The Death Trade (2 page)

T
he wind roared as waves crashed in on the shore of the Nantucket beach but failed to drown the sound of the helicopter as it landed up at the house.

Former President Jack Cazalet said to his Secret Service man, Dalton, “Have General Ferguson brought straight down.”

Dalton nodded, cell phone to his ear, and Cazalet turned to meet the demands of his cherished flatcoat, Murchison. He picked up another stick to toss into the sea, and it was instantly retrieved and dropped at his feet as the jeep braked and Major General Charles Ferguson emerged.

“The salt is bad for his skin, Mr. President, he'll need a good hosing. I've said that a few times over the years.” He held out his hand.

“So you have, old friend,” Cazalet told him. “Which can only mean that Murchison is getting a bit long in the tooth. You can cut out the title, by the way—there can only be one Mr. President.”

“Who offered me the use of his helicopter when he heard I was coming to New York, and suggested I drop in and see you on the way. I'm supposed to offer an opinion or two on the Middle East to some UN select committee or other.”

“Will the President be there, too?”

“No, he's on his way to the UK to spend a couple of days at the Prime Minister's country retreat at Chequers. Then on to Berlin, Brussels, perhaps Paris.”

“Oh, the times I've spent at Chequers.” Cazalet laughed. “I used to love that place. I've been asked to put in an appearance at the UN myself—but I imagine you knew that.”

“Yes, I can't deny it,” Ferguson said.

“I expected nothing less from the commander of the British Prime Minister's private army. Isn't that what they still call you people in the death trade?” He smiled. “You'll stay the night, of course, and accept a lift in my helicopter to New York tomorrow?”

“That's more than kind,” Ferguson said.

Lightning flickered on the horizon, thunder rumbled, it started to pour with rain. “Another stormy night,” said Cazalet. “Let's get up to the house for the comforts of a decent drink, a log fire, and the turkey dinner Mrs. Boulder has been slaving over all afternoon.”

“That's the best offer I've had in a very long time,” Ferguson said.

“In you get, then.” Cazalet smiled. “Let's see if we can reach the point where I've flattered you sufficiently that you can tell me why you've really come to see me.”

—

T
he dinner was everything Cazalet had promised. The coffee and port were served, Murchison steamed on the rug in front of the fire, and Dalton sat at the end of the small bar by the archway to the kitchen at his usual state of readiness.

“Well, it's an interesting situation,” Ferguson said. “It concerns a man named Simon Husseini. He was born in Iran to a French mother, his father an Iranian doctor who died of cancer years ago. Husseini followed in his father's footsteps, and his work on medical isotopes has saved thousands of lives.”

“Good for him,” Cazalet said.

“Yes. But as one of the world's great experts in the field of uranium enrichment, his masters insisted that he extend his research into nuclear weapons research.”

“And he agreed?”

“No choice. He's a widower, but his ancient mother is still alive and living with his forty-year-old daughter, who's an invalid. They're under house arrest in Tehran.”

Cazalet was not smiling now. “The suffering some people have to go through. So how do things stand?”

“Very badly. The word is he could be close to making a nuclear bomb, and, worse, one that is cheap and four times as effective as anything else on the planet.”

Dalton looked startled, and Cazalet said, “God in heaven. How sound is this information? Is there real substance to it, or is it just bogeymen stuff put out by the Iranians to frighten the pants off us?”

“That's what we've got to establish,” Ferguson said. “One of our people has a connection with Husseini, very tenuous at best, but it provides the hope, rather slight at the moment, I admit, of my people touching base with him.”

“Then make it happen right this instant, General, before the whole damn world blows up in our faces.”

Ferguson nodded. “I thought you'd say that, sir. In fact, as we've been talking, I've already changed my mind about this trip. The UN committee is just going to have to get on without me. As soon as we get to New York tomorrow, I'm heading straight back to London.”

“Very sensible,” Cazalet said. “And since it'll be an early start, I think we'd better close the shop and go to bed. But not before you tell me about this connection of yours. . . .”

—

A
t the Holland Park safe house in London, Roper sat in his wheelchair in the computer room, drinking tea and smoking a cigarette, when Ferguson, wearing pajamas and a bathrobe, called him on Skype.

“There you are,” he said. “What time have you got?”

“It's four o'clock in the morning in London, people tucked up in their beds, the sane ones anyway.”

Ferguson said, “I'm at Jack Cazalet's beach house on Nantucket. It sounds like the storm of the century's outside trying to get in.”

“That must be interesting. How is the great man?”

“Not best pleased at the news I bore about Husseini. At least, he wants us to get moving on it right away. Some of the people I've talked to seem not to want to believe it could even happen. I get an idea that's even the way the CIA sees it.”

Roper said, “I can't blame them, in a way. The possibilities are horrendous. No sensible person would want to face the kind of future that would bring. Did you tell him about—”

“Yes. I mentioned Husseini's history as an academic ten years ago, when he was a professor at London University.”

“Where he met a certain Rabbi Nathan Gideon and his granddaughter, a young second lieutenant out of the Military Academy at Sandhurst named Sara Gideon. Who now works for us.”

“Correct. And I've actually figured out how we can use her. Did you know that Husseini is due in Paris this Friday to receive the Legion of Honor?”

“No, I didn't. That's a surprise, that he's being allowed out of Iran,” Roper said. “But maybe not. His work on medical isotopes has saved a great many lives, his mother is French—from the Iranian government's point of view, the signal it sends letting him accept the award is: Look what nice people we are.”

“Except that they've got his mother and daughter in Tehran under threat and they know Husseini's not the kind of man to let anything happen to them. He's totally trapped,” Ferguson pointed out. “But still, there might be an opening. That's why I'm arranging for Sara to be on the guest list at the Élysée Palace. She'll stay at the Ritz, which is where Husseini will be.”

“Together with his minders,” Roper said.

“Of course. But I'm betting there might not be as many of them as we might think. With his mother and daughter held hostage, there's no need. We have an asset at the Ritz named Henri Laval. He told me that when Husseini visited a year ago to lecture at the Sorbonne, he had only one man with him, a Wali Vahidi, who stayed with him in a two-bedroom suite.”

“Do I look him up or have you already done that?” Roper asked.

“Wali Vahidi, thirty years a policeman of one kind or another. He's been Husseini's bodyguard for eight years, sees to his every need, more like a valet, but I'd be wary of taking that too much for granted. He saw plenty of action in the war with Iraq and survived being wounded. He holds a captain's rank in the military police, so he can look after himself.”

“What does Sara think of all this?”

“I haven't told her yet,” Ferguson said. “I left a message to say I'd be back for breakfast on Thursday morning, and that you and I would like to call in at ten-thirty. It would be interesting to get her grandfather's input, too, since he knew Husseini so well. You could also check with Colonel Claude Duval to see what kind of security French Intelligence is putting on Friday night at the Élysée Palace. He's in London at the moment.”

“Is that all?” Roper asked.

“You have something to contribute?”

“Yes, I think she needs backup. What do you think of sending Daniel Holley with her? Though we'd have to find out where he is—in Algiers or deep in the Sahara, for all I know.”

Ferguson said, “No. Those two enjoy what people of a romantic turn of mind describe as a relationship, and I don't want anything getting in the way of this serious business. I agree she should have backup, though.”

“So what's the answer?”

“To send Dillon with her, of course. Good night, Giles, I'm going back to bed for another hour or so,” and he switched off.

—

A
t six-thirty, Roper phoned Claude Duval, who was annoyed and showed it. “Whoever you are, it's too early and I don't want to know.”

“It's Roper, you miserable wretch. Did she say no last night, whoever she was?”

“Something like that.” Duval laughed. “What in hell do you want, Giles?”

“The Legion of Honor award to Simon Husseini at the Élysée Palace on Friday night. Will you be attending?”

“Should I?” Duval's tone of voice had changed.

“Sara Gideon will be there with Dillon.”

Duval was completely alert now. “What for?”

“Ten years ago, he was a friend of her grandfather, the famous Rabbi Nathan Gideon. Sara was just out of the military academy and met Husseini. Now she just wants to say hello to him if she gets a chance.”

“And I'm supposed to believe that,
mon ami
?”

“Of course. Do you seriously expect her to persuade him not to return to Iran?”

“Of course not. He'd never leave his mother and daughter behind.”

“So Sara and Sean can turn up?”

“Yes, of course they can come, and what's more, I'll go myself, if only for the pleasure of meeting the divine Sara again.”

“You're a diamond, Claude. I'd kiss you on both cheeks if you were close enough.”

“Like hell you will.” Duval laughed. “You're definitely up to something, Giles, and I'll find out if it's the last thing I do.”

—

T
ony Doyle, back from military court duty at the Ministry of Defence on Thursday morning, didn't bother to change out of his uniform. He helped Roper and his wheelchair into the back of the van using the hydraulic lift, and they were turning into the drive of Highfield Court exactly at ten-thirty, to find Ferguson's Daimler parked in the drive, the chauffeur at the wheel. The front door opened and Mrs. Cohen appeared.

“Major Roper, how are you?” she asked, for they had become good friends.

“All the better for seeing you, Sadie,” he said as the two men eased the wheelchair into the hall.

“They're waiting for you in the study,” she said, opening the large mahogany door. “In you go. They're on the coffee, but I know you like a decent cup of tea, so I'll go and get you one.”

Roper felt the usual conscious pleasure on entering the beautiful Victorian library with the crowded bookshelves, the paneled walls and Turkish carpets, the welcoming fire.

Nathan Gideon was a wise man and looked it. He had a gray fringe of beard, white hair topped by a black velvet yarmulke, and he wore an old velvet smoking jacket that Roper had seen many times. He seemed to have stepped in from another age entirely.

He shook Roper's hand. “You look well, Giles.”

“No, I don't. As usual, you are far too kind,” Roper told him. “We both know I'll never look anything like well again.”

“My dear boy, feeling sorry for ourselves, are we?”

“Of course.” Roper produced some of his special painkillers and crunched them.

Sara, who had been sitting opposite Ferguson by the fire, stood up, poured a whiskey, and brought it to him.

“Wash them down, Giles.” She kissed him on the head and turned back to her seat.

She was wearing a one-piece flying suit and boots. Roper said, “I must say you look terribly dashing in that gear.”

“That's nice of you,” she said. “I just passed my practical navigation test doing a takeoff while it was still dark. I can't tell you how wonderful it is as dawn breaks. I'm grateful you arranged for me to learn to fly with the Army Air Corps, General.”

“I believe in people extending themselves,” Ferguson told her. “Maybe it's to your advantage, but who knows when it could suit my purposes, too.” He turned to Roper. “Nathan and Sara and I were just discussing Husseini.”

“So what's your opinion?” Roper asked the rabbi.

“Simon is a fine doctor. His interest in matters nuclear fascinated him because of the medical possibilities, and that was what led him to his pioneering work on medical isotopes. He's spoken of the awesome powers generated by nuclear energy as the Breath of Allah, which must surely have endeared him to Islamic opinion.”

“I'm sure it did,” Ferguson agreed.

“However, further studies showed how quickly it could be turned into a weapons-grade material, which was exactly what his masters were hoping for, and, as you know, it was impossible for him to argue because they had his family,” Nathan Gideon said.

“The fact that they're allowing him to venture into the outside world only proves how serious the threats must be to his mother and daughter,” Sara put in.

“You're dealing with a regime that doesn't stop at stoning a woman to death,” Roper pointed out.

Ferguson said, “Have you spoken to Claude Duval?”

“Yes, I have, he's on our side and intends to be there himself. But let's get clear now what we're expecting to come out of this.” He turned to Sara. “The ball is in your court.”

She sat there, looking intense and troubled. “I always remember Simon as a lovely man. I'd just like to hear him tell me out of his own lips what
he
would like done to solve this situation. I have a horrible feeling that not much
can
be done and we'll be at a stalemate, but I'd still like to try.”