The Killing Ground

“My God,” Khan said. “I can’t believe that Caspar has managed to regain his daughter.”

“Helped by thoroughly ruthless men, which you would do well to remember. There is no point in your going to Hazar now. You are ordered back to London.”

“But Ferguson would move heaven and earth to get his hands on me.”

“ Ferguson ’s got nothing to hold you on, you know that. He can’t touch you. You’ll book out of your hotel in the morning and catch the first flight to London. Is that clear? Osama himself has an interest in this affair.”

Which was enough. “Of course. I’ll do as you say.”

“And await further instructions.”

IN THE GULFSTREAM, everything had gone smoothly. After sleeping for five or six hours, Sara had awakened, had something to eat and talked a great deal with her father and Hal Stone and later, responded to some gentle probing from Dillon and even Billy.

She seemed very calm. Partly it was her nature, but Dillon considered it likely that to a certain extent, it was also a kind of denial of what had gone before.

When you thought about it, the original circumstances had been extraordinary. The kidnap itself, the transfer to the war zone, the constant daily violence of Baghdad itself. Every impossible bad thing had been visited on her, the apparent genuine affection of her grandfather and yet leg irons, and then the final act in Hazar. The killing of Ali ben Levi when he laid hands on her, the sudden realization that Hussein was the Hammer of God, this Arab fantasy figure from newspapers and television. The events that had developed with the Sultan and the shocking deaths of Hamid and Hassim, so close that there were bloodstains on her clothing.

For an adult to cope with what had happened to her in the few months since the kidnapping would have been a near impossibility; for a young girl, little more than a child to most people, what hope? She dropped off to sleep again and Dillon, turning in his seat to pour a Bushmills, found Hal Stone observing him.

“What do you think?” the professor asked. “How in the hell is she ever going to get over what’s happened?”

Her father was also dozing, an arm around her, and Dillon looked at them again. “There’s the mother, a pretty remarkable lady, but I don’t know.” He shook his head. “She’s got a lot to cut free from.”

“Hussein Rashid, for one thing.”

“Oh, him most of all,” Dillon said.

Hal Stone nodded. “At least there’s a few thousand miles between them, and little likelihood of her ever having to see him again.”

“Let’s hope so,” Dillon said, and Lacey’s voice over the intercom a

She sat up next to her father, slightly dazed as the plane coasted down. What happened next was all a strange confusion in which everything happened in slow motion: the Gulfstream landing, Parry opening the door, people outside, rain falling quite fast, then going down the steps ahead of her father and her mother crying out her name and throwing her arms about her fiercely.

THEY WERE ALL TAKEN to the Holland Park safe house. Sitting across from Charles Ferguson, her arms around Sara, Molly Rashid said, “What now?”

“You try to put some sanity into your lives again. At least you’ve nothing to fear from this man anymore. We’ve seen to that. Here’s the early edition of the Times.”

There was the photo of Hussein without his sunglasses on the extreme bottom of the front page in the left-hand corner. The few lines of text said, “Known associate of Osama bin Laden.”

Sara said, “But that’s Hussein.” There was panic on her face.

Ferguson said, “You’ve nothing to worry about. With this photo in all the papers he’d never dare come to England.”

“Hussein Rashid, Hammer of God.” Sara’s voice was suddenly very small and she buried her face against her mother.

The electronic gate swung open at Holland Park and they turned in, and several thousand miles away in the hospital at Hazar, Hussein and Khazid stood smoking on a balcony, the glass door open behind them to a corridor. Two nurses sat at a small table opposite, sipping tea, ready for backup if necessary. A door opened, Aziz came out, and there was a glimpse behind him of Jemal festooned with cables and tubes, two more nurses at his bedside.

“How is he?” Hussein asked.

“We are in God’s hands,” Aziz told him. “That’s all I can say.”

At that moment, an alarm sounded, jarring, ugly, frightening. Aziz ran back into the room, followed by the two nurses in the corridor. The entire crash team was at work in seconds, Hussein and Khazid watching at the door. Not that any of it did the slightest good.

“Time of death…”

“Immaterial.” Hussein stood looking down at his uncle, then leaned over and kissed him on the forehead.

“See, my friend,” he said to Dr. Aziz. “They killed Hamid and Hassim to get Sara, now they kill my uncle. We can’t have that, can we, Khazid?” He covered his uncle’s face with the nearest sheet, turned and went out.

Chapter 8

IT WAS IN HUSSEIN’S FAVOR THAT HIS RELIGION DEMANDED so brief a period for the disposal of the body, no matter how important the individual. He needed action now, needed to get on with it, needed to cha

“So what will you do now about Sara?” the Imam asked.

“As Allah wills.”

“You do not think her beyond hope?”

“Of course not. There were cruel influences at work.”

“What do you intend? A return to the war zone?”

“We’ll see.” Hussein was keeping his own counsel. “Let’s bury my uncle first.” The Imam departed and Hussein went out onto the terrace and lit a cigarette. Khazid, who had been listening, followed him. “You wish to follow them to England, don’t you?” Hussein smiled. “Now why would I do that?”

“Because it would be the most reckless thing to do. Can I come with you?”

“Why would you want to do such a thing?”

“Because we’re friends who have been through hell together. Because I appreciate it could be a one-on-one mission but that you also need one person you can really rely on.”

“And you think that should be you?”

“It has been before. How do you plan to go?”

“ Paris. Train to London.”

“I have both French and British passports, both excellent forgeries. And I speak French. Your alias?”

“Hugh Darcy, what the English call a toff. I used the passport last time I was in London and found the regimental tie of an English Guards officer tucked in my briefing case. It was the Broker’s joke. The English still can’t help touching their forelocks to a gentleman.”

“The Queen’s son himself has served in such a regiment in Afghanistan,” Khazid said.

“There you are, then. Okay, my friend, you can come as far as Paris. I’m not promising anything more. Now go and lie down. It’ll be dawn soon, and we have three men to bury.”

“Something we’re good at, something we’ve grown very used to.”

“Go on, little brother, good night.”

Khazid went and Hussein stood there thinking about it, then he went into the entrance hall where they had finished presenting his uncle. He’d given the orders. No wailing women. At this stage, male servants only. Family members could join in on the morning, but for the moment, no.