The Killing Ground

AT THAT MOMENT, Hussein and Khazid, having arrived without incident on the Cambridge train, were in a shop specializing in academic gowns, college scarves and the like. Khazid, under Hussein’s orders, purchased a short gown of the type favored by undergraduates, but not a Corpus Christi scarf.

“I expect the porters pride themselves on knowing their own students.”

Khazid went down the list and chose a New Hall scarf and a dark beret and they left. Entrance to the college was no problem, students passing in and out through the gates, students everywhere, or so it seemed. They moved up a floor and Khazid, in his Henri Duval persona, stopped a passing female undergraduate and inquired for Professor Stone in English heavily laced with French, his beret helping establish his nationality.

She was obviously amused, but waved toward the other end of the corridor. “Down there, but he’s never in.”

“Then where would he be, mademoiselle?”

“Don’t ask me, try the phone book.”

She hurried away, Khazid shrugged and then they reached the end and found a wooden sign hanging on the door saying simply, Hal Stone Is Not Here Today.

Khazid tried the door, but it was locked. “Now what do we do?”

“The obvious,” Hussein told him. “We do what the girl suggested and look in a phone book.”

“And what if he’s not in?”

“You’re a pessimist, my friend. He’s a famous man at one of the great colleges, a professor of the University of Cambridge -of course he’ll be in the phone book. Now let’s find one.”

AT ZION PLACE, Caspar was exploring the garden with his daughter and found some of his cares slipping away. The three Russians sat on the terrace and watched.

“That girl is really quite amazing,” Greta said. “She can be a child and adore childish things at one minute, and the next, she’s like a mature woman.”

“But then if you consider what she’s been through,” Levin said, “the death, the destruction at such a young age.”

Chomsky said, “In Chechnya, one could see the same look a hundred times on the faces of children that on occasion I have seen on hers. The face goes blank to conceal what lies inside.”

“God help her survive it all in herself. I know I’ll do everything to help that I can,” Greta said.

“But the mother,” Levin said, “is something else.”

“A brilliant surgeon.” Greta nodded and said the same thing as Hal Stone. “An obsessive who is convinced that what she does is more important than anything else in her life.”

“Good for her ego, but lousy from a relationship point of view,” Levin pointed out.

And upstairs Molly Rashid was proving him right to a certain extent, locking herself in the bathroom and calling the particular hospital where she’d operated on the Bedford child, on the direct mobile number of a Dr. Harry Samson, who, to a great extent, had taken over for her. She caught him on the ward itself, a private one.

“It’s me, Molly Rashid,” she said. “How is she?”

Although the news was mixed and there was much to say, finally he got personal. “How are you?”

“Oh, well, I think. We had a problem with Sara, but a rest in the country is doing good and I’ll be back in a week definitely. But never mind that, it’s Lisa Bedford I’m concerned about.”

“Can I have the number in case I need to contact you?”

“We’re moving around a bit, Harry. It’s not my phone.”

“No, please don’t go. I’m really concerned about little Lisa Bedford. You did a wonderful operation and I’ve got to give this my best shot. It would be good for me to be able to check with you if things do take a turn for the worst.”

And in the end, she was trapped, by both feelings and situation. “Dammit, Harry, when you’ve taken a call, you can call me straight back on a mobile, you know that. I said it wasn’t my phone, but it is. Call me back anytime you want. I’ll switch off the sound and leave it on vibration.”

He was concerned. “Look, are you all right?”

“Oh, everything’s in a mess,” she burst out. “I’m here with Caspar and Sara, at this sort of country retreat in West Sussex. Zion House.”

Instantly regretted, but it was too late.

“You mean some sort of clinic?”

“Oh, God, I don’t know what I mean. Good-bye, Harry.”

“Zion House,” he murmured, put down his mobile on the table and started doing his notes.

The nurse on duty was a young Muslim woman named Ayesha, who had been ordered by Ali Hassim to swap shifts to get on the Bedford case, precisely because of the co

“What was that you said, Doctor?”

He looked up, slightly abstracted. “It was Dr. Rashid, wanting to know how the child is getting on. Said she was somewhere called Zion House in West Sussex. She’ll be away for a week. Her daughter’s had some problem or other.”

The loudspeaker crackled, calling him on an emergency, and he ran out, leaving his mobile. She pressed the return call button and copied Molly’s number and went into an empty room. Since there was no other nurse there she was able to phone Ali Hassim on her own mobile.

When he answered, she said, “Dr. Rashid phoned up to check on the child. She said she was in West Sussex at somewhere called Zion House. I’ve also got her mobile phone number for you.”

“Excellent, girl, you have done well.”

“I have only done my duty. I’m sure you can find this place on the Internet.”

And she was right, of course, for Ali immediately phoned for the assistance of a member of the Brotherhood, giving him the facts and telling him it was urgent. An hour later, the man appeared at the shop with his laptop and Ali took him in the back room.

“There are several mentions. The marshland about the place is National Trust. The house itself is mentioned a number of times in an official history of the SOE, which used to train agents there during the Second World War. Since then, it’s been in the hands of the Ministry of Defence. Apparently, there are various restriction orders in place. There is also a concrete runway. Then I’ve found mention in general West Sussex tourist guides. Zion Village is three miles from the house, with a medieval church called Saint Andrew, two pubs, several bed-and-breakfasts, a caravan site.”

“Brilliant,” Ali said.

“No, it’s really very simple. These machines can do anything you want them to. You should learn. I’ll go now. I must earn a living, you know.”

He left, and Ali sat there trying to think who he should call first.

THEY FOUND THE COTTAGE in Chapel Lane easily enough. There was another message on a board hanging from the front door. Students Definitely Not Welcome.

“A humorist,” Khazid said.

“I knew professors just like that. It’s an academic thing. However, if he means it, we don’t get in. That’s a voice box on the door. If you touch the button to call, it usually puts you on screen. Look, there’s a camera up there.”

“So what do we do?”

“Let’s explore.”

There was a narrow flagged path down one side of the cottage that turned in behind the back garden wall. There was a stout wooden door that was locked and the top of the wall was crowned with ancient Victorian spikes.

“What do we do?” Khazid asked. “Try and climb over?”

“If he’s there in the kitchen or sitting room he’d be certain to see us and reach for the nearest phone.” Hussein shook his head. “That notice probably means what it says. There are times when he values his privacy. On the other hand, a young undergraduate in gown and scarf with a beret on his head and a very French accent, seeking advice, might interest him. Go and give it a try at the front door. If it works, take him prisoner. Don’t harm him in any way, and let me in through this door.”