by Wilbur Smith
‘It ties in with Central Records. Same name and same address; fifth of March two years ago. Unsolved murder.’
In addition Nastiya handed over the flick knife she had captured, and testified as to how the accused had attacked her with it and how she had been obliged to defend herself by disarming him. The officer who was taking her testimony looked at her with an awed expression.
‘You did that to his wrist with only one kick?’
‘I was careful not to use undue force,’ Nastiya explained.
‘I meant that you are so small and he is so big!’ Few men were able to resist the little Russian when she batted her eyelids and assumed an attitude of childlike innocence.
*
It was two o’clock in the morning before they were able to leave the police station. None of them had eaten or slept for hours, but they were still driven by a surfeit of adrenalin. Hector stopped at the first McDonald’s along the road and brought back a large bag full of double cheeseburgers and cardboard beakers of coffee. Thus fortified, their conversation on the way home to No. 11 was lively as they tried to make some sense of the two attacks on Hector and his family, and the part that the mysterious masked Californian gang leader had played in both assassination attempts.
‘It sounds as though he was the one driving the van. Obviously he is the next one up the chain of command. The two on the motorcycle who killed Hazel and now these two we put away tonight are merely grunts. They had no idea why they were doing what they did. They did not know who was giving the orders. They just followed them blindly. This in itself is significant,’ Hector postulated.
‘In what way?’ Paddy asked.
‘Okay; on their first attempt they had the drop on me. They might have taken me out pretty easily; but they passed up on the chance. They fenced me off from the action, or at least they tried to. Clearly, their orders were only to get Hazel. They weren’t interested in me. Why? Tell me why, will you? It worries me.’
‘It’s a tough one,’ Paddy admitted.
‘If they were acting logically I should have been the prime target, not Hazel. I killed the head of the clan, Khan Tippoo Tip. I also took out at least five of his sons, including Kamal and Adam, his favourites. I was the one who set up the Trojan Horse operation that destroyed their fleet of pirate boats. I should have been number one on their shopping list.’
‘Hazel was as responsible as you were; more so, even. She had the cheque book. You were simply her hired gun. What’s more, she was the one who actually pulled the trigger at Adam’s execution,’ Paddy pointed out.
‘That’s true,’ Hector countered. ‘But those yobbos never knew that. Even if they did, they should have taken both of us. Why were they after her exclusively?’
‘Hector is right, Muslaki.’ It always amused Hector when Nastiya called Paddy ‘Sugar Baby’. He was neither of those. ‘And what about last night? Who were they really after with their fire bombs? Hector or our little Catherine?’
‘You have married a pretty smart cookie,’ Hector remarked. ‘She’s absolutely right. Why did the Beast suddenly change its mind last night and decide that it wanted me after all?’
‘Why is it as soon as the newspapers blurt out about our Catherine they make another attack?’ Nastiya looked smug.
‘You are saying that last night they were after Catherine, and not Heck?’ Paddy’s tone was sceptical. ‘That doesn’t make sense to me. What could they possibly gain by torching a newly born infant?’
The argument lasted all the way back to London. They went round in circles; they picked nits and shot down one another’s theories, and at last agreed that none of it added up. The Beast had acted irrationally, and that in itself did not compute. The Beast never acted irrationally.
As they ran through the West End, Hector summed up. ‘All I am sure of is that we have to get Catherine out of England. Only when we have her tucked away on the top floor of Seascape Mansions in Abu Zara with a platoon of Paddy’s top men to watch over her will I be prepared to leave her.’
‘To go where and do what?’ Paddy demanded. ‘What are your plans, Heck?’
‘To go with Tariq Hakam to Mecca; to find this last remaining sprig of the Tippoo Tip clan; to capture him and take him to a safe place where I can question and evaluate him. Then, if I find him guilty, I will consign him to burn in the flames of hell from which he has sprung.’
It would not take more than a few days to pack up and prepare for the move to Abu Zara. Hector’s personal needs were easily catered for, not much more than a toothbrush and a change of underpants. Cross Bow Security had all the equipment he could possibly need for Phase Two of the operation stored in the Bannock Oil installation out in the desert a hundred miles south of Abu Zara City.
What concerned him most was what he knew least about: the supply train and logistics for the support of an infant. He called in his resident expert, Bonnie Hepworth. Despite the late hour, she answered his call with alacrity, and stood in front of his desk in her dressing gown, with an expectant expression not unlike a puppy waiting for a bone.
‘You want me, Mr Cross?’
‘I wanted to see you.’ Cautiously Hector modified her question. ‘Bonnie, do you know where Abu Zara is?’
‘Is that a hotel, Mr Cross?’
‘That wasn’t even close. Let’s try again. Do you know where the United Arab Emirates are?’
‘Well, sort of. I have heard of it, but I have never been there.’ She looked dubious. ‘Somewhere between Egypt and India, I think.’
‘Pretty close,’ he commended her. ‘Well, that’s where we are all going, you and Catherine also.’
‘Goodness! Working for you is such jolly good fun. One never knows what’s going to happen next.’
‘What is going to happen next is you are going to draw up a list of everything that you and Catherine might possibly need or want over the next six months. Bear in mind that antibiotics are not easy to obtain in the Emirates, so if you need a prescription for anything here is my GP’s card.’ He handed it over to her. ‘Order everything that you need, pack it and have it ready to go in three days from now.’ He paused and then went on. ‘Do you have a valid passport?’
‘Oh yes, sir. I went to Paris last Easter with some of the other girls from the hospital; I had to get one.’
‘Excellent. Don’t forget to pack that also.’ He knew that the two junior nursemaids already had travel documents. Hazel had made sure of that before she employed them.
He slid his black Harrods credit card across the desk to Bonnie. ‘Pay for everything with this. Have them deliver all of it here.’ She fled for the door, but he called her back. ‘I have decided that we are going to move Catherine into my bedroom until we leave for Abu Zara.’
‘Oh dear!’ Bonnie looked distraught. ‘Who will give her her bottle, and change her nappy?’
‘I will,’ Hector assured her.
‘I could stay with the two of you, just to help. I wouldn’t mind at all,’ she offered.
‘Thank you, Bonnie. But I am sure the two of us will be able to cope well enough on our own.’
Hector expected to find the self-appointed task of night-nurse onerous, but it turned out to be a delight rather than a chore. He adjusted the reading lamp on his bedside table to throw a soft light on Catherine’s face when he held her on his lap. As she sucked away at the teat of the bottle he revelled in the smell and the feel of her tiny body. He searched her face for vestiges of Hazel and was convinced that he found them in the shape of her mouth and the set of her little chin. Somehow it lessened his sense of loss and loneliness.
*
Know your enemy. Study him long and hard, and then strike him down with the speed and venom of a king cobra; that was Hector Cross’s principle of action.
Before sunrise the next morning Hector rose and showered. Then he donned a dressing gown and rang down to the nursery and called for Bonnie.
As he handed Catherine over to the nurse he told her, ‘I have arran
ged for Mrs O’Quinn to spend the day with you and Catherine.’ Nastiya had accepted the role of baby guard with a contented little smile. With Catherine in the care of these two women Hector could go about his other business without a qualm. ‘I will be going out for a while; however, Mr O’Quinn will be here to make certain that everything is safe and secure in my absence. You will have nothing to worry about.’
Still in his gown, he went down to his study. There was a big marble fireplace facing his desk, with a decorated frieze of five lion heads running just below the mantle. He pressed the central head and when he heard the muted click of the concealed mechanism he rotated it in a clockwise direction. There was another click and a pause, and then silently and smoothly the bookcase on one side of the fireplace rotated to reveal a narrow steel door beyond. He punched his password into the keypad of the electronic lock. The door swung open and he stepped into the small room beyond. Row upon row of open shelves climbed the facing wall from floor level to the ceiling. Each shelf held a tidy row of cardboard boxes, each box with a cryptic label describing the contents stencilled on its side. Most held weapons or other sensitive items; everything from knives and nightsticks to his favourite 9mm Beretta automatic pistol, with two hundred rounds of ammunition. Possession of nearly all these was strictly banned under British law. There was even a box marked ‘Passports’ which contained over thirty such documents from diverse countries with his photograph but with names ranging from Abraham to Zakariyya. He reached up to the top shelf and brought down the box marked ‘Arab costume’.
He left the other boxes undisturbed. He closed and relocked the door, and then he activated the mechanism to rotate the bookshelf back into place. He carried the cardboard box to his dressing room. He stripped down to his underwear and spent the next few minutes using a tube of make-up to subtly darken his already swarthy features to a Middle Eastern tone. His beard had grown out in a dense, dark stubble, which gave him a convincing Middle Eastern air.
He donned the full-length white dishdasha from the box and tied the keffiya round his head so that the tail of the scarf draped over his shoulders. He changed his platinum Rolex for a plain stainless-steel Seiko, slipped into a pair of open leather sandals, placed a pair of dark aviator glasses on his nose, and checked himself in the mirror.
You’ll do, he decided. His Arabic was fluent and colloquial. His inherent sense of Eastern mores and manners was impeccable. He could pass readily as a native-born Muslim either in relaxed social situations or when performing the traditional religious rituals.
He took his private lift down to the underground garage. One of the vehicles parked in the second row there was a small, slightly battered and neglected-looking saloon. Appearances were deliberately misleading. Hector had fitted it with tinted windows, racing suspension and a powerful new engine that was capable of a startling turn of speed. He used it on special occasions such as this when he did not want to draw attention to himself. He called it his Q-car, after the Q-ships that the Royal Navy used to lure the Nazi U-boats into range during World War II.
Hector started it up and for a few seconds listened with satisfaction to the deep growl of the engine, then drove up the ramp past the roller shutter doors into the street. It was a Friday so even this early the traffic was heavy and frenetic. Friday is also the day on which all Muslims have a sacred duty to attend prayers. He found a parking slot in Regent’s Park a few hundred metres from the great mosque. He left the car and headed towards it. There was a steady stream of the faithful hurrying in the same direction. They were all dressed in traditional garb. Hector was one of a multitude as he entered the precincts of the mosque. This was not his first visit so he knew his way around the building. He went firstly to sit with the other men on the long concrete bench, facing the row of taps, to perform the ablutions. He washed his hands and feet and then his face. He rinsed out his mouth.
It was well in advance of the appointed hour, but already the demarcated area of the prayer hall, the masjid, was crowded with row upon row of kneeling white-clad figures. However, there were still a few open slots nearer the rear. He knelt on the piled prayer rugs with his shoulders almost touching his neighbours on each side.
The prayers began and Hector entered into the lulling sequence of prostrations and responses. Hector was not an atheist; he had been close to death so many times as to know how fleeting and inconsequential life really is. He believed deeply that there had to be some controlling force behind the wondrous working of the universe, and the unfolding of infinity. In this respect he was a believer; however, he was not committed to any single creed. He wanted to be free to select the best from the doctrines of each of the faiths that attracted him and to adapt those to his own particular view of God and the universe. To him both Christianity and Islam were studded with priceless diamonds of beauty and truth. Many of these were identical. He valued both religions equally for that. He prayed now with complete sincerity, and he found himself praying especially for Hazel, wherever she had gone. He felt rejuvenated when the prayers came to an end.
He left the main precinct and wandered down the adjoining cloisters. He passed a few of the cubicles in which the temple mullahs waited to meet any members of the congregation who were seeking spiritual guidance and counsel. He found the man he was looking for near the end of the second colonnade, one whose eyes in a setting of fine wrinkles were sharp and intelligent and whose beard was white under the ginger dye. He had the look of permanence about him, as though he had been in place for a long time. Hector entered the cubicle and bowed.
‘As-salamu alaykum!’
‘And on you be peace!’
They exchanged greetings, then the mullah indicated the rug spread in front of his low table on which lay a well-thumbed copy of the Koran and other religious texts and commentaries. Hector sat cross-legged in front of him and they chatted informally for a while. The mullah recognized his accent almost at once.
‘You are from the East Africa, from Somalia, I suspect?’ Hector spread his hands in acquiescence. His Arabic had been honed by Tariq Hakam, who was from Puntland, and Hector had picked up the accent from him.
‘Is it so obvious, Sheikh?’ He used the term of respect. ‘I have lived in this country many years.’
The mullah smiled knowingly. ‘So how can I help you, my son?’
‘Father, I am planning to make the pilgrimage to Mecca soon. Inshallah!’
‘Mashallah! Let it be so,’ the old man intoned.
‘I have heard men speak of a mullah in that country who once preached in this very mosque where we now sit. People who have heard him have told me that, despite his youth, this mullah is a man of great holiness and wisdom. I want you to tell me if you knew this man when he was here, and if you believe the time and expense of extending my sojourn in Mecca to listen to him would be justified. I want to know also if what he preaches accords with the teachings of the Prophet Muhammad.’
‘My son, who is this mullah? Please tell me his name.’
‘His name is Aazim Muktar—’
Before Hector could complete the sentence the old man’s face lit with delight. He clapped his hands and exclaimed, ‘In the name of Allah and his blessed Prophet, may they be praised for ever. You speak of none other than Aazim Muktar Tippoo Tip.’
Hector was surprised by the fervour of his reaction. ‘You know him?’ he asked.
‘I know him as I know one of my own sons, and verily I wish he were my own son.’
‘You admire him then, Old Father?’
‘It is as though Aazim Muktar has been touched by the hand of Gabriel, the chief of all the angels of Allah.’ The mullah lowered his voice reverently. ‘He has been given the sight to see far beyond where other men can see. He has the wisdom to understand clearly what is hidden from others. His heart is filled with the love of Allah and with the love of his fellow man.’
‘Then you think I should take pains to hear him speak?’
‘If you miss that opportunity you will regre
t it to the end of your days. His voice is like the sounding of the finest musical instrument, like the sighing of the wind in the branches of the cedar trees on Mount Horeb, the one mountain of the one God.’
‘Describe his appearance to me, Old Father, that I might recognize him when first I see him.’
The mullah placed his fingertips together and pursed his lips as he considered the question, and then he began to speak. ‘He is tall but not overly tall. He is lean and he moves with the grace of a leopard. His brow is wide and deep. His beard is not yet touched with the frosting of age. He has a good nose, strong as the beak of an eagle. His gaze is keen but gentle and without guile. In short he is handsome but not pretty.’
Suddenly, and to Hector’s surprise, the mullah looked about in a conspiratorial manner, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘There are many who believe this man is the Mhadi; the Messiah who is prophesied to appear at the world’s end; the Redeemer who will establish a reign of peace and righteousness. Perhaps once you have listened to him you might agree with them. If so, when you return to London you must come to speak with me again.’
Hector stared at him. Slowly his vision of the way forward changed dramatically.
Nothing about this was as straightforward as he had at first imagined. It contained many layers and hidden depths.
*
That evening Hector, Paddy and Nastiya gathered in the sitting room before dinner. As usual the men were in mess kit with decorations while Nastiya had her diamond necklace nestling in the cleavage of her high tight bosoms, a sparkle in her eyes and colour in her cheeks. While Hector was pouring Dom Pérignon into a tall flute glass for her she announced, ‘Babies are wonderful. I truly never understood that before.’