at him and said softly, “There is one God and Osama is his Prophet.” Then he adjusted some tubes and left, walking away, the nurse already gone.
Five minutes later, the alarm sounded, harsh and ugly. In a few moments, the corridor was all action, nurses first and then the crash team crowding into Wali Vahidi’s room, none of which was any help at all.
* * *
Declan’s next visit was to Tehran’s airport. At the sight of the presidential warrant, the chief security officer put his people straight to work. They had no difficulty finding Husseini’s departure on an early-morning flight to Baghdad the previous day.
Then they traced the continuing flight to Aleppo using the French passport in the name of Ali LeBlanc, and the hiring of a Citroën car for the onward journey. Some judicious computer work indicated that his entry into Lebanon had been at the border town of Wadi Khalid early that morning, after which he had taken a taxi, Declan assumed to Beirut.
It wouldn’t be a good idea to go in uniform, so Declan gave his driver instructions to take him back to his apartment so he could change. While he was there, the phone rang. It was ben Levi.
“Did you hear the news from the hospital?”
“No, what?” Declan asked him.
“Apparently, Wali Vahidi died shortly after you left. I’ve had a Major Hakim in touch. He says that in spite of a crash team responding to Vahidi’s relapse, they couldn’t save him. How was he when you saw him?”
“Very weak, but our talk was worthwhile.”
“So do you know where he went?”
It was at that moment that Declan Rashid surprised himself. “It’s early yet. There are some things to check out, but I’ll need time.”
“As long as it takes,” ben Levi told him. “And whatever it costs. Go anywhere you like, but find him.”
“Thank you, General, that’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”
Ben Levi hung up.
“Now, why did I say that?” Declan asked softly.
There was no answer except that something was stirring inside him. He phoned the secret police headquarters and asked for the duty officer, who came on, full of enthusiasm.
“I’ve just seen your promotion, Colonel. My name is Captain Selim, and it’s a privilege to serve under you. How can I help?”
“My assignment is top secret. How do I get to Beirut as fast as possible?”
“By high-speed executive jet, Colonel. We fly twice a day, with general mail and private and confidential material for the embassy. There is room for a passenger or two. You could go this afternoon.”
“I won’t be in uniform, but it would be necessary for me to be armed.”
“That will be no problem.”
“Who is the military attaché in Beirut?”
“Captain Shah, a good officer, one of our own.”
“Tell him to meet me, but no one else. I don’t want any fuss. Get me a room at the Tropicana, and a Range Rover with a couple of AK-47s. Stress that secrecy is essential.”
“As you command, Colonel.”
Declan hung up, checked his large canvas holdall, slipped in a small traveling laptop for note-taking. He was wearing a black shirt now over a titanium vest, a summer suit, and ankle boots of soft leather. In the bag was a similar suit of fawn linen, a couple of extra shirts and underwear, a toiletries bag, and a holstered Glock pistol. A soldier traveling light. The final thing he t
ook, from a locked drawer beside his bed, was a Colt .25, which he slipped into his waistband at the small of his back. A pair of Ray-Bans meant for desert conditions and he was ready to go.
When he went out and stood waiting for the lift, he had the strangest of feelings. It was as if he was leaving something behind when it should have been that he was starting out on something new. For some reason, it made him unaccountably cheerful as he hurried out to his limousine and told the driver to take him to the airport.
* * *
As Simon Husseini was being driven to Beirut, two and a half thousand miles away in London, Sara Gideon was just finishing a late breakfast. Her grandfather was away, chairing a seminar on comparative religion at St. Hughes College, Oxford. She was hoping for some flying time, and then Roper came on the phone.
“If you’re interested, Ferguson’s had to do some fast packing. He’ll be out of our hair for at least a week to ten days.”
“Tell me,” she said.
“The Cabinet Office phoned him in the middle of the night. The PM wants him to help the Foreign Secretary with some UN committee about the Middle East.”
“Is he on his way?” she said.
“Already gone in the foreign minister’s plane. Can’t even use his own Gulfstream. He’s not pleased at all.”
“But you are,” Sara said.
“Well, it’s nice to be off the lead occasionally. You know the old saying. When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”
“So what are we going to do? Concentrate on Emza Khan?”
“The computer can do that,” Roper said. “It’s only a question of time before he comes tumbling down like Humpty Dumpty. Why don’t you join me and we’ll try and work something out together.”
“Why not?” she said. “But give me a little while. I feel like a nice brisk walk through Hyde Park. I’ll see you soon.”
* * *
It had rained earlier and would again, wind stirring the trees and not too many people abroad in such brisk March weather. She wore a flying suit and boots, a black bomber jacket, in all a rather dashing figure, and was happy striding along, when her Codex trembled in her pocket with the special signal. She answered, and found Simon Husseini calling.
“You didn’t block your location,” she said. “I can see you’re in Beirut. Did you mean to do that?”
“No, I was careless,” he replied. “I didn’t expect to have to use this special phone you gave me in Paris so soon. Where are you?”
They talked for several minutes, and she heard the awful news about his family. As she tried to digest it, she turned and started to walk back home. “Why Beirut?”
“I’ve had a place in the old quarter for years, in Rue Rivoli. Bibi, my housekeeper, lives in the place permanently. This is the first time I’ve been back for some years, for obvious reasons.”
“And you got to Lebanon using your own name?”
“No, no, I have passports with another name. LeBlanc was my mother’s maiden name, so I’m Ali LeBlanc.”
“So what’s your plan? I imagine the Iranians are already chasing you,” she said as she went up the steps to Highfield House and opened the front door. “What comes next?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” he said. “I’d planned something like this for years, but never for these dreadful circumstances. I suppose I’m running away from that as much as anything else.”
She was into her grandfather’s study now and sat at the desk. “So what do you want from us?”
“I don’t think your General Ferguson will be very helpful. I’ve no intention of carrying on with my nuclear work. I know I’m older, but I’m returning to medicine, and that hardly makes me of interest to any of the great powers.”
“Never mind any of that now. The main thing is to get you safe,” Sara said. “I guarantee you they’ll find out about Beirut, may even be on their way already.” She paused. “When we talked in Paris, you mentioned your old friend, the philosopher John Mikali, who’d had an influence on you. In old age, he has given up his professorships to serve as a priest at St. Anthony’s Hospice in the Saudi Arabian desert. If you could join him, no one would suspect, and perhaps he could sort out some of your head problems.”
“How would I get there?”
“During the war with Saddam Hussein, the Saudi Air Force laid down an airstrip for jet fighters needing an emergency landing. It’s at al-Shaba, right next door to the hospice. It’s no longer manned, but they left a communication facility in the hospital powered by solar panels, which is supposed to support a satellite phone. The trouble is that with the extreme desert weather patterns, it hardly ever works. I had our Army Air Corps check it out for me once. But we’d have no difficulty landing a jet at al-Shaba.”
“Where would such an aircraft come from?”
“The other year, the Gideon Bank was approached by an Israeli firm seeking investment to help them enter the executive jet market, with the intention of producing a quality aircraft on the same level as the Gulfstream or Falcon. We approved of their ambition, and when they suggested we call the result the Gideon, we were happy to oblige. We now have a small fleet ourselves, which we keep at Northolt. Chief pilot Don Renard has a DFC from the Gulf War. Jane Green, like me, is an old Afghan hand. I’ll tell them I’ll need one Gideon for hazardous duty. I’ll call you when I’m in the air.”
* * *
At Pound Street, one of Ali Saif’s daily tasks was to make coherent sense of the mass of information passed to him and his associates by well-wishers. He was engaged in doing this at the same time Sara was leaving for the airport, when the Master called him.
“Are you sitting down, Saif?”
“That bad?” Saif said. “You’d better tell me.”
The Master did — everything that had been learned at the hospital — and Saif said at once, “What an incredibly stupid way to handle the situation. Husseini must loathe those responsible.”
“I should imagine so, not that it helps.”
“Forgive me for asking, Master, but is all this information sound? His false identity, Beirut, his street address?”
“The surgeon handling the bodyguard, Vahidi, in the military hospital is one of our assets. He knew a man like Rashid would wipe Vahidi’s room clean of recordings, so it was a stroke of genius to have someone recording it remotely. Yes, it is all sound.”
“Do you want me to go to Beirut?”
“No need. We have an excellent branch of the Army of God there run by a true believer named Jemal Nadim. I have dealt with him before.”
“So this Jemal Nadim and his people, they will kidnap Husseini?”
“Exactly, and dispose of Colonel Rashid. Then Husseini will be working for us. Tell me, how is Rasoul doing?”
“He takes young students for physical training in the gym.”
“I think we should leave him there, for now. However, Cyrus Holdings has a very sizable port unit in Beirut. I think the chairman should show his face and meet with our people. If Khan gives you the slightest problem, let him speak to me. I will also make clear to Jemal Nadim that you are my middleman on this. Any problems, he can sort them out with you. I’ll also leave you with a special number with which to contact me. This is a big one and we must get it right.”
“Of course, Master,” Saif told him.
“I’ve good faith in you, Saif, you’ve come a long way.”
He switched off. Saif said softly, “The bastard, saying things like that to make you feel warm and cozy. God dammit, it’s almost sexy. Ah, well…” He poured a brandy, lit a cigarette, and then decided to go around to the penthouse and confront Khan, for the pleasure of being able to tell him what to do.
* * *
At the same time, Sara was driving a Mini Cooper toward Northolt Aerodrome when her mobile cut in. Roper said, “I got tired of waiting, where are you?”
He was sitting in front of his screens, Dillon enjoying a cup of tea and flipping through a newspaper, when Sara replied.
“But how could that be?” Roper demanded. “What about his bodyguard, Vahidi?”
“Vahidi’s in the hospital, Giles, and Husseini’s mother and daughter are dead.” She explained what Husseini had told her. “He’s got out of Iran and reached Beirut, and I’m riding to the rescue, just like one of those Western movies. Isn’t it exciting?”
“Not when the Indians catch up with you, so be careful. Okay, I admit that Ferguson isn’t likely to go berserk at your pulling off a coup that brings Simon Husseini to us.”
“I’m afraid he’s going to have to be disappointed. Simon isn’t interested in any of that. His intention is to move back into research on medical isotopes and to renounce his nuclear work. And if that’s what he wants, it’s all right with me. I was never keen on our government wanting him to do the exact same thing for us as he’s been doing in Iran. That’s why I’m going on one of my own planes, and I don’t care what Major General Charles Ferguson says or thinks.”
“Oh, I think I can tell you, Captain. He’d remind you that you’re a serving officer in the British Army who would certainly rate a court-martial if she persisted in such action.”
“All I can say is, bring it on.”
Roper exploded with anger and frustration. “It may sound corny, but you’re greatly loved in this neck of the woods. Will you at least promise to stay in touch while I try to work things on this end?”
“You’re a great guy, Giles Roper, and a true hero, which is why I love you, too, but I’ve got to do this, I’ve no choice.”
“Okay, damn you, but stay in touch, I beg you,” he implored her.
“I’ll try. Over and out,” she said.
Dillon had heard every word, and was already opening a cupboard and taking out a military bag, his contingency kit for jobs in a hurry, containing weapons, passport, and finance.
“Where’s she going from?” he demanded of Roper, whose fingers danced over the computer keys.