by Jack Higgins
“And neither do I.” Khazid sighed. “I finally accept that for the past two years as a soldier in the war in Iraq, I’ve been commanded by a raving lunatic. All of a sudden, I don’t find any comfort in the idea that I’m in the hands of Allah.”
“So you will desert me?” Hussein sat there, his face bleak. “So this is what it’s come to?”
Khazid managed a smile. “Now, do I look like that kind of fella, cousin? No, I’ll go down to hell with you if that’s what you want.”
Ali returned. “So, now we wait. I have arranged for Jamal to drive up to the public car park at Farley Field in a Telecom van. He’ll wait there and observe, just in case the Hawk plane gets some use. He is familiar with most of Ferguson’s crowd and will phone me the moment he has something and I’ll contact you.”
“Good idea,” Khazid told him, and Hussein’s special mobile sounded.
“It’s me,” the Broker said. “Cambridge didn’t go well, I hear.”
“It was unfortunate and led nowhere. We have no idea where Ferguson has the Rashids.”
“Forget the girl,” the Broker said. “Turn to more worthy targets. Have you been in touch with Khan?”
“No.”
“Strange, I get no response from him however I try.”
“I can’t help you.”
“Where are you?”
“A safe house. That is all I can tell you. Good-bye.” Hussein looked at Ali and Khazid. “So much for the Broker. Can we have some coffee?”
* * * *
IN THE LIBRARY AT ZION, the Russians sat having a drink in the corner, trying to absorb the bad news about Hal Stone. Caspar and Molly were watching a film in the television room, and Sara was playing patience.
Levin said, “What an absolute bastard.”
“Two in the back.” Chomsky shook his head. “A hard thing to cope with, even with a great surgeon.”
“Sara looks lonely,” Greta said. “I’ll go and chat with her.”
She sat down on the other side of the table. “How’s it going?”
“A bore, really. How’s Professor Stone?”
Greta was shocked. “How on earth do you know?”
“It’s my guilty secret. I’ve got really good hearing. I can hear people speaking two rooms away, I can hear the conversation in a cell phone in your hand across the table without putting it to my ear. At my school, the girls called me Gestapo Bitch, because with me, they had no privacy. Anyway, Professor Stone. At least he’s come through surgery.”
“That’s true.”
“And it was Khazid who shot him.” It was a statement and not aquery.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Where do you think Hussein and Khazid are now?”
“We’ve no idea, but we do know for certain that they don’t know that you and your parents are here.”
“Really? The Hammer of God seems to be slipping, and that would be a first. Speaking of telephones, by the way, my mother must have had another mobile. I’ve heard her phoning Dr. Samson at the hospital about the Bedford child several times.” She shook her head. “Very silly.”
Greta said gravely, “I’ll have to let Ferguson know.”
“Of course.” Sara got up. “I’m for bed. I’m not going to tell them. I leave that decision to you.”
She went out and Greta moved back to the others and told them. Levin called Ferguson at once, caught him with Roper at Holland Park and gave him the bad news.
“What a stupid thing to do,” Ferguson said, “But don’t say anything to her. I’ll handle it myself. I’ll fly down in the morning with Dillon and Billy. More bad news. That address in Dorset at Peel Strand, cottage called Folly Way? The Dorset police checked it out. Found the owner, one Darcus Wellington, shot dead.”
“Good God,” Levin said.
“Good God indeed. They’ve traced his car to Bournemouth railway station from where they’ve obviously caught a fast train to London. Our boys have been busy. You see, Igor, it all starts to fit.”
* * * *
AT HOLLAND PARK, Ferguson sat in the computer room with Billy and Dillon. Roper had his scotch in his hand.
“Well, here’s to Dr. Molly Rashid, great surgeon and humanitarian.”
“The trouble is her work’s the most important thing in her life,” Dillon said. “It’s so important it sweeps everything else aside.”
“What on earth are you implying?” Ferguson demanded of Roper.
“That if I was, for example, al-Qaeda, I’d let the word go out to sympathizers that any news of even the briefest contact with Dr. Molly Rashid and where she was would be welcome.”
“Stop it, Major,” Ferguson said “Bloody nonsense. But we’ll fly down from Farley at nine sharp.”
* * * *
THE CARAVANETTE WAS PACKED with everything they needed, and Ali, Hussein and Khazid sat in the back of the shop for a little while in silence.
After a while, Hussein said, “Bed, I think. We’ll depart at six A.M. With three hours on the road, we’ll reach there about nine.”
“It should have been a weekend,” Khazid said. “More bird-watchers.”
“The fewer the better,” Hussein told him and stood up. “You will wake us, my friend?” he asked Ali.
Khazid said, “I had a good friend called Hassim. They killed him in Hazar, Dillon and Salter. Could he have been kin to you?”
“I think not. May he rest in peace.”
Hussein went upstairs, Khazid following. Ali had given them a small bedroom each. They stood on the landing, looking at each other, then parted without a word.
Khazid put his flight bag on the bed, took out his silenced Walther, the clips, the Uzi machine pistol with its spare magazine. He doubled them up with Scotch tape so that he could reverse load when under stress. Everything was ready, including the hand grenade he’d slipped in without telling Hussein. He lay on the bed, closed his eyes and went to sleep quickly.
Next door Hussein checked and loaded his Walther, put it back in his flight bag, lay on the bed and said his prayers, as he had done since childhood. He closed his eyes. He was in the hands of Allah now. He had never been more certain of anything in his life.
Chapter 16
AT HOLLAND PARK ROPER DOZED IN HIS WHEELCHAIR in front of the screens, as he often did through the night.
He usually awakened after an hour or so, checked the screens, then dozed off and usually opened his eyes again when the pain became reasonably unbearable. His ravaged body was long past doctors’ prescriptions, but of course, the cigarettes and what he called the whiskey sups helped.
Sergeant Doyle, on night duty, had peered through the small window in the door, as he did frequently, observed the Major was awake and went to the canteen and made him the kind of bacon and egg sandwich that Roper enjoyed and took it to him. It was just before five o’clock in the morning and he put it down in front of Roper.
“There you go, Major. I didn’t bother with tea. I knew you’d just let it go cold. Have you had a good night?”
“Sit down and join me for a while, Sergeant.” Roper wolfed the sandwich. “Between midnight and dawn is the strangest time of all to be on your own, because all you’ve got is the past and you know you can’t alter that.”
“Would you want to, Major? I’ve spent twenty years of my life a soldier and I’ve never known a finer one than you or a braver.”
“Hunched over all those bombs in good old Ireland until I made the one careless mistake over a silly little parked car?”
“You were doing your duty, getting the job done. We all accept what soldiering means. It comes with the Queen’s shilling and the first time you put on the uniform.”
“Let’s look at that,” Roper said. “You did Irish time?”
“Six tours.”
“Then you know that members of the Provisional IRA considered themselves soldiers. How do you react to that?”
“Not particularly well,” Doyle said, “as I was frequently shot at during my tours of duty by bastards w
ho didn’t wear a uniform.”
“Neither did the French Resistance in the Second World War. The guy who made the bomb that got me was called Murphy. When he ended up in court, he refused to recognize it. Said he was a soldier fighting a war.”
“What happened to him?”
“Three life sentences in the Maze and died of cancer.”
Doyle thought about it. “Where’s this going, Major?”
“Like I said, between midnight and dawn, the past going through your head. I saw some film on television showing a British-born Muslim swearing allegiance to al-Qaeda. He also said he was a soldier fighting a war.”
“I saw that,” Doyle said. “Where does it end?”
“I’d say with our present problem, Hussein Rashid. Put it to him, he’d say exactly the same thing as all of them.”
“Then maybe it’s just an excuse, a cop-out? At least you were blown apart wearing a uniform, Major. That bugger Murphy wasn’t.” He stood up and shrugged. “There’s no solution to it, really. I’m going to make tea now. Want some?”
“Actually, I would.”
Doyle went to the door and paused. “I didn’t tell you it’s started raining outside and the wind’s building up. You might find the Hawk can’t get off at Farley.”
“I’ll keep an eye on it.”
He checked the weather report on television and it wasn’t good, then he accepted the mug of tea from Doyle and poured a whiskey sup in it when he was alone. He pulled Hussein’s photo on screen. It stared back at him, that Che Guevara look.
“Yes, I know that isn’t you anymore, but where the hell are you?”
And closer than he would ever have dreamed possible, at the shop on the edge of West Hampstead, Ali Hassim was tapping on Hussein’s door, a cup of tea in his hand. He put on the light and went in. Hussein was awake.
“It’s earlier than you said, but the weather is not good.” He put the green tea down at the side of the bed.
The window rattled in the wind. Hussein said, “My thanks for the tea, but I must pray for a while. I’ll be ready to leave at the time agreed. If you would turn off the light.”
“Of course.”
Ali went out, tapped on Khazid’s door and went downstairs.
* * * *
ROPER DOZED AGAIN and came awake to find it was just seven o’clock. At the same time, the Caravanette pulled in at a Little Chef outside Guildford. There was a strong wind and the rain was relentless, but Hussein and Khazid were impervious to it, thanks to the outfits Bolton had purchased. The three-quarter-length anoraks in olive green were hooded with capacious pockets large enough for the silenced Walthers they carried, including spare clips of ammunition. Waterproof bush hats, leggings and heavy boots made short work of the weather.
There were a dozen or so customers scattered around the café, mainly truck drivers from the look of what was in the car park. Hussein and Khazid sat in a corner away from anyone else.
“What do we eat?” Khazid asked.
“Look at the menu. The popular choice is the full English breakfast with a mug of tea.”
“Which includes bacon for a start.”
“In the circumstances, Allah will be merciful. So, go to the counter and in your best broken French, give the order. To be practical, I’m hungry and we have a long day ahead of us.”
Khazid went and spoke to the young girl on duty and returned and sat down. “What do you think of the Caravanette? It’s hardly a getaway car, the engine throbbing when you put your foot down.”
“It could be argued that it would be perfect for such a purpose. What police are usually chasing is the faster traffic, not the vehicle in the slow lane.”
“A debatable point,” Khazid said.
The girl brought the breakfasts and teas on a tray, put everything on the table and departed. “My chief instructor in the camp in Algeria had a saying: Walk, don’t run, whenever possible. Now eat your breakfast, little brother, and shut up.”
* * * *
IT WAS EIGHT O’CLOCK when Dillon and Billy joined Roper, and his news wasn’t too good. “I’ve had Lacey on. He and Parry have arrived at Farley. It’s not too nice. He certainly thinks it’s not on for a nine-o’clock departure. They’ll just have to wait for a window of opportunity. I’ve spoken to Ferguson. He’s suggested we have a quick breakfast. He’ll be here for an eight-thirty departure.”
“That’s fine,” Dillon said. “Are you going to join us?”
“I don’t think so. I’d a bad night, and then this weather.” He shook his head. “I think I’ll check with Zion while you eat. See you later.”
Dillon and Billy left him for the canteen, and Roper called Levin.
* * * *
AT THE DINING ROOM at Zion House, Levin, Chomsky and Greta sat at a corner table and rain rattled against the French windows, the terrace outside streaming with it as it fell on the garden extending all the way to the wall, the wood beyond.
There was a certain amount of mist that made everything look a little mysterious. Various trees, masses of rhododendrons, willow trees, an old summerhouse, sheltered pathways running through shrubberies.
Greta, who was drinking coffee and looking out, said, “Rain, bloody rain, but it suits the garden.”
Sara came up behind. “I heard that. It’s like something out of Jane Eyre. Dark and brooding.”
“Would you like to join us?” Greta said.
“No, I’d better go and sit in the far corner. The parents are coming down, I’ll see you later.”
She moved across, waving cheerfully at Captain Bosey and Fletcher and Smith, two of his guards, who were eating together. A little later, Caspar and Molly arrived and joined their daughter. One of the girls, Kitty, took an order and went off to the kitchen.
Levin’s phone went and it was Roper. “How’s the house party proceeding?”
“Rain and even a little mist. Makes the garden look romantic.”
“What about the runway?”
“I can’t see from here. Hang on and I’ll go to the terrace.” Which he did, going out to the hall and helping himself to an umbrella he found behind the door. He opened it and stepped out, giving Roper a running commentary. “There’s no way this rain is going to stop, that’s for sure, but I can see the runway. There is some mist there, certainly. What’s the word from your end?”
“Well, Lacey doesn’t seem to think nine o’clock’s likely. He’ll await a window of opportunity was what he said.”
“Okay, I’ll keep in touch.”
Levin turned, moved back to the house to report to the others.
* * * *
AT FARLEY FIELD, Jamal had set himself up in the public car park. He parked in a spot from which he could see the arrivals. The Hawk was already parked on the other side of the terminal building.
The yellow van had Telecom on the side and he raised the rear door like a flap against the rain and sat there from half-past seven and waited. He was surrounded by coils of wire, a large tool box was open, and in his yellow oilskins with Telecom on the back, he looked perfectly acceptable.
Ali Hassim, who had phoned several times, tried again at half-past eight. “Still nothing?”
“I’m afraid so. I will contact you the moment I see anything.”
He opened a lunch box and took out a banana and a carton of yogurt, ate it slowly with a spoon, then unpeeled the banana, watching. Time ticked by and suddenly the People Traveller from Holland Park, the vehicle that he had followed on his motorbike when it had taken the Rashids and the three other people to Farley, arrived. He watched it park at the end of the terminal. Three men hurrying for shelter. He knew one was Ferguson because Hassim had shown him a photo.
He phoned Ali instantly. “They’ve arrived, Ferguson definitely and two other men. They were too fast for me, hurrying through the rain.”
“Allah be praised. Phone me again the moment they take off.”
“It may be a while. The weather is not good.”
“So wait
and watch.”
* * * *
IN THE TERMINAL BUILDING, Ferguson talked to Lacey. “What do you think?”
“I don’t hold out any hope of nine o’clock. The flight down there takes an hour, a little more depending on the wind and whether it changes direction. Maybe another half hour. That would give an estimated time of arrival at about ten-thirty. We’ll just have to see. I suggest coffee, General.”
“Oh, very well.” Ferguson wasn’t pleased and phoned Levin.
“Nine o’clock and waiting. Lacey still has hopes. I’ll call you.” He shrugged and said to Dillon and Billy, “Can’t be helped. Let’s find this coffee.”
* * * *
AT ZION, the Caravanette had arrived twenty minutes earlier and passed through the village as Khazid drove, following Bolton’s instructions, passing the house and the electronic barrier at the estate entrance with the guardhouse beside it.
Farther along, they came to the sprawling country car park surrounded with high hedges and the wood on the other side. There was one thing that Bolton had failed to mention, a brick public convenience. As for the car park, at that moment in time, there wasn’t a single vehicle parked there.
Khazid got out. “I have an idea.”
He went to the public convenience, looked behind and returned. “I think I could squeeze the Caravanette round the back of it?”
“No, we won’t do that,” Hussein said. “Remember what I said? Walk, don’t run. We are harmless eccentrics who prefer to be out in the pouring rain watching birds to sitting at home. We’ve nothing to hide. Just park us there by the wood. The gate guard can’t see down here anyway.”
His phone went. It was Ali, who described the situation at Farley. Hussein took the news quite calmly. “Call me the moment the Hawk leaves.”
“Where are you?”
“Where we are supposed to be. Now don’t bother me until you have news.”