The Death Trade by Jack Higgins Read Free Book Online Page B

hospitals, every level of local government, theaters, cinemas, restaurants, and bars. It took Ali Saif only seconds to find one working as a cleaner at the Blue Angel, a Yemeni who had witnessed the fracas and seen Dillon and Sara eventually leave in a cab with a Pakistani driver.
    Within fifteen minutes, Ali Saif was in touch with that man and had established that he had dropped Sara Gideon and Dillon at what Saif knew was the Holland Park safe house. They could well be staying the night, but the possibility that they might not was too tantalizing to ignore, so he turned again to his computers.
    The man he called was propped up on a bed in a warehouse development by the Thames. He wore shabby jeans and jacket, was unshaven, and had black tousled hair. He was smoking a cigarette and reading the
Times
newspaper.
    The Egyptian’s voice rang out. “Abu, this is Saif. I have something for you, most urgent. The information coming your way now, facts and photos. The man is immensely dangerous, the woman is a decorated veteran of the war in Afghanistan. I’d advise taking Farouk on this one, but whatever you do, do it now. There’s a big pay packet waiting,
very
big.”
    Abu swung his legs to the floor, went to the computer where the text and photos were still printing. He had a quick look at Dillon and Sara and made a call on his mobile.
    The answering voice said, “Get lost, I’m in bed.” There was the murmur of a woman’s voice.
    â€œAbu here, Farouk, kick the bitch out. I have a hit for AQ, man and woman, big, big money. Fifteen minutes. Long enough to get here from your apartment. If you’re not here, I’ll go alone using the London cab, but I’d rather leave that to you. You may be a stupid sod because your mother dropped you on your head or something, but you’re a genius at handling anything with four wheels. I’ll be backup on the Montesa.”
    The famous Spanish dirt bikes had been specially created to aid farmers and shepherds in the high country of the Pyrenees, and could do half a mile an hour over rough ground and considerably faster if need be. It had a stripped-down look and Abu was besotted with his and refused to ride anything else.
    He didn’t wait for a reply from Farouk, but pulled on heavy biker’s boots, unlocked the outside door, went into a small study, operated an old-fashioned safe, and took out two Glocks, a couple of boxes of ammunition, and two silencers, sat down at the desk, and loaded the weapons expertly. Then he removed his denim jacket, opened the wardrobe, and produced two lightweight bulletproof vests. He pulled one on quickly, then took down a black leather biker’s jacket and zipped it up.
    Moments later, footsteps thundered up the stairs outside, the door crashed open, and Farouk stumbled in, the twin of Abu in appearance and dress except for his shaven head.
    â€œSo there you are,” Abu said. “Daft bastard. In bed with a tart again. Get your vest on and check those two photos and the details. When we get to this Holland Park place, we simply sit and wait for them to come out. Dillon’s car is a ten-year-old souped-up Mini, color Ferrari red.”
    Farouk said, “Nobody could be as good as this Dillon. I mean, he’s a small guy and around fifty years of age. As for the woman, it’s got to be a joke?”
    â€œAli Saif is from Cairo, like you and me, and if he says Dillon is hell on wheels, he is. As for the woman, even if you hate the Brits, they don’t award the Military Cross lightly. Now, stuff that Glock in your pocket, don’t forget your silencer, and let’s go and do this.”

4
    I t started to rain at about three-thirty, when Dillon and Sara looked in on Roper. “So there you are,” he said. “Was that nice?”
    â€œPerfect,” Sara told him. “What about the general?”
    â€œAll quiet since he went to bed.” Roper lit one of his eternal