The Killing Ground Read online

  “And who have we here?” he demanded.

  “Who asks?” Hussein asked, and moved to the right where a pole protruded from a wooden fence, and sat on it.

  “Mind your manners, pretty boy,” the man said. “I am Ali ben Levi. I say who comes and goes here. I claim the well and this one cannot gainsay me.”

  He turned and slashed the priest across the shoulders again, and Sara cried out, “No.”

  “Learn your place, girl. He is only a Christian.”

  “And I am Christian, too,” she said in Arabic. “Would you lash me?”

  She ran at him, and he grabbed her wrist and laughed. “To do so would give me great pleasure.” He flung her to the ground and raised the whip, and Hussein’s hand fastened on the Colt.25 in the ankle holster and he drew it and fired, catching ben Levi between the eyes, the hollow-point cartridge propelling him backward into the pool and blowing away the back of his skull.

  In virtually the same moment, one of the men opposite started to raise his rifle and Hassim shot him just with his AK. There was dead silence. Hussein gestured, the Colt still in his hand.

  “On this occasion, I allow you to live,” he told the rest of ben Levi’s men. “So take your dead and go. Go now.”

  Hurriedly, they collected their horses, tied the bodies of the two dead men over the saddles of two mares and mounted. They waited for a moment and Hussein spoke.

  “I am Hussein Rashid. I am the Hammer of God. I welcome any man of the ben Levi tribe who seeks satisfaction.”

  Which they did not, and left. Jasmine was trembling, but Sara was strangely calm. “I’ll see to the priest,” she said and went to him.

  The satellite phone sounded, but there was heavy static. The Broker shouted, “It’s me. Is the static clearing?”

  “I’m here.”

  “They’re sending a helicopter. Is everything okay?”

  “A minor problem. It’s been taken care of.”

  “Good. We’ll be needing you soon, Hussein. There’s work to be done, you know that. Osama himself was inquiring about you when we last spoke. He sends you his blessing.”

  “Tell him I thank him. Good-bye for now.”

  By the pool, Sara and Jasmine tended the priest, Sara washing his back carefully with a cloth from the house.

  “Are you truly a Christian, child?” he asked.

  “My mother is English, my father Rashid. I am baptized.”

  “And yet you wear the clothes of a Muslim woman.”

  Hussein and his men sat smoking and listening, and heard her say, “In the whole of the Koran, there are only two mothers of prophets. The first, the mother of Mohammed, whose name be praised, and the second Mary, the mother of the prophet Jesus. There is good in all things. I think this is true of the Bible and the Koran.”

  “So young and yet so wise.” He counted his beads and started to pray.

  She stood up and went and sat on the ground beside Hussein, and the others stood up out of respect and moved away.

  “I didn’t know,” she said in English. “About you.”

  “Of course you didn’t. You weren’t meant to.”

  “I thought I knew you. Now I see I never knew you at all. The Hammer of God.” She shook her head, repeating it in Arabic. “The servants would speak of you and sometimes you were mentioned in newspapers. Strange.” She shook her head again. “I read the news to improve my Arabic and didn’t realize I was sometimes reading about you and your doings.” She changed to Arabic. “The great warrior. Never your face on television, but when you spoke on radio, you always described yourself as the Hammer of God in English. Even the young children learned it that way, some of the T-shirts also were printed with the English phrase. Why did you allow this?”

  “Personal arrogance-to mock my enemies. In the English papers, the wording would be rather different. Not great warrior, but terrorist, I think.”

  “Yes, it’s amazing how much it’s a matter of the words one chooses.”

  “How wise,” he said. “Such wisdom in one so young.” In the distance, a sound emerged, the unmistakable stutter of a helicopter. “So, another stage on our journey.” He pulled her up. “Say good-bye to the good father and we’ll be on our way.”

  * * * *

  THE PORT OF HAZAR was small, with white buildings and narrow alleys, the vivid blue of the sea contrasting with the whiteness of the buildings. The harbor was well used, with coastal shipping of various kinds, fishing vessels, old-fashioned dhows and motor cruisers.

  They came in from the sea in a half-circle, and about a mile out from the town Sara noticed a big dhow, very ancient from the look of it.

  Sara said, “That looks interesting.”

  Hussein said, “It is. It’s really being used as a diving platform. They call it the Sultan. Some years ago, marine archaeologists discovered the wreck of a freighter about ninety feet down that had been sunk by a U-boat in the Second World War. When they dived on it, they discovered Phoenician pottery from about two hundred B.C. The freighter’s been sitting on a much more interesting wreck.”

  “Are they doing anything about it?”

  “The Hazar government? They couldn’t care less. A few years ago, a professor from Cambridge University got a license to dive it. He came back occasionally, but he never had any money to speak of. As I recall, he used local divers and treated it like a holiday.”

  “It sounds lovely. Have you ever dived?”

  “Oh, yes, many times when I was younger. It’s a different world down there.”

  They swung in across the town, circling the airfield complex to the left and beyond, and then they drifted to the right to what looked like a small village above a tiny port, and on the hillside above it was an extensive villa, obviously old and standing in gardens and terracing of great beauty.

  “And this is the pride of the Rashid family. The great house that has stood here for three hundred years. This is Kafkar.”

  The helicopter swung down toward a landing pad, and there were people waiting there, many people, all in traditional dress, and standing alone in front of them was a very old man in a white linen suit, a Bedouin burnoose on his head. From the look of him, he had once been a man of great power, but he was leaning on a stick now.

  As the engine stopped, Hussein said, “Your great-uncle, Jemal. You go first.”

  He opened the door, sent out the steps and she went down. There was silence. Then the old man beckoned to her. “Sara-come to me, child.”

  She started forward and the crowd broke into spontaneous applause.

  * * * *

  LATER THEY SAT on a wide terrace above the garden, palm trees and exotic plants on every side. The sound of water was everywhere as it channeled from terrace to terrace in small waterfalls, and Jemal and Hussein sat and smoked. News of the shooting at the oasis had spread.

  Jemal said, “The ben Levi business is nothing. Ali was a bandit of low repute. There’ll be no question of an honor killing in revenge. Don’t worry.”

  “I don’t,” Hussein said. “They needed a lesson, these people.”

  “They received one. What of your plans?”

  “I shall stay a few days, leave Sara in your hands and go. There is work for me to do-important work. I am in close touch with al-Qaeda; Osama himself sent me a message only today.”

  “Of course, you have been picked for great things, the chosen of Allah. The child will be safe here. What happened in Baghdad was a terrible thing. My brother’s death was the Will of Allah and the work of Sunnis, but the presence of these devils from London who would steal Sara-this troubles me.”

  “And me.”

  “My brother was disturbed that she was not happy.”

  “Certainly she attempted to run away at first, so they tell me,” Hussein said.

  “My brother and I discussed it. We made a decision to chain her. I’m surprised to see this is not so now.”

  “I put her on her honor and she gave me her word. The traveling would have bee
n difficult.”

  “She is not traveling now.”

  Hussein was on dangerous ground, needed to proceed with caution and knew it.

  “For a young woman to be shackled so is at best awkward and difficult.” He played on his uncle’s sense of what was fitting. “After all, she is Rashid. For the world to see her shackled would be a great shame. There is your authority to consider.”

  “You are right. To see her in public thus would shame us all.”

  “Also a particular shame to you, Uncle.” He played now on the old man’s vanity. “That she was seen so.”

  “This is true. There can be no question of the shackles. The woman Jasmine will accompany her at all times when she is outside. Two armed guards.” He looked up at the house. “The blue room will be her living quarters. All the doors and shutters are fitted with keys. No telephone.”

  “That should suffice.” Hussein inclined his head. “Your wisdom, as usual, is boundless.”

  At that moment, Sara came down the steps with Jasmine behind her. They were both wearing fresh clothing.

  “Ah, there you are, child, come to me.” Jemal put out his hand.

  She glanced at Hussein, who gave her a hardly visible nod, so she went and knelt at the old man’s knee. “It is good to see you, Sara.” He kissed her lightly on the head.

  “It is good to see you, Uncle.” She took his hand and kissed it. “I regret the passing of my aunt last year before I could have the privilege of knowing her.”

  “A fault not of your making, but of your father’s, but we will say no more of that sorry affair. Come-walk with me in the garden and tell me how it is in Baghdad.”

  He pushed himself up on his stick and gave her his arm and they moved along the path, stopping now and then for him to speak to gardeners. Hussein watched them go. She was a clever girl and would soon learn to handle the old man. He lit a cigarette and leaned back, looking a mile out to sea at the Sultan. It was all so beautiful and he felt a drowsiness. But not for long. There was, after all, work to be done. His satellite phone rang. It was the Broker.

  “Have you arrived? Are you settled?”

  “Yes, thanks be to Allah.”

  “Good. Now I said, Hussein, we have need of you.”

  “I know-I know. Give me some time.”

  “That is what we do not have.” There was a pause. “A week, then- one week and I need you in London.”

  “For a purpose?” Hussein shook his head. “Ten days.”

  “All right. There is a man who handles the British Prime Minister’s personal security, General Charles Ferguson. I need to do the Russians a favor and they want him dead. Can you do it?”

  “If the will is there, it is possible to kill anyone.”

  “Excellent. I’ll talk to you again tomorrow. If you check on the computer there, you will find everything you need to know. I’ll be in touch.”

  * * * *

  THE BROKER POURED a cup of green tea and leaned back in his chair. Every so often, things came together. The will of Allah actually existed. Take this present business. Ferguson and the Prime Minister, Blake Johnson and President Cazalet, Volkov and Putin. Hussein Rashid and the whole nonsense of Sara Rashid. Dillon and Salter, Flynn in Dublin, Levin, Chomsky and Popov.

  There wasn’t one of them he didn’t have a hand on. It was all very satisfactory.

  LONDON

  HAZAR

  Chapter 6

  AT HOLLAND PARK, THEY ALL MET FOR A FINAL BRIEFING: the Rashids, Harry and Billy Salter, Ferguson and Hal Stone, Dillon, Greta, Roper, Boyd and Henderson, Lacey and Parry.

  “I’ll turn you over to Roper,” Ferguson said. “He’s worked everything out.” Roper swung round his wheelchair. “If this is going to work, the greatest thing in our favor is speed. You all know about what happened in Hazar, the narrow escape with the plane and so on. Computer records indicate that a Learjet for Rashid Shipping has been booked in exactly seven days. I think it’s a reasonable assumption it’s for Hussein Rashid.”

  “How can you be sure? It could have something to do with Sara,” Molly said.

  “Not likely, my dear,” Ferguson told her. “They’ve gone to such trouble to get her to a place of safety. Why would they disturb things now?”

  “But such thinking works in our favor,” Roper said. “She’s only just got there. Who in their right mind would imagine her spirited away so soon?”

  “So why are we wasting our time talking when we should be there?” Caspar Rashid demanded.

  He was restless, sweating a little.

  Roper said, “Our plane leaves at five in the morning. The flight takes ten hours.”

  “And you would rather I didn’t come?”

  Ferguson cut in. “On the contrary. Having the girl recognize her own father in the midst of the confusion when we snatch her back has considerable merit to it.”

  “And your suggestion that you could wear robes, a fold of cloth across your face, to pass as a desert Bedouin speaks for itself,” Roper put in.

  “Obviously, Professor Stone has to go. After all, it’s his gig. Billy and Dillon will pose as divers to explain their presence and give credibility to him. The two pilots will pretend to attend to maintenance on the aircraft.”

  “What about me?” Greta asked.

  “Continue to act as minder to Dr. Molly, if you would, Greta.”

  “Fine.”

  Ferguson said to Rashid, “Satisfied?”

  Rashid, perhaps understandably, still appeared nervous.

  Roper said, “Let’s examine the situation calmly. You aren’t going to get your daughter back by presenting yourself at your uncle’s house and asking for her. Frankly, getting our hands on her is likely to be completely opportunistic: walking in a garden, walking in the street, swimming off a beach. Who knows?”

  “I suppose so,” Rashid said reluctantly.

  “He’s right, darling,” Molly told him.

  “All I can tell you is that when it does happen, it will have to be damn quick. That’s why we’ll have the pilots hanging round the plane for a quick departure.”

  “That’s about it then,” Ferguson told them. “Now our new cook has promised an early dinner, so let’s get on with it.”

  Roper said, “Just one thing. Something I want to show you.” They all turned. “I hope we’re successful-I hope like hell-but the one unproven quantity is the Hammer of God himself, Hussein Rashid. Here he is.”

  On a screen appeared a photo of Hussein taken from the security camera at Kuwait Airport. In this one he’d taken off his black Ray-Ban sunglasses for a moment and his bearded face was on show. He had, in a strange way, the look of a young Che Guevara.

  “What’s your point?” Ferguson said.

  “It’s this. The moment the Gulfstream leaves the ground at Hazar, we release to the press this portrait of Hussein Rashid, Hammer of God, known associate of Osama bin Laden. Rumor has it he could be in Britain. It’ll make it very difficult for him to follow us.”

  “My God, you wonderful bastard,” Ferguson said. “How in the hell could he cope with that?” He turned to Molly Rashid. “And they may just be the end of your problem.”

  The dinner bell sounded and he offered her his arm. “Shall we go in?”

  * * * *

  IN HAZAR the heat of the day was intense and Sara was not happy. If things had been difficult at her grandfather’s villa in Iraq, they were infinitely worse at the great house at Kafkar. To start with, her uncle had stipulated that not only Jasmine would have a bed in her room, but also two older family widows. Armed guards on the terraces made things no better.

  “It’s intolerable,” she told Hussein. “I feel as if I’m being swallowed whole.”

  “Let things settle down,” he urged her. “After everything that’s happened, he’s feeling a bit paranoid.”

  “I’m not even allowed to eat with you. I’m consigned to the women, and most of them are old enough to be my grandmother. I can’t go for a swim in the poo
l unless I dress for it the way Muslim girls do. It’s like going swimming at Brighton in Edwardian times.”

  “But you are a Muslim girl, and before you waste my time arguing the point, I will remind you that your uncle is very old-fashioned.”

  “Tell me about it.” She was furious and gestured down to the private beach and the sea beyond. “It looks so normal down there. Tourists, water skiing, Jet Skis, speedboats, and up here it’s armed guards, a parallel world.”

  “What nonsense.”

  “Even you leave me for most of the time.”

  “I have important matters to attend to.”

  “I can imagine. Back to the war or something, everything a discussion. I’ve seen you, constantly on that satellite phone, arranging things with your friend the Broker.”

  He was shocked. “What’s this?”

  “The pool at Fuad. I heard him shouting at you on the phone when the static was bad.”

  He shrugged. “He’s simply an investment counselor-a broker, just as I said.”

  “Can I at least go shopping in the town or out in the bay in a motorboat?”

  “We’ll see.” He stood up.

  “Or go to town to visit the mosque. Even your uncle can’t say no to that.”

  He smiled, aware of how much of a child she was when she chose, and was suddenly acutely aware of what he had promised her grandfather.

  “It’s all for your own good. It really is. I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And let Hassim and Hamid guard me. At least they’re friends, as is Khazid. They know what war’s about, not like the people here. Not like you.”

  He was touched. She couldn’t have pleased him more, which was exactly why she’d said it.

  “I’ll do what I can. Be a good girl.” And he left her to Jasmine and the other two women, who’d been seated some little distance away.

  Sara moved to the balustrade at the edge of the terrace and looked down toward the harbor. There was a life down there, things were busy. The old dhow, the Sultan, was picturesque and fit the landscape. There was activity on deck; they were unloading a large rubber boat with what looked like gas cylinders. It was difficult to see at this distance. However, at that moment, Hamid appeared with Hassim. They both wore camouflage trousers, green T-shirts and sunglasses and carried AK rifles. There was no doubt they looked good and were much admired by the female staff.