The Death Trade (19 page)

A tiny smile touched Declan Rashid's mouth. “If that's so, George, tell me more.”

George did, while Declan listened intently. Because of his time at the Iranian Embassy in London as military attaché, he was familiar with some of the players, had met Ali Saif, had visited the Army of God headquarters at the Pound Street Mosque. It was Emza Khan's favorite charity. One could now see why. A cloak of good works to mask the excesses of al-Qaeda. What had motivated Khan to embark on this path? Well, it was irrelevant, really. What was important was that Declan now knew pretty well all those involved in this game and could take appropriate action.

“That's about it, Colonel,” Hagen said finally.

“You've no idea how grateful I am, George,” Declan said. “You could well have saved my life in advance. Take the greatest care and watch your back.”

“I will, Colonel, and you do the same.”

Declan switched off his phone, leaned back, and opened the bar box behind him. He took out a couple of cold vodka miniatures, opened them, and poured the contents into a plastic tumbler, thinking of Emza Khan with a certain anger.

“Right, you bastard, bring it on,” and he swallowed the vodka down.

—

S
o Bibi left Husseini resting at Maison Bleue and walked down through the alleys of the old quarter to the Beirut waterfront, which was busy as usual.

Café Marco had air-conditioning, but most of the locals preferred to savor the sun outside, leaving Omar Kerim on his own in a corner booth going over his books.

The waiter behind the bar reading the newspaper said, “He's busy.”

“No, he isn't,” Omar called. “Not for Bibi. Send her over and bring a sherbet—she loves those, don't you, darling?”

He had olive skin, a dark mustache, and black hair plaited into a pigtail. His linen suit of light brown was as creased as it was supposed to be, and his half smile and good teeth made him enormously attractive. On the marble-topped table was a Walther PPK, ready for a quick response to anyone attempting a hit on Beirut's most notorious gangsters, which had, on occasion, happened.

“So how's life, Bibi?” he asked as the waiter brought her sherbet.

“That's what I've come to tell you. It's very strange.” She sucked on her straw. “You know my circumstances. Well, the man who owns my house, Ali LeBlanc, has just walked in after five years.”

“That's interesting,” Omar said. “Where's he been? What did he have to say?”

So she told him everything, responding readily to his careful probing, and when she'd finished he looked very thoughtful indeed.

“Bibi, my love, I smell politics here. I think we should adjourn next door and speak to my good friend Jemal Nadim.”

—

T
he man in question sat at a cluttered desk in the small office, small and bearded, with round steel John Lennon spectacles. The only overtly Arab thing about him was the black-and-white-checkered head scarf, which set off dramatically his plain white shirt and khaki trousers, and yet this man controlled everything that happened concerning al-Qaeda in the entire city of Beirut.

“Bibi has a puzzle to unravel,” Omar explained. “I can't help, but I thought you might, as there appears to be a political element to it.”

“So tell me, Bibi,” Jemal ordered.

She did, and he listened politely. When she was finished, he smiled. “Ali LeBlanc is a most important man, Bibi, you have been privileged to serve him. Now return to Café Marco, tell them Omar Kerim's order is that you can have anything you want. We will tell you later what we expect you to do.”

She left at once, pure delight on her face. “A simple soul,” Jemal said, “and easily pleased.”

“Am I permitted to know what this is all about?” Omar inquired.

“Certainly, but first let me explain something. I knew of Bibi's situation before you brought her in. I've emphasized to you recently, al-Qaeda's tentacles reach out everywhere.”

“So I accept that,” Omar said. “But where is it taking us?”

“Less than an hour ago, I had a call from a man we only know as the Master, who represents the council of our great movement, even in Western Europe. He has given me orders which I am delighted to obey, especially as I know you'll be pleased to assist me in this matter.”

“For a price, of course,” Omar said. “I mean, a man has to live.”

“I knew I could rely on that grasping soul of yours.”

“So what do we have to do?”

“Kill one man and kidnap another.”

Omar laughed. “Is that all? I thought it was going to be something difficult.”

“But this is more important to al-Qaeda and our future than anything I've ever been involved in, so sit back and I'll explain.”

When he was finished, Omar said, “This Emza Khan who's on his way, he sounds like big stuff. Is his connection with us for real?”

“It must be. It's his plane that will fly Husseini out of Lebanon to wherever the council wants him to go. His money doesn't buy him special privileges. He must obey the call of Obama when needed, like any other supporter of a great cause.”

“I take your point,” Omar said. “So how do we handle this?”

“We'll keep it simple,” Jemal said. “You and your thugs deal with the colonel in some alley—make it look like a street robbery. Bibi will slip something in Husseini's drink, and we'll bundle him into a car.”

“When will this be?” Omar demanded.

“Obviously, we must wait for Emza Khan, but sooner rather than later. Once we have Husseini, we get him out of Lebanon fast. Too many people, the Iranians in particular, want him back. Let's go talk to Bibi.”

They moved out into the glare of the sun, turned toward Café Marco, and saw Bibi sitting with Simon Husseini, for Jemal recognized him at once.

“It's Husseini,” he said. “There was a photo in
Le Monde
a week or so ago, receiving some honor.”

“Shall we go and speak to them?” Omar asked.

“Why not?” Jemal said.

As they got close, Bibi was talking in an animated way to Husseini and, noticing their approach, rose to greet them. “There you are. This is my friend, Ali LeBlanc. Ali, this is Omar Kerim, the owner of Café Marco, and Jemal Nadim, who runs the Army of God charity in Beirut.”

“Sit, Bibi, please,” Omar said and shook Husseini's hand. “Good to meet you.”

“I echo that,” Jemal said. “You have been long absent, I understand?”

“Business took me abroad, but I think I can say I am home for good now.” Husseini's mobile rang and he answered it, listened, then said, “I'll call you back.” He smiled at everyone. “Bibi, I must go. Gentlemen, I hope we meet again.” He crossed the road through the crowd and went toward the breakwater.

The two men sat down. “You like him, don't you, Bibi?” Jemal said.

“He is a good man, this I know because of kindness many years ago, and he has supplied me with a wonderful home.”

“Yes, but all is not what it seems,” Omar said. “And he is not the man you think he is.”

She looked alarmed. “Can this be so?”

“So I believe,” Jemal told her. “Watch him carefully.” He produced a card and gave it to her. “If new people visit, or anything different happens, phone me at once.”

She was anxious to please now and nodded her head energetically. “I promise.”

“Accept my blessing, Bibi. There is one God and Osama is his Prophet,” and he and Omar walked away.

—

I
t had been Sara calling from the plane, and Husseini leaned on the wall above the harbor now and talked to her. “When do you expect to arrive?”

“Two and a half hours.”

“I look forward to seeing you.”

“Well, as it happens, you're seeing Sean Dillon, too. He joined me at the last minute, just as I was leaving. He and Roper are my main associates, and they were concerned I had no backup. You must realize I've acted on my own initiative in this matter. General Ferguson is away. God knows how he'll react when he finds out.”

“With anger, I suspect,” Husseini said. “But I think Dillon was right to come along. I saw some bad things on my travels.”

“How is it in Beirut?”

“Lots of sunshine, and everyone seems to be having a good time, though I know, having traveled through it, that just outside the city is hell on earth. Anyway, what's the plan?”

“I thought we'd start fresh tomorrow and make for St. Anthony's.”

“And tonight?”

“My pilot says that the airport is nine kilometers from the center of Beirut. He says that some place called the Tropicana on the waterfront is the place to stay.”

“I haven't been, but I've heard of it,” Husseini said. “So when do I see you?”

“We'll definitely have dinner tonight, but can a taxi reach your house?”

“Oh yes, it stands in a small square.”

“I'd like to see it. We'll drop by on the way to the hotel. The driver can wait for us.”

“Excellent,” Husseini said. “See you then.”

He stayed there, thinking how grateful he was, for the prospect of meeting Father John Mikali again meant so much to him, and the chance of an answer to the way his life should go. He stared out at the shipping in the harbor, absurdly happy.

—

A
t the airport, the mail plane from Tehran nosed into the VIP section where Captain Shah waited eagerly. He wore sunglasses, and was in civilian clothes: a navy blue blazer, white shirt, and striped tie. When the airstair door opened and Declan came down the steps, Shah had to restrain the impulse to salute.

“Colonel Rashid, an honor, sir.”

“Good to meet you. Is everything in order?”

“I trust so, Colonel. If you'll follow me, the Range Rover is waiting. I've driven it myself. I'll deliver you to the Tropicana and walk back to the embassy. It isn't far. Allow me to take your luggage.”

They reached the Range Rover and got in. Declan took the envelope from his pocket. “The presidential warrant. You've probably never seen one, but for the sake of protocol, take a look.”

Shah did as he was told, then handed it back. “Remarkable, Colonel, I feel a part of history.”

“It is absolutely top secret, the reason for me being here, you'll have to take my word for it.” As they drove away, Declan added, “The AK-47s? Any trouble with that?”

“Not at all.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Declan told him, taking in the scenery as they drove into the city.

They seemed to reach their destination in no time. Shah parked the Range Rover, gave him the keys, and departed reluctantly, leaving the colonel to book in. A duty manager escorted him to a pleasant suite with a view of the harbor.

He stood looking at it for a moment, considering his next move. He was suddenly aware of an overwhelming tiredness, his exertions of the past twenty-four hours catching up with him, took off his jacket, lay on the bed, and was promptly asleep.

J
emal Nadim's sources were unmatched, information constantly flooding in from the airport, streets, and harbor. He was aware of the arrival of Colonel Declan Rashid, a hero who stirred his Arab soul and yet who refused to believe as he did. And then there was Captain Sara Gideon, who greatly intrigued him, as did her unexpected passenger, Sean Dillon. Thanks to his new friendship with Ali Saif in London, Jemal knew all about the man who had been the Provisional IRA's most feared enforcer.

The prospect of Emza Khan did not faze him in the slightest. The loud voice on the telephone, the bullying tone—a hint of insecurity there. Kerim's people hanging about the Tropicana
for signs of movement from Colonel Rashid had orders to rough him up, if the opportunity arose. The news from the taxi driver who'd picked up Sara and Dillon, that she'd asked him to take them to the Rue Rivoli and wait, meant that all contingencies were covered and Jemal could sit back and enjoy developments.

—

T
he taxi driver parked at the side of the small square, Sara got out and was immediately impressed with the vivid blue of the house, which seemed to tower into the sky. The door was opened at once by Bibi, who had obviously been waiting. In her black silk dress and white chador, she looked striking but seemed shy.

“I am Bibi, I am pleased to meet you.”

Her English seemed halting and strained, and Sara took a chance and said in very fluent French, “And I, you. We're a little late. This is Monsieur Dillon.”

Bibi was delighted and the French flowed. “It does not matter, not at all. This way.”

The lift passed through five floors to the penthouse apartment. Sara took in the blue-and-white awnings, the staggering view over the city to the harbor, and Simon Husseini himself, wearing linen slacks and a deep blue shirt, and now moving to meet Sara, arms outstretched.

“You're here.” He drew her to the couch. “I can't believe it. Champagne, Bibi, I put a bottle in the icebox. Mr. Dillon, we only met briefly in Paris.”

Bibi moved to the kitchen and left them alone to talk, taking her time over the champagne and listening to the conversation, which she could hear perfectly. Sara was doing the talking.

“My senior pilot, Don Renard, flew jet fighters in Desert Storm, he knows that kind of country well. He'll plot a course tomorrow for Qatar and put down at al-Shaba, using the old Saudi emergency landing strip.”

“Which wasn't there when I knew it,” Husseini said.

“After the end of the war, when the Saudi Air Force vacated the place, they left an energy system in the hospice powered by the sun, also a satellite phone. My Codex mobile is so advanced that it can link with it, and we managed to hunt the number down online. The trouble is it hardly ever works, due to desert weather. On the way over from London, I got my pilot to try dozens of times without success, and then we had a hit.”

“And you managed to get in touch?” Husseini demanded.

“Yes, but the reception was very bad and eventually cut off, and it proved impossible to get back. However, it was with a monk emailed Father Andrew, whose English was basic, but spoke Greek, which I speak a little myself. He told me there are only fifteen of them serving the hospice these days, but they actually have a doctor, aged seventy-five. Father Mikali is at present in the infirmary with a chest infection. I don't suppose that's too good for a ninety-year-old man,” Sara said. “There's always the danger of pneumonia.”

“There would be if we were in dear old Ireland with the rain constantly intervening,” Dillon said. “But I wouldn't have thought that would be such a problem with desert conditions.”

“That's true,” Husseini said. “So let me make a suggestion. Speak to the desk at the Tropicana, ask them to find a doctor who could prescribe the best drugs for the infection, and we could take them with us.”

“I'll drink to that,” Dillon said.

“And so we shall.” Husseini reached for the champagne bottle.

Bibi made her move, found her linen shopping bag, and came in from the kitchen. “I need a few things from the market.”

“Tonight my friends and I dine at the Tropicana,
Bibi,” Husseini said. “Tomorrow we fly out to the backcountry for a few days. You'll be all right, won't you?”

“But of course,” she said, hurried out, and they heard the lift descend.

“So where were we?” Sara asked.

—

D
eclan Rashid had come awake with a start, instantly aware, the mark of a true soldier. He lay there on the bed, thinking of the situation. There was Emza Khan to look forward to, although he had no knowledge when that would be. Of course, Khan wouldn't realize that Declan knew of his al-Qaeda link, which would make for an interesting situation. In the meantime, it seemed to him a good idea to go in search of Husseini's place in Rue Rivoli. He got up, tidied himself, slipped the Colt .25 into his waistband, and left.

Early evening, the sun going down, still crowded. An obliging doorman indicated a street on the other side of the square that climbed up through the old quarter and told him he would find Rue Rivoli at the top. Declan thanked him and walked away, and the doorman nodded to two men seated at an adjacent pavement café. They might have been twins with their sunglasses, white T-shirts, and jeans, except for the fact that one had shoulder-length hair and the other's skull was shaved.

They got up and followed him through the crowds, to the narrow alley on the left climbing up through the old quarter. The one with the shaved head said, “So Omar said to rough him up.”

“That's right,” the other replied. “That's a great suit he's wearing. Egyptian linen, I'd say. It might be worth stripping him.”

“I know one thing,” his friend said. “I smell money here.” They increased their pace as Declan moved faster.

He paused at the end of the street, looking up at a sign with Rue Rivoli on it and an arrow pointing across to a small square. He saw a taxi parked in a corner and the deep blue tower that must be Husseini's.

“Isn't that a grand sight,” he said to himself in English and with a pronounced Irish accent. “Sweet Jesus, but my mam would have liked that.”

So they rushed him, the one with a shaven head, slightly ahead of the other because of the narrowness of the alley, reaching out. Declan grabbed the right wrist, locking the arm so that the man bent over, then ran him face-first into a nearby doorway. He bounced back, nose squashed, blood on his mouth.

His friend paused, pulled a knife from his pocket, and sprang the blade. Declan pulled the Colt .25. “If you're good, I won't shoot you in the kneecap, because I need you to help your friend down the alley.”

His use of Arabic caught the men by surprise. “I thought you were a Westerner.”

“You thought wrong. My father was Bedu from the Empty Quarter, and his family before him.”

The man closed the blade and put the knife into his pocket. “A Bedu.” He shook his head. “A bad-luck day for me indeed. What happens now?”

“You'll tell me who put you up to this, I'll let you go and you'll take this fool with you.”

“And if I don't?”

“I'll cripple you,” Declan said calmly. “Leave you both here to crawl.”

“I guess you leave me no choice. All right—his name is Omar Kerim. He's the greatest thief in the city, and he paid us to follow you if you went for a walk and rough you up.”

Declan put his Colt away, took out his wallet, and extracted an American one-hundred-dollar bill, which he held out. “Take it, and take this worthless idiot with you. Tell Omar Kerim that if he doesn't stay out of this affair, he's a dead man walking.”

“Aren't we all, Colonel? But I'll tell him.” He pulled his friend up, pushed him in front, and followed him down the alley.

Declan turned away, heard voices, and the door of the house opened. Dillon stepped out and whistled to the driver. Declan was amazed to see him and stepped back as the taxi moved toward Dillon and then Husseini joined him. There was laughter, the voices clear, and then the greatest shock of all, as Sara Gideon appeared. For a wild moment, he thought he was delusional, but only for a moment.

Sara laughed again and said clearly to the driver, “You can take us to the Tropicana now.”

Declan backed away, allowing the alley to swallow him up, turned, and started to walk down toward the harbor, trying to make sense of what he'd seen. Dillon and Sara together in Paris made perfect sense, because they'd both represented the Ministry of Defence, but surely if they'd had any other kind of contact, he'd have noted it.

He was thinking so hard that he almost missed Bibi sitting at a coffee table outside Café Marco with two men, neither of whom he knew. He noted a large advertisement for what was described as Omar Kerim's Special Cabaret Night, the photograph on it matched exactly one of the men sitting with Bibi. It seemed highly probable that this was the same Omar his attacker had mentioned.

He hurried on to the Tropicana,
approached reception, and inquired if Sara and Dillon were staying. They confirmed it for him, and also the fact that they were expected for dinner in the main restaurant in half an hour.

He went to his suite to freshen up and give himself time to decide how to handle the situation, but decided there was only one way, which was head-on. After all, unless he was greatly mistaken, he had some extraordinary information for all of them.

—

T
hey were in the bar area, he saw that at once, because to his surprise Dillon was sitting at the piano, feeling out a few chords while the maître d' looked on approvingly. Satisfied with the piano, Dillon eased into an upbeat version of “As Time Goes By”
and called out, “Remember the Paradise Club, Sara? Let's see if you can still strut your stuff.”

Laughing, she got up, mounted three carpeted steps, and joined in, her voice deep and rich. The regular drummer came running, and a moment later, a double bass player. People were clapping, shouting their approval, and Dillon kept it going, another chorus, and then the moment came when she saw Declan in the entrance starting to clap, hands high. The look of astonishment on her face was something to see. She stood looking at him.

Someone shouted, “Get on with it, kiss him, then let's have another chorus.”

So she did, on the cheek, and ran back to Dillon, calling, “One more time, and give it all you've got.”

He did, the sound echoing up to the roof, while Declan went and dropped into a chair next to Husseini and grinned. “Haven't we met before somewhere?”

Husseini smiled. “What is this, Colonel, have you come to arrest me?”

“How on earth could I?” Declan asked. “We're in a foreign country.” He reached for the champagne bottle in the ice bucket. “Can I have a glass?”

“You can have two if you like,” Husseini told him, and they started to laugh.

—

L
ater, the three of them listened as he explained what he was doing there. “So you see,” he said to Husseini, “I have my orders, but what can I do about it? Lebanon isn't Iran. In the last few words I had with Vahidi as he lay dying, I told him that if I did catch up with you, I might well suggest you keep running. He then offered me the information that has led me here so quickly.” He looked serious now. “I believe he was murdered. Pushed into the next world.”

“And who do you think did it?” Sara asked. “This General ben Levi you've mentioned?”

“Oh no, but al-Qaeda would,” Declan told her.

Dillon said, “To what purpose?”

“To help get their hands on that bomb of Simon's. And here's a question for you and Sean, Sara. What would you say if I told you that Emza Khan is up to his neck in al-Qaeda?”

Sara turned to Sean and smiled savagely. “I knew it, Sean, I damn well knew it. It's what I was trying to suggest to Ferguson, and he knew I was right.”

“Just hang on.” Dillon turned to Declan. “Where's your proof?”

“To start with, I have a spy in his household, but you can ask Khan himself. He's due to join us on the spurious excuse of visiting Cyrus Holdings in Beirut. He'll be expecting to see me, but not you.” He took an envelope from his pocket. “Rather than explaining it all, I've written everything down. Read this. You'll find it very revealing.”

“Give it here,” Dillon said. Declan flicked it across, and Sara and Husseini squeezed in to read what was inside.

Declan waved to the wine waiter. “Another bottle of champagne. I think we're going to need it.”

—

W
hen they were done, Dillon said, “I never liked him, but his business success seemed to speak for itself. I mean, he's a billionaire, for God's sake.”

“The epitome of the man who had everything,” Sara said.

“And threw in his lot with al-Qaeda,” Declan said. “The act of a maniac.”

“And one of incredible stupidity,” Declan said. “To put yourself in the hands of such people is an act of suicide.”

“Well, I'll drink to that,” Dillon said, reached for the bottle, and refilled the glasses. “So where does this leave us?”

“With the fact that Emza Khan is to arrive soon to supervise the kidnapping of Simon Husseini and arrange his onward passage to wherever the al-Qaeda council decides.”

“And what about the rest of us?” Sara asked.

“Oh, the rough stuff will be carried out by gangsters, Omar Kerim and his men under the direction of Jemal Nadim.”

“So they could get nasty,” Sara said.

“Already have,” Declan told her. “I took a walk up toward Rue Rivoli earlier and was followed all the way from the Tropicana
by two of Omar's men, who attacked me.”

“You don't look damaged.”

“I'm a paratrooper. They were clowns. The first one broke his nose falling into a door, the second was persuaded by my suggestion that I put a bullet in the kneecap to inform on Omar.”