The Killing Ground

FOR ONCE, the Broker had been badly caught out. The unlooked-for appearance of the newspaper in the small French port with Hussein’s photo was unexpected, the reaction of Commander Romano unfortunate. For the moment, he had to meet Romano’s price if Hussein and Khazid were to make the next move in their progress to England. That he would be able to punish the man for his blackmail in the near future was certain. Al-Qaeda would see to that. He guaranteed the substantial additional funding Romano demanded, to be transferred to Switzerland in a matter of hours. When he was finished, he insisted on speaking to Hussein.

“Take a walk. I don’t want that creature to get any hint of what is happening.”

“Fine.”

“Our plans haven’t changed. I admit the other side has had some successes. Harry Salter disposed of a substantial outfit produced by the Russian Mafia. A contract on Ferguson and Salter involving six IRA operatives did no better. Two of them, common street gangsters, made a feeble attempt at Ferguson and Roper and now reside at the bottom of the Thames awaiting police recovery. Drugged to the eyeballs, they shot up half of Wapping.” He sighed. “So now it’s all up to you. Good luck with your crossing. I’m confident Darcus will be helpful, and Dreq Khan. Use him and his Army of God sweepers and the Brotherhood in London. But remember, this is not just a personal crusade concerning the Rashids and the girl. Ferguson must be a target, if possible, and Salter. The others are not prime targets.”

He cut off, preventing any further discussion, and Hussein went back to the table. Khazid and Saida had gone back to the boat. “I think your friend fancies her. Could be giving her a good shag now. We’ll get along to the boat and see if we can catch them.”

“You know when I said that if I thought about you at all, I probably wouldn’t like you? Well, I don’t,” Hussein told him.

“Oh, I’m a reasonable chap when I want to be. I’ve offered the girl a free trip with you, unless you object.”

“Casting her ashore with no papers and no money?”

They were moving along to the boat. “If she walks into the nearest police station, they arrest her and deliver her to the welfare authorities. She’ll be placed in a reasonable accommodation and given substantial payments to keep her going, and it’s highly unlikely she’ll be sent back. England ’s like that these days, mosques in every city. Not fair, old man. Try finding a church in Mecca or Medina and what about Iraqi Christians? Chased out of the country in their thousands.”

Hussein ignored him. “When do we leave?”

Romano glanced at his watch. It was five-thirty.

“I can’t see much point in hanging around.” He had a half-bottle of some wine or other and poured it down. “I checked on the weather. Could be rain squalls and there’ll be fog in the morning.”

They came to the Seagull and paused. “A nice boat,” Hussein said.

“You can say that again. Thirty-foot, built by Akerboom, twin screws, twenty-five knots, automatic steering if you want it, and I’ve got an inflatable with an outboard motor. Plenty of booze.” He laughed. “Damn me, I was forgetting about you.”

“And you’ll take the girl?”

“I suppose so. Peel Island is our destination, the Dorset coast quite close to Portland Bill. We anchor offshore, I take you in using the inflatable. I’ve got a sketch of your route inland. There’s a cottage by a marsh pond and it’s called Folly Way. I’ve never met the guy, and with a name like Darcus I doubt I’d want to. But enough conversation. Let’s get on board.”

Which they did. “Where the bloody hell are you?” he called to Saida.

“I’m in the galley getting supper ready. Henri is in the saloon.”

“Henri, my arse. Make the meal, then leave it ready. We’re going.”

She came out of the galley and stood at the bottom of the companionway looking up. “Does that include me?”

“Yes, though I don’t know why I bother. You’ve not changed your jeans. I’m really going to have to take you in hand.”

She ducked out of sight, Khazid brushed past her and came up to join them in the wheelhouse. “When do we go?”

“Within half an hour. Might as well get started.”

“How far?” Hussein asked.

“About a couple of hundred miles.” He checked the instruments and said to Hussein, “I set the course, which I know like the back of my hand, but I keep Admiralty charts out for the whole Cha

“No, but I’m a qualified pilot, so I’m an expert navigator, can set a course, read charts and so on.”

“Yes, well, if you look at the Admiralty chart, I’ve marked our course to Peel Island. That’s it, the red line.”

“Is there a village there?”

“No, the village has the name, but it’s a good half a mile inland. I’ve never been. I’ve spoken to this Darcus guy many times on the ship-toshore radio. The Broker got him one the other year when he started doing this as regular work. I know his background. He sounds like an old fruit to me. Anyway, let’s move it.”

He pressed the starter, the engine rumbled into life and he called to Khazid to cast off, which he did. They eased away from their mooring and moved slowly out to sea, the light begi

“Wonderful-a joy. Never fails.” He took the half bottle of brandy out of his reefer coat, opened it one-handed with his teeth and took a deep swallow.

“Go below, enjoy yourself. Come back later.”

Hussein descended below, looked in on Saida in the galley preparing the food and went into the saloon. There was a cabin aft with two bunks and a small toilet and a cramped shower. The cabin forward also had two bunks. There was a center table and Khazid was seated at it with a glass of wine.

“As you can see, I’m acting my role and rather enjoying it. Do you want one?”

“No, thanks, and not because I’m becoming pious. Religion seems to mean much less to me these days,” Hussein told him.

“That’s strange. No one has done more for the struggle than you.”

“But I’ve been fighting for my country, for Iraq, not so much for Islam.”

Saida could hear in the galley, and without asking, she brought him a coffee.

“My parents died in the bombing in the Gulf War. I didn’t like Sad-dam, but I didn’t welcome invaders, either. It’s all a mystery to me.” Hussein turned to Saida. “What about you?”

“And religion?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. The Serbs who killed my father and most of the men in my village were Christian, but hardly very good Christians. I think religious differences that lead to war are just an excuse to kill. These days, it’s so barbaric and cruel.”

Hussein sighed. “You’ve got a point. I think I’ll have that glass of wine after all.”

Saida went to a cupboard, got a bottle out without comment and filled a glass. Khazid held out his for a refill and they toasted each other.

“What do we drink to?” Khazid asked.

“To us, my friend, for in war, the only good to come out of it is comradeship.” He emptied the glass. “I’ll go up top and see how things are.”

THE BOAT PLOWED ON, the waves increasing somewhat, and rain dripped off the stretched awning in the stern and the deck lights were switched on.

“There you are,” Romano said. “Try the wheel.”

He moved out of the way to make room for Hussein, then took the half bottle of brandy out of his pocket and had a huge swallow. “Jersey to starboard, just coming up, the good old Cha