Chapter 8
IT WAS IN HUSSEIN’S FAVOR THAT HIS RELIGION DEMANDED so brief a period for the disposal of the body, no matter how important the individual. He needed action now, needed to get on with it, needed to channel the rage inside him. The body was brought to the house and displayed in the entrance hall. The people who arranged such things worked through the night. The Imam himself came to supervise, giving Hussein his blessing, of course, and not just because of his prowess in the war. He was, after all, not only the head of Rashid Shipping now, but of the clan itself, the possessor of great wealth, and his importance was shown by a new deference to him.
“So what will you do now about Sara?” the Imam asked.
“As Allah wills.”
“You do not think her beyond hope?”
“Of course not. There were cruel influences at work.”
“What do you intend? A return to the war zone?”
“We’ll see.” Hussein was keeping his own counsel. “Let’s bury my uncle first.” The Imam departed and Hussein went out onto the terrace and lit a cigarette. Khazid, who had been listening, followed him. “You wish to follow them to England, don’t you?” Hussein smiled. “Now why would I do that?”
“Because it would be the most reckless thing to do. Can I come with you?”
“Why would you want to do such a thing?”
“Because we’re friends who have been through hell together. Because I appreciate it could be a one-on-one mission but that you also need one person you can really rely on.”
“And you think that should be you?”
“It has been before. How do you plan to go?”
“ Paris. Train to London.”
“I have both French and British passports, both excellent forgeries. And I speak French. Your alias?”
“Hugh Darcy, what the English call a toff. I used the passport last time I was in London and found the regimental tie of an English Guards officer tucked in my briefing case. It was the Broker’s joke. The English still can’t help touching their forelocks to a gentleman.”
“The Queen’s son himself has served in such a regiment in Afghanistan,” Khazid said.
“There you are, then. Okay, my friend, you can come as far as Paris. I’m not promising anything more. Now go and lie down. It’ll be dawn soon, and we have three men to bury.”
“Something we’re good at, something we’ve grown very used to.”
“Go on, little brother, good night.”
Khazid went and Hussein stood there thinking about it, then he went into the entrance hall where they had finished presenting his uncle. He’d given the orders. No wailing women. At this stage, male servants only. Family members could join in on the morning, but for the moment, no.
He was restless, uncertain, and then he did a strange thing. He went into his uncle’s small study, where there was a liquor cabinet for non-Muslim guests. He opened the lacquered doors and surveyed the contents, finally selecting a bottle of ice-cold Dom Perignon champagne he found in the bar fridge. There was a strange excitement in him as he got a glass and walked out onto the terrace. He stood there, thumbing the cork out.
Of course it was wrong, he knew that, but the night was dark and he had two comrades and his uncle to bury. Allah was merciful, Allah would understand. He raised his glass to Hassim and Hamid, then emptied the glass of champagne and threw the bottle from the terrace.
“Go to a good death, my friends, and watch over me in England,” he called.
ROPER SAW THE LOCAL radio and television reports of the death of Jemal Rashid from a heart attack. There was television coverage of the cortege on its route to the mosque, Hussein leading the way. Roper recorded it and reported in to Ferguson, who was having breakfast at Cavendish Place.
“He won’t like it,” Ferguson said. “He’ll blame us. The old boy died as a direct result of the affair.”
“Exactly.”
“What time did Doyle deliver the Rashids to Hampstead?”
“About three o’clock. We’ll have to inform them.”
“I know. Dammit-I’ll do it.”
At the house in Gulf Road, Caspar Rashid hadn’t followed his wife to bed. She’d taken Sara. He couldn’t sleep, and when the
“Not very good news.” He told Caspar of the old man’s death.
Caspar Rashid sat there taking it in. “Dear God,” he said, “is there no end?”
WAITING AT THE AIRPORT in Paris, Dreq Khan bought a copy of the
Khan said, “Have you seen the London papers?”
“Yes.”
“This must change everything. Obviously Hussein Rashid can’t go to London. In fact, I wonder where he can go.”
“It changes nothing. You will still go to London and you will wait to hear from me. You still believe in the power of Osama?”
“Of course.”
“Now, get on your flight.”
He switched his phone off and hesitated. No, Hussein would be busy with the funeral. He’d leave it till later.
A STRANGE THING HAPPENED at the cemetery in Hazar. It rained suddenly, a real tropical downpour that prevented the wild exuberance that usually marked funerals. Hassim and Hamid had been wrapped in the green flag of Islam, as was proper for soldiers, the old man in something more subdued, and the rain fell and washed the dead, and Hussein and Khazid took their turns with a spade and shoveled dirt and said goodbye in their own way. Then it was back to the house for Hussein to receive condolences. Finally, about three o’clock in the afternoon, there was some peace.
Sitting on the terrace, having a coffee with Khazid, Hussein’s phone went and it was the Broker.
“I knew you’d be busy with the funeral, so I didn’t try to get you earlier.”
“What is it?”
“Trouble. Obviously, Ferguson ’s used his power in certain quarters. Your face appears in a number of British newspapers, reported to be a known associate of Osama bin Laden, and possibly in Britain.”
“A clever bastard, Ferguson. This is to make it impossible for me to go. But it won’t stop me.”
“If we try to put new plans into motion, it will be difficult and very awkward, not to say expensive.”
“Don’t talk to me of expense. I know that Osama has great funds. I am a rich man myself from the death of my uncle. I’m going to England with you or without you, and I’m taking Khazid with me.”
“All right, all right. I’ll get to work on it.”
“I can’t wait; you must understand that.”
