The Death Trade by Jack Higgins

began, Claude Duval stood in full uniform to marshal the line of observers. He saw Dillon and Sara and beckoned.
    â€œOff you go,” Dillon told her. “Best of luck.”
    The crowd parted to let her through, and people noted her good looks, her uniform and medals. Duval, very serious, very military, placed her about halfway in line and one of his aides led them to the front of the audience facing the platform in front of an empty row.
    Duval waited at a side door on the right. The music of the band ended with a flourish and a voice over the loudspeaker echoed, “Please rise to welcome Dr. Simon Husseini.”
    Everyone stood and applauded as Husseini entered. Of medium height, he wore a black suit and college tie but looked older than his mid-sixties, mainly because his white hair was too long. There was a kind of melancholy to him, and his smile seemed strained as he waved to the crowd. He and Duval spoke together, and then a voice echoed from the loudspeaker again.
    â€œPlease be seated.”
    The band played music softly and Husseini and Duval started along the line of observers, not all of whom were in uniform. Sara’s stomach was hollow, her throat was dry, and she tried to swallow to moisten it, aware of the voices as they approached, speaking in French, of course, and then the moment came.
    â€œ
Capitaine
Sara Gideon,” Duval said.
    He was standing slightly back from Husseini’s left shoulder, his face calm, giving nothing away, but Husseini knew her, of course, it was in the eyes, she could tell that instantly. The slight smile was no more than was required and he shook her hand, aware as he did so of the folded slip.
    â€œI’m enchanted to meet you,
Capitaine
,” he said in French. “Your medals pay homage to your extraordinary bravery.”
    â€œA privilege to meet you, Doctor,” she replied in the same language.
    â€œNo,
Capitaine
, the privilege is mine.” He passed on, Duval nodded and followed.
    What came afterward meant little to her, for the meeting had had a profound effect, the emotion of seeing him again after so many years. The fanfare sounded, the President entered, several people were called up to receive awards, and then Husseini, and then suddenly, it was all over. People stood up and milled around, some making their way toward the champagne on offer. Duval, passing her, saluted, speaking formally in case they were heard by anyone close.
    â€œSo kind of you to come, Captain. We are very grateful.” Then he quickly murmured in a quiet voice, “I’ll speak to you later.”
    He turned away and Dillon pushed through, reached her, and smiled. “Did it work, did he recognize you?”
    â€œOh yes,” she said. “I’ve never been more certain. Where is he now?”
    â€œBehind you,” Dillon said, “with our Iranian friends. That gargoyle Rasoul is pushing his way through the crowd, followed by Khan and Husseini. Wali Vahidi and Declan Rashid are bringing up the rear, and doesn’t
he
look good in uniform. I think he’s got even more medals than you.”
    â€œYou can’t take anything seriously for a moment, can you, Sean?” She turned to see the Iranian group pass by and she was recognized, no doubt about that. Rasoul scowled, Khan glared, and Husseini ignored her. Dillon and Declan smiled, swept a little close by pressure of the crowd.
    â€œCaptain Gideon, a pleasure to see you again, and you, Mr. Dillon.”
    â€œGod save the good work, Colonel,” Dillon told him, pushing people away. “But, one Irishman to a half Irishman, we do seem to meet up in some funny old places.”
    â€œSo it would appear.” Declan Rashid was laughing, and then was swept away after the others.
    â€œYou like him, don’t you?” Dillon said.
    â€œI suppose I do.” Sara nodded. “He’s an easy man to like. A fine soldier, decent, honorable.”
    â€œI agree,”