The Killing Ground Read Online Free PDF Page B

have a vodka with you, then I’ll let you go.”
    “My pleasure.” Volkov went to the side table and refilled their glasses, which he brought back.
    “I’ve been thinking,” Putin said. “This Arab you’re running in London, Professor Dreq Khan, the Army of God man. He seems almost untouchable, all those committees he’s on in Parliament, all those political connections. He could get away with murder.” He laughed. “Don’t you think?” He raised his glass. “To victory and to Mother Russia,” and he took the vodka down in one easy swallow.
    C A L L E D O U T A T 2 : 3 0 A . M . to Warley General Hospital by an A&E Department that was two general surgeons short, Molly found herself dealing with far too many drunks and victims of violent attack, many of them women. And some of the patients were scuffling amongst themselves.
    On duty, too, was Abu Hassim, a general porter, not tall but strong and wiry, and more than able to look after himself in that brawling

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    crowd. Abu, born in Streatham, had a Cockney edge to his voice although his features were Arab.
    He knew Molly, and she knew him enough to nod and say hello because he lived in a corner shop owned by his uncle and aunt half a mile from Molly’s house.
    She was hot and sweaty and deadly tired, and as she pushed through the crowd, a man of thirty or so, hugely drunk, screaming and shouting and demanding a doctor, saw her.
    “Who’s this babe?” he yelled, and tried to kiss her.
    She cried out, “Leave me alone, damn you,” and tried to fight him off.
    He slapped her on the side of the face. “Bitch.”
    The crowd surged, and a hand pulled her away. It was Abu Hassim, who said, “That’s no way to treat a lady,” took one step forward and head-butted the drunk with great precision. The drunk went backward, and Abu grabbed him by the front of his jacket and eased him into a chair.
    She wiped her face with a hand towel. “That was definitely not in the book, but thanks. Abu Hassim, isn’t it?”
    “Yes, Doctor. Sorry about that—good thing I was here.”
    “It certainly was. But all in a day’s work, I guess. Thanks again.”
    “Don’t mention it. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.
    “Not me, I’ve got the morning off.”
    “Lucky you.”
    He went out into a windswept rainy road. There was no one at the late night bus stop. He waited. In a few minutes, Molly drove out of the main gate at the wheel of a Land Rover. She pulled up and opened the passenger door.
    “Get in. It’s the least I can do.”
    “Why, thank you,” and he accepted it with every appearance of gratitude.
    “I’ve seen you coming out of that corner shop in Delamere Road,”
    Molly said.

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    “My uncle and aunt own it.”
    “Where are you from?”
    “Right here in good old London. I’m a Cockney Muslim.”
    “I’m sorry.” She laughed uncertainly.
    “Nothing to be sorry about. I like being what I am.”
    She felt in deep water for some reason, “Your parents . . .”
    “Are dead,” Abu said. “They were originally from Iraq. Two years ago, they returned for family reasons and were killed in a bombing.”
    She felt the most intense shock. “Oh, Abu, that’s terrible.”
    “So far to go, and so little time to do it.” His face remained calm. “But as we say: Inshallah, as God wills.”
    “I suppose so.” She pulled up outside the shop. “I’ll see you soon.”
    She was so nice and he liked her very much. It was such a pity she was what she was, but Allah had placed this duty on him, and he got out.
    “Sleep well, Doctor. Allah protect you.” He walked to the side door of the shop and she drove away, more tired than she had ever been and the electronic gates swung open and she was home.
    I N T H E S H O P, Abu and his uncle embraced. “A foul night and you are wet. Put this on.” The old man handed him a robe. “I’ll put some tea on. Your aunt has been called to Birmingham. Her