The Death Trade Read Online Free PDF Page A

Iranian masters.”
    â€œThat’s interesting,” she said. “Can I see?”
    â€œOf course you can. I’ll put them up in sequence. There’s the President. There’s the Council of Guardians, which enjoys a lot of influence.”
    â€œWho’s that man?”
    â€œWell, according to their official release in Paris, they seem to be expecting a few people from London to be joining them. This chap, Emza Khan, is one of the businessmen who support the Army of God charity.”
    â€œCan he be trusted?” Sara asked. “Or is there an al-Qaeda connection?”
    â€œI’m famous for not trusting anyone,” Roper said, “but I tend to think Khan’s on our side. He’s a billionaire, the chairman of Cyrus Holdings, which is responsible for Iran’s oil and gas interests and many other things. The headquarters is in London. He’ll be seventy next birthday.”
    Khan stared grimly at Sara from the screen, the once powerful body straining to get out of the excellent suit. Sara said, “He looks like he likes to have his own way and normally gets it. Who’s the bearded thing in the black suit behind him? That’s a hell of a scar bisecting the left side of his face. “
    â€œHis name is Rasoul Rahim, Khan’s bodyguard and thug. Reputedly, he kills people for him whenever necessary.”
    â€œOf course he does.” Dillon appeared, wearing a toweling robe. “He’ll drop in on the Ritz like a lead weight. On the other hand, one sliding stamp of the foot downward will dislodge the kneecap of even a seventeen-stone rugby player. Remember that, girl dear, if you’re trying your aikido on him.”
    â€œAnd you say Khan’s on
our
side?” said Sara.
    â€œYou can’t always choose your friends,” said Roper.
    Another image appeared on-screen, a laughing young man, black tie loose, quite obviously drunk, his arms around a couple of women, the three of them looking the worse for wear.
    â€œAnd who’s this, the pride of the nightclub circuit?” Dillon demanded. “What about his Muslim principles?”
    â€œGone out of the window where the drink is concerned,” Roper told him. “That’s the son, Yousef. Educated at Harrow, where he twice almost got the heave-ho. Several court appearances for drink driving, brawling. Twice accused of rape by different girls who changed their minds and wouldn’t continue to give evidence. He’s twenty-six.”
    â€œObviously bought off by Daddy,” Sara said. “The girls.”
    â€œWhat would you expect?” Roper added. “Can you stand another?”
    â€œDo we have to?” Dillon inquired.
    â€œWell, you have to travel hopefully,” Roper said. “And if you do, sometimes you get a surprise.”
    A picture appeared of a man in some sort of army summer uniform, medals making a brave show. He was of medium height, with a bronze aquiline face, black hair, a peaked cap in his hands. His gaze was direct and somber, but to Sara’s disquiet she found him rather attractive.
    â€œLieutenant Colonel Declan Rashid,” Roper said. “Military attaché at the Iranian Embassy at 16 Princes Gate right here in good old London town. You know what Muslims are like about family being so important. He’s some sort of third or fourth cousin of the Khans.”
    â€œWell, that’s hardly his fault,” Sara said.
    Dillon cut in, “But where in the hell did he get the Irish name?”
    â€œHis mother was a strong-willed young Irish doctor from Cork named Rosaleen Collins, and his father couldn’t deny her anything, which explains where the name Declan comes in. The Rashids weren’t Iranians, they were from Oman originally, Bedouins.”
    â€œWhich means they’re warriors,” Dillon said.
    â€œCertainly as far as his father, Hassan Rashid, was concerned. He rose to brigadier general in the