SDillon 20 - The Death Trade

by Jack Higgins

  “What’s happened?” Jane asked, coming awake fast.

  “They’ve stolen a march on us.” Sara brushed past. “Got out of here around three-thirty with a flight plan for Qatar. It didn’t feature on the screen until a short while ago. So much for us hoping to make a quick departure around six. We got here, went to check on our plane, and discovered their Falcon gone.”

  Jane was dressing hurriedly. “What are the guys doing?”

  “Buying a fast takeoff on my behalf,” Sara said. “There are times when owning a bank has its uses.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.” Jane grabbed her old military bag, ran around the room recovering the few things she’d unpacked, and stuffed them in. “Right, ready to go. Afghanistan was a good learning curve.”

  “You can say that again,” Sara told her. “Now, let’s go and see how our gallant lads have progressed.”

  They hurried to the lift, and as they got in, Sara’s Codex sounded. As they descended, Dillon said, “It’s taken care of. Ready to go.”

  “I’m with Jane now and we’re on our way,” she said. “Did you have enough cash to handle it?”

  “You know I always keep five thousand dollars in my contingency kit. I’m taking care of it. No worries. Just get yourselves down here.”

  —

  Don Renard was in the cockpit of the Gideon, turning the engines over, and Simon Husseini was already on board. Declan was standing by the steps up the airstair with Dillon. There was a doorway nearby, a light above it. A man stepped out in a porter’s uniform and nodded, another in similar garb lurking behind him.

  “They would appear to be waiting for you,” Declan commented.

  Dillon went to meet them, Declan followed him, and as they approached the doorway, Dillon said, “Congratulations on your efficiency, Abu, you’ve organized things damn quickly.” He took a roll of bills from his pocket. “So what’s the damage? You said a thousand.”

  The man behind Abu said, “Oh, I think you can do a lot better than that.” He stepped around his friend and produced some kind of pistol. Declan moved with incredible speed, twisting it savagely out of the man’s grip and at the same moment forming a Phoenix Fist with his right hand, stabbing into the temple, knocking the man out on the instant.

  The first one was horrified. “Listen, there’s been a mistake.”

  “Yes, and you made it.” Dillon peeled ten one-hundred-dollar bills from his roll and dropped them fluttering down at the man’s feet. “There you are, a thousand dollars. I always keep my promises.”

  The man was mesmerized. “Yes, I can see that.”

  Next, Dillon produced his Colt .25. “This holds hollow-point cartridges. If I decided to shoot you in the kneecap, it would blow it clean off.”

  The man was panic-stricken. “Please, tell me what I must do to atone.”

  “Oh, that’s simple enough. How many people were on the Falcon that left earlier?”

  “Two pilots and three passengers.”

  “And who were they?”

  The man was all eagerness now. “I’ve never seen the pilots before, but I was told they were Russian and the boss man was Muslim, but a stranger to me.”

  “And the other two?”

  “Omar Kerim, a dangerous man to know, and Jemal Nadim.”

  “And what does he do?”

  “He runs the Army of God.”

  “I see, there is one God and his Prophet is Osama.” There was instant terror on the face in the yellow light. “Oh, go on, get out of it,” Dillon said. “And take your friend with you.” He turned to Declan. “Nice move, Colonel, you must show me sometime.”

  The two women were just arriving, and Jane boarded instantly. Sara said, “Problems, Sean?”

  “Not so you’d notice, but let’s get out of here while the going’s good. The trouble these days is the way sympathizers to Osama’s message turn up at every level of society.”

  Jane peered out. “Come on, best we get moving.”

  They went up the steps, and the airstair door closed. Jane joined Don Renard in the cockpit, they started to roll even before the others had settled themselves, turned into position, roared down the runway, and lifted, climbing into the comforting darkness.

  Dillon peered out and back at the lights of the airport. “So a not-so-fond farewell to Beirut. In the circumstances, I don’t think we should rely on being welcomed back.” He smiled wryly at Husseini. “Sorry about that.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got more important things to think about,” Husseini told him, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

  —

  Half an hour into the flight, Don Renard emerged from the cockpit to find Husseini still apparently dozing and the others enjoying a pot of black coffee. He helped himself and said, “Even if we push our speed as far as we can, we’ll still be landing at least an hour and a half after the opposition. What are we going to do?”

  “Tell me something,” Sara said. “How many times did you try to connect me and my Codex to their satellite phone system on the flight from London?”

  “Dozens,” he said. “Any kind of bad weather affects the system. I think the one time we did get through was just a fluke.”

  Declan, peering out, said, “You can’t find fault with it tonight. Remember that I have Bedouin forefathers from the Oman and the Empty Quarter, so I have a feel for how things work round here. To start with, the moon is full and looks different from the norm, and there is a total lack of wind.”

  “Then let’s have another go, Don,” Sara said. “If we could warn them to expect unwelcome visitors, it would be good.”

  He vanished into the cockpit, and Husseini said, “At least I could know how Mikali is doing.”

  “You might even get to speak to him,” Dillon said.

  “Well, we’ll see, shall we?” Sara said, and they sat, waiting, as the plane droned on into the night.

  —

  At St. Anthony’s Hospice, the enormous moon had moved on from the west, bathing everything in harsh white light. In the oasis fed by the well, goats and camels stirred, and Brother Andrew, reading an English primer, picked up his lantern and started back toward the hospice. He was not concerned if the animals were restless, for there was nowhere for them to go in all that desolation.

  At thirty, he was by far the youngest member of the order, a male nurse in Athens whose wife had died in childbirth. Having lost his way in life, the offer of a place in the order from his uncle, Abbot Joseph, had brought him to the hospice.

  He entered the ancient buildings through a rear door and walked along a corridor that brought him to the infirmary. Seated at the center table, dozing, was Father Peter, so small that he seemed swallowed up by his black robes. In his mid-seventies, he had once been an army doctor. There was a row of beds, six of them empty, and Father John Mikali in the seventh, his eyes closed.

  He wore a black cowl, so that only the face and silver beard showed. His skin was almost transparent, drawn tightly over the cheekbones in a noble face. His eyes suddenly opened, and he smiled and his voice was still strong.

  Andrew asked in English, “How are you, Father? Any pain at the moment?”

  “Not as bad as it has been.”

  “We still have an ample supply of morphine, thanks to the battle packs the Saudi Air Force left us.”

  “I can manage at the moment,” Mikali said. “But I must say your English improves daily. Speak it as often as you can.”

  “That’s due to you, Father.”

  “Not at all. Speak it aloud to yourself, if that’s the only way. It’s the road to fluency, I assure you.”

  Before Andrew could reply, Brother Damien came in from the kitchen. An octogenarian, with a white apron over his black robe, he was carrying a two-handed small beaker.

  “Get this down you and you’ll feel much better,” he told Mikali.

  Andrew said, “What is it, what’s so special?”

  “It’s a tisane of honey, fruit juice, and tea. Guaranteed t
o bring him back to life,” Damien answered. “Raise him if you can.”

  Andrew managed to sit Mikali up, thanks to a back support, and Damien stood beside him, clutching the beaker in both hands, pouring carefully.

  He paused and said, “Is that good?”

  “Excellent,” Mikali told him. “I’ll have a little more.”

  But before Damien could pour, there was the sound of a bell from outside and Andrew swung around, amazement on his face.

  “Blessed Mary,” he said. “It’s the satellite phone system.”

  “Now, who can that be?” Father Mikali asked. “Better answer it before they go away again, whoever they are. It’s the first call we’ve had in a couple of months.”

  Andrew ran out into the corridor, opened the black oak door to the vestry, and hurried in. The stone walls had been painted white. There were shelves stacked with manuscript registers and books and various religious vestments hanging from rails. There were also two wooden desks, one with an old-fashioned typewriter, paper stacked beside it, all very businesslike; the other contained the telephone equipment, which was also old, with a fixed microphone.

  Andrew sat down and flicked a switch. “This is St. Anthony’s Hospice.”

  He had spoken in Greek, and Sara Gideon answered in the same language. “I am receiving you loud and clear.” She changed to English. “I am the woman who was asking after Father Mikali. Do you remember me?”

  “Of course,” Andrew said. “Who are you?”

  “Tell me first, is he still with you?”

  “Yes, he is, a patient in the infirmary.”

  “We have one of his oldest friends on board my plane, Simon Husseini. It’s of vital importance that he speak to Father Mikali. Will you tell him?”

  “Yes, but he’ll need to come to this phone, and that means the wheelchair. This is so exciting. We seldom get calls, so please be patient.”

  He ran back to the ward where they were all waiting, and his Uncle Joseph, the abbot, had arrived, disturbed by the bell sounding from the vestry. “What is it?” he demanded.

  “A call from a plane which intends to land here,” Andrew told him, running to an ancient wheelchair in the corner, swinging it around, and approaching Mikali. “Apparently, an old friend of yours is coming to see you, Father,” he told Mikali. “A Simon Husseini.”

  There was astonishment on Mikali’s face. “Simon on his way here? I can’t believe it.”

  “But you must come now.” Andrew pulled the bedcovers aside. “Let me ease you into the wheelchair. I’m afraid we may lose the connection.”

  Abbot Joseph said to the rest, “You must leave the vestry clear and listen from the corridor.”

  He waved everyone to one side to allow Andrew and Mikali free passage and followed, with the others trailing beside.

  —

  On the Gideon, the door to the cockpit stood open and, thanks to the genius who had produced the Codex, with the speaker switched on, everyone on board was able to follow the conversation that now took place. In the vestry at the hospice, it was the same, thanks to the transmitter loudspeaker. The abbot and Brother Andrew stood on either side of Mikali in his wheelchair, while, the word having spread, a dozen brothers crowded together in the corridor.

  Mikali spoke into the microphone, a certain caution in his voice. “Simon Husseini, can this be you?”

  “Oh yes, Father. I assure you it’s me, and I can prove it. As a young lecturer at the Sorbonne, I was one of the very first to be exposed to your concept of essential goodness, because you gave me a typescript to consider before the famous book was published.”

  Mikali laughed in delight. “Yes, I did, and you presented me with a review within twenty-four hours. So, Simon, I have followed your career with the greatest interest and I know the predicament you have found yourself in with the Iranian government. How are your dear mother and your daughter? Well, I trust?”

  “No, they were recently killed in a road accident in Tehran.”

  Mikali was shocked. “My dear friend, what can I say? May they rest in peace. But this changes everything for you, I think?”

  “I’m running away from a situation I can’t face in order to see you and find out if you can offer me a solution,” Husseini carried on. “I’ve created in theory the possibility of a nuclear bomb four times more powerful than any at present existing. My government wants it, probably Russia and China, and certainly the UK and America. I’ve even got al-Qaeda wanting it.”

  “So what is your problem?” Mikali asked.

  “What if I don’t want anyone to have it? What if I destroy my own work?”

  “My dear friend, that’s a quixotic approach indeed which would do you little good. A scientist is like an explorer, searching for something that already exists. To destroy your case notes would be pointless. Someone else would just come along. Let me put it this way: Einstein didn’t create relativity, he discovered it.”

  “So where does that leave your theory that essential goodness is the most important building block in life, Father?”

  “Let me ask you a question,” Mikali said. “Who are these people on the plane with you?”

  “Good people, and on my side.”

  “And you were coming to seek my advice and for no other reason?”

  “That was the idea, but al-Qaeda discovered our intention, stole a march on us, and intend to land at al-Shaba to ambush us. It’s me they want.

  “Then why are you bothering to come?”

  “Well, we can’t just leave you to handle such a thing on your own.”

  There was a crackling over the sound system, a slight buzz, and the Gideon was buffeted by a sudden wind.

  “Ah, I see now.” Mikali raised his voice. “You’re coming to save us. A perfect example of essential goodness in action. When may we expect these people you speak of?”

  “In an hour or so. On their plane are two pilots and three passengers. There would be no profit in them harming you or your people, as long as you avoid confrontation. It’s me they want, not you. We will be there, I promise you, an hour and a half after they arrive.”

  “And will you leave with them?” Mikali asked.

  But to that, there could be no answer, for the crackling over the sound system developed into a roaring that drowned out any intelligible conversation.

  Mikali said to the abbot, “It’s unlikely we’ll get them back. I suggest you order everyone into the infirmary, and, with your permission, I’d like to try to explain to them what’s going on. I don’t think we’ve got long before the plane that Husseini warned us against gets here.”

  “Of course.” The abbot raised his voice. “I want you all in the infirmary as quickly as possible. Now, go.”

  Whispering to each other, they turned obediently and did as ordered, followed by the abbot, and Andrew pushing the wheelchair. They crowded into the infirmary, and Mikali addressed them.

  “Very soon now, a plane will land on the airstrip and some of the men on board will come to see us, particularly me. They are not good people, but do as they say and I don’t think any harm will come to you. They are waiting for another plane to arrive. If they speak to you, don’t mention that you know the second plane will be coming. Speak Greek between yourselves. I suspect they can’t, and will tend to leave you alone. The people on the other plane are our friends. I can’t tell you what will happen when they arrive, because I don’t know. May God bless all of us.”

  The brothers were murmuring among themselves, and some looked anxious. The abbot said, “We are all brothers in the sight of God. He will help us get through this. Now, go about your usual work and we’ll see what happens.”

  —

  On the Gideon, Don Renard glanced out of the cockpit into the cabin. “I’m afraid we’ve lost it again.”

  “Don’t worry, what we got was useful,” Sara told him. “We know what’s going on at the hospice now.”

  “And that’s fine,” Dillon said. “But it makes one thing clea
r. That there’s nothing the brothers can do to help themselves.”

  “True,” Declan said. “And they can’t help us, either. When Emza Khan and his friends arrive, the brothers will have no option but to comply with their demands. They’re only pawns in this game. Al-Qaeda only wants Husseini, and they want him alive. He’s absolutely no use to them dead.”

  Dillon said grimly, “And he’s no use to them alive if he’s not willing to toe the line and produce that bomb.”

  There was silence for a while, Declan frowning slightly, Dillon glancing from one to another, Husseini perfectly calm, and Sara looking troubled.

  Husseini said to her, “You attended the Military Academy at Sandhurst. Didn’t they have a saying: Difficult decisions are the privilege of rank?”

  “Yes, they do,” she said.

  “Good, I must bear that in mind.” He sat down in the seat opposite Dillon, reached for his bag, opened it, and produced a small black-and-silver notebook, a tiny green light throbbing in it. He also took out a pad and an envelope.

  Dillon said, “Is that notebook electronic?”

  “A Sonic,” Husseini told him. “It can only be opened by a code word. It’s very useful for preserving the important things in life.”

  He wrote quickly on the pad as the Gideon droned on, tore out the sheet, folded it, then put it in the envelope, sealed it, and passed it to Dillon.

  “What’s this?” Dillon asked.

  “We live in dangerous times. The contents are self-explanatory. I give it to you because you are the great survivor. You’ll know when it’s right to open it.”

  Dillon frowned, but put it into an inside pocket. Husseini dropped the pad into his bag, slipped the Sonic into his left jacket pocket, closed his eyes, and leaned back.

  —

  It was just after six a.m. when the Cyrus Holdings Falcon came in low from the north at four thousand feet and descending. There was no sun, dark cloud formations blanketing the area, a rumble of thunder in the distance, and as they went down, it became obvious that there was considerable wind at ground level.