The Death Trade (12 page)

“Nothing to be ashamed of. I saw the piece in
Le Monde
. I was sure they'd spin it that way. The fortunes of war. She was a soldier and took a soldier's risks, as you and I do. It is a shame that Emza Khan's man was so quick to execute her. An animal, I'm afraid. One would have hoped Khan would have had some control over him. Indeed, Rasoul seems to have had approval for what he did.”

Ali Saif was horrified. “That is the truth? But why did he
do
it?”

“Rasoul is a bully and uninterested in the true path of Osama, only in the pursuit of power. He will be dealt with in due course.” What he had said about Khan he truly believed, but blaming Rasoul for Fatima's death was a lie for which he made no apology. Everything had a purpose.

They had a rule that all telephone calls must be recorded. The Master said, “Play me the call.”

Which Saif did, Emza Khan's harsh and ugly words echoing. There was a strange quiet when it finished.

The Master said calmly, “He is a small man, you are not. Always remember that. Your day will come. Osama blesses you.”

Next he called Khan and found him at home, seated by the sliding windows to the terrace, reading the
Times
.
Khan was so flustered that he stood.

“Master, what can I do for you?”

“I've seen the results of your Petra plan. So simple in principle—yet it works. The
Kantara
has made six successful deliveries by night in three months. You are to be congratulated. I'll make sure this is known. As I've said before, only an outstanding businessman is capable of this level of planning.”

Khan was overwhelmed and could barely speak. “Master—what can I say?”

“I could use a firsthand report, Emza. Someone to take a trip on the boat itself.”

“I wish I could do it, but I can't spare the time. My poor efforts for the Cause consume me.”

“Indeed, we are so grateful, and so is your country's government. How is your son? There were problems with his health, as I recall?”

The Master, of course, had already been informed of the fix Khan was in with Yousef. Khan hesitated.

“Perhaps a trip round the Mediterranean in the
Kantara
would put roses in his cheeks?”

“What . . . what an excellent idea,” Khan said. “Do you think he'd be welcome? I mean, it's a working boat. No passengers.”

“We'll soon change that. I admit I've never met Captain Rajavi, but we've spoken many times. After all, I am his employer. I'll see that he calls you. The latest voyage started from Oran a few days ago, but your son could join at any of the ports.”

“He'll be absolutely thrilled. Can I send my bodyguard with him, Rasoul?”

“Of course, but send my blessings to Yousef. I hope he has a wonderful time.”

“Allah bless you, Master.”

“He always does, my friend, every day of my life.”

—

D
avid Rajavi was sitting in the captain's chair of the wheelhouse of the
Kantara
and his bosun, Abu, a Somali, took the wheel. He was enjoying a cigarette and a cup of coffee when his mobile sounded.

“Where are you?” the Master asked.

“Just three miles out from a small port called Boukara, east of Algiers, where I intend to drop anchor for the night. What can I do for you?”

“My friends are delighted with what you've achieved. The weapons you landed have reached the right destination.”

“That's good to know,” Rajavi told him. “But I truly believe it's only the beginning. What can I do for you?”

“You mean, ‘What can I do for the Cause?'”

“I would have thought that by now you would know that I regard them as one and the same.”

“Excellent. I want you to call Emza. Tell him you'd be happy to have his son, Yousef, and his bodyguard, Rasoul, join you during the next couple of days.”

“Oh dear,” Rajavi said. “We'll have to padlock the drinks locker. That won't go down well with the kind of crew I run.”

“It could be worse,” the Master said. “You stop at plenty of ports, there's leave.”

“I suppose so, but I don't know how the crew is going to take a spoiled young man like Yousef, a drunk who's only avoided prison for rape because the girls were bought off by Daddy.”

“So why not put him to work?” the Master said.

“He'd break an arm or a leg before we knew what was happening, especially if he still had access to booze.” Rajavi snorted. “You know what drunks are like.”

“Of course,” the Master said. “On the other hand, he might do us all a favor and break his neck.”

There was silence for a moment, then Rajavi said, “You're serious, aren't you?”

“Let me explain. However unpleasant, Emza Khan is important to our cause because of his billions, his connection with the Iranian government, and the status this gives him in Washington and London. His two sons killed in the war with Iraq is a matter for sorrow, but also pride, as is his relationship with one of Iran's greatest war heroes, Colonel Declan Rashid. The only fly in the ointment is Yousef himself, for rather obvious and disgusting reasons. Our cause could do without him. Do I make myself plain?”

“Very much so,” David Rajavi told him.

“Excellent,” the Master said. “Call Emza Khan and make the arrangements.”

“Consider it done,” Rajavi said and, when the Master had gone, lit a cigarette and sat there thinking about it.

Abu, the bosun, said, “Trouble, Captain?”

“It could be,” Rajavi said. “We've got to pick up a passenger and his minder somewhere during the voyage, and the nearest way I can describe him to you is an alcoholic schoolboy who can't keep his pants buttoned. The problem is what to do with him.”

Abu roared with laughter. “It's simple, Captain, throw him overboard.”

Rajavi shook his head. “You've no idea how much sense that makes, Abu.” He picked up his mobile and called Emza Khan.

—

A
t Highfield Court, Sara was in her bedroom busy packing when there was a knock on the door and Sadie Cohen looked in. “Daniel's downstairs on Skype in your granddad's study. The rabbi's out, by the way, and not due back until late.”

Sara hurried down the stairs, went into the study, and sat in front of the screen on the large Victorian desk. Daniel, still dressed as a Turareg, stared out at her. There was some faint shooting in the background and a distant explosion. He was unshaven, dirty and sweating, eyes wild.

“Daniel, you look so tired,” she said.

“Never mind that,” he told her. “Ferguson's just told me about you, Dillon, and Billy flying off to Ras Kasar tomorrow.”

“That's right,” she said. “The Petra project.”

“Which was my baby.” He was thoroughly angry. “The
Kantara
gig, particularly. I've been afraid for weeks that the other side would realize we might get on to them because it's so obvious. Damn Ferguson!”

“That's no way to be, Daniel. Now the proof's there that the
Kantara
's been up to no good, somebody's got to do something about it, and you're obviously not available.”

“Don't rub it in, and if it is al-Qaeda, the crew will be armed to the teeth. It could be a bloodbath. It's crazy sending you into a situation like that.”

“But not crazy for Dillon and Billy, only me? That's what it's all about, isn't it.” She was cold-bloodedly angry now. “Listen to me, Daniel, I'm a big girl. I don't need somebody to hold my hand. I made my bones in Helmand Province, and I've got the permanent limp and the Military Cross to prove it. So I'm going, and you can't stop me.”

He looked quite wild. “Damn you, Sara.”

“You take care, Daniel, and I'll take care, that's all I can say. I'm signing off now.” She clicked off the screen, turned, and found Sadie standing there looking troubled.

“This work you do, Sara, is it worth it? He loves you so, and he's such a nice man.”

“Time for truth, Sadie. This ‘nice man' once did five years in the Lubyanka, and carried a gun for the Provisional IRA. So did Sean Dillon, by the way, whom you adore. Do you want to know how many they've killed? Do you know how many dead Taliban I left at Abusan?”

Sadie stood there, a kind of horror on her face, a fist to her mouth, and Sara zipped up her military bag, put an arm around her, and kissed her on the cheek. “It's the life I've chosen, Sadie. Give Granddad my love and tell him I'll be back in a week or two,” and she went out.

—

H
arry had driven up from his pub, the Dark Man,
with Billy, and they sat in the computer room with Roper, Dillon, and Sara while Ferguson went through what was to happen.

“Since the Gulfstream has diplomatic immunity, you can take your weaponry on board. Yanni Christou will pick you up at Palma. You will have no difficulty transferring your weaponry to the floatplane. Andrew Adano will be handling the usual corrupt system at the Algerian end.”

“Diving gear?” Dillon asked.

“Taken care of. Obviously, Adano knows who you are, but I don't see the need to alter your names on this one. You're all mixed up in the holiday trade and looking for fresh venues. Billy is an expert in water sports, Dillon and Sara are more interested in the entertainment side. He'll play the piano a time or two, and Sara will sing a song, just to cover your backs. I'm not suggesting you perform every night.”

“That seems to cover everything,” Dillon said.

“Take care with the cushion on the front seat on the left in the Gulfstream. If you unzip it, you'll find blocks of Semtex and several tin boxes of pencil timers. I've given you a choice on the timers, various lengths for extreme circumstances. One's a five-hour delay job. Just like the IRA in the old days.”

“That's it, then,” Dillon said. “The rest depends on the
Kantara
.”

“Absolutely.” Ferguson nodded. “I need the Gulfstream back here, so Lacey and Parry will miss the joys of Majorca, which won't please them, but the sooner you're on your way to Ras Kasar, the better. Anything else?”

Sara said, “Daniel isn't very pleased.”

There was a troubled silence, and Ferguson said, “When did this happen?”

“He spoke to me on Skype just before I came here.”

“He was angry with me?” Ferguson suggested.

“I'm afraid so. He doesn't approve of me being involved.”

“That's not surprising,” Dillon said.

“So where exactly does that leave you, Captain?” Ferguson asked.

“As far as romance is concerned?” Sara got up and reached for her bag. “A non-starter, I'm afraid. There's certainly no room for it in our line of work. So if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, it's me for an early night. I think I'm going to have to be on top of my game,” and she went out.

—

A
t the Aziz Private Nursing Home, the doctor was going through accounts in his office when the door burst open and Emza Khan forced his way past the protesting secretary.

“It's all right,” Aziz said and waved her away.

“I've just been up to see him in his room to tell him about this.” He dropped a letter on the desk. “He's been ordered to appear at Westminster Magistrates Court on five separate counts next Thursday. This time it could mean prison.”

“How did he take it?”

“He seemed genuinely afraid. And sober, for once.”

“He would be, we washed him out. So what do you want to do?”

“I have a commercial interest in a cargo boat. The captain's agreed to sign him on as a crew member. I think it might be the best thing for him.”

“What does he think about that? Has he agreed to go?”

“Yes. He's afraid of the idea of prison.”

“Then just take him. If the police inquire, I'll say he just disappeared. You can say the same thing. They can't prove otherwise.”

Emza Khan didn't even say good-bye, the door banged and he was gone.

T
he Gulfstream landed at Palma just before noon and taxied to the private planes section where Dillon, peering out, noticed the blue van, and the sign on the side that said
Trade Winds
. Yanni Christou leaned against it, smoking a cigarette, black hair in a ponytail, a bushy mustache on his tanned face. He was sixty years old and yet had the kind of tough look that would make anyone adopt a cautious approach.

Parry opened the airstair door and Dillon led the way down, walking toward Christou, who flung his arms wide. “You bastard, I couldn't believe it.” He grabbed Dillon and kissed him on both cheeks.

“I've told you before, why not try shaving if you're going to do that? This is my associate, Billy Salter.”

Billy removed his mirror sunglasses and held out his hand and Christou nodded. “Welcome, young one, I don't need to ask what you do for a living.”

His gaze took in Sara as she stood at the top of the steps, and he stopped smiling. “God in heaven, you've brought a real woman with you.”

“How right you are,” Dillon told him as she limped toward them. “Meet Captain Sara Gideon, Yanni. An Afghanistan veteran with the scars to prove it
and
the medals.”

Christou kissed her hand. “It saddens me to see you in bad company. The things I could tell you about Dillon would shock you to the core. On the other hand, he did break my nephew Christoff out of a jail where Turkish bastards were holding him on false evidence!”

“Dillon was telling us what a great flyer you are, a Greek Navy pilot in your day?” Sara said in Greek.

“Until I punched my commanding officer in an argument over a woman, and I can't believe you speak Greek.”

“Some people have a thing for mathematics, mine is languages. I've taken my wings in the British Army Air Corps, but Dillon tells me I am to be second pilot on one of your Eagles. My problem is I've never flown a floatplane.”

Yanni Christou, who had been passing the luggage into the van, paused, and the smile on his face was something to see. “Then it will be my pleasure to show you.”

—

T
orina was a small port, the pier stretching out and turning at the end to enclose the harbor. There were fishing boats at anchor, several more drawn up on the beach, a scattering of white houses behind, a cantina café with a large terrace and tables, the awnings and umbrellas being put away for the moment, for this was the off-season and rain and sudden storms were not unknown.

Billy with his orange juice, and Dillon with an ice-cold lager, watched the Eagle come in low over the sea, then drop down parallel to the pier, and Dillon said, “That was close to perfect.” The floatplane coasted toward the sands, and he added, “Let's see how she copes with beaching.”

It was their second day, for Yanni Christou had lost no time in getting Sara into the air on the afternoon of their arrival and Dillon had had the sense to leave them to it. Sara had taken it very seriously and so had Yanni, and it showed, although there had been a few early belly landings into the sea the first day until darkness had forced them to abandon their efforts.

It had rained during the morning, but not enough to prevent further flying, and the improvement began to show. Now, coasting in toward the beach, she reached for the undercarriage lever and dropped the wheels beneath the floats, as she had done many times that day. Everything worked just right and the Eagle came in with a wave behind it, moved up the ramp, halted, and she switched off.

“What a woman. Let's go and celebrate.” Christou opened the cabin door, stepped on the wing, and looked up at the terrace to see Dillon and Billy, whose clapping echoed across the water.

“We're coming up for a glass of wine,” Christou called. “Make it something good,” and he turned and offered his hand to Sara.

—

T
he
Kantara
was moored in the outer harbor of Boukara, and David Rajavi stood at the rail, watching the ship's tender approaching, Abu at the tiller. It carried Rasoul and Yousef and a number of suitcases. Rajavi smiled slightly, then went up the ladder to the captain's cabin behind the wheelhouse, where he started to consult his charts.

Yousef entered. He wore Ray-Bans, an expensive black bomber jacket over a black Armani shirt, and designer jeans. The watch on his left wrist was a gold Rolex. Behind him, Rasoul wore a khaki suit of crumpled linen that made him look overweight.

“Are you Rajavi, the captain of this heap of junk?” Yousef demanded.

“I suppose I am, in a manner of speaking,” Rajavi told him. “What can I do for you?”

“You can show us to our cabin,” Rasoul growled. “Mr. Khan is tired, and so am I. We've been traveling for eighteen hours straight to get here from London.”

“Well, at least you've been doing it privately. I'd have thought that a blessing,” Rajavi said. “We're short a first officer this trip, and there are two bunks in his cabin, so you can have it while we sort things out.”

“Okay, it will have to do for the moment,” Yousef said. “Where is it?”

“Just one thing,” Rajavi opened the ship's manifest and held out a pen. “I made it clear to your father we don't take passengers, it's illegal. You'll have to sign on as crew members.”

“What the hell's going on here?” Rasoul said, but Yousef was aching for a drink and in no mood to wait any longer.

“Anything you say, Captain. If we could be shown to our cabin and given some help with the luggage, we'll get on with it.” He signed with a flourish and passed the pen to Rasoul, who was looking mutinous. “Do it and let's get out of here.”

Rasoul did as he was told, and Rajavi said, “Abu will take a couple of your bags and show you the way. Perhaps you could follow him with the others?”

Which they did, following Abu to where he kicked open a door and led the way into the cabin, one bunk above the other, a washbasin and a toilet in the corner, the aroma from which left something to be desired.

“And this is it?” Rasoul said.

“Unless you'd like to slop in with the other eleven crew members?” Abu said. “Chow is in a couple of hours, the dining saloon is below the main ladder and everyone just pitches in.”

He went out, slamming the door, and Rasoul said, “This is terrible, and it stinks in here. We must call your father.”

“We'll call nobody,” said Yousef, wrestling a suitcase open and revealing several bottles of vodka. “Nothing could be as bad as this, so it can only get better.” He unscrewed the cap of the first bottle and swallowed deep. “Allah forgive me, but that's wonderful.” He took another long pull, and Rasoul crouched on a stool in the corner and watched him in horror.

By the time the chow gong sounded below, Yousef was drunk out of his mind. “Food,” he snarled. “Let's go and get some food.”

He threw off Rasoul, who tried to restrain him, shoved him out of the way, and slipped down the ladder to the dining saloon, where stew was being ladled out to a line of men. He staggered up, clutching at people, managed to knock the stew over, and became a target for kicks and punches from everyone.

As Abu picked him up and slapped him, Rajavi appeared and surveyed the mess, Rasoul groveling beside it. “Get him on deck,” the captain said. “Plus the luggage. Just save a few clothes, basic stuff. Everything else goes over the side.”

They hauled Yousef up to the main deck, Rasoul protesting, stripped him of his finery, looped a rope under his arms, and dropped him over the side, dunking him up and down in the sea until he was half dead.

Rasoul was weeping. “What have you done?”

“Probably saved his life.” Rajavi held up a black purse. “His cash, gold Rolex, two mobile phones, and passport. I'll keep them.” He turned to Abu. “Wrap the poor sod in blankets and let him sleep. Tomorrow, work clothes and start both of them scrubbing decks.”

Rasoul said, “You don't realize how important his father is to al-Qaeda. He will destroy you for this.”

“Really?” Rajavi laughed. “He bows to the Master, does he not? Well, so do I, you fool. Now, help get him down to the cabin and do your best for him.”

—

I
n the café on the terrace, the owner, Anita by name, had discovered a couple of bottles of Veuve Cliquot, a decent French champagne that had been left over from a wedding. She put it in the icebox in the kitchen, while she and Sara fried mackerel and rice, potatoes and onions.

The weather had deteriorated, no blue skies here, but lowering, dark clouds and thunder on the horizon like distant drums, and then the rains came and suddenly everything was fresh and clean and the champagne was all gone.

Yanni Christou had discussed the purpose of their visit in Ras Kasar with Dillon. “I wish you well, all of you, in this affair. If I can help in any way, you know I will.” He called to Anita. “You still have a bottle of ouzo. We'll have a shot each for luck.”

“Not me,” Billy said.

Yanni, who was slightly drunk, said, “I remember, you don't drink.”

“He just kills people, but only when necessary,” Dillon said.

“Well, there is no answer to that except go with God, the lot of you.”

—

T
hings were still wet and gray the following morning, but Christou checked with the weather people at Palma Airport, who assured him that it would improve the closer they got to the Algerian coast. They decided to go for it, Dillon sitting back and letting Sara take off. When they were airborne, she forgot to raise the wheels into the floats and was annoyed with herself when he had to mention it.

“How could I be so stupid?” she said.

“I bet you don't do it again,” Dillon told her. “These Eagles were specially developed for use by bush pilots in the far north of Canada, but you'll find they're really sweet to fly, and if your engine conks out, you can always land in the sea.”

“Thank you, Sean, that's very comforting.”

“Come off it, Sara, you're thoroughly enjoying yourself.”

And he was right, she realized that, the rain bouncing off the windscreen, the wipers fighting to keep it clear, the wind outside struggling to get in, the plane rocking, the need to fight to hold it for a while—it was all meat and drink for her.

She turned to glance at Dillon and found him smiling. “You can switch to autopilot for a while if you want.”

“Like hell I will.” She grinned. “But I'd appreciate a cup of coffee from that thermos.”

—

E
mza Khan called the Master in some distress. “I've had a visit from two policemen, an inspector and a sergeant, in search of my son.”

“Indeed?” the Master said. “I suppose their rank indicates the importance they attach to this affair. What did you tell them?”

“That the last I saw of him was in the Aziz clinic from which he had disappeared. That I have no idea of his whereabouts and he has not been in touch.”

“And that is the way it must stay. You know what Scotland Yard is like. The higher you are, the more they'd enjoy pulling you down, especially because you're a Muslim.”

“But I'd be telling the truth, I haven't had a word from him and Rasoul.”

“But you do know exactly where they are. May I remind you that mobile phones can be a curse. Unless they're encrypted at both ends, they are the most traceable things in the world. Everything you say is out there in the ether. This is no time for your son, or indeed Captain Rajavi, to be calling you, and I would suggest you leave them to get on with it.”

“You really think so?” Khan asked.

“Absolutely. Trust me in this.”

“Then I must be guided by you,” Khan said with some reluctance and switched off.

—

T
he Master called Rajavi on a personal encrypted link and found him in a rainstorm on the bridge wearing foul-weather rig.

“How are you?”

“At the moment, it's raining rather hard.”

“And your new crew members?”

“Swabbing the foredeck.”

“Well, that must be different for them.”

Looking down at Rasoul and Yousef, struggling with large brooms in the pouring rain, soaked to the skin, while Abu, in oilskins, supervised them, a knotted rope in his hand, Rajavi was inclined to agree.

“Who knows, it may be the making of the boy.”

“I suppose so,” the Master said. “It's all a question of survival, I suppose. I'll be in touch, but don't speak to Khan, that's essential.”

—

T
wo hours out of Majorca and approaching the Algerian coast, the weather had changed, as if high summer had come out to welcome them. Dillon had left ninety percent of the flying to Sara, allowing her to get thoroughly comfortable with the amphibian experience. They drifted into perfection at five thousand feet, in a velvet blue sky, the sea below constantly changing colors from blue to green, and all the reefs and shoals visible.

A tailwind for the past half hour meant they had made better time than Dillon had expected, and as the coast loomed large, he suggested she go down to a thousand feet and take her time, which she did, and Ras Kasar appeared on the port side.

The old Arab town behind the harbor was the usual cascade of buildings climbing up the hillside, but fronting the beach was a pier and the inner harbor, several fishing boats, and what appeared to be a dive center.

“Things look pretty quiet down there,” Billy said.

“All these places are the same in the off-season, Billy,” Dillon told him. “That would be the Paradise Club just above the beach with the terrace and the tables with a few umbrellas out. No more than half a dozen people sitting there and a man in original British Army shorts and a straw hat gazing up at us, who I suspect is Andrew Adano.”

There was no airstrip, only amphibians allowed, so there was also no control tower, just a windsock on a pole, and Sara throttled back, drifted in, and dropped into a perfect landing outside the inner harbor.