The Killing Ground

“Not really.”

“I want to know who you are and your companions.”

“It’s against the rules.”

“Rules? So you want to play games? You think you must now brace yourself to bear some physical force, don’t you? Well, it’s not necessary. In the old days, they trained Foreign Legio

“I’m sure it is.”

“I mean, rats-you either like them or you don’t.”

“Very intelligent creatures, rats,” Hussein told him.

Above the Hole was a windlass coiled with rope, a turning handle. “Two of you up here and bring a light and we’ll let you see what you’re up against.” One of the policemen was already holding a robe.

They made Hussein put his foot in a kind of stirrup and lowered him. It was cold and damp, rain drifting down, and he landed in two feet of water. They tossed the robe down to him and he put it on. There was a scurrying sound. The rope was pulled back up.

He sat on a stone shelf, switched on the light and found two rats, eyes glinting in the beam. They seemed curiously friendly.

“Now behave yourselves,” he said in Arabic.

The rain increased its force and he shook his head. “Khazid, where are you?” he said softly.

KHAZID DROVE down the road in the heavy rain, grateful for the canvas roof. He could see the fort up ahead, the flag hanging limply in the rain. There wasn’t a sentry box, just a stone alcove from the old days, a sentry sitting smoking a cigarette, another one standing beside him. They stopped and looked at Khazid curiously. The one who was standing came forward. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“Secret police. Where would I find Captain Ali and the prisoner he just brought in from the airfield?”

The policeman raised his rifle a little. “Secret police? I don’t know you.”

The Walther with the silencer was on the seat beside him. Khazid picked it up and shot the policeman between the eyes. The other man cried out and leaped to his feet.

Khazid said,“Stand still, I don’t want to miss you.” The man was terrified and dropped his rifle. “So tell me.”

“He put the prisoner in the Hole. It’s on the battlements. I don’t know where he is himself. He may be in the fort.”

Khazid got out and left the Land Rover where it was. “This place, the Hole,” he said to the sentry. “Lead the way.”

Which the man did, mounting the stairs to the battlements. There was no sign of Captain Ali, but there were lights down in the barracks and laughter. The Hole was self-evident, with its windlass.

“Are you in one piece, brother?” Khazid called.

“Other than the rats trying for the odd nibble, I’m fine,” Hussein called. “I’ve missed you, little brother.”

“I’m sure you did,” Khazid nodded to the policeman. “Lower the stirrup.”

The man exerted himself on the creaking ancient handle, the rope went down and Hussein called, “That’s fine,” and said to the rats, “Good-bye, my friends.” The windlass creaked again, the man pushing against the weight, and Hussein emerged.

“I stink like an old sow.”

“But you’re in one piece, which is more than I can say for the late Major Hakim Mahmoud.”

“May he rest in peace. Remind me to let the Broker know.”

“He should have known.”

A door banged; a moment later there were footsteps at the other end of the battlements and Captain Ali appeared, looking rather incongruous, an umbrella over his head. He was humming to himself and looking down, but not for long.

“It’s you,” he said stupidly.

“Yes, it is.” Hussein patted his pockets and found the Walther.

But strangely enough, fat Ali didn’t show fear, although that could have been because of the bottle of whiskey in his left hand.

“I knew you were somebody special, just from that plane. If you’re going to shoot me, at least tell me who you are.”

“My name is Hussein Rashid. They know me in Baghdad.”

“Merciful heaven, they know you everywhere in the Arab world.”

“I should kill you, but I was trained in Algerian camps.”

“Which makes us brothers in a way,” Ali said eagerly.

“Anything but. Down you go. The rats are waiting.”

“My thanks. You are a great man.”

Ali stuck his foot in the stirrup. It took all the policeman’s strength to control the weight and Khazid had to help.

Ali’s voice echoed up. “I see what you mean. I don’t know what you are up to, but go to a good grave, my friend.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Hussein said to Khazid. He nodded at the frightened policeman. “Bring him with you.”

They went down to the Land Rover and the dead man. The policeman was terrified, expecting death at any minute.

Hussein said, “Which way to town?” The man pointed. “There’s been enough killing for one night. Run like hell,” and the man took off.

Khazid said, “I’d say we’re in a bad fix. We need to get out of here fast and Brittany is a hell of a long way off.”

Hussein got in beside him. “I’ve had an idea. What about flying out?”

Khazid started the engine. “But we haven’t got a plane.”

“Who says we haven’t?” They drove quickly away.

THERE WAS A BOARD on a building at the end of the jetty that said CANAIR, whatever that was supposed to mean, but no lights showed at any of the windows beneath it and everything was quiet. Here and there was a light in some of the craft moored in the harbor, and occasionally the sound of faint laughter from the cafés in the web of narrow streets, but they didn’t care about any of that.

Khazid had the flashlight he had taken from the control tower and they used it to examine the pod enclosing the fuel tanks. It was so old-fashioned there was a dipstick. It registered about two-thirds full.

“Not bad,” Hussein said.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“The Balearic Islands- Majorca, the largest, would be best. The airport at Palma operates international flights, dozens a day, awash with tourists. There are flights to almost anywhere.”

“Are you saying we take a chance on a direct flight to England?”

“No, that would be too much of a risk, but there are plenty of flights from Majorca to France, crammed with holidaymakers going home. That’s a different proposition.”

On the far side of the harbor, a police car turned onto the far jetty and two officers got out. A moment later, another came down from the town and parked behind it.

“Do you think that could be trouble?” Khazid asked. “Maybe the captain is covering his back. We did leave several dead men.”

“I’ve no intention of waiting to find out. Get in.”

He got the door open, Khazid slipped the line, pulled it in and joined him. They strapped themselves in and Hussein fired the engine and let the plane float away. He started to taxi through the darkness toward the harbor entrance, which was well lit. He moved near the pier, and beyond was only darkness.

Khazid was looking out and saw one of the police cars racing round. “I think we’ve managed to attract some police attention.”

“Well, whatever they want, it’s too late now.” Hussein turned into the wind and boosted power. He pulled back the column at exactly the right moment and the Eagle climbed effortlessly over the darkness of the sea and lifted. Here and there were the lights of a boat of some sort.

“How long to Majorca?” Khazid asked.

“I’ll take my time. I’ll use less fuel if I don’t push this old bucket too hard. Besides, I like it. Maybe three and a half hours-something like that. Then we’ll check the plane situation at Palma. I’ve got a good feeling. It all worked out. It could have been much worse.” He leveled off at five thousand feet and put the plane on automatic. “God, I stink.” He looked down at the soiled suit. “I don’t know what Armani would think.”