Free The Death Trade by Jack Higgins Page B

sole access to a nuclear bomb of a power way beyond anything existing,” Sara pointed out.
    â€œMy thoughts exactly. It could lead to a whole new era of peace of a kind we haven’t known in many years.”
    â€œYou think so?” Sara said. “What if Husseini has other ideas once you break him out? What if he prefers Harvard or Yale to Oxford or Cambridge? Would he be free to make his own choice?”
    Ferguson sighed heavily. “You really are being very difficult.”
    â€œBut am I right in my conclusions? Have the SAS spirit Simon Husseini, his mother and daughter out of Tehran, fly them to some safe house in England, and, hey presto, we’re going to be a great little country again, a power in the world, and all down to Simon Husseini’s spanking new nuclear bomb.”
    Roper laughed out loud on the screen. “Brilliant, Sara, well done.”
    Dillon clapped hands. “I couldn’t put it better myself.”
    â€œShut up, the lot of you, and be practical,” Ferguson told them. “There are an awful lot of bad people out there who would love to get their hands on what we think Husseini may have developed. Are you seriously telling me you wouldn’t prefer Britain to control it in partnership with our friends in Washington? Can you think of anyone better?”
    It was Sara who gave him an answer before either Roper or Dillon could. “You don’t get the point, General, which is, what if Husseini didn’t want
anyone
to have it?”
    â€œNonsense,” Ferguson said. “What’s done can’t be undone, the genie’s escaped from the bottle and can’t be shoved back inside. Husseini could burn his research records and blow his brains out, but sooner or later, someone would come along to untangle the puzzle again.”
    â€œFair enough,” Sara said. “Give me a chance to get close enough to Husseini and I’ll put it to him exactly as you have to me.”
    â€œAnd you think he’ll go for it?” Roper asked her.
    â€œNot the man I knew as a guest in my grandfather’s house,” Sara said. “But who knows? Life has been hard on him, and I expect his responsibility for his mother and daughter weighs heavily.”
    â€œIf he says no to what is the only offer of help that’s going, he’ll find the future grim indeed,” Ferguson said. “His mother’s eighty-six and can’t expect to last much longer, but his daughter’s forty and, in spite of her poor health, could last at least twenty years. There’s no chance at all of the poor blighter doing a runner. So all he can expect from his future is to live and die in Tehran.”
    Roper cut in, “We’ll see about that. I’ve had Claude Duval on from Charles de Gaulle, where he’s waiting to greet you. I’ve booked you a large suite on the fourth floor, because Husseini always takes a two-bedroom suite on that floor. It was a matter of luck, they had a cancellation.”
    â€œAnd the others?” Dillon inquired.
    â€œOur friends from Iran are on the fifth. Emza Khan and his so-called valet, this Rasoul Rahim, are also in a two-bedroom suite.”
    â€œValet, my backside,” Dillon said. “Rasoul is all bully boy—Khan’s minder, I’d say. What about the colonel?”
    â€œNext door to them.”
    â€œAnd Husseini? Is he in Paris yet?”
    â€œAccording to Duval, they arrived last night, Wali Vahidi in charge as usual.”
    â€œI found Vahidi’s file interesting,” Sara said. “Have you got his photo there?”
    â€œOf course.”
    Around fifty with a bushy mustache, Wali Vahidi looked like somebody’s uncle, solid and dependable. “It would seem the Husseinis are the only family he’s got,” Sara commented.
    â€œYou could be right.” Ferguson nodded. “He’s Husseini’s bodyguard, that’s true, but also his