The Death Trade (10 page)

He got out of the Fiat, the diffused light from a nearby streetlamp helping him. He wore a trench coat and cap, and looked perfectly respectable when he leaned in, eased Fatima into the passenger seat, got behind the wheel, reversed out, and started down the cobbled street toward the lights of the Seine below. Rain drifted across the river in a solid curtain, although plenty of lights glowed through it. He moved away from a section with houseboats tied up, drove along to a small dark quay with a slipway at the end. He paused the Fiat at the top, eased Fatima behind the wheel, switched on the engine again, then reached across her for the umbrella and to release the hand brake and slam the door. The Fiat started to roll and finally veered over the edge toward the end, sliding under the water on its side. The rain increased in force, so he turned up his collar, raised the umbrella, and walked briskly away.

—

S
ara and Dillon reported to Roper because they knew that he'd be available, despite the hour, sitting there in the computer room in front of his screens at Holland Park.

“What do you think, Giles?” Sara asked.

“Fascinating stuff, but I'd say the next step is to speak to Duval.”

“Who'll be in bed at this hour,” Dillon said.

“So are all sane people, he'll just have to wake up. I'll call him and get back to you.”

—

D
uval was his usual grouchy self when he answered Roper's call, but soon livened up at the news of Sara's confrontation and not just at the business with Rasoul. What Fatima had said about her al-Qaeda connection brought him immediately to life.

“I'll get on to it at once. I'll be in touch the moment I have anything.”

“Does that apply to the Iranians, too?” Dillon asked.

“I don't see why not. But let me make one thing clear. I'll bring in full DGSE powers, which supersede any police investigation. We go in hard, Dillon, you know that, possibly harder than any other Western power, and our Parliament usually supports us. So don't call me, I'll call you when I'm ready. Have a good night,” he added ironically, and was gone.

“So what about Ferguson?” Sara asked. “He'll raise the roof over this.”

“That's Roper's job.” Dillon glanced at his watch. “Two-thirty. I think I'll lie on the bed and leave all the action to the French.”

“An excellent thought. I'll see you at breakfast.”

—

T
he following morning, Paris was shrouded in the same heavy driving rain of the night before. No word from Duval, so they ordered breakfast from room service, and they were just finishing when their pilot, Squadron Leader Lacey, called Dillon's mobile.

“It's a foul morning, but there's no reason we can't take off. We'll see you at Charles de Gaulle in an hour and a half.”

Dillon had put it on speaker, and Sara called, “Are you sure about that? We're expecting a call from Colonel Duval. For certain reasons, there's a question of permission.”

“All I know is we've had this slot booked since yesterday and he's just phoned to say we can use it and he'll meet you there.”

“Okay, old son,” Dillon said. “We're on our way.”

Sara said, “What do you think is going on?”

“Full DGSE powers is heady stuff.” Dillon shrugged. “Perhaps the powers that be want to pretend it never happened. We'll soon know.”

—

I
n the private bar overlooking the runways at Charles de Gaulle, rain driving against the windows, Sara sat close to Dillon as Claude Duval explained what had happened to Fatima Le Bon.

“God help us, but the bastards were on to her quick,” Dillon said.

“My dear Sean, there's a problem here,” Duval said. “Within forty minutes of our retrieving the body, she was on a slab at the Santé Morgue undergoing a postmortem. Her neck was broken, she'd drunk a great deal of wine. To the rest of the world, she careered down the hill, exited on the slipway, and drove into the river.”

Dillon said, “Claude, she admitted being a member of al-Qaeda, under orders to assassinate Sara. Why would she say that if it wasn't true?”

“There's no mention of anything like that on her police record. Prostitution, drug offenses, yes, but never a hint of anything more serious.” Claude looked at Sara. “You understand our dilemma. The Iranian party, down there in the corner waiting for their plane, disclaim any involvement with al-Qaeda, and that is official government policy anyway. None of them left the hotel last night after the business with you, Sara, we've established that. Husseini and his bodyguard have already left for Tehran.”

Sara turned to Dillon, eyes burning. “Give me a cigarette, and don't tell me you don't have one.”

Without a word, he took out his old silver case, gave her one, and his Zippo flared. She inhaled deeply, and then she exploded. “I've never looked at a more obvious setup in my life. She told me she was al-Qaeda and I was her target. God dammit, Claude, she didn't die crashing into the Seine, she was already dead.”

She stood up, sending coffee cups flying, wrenched open the glass door leading to the balcony, and stood under the canopy in the heavy rain.

“She's got a point,” Dillon said.

Duval shrugged. “More than that, old friend, she's right, but I've a feeling we'll probably never prove it.” He got up and shook hands. “Tell Sara I'm sorry.”

“I'll see you to your car,” Dillon told him.

As they exited through the glass doors into the concourse, Colonel Declan Rashid got up from the table where he had been sitting with his two companions.

“Where are you going?” Emza Khan demanded.

“To speak to the lady.”

“No, you will not,” Khan told him. “I forbid it.”

Declan ignored him. He wasn't in uniform, wore the fawn suit, and the only military thing about him was the trench coat that hung from his shoulders. He opened the door and joined her under the canopy.

“Captain Gideon?”

“Go on, tell me you don't like women smoking. Does the Koran forbid that, too?”

“Probably in a way it does, but I must admit that I am not a religious man. I've seen too many bad things in my life, and I'm sure you know that my mother was Irish.”

She took a last quick puff and flicked the cigarette butt into space. “The smokes helped with the stress in Afghanistan. What did Duval say about Fatima?”

“That it'd been suggested that she was involved with al-Qaeda,” Declan said.

“I expect that shook up Khan.”

“Exactly. If there is one Islamic country where they are not encouraged, it is Iran.”

“And what's your attitude?”

“I never bought the Osama message.” He smiled slightly. “But why would you believe me?”

“After that little fracas last night when you went away with Rasoul, Fatima told me she'd been sent to the hotel by al-Qaeda to assassinate me. She actually delivered flowers to my suite, but she said she just couldn't do it, then or later, especially after I saved her from that drunken oaf of yours.”

He wasn't smiling now. “Not mine, I assure you. Colonel Duval was not as explicit as you have been. He just said there was a possibility that she was al-Qaeda. I assume you told him she had confessed to you?”

“Oh yes.”

“Then why did he not mention it to Emza Khan and me?” And then he saw it. “But you knew what she was and did nothing about it, didn't arrest her when she confessed, and I suspect you probably hoped she'd get away. That's the whole point, isn't it? I believe you were giving her a chance to make a run for it. To this DGSE colonel, you present a problem. You don't follow the rules, and that means you can't be trusted. You are a wild card, Captain. I wonder if Charles Ferguson will take kindly to your approach.” He looked up. “But here comes Mr. Dillon in a hurry.”

Dillon pulled open the door. “There you are. Everything all right? We're ready to go. The luggage is on board.”

She retrieved her shoulder bag from the table and shook hands with Declan Rashid. “Good-bye, Colonel, I'll remember what you said.”

He smiled gravely, then she turned and started to half run with Dillon. “What was that all about?” Dillon asked her.

“Everything that's happened, the whole business with Fatima, it was news to the Iranians. Claude Duval didn't tell them about her confession to me.”

“The ould sod,” Dillon said. “Why would he do that?”

“Declan says it's because I'm a wild card and not to be trusted.”

“Declan, is it?”

She ignored the remark. “He has no time for Osama, that's for sure.”

“So
he
says, but remember what I told you. He's the enemy.”

“Oh, I hear you, Sean, but my God, he's a lovely man,” she said.

T
he five Sand Cruisers were painted in desert camouflage, each with a crew of five or six men, and a general-purpose machine gun mounted in the center. They had been driving in a convoy for three days, following a wearisome trail that seemed as old as time and probably was, their destination Timbuktu.

The lead vehicle paused as the column emerged in a flat valley, and Daniel Holley called a water stop. He stood up beside the driver of the front vehicle and focused his binoculars on the desolation.

He wore a Bedouin cloak of blue called a burnous, the hood hanging behind, and the dark blue turban of a Tuareg, the face veil hooked back. His only concession to modernity was a Glock seventeen-round pistol at his belt, whereas the weapon hanging from his shoulder was a Lee Enfield bolt-action, single-round .303 rifle, standard issue to the British Army in two world wars. The men in all five Sand Cruisers dressed in a similar way, varying only by their choice of weapons, and an air of general menace radiated from them.

There was a murmur from some of the men as they drank, but otherwise silence, and then two riders appeared, spaced well apart, on the rim of a vast sand dune some two hundred yards away. They sat on their horses, surveying the convoy, and a third rider appeared between them.

He held a flag braced against his right foot, the black flag of al-Qaeda. The murmuring stopped in the Sand Cruiser, and there was a total stillness now.

“There is one God and Osama is his Prophet.”

The words echoed high above, and Holley dropped his binoculars, slipped the Lee Enfield from his shoulder, and aimed briefly, a perfect snap shot that caused the flag holder to lift from the saddle, drop the flag, and roll over and over down the side of the dune. The other two horses reared, and one of the riders leaned down to pick up the flag and waved it over his head as they rode away.

There was a roar of approval from the men in the Sand Cruisers, and Holley responded to it. “That'll give these Protectors of the Faith people something to think about. So let's get moving.”

The engines of the five vehicles roared into life and the convoy moved forward again.

—

I
t had all started a few weeks before Dillon and Sara Gideon's eventful visit to Paris. Daniel Holley was at the controls of his Falcon jet, landing at the Algiers airport one late evening, with darkness starting to creep in as he taxied to the private facility.

He cut the engines, aware of the ground staff waiting, but rather more interesting, the black Mercedes and the young man in a tropical suit who leaned against it, smoking a cigarette. His name was Caspar Selim, a major in Army Intelligence at thirty, on secondment to the Foreign Minister's Office.

Holley went down the airstair door and the ground staff brushed past him to secure the aircraft and retrieve his luggage. He approached the major, smiling.

“Caspar, what a surprise. To what do I owe the honor? Are you here to arrest me or what?”

“The foreign minister's golden boy? You've got to be kidding. He wants to see you, it's urgent, and that's all I know.”

“Where to, the Foreign Office?”

“No, he's waiting now at your partner's villa.”

“Interesting.” Holley joined him in the back and, as the Mercedes pulled away, said, “Give me a cigarette.”

“I thought you'd stopped.”

“So did I, and then I went to Somalia.” Holley accepted the offered light. “Thousands of Kenyan troops are massed to attack Kismayu, the only large port that al-Qaeda still controls.”

“Sometimes I think you have a death wish, my friend,” Caspar Selim observed.

“I know,” Holley said. “And one day it will be the end of me, but not this time. I scraped out of Kismayu by the skin of my teeth, but with plenty of information about the city's defenses. The Kenyans were quite happy to get it.”

“They'll love you in Nairobi,” Caspar said. “But then, I suppose that was the real purpose of the trip all along.”

“To improve my business credentials in that fair city?” Holley shrugged. “No harm in that, but I'd also like to think that the information will save lives when the Kenyans launch their attack. Do you know the Roman saying ‘Life is short, art long, experiment perilous'?”

“What the hell is that pearl of wisdom supposed to mean?”

“I haven't the slightest idea, Caspar. You went to the military academy at Sandhurst. Figure it out for yourself and give me another cigarette.”

—

T
hey found the foreign minister in the huge sitting room of the villa of Holley's partner, Hamid Malik. The minister's chauffeur lurked discreetly at the back of the room, obviously with a gun in his pocket. Malik was uneasy in the great man's presence, as they sipped fresh orange juice laced with champagne, and the relief on his face was palpable when Holley and Caspar Selim entered.

The foreign minister raised his voice, a smile on his face. “Here he is, the hero of the hour. I've had my opposite number on the line from Nairobi, Daniel. Our Kenyan friends are more than grateful to you.”

“Well, that's nice to know.”

“The information you brought out of Kismayu will make all the difference when the Kenyan Army starts its invasion. We'll drink to it.”

Malik was pouring, and Holley said, “Somehow it makes everything seem worthwhile.” He turned to Caspar, glass in hand. “Don't you agree?”

Caspar mouthed
bastard
and then raised his glass. “A wonderful effort.”

“I agree,” the minister said. “But now to business. Algiers has been good to you, Daniel, I'm sure you would agree. Twenty-five years ago, you turned up from Ireland with a price on your head, to be trained as a soldier of the IRA at the camp at Shabwa, deep in the desert, kept solvent by the generosity of Colonel Gadhafi.”

“Yes, that's true,” Daniel said.

“And now here you are, joint owner with Malik of one of the biggest shipping lines out of Algiers, a business founded on your ability to sell arms to every country in the Middle East.”

Malik, a businessman to the last, said, “I can assure you, Minister, that our books are completely in order.”

“So you perform miracles now?” The foreign minister laughed and turned back to Holley. “Granting you Algerian nationality was one thing, but then I made you a special envoy of my department. That diplomatic passport gets you waved through airports worldwide.”

“For which I am immensely grateful,” Holley told him.

“Yes, well, now it must be paid for. I have a task for which I believe you are uniquely fitted. Is it true that for some years you have sold arms to Tuareg tribes rebelling in the north of Mali?”

Holley didn't hesitate. “On occasion, I did, but I'm not going to apologize. I thought they had a point.”

“I tend to agree, not that it matters. They are just the kind of recruits I have in mind for the task I am going to give you. Timbuktu has been invaded by rebels calling themselves Protectors of the Faith. But they operate under the black flag of al-Qaeda.”

“Just how bad is it?” Holley asked.

“Government troops have cleared off; also any police. Timbuktu has been a center of Islamic learning since the sixteenth century. Priceless books and documents, including some of the very rarest copies of the Koran, are there. The invaders are like mindless savages, destroying what they do not understand. They've even ordered locals to stop worshipping at the tombs of saints.”

“And those who refuse to obey are slaughtered, I presume?” Holley asked.

“So we understand. Many local people have managed to conceal the treasures in one way or another, but information is scant. It's hopeless to expect help from the UN in these troubled times, but our President has placed this matter in my hands to find a solution. It's one of the worst attacks on Islamic culture for centuries. We must do something.” There was a pause. Malik looked hunted at such a prospect, but Holley simply nodded. “So what you're saying is you want me to act completely unofficially, recruit a band of Tuareg bandits, go down to Timbuktu, and save as many of the priceless artifacts as we can?”

The foreign minister nodded. “That sums it up. The Algerian government can't be seen to be using the army or the air force in any way. It might give the wrong impression.”

“So I'd have a free hand to take care of it whatever way I want?”

“I'm not even offering to pay you, Daniel. I'm well aware you and Malik are multimillionaires anyway. Look upon it as a good deed in a naughty world.” The foreign minister stood up. “Your country will be immensely grateful.” He smiled. “Especially if you can achieve our aim with a minimum of publicity.”

“Of course, Excellency.” Holley shook hands. “Go with God.”

“And you, Daniel.” The minister turned and went, and Malik hurried after to see him out.

Holley poured himself a whiskey and stepped out onto the terrace to find a full moon, the vast harbor below uniquely beautiful. He stood there, thinking about Timbuktu, and Malik returned, immensely excited.

“Can you do it?”

“I think so. Recruiting the Tuaregs will be no problem at all. They put themselves out as mercenaries these days, and once they've taken the blood money, they're yours. A matter of honor. There are plenty hanging round Algiers, some of the guys whom Colonel Gadhafi recruited. We've got several Sand Cruisers in the holding depot doing nothing. There's no problem tooling them up with the right weaponry. Twenty-five to thirty good men should be enough. They can drive down through the Sahara. I'll go with them.”

“So, no helicopter?”

“Terrible sandstorms this time of year. The Dakota will do just fine, and it has lots of room for the rare manuscripts and books we'll be looking for. There's an old airstrip at Fuad ten miles out of Timbuktu, left over from French Foreign Legion days. I'll need another pilot, but Caspar Selim has his wings and he can't say no. The foreign minister won't hear of it.”

Malik shook his head. “All you see is another adventure, Daniel. You never change.”

“As the foreign minister said, Algeria has been good to me. It's a chance to do something worthwhile in her name, but if al-Qaeda makes this a major campaign the French might have to intervene, and certainly Algerian Special Forces. Time will tell.”

—

A
month later, unaware of any of this, Dillon and Sara Gideon found the weather in London just as rain-soaked as the city they'd left, Paris. Billy Salter, waiting for them under an umbrella beside his Alfa Romeo, greeted them cheerfully.

“Taxi, lady?”

“How nice,” Sara said as he opened the rear door for her. “Highfield Court, please.”

“You'll have to make do with Holland Park,” he told her. “Ferguson wants to get straight down to business.”

“Sure, and doesn't he always,” Dillon said. “How's Harry?”

“Busy with the restaurant. There'll be Roper and the general and we three, but what it's all about, I've no idea.”

“And Daniel?” Sara asked. “Still no news?”

“A month now,” Billy said, “and not a word. But I wouldn't worry. Anyone who's been sentenced to life imprisonment in Moscow's Lubyanka Prison and yet walks out in five years has got to have a bit of luck on his side. You must know Daniel Holley by now. He's up to his neck in a lot of things we aren't.”

“He's right,” Dillon said. “The shipping line takes him all over the place, and his arms-dealing must be bigger than it's ever been. It's a sign of the times.”

“Come off it, Sean,” she said. “Somebody should have told him of a brilliant new invention, the mobile phone. If he's too busy to call, I can only draw my own conclusions,” and she folded her arms and sat back in the corner, miserably angry.

—

W
ell, I must say you look better than I thought you would,” Ferguson told Sara when she and Dillon joined him and Roper in the computer room.

“It could have been worse,” she said. “But I'm sorry about the woman, Fatima.”

“You should have reported her confession straightaway, to me or Claude Duval, but I believe you were giving her a chance to get away. That was very wrong. Did I make a mistake in recruiting you?”

“That's interesting. Declan Rashid told me that's how you would see it.”

“You discussed it with him?”

“Of course. I did tell Claude what she had confessed to me, but he didn't tell Declan and Khan that she was targeting me under direct orders from al-Qaeda.” Sara was perfectly calm. “Declan says I'm a wild card and that you won't want to use me again.”

“I like the colonel,” Dillon cut in. “But if that were true, the general would have sacked
me
years ago.”

“And me, come to think of it,” Roper said. “By the way, and just for the record, as you seem to have got rather intimate with the colonel, what's his attitude to al-Qaeda? Did you ask?”

“I didn't need to. He told me that he didn't buy the Osama message, but then wondered why I should believe him.”

“My goodness, you
did
get close,” Ferguson said.

“No cheap cracks, please. That was when I told him Fatima had confessed about her order to assassinate me. It was the first he'd heard about it, since Claude hadn't mentioned the fact, and he wasn't pleased.”

“No, he wouldn't be, any more than he'll be pleased at being posted back to Tehran for a while. It's just been announced at the Iranian Embassy.”

Amazing the sudden sense of loss.
Sara pulled herself together and said, “So what happens now? Am I returned to unit? If so, that's fine. With my languages and experience, there's still plenty for me to do in Afghanistan.”

“And a damn sight more here. To be frank, this relationship with Colonel Declan Rashid may be worth a great deal in the right circumstances,” Ferguson said.