The Death Trade

The Death Trade
Jack Higgins

THE NEW HIGGINS HAS LANDED! One man with the key to Armageddon. One chance for Sean Dillon to find him. The hunt is on, in the mesmerizing new Sean Dillon thriller of murder, terrorism and revenge from the Sunday Times bestselling author.The world’s most dangerous man has escaped – and it’s up to Sean Dillon and Co to find him, before he falls into the hands of al Qaeda.When Iran’s head of nuclear weapons programme absconds he is hunted by everyone: the Iranians, al Qaeda and Sean Dillon’s team of specialists. Travelling from London, Paris, and the Middle East to the desert wastes of North Africa, it becomes a must-win race. Because what the scientist knows could be used to save lives, or bring about the end of all life.From the master thriller writer comes this rollercoaster ride into the white-hot crucible of the Middle East and North African terror networks. With the clock ticking, and the bullets flying, the 20th in Jack Higgins’ blistering Sean Dillon series promises to be his best yet.

JACK HIGGINS

THE DEATH TRADE

In Memory of My Dear Friend

David Coleman

Above all things, cherish life while you can, for death is serious business.

–SUFI SAYING

Table of Contents

Cover (#u82f5e24e-f426-5172-8a4e-e14837bfdbd0)

Title Page (#ubb18eb08-983f-5438-b49b-4e845d63db19)

Dedication (#u4cc4836d-017a-5485-abef-32007835f279)

Epigraph (#u25d1c4e6-8a38-503d-aee9-5d662be80486)

Hell On Earth: Houla Syria (#u2c19da8f-8719-5be4-8834-642d9155aff9)

Chapter 1 (#uad6eb41e-35cd-58e1-a71e-0b2f27f43376)

Two Weeks Earlier: Nantucket London (#ud65c3b7e-ecc5-5e4e-a757-916f93e96c88)

Chapter 2 (#u033b4f1b-c1e2-5204-8a11-92d5058d8cdb)

Chapter 3 (#ub9b88b4b-8c60-583d-b45a-812fc876df24)

Chapter 4 (#u9c51e26b-3fd6-50ba-9caf-a286e7733c9a)

Paris (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

Sahara: Algiers London (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Majorca: Algeria (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

London: Iran Beirut (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

St Anthony’s Hospice: Saudi Arabia (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

London (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Jack Higgins (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

HELL ON EARTH (#ulink_a315093d-1489-5ebf-99c3-314ad3e90824)

1 (#ulink_0c32077a-11a0-515c-a54d-3694f07fca35)

The man who called himself Ali LeBlanc surfaced from a deep sleep to cries of anguish, screams, gunfire, exploding grenades, and the roaring of many engines. It was the stuff of nightmare, but rising from the bed above the little café and moving to the window, he saw that this was no dream.

The previous evening he had left Tehran on the night plane to Iraq using his Iranian passport. His shabby canvas bag had a false bottom containing three passports, and he had chosen the French one for the flight from Baghdad to Aleppo. At an extortionate price, he had obtained a hire car to take him to Homs, and from there he intended to cross the border and proceed to Beirut. Its population of two million, its multiplicity of races and religions, would swallow him up. His Lebanese passport in the name of Ali LeBlanc indicated that he was of mixed French–Lebanese parentage, and a doctor, which was true enough, although he had not practised for some years.

He wore a dark suit showing signs of wear. He was sixty-four years old and seemed older, his eyes tired, his white hair uncut. Age had caught up with him, as well as the strain of travelling in the war-torn country, and he had stopped to rest at the café in the small town of Houla. As he stood by the window, the door opened and the café owner, Hassan, rushed in, beside himself with rage.

‘Stay back from sight. It’s a butcher’s shop out there.’

LeBlanc peered carefully from behind the curtain and was horrified by what he saw. Cars of every type, and light trucks with machine guns attached, crisscrossed each other, shooting at anyone who moved. Across the square, men and young boys were being lined up against any available wall and machine-gunned. Even the mosque was being used for that purpose. Women were being dragged inside by the hair, their assailants in semi-military uniforms, looking more like brigands than soldiers.

LeBlanc said, ‘Who are they?’

‘They belong to an organized gang culture a bit like the Mafia used to be in Sicily. Throat cutters to a man, they think nothing of killing children, the women after they’ve been raped. They’re supposed to be militia. The regular army tolerates them and lets them do the dirty work, which suits the government down to the ground.’ Hassan’s face was wild.

‘So what happens now?’ LeBlanc asked.

‘The doors are bolted, I’ve paid my protection. My wife and two daughters are locked in the cellar.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s not much more I can do. Come down to the kitchen. With what’s going on out there, you won’t have much of an appetite, but there’s coffee and several stronger things under the counter.’

LeBlanc glanced out of the window. The shooting had abated considerably. Most of the vehicles had roared away, the men in them laughing and shouting to each other, with only the odd shot in the distance. ‘No one moaning in pain, not a sound out there,’ LeBlanc said.