Jack Higgins: The Killing Ground

As they approached, the passport officer had already opened the passport and was examining it. “Mr. Caspar Rashid? Address?”

“ Gulf Road, Hampstead,” Rashid told him.

“Country of birth?”

“ England.”

“Would you like to have a look, sir?” The passport man passed it across and Rashid waited impassively while Dillon stepped back and examined the pages. Finally, Dillon said, “Fine,” and handed the passport to Rashid, who gave him a wonderful smile and walked away.

“He has, you would agree, a great smile,” Dillon said.

“Yes, I suppose so, but then he’s a good-looking guy.”

“But that isn’t why he’s smiling. He’s smiling because he thinks he’s got away with it, and I’m smiling because I’ve caught him. He’s hiding something, Billy. I don’t know what, but he’s hiding something. Let’s go.”

RASHID WAS TIRED from the flight, and obviously beyond caution. His vehicle was a red hire car on the ground floor of the car park opposite the exit. Rashid unlocked the door, including the luggage compartment. They were close enough to have a look when Rashid heaved out the spare tire and started to lift up the carpet.

“Get him, Billy,” Dillon said, and they moved fast and Rashid turned to face them. Dillon produced his Walther. “Hands behind your neck. See what you can find, Billy.”

Billy struck gold straightaway, lifting out a cloth in which were wrapped a few tools-and a pistol. He held it up.

“Thirty-eight Smith amp; Wesson automatic. Loaded.”

“Cuff him.” Billy did as he was told. “Do we take him in?” he asked.

“No. He interests me.”

“Why?”

“You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know he was up to no good. His passport indicates that he arrived in Cairo last week by plane from London. Took a train to Mombasa, then a ferry from Mombasa to Hazar. He didn’t even stay a full day before flying back to London. Why did he do all that? Why not fly from London to Hazar and back?”

“I see what you mean.” Billy nodded. “Probably because he didn’t want to be noticed.”

“And there was a better chance of that by the roundabout route.”

“So why didn’t you want to be noticed, Mr. Rashid?”

“Because,” Rashid said, his face twisting with emotion, “I couldn’t. They might have killed me. They might have killed her. I had no choice.”

“Wait a minute,” said Billy. “Who are we talking about here?”

“Al-Qaeda. And the Army of God.”

A chill ran through them at the mention of the two terrorist organizations.

“What did they want with you?” asked Dillon.

“They called me. The man spoke excellent English and perfect Arabic. He told me I was under surveillance and could be killed at any time. He said I had to think of him as the Broker. He gave me no connecting number, but said they wanted to talk to me in person. That’s why I went to Hazar, that’s why I took such a roundabout route, they told me no one must know. The gun was given to me in London. It appeared in my desk drawer, but I didn’t know what to do with it, and I just wrapped it up in the cloth and stuck it in the car. I’m not a terrorist, you must believe me.”

“But why did they call you?”

Rashid’s face contorted again. “To talk about my daughter. My beautiful, thirteen-year-old daughter, Sara. They were… they were brought in by my father. He is very wedded to the old ways, and when he told us he intended to marry Sara to a cousin, a person we had never even heard of-a thirteen-year-old girl!-we refused, my wife and I. She’s English, too, a doctor. We refused-and then he just took her. Took her away. And now Sara is in Iraq.”

“Bloody hell,” Billy said.

“Please-I don’t know who you are, but you must be with the government in some way. Can you help me? I’m not a terrorist, but I’ve learned a lot about the Army of God. I can tell you everything I know if you only help me get my daughter back. Please?”

“Take off the handcuffs.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “Leave his car. We’ll use the Aston Martin.”

Billy did as he was told. “Where to?”

“To see Roper.”

AT HOLLAND PARK, THEY WERE ADMITTED BY SERGEANT Doyle, who was on night duty. “Unexpected guest,” Dillon told him. “Get Henderson out of bed. Billy, you stick Rashid in the interview room and wait. I’ll see if Roper is still up.”

Which he was, roaming cyberspace as usual, Cole Porter sounding softly from a player. He was humming, perfectly happy, with Greta in a nearby chair, browsing through the New Statesman .

“Come into the viewing room, both of you.”

They assembled quickly, all of them, watching through the glass as Billy left Rashid alone in total silence.

“This is Caspar Rashid, a doctor of electronics at London University. He’s forty-two, born in London, and his wife, Molly, is a medical doctor. Hope you’re getting this, Roper. I’d like a full-flow analysis as you record details of the interview. Assist by all means.”

“Of course. Let’s keep it friendly,” Roper said and brought the lights up on both sides of the glass so Rashid could see them as well. “Dr. Rashid, we’re a mixture of military and intelligence personnel. My name is Roper, the lady is Major Greta Novikova of the GRU, and Dillon and Billy Salter you already know.”

“I’m impressed,” Rashid said.

“We belong to a group personally authorized by the Prime Minister. Normal rules do not apply to us, so your complete honesty will be required.” That was Dillon.

Billy laughed. “The only rules we have are not to have any. It saves time.”

“I understand,” said Rashid.

Greta suddenly said in Arabic, “What nonsense is this? The analysis on Major Roper’s flow machine fits no Arab I ever knew. It’s there now.”

Rashid said in good Russian, “Oh, I’m Arab enough, although I prefer Bedouin. I’m a member of the Rashid tribe, based in the Empty Quarter.” He continued in English. “My father was a London heart surgeon from a wealthy family in Baghdad. Money meant nothing to him.”

“And you forswore your faith? Renounced Islam?” Greta asked. “I can’t believe it.”

“My parents moved back to Baghdad nearly thirteen years ago. My marriage to a Christian was a terrible shame for them. Unfortunately for them, I had been left a fortune by my grandmother, so I was independent. She’d even left me the Hampstead house I was born in.”

It was Dillon who said, “And all this without provoking any blow-backs from your fellow Muslims?”

“Many and often. I became what someone once called a Christmas Muslim. Once a year. The kind of electronic engineering I specialize in is linked to the modern railway. I’m well known in my field as an expert. I visit many Muslim areas. I’ve been subject to pressure from extremist colleagues on many occasions at the university and on my travels. I know of things happening in places that would probably disturb you.”

“Such as,” Roper said.

“I will not say. Not until my terms are met. I will only say that eight months ago when I was in Algiers for a week and my wife was on a heavy operating schedule, my daughter was abducted from her prep school at lunchtime, driven to a flying club near London and flown out of the country by agents of the Army of God, backed by al-Qaeda. She was delivered to my father’s villa at Amara, north of Baghdad.”

“Good God, there’s a war on,” Greta said. “Why would he be there instead of getting the hell out of it, a man like him?”

“He’s seen the light, is dedicated to Osama. He allowed Sara to speak to us on the telephone once, but said I would never see her again. Since then, I’ve tried everything and I’ve gotten nowhere.”