Jack Higgins: The Killing Ground

“So that’s where we come in,” Roper said.

“No one in any official capacity can help. The place we call Iraq is an inferno,” Rashid said.

“I’m interested in why your father, a man of such wealth and influence, should stay in the war zone. The major is right.”

“He has dedicated himself to the other side, that is the most I will tell you. What I know about the Army of God during the past months and related dealings with al-Qaeda in many areas of the Middle East and North Africa would interest you, Mr. Dillon, particularly as an Irishman.”

“Now you’ve got the pot boiling. What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Not now. You know what I want.”

“What about your wife?” Greta put in.

“She won’t crack, she’s too strong. A great surgeon. Children are her specialty.”

“And she never knew about your problems with the Islamic business and the Army of God?”

“I thought I was protecting her from it, but the abduction of Sara changed all that. She has her work. That is her mainstay.”

There was a long pause.

Dillon said to Roper, “Can it be done?”

“Well, there is the small matter of the war, but we’ll just have to see what we can do. It’s a good thing Ferguson ’s in Brussels, so we don’t have to tell him. Allow Henderson to take this poor sod away for a shower.” He called to Rashid as he stood up, “Your trip to Hazar. You thought it had a purpose, but those Army of God people were playing with you, was that it?”

“I’ve nothing more to say.”

“Good,” Roper said. “Always nice to be reassured.”

SITTING IN THE COMPUTER ROOM, Roper, who liked to think of himself as the planning genius of all time, had a large scotch and smoked for twenty minutes, but he wasn’t taking it easy.

First, he checked on Molly Rashid’s whereabouts. She was a professor of pediatrics at several hospitals, but that night she had performed heart surgery at Great Ormond Street and gone home at midnight.

He also checked the Rashids in Iraq. The villa on the north road beyond the village of Amara outside Baghdad was, according to American sources, still intact and inhabited by the head of the household, Abdul, aged eighty. There were two or three aging females and five or six young men of the AK-carrying variety and many refugees from the bombing. He was also pleased to see a mention of a thirteen-year-old girl named Sara. So, she was still there. Roper had Rashid brought back to the viewing room.

“What now?” Rashid asked.

“Dr. Rashid, we’re now going to call your wife.”

“I can speak to her?” Rashid had brightened.

“I insist on it. I’m afraid it has to be on speakerphone, and I suggest you tell her everything-which I suspect you haven’t.”

There was the heavily magnified sound of a telephone and a woman’s voice. “Caspar? Is that you?” She was well spoken, a timbre to her voice.

Roper said, “Dr. Molly Rashid?”

“Yes, who is this?” She was unsure, uncertain.

“My name is Major Giles Roper.”

Before he could carry on, she said, “Good heavens, I once met you at a charity lunch for the Great Ormond Street Hospital. You’re that wonderful man with all the medals for dealing with bombs.”

She paused, and Roper carried on for her. “The man in the wheelchair.”

“Yes. What on earth do you want at this time of night?”

“Dr. Rashid, I’m here with your husband.”

Rashid broke in, “It’s true. Back from my trip to Hazar. Listen carefully, Molly, these people may be able to help us get Sara back.”

WHEN HE’D FINISHED TALKING, everything was quiet. The exchange had been full and frank.

Roper said, “What do you think, Dr. Rashid?”

“I’m astonished. I knew more than my husband realized of the great pressures he’s suffered from radical Islamic sources. He, I’m sure, didn’t want me to know about such matters, and I allowed him to think I was ignorant. It’s what wives do. The abduction of Sara finished all that. The lack of any legal means to retrieve her from that dreadful war zone has been very hard.”

“Your husband offers us a bargain. If we can retrieve your daughter, he will give us what he swears is incredibly valuable information touching on al-Qaeda and the Army of God. Do you think I should believe him?”

“Major Roper, he has never lied to me. He is a Bedouin. His honor is everything.”

“It would mean him staying here in custody for the period the operation lasts. And you, Dr. Rashid, perhaps you would be better in protective custody, too. We live in a hard and dangerous world.”

“No, thank you. My operating schedule at the hospital would never permit it.”

“After what your husband has indicated about the people he won’t talk about, I think I could suggest a compromise,” Dillon said. “Major Greta Novikova, a valued colleague, is a highly skilled officer experienced in several wars. She could travel with you as security.”

Molly Rashid seemed to hesitate, and her husband said, “Take the offer, please, Molly.”

“All right. Can I see Caspar?”

“Visit, by all means. Major Novikova will arrange to pick you up.” He hung up. “That’s it for this show. Take him to bed.” Henderson took Rashid out.

AFTERWARD, THEY GATHERED to talk it out, while Greta poured tea and vodka, Russian style. “So this is the way it looks to me,” said Dillon. “Roper, you’ll handle logistics from here. Henderson and Doyle will mind Rashid. I know they’ll tell me they can’t bear the sight of any other military police sergeants in this place, anyway. Greta, you’ll guard Molly Rashid.”

“I liked her,” Greta said, handing out vodka.

“Which leaves you and me, Billy boy, to go to Iraq,” Dillon told him.

“Saving the world again.”

“The job of all great men,” Dillon said. “Now, tell me how you see this gig going,” he asked Roper.

“Well, at some stage I imagine it would involve you or Billy kicking the door of that villa open, gun in hand.”

“Very funny, Roper.”

At that moment, Roper’s Codex Four, his secure mobile phone, rang, and he could see it was Harry Salter.

“Harry! What’s up?” he asked.

“Is everyone there?”

“Not for long.”

“Put me on speakerphone and I’ll tell you what’s up.” He waited a moment. “Remember George Moon and his thug Big Harold?”

“Personally, I’ll never forget them,” Roper said.

“Listen and learn, children.” Harry’s voice floated out of the phone. By the time he had finished, everybody was up to date on the events at the Harvest Moon.

At the end, Billy groaned. “Ruby? Ruby Moon at the Dark Man?”

“She’s safely tucked up in bed right now. It could be a lot worse, Billy. It’ll make a man of you, old boy, isn’t that what they say?”

“Not at the school I went to.”

“And it was one of the finest public schools in London, too. I wanted to make a gent of him, teach him how to behave. Look how it turned out.”

“Yes, you’ve created a gentleman gangster. A highwayman!” Roper laughed. “It certainly suits Billy.”

“All right, let’s have you home, Billy. I smell things happening over there. Make an old man happy and tell me all about it.”

“I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” Billy said and clicked off. He turned to Roper and Dillon. “So, what’s the deal?”

“We’ll keep Ferguson out of it entirely,” said Roper. “I’ll arrange false papers-I think you’ll play war correspondents again. I’ll book a flight from Farley Field. Dillon takes the rap for telling Lacey and Parry it’s an unexpected flight, highly secret and so on. The weapons will be supplied by the quartermaster at Farley. I know a firm called Recovery that’ll help us in Baghdad. It’ll just take a call to make sure. I can let you know tomorrow. Off you go.”