The Death Trade. Jack Higgins

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 Rashid’s background list of Ferguson’s 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 who’d 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 Minister’s private security squad.

      Dillon’s 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 Egyptian’s 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. I’d advise taking Farouk on this one, but whatever you do, do it now. There’s 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, I’m in bed.’ There was the murmur of a woman’s 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 you’re not here, I’ll go alone using the London cab, but I’d rather leave that to you. You may be a stupid sod because your mother dropped you on your head or something, but you’re a genius at handling anything with four wheels. I’ll 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 didn’t wait for a reply from Farouk, but pulled on heavy biker’s 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 biker’s 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. Dillon’s car is a ten-year-old souped-up Mini, colour Ferrari red.’

      Farouk said, ‘Nobody could be as good as this Dillon. I mean, he’s a small guy and around fifty years of age. As for the woman, it’s 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 don’t award the Military Cross lightly. Now, stuff that Glock in your pocket, don’t forget your silencer, and let’s go and do this.’

       4

      It started to rain at about 3.30, when Dillon and Sara looked in on Roper. ‘So there you are,’ he said. ‘Was that nice?’

      ‘Perfect,’ Sara told him. ‘What about the General?’

      ‘All quiet since he went to bed.’ Roper lit one of his ever-present cigarettes and poured himself a whiskey shot.

      ‘Excellent idea,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll drop Sara off at her place and see you tomorrow, to finalize the trip.’

      ‘Two-thirty from Farley Field, the Gulfstream to waft you off to Paris and the joys of the Ritz. What a way to earn a living.’

      ‘I know, Giles, and so kind of you to remind us how lucky we are,’ Sara told him.

      ‘Let’s hope your luck lasts when you leave. My security cameras outside have noted a London black cab that pulled up and parked amongst the plane trees halfway down the street about twenty minutes ago. It’s still there. There it is, on screen three.’

      ‘He could be early for a pick-up in one of those Victorian villas on the other side of the road,’ Sara said, and at that moment Farouk got out of the cab in spite of the pouring rain and relieved himself into the bushes.

      Roper went in for a close-up. ‘A large young man in grubby denims and kicking boots, the kind who only shaves his skull, never his face. What’s he doing out there?’

      Dillon shrugged. ‘He could be a hard-rock labourer on some building site. But let’s go and see. Is that all right with you, girl?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ Sara said and led the way out.

      They stood in the porch for a moment, the rain bouncing from the flagstone of the courtyard. ‘God help us, but it’s like Belfast on a wet Saturday night. Even an umbrella won’t do you much good.