The Killing Ground

The boat turned away, Sara slipping her hand into her pocket. Her heart was beating furiously, she had to swallow hard. She said to Hamid, “The Arab, who was he?”

“A Bedouin by his robes. Obviously the boat’s caretaker. A real country boy from the look of him, from the Empty Quarter. Are you okay?”

“Fine, just fine, but I’m tired and I’ve had enough. Take me back.”

They did and repaired to her suite, where she took refuge from her women in the sanctuary of the bathroom. There she examined the photos. The first was the one of her in school uniform taken earlier in the year with her mother and father. The second showed Hal Stone, Dillon and Billy and her father in Bedouin robes, only in this one, his face was not concealed by the flap of his turban.

Hot tears sprang to her eyes, her hands shook a little. The photo of Stone and company she examined again and again, taking so long that Jasmine knocked on the bathroom door and called to ask if she was unwell. She had never felt better, suddenly full of energy, the life force flooding through her. Very carefully she cut the photos into pieces with little nail scissors, put them down the toilet and flushed them away.

The women were waiting. “Are my uncle and Hussein back yet?”

“No, Sara,” Jasmine said, “but supper is ready.”

“Then so am I.” Sara smiled. “Let’s go down to the terrace and enjoy ourselves.”

They did, and the servants lit the flares and candles and set the floor cushions and piled food high on the side tables, and two musicians sat cross-legged and plucked the strings of their instruments, the music plaintive on the evening air, and she moved over to the balustrade and looked out across the harbor to the Sultan. Its deck lights were on and she had never been so excited in her life.

IN THE SULTAN, seated in canvas chairs at a table in the stern, they discussed the situation. “I must say it was a hell of a thing to do,” Caspar Rashid said. “For a while there, I didn’t know whether I was coming or going.”

Hal Stone said, “Remember what Roper said about the whole thing being opportunistic? Well, what happened earlier was a perfect example. Everything just fell into place. It occurred to me that those two Arab boys couldn’t have the slightest idea where she lived in London.”

“Good point,” Billy said.

“She’s a remarkable young woman,” Dillon said. “To field that ball and the mention of her father’s name took some doing.”

“But slipping in her visit to the mosque on Wednesday was a nice one,” Hal Stone said.

“Yes, but we can’t go in as a team,” Billy pointed out.

“I can go, see what the situation is in the mosque itself.” Caspar produced a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “There’s no need to worry about me anymore, gentlemen. All my doubts are absolved, all passion spent. It’s going to work, I know that now. The only thing is how.”

“I know one thing,” Hal Stone said. “Her visit to the mosque will do us no good. A family affair. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m afraid so. It’s a kind of state visit to the Imam, and my uncle and Hussein are bound to go.”

Dillon said, “Roper was right. It all comes down to recognizing the opportunity and taking it.”

“What do you mean?” Hal Stone said.

“Billy and I weren’t available, but you two were. All you had to do was shoot the two boys. Billy?”

Billy poured Dillon a Bushmills and handed it to him. “I’m afraid he’s right, gents.” He turned to Caspar.“It’s why we’re along, to be worse than the bad guys. Don’t kid yourself about those two nice boys with their Kalashnikovs. They’ve accompanied her from Baghdad. They’ve done their share of killing.”

Caspar took a deep breath. “How would it be done?”

“We keep a lookout and hope for an approach. Billy and I can be in the water, just in diving jackets. Silenced Walthers are just as good in water.”

“And the woman with Sara?”

“Straight down the companionway and lock her in a cabin,” He looked across to the jetty. “Turn up the speed, and we’re there in fifteen minutes. Warn Lacey we’re on our way, pile into the station wagon and it’s the airport next stop. If by some odd chance Hussein turns up, we’ll kill him, too.”

“I’m going to the stateroom to call Lacey and Parry and bring them up to date. Then Ferguson. Then bed. See you all in the morning.”

FERGUSON WAS HIMSELF IN BED reading defense papers and having a brandy nightcap. Dillon brought him up to snuff.

“You really think you can pull it off?” Ferguson asked.

“If they visit us again like they did today, yes. I’ll tell you one thing-Sara Rashid is no ordinary thirteen-year-old.”

“My dear Dillon, go to Shakespeare. Juliet was thirteen.”

“Jesus, General, that’s all right then, we’re home and dry. Good night to you, as they say in Belfast!”

THE BROKER, in a sense, was going to war. Ferguson would fall to Hussein Rashid. Now it was time to settle scores elsewhere: the Salters, both Harry and Billy. He knew all about the events involving George Moon and Big Harold, so he also knew Ruby Moon now ruled the bar at the Dark Man.

He brooded for a while. Besides the Dark Man, Salter had opened a highly successful high-end restaurant, he recalled, the kind of place that attracted only the best people. Trouble there would hit Salter hard.

He looked in his book and found Chekov’s number.

“Who is it? I’m in bed and not alone. It’s too damned late.”

“The Broker.”

Chekov was suddenly all attention. The Broker heard him say, “Get some clothes on and get the hell out of here or I’ll give you a slapping.”

He was back to the phone in a minute. “What can I do for you?”

“You know Harry Salter and his nephew Billy?”

“Who doesn’t? He’s a hard old bastard, that one. Why, what do you want?”

“I want them permanently removed. He and his people have caused serious distress to General Volkov and the President.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

“No. I think this is work for Stransky-Big Ivan. You know that fancy restaurant of Salter’s?”

“I’ve been there. Harry’s Place.”

“Destroy it. You know what to do.”

“And?”

“Salter started life as a river rat. Let him end there. Put him in the Thames along with his nephew and his hard men.”

“What about Dillon?”

“What about him?”

“He and the Salters are like brothers.”

“Then let them die like brothers.”

CHEKOV TOOK A TAXI to the Dorchester Hotel, where he knew he would find many members of the Russian community. Many of them were millionaires, and some billionaires, and they were a hard-drinking lot. When they wanted to avoid trouble of the violent or disruptive sort, they brought in Ivan Stransky.

He was six-foot-four, built like a brick wall, his hair cropped and half of his left ear missing, left in Chechnya where he’d served in a Guards regiment. He was standing at the end of the bar, a black leather coat straining at his shoulders, a cigarette between his fingers, and saw Chekov at once.

A waitress was passing and Chekov said, “Scotch whiskey, my lovely, two large ones and make it the cheap stuff.”

He took a seat in the corner and Stransky sat beside him. “What can I do for you?” said the big man.

“What do you know about Harry Salter?”

Stransky smiled without humor. “A major gangster who’s gone legit, they say-warehouse developments, casinos, apartment blocks. They say he’s worth four or five hundred million.”