Jack Higgins: The Killing Ground

“Don’t mention it. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

“Not me, I’ve got the morning off.”

“Lucky you.”

He went out into a windswept rainy road. There was no one at the late night bus stop. He waited. In a few minutes, Molly drove out of the main gate at the wheel of a Land Rover. She pulled up and opened the passenger door.

“Get in. It’s the least I can do.”

“Why, thank you,” and he accepted it with every appearance of gratitude.

“I’ve seen you coming out of that corner shop in Delamere Road,” Molly said.

“My uncle and aunt own it.”

“Where are you from?”

“Right here in good old London. I’m a Cockney Muslim.”

“I’m sorry.” She laughed uncertainly.

“Nothing to be sorry about. I like being what I am.”

She felt in deep water for some reason, “Your parents…”

“Are dead,”Abu said. “They were originally from Iraq. Two years ago, they returned for family reasons and were killed in a bombing.”

She felt the most intense shock. “Oh, Abu, that’s terrible.”

“So far to go, and so little time to do it.” His face remained calm. “But as we say: Inshallah, as God wills.”

“I suppose so.” She pulled up outside the shop. “I’ll see you soon.”

She was so nice and he liked her very much. It was such a pity she was what she was, but Allah had placed this duty on him, and he got out.

“Sleep well, Doctor. Allah protect you.” He walked to the side door of the shop and she drove away, more tired than she had ever been and the electronic gates swung open and she was home.

IN THE SHOP, Abu and his uncle embraced. “A foul night and you are wet. Put this on.” The old man handed him a robe. “I’ll put some tea on. Your aunt has been called to Birmingham. Her niece has gone into labor.” He busied himself with the kettle. “Now tell me what has happened.”

Abu held the offered cup of tea between his hands. “Our quarry, Dr. Molly’s husband, the Bedouin Rashid, arrived off the plane from Hazar and was apprehended. We had two sweepers working close enough to the action. He was seen walking away pursued by two individuals, who turned out to be some kind of government officials. This was confirmed by one of our brothers working on a passport desk nearby. He said they were called Dillon and Salter. Another of our people saw them get into an Aston car with Rashid and drive away.”

“What then?”

“Nothing, except that our man got the license number.”

“How do you know all this?”

“My control called me at the hospital to see what the situation was with the wife. Obviously, the police will contact her.” He shook his head. “I like Dr. Molly. She’s a good woman. Why does she have to be one of them?”

Instead of offering an explanation, his uncle said, “Do you weaken in your resolve?”

“Not at all, not before Allah.” Abu shrugged. “I’m going to bed. She has the morning free, so it will be difficult to check the house then. We’ll see.”

His uncle embraced him. “You are a very good boy. Sleep well.”

THE UNCLE FOUND that with age, he slept lightly and he rested on the couch by the fire. He dozed, contemplating the current situation and how lucky he was with the strengthening faith of age, to have such power from Allah. The phone rang.

“Ah, so you are still awake, Ali my brother.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Abu has done well to involve himself with the Rashid woman. Tell him to take the day off from the hospital tomorrow and observe her. One of my agents at Heathrow managed to follow Caspar Rashid to a place in Holland Park. There was a lot of security there.”

The man speaking was Professor Dreq Khan, whose field was Comparative Religion. He was a highly regarded academic in many countries, but especially in London, where he was on many government and interfaith committees. His great secret was his fateful meeting with Osama bin Laden in Afghanistan years before, and the changes in his thinking that had led him to found the Army of God.

“We’ll find out what we can, but if I’m right, I think it would be a waste of time trying to get in. My computer assistants at the university have come up with an owner for the car, who turns out to have been a rather famous criminal in his day, named Harry Salter. He is incredibly rich, but an informant tells me he still gets up to his old tricks. You know what he tells people? Smuggling cigarettes pays the same as heroin, but only gets you six months if caught.”

“ London is truly an amazing place.”

“He has a nephew named Billy Salter, but the computer listing shows nothing for him. I’ll put the word out, though. Perhaps the authorities have wiped his records. In any event, do what you can, and God be with you.”

Ali Hassim sighed, folded his hands and lay back.

AN HOUR OR SO EARLIER, Billy had driven up to the Dark Man. He knew the front door would be locked, so he went through the side door and passed through to the lounge bar, and found Harry sitting by the fire being served coffee by Ruby. They both looked up and she managed to smile, for she had realized Billy might prove to be her greatest obstacle, but Ruby was Ruby and undeniably pretty.

“You were stupid to put up with it, Ruby. He was always a toad and about as appetizing as a corpse. Now, I’m about to break some bad news to my good old uncle Harry. You might as well hear it, too, because since you’ve become a member of the team and live here, you’d wriggle it out of any man wearing well-cut trousers anyway.”

“Do I take that as a compliment?” Ruby asked.

“Absolutely. Now shut up.” He turned to Harry. “We’re going to Baghdad again.”

“Wonderful,” Harry said. “The troops are coming home, but my nephew and some wild Irishman have to do the exact opposite.”

“It’s worthwhile.” He went through the details. “The girl is just a kid, thirteen, for Christ’s sake, so if Roper has worked a way we might pull it off, then I’m for it. Frankly, the more I think of that kid and what her future is likely to be, the more I’m inclined to go for it.” He got up. “I’m going to bed now, before I fall down.”

He went out, there was silence, and Harry said, “Very stubborn, my nephew. What would you say, Ruby?”

“I’d say he needs a good night’s sleep.” She carried the coffee things to the bar. “But I’d also like to say that I think he’s marvelous, and on that, I’m going to bed, too.”

And she walked out.

HAMPSTEAD AT SIX O’CLOCK in the morning, Greta Novikova was moving through rain-soaked streets that were relatively empty. A Mini Cooper, dark blue, a couple of years old, was what she preferred, the engine lethal. The house was easy enough to find, with its large, old-fashioned Edwardian railings. She called Roper.

“I’m here.”

“I’ll give her a nudge,” and after a few moments she heard over a voice box, “Gate opening.”

It revealed a fine driveway lined by poplars, a gracious Edwardian house standing at the far end, with terraces and French windows.

Greta had left her phone on. “Fantastic. That’s worth four or five million, easily.”

“Clever lady, four and a half. But when his great-grandfather bought the place it went for one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. Gasp away, that’s inflation on the housing market for you.”

Molly Rashid opened the front door at the top of the terrace steps, her hand outstretched. “Major Novikova. Welcome.”

“It’s so beautiful.”

“The house? Oh, we’re very happy here. My husband worships the place and so does my daughter.”