The Killing Ground (19 page)

“Excellent. I have a destination for you.”

“Where?”

“Algeria, just as I said. You, of course, did your combat training there in the camps. So did Dillon thirty years ago when he was nineteen and first joined the IRA. Do you know an area called the Khufra, on the coast?”

“No, I was in the desert two hundred miles west. It had a bad reputation. Why would we go there?”

“In a way, it’s a message from me to Major Roper that I’m on to him.

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Ferguson’s people had a hard time of it there last year. They’re still wanted by the Algerian police for several murders. Anyway, it’s a bad place, hundreds of miles of marsh, creeks, lots of boats and a hotbed of smuggling and drug-running. There is an airstrip, old hangars, a basic control tower.”

“And where do we go from there?”

“You will be met by Major Hakim Mahmoud of the Algerian Secret Police. Taking a bribe is second nature to him.”

“So there is no moral aim to anything he does?”

“Money talks, Hussein.”

“I’ve nothing against a thief, but he must be an honest thief. I have no time to find this out by experience.”

“Well, my experience has been satisfactory.”

Hussein thought about it. “Another thing, this business of leaving all communication on your side has to stop. I need to be able to communicate with you if things go wrong.”

“No—my privacy is nonnegotiable, even for you. It has always been so and so it will remain.”

“Then I’ll make my own arrangements.”

“You won’t be able to.”

“Look, let’s discuss this. With my face plastered all over the papers, I’m not very hopeful that I can get to England from France by any known airline or train. You must have some sort of plan for the final approach.”

“Yes, a small boat under cover of darkness from a port called Saint-Denis in Brittany. There’s a man named George Romano, English, used to be in the Navy. He specializes in high-priced clients who need to get into England the hard way.”

“Will he have weapons?”

“I presume you’ll carry pistols, but any heavy stuff you need you’ll get in England. It’s all provided for there. A man called Darcus Wellington. He was an actor for years, he still pops up in old British black-and-white films on television, but his homosexuality sent him to prison for 154

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a few years. That was his downfall and crime followed. He also has a flair for makeup, which you’ll find very useful; I’m hoping he may be able to disguise you in some way.”

“Excellent. Now how do we get from Khufra in Algeria to Saint-Denis in Brittany?”

“Mahmoud is sorting that out now. He intends to place you as passengers on a small plane making a smuggling run to France. The drop will be at a private airfield where a car will be provided. You can drive to Saint-Denis. If Roper checks Hazar, when he sees a Citation X booked, he’ll suspect it’s for you. If he traces it to Algeria, it will simply fly away again.”

“Leaving us to our anonymity?”

“You’ve described it exactly, so no need for concern.”

“I suppose not.” There was reluctance in Hussein’s voice.

“There you are, then. You may download all this onto your laptop.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

“Yes, your special flight bag, the black one you brought from Baghdad.”

“What about it?”

“When you open it, you will find hidden in the lining of the bottom right-hand corner a gold and enamel brooch. Rather pretty. It slides open and a button is inside. If you press it, I will always call you straight back. You alone have such a device.”

“You bastard.”

“I’ve been called that before.” The Broker switched off.

A L G E R I A F R A N C E

9 THE CITATION ARRIVED ON SCHEDULE, BEARING TWO PILOTS

named Selim and Ahmadi, who came down to the house after they arrived and sat on the terrace with Hussein and Khazid and drank coffee.

“You know who I am?” Hussein asked.

Selim did the talking. “Yes. We are here to serve you. It is an honor.

Are you familiar with the plane?”

“No, but I hear great things about it. I am a pilot myself.”

“Excellent.” Eager to please, Selim added, “You could try the controls. It’s an experience flying this plane, I can tell you.”

“I’m sure it is, but there’s no time to play. Your job is to get us to our destination, drop us off and then you clear off. Is that understood?”

Ahmadi, the younger one, looked disappointed, but Selim was all business. “And the destination?”

“Algeria.” Hussein opened a file on the table, “All the details are there.

I’ll leave you to work out your flight plan.” And he walked away, Khazid following him.

They went into the study, sat on either side of the desk, and Hussein opened a drawer, produced a couple of Walthers plus silencers and pushed one across. Two Colt .25s followed from the drawer and they started to load them.

“You said you would promise me nothing beyond Paris,” Khazid said.

“So I did.”

“Now my future seems an inevitability.” Hussein had downloaded his laptop and discussed everything with him.

“So it would appear. Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. I am proud to serve.” Khazid finished loading one of the Colts. “But I was thinking ahead to England and heavy artillery.”

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“I’ve given you all the details. This Darcus Wellington will be taking care of our needs.”

“Darcus Wellington—such a ridiculous name. I marvel that such a person could involve himself in someone like the Broker’s business.”

“Oh, I don’t know. In a way, it’s rather like his playacting in films, I suppose, only in this case, it’s serious business.”

“And real bullets.” Khazid slammed the magazine into the butt of the Walther. “What next?”

“Finish your packing. Travel light. I’ll have a word with the pilots.

Let’s say we leave in one hour. Does that suit you?”

“Absolutely.” They walked out into the great entrance hall. “Here we go. Into the war zone again,” Khazid said. “Why us?”

Hussein put an arm about his shoulder. “Because, little brother, Allah has ordained it. Though, to be honest, I can no longer look at religion in the same way I once did. It provides no solace for me.”

“So the business of war? Why do we take part in it?”

“Because it is our nature.”

“And is that all?”

“I’m afraid so. Now go and get ready.”

A T H I S C O M P U T E R S , Roper had inserted a trace element on aircraft movement at Hazar, though it was no big deal, since traffic was so light.

He was being served bacon sandwiches and tea by Sergeant Doyle when the signal sounded.

“Get Dillon for me,” he said.

“He’s in the dining room with the Major.”

Doyle cleared off and Roper checked into a series of screen images.

Dillon and Greta appeared.

“What’s the good word?” Dillon demanded.

“Citation X left Kuwait under charter to Rashid Shipping, landed at Hazar three hours ago. It’s departed under a flight plan taking it to Khufra in Algeria.”

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“Not that dump. What in the hell does he have to go there for?”

“Let’s look at this. If he’s on his way to anywhere, you can bet the Broker has organized it. Chartering the Citation was a way of Hussein saying, ‘It’s me—what are you going to do about it,’ because he and the Broker know we must be watching.”

“But why Khufra?” Greta said. “Look what we went through there last year.”

“The Broker knows that and he knows I’m monitoring him, so it’s his way of mocking me. And I know that you know that kind of thing.

Khufra, by its nature, is a hotbed of smuggling and drug-running, by boat as well as air, and it’s a perfect place for Hussein to drop out of sight.

My bet is the Citation leaves him there.”

“And what happens to him?” Greta asked.

“Across the water, Spain is convenient. Who knows?”

“One thing is certain,” she said. “He can’t be coming to England, not with his face plastered all over the place.”

“Well, he isn’t going to stay in Algeria, there wouldn’t be any point.

As for France, that’s a possibility.”

“Actually, some of the papers on the Continent picked up the picture, too,” Roper said. He tapped some keys and page four of the previous day’s
Paris Soir
appeared, with Hussein’s photo. “There you are, page four, but it’s enough.”

“So what’s his next move?” Dillon asked.

“I think he’ll keep his head down,” Greta said.

“No,” Dillon said. “There is one thing I’m sure of. Hiring the Citation, flaunting it with the trip to Algeria, it has to have reason to it. He has a purpose, and sooner or later it’s bound to become clear what that purpose is. We’ll just have to wait.”

A T T H E H A M P S H I R E H O U S E , Molly and Caspar, in the kitchen, discussed Sara. They could see Sara in the garden on a bench on the terrace, reading a book.

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“She’s pretending,” Caspar said. “You can tell.”

“Have you discussed school again with her?” Molly asked.

“For God’s sake, it’s far too soon for that. She’d need a new school anyway, fresh faces, another environment, perhaps a boarding school.”

“Whatever it is, it’s got to be faced, this situation.” Molly reached for the coffeepot and poured another cup. “And appropriate treatment found.”

“You’re talking about her as if she’s a patient,” Caspar said, “but that’s what doctors do, I suppose. Personally, I think we need to make a firm decision.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Tell her we’ve decided she needn’t go back to her old school and needn’t go back to any school for six months. Let her vegetate, find her own feet.”

Beyond his wife through the window, he saw that Sara had gone from the bench. She was, in fact, in the hall, but he didn’t know that.

Molly said, “I don’t think that’s any good at all. To be frank with you, I had a long chat on the phone this morning with Professor Janet Hardcastle. She was very interested in the case and has offered to take her on.”

In spite of the fact that the lady in question was one of the most em-inent psychiatrists in the country, Caspar was not impressed.

“Dammit, Molly, psychiatrists now. What about some simple loving kindness? We should stop trying to understand until she understands herself, because she is capable of that. She’s a hugely intelligent girl.”

Sara appeared at the door. “Oh, that’s all right. I don’t mind playing word games with Professor Hardcastle, but I’m still not going back to school. I feel like a rest now. I’ll go to my room.”

She put the book she had been reading on the side and went out. Caspar picked it up, glanced at his wife and held it out to her without a word. It was the Koran in Arabic.

R O P E R H A D E N J O Y E D his chat with Igor Levin, the former boy wonder of the GRU, for Levin also had medals from all those dubious Kremlin

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wars, had sweated in Afghanistan, had got close enough to a Chechen general to cut his throat. Roper remembered him as a so-called commercial attaché working for GRU head of station Colonel Boris Lhuzkov in London, so now, on a whim, he contacted Lhuzkov on his private number at the Embassy of the Russian Federation situated in Kensington Gardens.

Lhuzkov answered at once in Russian, and Roper, who actually spoke rather decent Russian, said in English, “Cut that out, Boris.”

“Who is it?” Boris asked.

“Roper.”

“My God—to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Nothing special. I was just talking to Igor Levin in Dublin and that put me in mind of you.”

As every attempt made by Lhuzkov to contact Levin had been re-buffed, he was intrigued. “How is Igor?”

“Just enjoying life. As for his pals, Chomsky works for lawyers and Popov is with a security firm. But then you know this.”

“Do I?”

“The thing is, I’d have thought that futile attempt to knock off Blake Johnson would have taught you Russians a lesson. So what was all this nonsense with Stransky and his goons at Harry’s Place? And Chekov?

I’m shocked. Have they succeeded in saving the leg, by the way?”

“My dear Giles, I have no comment at this time.”

“I bet you haven’t, and what’s with Giles? How did you discover that?

It’s a closely guarded secret.”

“Like any good spy, I have my sources. May I also make a comment?

There are people who think that Boris Lhuzkov is a stumblebum—an old buffer long past his best, if there ever was a best. But Ivan Stransky has a brain the size of a pea, and as for Chekov, his brain is between his legs. To anyone with half a brain, the size of Harry Salter’s property empire and bank balance should have given pause for thought all by themselves.”

“I for one never fell for your act, Boris. Anyway, is there going to be 162

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a new chief executive officer at Belov International? Because the one you’ve got now can’t do much more than go over to Drumore Place and sit on the terrace in a wheelchair, an umbrella over his head. Mind you, he’d be all right for the weekends. It only rains five days a week in Ireland.”

Lhuzkov finally managed to stop laughing. “God, but you’ve cheered me up.”

“So who’s going to run the show? You can tell me.”

“Of course. They’ve managed to save Chekov’s leg, but real recovery will take a very long time. I might as well tell you, because you’ll find out anyway. General Volkov will assume command for the moment.”

“Surprise, surprise, the President’s right-hand man.”

“Exactly. Anything else?”

“Yes—for Volkov’s ears, and perhaps for his friend the Broker.”

Lhuzkov’s voice changed slightly to careful. “Yes?”