“You’d hardly notice, Major.” He produced a throw rug and laid it down. “There you are.”
She saw them out, then walked down the track beside the canal. Jamal was sitting behind the wheel and she leaned down.
He started violently and she tapped the Walther on the van. “Don’t try anything,” she said in Arabic. “The Army of God is one man down. I’ve shot Abu dead and my people have taken him away. If he’s lucky, all those virgins are waiting in Paradise; if not, you’ve all been sold a bill of goods.”
“But who are you?” he asked in English.
“British intelligence. And I’ve got a message for you to deliver. Tell your boss, Professor Khan, we’re on to him. His little army is out of business, starting today, or you’ll all be following in Abu’s footsteps. Is that clear?”
Jamal said nothing, but his forehead was sweating. Greta turned and walked away, the engine started up behind her and she heard the van squeal off.
HER CODEX WENT and Roper said, “We’re all set. We even replaced the window and swept up the glass, so there should be no sign of what went on. You okay on your end?”
“Yes. Tell me, Roper, does the name of a Professor Khan mean anything to you? It certainly did to Abu and Jamal the van driver.”
“No, it doesn’t ring a bell.”
“I think if you put said professor through the wringer, you might get a surprise.”
“I might just do that.”
Which he did and immediately opened an incredible can of worms.
WHEN MOLLY RASHID came out of the hospital, it was close to eight o’clock and it was wet and miserable out. She slid into the car. “I’m absolutely bushed.”
“Hard day?” Greta asked.
“Never stopped. One operation after another. Frankly, all I want is a sandwich and then bed. What about you?”
“Oh, the usual kind of day. Bloody boring.” Greta laughed as she drove away. “Come on, let’s get you home.”
BAGHDAD
Chapter 3
THE DEAL ROPER HAD MADE WITH JACK SAVAGE HAD been enough to make him sit up and take notice, especially as the payment would be in American dollars. They had known each other well during the Irish troubles, Roper up to his ears in bomb disposal work, Savage chasing gun runners by night in the Irish Sea. When they had discussed Roper’s requirements Roper had told him of Dillon and Billy, of Sara Rashid, and their intention of spiriting her away. Savage couldn’t care less what they were up to, the deal was so good there was no way he was turning it down.
His wife, Rawan, saw things differently. A couple of years ago, Abdul Rashid had used his connections to spirit her parents out of Iraq to Jordan after extremists had burned their houseboat on the river. She owed him one.
When her husband explained what their guests would be doing when they arrived, she made it clear she didn’t approve.
“Listen,” he said. “I’m not turning down a payday like this, and the connection with British intelligence is likely to be worth even more in the future. Just get that through your head.”
“Bastard,” she said, “Money-that’s all you care about. You can sleep on the deck tonight.”
“I’m not missing much. It suits me fine.” He grabbed a couple of rugs, a bottle of scotch and went on deck.
The only major point that Roper had got wrong was that Sara Rashid wouldn’t be running anywhere, because her grandfather had arranged to have her fitted with leg irons after her persistent attempts to escape.
She had been locked in a bedroom for most of each day. For exercise she was given the chance to walk in the gardens and orange groves, but there were guards with her armed with AK assault rifles, and her cousin Hussein, who one day would marry her, was always one of them.
She was treated with due respect by the guards, in fact by all the servants, for her grandfather was not only rich but powerful, his connections with Osama bin Laden and the Army of God well known.
His love for Sara was genuine and very deep, especially since the death of his own wife, one of seventy-two other people killed in a car bombing in downtown Baghdad. The fact that Sara was of mixed race, he could accept, but his son forswearing his religion, that was an abomination.
Sara, mature beyond her years, sat in her room and, with little better to do, improved her Arabic, and contemplated what her grandfather had told her, that they would eventually be forced to join the exodus of middle-class Iraqis from Baghdad. Hazar would be their destination, to join her grandfather’s brother, Jemal, head of the family in that country. They were rich, and the Rashid Bedouins lived in the Empty Quarter, one of the most ferocious deserts in the world. It would be a guarantee of safety.
So, that was the way things would probably work out. Outside now on one of her walks, the wind off the water played with the wonderful silk scarf that framed her face. She was pretty and she knew it. Hussein adored her and she took full advantage of that fact.
“Do you want to return to your room?”
“Not yet. Who is that?” She pointed to a shabby motor launch approaching. As it slowed and drifted into the jetty, she saw that it was a woman at the wheel, dressed in Western style, her hair tied back, wearing a khaki bush shirt and pants and a shoulder holster under her left arm. The woman tossed a line and one of the men caught it and tied up. The launch had an English name-Eagle.
“Hussein, how are you?” she said.
“I’d rather be doing my final year at medical school, but there you are. The war, the war, the bloody war. This is Sara. Sara, this is Rawan Savage.”
She turned to Sara. “I’ve known you were here for some months, but we’ve never had an opportunity to meet. My, you are pretty, aren’t you?” All this was delivered in English.
Sara said, “Were you born in Baghdad?”
“Yes, but to a Druze family.” She turned to face Hussein. “I need to see your uncle right away, Hussein. Can I go up?”
“Of course. He’s in the orange grove.”
“Until I see you again,” she said to Sara, and started up the steps leading through the oranges to where Rashid was seated.
Rashid greeted her courteously, and leaned close to her while she spoke, and when she had finished, he placed his hand on her head in a blessing. She stood up and returned to the boat. He called to Hussein.
“Wait for me here,” Hussein said and mounted the steps. “Uncle?”
“See Sara goes to her room and I’ll send women to help her pack.”
“Pack, Uncle?”
“I’ve prepared for this day for months. It is time for us to go. She’ll need a woman, take Jasmine. We’ll need two Land Rovers, I think, three of the men to assist with security. You’re in charge.”
“But where are we to go?”
“ Kuwait. Only four hundred miles by road. The instructions are in the briefcase I’ll give you. My people there will make all arrangements for your onward flight to my brother Jemal in Hazar.”
“But why, Uncle?”
“Rawan brought me disturbing news. That her husband is engaged in a plot with two men from England, named Dillon and Salter, to kidnap Sara and return her to my son in London.”
“This cannot be,” Hussein said.
“I have made what I trust will be a suitable greeting for them. She informs me they arrive later today.”
“Then I’ll deal with them.”
“No-I hope I have taken care of it. Sara is my most precious jewel. You are the only one I can trust. Swear to me you will guard her with your life, always.”
“In the name of Allah, I swear it.”
“Go now, and Allah go with you,” and he turned and went in, content, for Hussein Rashid was no ordinary man. Twenty-three years of age, dark hair but blue eyes, he could have passed as a Western European. He was slim but muscular, and hugely intelligent, and when his anger sparked in the eyes, he changed, became truly frightening, the warrior few people realized he was.