The Killing Ground

Levin’s phone went and it was Roper. “How’s the house party proceeding?”

“Rain and even a little mist. Makes the garden look romantic.”

“What about the runway?”

“I can’t see from here. Hang on and I’ll go to the terrace.” Which he did, going out to the hall and helping himself to an umbrella he found behind the door. He opened it and stepped out, giving Roper a ru

“Well, Lacey doesn’t seem to think nine o’clock’s likely. He’ll await a window of opportunity was what he said.”

“Okay, I’ll keep in touch.”

Levin turned, moved back to the house to report to the others.

AT FARLEY FIELD, Jamal had set himself up in the public car park. He parked in a spot from which he could see the arrivals. The Hawk was already parked on the other side of the terminal building.

The yellow van had Telecom on the side and he raised the rear door like a flap against the rain and sat there from half-past seven and waited. He was surrounded by coils of wire, a large tool box was open, and in his yellow oilskins with Telecom on the back, he looked perfectly acceptable.

Ali Hassim, who had phoned several times, tried again at half-past eight. “Still nothing?”

“I’m afraid so. I will contact you the moment I see anything.”

He opened a lunch box and took out a banana and a carton of yogurt, ate it slowly with a spoon, then unpeeled the banana, watching. Time ticked by and suddenly the People Traveller from Holland Park, the vehicle that he had followed on his motorbike when it had taken the Rashids and the three other people to Farley, arrived. He watched it park at the end of the terminal. Three men hurrying for shelter. He knew one was Ferguson because Hassim had shown him a photo.

He phoned Ali instantly. “They’ve arrived, Ferguson definitely and two other men. They were too fast for me, hurrying through the rain.”

“Allah be praised. Phone me again the moment they take off.”

“It may be a while. The weather is not good.”

“So wait and watch.”

IN THE TERMINAL BUILDING, Ferguson talked to Lacey. “What do you think?”

“I don’t hold out any hope of nine o’clock. The flight down there takes an hour, a little more depending on the wind and whether it changes direction. Maybe another half hour. That would give an estimated time of arrival at about ten-thirty. We’ll just have to see. I suggest coffee, General.”

“Oh, very well.” Ferguson wasn’t pleased and phoned Levin.

“Nine o’clock and waiting. Lacey still has hopes. I’ll call you.” He shrugged and said to Dillon and Billy, “Can’t be helped. Let’s find this coffee.”

AT ZION, the Caravanette had arrived twenty minutes earlier and passed through the village as Khazid drove, following Bolton’s instructions, passing the house and the electronic barrier at the estate entrance with the guardhouse beside it.

Farther along, they came to the sprawling country car park surrounded with high hedges and the wood on the other side. There was one thing that Bolton had failed to mention, a brick public convenience. As for the car park, at that moment in time, there wasn’t a single vehicle parked there.

Khazid got out. “I have an idea.”

He went to the public convenience, looked behind and returned. “I think I could squeeze the Caravanette round the back of it?”

“No, we won’t do that,” Hussein said. “Remember what I said? Walk, don’t run. We are harmless eccentrics who prefer to be out in the pouring rain watching birds to sitting at home. We’ve nothing to hide. Just park us there by the wood. The gate guard can’t see down here anyway.”

His phone went. It was Ali, who described the situation at Farley. Hussein took the news quite calmly. “Call me the moment the Hawk leaves.”

“Where are you?”

“Where we are supposed to be. Now don’t bother me until you have news.”

Khazid said, “What’s happening?”

“Jamal at Farley has seen the Hawk waiting and Ferguson and two men arrive, probably Dillon and Billy Salter. He will inform Ali the moment the Hawk takes off. I know that plane, I’ve flown one. I’d say in good weather, it would be here at Zion in an hour, maybe a little more today.”

“Allah preserve us,” Khazid said in awe. “Ferguson himself on the terrace of that house? The British Prime Minister’s head of security, a man with huge links to the American President. What a target. This changes everything. Our place in heaven is assured.”

“It changes nothing,” Hussein told him. “First we need to get into the grounds, fool. So, orders. The large pockets in our anoraks will carry our weapons and additional ammunition with no problem, even your Uzi with the stock folded. We leave the flight bags locked in the Caravanette.

You can carry the canvas bag with the tool kit, I will have my Zeiss glasses around my neck, and then into the wood with us.”

“To watch birds,” Khazid answered.

“Of course, and if any bird-watchers as crazy as us turn up in this weather, remember you’re French.” He led the way along the side of the wood toward the runway end, checking his watch and finding it was just after nine.

Bolton’s instructions had really been very good. Hussein turned into the fringe of pine trees at that point and said, “Stop, I want to take a look.”

He focused the Zeiss glasses that Bolton had procured. They were excellent. He sca

Hussein said hoarsely, “I’ve just seen Sara on the terrace under an umbrella and Caspar behind her. They’ve gone in again. Have a quick look.”

Khazid did, handed them back, and Hussein said, “Let’s get to it.”

Within a few minutes, thanks to Bolton’s briefing, they forced their way through the thicket and found the stone.

“Excellent.” He stamped around, kicking in the grass, and Khazid unfolded the canvas tool kit. There were two small steel spades and two lengthy crowbars ranged along the bottom of the bag. A sledgehammer and a flashlight. There was also a dark green waterproof cape, to hide an open hole if necessary.

Remembering what Bolton had told them he had done, Hussein tapped around in the turf and heard the clang of metal on metal.

“Now the spades,” he said. “Come on, both of us.”

They attacked savagely and the pointed steel blades tore into the turf, turning it over, soon revealing a circular iron manhole. It was worn with the years, pitted, but it was still possible to read the manufacturer’s name: Watson amp; Company, Canal Street, Leeds.

They looked at it in silence. “Amazing,” Khazid said. “After all these years.”

“Try moving it,” Hussein told him.

There was a steel handle in a cup setting in the center. Khazid pushed one of the crowbars through and heaved. Nothing much happened, and at that moment Hussein’s mobile sounded. He answered at once and found Ali there.

“Jamal has just called me. Although the weather is still poor here, the Hawk has just departed. It’s nine-thirty. Does everything go well?”

“We’ve found the entrance, but I’ve no time to talk.” He slipped the phone into his pocket and took the other crowbar from the bag, inserted it and they heaved together without success.