by Jack Higgins
Sara turned to Roper. “You think you’ve come across something. Tell us.”
“I have a recording I’d like to play to you, of a telephone conversation between Dr. Ali Saif and his al-Qaeda asset, the man known to him as the Master. Just listen.”
They all did. When it was finished, Sara said, “What’s the point?”
“All right. Now listen to the conversation between General Ali ben Levi and Colonel Rashid here.
Even before it finished, Sara said, “Oh my God, it’s the same man.”
“Of course it is,” Roper said. “Condemned by his own voice.”
“I’ve known him for years,” Declan said. “It’s hard to take in, hard to explain how wrong one could be about somebody, but it has to be faced.”
“And there’s even more to consider, you know. My computers are programmed to send me any interesting information. It appears that General Ali ben Levi has just arrived at Northolt an hour ago on an Iranian Embassy courier run. He hailed a taxi and is headed for downtown London.”
Dillon said, “So why’s he here? Do you think he’s doing a runner, Colonel?”
“I was going to say, not the man I knew,” Declan said. “But now I wonder if I ever knew him at all.”
—
Saif had spent close to an hour in the pub considering his predicament, and his final conclusion was definitely that it could have been a lot worse. A pragmatist at heart, he realized that one chapter in his life had closed, but if he behaved himself, something worthwhile could be on offer, especially if he played his cards right.
So he was cheerful enough as he opened the door of his office and turned on the light, and there was Rasoul sitting behind the desk, the Browning in his right hand and the whiskey tumbler in his left.
“So there you are, you bastard,” he said. “I’ve been waiting. Get in here and close the door.”
Saif knew fear, real fear at the angry and drink-sodden face, but desperately forced a smile. “Why, Rasoul, what’s this?”
“Don’t try to make a fool out of me. I was in the book room when the major in the wheelchair was turning you inside out. I heard all of that phone conversation, what the Master said to you about what Ferguson’s people had done to Emza Khan. I should kill you right now, except I’d rather it was Ferguson or that Jewish whore.”
Ali ben Levi had arrived at Pound Street to find no one on the desk, but an obliging student had pointed the way to Saif’s office. He’d paused, aware of voices inside, had taken the Walther from his bag, was holding it at his side when he opened the door with his left and stepped in. For a moment, it was a tableau frozen in time. Himself, Saif, and Rasoul at the desk with the Browning in his hand.
It was the sight of the gun that did it. Ali ben Levi started to raise his too late, and Rasoul shot him in the heart, knocking him back against the door, and he slid to the floor.
Saif was terrified, expecting to be next at any moment, but Rasoul came around the desk, dropped to one knee, fished in the dead man’s pockets, and found a passport. “Iranian and a general. Some sort of military police. Do you know this man?”
“I swear to you, I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“Well, the way I see it, he must have something to do with this whole bloody business. We’ll hide him in the storeroom, so do that now.”
Saif did as he was told, dragging the dead man across the floor and into the storeroom, turning the key in the door.
“That’s good,” Rasoul said. “I remember Roper giving you his number, so you can call him now and tell him you know where this General Ali ben Levi is. If it doesn’t mean anything to them, it won’t matter. On the other hand, it might.”
“Is that all?”
“No. I’m interested in pulling Ferguson or some of his people in.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Tell Roper and his friends that if they want to see a dead man walking, Rasoul is back, and he’s shot someone dead at your office. He’ll be waiting for them himself at Emza Khan’s penthouse in Park Lane.”
He was drunk, sweating, eyes glittering, and obviously quite mad. Saif said, “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?”
“Of course not. I want you to be there and see me in action with those swine.” He laughed harshly and stroked Saif’s face with the barrel of the Walther. “Then I might kill you. So make the call and then we’ll get out of here in that Citroën van of yours and try for Park Lane before they get there.”
—
At Holland Park, there was the briefest of discussions. “No time to call in more troops,” Roper said.
“You can count on me, my friend,” Declan Rashid said. “Just provide a weapon.”
“There you are,” Sara told Roper firmly. “We’ve got plenty of those here.”
“And don’t try to keep me out of it,” Dillon said. “It’s my left arm in a sling, and the right’s in perfect working order, so let’s get on with it.”
“Damn you, Sean,” Roper told him. “But I don’t have much choice and time is of the essence, so why aren’t you roaring out of the front gate now? Only, for God’s sake, take care.”
“I always knew you were a big softie at heart,” Dillon said and led the way out.
Seconds later, the Alfa Romeo’s engine burst into life and faded into the night.
Suddenly, Roper was alone. This was always the worst time, the waiting. For something to do, he phoned Mr. Teague. “Major Roper here. I need a disposal unit at the Army of God headquarters at Pound Street, the storeroom in Dr. Ali Saif’s office. Grade A security, this one. I’d appreciate your most urgent attention.”
“I’m sure there will be no problem, Major. I’ll keep you informed.”
And Teague did. It seemed like only minutes later that he called Roper and asked, “Do you know anybody named ben Levi?”
Absorbing the information, Roper poured a large whiskey to settle his nerves and lit a cigarette, for his bomb-battered body needed any relief he could find, and now he sat there wondering what was happening at Park Lane.
—
The penthouse was in darkness as Saif turned off Park Lane into the underground garage. Rasoul said, “That’s no good. I need the lights on to make them think I’m up there.” He passed Saif a key. “Jump in that lift, press express, and you’re there in no time. Put all the lights on.”
“Do I come back?”
“You’d only be in the way, so stay out of it. I’m going to surprise them. Now, clear off.”
Which Saif did, and as he stepped into the lift, in the bravest act of his life he shouted, “I don’t know if you’re there, but he’s going to ambush you!”
“You bastard,” Rasoul cried and fired at the door as it closed.
Sara, crouched down in the Alfa, kicked the door open, followed by Declan, both of them gun in hand. Rasoul pivoted, firing wildly; she fired back, clipping his left arm, and then she slipped on an oil patch.
“I’ve got you now, whore.” As Declan bent over her protectively, Rasoul shot him in the back twice, then advanced, Walther raised, his left arm hanging.
The rear door of a station wagon opposite was kicked open, and Sean Dillon sat up, one arm still in a sling, a Glock in the other hand, and shot Rasoul in the center of the forehead, lifting him off his feet to fall on his back.
There had been little noise, just the dull thud of silenced weapons exchanging fire, then the whirring of the lift descending. Saif appeared cautiously and then ran forward, paused to look down at Rasoul, then approached Declan on the ground, leaning against the Alfa, Sara crouching beside him, trying to stem blood with her scarf.
Saif said, “Is it bad?”
“We’ll have to see,” Sara told him. “But you were great. Thanks for having the guts to stand up to that bastard.”
Dillon, on his Codex, was calling in to Roper. “Declan Rashid’s taken one bullet at least. Sara and I each got a piece of Rasoul, so we’ll need disposal. You’ll be pleased to know D
r. Ali Saif came through for us big-time.”
“Thanks, Sean, I’ll see you back at the ranch.”
“Probably Rosedene,” Dillon said. “I could do with Bellamy myself.”
“And when you all do get back here? I might have some news for you.” And he hung up.
Roper sat there, thinking about it, poured himself a whiskey, then phoned Ferguson to tell him the good news. Then he sent for Tony Doyle to come and take him to the wet room for the total treatment, steam, shower, fresh clothes, and was back in the computer room when Sara called him from Rosedene.
“One bullet was stopped by Declan’s vest, but another was lower down and on the hip below the vest. Bellamy says it’s going to take time and therapy. Apparently, he’s been wounded several times over the years. Can I ask you what’s going to happen to him, Giles? Have you discussed it with Ferguson?”
“There’s no need, Sara. Declan Rashid has Irish citizenship through his mother, so he doesn’t need to ask permission to live in Ireland or London or any other part of the United Kingdom. He is here by right.”
“And I can tell him that?”
“Of course, although I fear it may complicate your love life.”
“Oh, I’ll take that as it comes,” she said and rang off.
Roper sat there, wondering whether to talk to Ferguson again and deciding not to. Dr. Ali Saif was going to be a useful asset in spite of, or because of, his past. One had to be a pragmatist. This war on terrorism seemed never-ending, and he thought of what Sara had said about Declan. That he’d been wounded several times over the years.
“Haven’t we all?” he said softly and poured himself another drink.