The Death Trade (16 page)

“But how did this happen and where? You must know something.”

“Yousef was to face several severe driving charges committed while terribly drunk. This time there was a prospect of prison, and then he absconded from my clinic, which made his re-arrest inevitable. To avoid this, Rasoul took him away.”

“And the idea was that Emza Khan could say he had no idea where they had gone and be believed? I don't think the police would buy that.”

“I can assure you that
I
did, Colonel, I have my license to consider,” Aziz said. “I had not the slightest idea where they were until Rasoul called here with his terrible news.”

“And why were you there?”

“Emza Khan has been constantly unwell. I was treating him when Rasoul called with the bad news, which he refused to believe and passed the phone to me.”

“And what did Rasoul say?”

“I'll never forget it. That they had been on a ship called the
Kantara
and that Yousef had been murdered by a bitch from hell, a British Army officer that he and Emza had met in Paris.”

Declan Rashid was thunderstruck. “You are sure of this?” A stupid question, because he knew already that Aziz must have been to have said it.

“Oh yes,” Aziz said. “I'll remember it till my dying day.”

“Okay, but don't tell Rasoul you've spoken to me. We'll keep this between us.” The colonel turned off his mobile, then sat down at his computer.

He had access to a great deal of classified information, and when he inserted
Kantara
,
there it was on a list of vessels known to deliver arms by night in Lebanese and Syrian waters, and it was suspected of a link to al-Qaeda. But there was more—news of a ship exploding and going to the bottom off the Cyprus coast. Wreckage had clearly proved it to be the
Kantara
.
Swift justice indeed by someone who was obviously anti-al-Qaeda, and it could only mean British Intelligence and Ferguson.

So where did that leave Emza Khan? And what about the involvement of Sara Gideon? Certainly not a bitch from hell, so there was a lot more to the story than that. He went and stood staring out of the window, thinking of her, but also trying to make sense out of a situation that didn't seem to have any sense to it at all.

At that moment, his mobile sounded. It was General Ali ben Levi calling from the War Office. “The minister is expecting you, Colonel, are you aware of that?”

“Profound apologies, General,” Declan said. “I'll be there quite quickly.”

“I'd advise it, Colonel, it's a matter of grave urgency,” ben Levi said. “I've sent a limousine.”

“I'm on my way.”

Declan got his briefcase, left his apartment, and made for the elevator. Emza Khan, the
Kantara
with al-Qaeda associations, Yousef and Rasoul and Sara Gideon—they were all in his thoughts far too much. What was he getting into here and what could the minister expect of him? At least he'd soon find out.

I
n spite of the early hour, Roper completed an incisive account of the
Kantara
affair and forwarded it to the Cabinet Office, where the Cabinet secretary, Henry Frankel, another night owl, devoured it and forwarded it to the Prime Minister, which led to a command performance for Charles Ferguson at Downing Street at 6:45 a.m. This meant that Ferguson, who had spent the night at Holland Park, was forced to rise at 5:30. He went to the computer room and found Roper roaming world news and drinking tea, the room, as usual, thick with cigarette smoke.

“Ridiculous bloody time for anyone to have to get up,” Ferguson said, helping himself to tea. “The Prime Minister must be mad. What is our faithful troops in Algeria's next move?”

“They've already made it,” Roper said. “One hour ahead of us. They rose at the crack of dawn, said farewell to Ras Kasar, and are well on the way to Majorca. I've alerted Lacey and Parry, the Gulfstream will be fueled up and ready to go. Allowing for weather, they should be back here late afternoon.”

“Excellent. They can get straight on to a thorough examination of Emza Khan's past,” Ferguson said. “But I'd better be off. Can't keep the Prime Minister waiting.”

—

F
erguson found Henry Frankel sitting outside the Prime Minister's study, reading a file. He glanced up and smiled. “Roper's account of the
Kantara
affair. Marvelous stuff, the Prime Minister read it twice. You look a little strained, Charles.”

“Not my idea of fun, this time in the morning, Henry. I haven't had my breakfast.”

“I make no apology, the PM's got an unbelievably full day. Now, let's go in.”

—

F
rankel poured coffee for all of them, and the Prime Minister said, “Fascinating report, remarkable performances from Dillon and Sara Gideon. Young Salter's a cheeky sod, discovering the arms like that. He might have told you sooner, but then I suppose his background
is
rather unusual.”

“You mean his years as a gangster?” Ferguson said. “That was then, now he's a valued member of the Secret Intelligence Service. And things were happening rather quickly out there. He saved us from having to pursue
Kantara
to Cyprus-Syrian waters to dispose of her.”

“So there's no doubt it was
Kantara
which went down?”

“No doubt at all.”

“Do you think this might cause a question in the House of Commons?”

“I don't see why. These waters are a war zone, plenty of ships dumping arms at night. The
Kantara
was just another casualty.”

The Prime Minister held up Roper's report. “And Dillon, Salter, and Captain Gideon are convinced this Captain Rajavi
was
al-Qaeda?”

“Absolutely,” Ferguson said.

“And Yousef and Rasoul went down with the ship?”

“Not Yousef. He died in a hand-to-hand fight with Captain Gideon.”

“Good God,” the Prime Minister said. “Was that really necessary?”

“The name of the game,” Ferguson said. “And Rasoul ran for it.”

“Do you think he managed to get to shore?”

“I don't see how. We left in the only available boat, and it was too far to swim.”

“So he must have perished with the rest of the crew?”

“I'd say so.”

“So what were they doing on the
Kantara
?”

“Yousef was running away from the threat of prison, Rasoul must have been looking after him.”

“And where does Emza Khan fit into all this?”

“Yousef disappeared from the clinic where he was receiving treatment. Khan insisted to the police that he had no knowledge of his son's whereabouts.”

“How would he explain their presence on an al-Qaeda boat?” the Prime Minister asked.

“I imagine he would blame his man, Rasoul, insist he had no knowledge of Rasoul's links to al-Qaeda. Iran wouldn't touch al-Qaeda with a bargepole, and Khan has always supported that attitude.”

“Will they still believe him?”

“I think so,” Ferguson said. “Khan's always been very vocal on the matter, a pillar of attack against al-Qaeda. But—”

Henry Frankel cut in, “Yes, but. Didn't somebody say that if you exhausted all sensible and logical explanations to any problem, then the answer had to be the most improbable?”

“Yes, I've heard something like that,” the Prime Minister said. “But what are
you
saying?”

“That he lied to the police about not knowing where his son and his servant had gone. That it was no coincidence the
Kantara
was the boat they chose. He's as guilty as sin.”

Ferguson smiled. “I completely agree.”

The Prime Minister smiled back. “Never cared for him anyway.” He leaned across and shook hands. “Now you must excuse me.”

In the corridor outside, Henry Frankel grinned and said, “Oh, I did like that.” He glanced at his watch. “I've got forty minutes. Toast and marmalade, two boiled eggs, choice of coffee or tea. Can I send you away happy?”

“Just lead the way,” Ferguson said and followed him downstairs.

—

H
e was in a cheerful mood when he returned to Holland Park and told Roper what had been discussed at Downing Street.

“That's fine,” Roper said. “But remember that as far as Tehran is concerned, there are other ways to look at this. That Khan's well-known drunk of a son absconded rather than face the humiliation of a police court makes Emza an object of pity. The fact that his servant, Rasoul, vanished with Yousef could be admired as an example of Arab loyalty.”

“Fair enough, but I want to create a real profile of the man. Go through his computer, access his diary. If you dig deep enough, there's bound to be some sort of indication of his nastier side. Where exactly is he now, home?”

“No, the Aziz clinic. He's been diagnosed with insomnia, panic attacks, and bouts of depression.”

“My heart bleeds for him. Are the telephones on our side?”

“Oh yes, so we can snoop on the landlines, but what about the mobiles? Our Codex Fours are encrypted. Don't tell me al-Qaeda hasn't got something similar.”

“Understood. Meantime, we have assets who are agency nurses. Get one in to keep an eye on him.”

—

I
n fact, Emza Khan, after a troubled night, had opted for an early breakfast. Afterward, although it was raining, he had borrowed a raincoat and umbrella and was walking in the clinic gardens, hoping to clear his head, when his mobile phone trembled in his pocket. As Roper had surmised, it was encrypted, a present from al-Qaeda.

The Master said, “There are no words to express my sorrow at the loss of your son. All I can say is it was his time.”

Emza Khan sobbed for a moment, so great was his emotion. “Bless you, Master, for your kindness, but all I feel is my need for revenge, not only on that whore who murdered him but on Ferguson and all his people.”

“And you shall have it, but you must be patient, and above all, you must be strong. I have news. Rasoul will arrive from Oran soon.”

Emza Khan said, “Allah is good to me, I can speak with him?”

“No, you may not. In the eyes of the world, he is dead. Everyone thinks he went down on the
Kantara
, and so they will not be searching for him.”

“Where will Rasoul go?”

“When he flies in from Oran, Ali Saif will pick him up and take him to the Army of God center in Pound Street, where he can pose as a religious student. Saif will act under my instructions, not yours. You are forbidden even to try to contact Rasoul. Do you understand?”

“I do, Master, but what
are
my orders?”

“Your story is clear. You son absconded to avoid the shame of a possible prison sentence. Rasoul, who had known him since childhood, vanished with him. You have no idea where they have gone, and they haven't been in touch. No one can prove otherwise, so go home, back to your work, and behave normally.”

“And Tehran?”

“A family matter, as far as they are concerned. All you will find is sympathy, but only if you keep the true facts to yourself. No one can link you to the
Kantara
except Rasoul.”

“And Dr. Aziz,” Emza Khan said. “Remember, he was at the penthouse when Rasoul's call came in . . . ?”

“The good doctor will be dealt with.”

Emza Khan said, “And what of Colonel Declan Rashid?”

“He is to know nothing. He is no friend to our cause. In fact, I must tell you that a day will come when serious measures will have to be taken against him.”

“If that is the will of the council in this matter, who am I to say no? I am at your orders.”

“Good—be strong.”

Emza Khan's phone went quiet. He put it in his pocket, took a deep breath, and returned to the clinic.

—

W
hen the Master phoned Pound Street that afternoon Ali Saif was not prepared for the litany of woe he was about to hear.

He said, “This is incredible. So much bad fortune in such a short time.”

“Obviously, I do not expect you to spend any time weeping for Emza Khan or Rasoul, not after what he did to Fatima Le Bon. But personal considerations must be cast aside for the good of our cause.”

Saif managed the right answer. “As always, I am at your command.”

“So you will meet Rasoul when he arrives at Heathrow and bring him to Pound Street. I shall phone at three o'clock and give him his orders. If you leave now, you should be back in time to take my call.”

“Of course, Master.” Saif got to his feet and went out of the door on the run.

—

A
t Heathrow, Rasoul met up with Saif with no difficulty. With his wad of dollars, he had purchased fresh clothes at Oran's airport, a bag and a light raincoat for London's March weather. Several days' growth of beard had been taken care of by a visit to the barber. So, in spite of his scarred face, he looked respectable enough.

Remembering Fatima, Ali Saif was conscious of a burning hate for the man, but he stayed calm. “A good flight?” he asked as they drove away.

“What do you think, you stupid Egyptian pig?” Rasoul said. “I can't wait to get to the penthouse.”

“Well, you will have to. We're going to the Army of God at Pound Street.”

Rasoul exploded. “Who says so?”

“The Master.” Saif was enjoying himself, swinging through the traffic and rain. “He's just put Emza Khan in his place, and he's waiting to do it to you.”

“Now, look here . . .” Rasoul was beginning to bluster, but tailed off.

“That's better,” Saif said. “Go carefully. He's not used to people who say no.”

—

A
point that the Master himself made over the phone.

“I don't like you or your arrogant and bullying ways,” he told Rasoul. “Your behavior on
Kantara
left much to be desired.”

“Not true, Master, I was protective of Yousef in every way,” Rasoul said.

“I was in constant telephone communication with Captain Rajavi, who told me different. You will obey Ali Saif, because his orders are my orders. If he has reason to put your name to the Brotherhood, scores of believers out there on the street would be happy to cut your throat in the name of Osama.”

Rasoul almost had a bowel movement. He was a thug and a bully, but also, as Sara had found on the
Kantara
,
a coward.

His voice rose in panic. “Master, there is no need for this.”

“I am sure there isn't,” the Master told him. “Now, give the phone to Saif and go and wait for him.”

Rasoul did exactly as he was told. Saif said, “What are your orders?”

“Put him in one of the students' rooms, they're private and comfortable enough.”

“I would remind you that students work for their keep.”

“The idea of Rasoul in the kitchen is certainly amusing, but we have the Aziz problem to take care of. I'm afraid the doctor has to go. Unfortunately for him, he knows too much. Sooner rather than later, I think.”

“So you would prefer Rasoul to handle it?”

“It would give him something to do. Not the knife, a broken neck, I think. Have him take Aziz's credit cards and mobile phone. A simple mugging.”

“His clinic in Mayfair—he has to walk through the garden to get to his car.”

“What could be better,” the Master said. “I'll leave it in your capable hands.”

Saif sat there thinking about it, then became aware of Rasoul still waiting in the corner. He stood, hands folded, for once a look of resignation on his face.

Saif said, “I'd almost forgotten about you.”

Rasoul said, “What happens now?”

“I'll show you to your room, explain our system. You'll be a religious student who performs light duties when required. The Master thought you might find that rather boring, so he's come up with a special task for you.”

“And what would that be?” Rasoul asked.

So Ali Saif told him, not that it needed much explaining, Rasoul obviously being so familiar with Aziz and his comings and goings. “Think you can handle that?” Saif asked.

Rasoul's face didn't even flicker. “A piece of cake,” he said and went out.

—

I
t was bad March weather and early-evening dark when Aziz finished visiting his patients, accompanied by a nursing sister. He ended up in the entrance hall of the clinic, where his Burberry, umbrella, and briefcase waited. As he dressed, the sister opened the front door, revealing rain bouncing on the steps.

“Not fit for man nor beast, Sister,” he said, putting up his umbrella.

“I know and I'll be following soon. Good night, Doctor.”

Rasoul, in the shadows of a summer house, had seen Aziz clearly in the lights of the front-door porch, waited until the doctor passed, then went after him. Aziz hurried toward the balustrade overlooking the carpark, the steps going down, a camera on a stand to one side, though Rasoul had put that out of action.