The Death Trade (21 page)

“God help us, but I've difficulty in seeing you playing the squireen in a tweed cap, fishing for trout in Galway,” Dillon told him.

Declan said, “So many years of war, and the possibility of death has taught me that the only way of coping is to take each day as it comes. So, enough of talking. We know what lies ahead tomorrow, so let Emza Khan see us retire for the night to grab four or five hours before sneaking out at dawn.”

“Let's do it.” Sara stood up, glanced at the enemy, and walked out, pausing to shake hands with the maître d'. “Lovely meal,” she said loud enough to be heard at Khan's table. “We're leaving for Qatar in the morning, flying out around eleven. We'll have a late breakfast with you before we go.”

“A pleasure to serve you,” he said.

Dillon muttered, “Excellent performance, full marks.”

She half turned, smiled at him, and led the way out.

—

T
he meal was excellent, but for Emza Khan, the pilots were the problem, drinking huge amounts of vodka and talking to each other in Russian. He didn't speak the language, which was good, because their opinion of him was low. When his phone sounded it came as a relief, and he went out to the terrace and discovered it was the Master.

“I know what's going on, so just listen. I gather that Husseini has a burning need to visit this Father John Mikali at St. Anthony's Hospice. Our need, on the other hand, is to kidnap Husseini and dispose of Rashid.”

“Which is why we will follow them to the hospice and confront them there,” Khan said.

“I have a better idea. Leave
before
them. When they arrive and find you holding Mikali hostage, the effect on Husseini will be dramatic, especially when the threat is to blow out the old man's brains. Husseini would do an exchange on the instant, I promise you.”

“But, of course, Master,” Emza Khan said. “Husseini is the kind of holy fool who
would
sacrifice himself.”

“No need for a gang of cutthroats. I'd take Jemal and Omar to back you up, but no more. After all, you have the Russians.”

“Yes, that would do it.”

“I'll speak to Jemal and order him to report to you as soon as possible with Omar, but I think speed is of the essence here, so get moving and don't take no for an answer from those Russians. I can only envy your inevitable success.”

Renewed in spirit, Emza Khan bustled into the restaurant and said, “Things have changed, so follow me to my suite to discuss it.”

“Discuss what?” Kerimov demanded.

“Oh, the extra money I'm putting into your worthless pockets,” and suddenly he was the old Emza Khan again, and smiling as he led the way out.

I
t was no problem for Kerimov to obtain a new departure slot from the Rafic Hariri Airport. The flight plan was for Qatar, eight hundred miles away and mainly over desert. The stop-off at the emergency airstrip close to the St. Anthony's Hospice at al-Shaba was technically illegal, but air traffic control was notoriously easygoing in Arab airspace. Many pilots simply vanished from the air if it suited them to switch off communication for a period.

Things had gone exactly as the Master had suggested. He had spoken to Jemal, who had accepted without a moment's argument, and Jemal had persuaded Omar that it could do him a lot of good in the council's eyes.

An approach by Kerimov to the right person, a greasing of palms, and they had taken off at three-thirty in the morning. They had an eight-hundred-mile flight ahead of them, but as Kerimov said, they were in no hurry, had already won the engagement.

They were having a small drinks party in the cabin, Emza Khan, Jemal, and Omar. Kerimov joined them, leaving Lisin in the cockpit sitting back reading a magazine while the plane flew on autopilot.

In the cabin, Khan had a martini cocktail, Kerimov vodka, and so did Omar. Only Jemal refused a drink, although he did smoke Turkish cigarettes. He was indulging in one now and examining an old
National Geographic
magazine. He passed it to Emza Khan.

“There's a five-page article on this St. Anthony's Hospice. Apparently, it's run by Greek Orthodox monks. It's at a small oasis, a well that hasn't run dry in several hundred years.”

Khan examined it. “How did it start?”

Jemal said, “Food and lodging for travelers going south to the Oman. They offered medical aid as well, a tradition.”

“Why Greek monks?” Emza Khan asked. “I could never see the point of that. Living at the back of beyond in total desolation. What does it prove?”

“Jesus Christ spent forty days and nights in the wilderness, we are told in the Christian Bible, and found truth when God spoke to him. The monks seek the same salvation.”

“They must be soft in the head,” Khan said. “And I thought this Father Mikali was supposed to be someone special.”

Jemal said, “I was at the Sorbonne in Paris in my youth, studying comparative religion. He was a professor, wrote books, everybody respected him.”

He suddenly recognized how much he disliked Khan, particularly when Khan said harshly, “Then why did he retire to such a godforsaken place at his age?”

“Because the search for Allah and meaning and purpose is never-ending,” Jemal told him. “But enough of this, let's move on. What is our plan when we land?”

Kerimov said, “As far as I'm concerned, the important thing is making sure the Falcon is safe and secure and ready to get us out of here when we're ready to leave.”

“What are you saying?” Omar demanded.

“That Lisin and I aren't here to do any shooting, we're here to guard the plane and make sure it's available for a quick departure.”

“That's not good enough,” Emza Khan told him. “We had an agreement.”

“Lisin and I were in the military. We've seen things go wrong for the stupidest of reasons too many times, so this isn't up for argument.”

Omar took over. “We've got all the right weapons, so there's no problem there. The enemy are fifteen monks, the eldest ninety and the others very probably close behind him.” He turned to Jemal. “I know where I stand, I kill people for a living, but what about you, old friend?”

“I can handle it,” Jemal said. “But I'm sure it won't be necessary.” He glanced at Emza Khan. “What about you, have you ever fired a gun?”

“You know who I am. It's never been necessary,” Khan said. “I'm perfectly content for you two to handle matters.”

Jemal said, “Somehow, I thought that's what you'd say.” He got up. “I don't know what the rest of you are going to do, but I'm taking one of those backseats for a couple of hours' sleep. I'd advise you to do the same.”

Which they did, Ivan Kerimov taking a front one up by the cockpit, Omar on the opposite of Jemal, and Emza Khan halfway along, easing his chair back and thinking about things as someone dimmed the lights.

He was considering his problematical future. With Husseini on his hands, he had two interesting options. On the one hand, he was a man desperately wanted by al-Qaeda. On the other hand, the government in Tehran would be only too willing to pardon past sins when the prize he was offering was Husseini and his bomb. So—what should he do? He lay back a little farther, closed his eyes, and started analyzing the situation again.

—

E
arlier, at Rafic Hariri, Jane Green stirred and came half awake as she heard a plane take off, quite loud, then die away into the distance. She lay there wondering about it, made to get up, and then another plane took off, so she drifted into sleep again. An hour passed and she came awake with a jerk to a knock on the door, and when she got up and opened it, found Sara standing there.

“What's happened?” Jane asked, coming awake fast.

“They've stolen a march on us.” Sara brushed past. “Got out of here around three-thirty with a flight plan for Qatar. It didn't feature on the screen until a short while ago. So much for us hoping to make a quick departure around six. We got here, went to check on our plane, and discovered their Falcon gone.”

Jane was dressing hurriedly. “What are the guys doing?”

“Buying a fast takeoff on my behalf,” Sara said. “There are times when owning a bank has its uses.”

“I'm sure that's true.” Jane grabbed her old military bag, ran around the room recovering the few things she'd unpacked, and stuffed them in. “Right, ready to go. Afghanistan was a good learning curve.”

“You can say that again,” Sara told her. “Now, let's go and see how our gallant lads have progressed.”

They hurried to the lift, and as they got in, Sara's Codex sounded. As they descended, Dillon said, “It's taken care of. Ready to go.”

“I'm with Jane now and we're on our way,” she said. “Did you have enough cash to handle it?”

“You know I always keep five thousand dollars in my contingency kit. I'm taking care of it. No worries. Just get yourselves down here.”

—

D
on Renard was in the cockpit of the Gideon, turning the engines over, and Simon Husseini was already on board. Declan was standing by the steps up the airstair with Dillon. There was a doorway nearby, a light above it. A man stepped out in a porter's uniform and nodded, another in similar garb lurking behind him.

“They would appear to be waiting for you,” Declan commented.

Dillon went to meet them, Declan followed him, and as they approached the doorway, Dillon said, “Congratulations on your efficiency, Abu, you've organized things damn quickly.” He took a roll of bills from his pocket. “So what's the damage? You said a thousand.”

The man behind Abu said, “Oh, I think you can do a lot better than that.” He stepped around his friend and produced some kind of pistol. Declan moved with incredible speed, twisting it savagely out of the man's grip and at the same moment forming a Phoenix Fist with his right hand, stabbing into the temple, knocking the man out on the instant.

The first one was horrified. “Listen, there's been a mistake.”

“Yes, and you made it.” Dillon peeled ten one-hundred-dollar bills from his roll and dropped them fluttering down at the man's feet. “There you are, a thousand dollars. I always keep my promises.”

The man was mesmerized. “Yes, I can see that.”

Next, Dillon produced his Colt .25. “This holds hollow-point cartridges. If I decided to shoot you in the kneecap, it would blow it clean off.”

The man was panic-stricken. “Please, tell me what I must do to atone.”

“Oh, that's simple enough. How many people were on the Falcon that left earlier?”

“Two pilots and three passengers.”

“And who were they?”

The man was all eagerness now. “I've never seen the pilots before, but I was told they were Russian and the boss man was Muslim, but a stranger to me.”

“And the other two?”

“Omar Kerim, a dangerous man to know, and Jemal Nadim.”

“And what does he do?”

“He runs the Army of God.”

“I see, there is one God and his Prophet is Osama.” There was instant terror on the face in the yellow light. “Oh, go on, get out of it,” Dillon said. “And take your friend with you.” He turned to Declan. “Nice move, Colonel, you must show me sometime.”

The two women were just arriving, and Jane boarded instantly. Sara said, “Problems, Sean?”

“Not so you'd notice, but let's get out of here while the going's good. The trouble these days is the way sympathizers to Osama's message turn up at every level of society.”

Jane peered out. “Come on, best we get moving.”

They went up the steps, and the airstair door closed. Jane joined Don Renard in the cockpit, they started to roll even before the others had settled themselves, turned into position, roared down the runway, and lifted, climbing into the comforting darkness.

Dillon peered out and back at the lights of the airport. “So a not-so-fond farewell to Beirut. In the circumstances, I don't think we should rely on being welcomed back.” He smiled wryly at Husseini. “Sorry about that.”

“Don't worry, I've got more important things to think about,” Husseini told him, leaned back, and closed his eyes.

—

H
alf an hour into the flight, Don Renard emerged from the cockpit to find Husseini still apparently dozing and the others enjoying a pot of black coffee. He helped himself and said, “Even if we push our speed as far as we can, we'll still be landing at least an hour and a half after the opposition. What are we going to do?”

“Tell me something,” Sara said. “How many times did you try to connect me and my Codex to their satellite phone system on the flight from London?”

“Dozens,” he said. “Any kind of bad weather affects the system. I think the one time we did get through was just a fluke.”

Declan, peering out, said, “You can't find fault with it tonight. Remember that I have Bedouin forefathers from the Oman and the Empty Quarter, so I have a feel for how things work round here. To start with, the moon is full and looks different from the norm, and there is a total lack of wind.”

“Then let's have another go, Don,” Sara said. “If we could warn them to expect unwelcome visitors, it would be good.”

He vanished into the cockpit, and Husseini said, “At least I could know how Mikali is doing.”

“You might even get to speak to him,” Dillon said.

“Well, we'll see, shall we?” Sara said, and they sat, waiting, as the plane droned on into the night.

—

A
t St. Anthony's Hospice, the enormous moon had moved on from the west, bathing everything in harsh white light. In the oasis fed by the well, goats and camels stirred, and Brother Andrew, reading an English primer, picked up his lantern and started back toward the hospice. He was not concerned if the animals were restless, for there was nowhere for them to go in all that desolation.

At thirty, he was by far the youngest member of the order, a male nurse in Athens whose wife had died in childbirth. Having lost his way in life, the offer of a place in the order from his uncle, Abbot Joseph, had brought him to the hospice.

He entered the ancient buildings through a rear door and walked along a corridor that brought him to the infirmary. Seated at the center table, dozing, was Father Peter, so small that he seemed swallowed up by his black robes. In his mid-seventies, he had once been an army doctor. There was a row of beds, six of them empty, and Father John Mikali in the seventh, his eyes closed.

He wore a black cowl, so that only the face and silver beard showed. His skin was almost transparent, drawn tightly over the cheekbones in a noble face. His eyes suddenly opened, and he smiled and his voice was still strong.

Andrew asked in English, “How are you, Father? Any pain at the moment?”

“Not as bad as it has been.”

“We still have an ample supply of morphine, thanks to the battle packs the Saudi Air Force left us.”

“I can manage at the moment,” Mikali said. “But I must say your English improves daily. Speak it as often as you can.”

“That's due to you, Father.”

“Not at all. Speak it aloud to yourself, if that's the only way. It's the road to fluency, I assure you.”

Before Andrew could reply, Brother Damien came in from the kitchen. An octogenarian, with a white apron over his black robe, he was carrying a two-handed small beaker.

“Get this down you and you'll feel much better,” he told Mikali.

Andrew said, “What is it, what's so special?”

“It's a tisane of honey, fruit juice, and tea. Guaranteed to bring him back to life,” Damien answered. “Raise him if you can.”

Andrew managed to sit Mikali up, thanks to a back support, and Damien stood beside him, clutching the beaker in both hands, pouring carefully.

He paused and said, “Is that good?”

“Excellent,” Mikali told him. “I'll have a little more.”

But before Damien could pour, there was the sound of a bell from outside and Andrew swung around, amazement on his face.

“Blessed Mary,” he said. “It's the satellite phone system.”

“Now, who can that be?” Father Mikali asked. “Better answer it before they go away again, whoever they are. It's the first call we've had in a couple of months.”

Andrew ran out into the corridor, opened the black oak door to the vestry, and hurried in. The stone walls had been painted white. There were shelves stacked with manuscript registers and books and various religious vestments hanging from rails. There were also two wooden desks, one with an old-fashioned typewriter, paper stacked beside it, all very businesslike; the other contained the telephone equipment, which was also old, with a fixed microphone.