The Killing Ground (27 page)

She spoke in French. “What do you want?”

Khazid handled her. “We’re looking for a man named George Romano.”

“He’s at the bar on the jetty. I’ll show you.”

Both her English and French had strong accents. As they went back along the walkway, Khazid said, “Where are you from?”

“Kosovo.”

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“So, you were in the war, little sister?”

Hussein managed to kick his ankle, for if the girl was a refugee, which seemed likely from Kosovo, she was almost certainly a Muslim.

“The war was a long time ago.”

“And your name?”

“Saida.”

Which confirmed it. At the end of the walkway she paused, took a packet of Gitanes from her pocket and a lighter. She put a cigarette in her mouth and Khazid took the lighter from her. “Allow me.”

“Thank you.” She took the lighter back and inhaled and said in heavily accented Arabic, “I don’t know who you are or what you’re doing here, but take care with this man. He’s English Royal Navy, but rotten to the core.”

Hussein said gently, “You are Muslim?”

“And the war stank. Allah bless Tony Blair for sending the British Army and RAF to Kosovo to save us from the Serbs.”

“It is true he did such a thing,” Khazid said. “But what of Iraq?”

“Agreed, but life is learning to live with the good and the bad.”

“What a wise girl,” Hussein commented.

“My father was a teacher of children at the mosque in our small town. When the Serbs came, they hung him—they hung boys, too.”

All this was delivered in the most matter-of-fact way as they came to a café called the Belle Aurore. There was a terrace at the front with tables, waiters in white jackets, not particularly busy. The man they were seeking was at a corner table reading a copy of
Paris Soir.
He wore a reefer coat and a seaman’s cap, was perhaps sixty with a florid face and a cruel mouth. He reached out for a glass and continued to read.

Saida said, “George, these gentlemen are looking for you.”

Hussein said, “Mr. Romano, I’m Hugh Darcy.”

Romano looked him over. “First of all, it’s Commander Romano.

Secondly, although I must say your Guards tie makes a brave show, it won’t do, you know. You’d better sit down.”

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“Why won’t it do, Commander?”

“This is yesterday’s paper. We always get it late in this neck of the woods. Lot of people here, though, who would run a mile and shout for the gendarmes if they knew who you are. Page four.”

Hussein sat down and stared at his photo. In that minute, everything so carefully contrived turned to ashes. Saida, reading over his shoulder, gasped.

“You are him.”

Khazid said, “Come, brother.”

“No need to panic,” Romano said. “It’s just a question of being practical about things. Of course, the only problem is I can’t contact the Broker—he contacts me. Can you get in touch with him?”

“Yes,” Hussein said.

“Excellent. This drink is marvelous. Brandy and ginger ale. Takes me back to my Navy days. You should try one.” He laughed. “But then you can’t—I was forgetting.”

“No, but Hugh Darcy could.”

“Yes, by God, you’re right. You don’t look like a raghead at all.” He shouted at the waiter, “Pierre, two Horse’s Necks—no, three.” He glanced up at Khazid. “Got to play the game, eh?”

“If you say so.”

“Good boy.” Romano slapped Saida on the bottom. “Go and get the groceries and divest yourself of those appalling jeans when you get back on board. I’ve told you, I like little cotton skirts so a man can have a decent feel. Nothing like it.”

The waiter had just brought the three drinks. He put them on the table and the girl picked one up and threw it in Romano’s face. He wasn’t in the least put out and licked his lips.

“Delicious.” He reached for a napkin and wiped his face. “I’ll have to chastise you for that, but I’ll have great pleasure in taking care of it on the voyage.”

She was stunned. “On the voyage? You’ll take me?”

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“England,” Romano said to Hussein. “People are desperate to get there, especially refugees without permission. She turned up months ago with an Albanian, but when push came to shove, he dumped her on the waterfront when we left and she was still here when I returned.”

“Each time he does another English run, he promises me a trip,” she complained to him. “I’ll go for the groceries.” She paused. “But I’ve hardly any money.” She shrugged and walked away.

Hussein nodded to Khazid, who went after her. Romano said, “You don’t like me very much, do you?”

“If I may borrow one of the great Humphrey Bogart’s best lines: If I thought about you at all, I probably wouldn’t.” He opened his flight bag, felt for the brooch in its corner and pressed the button. He closed the case. “Now we wait.”

K H A Z I D C A U G H T U P W I T H H E R . “Don’t worry, get anything you want, I’ll take care of it.”

“Your friend,” she said. “Even I have heard of him. The Hammer of God.”

“A great man and a great soldier,” Khazid said.

“And you also are a soldier in the war?”

“Of course. In Iraq, it’s bad, believe me.”

“I see that on television. The Americans, the British.”

“No, it’s more than that. It’s a blackness, a disease that touches everyone. The brothers are killing each other, some weeks more than a thousand. Women and children die in the crossfire.”

“And how does it end?”

“Maybe never, but where are you going, the supermarket’s over there?”

“Yes.”

“Carry on, I’ll join you in a little while.”

They had just passed a cutlery shop and he walked back to inspect

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the window full of knives of every possible description. With his French background, he was aware that the authorities were more open-minded about certain types of weapons than other countries. He entered and found a white-haired old man behind the counter.

“Monsieur, what can I show you?”

“I seek a folding knife, substantial and preferably automatic.”

Fifteen minutes later, he left after inspecting a horn-handled flick knife and a seven-inch, razor-sharp, double-edged blade that jumped eagerly to his command at the touch of his thumb.

He crossed to the supermarket and joined her. “Have you got what you wanted?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “There’s nothing like being prepared for anything in this life and I don’t like the commander. Does that make me a bad man?”

“Anything but.”

“Good, then let’s make sure you’ve got all your groceries.”

F O R O N C E , the Broker had been badly caught out. The unlooked-for appearance of the newspaper in the small French port with Hussein’s photo was unexpected, the reaction of Commander Romano unfortunate. For the moment, he had to meet Romano’s price if Hussein and Khazid were to make the next move in their progress to England. That he would be able to punish the man for his blackmail in the near future was certain. Al-Qaeda would see to that. He guaranteed the substantial additional funding Romano demanded, to be transferred to Switzer-land in a matter of hours. When he was finished, he insisted on speaking to Hussein.

“Take a walk. I don’t want that creature to get any hint of what is happening.”

“Fine.”

“Our plans haven’t changed. I admit the other side has had some suc-

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cesses. Harry Salter disposed of a substantial outfit produced by the Russian Mafia. A contract on Ferguson and Salter involving six IRA operatives did no better. Two of them, common street gangsters, made a feeble attempt at Ferguson and Roper and now reside at the bottom of the Thames awaiting police recovery. Drugged to the eyeballs, they shot up half of Wapping.” He sighed. “So now it’s all up to you. Good luck with your crossing. I’m confident Darcus will be helpful, and Dreq Khan. Use him and his Army of God sweepers and the Brotherhood in London. But remember, this is not just a personal crusade concerning the Rashids and the girl. Ferguson must be a target, if possible, and Salter. The others are
not
prime targets.”

He cut off, preventing any further discussion, and Hussein went back to the table. Khazid and Saida had gone back to the boat. “I think your friend fancies her. Could be giving her a good shag now. We’ll get along to the boat and see if we can catch them.”

“You know when I said that if I thought about you at all, I probably wouldn’t like you? Well, I don’t,” Hussein told him.

“Oh, I’m a reasonable chap when I want to be. I’ve offered the girl a free trip with you, unless you object.”

“Casting her ashore with no papers and no money?”

They were moving along to the boat. “If she walks into the nearest police station, they arrest her and deliver her to the welfare authorities.

She’ll be placed in a reasonable accommodation and given substantial payments to keep her going, and it’s highly unlikely she’ll be sent back.

England’s like that these days, mosques in every city. Not fair, old man.

Try finding a church in Mecca or Medina and what about Iraqi Christians? Chased out of the country in their thousands.”

Hussein ignored him. “When do we leave?”

Romano glanced at his watch. It was five-thirty.

“I can’t see much point in hanging around.” He had a half-bottle of some wine or other and poured it down. “I checked on the weather.

Could be rain squalls and there’ll be fog in the morning.”

They came to the
Seagull
and paused. “A nice boat,” Hussein said.

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“You can say that again. Thirty-foot, built by Akerboom, twin screws, twenty-five knots, automatic steering if you want it, and I’ve got an inflatable with an outboard motor. Plenty of booze.” He laughed. “Damn me, I was forgetting about you.”

“And you’ll take the girl?”

“I suppose so. Peel Island is our destination, the Dorset coast quite close to Portland Bill. We anchor offshore, I take you in using the inflatable. I’ve got a sketch of your route inland. There’s a cottage by a marsh pond and it’s called Folly Way. I’ve never met the guy, and with a name like Darcus I doubt I’d want to. But enough conversation. Let’s get on board.”

Which they did. “Where the bloody hell are you?” he called to Saida.

“I’m in the galley getting supper ready. Henri is in the saloon.”

“Henri, my arse. Make the meal, then leave it ready. We’re going.”

She came out of the galley and stood at the bottom of the companionway looking up. “Does that include me?”

“Yes, though I don’t know why I bother. You’ve not changed your jeans. I’m really going to have to take you in hand.”

She ducked out of sight, Khazid brushed past her and came up to join them in the wheelhouse. “When do we go?”

“Within half an hour. Might as well get started.”

“How far?” Hussein asked.

“About a couple of hundred miles.” He checked the instruments and said to Hussein, “I set the course, which I know like the back of my hand, but I keep Admiralty charts out for the whole Channel crossing, just in case. Of course you can also switch over to automatic steering.”

He turned to Hussein. “It would be useful if you could take the wheel for a while and spell me. Do you know much about boats?”

“No, but I’m a qualified pilot, so I’m an expert navigator, can set a course, read charts and so on.”

“Yes, well, if you look at the Admiralty chart, I’ve marked our course to Peel Island. That’s it, the red line.”

“Is there a village there?”

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“No, the village has the name, but it’s a good half a mile inland. I’ve never been. I’ve spoken to this Darcus guy many times on the ship-to-shore radio. The Broker got him one the other year when he started doing this as regular work. I know his background. He sounds like an old fruit to me. Anyway, let’s move it.”

He pressed the starter, the engine rumbled into life and he called to Khazid to cast off, which he did. They eased away from their mooring and moved slowly out to sea, the light beginning to fade. As they slipped out of the harbor entrance, he switched on the navigation lights and increased the speed.

“Wonderful—a joy. Never fails.” He took the half bottle of brandy out of his reefer coat, opened it one-handed with his teeth and took a deep swallow.

“Go below, enjoy yourself. Come back later.”

Hussein descended below, looked in on Saida in the galley preparing the food and went into the saloon. There was a cabin aft with two bunks and a small toilet and a cramped shower. The cabin forward also had two bunks. There was a center table and Khazid was seated at it with a glass of wine.

“As you can see, I’m acting my role and rather enjoying it. Do you want one?”

“No, thanks, and not because I’m becoming pious. Religion seems to mean much less to me these days,” Hussein told him.

“That’s strange. No one has done more for the struggle than you.”

“But I’ve been fighting for my country, for Iraq, not so much for Islam.”

Saida could hear in the galley, and without asking, she brought him a coffee.

“My parents died in the bombing in the Gulf War. I didn’t like Sad-dam, but I didn’t welcome invaders, either. It’s all a mystery to me.”

Hussein turned to Saida. “What about you?”

“And religion?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. The Serbs who killed my father and most of the men in my village were Christian, but

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hardly very good Christians. I think religious differences that lead to war are just an excuse to kill. These days, it’s so barbaric and cruel.”

Hussein sighed. “You’ve got a point. I think I’ll have that glass of wine after all.”