Jack Higgins - The Killing Ground

Khazid, calmer now, was reduced to a certain dishonesty as regards the facts. “He said I was the other one. He knew my name. All I did was try to get the information about where the Rashids have gone from him. He said he had no idea and wouldn’t tell me if he could.”

“And you threatened him?”

“What did you expect me to do, pat him on the head? I told him I’d start with his kneecap; he slammed a door on me and made a run for it.”

“You should have waited for me.”

Hussein knelt on one knee, Hal Stone’s face was turned slightly to one side. He looked terrible, blood seeping through his shirt. Hussein felt in the neck. He shook his head. “He’s dead.”

“Are you certain? Another in the head, perhaps?”

“I studied medicine, fool. How many times have you been glad of that in the past two years?” He stood. “Leave him in place and let’s get out of here.” He pushed Khazid before him. “Hurry, I tell you. Straight to the railway station and back to London.”

“As you say, brother.” Khazid dumped his gown and scarf, put on his trench coat again and followed Hussein as they left the cottage, walked up to the main road and turned to the railway station. They got there with fifteen minutes to spare, just in time to use their return tickets to board.

Once the train was moving, Khazid lay back in the seat, exhausted. “Now what?”

“Give me time to think about it.” Hussein turned to stare out the window, wondering what was happening. His lie to Khazid, the still beating pulse in Hal Stone’s neck that his fingers had felt. Why had he done that? There was no answer, and for Hal Stone, life or death was a matter for Allah.

ALI HASSIM HAD BEEN IMPRESSED when Khan told him Hussein would be in touch with him for any help or aid that Ali could offer. For him, Hussein was the great warrior, the Hammer of God, a liberator for the people from Allah himself. He remembered his shock on first hearing Hussein’s voice on the radio news program from the Middle East, and then in the middle of his Arabic rhetoric, Hussein describing himself in a simple English phrase, Hammer of God. It was a gesture of contempt for his enemies, but that name was now known to millions of Arabs in the Middle East who were not familiar with the English language at all.

So, thinking over his problem about who to first tell about Zion House, he realized that he had found a new and worthier allegiance. But he needed to make everything perfect, so he called in another member of the Brotherhood, a young accountant in a financial firm in the city. A short chat over the phone, the suggestion that he could be of great service to the Brotherhood, produced the man he wanted within an hour, and he also sent for his laptop expert and waited.

SAM BOLTON WAS actually Selim Bolton, his father English, his mother Muslim. He had been raised in an English culture until his first year at London University, studying business and accountancy, and then his father had died of cancer. An immediate consequence of this was that his mother was restored to Islam.

There were those in the Brotherhood who saw great possibilities in individuals with a similar background to his, and he joined their ranks as a sleeper, a handsome young man in a good suit and a university tie, accepted anywhere.

He turned up at the shop and discovered Ali waiting with the laptop expert. Ali said, “Listen carefully while our brother explains,” and the laptop man told him everything regarding Zion House.

Bolton took it all in. Finally, he said, “So what you really want to know is the feel of things generally, the attitudes of the villagers, perhaps to Zion House itself?”

“Exactly. What’s special about it.”

“I think you mean what its purpose is, if any.” He stood up. “I might as well get on with it. I called in at the flat, so I’ve got an overnight bag in the Audi.”

“So you accept this assignment?”

“Of course.”

“You could not do our cause a greater service.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

The laptop man left and Ali nodded to himself. He was doing the right thing. No phone call to Khan. He had set things in motion and could afford to wait to hear from Hussein.

HAL STONE’S CLEANING LADY, a widow named Amy Robinson, usually only worked mornings, but she had her own key and his laundry to deliver, so she called in at the cottage and discovered him in the garden. She had once been a nurse and was still expert enough to establish that he was alive. It was roughly an hour and a half since Hussein and Khazid had left.

She dialed 999 and called for ambulance and police, stipulating gunshot wounds, then she went out with a rug and pillows and tried to make him comfortable. She was kneeling beside him, stroking his hair, when his eyes opened. He looked at her, bewildered.

“Amy?”

“Don’t fuss, love, lie still. There’s an ambulance on its way. Who did this to you?”

“My cousin General Ferguson-you met him when he visited the other year. My address book’s on the desk. His private mobile number. Call him for me.”

“Don’t upset yourself, love, I’m sure he’ll be contacted in time.”

“You don’t understand.” He clutched at her with a bloodstained hand. “Tell him they were here, both of them. They were here in England. The other one shot me.” He closed his eyes and opened them. “I didn’t mention Zion.”

He lost consciousness again and there was a sudden confusion outside as the ambulance arrived.

She went to the front door and admitted the paramedics, who followed her as she showed what waited in the garden. And then, of course, the police came, first one car, then two. She waited, bewildered by it all, and then a man in civilian clothes arrived, who she was told was a Chief Inspector Harper. He had a quick look round the cottage and went outside to the wall. When he returned, a police sergeant was taking a written statement from Amy.

“He did say something strange when he came to for a moment.” She told him what it was.

Harper, coming in through the French windows, heard. “Did you say General Ferguson?”

“Yes, Professor Stone’s cousin. He’s very important in one of the ministries.”

“You can say that again, if it’s who I think it is.”

“The professor said the General’s personal number was in his address book on the desk.”

Harper rushed to find it, and so it was that Ferguson, who had just arrived at the Holland Park safe house to discuss progress, heard the dreadful news.

THE TRAIN WAS just twenty minutes out of King’s Cross when Ali received the call from Hussein. “We’re just arriving from Cambridge. A waste of time. We’ll come round to your shop. We’ll need somewhere to stay.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I have discovered where they have taken the Rashids.”

“But where does such information come from? Khan, I suppose, and presumably he would have got it from the Broker?”

“No, neither Khan nor the Broker know about it. It was the action of the Rashid woman, the doctor, which came to our aid. She was concerned for the welfare of a child she had operated on and telephoned the surgeon who has taken over the case. He wanted to be able to get in touch with her if there was a change in the child’s condition. One of the nurses, a member of my network, was on duty and obtained the address for us.”

“This is truly unbelievable. They are still in England then?”

“West Sussex, a place called Zion House. Not only can I show it to you on a laptop when you get here, I’ve also sent a trusted agent straight down there to scout the place out for you. I’ve impressed on him the urgency of his report.”