Free The Death Trade by Jack Higgins

hell is it at this hour?”
    â€œIt’s Ali Saif. You said you’d like to be kept informed. I’m afraid we’ve had problems.”
    â€œOf what kind?” Khan said.
    So Ali Saif told him.
    â€”
    W hen he was finished, Khan exploded with rage. “This is not acceptable. What Ferguson and his people are doing is appalling, and what’s more, they seem to get away with it on a regular basis. Can’t al-Qaeda do something to stop them?”
    â€œI’m sure we can, given time. All this new information gives us insight on the way they operate. We’ll come up with a plan of action while you’re away in Paris.”
    â€œAlong with Ferguson, the woman Gideon, and Dillon. Are you telling me you can’t deal with them
in
Paris? Is not al-Qaeda as powerful there as here?”
    â€œOh yes,” Ali Saif told him. “Very much so.”
    â€œThen speak to the right people, do something about it. Paris is full of narrow alleys and dark corners. Try and damage the woman, I should like to see
her
suffer, at the very least.”
    â€œAt your command,” Ali told him. “We will see what can be done.”
    â€œSee that you do. Another woman, perhaps, who could get close to her. Do you have such a person?”
    â€œYes, if she’s available.”
    â€œWho is she, what’s her name?”
    Saif was trapped, afraid to argue. “Fatima Le Bon.”
    â€œExcellent, I like the sound of that. So she lives in Paris? What’s her address, phone number? Be quick, you idiot. I want to go back to sleep.”
    With great reluctance but a certain amount of fear, Saif told him, “She’s true to the Cause.”
    â€œShe’d better be. It would be a pity to have to send Rasoul to visit her and have a quiet word. Good night,” and Khan slammed down the phone.
    â€”
    A li Saif poured coffee, then produced a bottle of cognac from a drawer and poured a generous measure into a cut-glass tumbler.
What fools these mortals be.
That was Shakespeare, a man who had words to cover every situation, and Khan was a fool in spite of his wealth. Ali Saif was not a religious man, but al-Qaeda had supplied him with the right kind of action, a battle of wits, a great and wonderful game, and he had enjoyed every minute of it.
    He produced a coded mobile and dialed a number in Paris. It was answered quite quickly. “Osama,” he said.
    â€œIs risen” was the reply in French, and it was a woman’s voice. “Who are you seeking?”
    â€œFatima Le Bon, for Ali Saif,” he replied in English.
    She answered in the same language. “You’ve got a nerve, you Egyptian pig. I ended up in police hands again after that last drug bust. I thought I was going down for five years.”
    â€œWhich you didn’t,” he said. “Discharged with a clean bill of health. Now, who do you think made that possible?”
    â€œOkay,” she said. “So AQ had a hand in it.”
    â€œExactly, because we have sympathizers everywhere. I notice you’ve still held on to that special mobile phone I gave you last time when I was over. That’s good, and it proves you’re a good Muslim girl who believes in Osama.”
    â€œA bad Muslim girl who’s French Algerian, didn’t understand what Osama was talking about, and was bewildered when you turned up at that night court with a lawyer when I was charged with slashing that disgusting pimp Louis Le Croix’s cheek.”
    â€œA charge which was thrown out of court when your lawyer presented evidence that the knife was Le Croix’s, who was sentenced to five years, which he richly deserved for a litany of foul deeds, particularly where women were concerned.”
    â€œThe evidence against him was false, and I’ve been paying you off ever since.”
    â€œNonsense, you enjoy the game, just like me, especially when it’s filth like Le Croix who meet a bad