The Death Trade

‘Holy Mother, and me thinking you’d wrapped up for the night.’

‘Oh, we never close,’ Roper told him.

Ferguson said, ‘I went home to get some essential papers. I’m due at the Cabinet Office first thing in the morning to brief the Prime Minister on Simon Husseini. I thought I’d come back here and use one of the guest rooms so I’d get an early start.’

‘So what’s your story?’ Roper asked. ‘If you have one at all.’

‘Oh, I certainly do,’ Dillon said. ‘Though there are aspects of it that may not get your seal of approval.’

‘That sounds sinister,’ Ferguson said. ‘Better get it over with and tell us the worst.’

He was smiling when he said that, but not when Dillon was finished. ‘That’s incredible. We were only discussing the Iranians earlier and then they go and turn up in the flesh.’

‘Carl Jung called it synchronicity,’ Dillon told him. ‘Events that have a coincidence in time, so that it’s understandable to imagine some deeper meaning involved.’

‘Nonsense,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Pure coincidence. Emza Khan lives in Park Lane just up the road from Shepherd Market, where his son is a well-known drunk in local bars and clubs. The fact that Declan Rashid turns up, obviously trying to clean up the mess Yousef Khan has created for his father, should surprise no one.’

‘Well, let’s put it down to the romantic in me,’ Dillon said.

‘Nothing romantic about it. Things got very much out of hand, and that Captain Sara Gideon drew her pistol in a public place is to be deplored. The Iranians will be taking a close interest in what we are doing, which was the last thing I wanted.’

‘Or was it?’

Ferguson frowned. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’

‘That you’re a master of guile and wickedness, always stirring the pot.’

Ferguson wasn’t in the least put out, just smiled cheerfully. ‘Of course I am, and one never knows what’s going to bubble up to the surface. Take Paris and Simon Husseini. Anything could happen, the possibilities are endless.’ He swallowed the last of his whiskey, got up. ‘Must get some sleep. See you at breakfast.’

Roper said, ‘What do you think he’s up to?’

‘I haven’t the slightest idea,’ Dillon said. ‘When I do, I’ll let you know.’

He moved to the door, and Roper said, ‘Are you staying?’

‘I don’t think so. Sara’s downstairs having a steam. She preferred not to face Ferguson at this stage.’

‘I don’t blame her.’

‘I’ll join her and take her home in the Mini when she’s ready.’

He went out quickly, leaving Roper to his screens.

At Park Lane, Declan Rashid, a slight smile on his face, read the computer report on Ferguson and company that the printer had ejected. When he was finished, he made another copy and went in search of Khan and found him in the sitting room, talking to Dr Aziz, a small cheerful Indian with skin like brown parchment.

‘I’ve given him a shot of morphine, which will keep him sleeping for eight to ten hours. Nothing broken, but he’ll have a bad bruise,’ Aziz said.

‘That was me,’ Declan told him.

‘Quite a punch, Colonel.’ Aziz smiled.

‘Which he richly deserved,’ Declan told him.

‘I’m sure you’re right. Drink will be the death of him.’ He turned to Khan. ‘But I’m tired of telling you that. I’ll call again in the morning.’

‘I’m very grateful,’ Khan said. ‘Anything he needs. I’ve got to go to Paris for three days, and I’ll need Rasoul with me. Can you arrange a nurse?’

‘No problem.’

‘I think the male variety would be advisable in the circumstances,’ Declan Rashid said and turned to Khan. ‘I mean it for the best, naturally.’

‘Of course,’ Khan said. ‘See to it as you think fit, Doctor. Show the doctor out, Rasoul.’

Rasoul, who had been glowering in the background, did as he was told, and Declan joined Khan over by the great windows and offered the report.

‘No, we’ll have a martini,’ Khan told him, moving towards the bar area. ‘You can read it to me.’

Which Declan did as Khan mixed the cocktails, listening as Rasoul, standing against the wall beside the kitchen door, took it all in, too. Declan finished, and Khan passed him the vodka martini.

‘What extraordinary people,’ he said. ‘Even the woman is beyond belief. Owner, in effect, of the Gideon Bank, and with this amazing war record.’ He sipped his drink. ‘The fact that her parents died in a Hamas bus bombing would indicate to me that she is hardly likely to warm to Arabs in general.’

Rasoul, listing intently, couldn’t help jumping in. ‘Do not forget that she is a Jew and not worthy of serious consideration.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Declan told him. ‘Her exploits in Afghanistan speak for themselves. When the Taliban ambushed that convoy at Abusan, she was as good as any man behind that heavy machine gun. Three special forces men to protect her, two of whom died, the third wounded, and she was wounded herself and left with a permanent limp. Forty-two dead Taliban when they counted the corpses.’

‘Which leads me to ask whose side you are on in the struggle for Islamism in the world today. A Talib should be looked on as your brother. There is only one God and Osama is his Prophet, or do you renounce that, too?’ Rasoul demanded.

There was a moment of complete stillness, horror on Khan’s face at the dreadful slip of the tongue, and sudden desperation on Rasoul’s as he realized what he had said.

Declan smiled gently. ‘An error on your part, I’m sure, but the Prophet, whose name be praised, is merciful and will forgive a sinner.’

Khan exploded with rage at Rasoul’s slip, for any reference to Osama bin Laden, particularly when it involved Declan, was the last thing he and his masters needed.

He shouted, ‘What nonsense are you talking? Get out of my sight.’

Rasoul bowed his head. Forgive me.’ He turned and hurried away into the kitchen.

Emza Khan said, ‘A stupid fool, but I keep him on because of his ability to handle Yousef, you know that.’

‘Of course I do, so no need to apologize,’ Declan told him. ‘I’m leaving now. I’ll see you tomorrow, and then Paris next stop. I’ll brief you on the plane in the morning about Husseini.’

‘I look forward to it, it should be fun,’ Khan said. ‘Particularly the whores.’

‘I’m sure they’re waiting for you in eager anticipation,’ Declan Rashid said with considerable irony. ‘I’ll say goodnight.’

While waiting for the lift, he considered what had happened. In rage, anything Rasoul said was likely to be the truth, for he was that sort of person, so what did his slip of the tongue mean? And Emza Khan’s angry dressing-down of Rasoul had been a little over the top, or had it? Declan shook his head. Any suggestion that Khan could treat the memory of Osama bin Laden seriously was patently absurd. Making money had been the ruling obsession in his life. He was hardly likely to change now, not with the government and the Council of Guardians to contend with in Tehran. The last thing they wanted getting its hands on power was Al Qaeda.

He dismissed it from his mind and a few minutes later was driving his car out of the underground garage, joining the two-o’clock-in-the-morning traffic and thinking, somewhat to his surprise, of Sara Gideon.