The Killing Ground

“So here we are,” Ferguson said.

“Here we are. And the Mideast wasn’t the only place they sent me. They sent me to Ireland, too. I’m a visiting professor at Trinity College, Dublin.”

“Good God,” Ferguson said. “Are you going to tell us that’s a center of Muslim radicalism?”

“Not at all, but in my bagman identity, I had to act as a go-between for certain organizations there.”

“Such as?” Ferguson asked.

“Outfits claiming to be security firms. It’s an open secret that with peace in Northern Ireland, many former members of the Provisional IRA have found themselves on the scrapheap and don’t much care for it. One way out for them is crime. I believe that in the last year there have been at least seventy shootings in the Dublin area that show evidence of having been committed by professionals.”

“So what?” Dillon said. “What do you expect after thirty-odd years of their own war?”

“I accept that, but what I’m talking about are firms claiming legitimacy in security affairs, but actually supplying what can only be described as mercenaries. People hired as instructors for terrorist training camps in North Africa, Algeria. One of them, for instance, is called Scamrock Security, run by a man named Michael Fly

“And you have details of these camps?” Roper asked.

“Of some of them-yes. There are one or two in the Empty Quarter as well.”

There was a long silence while Ferguson drummed his fingers on the table. Finally, he said, “You’ve given us a lot to digest. While Roper’s working on this information, we have to consider our next step regarding your daughter, which would be to move the action to Hazar. Would you wish us to do that?”

It was Molly who answered instantly, “Oh, God, yes, I want my daughter more than anything. But can you do it?”

“As I said, we’ve operated in Hazar in the past. For the past three years my cousin, Professor Hal Stone of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, has been diving on an ancient Phoenician wreck on the edge of the harbor at Hazar. He works from an old dhow, using Arabs. It’s a shoestring operation, but I happen to know his diving season is soon to start. Dillon and Billy are expert divers themselves and he’d welcome us, I assure you. We’d pass as a perfectly acceptable group of mad English archaeologists. Would that be acceptable? You could come with us.”

“No, not that.” She shook her head. “I’m partway through some of the most important work of my life.” She turned to her husband. “Caspar?”

“Of course.” He nodded. “I must.”

“Isn’t there the chance you’ll be recognized?” Billy asked.

Caspar shook his head. “I’ll wear robes, a fold of cloth across my face, use the language. It will work.” Suddenly, he looked fierce, determined. “It must work.”

“Right,” Ferguson said. “Things to do. I must contact my cousin. You, Dr. Rashid, will oblige me by pouring your heart out to Roper. As for you,” he said to Dillon, “see to the plane.”

Molly Rashid stood up. “I’ll get back to the hospital.”

Ferguson put an arm around her shoulder. “Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll succeed, I promise you.”

Greta said, “I’ll take you back.”

They went out and Caspar waited until the door closed and said, “There is something else of great importance I must tell you.”

“And what would that be?” Ferguson asked.

“Sara’s cousin, the man who is to be her future husband when she is of age.”

“Hussein, isn’t it?” Roper said. “A medical student.”

“Does the Hammer of God mean anything to you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“When I last counted, his score was twenty-seven Allied soldiers and a handful of political assassinations in Europe.”

“Good God,” Ferguson said. “Tell us about him.”

Which Rashid did.

When he had finished, Dillon said trimly, “Well, at least we know.” He turned to Billy, “Let’s get moving.” As they left, he said to Roper, “Michael Fly

SITTING IN HIS SUITE in Paris, Volkov went over in his mind the last conversation he had had with Vladimir Putin. The elimination of Ferguson and company made sense. It had already started with the murder of Detective Superintendent Ha

Igor Levin was a more difficult case, however, because he had a few million sterling tucked away in London. He could not be bought. Chomsky, the sergeant who had gone to Dublin with him, was a clever one, but irritatingly seemed to feel some sort of loyalty to Levin. Popov was the weak link.

Volkov took out his address book, found Popov’s number in Dublin and phoned him. It was a mobile and found Popov strolling along Wellington Quay beside the River Liffey. It was raining and Popov was holding an umbrella over his head, a young woman named Mary O’Toole at his side.

“My dear Popov,” Volkov spoke in Russian, “Volkov speaking. How are you? It’s been some time.”

Popov was shocked and replied with difficulty, “General, I can’t believe it. It’s been so long.”

“Oh, I like to keep in touch,” Volkov said.

Popov and the girl were approaching a hotel he knew. He squeezed her waist. “Mary, my love, you go in and get us a table in the cocktail bar. This is important.”

So she went and he reverted to Russian. “General, I don’t know what to say.”

“Why, just that you’re happy to hear from me. How’s the job? Still at Scamrock Security? How is my old friend Mr. Fly

Popov swallowed hard. “My God, I didn’t realize…”

“That I got you the job? Oh, yes, Fly

“Absolutely, General.”

“You’ve heard about Belov International? That Max Chekov is the new chief executive officer? Did you ever serve under him?”

“I never had that privilege.”

“You may have that pleasure to come. I trust that I can still rely on you?”

“Of course, General.”

“Excellent. How is Chomsky?”

“He breezed through his law exams and works for a city attorney as a legman.”

“And Levin?”

“Enjoys himself. He is, after all, rich.”

“As I’m well aware. So, nice to talk to you. I’ll be in touch. But, please: keep this conversation private.”

For some reason he couldn’t explain, Popov was thrilled. “Of course, General.”

The line went dead and he went up the steps to the hotel two at a time. The bar was half empty and Mary was seated in a booth by the window. She was a secretary at Scamrock Security, was used to hearing him speaking foreign languages, for he was proficient in German and French.

“Russian,” she said, “that’s a new one. You always surprise me.”

Popov had an English mother, and he’d been raised on the language as a child in Moscow. He was perfectly able to pass himself off as an Englishman, and did.

“Business,” he said. “You can never get away from it. Now what would you like to drink?”

CHOMSKY WAS A different proposition. He had a first-class academic brain and a firm belief in himself. He’d completed his law degree in just over a year at Trinity, a phenomenal achievement, and working as a legman for a top firm of attorneys suited him perfectly. He much preferred to be out of the office, for he could handle himself and had a medal for bravery in Chechnya to prove it.

He was walking through Temple Bar, one of his favorite places in the city, with its bars, restaurants, shops and galleries, and was making for Crown Alley with its cafés and brightly painted shops. His intention was to meet Levin, enjoy a drink, go to the cinema and eat afterward.