The Killing Ground Part 20

"Close it!" Hussein called, and Ahmadi did as he was told, slamming the hatch shut. Hussein pulled out his Walther, firing into the air, and Selim boosted power and roared down the runway and the Land Rovers swerved to each side. The Citation rose, lifted at the end of the runway, and Khazid was already turning.

"Into the reeds-go now. Keep in touch with your mobile. I'll hold them off."

Hussein turned, took careful aim and shot the front offside tire of the leading vehicle. It swerved violently, throwing the man next to the driver out. The other swerved past and came on, four men in some kind of khaki police uniform.

Hussein fired again, this time at the second Land Rover, splintering the windshield, and he turned and plunged into the reeds and immediately fell foul of a rusting cable, hidden in the undergrowth. He went headlong and they were all over him, boot and fist everywhere. He was pulled to his feet, and someone found his Walther but not the Colt. He had left that in his flight bag with Khazid.

An overweight, bearded captain appeared to be in charge. One of the men gave him the Walther. "Nice one. I appreciate your gift."

"Think nothing of it."

"Ah, a cool customer. You are here to see Major Hakim Mahmoud of the Algerian Secret Police?"

"If he's available."

"Oh, yes. You must be an important man. That was a wonderful plane." One of his men emerged from the reeds. "Any sign of him?"

"No, he's gone, Captain."

"Never mind." The three men in the other Land Rover were fitting the spare tire. "I'll be in the office, but hurry up, I want to get back to the fort. They say it's going to rain." He turned to Hussein, "I am Captain Ali. I'm sure we'll get along." He patted his face. "You are a handsome young man." Hussein got in the Land Rover between two policemen and they drove away.

BEHIND THEM, well hidden in the reeds, Khazid had heard everything and watched them go, leaving the three men wrestling with the damaged tire. One of them was a sergeant, the one who had been thrown out of the vehicle. Khazid got his Walther out, unzipped his case and found a Carswell silencer. Quickly he screwed it in place just as the two men on the tire had it fixed.

"Good," the sergeant said. "Let's go."

Khazid put down the flight bags and stepped out of the reeds, Walther in hand. He whistled, they all turned, and he shot the sergeant between the eyes. The other two were completely shocked.

"The captain said he was going to the office. Where is that?"

"The bottom of the control tower," one man said.

"Excellent. Now this fort he mentioned?"

The second man was shaking with fear, so it was left to the other again. "The old Foreign Legion fort a half a mile down the road to the left."

"Thank you."

Khazid shot both of them dead, not because of any conscious cruelty, but because he had no choice in the matter if he was to rescue his friend in one piece. He put the flight bags in the pa.s.senger seat, pausing only to pull up the canvas roof of the Land Rover because it would give him some sort of cover. He drove away along the runway toward the control tower, taking his time, but when he got there, the other Land Rover had gone.

It was dark now, with no need for caution. The door was unlocked. He opened it and found a light switch. It was a reception area. He went behind a counter, opened the door marked OFFICE and turned on the light.

The man behind the desk was seated in a swivel chair, and from the state of him had obviously had a bad time of it, his hands handcuffed behind his back. His final end had been a bullet in the head. He was presumably Major Hakim Mahmoud. Khazid looked around him. There was a large flashlight on the table, which worked when he tried it. He left it on, switched off the light and went out to the Land Rover. Now for the fort.

IT WAS COLD, surprisingly cold, and Hussein shivered as three of the policemen manhandled him out of the Land Rover. There was a fort, he could see that. The green and white flag with the red crescent and star, the flag of Algeria, flared in the lights from the battlements over his head, and there were two lighted braziers on either side of the gate they pa.s.sed through, a sentry with a rifle beside each brazier.

They paused at the bottom of some steps leading up to the battlements and got Hussein out. Captain Ali was seated on a stone bench drinking whiskey. He was obviously that kind of Muslim. Hussein felt only contempt. The man resembled a disease you wanted to stamp out.

"Major Hakim Mahmoud was a bad man-an evil man. He traded with drug dealers, all things evil, always his hand out for money. So, if you dealt with him, you must be both very wicked and very rich."

"Not really."

"I want to know who you you are and your companions." are and your companions."

"It's against the rules."

"Rules? So you want to play games? You think you must now brace yourself to bear some physical force, don't you? Well, it's not necessary. In the old days, they trained Foreign Legionnaires here, hard men who needed to be controlled, but the French were very practical people. They had the Hole over by the wall there. Very uncomfortable."

"I'm sure it is."

"I mean, rats-you either like them or you don't."

"Very intelligent creatures, rats," Hussein told him.

Above the Hole was a windla.s.s coiled with rope, a turning handle. "Two of you up here and bring a light and we'll let you see what you're up against." One of the policemen was already holding a robe.

They made Hussein put his foot in a kind of stirrup and lowered him. It was cold and damp, rain drifting down, and he landed in two feet of water. They tossed the robe down to him and he put it on. There was a scurrying sound. The rope was pulled back up.

He sat on a stone shelf, switched on the light and found two rats, eyes glinting in the beam. They seemed curiously friendly.

"Now behave yourselves," he said in Arabic.

The rain increased its force and he shook his head. "Khazid, where are you?" he said softly.

KHAZID DROVE down the road in the heavy rain, grateful for the canvas roof. He could see the fort up ahead, the flag hanging limply in the rain. There wasn't a sentry box, just a stone alcove from the old days, a sentry sitting smoking a cigarette, another one standing beside him. They stopped and looked at Khazid curiously. The one who was standing came forward. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Secret police. Where would I find Captain Ali and the prisoner he just brought in from the airfield?"

The policeman raised his rifle a little. "Secret police? I don't know you."

The Walther with the silencer was on the seat beside him. Khazid picked it up and shot the policeman between the eyes. The other man cried out and leaped to his feet.

Khazid said,"Stand still, I don't want to miss you." The man was terrified and dropped his rifle. "So tell me."

"He put the prisoner in the Hole. It's on the battlements. I don't know where he is himself. He may be in the fort."

Khazid got out and left the Land Rover where it was. "This place, the Hole," he said to the sentry. "Lead the way."

Which the man did, mounting the stairs to the battlements. There was no sign of Captain Ali, but there were lights down in the barracks and laughter. The Hole was self-evident, with its windla.s.s.

"Are you in one piece, brother?" Khazid called.

"Other than the rats trying for the odd nibble, I'm fine," Hussein called. "I've missed you, little brother."

"I'm sure you did," Khazid nodded to the policeman. "Lower the stirrup."

The man exerted himself on the creaking ancient handle, the rope went down and Hussein called, "That's fine," and said to the rats, "Good-bye, my friends." The windla.s.s creaked again, the man pushing against the weight, and Hussein emerged.

"I stink like an old sow."

"But you're in one piece, which is more than I can say for the late Major Hakim Mahmoud."

"May he rest in peace. Remind me to let the Broker know."

"He should have known."

A door banged; a moment later there were footsteps at the other end of the battlements and Captain Ali appeared, looking rather incongruous, an umbrella over his head. He was humming to himself and looking down, but not for long.

"It's you," he said stupidly.

"Yes, it is." Hussein patted his pockets and found the Walther.

But strangely enough, fat Ali didn't show fear, although that could have been because of the bottle of whiskey in his left hand.

"I knew you were somebody special, just from that plane. If you're going to shoot me, at least tell me who you are."

"My name is Hussein Rashid. They know me in Baghdad."

"Merciful heaven, they know you everywhere in the Arab world."

"I should kill you, but I was trained in Algerian camps."

"Which makes us brothers in a way," Ali said eagerly.

"Anything but. Down you go. The rats are waiting."

"My thanks. You are a great man."

Ali stuck his foot in the stirrup. It took all the policeman's strength to control the weight and Khazid had to help.

Ali's voice echoed up. "I see what you mean. I don't know what you are up to, but go to a good grave, my friend."

"Let's get out of here," Hussein said to Khazid. He nodded at the frightened policeman. "Bring him with you."

They went down to the Land Rover and the dead man. The policeman was terrified, expecting death at any minute.

Hussein said, "Which way to town?" The man pointed. "There's been enough killing for one night. Run like h.e.l.l," and the man took off.

Khazid said, "I'd say we're in a bad fix. We need to get out of here fast and Brittany is a h.e.l.l of a long way off."

Hussein got in beside him. "I've had an idea. What about flying out?"

Khazid started the engine. "But we haven't got a plane."

"Who says we haven't?" They drove quickly away.

THERE WAS A BOARD on a building at the end of the jetty that said CANAIR, whatever that was supposed to mean, but no lights showed at any of the windows beneath it and everything was quiet. Here and there was a light in some of the craft moored in the harbor, and occasionally the sound of faint laughter from the cafes in the web of narrow streets, but they didn't care about any of that.

Khazid had the flashlight he had taken from the control tower and they used it to examine the pod enclosing the fuel tanks. It was so old-fashioned there was a dipstick. It registered about two-thirds full.

"Not bad," Hussein said.

"You still haven't told me where we're going."

"The Balearic Islands-Majorca, the largest, would be best. The airport at Palma operates international flights, dozens a day, awash with tourists. There are flights to almost anywhere."

"Are you saying we take a chance on a direct flight to England?"

"No, that would be too much of a risk, but there are plenty of flights from Majorca to France, crammed with holidaymakers going home. That's a different proposition."

On the far side of the harbor, a police car turned onto the far jetty and two officers got out. A moment later, another came down from the town and parked behind it.

"Do you think that could be trouble?" Khazid asked. "Maybe the captain is covering his back. We did leave several dead men."

"I've no intention of waiting to find out. Get in."

He got the door open, Khazid slipped the line, pulled it in and joined him. They strapped themselves in and Hussein fired the engine and let the plane float away. He started to taxi through the darkness toward the harbor entrance, which was well lit. He moved near the pier, and beyond was only darkness.

Khazid was looking out and saw one of the police cars racing round. "I think we've managed to attract some police attention."

"Well, whatever they want, it's too late now." Hussein turned into the wind and boosted power. He pulled back the column at exactly the right moment and the Eagle climbed effortlessly over the darkness of the sea and lifted. Here and there were the lights of a boat of some sort.

"How long to Majorca?" Khazid asked.

"I'll take my time. I'll use less fuel if I don't push this old bucket too hard. Besides, I like it. Maybe three and a half hours-something like that. Then we'll check the plane situation at Palma. I've got a good feeling. It all worked out. It could have been much worse." He leveled off at five thousand feet and put the plane on automatic. "G.o.d, I stink." He looked down at the soiled suit. "I don't know what Armani would think."

"You're the man who said if you need a suit, you buy a suit. You'll be okay at the airport."

"Yes, Palma's sophisticated enough. I expect the airport's full of boutiques. Open my flight bag for me. In the bottom right corner there's a brooch in the lining." Khazid found it and Hussein slid back the top and found the b.u.t.ton.

"Our lifeline to the Broker." He pressed it and put the brooch in his pocket.

IT WAS AMAZING how quickly the response came, and the Broker listened quietly to Hussein's story.

"A pity about Major Hakim Mahmoud. A valued ally."

"You'll replace him soon enough."

"So what happens now?"