by Jack Higgins
“Can I have the number in case I need to contact you?”
“We’re moving around a bit, Harry. It’s not my phone.”
“No, please don’t go. I’m really concerned about little Lisa Bedford. You did a wonderful operation and I’ve got to give this my best shot. It would be good for me to be able to check with you if things do take a turn for the worst.”
And in the end, she was trapped, by both feelings and situation. “Dammit, Harry, when you’ve taken a call, you can call me straight back on a mobile, you know that. I said it wasn’t my phone, but it is. Call me back anytime you want. I’ll switch off the sound and leave it on vibration.”
He was concerned. “Look, are you all right?”
“Oh, everything’s in a mess,” she burst out. “I’m here with Caspar and Sara, at this sort of country retreat in West Sussex. Zion House.”
Instantly regretted, but it was too late.
“You mean some sort of clinic?”
“Oh, God, I don’t know what I mean. Good-bye, Harry.”
“Zion House,” he murmured, put down his mobile on the table and started doing his notes.
The nurse on duty was a young Muslim woman named Ayesha, who had been ordered by Ali Hassim to swap shifts to get on the Bedford case, precisely because of the connection with Molly Rashid.
“What was that you said, Doctor?”
He looked up, slightly abstracted. “It was Dr. Rashid, wanting to know how the child is getting on. Said she was somewhere called Zion House in West Sussex. She’ll be away for a week. Her daughter’s had some problem or other.”
The loudspeaker crackled, calling him on an emergency, and he ran out, leaving his mobile. She pressed the return call button and copied Molly’s number and went into an empty room. Since there was no other nurse there she was able to phone Ali Hassim on her own mobile.
When he answered, she said, “Dr. Rashid phoned up to check on the child. She said she was in West Sussex at somewhere called Zion House. I’ve also got her mobile phone number for you.”
“Excellent, girl, you have done well.”
“I have only done my duty. I’m sure you can find this place on the Internet.”
And she was right, of course, for Ali immediately phoned for the assistance of a member of the Brotherhood, giving him the facts and telling him it was urgent. An hour later, the man appeared at the shop with his laptop and Ali took him in the back room.
“There are several mentions. The marshland about the place is National Trust. The house itself is mentioned a number of times in an official history of the SOE, which used to train agents there during the Second World War. Since then, it’s been in the hands of the Ministry of Defence. Apparently, there are various restriction orders in place. There is also a concrete runway. Then I’ve found mention in general West Sussex tourist guides. Zion Village is three miles from the house, with a medieval church called Saint Andrew, two pubs, several bed-and-breakfasts, a caravan site.”
“Brilliant,” Ali said.
“No, it’s really very simple. These machines can do anything you want them to. You should learn. I’ll go now. I must earn a living, you know.”
He left, and Ali sat there trying to think who he should call first.
* * * *
THEY FOUND THE COTTAGE in Chapel Lane easily enough. There was another message on a board hanging from the front door. Students Definitely Not Welcome.
“A humorist,” Khazid said.
“I knew professors just like that. It’s an academic thing. However, if he means it, we don’t get in. That’s a voice box on the door. If you touch the button to call, it usually puts you on screen. Look, there’s a camera up there.”
“So what do we do?”
“Let’s explore.”
There was a narrow flagged path down one side of the cottage that turned in behind the back garden wall. There was a stout wooden door that was locked and the top of the wall was crowned with ancient Victorian spikes.
“What do we do?” Khazid asked. “Try and climb over?”
“If he’s there in the kitchen or sitting room he’d be certain to see us and reach for the nearest phone.” Hussein shook his head. “That notice probably means what it says. There are times when he values his privacy. On the other hand, a young undergraduate in gown and scarf with a beret on his head and a very French accent, seeking advice, might interest him. Go and give it a try at the front door. If it works, take him prisoner. Don’t harm him in any way, and let me in through this door.”
“I’ll give it a try.”
“No, make it a performance. Now go.”
* * * *
HAL STONE, in the sitting room, reading a rather indifferent thesis, the French windows open to the garden, heard the buzz of the entry phone with irritation. He put the thesis to one side, went into the hall and found Khazid on the small screen.
“Who on earth are you?”
“I am Henri Duval of New Hall College, Monsieur le Professeur. I am an archaeology student. I seek your assistance.”
“Well, as a student at Cambridge you must be able to read English, and my notice board is on the door, so clear off.”
Khazid excelled himself with a stream of very fluent French. “I beg you, with all my heart. My first-year exams are coming up, and I have to write a thesis. I genuinely need your advice.”
Hal Stone paused before replying in the same language. “What’s your thesis subject?”
Khazid was feeling more into his role and returned to fractured English, “The influence of Spartan mercenaries on the wars in Persia.”
Hal Stone laughed out loud. “That’s a tall order, but a glamorous one, which I suppose is why you chose it. All right, I’ll give you twenty minutes.”
The door clicked open and Khazid stepped inside, dropping his flight bag and trench coat to one side, but still wearing the beret and short undergraduate gown. He clutched the silenced Walther in his right hand against his leg and opened the inner door into the hall. Hal Stone was waiting, a smile on his face, which faded instantly as Khazid covered him with the Walther.
“Just do as you’re told or I’ll shoot you in your left kneecap.”
“Who the hell are you? Is this some kind of joke?”
“We have a debt to settle.”
“I’ve never seen you before in my life.”
“But I’ve seen you.” Khazid was so absorbed he’d virtually forgotten about Hussein waiting. “At Hazar, I used to watch you on the deck of the Sultan through Zeiss glasses as I stood on the terrace at the great house at Kafkar. You and your people murdered two of my best friends.”
“Dear God,” Stone said. “You’re not Hussein, so you must be the other one, Khazid.” He shook his head. “Come for your revenge.”
“And I intend to have it,” Khazid told him. “Your world is a world of books, Professor, but in mine one sword is worth ten thousand words, so it teaches us in the Koran.”
“To hell with your damned ideology. What do you want with me?”
“We intended to call on Sara and her parents at their house in Hampstead, but Ferguson has had them spirited away. We want to know where.”
“And you think I know?”
“You’ve been involved in the whole business since the beginning, and you’re Ferguson’s cousin. I’m sure you do.”
“Actually, I don’t. And even if I did, I wouldn’t oblige you.”
“Be it on your own head. Get into the sitting room.”
Stone turned, opened the door, then swung it behind him and ran through the open French windows and made for the garden door. Khazid fired twice. The first shot hit Stone below the left shoulder, driving him against the door. He managed to reach for the large bolt at the top of the door and pull it to one side, and Khazid shot him again in the lower back. Hussein, waiting impatiently, pushed on the door, sending Stone staggering to fall flat on his face.
The body twitched and went still. “What in the hell are you playi
ng at?” Hussein demanded.
Khazid said, “He tried to make a run for it.”
“Why-what did you say to him?”
Khazid, calmer now, was reduced to a certain dishonesty as regards the facts. “He said I was the other one. He knew my name. All I did was try to get the information about where the Rashids have gone from him. He said he had no idea and wouldn’t tell me if he could.”
“And you threatened him?”
“What did you expect me to do, pat him on the head? I told him I’d start with his kneecap; he slammed a door on me and made a run for it.”
“You should have waited for me.”
Hussein knelt on one knee, Hal Stone’s face was turned slightly to one side. He looked terrible, blood seeping through his shirt. Hussein felt in the neck. He shook his head. “He’s dead.”
“Are you certain? Another in the head, perhaps?”
“I studied medicine, fool. How many times have you been glad of that in the past two years?” He stood. “Leave him in place and let’s get out of here.” He pushed Khazid before him. “Hurry, I tell you. Straight to the railway station and back to London.”
“As you say, brother.” Khazid dumped his gown and scarf, put on his trench coat again and followed Hussein as they left the cottage, walked up to the main road and turned to the railway station. They got there with fifteen minutes to spare, just in time to use their return tickets to board.
Once the train was moving, Khazid lay back in the seat, exhausted. “Now what?”
“Give me time to think about it.” Hussein turned to stare out the window, wondering what was happening. His lie to Khazid, the still beating pulse in Hal Stone’s neck that his fingers had felt. Why had he done that? There was no answer, and for Hal Stone, life or death was a matter for Allah.
* * * *
ALI HASSIM HAD BEEN IMPRESSED when Khan told him Hussein would be in touch with him for any help or aid that Ali could offer. For him, Hussein was the great warrior, the Hammer of God, a liberator for the people from Allah himself. He remembered his shock on first hearing Hussein’s voice on the radio news program from the Middle East, and then in the middle of his Arabic rhetoric, Hussein describing himself in a simple English phrase, Hammer of God. It was a gesture of contempt for his enemies, but that name was now known to millions of Arabs in the Middle East who were not familiar with the English language at all.
So, thinking over his problem about who to first tell about Zion House, he realized that he had found a new and worthier allegiance. But he needed to make everything perfect, so he called in another member of the Brotherhood, a young accountant in a financial firm in the city. A short chat over the phone, the suggestion that he could be of great service to the Brotherhood, produced the man he wanted within an hour, and he also sent for his laptop expert and waited.
* * * *
SAM BOLTON WAS actually Selim Bolton, his father English, his mother Muslim. He had been raised in an English culture until his first year at London University, studying business and accountancy, and then his father had died of cancer. An immediate consequence of this was that his mother was restored to Islam.
There were those in the Brotherhood who saw great possibilities in individuals with a similar background to his, and he joined their ranks as a sleeper, a handsome young man in a good suit and a university tie, accepted anywhere.
He turned up at the shop and discovered Ali waiting with the laptop expert. Ali said, “Listen carefully while our brother explains,” and the laptop man told him everything regarding Zion House.
Bolton took it all in. Finally, he said, “So what you really want to know is the feel of things generally, the attitudes of the villagers, perhaps to Zion House itself?”
“Exactly. What’s special about it.”
“I think you mean what its purpose is, if any.” He stood up. “I might as well get on with it. I called in at the flat, so I’ve got an overnight bag in the Audi.”
“So you accept this assignment?”
“Of course.”
“You could not do our cause a greater service.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
The laptop man left and Ali nodded to himself. He was doing the right thing. No phone call to Khan. He had set things in motion and could afford to wait to hear from Hussein.
* * * *
HAL STONE’S CLEANING LADY, a widow named Amy Robinson, usually only worked mornings, but she had her own key and his laundry to deliver, so she called in at the cottage and discovered him in the garden. She had once been a nurse and was still expert enough to establish that he was alive. It was roughly an hour and a half since Hussein and Khazid had left.
She dialed 999 and called for ambulance and police, stipulating gunshot wounds, then she went out with a rug and pillows and tried to make him comfortable. She was kneeling beside him, stroking his hair, when his eyes opened. He looked at her, bewildered.
“Amy?”
“Don’t fuss, love, lie still. There’s an ambulance on its way. Who did this to you?”
“My cousin General Ferguson-you met him when he visited the other year. My address book’s on the desk. His private mobile number. Call him for me.”
“Don’t upset yourself, love, I’m sure he’ll be contacted in time.”
“You don’t understand.” He clutched at her with a bloodstained hand. “Tell him they were here, both of them. They were here in England. The other one shot me.” He closed his eyes and opened them. “I didn’t mention Zion.”
He lost consciousness again and there was a sudden confusion outside as the ambulance arrived.
She went to the front door and admitted the paramedics, who followed her as she showed what waited in the garden. And then, of course, the police came, first one car, then two. She waited, bewildered by it all, and then a man in civilian clothes arrived, who she was told was a Chief Inspector Harper. He had a quick look round the cottage and went outside to the wall. When he returned, a police sergeant was taking a written statement from Amy.
“He did say something strange when he came to for a moment.” She told him what it was.
Harper, coming in through the French windows, heard. “Did you say General Ferguson?”
“Yes, Professor Stone’s cousin. He’s very important in one of the ministries.”
“You can say that again, if it’s who I think it is.”
“The professor said the General’s personal number was in his address book on the desk.”
Harper rushed to find it, and so it was that Ferguson, who had just arrived at the Holland Park safe house to discuss progress, heard the dreadful news.
* * * *
THE TRAIN WAS just twenty minutes out of King’s Cross when Ali received the call from Hussein. “We’re just arriving from Cambridge. A waste of time. We’ll come round to your shop. We’ll need somewhere to stay.”
“I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I have discovered where they have taken the Rashids.”
“But where does such information come from? Khan, I suppose, and presumably he would have got it from the Broker?”
“No, neither Khan nor the Broker know about it. It was the action of the Rashid woman, the doctor, which came to our aid. She was concerned for the welfare of a child she had operated on and telephoned the surgeon who has taken over the case. He wanted to be able to get in touch with her if there was a change in the child’s condition. One of the nurses, a member of my network, was on duty and obtained the address for us.”
“This is truly unbelievable. They are still in England then?”
“West Sussex, a place called Zion House. Not only can I show it to you on a laptop when you get here, I’ve also sent a trusted agent straight down there to scout the place out for you. I’ve impressed on him the urgency of his report.”
“It is hard to imagine that Ferguson let them make phone calls.”
“She probably broke the rules,” Ali said.
“And must pay the price. It would su
it me very well for the enemy not to know that we are here. If you mention your discovery of Zion House to Dreq Khan, he will in turn inform the Broker.”
“And that one you distrust?”
“He has had his uses, but he has his fingers in too many pies. You must not take this as an attack on Osama bin Laden, whom Allah protect, because on the ground, he represents Osama in certain matters. In those affairs, he is simply serving a great man’s needs and he must remember his place. Sometimes such men see themselves as being more important than they are.”
“Professor Khan, for example?”
“It is difficult for some people to remember that the cause they represent is more important than themselves,” Hussein said.
Ali said calmly, “Khan will not be told of Zion from me. I look forward to receiving you.”
“We shall be seeing you soon,” Hussein told him.
He turned off his phone. Khazid said, “What was all that about?”
“Brother, Allah is on our side. Ali Hassim has discovered where the Rashids have been taken.” He proceeded to tell Khazid as much as he needed to know.
“Perfect,” Khazid said. “With the professor dead, no one in Ferguson’s organization even knows we are here.”
“Of course,” Hussein said, a faint shadow on his face as that wavering pulse came back to haunt him. He took a deep breath. “Nothing can go wrong now.” A few moments later, the train arrived at King’s Cross.
* * * *
AT HOLLAND PARK, Ferguson was speaking to Harper again. “Chief Inspector, I’m invoking the Terrorism Act, to put a blanket on this for the moment. Some very nasty people are involved.”
“We are dealing with terrorists here, sir?”
“I have a special warrant from Downing Street on this one. I also have an official request to your chief constable that you act as my liaison there.”
Harper’s spirits lifted. “Very good of you, sir. Happy to be on board.”