The Killing Ground (13 page)

Although she did not know it, her father was helping Selim, the caretaker of the
Sultan
, pull up air canisters as they were passed from the rubber boat by Dillon and Billy. At the same moment, Hal Stone emerged from the wheelhouse.

“What are you looking at?” Hamid asked.

“The big dhow. Hussein told me all about it. It’s used by a Cambridge University professor as a diving platform. There is a very ancient boat down there—Phoenician, I believe. You know about that?”

“Sure I do,” Hamid said, “I learned about the Phoenicians in school.

Let’s look.” She gave him the glasses and he raised them. “Yes, that’s diving equipment they’re taking on board. It must be fun. I’d like to try.”

He passed the glasses to Hassim.

“If we were allowed to go out in a boat, we could take a look,”

she said.

“That would depend on your uncle.” He accepted a cigarette from Hamid and they sat on a bench and smoked.

T H E G U L F S T R E A M H A D M A N A G E D an uneventful trip, with no need to refuel. They had discussed things over and over again. Caspar Rashid’s recent trip to Hazar had been his first since boyhood. His face was not a familiar one, certainly not to the caretaker of the
Sultan.

Each of them had photos provided by Roper. First, one of Sara in her 108

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school uniform with her mother and father taken earlier that year, then group photos of Dillon, Billy and Hal Stone taken with Molly and Caspar. These were all obviously to establish credentials with Sara, though they provided no solution about how to make contact.

The first situation they encountered had to do with Selim. There had been a family death up country in the Empty Quarter. It required his presence and he needed five days for the trip. If anything, it made things easier, though, particularly regarding Caspar. Hal Stone provided Selim with his blessing and a hundred American dollars, checked that he’d stocked up on everything needed in the galley, and ran him across to the jetty in the early evening. While there, Dillon and Billy hired Jet Skis from a hire shop, plus a battered station wagon, and returned to the dhow, where they found Hal Stone and Caspar looking across to the Rashid house through glasses.

There was plenty of tourist traffic around and Hal said, “The Jet Skis made sense. There’s a lot of that kind of stuff over there. You can blend in.”

“That’s the idea,” Dillon said. “Get a diving suit on, Billy, and we’ll take a look. Hello.” He stiffened. “There are two guys walking along a terrace over there with slung rifles.” He paused. “Yes, two more and a third above.”

“Place is a fortress,” Billy said. “Come on, take a look.”

“Okay, and remember, we’re just tourists. Do what everybody else is doing and nothing more.”

A T T H E A I R F I E L D it was bakingly hot, but as a shabby, unshaven police lieutenant had told them, it wasn’t a busy time of year for them. The BA flight to London was their main connection to London and that was only three times a week. The rest of the traffic was made up of smaller aircraft, private jets owned by the rich or local firms. The lieutenant’s name was Said, and they gave him cigarettes and Lacey slipped him five hundred dollars, the direct result of such munificence

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being the empty hangar he had allocated them. It was a damned sight cooler than being outside and there were even crew quarters with four truckle beds, a shower room and a toilet. Everything was broken down and shabby, but as Lacey had said, with luck, it wouldn’t be for long.

The first task was to refuel, which they did, and then they returned the Gulfstream to the hangar and removed the port engine’s cowling.

Said appeared and watched them for a couple of minutes.

“Are you sure you want to sleep here? I could send you to a good hotel. My cousin—”

Lacey cut him off. “This engine wasn’t its usual happy self, so we’re going to check it out.”

“Working for the United Nations is good,” Parry told him, “We not only get excellent wages, but very good expenses. We’ll spend it later in a better place, Dubai.”

“Or the South of France,” Lacey smiled. “You get a better class of girls there.”

“I see your point. I see from the files that you were here before.”

“A couple of years ago,” Lacey said calmly.

“The United Nations again?”

“Well, for Professor Stone, really,” Parry said. “The United Nations Ocean Survey funds him.”

“All for the sake of some old boat ninety feet down. In the old days, there were sponges down there. As a boy my father was one of those who dived to the boat. He and his friends jumped holding big rocks and the weight took them straight down.”

“Jesus,” Parry said, “hadn’t they heard of the bends?”

“They would snatch a sponge and go straight back to the surface.

Such youths were much admired for their bravery.”

“Well, they would be,” Lacey said drily.

“The café in the terminal keeps going even when business isn’t good.

Her cooking is to be recommended. She is a cousin of mine on my mother’s side.”

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Lacey said, “I’ll see how the engine goes, but I’ll need to test-fly it. Will that be okay?”

“Of course. Whenever you want. You can see what it’s like here.

A graveyard.”

He turned and walked away. Lacey said, “I think you can say that’s sorted. I vote we check out the café.” Parry gazed out over the single runway, everything shimmering in the great heat, the mountains in the distance lining the Empty Quarter. “I know one thing,” he said as he joined Lacey. “This has to be the last place God made.”

“You can say that again.”

“I wonder how they’re doing on the
Sultan
.”

“I’ll call them later. Give them time to settle in.”

They entered the small terminal, where there were no passengers to be seen, just Arabs here and there who were obviously staff. The restaurant was open, and the smell was appetizing.

“My God, that does look good. Let’s give it a try.” And Lacey led the way.

T H E W I N D W A S B L O W I N G in from the land, warm and musky, with a certain amount of sand in it. Dillon and Billy sat amongst the diving equipment and got ready and Billy was so eager he was first. He was wearing a green diving suit and clamped a tank to his inflatable and an Orca computer to the line of his air pressure gauge. He spat in his mask and pulled it on, made an okay signal with a finger and thumb, and went over the rail backward.

Dillon went after him, the complete bliss of it enveloping him, the great blue vault of the sea, the myriad of fish. He checked the dive computer, which told him his depth, how long he’d been down, how long he could stay.

The old freighter was clear below at ninety feet, covered in barnacles and marine growth of all kinds, fish passing in and out of portholes. Billy ventured inside through the jagged hole the German torpedoes had left

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and Dillon followed. They played a kind of hide-and-seek in those dark, sunken passageways, emerging by the stern and hovering over a mixture of sand, sea grass and detritus that was what was left of the ancient Phoenician trading ship. Billy had found a figurine there once, a temple votive figure of a woman with a swollen belly and big eyes. In Hazar he’d come as close to death as a man could, but he’d made it through because in his pocket was Sam, the name he’d given the votive figure. She was his good luck piece and yet, when an old boy at the British Museum had gone potty over her, Billy had handed her over. Still, he knew the glass display case she lived in, could see her whenever he wanted.

He turned away and pointed, a gloved hand on a rail. Dillon beckoned to him and they started up toward the keel of the
Sultan
and the diving platform at the bottom of the boarding ladder. As they surfaced, a large rubber boat swept past. Hamid was at the tiller, Hassim in the bow, an AK across his knees. Sara was seated in the center beside Jasmine.

I T H A D N O T B E E N I N T E N D E D , the excursion round the bay, but Hussein and old Jemal had been summoned to what was called the South Port along the coast from where the freight ships for the Indian trade operated, the terminus for the single-track steam railway and the oil pipeline. They were late for an appointment, and when Sara asked if they could cruise the harbor, the old man, half-deaf, was in a fuss and under pressure and relented, telling Hamid he had full responsibility and not to go far.

“On Wednesday morning, I’m taking you to the mosque to meet the Imam. Don’t forget. Study your Koran. I want him to be impressed with you,” he told Sara.

“Of course, Uncle.”

The truth was the business at South Port in which he and Hussein were mixed up was very delicate and involved arrangements for various illegal cargoes north to militia sources in Iraq. In any case, the young 112

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people set off in their boat, its powerful outboard motor pushing them very fast on a crisscrossing route in the harbor, and Sara became more demanding, urging them on. She’d observed the
Sultan
, the people on deck and those entering the water.

“They’re diving,” she said. “Circle around,” which Hamid did, and Hassim leaned over, cradling the AK, and peered down through the incredibly crystal clear water.

“You can see everything, Sara—the boat, the divers—look, little cousin.”

He had spoken in English and she replied in the same language.

“Gosh, it’s absolutely marvelous.”

On deck, standing beside Hal Stone, Caspar Rashid heard her voice and moaned slightly and one foot moved forward, but, cloaked in his desert robes, the fold of his turban hiding half of his face, there was no way she could recognize him. Hal Stone squeezed hard on his arm, felt Caspar pause and then a sigh went out of him.

And now Sara said exactly the right thing. “I wonder if you’re Professor Hal Stone of Cambridge University?”

“Why, yes, I am, but how did you know that?”

“Oh, I’ve been told all about you and the old freighter down there on top of the Phoenician ship. I’m from the big house over there on the bluff. My name is Sara Rashid. It’s a pretty romantic story.” At that moment, Dillon emerged, followed by Billy, and they grabbed the edge of the diving platform.

Hal Stone, thinking very fast on his feet, took his hand out of the pocket of his bush jacket, palming two of the small photos provided by Roper.

“Fancy you knowing all that. Of course, it’s not quite true. I
am
a professor at Cambridge, but home is Fifteen Gulf Road in Hampstead. It’s awfully nice to meet you.” He leaned down, dropping to one knee, and pressed the palmed photos into her right hand as he shook it.

She frowned, and for a moment might have ruined everything, but it was only a small moment and Hal carried on. “We’ll be here for a

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while. Perhaps you could visit us properly. But what am I thinking of?

I’ve offered you no hospitality. Caspar, ice water for our guests.”

And Caspar Rashid responded with a nod, turned as if to go and the strangest thing happened. Her face was wiped clean for the briefest of moments, and then she smiled and it was the most wonderful smile Hal Stone had seen in his life.

Hamid said, “Thank you for your offer of hospitality, but we must go now, Sara.”

“I hope to see you again, Professor. Are you diving again tomorrow?

I can’t come on Wednesday, I’m visiting the Imam at the mosque.”

“Oh, yes, tomorrow you can see the divers at work. The water is so clear and we always hope to find something special.”

Caspar said, “I think we already have.”

The boat turned away, Sara slipping her hand into her pocket. Her heart was beating furiously, she had to swallow hard. She said to Hamid,

“The Arab, who was he?”

“A Bedouin by his robes. Obviously the boat’s caretaker. A real country boy from the look of him, from the Empty Quarter. Are you okay?”

“Fine, just fine, but I’m tired and I’ve had enough. Take me back.”

They did and repaired to her suite, where she took refuge from her women in the sanctuary of the bathroom. There she examined the photos. The first was the one of her in school uniform taken earlier in the year with her mother and father. The second showed Hal Stone, Dillon and Billy and her father in Bedouin robes, only in this one, his face was not concealed by the flap of his turban.

Hot tears sprang to her eyes, her hands shook a little. The photo of Stone and company she examined again and again, taking so long that Jasmine knocked on the bathroom door and called to ask if she was un-well. She had never felt better, suddenly full of energy, the life force flooding through her. Very carefully she cut the photos into pieces with little nail scissors, put them down the toilet and flushed them away.

The women were waiting. “Are my uncle and Hussein back yet?”

“No, Sara,” Jasmine said, “but supper is ready.”

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“Then so am I.” Sara smiled. “Let’s go down to the terrace and enjoy ourselves.”

They did, and the servants lit the flares and candles and set the floor cushions and piled food high on the side tables, and two musicians sat cross-legged and plucked the strings of their instruments, the music plaintive on the evening air, and she moved over to the balustrade and looked out across the harbor to the
Sultan.
Its deck lights were on and she had never been so excited in her life.

I N T H E S U L T A N , seated in canvas chairs at a table in the stern, they discussed the situation. “I must say it was a hell of a thing to do,” Caspar Rashid said. “For a while there, I didn’t know whether I was coming or going.”