The Killing Ground

by Jack Higgins

  “What he did was totally justified,” Hussein told him. “George Romano was a foul man and the world is well rid of him, so no apologies are necessary.”

  There was not only steel in his voice, but a calm indifference that gave the Broker pause for thought.

  “Can you cope?”

  “With the boat? Of course I can. There will be considerable fog in the vicinity when we get to Peel Strand. I’ll take advantage of the concealment it offers to sink the Seagull.”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “I would imagine someone informing the coast guard after a while if it was just left there at anchor. We have a perfectly good inflatable with an outboard motor, so we’ll get inshore, no problem.”

  “Have you any idea when you’ll be in?”

  “About four o’clock, something like that. Dawn will be coming up. Romano had an Admiralty chart of the area in the wheelhouse. There is the Strand, some shingle beach indicated, fading into saltings. Wellington lives in the old marsh warden’s cottage.”

  “Good. I’ll contact him, tell him to meet you.”

  “What will you say? That there was an accident?”

  “I think not. I’ll say Romano turned back close to shore because he was afraid of running aground in the fog.”

  “And the inflatable?”

  “He told me to say that he could keep it.”

  “I’m sure Darcus will be pleased. It would seem the panic button has been of use.”

  “So it would appear,” the Broker said.

  “What about Professor Khan? When can I contact him?”

  “Whenever you consider it appropriate. It’s up to you.”

  Hussein went back to the wheelhouse. Khazid seemed happy enough, hands still firmly on the wheel. “How did it go?”

  Hussein told him what the Broker had said and filled him in on what he had been told earlier at the café in Saint-Denis.

  “So not only have the Salters dealt with the Russian Mafia in London, but these IRA mercenaries have been stamped on. Six of them taken out. This is beginning to sound like serious business,” Khazid commented.

  “We’ve handled serious business before.” Hussein smiled. “I’m going to go and lie on a bunk for an hour. Wake me.” He went below.

  * * * *

  DARCUS WELLINGTON, at Folly Way on Peel Strand, came awake with an angry moan and scrabbled for the bedside telephone, knocking over a half-empty cup of cold coffee. He sat up in his tumbled bed and reached for the light.

  “Who in the hell is it?”

  The answer galvanized him into action and he swung his legs to the floor, an old-fashioned nightshirt riding over his knees.

  “Your visitors are arriving soon,” the Broker told him. “A rotten morning, I think you’ll find. It would be a nice thought if you took a walk down to the Strand about four-thirty and extended the hand of welcome. And, remember, these are special people.”

  “With Hussein’s face in all the papers, they would be.”

  “Don’t start moaning. I’ll be in touch.”

  He clicked off and Wellington sat there for a moment breathing deeply. His head was bald, his face sagged, but over sixty years in show business had to stand for something. He got up and drew the curtains. Although there were undeniable signs of early dawn, the fog crouched at the window as if trying to get in at him.

  “Dear God almighty.”

  He went into the bathroom, turned on the shower, stood looking at it and changed his mind and returned to the bedroom, where he removed his nightshirt and dressed in a denim shirt, brown corduroy trousers and buttoned up a sweater with a shawl collar. His dressing table provided a plentiful supply of makeup and he sat down, rubbing cream into his face, a little rouge to his cheeks and lined his eyes. It undeniably worked in a theatrical kind of way, one had to admit that. Finally he picked up the auburn wig that curled discreetly and eased it over his bald pate. Satisfied, he stood up and made his way out, through a rather charming, old-fashioned sitting room to the kitchen.

  Like the other rooms, it had beamed ceilings, but everything else was state of the art, a kind of temple to a person who adored cooking. He turned on the kettle, humming to himself, got a bowl of muesli, milk from the fridge and ate without any obvious enjoyment, and when the kettle boiled, he made green tea and went and peered out for another look at the fog.

  He checked his watch and saw it was just after four. “Oh, well,” he said softly. “I suppose I’d better make a move.”

  He went out to the hall, procured a pair of rubber boots from the cloakroom and sat down to pull them on and reached for a heavy anorak with a hood and he left.

  The fog swirled, there was a drizzle of fine rain, and there was the pond and the special smell you only got from saltings and he followed a track along a dike, passing through a bleak landscape of silted-up sea creeks and mudflats. Climate change, the difference in sea levels, had each had its effect on what had been a rather special place. Even the birds seemed to be hiding from it. He reached a very ancient, decaying seawall of stone, beach pilings beyond it, the shingle dipping down, disappearing into the fog, and the noise of the approaching engine was loud.

  “Hello-over here!” he called.

  * * * *

  HUSSEIN HAD TAKEN ADVANTAGE of the boat’s depth sounder as he took the Seagull in. A hundred feet seemed appropriate. He switched off the engine.

  “Pull the inflatable round from the stern, untie her and get in.”

  “What about you?” Khazid said.

  Hussein was removing the engine hatch. “I’ll operate the sea cocks.” He disappeared into the cramped engine room, found what he needed almost straightaway, did what was necessary and scrambled out.

  He joined Khazid in the inflatable and drifted away with a push. They continued drifting and sat there watching the boat settling in the water. Hussein found his cigarettes, lit one and passed it to Khazid, then lit one for himself. The sea was swirling across the Seagull’s deck, the boat settled much more and then completely disappeared.

  “It’s supposed to be sad to see a ship of any kind sinking,” Khazid said.

  “Why would that be?” Hussein pressed the starter button on the outboard and the engine kicked into life.

  “It’s like someone dying.”

  “Is that so?”

  A small wind curled across the water, not much, but enough to stir the fog. There was a vague suggestion of land and then the sound of Darcus Wellington calling to them. Hussein throttled back the engine, they drifted in.

  “Where’s Romano and the Seagull?” Darcus asked.

  “He didn’t fancy his chances much in this fog,” Hussein said. “It’s an absolute pea-souper all over the bay and he started worrying about the boat. In the end he decided we must come in the inflatable. He said you could keep it.”

  “Did he now? Well, that’s nice of him. I’ll walk along the beach about fifty yards. There’s what’s left of an old stone jetty. You can disembark without having to wade, pull the thing ashore for me.”

  A matter of minutes and it was done, the inflatable ashore and the two Iraqis standing beside it.

  “Darcus Wellington, that’s me, and you’ll be the Hammer of God, according to the newspapers. Who’s your friend?”

  “My name is Henri Duval,” Khazid said.

  “Darling,” Darcus told him cheerfully, “if you’re Henri Duval, I’m Prince Charles.”

  They had started to climb to the dike and Khazid said, in his perfect French, “But I assure you, mon ami, I am who I say I am.”

  Darcus was impressed. “Well, that’s a showstopper, I must say. You can certainly speak the lingo.” The rain increased in a sudden rush. “Come on, hurry up or we’ll all get soaked.”

  He started to jog and the fog was clearing now so that they could see the house before they got there. He flung open the front door and led the way in. “ Folly Way,” he said. “That’s what they called it when Bernard and I bought it. He was my partner. It
was a sea marsh then, creeks gurgling with water, wonderful plants, lots of bird life. Then a few years ago, after Bernard died, I came back from touring and found it had altered, changed a little bit more. Something to do with sea levels and silting up. Anyway, welcome to the end of the world.”

  “Why do you call it that?” Hussein asked.

  “Because every time I go away and return, I think it’s died just a little bit more. But never mind that. Take off your coats and come in the kitchen and I’ll make you a nice breakfast.”

  Chapter 13

  THE BREAKFAST WAS REMARKABLE BY ANY STANDARDS. Darcus poached haddocks, scrambled eggs, sliced onion, found a packet of unleavened bread in his icebox and defrosted it. There was yogurt and fruit in plenty and green tea.

  “Cooking’s my passion. I’ve worked as a chef in my day, but I lost my temper with the staff too easily. I expected too much.” He started to gather in the crockery and put it in the dishwasher. “I’ve been in show business all my life since I first saw a circus when I was thirteen. There’s nothing I haven’t tried. Cabaret, theater, film. Having a settled home to come back to was always a problem. That’s why Bernard and I bought this place. I mean, it seemed a good idea at the time. We were in summer cabaret at Bournemouth, that’s a seaside town near here. We went for a drive one Sunday and came across this place, a bloody sight different from what it is now, I can tell you. Folly Way just about sums it up.”

  He talked endlessly, much of it amusing, and yet there was a certain malice when he touched on people. “Talent, love,” he said to Hussein, “is a curse. It’s something your fellow actors can never forgive. Of course, some things are beyond teaching. Take you. You’ve got an enormous talent.”

  “What for?” Hussein asked.

  “For killing people. I mean, it’s not a very easy thing to do. You do it remarkably well. You’re a true revolutionary, dedicated to a cause. Che Guevara-that’s who you most resemble. A romantic hero with balls. You even look like Che with that beard.”

  “Hey, that’s good,” Khazid said. “I mean, I actually think there could be some truth in that.” He said to Darcus, “There are kids in Baghdad who are proud to wear T-shirts with ‘Hammer of God’ on them.”

  “But not his face, love?” Darcus was aghast. “I mean, we couldn’t have that.”

  “One day,” Khazid said, “when Iraq is free again, his face will be known to all men.”

  “Well, he wouldn’t be the first revolutionary to end up president of his country. Hey, what about George Washington?”

  “Exactly,” Khazid said.

  Hussein, uncomfortable with all this, said, “Let’s get down to important matters. What about the weaponry?”

  “God knows I’ve got enough of that, not that I’ve ever fired a gun in my life. This way, gentlemen.”

  He led the way to his study, in the center of the house. The paneled walls of yew were lined with scores of framed photos of the theater, film and television.

  “My life in performance, and what a performance. I deserved an Oscar.”

  “But what’s this got to do with weaponry?” Hussein asked.

  Wellington smiled, and kicked in the bottom of the end paneling, producing a sharp click, and a hidden door moved a couple of inches so you could get your hand in and open it. He pulled it right back and stepped inside and switched on a light, revealing guns and accessories of every kind. “Behold my treasures.” Hussein noted several Walthers, Carswell silencers, Colts, machine pistols such as the very latest model of Uzi, three AKs, a box of hand grenades and even Semtex and a box of pencil fuses, neatly numbered.

  “My God,” he said. “You really are going to war.”

  “Not me, love. Like I told you, I’ve never fired a gun in my life. You two have a good look and work out what you want. I’ll be in the kitchen doing my chores. Take your time.”

  * * * *

  WALTHERS, SILENCERS, COLT.25S in ankle holsters. “The usual,” Khazid said. “Tools of the assassin’s trade.”

  “You’re being dramatic,” Hussein told him. “They do the job, and in unfortunate circumstances, they’re easy to get rid of. The jobs ahead of us won’t lend themselves to a sniper.”

  “A grenade perhaps?”

  “Pointless. No need for it. It’s two individuals we want, not passersby.”

  “Okay if I take an Uzi, with folding stock, if it fits in my flight bag?”

  Hussein, exasperated, said, “Have it your way. Check the weapons here at the study table. Ammunition, of course, but you needn’t overdo it. We could always call on Khan in London for more.”

  * * * *

  AT HOLLAND PARK, Dillon was finishing an early breakfast when Roper called him on the intercom and asked him to come up to the computer room.

  “What have you got?” Dillon demanded.

  “My contact in the Spanish Secret Service has been in touch. A float-plane stolen in Khufra has turned up dumped in Majorca. Even more interesting, his informant in the police at Khufra tells of a Citation jet the other night dropping two men and taking off again. It seems there was some sort of shootout.”

  “Then they stole the floatplane. Hussein’s an expert pilot. It has to be him. But who’s the other man?”

  “He left Baghdad with three men. Hamid and Hassim, whom you and Billy shot, and a man named Khazid. And before you ask, let me put those security photos from Kuwait up, but they’re not good, nothing on Khazid.”

  “Have we got anything on this Khazid at all?”

  “Hussein’s third cousin, and another Rashid. A highly experienced foot soldier. Some sort of cousin to Sara, I suppose, and something in common with her.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Another half-and-half. His mother was French.”

  “Was?”

  “Got killed in the first Gulf War with his father, fleeing from Kuwait on the Highway of Death in a car.”

  “So-what does it mean?” Dillon said.

  “Hang on, there’s more. International airport at Palma, flights to all sorts of destinations. The Spanish have been rather clever. The police checked around the cove where the floatplane came in and it was heard landing. If you then calculate how long it would take to make the airport, we could say about noon, and for men desperate to get the hell out of there, that narrows the time of departure.”

  “Which meant the Spanish didn’t have to painstakingly work their way through the tapes for hours.”

  “Well, see for yourself.” Roper brought it up on screen, Hussein walking through security, pausing to take off his sunglasses briefly while his boarding ticket was being checked. The man behind him was obviously Khazid, because they were talking, but his face was half-turned away.

  “You have the plane?”

  “It was one of those low-price efforts, crammed with tourists. There were some empty seats for what was a return journey. They’ve gone to Rennes in France.”

  “A staging post to England?”

  “Absolutely. Brittany means the Channel Islands, and once on Jersey, it’s British soil. Daily planes to Britain and the South Coast. That’s only conjecture, mind you, but I’d say he’s on his way, and we know what that means.”

  Dillon sat there thinking about it. “Right, we pass the word round to everybody. Use all the press contacts to keep his photo going and the line that he could be in the UK.”

  “Yes, but the reality is on that word ‘could.’ We’re at a dead stop here, waiting for something to turn up.”

  “The only thing that’s going to turn up is Hussein with Khazid. You know it and I know it and we know what the target is going to be. The Rashids in Gulf Road, Hampstead.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “It’s up to Ferguson to decide that. Maybe have them here at the safe house,” Dillon told him.

  “Dr. Rashid won’t like that.”

  “It could be she hasn’t got much choice in the matter. You’d better speak to Ferguson.”

  * * * * />
  BY THE TIME FERGUSON had arrived in the Daimler, Roper had called in Billy and Greta, Igor Levin and Chomsky. They all listened gravely as Roper explained the situation.

  When he was finished, there were looks. He added, “Of course, this is just a ‘maybe’ situation, we can’t be sure of anything.”

  Billy said, “Only of one thing. The bastard’s on his way. I know that and I think everybody else here knows that. The question is, what do we do about it?”

  “Move the Rashids from Hampstead, that’s essential, right out of town and away from everything while we hunt him down.”

  “Molly won’t like that,” Greta said. “Through everything, she’s stuck to the idea that her work is of prime importance. She won’t want to leave it.”

  “I think she’ll have to,” Ferguson told her.

  There was a silence, then Greta said, “One thing I still wonder about. What exactly does Hussein intend? To kidnap the girl and take her back?”

  “How would he do that?” Levin asked.

  “Exactly!”

  Billy said, “Maybe he wants to knock off Caspar for his part in saving her?”

  “Which would still leave him with the Sara problem.”

  Roper said, “Perhaps he doesn’t know himself. We don’t need to go into his background, you all know it. The deaths in his extended family alone would be a sufficient cause for revenge to many people and it’s certainly enough to make him a driven man.”

  “And one of the world’s most successful assassins,” Levin put in.

  There was another silence, and it was Billy, a gangster and streetwise since his youth, who said, “It might be a lot simpler than we think. Maybe he’s just striking out, hasn’t thought it through.”

  “God help us if that’s what it is,” Ferguson said. “If he doesn’t know himself, what chance do we have?”

  “None,” Dillon said and turned to Ferguson. “What did you mean when you said the Rashids should be moved from Hampstead and away from everything?”