The Killing Ground

Khazid read it first and exploded. “You said there was no pulse! You should have let me finish him!”

“Things happen,” Hussein told him.

“Sooner or later, he’ll be able to talk.”

“So what? He can’t report on my new persona because he didn’t see me, which is one good thing. Another is that Ferguson has no idea we know about Zion. This will work, cousin, I feel it. Our astonishing good luck with Selim Bolton finding a way in, for example, can only be looked upon as the will of Allah himself.”

“Be practical, cousin. We don’t even know if our simple tools will move that manhole. We don’t know what’s down there if we can remove it, and what about the other end? It could be under six feet of earth, a garden rockery, anything.”

“A reco

“But what is our objective? Let’s say we can force a way through this tu

“Don’t be absurd.”

“Okay, so you hope she’s alone, knock her out, fling her over your shoulder, drag her through the tu

Hussein’s face was somber. “I gave Sara’s grandfather my most solemn oath before Allah to protect her, honor her in every way. I failed miserably in all respects. Death followed at every turn, our comrades died at the hands of Dillon and Salter, my uncle-struck down with the shame of it-was dead before his true time. You are right in everything you say. I do not know what to do or even to say if I should look upon her face again. Allah was the one who chose this path for me.”

“I think the truth is you never even knew where everything was leading from the begi

“There will be a purpose to everything and Allah will show what it is. I must go to Zion, I have no choice.”

“And neither do I.” Khazid sighed. “I finally accept that for the past two years as a soldier in the war in Iraq, I’ve been commanded by a raving lunatic. All of a sudden, I don’t find any comfort in the idea that I’m in the hands of Allah.”

“So you will desert me?” Hussein sat there, his face bleak. “So this is what it’s come to?”

Khazid managed a smile. “Now, do I look like that kind of fella, cousin? No, I’ll go down to hell with you if that’s what you want.”

Ali returned. “So, now we wait. I have arranged for Jamal to drive up to the public car park at Farley Field in a Telecom van. He’ll wait there and observe, just in case the Hawk plane gets some use. He is familiar with most of Ferguson’s crowd and will phone me the moment he has something and I’ll contact you.”

“Good idea,” Khazid told him, and Hussein’s special mobile sounded.

“It’s me,” the Broker said. “Cambridge didn’t go well, I hear.”

“It was unfortunate and led nowhere. We have no idea where Ferguson has the Rashids.”

“Forget the girl,” the Broker said. “Turn to more worthy targets. Have you been in touch with Khan?”

“No.”

“Strange, I get no response from him however I try.”

“I can’t help you.”

“Where are you?”

“A safe house. That is all I can tell you. Good-bye.” Hussein looked at Ali and Khazid. “So much for the Broker. Can we have some coffee?”

IN THE LIBRARY AT ZION, the Russians sat having a drink in the corner, trying to absorb the bad news about Hal Stone. Caspar and Molly were watching a film in the television room, and Sara was playing patience.

Levin said, “What an absolute bastard.”

“Two in the back.” Chomsky shook his head. “A hard thing to cope with, even with a great surgeon.”

“Sara looks lonely,” Greta said. “I’ll go and chat with her.”

She sat down on the other side of the table. “How’s it going?”

“A bore, really. How’s Professor Stone?”

Greta was shocked. “How on earth do you know?”

“It’s my guilty secret. I’ve got really good hearing. I can hear people speaking two rooms away, I can hear the conversation in a cell phone in your hand across the table without putting it to my ear. At my school, the girls called me Gestapo Bitch, because with me, they had no privacy. Anyway, Professor Stone. At least he’s come through surgery.”

“That’s true.”

“And it was Khazid who shot him.” It was a statement and not aquery.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Where do you think Hussein and Khazid are now?”

“We’ve no idea, but we do know for certain that they don’t know that you and your parents are here.”

“Really? The Hammer of God seems to be slipping, and that would be a first. Speaking of telephones, by the way, my mother must have had another mobile. I’ve heard her phoning Dr. Samson at the hospital about the Bedford child several times.” She shook her head. “Very silly.”

Greta said gravely, “I’ll have to let Ferguson know.”

“Of course.” Sara got up. “I’m for bed. I’m not going to tell them. I leave that decision to you.”

She went out and Greta moved back to the others and told them. Levin called Ferguson at once, caught him with Roper at Holland Park and gave him the bad news.

“What a stupid thing to do,” Ferguson said, “But don’t say anything to her. I’ll handle it myself. I’ll fly down in the morning with Dillon and Billy. More bad news. That address in Dorset at Peel Strand, cottage called Folly Way? The Dorset police checked it out. Found the owner, one Darcus Wellington, shot dead.”

“Good God,” Levin said.

“Good God indeed. They’ve traced his car to Bournemouth railway station from where they’ve obviously caught a fast train to London. Our boys have been busy. You see, Igor, it all starts to fit.”

AT HOLLAND PARK, Ferguson sat in the computer room with Billy and Dillon. Roper had his scotch in his hand.

“Well, here’s to Dr. Molly Rashid, great surgeon and humanitarian.”

“The trouble is her work’s the most important thing in her life,” Dillon said. “It’s so important it sweeps everything else aside.”

“What on earth are you implying?” Ferguson demanded of Roper.

“That if I was, for example, al-Qaeda, I’d let the word go out to sympathizers that any news of even the briefest contact with Dr. Molly Rashid and where she was would be welcome.”

“Stop it, Major,” Ferguson said “Bloody nonsense. But we’ll fly down from Farley at nine sharp.”

THE CARAVANETTE WAS PACKED with everything they needed, and Ali, Hussein and Khazid sat in the back of the shop for a little while in silence.

After a while, Hussein said, “Bed, I think. We’ll depart at six A.M. With three hours on the road, we’ll reach there about nine.”

“It should have been a weekend,” Khazid said. “More bird-watchers.”

“The fewer the better,” Hussein told him and stood up. “You will wake us, my friend?” he asked Ali.

Khazid said, “I had a good friend called Hassim. They killed him in Hazar, Dillon and Salter. Could he have been kin to you?”

“I think not. May he rest in peace.”

Hussein went upstairs, Khazid following. Ali had given them a small bedroom each. They stood on the landing, looking at each other, then parted without a word.

Khazid put his flight bag on the bed, took out his silenced Walther, the clips, the Uzi machine pistol with its spare magazine. He doubled them up with Scotch tape so that he could reverse load when under stress. Everything was ready, including the hand grenade he’d slipped in without telling Hussein. He lay on the bed, closed his eyes and went to sleep quickly.