The Killing Ground

by Jack Higgins

  * * * *

  AT HOLLAND PARK, Roper sat at his computers and showed the TV footage of the funeral cortege in Hazar to Greta.

  “What did Ferguson say?” she wanted to know.

  “Poor sod.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Absolutely. He’s gone to the Ministry of Defence for the rest of the day. Pass me the scotch.”

  “You’re worse than a Russian with his vodka.”

  “We drink for different reasons. What do you think?”

  “About Hussein? Surely he’s all washed up. Never mind coming to Britain, if he puts foot on a Baghdad street, he’s a dead man.”

  “You think so?” He lit a cigarette. “I’m wondering…after the Hannah Bernstein affair last year, when Igor Levin dumped his Russian masters and legged it to good old Dublin with his two sergeants, he phoned me and gave me his number.”

  “A sort of challenge?”

  “In a way. We couldn’t track him legally in Dublin. I’ve spoken to him on the odd occasion, late at night, feeling cheesed off.”

  “You never said.”

  “I didn’t think Ferguson would like it. The point is, I’ve told him about our current experience with our Russian friends and he’s obliged me on occasion with his personal opinion. He knows quite a bit about what’s been going on, with the Broker and all that.”

  “Does he know who the Broker is?”

  “I’ve told you-nobody does.”

  “Does he know about Chekov?”

  “Not from me-but I feel like telling him.”

  “Well, don’t stop because of me,” and she went and got herself a vodka.

  * * * *

  LEVIN WAS SITTING in the corner of Kelly’s bar waiting for Chomsky, when his mobile went and Roper said, “It’s me, homing in like Spock from cyberspace.”

  “Tell me what happened in Baghdad. Did it get anywhere?”

  “Let me give you a quick recap.” When he was finished, he added, “What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve got trouble, my friend. He’ll be on somebody’s doorstep before you know it. It’s good to know Dillon and Billy can still cut the mustard.”

  “More to the point, so can Harry. Greta’s standing right next to me. Let her tell you.”

  “Hey, lovely,” he said. “So you’re speaking to me?”

  “I didn’t know I could, you rogue.”

  “Do you still love me?”

  “Naturally.”

  “So what’s this about Harry?”

  She told him, and was thoroughly amused. “Chekov on sticks. So much for the Moscow Mafia in London. Chomsky has just joined me. He sends his best.”

  Roper had put the call on the speaker. “Dillon and Billy aren’t here. They’ve gone to see Harry at the Dark Man. He’s put Ruby Moon behind the bar. Remember her?”

  “How could I forget? Now, I’ve got something interesting to tell you. Enough for now but I just want to mention something. Remember friend Popov? He now works for Michael Flynn at a firm called Scam-rock Security.”

  “Yes, used to be chief of staff of the Provisional IRA years ago. A bit of a bruiser. What’s your point?”

  “This Broker, the mystery man who fronts for Osama, is apparently also heavily involved with Michael Flynn, who, it would seem, is in the mercenary business.”

  “I could have told you about the mercenary bit.”

  “But not the Broker, who is involved with Volkov. I don’t know what’s going to happen at Drumore with Belov International, but they will need a decent bunch to keep our soldiers out.”

  “The decent bunch being ex-Provos.”

  “I think you’ll find Flynn is after the work.”

  “Interesting.”

  “And, I happen to know that Volkov got Popov the job at Scamrock, and as we’ve said, Volkov means the Broker and the Broker means Osama.”

  “Did Popov tell you he got the job from Volkov?”

  Chomsky’s voice was heard over the speaker, “No, he didn’t, the bastard. I’ve got my ear to Igor’s phone, Roper. I’ll deal with Popov.”

  It was Greta who cut in. “No, don’t be stupid, Chomsky. You wait, see just what his involvement is before making a move.”

  “Sorry, Major,” Chomsky said. “You’re right.”

  “Of course she is,” Levin said. “Take care, my friends. And call again.”

  Roper switched off. “Well, that was interesting, you must admit.”

  “Yes, very much so,” Charles Ferguson said from the doorway. “The things the help gets up to when one’s away.”

  “Oh, dear,” Roper said.

  “Well, it could be.” Charles Ferguson smiled. “But I always wanted to get my hands on Levin, as you well know. He’s too good to be sitting around on his backside.”

  “Well, there you are then. As for me, I need a break. If Sergeant Doyle is available, he can run me to the Dark Man.”

  “And I’ll go with you,” Greta said.

  “All right, you talked me into it.”

  * * * *

  DOYLE PHONED AHEAD, and when they got to the pub there was a booth waiting for them. They crowded round two tables, Ruby supervising things, Baxter and Hall as usual propping up the wall.

  “My goodness, you did well in the car park affray,” Ferguson said. “For you, Harry, it’s a return to your old form.”

  “It never went away,” Billy said. “It was just like the old days.”

  “Yes, I was a very naughty boy in my youth,” Harry said. “Let’s have a drink, my love. Champagne all round.” He made as if he would slap Ruby’s bottom, but managed to stop himself in time.

  She smiled. “That’s a good boy, Harry,” and went off for the champagne.

  Roper lit a cigarette and Greta said, “What will you do when they ban the cigarettes?”

  Roper shrugged. “I’ll figure out something. By the way, General. Item of news from Heathrow which may interest you. Professor Dreq Khan is back. Flew in from Brussels today.”

  “That is interesting.”

  “That bastard is untouchable,” Dillon said.

  “And he knows it,” Roper put in.

  “Makes you wonder why he’s come back,” Greta said.

  “If that means could there be a purpose to his return, I’m sure there is,” Roper said, and Ruby arrived with the champagne on a trolley.

  * * * *

  AT ALI HASSIM’S CORNER SHOP near Gulf Road, Professor Khan drew up in an Audi and went inside. Ali himself was behind the counter with a young girl in a smock, a niqab covering her entire face except for the eyes.

  “Professor,” he said in Arabic. “What a surprise.” He nodded to the girl. “Come on,” he told Khan and led the way into the small back room.

  They sat opposite each other at the table.

  “I thought you were to go to Hazar?” Ali said.

  “Yes, but the news from Hazar is bad.”

  “I’ve heard wild rumors. Can it be so?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So the Rashid girl is once again at the house in Gulf Road.”

  “The father, assisted by devils from hell, abducted her from Hazar. She’d gone there with her cousin and future husband, Hussein Rashid.”

  “The Hammer of God himself. Praise be his name.”

  “Praise indeed. They had left Baghdad, where her grandfather was killed by a car bomb in his Mercedes planted by Sunni dogs.”

  “Curse them,” Ali said. “What happened in Hazar?”

  Khan gave him as close an account as he was capable of.

  “So what happens now?” Ali inquired. “Hussein Rashid is what he is and a great man, but there aren’t just newspaper photos. One of my sweepers had to go to Hampstead police station for the new business, and there were two photos on the big notice board in the Most Wanted section. He could never come to England now.”

  “So it would seem.” Khan got up. “I must go.”

  Ali accompanied him to the street door and stood b
y the Audi. Khan said,“You never heard a word from Abu?” In fact he knew perfectly well that Abu was dead, shot by Greta Novikova, for Jamal had told him, but there had seemed little point informing Ali Hassim. There were more important considerations, and he had sworn Jamal to secrecy.

  Ali Hassim was remarkably calm in his reply. “I think they murdered him. It is the only explanation. If he was alive somewhere, he would have let us know by now.”

  “May you meet in Paradise. I’ll be in touch.”

  As he got in the Audi, Ali said, “Things go badly, am I right?”

  “No. It is just a minor setback. Hold true to your faith in Allah and in Osama.”

  “Always that.” Ali closed the door for him and Khan drove away.

  * * * *

  NOT LONG AFTERWARD there was an emergency at the hospital and Molly Rashid was called. In an effort to return to some sort of normalcy, the three of them had intended to go to the cinema together, but the child in question at the hospital was only seven, heart valves were involved, and Molly really was very good at that.

  So off she went, and when Caspar suggested just the two of them going to the cinema, Sara said she’d rather not. He tried talking to her as they worked their way through the light salad Molly had left for supper, but he got little response.

  Afterward, in the main drawing room by the fire, he tried to make conversation and failed miserably when he tried to discuss the future; it had disastrous results. His hesitant mention of school drew a totally negative result. She actually came alive.

  “Do you really think that would be appropriate, Daddy? School blazer, jolly hockey sticks?”

  “But look, love, you’ll have to go to school. The law demands it.”

  “The law!” There was a kind of fire in her eyes. “What’s that? All I saw for months were people shot, saw it on a regular basis. Your mother was killed along with seventy-two people in a market bombing in downtown Baghdad, your father in a car bomb by Sunnis.”

  “I know, darling.” He tried to take her hand. She pulled away. “You say Sunni as if you hate them.”

  “Why not? At the villa, including servants we had over forty people, because those who lost their homes brought their families. People lived in tents in the grounds, and every week without fail, somebody was killed. There were always three or four. One week was bad-ten in another market bombing.” She shrugged, “And the dead were replaced by more refugees. It was a cycle. It never stopped. There was no time for school. I don’t think I’ll ever find time for it again.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  She said, “I think I’ll go to bed.”

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, you’ve got to look on the bright side.” She actually managed a smile. “I’ve just thought of something good. At school, we do our advanced level certificates in a few years. Just think, I could probably do Advanced Arabic right now and get an A. Good night.”

  He sat there thinking about it, and the terrible thing was that in spite of his learning, his degree, the books he had written, there was nothing he could do about it.

  He stood quietly in the hall for a while, then went upstairs and tiptoed to her bedroom door. She was crying, he could hear that well enough.

  As he went back downstairs, he’d never felt so helpless in his life.

  * * * *

  HUSSEIN, FRUSTRATED AND ANGRY, hired a private jet from a company in Kuwait, a Citation X, a twin-engined plane requiring two pilots. The owners of the company were good Muslims, so it wasn’t just a question of money when they realized who he was. The aircraft was reputed to be the fastest commercial jet in the world since the Concorde’s departure. It was due the following day, but like everyone in the Broker’s world, he had no means of getting in touch with him and could only wait.

  At last the call came and he took it, angry. “What in hell is going on? I’ve already booked a private jet; it’s coming tomorrow morning.”

  “Excellent. I have a destination for you.”

  “Where?”

  “ Algeria, just as I said. You, of course, did your combat training there in the camps. So did Dillon thirty years ago when he was nineteen and first joined the IRA. Do you know an area called the Khufra, on the coast?”

  “No, I was in the desert two hundred miles west. It had a bad reputation. Why would we go there?”

  “In a way, it’s a message from me to Major Roper that I’m on to him.

  Ferguson ’s people had a hard time of it there last year. They’re still wanted by the Algerian police for several murders. Anyway, it’s a bad place, hundreds of miles of marsh, creeks, lots of boats and a hotbed of smuggling and drug-running. There is an airstrip, old hangars, a basic control tower.”

  “And where do we go from there?”

  “You will be met by Major Hakim Mahmoud of the Algerian Secret Police. Taking a bribe is second nature to him.”

  “So there is no moral aim to anything he does?”

  “Money talks, Hussein.”

  “I’ve nothing against a thief, but he must be an honest thief. I have no time to find this out by experience.”

  “Well, my experience has been satisfactory.”

  Hussein thought about it. “Another thing, this business of leaving all communication on your side has to stop. I need to be able to communicate with you if things go wrong.”

  “No-my privacy is nonnegotiable, even for you. It has always been so and so it will remain.”

  “Then I’ll make my own arrangements.”

  “You won’t be able to.”

  “Look, let’s discuss this. With my face plastered all over the papers, I’m not very hopeful that I can get to England from France by any known airline or train. You must have some sort of plan for the final approach.”

  “Yes, a small boat under cover of darkness from a port called Saint-Denis in Brittany. There’s a man named George Romano, English, used to be in the Navy. He specializes in high-priced clients who need to get into England the hard way.”

  “Will he have weapons?”

  “I presume you’ll carry pistols, but any heavy stuff you need you’ll get in England. It’s all provided for there. A man called Darcus Wellington. He was an actor for years, he still pops up in old British black-andwhite films on television, but his homosexuality sent him to prison for a few years. That was his downfall and crime followed. He also has a flair for makeup, which you’ll find very useful; I’m hoping he may be able to disguise you in some way.”

  “Excellent. Now how do we get from Khufra in Algeria to Saint-Denis in Brittany?”

  “Mahmoud is sorting that out now. He intends to place you as passengers on a small plane making a smuggling run to France. The drop will be at a private airfield where a car will be provided. You can drive to Saint-Denis. If Roper checks Hazar, when he sees a Citation X booked, he’ll suspect it’s for you. If he traces it to Algeria, it will simply fly away again.”

  “Leaving us to our anonymity?”

  “You’ve described it exactly, so no need for concern.”

  “I suppose not.” There was reluctance in Hussein’s voice.

  “There you are, then. You may download all this onto your laptop.”

  “Of course. Anything else?”

  “Yes, your special flight bag, the black one you brought from Baghdad.”

  “What about it?”

  “When you open it, you will find hidden in the lining of the bottom right-hand corner a gold and enamel brooch. Rather pretty. It slides open and a button is inside. If you press it, I will always call you straight back. You alone have such a device.”

  “You bastard.”

  “I’ve been called that before.” The Broker switched off.

  ALGERIA

  FRANCE

  Chapter 9

  THE CITATION ARRIVED ON SCHEDULE, BEARING TWO PILOTS named Selim and Ahmadi, who came down to the house after they arrived and sat on the terrace with Hussein and Khaz
id and drank coffee.

  “You know who I am?” Hussein asked.

  Selim did the talking. “Yes. We are here to serve you. It is an honor.

  Are you familiar with the plane?”

  “No, but I hear great things about it. I am a pilot myself.”

  “Excellent.” Eager to please, Selim added, “You could try the controls. It’s an experience flying this plane, I can tell you.”

  “I’m sure it is, but there’s no time to play. Your job is to get us to our destination, drop us off and then you clear off. Is that understood?” Ahmadi, the younger one, looked disappointed, but Selim was all business. “And the destination?”

  “ Algeria.” Hussein opened a file on the table, “All the details are there. I’ll leave you to work out your flight plan.” And he walked away, Khazid following him.

  They went into the study, sat on either side of the desk, and Hussein opened a drawer, produced a couple of Walthers plus silencers and pushed one across. Two Colt.25s followed from the drawer and they started to load them.

  “You said you would promise me nothing beyond Paris,” Khazid said. “So I did.”

  “Now my future seems an inevitability.” Hussein had downloaded his laptop and discussed everything with him. “So it would appear. Is there a problem?”

  “Not at all. I am proud to serve.” Khazid finished loading one of the Colts. “But I was thinking ahead to England and heavy artillery.”

  “I’ve given you all the details. This Darcus Wellington will be taking care of our needs.”

  “Darcus Wellington-such a ridiculous name. I marvel that such a person could involve himself in someone like the Broker’s business.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. In a way, it’s rather like his playacting in films, I suppose, only in this case, it’s serious business.”

  “And real bullets.” Khazid slammed the magazine into the butt of the Walther. “What next?”