The Killing Ground (32 page)

“God knows, it’s beyond me, but at night alone in front of the com-

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puters and fighting my own personal pain with more whiskey, I look at him on the screen and think he’s on his way.”

“So what are you doing about it?”

“We’ve persuaded the Rashids to vacate the Hampstead house and fly down to the depths of West Sussex for a week in a safe house.

Zion House.”

“Now, that does sound interesting. Tell me more.”

Roper did, everything, including the report he’d just had in from Levin. “Molly Rashid’s a tough one. Likes her own way too much. The business about her mobile, all that fuss. Too damn much.”

“She’s a truly fine surgeon, and people like that are obsessive. They think that what they do is more important than anything else. Unfortunately, it often is.”

“Anyway, now you know the present score,” Roper said. “To a great extent, we’re in Hussein’s hands.”

“And I think he won’t come at all.” Hal Stone laughed, “After all, he’s a Harvard man. He’d have more sense.”

“Try telling them that at Yale,” Roper told him.

“I wish you luck, my friend. Take care.”

“So long.”

Hal Stone shook his head. Crazy, the whole business. He returned to making his tea.

A T T H A T M O M E N T , Hussein and Khazid, having arrived without incident on the Cambridge train, were in a shop specializing in academic gowns, college scarves and the like. Khazid, under Hussein’s orders, purchased a short gown of the type favored by undergraduates, but not a Corpus Christi scarf.

“I expect the porters pride themselves on knowing their own students.”

Khazid went down the list and chose a New Hall scarf and a dark 260

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beret and they left. Entrance to the college was no problem, students passing in and out through the gates, students everywhere, or so it seemed. They moved up a floor and Khazid, in his Henri Duval persona, stopped a passing female undergraduate and inquired for Professor Stone in English heavily laced with French, his beret helping establish his nationality.

She was obviously amused, but waved toward the other end of the corridor. “Down there, but he’s never in.”

“Then where would he be, mademoiselle?”

“Don’t ask me, try the phone book.”

She hurried away, Khazid shrugged and then they reached the end and found a wooden sign hanging on the door saying simply,
Hal Stone
Is Not Here Today.

Khazid tried the door, but it was locked. “Now what do we do?”

“The obvious,” Hussein told him. “We do what the girl suggested and look in a phone book.”

“And what if he’s not in?”

“You’re a pessimist, my friend. He’s a famous man at one of the great colleges, a professor of the University of Cambridge—of course he’ll be in the phone book. Now let’s find one.”

A T Z I O N P L A C E , Caspar was exploring the garden with his daughter and found some of his cares slipping away. The three Russians sat on the terrace and watched.

“That girl is really quite amazing,” Greta said. “She can be a child and adore childish things at one minute, and the next, she’s like a mature woman.”

“But then if you consider what she’s been through,” Levin said, “the death, the destruction at such a young age.”

Chomsky said, “In Chechnya, one could see the same look a hundred times on the faces of children that on occasion I have seen on hers. The face goes blank to conceal what lies inside.”

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“God help her survive it all in herself. I know I’ll do everything to help that I can,” Greta said.

“But the mother,” Levin said, “is something else.”

“A brilliant surgeon.” Greta nodded and said the same thing as Hal Stone. “An obsessive who is convinced that what she does is more important than anything else in her life.”

“Good for her ego, but lousy from a relationship point of view,”

Levin pointed out.

And upstairs Molly Rashid was proving him right to a certain extent, locking herself in the bathroom and calling the particular hospital where she’d operated on the Bedford child, on the direct mobile number of a Dr. Harry Samson, who, to a great extent, had taken over for her. She caught him on the ward itself, a private one.

“It’s me, Molly Rashid,” she said. “How is she?”

Although the news was mixed and there was much to say, finally he got personal. “How are you?”

“Oh, well, I think. We had a problem with Sara, but a rest in the country is doing good and I’ll be back in a week definitely. But never mind that, it’s Lisa Bedford I’m concerned about.”

“Can I have the number in case I need to contact you?”

“We’re moving around a bit, Harry. It’s not my phone.”

“No, please don’t go. I’m really concerned about little Lisa Bedford.

You did a wonderful operation and I’ve got to give this my best shot. It would be good for me to be able to check with you if things do take a turn for the worst.”

And in the end, she was trapped, by both feelings and situation.

“Dammit, Harry, when you’ve taken a call, you can call me straight back on a mobile, you know that. I said it wasn’t my phone, but it is. Call me back anytime you want. I’ll switch off the sound and leave it on vibration.”

He was concerned. “Look, are you all right?”

“Oh, everything’s in a mess,” she burst out. “I’m here with Caspar and Sara, at this sort of country retreat in West Sussex. Zion House.”

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Instantly regretted, but it was too late.

“You mean some sort of clinic?”

“Oh, God, I don’t know what I mean. Good-bye, Harry.”

“Zion House,” he murmured, put down his mobile on the table and started doing his notes.

The nurse on duty was a young Muslim woman named Ayesha, who had been ordered by Ali Hassim to swap shifts to get on the Bedford case, precisely because of the connection with Molly Rashid.

“What was that you said, Doctor?”

He looked up, slightly abstracted. “It was Dr. Rashid, wanting to know how the child is getting on. Said she was somewhere called Zion House in West Sussex. She’ll be away for a week. Her daughter’s had some problem or other.”

The loudspeaker crackled, calling him on an emergency, and he ran out, leaving his mobile. She pressed the return call button and copied Molly’s number and went into an empty room. Since there was no other nurse there she was able to phone Ali Hassim on her own mobile.

When he answered, she said, “Dr. Rashid phoned up to check on the child. She said she was in West Sussex at somewhere called Zion House.

I’ve also got her mobile phone number for you.”

“Excellent, girl, you have done well.”

“I have only done my duty. I’m sure you can find this place on the Internet.”

And she was right, of course, for Ali immediately phoned for the assistance of a member of the Brotherhood, giving him the facts and telling him it was urgent. An hour later, the man appeared at the shop with his laptop and Ali took him in the back room.

“There are several mentions. The marshland about the place is National Trust. The house itself is mentioned a number of times in an official history of the SOE, which used to train agents there during the Second World War. Since then, it’s been in the hands of the Ministry of Defence. Apparently, there are various restriction orders in place. There is also a concrete runway. Then I’ve found mention in general West Sus-

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sex tourist guides. Zion Village is three miles from the house, with a me-dieval church called Saint Andrew, two pubs, several bed-and-breakfasts, a caravan site.”

“Brilliant,” Ali said.

“No, it’s really very simple. These machines can do anything you want them to. You should learn. I’ll go now. I must earn a living, you know.”

He left, and Ali sat there trying to think who he should call first.

T H E Y F O U N D T H E C O T T A G E in Chapel Lane easily enough. There was another message on a board hanging from the front door.
Students Definitely Not Welcome.

“A humorist,” Khazid said.

“I knew professors just like that. It’s an academic thing. However, if he means it, we don’t get in. That’s a voice box on the door. If you touch the button to call, it usually puts you on screen. Look, there’s a camera up there.”

“So what do we do?”

“Let’s explore.”

There was a narrow flagged path down one side of the cottage that turned in behind the back garden wall. There was a stout wooden door that was locked and the top of the wall was crowned with ancient Victorian spikes.

“What do we do?” Khazid asked. “Try and climb over?”

“If he’s there in the kitchen or sitting room he’d be certain to see us and reach for the nearest phone.” Hussein shook his head. “That notice probably means what it says. There are times when he values his privacy. On the other hand, a young undergraduate in gown and scarf with a beret on his head and a very French accent, seeking advice, might interest him. Go and give it a try at the front door. If it works, take him prisoner. Don’t harm him in any way, and let me in through this door.”

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“I’ll give it a try.”

“No, make it a performance. Now go.”

H A L S T O N E , in the sitting room, reading a rather indifferent thesis, the French windows open to the garden, heard the buzz of the entry phone with irritation. He put the thesis to one side, went into the hall and found Khazid on the small screen.

“Who on earth are you?”

“I am Henri Duval of New Hall College, Monsieur le Professeur. I am an archaeology student. I seek your assistance.”

“Well, as a student at Cambridge you must be able to read English, and my notice board is on the door, so clear off.”

Khazid excelled himself with a stream of very fluent French. “I beg you, with all my heart. My first-year exams are coming up, and I have to write a thesis. I genuinely need your advice.”

Hal Stone paused before replying in the same language. “What’s your thesis subject?”

Khazid was feeling more into his role and returned to fractured English, “The influence of Spartan mercenaries on the wars in Persia.”

Hal Stone laughed out loud. “That’s a tall order, but a glamorous one, which I suppose is why you chose it. All right, I’ll give you twenty minutes.”

The door clicked open and Khazid stepped inside, dropping his flight bag and trench coat to one side, but still wearing the beret and short undergraduate gown. He clutched the silenced Walther in his right hand against his leg and opened the inner door into the hall. Hal Stone was waiting, a smile on his face, which faded instantly as Khazid covered him with the Walther.

“Just do as you’re told or I’ll shoot you in your left kneecap.”

“Who the hell are you? Is this some kind of joke?”

“We have a debt to settle.”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

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“But I’ve seen you.” Khazid was so absorbed he’d virtually forgotten about Hussein waiting. “At Hazar, I used to watch you on the deck of the
Sultan
through Zeiss glasses as I stood on the terrace at the great house at Kafkar. You and your people murdered two of my best friends.”

“Dear God,” Stone said. “You’re not Hussein, so you must be the other one, Khazid.” He shook his head. “Come for your revenge.”

“And I intend to have it,” Khazid told him. “Your world is a world of books, Professor, but in mine one sword is worth ten thousand words, so it teaches us in the Koran.”

“To hell with your damned ideology. What do you want with me?”

“We intended to call on Sara and her parents at their house in Hampstead, but Ferguson has had them spirited away. We want to know where.”

“And you think I know?”

“You’ve been involved in the whole business since the beginning, and you’re Ferguson’s cousin. I’m sure you do.”

“Actually, I don’t. And even if I did, I wouldn’t oblige you.”

“Be it on your own head. Get into the sitting room.”

Stone turned, opened the door, then swung it behind him and ran through the open French windows and made for the garden door.

Khazid fired twice. The first shot hit Stone below the left shoulder, driving him against the door. He managed to reach for the large bolt at the top of the door and pull it to one side, and Khazid shot him again in the lower back. Hussein, waiting impatiently, pushed on the door, sending Stone staggering to fall flat on his face.

The body twitched and went still. “What in the hell are you playing at?” Hussein demanded.

Khazid said, “He tried to make a run for it.”

“Why—what did you say to him?”

Khazid, calmer now, was reduced to a certain dishonesty as regards the facts. “He said I was the other one. He knew my name. All I did was try to get the information about where the Rashids have gone from him.

He said he had no idea and wouldn’t tell me if he could.”

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“And you threatened him?”

“What did you expect me to do, pat him on the head? I told him I’d start with his kneecap; he slammed a door on me and made a run for it.”

“You should have waited for me.”

Hussein knelt on one knee, Hal Stone’s face was turned slightly to one side. He looked terrible, blood seeping through his shirt. Hussein felt in the neck. He shook his head. “He’s dead.”

“Are you certain? Another in the head, perhaps?”

“I studied medicine, fool. How many times have you been glad of that in the past two years?” He stood. “Leave him in place and let’s get out of here.” He pushed Khazid before him. “Hurry, I tell you. Straight to the railway station and back to London.”