The Killing Ground

BRITTANY

ENGLAND

Chapter 12

THE LOW-BUDGET FLIGHT TO RENNES CRAMMED WITH passengers had resembled a refugee flight from some war zone. The train to Saint-Malo, on the other hand, was excellent. A taxi from there took them to Saint-Denis. According to the details the Broker had given Hussein, Romano lived on a boat, the Seagull.

“This is the best I can do, monsieur,” the taxi driver said.

Khazid handled it in rapid and fluent French. “That’s okay. We’ll find it.” He overtipped the man, who drove off, leaving them looking at a half-empty marina.

“Let’s start searching,” Khazid said in Arabic.

Hussein lectured him quietly. “No Arabic, just in case. You might as well make it English. My French is poor at the best of times.”

“As you say.”

There was a walkway, boats of many kinds moored on each side, but they didn’t seem to be getting very far, so Khazid paused and shouted, “Ahoy, Seagull.”

Nothing happened for a while and Hussein said, “You fool.”

A young woman came out of the wheelhouse of a motor cruiser and looked toward them. She was pretty enough, denims and a black sweater, and there was a gypsy look to her.

She spoke in French. “What do you want?”

Khazid handled her. “We’re looking for a man named George Romano.”

“He’s at the bar on the jetty. I’ll show you.”

Both her English and French had strong accents. As they went back along the walkway, Khazid said, “Where are you from?”

“Kosovo.”

“So, you were in the war, little sister?”

Hussein managed to kick his ankle, for if the girl was a refugee, which seemed likely from Kosovo, she was almost certainly a Muslim.

“The war was a long time ago.”

“And your name?”

“Saida.”

Which confirmed it. At the end of the walkway she paused, took a packet of Gitanes from her pocket and a lighter. She put a cigarette in her mouth and Khazid took the lighter from her. “Allow me.”

“Thank you.” She took the lighter back and inhaled and said in heavily accented Arabic, “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but take care with this man. He’s English Royal Navy, but rotten to the core.”

Hussein said gently, “You are Muslim?”

“And the war stank. Allah bless Tony Blair for sending the British Army and RAF to Kosovo to save us from the Serbs.”

“It is true he did such a thing,” Khazid said. “But what of Iraq?”

“Agreed, but life is learning to live with the good and the bad.”

“What a wise girl,” Hussein commented.

“My father was a teacher of children at the mosque in our small town. When the Serbs came, they hung him-they hung boys, too.”

All this was delivered in the most matter-of-fact way as they came to a café called the Belle Aurore. There was a terrace at the front with tables, waiters in white jackets, not particularly busy. The man they were seeking was at a corner table reading a copy of Paris Soir. He wore a reefer coat and a seaman’s cap, was perhaps sixty with a florid face and a cruel mouth. He reached out for a glass and continued to read.

Saida said, “George, these gentlemen are looking for you.”

Hussein said, “Mr. Romano, I’m Hugh Darcy.”

Romano looked him over. “First of all, it’s Commander Romano. Secondly, although I must say your Guards tie makes a brave show, it won’t do, you know. You’d better sit down.”

“Why won’t it do, Commander?”

“This is yesterday’s paper. We always get it late in this neck of the woods. Lot of people here, though, who would run a mile and shout for the gendarmes if they knew who you are. Page four.”

Hussein sat down and stared at his photo. In that minute, everything so carefully contrived turned to ashes. Saida, reading over his shoulder, gasped.

“You are him.”

Khazid said, “Come, brother.”

“No need to panic,” Romano said. “It’s just a question of being practical about things. Of course, the only problem is I can’t contact the Broker-he contacts me. Can you get in touch with him?”

“Yes,” Hussein said.

“Excellent. This drink is marvelous. Brandy and ginger ale. Takes me back to my Navy days. You should try one.” He laughed. “But then you can’t-I was forgetting.”

“No, but Hugh Darcy could.”

“Yes, by God, you’re right. You don’t look like a raghead at all.” He shouted at the waiter, “ Pierre, two Horse’s Necks-no, three.” He glanced up at Khazid. “Got to play the game, eh?”

“If you say so.”

“Good boy.” Romano slapped Saida on the bottom. “Go and get the groceries and divest yourself of those appalling jeans when you get back on board. I’ve told you, I like little cotton skirts so a man can have a decent feel. Nothing like it.”

The waiter had just brought the three drinks. He put them on the table and the girl picked one up and threw it in Romano’s face. He wasn’t in the least put out and licked his lips.

“Delicious.” He reached for a napkin and wiped his face. “I’ll have to chastise you for that, but I’ll have great pleasure in taking care of it on the voyage.”

She was stu

“ England,” Romano said to Hussein. “People are desperate to get there, especially refugees without permission. She turned up months ago with an Albanian, but when push came to shove, he dumped her on the waterfront when we left and she was still here when I returned.”

“Each time he does another English run, he promises me a trip,” she complained to him. “I’ll go for the groceries.” She paused. “But I’ve hardly any money.” She shrugged and walked away.

Hussein nodded to Khazid, who went after her. Romano said, “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“If I may borrow one of the great Humphrey Bogart’s best lines: If I thought about you at all, I probably wouldn’t.” He opened his flight bag, felt for the brooch in its corner and pressed the button. He closed the case. “Now we wait.”

KHAZID CAUGHT UP WITH HER. “Don’t worry, get anything you want, I’ll take care of it.”

“Your friend,” she said. “Even I have heard of him. The Hammer of God.”

“A great man and a great soldier,” Khazid said.

“And you also are a soldier in the war?”

“Of course. In Iraq, it’s bad, believe me.”

“I see that on television. The Americans, the British.”

“No, it’s more than that. It’s a blackness, a disease that touches everyone. The brothers are killing each other, some weeks more than a thousand. Women and children die in the crossfire.”

“And how does it end?”

“Maybe never, but where are you going, the supermarket’s over there?”

“Yes.”

“Carry on, I’ll join you in a little while.”

They had just passed a cutlery shop and he walked back to inspect the window full of knives of every possible description. With his French background, he was aware that the authorities were more open-minded about certain types of weapons than other countries. He entered and found a white-haired old man behind the counter.

“Monsieur, what can I show you?”

“I seek a folding knife, substantial and preferably automatic.”

Fifteen minutes later, he left after inspecting a horn-handled flick knife and a seven-inch, razor-sharp, double-edged blade that jumped eagerly to his command at the touch of his thumb.

He crossed to the supermarket and joined her. “Have you got what you wanted?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “There’s nothing like being prepared for anything in this life and I don’t like the commander. Does that make me a bad man?”

“Anything but.”

“Good, then let’s make sure you’ve got all your groceries.”