The Killing Ground (37 page)

There were a dozen or so customers scattered around the café, mainly truck drivers from the look of what was in the car park. Hussein and Khazid sat in a corner away from anyone else.

“What do we eat?” Khazid asked.

“Look at the menu. The popular choice is the full English breakfast with a mug of tea.”

“Which includes bacon for a start.”

“In the circumstances, Allah will be merciful. So, go to the counter and in your best broken French, give the order. To be practical, I’m hun-gry and we have a long day ahead of us.”

Khazid went and spoke to the young girl on duty and returned and sat down. “What do you think of the Caravanette? It’s hardly a getaway car, the engine throbbing when you put your foot down.”

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“It could be argued that it would be perfect for such a purpose. What police are usually chasing is the faster traffic, not the vehicle in the slow lane.”

“A debatable point,” Khazid said.

The girl brought the breakfasts and teas on a tray, put everything on the table and departed. “My chief instructor in the camp in Algeria had a saying: Walk, don’t run, whenever possible. Now eat your breakfast, little brother, and shut up.”

I T W A S E I G H T O ’ C L O C K when Dillon and Billy joined Roper, and his news wasn’t too good. “I’ve had Lacey on. He and Parry have arrived at Farley. It’s not too nice. He certainly thinks it’s not on for a nine-o’clock departure. They’ll just have to wait for a window of opportunity. I’ve spoken to Ferguson. He’s suggested we have a quick breakfast. He’ll be here for an eight-thirty departure.”

“That’s fine,” Dillon said. “Are you going to join us?”

“I don’t think so. I’d a bad night, and then this weather.” He shook his head. “I think I’ll check with Zion while you eat. See you later.”

Dillon and Billy left him for the canteen, and Roper called Levin.

A T T H E D I N I N G R O O M at Zion House, Levin, Chomsky and Greta sat at a corner table and rain rattled against the French windows, the terrace outside streaming with it as it fell on the garden extending all the way to the wall, the wood beyond.

There was a certain amount of mist that made everything look a little mysterious. Various trees, masses of rhododendrons, willow trees, an old summerhouse, sheltered pathways running through shrubberies.

Greta, who was drinking coffee and looking out, said, “Rain, bloody rain, but it suits the garden.”

Sara came up behind. “I heard that. It’s like something out of
Jane
Eyre.
Dark and brooding.”

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“Would you like to join us?” Greta said.

“No, I’d better go and sit in the far corner. The parents are coming down, I’ll see you later.”

She moved across, waving cheerfully at Captain Bosey and Fletcher and Smith, two of his guards, who were eating together. A little later, Caspar and Molly arrived and joined their daughter. One of the girls, Kitty, took an order and went off to the kitchen.

Levin’s phone went and it was Roper. “How’s the house party proceeding?”

“Rain and even a little mist. Makes the garden look romantic.”

“What about the runway?”

“I can’t see from here. Hang on and I’ll go to the terrace.” Which he did, going out to the hall and helping himself to an umbrella he found behind the door. He opened it and stepped out, giving Roper a running commentary. “There’s no way this rain is going to stop, that’s for sure, but I can see the runway. There is some mist there, certainly. What’s the word from your end?”

“Well, Lacey doesn’t seem to think nine o’clock’s likely. He’ll await a window of opportunity was what he said.”

“Okay, I’ll keep in touch.”

Levin turned, moved back to the house to report to the others.

A T F A R L E Y F I E L D , Jamal had set himself up in the public car park. He parked in a spot from which he could see the arrivals. The Hawk was already parked on the other side of the terminal building.

The yellow van had Telecom on the side and he raised the rear door like a flap against the rain and sat there from half-past seven and waited.

He was surrounded by coils of wire, a large tool box was open, and in his yellow oilskins with Telecom on the back, he looked perfectly acceptable.

Ali Hassim, who had phoned several times, tried again at half-past eight. “Still nothing?”

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“I’m afraid so. I will contact you the moment I see anything.”

He opened a lunch box and took out a banana and a carton of yogurt, ate it slowly with a spoon, then unpeeled the banana, watching.

Time ticked by and suddenly the People Traveller from Holland Park, the vehicle that he had followed on his motorbike when it had taken the Rashids and the three other people to Farley, arrived. He watched it park at the end of the terminal. Three men hurrying for shelter. He knew one was Ferguson because Hassim had shown him a photo.

He phoned Ali instantly. “They’ve arrived, Ferguson definitely and two other men. They were too fast for me, hurrying through the rain.”

“Allah be praised. Phone me again the moment they take off.”

“It may be a while. The weather is not good.”

“So wait and watch.”

I N T H E T E R M I N A L B U I L D I N G , Ferguson talked to Lacey. “What do you think?”

“I don’t hold out any hope of nine o’clock. The flight down there takes an hour, a little more depending on the wind and whether it changes direction. Maybe another half hour. That would give an esti-mated time of arrival at about ten-thirty. We’ll just have to see. I suggest coffee, General.”

“Oh, very well.” Ferguson wasn’t pleased and phoned Levin.

“Nine o’clock and waiting. Lacey still has hopes. I’ll call you.” He shrugged and said to Dillon and Billy, “Can’t be helped. Let’s find this coffee.”

A T Z I O N , the Caravanette had arrived twenty minutes earlier and passed through the village as Khazid drove, following Bolton’s instructions, passing the house and the electronic barrier at the estate entrance with the guardhouse beside it.

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Farther along, they came to the sprawling country car park surrounded with high hedges and the wood on the other side. There was one thing that Bolton had failed to mention, a brick public convenience. As for the car park, at that moment in time, there wasn’t a single vehicle parked there.

Khazid got out. “I have an idea.”

He went to the public convenience, looked behind and returned. “I think I could squeeze the Caravanette round the back of it?”

“No, we won’t do that,” Hussein said. “Remember what I said? Walk, don’t run. We are harmless eccentrics who prefer to be out in the pouring rain watching birds to sitting at home. We’ve nothing to hide. Just park us there by the wood. The gate guard can’t see down here anyway.”

His phone went. It was Ali, who described the situation at Farley.

Hussein took the news quite calmly. “Call me the moment the Hawk leaves.”

“Where are you?”

“Where we are supposed to be. Now don’t bother me until you have news.”

Khazid said, “What’s happening?”

“Jamal at Farley has seen the Hawk waiting and Ferguson and two men arrive, probably Dillon and Billy Salter. He will inform Ali the moment the Hawk takes off. I know that plane, I’ve flown one. I’d say in good weather, it would be here at Zion in an hour, maybe a little more today.”

“Allah preserve us,” Khazid said in awe. “Ferguson himself on the terrace of that house? The British Prime Minister’s head of security, a man with huge links to the American President. What a target. This changes everything. Our place in heaven is assured.”

“It changes nothing,” Hussein told him. “First we need to get into the grounds, fool. So, orders. The large pockets in our anoraks will carry our weapons and additional ammunition with no problem, even your Uzi with the stock folded. We leave the flight bags locked in the Caravanette.

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You can carry the canvas bag with the tool kit, I will have my Zeiss glasses around my neck, and then into the wood with us.”

“To watch birds,” Khazid answered.

“Of course, and if any bird-watchers as crazy as us turn up in this weather, remember you’re French.” He led the way along the side of the wood toward the runway end, checking his watch and finding it was just after nine.

Bolton’s instructions had really been very good. Hussein turned into the fringe of pine trees at that point and said, “Stop, I want to take a look.”

He focused the Zeiss glasses that Bolton had procured. They were excellent. He scanned the garden, then checked the terrace extending the whole front of the house, the main door in the center. At that moment, the French window opened and Sara came out and held an umbrella overhead. Caspar stood in the French window, obviously urging her to come in out of the rain. She stayed for a moment, then turned and went in. The French window was closed.

Hussein said hoarsely, “I’ve just seen Sara on the terrace under an umbrella and Caspar behind her. They’ve gone in again. Have a quick look.”

Khazid did, handed them back, and Hussein said, “Let’s get to it.”

Within a few minutes, thanks to Bolton’s briefing, they forced their way through the thicket and found the stone.

“Excellent.” He stamped around, kicking in the grass, and Khazid unfolded the canvas tool kit. There were two small steel spades and two lengthy crowbars ranged along the bottom of the bag. A sledgehammer and a flashlight. There was also a dark green waterproof cape, to hide an open hole if necessary.

Remembering what Bolton had told them he had done, Hussein tapped around in the turf and heard the clang of metal on metal.

“Now the spades,” he said. “Come on, both of us.”

They attacked savagely and the pointed steel blades tore into the turf,

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turning it over, soon revealing a circular iron manhole. It was worn with the years, pitted, but it was still possible to read the manufacturer’s name: Watson & Company, Canal Street, Leeds.

They looked at it in silence. “Amazing,” Khazid said. “After all these years.”

“Try moving it,” Hussein told him.

There was a steel handle in a cup setting in the center. Khazid pushed one of the crowbars through and heaved. Nothing much happened, and at that moment Hussein’s mobile sounded. He answered at once and found Ali there.

“Jamal has just called me. Although the weather is still poor here, the Hawk has just departed. It’s nine-thirty. Does everything go well?”

“We’ve found the entrance, but I’ve no time to talk.” He slipped the phone into his pocket and took the other crowbar from the bag, inserted it and they heaved together without success.

“Take some of the smaller tools, the screwdrivers, and we’ll scrape round the edges of the circle. That was Ali. Jamal reports the Hawk departing nine-thirty.” He scraped away furiously, as did Khazid. “That would mean an ETA of ten-thirty plus the drive from the runway. I’d say they’ll arrive at the house at about ten forty-five. Now put your back into it, little brother.”

And it moved with a strange kind of groan and tilted and broke free and they carried it farther into the thicket and dumped it in the long grass.

“You first,” Hussein said to Khazid and pulled the cape from the tool bag. “I’ll pass it to you. There seem to be rungs down into this thing.”

Khazid did as he was told, the flashlight in one hand. His voice echoed up. “It’s about five foot in diameter. Drop the bag.”

Hussein did so, spread the cape on the ground, went a few steps down the rungs and reached up to pull the cape over the hole. It was green in color, and with any luck, it would be undetected for a very long time.

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K H A Z I D H A D T H E F L A S H L I G H T O U T and it picked out the tunnel ahead.

Its curved sides were concrete and very wet and the drip of water could be heard.

“Must be leakage of some kind,” Khazid said.

He moved ahead, bending over slightly, oblivious in his stout boots to the sludge under his feet. There was a smell, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

Rather like walking through a wood in the rain, earthy and damp.

In his head, Hussein moved in slow motion as if in a dream. The sight of Sara under that umbrella had shocked him. It was the reality of her presence after the things that had gone before, the journey from Hazar, so much violence and death. Now she was near and there was little doubt what Khazid would expect to do.

And Khazid was right to expect such a thing. They
were
soldiers, fighting in a war, one of the worst of modern times that, one way or another, had cost the lives of many thousands of his fellow Iraqis, including his parents. It would be the worst kind of dishonor to fail them all now, even though it would cost him his life. He saw all this so clearly. He was the Hammer of God and he had never failed in his duty.

There was the same kind of ladder in the brick wall. He said to Khazid, “Mount a few rungs with a crowbar and see what you can do.

I’ll brace you.”

Khazid put down the lantern and obeyed and mounted to the right level and got to work, as Hussein took his weight. He was having difficulty, but a crack was obvious at the left-hand side of the manhole cover, the decay of the years.

“I can get the end of the crowbar in there. I’ll hold it with one hand while you get the hammer and swing it against the end.”

Hussein did exactly that and everything happened in a rush, two or three bricks tumbling down. He jumped out of the way, then pushed

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his hands into Khazid’s back, holding him firmly, while the manhole cover seemed to slide to one side and a considerable amount of earth showered in.