Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

“Easy, old fruit.” Trevor crossed the room and laid a hand on Khalid’s shoulder. Khalid winced at the slight touch.

“I have to get out of here, Trev,” he panted, his face deathly pale, his lips appearing blue. “I need to get back to the UAE.”

“I don’t think you should be going anywhere,” Millicent offered, moving next to Trevor. Although she didn’t know Khalid, it was hard not to look at him and feel anything less than total sympathy.

“I am going, Lady Gray. Trevor can explain why, but right now I need your help, not your pity,” Khalid said with a dedication that chilled the room.

Trevor was already pulling the black robes over his head. Contrary to his earlier tease to Millicent, beneath them he wore the suit pants and white shirt he’d had on the night before. There was a lipstick smear on the right collar of the Turnbull and Asser shirt. “What do you need her to do?”

“She should have worn the chador. I told you that last night.” Khalid was bothered that they hadn’t listened to him.

“Doesn’t really matter, old boy,” Trevor said flippantly, trying to soothe his friend. “Besides, I’ve always wanted to try cross-dressing.”

Khalid didn’t say anything further as Trevor produced a bundled package of clothing pilfered from Lord Gray’s dressing room. Millicent Gray’s husband was a large man, with a waist size that could accommodate two of Khalid with a little room to spare. After helping Khalid to dress, Trevor slipped the robe over his head, pulling it down so that only his shoes were visible below the black cotton. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Khalid. You’re in no condition to leave this room, let alone fly back to the UAE.”

“I don’t have a choice.” Khalid rode another wave of pain, each crest being just a little easier than the last. It was hard to believe, but his body was becoming accustomed to his injuries.

Millicent stepped forward quickly and grasped the arm of the swaying Khalid. “Trevor, you shouldn’t be helping him. He’s half dead.”

“There are more lives at stake than just his, Millie,” James-Price said with quiet understanding. “I’m sorry to get you involved like this. I’ve no right, but I ask you to please help us. The men who came after him yesterday at the British Museum will most certainly have another go. He’s a target sitting in this room.”

“Why not inform your Embassy?” she asked.

“Because I don’t know whom there I can trust right now. This is the best way,” Khalid replied.

“But he won’t be able to get a flight without reservations.” Millie continued to talk to Trevor as if Khalid wasn’t there.

“Diplomatic passport. He’ll get a flight.” Trevor held up the slim volume he’d taken from Khalid’s hotel room. “That’s where I went earlier this morning. Since the hospital didn’t know who he was last night, I figured he’d left his ID in his hotel.”

Khalid nodded gratefully to his friend, taking the passport. “The only perk better than the diplomatic license plates on the embassy cars I get to use. Lady Gray, I’m sorry, but there’s no other way. And like Trev said, there are a lot of lives at stake.”

“All right, I’ll help. But Trevor, you make bloody sure that there are security people waiting for us at Heathrow. And a doctor too.” While she thought the two men were being overdramatic, she would go along with it, if for no other reason than that she was the trophy wife of a millionaire member of Parliament and bored out of her beautiful skull.

“It’s best that she stays, Trevor,” Khalid said. “We could be followed once we leave the hospital.”

“Nonsense,” Trevor said, pulling the veil over Khalid’s head. “No one is going to pay you the slightest heed.”

He fished out the keys to the old Bentley he’d been driving since his divorce and placed them in Millicent’s waiting hand, caressing the tight junctures between her fingers. She smiled at the intimate gesture and he winked wolfishly. “Can you manage to get him out of the hospital? I could give you a hand down to the car.”

“No!” Khalid said. His voice was muffled by the veil but still carried the weight and fear of his words. “Two people came into this place together and two are going to leave. We don’t want to attract attention. I’ll make it.”

At the door, Khalid paused and turned back to thank his friend. The pale sunlight streaming through the window gilded James-Price’s hair. “I’ll see you soon, you bloody Pom bastard.”

“Take care of yourself, you stinking wog.”

Falling into the role of a bereaved family member leaving a dying relative and trying to remain as erect as possible, Khalid allowed Millicent Gray to lead him from the room. Neither of them paid the slightest attention to the trench-coated man headed down the hall toward them. Millicent had no idea how to spot any sort of trouble, and Khalid was struggling not to faint. Had they turned, they would have seen the man reach into his coat as he approached the door to Khalid’s room. They might have saved Trevor.

When the heavy door of the room swung inward against the articulating arm of the automatic closer, Trevor was just entering the bathroom. He half expected that Millie had returned for a good-bye kiss.

He was actually smiling as he turned. A fusillade of hastily fired nine-millimeter rounds tore into the bathroom door, one catching him squarely between the eyes. The wound didn’t bleed, for his heart had already stopped pumping, and only a few drops scattered as he pitched to the hard linoleum floor.

The assassin glanced back into the deserted corridor. Seeing that no one had heard the shots, he entered the room, letting the door silently close behind. Before examining the body, he lowered the cocked hammer of the automatic and slid the weapon back into his coat. Only then did he realize he’d made a critical mistake. The man on the floor was not Khalid Al-Khuddari.

The phone in his pocket shrilled.

He reached for it and activated the unit but did not speak. Suddenly his voice had gone, abandoning him as he realized the seriousness of his failure.

“Well?” It was Hasaan bin-Rufti. The Kurd hoped it would have been Tariq, for the man seemed a little easier to deal with than his corpulent superior.

Without thinking, the gunman told the truth. “He has escaped, effendi .”

“What?” Rufti roared into the phone.

“He had already left the hospital by the time I arrived. I don’t know when or where he’s gone.” Lying was the only way the man could think to save his life. Rufti would kill him for his failure.

“Find him, or by the blood of the Prophet, I’ll flay you alive and use your skin as a car-seat cover.” Hasaan Rufti slammed down the phone and turned to the steward hovering over him, the man’s jacket so snowy white it almost gave off a light of its own. “Tell the pilot that if he doesn’t take off within the next sixty seconds…” Rufti paused, and when he couldn’t come up with a really good threat, he repeated himself. “Tell him I’ll flay him alive and use his skin as a car-seat cover.”

“Yes, Minister,” the steward said, bowing like the toady he was. He slunk forward through the cabin of the Hawker Siddeley private jet, ducking his head to pass into the cockpit.

While the appointments of the aircraft were the finest that the Hawker company offered, Brazilian woods and Turkish leather, there was no escaping the fact that the plane was small, headroom sacrificed for the sake of economy. Most people would have been thrilled to have such a plane at their disposal, but Rufti was chafed by the Hawker. Khuddari rated a Boeing for his personal use, if the fool ever chose to use it, a wide body with almost enough room to install a trampoline if the mood struck him.