Dead Line by Stella Rimington Read Free Book Online

Malouf asked, ‘Where to, Mr Veshara?’
    ‘Just home. Then you can have the rest of the day off.’ He would drive himself to his early evening meeting, since he trusted no one, not even Malouf, to accompany him there.
    The call came on his mobile as Malouf turned the car around and headed north, towards the Vesharas’ twenty-room mansion on Bishops Avenue in the Highgate hinterland.
    ‘Yes,’ he said into the mobile.
    ‘The shipment arrives tonight.’ The voice was low, and respectful. ‘How many?’
    ‘Five.’
    ‘That’s one short.’
    ‘I know. There was an accident.’
    ‘Accident? Where?’
    ‘In Brussels.’
    Not on his watch then. Sami was relieved: the last thing he wanted was Interpol sniffing around. He asked, ‘Is the ground transportation all arranged?’
    ‘It is. And we have a house in Birmingham.’
    ‘Let me know when the packages arrive there.’
    ‘Yes.’ And the line went dead.
    Malouf was watching in the mirror. ‘Forgive me, sir, but there is a large car behind us, a limousine. It’s staying very close. Could it be one of your friends from lunch?’
    Sami looked back over his shoulder. Sure enough, there was a black limo almost on their bumper, and as they went under the flyover and through the green light it momentarily flashed its lights. Who could it be? Not one of his lunch companions, he was sure of that. They were businessmen, but none of them could run to a stretch limousine. Yet he was not alarmed; London was full of idiots in cars. This wasn’t Baghdad, after all.
    ‘Relax, Malouf. It’s just some fool showing off.’
    Suddenly a Range Rover pulled out sharply from the right, and cut in ahead of them on Edgware Road, forcing Malouf to brake. After its initial burst of speed, the Range Rover slowed, forcing them to cut their own speed even further.
    ‘I don’t like this, Mr Veshara.’
    Neither did Sami. For the first time he sensed a threat; they were being boxed in. ‘Take the next right turn. But do not indicate.’ That should shake them off.
    Malouf nodded. He angled slightly to make the turn but suddenly a large 4×4 appeared on their right side, drawing up alongside. When Malouf slowed, so did the 4×4. It hogged the middle of the road, and cars coming the other way were forced to move over, one blinking its lights furiously and its driver giving a vigorous two-finger salute.
    Sami wondered who could be in these cars surrounding him. Had they mistaken him for someone else?
    ‘Turn left,’ he ordered. His throat felt dry, constricted.
    But on that side, too, another car suddenly appeared, almost close enough to clip the Mercedes’ wing mirror. It was a white van, like the kind the police used to shuttle prisoners around, with smoked windows that screened its occupants from view.
    The Mercedes was now effectively surrounded and Sami no longer had any doubt they were working together. Who were these people? The Russian mob had been making noises lately about his little sideline, the one that needed small boats running across the North Sea to the dock he’d rented near Harwich. Who else could it be? For a brief moment, he wondered if his deeper, darker secret might have been discovered. No, it was impossible. He had always been exceedingly careful. So maybe it was the Russians, after all. But what did they want? And for Allah’s sake, what did they intend to do? They couldn’t be trying to murder him in broad daylight, and a kidnapping seemed equally preposterous. They’re just trying to scare me, he thought, and if that was their aim they were doing a good job.
    ‘Hold on sir,’ said Malouf, and gripped the wheel tightly with both hands. On their left ahead, a man in a green shirt was getting out of a parked car. He seemed oblivious to the tense convoy approaching them, and though the white van honked its horn furiously in warning, made no effort to get out of the way.
    The white van was forced to slow down, and it was then Malouf made his move, swinging