The Death Trade sd-20

by Jack Higgins

  “Northolt, one of the Gideon planes. Pilots are Don Renard and Jane Green. They’re booked out in forty-five minutes, to Beirut.”

  But Dillon was already running out of the door, calling, “Tony, where are you? I need Northolt like yesterday. Where’s the Alfa?”

  Sergeant Doyle came down the corridor on the run. “Right outside the front door, sir.”

  “Then let’s get the hell out of here.”

  In the computer room, there was sudden relief on Roper’s face as the engine roared and faded away. Roper reached for the whiskey and murmured, “Sometimes you frighten me, Sara. However sound your intentions, you always need backup, because in our game, going solo is the loneliest place on the planet. Damn you, why won’t you learn that?” He swallowed his whiskey and smiled wryly.

  * * *

  At Northolt, with Sara aboard and Don Renard at the controls, Jane Green was about to close the airstair door when the Alfa roared across the tarmac, skidded to a halt, and Dillon jumped out, bag in hand, went up the steps and smiled.

  “Jane, isn’t it? I’m Sean Dillon. Room for one more?”

  “It’s okay, Jane,” Sara called. “Like all actors, he’s particularly fond of the dramatic entrance.”

  Dillon moved up the aisle, stowed his bag, and sat across from her. “You shouldn’t do it, love, not to Giles Roper. He’s always been afraid you were going to come to a bad end.”

  “You are a bastard, Sean.”

  “There’s no one I’d rather go to war with than you, but two is always better than one, so give me time to get my breath and find a drink and perhaps you could fill me in on what’s happening.”

  She shook her head, produced her Codex, and called Roper. “Just to let you know that this little Irish so-and-so made it with about one minute to spare and we’re now on our way. I’m sorry if I caused you any worry.”

  She switched off and said to Dillon, who was emptying two miniatures into a glass, “So what do you want to know?”

  * * *

  Ali Saif had visited the Khan’s penthouse on a number of occasions and had met George Hagen in his usual role, and so was surprised on ringing the doorbell to have Hagen answer it, wearing Rasoul’s green apron.

  “Hello, George, this is a turnup for the books. Going up in the world, are you?”

  “Not funny, Ali. With his son dead, Rasoul a mystery, and poor old Aziz murdered not fifteen minutes’ walk away, Khan is depressed and reaching for the vodka bottle every five minutes. I’m still night porter, but I’m helping out. I use the staff bedroom on the landing. Go right in, I’ll be in the kitchen.”

  Emza Khan was in his chair by the terrace window, looking terrible, in bad need of a shave, and stinking of booze. His shirt and baggy trousers looked as if they had been slept in. He glared at Saif, tried to sound belligerent, and failed completely.

  “What do you want?”

  “Is that the new perfume, urine and vodka? Most unpleasant. It will never catch on.”

  “How dare you?” Emza Khan tried to get up. Saif shoved him down.

  “Simon Husseini has fled from Iran and reached Beirut, and Declan Rashid is hot on his trail. The whole thing’s blown up.”

  Khan was horrified. “In the name of Allah, what’s to be done?”

  “We’ll leave him out of it. A creature like you doesn’t deserve to mention his name. So let’s stick to the Master, who wants you in Beirut.” Khan opened his mouth, and Saif said, “Shut up and listen.”

  By the time he had finished, Emza Khan had sobered considerably. “You think it’s true that Colonel Rashid is still unaware of my connection with al-Qaeda?”

  “So it would appear, though I wouldn’t rely on it continuing, not with a man like Rashid on the job,” Saif said.

  “And this Jemal Nadim? His people will kidnap Husseini and dispose of Declan Rashid?” In a way, he was lively again. “This is good, I can see that. What do we do with Husseini?”

  “That’s why he wants you there with your executive jet. To deliver him wherever the council decides.” Saif lit a cigarette, a certain contempt on his face. “It’s something of a coup for you. Osama would be proud.”

  Emza Khan actually took it seriously and got up. “I must phone the office and get things moving at once.”

  “I’ll leave you to it. Let me know when you’re going, but I’d make it sooner rather than later, if I were you. I’d hate to see the Master disappointed.” He opened the door and turned. “Don’t forget the clothes. Strip and put them down the trash chute. The stink would frighten people away. And for the love of Allah, please bathe.”

  * * *

  Emza Khan was oblivious to the scorn in Saif’s voice, but George Hagan was not, for with the kitchen door ajar, he had heard every word. That Emza Khan would soon be on his way to Beirut was interesting in itself, but his reasons for going, the fact that he was involved with al-Qaeda, were so astonishing that Hagen hurried to his room, called Declan at once and found him in the backseat of the Falcon, reading a magazine.

  “Thank God I’ve got you, Colonel,” Hagen told him. “Where are you, can we talk?”

  “Yes, George, I’m the sole passenger on a private jet proceeding to Beirut.”

  “Gawd almighty,” Hagan said. “You ain’t going to believe this, but you’re going to have company.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Emza Khan.”

  Declan laughed out loud. “What’s the joke, George?”

  “No joke, Colonel, and there’s worse to come. What would you say if I told you Emza Khan was involved with al-Qaeda big-time?”

  A tiny smile touched Declan Rashid’s mouth. “If that’s so, George, tell me more.”

  George did, while Declan listened intently. Because of his time at the Iranian Embassy in London as military attaché, he was familiar with some of the players, had met Ali Saif, had visited the Army of God headquarters at the Pound Street Mosque. It was Emza Khan’s favorite charity. One could now see why. A cloak of good works to mask the excesses of al-Qaeda. What had motivated Khan to embark on this path? Well, it was irrelevant, really. What was important was that Declan now knew pretty well all those involved in this game and could take appropriate action.

  “That’s about it, Colonel,” Hagen said finally.

  “You’ve no idea how grateful I am, George,” Declan said. “You could well have saved my life in advance. Take the greatest care and watch your back.”

  “I will, Colonel, and you do the same.”

  Declan switched off his phone, leaned back, and opened the bar box behind him. He took out a couple of cold vodka miniatures, opened them, and poured the contents into a plastic tumbler, thinking of Emza Khan with a certain anger.

  “Right, you bastard, bring it on,” and he swallowed the vodka down.

  * * *

  So Bibi left Husseini resting at Maison Bleue and walked down through the alleys of the old quarter to the Beirut waterfront, which was busy as usual.

  Café Marco had air-conditioning, but most of the locals preferred to savor the sun outside, leaving Omar Kerim on his own in a corner booth going over his books.

  The waiter behind the bar reading the newspaper said, “He’s busy.”

  “No, he isn’t,” Omar called. “Not for Bibi. Send her over and bring a sherbet — she loves those, don’t you, darling?”

  He had olive skin, a dark mustache, and black hair plaited into a pigtail. His linen suit of light brown was as creased as it was supposed to be, and his half smile and good teeth made him enormously attractive. On the marble-topped table was a Walther PPK, ready for a quick response to anyone attempting a hit on Beirut’s most notorious gangsters, which had, on occasion, happened.

  “So how’s life, Bibi?” he asked as the waiter brought her sherbet.

  “That’s what I’ve come to tell you. It’s very strange.” She sucked on her straw. “You know my circumstances. Well, the man who owns my house, Ali LeBlanc, has just walked in after five y
ears.”

  “That’s interesting,” Omar said. “Where’s he been? What did he have to say?”

  So she told him everything, responding readily to his careful probing, and when she’d finished he looked very thoughtful indeed.

  “Bibi, my love, I smell politics here. I think we should adjourn next door and speak to my good friend Jemal Nadim.”

  * * *

  The man in question sat at a cluttered desk in the small office, small and bearded, with round steel John Lennon spectacles. The only overtly Arab thing about him was the black-and-white-checkered head scarf, which set off dramatically his plain white shirt and khaki trousers, and yet this man controlled everything that happened concerning al-Qaeda in the entire city of Beirut.

  “Bibi has a puzzle to unravel,” Omar explained. “I can’t help, but I thought you might, as there appears to be a political element to it.”

  “So tell me, Bibi,” Jemal ordered.

  She did, and he listened politely. When she was finished, he smiled. “Ali LeBlanc is a most important man, Bibi, you have been privileged to serve him. Now return to Café Marco, tell them Omar Kerim’s order is that you can have anything you want. We will tell you later what we expect you to do.”

  She left at once, pure delight on her face. “A simple soul,” Jemal said, “and easily pleased.”

  “Am I permitted to know what this is all about?” Omar inquired.

  “Certainly, but first let me explain something. I knew of Bibi’s situation before you brought her in. I’ve emphasized to you recently, al-Qaeda’s tentacles reach out everywhere.”

  “So I accept that,” Omar said. “But where is it taking us?”

  “Less than an hour ago, I had a call from a man we only know as the Master, who represents the council of our great movement, even in Western Europe. He has given me orders which I am delighted to obey, especially as I know you’ll be pleased to assist me in this matter.”

  “For a price, of course,” Omar said. “I mean, a man has to live.”

  “I knew I could rely on that grasping soul of yours.”

  “So what do we have to do?”

  “Kill one man and kidnap another.”

  Omar laughed. “Is that all? I thought it was going to be something difficult.”

  “But this is more important to al-Qaeda and our future than anything I’ve ever been involved in, so sit back and I’ll explain.”

  When he was finished, Omar said, “This Emza Khan who’s on his way, he sounds like big stuff. Is his connection with us for real?”

  “It must be. It’s his plane that will fly Husseini out of Lebanon to wherever the council wants him to go. His money doesn’t buy him special privileges. He must obey the call of Obama when needed, like any other supporter of a great cause.”

  “I take your point,” Omar said. “So how do we handle this?”

  “We’ll keep it simple,” Jemal said. “You and your thugs deal with the colonel in some alley — make it look like a street robbery. Bibi will slip something in Husseini’s drink, and we’ll bundle him into a car.”

  “When will this be?” Omar demanded.

  “Obviously, we must wait for Emza Khan, but sooner rather than later. Once we have Husseini, we get him out of Lebanon fast. Too many people, the Iranians in particular, want him back. Let’s go talk to Bibi.”

  They moved out into the glare of the sun, turned toward Café Marco, and saw Bibi sitting with Simon Husseini, for Jemal recognized him at once.

  “It’s Husseini,” he said. “There was a photo in Le Monde a week or so ago, receiving some honor.”

  “Shall we go and speak to them?” Omar asked.

  “Why not?” Jemal said.

  As they got close, Bibi was talking in an animated way to Husseini and, noticing their approach, rose to greet them. “There you are. This is my friend, Ali LeBlanc. Ali, this is Omar Kerim, the owner of Café Marco, and Jemal Nadim, who runs the Army of God charity in Beirut.”

  “Sit, Bibi, please,” Omar said and shook Husseini’s hand. “Good to meet you.”

  “I echo that,” Jemal said. “You have been long absent, I understand?”

  “Business took me abroad, but I think I can say I am home for good now.” Husseini’s mobile rang and he answered it, listened, then said, “I’ll call you back.” He smiled at everyone. “Bibi, I must go. Gentlemen, I hope we meet again.” He crossed the road through the crowd and went toward the breakwater.

  The two men sat down. “You like him, don’t you, Bibi?” Jemal said.

  “He is a good man, this I know because of kindness many years ago, and he has supplied me with a wonderful home.”

  “Yes, but all is not what it seems,” Omar said. “And he is not the man you think he is.”

  She looked alarmed. “Can this be so?”

  “So I believe,” Jemal told her. “Watch him carefully.” He produced a card and gave it to her. “If new people visit, or anything different happens, phone me at once.”

  She was anxious to please now and nodded her head energetically. “I promise.”

  “Accept my blessing, Bibi. There is one God and Osama is his Prophet,” and he and Omar walked away.

  * * *

  It had been Sara calling from the plane, and Husseini leaned on the wall above the harbor now and talked to her. “When do you expect to arrive?”

  “Two and a half hours.”

  “I look forward to seeing you.”

  “Well, as it happens, you’re seeing Sean Dillon, too. He joined me at the last minute, just as I was leaving. He and Roper are my main associates, and they were concerned I had no backup. You must realize I’ve acted on my own initiative in this matter. General Ferguson is away. God knows how he’ll react when he finds out.”

  “With anger, I suspect,” Husseini said. “But I think Dillon was right to come along. I saw some bad things on my travels.”

  “How is it in Beirut?”

  “Lots of sunshine, and everyone seems to be having a good time, though I know, having traveled through it, that just outside the city is hell on earth. Anyway, what’s the plan?”

  “I thought we’d start fresh tomorrow and make for St. Anthony’s.”

  “And tonight?”

  “My pilot says that the airport is nine kilometers from the center of Beirut. He says that some place called the Tropicana on the waterfront is the place to stay.”

  “I haven’t been, but I’ve heard of it,” Husseini said. “So when do I see you?”

  “We’ll definitely have dinner tonight, but can a taxi reach your house?”

  “Oh yes, it stands in a small square.”

  “I’d like to see it. We’ll drop by on the way to the hotel. The driver can wait for us.”

  “Excellent,” Husseini said. “See you then.”

  He stayed there, thinking how grateful he was, for the prospect of meeting Father John Mikali again meant so much to him, and the chance of an answer to the way his life should go. He stared out at the shipping in the harbor, absurdly happy.

  * * *

  At the airport, the mail plane from Tehran nosed into the VIP section where Captain Shah waited eagerly. He wore sunglasses, and was in civilian clothes: a navy blue blazer, white shirt, and striped tie. When the airstair door opened and Declan came down the steps, Shah had to restrain the impulse to salute.

  “Colonel Rashid, an honor, sir.”

  “Good to meet you. Is everything in order?”

  “I trust so, Colonel. If you’ll follow me, the Range Rover is waiting. I’ve driven it myself. I’ll deliver you to the Tropicana and walk back to the embassy. It isn’t far. Allow me to take your luggage.”

  They reached the Range Rover and got in. Declan took the envelope from his pocket. “The presidential warrant. You’ve probably never seen one, but for the sake of protocol, take a look.”

  Shah did as he was told, then handed it back. “Remarkable, Colonel, I feel a part of history.”

  “It is absol
utely top secret, the reason for me being here, you’ll have to take my word for it.” As they drove away, Declan added, “The AK-47s? Any trouble with that?”

  “Not at all.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Declan told him, taking in the scenery as they drove into the city.

  They seemed to reach their destination in no time. Shah parked the Range Rover, gave him the keys, and departed reluctantly, leaving the colonel to book in. A duty manager escorted him to a pleasant suite with a view of the harbor.

  He stood looking at it for a moment, considering his next move. He was suddenly aware of an overwhelming tiredness, his exertions of the past twenty-four hours catching up with him, took off his jacket, lay on the bed, and was promptly asleep.

  12

  Jemal Nadim’s sources were unmatched, information constantly flooding in from the airport, streets, and harbor. He was aware of the arrival of Colonel Declan Rashid, a hero who stirred his Arab soul and yet who refused to believe as he did. And then there was Captain Sara Gideon, who greatly intrigued him, as did her unexpected passenger, Sean Dillon. Thanks to his new friendship with Ali Saif in London, Jemal knew all about the man who had been the Provisional IRA’s most feared enforcer.

  The prospect of Emza Khan did not faze him in the slightest. The loud voice on the telephone, the bullying tone — a hint of insecurity there. Kerim’s people hanging about the Tropicana for signs of movement from Colonel Rashid had orders to rough him up, if the opportunity arose. The news from the taxi driver who’d picked up Sara and Dillon, that she’d asked him to take them to the Rue Rivoli and wait, meant that all contingencies were covered and Jemal could sit back and enjoy developments.

  * * *

  The taxi driver parked at the side of the small square, Sara got out and was immediately impressed with the vivid blue of the house, which seemed to tower into the sky. The door was opened at once by Bibi, who had obviously been waiting. In her black silk dress and white chador, she looked striking but seemed shy.

  “I am Bibi, I am pleased to meet you.”