The Killing Ground

Next door Hussein checked and loaded his Walther, put it back in his flight bag, lay on the bed and said his prayers, as he had done since childhood. He closed his eyes. He was in the hands of Allah now. He had never been more certain of anything in his life.

Chapter 16

AT HOLLAND PARK ROPER DOZED IN HIS WHEELCHAIR in front of the screens, as he often did through the night.

He usually awakened after an hour or so, checked the screens, then dozed off and usually opened his eyes again when the pain became reasonably unbearable. His ravaged body was long past doctors’ prescriptions, but of course, the cigarettes and what he called the whiskey sups helped.

Sergeant Doyle, on night duty, had peered through the small window in the door, as he did frequently, observed the Major was awake and went to the canteen and made him the kind of bacon and egg sandwich that Roper enjoyed and took it to him. It was just before five o’clock in the morning and he put it down in front of Roper.

“There you go, Major. I didn’t bother with tea. I knew you’d just let it go cold. Have you had a good night?”

“Sit down and join me for a while, Sergeant.” Roper wolfed the sandwich. “Between midnight and dawn is the strangest time of all to be on your own, because all you’ve got is the past and you know you can’t alter that.”

“Would you want to, Major? I’ve spent twenty years of my life a soldier and I’ve never known a finer one than you or a braver.”

“Hunched over all those bombs in good old Ireland until I made the one careless mistake over a silly little parked car?”

“You were doing your duty, getting the job done. We all accept what soldiering means. It comes with the Queen’s shilling and the first time you put on the uniform.”

“Let’s look at that,” Roper said. “You did Irish time?”

“Six tours.”

“Then you know that members of the Provisional IRA considered themselves soldiers. How do you react to that?”

“Not particularly well,” Doyle said, “as I was frequently shot at during my tours of duty by bastards who didn’t wear a uniform.”

“Neither did the French Resistance in the Second World War. The guy who made the bomb that got me was called Murphy. When he ended up in court, he refused to recognize it. Said he was a soldier fighting a war.”

“What happened to him?”

“Three life sentences in the Maze and died of cancer.”

Doyle thought about it. “Where’s this going, Major?”

“Like I said, between midnight and dawn, the past going through your head. I saw some film on television showing a British-born Muslim swearing allegiance to al-Qaeda. He also said he was a soldier fighting a war.”

“I saw that,” Doyle said. “Where does it end?”

“I’d say with our present problem, Hussein Rashid. Put it to him, he’d say exactly the same thing as all of them.”

“Then maybe it’s just an excuse, a cop-out? At least you were blown apart wearing a uniform, Major. That bugger Murphy wasn’t.” He stood up and shrugged. “There’s no solution to it, really. I’m going to make tea now. Want some?”

“Actually, I would.”

Doyle went to the door and paused. “I didn’t tell you it’s started raining outside and the wind’s building up. You might find the Hawk can’t get off at Farley.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it.”

He checked the weather report on television and it wasn’t good, then he accepted the mug of tea from Doyle and poured a whiskey sup in it when he was alone. He pulled Hussein’s photo on screen. It stared back at him, that Che Guevara look.

“Yes, I know that isn’t you anymore, but where the hell are you?”

And closer than he would ever have dreamed possible, at the shop on the edge of West Hampstead, Ali Hassim was tapping on Hussein’s door, a cup of tea in his hand. He put on the light and went in. Hussein was awake.

“It’s earlier than you said, but the weather is not good.” He put the green tea down at the side of the bed.

The window rattled in the wind. Hussein said, “My thanks for the tea, but I must pray for a while. I’ll be ready to leave at the time agreed. If you would turn off the light.”

“Of course.”

Ali went out, tapped on Khazid’s door and went downstairs.

ROPER DOZED AGAIN and came awake to find it was just seven o’clock. At the same time, the Caravanette pulled in at a Little Chef outside Guildford. There was a strong wind and the rain was relentless, but Hussein and Khazid were impervious to it, thanks to the outfits Bolton had purchased. The three-quarter-length anoraks in olive green were hooded with capacious pockets large enough for the silenced Walthers they carried, including spare clips of ammunition. Waterproof bush hats, leggings and heavy boots made short work of the weather.

There were a dozen or so customers scattered around the café, mainly truck drivers from the look of what was in the car park. Hussein and Khazid sat in a corner away from anyone else.

“What do we eat?” Khazid asked.

“Look at the menu. The popular choice is the full English breakfast with a mug of tea.”

“Which includes bacon for a start.”

“In the circumstances, Allah will be merciful. So, go to the counter and in your best broken French, give the order. To be practical, I’m hungry and we have a long day ahead of us.”

Khazid went and spoke to the young girl on duty and returned and sat down. “What do you think of the Caravanette? It’s hardly a getaway car, the engine throbbing when you put your foot down.”

“It could be argued that it would be perfect for such a purpose. What police are usually chasing is the faster traffic, not the vehicle in the slow lane.”

“A debatable point,” Khazid said.

The girl brought the breakfasts and teas on a tray, put everything on the table and departed. “My chief instructor in the camp in Algeria had a saying: Walk, don’t run, whenever possible. Now eat your breakfast, little brother, and shut up.”

IT WAS EIGHT O’CLOCK when Dillon and Billy joined Roper, and his news wasn’t too good. “I’ve had Lacey on. He and Parry have arrived at Farley. It’s not too nice. He certainly thinks it’s not on for a nine-o’clock departure. They’ll just have to wait for a window of opportunity. I’ve spoken to Ferguson. He’s suggested we have a quick breakfast. He’ll be here for an eight-thirty departure.”

“That’s fine,” Dillon said. “Are you going to join us?”

“I don’t think so. I’d a bad night, and then this weather.” He shook his head. “I think I’ll check with Zion while you eat. See you later.”

Dillon and Billy left him for the canteen, and Roper called Levin.

AT THE DINING ROOM at Zion House, Levin, Chomsky and Greta sat at a corner table and rain rattled against the French windows, the terrace outside streaming with it as it fell on the garden extending all the way to the wall, the wood beyond.

There was a certain amount of mist that made everything look a little mysterious. Various trees, masses of rhododendrons, willow trees, an old summerhouse, sheltered pathways ru

Greta, who was drinking coffee and looking out, said, “Rain, bloody rain, but it suits the garden.”

Sara came up behind. “I heard that. It’s like something out of Jane Eyre. Dark and brooding.”

“Would you like to join us?” Greta said.

“No, I’d better go and sit in the far corner. The parents are coming down, I’ll see you later.”

She moved across, waving cheerfully at Captain Bosey and Fletcher and Smith, two of his guards, who were eating together. A little later, Caspar and Molly arrived and joined their daughter. One of the girls, Kitty, took an order and went off to the kitchen.