The Death Trade. Jack Higgins

and the red beret of a paratrooper, a pistol strapped to his right knee, an AK-47 assault rifle crooked in his left arm. The eyes were haunting in the young face, the cheeks hollow.

      Sara took a deep breath. ‘What happened?’

      ‘He was at school here in London at St. Paul’s, flew back to Iran right away, but missed the funeral. After that, he simply joined the queue of peasant boys at the recruiting office, of which there were many, joined up, and kept his head down to avoid the search for him. There was another two years of war, during which he jumped five times into “action” without having been trained for it. It was during the second year that Emza Khan traced him and he was promoted to the officers corps. He was an acting captain at the end of the war and all of eighteen. He’s 42 now and unmarried.’

      There was silence after that for the moment. Dillon said, ‘Well, all I can say is it must be the Irish in him. Having said that, I’d buy him a drink anytime.’

      Sara said, ‘A remarkable story, and you’ve gone to a lot of trouble telling us. Is there a reason?’

      ‘The handout from the London Embassy’s press office covers the award of the Legion of Honour to Simon Husseini and makes the point that Emza Khan, Chairman of Cyrus, will be visiting to support him.’

      ‘Is Khan’s son going?’

      ‘I shouldn’t imagine so, with his track record. They wouldn’t want any more scandal. However, the military attaché from Princes Gate, Lieutenant Colonel Declan Rashid, respected war hero, will be in attendance, all staying at the Ritz.’

      ‘It will be just like old home week,’ Dillon put in.

      ‘But isn’t this going to be rather obvious?’ Sara asked. ‘Our presence there?’

      Dillon said, ‘There isn’t an embassy in London that doesn’t know about Charles Ferguson’s motley crew. They know who we are and we know who they are. The real work in our line of business is finding out what everyone else is up to, and that includes our friends. Take Claude Duval. A strong right arm to us, but France will always come first.’

      ‘I suppose you’re right, although it does get complicated on occasion,’ Sara said.

      ‘It’s a damn sight better than Afghanistan, and you’ve got the permanent limp to prove it. So content yourself. If you don’t mind waiting till I change, you can drop me off at my place on the way home. We’ll share a cab. You’ve had too much to drink.’

      She laughed out loud. ‘You’ve got the cheek of the devil, Sean Dillon.’

      ‘It’s been said before.’ He grinned. ‘But think of the pleasure it gives you helping out a poor ould fella like me.’ He was gone before she could reply.

      Emza Khan had purchased the apartment on top of a tower in Park Lane because it was within walking distance of the Dorchester and it pleased him to have all of the amenities of one of the world’s great hotels so close to hand. As time went on, he’d fallen in love with the rural sweep of Hyde Park. Finally, the city by night captivated him, the lights stretching into the darkness as if stars had come down from heaven to please him.

      Just now he was sitting by the open sliding windows to the terrace, drinking a Virgin Mary, not that he was averse to adding vodka to it if he wished. As chairman of Cyrus Holdings and incredibly wealthy, he was only lacking in life where family was concerned. Two sons killed in the war with Iraq, a third, Yousef, a libertine and drunk who disgraced himself with whores and refused to take anything seriously. Which left Khan with only Declan Rashid, a remote cousin of the family clan, but a man who would make any father proud, except for one thing – careful discussion with the Colonel had indicated that he had not been moved by the words of Osama bin Laden, had not warmed to him at all.

      This was a pity and a complete reversal of what had happened to Emza Khan, whose conversion had been quite genuine after hearing Osama speak for the first time. He had immediately contacted the right people, made it clear that he believed in the great man completely, and was soon serving him as required. After Osama’s murder, which was how Khan saw it, he had placed himself at the disposal of those carrying on the holy work of their deceased leader via the Army of God. Following instructions, Khan had declared his opposition to Al Qaeda in newspaper and television interviews, and so now that was the public perception of him, and by everyone around him, including Declan Rashid. It would have been absurd, after all, to have believed otherwise, and Al Qaeda was hardly popular with the Iranian government.

      He was involved right now with extremely important work concerning the delivery of arms to various places in the Mediterranean. He had thought of involving Yousef in it, but hesitated, concerned at the consequences if failure occurred. That Al Qaeda could be unforgiving in such circumstances was a known fact.

      Rasoul Rahim came in from the kitchen, a green barman’s apron over his black suit, his beard perfectly trimmed, the scar vivid on the left cheek.

      ‘You still look like an undertaker in spite of that ridiculous apron,’ Khan told him.

      Rasoul didn’t even smile. ‘How may I serve you?’

      ‘As Yousef is taking his time about getting here, I can only fear the worst. We’ll give him another half-hour, then you must go and search his usual haunts in Shepherd Market. In the meantime, mix me a Bloody Mary, and don’t forget the Colonel intends to drop by on his way home from the embassy with the schedule for the Paris trip.’

      Rasoul nodded and returned to the kitchen.

      Dillon and Sara, sharing a cab on their way to their respective homes, were driving along Curzon Street when Dillon told the driver to turn into Shepherd Market and drop them at the Blue Angel.

      ‘It’s a piano bar,’ he informed Sara. ‘One of the best in London, with one of the greatest players in the business.’

      ‘You rogue, Sean.’ She shook her head. ‘You intended this all the time.’

      ‘Me darling Sara, do I look that sort of a guy?’

      ‘Absolutely,’ she told him.

      At the same moment, Declan Rashid was turning into the underground garage at Emza Khan’s building. As he got out, George, the night porter, joined him.

      ‘I think you should know that young Yousef’s on the loose, Colonel.’

      Declan said, ‘Is he bad?’

      ‘Drunk as a lord, sir. I refused to give him his car keys and he tried to punch me. Then he said he didn’t need the car because he’d find what he wanted in Shepherd Market. He said he’d get me sacked.’

      ‘Good work, George, and hang on to those keys. Don’t worry about your job, I’ll see to it.’

      He was back in the car in seconds and reversing. It was only a matter of a few hundred yards through empty streets and he turned into Shepherd Market, parked, and saw Yousef at once in the middle of a cobbled alley approaching the Blue Angel, swaying drunkenly. He called his name as Yousef got the door open, and ran to join him, arriving just after him. As he entered, Declan was immediately aware of a woman singing.

      Earlier, Dillon and Sara had been greeted by the sound of a great driving piano backed by a trio. Most people had faded away at the lateness of the hour, just a couple of dozen aficionados left. Dillon was welcomed at once by the grey-haired black piano player, who called to them.

      ‘Hey, Dillon, my man, get up here. Who have you got there, old buddy?’

      ‘My very special date. A captain in the British Army.’

      The pianist leaned over, still playing, and kissed her on the cheek.

      ‘That can’t be right. This rascal is IRA. Those guys never retire. Once in, never out, ain’t that so, Dillon?’

      Dillon said to Sara, ‘Jacko St Clair, off a boat from New Orleans.’

      ‘That’s true, honey, only it was about thirty years ago. Are you for