Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sebastian Gault / The Hotel Ishtar, Baghdad / Five days ago

“LINE?”

“Clear,” said the Fighter.

“What have you to report, my friend?” Gault was chin deep in a tub of soapy water, the Goldberg Variations playing quietly on the CD player. The young woman in the other room was asleep—knowing this call was coming in, Toys had slipped something into her drink before escorting her to Gault’s room. She’d sleep for four more hours and wake up without feeling any adverse effects. It was useful being a chemist and having an assistant without a conscience.

El Mujahid said, “Everything in place.”

“Jolly good. Once you complete the first stage my lads in the Red Cross will make sure the correct transfers take place. With any luck you should be on a hospital ship heading out of the Gulf by midnight.”

“Sebastian . . . ?” said El Mujahid.

“Yes?”

“I’m putting a lot of trust in you. I expect you to hold up your end of things.”

“My hand to Allah,” Gault said as he used his toes to turn on the hot water tap, “you can certainly trust me. Everything will go smoothly.”

There was a short silence at the other end of the line, and then the Fighter said, “Tell my wife I love her.”

Gault smiled up at the ceiling. “Of course I will, my old friend. Go with God.”

He clicked off and tossed the phone onto the closed lid of the toilet. He was laughing when he did it.