Jack Higgins - The Killing Ground

“Good idea,” Khazid told him, and Hussein’s special mobile sounded.

“It’s me,” the Broker said. “Cambridge didn’t go well, I hear.”

“It was unfortunate and led nowhere. We have no idea where Ferguson has the Rashids.”

“Forget the girl,” the Broker said. “Turn to more worthy targets. Have you been in touch with Khan?”

“No.”

“Strange, I get no response from him however I try.”

“I can’t help you.”

“Where are you?”

“A safe house. That is all I can tell you. Good-bye.” Hussein looked at Ali and Khazid. “So much for the Broker. Can we have some coffee?”

IN THE LIBRARY AT ZION, the Russians sat having a drink in the corner, trying to absorb the bad news about Hal Stone. Caspar and Molly were watching a film in the television room, and Sara was playing patience.

Levin said, “What an absolute bastard.”

“Two in the back.” Chomsky shook his head. “A hard thing to cope with, even with a great surgeon.”

“Sara looks lonely,” Greta said. “I’ll go and chat with her.”

She sat down on the other side of the table. “How’s it going?”

“A bore, really. How’s Professor Stone?”

Greta was shocked. “How on earth do you know?”

“It’s my guilty secret. I’ve got really good hearing. I can hear people speaking two rooms away, I can hear the conversation in a cell phone in your hand across the table without putting it to my ear. At my school, the girls called me Gestapo Bitch, because with me, they had no privacy. Anyway, Professor Stone. At least he’s come through surgery.”

“That’s true.”

“And it was Khazid who shot him.” It was a statement and not aquery.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Where do you think Hussein and Khazid are now?”

“We’ve no idea, but we do know for certain that they don’t know that you and your parents are here.”

“Really? The Hammer of God seems to be slipping, and that would be a first. Speaking of telephones, by the way, my mother must have had another mobile. I’ve heard her phoning Dr. Samson at the hospital about the Bedford child several times.” She shook her head. “Very silly.”

Greta said gravely, “I’ll have to let Ferguson know.”

“Of course.” Sara got up. “I’m for bed. I’m not going to tell them. I leave that decision to you.”

She went out and Greta moved back to the others and told them. Levin called Ferguson at once, caught him with Roper at Holland Park and gave him the bad news.

“What a stupid thing to do,” Ferguson said, “But don’t say anything to her. I’ll handle it myself. I’ll fly down in the morning with Dillon and Billy. More bad news. That address in Dorset at Peel Strand, cottage called Folly Way? The Dorset police checked it out. Found the owner, one Darcus Wellington, shot dead.”

“Good God,” Levin said.

“Good God indeed. They’ve traced his car to Bournemouth railway station from where they’ve obviously caught a fast train to London. Our boys have been busy. You see, Igor, it all starts to fit.”

AT HOLLAND PARK, Ferguson sat in the computer room with Billy and Dillon. Roper had his scotch in his hand.

“Well, here’s to Dr. Molly Rashid, great surgeon and humanitarian.”

“The trouble is her work’s the most important thing in her life,” Dillon said. “It’s so important it sweeps everything else aside.”

“What on earth are you implying?” Ferguson demanded of Roper.

“That if I was, for example, al-Qaeda, I’d let the word go out to sympathizers that any news of even the briefest contact with Dr. Molly Rashid and where she was would be welcome.”

“Stop it, Major,” Ferguson said “Bloody nonsense. But we’ll fly down from Farley at nine sharp.”

THE CARAVANETTE WAS PACKED with everything they needed, and Ali, Hussein and Khazid sat in the back of the shop for a little while in silence.

After a while, Hussein said, “Bed, I think. We’ll depart at six A.M. With three hours on the road, we’ll reach there about nine.”

“It should have been a weekend,” Khazid said. “More bird-watchers.”

“The fewer the better,” Hussein told him and stood up. “You will wake us, my friend?” he asked Ali.

Khazid said, “I had a good friend called Hassim. They killed him in Hazar, Dillon and Salter. Could he have been kin to you?”

“I think not. May he rest in peace.”

Hussein went upstairs, Khazid following. Ali had given them a small bedroom each. They stood on the landing, looking at each other, then parted without a word.

Khazid put his flight bag on the bed, took out his silenced Walther, the clips, the Uzi machine pistol with its spare magazine. He doubled them up with Scotch tape so that he could reverse load when under stress. Everything was ready, including the hand grenade he’d slipped in without telling Hussein. He lay on the bed, closed his eyes and went to sleep quickly.

Next door Hussein checked and loaded his Walther, put it back in his flight bag, lay on the bed and said his prayers, as he had done since childhood. He closed his eyes. He was in the hands of Allah now. He had never been more certain of anything in his life.

AT HOLLAND PARK ROPER DOZED IN HIS WHEELCHAIR in front of the screens, as he often did through the night.

He usually awakened after an hour or so, checked the screens, then dozed off and usually opened his eyes again when the pain became reasonably unbearable. His ravaged body was long past doctors’ prescriptions, but of course, the cigarettes and what he called the whiskey sups helped.

Sergeant Doyle, on night duty, had peered through the small window in the door, as he did frequently, observed the Major was awake and went to the canteen and made him the kind of bacon and egg sandwich that Roper enjoyed and took it to him. It was just before five o’clock in the morning and he put it down in front of Roper.

“There you go, Major. I didn’t bother with tea. I knew you’d just let it go cold. Have you had a good night?”

“Sit down and join me for a while, Sergeant.” Roper wolfed the sandwich. “Between midnight and dawn is the strangest time of all to be on your own, because all you’ve got is the past and you know you can’t alter that.”

“Would you want to, Major? I’ve spent twenty years of my life a soldier and I’ve never known a finer one than you or a braver.”

“Hunched over all those bombs in good old Ireland until I made the one careless mistake over a silly little parked car?”

“You were doing your duty, getting the job done. We all accept what soldiering means. It comes with the Queen’s shilling and the first time you put on the uniform.”

“Let’s look at that,” Roper said. “You did Irish time?”

“Six tours.”

“Then you know that members of the Provisional IRA considered themselves soldiers. How do you react to that?”

“Not particularly well,” Doyle said, “as I was frequently shot at during my tours of duty by bastards who didn’t wear a uniform.”

“Neither did the French Resistance in the Second World War. The guy who made the bomb that got me was called Murphy. When he ended up in court, he refused to recognize it. Said he was a soldier fighting a war.”

“What happened to him?”

“Three life sentences in the Maze and died of cancer.”

Doyle thought about it. “Where’s this going, Major?”

“Like I said, between midnight and dawn, the past going through your head. I saw some film on television showing a British-born Muslim swearing allegiance to al-Qaeda. He also said he was a soldier fighting a war.”