SDillon 20 - The Death Trade

by Jack Higgins

  “What happened to him?”

  “Still alive at ninety. He lives in the Hospice of St. Anthony as a member of the small community that has served the caravan trail, southwards from Kuwait through Saudi Arabia to the Gulf States and the Empty Quarter, since ancient times.”

  “How extraordinary,” Sara said.

  “If anyone had a solution to my problem, it would be he.”

  “So you turn down the idea I’ve put to you?”

  “If it succeeded and I arrived in London, the Prime Minister and your General Ferguson would want to fly me away to some hidden establishment, where I’d have to carry on the same work I’ve been doing in Iran, in gratitude for spiriting me, my mother, and daughter out of Tehran. This is a false hope. I have no intention of continuing my work. I would turn my back on it. Return to my medical interests, if that were possible.”

  “I can understand that perfectly,” Sara said.

  “Have I made life awkward for you? It’s not exactly the kind of news Ferguson will want to hear.”

  “He’ll just have to accept it.”

  “So, end of story?”

  “Not you and me privately. In spite of all the things you have said, it’s an uncertain world and you’ve no idea what may happen to you.” She took a box from her pocket. “You don’t need to look at it now, there are instructions inside.”

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “It’s a Codex mobile phone, the same that links all our operatives together. It’s totally encrypted. You’ll find my source number noted for you. Call me anytime, day or night, this year, next year. Promise me you will do this.”

  He hugged her tightly. “Of course I will. You are a wonderful girl, Sara Gideon.”

  “Safe flight in the morning,” she said. “But I’d better go and get a little sleep myself. We’ll be returning to London.” She moved to the door. “God bless, Simon.”

  She opened it, stepped out, was gone.

  —

  Earlier, Emza Khan, Rasoul, and Declan Rashid had returned to the suite on the fifth floor, Rasoul obviously drunk and decidedly mutinous.

  Emza Khan struck him across the face. “When you disgrace yourself, you disgrace me. Remember that, you fool. Now, get to bed.”

  Rasoul glared at Declan as he went past toward his bedroom. Declan said, “I’m beginning to think he’s proving to be more trouble than he’s worth. He’s like a human attack dog.”

  “An excellent description. There are ways in which he earns his keep,” Khan told him. “I’m going to bed now. I’ll see you in the morning. Let yourself out.”

  Which Declan did, while in the second bedroom of the next suite, Rasoul was sampling miniatures from the minibar that made him angrier than ever. He lay on the bed, watched television for a while, finally got up, opened his door to the corridor, and went out on the prowl.

  —

  Fatima came awake with a start, realized where she was, and discovered Henri lying beside her. She gently eased herself up, opened the door to the small toilet in the corner, stood at the washbasin examining herself in the mirror, then splashed a little water on her face and dabbed it away with the hand towel.

  She went out, uncertain what to do, restless and ill at ease. She stood there looking down at Henri. Poor old goat, she thought, what would he think if he knew that his girlfriend carried a Walther and sometimes killed people? In a way, it reminded her of Sara up there on the fourth floor, and she decided to take a look.

  The hotel was quiet and still as she listened at Sara’s suite, then walked down to Husseini’s, where at that moment Sara was saying good night. To Fatima, it was just the sound of voices, so she carried on, turned the corridor and walked into Rasoul, who had opened the door to a storage room for bed linen at the bottom of the stairs.

  Thoroughly drunk now, he grabbed her with one hand and reached into her shoulder bag with the other, finding some business cards. “Fatima Le Bon,” he read. “A Muslim girl on the game. Shocking.”

  She struck out at him with her right hand while the left scrabbled for the Walther, found it, and dropped it. He glanced down. “What have we got here? I think you’ve some explaining to do.” He started pushing her back into the storeroom and began to ruck up her skirt.

  She struggled, not crying out, because the last thing she wanted was trouble. Sara, leaving Husseini’s suite to return to her own, became aware of the muffled sounds of struggle. She turned, took a few quick paces to the corner, and saw what was happening.

  Rasoul gazed at her stupidly. “What do you want, bitch? Mind your own business.”

  She pulled out the Glock and struck him across the arm so that he howled, shoving Fatima away from him. Sara rammed the Glock under his chin and was aware of the sound of someone hurriedly descending the stairs.

  Declan Rashid, in a black tracksuit, arrived in a rush. He took in the scene with extraordinary calm. “What’s been happening?”

  Sara stood back and reholstered her Glock. “Assault, battery, intention to rape, take your pick, Colonel. He jumped this lady as she was walking along the corridor.”

  He picked up the Walther. “And who does this belong to?”

  “To me, of course.” Fatima took it from him and put it in her shoulder bag. “I’m a poule, Colonel, out on the night shift. The weapon is for protection. There are some bad people about.”

  “As you can see,” Sara told him.

  “Indeed I can.” Declan Rashid turned to Rasoul, who was nursing his arm. “Get upstairs. Your boss is waiting for you and is not pleased.”

  Rasoul staggered away, and Declan smiled. “As Mr. Dillon said at the Élysée Palace, Captain Gideon, we do seem to meet up in some funny old places.”

  “We do indeed.” She smiled. “But it’s been a long night, so I’m going to bed after I’ve seen Miss Le Bon on her way.”

  “Of course.” He smiled again, then followed Rasoul up the stairs.

  The two women went along the corridor to the rear lift. Fatima said, “You needn’t come any further. I’ve got my car downstairs.”

  “You’re not a poule,” Sara said. “You brought me flowers earlier today.”

  Fatima was suddenly more tired than she had ever been and she said, “Damn you, Sara Gideon, for being so nice, and damn you for saving me from that piece of shit just now.” She took the Walther from her shoulder bag. “You know what this was for? To assassinate you and maybe your friend, Dillon, when I delivered the flowers.”

  Sara, very calm, very controlled, for nothing surprised her after what she’d seen in Afghanistan, said, “And who were the flowers from?”

  Fatima dropped the Walther back in her bag and said wearily, “There is one God and his Prophet is Osama.”

  Sara shook her head. “That’s a large burden.”

  “And a heavy price to pay for having got involved in the Cause in the first place.” Fatima pressed the button, stepped in, and turned when the doors opened. “Good-bye, Captain Gideon. I don’t expect we’ll see each other again.”

  The doors closed, Sara stood there for a moment thinking about it, then returned to the suite to report to Dillon.

  —

  At the same time in Emza Khan’s suite, Rasoul stood dejectedly, waiting for the ax to fall. Declan told Khan what had happened, and Khan gave Rasoul the habitual backhanded slap in the face, “You can leave him to me, I’ll handle it,” he told the colonel.

  Declan went off to his own suite, thinking of Sara, a mystery her being there and not properly explained at all, and then there was the other woman. Since when did a hotel poule carry a Walther? Perhaps time would tell, and he got on the bed without getting undressed and went to sleep.

  —

  Next door, Emza Khan was examining Rasoul. “Look at you, you drunken sot. You, who are supposed to care for Yousef with his drink problem. How can I trust you ever again? And all this business with the French prostitute.”

  “But she was Algerian-French, to judge by her name.”
>
  Emza Khan frowned. “Which was?”

  “Fatima Le Bon. I saw her business card. She sells flowers.”

  “But Fatima Le Bon is the name of the al-Qaeda agent who was supposed to see to this Captain Sara Gideon. Something smells of rotten fish here. How come the two women ended together?”

  “Will you talk to Saif?” Rasoul asked.

  “No, someone rather more important.”

  He dialed a number, a voice answered. “Why have you called?”

  Khan told him, “Is Saif in any way derelict, Master?”

  “No. The woman has killed before. It’s not Saif’s fault she failed this time. We’ll take care of it.”

  “Of course, Master,” Khan said hastily. “My only concern is serving our cause and, in that way, my country.”

  “The leaders of which will hang you high in the middle of Tehran for crows to feast on if they ever discover what their premier businessman is up to.”

  For Emza Khan, it had become clearer what he had gotten himself into. Genuinely moved by Osama’s message, he had offered his services to the right people for romantic reasons. Well-received because of his enormous wealth, he had soon discovered he had to obey orders like anyone else. There was no turning back from his chosen path, which had left him completely at the orders of the Master, a voice that could be coming from anywhere in the world.

  “We’ll speak of the Petra project when you are back in London. Thanks to a sympathizer on the staff at army headquarters in Tehran, Colonel Rashid will find he has been called back for a few weeks to advise on a training program for new recruits. This will get him out from under your feet for a while.”

  “I’m grateful for that. He is certainly not an Islamist, and his attitude toward the Gideon woman is questionable.”

  “I would have thought it obvious: the stirrings of desire. We’ll speak again when you’re in London.”

  Khan said, “But what about the Le Bon woman?”

  “Leave it to me, we’ll take care of it.”

  “But when?” Khan asked.

  “At once, of course.” The voice was tinged with irritation. “Good night.”

  —

  Back in Henri’s office, Fatima lay down beside him and fell into a troubled sleep. She finally wakened to discover that well over an hour had elapsed and he was still out to the world. This was no good at all. She got up and left the office, went to where she’d left her Fiat, got in and drove away. She had to go to her apartment. A couple of suitcases, essential things, would be enough, and the biscuit tin with her mad money. Then the open road to wherever. It didn’t really matter. She had a despairing feeling that it wouldn’t make any difference whatever she chose.

  —

  Arriving at her building, Fatima pressed the hand control and the door lifted with the usual eerie creak. For some reason, the light hadn’t come on, but she drove in and switched off the engine. Before she could get out, a man who had obviously been in the back of the van since the hotel reared up, hands of such power sliding around her neck that it was broken instantly, her life ending in a matter of seconds.

  He got out of the Fiat, the diffused light from a nearby streetlamp helping him. He wore a trench coat and cap, and looked perfectly respectable when he leaned in, eased Fatima into the passenger seat, got behind the wheel, reversed out, and started down the cobbled street toward the lights of the Seine below. Rain drifted across the river in a solid curtain, although plenty of lights glowed through it. He moved away from a section with houseboats tied up, drove along to a small dark quay with a slipway at the end. He paused the Fiat at the top, eased Fatima behind the wheel, switched on the engine again, then reached across her for the umbrella and to release the hand brake and slam the door. The Fiat started to roll and finally veered over the edge toward the end, sliding under the water on its side. The rain increased in force, so he turned up his collar, raised the umbrella, and walked briskly away.

  —

  Sara and Dillon reported to Roper because they knew that he’d be available, despite the hour, sitting there in the computer room in front of his screens at Holland Park.

  “What do you think, Giles?” Sara asked.

  “Fascinating stuff, but I’d say the next step is to speak to Duval.”

  “Who’ll be in bed at this hour,” Dillon said.

  “So are all sane people, he’ll just have to wake up. I’ll call him and get back to you.”

  —

  Duval was his usual grouchy self when he answered Roper’s call, but soon livened up at the news of Sara’s confrontation and not just at the business with Rasoul. What Fatima had said about her al-Qaeda connection brought him immediately to life.

  “I’ll get on to it at once. I’ll be in touch the moment I have anything.”

  “Does that apply to the Iranians, too?” Dillon asked.

  “I don’t see why not. But let me make one thing clear. I’ll bring in full DGSE powers, which supersede any police investigation. We go in hard, Dillon, you know that, possibly harder than any other Western power, and our Parliament usually supports us. So don’t call me, I’ll call you when I’m ready. Have a good night,” he added ironically, and was gone.

  “So what about Ferguson?” Sara asked. “He’ll raise the roof over this.”

  “That’s Roper’s job.” Dillon glanced at his watch. “Two-thirty. I think I’ll lie on the bed and leave all the action to the French.”

  “An excellent thought. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  —

  The following morning, Paris was shrouded in the same heavy driving rain of the night before. No word from Duval, so they ordered breakfast from room service, and they were just finishing when their pilot, Squadron Leader Lacey, called Dillon’s mobile.

  “It’s a foul morning, but there’s no reason we can’t take off. We’ll see you at Charles de Gaulle in an hour and a half.”

  Dillon had put it on speaker, and Sara called, “Are you sure about that? We’re expecting a call from Colonel Duval. For certain reasons, there’s a question of permission.”

  “All I know is we’ve had this slot booked since yesterday and he’s just phoned to say we can use it and he’ll meet you there.”

  “Okay, old son,” Dillon said. “We’re on our way.”

  Sara said, “What do you think is going on?”

  “Full DGSE powers is heady stuff.” Dillon shrugged. “Perhaps the powers that be want to pretend it never happened. We’ll soon know.”

  —

  In the private bar overlooking the runways at Charles de Gaulle, rain driving against the windows, Sara sat close to Dillon as Claude Duval explained what had happened to Fatima Le Bon.

  “God help us, but the bastards were on to her quick,” Dillon said.

  “My dear Sean, there’s a problem here,” Duval said. “Within forty minutes of our retrieving the body, she was on a slab at the Santé Morgue undergoing a postmortem. Her neck was broken, she’d drunk a great deal of wine. To the rest of the world, she careered down the hill, exited on the slipway, and drove into the river.”

  Dillon said, “Claude, she admitted being a member of al-Qaeda, under orders to assassinate Sara. Why would she say that if it wasn’t true?”

  “There’s no mention of anything like that on her police record. Prostitution, drug offenses, yes, but never a hint of anything more serious.” Claude looked at Sara. “You understand our dilemma. The Iranian party, down there in the corner waiting for their plane, disclaim any involvement with al-Qaeda, and that is official government policy anyway. None of them left the hotel last night after the business with you, Sara, we’ve established that. Husseini and his bodyguard have already left for Tehran.”

  Sara turned to Dillon, eyes burning. “Give me a cigarette, and don’t tell me you don’t have one.”

  Without a word, he took out his old silver case, gave her one, and his Zippo flared. She inhaled deeply, and then she exploded. “I’ve never looked at a more obvious setu
p in my life. She told me she was al-Qaeda and I was her target. God dammit, Claude, she didn’t die crashing into the Seine, she was already dead.”

  She stood up, sending coffee cups flying, wrenched open the glass door leading to the balcony, and stood under the canopy in the heavy rain.

  “She’s got a point,” Dillon said.

  Duval shrugged. “More than that, old friend, she’s right, but I’ve a feeling we’ll probably never prove it.” He got up and shook hands. “Tell Sara I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll see you to your car,” Dillon told him.

  As they exited through the glass doors into the concourse, Colonel Declan Rashid got up from the table where he had been sitting with his two companions.

  “Where are you going?” Emza Khan demanded.

  “To speak to the lady.”

  “No, you will not,” Khan told him. “I forbid it.”

  Declan ignored him. He wasn’t in uniform, wore the fawn suit, and the only military thing about him was the trench coat that hung from his shoulders. He opened the door and joined her under the canopy.

  “Captain Gideon?”

  “Go on, tell me you don’t like women smoking. Does the Koran forbid that, too?”

  “Probably in a way it does, but I must admit that I am not a religious man. I’ve seen too many bad things in my life, and I’m sure you know that my mother was Irish.”

  She took a last quick puff and flicked the cigarette butt into space. “The smokes helped with the stress in Afghanistan. What did Duval say about Fatima?”

  “That it’d been suggested that she was involved with al-Qaeda,” Declan said.

  “I expect that shook up Khan.”

  “Exactly. If there is one Islamic country where they are not encouraged, it is Iran.”

  “And what’s your attitude?”

  “I never bought the Osama message.” He smiled slightly. “But why would you believe me?”

  “After that little fracas last night when you went away with Rasoul, Fatima told me she’d been sent to the hotel by al-Qaeda to assassinate me. She actually delivered flowers to my suite, but she said she just couldn’t do it, then or later, especially after I saved her from that drunken oaf of yours.”