She got out. He joined the paratroopers at sixteen and jumped into action five times without any training. Why would anyone do that?
Perhaps he had a death wish. Dillon smiled bleakly, followed her, and paid the driver, who drove away.
Sara turned, found herself facing not her own front door but the Judas Gate in the entrance to Holland Park. Dillon opened it for her, pressing a button on his Codex.
Whats going on, Sean? she demanded.
Oh, I need to bring Roper up to date on what happened, and were not all that far from your place. You could have a steam for a while in the spa, even stay in the guest wing, or I can drop you home when Ive spoken to Roper.
She sighed. All right.
They crossed the courtyard and opened the front door, but were surprised to hear Fergusons voice echoing from the computer room.
I wonder what hes doing here, Dillon said. Do you want to face him?
No, thanks, the steam room sounds fine.
Okay, off you go. Ill handle it.
She vanished along the corridor into the shadows, and Dillon stood at the door of the computer room, listening, and then went in.
Holy Mother, and me thinking youd wrapped up for the night.
Oh, we never close, Roper told him.
Ferguson said, I went home to get some essential papers. Im due at the Cabinet Office first thing in the morning to brief the Prime Minister on Simon Husseini. I thought Id come back here and use one of the guest rooms so Id get an early start.
So whats 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. Thats 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 its 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, lets 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 whats that supposed to mean?
That youre a master of guile and wickedness, always stirring the pot.
Ferguson wasnt in the least put out, just smiled cheerfully. Of course I am, and one never knows whats 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 hes up to?
I havent the slightest idea, Dillon said. When I do, Ill let you know.
He moved to the door, and Roper said, Are you staying?
I dont think so. Saras downstairs having a steam. She preferred not to face Ferguson at this stage.
I dont blame her.
Ill join her and take her home in the Mini when shes 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.
Ive given him a shot of morphine, which will keep him sleeping for eight to ten hours. Nothing broken, but hell 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.
Im sure youre right. Drink will be the death of him. He turned to Khan. But Im tired of telling you that. Ill call again in the morning.
Im very grateful, Khan said. Anything he needs. Ive got to go to Paris for three days, and Ill 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, well 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, couldnt help jumping in. Do not forget that she is a Jew and not worthy of serious consideration.
Dont 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 Khans face at the dreadful slip of the tongue, and sudden desperation on Rasouls as he realized what he had said.
Declan smiled gently. An error on your part, Im sure, but the Prophet, whose name be praised, is merciful and will forgive a sinner.
Khan exploded with rage at Rasouls 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. Im leaving now. Ill see you tomorrow, and then Paris next stop. Ill brief you on the plane in the morning about Husseini.
I look forward to it, it should be fun, Khan said. Particularly the whores.
Im sure theyre waiting for you in eager anticipation, Declan Rashid said with considerable irony. Ill 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 Khans 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-oclock-in-the-morning traffic and thinking, somewhat to his surprise, of Sara Gideon.
Emza Khan read the details about Ferguson and his people that Declan had provided. When he was finished, he thought about it for a while. Charles Ferguson and his people had been a considerable nuisance to Al Qaeda, foiling many carefully planned enterprises over the past few years, and Dillon was something else again, murdering many of their best people. Now there was the Jewish woman of untold wealth, which offended him. How many decent Muslim men had she killed? She deserved to die, and so did her friends.
So he went to his study, fed the report Declan had given him through the coded transcriber, punched a button and sent it on its way to room 13 at Pound Street Methodist Chapel, now the headquarters of the Army of God charity, where it was received by Ali Saif, an Egyptian with an English grandmother, which under familial law granted him a United Kingdom passport.
Saif was senior lecturer in archaeology at London University. Specializing in the 400-year occupation of Britain by the Romans was his passion. Involvement with the Army of God and belief in the gospel of Osama bin Laden was his religion, which in itself contained enough excitement for any man.
His study room was packed with three state-of-the-art computers, a transcriber, and various other gadgets, no expense spared, for one thing Al Qaeda was not short of was money.
He sat behind a Victorian desk in a swing chair, twenty-five years of age and already a PhD. He wore a khaki summer suit, tinted horn-rimmed glasses that suited his aquiline face, and long black hair that almost reached his shoulders. Just now he was drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette, leaning back in his chair, looking at two computer screens. One showed Declan Rashids background list of Fergusons people. Based on this, he had used his skill to pull out the original information, which was now on his second screen, pictures of all the protagonists included.
And what an interesting lot they were, particularly Sean Dillon, the man whod tried to blow up the British War Cabinet during the Gulf War and almost succeeded. A top IRA enforcer for many years, who ended up in the hands of Serbs and was saved by Ferguson from execution on the understanding that he would serve under him as a member of the Prime Ministers private security squad.
Dillons score was remarkable. He seemed to have killed anybody and everybody, without fear or favour. One week an assassination, the next, flying some old turboprop plane loaded with medical drugs for children into a war zone.
Some guilt there perhaps, but the important fact was they had all been a considerable nuisance for some years to Al Qaeda. Obviously, punishment was what Emza Khan wanted, and considering the size of his contribution to the war chest, he was entitled to see it duly administered.
As regards the trip to Paris, he would alert the right people there, but obviously what Khan was seeking here in London was something more immediate and certainly more final. The Army of God had assets employed in hospitals, every level of local government, theatres, cinemas, restaurants, and bars. It took Ali Saif only seconds to find one working as a cleaner at the Blue Angel, a Yemeni who had witnessed the fracas and seen Dillon and Sara eventually leave in a cab with a Pakistani driver.
Within fifteen minutes, Ali Saif was in touch with that man and had established that he had dropped Sara Gideon and Dillon at what Saif knew was the Holland Park safe house. They could well be staying the night, but the possibility that they might not was too tantalizing to ignore, so he turned again to his computers.
The man he called was propped up on a bed in a warehouse development by the Thames. He wore shabby jeans and jacket, was unshaven, and had black tousled hair. He was smoking a cigarette and reading the Times newspaper.
The Egyptians voice rang out. Abu, this is Saif. I have something for you, most urgent. The information coming your way now, facts and photos. The man is immensely dangerous, the woman is a decorated veteran of the war in Afghanistan. Id advise taking Farouk on this one, but whatever you do, do it now. Theres a big pay packet waiting, very big.
Abu swung his legs to the floor, went to the computer where the text and photos were still printing. He had a quick look at Dillon and Sara and made a call on his mobile.
The answering voice said, Get lost, Im in bed. There was the murmur of a womans voice.
Abu here, Farouk, kick the bitch out. I have a hit for AQ, man and woman, big, big money. Fifteen minutes. Long enough to get here from your apartment. If youre not here, Ill go alone using the London cab, but Id rather leave that to you. You may be a stupid sod because your mother dropped you on your head or something, but youre a genius at handling anything with four wheels. Ill be back-up on the Montesa.
The famous Spanish dirt bike had been specially created to aid farmers and shepherds in the high country of the Pyrenees, and could do half a mile an hour over rough ground and considerably faster if need be. It had a stripped-down look and Abu was besotted with his and refused to ride anything else.
He didnt wait for a reply from Farouk, but pulled on heavy bikers boots, unlocked the outside door, went into a small study, operated an old-fashioned safe, and took out two Glocks, a couple of boxes of ammunition, and two silencers, sat down at the desk, and loaded the weapons expertly. Then he removed his denim jacket, opened the wardrobe, and produced two lightweight bulletproof vests. He pulled one on quickly, then took down a black leather bikers jacket and zipped it up.
Moments later, footsteps thundered up the stairs outside, the door crashed open, and Farouk stumbled in, the twin of Abu in appearance and dress except for his shaven head.
So there you are, Abu said. Daft bastard. In bed with a tart again. Get your vest on and check those two photos and the details. When we get to this Holland Park place, we simply sit and wait for them to come out. Dillons car is a ten-year-old souped-up Mini, colour Ferrari red.
Farouk said, Nobody could be as good as this Dillon. I mean, hes a small guy and around fifty years of age. As for the woman, its got to be a joke?
Ali Saif is from Cairo, like you and me, and if he says Dillon is hell on wheels, he is. As for the woman, even if you hate the Brits, they dont award the Military Cross lightly. Now, stuff that Glock in your pocket, dont forget your silencer, and lets go and do this.