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‘You’re dealing with a regime that doesn’t stop at stoning a woman to death,’ Roper pointed out.
Ferguson said, ‘Have you spoken to Claude Duval?’
‘Yes, I have, he’s on our side and intends to be there himself. But let’s get clear now what we’re expecting to come out of this.’ He turned to Sara. ‘The ball is in your court.’
She sat there, looking intense and troubled. ‘I always remember Simon as a lovely man. I’d just like to hear him tell me out of his own lips what he would like done to solve this situation. I have a horrible feeling that not much can be done and we’ll be at a stalemate, but I’d still like to try.’
‘And so you shall,’ Ferguson told her. ‘And it’s of vital importance that you do, because if he really has made progress beyond the theoretical in his nuclear experiments, it’s essential that we get our hands on his results before Iran does.’
‘But what if he doesn’t agree? What if he’s faced with something so terrible that he’d rather nobody had it at all?’ Sara asked.
Ferguson said calmly, ‘It’d be too late. He could destroy his case notes, all records of his findings, and it would do him little good. A scientist discovers what already exists. Eventually, someone else would follow in Husseini’s footsteps.’
She took a deep breath and said sadly, ‘I suppose you’re right.’
‘I’m afraid I usually am, Captain.’ Ferguson got up. ‘I’m sure you’d agree, Nathan.’
The rabbi, looking rather troubled, nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’
Ferguson said, ‘Thank you for your input. We’ll get on. We’ve much to do, and in limited time.’ He kissed Sara on the cheek. ‘I can see this is getting to you, but be of good heart. There’s a solution to everything, I’ve always found. We’ll see you at Holland Park early this evening, Dillon and the Salters and we three. Maggie will produce one of her special meals and we’ll discuss the future. It’s been very useful, Rabbi, my sincere thanks.’
Roper was already moving out in his wheelchair, and Ferguson followed him.
It was just after six that evening when the taxi dropped Sara at Holland Park. It always reminded her of a nursing home or something similar, although the razor wire, high walls, and numerous cameras indicated a different agenda. She didn’t have to do anything except wait to be identified. The Judas Gate in the massive front entrance clicked open, she stepped inside, and it closed behind her. She crossed the courtyard to the front door, went in and made her way to the computer room, where she found Roper in his wheelchair in front of the screens. She removed her military trench coat.
‘Where is everybody?’ she asked.
‘The boss is in his office, the Salters haven’t turned up yet, and the music wafting through from the dining room is Dillon on the piano. It pains me to say it, but the wretch is really quite good.’
‘No, he isn’t, he’s damn good,’ Sara called as she went out along the corridor and turned into the dining room.
Dillon, at the piano, was just finishing ‘Blue Moon’ while Maggie Hall was laying a table for dinner.
‘Don’t exaggerate, Sara,’ he said. ‘I play acceptable bar-room piano, that’s all.’
‘Don’t you be stupid,’ Maggie Hall said. ‘You’re better than that and you know it, so why pretend?’
She moved off to the kitchen. Dillon said, ‘There you go, she should be my agent. What would you like?’
‘What about “A Foggy Day in London Town”?’
‘Why not?’
He started to play, and she listened and said, ‘Could you up the tempo?’
He did, attacking it hard, and she started to sing, surfing the rhythm, her voice lifting, and Maggie Hall emerged from the kitchen and stood there, staring. The music soared and came to an end. Maggie clapped vigorously and called, ‘Right on.’
Dillon was astonished. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’
‘I learned to play guitar at twelve and I loved singing, but just for me. I don’t advertise.’
‘Well, you should. Any cocktail bar I’ve ever been in would snap you up.’
Clapping broke out from behind, Sara turned and found the Salters standing in the doorway.
‘Marvellous,’ Harry Salter said. ‘I’d give you a booking any time for my restaurant.’
‘Harry’s Place, Sara,’ Billy told her. ‘You haven’t been yet, very classy. We’ll take you.’
‘Some other time.’ Ferguson appeared behind them. ‘But not now. There’s work to be done. Back to Roper, if you please.’
For half an hour, Roper ran a compilation of film featuring Simon Husseini, mostly garnered from news reports. It finished, and Ferguson said, ‘Well, there you are. That’s our man.’
‘Looks a decent enough chap to me,’ Billy observed.
Harry said, ‘Do I take it we can be certain he’s not out to blow up the bleeding world, then?’
‘He’s a decent man who’s in a very bad situation and doesn’t know what to do about it.’
‘The way I see it, there’s not much he can do,’ Dillon said.
‘I’ve got film of an Élysée Palace ceremony coming up,’ Roper said. ‘Just for information.’
They saw a place crowded with people, many of them in uniform or ecclesiastical wear, palace guards in full uniform, a glittering scene, sparkling chandeliers. People who were to be decorated sat near the front and went forward in turn for the President of France to pin on the insignia of the Legion of Honour or whatever. Finally, Roper switched off.
‘So there you are,’ Ferguson said. ‘What do you think?’
‘An awful lot of people,’ Sara said. ‘Difficult to make contact with our man.’
‘Or perhaps the crowded situation would make it easier. There’s a buffet, champagne. It would depend on how long you wanted to be in contact with him. Perhaps a few snatched moments is all you could expect.’
That was Ferguson, and Dillon said, ‘There might be an opportunity at the hotel. We’ll just have to see.’
‘Perhaps Duval could be useful there,’ Ferguson said.
‘He’s a sly fox, that one.’ Dillon grinned. ‘So he may have a useful idea or two. How are we going to Paris?’
‘The Gulfstream from Farley Field. My asset is at the Ritz, an ageing waiter named Henri Laval. He knows the hotel backwards. Can be very useful. You’ll be given his mobile number.’
‘Well, if his help would lead us to a meeting of some sort with Husseini, it will be more than welcome.’
‘Excellent,’ Ferguson said. ‘Now we’ll eat and I’ll tell you what else I’m planning for the future.’
Maggie Hall had excelled herself. Onion soup, poached salmon, Jersey new potatoes and salad, a choice of cheese or strawberries, backed up by Laurent-Perrier champagne.
‘You’ve been too nice to us entirely,’ Dillon said as coffee and tea arrived. ‘So what’s this about future plans?’ he asked Ferguson.
‘AQ. Two letters only, but we all know they stand for “Al Qaeda”. Osama may be dead, but in a worldwide sense he lives on and is as potent as ever. His jihadist message appeals to people in every country and from all levels of society. He made them think they were fighting for a just cause, doing something worthwhile with their lives. The purity of terror excuses all guilt from the message. That also has great appeal. Take the Army of God organization. It’s a perfectly legitimate charity, dedicated to the welfare of Muslims in many countries. Right here in London, it operates from an old Methodist chapel in Pound Street, and its welfare work is first class.’
‘And we know from past experience,’ Dillon said, ‘that certain areas of its activity are directly linked to Al Qaeda.’
‘Which would shock many wealthy Muslim businessmen, people so rich that we can count them as being beyond reproach, who provide considerable financial support, based on the fact that the charity promotes interfaith involvement with Christians and Jews and sources at a government level.’
‘Which would seem to me to muddy the waters nicely,’ Sara put in.
‘Where is this leading?’ Dillon asked.
‘Many in Al Qaeda’s hierarchy have been assassinated in Pakistan and elsewhere by Reaper drones and similar weapons. But sometimes a different approach is needed. Because of his knowledge of shipping in the Mediterranean, Daniel Holley has been able to give me names of tramp steamers and rust buckets delivering arms of every description on behalf of Al Qaeda.’
Sara nodded. ‘So you want us to—’
‘Board some of them at night, drop a few blocks of Semtex into the hold, and sink them. We’ve done it before. Many times over the years, haven’t we, Billy?’
‘You’re right,’ Billy said. ‘A few times, Dillon and me. Twice in Beirut.’ He turned to Dillon. ‘Get the diving suits out again.’
Harry said, ‘I’m not sure that’s wise, my son; you’ve been damaged enough in your time. Professor Bellamy would like you to take it easy.’
‘That was over a year ago.’ Billy nodded to Dillon. ‘You up for it?’
‘I wouldn’t be asking you to pair up with Dillon,’ Ferguson said. ‘I was considering you and Holley when he’s available.’ Before Billy or anyone was able to say anything, he carried on. ‘I was thinking of Sara and Dillon teaming up for something else. In fact, having seen you in action together earlier at the piano, I think it’s an excellent idea. But we’ll get to that later. We’ll have some more champagne now.’
Maggie had been standing at the back, already opening a fresh bottle. She poured it into glasses and went around with the tray.
Ferguson said, ‘I must say you all seem rather subdued. Why don’t you give us a suitable toast, Sean?’
‘You’re too kind,’ Dillon told him. ‘Considering what you’ve just discussed, I’d say something appropriate would be: We, who could be about to die, salute you.’
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Ferguson left first, then the Salters. Roper retired to the computer room and Dillon decided to use the sauna. Sara chose the quiet of the library and sat checking everything she could find on Husseini. She spent an hour in this way, then returned to the computer room, where she found Roper at the screens.
‘Still here?’ he said.
She explained what she’d been doing, and he nodded approvingly. ‘Nothing like being prepared.’
‘I thought I knew him, but there was a lot I didn’t,’ she said. ‘What are you up to?’
‘Same thing, in a way. Having a look at his Iranian masters.’
‘That’s interesting,’ she said. ‘Can I see?’
‘Of course you can. I’ll put them up in sequence. There’s the President. There’s the Council of Guardians, which enjoys a lot of influence.’
‘Who’s that man?’
‘Well, according to their official release in Paris, they seem to be expecting a few people from London to be joining them. This chap, Emza Khan, is one of the businessmen who support the Army of God charity.’
‘Can he be trusted?’ Sara asked. ‘Or is there an Al Qaeda connection?’
‘I’m famous for not trusting anyone,’ Roper said, ‘but I tend to think Khan’s on our side. He’s a billionaire, the chairman of Cyrus Holdings, which is responsible for Iran’s oil and gas interests and many other things. The headquarters is in London. He’ll be seventy next birthday.’
Khan stared grimly at Sara from the screen, the once powerful body straining to get out of the excellent suit. Sara said, ‘He looks like he likes to have his own way and normally gets it. Who’s the bearded thing in the black suit behind him? That’s a hell of a scar bisecting the left side of his face.’
‘His name is Rasoul Rahim, Khan’s bodyguard and thug. Reputedly, he kills people for him whenever necessary.’
‘Of course he does.’ Dillon appeared, wearing a towelling robe. ‘He’ll drop in on the Ritz like a lead weight. On the other hand, one sliding stamp of the foot downwards will dislodge the kneecap of even a seventeen-stone rugby player. Remember that, girl dear, if you’re trying your aikido on him.’
‘And you say Khan’s on our side?’ said Sara.
‘You can’t always choose your friends,’ said Roper.
Another image appeared on-screen, a laughing young man, black tie loose, quite obviously drunk, his arms around a couple of women, the three of them looking the worse for wear.
‘And who’s this, the pride of the nightclub circuit?’ Dillon demanded. ‘What about his Muslim principles?’
‘Gone out of the window where the drink is concerned,’ Roper told him. ‘That’s the son, Yousef. Educated at Harrow, where he twice almost got the heave-ho. Several court appearances for drink-driving, brawling. Twice accused of rape by different girls who changed their minds and wouldn’t continue to give evidence. He’s twenty-six.’
‘Obviously bought off by Daddy,’ Sara said. ‘The girls.’
‘What would you expect?’ Roper added. ‘Can you stand another?’
‘Do we have to?’ Dillon enquired.
‘Well, you have to travel hopefully,’ Roper said. ‘And if you do, sometimes you get a surprise.’
A picture appeared of a man in some sort of army summer uniform, medals making a brave show. He was of medium height, with a bronze aquiline face, black hair, a peaked cap in his hands. His gaze was direct and sombre, but to Sara’s disquiet she found him rather attractive.
‘Lieutenant Colonel Declan Rashid,’ Roper said. ‘Military attaché at the Iranian Embassy at 16 Princes Gate right here in good old London town. You know what Muslims are like about family being so important. He’s some sort of third or fourth cousin of the Khans.’
‘Well, that’s hardly his fault,’ Sara said.
Dillon cut in, ‘But where in the hell did he get the Irish name?’
‘His mother was a strong-willed young Irish doctor from Cork named Rosaleen Collins, and his father couldn’t deny her anything, which explains where the name Declan comes in. The Rashids weren’t Iranians, they were from Oman originally, Bedouins.’
‘Which means they’re warriors,’ Dillon said.
‘Certainly as far as his father, Hassan Rashid, was concerned. He rose to brigadier general in the Iranian Army. Remember, they were at war with Iraq for eight years.’
‘Why do I sense the worst coming?’ Dillon asked.
‘Because it did. He was killed in 1986, and unfortunately his wife was with him. She’d visited behind the lines, they went for a spin in a spotter plane and were shot down.’
Sara said, ‘So how old was Declan?’
‘Sixteen, and an only child. His mother hadn’t been able to have any more children.’
‘It must have been hell for him.’
