“Take off the handcuffs.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “Leave his car. We’ll use the Aston Martin.”
Billy did as he was told. “Where to?”
“To see Roper.”
LONDON
BRUSSELS
Chapter 2
AT HOLLAND PARK, THEY WERE ADMITTED BY SERGEANT Doyle, who was on night duty. “Unexpected guest,” Dillon told him. “Get Henderson out of bed. Billy, you stick Rashid in the interview room and wait. I’ll see if Roper is still up.”
Which he was, roaming cyberspace as usual, Cole Porter sounding softly from a player. He was humming, perfectly happy, with Greta in a nearby chair, browsing through the
“Come into the viewing room, both of you.”
They assembled quickly, all of them, watching through the glass as Billy left Rashid alone in total silence.
“This is Caspar Rashid, a doctor of electronics at London University. He’s forty-two, born in London, and his wife, Molly, is a medical doctor. Hope you’re getting this, Roper. I’d like a full-flow analysis as you record details of the interview. Assist by all means.”
“Of course. Let’s keep it friendly,” Roper said and brought the lights up on both sides of the glass so Rashid could see them as well. “Dr. Rashid, we’re a mixture of military and intelligence personnel. My name is Roper, the lady is Major Greta Novikova of the GRU, and Dillon and Billy Salter you already know.”
“I’m impressed,” Rashid said.
“We belong to a group personally authorized by the Prime Minister. Normal rules do not apply to us, so your complete honesty will be required.” That was Dillon.
Billy laughed. “The only rules we have are not to have any. It saves time.”
“I understand,” said Rashid.
Greta suddenly said in Arabic, “What nonsense is this? The analysis on Major Roper’s flow machine fits no Arab I ever knew. It’s there now.”
Rashid said in good Russian, “Oh, I’m Arab enough, although I prefer Bedouin. I’m a member of the Rashid tribe, based in the Empty Quarter.” He continued in English. “My father was a London heart surgeon from a wealthy family in Baghdad. Money meant nothing to him.”
“And you forswore your faith? Renounced Islam?” Greta asked. “I can’t believe it.”
“My parents moved back to Baghdad nearly thirteen years ago. My marriage to a Christian was a terrible shame for them. Unfortunately for them, I had been left a fortune by my grandmother, so I was independent. She’d even left me the Hampstead house I was born in.”
It was Dillon who said, “And all this without provoking any blow-backs from your fellow Muslims?”
“Many and often. I became what someone once called a Christmas Muslim. Once a year. The kind of electronic engineering I specialize in is linked to the modern railway. I’m well known in my field as an expert. I visit many Muslim areas. I’ve been subject to pressure from extremist colleagues on many occasions at the university and on my travels. I know of things happening in places that would probably disturb you.”
“Such as,” Roper said.
“I will not say. Not until my terms are met. I will only say that eight months ago when I was in Algiers for a week and my wife was on a heavy operating schedule, my daughter was abducted from her prep school at lunchtime, driven to a flying club near London and flown out of the country by agents of the Army of God, backed by al-Qaeda. She was delivered to my father’s villa at Amara, north of Baghdad.”
“Good God, there’s a war on,” Greta said. “Why would he be there instead of getting the hell out of it, a man like him?”
“He’s seen the light, is dedicated to Osama. He allowed Sara to speak to us on the telephone once, but said I would never see her again. Since then, I’ve tried everything and I’ve gotten nowhere.”
“So that’s where we come in,” Roper said.
“No one in any official capacity can help. The place we call Iraq is an inferno,” Rashid said.
“I’m interested in why your father, a man of such wealth and influence, should stay in the war zone. The major is right.”
“He has dedicated himself to the other side, that is the most I will tell you. What I know about the Army of God during the past months and related dealings with al-Qaeda in many areas of the Middle East and North Africa would interest you, Mr. Dillon, particularly as an Irishman.”
“Now you’ve got the pot boiling. What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“Not now. You know what I want.”
“What about your wife?” Greta put in.
“She won’t crack, she’s too strong. A great surgeon. Children are her specialty.”
“And she never knew about your problems with the Islamic business and the Army of God?”
“I thought I was protecting her from it, but the abduction of Sara changed all that. She has her work. That is her mainstay.”
There was a long pause.
Dillon said to Roper, “Can it be done?”
“Well, there is the small matter of the war, but we’ll just have to see what we can do. It’s a good thing Ferguson ’s in Brussels, so we don’t have to tell him. Allow Henderson to take this poor sod away for a shower.” He called to Rashid as he stood up, “Your trip to Hazar. You thought it had a purpose, but those Army of God people were playing with you, was that it?”
“I’ve nothing more to say.”
“Good,” Roper said. “Always nice to be reassured.”
SITTING IN THE COMPUTER ROOM, Roper, who liked to think of himself as the planning genius of all time, had a large scotch and smoked for twenty minutes, but he wasn’t taking it easy.
First, he checked on Molly Rashid’s whereabouts. She was a professor of pediatrics at several hospitals, but that night she had performed heart surgery at Great Ormond Street and gone home at midnight.
He also checked the Rashids in Iraq. The villa on the north road beyond the village of Amara outside Baghdad was, according to American sources, still intact and inhabited by the head of the household, Abdul, aged eighty. There were two or three aging females and five or six young men of the AK-carrying variety and many refugees from the bombing. He was also pleased to see a mention of a thirteen-year-old girl named Sara. So, she was still there. Roper had Rashid brought back to the viewing room.
“What now?” Rashid asked.
“Dr. Rashid, we’re now going to call your wife.”
“I can speak to her?” Rashid had brightened.
“I insist on it. I’m afraid it has to be on speakerphone, and I suggest you tell her everything-which I suspect you haven’t.”
There was the heavily magnified sound of a telephone and a woman’s voice. “Caspar? Is that you?” She was well spoken, a timbre to her voice.
Roper said, “Dr. Molly Rashid?”
“Yes, who is this?” She was unsure, uncertain.
“My name is Major Giles Roper.”
Before he could carry on, she said, “Good heavens, I once met you at a charity lunch for the Great Ormond Street Hospital. You’re that wonderful man with all the medals for dealing with bombs.”
