Confessor (36 page)

Big Herbie also thought of the various other permutations. The old Chief and Gus had covered all the tracks to
Jasmine
. Had another person been in the loop? BMW for instance? Had Willis Maitland-Wood really retired fully, or was he the new
Claudius
? He thought he should give Willis a call. See if he was still gardening away with his Memsahib in darkest Eastbourne. Or was he heading down a wrong tributary? Was there a serving officer who had been culled by Gus to take over the running should he shuffle off the mortal coil?

Who? He wondered. Whom would Gus choose to walk steadily in his footsteps?

He glanced up and saw they were nearing the bend through the village of Wylye, and the headlights behind them were suddenly very bright.

The radio crackled. “Hardy One, there’s another Rover coming up like the clappers. The guy’s either drunk or wants to kill himself. On our outside now. Overtaking. Watch him, we’re going to pass you. Get in between.”

“Roger, Hardy. Got him.” The shotgun in front moved slightly, grabbing at the H&K Herb and Bex had noted that afternoon. He turned. “Get down,” he said firmly but calmly. “Right down in the back.”

In the darkness Herb caught a long slice of thigh as Bex groped down between him and Brook.

In the chase car the observer had noted the registration and typed it in as they were passing the car they were minding.

“It’s okay. Belongs to a doctor in Warminster.” He read the details from the screen as they slid between the cars. Then the hell broke loose.

Samira heard them, was aware of the lights before she looked up and was dazzled by the headlights. Shit, she thought, they’ve put an extra car in. Her brain computed the situation. The really heavy muscle would be in the first car, while Kruger would be sitting quietly in the middle car. The third car might be a problem.

She automatically took in the speed of the approaching convoy, pulled the pin on the first grenade and rolled it into the road. Then the second grenade. There was an instant, the fraction of a second, when she realized that her timing was way out. Then the first car came abreast of her and the two grenades exploded. One directly under the first car’s engine, and the second—the throw badly timed—blew out the back of the same car. The middle and last cars both did expert handbrake skid turns, ending up side by side across the road.

Samira stood up, yelled, “I am the Angel of Death” at the top of her lungs, and began to pull the trigger. As she rose from the ground, she felt the spasm of pain in her lower legs where the pieces of grenade cut a swathe through her shins, just below her knees. Then the stat-stat-stat came from the rear car. As she was raised up by the impact of the 9mm bullets from the Heckler & Koch, she yelled again, “I AM the Angel of Death!” She felt the ground as her back thudded onto the grass, then she seemed to drift away. From above she saw men running, forming a tight, protective circle around the last car. In the white light she also saw herself, lying on the ground. Then she was lifted higher and higher into an unbearable brightness.

The chase car stayed for the police and ambulance, though there was little left of the doctor, who had been rushing back from a Salisbury hospital where he had been seeing a patient moved from Warminster hospital that evening. He had a dinner appointment and was late.

The woman lay cut to pieces by the grenades and bullets. She looked young and had once been pretty, before the grimace of death had taken her. There was a wig lying near her head. Most of her chest was gone, and the legs had almost literally been sliced from under her.

There was a lot of chatter on the radios, and the car carrying Bex, Martin Brook and Herbie only stayed for less than five minutes. The chase car minders moved around, automatics and submachine guns ready and swinging from side to side.

Later, Bex said that she became frightened only when she saw the minders, for they had pulled ski masks over their heads and looked like a terrorist team. When Herbie saw them, he knew that he had been wrong in thinking these men were hired on a temporary basis.
He
knew who and what they were.

They dropped Martin Brook off at the main house, while Bex and Herbie were driven straight to the Dower House. Even there, both the driver and shotgun climbed quickly from the car, weapons in hand and ski masks still in place as they shepherded their charges to the door.

When she saw the party, Bitsy started a little weeping and wailing act, but Ginger appeared behind her and roughly pulled her back into the house.

“You okay, chief? And you, guv’nor?” Ginger fussed around them as they went straight towards the dining room.

“Bits!” Herb shouted. “Bitsy Williams, we need booze and food.”

“Shit.” Bex slumped into a chair. “I think I’m beyond food.”

“Try the booze then, Bex.” Herbie was getting back into his stride.

“What the hell happened? I knew I should have been with you.” Ginger sounded genuinely concerned.

“Some babe tried to take us out.”

Bitsy came into the room looking gray around the gills and acting like a Victorian girl about to have an attack of the vapors. “You called, Herbie?”

“Booze, Bits. A vodka tonic for me, and …”

“The same.” Bex nodded.

“You
will
eat, won’t you?” Bitsy seemed to have slipped into her mother-hen mode again.

“Sure we’ll eat, Bits. What you got for us tonight, chopped liver?”

“Christ, Herb!” shakily from Rebecca Olesker.

“I’ve got some nice steaks and new potatoes, followed by a Charlotte Russe. How about that?”

“Nice girl, young Russian Charlotte.” Herb had taken the vodka and put it away in one. “Feels better.”

“What exactly happened?” Ginger asked.

“Will you eat now?” Bitsy’s query overlapped Ginger’s.

“Yes, we’ll eat now, eh, Bex?”

Bex nodded and took another sip of her vodka.

“Before you serve up, freshen this, would you, Bits?” Herbie handed over his empty glass, then launched into a graphic description of the attempt on their lives. He was just reaching his climax when the telephone rang and Tony Worboys, sounding shaken, asked the same questions.

They sat down to eat about thirty minutes later. Bex mainly pushed her food around, but Herb tucked in, making short work of the tender steak. “Come on, Bex. We got more work to do tonight. You’re going to need sustenance. That right, sustenance?”

“Absolutely, Herb.”

After they had eaten and Herb had complimented Bitsy on her cooking—“You’d make someone a good wife, Bits, if that’s not politically incorrect to say”—he called Martin Brook at the main house to tell him they would be over shortly.

“This guy, Ramsi? He settled in okay? Plenty of space between him and Carole?”

“Carole doesn’t even know he’s here.” At one time, Martin Brook had been very smitten with Carole. Since then he had always treated her with care and respect. “Our visitor seems very pleased with his quarters. You need me tonight?”

“Would like to have the tapes running so you can listen before you join any interrogation.”

“It’ll be done.”

At around ten-thirty Herbie and Bex entered the area of the Guest Quarters allocated to Ramsi al-Disi, who appeared to be very relaxed.

Herbie introduced himself and DCI Olesker, asked him if he was comfortable and being treated properly. He was ecstatic, and told them he had not lived in such luxury since the days when he was with his father and mother, long ago now.

“And you seem to speak English very well?” Bex’s remark was half query and half statement.

“Yes, I speak English very good indeed.”

“Lucky for us.” Herbie smiled. Ramsi was a short, somewhat tubby little man with a strangely pink, European complexion. He also spoke a lot with his hands in a kind of flamboyant manner.

“Sit, Ramsi.” Herbie realized, as he said it, that it was like giving an order to a dog, but he let it ride. “We’re going to ask you a lot of questions in the next few days, but I can promise you that if you cooperate with us, we can almost certainly grant you complete immunity from prosecution.”

“But I am bomb maker.” The little man pushed out his chest proudly. “It is because of me that many have died. I was a major force in the
Intiqam
.”

“And what exactly is
Intiqam
?” Bex asked, as though she had never heard the expression before.

“I will cooperate.” Ramsi cocked his head on one side. “I will cooperate and put myself in the hands of Allah. You must deal with me as you see fit.”

“If you give us what we want, we’ll give you immunity, Ramsi. I’ve already told you.”

“What exactly is
Intiqam
?” Bex repeated, seeing the drift in conversation as Ramsi’s first attempt to tread water.

He turned towards Bex and looked her straight in the eyes. “
Intiqam
is Vengeance of the highest order. Members of the Teams of Vengeance were especially chosen from among many. We were sent here to bring terror and revenge on behalf of the Leader.”

“Revenge for what?”

“Naturally, Revenge is the highest order for the humiliation you heaped upon our Leader and our people in the war. Our soldiers, sailors and airmen fought bravely. You know as well as I that they held out until the last man in some cases. They flew great sorties against you. But you—by which I mean all the countries who ranged themselves against us for no good reason—you had superior forces and more men to call upon. We killed you by the thousand and you kept on coming. You British, the Americans and the other countries were not concerned with loss of life. You just sent more men and machines, so you eventually overcame us. The Leader called for Revenge and I was lucky to be chosen. Happy to take part in the Vengeance, which our Leader says will bring about a complete subjugation.”

“You believe all this bullshit?” Herbie asked with a laugh.

“No, of course I don’t believe it. But I am sworn to the Leader. I kept from trouble and was chosen to do the work. A man has to do some work. I am good bomb maker. Besides, our rewards are to be great.”

“How great, and what rewards?” Herbie sighed and leaned back in the armchair upon which he had perched until now.

“When the governments of Britain, America, Italy, France and the other powers who stood against us are overcome, then we will be rich men and women.”

“Rich, as in money?”

“Of course. The Leader and our country are very rich in money.”

“Would you be surprised if I told you that your country is almost bare-arsed poor? Excuse me, Bex.”

Ramsi smiled broadly. “I think this is first real question you are putting to me. We have billions, trillions of dollars. This is true. The leaders of the Vengeance teams brought great wealth with them. I have seen it in London, and I know there is more.”

“Secret bank accounts in Switzerland and that kind of thing?” Bex was making notes.

Ramsi laughed as if he were really enjoying himself. “Oh, ma’am, no. The money is made in our country and then exchanged by the banks all over Europe and America.”

“Made in Iraq?”

“Of course. I know that the authorities are aware of this money, but it is indistinguishable from the real thing. I am telling you this so that you will know I am sincere.”

“Okay, Ramsi. As I said, we have a lot to ask you, but let me take you one small step along the road. What is the name of your leader here in Britain?”

Ramsi nodded, quite happy with the question. “Our leader here is a man called Hisham Silwani. A good fighter and with many weapons.”

Sure, Herbie thought.
Ishmael
. Great. Very strong on weapons. Aloud he asked, “Name some of his weapons.”

“You expect me to say the bomb, the gun, the knife, the strangling cord, but I won’t say those things. They are obvious. To prove beyond doubt that I am willing to tell you all I know, I will give you his greatest weapon. This place you have brought me to. It is called Warminster by you, yes?”

“Yes.” No harm, if he already knew, Herb considered.

“Well, know this, sir. Hisham has control of someone right here at this place. This person is providing him with information, though the person does not realize our cause is being assisted by what is told to Hisham.”

Both Herb and Bex told each other later that they both only just restrained themselves from blaspheming aloud.

“You know a great deal, Ramsi. You know my name?”

“You would be the Mr. Kruger who is on our death list?”

“That’s me, large as life, Ramsi. One of your people tried to do for me tonight.”

“Ah, but you escaped?”

“I wouldn’t be sitting here now if I hadn’t escaped. Ms. Olesker here, she wouldn’t be sitting here on her pretty little—Ah, no. Sorry, Bex.”

“I’m flattered.” She gave him a friendly, knowing look, then turned to Ramsi again. “You know all the names on this death list?”

He nodded. “Yes, but you are our targets so that we can receive a favor from FFIRA—you’re conversant with FFIRA?”

“We’ve heard of them.” Herb looked a shade blank. What he called his dumb ox look. “So, tell us the names on the death list, Ramsi. Just to humor me.”

“Certainly, sir. The list was four names. Yourself, Mr. Kruger; a man called Blount-Wilson; another—an officer of some kind—by name Anthony Worboys; and a fourth, Mr. Augustus Keene.”

“And you’re the bomb maker?”

“That was my role.”

“So you’re the bastard who made the bomb that exploded in Mr. Keene’s car.”

Ramsi looked bemused for a second, then his face cleared. “Oh, no, Mr. Kruger. You see, when we were given the list, we found that Mr. Keene had already been killed. I did not know it was a bomb. But we didn’t have to bother ourselves with him because he was already dead.”

T
HEY HAD CONCLUDED THE
first session with Ramsi almost directly after hearing that Hisham had some kind of penetration into Warminster; that the Iraqis had vast sums of almost undetectable forged hundred-dollar bills; and that, according to the little bomb maker, the British
Intiqam
team had nothing to do with Gus’s death.

They eased out of it gently, of course, bearing in mind the rule that when you have picked one small bone clean, you do not let the subject know he has passed on vital facts.