The Killing Ground

by Jack Higgins

  “One of them left minus half his left ear, and the other one told Dillon the score.”

  “So that leaves George Moon in deep trouble.”

  “I’d say so.” Harry got up. “So let’s make it a visit to the Harvest Moon, home of the worst pint of beer in London. And make sure you’re carrying.”

  * * * *

  TRENCHARD STREET WAS VICTORIAN, and the Harvest Moon even more so. They arrived over cobblestones to the pub, with its half-moon over the door.

  Harry told Sam Hall, “Wait by the car. Anything could happen in a dump like this.”

  Hall nodded, lit a cigarette and paused for a moment. The door swung open and a rough voice called, “I told you to lock up.”

  Ruby Moon stepped into the rain trying to put a mackintosh on. Big Harold reached behind and pulled her hair, making her cry out. “Cry? I’ll make you cry,” he said, and then slapped her twice across the face. “You need discipline. I’ll enjoy taking care of that.”

  Harry turned to Joe Baxter. “Look at that. Neanderthal man come back to haunt us from the Stone Age, and it slaps girls around, too.” He moved her to one side and she burst into angry tears.

  “Won’t do,” Harry said and removed his smart military trench coat, which he placed over her shoulders. “Do you know who I am?”

  She’d stopped crying. “Oh, God, I think so.”

  “For maybe you know my nephew, young Billy?”

  “If he’s who I think he is, I do.”

  “That’s good. Slip up to your bedroom. Find a few necessaries, put them in a suitcase and come back. Anything else you can get tomorrow. I’m losing Dora at my pub, the Dark Man at Cable Wharf, and you can take over the bar. Now hurry.”

  “But this animal? What’s he going to do? He won’t let me go.”

  “Dear me, I was forgetting.”

  Harry offered his hand to Baxter, who passed him a.25 Colt with a silencer, and as Big Harold tried to step back, Harry shot him through the fleshy part of the thigh and shoved him back on the stair.

  “Find him a towel in the gents,” Harry said. “And you get upstairs, girl.”

  She ran up wildly, and Harry and Baxter followed.

  Inside, George Moon was peering through a half-open door, and Harry could see a room lined with books behind him. Moon was small, balding and generally unsavory and, just now, sweating profusely. He retreated to his desk and sank into a chair.

  “Harry, my old friend, is that you?”

  “Old friend? You must be bleeding joking.”

  Salter put his gun on the table and walked to a sideboard. “Whiskey-a large one, and feel free yourself, Joe.”

  “Certainly,” Baxter said.

  Moon didn’t have the bottle to reach for the Colt. Harry said, “I’m in a hurry, George, old friend. A couple of geezers tried to knock off an actual friend of mine tonight, but Dillon and my boy Billy managed to turn things around.”

  “On my life, Harry, I swear-”

  “Nothing. You pain me in my backside. Now confirm that a Russian named Lhuzkov approached you for two hard men.”

  “All right. It’s true. It was for two grand, and I gave him two men- good men. I was just brokering the deal.”

  “For two grand? That’s rubbish money these days. Give me the truth.” Harry slapped the gun on the sweaty face. “I’ll do for you, I swear it.”

  “Please, I’ll tell. They met me in a Daimler at Hyde Park, Lhuzkov was driving. The passenger was also a Russian, cigar-smoking, drinking vodka out of a flask, laughing all the time. He had a bad scar from his left eye down to the corner of the nose. He gave me a briefcase with ten grand in it.”

  “So you pocketed eight and gave those two guys only two? Very naughty.”

  “Harry, I wasn’t sure what to do.” He struggled for something good to say. “I know who the other one was, though. I saw him in the Dorchester bar one evening and got his name out of a waiter. Someone named Max Chekov.”

  “Yes, ten thousand quid would make more sense.” Harry turned to Baxter. “See if the safe works!”

  Moon moaned, “Please, Harry,” but the safe did work and there was even a key in the door. Baxter held up a briefcase. The contents spoke for themselves.

  “Excellent. Ruby can buy some nice things. Go down and get her in the car.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  Baxter went out and Harry made for the door, and paused. “Dear me, I was forgetting Ruby is leaving you.” He shot Moon through the right thigh. Harry said, “It would be wise to get some medical help for that. These days, terrible things happen, street robberies, guns-it’s just a shame.” He shook his head. “Get me?”

  He left, the room was quiet, then there was only the sound of the limousine driving away. Moon groaned and reached for the telephone.

  * * * *

  IN THE BENTLEY, Harry passed the briefcase over. “You’ll need a savings account.”

  Ruby examined it. “My God, this can’t be happening.”

  “It is happening. You’ll do a great job running the pub, I’m never wrong about people. Happy days, sweetheart.”

  * * * *

  AT HEATHROW it wasn’t busy, possibly due to the lateness of the hour and, though the custom and passport officers on duty regarded them with deep suspicion, they knew better than to object to Dillon and Billy’s presence.

  They’d been there a couple of hours, with no one particularly interesting coming through, when a new entry on the arrivals screen caught Dillon’s attention.

  “Well, look at that, Billy,” he said. “An old friend. Hazar.”

  Billy stopped smiling and shivered a little at the memory of the ordeals they’d gone through in that desolate Middle Eastern country. “Dear God, Kate Rashid of blessed memory.”

  “Is that how you remember her?”

  “She was some woman.” Billy shook his head at the thought of the woman who had sworn to kill them, and almost succeeded. “If I never see that place again, I’ll only be too happy.”

  “A long time ago,” Dillon said. “But thinking of her brings events flowing back, enough to want to take a look at who’s doing night runs from Hazar these days to good old London. Let’s see.”

  * * * *

  AS THE QUEUES LENGTHENED, a supervisor called over the loudspeaker for people specifically traveling from Hazar to move to a special section, which they did with surprisingly little fuss.

  Caspar Rashid was one of them, a tall handsome man, comparatively light in color, his chin and mouth covered by a beard that was almost blond. He had one piece of folding hand luggage and a briefcase.

  Billy said, “He looks like a Bedouin.”

  “That’s because he is, Billy. Let’s join him.”

  As they approached, the passport officer had already opened the passport and was examining it. “Mr. Caspar Rashid? Address?”

  “ Gulf Road, Hampstead,” Rashid told him.

  “Country of birth?”

  “ England.”

  “Would you like to have a look, sir?” The passport man passed it across and Rashid waited impassively while Dillon stepped back and examined the pages. Finally, Dillon said, “Fine,” and handed the passport to Rashid, who gave him a wonderful smile and walked away.

  “He has, you would agree, a great smile,” Dillon said.

  “Yes, I suppose so, but then he’s a good-looking guy.”

  “But that isn’t why he’s smiling. He’s smiling because he thinks he’s got away with it, and I’m smiling because I’ve caught him. He’s hiding something, Billy. I don’t know what, but he’s hiding something. Let’s go.”

  * * * *

  RASHID WAS TIRED from the flight, and obviously beyond caution. His vehicle was a red hire car on the ground floor of the car park opposite the exit. Rashid unlocked the door, including the luggage compartment. They were close enough to have a look when Rashid heaved out the spare tire and started to lift up the carpet.

  “Get him, Billy,” Dillon said, and they moved
fast and Rashid turned to face them. Dillon produced his Walther. “Hands behind your neck. See what you can find, Billy.”

  Billy struck gold straightaway, lifting out a cloth in which were wrapped a few tools-and a pistol. He held it up.

  “Thirty-eight Smith amp; Wesson automatic. Loaded.”

  “Cuff him.” Billy did as he was told. “Do we take him in?” he asked.

  “No. He interests me.”

  “Why?”

  “You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know he was up to no good. His passport indicates that he arrived in Cairo last week by plane from London. Took a train to Mombasa, then a ferry from Mombasa to Hazar. He didn’t even stay a full day before flying back to London. Why did he do all that? Why not fly from London to Hazar and back?”

  “I see what you mean.” Billy nodded. “Probably because he didn’t want to be noticed.”

  “And there was a better chance of that by the roundabout route.”

  “So why didn’t you want to be noticed, Mr. Rashid?”

  “Because,” Rashid said, his face twisting with emotion, “I couldn’t. They might have killed me. They might have killed her. I had no choice.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Billy. “Who are we talking about here?”

  “Al-Qaeda. And the Army of God.”

  A chill ran through them at the mention of the two terrorist organizations.

  “What did they want with you?” asked Dillon.

  “They called me. The man spoke excellent English and perfect Arabic. He told me I was under surveillance and could be killed at any time. He said I had to think of him as the Broker. He gave me no connecting number, but said they wanted to talk to me in person. That’s why I went to Hazar, that’s why I took such a roundabout route, they told me no one must know. The gun was given to me in London. It appeared in my desk drawer, but I didn’t know what to do with it, and I just wrapped it up in the cloth and stuck it in the car. I’m not a terrorist, you must believe me.”

  “But why did they call you?”

  Rashid’s face contorted again. “To talk about my daughter. My beautiful, thirteen-year-old daughter, Sara. They were… they were brought in by my father. He is very wedded to the old ways, and when he told us he intended to marry Sara to a cousin, a person we had never even heard of-a thirteen-year-old girl!-we refused, my wife and I. She’s English, too, a doctor. We refused-and then he just took her. Took her away. And now Sara is in Iraq.”

  “Bloody hell,” Billy said.

  “Please-I don’t know who you are, but you must be with the government in some way. Can you help me? I’m not a terrorist, but I’ve learned a lot about the Army of God. I can tell you everything I know if you only help me get my daughter back. Please?”

  “Take off the handcuffs.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “Leave his car. We’ll use the Aston Martin.”

  Billy did as he was told. “Where to?”

  “To see Roper.”

  LONDON

  BRUSSELS

  Chapter 2

  AT HOLLAND PARK, THEY WERE ADMITTED BY SERGEANT Doyle, who was on night duty. “Unexpected guest,” Dillon told him. “Get Henderson out of bed. Billy, you stick Rashid in the interview room and wait. I’ll see if Roper is still up.”

  Which he was, roaming cyberspace as usual, Cole Porter sounding softly from a player. He was humming, perfectly happy, with Greta in a nearby chair, browsing through the New Statesman.

  “Come into the viewing room, both of you.”

  They assembled quickly, all of them, watching through the glass as Billy left Rashid alone in total silence.

  “This is Caspar Rashid, a doctor of electronics at London University. He’s forty-two, born in London, and his wife, Molly, is a medical doctor. Hope you’re getting this, Roper. I’d like a full-flow analysis as you record details of the interview. Assist by all means.”

  “Of course. Let’s keep it friendly,” Roper said and brought the lights up on both sides of the glass so Rashid could see them as well. “Dr. Rashid, we’re a mixture of military and intelligence personnel. My name is Roper, the lady is Major Greta Novikova of the GRU, and Dillon and Billy Salter you already know.”

  “I’m impressed,” Rashid said.

  “We belong to a group personally authorized by the Prime Minister. Normal rules do not apply to us, so your complete honesty will be required.” That was Dillon.

  Billy laughed. “The only rules we have are not to have any. It saves time.”

  “I understand,” said Rashid.

  Greta suddenly said in Arabic, “What nonsense is this? The analysis on Major Roper’s flow machine fits no Arab I ever knew. It’s there now.”

  Rashid said in good Russian, “Oh, I’m Arab enough, although I prefer Bedouin. I’m a member of the Rashid tribe, based in the Empty Quarter.” He continued in English. “My father was a London heart surgeon from a wealthy family in Baghdad. Money meant nothing to him.”

  “And you forswore your faith? Renounced Islam?” Greta asked. “I can’t believe it.”

  “My parents moved back to Baghdad nearly thirteen years ago. My marriage to a Christian was a terrible shame for them. Unfortunately for them, I had been left a fortune by my grandmother, so I was independent. She’d even left me the Hampstead house I was born in.”

  It was Dillon who said, “And all this without provoking any blow-backs from your fellow Muslims?”

  “Many and often. I became what someone once called a Christmas Muslim. Once a year. The kind of electronic engineering I specialize in is linked to the modern railway. I’m well known in my field as an expert. I visit many Muslim areas. I’ve been subject to pressure from extremist colleagues on many occasions at the university and on my travels. I know of things happening in places that would probably disturb you.”

  “Such as,” Roper said.

  “I will not say. Not until my terms are met. I will only say that eight months ago when I was in Algiers for a week and my wife was on a heavy operating schedule, my daughter was abducted from her prep school at lunchtime, driven to a flying club near London and flown out of the country by agents of the Army of God, backed by al-Qaeda. She was delivered to my father’s villa at Amara, north of Baghdad.”

  “Good God, there’s a war on,” Greta said. “Why would he be there instead of getting the hell out of it, a man like him?”

  “He’s seen the light, is dedicated to Osama. He allowed Sara to speak to us on the telephone once, but said I would never see her again. Since then, I’ve tried everything and I’ve gotten nowhere.”

  “So that’s where we come in,” Roper said.

  “No one in any official capacity can help. The place we call Iraq is an inferno,” Rashid said.

  “I’m interested in why your father, a man of such wealth and influence, should stay in the war zone. The major is right.”

  “He has dedicated himself to the other side, that is the most I will tell you. What I know about the Army of God during the past months and related dealings with al-Qaeda in many areas of the Middle East and North Africa would interest you, Mr. Dillon, particularly as an Irishman.”

  “Now you’ve got the pot boiling. What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Not now. You know what I want.”

  “What about your wife?” Greta put in.

  “She won’t crack, she’s too strong. A great surgeon. Children are her specialty.”

  “And she never knew about your problems with the Islamic business and the Army of God?”

  “I thought I was protecting her from it, but the abduction of Sara changed all that. She has her work. That is her mainstay.”

  There was a long pause.

  Dillon said to Roper, “Can it be done?”

  “Well, there is the small matter of the war, but we’ll just have to see what we can do. It’s a good thing Ferguson ’s in Brussels, so we don’t have to tell him. Allow Henderson to take this poor sod away for a shower.” He called to Rashid as he stood up, “Yo
ur trip to Hazar. You thought it had a purpose, but those Army of God people were playing with you, was that it?”

  “I’ve nothing more to say.”

  “Good,” Roper said. “Always nice to be reassured.”

  * * * *

  SITTING IN THE COMPUTER ROOM, Roper, who liked to think of himself as the planning genius of all time, had a large scotch and smoked for twenty minutes, but he wasn’t taking it easy.

  First, he checked on Molly Rashid’s whereabouts. She was a professor of pediatrics at several hospitals, but that night she had performed heart surgery at Great Ormond Street and gone home at midnight.

  He also checked the Rashids in Iraq. The villa on the north road beyond the village of Amara outside Baghdad was, according to American sources, still intact and inhabited by the head of the household, Abdul, aged eighty. There were two or three aging females and five or six young men of the AK-carrying variety and many refugees from the bombing. He was also pleased to see a mention of a thirteen-year-old girl named Sara. So, she was still there. Roper had Rashid brought back to the viewing room.

  “What now?” Rashid asked.

  “Dr. Rashid, we’re now going to call your wife.”

  “I can speak to her?” Rashid had brightened.

  “I insist on it. I’m afraid it has to be on speakerphone, and I suggest you tell her everything-which I suspect you haven’t.”

  There was the heavily magnified sound of a telephone and a woman’s voice. “Caspar? Is that you?” She was well spoken, a timbre to her voice.

  Roper said, “Dr. Molly Rashid?”

  “Yes, who is this?” She was unsure, uncertain.

  “My name is Major Giles Roper.”

  Before he could carry on, she said, “Good heavens, I once met you at a charity lunch for the Great Ormond Street Hospital. You’re that wonderful man with all the medals for dealing with bombs.”

  She paused, and Roper carried on for her. “The man in the wheelchair.”