The Killing Ground

A quick word with an English-speaking Arab in the control tower who knew all about the test flight, and they were taking off. Lacey climbed steadily to fifty thousand feet, then turned to Parry. “Done it again, old boy. You take over and I’ll go back and see how things are.”

So high in the incredible blue of that sky, Parry felt extremely cheerful, and smiled as he veered to port, to pass over distant Egypt and into the Mediterranean beyond.

CASPAR RASHID HAD TAKEN OFF his robe and wrapped his daughter in it. She was very sleepy now, the pills taking their effect. At one moment, nestling in his arms, she said, “What about Hussein? When he knows I’m gone, he’ll be terribly angry. Hamid and Hassim were his men. It’s a matter of honor.”

“He can do nothing,” Caspar said. “Not now.”

“Some people would say he can do anything. He is the Hammer of God and he has killed twenty-seven soldiers. He has his friend the Broker to help him.” And then she was asleep.

They looked at each other. “You have to admit the man’s got an impressive track record,” Hal Stone said.

“Especially for somebody who was training to be a doctor before the war,” Dillon said.

Hal Stone frowned. “I wonder who the Broker is?”

“A mystery man associated with Osama bin Laden,” Caspar said. “When I was first approached, he was the man. A voice on a satellite phone, the kind you’d expect to hear at High Table at any ancient Oxford college.”

“I’ll let Ferguson know the good news.” Dillon went and closeted himself at the other end of the cabin with his Codex Four.

TO SAY THAT FERGUSON was over the moon was an understatement. He demanded chapter and verse. “Come on, everything, Dillon. The child’s mother is going to be ecstatic, never mind Roper and Greta.”

So Dillon told him, leaving nothing out. “It was a rough ride for Sara, especially being party to the shooting of the boys, but there was no other way.”

“I agree. A hell of a shock for Hussein Rashid.”

“You can say that again. Don’t forget you were going to see his face plastered in every paper in the UK.”

“And every police station. By the time Blake Johnson’s finished with him, the States will be off-limits, too. I wouldn’t think his chances in Iraq would be very good. The girl hasn’t said anything special about him, has she?”

“She was on pills, a bit woozy. She obviously thinks Hussein is hot stuff, and she mentioned his friend the Broker, then fell asleep.”

“The Broker again, which means Osama. Roper will love the co

“Anything happened while we’ve been away?”

“Nothing much, apart from the Russian Mafia trying to do a number on Harry last night.”

“Good God. What happened?”

Ferguson told him. “There’s life in the old dog yet. Naturally, he passed the whole thing to Roper for his intelligence pool and, believe it or not, the Broker came up again. And so did our old friend Chekov.”

“Maybe something should be done about that.”

“Taken care of. Harry sent an Express Delivery man round on his motorcycle with lilies.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Oh dear indeed. I’ll leave you now and spread the good word.”

WHICH HE DID. He told Greta first because, as usual, Molly was in surgery. “I’d like you to pick her up and bring her back here. It’s going to be about midnight when they get in. She’ll want to see her daughter.”

“Leave it to me.”

Ferguson went into the computer room and found Roper. “I think we deserve a drink together.”

“I agree with you.” Roper poured very large scotches. “To the team- great stuff once again.”

“And Harry didn’t do too badly last night. He’s given a sad blow not only to the Russian Mafia in London, but to the Broker. That bastard is mixed up in everything.”

“Trouble is, we all know that, but we don’t know who he is. Nobody seems to.”

“Well, I’d say it’s about time we found out.”

“By the way, I think you’ll approve of this. Watch the screen,” said Roper. The picture that appeared was of Hussein Rashid, a good photo of him holding a pair of sunglasses. The one next to it showed him wearing the glasses. Underneath it said: Hussein Rashid, known to be an associate of Osama bin Laden.

There was more text beside it, the kind of stuff for sub-editors to sink their teeth into, especially regarding Rashid’s penchant for shooting soldiers. No mention of recent events.

“What are you doing with it?”

“It appears in most of the press in the morning, plus police stations, a certain amount of TV.”

“Well, let’s hope the publicity kills off any hope of Hussein Rashid’s turning up in England. He can go back to the struggle in Iraq as far as I’m concerned and get his head blown off. Good work, Roper, I’m going to my office.”

It was quiet, the faint pings from cyberspace, the sizzle of static. Roper poured a scotch and then he lit a cigarette and sat there looking at the man on the screen.

“You bastard,” he said. “You’re probably already on the way. Well, I’ll be waiting.” He raised his glass and drank the whiskey in a single swallow.

AT THE GREAT HOUSE in Kafkar, it had taken some time for anyone to realize that something was wrong. Khazid first became worried when the boating party failed to turn up for lunch at noon. When he had checked the Sultan through his glasses, there was no sign of anybody or of any kind of activity.

He immediately called Hamid on his mobile phone. It didn’t ring. Slightly worried now, he shouldered his AK-47, went down to the jetty, took one of the Jet Skis and drove off across the harbor toward the Sultan. There was a fishing boat a few yards away from it, two fishermen leaning over the side of the boat, pulling at something in the water.

When he got closer, he saw that it was a body. Closer still, switching off the Jet Ski motor as he coasted in, it turned over in the current and he saw, to his horror, that it was Hamid.

He called the police, not that they had a reputation for efficiency. It took twenty minutes for the launch to appear because, on the way from the jetty, it came across the body of Hassim and stopped to pull it up out of the water, as well. The two police officers were simple men, so Khazid, very young but his skills honed in the killing grounds of Baghdad, took charge. Ordering them to follow him, he approached the Sultan on the Jet Ski. By the time the police joined him, he had searched the deserted ship, rescued Jasmine from the cabin and discovered from her the full horror. Not only that Sara had been abducted, but that the Bedouin in his robes on the boat had been her father. It was at that point he phoned Hussein Rashid on his mobile.

Hussein was some little way out of South Port beside the track, supervising the recovery of the derailed wagon. Stu

He pulled himself together. “Clear the line. I want to make a call. We’ll return as soon as possible.”

He phoned the airport and asked for control. It was Said who took the call. “Hussein Rashid. Have you had a departure up there?”

“Yes, I’m still trying to work it out. I’ve been in town all morning. A Gulfstream belonging to the United Nations Ocean Survey has been here a couple of days. They had some engine trouble. Asked me if they could do a flight test, but as I was going to town, I left them to it. They haven’t come back. I’m getting worried. Where in the hell could they be?”