The Killing Ground

“It’s so useful having a husband who is a Bedouin. Rashids are great tea drinkers. Go on, five minutes. Poke your nose anywhere. See if you can see why there’s no bathroom in the main bedroom.”

Greta moved quite quickly from bedroom to bedroom, several bathrooms and dressing rooms, all beautifully decorated, a cheerful full-size stuffed bear standing on the landing.

Finally, she reached the master bedroom, which was a work of art, with a superb dressing room next door. She returned to the bedroom and looked thoughtfully at the wardrobe mirrored doors. She opened them one by one, and suddenly a section swung back disclosing a hidden bathroom, a joy in contrasting marbles. She went downstairs, to find Molly sitting at one of the bar stools dispensing tea. “How did you get on?”

“I found it, after a thorough search. It’s a refuge, I presume?”

“Well, I’ve never had to use it in that way. The idea of needing it for such a purpose fills me with alarm. Why does it have to be us?”

“Your husband is a man of some distinction in the world, therefore of great use for the dark side of the Muslim world. Positive publicity would emerge if he went public supporting extremism. Instead, he turns away from his faith, spurns it. That makes him a traitor in their world. Fundamentalists, or many of them, do not wish to acknowledge their Britishness, even when born here.” She got up. “I think we better get moving.”

A few minutes later, they were drawing out of the main gate. “How far did you say it was to Abu’s shop?”

“Five minutes, that’s all. The traffic at that time of night is very sparse. We’ll actually pass it, so I’ll show you.” She did, pulling to a halt on the other side of the road. There was a yellow painted van parked outside the shop, with a sign that said CLEANSING DEPARTMENT. Two men stood beside it with Arabic features and yellow oilskins, not surprising because of the rain, and then a third man in a yellow oilskin appeared, pushing a yellow painted wheelie bin, spades and brushes falling out of it. They exchanged words, and the van drove away.

“Now that’s strange,” Molly said.

“What is?”

“That third man was Abu. He’s supposed to be on shift today.”

“Maybe he works a second job,” Greta said, but she didn’t believe that for a moment. “I’ll call Roper,” she said.

She did, and he returned her call fifteen minutes later. “You’re getting nervous, ladies. They’ve got half a dozen vans traveling the area and checking drains. It’s a monthly exercise.”

“All right,” Greta said. “We’ll see you soon, then. What about breakfast?”

“Taken care of. Tony’s Café round the corner in Arch Street. Takeaway delivery. Congealed scrambled egg, bacon, toast long since past its best. I’d like to take someone on to cook, but I haven’t the authority. I also lack the genius that allows General Charles Ferguson, DSO, Military Cross, to select middle-aged women with rosy cheeks to run a successful canteen, like Mrs. Grant did. Unfortunately, she’s gone to a better place, or wasn’t that her funeral I went to three weeks ago?”

“You’re mad, Roper,” Greta said.

“I have been ever since I met you, dear girl. It’s a privilege to serve you. Until then…”

Greta was laughing hugely. “He’s such a fool.”

“All bluff,” Molly said.

“Oh, yes, there’s no hope. All those lives he saved and what was his return? A burned face and severed spine. Shrapnel still in five places. A wife who dumped him. It’s true. Dillon told me when we were drinking too much one night. Apparently, she simply couldn’t cope.”

“She was young, weak and vulnerable. It happens. To have done what he has is proof that Major Roper is a remarkable man. Don’t think that beneath the surface, there must be a man who is cursed by his suffering. He is a survivor.”

“Tell me about it. You’re a nice lady with a good heart. I, on the other hand, served in Chechnya, Afghanistan and Iraq. I still haven’t discovered what that means about me. When I have, I’ll let you know.”

“I’m so sorry,” Molly said.

“Don’t be. In a strange way, I rather enjoyed it. I wonder what that makes me?” and she turned into the safe house and waited for the gate.

THE BREAKFAST FROM TONY’S was delivered to Sergeant Doyle in a vacuum-packed carrying box, and he allowed Molly to join her husband in his cell. The others made do with the committee table in the conference room. After they were all done, Roper asked the Rashids to join them in the conference room.

“We’ll finish our coffee in a civilized way and then I’ll fill you all in,” he said. “I’m expecting a couple of people who are essential if we’re ever going to get off the ground.”

A moment later, the doorbell sounded and Sergeant Doyle returned with two fit-looking men in leather bomber jackets. The RAF mustaches said it all. Greetings were exchanged and Roper made the introductions.

“Squadron Leader Lacey, AFC, and Flight Lieutenant Parry, AFC. They’ll be flying the Gulfstream. They specialize in operations for our outfit.”

“Anything and everything,” Lacey said.

Dillon, who had a flask of Bushmills in his pocket, took it out, unscrewed the cap and toasted them. “There’s just one small correction. It seems that our two distinguished pilots have not one but two Air Force Crosses apiece.”

They both looked at him dumbfounded.

“Harry always reads the Times. It appears you’ve been gazetted in this morning’s issue, something about covert operations. Can’t imagine where they got that from,” Billy said.

Dillon said, “To many more happy landings,” and raised the flask.

Many more congratulations followed, until Roper opened a briefcase and took out a document pouch. “All right, Squadron Leader, this is for you. Flight details to Baghdad. It’s rather like that job we did a year and a half ago. Your passengers are Billy and Dillon. The purpose of the trip is contained in that file. You’ll wait for them, and on the return there’ll be one other passenger, a thirteen-year-old girl being held under restraint in Iraq. Dillon and Billy will recover her and bring her back home.”

Lacey said, “The situation in Baghdad is still very rough. In the last two weeks, seven helicopters have been downed. Naturally, we’ll do our best, though.”

“We know you will.”

“When, sir?”

“I’d say within the next twenty-four hours.”

“Right, Major. Anything more?”

Roper put a little mystery into his voice. “Squadron Leader, you will have seen many war films where the hero, being asked to do some deed of daring, is told it could win the war for us. Well, this is rather like that. There are security repercussions that would be hugely favorable for us if we can pull it off.”

They took that very seriously indeed. “Just let us get on with it. We’ll get straight up to Farley now.”

DILLON TURNED TO RASHID. “Caspar, you should know that Billy and I had dealings with the Rashid tribe ourselves the other year. With Paul, the Earl of Loch Dhu, and his sister, Lady Kate, both of them in turn, the leaders of the tribe.”

“When they were still alive,” Billy put in.

Caspar stiffened. “Did you have anything to do with that? The events were a huge shock to the people.”

“It nearly cost them a railway bridge,” Billy said. “You probably know it-the Bacu? Spans a five-hundred-foot gorge, constructed during World War Two. The bridge almost got blown up.”

Rashid was most disturbed. “The earl and his sister were killed. That was you?”

“My friend, you’re not telling us your secrets, why should I tell you ours?”

“Incredible view from the bridge,” Billy said.

Molly said slowly, “Are you trying to tell us you executed them?”