The Death Trade

‘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.’