by Jack Higgins
Khazid said, “What’s happening?”
“Jamal at Farley has seen the Hawk waiting and Ferguson and two men arrive, probably Dillon and Billy Salter. He will inform Ali the moment the Hawk takes off. I know that plane, I’ve flown one. I’d say in good weather, it would be here at Zion in an hour, maybe a little more today.”
“Allah preserve us,” Khazid said in awe. “Ferguson himself on the terrace of that house? The British Prime Minister’s head of security, a man with huge links to the American President. What a target. This changes everything. Our place in heaven is assured.”
“It changes nothing,” Hussein told him. “First we need to get into the grounds, fool. So, orders. The large pockets in our anoraks will carry our weapons and additional ammunition with no problem, even your Uzi with the stock folded. We leave the flight bags locked in the Caravanette.
You can carry the canvas bag with the tool kit, I will have my Zeiss glasses around my neck, and then into the wood with us.”
“To watch birds,” Khazid answered.
“Of course, and if any bird-watchers as crazy as us turn up in this weather, remember you’re French.” He led the way along the side of the wood toward the runway end, checking his watch and finding it was just after nine.
Bolton’s instructions had really been very good. Hussein turned into the fringe of pine trees at that point and said, “Stop, I want to take a look.”
He focused the Zeiss glasses that Bolton had procured. They were excellent. He scanned the garden, then checked the terrace extending the whole front of the house, the main door in the center. At that moment, the French window opened and Sara came out and held an umbrella overhead. Caspar stood in the French window, obviously urging her to come in out of the rain. She stayed for a moment, then turned and went in. The French window was closed.
Hussein said hoarsely, “I’ve just seen Sara on the terrace under an umbrella and Caspar behind her. They’ve gone in again. Have a quick look.”
Khazid did, handed them back, and Hussein said, “Let’s get to it.”
Within a few minutes, thanks to Bolton’s briefing, they forced their way through the thicket and found the stone.
“Excellent.” He stamped around, kicking in the grass, and Khazid unfolded the canvas tool kit. There were two small steel spades and two lengthy crowbars ranged along the bottom of the bag. A sledgehammer and a flashlight. There was also a dark green waterproof cape, to hide an open hole if necessary.
Remembering what Bolton had told them he had done, Hussein tapped around in the turf and heard the clang of metal on metal.
“Now the spades,” he said. “Come on, both of us.”
They attacked savagely and the pointed steel blades tore into the turf, turning it over, soon revealing a circular iron manhole. It was worn with the years, pitted, but it was still possible to read the manufacturer’s name: Watson amp; Company, Canal Street, Leeds.
They looked at it in silence. “Amazing,” Khazid said. “After all these years.”
“Try moving it,” Hussein told him.
There was a steel handle in a cup setting in the center. Khazid pushed one of the crowbars through and heaved. Nothing much happened, and at that moment Hussein’s mobile sounded. He answered at once and found Ali there.
“Jamal has just called me. Although the weather is still poor here, the Hawk has just departed. It’s nine-thirty. Does everything go well?”
“We’ve found the entrance, but I’ve no time to talk.” He slipped the phone into his pocket and took the other crowbar from the bag, inserted it and they heaved together without success.
“Take some of the smaller tools, the screwdrivers, and we’ll scrape round the edges of the circle. That was Ali. Jamal reports the Hawk departing nine-thirty.” He scraped away furiously, as did Khazid. “That would mean an ETA of ten-thirty plus the drive from the runway. I’d say they’ll arrive at the house at about ten forty-five. Now put your back into it, little brother.”
And it moved with a strange kind of groan and tilted and broke free and they carried it farther into the thicket and dumped it in the long grass.
“You first,” Hussein said to Khazid and pulled the cape from the tool bag. “I’ll pass it to you. There seem to be rungs down into this thing.”
Khazid did as he was told, the flashlight in one hand. His voice echoed up. “It’s about five foot in diameter. Drop the bag.”
Hussein did so, spread the cape on the ground, went a few steps down the rungs and reached up to pull the cape over the hole. It was green in color, and with any luck, it would be undetected for a very long time.
* * * *
KHAZID HAD THE FLASHLIGHT OUT and it picked out the tunnel ahead. Its curved sides were concrete and very wet and the drip of water could be heard.
“Must be leakage of some kind,” Khazid said.
He moved ahead, bending over slightly, oblivious in his stout boots to the sludge under his feet. There was a smell, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Rather like walking through a wood in the rain, earthy and damp.
In his head, Hussein moved in slow motion as if in a dream. The sight of Sara under that umbrella had shocked him. It was the reality of her presence after the things that had gone before, the journey from Hazar, so much violence and death. Now she was near and there was little doubt what Khazid would expect to do.
And Khazid was right to expect such a thing. They were soldiers, fighting in a war, one of the worst of modern times that, one way or another, had cost the lives of many thousands of his fellow Iraqis, including his parents. It would be the worst kind of dishonor to fail them all now, even though it would cost him his life. He saw all this so clearly. He was the Hammer of God and he had never failed in his duty.
There was the same kind of ladder in the brick wall. He said to Khazid, “Mount a few rungs with a crowbar and see what you can do. I’ll brace you.”
Khazid put down the lantern and obeyed and mounted to the right level and got to work, as Hussein took his weight. He was having difficulty, but a crack was obvious at the left-hand side of the manhole cover, the decay of the years.
“I can get the end of the crowbar in there. I’ll hold it with one hand while you get the hammer and swing it against the end.” Hussein did exactly that and everything happened in a rush, two or three bricks tumbling down. He jumped out of the way, then pushed his hands into Khazid’s back, holding him firmly, while the manhole cover seemed to slide to one side and a considerable amount of earth showered in.
Hussein shook it off. “Go through, see where we are,” he ordered.
Khazid mounted the rungs farther, pushing the lid right to one side and emerged, heavy rain pouring down, in the middle of a mass of rhododendron bushes surrounded by willow trees and close to a summerhouse styled in the manner of a pagoda. He was hidden from any kind of view, although a narrow path was near at hand, a walkway through the heavy foliage. There was the house, and the front door, the terrace on either side, a glimpse of someone passing the French windows. Although he wasn’t to know, it was Kitty and Ida, setting the dining room tables for lunch.
Khazid slid down into the tunnel and told Hussein what to expect. Hussein mounted a few rungs, paused a moment, then came down.
“Perfect.” He glanced at his watch. It was ten-twenty and the air was filled with the noise of the Hawk landing at the runway. “Ten minutes early. I got it wrong.”
“But we are just in time for Ferguson, is it not so?”
“Absolutely.” Hussein took out the silenced Walther and checked it.
Khazid did the same to his, leaving the Uzi in the other capacious pocket, already loaded with the taped magazines. The hand grenade he had taken from Darcus Wellington’s collection without telling Hussein, he left in his breast pocket.
“So, Sara is no longer a problem?” he said. “It will be Ferguson?”
Hussein nodded slightly. “Yes, Ferguson, because it must be so. I see now I was very wrong where Sara was concerned.
My duty lies elsewhere.” He smiled. “Sometimes you see truth more easily than I do. A hard lesson for me to learn.” He kissed Khazid on each cheek. “I will meet you in Paradise, little brother.”
“And I you.” Tears stained Khazid’s face, and he gave his leader a fierce hug.
“Go to a good death,” Hussein told him, waited for Khazid to go up and then followed him.
* * * *
CAPTAIN BOSEY WAS BY THE RUNWAY, umbrella ready to shield Ferguson from the heavy rain. Dillon and Billy followed behind him and Ferguson turned as Squadron Leader Lacey peered out of the hatch.
“We’ll certainly be here for a few hours, so you and Parry might as well come up to the house.”
“That’s kind of you, sir, but we’ve got things to do.” He turned to Bosey, “Could you come back for us in an hour?”
“I’ll see to it.” Bosey held open the Land Rover door for Ferguson and Dillon and Billy bundled in.
“What a bleeding day,” Billy observed.
“Takes you back to Belfast on a wet Saturday night,” Ferguson added as Bosey drove away. “I must say Lacey and Parry did a fine job. There were times when I flinched.” He turned to Bosey. “How’s everything at the house?”
“Perfect, General, no problems. The Rashids have settled in well and your people seem perfectly happy.”
“Excellent,” Ferguson told him. “Pity about the weather, but I’m sure you have a nice lunch arranged.”
“Oh, you can rely on Mrs. Tetley for that, General.” Bosey drove on.
* * * *
THE SOUND OF THE HAWK had touched everybody at Zion House with a kind of anticipation, especially Molly Rashid, who was feeling even more unhappy than usual.
“Thank God they’ve got here. I thought it might be canceled by this dreadful weather and I need to have words with General Ferguson.” She was sitting on a sofa beside Caspar and Sara, and the three Russians were chatting in the corner. She stood up. “I’m just bobbing upstairs for a moment.”
“What for, a phone call, Mummy?”
“Yes, I’ll only be a few minutes.” There was instant dismay on her face as she realized her error. The Russians stopped their conversation and Molly, horrified at being caught out, fled.
Caspar said, “What on earth’s going on?”
“Why don’t you ask her?” Sara stood up. “You know how much I like the rain, I’m going for a walk in the garden.”
“You’ll get soaked,” he told her.
“No, I won’t, I shall borrow Igor’s trench coat and take an umbrella.” She turned to the Russians as she walked out. “Taking your trench coat, Igor. I’m just going for a stroll.”
“Do you want any company?” Greta asked.
“Suit yourself,” Sara said.
“I’ll be right with you.”
A few minutes later, they went out the front door, Greta also in a raincoat, linked arms for a moment and paused at the balustrade. Hidden in the rhododendron bushes by the pagoda, Hussein and Khazid saw them emerge, and Hussein raised the Zeiss glasses.
“It’s Sara and some woman.” At that same moment, the Land Rover entered the main gate and started along the driveway. Sara said to Greta, “Oh, damn, here they are. I’m not ready for it yet. Let’s go, just for a few minutes at least.”
“If you like.”
They hurried down the steps and branched off on a path bringing them through to the end of the garden and paused close to the pagoda. They looked back and saw Levin and Chomsky crowding the front door in welcome as Ferguson, Dillon and Billy got out of the back of the Land Rover. There were words exchanged up there, Ferguson turned to the balustrade and peered down, looking for them.
* * * *
IN THE BUSHES, Khazid couldn’t contain himself. “It’s Ferguson- perfect.” He stepped out of the bushes and faced Sara and Greta, avoiding Hussein’s quick grab, the Walther in his hand, against his leg.
Sara stared at him. “It’s you, Khazid.” She was stunned. “I can’t believe it.”
Hussein stepped out and took off his bush hat. “Hello, Sara, it’s a long way from home.”
She stared at him. “Good heavens, Hussein, what have you done to yourself?”
“Everything changes, cousin.”
She said, “I don’t know how you got here, but I’ve no intention of going anywhere with you.”
“So the Hammer of God has fallen so low?”
And she said the strangest thing. “Oh, Hussein, you’re such a good man, in spite of yourself.”
“Enough of this nonsense,” Khazid said, took the grenade from his pocket and hurled it up toward the balustrade, where it bounced off the steps and rolled backward into a flower bed and exploded.
There was total confusion, everyone ducking, weapons appearing in their hands, Greta, who was carrying her own Walther in her raincoat pocket, drew it. Khazid grabbed her wrist, but she discharged twice, slicing his left shoulder, the second shot catching Hussein in the stomach as he stood to the side.
Khazid shot Greta at point-blank range in the body and she was hurled away to fall on her back. He went completely berserk, pulled out the Uzi and ran wildly up through the garden, calling out Ferguson’s name at the top of his voice, and Dillon and Billy pumped one round after another into him.
Sara shouted wildly, hands up, “No more! Stop it, now!”
Her parents had emerged from the house and Molly tried to run forward, but Ferguson called, “Cease firing.”
Sara looked at Greta, then called, “Come and get Major Novikova at once, but no violence, please.” She turned to face Hussein, old beyond her years, aged by experience.
“What now, cousin?” she said.
He was leaning against the pagoda and turned inside, a hand to his stomach, blood oozing. “How did you know where we were?” she asked.
“An unwise call to your mother’s hospital, a nurse, sympathetic to our cause who overheard. But no matter, this is our final meeting, Sara. May Allah bless you all your days, but go now, obey me in my last request.”
“No more killing,” she said. “It is enough.”
She turned as Dillon, Billy and Levin arrived and walked past them, as Levin knelt over Greta. She went calmly up the steps and her mother grabbed her.
“Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes, but no more phone calls, Mummy, they cost too much. Telling Dr. Samson where you were was a lousy idea. It got into the wrong hands.” She walked into the hall and went upstairs.
There was a kind of horror on Molly’s face as she realized the implication. Caspar said, “What on earth did she mean?”
“That somehow what has happened here was my fault. I rang Dr. Samson at the hospital a number of times on an extra mobile I keep in my bag. I couldn’t help myself.”
“How could you do that?” He shook his head. “So stupid.” She turned wearily and went inside. He sighed, and went after her.
* * * *
HUSSEIN WAS STILL IN THE PAGODA, fumbling at his anorak, the blood oozing more than ever between his fingers, but when he finally stood up and lurched outside, the Walther was in his right hand.
“Mr. Dillon, Mr. Salter.” They faced him, weapons ready. His hand swung up and each of them shot twice, throwing him backward, the Walther flying to one side.
He was instantly dead. Billy picked up the Walther, inspected it and turned to Dillon as Ferguson appeared. “It was empty.”
Dillon’s face was bleak. “Poor bastard, he’d nowhere else to go.” He turned to Ferguson, “Greta?”
“Levin thinks she’ll be all right. Ambulance on its way.”
“And the bodies?”
“The usual disposal team. I’ll send in the order to Roper now. Hussein Rashid and this chap Khazid cease to exist. It never happened.”
Dillon nodded. “Do you ever wonder what it’s all about?”
“No, I’ve no bloody time, it’s the world we live in, it’s what we have to do to survive these days, with enemies like the Br
oker and Osama, Khan and people like him. So let’s get back to London and get on with it.”
He turned and walked away, as an ambulance drew up on the terrace and three paramedics piled out, came down the steps and hurried to where Levin crouched over Greta.
Dillon turned to Billy. “Okay, you heard the man,” and they followed Ferguson up to the terrace and into the house.
***
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