SDillon 20 - The Death Trade

by Jack Higgins

  “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.”

  Jules obliged, topped the others up, too, and Duval said, “Have I been Mister Nice Guy for long enough? Can we sit down and discuss what’s going on?”

  “Fair enough,” Dillon said.

  He and Sara sat together on a couch, a glass table between them and Claude, who said, “To start with, the news on the grapevine is that you had a brush with an al-Qaeda hit squad down by the Thames.”

  Dillon turned to Sara. “Terrible, isn’t it, the way these rumors circulate. Would you be knowing anything about that?”

  “Don’t waste my time, Sean,” said Duval. “Two dead. I congratulate you, and you, Sara, but does it mean al-Qaeda is likely to carry this further, and in Paris? I need to know.”

  Sara took over. “Of course you do, so shut up, Sean.” She carried on. “As I understand it, even before my time, Ferguson’s people have been a thorn in al-Qaeda’s side. They have a lot of scores to settle with us. We think the hit squad hanging around Holland Park last night were on the prowl for anyone who came out, and it had nothing to do with what we’re here for.”

  Dillon joined in. “It’s a big day for Husseini and Iran. Al-Qaeda wouldn’t want any trouble with Tehran just now.”

  “Well, let’s hope that some stupid individual doesn’t jump the gun.” Duval held up his empty glass for more. “So, as they say at passport control, what is the purpose of your visit?”

  “Sweet Jesus, Claude,” Dillon said. “It’s stretching it more than a little to expect us to tell you that.”

  It was then that Sara shocked them. “Dillon, enough of this subterfuge. We use it all the time in our business, and I for one am sick of it, in spite of what my superiors say.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Dillon asked her.

  “That we take a chance on Claude being a decent human being who knows the difference between right and wrong, and come right out with exactly what we’re doing here.”

  Claude was astonished. “So, you want to stand the whole system on its head?”

  “Why not a little honesty for a change?” Sara asked him. “It’s common knowledge that Iran wants a nuclear bomb and that Simon Husseini is working on it, with his mother and daughter held under house arrest to make sure he behaves himself.”

  “I know all this, and it’s a bastard,” Claude said.

  “Husseini is also an old friend of my grandfather and me, so I intend to meet him and find out if he’d be interested in a future in England, if we could get him and the two women out.”

  “And how would you do that?”

  “The SAS might be able to arrange it,” Dillon put in.

  “Never,” Claude said. “Impossible.”

  “That’s what they said about Osama bin Laden.”

  Sara pointed out, “And look what happened there. Put it this way: As an old friend of Husseini, I’d like to see if he’s happy. If he says he is, then that’s it as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Though there are people,” Dillon said, “who would rather put a bullet in his head than leave him working for his country. Anyway, Claude, how do you feel about this?”

  “Oh, Sara has answered me. I think I’ll go the rebel route myself—any way I can help your enterprise, I will.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said. “You’re a star.”

  “There’s a little more to it than that. I greeted Husseini when his plane arrived last night and liked him at once. His bodyguard, this Wali Vahidi, isn’t a bad guy, just an old-fashioned copper.”

  “So what are you getting at?” Dillon asked.

  “That I much prefer you all over our Iranian friends who flew in before you. Emza Khan is a loud-voiced toad, and Rasoul Rahim should be in the nearest cell.”

  “And Colonel Declan Rashid?” Sara asked.

  “I’d read of his exploits with admiration, and was even more impressed on meeting him.” Duval shrugged. “The only problem is that he keeps such bad company.”

  “Well, he doesn’t have much choice,” Sara said.

  Duval carried on. “Husseini is guarded by Vahidi at the hotel at all times, his phone calls monitored. At the Palace, you’ll be on line with twenty foreign observers privileged to be presented by me, because I’m doing the whole line. Husseini’s certain to recognize you, but smart enough to keep quiet.” He passed her a small square of paper. “You don’t salute, so give him that when you shake hands. It says you are staying at the Ritz and will be in touch.”

  “A masterstroke,” Dillon told him. “But what about Vahidi?”

  “We’ll arrange to spike whatever he drinks. There’s an old hand in the room-service section who has worked for Ferguson for years—but also for me.”

  “That’s very convenient,” Sara said.

  “Isn’t it?” Claude Duval laughed. “But now we eat!”

  —

  In his suite on the fourth floor of the Ritz, Simon Husseini sat at a Bechstein grand piano, feeling his way into the final fifteen minutes of George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue, trying to remember it since he didn’t have the music. The melody soared, thrilling Husseini as it always did. He was oblivious to everything, inc
luding the ring of the telephone, which Wali Vahidi hurried from his bedroom to answer.

  He talked through the music, holding out the phone. “He wants us upstairs.”

  “He’ll have to wait,” Husseini shouted.

  Vahidi shrugged, spoke into the phone, then put it down. Husseini moved into the final crescendo and came to the end.

  He was pleased with himself, and smiling. “You know, Vahidi, I can sometimes be rather good, I think.”

  “You can be very good, but I doubt whether it will be appreciated. Khan slammed down the phone.”

  “Did he indeed?” Husseini said, and there was a thunderous knock on the door.

  “Here we go.” Vahidi went and opened it.

  Emza Khan marched in, obviously in a rage, followed by Rasoul and Rashid, who wasn’t in uniform and wore a tan suit, white shirt, and striped tie.

  “I can see you’ve decided to be your usual awkward self,” Khan told Husseini. “It’s outrageous that I am forced to come to you, and not you to me. You’re getting above yourself again. I shouldn’t have to remind you of your position and that of your mother and daughter.”

  “And I shouldn’t have to remind you of how crucially important to the state I am. Can you do what I do?”

  Rasoul said, “How dare you?” He took a threatening step. Declan Rashid grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and sent him staggering.

  Husseini and Khan still confronted each other. “Is there any man in Iran who can do what I do?” said Husseini.

  “Damn you to hell,” Emza Khan told him. “My day will come.” He turned to Declan. “Fill him in on what’s expected of him tonight. I want everything to run smoothly. Everybody will be watching on television. Try to make this idiot see sense.”

  He crossed to the door, opened it, and Rasoul ran after him. Husseini smiled at Declan Rashid. “I enjoyed that.”

  “I’m sure you did,” Declan said. “I’d try not to make a habit of it if I were you. He really is very powerful.”

  Wali Vahidi was also smiling, if only slightly. “We have a bar and kitchen next door. May I get you a drink or perhaps coffee?”

  “Coffee would be fine,” Declan said and moved to the piano, where Husseini had started into “St. Louis Blues.”

  “You play well. Jazz as well as the classics.”

  “Oh, that’s the French side of me. I got it from my mother. The music has always been a great solace to me, helps keep me sane.”

  “I’m sorry for your situation,” Declan said. “I really am. Your mother and daughter—”

  Husseini cut him off. “I know you are, because you’re a decent man, but never let me hear you say that again. If the wrong person heard, it could be the end of you. Oh, Wali Vahidi is reasonable enough, but Rasoul is foul and Emza Khan is not used to people disagreeing with him.”

  Vahidi entered with coffee on a tray and served it on a low table. They sat down, and he poured.

  Declan said, “Tehran sees what’s happening tonight as a statement about Iran itself to the rest of the world.”

  Husseini was immediately irritable. “I’m sorry, but I can’t make it happen the way they would like. I wish it wasn’t so damned important.”

  “Well, it is.” Declan took a packet from his breast pocket and unfolded it. “This is the official observers list. There’ll be over two hundred attachés from embassies all over Paris showing interest in you.”

  “For one reason only. Because I got famous for work on medical isotopes and parleyed it into the nuclear field and they all want to know how.”

  “That’s true,” Declan agreed. “And I won’t deny that a lot of these people have been brought in from their countries because of you.”

  “Like the USA, Germany, the Russian Federation, and, of course, the United Kingdom. Their intelligence desks will all be empty for the great occasion.”

  “I hear what you say, and there is a certain amount of truth there, but the London end of things isn’t busy. Perhaps they’re no longer concerned in matters nuclear. They’ve sent two observers from the Ministry of Defence, that’s all. A Sean Dillon and a Captain Sara Gideon.”

  Simon Husseini’s cup was being topped up by Vahidi when Sara’s name was spoken, and he knew immediately that it had to be that young officer from ten years ago, just out of Sandhurst and gifted at languages.

  He picked up the cup and drank his coffee slowly, giving Declan Rashid time to make a comment if he wished, but he did not, and Husseini realized that could only be because there was no comment to make. His Iranian handlers had failed to make a connection between him and Sara. Could there be any significance to her presence? Only one thing was obvious. She was there because he was. He refused to believe anything else.

  Declan said, “She was decorated in Afghanistan.”

  “Good heavens,” Husseini replied. “That is rather unusual for a young woman, isn’t it?” He turned to Vahidi, who waited by the door. “I think we’ll go down to the health club. I could have a steam bath and prepare myself for tonight.”

  Declan said, “A sound idea. I’ll let you get on with it.” He moved to the door, Vahidi opened it, and he went out.

  “You’re joining me?” Husseini asked the bodyguard.

  “Of course,” Vahidi said. “Remember, we must be ready to leave at five.”

  —

  Henri Laval was in his sixties, his white hair perfectly groomed, his uniform impeccable. As a senior room-service waiter for many years, he prided himself on knowing what his guests wanted before they knew themselves. He was astute and cunning and made a great deal of money, and yet seated in the rear of Duval’s Citroën while the colonel talked and the driver ignored him, he felt his palms sweat.

  “So, report anything and everything to do with the Iranian party to me, and also to Ferguson’s people. Your avaricious soul will adore Captain Gideon—she’s not just a pretty face, she owns a bank. Now, get out of here and remember what mobile phones are for.”

  “You may rely on me, Colonel,” Laval told him. “I’ll not let you down.”

  He scrambled out into the heavy rain, cursing as he put up his umbrella. Why couldn’t they leave him alone? He was fine at just doing his job and pleasing people. The flics, the police, were bad enough. The passing of a few banknotes always helped there, but you didn’t argue with the French Secret Service, the dreaded DGSE. They were a law unto themselves, those people, not that he could do much about it.

  He’d already had a brush with the Iranians earlier, a luggage problem. Emza Khan had bellowed at him and Rasoul had thrown him out, and it was obvious the kind of man he was. He’d delivered a bottle of complimentary champagne to the Husseini suite, but Vahidi had taken it at the door. Which left Ferguson’s people. As he went down the side street toward one of the service entrances, he moved to the narrow pavement to avoid being splashed, but the driver showed consideration and slowed. It was a small Fiat van with a canvas roof, and a panel on the side read “The Flower Bower.” Fatima Le Bon wound down the window and looked out.

  “Henri, my lovely, how goes it?”

  He peered from under his umbrella, frowning, and then smiled in recognition. “Fatima, it’s you. What’s this, finished working the streets at last? Did the flics get too much for you?”

  “They surely did,” she said. “So now I’m in the flower-delivery business, and it suits me just fine.”

  An embroidered patch said “The Flower Bower” in gold on one side of her blue jacket, and the top buttons on the blue blouse she was wearing were undone enough for Henri to see her cleavage. He warmed to her instantly, reached in and took her hand.

  “It’s good to see old friends. Perhaps we could have a drink one night at Marco’s bar around the corner.”

  “I’d love that, Henri.” She squeezed his hand. “I could be seeing a lot of you now I’m doing this job.”

  “Perhaps later,” he said and took a card from his wallet. “That’s mine. Just show it to anyone who queries you and tell
them to call me. Say you’re attached to my staff.”

  “I’ll do that,” she said. “You’re the best, Henri.”

  She watched him go up to the service entrance and enter, and then she drove away. It had been a lucky meeting. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to get him on his knees begging for it. She drove away down another side street, parked and sat under the canopy of a bar, had a brandy and coffee, and smoked a cigarette.

  The flower gambit was something she’d used before, and it worked well. In the old days, when money was good, she’d been sensible enough to buy an apartment down by the Seine at one of the places where barges were permanently moored and people lived on them. It was nice down there, especially at night, with Notre Dame floodlit not too far away.

  Her apartment had a garage in which she kept the Fiat for general use, clipping the side panel in place when she was working the flower scam. If you wore some uniform and were attractive, you melted into the hubbub of a great hotel, especially if you were clasping a large bunch of flowers obviously intended for delivery. It worked in elevators, on corridors.

  In addition, since her computer skills allowed her to extract names of individual guests and their room numbers, a nice bouquet covered your back nicely on the odd occasion that someone stopped you.

  So far, so good. Now it was into battle again. She paid her bill, returned to the Fiat, got in, and drove back toward the hotel.

  —

  Dillon was reading Le Monde and catching up on world news while Sara got ready for the evening at the Élysée Palace. When the door buzzed, he got up, went to answer it, and found Fatima standing there with a beautiful bunch of red roses.

  She smiled, and spoke in English. “So sorry to bother you. I hope I’ve got it right. Flowers for Captain Sara Gideon.”

  Dillon gave her his best smile. “You’ll have to make do with me, chérie. The woman of the house is at the other end of the suite in her room, preparing for an evening out.”

  “No, she isn’t, Sean. Who is it?” Sara cried.

  “Flowers for you?” he called back to her.