The Killing Ground (33 page)

“As you say, brother.” Khazid dumped his gown and scarf, put on his trench coat again and followed Hussein as they left the cottage, walked up to the main road and turned to the railway station. They got there with fifteen minutes to spare, just in time to use their return tickets to board.

Once the train was moving, Khazid lay back in the seat, exhausted.

“Now what?”

“Give me time to think about it.” Hussein turned to stare out the window, wondering what was happening. His lie to Khazid, the still beating pulse in Hal Stone’s neck that his fingers had felt. Why had he done that? There was no answer, and for Hal Stone, life or death was a matter for Allah.

A L I H A S S I M H A D B E E N I M P R E S S E D when Khan told him Hussein would be in touch with him for any help or aid that Ali could offer. For him, Hussein was the great warrior, the Hammer of God, a liberator for the people from Allah himself. He remembered his shock on first hearing Hussein’s voice on the radio news program from the Middle East, and then in the middle of his Arabic rhetoric, Hussein describing himself in a simple English phrase,
Hammer of God.
It was a gesture of contempt

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for his enemies, but that name was now known to millions of Arabs in the Middle East who were not familiar with the English language at all.

So, thinking over his problem about who to first tell about Zion House, he realized that he had found a new and worthier allegiance. But he needed to make everything perfect, so he called in another member of the Brotherhood, a young accountant in a financial firm in the city.

A short chat over the phone, the suggestion that he could be of great service to the Brotherhood, produced the man he wanted within an hour, and he also sent for his laptop expert and waited.

S A M B O L T O N W A S actually Selim Bolton, his father English, his mother Muslim. He had been raised in an English culture until his first year at London University, studying business and accountancy, and then his father had died of cancer. An immediate consequence of this was that his mother was restored to Islam.

There were those in the Brotherhood who saw great possibilities in individuals with a similar background to his, and he joined their ranks as a sleeper, a handsome young man in a good suit and a university tie, accepted anywhere.

He turned up at the shop and discovered Ali waiting with the laptop expert. Ali said, “Listen carefully while our brother explains,” and the laptop man told him everything regarding Zion House.

Bolton took it all in. Finally, he said, “So what you really want to know is the feel of things generally, the attitudes of the villagers, perhaps to Zion House itself?”

“Exactly. What’s special about it.”

“I think you mean what its purpose is, if any.” He stood up. “I might as well get on with it. I called in at the flat, so I’ve got an overnight bag in the Audi.”

“So you accept this assignment?”

“Of course.”

“You could not do our cause a greater service.”

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“I’ll be in touch.”

The laptop man left and Ali nodded to himself. He was doing the right thing. No phone call to Khan. He had set things in motion and could afford to wait to hear from Hussein.

H A L S T O N E ’ S C L E A N I N G L A D Y , a widow named Amy Robinson, usually only worked mornings, but she had her own key and his laundry to deliver, so she called in at the cottage and discovered him in the garden. She had once been a nurse and was still expert enough to establish that he was alive. It was roughly an hour and a half since Hussein and Khazid had left.

She dialed 999 and called for ambulance and police, stipulating gunshot wounds, then she went out with a rug and pillows and tried to make him comfortable. She was kneeling beside him, stroking his hair, when his eyes opened. He looked at her, bewildered.

“Amy?”

“Don’t fuss, love, lie still. There’s an ambulance on its way. Who did this to you?”

“My cousin General Ferguson—you met him when he visited the other year. My address book’s on the desk. His private mobile number.

Call him for me.”

“Don’t upset yourself, love, I’m sure he’ll be contacted in time.”

“You don’t understand.” He clutched at her with a bloodstained hand.

“Tell him they were here, both of them. They were here in England. The other one shot me.” He closed his eyes and opened them. “I didn’t mention Zion.”

He lost consciousness again and there was a sudden confusion outside as the ambulance arrived.

She went to the front door and admitted the paramedics, who followed her as she showed what waited in the garden. And then, of course, the police came, first one car, then two. She waited, bewildered by it all, and then a man in civilian clothes arrived, who she was told was a Chief

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Inspector Harper. He had a quick look round the cottage and went outside to the wall. When he returned, a police sergeant was taking a written statement from Amy.

“He did say something strange when he came to for a moment.” She told him what it was.

Harper, coming in through the French windows, heard. “Did you say General Ferguson?”

“Yes, Professor Stone’s cousin. He’s very important in one of the ministries.”

“You can say that again, if it’s who I think it is.”

“The professor said the General’s personal number was in his address book on the desk.”

Harper rushed to find it, and so it was that Ferguson, who had just arrived at the Holland Park safe house to discuss progress, heard the dreadful news.

T H E T R A I N W A S just twenty minutes out of King’s Cross when Ali received the call from Hussein. “We’re just arriving from Cambridge. A waste of time. We’ll come round to your shop. We’ll need somewhere to stay.”

“I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I have discovered where they have taken the Rashids.”

“But where does such information come from? Khan, I suppose, and presumably he would have got it from the Broker?”

“No, neither Khan nor the Broker know about it. It was the action of the Rashid woman, the doctor, which came to our aid. She was concerned for the welfare of a child she had operated on and telephoned the surgeon who has taken over the case. He wanted to be able to get in touch with her if there was a change in the child’s condition. One of the nurses, a member of my network, was on duty and obtained the address for us.”

“This is truly unbelievable. They are still in England then?”

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“West Sussex, a place called Zion House. Not only can I show it to you on a laptop when you get here, I’ve also sent a trusted agent straight down there to scout the place out for you. I’ve impressed on him the urgency of his report.”

“It is hard to imagine that Ferguson let them make phone calls.”

“She probably broke the rules,” Ali said.

“And must pay the price. It would suit me very well for the enemy not to know that we are here. If you mention your discovery of Zion House to Dreq Khan, he will in turn inform the Broker.”

“And that one you distrust?”

“He has had his uses, but he has his fingers in too many pies. You must not take this as an attack on Osama bin Laden, whom Allah protect, because on the ground, he represents Osama in certain matters. In those affairs, he is simply serving a great man’s needs and he must remember his place. Sometimes such men see themselves as being more important than they are.”

“Professor Khan, for example?”

“It is difficult for some people to remember that the cause they represent is more important than themselves,” Hussein said.

Ali said calmly, “Khan will not be told of Zion from me. I look forward to receiving you.”

“We shall be seeing you soon,” Hussein told him.

He turned off his phone. Khazid said, “What was all that about?”

“Brother, Allah is on our side. Ali Hassim has discovered where the Rashids have been taken.” He proceeded to tell Khazid as much as he needed to know.

“Perfect,” Khazid said. “With the professor dead, no one in Ferguson’s organization even knows we are here.”

“Of course,” Hussein said, a faint shadow on his face as that wavering pulse came back to haunt him. He took a deep breath. “Nothing can go wrong now.” A few moments later, the train arrived at King’s Cross.

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A T H O L L A N D P A R K , Ferguson was speaking to Harper again. “Chief Inspector, I’m invoking the Terrorism Act, to put a blanket on this for the moment. Some very nasty people are involved.”

“We are dealing with terrorists here, sir?”

“I have a special warrant from Downing Street on this one. I also have an official request to your chief constable that you act as my liai-son there.”

Harper’s spirits lifted. “Very good of you, sir. Happy to be on board.”

“I’ve borrowed a police helicopter from the Met, thanks to the com-missioner. They’re lifting me from a school football field just down the road from here.”

“Stone’s hanging on by inches, General, that’s what the surgeon in charge informs me. The scans show two bullets, one under the left shoulder that’s apparently fragmented much of the shoulder blade, and there’s a major artery close by that will give a problem.”

“And the other?”

“Low in the back. It’s done a lot of damage to the pelvic girdle. What I’m telling you is what the scans show. I expect the major surgery will reveal much more.”

“Thanks very much. I’ll see you soon.”

Roper said, “What a bastard.” Dillon and Billy looked grim.

Billy said, “What did he say to the cleaning lady?”

“He said to tell me they were here, both of them, they were here in England. The other one shot me. I didn’t tell them about Zion.”

“It was them, all right,” Dillon said. “Has to be.”

“And the other one, the bastard who shot him in the back, was this Khazid guy.” Billy was angry.

“I think that’s obvious,” Ferguson said, and there was the chatter of the helicopter passing overhead to the football field. “Sean,” he said to Dillon, “Hal is the closest relative I have left. Would you come with me?”

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It was a direct appeal that couldn’t be refused. “Of course I will.”

“Good luck,” Roper called as they went out the door.

The noise of the helicopter was with them for about ten minutes and then the aircraft lifted and moved away. Roper reached for the scotch.

Billy said, “Knock it off. At a time like this, a man needs friends to drink with.”

“That’s the best idea you’ve had for some time.” Roper started his wheelchair and Billy followed him out.

O N H I S W A Y T O Z I O N , Sam Bolton had stopped in Guildford and visited the army and navy store, where he purchased an anorak, a jumper, a waterproof bush hat and trousers to go with it and some boots. He then cast around for a pair of binoculars and found something suitable in a camera shop. He also purchased a canvas carrying bag from a nearby store, then went into a convenient hotel and found the gentlemen’s toilets.

He changed clothes in one of the cubicles, putting his smart suit, tie and shoes into the bag. When he emerged, he was wearing everything else he had bought and hung the binoculars around his neck.

“Nothing like looking the part,” he said softly, examining himself in the mirror. “But what do you really know about birds except the female variety?”

He returned to the Audi, drove around looking and found a book-shop. Within minutes, he was emerging with a suitable item covering the coastal areas of England. It was a magazine type of book with an illus-trated cover. Good to carry under your arm to let the uninformed know what you were. Pleased with himself, he got back in the Audi and continued his drive toward the coast and Zion.

H E A R R I V E D A T Z I O N in the middle of the afternoon, put the Audi’s top down and had a look round. What he saw was a typical English village:

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one pub called the Ploughman and another down the street named the Zion Arms, old cottages, a church. He parked the Audi and went into the Zion Arms. Everything you expected from an English country pub was there, from logs burning on the hearth of a stone fireplace, to the beamed ceiling, the mahogany bar, the mirrored shelves and the stout late-middle-aged lady behind it, with rosy cheeks and wearing a floral dress. It seemed too good to be true. There weren’t many people, a party of three, a young couple, talking in low voices, a very ancient-looking man on the wooden settle by the fire, alone, a half-empty pint of beer in front of him.

Selim Bolton he might be, but it was Sam Bolton who approached the bar. In previous adventures for the Brotherhood, he had seldom used an alias. He was himself a university graduate and a middle-ranking executive in a private bank in the City of London. Anyone who wished to query him, even the police, would discover that quickly enough and look elsewhere. He even had a company card with Sam Bolton engraved on it.

Outside the village, he had pulled into a lay-by and looked up Zion in the bird book. He had an extremely good memory, noted Zion Marsh, the fact that it was National Trust and a brief mention that the house was not open to the public.

“Ah, you’d be staying here for the bird-watching?” she said as he placed the book on the counter. “Plenty of people come here for that.”

He’d concocted his story in advance. “I work in London in finance.

Sometimes you feel trapped, you just want to get away for a few days.

I’ve got friends further along the coast, Aldwick Bay, the other side of Bognor Regis. Lovely shingle beaches up there. I’m making my way back to London, taking my time, and I noticed in the book that Zion marshes are a bit special.”