The Death Trade (6 page)

His clothes were completely soaked now, and Abu had slumped onto his side. Dillon pulled the body away from the car and laid the corpse out on its back.

He crossed himself and, remembering Abu's final words, murmured, “You'll know all about it now, son.”

He turned to the Mini and inspected it as best he could. The passenger door required a bang to close it, but the fact that the gates standing half open had bounced out of the way on the Mini's passage into the yard meant there was little damage. The lights still worked, and he found that he could drive it around the yard. As he was doing that, a large black van coasted in silently and four men in black overalls got out.

“Good to see you in one piece, Mr. Dillon,” the man in charge said. “No injuries, I trust?”

Dillon shook hands. “I'm in perfect working order, and so is Captain Gideon, Mr. Teague.”

“A pleasure to see you, ma'am,” Teague said as Sara approached.

Two of his colleagues were already easing Abu into a black body bag, the third had righted the Montesa and was wheeling it to the rear of the van.

“No problem with the bike, we'll dispose of it, but I'd be obliged if you would show me what happened with the London cab.”

Which Dillon did, Sara following them. They stood on the broken end of the wharf, and Teague shone a powerful torch. “Forty feet down and possibly a depth of thirty feet. Remember, the Thames is fiercely tidal, so the wreck of the cab could be swept away. No exchange of fire?”

“Absolutely not,” Dillon told him.

“So if it ever was examined—say, by the river police—it would pass as a very unfortunate accident.”

“Which you could say it was, in a manner of speaking,” Dillon told him.

“So that's what we'll leave it as.” Teague turned to Sara. “What a world we live in, ma'am. So pleased you're in one piece. The Mini being usable, Mr. Dillon, I presume you'll be driving back to Holland Park?”

Dillon turned to Sara. “Would you rather go home?”

“I think that would be a good idea. I've got to face them sometime, put on a show of normality.” She held out her hand to Teague. “I'm sure we'll meet again, but I hope it's later rather than sooner.”

She went to the Mini, and Teague said, “A remarkable lady.”

“You can say that again. That al-Qaeda assassin had me in his sights, and she took him on with a spring blade. Saved my life.”

“So you owe her, and big-time. Always remember that, my friend.” Teague shook hands, went to the van where the others waited, got in, and was driven away.

Dillon went to the Mini, where he found Sara behind the wheel. He slipped into the passenger seat. His only comment was “When you drop a gear and put your foot down hard, there's a huge power surge. It's the supercharger.”

“Thanks, I'll bear that in mind,” she told him, switched on, and drove away. He selected a CD and music drifted out. Fred Astaire. As the intro played, Sara joined in, singing softly:
“There may be trouble ahead / But while there's music and moonlight and love and romance / Let's face the music and dance.”

“Great lyrics,” Dillon said.

“A lesson for everybody.” She hummed along and never said another word until they reached South Audley Street and Highfield Court, where she drove into the drive. Dillon got out as she moved halfway to the house and turned. “Night bless, Sean, it's been a sincere sensation. See you later.”

“Take it easy,” he said, got behind the wheel, and reversed out of the drive.

The front door opened to her, and Sadie, wrapped in a dressing gown, stood to one side as Sara entered and closed the door behind her. “It must be four o'clock in the morning, and you've been drinking, I can smell it.”

“And singing in a piano bar.” Sara made for the stairs. “Is Granddad all right?”

“Went to his bed hours ago. Honestly, Sara, I don't know what's to become of you.”

“That's easy, Sadie, I'm going to Paris, so let me get to my bed and a few hours' sleep while I can.”

By now at the top of the stairs, she got the door of her room open, kicked off her boots, flung herself on the bed, still in her clothes, and was instantly asleep.

—

A
t Holland Park, Dillon found Ferguson in a dressing gown and sitting with Roper, being served tea and bacon sandwiches by Sergeant Tony Doyle, who greeted Dillon cheerfully before anyone else could.

“I expect you might fancy the same, Mr. Dillon.”

“Tony, you've got it exactly right,” Dillon told him. “But I think I've earned a Bushmills first.”

Roper passed him the bottle. “Help yourself.”

“And then I'd like an explanation.” Ferguson was annoyed, and it showed. “What in the hell have you been getting up to now? And what were you doing involving Captain Gideon?”

“You can rein in your horses right there, Charles. You had retired for the night, I was due to run Sara home, Giles here noticed a suspicious London cab hanging around. It could have been something or nothing, but ended up very much a something.”

“In what way precisely?”

“A man called Abu informed me that there is only one God and Osama is his Prophet. He had his Glock on me, and I was on my knees at the time.”

Ferguson frowned. “Al-Qaeda was behind this?”

“I should say so,” Dillon told him. “Sara saved me by stabbing Abu a couple of times, giving me the chance to shoot him. I'd managed to attract his backup man into taking a dive off the local wharf into the Thames, so you could argue that a fine time was enjoyed by one and all.”

“Including Sara Gideon.” There was a small and quizzical smile on Roper's face, a query: “Is she okay?”

“Absolutely,” Dillon said. “I've just delivered her to Highfield, where I imagine she's gone straight to bed.”

“Which doesn't surprise me at all, having heard all that,” Ferguson said. “So, al-Qaeda on our backs again, gentlemen. Rather unexpected, I'd have thought.”

“But they haven't put anything our way for some time,” Roper said. “So why now?”

“Maybe they've got wind of your interest in those Mediterranean rust buckets, Charles,” Dillon said. “That would certainly add a new dimension to things. There's really nothing else that would interest them as regards our present activities.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” Roper told him. “This Simon Husseini business. Al-Qaeda would be happy to know why we are so interested in him.”

“So would I,” Dillon said. “But not now. I'm going to bed in the guest wing to get some sleep while the going's good.”

He departed, and Roper said, “Well, there you are, General. I wouldn't mind knowing what Paris is all about, but I expect you'll tell us in your own good time.”

“Well, we certainly aren't going to try to snatch him,” Ferguson told him. “That's not on the agenda at all, because of his mother and daughter.”

“Which only leaves trying to turn him?”

“Leave it, Major, I'm not prepared to discuss it. I'm going back to bed, which seems the fashionable thing to do.”

He went out, and Roper smiled.
So that was it? Trying to bring Husseini on our side.
Someone should have told Ferguson the Cold War is over. The tactics it had bred wouldn't work anymore, but the old boy was stubborn. Better to leave him to find out for himself.

—

A
li Saif, at his desk in his room at Pound Street, had been in the extraordinary position of being able to follow most of the events that had taken place, from Dillon and Sara's departure at Holland Park to the final bloodbath of Butler's Wharf. The earpieces Farouk and Abu wore were the reason, for they were so sophisticated that Ali Saif had a ringside seat to everything via his incredible receiving equipment.

He was part of the action at all times, heard Farouk's howl of dismay as he went off the end of Butler's Wharf and a great deal of what transpired in the courtyard of the warehouse between Abu, Dillon, and Sara.

To him, the most shocking thing of all was Abu telling Dillon that there was one God and Osama was his Prophet, making it clear to Dillon, and through him Ferguson, that the real enemy in this affair was al-Qaeda. Very stupid of Abu to do that, but to be charitable, one should not speak ill of the dead.

But the arrival of Teague and the disposal team and what he heard of them, until they bagged Abu, really shocked him. The sheer ruthlessness of these people showed Ferguson's organization in a new light to him. He had never cared for the Iranian, a loudmouthed bully who preferred to get bad news sooner rather than later, so Ali Saif decided to give it to him in spite of the time.

In his bedroom at Park Lane, Emza Khan, rudely awakened, snarled into the phone, “Who in the hell is it at this hour?”

“It's Ali Saif. You said you'd like to be kept informed. I'm afraid we've had problems.”

“Of what kind?” Khan said.

So Ali Saif told him.

—

W
hen he was finished, Khan exploded with rage. “This is not acceptable. What Ferguson and his people are doing is appalling, and what's more, they seem to get away with it on a regular basis. Can't al-Qaeda do something to stop them?”

“I'm sure we can, given time. All this new information gives us insight on the way they operate. We'll come up with a plan of action while you're away in Paris.”

“Along with Ferguson, the woman Gideon, and Dillon. Are you telling me you can't deal with them
in
Paris? Is not al-Qaeda as powerful there as here?”

“Oh yes,” Ali Saif told him. “Very much so.”

“Then speak to the right people, do something about it. Paris is full of narrow alleys and dark corners. Try and damage the woman, I should like to see
her
suffer, at the very least.”

“At your command,” Ali told him. “We will see what can be done.”

“See that you do. Another woman, perhaps, who could get close to her. Do you have such a person?”

“Yes, if she's available.”

“Who is she, what's her name?”

Saif was trapped, afraid to argue. “Fatima Le Bon.”

“Excellent, I like the sound of that. So she lives in Paris? What's her address, phone number? Be quick, you idiot. I want to go back to sleep.”

With great reluctance but a certain amount of fear, Saif told him, “She's true to the Cause.”

“She'd better be. It would be a pity to have to send Rasoul to visit her and have a quiet word. Good night,” and Khan slammed down the phone.

—

A
li Saif poured coffee, then produced a bottle of cognac from a drawer and poured a generous measure into a cut-glass tumbler.
What fools these mortals be.
That was Shakespeare, a man who had words to cover every situation, and Khan was a fool in spite of his wealth. Ali Saif was not a religious man, but al-Qaeda had supplied him with the right kind of action, a battle of wits, a great and wonderful game, and he had enjoyed every minute of it.

He produced a coded mobile and dialed a number in Paris. It was answered quite quickly. “Osama,” he said.

“Is risen” was the reply in French, and it was a woman's voice. “Who are you seeking?”

“Fatima Le Bon, for Ali Saif,” he replied in English.

She answered in the same language. “You've got a nerve, you Egyptian pig. I ended up in police hands again after that last drug bust. I thought I was going down for five years.”

“Which you didn't,” he said. “Discharged with a clean bill of health. Now, who do you think made that possible?”

“Okay,” she said. “So AQ had a hand in it.”

“Exactly, because we have sympathizers everywhere. I notice you've still held on to that special mobile phone I gave you last time when I was over. That's good, and it proves you're a good Muslim girl who believes in Osama.”

“A bad Muslim girl who's French Algerian, didn't understand what Osama was talking about, and was bewildered when you turned up at that night court with a lawyer when I was charged with slashing that disgusting pimp Louis Le Croix's cheek.”

“A charge which was thrown out of court when your lawyer presented evidence that the knife was Le Croix's, who was sentenced to five years, which he richly deserved for a litany of foul deeds, particularly where women were concerned.”

“The evidence against him was false, and I've been paying you off ever since.”

“Nonsense, you enjoy the game, just like me, especially when it's filth like Le Croix who meet a bad end.”

“Screw you, Saif. So what is it this time?”

“There's a lady in London giving us a problem.”

“By us, you mean al-Qaeda?”

“Of course. She's staying at the Ritz.”

“And you'd like her damaged? Does this mean permanently?”

“Fatima, we are at war with the world. She is a soldier on the other side, which makes her fair game because she
is
our enemy. Her name is Captain Sara Gideon.”

“You know what? Something tells me you fancy her.”

“I admire her, certainly.” He took a deep breath. “She's a British Army officer, an Afghanistan veteran, one of the few to be decorated. She now works for an intelligence outfit run by a General Ferguson. Her partner is a Sean Dillon, once an IRA enforcer, and make no mistake, they're good. They've just seen off permanently two of my best hit men. She and Dillon will be at the Ritz tomorrow.”

Fatima laughed out loud. “And you expect poor little me to take that lot on?”

“Fatima, my love, not me, but the man I work for, who shall remain nameless, insists on some sort of revenge and suggests that Paris is just the place for it. He's told me to try and damage the woman, as he would like to see her suffer.”

“Now I understand you,” Fatima told him. “You're like the students who joined the Red Brigade years ago, went round blowing things up and assassinating people, just for the thrill of it.” She laughed out loud again. “Your chickens have come home to roost, Saif, because if you don't do your duty by al-Qaeda, they'll hang you out to dry and there's nowhere you'll be able to hide. They're great throat-cutters, an Arab tradition.”