The Death Trade (8 page)

“And I shouldn't have to remind you of how crucially important to the state I am. Can you do what I do?”

Rasoul said, “How dare you?” He took a threatening step. Declan Rashid grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and sent him staggering.

Husseini and Khan still confronted each other. “Is there any man in Iran who can do what I do?” said Husseini.

“Damn you to hell,” Emza Khan told him. “My day will come.” He turned to Declan. “Fill him in on what's expected of him tonight. I want everything to run smoothly. Everybody will be watching on television. Try to make this idiot see sense.”

He crossed to the door, opened it, and Rasoul ran after him. Husseini smiled at Declan Rashid. “I enjoyed that.”

“I'm sure you did,” Declan said. “I'd try not to make a habit of it if I were you. He really is very powerful.”

Wali Vahidi was also smiling, if only slightly. “We have a bar and kitchen next door. May I get you a drink or perhaps coffee?”

“Coffee would be fine,” Declan said and moved to the piano, where Husseini had started into “St. Louis Blues.
”

“You play well. Jazz as well as the classics.”

“Oh, that's the French side of me. I got it from my mother. The music has always been a great solace to me, helps keep me sane.”

“I'm sorry for your situation,” Declan said. “I really am. Your mother and daughter—”

Husseini cut him off. “I know you are, because you're a decent man, but never let me hear you say that again. If the wrong person heard, it could be the end of you. Oh, Wali Vahidi is reasonable enough, but Rasoul is foul and Emza Khan is not used to people disagreeing with him.”

Vahidi entered with coffee on a tray and served it on a low table. They sat down, and he poured.

Declan said, “Tehran sees what's happening tonight as a statement about Iran itself to the rest of the world.”

Husseini was immediately irritable. “I'm sorry, but I can't make it happen the way they would like. I wish it wasn't so damned important.”

“Well, it is.” Declan took a packet from his breast pocket and unfolded it. “This is the official observers list. There'll be over two hundred attachés from embassies all over Paris showing interest in you.”

“For one reason only. Because I got famous for work on medical isotopes and parleyed it into the nuclear field and they all want to know how.”

“That's true,” Declan agreed. “And I won't deny that a lot of these people have been brought in from their countries because of you.”

“Like the USA, Germany, the Russian Federation, and, of course, the United Kingdom. Their intelligence desks will all be empty for the great occasion.”

“I hear what you say, and there is a certain amount of truth there, but the London end of things isn't busy. Perhaps they're no longer concerned in matters nuclear. They've sent two observers from the Ministry of Defence, that's all. A Sean Dillon and a Captain Sara Gideon.”

Simon Husseini's cup was being topped up by Vahidi when Sara's name was spoken, and he knew immediately that it had to be that young officer from ten years ago, just out of Sandhurst and gifted at languages.

He picked up the cup and drank his coffee slowly, giving Declan Rashid time to make a comment if he wished, but he did not, and Husseini realized that could only be because there was no comment to make. His Iranian handlers had failed to make a connection between him and Sara. Could there be any significance to her presence? Only one thing was obvious. She was there because he was. He refused to believe anything else.

Declan said, “She was decorated in Afghanistan.”

“Good heavens,” Husseini replied. “That
is
rather unusual for a young woman, isn't it?” He turned to Vahidi, who waited by the door. “I think we'll go down to the health club. I could have a steam bath and prepare myself for tonight.”

Declan said, “A sound idea. I'll let you get on with it.” He moved to the door, Vahidi opened it, and he went out.

“You're joining me?” Husseini asked the bodyguard.

“Of course,” Vahidi said. “Remember, we must be ready to leave at five.”

—

H
enri Laval was in his sixties, his white hair perfectly groomed, his uniform impeccable. As a senior room-service waiter for many years, he prided himself on knowing what his guests wanted before they knew themselves. He was astute and cunning and made a great deal of money, and yet seated in the rear of Duval's Citroën while the colonel talked and the driver ignored him, he felt his palms sweat.

“So, report anything and everything to do with the Iranian party to me, and also to Ferguson's people. Your avaricious soul will adore Captain Gideon—she's not just a pretty face, she owns a bank. Now, get out of here and remember what mobile phones are for.”

“You may rely on me, Colonel,” Laval told him. “I'll not let you down.”

He scrambled out into the heavy rain, cursing as he put up his umbrella. Why couldn't they leave him alone? He was fine at just doing his job and pleasing people. The
flics
, the police, were bad enough. The passing of a few banknotes always helped there, but you didn't argue with the French Secret Service, the dreaded DGSE. They were a law unto themselves, those people, not that he could do much about it.

He'd already had a brush with the Iranians earlier, a luggage problem. Emza Khan had bellowed at him and Rasoul had thrown him out, and it was obvious the kind of man he was. He'd delivered a bottle of complimentary champagne to the Husseini suite, but Vahidi had taken it at the door. Which left Ferguson's people. As he went down the side street toward one of the service entrances, he moved to the narrow pavement to avoid being splashed, but the driver showed consideration and slowed. It was a small Fiat van with a canvas roof, and a panel on the side read “The Flower Bower.”
Fatima Le Bon wound down the window and looked out.

“Henri, my lovely, how goes it?”

He peered from under his umbrella, frowning, and then smiled in recognition. “Fatima, it's you. What's this, finished working the streets at last? Did the
flics
get too much for you?”

“They surely did,” she said. “So now I'm in the flower-delivery business, and it suits me just fine.”

An embroidered patch said “The Flower Bower
”
in gold on one side of her blue jacket, and the top buttons on the blue blouse she was wearing were undone enough for Henri to see her cleavage. He warmed to her instantly, reached in and took her hand.

“It's good to see old friends. Perhaps we could have a drink one night at Marco's bar around the corner.”

“I'd love that, Henri.” She squeezed his hand. “I could be seeing a lot of you now I'm doing this job.”

“Perhaps later,” he said and took a card from his wallet. “That's mine. Just show it to anyone who queries you and tell them to call me. Say you're attached to my staff.”

“I'll do that,” she said. “You're the best, Henri.”

She watched him go up to the service entrance and enter, and then she drove away. It had been a lucky meeting. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to get him on his knees begging for it. She drove away down another side street, parked and sat under the canopy of a bar, had a brandy and coffee, and smoked a cigarette.

The flower gambit was something she'd used before, and it worked well. In the old days, when money was good, she'd been sensible enough to buy an apartment down by the Seine at one of the places where barges were permanently moored and people lived on them. It was nice down there, especially at night, with Notre Dame floodlit not too far away.

Her apartment had a garage in which she kept the Fiat for general use, clipping the side panel in place when she was working the flower scam. If you wore some uniform and were attractive, you melted into the hubbub of a great hotel, especially if you were clasping a large bunch of flowers obviously intended for delivery. It worked in elevators, on corridors.

In addition, since her computer skills allowed her to extract names of individual guests and their room numbers, a nice bouquet covered your back nicely on the odd occasion that someone stopped you.

So far, so good. Now it was into battle again. She paid her bill, returned to the Fiat, got in, and drove back toward the hotel.

—

D
illon was reading
Le Monde
and catching up on world news while Sara got ready for the evening at the Élysée Palace. When the door buzzed, he got up, went to answer it, and found Fatima standing there with a beautiful bunch of red roses.

She smiled, and spoke in English. “So sorry to bother you. I hope I've got it right. Flowers for Captain Sara Gideon.”

Dillon gave her his best smile. “You'll have to make do with me,
chérie
. The woman of the house is at the other end of the suite in her room, preparing for an evening out.”

“No, she isn't, Sean. Who is it?” Sara cried.

“Flowers for you?” he called back to her.

A moment later, Sara came in from her bedroom in full uniform and walked toward them, smiling. “Can I help?”

Fatima took in the uniform and the medal ribbons, glanced at the lethal-looking man beside her, and suddenly was unsure of herself. She was aware of the Walther in her waistband under the blue jacket, digging into the small of her back.

“Are those for me? How lovely. Who are they from?” Sara asked.

“I don't know,” Fatima told her. “The card just says ‘Sincere good wishes.'”

She held them out and Sara took them. “That's very kind of you.”

“Not at all,” Fatima replied. It was still possible, of course—but Dillon was right there, and there was something about Sara that Fatima hadn't expected. So she smiled again. “Have a lovely evening,” she said, turned and walked away.

Dillon said, “Nice-looking lady.”

“I had noticed,” Sara said. “But to more important matters. How are we going to handle it if we bump into the Iranians tonight?”

“You've met Declan Rashid and that slob Rasoul. The only fresh face is Emza Khan, but you've seen his photo. They know who we are, but they may not know about your connection with Husseini. Just ignore them.” Dillon shrugged and smiled wickedly. “Unless bumping into the handsome Declan gives you a problem.”

“You think so?” Sara asked. “Actually, my only problem is you, Sean. I'm going to put my flowers in water and you can clear off and get yourself ready. Wear the blue suit, with a white shirt and the Brigade of Guards tie. That way, nobody could ever believe you were the pride of the IRA.”

F
atima returned to her flat, made coffee, had another brandy, and sat there by the window, looking down the sloping cobbled alley toward the River Seine, considering what had happened. It wasn't Saif she was worried about, for she had known him long enough to understand the complexity of the man, knew already that he would accept any explanation for her failure that she would offer. But, in spite of his joking manner, he was trapped by how far he had been drawn into the dark doings of al-Qaeda. There was a price to be paid for that, and to a lesser degree the same thing applied to her.

Any reluctance to phone him was swept away by the fact that her mobile sounded at that very moment, and there he was.

“I thought I'd call and see how things are going,” he said.

Fatima took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and told him.

—

W
hen she had finished, he said, “You've got enormous guts to tell me that. I understand, but the boss man in our organization won't. I don't just mean a loudmouth like Emza Khan, I mean the top brass here in Europe, and there's even an order higher than them.”

“I can see that those kind of people might not understand.”

“Why should they? You were close enough to pull out your Walther at point-blank range and blow Sara Gideon away. You had a good chance to dispose of Sean Dillon, too, before he managed to draw the weapon he was undoubtedly carrying.”

“I know, Saif,” she said. “I just froze. There was this strong young woman with medals any man would be proud to wear. To have pulled the trigger would have been . . . wrong somehow. I don't know how to explain it.”

Saif laughed so much that there were tears in his eyes. “My God, Fatima, you're so right, and you're not being ridiculous at all. What are we? We kill people in the name of our cause, and is that enough? I don't think so anymore. It's a can of worms, not only for me but for you.”

“And is there no way out for us?”

“None whatsoever. Al-Qaeda infects the world like a plague and there's no place to hide. We'd simply be hunted down. So, keep your mouth shut and I'll keep mine. I won't mention a word to Emza Khan, but I'm afraid we must continue to follow our original orders. Do you understand me? Look upon it as an assassination, which sounds more respectable. After all, we
are
fighting a war.”

“I'll try to remember that.”

“Well, good luck to you, and good luck to me also,” Saif said and switched off.

—

T
he assembly at the Élysée Palace was as fascinating as you'd expect: palace guards to rival London's Household Cavalry, uniforms of many nations on display, beautifully turned-out women, well-dressed men, chandeliers sparkling, and a military band playing.

“You've got to give it to the French,” Dillon told her. “They certainly do this kind of thing with style.”

“And panache,” Sara said. “I always expect King Louis the Fourteenth to enter with a fanfare of trumpets.”

“Oh, that will happen quite soon,” Dillon said. “Except that it'll be the President, not the Sun King.”

There were people standing at the back of the hall, music, laughter, and lots of conversation. In front of the crowd where the aisle down through the rows of crowded chairs began, Claude Duval stood in full uniform to marshal the line of observers. He saw Dillon and Sara and beckoned.

“Off you go,” Dillon told her. “Best of luck.”

The crowd parted to let her through, and people noted her good looks, her uniform and medals. Duval, very serious, very military, placed her about halfway in line and one of his aides led them to the front of the audience facing the platform in front of an empty row.

Duval waited at a side door on the right. The music of the band ended with a flourish and a voice over the loudspeaker echoed, “Please rise to welcome Dr. Simon Husseini.”

Everyone stood and applauded as Husseini entered. Of medium height, he wore a black suit and college tie but looked older than his mid-sixties, mainly because his white hair was too long. There was a kind of melancholy to him, and his smile seemed strained as he waved to the crowd. He and Duval spoke together, and then a voice echoed from the loudspeaker again.

“Please be seated.”

The band played music softly and Husseini and Duval started along the line of observers, not all of whom were in uniform. Sara's stomach was hollow, her throat was dry, and she tried to swallow to moisten it, aware of the voices as they approached, speaking in French, of course, and then the moment came.

“
Capitaine
Sara Gideon,” Duval said.

He was standing slightly back from Husseini's left shoulder, his face calm, giving nothing away, but Husseini knew her, of course, it was in the eyes, she could tell that instantly. The slight smile was no more than was required and he shook her hand, aware as he did so of the folded slip.

“I'm enchanted to meet you,
Capitaine
,” he said in French. “Your medals pay homage to your extraordinary bravery.”

“A privilege to meet you, Doctor,” she replied in the same language.

“No,
Capitaine
, the privilege is mine.” He passed on, Duval nodded and followed.

What came afterward meant little to her, for the meeting had had a profound effect, the emotion of seeing him again after so many years. The fanfare sounded, the President entered, several people were called up to receive awards, and then Husseini, and then suddenly, it was all over. People stood up and milled around, some making their way toward the champagne on offer. Duval, passing her, saluted, speaking formally in case they were heard by anyone close.

“So kind of you to come, Captain. We are very grateful.” Then he quickly murmured in a quiet voice, “I'll speak to you later.”

He turned away and Dillon pushed through, reached her, and smiled. “Did it work, did he recognize you?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “I've never been more certain. Where is he now?”

“Behind you,” Dillon said, “with our Iranian friends. That gargoyle Rasoul is pushing his way through the crowd, followed by Khan and Husseini. Wali Vahidi and Declan Rashid are bringing up the rear, and doesn't
he
look good in uniform. I think he's got even more medals than you.”

“You can't take anything seriously for a moment, can you, Sean?” She turned to see the Iranian group pass by and she was recognized, no doubt about that. Rasoul scowled, Khan glared, and Husseini ignored her. Dillon and Declan smiled, swept a little close by pressure of the crowd.

“Captain Gideon, a pleasure to see you again, and you, Mr. Dillon.”

“God save the good work, Colonel,” Dillon told him, pushing people away. “But, one Irishman to a half Irishman, we do seem to meet up in some funny old places.”

“So it would appear.” Declan Rashid was laughing, and then was swept away after the others.

“You like him, don't you?” Dillon said.

“I suppose I do.” Sara nodded. “He's an easy man to like. A fine soldier, decent, honorable.”

“I agree,” Dillon said. “There's only one problem. In spite of the difference between him and Rasoul, they're on the same side. Never forget that.”

“I'm not likely to if you keep reminding me. I think I know my duty.”

“So you could shoot him if necessary?”

She frowned. “You are a bastard, Sean, even on your good days.”

“Yes, I worry about that constantly.” He gave her his special smile.

“And you can forget the blarney, the Irish charm isn't going to work on this occasion.”

“God save us, but you've seen through me at last.” He tightened his grip on her, fending people off.

She laughed. “You clown,” she said. “Let's get back to the hotel and see what Claude Duval has for us.”

—

T
he small champagne party booked by Emza Khan took place in Husseini's suite. It was all waiting when they returned, and Henri dismissed the staff and served the champagne himself. He was hoping that the party would be of short duration, for downstairs in his office, Fatima was waiting. He had found her in the bar at nearby Marco's when he had gone in for a sandwich and a glass of wine, sitting there in her blue uniform. Temptation had proved too much for Henri, and he now had the prospect of untold delights later.

Duval had assured him that the pill he had provided for Vahidi would dissolve instantly and induce a deep sleep within an hour of its being administered. Vahidi would awake in five hours or so refreshed and unaware of what had happened to him. Henri, offering the tray, managed to leave Vahidi till last, the pill concealed in his right palm, dropped at the correct moment as Vahidi looked left at Emza Khan, who was obviously about to speak.

“To the Islamic Republic of Iran.”

“Iran.”

“I think that went well,” Khan said, holding his glass out for a top-up and turned to Husseini, who had gone to the piano and was sitting down. “I warned you to be sensible, and you were. I suppose we can call that some sort of progress.”

“Then you would be wrong.” Husseini was playing a little Bach, ice-cold stuff as his fingers rippled over the keys. “Your flight from London was short, mine from Tehran rather long. I'm overtired and bored, and I felt that way all during the ceremony. I wanted it to end as soon as possible, and that's why I behaved myself as the lies floated round me. I wanted to shout out the truth to the world.”

“But you can't, can you?” Emza Khan snarled. “Because you know what will happen to your mother and daughter.”

“Oh, I know that well enough,” Husseini told him. “With ghouls like you lurking in the wings, just wishing for the order to do them harm.”

Emza Khan cuffed him. “Learn your place, dog.”

Husseini slapped Khan in the face. “You learn yours first. If anything happens to me here, you won't be back in London, you'll be trying to explain your miserable self in front of a government tribunal in Tehran.”

Rasoul moved in, pulling his Master to one side, his right hand slamming the keyboard lid down. Husseini managed to snatch his hands away, and Rasoul drew a Webley revolver from his pocket. Declan moved with astonishing speed, stamped behind Rasoul's right leg, punching him in the kidneys, grabbing him by the collar. Off balance, he fell to the floor.

Declan picked up the weapon and put a foot in Rasoul's back, holding him down. He looked at Khan, his face cold and hard as he said, “If anything happens to Husseini, we will all be held responsible. The consequences will be as bad for you, in spite of all your money, as they will be for me.”

There was sudden fear on Khan's face, and he kicked Rasoul. “Control yourself, you animal. On your feet now.”

Rasoul heaved himself up, panting. “I'm sorry.”

“Take him back to his room,” Declan ordered. “I'll speak to him again later.”

Khan went, pushing Rasoul in front of him, Declan closing the door behind them. Husseini said, “That was well done. I'll have another glass.”

Henri, who had stood beside the champagne bar during the whole fracas, said, “Certainly, sir, what about you gentlemen?”

Vahidi, who was yawning hugely, said, “Oh no, I've had too much already. You do as you want, I'm for bed.” He shambled to his bedroom at the other end of the room, called good night, and went in.

“A night for surprises,” Husseini said, and Declan Rashid laughed. “Not really, that's the trouble. I'll see you in the morning.”

He left, and Husseini said, “A night to remember.”

Henri said, “I've seen it all before, or variations of it, during forty years in the hotel trade. Was there anything else?”

“Could you leave clearing the room until the morning?”

“Yes, I could, but I'd like to check the welfare of the gentleman next door. He didn't seem too good to me.”

He didn't wait for Husseini's permission, went and opened Vahidi's door, found the light still on and Vahidi, still wearing his suit, lying on the bed and snoring gently.

Behind him in the doorway, Husseini said, “Is he all right?”

“Oh yes, sir, just one too many.”

He switched off the light, and Husseini said, “I'll say good night.”

Henri, seizing the moment, said, “Actually, I do have a surprise for you, sir. A young lady desires a word with you and hopes you may remember her. Captain Sara Gideon.”

Husseini was stunned. “Where is she?”

“Just along the corridor. I can call her on the telephone.”

“But my bodyguard.”

“Is out for about five hours. A sleeping pill in his champagne.”

“What desecration.” Husseini smiled as he had not smiled in years. “But bring her on, Henri, bring her on.”

—

I
t was Dillon who answered the house phone in their suite where the two of them had been waiting, hoping against hope. Sara wore jeans, ankle boots, and a heavy sweater that concealed a Glock in the belt holster.

“It's ready and waiting,” Dillon told her. “Just a few yards up the corridor. I could come with you?”

“I know you mean well, Sean, but I can handle it.”

“Of course you can.”

Her smile was radiant. “That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me. You're learning.”

He smiled. “Go on, get out of it, go and save the world.”

—

T
he corridor was quiet as she walked along, paused at the door, took a deep breath, and pressed the buzzer. It was Henri who opened the door.

“Welcome, Captain,” he said. “Please come in.”

She did and found Husseini standing by the piano. He stared at her, face drawn. “Sara?”

“Yes, it is me, Simon,” she said. A huge smile exploded on his face and he stepped close and threw his arms about her.