The Killing Ground

“Notice the interesting scar on Billy’s face?” said Dillon. “That was Kate Rashid, as well as two bullets in the pelvic girdle and another in the neck. I know the rights and wrongs of these things are difficult to handle, but that’s the way it was. Believe me when I tell you, they were very bad people. Perhaps you should retire to your husband’s holding cell and try to come to terms with it.”

Roper said, “And we are the good guys, Doctor. Confusing, isn’t it?”

DOYLE APPEARED to escort them and Roper said, “You might as well sit in on this, Greta. The Rashid Villa is north of the city in Amara, and thanks to the genius of my equipment, I can show you it now. Amazing what we owe to the satellite. Look and marvel, children.”

The villa was obviously the home of a wealthy man. There was no sign of bomb damage, it was surrounded by palm trees in clumps, and there was a sizable orange grove, plus lemons and olives. Boats drifted along the Tigris. “All very peaceful.”

“You’d never think a war was going on,” Billy said. “Look carefully. Some women on the house terrace. Go through the orange and lemon groves. At least half a dozen male workers and the main gate is fortified. Three men down there, and I’ll bet those rifles they are carrying are AKs. A few tents in the grounds, though.”

“Tough nut to crack.”

“But not impossible.” On the river, a forty-foot speedboat flashed past. “Because of the state of things in the city, the boat business is booming. It avoids roadside bombs. Ex-Navy guys, SAS, former Green Berets, are all at it.”

“Who have you got?” Dillon demanded.

“A rogue named Jack Savage. He was a sergeant-major in the Special Boat Service, Royal Marines. Used to specialize in operations against the IRA during the Irish troubles, knocking off trawlers and the like ru

“Where?”

“A club down by the river. He owns it in partnership with a wife named Rawan Savage, originally Rawan Feleyah, she’s Druze. He’s named it the River Room. Tells me it reminds him of the Savoy. I’ve filled him in on the situation. He’ll have the right sort of plan worked out.”

“You mean an approach from the Tigris?”

“He and other vessels travel up and down, particularly at night, on good business and bad.”

Dillon nodded and turned to Billy. “Run me down to Wapping. Let’s fill Harry in. You know he likes that.”

“He’ll try and come, too,” warned Billy, “He’s done that before.”

“Tell me about it.” Dillon said to Greta, “You’d better try to prise the good doctor from her husband.”

Greta went to their room, and Molly and Caspar rose to greet her. “Time to go. You won’t be seeing each other again until this whole thing is over. How do you feel about that?”

“As Allah wills,” he said.

“For a man who doesn’t follow his religion, you reflect on Allah a lot.”

“You could be right, but we are all at the mercy of events. This will be a violent affair?”

“If things go right, it could go very simply.”

“And if they go wrong, people will die. Even Sara could die.”

“There are always risks. But let me tell you about the man you’re dealing with, Sean Dillon. He was the most feared enforcer the Provisional IRA ever had.”

“And what went wrong?”

“During the war in Bosnia, he flew a private plane into Serbia carrying medical supplies for children. He was shot down and facing death when Charles Ferguson arrived. Ferguson blackmailed Dillon into joining his organization, and then did a deal with his captors.”

“What kind of people inhabit your world?” Molly Rashid asked in a kind of horror.

“People who are prepared to do whatever is necessary. We must go. You said you were on call at the hospital.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Do you want to visit the house?”

“No, not really. I have everything I need.”

“Good, I’ll drop you, then check to see that all is well. I’ll see you again at the end of the afternoon. I have your mobile number.”

The rest of the journey passed in silence. At the hospital, Molly Rashid took the umbrella she was offered, opened it and stood looking down. “You must have killed people yourself.”

“Many times,” Greta said serenely. “I’m in the death business; but then so are you. I’d have thought you’d have got used to it by now.”

Molly Rashid smiled sadly. “I imagined I was in the life business, but it seems I was misinformed.”

She turned toward the hospital entrance and Abu came out and down the steps. “Abu,” she called. “Where are you going? I thought you were on duty?”

He smiled at them both. “Ladies. No, I’ve got this afternoon off. A friend is picking me up,” and at that moment the yellow van appeared, carrying just the driver, an Arab with a pockmarked face. “This is Jamal. I often help him in my spare time.”

Jamal, who looked like the kind of man who was permanently angry, nodded unwillingly, Abu climbed in beside him, and they drove away. Greta said to Molly, “I’ll see you later,” and followed them.

The traffic was light at that time of the afternoon and, on a hunch, she drove straight to the Rashids’ house, parked in the garage and locked the door. She went upstairs to the highest window in the house and only a few minutes later, she could see the yellow van pause across the road as Abu got out and came across and the van moved away and parked under the trees.

Greta nodded. Better to let Abu make a forced entrance. Information on Caspar Rashid? That must be what he was after. She listened to the sudden crash of a pantry window, then retreated to the master bedroom and concealed herself in the refuge.

She could hear him moving around and finally entering the bedroom. Then he used his mobile phone and spoke in Arabic to Jamal. Thanks to her service in Iraq, she spoke fair Arabic herself.

“There’s no one here. No, wait for me, you have your orders. I’m going to search the study, see if I can find anything for Professor Khan. Just stay by the canal.”

Greta took her Walther from the waist holster and twisted the Cars-well silencer on the muzzle. She stepped out into the corridor. He was toward the far end, a pistol hanging in his right hand.

“Surprise, surprise,” she said softly in Arabic. “Nice of you to call. Dr. Rashid is not at home, but I’m her minder.”

He swung round, thunderstruck, and for a moment seemed dazed. She continued in English. “Caspar Rashid isn’t at home, either: we’ve got him, which must make you Army of God people mad as hell. And who’s Professor Khan?”

It was like an explosion, his face contorted, his hand started to lift, and she shot him between the eyes, a dull thud, and he fell backward, dead instantly.

She followed procedure as she had been taught, got through to Roper on her Codex Four.

“Where are you? What’s up?”

“I’ve got a disposal. I’m at the Rashid house alone. The Abu boy broke in armed. I’d no choice.”

“They’ll be on their way immediately. He’ll be six pounds of gray ash at the crematorium in a matter of hours.”

“Should I tell her when I see her at the hospital?”

“If I judge her right, no. She’s not like us. She’s one of the good people. Corpses aren’t part of her world.”

THEY WERE EXCELLENT, the men in dark suits, they might have been undertakers all their lives. Abu’s head was wrapped, he was body-bagged, and one of the men cleaned the corridor, which luckily was varnished wood.

“You’d hardly notice, Major.” He produced a throw rug and laid it down. “There you are.”

She saw them out, then walked down the track beside the canal. Jamal was sitting behind the wheel and she leaned down.