The Killing Ground

He’d been a medical student at Harvard when the Gulf War started, and had immediately packed his bags to go home, only to be arrested at Logan Airport in Boston. It was six months before lawyers succeeded in obtaining his freedom, and he had gone home to discover that his parents had been killed in a bombing raid three months earlier.

His uncle had kept him sane during the bad time, had provided him with money, set up accounts for him in Paris and London, had provided him with addresses, the right people to see, people who would pass him hand by hand until he reached the camp in the Algerian Desert. There they’d turned him into the man known as the Hammer of God, and it was there that he’d grown the luxuriant long hair and the beard that became his trademark.

He was not a religious fanatic, hardly religious at all, but he’d discovered his true calling there: to be a soldier. They’d taught him everything, and by the time he was done, he was an expert in weaponry, explosives, hand-to-hand fighting, vehicles and the fine art of assassination. His medical training was just a bonus. They even taught him to fly.

He had worked for what some people might call terrorist organizations in such places as Chechnya and Kosovo, but his specialty had been assassination and he had become a master. In the mess that Iraq developed into, he had lived with his uncle, operating as a freelance sniper. His personal score was twenty-seven American and British soldiers and Iraqi politicians. It was all the same to Hussein. And then his uncle had kidnapped Sara and everything changed.

IN LONDON, Roper wished them well and gri

“Got everything?” he asked.

“Of course,” Billy told him as he zipped up an aircraft bag. “What would we bloody leave, for God’s sake?”

“There’s always your Codex Four.”

“Very fu

“Never mind, Billy, you’re going off to war, and you know from experience, there’s nothing like a nice war. Try not to get your head blown off.”

“Yes, well, you’ve got Ferguson to think about. What if he phones up and tells you he wants his plane?”

“You mean I could get the sack? I doubt it.” Roper smiled. “I inhabit a wheelchair and I’ve got medals. As for the Gulfstream, didn’t he tell Dillon he was sending it back in case of emergencies?”

“So he did. Mind you, he might think Baghdad a bit of a stretch.”

“We’ll worry about that when we have to. Now get moving. Sergeant Doyle’s waiting with the Land Rover. Try not to screw up.”

“As if we would.”

They left, and ten minutes later Ferguson did come on the line. “How are things going?”

“You mean at the coal face, sir?”

“Is that a reprimand, Roper?”

“Now, would I imply that you weren’t beating your brains out, General, taking care of world affairs?”

“Well, we were up half the night and I’m just about to join the conference again. Anything to report?”

“Not a whisper, sir. It’s as if every terrorist in the land has rolled over and died. The chaps are all polishing their nails.”

“You’re incorrigible, Roper.” A bell sounded faintly. “Must go. I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, sir, I look forward to it.”

Roper poured a large scotch, lit a cigarette and continued his investigation of the mysterious Professor Khan.

AT FARLEY FIELD, the quartermaster had loaded their supplies and weaponry. Two AKs, a couple of.25 Colts with hollow-point cartridges and ankle holster, titanium waistcoats.

“Nothing left to chance, Sergeant Major.”

“I don’t believe it should be, Mr. Dillon, that’s not the way to operate. Good luck, gentlemen.”

At the top of the steps, Parry, in flying overalls, reached a hand out and a car horn sounded and the Aston came round from the entrance and pulled up, Harry at the wheel. He ran forward, and as Billy turned, he flung his arms round him.

“Take care.”

Dillon said, “I always knew you were a sentimentalist at heart.”

“You think what you like, as long as you bring him back.”

They went up the steps into the Gulfstream. Parry closed the door and joined Lacey in the cockpit. Billy and Dillon settled down, and a few minutes later the Gulfstream took off.

ROPER CAME ONLINE two hours into the flight. “Is everything going all right?”

“Fine. What about you?” Dillon asked.

“Professor Khan is proving more than promising. Dreq Khan is his name, he was a clever young man who took a first degree at home in Pakistan, then earned a scholarship to Oxford. Totally Anglicized now, with apparently an unlimited supply of cash. He started as an assistant lecturer in morality at Leeds University.”

Billy laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t know you could be one of those.”

“Apparently. Left after a year and moved to America, the University of Chicago, then a year later to Berkeley in California.”

Dillon said, “You see, Billy, he couldn’t resist the call of Hollywood.”

“Came back East for a post at the United Nations. Secretary to the International Committee for Racial Harmony.”

“Let me guess,” Dillon said. “After that, he finally made it back to good old England. Londonistan.”

“Right you are, and he’s certainly made his way in politics. The Committee for Socialist Values-that really made his bones in London, got him in good with a lot of well-meaning Socialists. He’s also on the Interfaith Committee at the House of Commons and is sponsored by various Anglican bishops. He’s muted his support for the Army of God ever since three of its members were arrested in Yorkshire for that bomb in a bus station that killed three and injured fourteen. But he insists that those three were a splinter group, that the organization itself is purely spiritual and educational.”

Billy said, “What do you think?”

“I think he’s dangerous as hell, and all those committees just obscure what he really is.”

Roper said, “I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life. But there’s no proof of anything, not even a whisper of terrorist activity. There’s nothing to spark an investigation by the police antiterrorist squad.”

Dillon said, “Except that when Greta raised the question of Professor Khan with that driver and told him she’d killed Abu, he was terrified.”

“And made no attempt to deny it,” Billy said.

“It’s still not enough,” Roper said. “But I’ll keep at it. I heard from Ferguson.”

“What did you hear?” Dillon said.

“Only that he keeps going into conference with the Prime Minister and the great and the good.”

“Has he indicated when he’s coming back?”

“Not exactly. I wouldn’t give it more than a couple of days, so it’s all up to you gentlemen. Keep in touch.”

He clicked off.

AN HOUR OUT OF BAGHDAD, with dawn coming up fast, they descended to thirty thousand feet. There was considerable traffic and Parry came back from the cockpit to fill them in.

“We’re doing night approach, which means the sods on the ground don’t have as good a view-the ragged-arse brigade are good, unfortunately, particularly with handheld missiles. A lot of helicopters get wasted over the city.”

“So what’s the solution?” Billy asked.

“It’s a trick the Yanks resurrected from the Vietnam War. We approach from fifteen thousand, then dive. Pull up only at the last possible moment.”

“That sounds pretty hairy to me,” Billy said.

“But it works. The RAF used it in Kosovo, too, and with larger planes. Now, as to what’s facing you down there, I know you gentlemen have done this once before, so I’ll only say it’s even worse. There’s an old saying: Hell is a city. Well, gentlemen, I doubt whether anywhere in the world could be worse than Baghdad. Take care at all times, and remember-in this town, you can’t even trust your grandmother.”