The Killing Ground Part 32

"For G.o.d's sake." Caspar took a mobile phone from his pocket and slammed it down on the table. "It's only for a week."

Molly took a deep breath and seemed about to explode and then the breath went out of her. She opened her handbag and took out not one but two phones. "If you must, and Sara's, of course."

Sara said, "Cheer up, Mummy, we're going to have a lovely time. Now let's eat."

IT WAS AFTER LUNCH that Molly Ras.h.i.+d went up to the bedroom and checked the luggage, which included her doctor's bag. She opened it, pulled her stethoscope out of the way and revealed the spare mobile and its charger she always kept in there in case of a hospital emergency. At least she could still check on the progress of the Bedford child, but it could wait.

Chapter 14.

HAL STONE HAD A MEWS COTTAGE IN CHAPEL LANE, Cambridge, even though his position at Corpus Christi ent.i.tled him to rooms at the college. The cottage was somewhere to hide from the incessant demands of students when he was writing a book.

It was a Victorian cottage consisting of three bedrooms, a study, a kitchen and a lovely sitting room, its old-fas.h.i.+oned French windows opening to a garden that was a great pride to him, the garden surrounded by flint walls with a door that led to a back lane.

He was in the kitchen making tea when his phone rang. He answered it, declaring, "Hal Stone has gone away."

"No, he hasn't, you daft b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Roper said. "You've just got back."

"Ah, Roper, is that you? You're not wanting me for anything active again? After Hazar, I need a rest. Indiana Jones I'm not."

"Don't worry, old boy, I'm just bringing you up to speed on what's happened. Just listen." He went through everything, Hussein's departure from Hazar with Khazid, what had taken place in Algeria, the stolen floatplane to Majorca, the security film at Palma, the plane to Rennes.

"Well, I see where you're coming from. It looks like a stage-by-stage progress to England."

"Where else could it be? No point in bringing the French in because of that plane at Rennes. He would have been out of France to wherever long ago."

"I still can't see it, him coming to England, it would be suicide. I mean, his face has been all over the place. Somebody somewhere would be bound to recognize him. He's hardly had time for plastic surgery."

"G.o.d knows, it's beyond me, but at night alone in front of the computers and fighting my own personal pain with more whiskey, I look at him on the screen and think he's on his way."

"So what are you doing about it?"

"We've persuaded the Ras.h.i.+ds to vacate the Hampstead house and fly down to the depths of West Suss.e.x for a week in a safe house. Zion House."

"Now, that does sound interesting. Tell me more."

Roper did, everything, including the report he'd just had in from Levin. "Molly Ras.h.i.+d's a tough one. Likes her own way too much. The business about her mobile, all that fuss. Too d.a.m.n much."

"She's a truly fine surgeon, and people like that are obsessive. They think that what they do is more important than anything else. Unfortunately, it often is."

"Anyway, now you know the present score," Roper said. "To a great extent, we're in Hussein's hands."

"And I think he won't come at all." Hal Stone laughed, "After all, he's a Harvard man. He'd have more sense."

"Try telling them that at Yale," Roper told him.

"I wish you luck, my friend. Take care."

"So long."

Hal Stone shook his head. Crazy, the whole business. He returned to making his tea.

AT THAT MOMENT, Hussein and Khazid, having arrived without incident on the Cambridge train, were in a shop specializing in academic gowns, college scarves and the like. Khazid, under Hussein's orders, purchased a short gown of the type favored by undergraduates, but not a Corpus Christi scarf.

"I expect the porters pride themselves on knowing their own students."

Khazid went down the list and chose a New Hall scarf and a dark beret and they left. Entrance to the college was no problem, students pa.s.sing in and out through the gates, students everywhere, or so it seemed. They moved up a floor and Khazid, in his Henri Duval persona, stopped a pa.s.sing female undergraduate and inquired for Professor Stone in English heavily laced with French, his beret helping establish his nationality.

She was obviously amused, but waved toward the other end of the corridor. "Down there, but he's never in."

"Then where would he be, mademoiselle?"

"Don't ask me, try the phone book."

She hurried away, Khazid shrugged and then they reached the end and found a wooden sign hanging on the door saying simply, Hal Stone Is Not Here Today. Hal Stone Is Not Here Today.

Khazid tried the door, but it was locked. "Now what do we do?"

"The obvious," Hussein told him. "We do what the girl suggested and look in a phone book."

"And what if he's not in?"

"You're a pessimist, my friend. He's a famous man at one of the great colleges, a professor of the University of Cambridge-of course he'll be in the phone book. Now let's find one."

AT ZION PLACE, Caspar was exploring the garden with his daughter and found some of his cares slipping away. The three Russians sat on the terrace and watched.

"That girl is really quite amazing," Greta said. "She can be a child and adore childish things at one minute, and the next, she's like a mature woman."

"But then if you consider what she's been through," Levin said, "the death, the destruction at such a young age."

Chomsky said, "In Chechnya, one could see the same look a hundred times on the faces of children that on occasion I have seen on hers. The face goes blank to conceal what lies inside."

"G.o.d help her survive it all in herself. I know I'll do everything to help that I can," Greta said.

"But the mother," Levin said, "is something else."

"A brilliant surgeon." Greta nodded and said the same thing as Hal Stone. "An obsessive who is convinced that what she does is more important than anything else in her life."

"Good for her ego, but lousy from a relations.h.i.+p point of view," Levin pointed out.

And upstairs Molly Ras.h.i.+d was proving him right to a certain extent, locking herself in the bathroom and calling the particular hospital where she'd operated on the Bedford child, on the direct mobile number of a Dr. Harry Samson, who, to a great extent, had taken over for her. She caught him on the ward itself, a private one.

"It's me, Molly Ras.h.i.+d," she said. "How is she?"

Although the news was mixed and there was much to say, finally he got personal. "How are you?"

"Oh, well, I think. We had a problem with Sara, but a rest in the country is doing good and I'll be back in a week definitely. But never mind that, it's Lisa Bedford I'm concerned about."

"Can I have the number in case I need to contact you?"

"We're moving around a bit, Harry. It's not my phone."

"No, please don't go. I'm really concerned about little Lisa Bedford. You did a wonderful operation and I've got to give this my best shot. It would be good for me to be able to check with you if things do take a turn for the worst."

And in the end, she was trapped, by both feelings and situation. "Dammit, Harry, when you've taken a call, you can call me straight back on a mobile, you know that. I said it wasn't my phone, but it is. Call me back anytime you want. I'll switch off the sound and leave it on vibration."

He was concerned. "Look, are you all right?"

"Oh, everything's in a mess," she burst out. "I'm here with Caspar and Sara, at this sort of country retreat in West Suss.e.x. Zion House."

Instantly regretted, but it was too late.

"You mean some sort of clinic?"

"Oh, G.o.d, I don't know what I mean. Good-bye, Harry."

"Zion House," he murmured, put down his mobile on the table and started doing his notes.

The nurse on duty was a young Muslim woman named Ayesha, who had been ordered by Ali Ha.s.sim to swap s.h.i.+fts to get on the Bedford case, precisely because of the connection with Molly Ras.h.i.+d.

"What was that you said, Doctor?"

He looked up, slightly abstracted. "It was Dr. Ras.h.i.+d, wanting to know how the child is getting on. Said she was somewhere called Zion House in West Suss.e.x. She'll be away for a week. Her daughter's had some problem or other."

The loudspeaker crackled, calling him on an emergency, and he ran out, leaving his mobile. She pressed the return call b.u.t.ton and copied Molly's number and went into an empty room. Since there was no other nurse there she was able to phone Ali Ha.s.sim on her own mobile.

When he answered, she said, "Dr. Ras.h.i.+d phoned up to check on the child. She said she was in West Suss.e.x at somewhere called Zion House. I've also got her mobile phone number for you."

"Excellent, girl, you have done well."

"I have only done my duty. I'm sure you can find this place on the Internet."

And she was right, of course, for Ali immediately phoned for the a.s.sistance of a member of the Brotherhood, giving him the facts and telling him it was urgent. An hour later, the man appeared at the shop with his laptop and Ali took him in the back room.

"There are several mentions. The marshland about the place is National Trust. The house itself is mentioned a number of times in an official history of the SOE, which used to train agents there during the Second World War. Since then, it's been in the hands of the Ministry of Defence. Apparently, there are various restriction orders in place. There is also a concrete runway. Then I've found mention in general West Suss.e.x tourist guides. Zion Village is three miles from the house, with a medieval church called Saint Andrew, two pubs, several bed-and-breakfasts, a caravan site."

"Brilliant," Ali said.

"No, it's really very simple. These machines can do anything you want them to. You should learn. I'll go now. I must earn a living, you know."

He left, and Ali sat there trying to think who he should call first.

THEY FOUND THE COTTAGE in Chapel Lane easily enough. There was another message on a board hanging from the front door. Students Definitely Not Welcome. Students Definitely Not Welcome.

"A humorist," Khazid said.

"I knew professors just like that. It's an academic thing. However, if he means it, we don't get in. That's a voice box on the door. If you touch the b.u.t.ton to call, it usually puts you on screen. Look, there's a camera up there."

"So what do we do?"

"Let's explore."

There was a narrow flagged path down one side of the cottage that turned in behind the back garden wall. There was a stout wooden door that was locked and the top of the wall was crowned with ancient Victorian spikes.

"What do we do?" Khazid asked. "Try and climb over?"

"If he's there in the kitchen or sitting room he'd be certain to see us and reach for the nearest phone." Hussein shook his head. "That notice probably means what it says. There are times when he values his privacy. On the other hand, a young undergraduate in gown and scarf with a beret on his head and a very French accent, seeking advice, might interest him. Go and give it a try at the front door. If it works, take him prisoner. Don't harm him in any way, and let me in through this door."

"I'll give it a try."

"No, make it a performance. Now go."

HAL STONE, in the sitting room, reading a rather indifferent thesis, the French windows open to the garden, heard the buzz of the entry phone with irritation. He put the thesis to one side, went into the hall and found Khazid on the small screen.

"Who on earth are you?"

"I am Henri Duval of New Hall College, Monsieur le Professeur. I am an archaeology student. I seek your a.s.sistance."

"Well, as a student at Cambridge you must be able to read English, and my notice board is on the door, so clear off."

Khazid excelled himself with a stream of very fluent French. "I beg you, with all my heart. My first-year exams are coming up, and I have to write a thesis. I genuinely need your advice."

Hal Stone paused before replying in the same language. "What's your thesis subject?"

Khazid was feeling more into his role and returned to fractured English, "The influence of Spartan mercenaries on the wars in Persia."

Hal Stone laughed out loud. "That's a tall order, but a glamorous one, which I suppose is why you chose it. All right, I'll give you twenty minutes."

The door clicked open and Khazid stepped inside, dropping his flight bag and trench coat to one side, but still wearing the beret and short undergraduate gown. He clutched the silenced Walther in his right hand against his leg and opened the inner door into the hall. Hal Stone was waiting, a smile on his face, which faded instantly as Khazid covered him with the Walther.

"Just do as you're told or I'll shoot you in your left kneecap."

"Who the h.e.l.l are you? Is this some kind of joke?"