The Killing Ground Part 8

"No." Molly ran a hand through her hair. "I've got another operation this afternoon."

"I don't think so. Your right hand is shaking like a leaf. You couldn't possibly operate in your present condition."

Molly covered her face with both hands. "What am I going to do?"

Greta got a gla.s.s, took a bottle of vodka from the fridge. She almost filled the gla.s.s. "Come on, take it straight down. It numbs the brain."

Molly hesitated, then did as she was told. She gagged, staggered to the sink. For a moment, it was as if she was going to be sick, but she took a couple of deep breaths and pulled herself together.

"My G.o.d, that hit the spot." She turned and smiled wanly. "We'd better go and face it, I suppose."

"Yes," Greta said, "I suppose we should."

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN you failed?" Rashid said, as he turned from the window to Dillon.

"We simply couldn't get anywhere near her."

"Oh, dear, you couldn't get anywhere near her. My father will be pleased."

"Mr. Rashid, your father is dead."

Rashid was stricken, aged visibly, took a step, stumbled, reached for a chair and grabbed hold of it to steady himself.

"I think you'd better sit down," Dillon said.

Which Rashid did. "How did he die? Was it you?"

"No, I'd nothing to do with it. He was killed going out of the main gate of his villa with his chauffeur. Car bomb. The word is that it was a Sunni operation."

"Were there any other casualties?"

"Yes, four men intent on killing us."

He seemed to come alive again, not that it lasted. "Since they obviously didn't succeed, I a.s.sume you managed to kill them."

"That's correct. Your wife has been informed ...Major Novikova went to give her the sad news and bring her back here for a conference."

"A conference?" He said it slowly, as if he was finding it difficult to speak at all or to understand. He plucked at words, reaching in a futile way and running his fingers through his hair. And then he took an enormous deep breath, took out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply.

"That's better, I think. Let's get to it and see if there's some way of sorting this out."

THEY SAT IN the committee room, Ferguson at the head of the table, Rashid and Molly close together, holding hands. Greta was pouring coffee. Dillon and Billy stood together by the window, listening, and Roper, in his chair, was at the far end of the table.

"I'll come directly to the point," Ferguson said. "There was a bargain between you and my people."

"Which was not fulfilled," Rashid said. "I don't see my daughter here."

"That was due to circ.u.mstances," Dillon said. "The body count makes that clear. The point now is what comes next."

"Comes next?" Rashid asked.

"Of course," Ferguson told him. "Nothing has changed fundamentally. You want your daughter back, and so do we. And we know her destination, Hazar. It's a place we've all worked in before."

"You were there yourself recently," Dillon said. "What for?"

Rashid didn't reply, his face showing great emotion. It was his wife who intervened."For G.o.d's sake, Caspar, talk to them. What happened wasn't their fault. We're not playing games here. People died. I want my daughter back, so tell them what they need to know to make that happen."

Caspar sighed. "I was fooled into believing that my uncle Jemal in Hazar would act as a middleman between my father and me."

"What made you think that?"

"Not what, but who. It was the Broker. He first spoke to me over a year ago when I was being pressured by Army of G.o.d fanatics to join their organization. A colleague at the university, Professor Dreq Khan, was the chief mover and shaker behind the Army of G.o.d, and at first they seemed harmless, just a charitable organization, but then, on my world travels, I started receiving approaches from a number of extreme groups. When I tried to withdraw from my involvement, Dreq Khan warned me that I would be considered a traitor, that I would be targeted by Muslim extremists. And then came my daughter's abduction.

"The Broker told me that if I did what they told me, he would arrange for Jemal to act as a go-between with my father, so I felt I had no choice. I mainly acted as a bagman under orders, pa.s.sing highly technical information on various matters to Khan, who obviously pa.s.sed it on. Then the Broker told me I should come to Hazar, that they were ready to talk to me, but it was all a lie. They just wanted me to take a look at an old railway that al-Qaeda wanted to update. I was near to despair-and that's when you found me."

"So here we are," Ferguson said.

"Here we are. And the Mideast wasn't the only place they sent me. They sent me to Ireland, too. I'm a visiting professor at Trinity College, Dublin."

"Good G.o.d," Ferguson said. "Are you going to tell us that's a center of Muslim radicalism?"

"Not at all, but in my bagman ident.i.ty, I had to act as a go-between for certain organizations there."

"Such as?" Ferguson asked.

"Outfits claiming to be security firms. It's an open secret that with peace in Northern Ireland, many former members of the Provisional IRA have found themselves on the sc.r.a.pheap and don't much care for it. One way out for them is crime. I believe that in the last year there have been at least seventy shootings in the Dublin area that show evidence of having been committed by professionals."

"So what?" Dillon said. "What do you expect after thirty-odd years of their own war?"

"I accept that, but what I'm talking about are firms claiming legitimacy in security affairs, but actually supplying what can only be described as mercenaries. People hired as instructors for terrorist training camps in North Africa, Algeria. One of them, for instance, is called Scamrock Security, run by a man named Michael Flynn."

"And you have details of these camps?" Roper asked.

"Of some of them-yes. There are one or two in the Empty Quarter as well."

There was a long silence while Ferguson drummed his fingers on the table. Finally, he said, "You've given us a lot to digest. While Roper's working on this information, we have to consider our next step regarding your daughter, which would be to move the action to Hazar. Would you wish us to do that?"

It was Molly who answered instantly, "Oh, G.o.d, yes, I want my daughter more than anything. But can you do it?"

"As I said, we've operated in Hazar in the past. For the past three years my cousin, Professor Hal Stone of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, has been diving on an ancient Phoenician wreck on the edge of the harbor at Hazar. He works from an old dhow, using Arabs. It's a shoestring operation, but I happen to know his diving season is soon to start. Dillon and Billy are expert divers themselves and he'd welcome us, I a.s.sure you. We'd pa.s.s as a perfectly acceptable group of mad English archaeologists. Would that be acceptable? You could come with us."

"No, not that." She shook her head. "I'm partway through some of the most important work of my life." She turned to her husband. "Caspar?"

"Of course." He nodded. "I must."

"Isn't there the chance you'll be recognized?" Billy asked.

Caspar shook his head. "I'll wear robes, a fold of cloth across my face, use the language. It will work." Suddenly, he looked fierce, determined. "It must work."

"Right," Ferguson said. "Things to do. I must contact my cousin. You, Dr. Rashid, will oblige me by pouring your heart out to Roper. As for you," he said to Dillon, "see to the plane."

Molly Rashid stood up. "I'll get back to the hospital."

Ferguson put an arm around her shoulder. "Don't worry, my dear, we'll succeed, I promise you."

Greta said, "I'll take you back."

They went out and Caspar waited until the door closed and said, "There is something else of great importance I must tell you."

"And what would that be?" Ferguson asked.

"Sara's cousin, the man who is to be her future husband when she is of age."

"Hussein, isn't it?" Roper said. "A medical student."

"Does the Hammer of G.o.d mean anything to you?"

"Not that I know of."

"When I last counted, his score was twenty-seven Allied soldiers and a handful of political a.s.sa.s.sinations in Europe."

"Good G.o.d," Ferguson said. "Tell us about him."

Which Rashid did.

When he had finished, Dillon said trimly, "Well, at least we know." He turned to Billy, "Let's get moving." As they left, he said to Roper, "Michael Flynn. Years ago he was IRA chief of staff till he ended up in the Maze Prison. Look him up."

SITTING IN HIS SUITE in Paris, Volkov went over in his mind the last conversation he had had with Vladimir Putin. The elimination of Ferguson and company made sense. It had already started with the murder of Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein the year before.

Igor Levin was a more difficult case, however, because he had a few million sterling tucked away in London. He could not be bought. Chomsky, the sergeant who had gone to Dublin with him, was a clever one, but irritatingly seemed to feel some sort of loyalty to Levin. Popov was the weak link.

Volkov took out his address book, found Popov's number in Dublin and phoned him. It was a mobile and found Popov strolling along Wellington Quay beside the River Liffey. It was raining and Popov was holding an umbrella over his head, a young woman named Mary O'Toole at his side.

"My dear Popov," Volkov spoke in Russian, "Volkov speaking. How are you? It's been some time."

Popov was shocked and replied with difficulty, "General, I can't believe it. It's been so long."

"Oh, I like to keep in touch," Volkov said.

Popov and the girl were approaching a hotel he knew. He squeezed her waist. "Mary, my love, you go in and get us a table in the c.o.c.ktail bar. This is important."

So she went and he reverted to Russian. "General, I don't know what to say."

"Why, just that you're happy to hear from me. How's the job? Still at Scamrock Security? How is is my old friend Mr. Flynn?" my old friend Mr. Flynn?"

Popov swallowed hard. "My G.o.d, I didn't realize . . ."

"That I got you the job? Oh, yes, Flynn and I go way, way back, to the very early days of the Irish struggle. That he hasn't mentioned this to you shows how much he is to be trusted. I presume you find that your experience in military intelligence is of value in your work."

"Absolutely, General."

"You've heard about Belov International? That Max Chekov is the new chief executive officer? Did you ever serve under him?"

"I never had that privilege."

"You may have that pleasure to come. I trust that I can still rely on you?"

"Of course, General."

"Excellent. How is Chomsky?"

"He breezed through his law exams and works for a city attorney as a legman."

"And Levin?"

"Enjoys himself. He is, after all, rich."

"As I'm well aware. So, nice to talk to you. I'll be in touch. But, please: keep this conversation private."

For some reason he couldn't explain, Popov was thrilled. "Of course, General."

The line went dead and he went up the steps to the hotel two at a time. The bar was half empty and Mary was seated in a booth by the window. She was a secretary at Scamrock Security, was used to hearing him speaking foreign languages, for he was proficient in German and French.

"Russian," she said, "that's a new one. You always surprise me."

Popov had an English mother, and he'd been raised on the language as a child in Moscow. He was perfectly able to pa.s.s himself off as an Englishman, and did.

"Business," he said. "You can never get away from it. Now what would you like to drink?"

CHOMSKY WAS A different proposition. He had a first-cla.s.s academic brain and a firm belief in himself. He'd completed his law degree in just over a year at Trinity, a phenomenal achievement, and working as a legman for a top firm of attorneys suited him perfectly. He much preferred to be out of the office, for he could handle himself and had a medal for bravery in Chechnya to prove it.

He was walking through Temple Bar, one of his favorite places in the city, with its bars, restaurants, shops and galleries, and was making for Crown Alley with its cafes and brightly painted shops. His intention was to meet Levin, enjoy a drink, go to the cinema and eat afterward.

When his phone rang and he heard Volkov's voice, it did not affect him the way it had Popov. He was used to handling people, especially under the stress of legal and illegal situations. Nothing in life surprised him anymore.

He dodged in a doorway to avoid the rain. "General, what a surprise."

"I thought I'd catch up. My spies tell me you performed magnificently in your law exam."

"True, though I say it myself."