The Killing Ground (30 page)

243

“I suppose you mean all this Hammer of God thing.” She shrugged.

“In Baghdad it was in the papers and on television, but not with photos, so I didn’t know it was Hussein. He always looked after me. Made sure people treated me properly.”

“Did he change then?”

“Not really. At the oasis at Fuad in the Empty Quarter, when Ali ben Levi, the bandit, manhandled me, knocked me down, Hussein shot him.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“Ben Levi was a truly evil man. He was whipping a priest for being a Christian. I told him that so was I. That’s when he treated me as he did.”

Dillon smiled bleakly. “In those circumstances, I’d probably have shot him myself. Tell me, I’ve no business asking you this, but what about this Muslim thing and being promised in marriage when you’re of age?”

“That’s nonsense,” she said. “I never took that seriously and I told Hussein so.”

“And he accepted that?”

“He was told. I could do no more.”

Dillon took a deep breath. “You’re a truly remarkable young lady.”

Caspar came out onto the terrace and called, “Come on, Sara, it’s all decided. We’re going to Zion House, flying down.”

His wife appeared. “For a week—seven days only, so come and pack.”

The girl joined them and they went inside and she went upstairs. Ferguson appeared. “I’m going back to Holland Park. You two stay while they pack. I’ll send the People Traveller to pick you all up and take the Rashids to Farley. I’ll arrange for Levin and Chomsky to meet you there.”

He went off and Dillon said, “Sara’s quite a girl.”

“What do you expect, she’s half Bedouin,” Greta told him. “Come into the kitchen and we’ll have a coffee.”

I N H I S S H O P near the corner of Gulf Road, Ali Hassim was acting as middleman for Professor Khan, overseeing a network of sweepers, hos-

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pital porters, cabdrivers and even young girls, office personnel at the local hospitals. The sweeper assigned to the Rashid house phoned in.

“They’ve had visitors. Two of them were in the photos Professor Khan showed us. The General and the man Dillon. There was also a woman. The General left in a Daimler car. I’ve got pictures. Dillon and the woman are still there.”

“Any sign of the family?”

“Only the girl, Sara. She was in the garden talking to Dillon.”

“I’m going to send Jamal on his motorcycle just in case they go somewhere. He’ll be with you in minutes.”

The sweeper waited and then the People Traveller turned up, paused at the electronic gates until they opened. It moved inside and the sweeper caught a glimpse of the front door, Caspar Rashid with two suitcases emerging, his wife behind him, then Sara, Greta and Dillon.

At that moment, Jamal arrived on his motorcycle, rode down by the canal and into the trees. “What’s happening?” he called.

“They’re leaving. It looks to me as if they’re all going. I saw suitcases.

You must follow.”

“That’s what I’m here for, you fool.”

Jamal waited, his engine turning over. The gates opened and the People Traveller emerged and turned right, and he followed in traffic so heavy it was possible for him to get really close on more than one occasion so that he soon established who was inside.

At Farley Field he had to turn into the public car park as the van paused at the security entrance and was admitted, but he watched its progress to the terminal building, saw them get out and meet with Levin and Chomsky.

A sign at the gate said MINISTRY OF DEFENCE, FARLEY FIELD, RESTRICTED

AREA, but in the car park it amused him to see plane spotters. Probably any kind of security breach would have been classed as a violation of their human rights. “Only the English,” he said to himself. “That’s why we will win.”

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245

He took out a pair of Zeiss glasses and spotted an old Hawk, although he didn’t know it. He did get a photo.

On the airfield, Dillon waited for the plane to take off, then got back in the People Traveller and told Sergeant Doyle to take him to Holland Park.

Jamal waited until it had gone, then mounted his motorcycle. There was nothing he could do except return to Ali Hassim at the shop.

Ali hauled him into the back room. “You’re sure they have gone?”

“Definitely. The suitcases mean for some time and the airplane, somewhere far away.”

“So no means of finding out the destination?”

“No way of getting in. I’ve told you, it’s a restricted area. Security guards everywhere. You wouldn’t even get through the gate.”

Ali was upset. “So we really have no idea where they’ve gone?”

“Only that they
have
gone. I saw this with my own eyes and their house is empty; tell Professor Khan that.”

Ali sighed. “He won’t like it. Anyway go and make yourself a coffee in the kitchen while I give him the bad news, and leave your camera so I can check the photo for the type of plane.”

It didn’t take long and he found it quite quickly in a handbook of small planes: a Hawk, eight-seater, twin engines.

He started to go through a number of photos taken by the sweepers watching the comings and goings at the Rashids’ house since their return, not that there had been many. The most interesting was the man who had turned out to be the archaeologist from Hazar, Professor Hal Stone. Friends to the Brotherhood, academics at London University, had confirmed his identity. A fellow at Corpus Christi College in Cambridge. He had called at the house in Gulf Road in a taxi, which had waited for him and taken him on to King’s Cross Station. Jamal had followed him and watched him board a train for Cambridge. Obviously returning to his work.

All in all, not good news, and he phoned Khan and told him so.

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H U S S E I N S A T I N F R O N T of the makeup table in Darcus Wellington’s bedroom, naked to the waist. The mirror was very bright with all those small bulbs around it, and the profusion of makeup itself was something alien to Hussein. He found the smell of it distasteful.

Khazid was sitting on a settle by the window, smoking a cigarette.

Hussein said, “Open it, then go and find something to do.”

“But I want to watch.”

“And I don’t want you to. Go away.”

Khazid went reluctantly and Darcus put a large towel around Hussein’s shoulders. “The mark of a true actor, love. Makeup is such a private affair. Not something to share. Knowing who you are, that’s the thing.”

“And who am I?” Hussein asked himself. “Hussein Rashid or the Hammer of God?”

Rain fell heavily outside the open window, bringing the smell of rotting vegetation, and Darcus went and closed the window. “If you don’t mind, love, it smells as if the whole world’s dying.”

“Perhaps in some ways it is?” Hussein said.

Garish in his auburn wig, Darcus stood there, arms folded, chin on one hand, and observed him. “The Che Guevara look. Was that a conscious decision on your part?”

“Not that I know of.” Hussein was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“A true romantic, Guevara, he really looked the part. In a way, he gave people what they expected. It was all in the look, love. Was that what you tried to do—give the people what they expected?”

“Where would this be leading?”

“It’s also a question of knowing what you are and still liking yourself. Most actors, of course, would rather be someone else.”

“I am what I am. What I need from you is a new face.”

“Frankly, I have a suspicion that I can achieve that best by removing the mask that’s already there.”

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Hussein said, “If that means good-bye, Che Guevara, so be it.”

“And what else must go with that?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”

T H E C O R R I D O R D O O R S L I G H T L Y A J A R , Khazid watched, in a kind of horror, as the man he had served for so long changed before his eyes.

Darcus worked at the hair, cutting, thinning particularly, shaping into an entirely different style and much, much shorter.

Then he lathered the entire face and took a cut-throat razor to it, shortened the sideburns, thinning the eyebrows and very carefully removing the fringe of beard and the mustache.

“I’d like you in the bathroom now, love. Don’t be alarmed, you just need a shampoo.”

Khazid dodged into the kitchen and Darcus led the way.

Afterward, back at the mirror and using a hair dryer, he shaped the hair more carefully, took the scissors to it again, then turned Hussein in the swivel chair and did some more work on thinning the eyebrows and used a little dark pencil.

Hussein sat staring at himself, yet not himself. “God almighty, you look so young,” Darcus told him. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“And now you look it and that’s the difference. Put your shirt on.”

He scrabbled around in various drawers and finally found what he was looking for, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, not prescription but clear glass.

“Try these.” Hussein did. “Good, it gives you a hint of the intellectual; you could be a schoolteacher or something.”

“Not the Hammer of God.”

“See for yourself.” Darcus opened a copy of the
Times
with the original photo in it. “Who could possibly recognize you as you look now from that.”

“Even I don’t,” Hussein said slowly and walked through to the kitchen.

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Khazid was waiting for the kettle to boil, standing there, looking out at the rain. He turned and his sense of shock was obvious.

“Merciful heaven, where have you gone?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure it’s you anymore.”

“And maybe it isn’t.” There was a strange smile on Darcus’s face.

“Who knows? Remember Pandora’s box?”

“What do you mean?” Khazid said.

“Greek mythology,” Hussein told him. “When the box was opened, it released all sorts of unpleasant things.”

Khazid, uneasy, frowned slightly, and Darcus said, “I’ll make some coffee.”

“And I’ll phone Dreq Khan,” Hussein said to Khazid. “Work out our next stop.”

“Hampstead?” Khazid asked.

“It would seem obvious. After all, as no one knows we are here, one should seize the moment.”

“If you say so, but I think we need to talk, and privately.”

“Of course.”

“You can use the study,” Darcus said, but in the end it was outside on the porch, the door open, the rain pouring down.

“Is there a problem?” Hussein asked.

“Hampstead, Sara, her parents. Surely our primary task, the most important to our cause, is the assassination of General Ferguson and this man Salter, if possible. If we go to London with that in mind, we could succeed because, as you rightly point out, the authorities have no idea that you’re in England. In light of this, I’m in favor of us going to London, but not of a visit to Hampstead. Sara and her parents are a sideshow, cousin. What would you do, shoot her parents? I shouldn’t imagine she’d thank you.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Hussein told him.

“Or break in the house, kidnap her? Then how would you smuggle her out of the country?”

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“Professor Khan, the Army of God, the Brotherhood, they all would offer their services. Between us we would find a way.”

“Do you honestly think the fate of this young girl is of the slightest importance to these people? No, but Ferguson’s head on a platter, the British Prime Minister’s most valued security adviser. That would be a triumph.”

Much of what he said made sense, but Hussein was unable to let go.

“I’ll phone Khan now and see what the situation is, then it will be my decision.”

I N A N S W E R T O A L I H A S S I M ’ S C A L L , Khan had gone round to the shop to discuss the latest development, and it was there that he received the call that he had, if truth be known, been dreading for some time.

He put a hand over his coded mobile and whispered to Ali Hassim,

“It’s him, Hussein Rashid himself, and he’s in England.”

“Allah be praised,” Ali said.

Khan returned to the phone. “Where are you?”

“Dorset—Peel Strand with one of the Broker’s people. A cottage called Folly Way. Khazid and I landed this morning. We intend to come to London.”

“Can this be wise? Your face’s in so many newspapers.”

“That’s been taken care of, no one will recognize me. Trust me in this.

Now tell me what the situation is with the Rashids.”

“We monitored them closely, my network of sweepers and informants, even used a motorcycle unit so that cars which left their house in Hampstead could be followed. Because of this, I have the address of the enemy’s safe house in Holland Park. We know where Ferguson and Dillon live, which would obviously be of importance to you.”

Hussein cut in on him. “Get to the point. You appear to have some bad news for me. Spit it out.”

So Khan told him the worst.

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Hussein said, “They’ve gone, spirited away you don’t know where and the circumstances indicate only security classified travel?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You didn’t mention the plane.”

“Ali looked it up—a Hawk.”

“A good old workhorse of a plane. I flew one in the badlands in Algeria. I think if they’d been venturing very far, say cross-Channel, they’d have used more than that. I would say the Hawk indicates relatively local travel. Somewhere in the countryside, a reasonable distance from London.”

“Which would be impossible for us to discover,” Khan said.

“So Ferguson and Dillon visited the house in Gulf Road. Anyone else?”

“Yes, Professor Hal Stone.”

“The archaeologist from Hazar. I wonder what he wanted?”

“I think he was saying good-bye. One of my men, Jamal, followed him to King’s Cross, where he caught a train to Cambridge. He’s a professor at Corpus Christi College there. It’s now turned out he’s Ferguson’s cousin.”