The Death Trade (3 page)

“And so you shall,” Ferguson told her. “And it's of vital importance that you do, because if he really has made progress beyond the theoretical in his nuclear experiments, it's essential that we get our hands on his results before Iran does.”

“But what if he doesn't agree? What if he's faced with something so terrible that he'd rather nobody had it at all?” Sara asked.

Ferguson said calmly, “It'd be too late. He could destroy his case notes, all records of his findings, and it would do him little good. A scientist discovers what already exists. Eventually, someone else would follow in Husseini's footsteps.”

She took a deep breath and said sadly, “I suppose you're right.”

“I'm afraid I usually am, Captain.” Ferguson got up. “I'm sure you'd agree, Nathan.”

The rabbi, looking rather troubled, nodded. “I'm afraid so.”

Ferguson said, “Thank you for your input. We'll get on. We've much to do, and in limited time.” He kissed Sara on the cheek. “I can see this is getting to you, but be of good heart. There's a solution to everything, I've always found. We'll see you at Holland Park early this evening, Dillon and the Salters and we three. Maggie will produce one of her special meals and we'll discuss the future. It's been very useful, Rabbi, my sincere thanks.”

Roper was already moving out in his wheelchair, and Ferguson followed him.

—

I
t was just after six that evening when the taxi dropped Sara at Holland Park. It always reminded her of a nursing home or something similar, although the razor wire, high walls, and numerous cameras indicated a different agenda. She didn't have to do anything except wait to be identified. The Judas Gate in the massive front entrance clicked open, she stepped inside, and it closed behind her. She crossed the courtyard to the front door, went in and made her way to the computer room, where she found Roper in his wheelchair in front of the screens. She removed her military trench coat.

“Where is everybody?” she asked.

“The boss is in his office, the Salters haven't turned up yet, and the music wafting through from the dining room is Dillon on the piano. It pains me to say it, but the wretch is really quite good.”

“No, he isn't, he's damn good,” Sara called as she went out along the corridor and turned into the dining room.

Dillon, at the piano, was just finishing “Blue Moon” while Maggie Hall was laying a table for dinner.

“Don't exaggerate, Sara,” he said. “I play acceptable barroom piano, that's all.”

“Don't you be stupid,” Maggie Hall said. “You're better than that and you know it, so why pretend?”

She moved off to the kitchen. Dillon said, “There you go, she should be my agent. What would you like?”

“What about ‘A Foggy Day in London Town'?”

“Why not?”

He started to play, and she listened and said, “Could you up the tempo?”

He did, attacking it hard, and she started to sing, surfing the rhythm, her voice lifting, and Maggie Hall emerged from the kitchen and stood there, staring. The music soared and came to an end. Maggie clapped vigorously and called, “Right on.”

Dillon was astonished. “Where the hell did that come from?”

“I learned to play guitar at twelve and I loved singing, but just for me. I don't advertise.”

“Well, you should. Any cocktail bar I've ever been in would snap you up.”

Clapping broke out from behind, Sara turned and found the Salters standing in the doorway.

“Marvelous,” Harry Salter said. “I'd give you a booking any time for my restaurant.”

“Harry's Place, Sara,” Billy told her. “You haven't been yet, very classy. We'll take you.”

“Some other time.” Ferguson appeared behind them. “But not now. There's work to be done. Back to Roper, if you please.”

—

F
or half an hour, Roper ran a compilation of film featuring Simon Husseini, mostly garnered from news reports. It finished, and Ferguson said, “Well, there you are. That's our man.”

“Looks a decent enough chap to me,” Billy observed.

Harry said, “Do I take it we can be certain he's not out to blow up the bleeding world, then?”

“He's a decent man who's in a very bad situation and doesn't know what to do about it.”

“The way I see it, there's not much he can do,” Dillon said.

“I've got film of an Élysée Palace ceremony coming up,” Roper said. “Just for information.”

They saw a place crowded with people, many of them in uniform or ecclesiastical wear, palace guards in full uniform, a glittering scene, sparkling chandeliers. People who were to be decorated sat near the front and went forward in turn for the President of France to pin on the insignia of the Legion of Honor or whatever. Finally, Roper switched off.

“So there you are,” Ferguson said. “What do you think?”

“An awful lot of people,” Sara said. “Difficult to make contact with our man.”

“Or perhaps the crowded situation would make it easier. There's a buffet, champagne. It would depend on how long you wanted to be in contact with him. Perhaps a few snatched moments is all you could expect.”

That was Ferguson, and Dillon said, “There might be an opportunity at the hotel. We'll just have to see.”

“Perhaps Duval could be useful there,” Ferguson said.

“He's a sly fox, that one.” Dillon grinned. “So he may have a useful idea or two. How are we going to Paris?”

“The Gulfstream from Farley Field. My asset is at the Ritz, an aging waiter named Henri Laval. He knows the hotel backward. Can be very useful. You'll be given his mobile number.”

“Well, if his help would lead us to a meeting of some sort with Husseini, it will be more than welcome.”

“Excellent,” Ferguson said. “Now we'll eat and I'll tell you what else I'm planning for the future.”

—

M
aggie Hall had excelled herself. Onion soup, poached salmon, Jersey new potatoes and salad, a choice of cheese or strawberries, backed up by Laurent-Perrier champagne.

“You've been too nice to us entirely,” Dillon said as coffee and tea arrived. “So what's this about future plans?” he asked Ferguson.

“
AQ.
Two letters only, but we all know they stand for ‘al-Qaeda.' Osama may be dead, but in a worldwide sense he lives on and is as potent as ever. His jihadist message appeals to people in every country and from all levels of society. He made them think they were fighting for a just cause, doing something worthwhile with their lives. The purity of terror excuses all guilt from the message. That also has great appeal. Take the Army of God organization. It's a perfectly legitimate charity, dedicated to the welfare of Muslims in many countries. Right here in London, it operates from an old Methodist chapel in Pound Street, and its welfare work is first class.”

“And we know from past experience,” Dillon said, “that certain areas of its activity are directly linked to al-Qaeda.”

“Which would shock many wealthy Muslim businessmen, people so rich that we can count them as being beyond reproach, who provide considerable financial support, based on the fact that the charity promotes interfaith involvement with Christians and Jews and sources at a government level.”

“Which would seem to me to muddy the waters nicely,” Sara put in.

“Where is this leading?” Dillon asked.

“Many in al-Qaeda's hierarchy have been assassinated in Pakistan and elsewhere by Reaper drones and similar weapons. But sometimes a different approach is needed. Because of his knowledge of shipping in the Mediterranean, Daniel Holley has been able to give me names of tramp steamers and rust buckets delivering arms of every description on behalf of al-Qaeda.”

Sara nodded. “So you want us to—”

“Board some of them at night, drop a few blocks of Semtex into the hold, and sink them. We've done it before. Many times over the years, haven't we, Billy?”

“You're right,” Billy said. “A few times, Dillon and me. Twice in Beirut.” He turned to Dillon. “Get the diving suits out again.”

Harry said, “I'm not sure that's wise, my son; you've been damaged enough in your time. Professor Bellamy would like you to take it easy.”

“That was over a year ago.” Billy nodded to Dillon. “You up for it?”

“I wouldn't be asking you to pair up with Dillon,” Ferguson said. “I was considering you and Holley when he's available.” Before Billy or anyone was able to say anything, he carried on. “I was thinking of Sara and Dillon teaming up for something else. In fact, having seen you in action together earlier at the piano, I think it's an excellent idea. But we'll get to that later. We'll have some more champagne now.”

Maggie had been standing at the back, already opening a fresh bottle. She poured it into glasses and went around with the tray.

Ferguson said, “I must say you all seem rather subdued. Why don't you give us a suitable toast, Sean?”

“You're too kind,” Dillon told him. “Considering what you've just discussed, I'd say something appropriate would be: We, who could be about to die, salute you.”

F
erguson left first, then the Salters. Roper retired to the computer room and Dillon decided to use the sauna. Sara chose the quiet of the library and sat checking everything she could find on Husseini. She spent an hour in this way, then returned to the computer room, where she found Roper at the screens.

“Still here?” he said.

She explained what she'd been doing, and he nodded approvingly. “Nothing like being prepared.”

“I thought I knew him, but there was a lot I didn't,” she said. “What are you up to?”

“Same thing, in a way. Having a look at his Iranian masters.”

“That's interesting,” she said. “Can I see?”

“Of course you can. I'll put them up in sequence. There's the President. There's the Council of Guardians, which enjoys a lot of influence.”

“Who's that man?”

“Well, according to their official release in Paris, they seem to be expecting a few people from London to be joining them. This chap, Emza Khan, is one of the businessmen who support the Army of God charity.”

“Can he be trusted?” Sara asked. “Or is there an al-Qaeda connection?”

“I'm famous for not trusting anyone,” Roper said, “but I tend to think Khan's on our side. He's a billionaire, the chairman of Cyrus Holdings, which is responsible for Iran's oil and gas interests and many other things. The headquarters is in London. He'll be seventy next birthday.”

Khan stared grimly at Sara from the screen, the once powerful body straining to get out of the excellent suit. Sara said, “He looks like he likes to have his own way and normally gets it. Who's the bearded thing in the black suit behind him? That's a hell of a scar bisecting the left side of his face. “

“His name is Rasoul Rahim, Khan's bodyguard and thug. Reputedly, he kills people for him whenever necessary.”

“Of course he does.” Dillon appeared, wearing a toweling robe. “He'll drop in on the Ritz like a lead weight. On the other hand, one sliding stamp of the foot downward will dislodge the kneecap of even a seventeen-stone rugby player. Remember that, girl dear, if you're trying your aikido on him.”

“And you say Khan's on
our
side?” said Sara.

“You can't always choose your friends,” said Roper.

Another image appeared on-screen, a laughing young man, black tie loose, quite obviously drunk, his arms around a couple of women, the three of them looking the worse for wear.

“And who's this, the pride of the nightclub circuit?” Dillon demanded. “What about his Muslim principles?”

“Gone out of the window where the drink is concerned,” Roper told him. “That's the son, Yousef. Educated at Harrow, where he twice almost got the heave-ho. Several court appearances for drink driving, brawling. Twice accused of rape by different girls who changed their minds and wouldn't continue to give evidence. He's twenty-six.”

“Obviously bought off by Daddy,” Sara said. “The girls.”

“What would you expect?” Roper added. “Can you stand another?”

“Do we have to?” Dillon inquired.

“Well, you have to travel hopefully,” Roper said. “And if you do, sometimes you get a surprise.”

A picture appeared of a man in some sort of army summer uniform, medals making a brave show. He was of medium height, with a bronze aquiline face, black hair, a peaked cap in his hands. His gaze was direct and somber, but to Sara's disquiet she found him rather attractive.

“Lieutenant Colonel Declan Rashid,” Roper said. “Military attaché at the Iranian Embassy at 16 Princes Gate right here in good old London town. You know what Muslims are like about family being so important. He's some sort of third or fourth cousin of the Khans.”

“Well, that's hardly his fault,” Sara said.

Dillon cut in, “But where in the hell did he get the Irish name?”

“His mother was a strong-willed young Irish doctor from Cork named Rosaleen Collins, and his father couldn't deny her anything, which explains where the name Declan comes in. The Rashids weren't Iranians, they were from Oman originally, Bedouins.”

“Which means they're warriors,” Dillon said.

“Certainly as far as his father, Hassan Rashid, was concerned. He rose to brigadier general in the Iranian Army. Remember, they were at war with Iraq for eight years.”

“Why do I sense the worst coming?” Dillon asked.

“Because it did. He was killed in nineteen eighty-six, and unfortunately his wife was with him. She'd visited behind the lines, they went for a spin in a spotter plane and were shot down.”

Sara said, “So how old was Declan?”

“Sixteen, and an only child. His mother hadn't been able to have any more children.”

“It must have been hell for him.”

“It was,” Roper said. “I've got the photo to prove it.”

The boy in the photo wore desert combat fatigues and the red beret of a paratrooper, a pistol strapped to his right knee, an AK-47 assault rifle crooked in his left arm. The eyes were haunting in the young face, the cheeks hollow.

Sara took a deep breath. “What happened?”

“He was at school here in London at St. Paul's, flew back to Iran right away, but missed the funeral. After that, he simply joined the queue of peasant boys at the recruiting office, of which there were many, joined up, and kept his head down to avoid the search for him. There was another two years of war, during which he jumped five times into ‘action' without having been trained for it. It was during the second year that Emza Khan traced him and he was promoted to the officers corps. He was an acting captain at the end of the war and all of eighteen. He's forty-two now and unmarried.”

There was silence after that for the moment. Dillon said, “Well, all I can say is it must be the Irish in him. Having said that, I'd buy him a drink anytime.”

Sara said, “A remarkable story, and you've gone to a lot of trouble telling us. Is there a reason?”

“The handout from the London Embassy's press office covers the award of the Legion of Honor to Simon Husseini and makes the point that Emza Khan, Chairman of Cyrus, will be visiting to support him.”

“Is Khan's son going?”

“I shouldn't imagine so, with his track record. They wouldn't want any more scandal. However, the military attaché from Princes Gate, Lieutenant Colonel Declan Rashid, respected war hero, will be in attendance, all staying at the Ritz.”

“It will be just like old home week,” Dillon put in.

“But isn't this going to be rather obvious?” Sara asked. “Our presence there?”

Dillon said, “There isn't an embassy in London that doesn't know about Charles Ferguson's motley crew. They know who we are and we know who they are. The real work in our line of business is finding out what everyone else is up to, and that includes our friends. Take Claude Duval. A strong right arm to us, but France will always come first.”

“I suppose you're right, although it does get complicated on occasion,” Sara said.

“It's a damn sight better than Afghanistan, and you've got the permanent limp to prove it. So content yourself. If you don't mind waiting till I change, you can drop me off at my place on the way home. We'll share a cab. You've had too much to drink.”

She laughed out loud. “You've got the cheek of the devil, Sean Dillon.”

“It's been said before.” He grinned. “But think of the pleasure it gives you helping out a poor ould fella like me.” He was gone before she could reply.

—

E
mza Khan had purchased the apartment on top of a tower in Park Lane because it was within walking distance of the Dorchester and it pleased him to have all of the amenities of one of the world's great hotels so close to hand. As time went on, he'd fallen in love with the rural sweep of Hyde Park. Finally, the city by night captivated him, the lights stretching into the darkness as if stars had come down from heaven to please him.

Just now he was sitting by the open sliding windows to the terrace, drinking a Virgin Mary, not that he was averse to adding vodka to it if he wished. As chairman of Cyrus Holdings and incredibly wealthy, he was only lacking in life where family was concerned. Two sons killed in the war with Iraq, a third, Yousef, a libertine and drunk who disgraced himself with whores and refused to take anything seriously. Which left Khan with only Declan Rashid, a remote cousin of the family clan, but a man who would make any father proud, except for one thing—careful discussion with the colonel had indicated that he had not been moved by the words of Osama bin Laden, had not warmed to him at all.

This was a pity and a complete reversal of what had happened to Emza Khan, whose conversion had been quite genuine after hearing Osama speak for the first time. He had immediately contacted the right people, made it clear that he believed in the great man completely, and was soon serving him as required. After Osama's murder, which was how Khan saw it, he had placed himself at the disposal of those carrying on the holy work of their deceased leader via the Army of God. Following instructions, Khan had declared his opposition to al-Qaeda in newspaper and television interviews, and so now that was the public perception of him, and by everyone around him, including Declan Rashid. It would have been absurd, after all, to have believed otherwise, and al-Qaeda was hardly popular with the Iranian government.

He was involved right now with extremely important work concerning the delivery of arms to various places in the Mediterranean. He had thought of involving Yousef in it, but hesitated, concerned at the consequences if failure occurred. That al-Qaeda could be unforgiving in such circumstances was a known fact.

Rasoul Rahim came in from the kitchen, a green barman's apron over his black suit, his beard perfectly trimmed, the scar vivid on the left cheek.

“You still look like an undertaker in spite of that ridiculous apron,” Khan told him.

Rasoul didn't even smile. “How may I serve you?”

“As Yousef is taking his time about getting here, I can only fear the worst. We'll give him another half hour, then you must go and search his usual haunts in Shepherd Market. In the meantime, mix me a Bloody Mary, and don't forget the colonel intends to drop by on his way home from the embassy with the schedule for the Paris trip.”

Rasoul nodded and returned to the kitchen.

—

D
illon and Sara, sharing a cab on their way to their respective homes, were driving along Curzon Street when Dillon told the driver to turn into Shepherd Market and drop them at the Blue Angel.

“It's a piano bar,” he informed Sara. “One of the best in London, with one of the greatest players in the business.”

“You rogue, Sean.” She shook her head. “You intended this all the time.”

“Me darling Sara, do I look that sort of a guy?”

“Absolutely,” she told him.

—

A
t the same moment, Declan Rashid was turning into the underground garage at Emza Khan's building. As he got out, George, the night porter, joined him.

“I think you should know that young Yousef's on the loose, Colonel.”

Declan said, “Is he bad?”

“Drunk as a lord, sir. I refused to give him his car keys and he tried to punch me. Then he said he didn't need the car because he'd find what he wanted in Shepherd Market. He said he'd get me sacked.”

“Good work, George, and hang on to those keys. Don't worry about your job, I'll see to it.”

He was back in the car in seconds and reversing. It was only a matter of a few hundred yards through empty streets and he turned into Shepherd Market, parked, and saw Yousef at once in the middle of a cobbled alley approaching the Blue Angel, swaying drunkenly. He called his name as Yousef got the door open, and ran to join him, arriving just after him. As he entered, Declan was immediately aware of a woman singing.

—

E
arlier, Dillon and Sara had been greeted by the sound of a great driving piano backed by a trio. Most people had faded away at the lateness of the hour, just a couple of dozen aficionados left. Dillon was welcomed at once by the gray-haired black piano player, who called to them.

“Hey, Dillon, my man, get up here. Who have you got there, old buddy?”

“My very special date. A captain in the British Army.”

The pianist leaned over, still playing, and kissed her on the cheek.

“That can't be right. This rascal is IRA. Those guys never retire. Once in, never out, ain't that so, Dillon?”

Dillon said to Sara, “Jacko St. Clair, off a boat from New Orleans.”

“That's true, honey, only it was about thirty years ago. Are you for real? Is it true what he says?”

“I'm afraid so,” she told him.

Dillon cut in, “She's got a great voice, Jacko.”

“You mean she sings with you? Some of that cocktail bar stuff?”

“Tell the barman that, for this time only, we'll do it for free.”

Jacko got up. “Be my guest.”

Dillon sat down, nodded at the trio, and smiled at Sara. “Show them what you've got, I'll do the intro strong, just so you get used to it.” He turned to the trio. “You get that, guys? Then we'll do it again with her joining in. Just remember, Sara, the hero of Abusan can do anything.”

His hands moved into the driving rhythm of Cole Porter's “Night and Day,” and as Sara swept in powerfully, people in the audience started to clap. The outside door swung open with a crash. Yousef Khan stumbled, fell on his knees, and then turned and grabbed at Declan Rashid, pulling himself up.

“What's going on, and why is that silly bitch making such a row?”

Declan said, “Remember your manners. We're leaving now.”

Yousef slapped him in the face, snarling, “You stupid Bedu peasant, why don't you stumble out of here and find some goats to milk?”