The Killing Ground

He went out and Hussein felt the wheel kick with a sense of pleasure. The windscreen wipers were on, and the radio crackled and occasionally voices came through the static with weather details and sometimes ship movements.

He felt relaxed, comfortable, not really thinking of anything in particular and then the sea started becoming very lively, waves bursting over the prow and it was exciting. Romano returned.

“Force five-could make six.” He took out a fresh bottle and got it open. “You’d better go down and get something to eat. I grabbed a sandwich.”

So Hussein went below and found Khazid and Saida eating sandwiches made with unleavened bread and drinking tea. He joined in, suddenly discovering an appetite.

“I think I’ll have another, they’re good.” Khazid took the flick knife from his pocket, sprang the blade, leaned over and spiked a sandwich.

“Very nice. Where did you get it?” Hussein asked.

“Cutlery store by the marina. I felt naked. It’s been a long time since I had a gun in my pocket. This makes me feel better. I’ll go and spell him for a while.”

He went up the companionway, and a few minutes later Romano slipped and fell down the last three or four steps. Hussein went to help him out and Romano struggled and struck out at him, thoroughly drunk. Hussein put his hands up in a placating way. “Get away from me,” Romano said, and gave the girl a violent shove. “Go and get me another drink.”

He lurched down onto the bench seat. Hussein said, “No booze. Coffee-lots of coffee.”

He went up the companionway and found Khazid wrestling with the wheel, the boat plunging all over the place. “I’ll take over,” he said, and did so just as there was a scream from below and she called out, “I can’t take it anymore.”

The boat was all over the place, it was very dark, with only white streaks of foam, the deck wet and slippery, as the girl emerged from the companionway, Romano behind, reaching to grab her.

“Come on-let’s be having you.”

“Never-never again,” she said and tried to get away from him, sliding on the wet deck to the stern, and he slid after her, that drunken laugh again and went straight into her, knocking her over the rail. In a strange way, it was the most shocking thing Khazid had ever known in spite of the violent life he had led. One second she was there, the next gone.

Hussein switched off the engine at once and the boat rolled from side to side. Khazid managed to throw a life belt over, but to what? A small pool of light from the deck lights and only darkness beyond.

Romano, on his hands and knees, shouted, “Silly bitch.”

Khazid kicked him as hard as he could in the ribs. “You murdering bastard.” Romano managed to get up, scrambled for the companionway, and Khazid put a foot in his backside and Romano slid down the steps.

“I’ll turn the engine on again,” Hussein called Khazid.

“What for-she’s gone.”

He moved along the deck to the stern and Hussein cried out and there was movement behind and he turned and there was Romano swaying drunkenly, an old revolver in his hand.

“See this?” He fired, narrowly missing Khazid. “You stinking wog. Put your hands on me, would you?” He stepped close.

In an instant, Khazid’s hand came out of his pocket, the blade of the flick knife jumped and sheared up under Romano’s chin into the roof of his mouth.

“How does that suit you?” He swung him round and pushed him over the rail. The body was visible for a moment, then gone. At the same time, Hussein switched on the engine and the Seagull surged forward.

IT WAS ITS OWN WORLD in the wheelhouse, rain dashing against the windscreen, foul weather indeed, and so it had been for an hour since the madness that had cost two lives. It was after midnight when Khazid came up from the galley with an old-fashioned swinging can. The wind howled as the door opened and closed again.

Hanging on to the wheel, Hussein didn’t even turn. “Coffee?” Khazid poured half a cup and Hussein managed to grab it for long enough to get it down.

“Another?”

“I think so.”

Khazid poured, then took one for himself. “Good,” he said. “Damn good. I needed that.”

“You didn’t reach for the scotch then?”

“Yes, that, too. I was in shock. I’ve killed before, as nobody knows better than you, but not that way.”

“No need to feel guilty. If you hadn’t bought that knife in Saint-Denis, you’d have been over the rail yourself with a bullet in you. The way he treated that girl was an affront to Allah.”

“So what do we do?”

“Why, carry on. Don’t worry. As I told Romano, I may know nothing about boats, but as an aircraft pilot I can navigate, read charts and plot a course soundly enough to find Portland Bill and Peel Strand.”

“Even in this weather?”

“I’ve already checked the weather reports on the radio. It will moderate the closer we get. There will be fog in the morning, but we’ll cope with that as it comes.”

“Anything else? Do you want some sandwiches? Saida left a stockpile in the fridge.”

“I’ll have some when I come down, which I will now, because I must contact the Broker. You can take over here for a while.”

They changed places and he went out.

THE BROKER SAID, “For God’s sake, isn’t it possible to control that boy?”

“What he did was totally justified,” Hussein told him. “George Romano was a foul man and the world is well rid of him, so no apologies are necessary.”

There was not only steel in his voice, but a calm indifference that gave the Broker pause for thought.

“Can you cope?”

“With the boat? Of course I can. There will be considerable fog in the vicinity when we get to Peel Strand. I’ll take advantage of the concealment it offers to sink the Seagull.”

“Is that necessary?”

“I would imagine someone informing the coast guard after a while if it was just left there at anchor. We have a perfectly good inflatable with an outboard motor, so we’ll get inshore, no problem.”

“Have you any idea when you’ll be in?”

“About four o’clock, something like that. Dawn will be coming up. Romano had an Admiralty chart of the area in the wheelhouse. There is the Strand, some shingle beach indicated, fading into saltings. Wellington lives in the old marsh warden’s cottage.”

“Good. I’ll contact him, tell him to meet you.”

“What will you say? That there was an accident?”

“I think not. I’ll say Romano turned back close to shore because he was afraid of ru

“And the inflatable?”

“He told me to say that he could keep it.”

“I’m sure Darcus will be pleased. It would seem the panic button has been of use.”

“So it would appear,” the Broker said.

“What about Professor Khan? When can I contact him?”

“Whenever you consider it appropriate. It’s up to you.”

Hussein went back to the wheelhouse. Khazid seemed happy enough, hands still firmly on the wheel. “How did it go?”

Hussein told him what the Broker had said and filled him in on what he had been told earlier at the café in Saint-Denis.

“So not only have the Salters dealt with the Russian Mafia in London, but these IRA mercenaries have been stamped on. Six of them taken out. This is begi

“We’ve handled serious business before.” Hussein smiled. “I’m going to go and lie on a bunk for an hour. Wake me.” He went below.

DARCUS WELLINGTON, at Folly Way on Peel Strand, came awake with an angry moan and scrabbled for the bedside telephone, knocking over a half-empty cup of cold coffee. He sat up in his tumbled bed and reached for the light.