Jack Higgins - The Death Trade

‘No, we’ll have a martini,’ Khan told him, moving towards the bar area. ‘You can read it to me.’

Which Declan did as Khan mixed the cocktails, listening as Rasoul, standing against the wall beside the kitchen door, took it all in, too. Declan finished, and Khan passed him the vodka martini.

‘What extraordinary people,’ he said. ‘Even the woman is beyond belief. Owner, in effect, of the Gideon Bank, and with this amazing war record.’ He sipped his drink. ‘The fact that her parents died in a Hamas bus bombing would indicate to me that she is hardly likely to warm to Arabs in general.’

Rasoul, listing intently, couldn’t help jumping in. ‘Do not forget that she is a Jew and not worthy of serious consideration.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Declan told him. ‘Her exploits in Afghanistan speak for themselves. When the Taliban ambushed that convoy at Abusan, she was as good as any man behind that heavy machine gun. Three special forces men to protect her, two of whom died, the third wounded, and she was wounded herself and left with a permanent limp. Forty-two dead Taliban when they counted the corpses.’

‘Which leads me to ask whose side you are on in the struggle for Islamism in the world today. A Talib should be looked on as your brother. There is only one God and Osama is his Prophet, or do you renounce that, too?’ Rasoul demanded.

There was a moment of complete stillness, horror on Khan’s face at the dreadful slip of the tongue, and sudden desperation on Rasoul’s as he realized what he had said.

Declan smiled gently. ‘An error on your part, I’m sure, but the Prophet, whose name be praised, is merciful and will forgive a sinner.’

Khan exploded with rage at Rasoul’s slip, for any reference to Osama bin Laden, particularly when it involved Declan, was the last thing he and his masters needed.

He shouted, ‘What nonsense are you talking? Get out of my sight.’

Rasoul bowed his head. Forgive me.’ He turned and hurried away into the kitchen.

Emza Khan said, ‘A stupid fool, but I keep him on because of his ability to handle Yousef, you know that.’

‘Of course I do, so no need to apologize,’ Declan told him. ‘I’m leaving now. I’ll see you tomorrow, and then Paris next stop. I’ll brief you on the plane in the morning about Husseini.’

‘I look forward to it, it should be fun,’ Khan said. ‘Particularly the whores.’

‘I’m sure they’re waiting for you in eager anticipation,’ Declan Rashid said with considerable irony. ‘I’ll say goodnight.’

While waiting for the lift, he considered what had happened. In rage, anything Rasoul said was likely to be the truth, for he was that sort of person, so what did his slip of the tongue mean? And Emza Khan’s angry dressing-down of Rasoul had been a little over the top, or had it? Declan shook his head. Any suggestion that Khan could treat the memory of Osama bin Laden seriously was patently absurd. Making money had been the ruling obsession in his life. He was hardly likely to change now, not with the government and the Council of Guardians to contend with in Tehran. The last thing they wanted getting its hands on power was Al Qaeda.

He dismissed it from his mind and a few minutes later was driving his car out of the underground garage, joining the two-o’clock-in-the-morning traffic and thinking, somewhat to his surprise, of Sara Gideon.

Emza Khan read the details about Ferguson and his people that Declan had provided. When he was finished, he thought about it for a while. Charles Ferguson and his people had been a considerable nuisance to Al Qaeda, foiling many carefully planned enterprises over the past few years, and Dillon was something else again, murdering many of their best people. Now there was the Jewish woman of untold wealth, which offended him. How many decent Muslim men had she killed? She deserved to die, and so did her friends.

So he went to his study, fed the report Declan had given him through the coded transcriber, punched a button and sent it on its way to room 13 at Pound Street Methodist Chapel, now the headquarters of the Army of God charity, where it was received by Ali Saif, an Egyptian with an English grandmother, which under familial law granted him a United Kingdom passport.

Saif was senior lecturer in archaeology at London University. Specializing in the 400-year occupation of Britain by the Romans was his passion. Involvement with the Army of God and belief in the gospel of Osama bin Laden was his religion, which in itself contained enough excitement for any man.

His study room was packed with three state-of-the-art computers, a transcriber, and various other gadgets, no expense spared, for one thing Al Qaeda was not short of was money.

He sat behind a Victorian desk in a swing chair, twenty-five years of age and already a PhD. He wore a khaki summer suit, tinted horn-rimmed glasses that suited his aquiline face, and long black hair that almost reached his shoulders. Just now he was drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette, leaning back in his chair, looking at two computer screens. One showed Declan Rashid’s background list of Ferguson’s people. Based on this, he had used his skill to pull out the original information, which was now on his second screen, pictures of all the protagonists included.

And what an interesting lot they were, particularly Sean Dillon, the man who’d tried to blow up the British War Cabinet during the Gulf War and almost succeeded. A top IRA enforcer for many years, who ended up in the hands of Serbs and was saved by Ferguson from execution on the understanding that he would serve under him as a member of the Prime Minister’s private security squad.

Dillon’s score was remarkable. He seemed to have killed anybody and everybody, without fear or favour. One week an assassination, the next, flying some old turboprop plane loaded with medical drugs for children into a war zone.

Some guilt there perhaps, but the important fact was they had all been a considerable nuisance for some years to Al Qaeda. Obviously, punishment was what Emza Khan wanted, and considering the size of his contribution to the war chest, he was entitled to see it duly administered.

As regards the trip to Paris, he would alert the right people there, but obviously what Khan was seeking here in London was something more immediate and certainly more final. The Army of God had assets employed in hospitals, every level of local government, theatres, cinemas, restaurants, and bars. It took Ali Saif only seconds to find one working as a cleaner at the Blue Angel, a Yemeni who had witnessed the fracas and seen Dillon and Sara eventually leave in a cab with a Pakistani driver.

Within fifteen minutes, Ali Saif was in touch with that man and had established that he had dropped Sara Gideon and Dillon at what Saif knew was the Holland Park safe house. They could well be staying the night, but the possibility that they might not was too tantalizing to ignore, so he turned again to his computers.

The man he called was propped up on a bed in a warehouse development by the Thames. He wore shabby jeans and jacket, was unshaven, and had black tousled hair. He was smoking a cigarette and reading the Times newspaper.

The Egyptian’s voice rang out. ‘Abu, this is Saif. I have something for you, most urgent. The information coming your way now, facts and photos. The man is immensely dangerous, the woman is a decorated veteran of the war in Afghanistan. I’d advise taking Farouk on this one, but whatever you do, do it now. There’s a big pay packet waiting, very big.’

Abu swung his legs to the floor, went to the computer where the text and photos were still printing. He had a quick look at Dillon and Sara and made a call on his mobile.