Dead Line by Stella Rimington Read Free Book Online Page A

the wheel sharply and steering the car fast into a side street, its wheels screeching like a B-movie car chase. Narrowly missing a trio of mothers crossing the road, buggies pushed before them, Malouf accelerated and sped on. When Sami looked back, only the white van was following, now a hundred yards behind.
    When they reached the junction with a large avenue, the light was green, but inexplicably Malouf slowed down. ‘Go, go,’ shouted Sami. He noticed the older man was sweating.
    But Malouf knew what he was doing. The van was closing behind them, and Sami was about to shout again, when Malouf floored the accelerator and joined the main road just as the light turned amber. The flow of traffic on the larger road meant there was no way the van could run the red light. It gave them at least a minute head start.
    Sami leaned forward and spoke urgently. ‘Malouf, do not drive to the house. There may be others waiting for us there. Find a hiding place, but quickly.’ He noticed the Egyptian was now sweating even more profusely.
    They drove through a bewildering maze of side streets. God knows where they were. Sami kept looking back, but they had lost the van. At last Malouf pulled into a small mews, and turned the car around so they could exit rapidly. He left the engine running while Sami thought what to do next.
    He didn’t want to call the police. What could he tell them? ‘Officer, four cars surrounded me, and I am sure they wanted to…’ what? Kidnap him? Murder him? The police would think him paranoid - he could give them no evidence of what had happened. Besides, it was important to keep his profile as low as possible with the law enforcement authorities.
    No, he needed security of a private sort, which wouldn’t ask for evidence, and wouldn’t pose difficult questions. Mahfuz came into his mind, a cousin who ran several nightclubs in the northern suburbs of London. He employed all sorts of ‘muscle’ to sort out trouble in his clubs. Once he had shown Sami a handgun he carried when he had large amounts of cash to transport.
    ‘I need to make a call, Malouf. Then I’ll tell you where to go next.’
    There was no reply from the driver. Sami dialled Mahfuz’s home, but got his wife. He was doing an inventory at one of the clubs, in Finchley, she said. He thanked her and was about to ring there when he noticed that Malouf was still sitting upright in his driver’s seat.
    Sami said sharply, ‘Malouf.’ The man didn’t move. Sami leaned forward and touched the old retainer gently on the shoulder, but there was no response. He could have been a statue.
    ‘Oh no,’ said Sami. The old man’s heart had given out. The excitement had killed him.

NINE
     
    Geoffrey Fane disliked visiting the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. The litter of concrete blocks and ill-shaped flower tubs spread all over the road and round the gardens offended his aesthetic sense. What a mess we’ve made of London in the name of ‘the war on terror’, he reflected.
    His taxi dropped him on the opposite side of the square from the embassy. ‘Can’t get any nearer, Guv,’ the driver told him, echoing his thoughts. ‘New barriers up since last month. If the Yanks didn’t go round the world interfering where they’re not wanted, we could have our streets back. No one wants to live round here now, you know. Used to get top whack for these properties, now they can’t give ’em away.’
    Well, not quite, thought Fane, as he walked towards the police post in front of the weighty, white building that filled one side of the square. The huge gold eagle on the top shone in the late summer sunshine, loudly announcing the presence of Britain’s dominant ally.
    Today, Fane had a lunch engagement at the nearby Connaught Hotel, so instead of summoning Andy Bokus, the CIA station head, to his office in Vauxhall Cross, he had decided to call on him. By the time he had emerged through the slow, deliberate security measures at the door, he