The Killing Ground

admitted, but he watched its progress to the terminal building, saw them get out and meet with Levin and Chomsky.

A sign at the gate said MINISTRY OF DEFENCE, FARLEY FIELD, RESTRICTED AREA, but in the car park it amused him to see plane spotters. Probably any kind of security breach would have been classed as a violation of their human rights. “Only the English,” he said to himself. “That’s why we will win.”

He took out a pair of Zeiss glasses and spotted an old Hawk, although he didn’t know it. He did get a photo.

On the airfield, Dillon waited for the plane to take off, then got back in the People Traveller and told Sergeant Doyle to take him to Holland Park.

Jamal waited until it had gone, then mounted his motorcycle. There was nothing he could do except return to Ali Hassim at the shop.

Ali hauled him into the back room. “You’re sure they have gone?”

“Definitely. The suitcases mean for some time and the airplane, somewhere far away.”

“So no means of finding out the destination?”

“No way of getting in. I’ve told you, it’s a restricted area. Security guards everywhere. You wouldn’t even get through the gate.”

Ali was upset. “So we really have no idea where they’ve gone?”

“Only that they have gone. I saw this with my own eyes and their house is empty; tell Professor Khan that.”

Ali sighed. “He won’t like it. Anyway go and make yourself a coffee in the kitchen while I give him the bad news, and leave your camera so I can check the photo for the type of plane.”

It didn’t take long and he found it quite quickly in a handbook of small planes: a Hawk, eight-seater, twin engines.

He started to go through a number of photos taken by the sweepers watching the comings and goings at the Rashids’ house since their return, not that there had been many. The most interesting was the man who had turned out to be the archaeologist from Hazar, Professor Hal Stone. Friends to the Brotherhood, academics at London University, had confirmed his identity. A fellow at Corpus Christi College in Cambridge. He had called at the house in Gulf Road in a taxi, which had waited for him and taken him on to King’s Cross Station. Jamal had followed him and watched him board a train for Cambridge. Obviously returning to his work.

All in all, not good news, and he phoned Khan and told him so.

* * * *

HUSSEIN SAT IN FRONT of the makeup table in Darcus Wellington’s bedroom, naked to the waist. The mirror was very bright with all those small bulbs around it, and the profusion of makeup itself was something alien to Hussein. He found the smell of it distasteful.

Khazid was sitting on a settle by the window, smoking a cigarette. Hussein said, “Open it, then go and find something to do.”

“But I want to watch.”

“And I don’t want you to. Go away.”

Khazid went reluctantly and Darcus put a large towel around Hussein’s shoulders. “The mark of a true actor, love. Makeup is such a private affair. Not something to share. Knowing who you are, that’s the thing.”

“And who am I?” Hussein asked himself. “Hussein Rashid or the Hammer of God?”

Rain fell heavily outside the open window, bringing the smell of rotting vegetation, and Darcus went and closed the window. “If you don’t mind, love, it smells as if the whole world’s dying.”

“Perhaps in some ways it is?” Hussein said.

Garish in his auburn wig, Darcus stood there, arms folded, chin on one hand, and observed him. “The Che Guevara look. Was that a conscious decision on your part?”

“Not that I know of.” Hussein was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“A true romantic, Guevara, he really looked the part. In a way, he gave people what they expected. It was all in the look, love. Was that what you tried to do-give the people what they expected?”

“Where would this be leading?”

“It’s also a question of knowing what you are and still liking yourself. Most actors, of course, would rather be someone else.”

“I am what I am. What I need from you is a new face.”

“Frankly, I have a suspicion that I can achieve that best by removing the mask that’s already there.”

Hussein said, “If that means good-bye, Che Guevara, so be it.”

“And what else must go with that?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”

* * * *

THE CORRIDOR DOOR SLIGHTLY AJAR, Khazid watched, in a kind of horror, as the man he had served for so long changed before his eyes. Darcus worked at the hair, cutting, thinning particularly, shaping into an entirely different style and much, much shorter.

Then he lathered the entire face and took a cut-throat razor to it, shortened the sideburns, thinning the eyebrows and very carefully removing the fringe of beard and the mustache.

“I’d like you in the bathroom now, love. Don’t be alarmed, you just need a shampoo.”

Khazid dodged into the kitchen and Darcus led the way.

Afterward, back at the mirror and using a hair dryer, he shaped the hair more carefully, took the scissors to it again, then turned Hussein in the swivel chair and did some more work on thinning the eyebrows and used a little dark pencil.

Hussein sat staring at himself, yet not himself. “God almighty, you look so young,” Darcus told him. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“And now you look it and that’s the difference. Put your shirt on.”

He scrabbled around in various drawers and finally found what he was looking for, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, not prescription but clear glass.

“Try these.” Hussein did. “Good, it gives you a hint of the intellectual; you could be a schoolteacher or something.”

“Not the Hammer of God.”

“See for yourself.” Darcus opened a copy of the Times with the original photo in it. “Who could possibly recognize you as you look now from that.”

“Even I don’t,” Hussein said slowly and walked through to the kitchen.

Khazid was waiting for the kettle to boil, standing there, looking out at the rain. He turned and his sense of shock was obvious.

“Merciful heaven, where have you gone?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure it’s you anymore.”

“And maybe it isn’t.” There was a strange smile on Darcus’s face. “Who knows? Remember Pandora’s box?”

“What do you mean?” Khazid said.

“Greek mythology,” Hussein told him. “When the box was opened, it released all sorts of unpleasant things.”

Khazid, uneasy, frowned slightly, and Darcus said, “I’ll make some coffee.”

“And I’ll phone Dreq Khan,” Hussein said to Khazid. “Work out our next stop.”

“Hampstead?” Khazid asked.

“It would seem obvious. After all, as no one knows we are here, one should seize the moment.”

“If you say so, but I think we need to talk, and privately.”

“Of course.”

“You can use the study,” Darcus said, but in the end it was outside on the porch, the door open, the rain