The Death Trade (4 page)

Sara, who had stopped singing, moved close to him, followed by Dillon. “The only one getting out of here is you, you piece of camel dung,” she told Yousef in Farsi.

He pulled away from Declan and tried to grab her. Immediately, a Colt .25 was in her right hand and rammed up under his chin. A warrant card was produced from her left pocket and held high for the audience to see.

“Do I have to arrest him, Colonel, or can you persuade him to go? I'm an officer of the Security Services.”

Rasoul appeared in the open doorway, the ugly scarred face intimidating. “What's going on?”

Declan ignored him and said to her, “I'm sorry for this trouble.”

“Not as much as he is,” she said. “I believe he's wet himself.”

“Damn you, whore.” Yousef's drunken rage boiled over and he struggled to get at her.

Declan pulled him around and shook him. “Control yourself, fool.” Yousef spat in his face and Declan hit him very hard, a short and sharp punch, catching him as Yousef's eyes rolled and he started to slide.

Rasoul was outraged. “How dare you do that? His father shall hear of it.”

“I'm frightened to death,” Declan told him and shoved Yousef into the big man's arms. “Get him out of here, put him in my car, and wait for me.”

Rasoul hesitated, then pulled Yousef up over his right shoulder, and Declan turned to Sara and Dillon. “You are a remarkable lady. I won't forget you.”

“Or we you, Colonel.” That's a mean right hand you've got there,” Dillon told him. He grinned at Sara. “Ferguson ought to hire him.”

“Your lesson may even do that young man some good,” Sara said.

“But you don't think it will?” He smiled. “I would agree with you completely, which is very sad for his family. But I must go. His father will be waiting impatiently to hear how badly he's behaved this time. A habit, I fear.”

He left, the door closed, and Sara turned to Dillon. “Let's do it again. I don't like disappointing such a good audience.”

“Right on, honey,” Jacko called. “And I do believe the barman is offering a free drink to everyone who stays.”

“That clinches it.” She turned and went to where the band was arranging itself, as the audience settled and Dillon eased behind the piano. He was smiling crookedly as he looked at her.

“What's that smile for?” she said as she picked up her mike.

“I enjoyed seeing you in action.” He shook his head. “No wonder they gave you the Military Cross. Now let's get down to business.”

His hands slammed into the keys, fingers searching as he launched into that driving rhythm for the second time that night.

—

T
hey went up in the elevator to Emza Khan's apartment, Declan Rashid leading the way, Rasoul with Yousef draped around him. Emza Khan was sitting in a winged chair by the terrace window reading the
Financial Times
. He tossed it to one side and jumped to his feet.

“What is it, what happened?” He was totally dismayed.

“Ask the colonel,” Rasoul said angrily. “The one who beat him.”

“Is this true?” Khan demanded.

Declan had two main obligations in his life. One was to his country and its army, in which he had served so gallantly. The other was to the head of his extended family, which meant kissing the hand of Emza Khan and, by tradition, obeying him in all things. The truth was that his Irish half was finding it extremely difficult to follow such a path.

He said to Khan, “Listen to this creature's lies if you must, but Yousef behaved like a drunken sot, tried to attack a young woman who turned out to be an army officer. She had to draw a weapon on him, I took appropriate action and knocked him out. If you want to call in Dr. Aziz to check him over, that's your privilege.”

Khan turned to Rasoul. “Get Aziz now. No more arguments, and take Yousef to his bedroom.” Which Rasoul did. Khan carried on, “It is most unfortunate, the drinking. It's a sickness, a known fact. I had great hopes for him.” He shook his head sadly. “He was such a lovely boy. I was hoping to take him to Paris. What do you think?”

“God help the chambermaids at the Ritz if you do. I've other things on my mind, like finding out who these people we were involved with tonight are. A name was mentioned, Ferguson. If he's who I think he is, we need to know. I'll borrow your office and computer to link into the embassy.”

“Help yourself to what you need,” Khan said. “We'll speak later. I must check on Yousef.”

He went out.

—

A
s the cab turned a corner, Sara leaned against Dillon, eyes closed, and they stayed that way as she murmured, “Are we there? I need my bed.”

“So I can see. Can you remember what happened?”

Her eyes opened. “Sean, for your personal information, I like a drink, but never get drunk. So, yes, I remember everything, however improbable it appeared at the time.”

“Colonel Declan Rashid and a rotten young bastard called Yousef Khan, do you recall them?”

“Of course I do, and the colonel was far more interesting. Why do you ask?”

He got the door open for her. “I just wanted to remind you he's the enemy.”

She got out. “He joined the paratroopers at sixteen and jumped into action five times without any training. Why would anyone do that?”

“Perhaps he had a death wish.” Dillon smiled bleakly, followed her, and paid the driver, who drove away.

Sara turned, found herself facing not her own front door but the Judas Gate in the entrance to Holland Park. Dillon opened it for her, pressing a button on his Codex.

“What's going on, Sean?” she demanded.

“Oh, I need to bring Roper up to date on what happened, and we're not all that far from your place. You could have a steam for a while in the spa, even stay in the guest wing, or I can drop you home when I've spoken to Roper.”

She sighed. “All right.”

They crossed the courtyard and opened the front door, but were surprised to hear Ferguson's voice echoing from the computer room.

“I wonder what he's doing here,” Dillon said. “Do you want to face him?”

“No, thanks, the steam room sounds fine.”

“Okay, off you go. I'll handle it.”

She vanished along the corridor into the shadows, and Dillon stood at the door of the computer room, listening, and then went in.

“Holy Mother, and me thinking you'd wrapped up for the night.”

“Oh, we never close,” Roper told him.

Ferguson said, “I went home to get some essential papers. I'm due at the Cabinet Office first thing in the morning to brief the Prime Minister on Simon Husseini. I thought I'd come back here and use one of the guest rooms so I'd get an early start.”

“So what's your story?” Roper asked. “If you have one at all.”

“Oh, I certainly do,” Dillon said. “Though there are aspects of it that may not get your seal of approval.”

“That sounds sinister,” Ferguson said. “Better get it over with and tell us the worst.”

He was smiling when he said that, but not when Dillon was finished. “That's incredible. We were only discussing the Iranians earlier and then they go and turn up in the flesh.”

“Carl Jung called it synchronicity,” Dillon told him. “Events that have a coincidence in time, so that it's understandable to imagine some deeper meaning involved.”

“Nonsense,” Ferguson told him. “Pure coincidence. Emza Khan lives in Park Lane just up the road from Shepherd Market, where his son is a well-known drunk in local bars and clubs. The fact that Declan Rashid turns up, obviously trying to clean up the mess Yousef Khan has created for his father, should surprise no one.”

“Well, let's put it down to the romantic in me,” Dillon said.

“Nothing romantic about it. Things got very much out of hand, and that Captain Sara Gideon drew her pistol in a public place is to be deplored. The Iranians will be taking a close interest in what we are doing, which was the last thing I wanted.”

“Or was it?”

Ferguson frowned. “And what's that supposed to mean?”

“That you're a master of guile and wickedness, always stirring the pot.”

Ferguson wasn't in the least put out, just smiled cheerfully. “Of course I am, and one never knows what's going to bubble up to the surface. Take Paris and Simon Husseini. Anything could happen, the possibilities are endless.” He swallowed the last of his whiskey, got up. “Must get some sleep. See you at breakfast.”

Roper said, “What do you think he's up to?”

“I haven't the slightest idea,” Dillon said. “When I do, I'll let you know.”

He moved to the door, and Roper said, “Are you staying?”

“I don't think so. Sara's downstairs having a steam. She preferred not to face Ferguson at this stage.”

“I don't blame her.”

“I'll join her and take her home in the Mini when she's ready.”

He went out quickly, leaving Roper to his screens.

—

A
t Park Lane, Declan Rashid, a slight smile on his face, read the computer report on Ferguson and company that the printer had ejected. When he was finished, he made another copy and went in search of Khan and found him in the sitting room, talking to Dr. Aziz, a small cheerful Indian with skin like brown parchment.

“I've given him a shot of morphine, which will keep him sleeping for eight to ten hours. Nothing broken, but he'll have a bad bruise,” Aziz said.

“That was me,” Declan told him.

“Quite a punch, Colonel.” Aziz smiled.

“Which he richly deserved,” Declan told him.

“I'm sure you're right. Drink will be the death of him.” He turned to Khan. “But I'm tired of telling you that. I'll call again in the morning.”

“I'm very grateful,” Khan said. “Anything he needs. I've got to go to Paris for three days, and I'll need Rasoul with me. Can you arrange a nurse?”

“No problem.”

“I think the male variety would be advisable in the circumstances,” Declan Rashid said and turned to Khan. “I mean it for the best, naturally.”

“Of course,” Khan said. “See to it as you think fit, Doctor. Show the doctor out, Rasoul.”

Rasoul, who had been glowering in the background, did as he was told, and Declan joined Khan over by the great windows and offered the report.

“No, we'll have a martini,” Khan told him, moving toward the bar area. “You can read it to me.”

Which Declan did as Khan mixed the cocktails, listening as Rasoul, standing against the wall beside the kitchen door, took it all in, too. Declan finished, and Khan passed him the vodka martini.

“What extraordinary people,” he said. “Even the woman is beyond belief. Owner, in effect, of the Gideon Bank, and with this amazing war record.” He sipped his drink. “The fact that her parents died in a Hamas bus bombing would indicate to me that she is hardly likely to warm to Arabs in general.”

Rasoul, listing intently, couldn't help jumping in. “Do not forget that she is a Jew and not worthy of serious consideration.”

“Don't be stupid,” Declan told him. “Her exploits in Afghanistan speak for themselves. When the Taliban ambushed that convoy at Abusan, she was as good as any man behind that heavy machine gun. Three special forces men to protect her, two of whom died, the third wounded, and she was wounded herself and left with a permanent limp. Forty-two dead Taliban when they counted the corpses.”

“Which leads me to ask whose side you are on in the struggle for Islamism in the world today. A Taliban should be looked on as your brother. There is only one God and Osama is his Prophet, or do you renounce that, too?” Rasoul demanded.

There was a moment of complete stillness, horror on Khan's face at the dreadful slip of the tongue, and sudden desperation on Rasoul's as he realized what he had said.

Declan smiled gently. “An error on your part, I'm sure, but the Prophet, whose name be praised, is merciful and will forgive a sinner.”

Khan exploded with rage at Rasoul's slip, for any reference to Osama bin Laden, particularly when it involved Declan, was the last thing he and his masters needed.

He shouted, “What nonsense are you talking? Get out of my sight.”

Rasoul bowed his head. Forgive me.” He turned and hurried away into the kitchen.

Emza Khan said, “A stupid fool, but I keep him on because of his ability to handle Yousef, you know that.”

“Of course I do, so no need to apologize,” Declan told him. “I'm leaving now. I'll see you tomorrow, and then Paris next stop. I'll brief you on the plane in the morning about Husseini.”

“I look forward to it, it should be fun,” Khan said. “Particularly the whores.”

“I'm sure they're waiting for you in eager anticipation,” Declan Rashid said with considerable irony. “I'll say good night.”

—

W
hile waiting for the lift, he considered what had happened. In rage, anything Rasoul said was likely to be the truth, for he was that sort of person, so what did his slip of the tongue mean? And Emza Khan's angry dressing-down of Rasoul had been a little over the top, or had it? Declan shook his head. Any suggestion that Khan could treat the memory of Osama bin Laden seriously was patently absurd. Making money had been the ruling obsession in his life. He was hardly likely to change now, not with the government and the Council of Guardians to contend with in Tehran. The last thing
they
wanted getting its hands on power was al-Qaeda.

He dismissed it from his mind and a few minutes later was driving his car out of the underground garage, joining the two-o'clock-in-the-morning traffic and thinking, somewhat to his surprise, of Sara Gideon.

—

E
mza Khan read the details about Ferguson and his people that Declan had provided. When he was finished, he thought about it for a while. Charles Ferguson and his people had been a considerable nuisance to al-Qaeda, foiling many carefully planned enterprises over the past few years, and Dillon was something else again, murdering many of their best people. Now there was the Jewish woman of untold wealth, which offended him. How many decent Muslim men had she killed? She deserved to die, and so did her friends.