The Killing Ground (21 page)

“My name is Hussein Rashid. They know me in Baghdad.”

“Merciful heaven, they know you everywhere in the Arab world.”

“I should kill you, but I was trained in Algerian camps.”

“Which makes us brothers in a way,” Ali said eagerly.

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“Anything but. Down you go. The rats are waiting.”

“My thanks. You are a great man.”

Ali stuck his foot in the stirrup. It took all the policeman’s strength to control the weight and Khazid had to help.

Ali’s voice echoed up. “I see what you mean. I don’t know what you are up to, but go to a good grave, my friend.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Hussein said to Khazid. He nodded at the frightened policeman. “Bring him with you.”

They went down to the Land Rover and the dead man. The policeman was terrified, expecting death at any minute.

Hussein said, “Which way to town?” The man pointed. “There’s been enough killing for one night. Run like hell,” and the man took off.

Khazid said, “I’d say we’re in a bad fix. We need to get out of here fast and Brittany is a hell of a long way off.”

Hussein got in beside him. “I’ve had an idea. What about flying out?”

Khazid started the engine. “But we haven’t got a plane.”

“Who says we haven’t?” They drove quickly away.

T H E R E W A S A B O A R D on a building at the end of the jetty that said CAN-AIR, whatever that was supposed to mean, but no lights showed at any of the windows beneath it and everything was quiet. Here and there was a light in some of the craft moored in the harbor, and occasionally the sound of faint laughter from the cafés in the web of narrow streets, but they didn’t care about any of that.

Khazid had the flashlight he had taken from the control tower and they used it to examine the pod enclosing the fuel tanks. It was so old-fashioned there was a dipstick. It registered about two-thirds full.

“Not bad,” Hussein said.

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“The Balearic Islands—Majorca, the largest, would be best. The air -

port at Palma operates international flights, dozens a day, awash with tourists. There are flights to almost anywhere.”

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“Are you saying we take a chance on a direct flight to England?”

“No, that would be too much of a risk, but there are plenty of flights from Majorca to France, crammed with holidaymakers going home.

That’s a different proposition.”

On the far side of the harbor, a police car turned onto the far jetty and two officers got out. A moment later, another came down from the town and parked behind it.

“Do you think that could be trouble?” Khazid asked. “Maybe the captain is covering his back. We did leave several dead men.”

“I’ve no intention of waiting to find out. Get in.”

He got the door open, Khazid slipped the line, pulled it in and joined him. They strapped themselves in and Hussein fired the engine and let the plane float away. He started to taxi through the darkness toward the harbor entrance, which was well lit. He moved near the pier, and beyond was only darkness.

Khazid was looking out and saw one of the police cars racing round.

“I think we’ve managed to attract some police attention.”

“Well, whatever they want, it’s too late now.” Hussein turned into the wind and boosted power. He pulled back the column at exactly the right moment and the Eagle climbed effortlessly over the darkness of the sea and lifted. Here and there were the lights of a boat of some sort.

“How long to Majorca?” Khazid asked.

“I’ll take my time. I’ll use less fuel if I don’t push this old bucket too hard. Besides, I like it. Maybe three and a half hours—something like that. Then we’ll check the plane situation at Palma. I’ve got a good feeling. It all worked out. It could have been much worse.” He leveled off at five thousand feet and put the plane on automatic. “God, I stink.” He looked down at the soiled suit. “I don’t know what Armani would think.”

“You’re the man who said if you need a suit, you buy a suit. You’ll be okay at the airport.”

“Yes, Palma’s sophisticated enough. I expect the airport’s full of boutiques. Open my flight bag for me. In the bottom right corner there’s a 172

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brooch in the lining.” Khazid found it and Hussein slid back the top and found the button.

“Our lifeline to the Broker.” He pressed it and put the brooch in his pocket.

I T W A S A M A Z I N G how quickly the response came, and the Broker listened quietly to Hussein’s story.

“A pity about Major Hakim Mahmoud. A valued ally.”

“You’ll replace him soon enough.”

“So what happens now?”

“We’ll park the seaplane when we get there, then we’ll go to the airport. You check on flights for us and call me back.”

A half hour later, the Broker did. “I’ve checked. There are a lot of flights to French destinations including a number of cheap basic flights to provincial airports. Flights of the kind where they pack you in and don’t even offer a cup of coffee, but they don’t give a damn who you are.

One such destination is Rennes, which is less than fifty miles by train from Saint-Malo on the Brittany coast. Saint-Denis is only twelve miles outside of Saint-Malo. That should be your best bet. The booking is your affair.”

“The insolence of this man is unique,” Khazid said. “With his so-called perfect world showing signs of cracking, his condescension is breathtaking.”

“Don’t let it get to you.” Hussein put things back on manual. “Try and get some sleep. I’m going to fly the plane.” He took the control column, leaned back and started to enjoy himself.

F O U R O ’ C L O C K , a half-moon giving everything a faint luminosity, they came in from the sea at five hundred feet, turning parallel to the coast looking for just the right sort of place. It was Khazid who finally noticed

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one, a small crescent-shaped cove beneath a steep headland at the north end of the island. There were many opulent villas on the coast on either side of it and a lonely jetty, no boats tied up.

“The kind of place tourists with hire boats may use. Most of the villas have their own. I think people will think an item like a private aircraft properly belongs to somebody in a rich man’s area like this.”

“It does have a certain logic.”

Hussein landed on the sea beyond the cove and taxied in, his engines reduced to a muted rumble. They coasted in and he cut the engines, allowing small waves to edge the plane against the jetty, then opened the door and got out, followed by Khazid with the curved rope of the line in one hand. He tied up, then got the two flight bags, passing his to Hussein. There was a line of steps and a decent path beyond.

A pine wood was at the top and the path led them through it to an extensive vineyard beyond. There were villas here and there, cottages, but it was a scattered sort of landscape.

“Coats off,” Hussein said. “Try to fit in, look casual.”

The sky was pink, then gold, the sun rose, and they saw people occasionally in the distance. It was all incredibly beautiful. Reaching the main road, they came to their first village, and already life was stirring.

“Well?” Khazid said. “What next?”

“I don’t know.” At that moment, they came to the end of the village and found an inn with a pleasant garden, a young woman brushing a terrace.

She smiled and said good morning in Spanish, and Hussein answered in English. Khazid followed, putting on a slight French accent.

“Good morning, mademoiselle. I see no sign of a bus service.”

“Not until noon. Do you have a problem?”

He said smoothly, “Our problem is a hire car which gave up the ghost on us, I’m afraid, and I’ve tried their number, but there is no reply.”

“And we have a plane at noon,” Hussein said.

“Oh, I see. So you need to get to Palma?”

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“As soon as possible.”

“As it happens, my barman, Juan, is going to town in the truck for supplies after he’s had his breakfast. I’m sure you could come to an agreement with him. I’ll go and have a word. Perhaps you would like some coffee and rolls while you’re waiting?”

She went out and they sat at a small table. “We do have another problem,” Hussein said. “The plane we didn’t get, the one doing some sort of drug run from Khufra to France, was going to drop us off illegally—which meant that we could still keep our weapons.”

“So no guns,” Khazid said.

“And none from Romano. Everything we need will be provided by Darcus Wellington, that’s what the Broker said.”

“Okay. Let’s get it over with.” Khazid transferred the two Walthers and the Colt .25s into his pockets. “It breaks my heart, but if it must be done . . .” He shrugged. “I’ll go and find a drain.”

He moved into the vineyard beside the garden and disappeared. The girl returned with coffee, rolls and marmalade. She wrinkled her nose.

“What happened to you?”

“I was trying to fix the car and fell into a ditch beside it.”

“If you want to use the washroom, feel free. It’s the door next to the bar. There’s a shower.”

So in he went, saying hello to a young man, presumably Juan, cleaning the bar top. In the washroom, he examined himself, a sorry sight, then stripped his clothes and showered and toweled himself vigorously, which made him look better, although the clothes were still dreadful.

When he went back, Khazid was flirting outrageously with the girl and drinking red wine she had supplied.

“Come on,
mon ami,”
he said. “Try a glass. It’s good for the heart.”

And Hussein, knowing what he was trying to do, took the wine down manfully.

Juan appeared, good-byes were said and they got in the rear of the open truck, their backs against the driver’s cabin, and departed.

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“Nice girl,” Khazid said. “Just think. A couple of real desperadoes like us and she never knew.”

“Better for her, I think, much better.” Hussein leaned back and closed his eyes in the early morning sun.

A T T H E A I R P O R T , they gave Juan fifty dollars, then searched the nu-merous shops and selected a men’s boutique. Hussein kept his flight bag, but gave Khazid his British passport on the off chance they’d allow him to get both tickets. No one knew better than he did how slipshod matters of security could be, especially when dealing with large numbers of people.

In the boutique, the proprietor and an assistant who was obviously his boyfriend tut-tutted when he explained about the accident and set about clothing him from head to toe. Underwear, socks of silk, shirts, white and blue, an expensive tan summer suit from Armani and tan brogues finished things off. He stood and examined himself in the mirror. Yes, it would do for now. He noticed a khaki trench coat on a rail, bought that, too, and was just paying for it all when Khazid returned.

“My goodness, but you look stylish,” he said.

“Flattery is the last thing I need. What about the tickets?”

“Easy. The girl was French, and I do French well. Two tickets in row E, taking off for Rennes at eleven-thirty. We’re returning holidaymakers.”

“Good. Hide those extra passports in the special compartment in your flight bag; we’ll buy a suitcase, put both flight bags inside so they can go in the hold. I’m going to speak to the Broker.”

Which he did, calling him in with the panic button, sitting in the corner of the airport lounge when they spoke.

“We had to dispose of our guns, an unlooked-for problem.”

“There’s nothing I can do about that, but you’ll be all right when you reach England. Darcus Wellington may surprise you.”

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“You’ll confirm to George Romano we’re on the way?”

“All taken care of.”

The Broker departed, and Hussein said to Khazid, “A decent meal, I think, is what we need now.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” They made their way to one of the restaurants.

I R E L A N D L O N D O N

10 IT HAD BEEN THE PREVIOUS DAY, TWENTY-FOUR HOURS

before Hussein and Khazid reached Majorca, when Roper had astonished Boris Lhuzkov with his candid conversation. Obviously, Lhuzkov couldn’t speak to the Broker, but Volkov was a different matter. He phoned him on his secure line at the Kremlin.

“I’ve got something for you—rather interesting.”

“Well, that makes a change.”

“I’ve just had a conversation with Roper at Holland Park.”

“Have you, by God? Tell me everything.”

I T C O U L D N ’ T B E Q U I T E E V E R Y T H I N G , for at that stage of the game, Hussein had just buried his uncle and his two friends. Admittedly, the photo planted by Roper in the British newspapers had just appeared, but the Broker hadn’t made any mention to Volkov of Hussein’s determination still to travel to England.

“What do you think?” Lhuzkov said. “Is Roper a loose cannon?”

“No, everything he does has a purpose. So he tells you Greta is working for Charles Ferguson. We suspected that anyway. He talks of Levin in Dublin. We know very well that Levin is in Dublin, and his sergeants.

This Rashid business, the girl in Hazar, is interesting, though hardly surprising with Dillon and that wretched Salter involved. Personally, the idea that Hussein would for any reason come to England now confirms to me that it would be stupid. In my opinion, any hopes of using his services for any of our own problems must go out the window. But we’ve still got to do something about Ferguson. This unholy alliance with Dillon and Harry Salter and all his criminal connections is unacceptable.”

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“And so we see even the Moscow Mafia confounded.” Lhuzkov laughed. “Now that Chekov is out of the picture for a while, what do you intend to do?”