Jack Higgins - The Death Trade

The answering voice said, ‘Get lost, I’m in bed.’ There was the murmur of a woman’s voice.

‘Abu here, Farouk, kick the bitch out. I have a hit for AQ, man and woman, big, big money. Fifteen minutes. Long enough to get here from your apartment. If you’re not here, I’ll go alone using the London cab, but I’d rather leave that to you. You may be a stupid sod because your mother dropped you on your head or something, but you’re a genius at handling anything with four wheels. I’ll be back-up on the Montesa.’

The famous Spanish dirt bike had been specially created to aid farmers and shepherds in the high country of the Pyrenees, and could do half a mile an hour over rough ground and considerably faster if need be. It had a stripped-down look and Abu was besotted with his and refused to ride anything else.

He didn’t wait for a reply from Farouk, but pulled on heavy biker’s boots, unlocked the outside door, went into a small study, operated an old-fashioned safe, and took out two Glocks, a couple of boxes of ammunition, and two silencers, sat down at the desk, and loaded the weapons expertly. Then he removed his denim jacket, opened the wardrobe, and produced two lightweight bulletproof vests. He pulled one on quickly, then took down a black leather biker’s jacket and zipped it up.

Moments later, footsteps thundered up the stairs outside, the door crashed open, and Farouk stumbled in, the twin of Abu in appearance and dress except for his shaven head.

‘So there you are,’ Abu said. ‘Daft bastard. In bed with a tart again. Get your vest on and check those two photos and the details. When we get to this Holland Park place, we simply sit and wait for them to come out. Dillon’s car is a ten-year-old souped-up Mini, colour Ferrari red.’

Farouk said, ‘Nobody could be as good as this Dillon. I mean, he’s a small guy and around fifty years of age. As for the woman, it’s got to be a joke?’

‘Ali Saif is from Cairo, like you and me, and if he says Dillon is hell on wheels, he is. As for the woman, even if you hate the Brits, they don’t award the Military Cross lightly. Now, stuff that Glock in your pocket, don’t forget your silencer, and let’s go and do this.’

It started to rain at about 3.30, when Dillon and Sara looked in on Roper. ‘So there you are,’ he said. ‘Was that nice?’

‘Perfect,’ Sara told him. ‘What about the General?’

‘All quiet since he went to bed.’ Roper lit one of his ever-present cigarettes and poured himself a whiskey shot.

‘Excellent idea,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll drop Sara off at her place and see you tomorrow, to finalize the trip.’

‘Two-thirty from Farley Field, the Gulfstream to waft you off to Paris and the joys of the Ritz. What a way to earn a living.’

‘I know, Giles, and so kind of you to remind us how lucky we are,’ Sara told him.

‘Let’s hope your luck lasts when you leave. My security cameras outside have noted a London black cab that pulled up and parked amongst the plane trees halfway down the street about twenty minutes ago. It’s still there. There it is, on screen three.’

‘He could be early for a pick-up in one of those Victorian villas on the other side of the road,’ Sara said, and at that moment Farouk got out of the cab in spite of the pouring rain and relieved himself into the bushes.

Roper went in for a close-up. ‘A large young man in grubby denims and kicking boots, the kind who only shaves his skull, never his face. What’s he doing out there?’

Dillon shrugged. ‘He could be a hard-rock labourer on some building site. But let’s go and see. Is that all right with you, girl?’

‘Absolutely,’ Sara said and led the way out.

They stood in the porch for a moment, the rain bouncing from the flagstone of the courtyard. ‘God help us, but it’s like Belfast on a wet Saturday night. Even an umbrella won’t do you much good. Let’s see what’s in the cloakroom.’

There was an ample choice hanging from the pegs in there, and Sara selected a khaki anorak and jungle hat to go with it that was so soft, it crushed in the hand. Dillon helped himself to a military trench coat and an old black trilby hat.

‘Will I do?’ he asked.

‘If you want to look like a French gangster in one of those old Jean Gabin movies.’

He smiled wickedly. ‘But that’s exactly what I was hoping for.’

He took her arm and they ran through the rain to the Mini.

Abu was in a small car park outside a burger bar on the main road, one of several bikers and truck drivers. He and Farouk had a highly sophisticated device in the left ear that allowed them to communicate with each other, and it was Farouk who used it first.

‘The main gate is moving, so I’m getting out of here now. I’ll pull in on the main road.

‘Excellent, and I’ll be on your tail unless it turns out to be a false alarm. Remember to switch on your For Hire lights so you look nice and normal.’

Roper picked up the cab on his security camera the moment it moved and called Dillon on his radio. ‘You’ve got traffic, Sean, take care.’

On the main road, Farouk had pulled in to the kerb, switching his For Hire lights on, and was immediately approached by a middle-aged couple. He turned them away, saying he was booked, and the Mini flashed by a moment later. He allowed three or four cars to pass before pulling out, and Abu did the same thing so that he hung well back, relying on Farouk to give him a running commentary as to where their quarry was going.

Meanwhile, Dillon, handling the Mini carefully in the pouring rain, had Roper on the line.

‘He’s definitely on your tail, Sean. What do you intend to do about it? Are you sure the cab is the only vehicle you have to contend with?’

‘It’s all your security cameras noted. A few cars, the odd van or truck behind, is all. It’s early morning, remember.’

‘What about Sara?’

‘Just now she’s reloading her Colt .25.’

‘Never mind that. What’s going to happen to her?’

‘Well, I can’t take her home to Mayfair, because gunfire at this hour in the morning would certainly disturb the neighbours.’

‘You could drop her off at the Dorchester?’

‘Get real, Giles,’ Sara told him. ‘I’m going where Sean is, so no arguments.’

‘I’ll come back to you on that,’ Dillon told him. ‘Just now, I want to try some heavy driving. I’ll leave the radio on so you can monitor.’

Sara said, ‘Are we aiming for your place?’

‘Let’s say the general direction, then I’m going to divert down to the Thames. There are some decaying warehouses on Butler’s Wharf. A couple of cobbled streets, a few alleys, and the warehouses waiting to be knocked down. With development money being in short supply these days, everything is locked up. I often do my early-morning run down there, and I know it well.’

‘So what are you suggesting?’

‘Bottom of the hill is the big gate into the yard of an old warehouse. It’s been smashed open by someone so you could drive inside.’

‘And why would you do that?’

‘Because if someone was pursuing you at speed and you swerved into that yard, the only way the cab would have to go would be straight along the wharf. As that collapsed halfway along two years ago, they’d go straight over the end to drop forty foot into the Thames.’

‘My God,’ she said. ‘And that’s the best you have to offer? You must be crazy.’

‘That’s what everyone says, so let’s get on with it. Driving should be fun, don’t you agree? I’ve had this little beauty for years and it’s been supercharged, which gives you quite a turn of speed, so let’s do it, shall we?’

He dropped a gear, slammed his foot down, and the engine roared as he swerved out of the tail of traffic and took off. Farouk was caught napping, but only for a moment, then smiled in delight.