The Killing Ground

by Jack Higgins

  “Finish your packing. Travel light. I’ll have a word with the pilots. Let’s say we leave in one hour. Does that suit you?”

  “Absolutely.” They walked out into the great entrance hall. “Here we go. Into the war zone again,” Khazid said. “Why us?”

  Hussein put an arm about his shoulder. “Because, little brother, Allah has ordained it. Though, to be honest, I can no longer look at religion in the same way I once did. It provides no solace for me.”

  “So the business of war? Why do we take part in it?”

  “Because it is our nature.”

  “And is that all?”

  “I’m afraid so. Now go and get ready.”

  * * * *

  AT HIS COMPUTERS, Roper had inserted a trace element on aircraft movement at Hazar, though it was no big deal, since traffic was so light. He was being served bacon sandwiches and tea by Sergeant Doyle when the signal sounded.

  “Get Dillon for me,” he said.

  “He’s in the dining room with the Major.”

  Doyle cleared off and Roper checked into a series of screen images. Dillon and Greta appeared.

  “What’s the good word?” Dillon demanded.

  “Citation X left Kuwait under charter to Rashid Shipping, landed at Hazar three hours ago. It’s departed under a flight plan taking it to Khufra in Algeria.”

  “Not that dump. What in the hell does he have to go there for?”

  “Let’s look at this. If he’s on his way to anywhere, you can bet the Broker has organized it. Chartering the Citation was a way of Hussein saying, ‘It’s me-what are you going to do about it,’ because he and the Broker know we must be watching.”

  “But why Khufra?” Greta said. “Look what we went through there last year.”

  “The Broker knows that and he knows I’m monitoring him, so it’s his way of mocking me. And I know that you know that kind of thing. Khufra, by its nature, is a hotbed of smuggling and drug-running, by boat as well as air, and it’s a perfect place for Hussein to drop out of sight. My bet is the Citation leaves him there.”

  “And what happens to him?” Greta asked.

  “Across the water, Spain is convenient. Who knows?”

  “One thing is certain,” she said. “He can’t be coming to England, not with his face plastered all over the place.”

  “Well, he isn’t going to stay in Algeria, there wouldn’t be any point. As for France, that’s a possibility.”

  “Actually, some of the papers on the Continent picked up the picture, too,” Roper said. He tapped some keys and page four of the previous day’s Paris Soir appeared, with Hussein’s photo. “There you are, page four, but it’s enough.”

  “So what’s his next move?” Dillon asked.

  “I think he’ll keep his head down,” Greta said.

  “No,” Dillon said. “There is one thing I’m sure of. Hiring the Citation, flaunting it with the trip to Algeria, it has to have reason to it. He has a purpose, and sooner or later it’s bound to become clear what that purpose is. We’ll just have to wait.”

  * * * *

  AT THE HAMPSHIRE HOUSE, Molly and Caspar, in the kitchen, discussed Sara. They could see Sara in the garden on a bench on the terrace, reading a book.

  “She’s pretending,” Caspar said. “You can tell.”

  “Have you discussed school again with her?” Molly asked.

  “For God’s sake, it’s far too soon for that. She’d need a new school anyway, fresh faces, another environment, perhaps a boarding school.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s got to be faced, this situation.” Molly reached for the coffeepot and poured another cup. “And appropriate treatment found.”

  “You’re talking about her as if she’s a patient,” Caspar said, “but that’s what doctors do, I suppose. Personally, I think we need to make a firm decision.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Tell her we’ve decided she needn’t go back to her old school and needn’t go back to any school for six months. Let her vegetate, find her own feet.”

  Beyond his wife through the window, he saw that Sara had gone from the bench. She was, in fact, in the hall, but he didn’t know that.

  Molly said, “I don’t think that’s any good at all. To be frank with you, I had a long chat on the phone this morning with Professor Janet Hard-castle. She was very interested in the case and has offered to take her on.”

  In spite of the fact that the lady in question was one of the most eminent psychiatrists in the country, Caspar was not impressed.

  “Dammit, Molly, psychiatrists now. What about some simple loving kindness? We should stop trying to understand until she understands herself, because she is capable of that. She’s a hugely intelligent girl.”

  Sara appeared at the door. “Oh, that’s all right. I don’t mind playing word games with Professor Hardcastle, but I’m still not going back to school. I feel like a rest now. I’ll go to my room.”

  She put the book she had been reading on the side and went out. Caspar picked it up, glanced at his wife and held it out to her without a word. It was the Koran in Arabic.

  * * * *

  ROPER HAD ENJOYED his chat with Igor Levin, the former boy wonder of the GRU, for Levin also had medals from all those dubious Kremlin wars, had sweated in Afghanistan, had got close enough to a Chechen general to cut his throat. Roper remembered him as a so-called commercial attaché working for GRU head of station Colonel Boris Lhuzkov in London, so now, on a whim, he contacted Lhuzkov on his private number at the Embassy of the Russian Federation situated in Kensington Gardens.

  Lhuzkov answered at once in Russian, and Roper, who actually spoke rather decent Russian, said in English, “Cut that out, Boris.”

  “Who is it?” Boris asked.

  “Roper.”

  “My God-to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Nothing special. I was just talking to Igor Levin in Dublin and that put me in mind of you.”

  As every attempt made by Lhuzkov to contact Levin had been rebuffed, he was intrigued. “How is Igor?”

  “Just enjoying life. As for his pals, Chomsky works for lawyers and Popov is with a security firm. But then you know this.”

  “Do I?”

  “The thing is, I’d have thought that futile attempt to knock off Blake Johnson would have taught you Russians a lesson. So what was all this nonsense with Stransky and his goons at Harry’s Place? And Chekov? I’m shocked. Have they succeeded in saving the leg, by the way?”

  “My dear Giles, I have no comment at this time.”

  “I bet you haven’t, and what’s with Giles? How did you discover that? It’s a closely guarded secret.”

  “Like any good spy, I have my sources. May I also make a comment? There are people who think that Boris Lhuzkov is a stumblebum-an old buffer long past his best, if there ever was a best. But Ivan Stransky has a brain the size of a pea, and as for Chekov, his brain is between his legs. To anyone with half a brain, the size of Harry Salter’s property empire and bank balance should have given pause for thought all by themselves.”

  “I for one never fell for your act, Boris. Anyway, is there going to be a new chief executive officer at Belov International? Because the one you’ve got now can’t do much more than go over to Drumore Place and sit on the terrace in a wheelchair, an umbrella over his head. Mind you, he’d be all right for the weekends. It only rains five days a week in Ireland.”

  Lhuzkov finally managed to stop laughing. “God, but you’ve cheered me up.”

  “So who’s going to run the show? You can tell me.”

  “Of course. They’ve managed to save Chekov’s leg, but real recovery will take a very long time. I might as well tell you, because you’ll find out anyway. General Volkov will assume command for the moment.”

  “Surprise, surprise, the President’s right-hand man.”

  “Exactly. Anything else?”

  “Yes-for Volkov’s ears, and perhaps for his friend the B
roker.”

  Lhuzkov’s voice changed slightly to careful. “Yes?”

  “You’ve seen the press releases in the newspapers on Hussein Rashid?”

  “I could hardly miss them.”

  “How about the full story on the other Rashid-the English wife, the thirteen-year-old daughter kidnapped by Army of God fanatics for the grandfather in Iraq? It’s Hussein who’s supposed to marry her when she comes of age.”

  “I’ve heard certain whispers.”

  “Well, Hussein took the girl down to Hazar, and Dillon and Billy and the child’s father swooped down and stole her from right under his nose and flew off to good old Blighty, leaving two of his best men dead.”

  “Oh, dear. Let me put my supposedly stupid mind to this. These photos in the newspapers? They are supposed to keep him out of Britain?”

  “Something like that, just for the moment and to make the family feel secure.”

  “I’m not so sure it will work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s the Hammer of God. He won’t want to let his audience down.”

  “That’s what I think, too,” Roper said.

  “Do you mind if I share all this with Volkov?”

  “That’s why I told you.”At that moment, Greta came in. “Greta sends her best. She’s thriving.”

  “My God, how I miss that girl. Such a beauty.”

  Roper switched off and Greta said, “Who was that?”

  “Lhuzkov.” Roper smiled. “I was feeling lonely.”

  * * * *

  THE CITATION CROSSED Saudi Arabia, Egypt, then northern Libya, following the coast at enormous speed and most of the time at fifty thousand feet. Selim invited Hussein to take the controls when they were over Libya, and, changing his mind, Hussein did for a while, reveling in it.

  Later, much later as they approached their destination, Selim came back to consult him. “I’m worried about fuel. Oran is only a couple of hundred miles away from Khufra. I think we should stop and refuel there.”

  Hussein thought about it. Private planes like the Citation were used only by the rich and always received preferential treatment. They should be safe enough.

  “All right.”

  So Oran it was. He used the British passport and Khazid a French one in the name of Henri Duval. They got out to stretch their legs. Ahmadi took their passports to the office for them, but he was waved away.

  “So simple,” Khazid said.

  “Yes, but not to be taken for granted,” Hussein said. “There could be a time when they’re all over us.”

  “As Allah wills.”

  “Perhaps, but what if it’s all actually in our own hands?”

  “I am a simple man, my friend. I accept what I know and do what I’m told.”

  “And I prefer you that way.” Hussein climbed back in the plane, Khazid followed, then they soared again into an evening sky, climbing to no more than ten thousand feet. Later, they saw the marshes of the Khufra sprawled on the desert below, the creeks stretching out to the sea, here and there a dhow, sails bulging in the wind, and sometimes, motorboats and the odd freighter.

  They descended to not more than a thousand feet, and Selim saw the runway to the left of them, the control tower and two hangars, but oddly there was no contact from the control tower. Selim circled again and passed over the town and small harbor. There was a jetty at one point, an old Eagle floatplane tied up beside it.

  Selim said, “An Eagle Amphibian. You can lower the wheels beneath the floats and taxi out of the water onto a shore. Years old, but sturdy. They were built for bush flying in places like Canada.”

  He slowed right down and they almost seemed to hang there suspended. “Strange, still no response from the tower.” Hussein pondered, every sense alert. “This is what you do. Land, go to the far end of the runway and turn for your takeoff. We’ll get out. Ahmadi closes the hatch and we wait. If the right people are here, they’ll come for us. If there is a problem, I fire a shot and you get the hell out of here.”

  Selim immediately protested. “We can’t leave you. It would be a great shame.”

  “I order it, my friend. This is our business.” He put an arm around Khazid. “We’re very good at it.”

  “Then I obey you with deep regret,” Selim said.

  They circled the runway but nothing moved. It was strange, great reeds piling in higher than a man and getting darker by the minute, the two hangars with doors open but no sign of life.

  “Down we go,” Hussein said. “You take both flight bags.”

  “Good thing we travel light.” Khazid smiled.

  “You need a suit, you buy a suit, that’s my motto. Here we go again, little brother.”

  The Citation dropped in and rolled along the runway, and it started to turn at the far end, the reeds turbulent in the jet stream. Ahmadi came and turned the handle, thrusting the hatch out as the steps fell. Khazid went down, crouching in the blast. Hussein followed, turned to glance up at Ahmadi, and there was a roaring and two Land Rovers emerged from one of the hangars at full speed and turned onto the runway.

  “Close it!” Hussein called, and Ahmadi did as he was told, slamming the hatch shut. Hussein pulled out his Walther, firing into the air, and Selim boosted power and roared down the runway and the Land Rovers swerved to each side. The Citation rose, lifted at the end of the runway, and Khazid was already turning.

  “Into the reeds-go now. Keep in touch with your mobile. I’ll hold them off.”

  Hussein turned, took careful aim and shot the front offside tire of the leading vehicle. It swerved violently, throwing the man next to the driver out. The other swerved past and came on, four men in some kind of khaki police uniform.

  Hussein fired again, this time at the second Land Rover, splintering the windshield, and he turned and plunged into the reeds and immediately fell foul of a rusting cable, hidden in the undergrowth. He went headlong and they were all over him, boot and fist everywhere. He was pulled to his feet, and someone found his Walther but not the Colt. He had left that in his flight bag with Khazid.

  An overweight, bearded captain appeared to be in charge. One of the men gave him the Walther. “Nice one. I appreciate your gift.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “Ah, a cool customer. You are here to see Major Hakim Mahmoud of the Algerian Secret Police?”

  “If he’s available.”

  “Oh, yes. You must be an important man. That was a wonderful plane.” One of his men emerged from the reeds. “Any sign of him?”

  “No, he’s gone, Captain.”

  “Never mind.” The three men in the other Land Rover were fitting the spare tire. “I’ll be in the office, but hurry up, I want to get back to the fort. They say it’s going to rain.” He turned to Hussein, “I am Captain Ali. I’m sure we’ll get along.” He patted his face. “You are a handsome young man.” Hussein got in the Land Rover between two policemen and they drove away.

  * * * *

  BEHIND THEM, well hidden in the reeds, Khazid had heard everything and watched them go, leaving the three men wrestling with the damaged tire. One of them was a sergeant, the one who had been thrown out of the vehicle. Khazid got his Walther out, unzipped his case and found a Carswell silencer. Quickly he screwed it in place just as the two men on the tire had it fixed.

  “Good,” the sergeant said. “Let’s go.”

  Khazid put down the flight bags and stepped out of the reeds, Walther in hand. He whistled, they all turned, and he shot the sergeant between the eyes. The other two were completely shocked.

  “The captain said he was going to the office. Where is that?”

  “The bottom of the control tower,” one man said.

  “Excellent. Now this fort he mentioned?”

  The second man was shaking with fear, so it was left to the other again. “The old Foreign Legion fort a half a mile down the road to the left.”

  “Thank you.”

  Khazid shot both of them dead, not be
cause of any conscious cruelty, but because he had no choice in the matter if he was to rescue his friend in one piece. He put the flight bags in the passenger seat, pausing only to pull up the canvas roof of the Land Rover because it would give him some sort of cover. He drove away along the runway toward the control tower, taking his time, but when he got there, the other Land Rover had gone.

  It was dark now, with no need for caution. The door was unlocked. He opened it and found a light switch. It was a reception area. He went behind a counter, opened the door marked OFFICE and turned on the light.

  The man behind the desk was seated in a swivel chair, and from the state of him had obviously had a bad time of it, his hands handcuffed behind his back. His final end had been a bullet in the head. He was presumably Major Hakim Mahmoud. Khazid looked around him. There was a large flashlight on the table, which worked when he tried it. He left it on, switched off the light and went out to the Land Rover. Now for the fort.

  * * * *

  IT WAS COLD, surprisingly cold, and Hussein shivered as three of the policemen manhandled him out of the Land Rover. There was a fort, he could see that. The green and white flag with the red crescent and star, the flag of Algeria, flared in the lights from the battlements over his head, and there were two lighted braziers on either side of the gate they passed through, a sentry with a rifle beside each brazier.

  They paused at the bottom of some steps leading up to the battlements and got Hussein out. Captain Ali was seated on a stone bench drinking whiskey. He was obviously that kind of Muslim. Hussein felt only contempt. The man resembled a disease you wanted to stamp out.

  “Major Hakim Mahmoud was a bad man-an evil man. He traded with drug dealers, all things evil, always his hand out for money. So, if you dealt with him, you must be both very wicked and very rich.”

  “Not really.”

  “I want to know who you are and your companions.”

  “It’s against the rules.”

  “Rules? So you want to play games? You think you must now brace yourself to bear some physical force, don’t you? Well, it’s not necessary. In the old days, they trained Foreign Legionnaires here, hard men who needed to be controlled, but the French were very practical people. They had the Hole over by the wall there. Very uncomfortable.”