Angel of Death (10 page)

She examined the photo and passed it to Lang. “He looks mean.”

“He is.” He passed her another photo. “Frank Sharp, one of the most notorious gang bosses in the East End of London, intends a deal with him at the moment. If Sharp meets his terms, Silsev will bring in heroin with a street value in excess of a hundred million pounds.”

“Why should you mind? I didn’t think you were in the business of doing good,” Grace said.

“I take your point. In my own defense, I hate drugs, and people who trade in them disgust me, but the feud between my people of the GRU and the KGB, or whatever name they choose to call themselves, is of prime importance. The kind of money Silsev would make from this deal would give them too much power.”

“I see.”

“My sources at the Embassy tell me that Silsev and Sharp are to meet tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock at the Karl Marx Memorial in Highgate Cemetery.”

“I know where that is. I’ve been there.”

“It’s face-to-face stuff, no one else allowed, so Sharp won’t have his minders with him.”

There was a short silence. Grace Browning turned to the others. Curry’s face was pale and even Rupert Lang looked grave.

“Moment of truth, my friends,” she said and turned back to Belov. “How do you want it done?”

It was raining hard when the Mercedes Limousine drew up by the main gates of Highgate Cemetery shortly before four o’clock on the following afternoon.

The man in the chauffeur’s uniform at the wheel said, “Sure you don’t want me to come, guv?”

“No need, Bert, this guy’s kosher. Too much in it for him not to be. Give me the umbrella. I won’t be long.”

He got out of the car, a large, fleshy man of fifty in a dark blue overcoat, put the umbrella up, and went in through the gates. Dusk was already falling and what with the rain, the cemetery was deserted. He followed the path through a jumble of graves, monuments, and marble angels. There were trees here and there and it was all rather overgrown. Sharp didn’t mind. He’d always liked the place, had always liked cemeteries if it came to that. Up ahead was the monument with the huge head, Karl Marx.

Sharp stood looking up at it, took out a cigarette, and lit it. “Commie bastard,” he said softly.

Major Silsev stepped round from the other side. He was small, eyes close set, wore a trilby hat and raincoat, and like Sharp held an umbrella.

“Ah, there you are, Mr. Sharp.”

“Yes, here I bleeding well am,” Sharp told him. “Wet and cold and I don’t like all this cloak and dagger stuff so let’s get on with it.”

At that moment an engine roared into life, and as they turned a motorcycle emerged from a clump of trees and came toward them, the rider wearing black helmet and leathers.

“What the hell?” Sharp cried as it skidded to a halt.

Silsev turned to run, but Grace pulled the Beretta from the front of her leather jacket and shot him in the back.

“Bastard!” Sharp cried and his hand came out of his overcoat pocket clutching a revolver. Before he could raise it, she shot him between the eyes and he went down. Silsev was still twitching. As she moved past, she leaned over and finished him with a head shot.

A few moments later she emerged through the main gate, a dark and anonymous figure as she drove past the Mercedes, where Bert sat behind the wheel reading the
Standard
.

She moved through the evening traffic of Highgate Road into Kentish Town and then to Camden, finally turning into a yard in a side street near Camden Lock. There was a large truck, the rear door open, a ramp sloping up inside. As she ran the motorcycle up and put it on its stand, Curry, behind her, closed the yard gate.

He didn’t say a word, simply stood waiting while she stripped off the leathers and helmet, revealing jeans and a tee shirt underneath. He opened a hold-all bag he was carrying and offered her a nylon anorak and a baseball cap and she put them on quickly.

“Right, let’s get out of here.” Curry closed the truck door and opened the gates. “Belov’s people will clear up.”

She handed him the Beretta and he slipped it in the hold-all. “Everything okay?”

“If you mean did I kill Sharp and Silsev, yes. What with Ashimov, London’s not going to be a favored KGB posting.”

“I expect not.” They were approaching a telephone kiosk. He said, “Give me a minute.”

A few seconds later the news desk at the
Times
received the call claiming responsibility for the deaths of Major Ivan Silsev and Frank Sharp by January 30 as a direct response to their involvement in the drug trade.

Curry paused on the corner of Camden High Street and hailed a cab. “You all right?” he asked.

“Never better.”

“Good. Rupert’s got tickets for
Sunset Boulevard
. We’re eating at Daphne’s afterwards. Does that suit?”

“Fantastic. Just get me home. As a great writer once said, a bath and a change of clothes and I can go on forever.”

A cab slid in to the curb and he opened the door for her.

When Grace entered the piano bar at the Dorchester, it was just before seven. Guiliano, the manager, met her with pleasure, kissed her hand, and took her down to the far corner beside the piano where Lang, Curry, and Belov waited. She looked quite spectacular in a black beaded shift, black stockings and shoes.

Belov waved off a waiter and started to pour from a bottle of Cristal champagne. “You look wonderful.”

At that moment Guiliano came up. “The late edition of the
Standard
. I thought you might like to see it. A double shooting in Highgate by some terrorist group. Isn’t it terrible? Not safe to be out these days.”

He walked away. Rupert Lang laughed; even Tom Curry was having difficulty. Belov raised his glass, looked at Grace, and she smiled slightly.

“What can I say after that except, to you, my friends,” and he toasted them.

The Lebanon was kind of Arab Belfast, a setting for destruction unparalleled in modern world history. The country had once been the Switzerland of the Middle East, with Beirut its capital as popular with the wealthy of the world as the south of France, and yet since 1975, when serious fighting had broken out between members of the Christian Phalangist Party and the Muslim Militia, only death and destruction had followed.

In his room on the fourth floor of the Al Bustan Hotel, Sean Dillon poured out a small Bushmills from the bottle he had brought with him. He’d need to conserve it. He was just adding a little mineral water when there was a knock on the door. He put down his glass and went to open it. Hannah Bernstein stood there, wearing a linen suit the color of pale straw, and tinted glasses.

“Ah, Miss Cooper,” he said.

“Mr. Gaunt.”

“Come in.”

He went back to the window and picked up his drink and she joined him.

“It looks quite a place,” she said.

“Used to be the most sophisticated place in the Middle East. Nearly three million people, Christians, Muslim, and Druses.”

“And what went wrong?”

“Emerging Arab fundamentalism. It was originally French, which gave it a very sophisticated base, then in seventy-five the Christians and Muslims got stuck into each other, then Palestine refugees moved in and made things worse. After that, the Israelis, then the Syrians, then the Israelis again, but there’s always that Arab fundamentalism eating away at the heart of things in the Middle East. Don’t know the answer.” He raised his glass. “Here endeth the lesson.”

“Very unhealthy,” she said. “Poor old Dillon. You’re a doer, not a philosopher. Let’s remember that and get on with it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Now if you’ll put your jacket on and come next door to my room, Walid Khasan is on his way up.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

He picked up a lightweight navy-blue blazer and followed her next door. Her room was exactly like his and he checked the French windows to the terrace. There was a knock at the door. When Hannah opened it, a man in his mid-forties stood there. He wore a crumpled white suit, had long black hair, a wrinkled face and olive skin.

“Good afternoon. I am Walid Khasan.” He spoke with a strong foreign accent.

“Amy Cooper,” Hannah told him, “and this is Harry Gaunt. Do come in.”

“Please, this is not necessary,” he said as he entered and placed a briefcase on the table. “I am very well aware of who you are, Miss Bernstein, and you, Mr. Dillon.”

She closed the door and Dillon said in fluent Arabic, “So Ferguson filled you in totally?”

“Yes, but then he usually does,” Walid Khasan replied in the same language.

“Good.” Dillon switched back to English. “I’m afraid the Chief Inspector has no Arabic.”

“Hebrew only, I’m afraid,” Hannah said.

Walid Khasan replied at once in excellent Hebrew. “Oh, I can speak that also, but it is not to be recommended in Beirut. The Israelis are not popular here.”

“What a pity,” she said in Hebrew. “I’ll remember that, of course. We have enough problems.”

Walid Khasan opened the briefcase, took out two Walther PPK pistols with silencers, and several clips of ammunition. “I trust these will hold you. I can supply heavier artillery, Mr. Dillon, if necessary, but I’ll require notice.”

“You’ll get it when necessary.” Dillon checked the Walther and put it in his waistband at the rear and an extra clip in his blazer pocket. Hannah put hers in her shoulder bag.

“So,” Dillon said, “what about our friends from Belfast?”

Walid Khasan opened the French window and sat down in a wicker chair. “Francis Callaghan is staying here on the floor below and uses his own name. He’s supposed to represent an Irish electronics firm from Cork. I’ve checked and the firm is genuine. They specialize in hotel contracts, security, and that sort of thing.”

Hannah leaned on the rail and Dillon sat opposite Khasan. “And Quinn?”

“I’ve seen him only once and he certainly isn’t staying here.”

“What happened?” Hannah asked.

“I’ve had Callaghan followed by people working for me. He seems to have spent his time as any tourist would. Visiting historic remains, shopping.” He smiled. “It may surprise you, but there is still a certain normality here.”

“And nothing out of the ordinary?” she asked.

“Oh yes. One day, when I was following him myself, he had lunch at a cafe right on the waterfront. The sort of place dockworkers might use. He met Daniel Quinn there.” He smiled. “The Brigadier supplied me with color faxes of these men. It was definitely Quinn.”

“You’re sure?” Hannah demanded.

“Oh yes. More interesting was the fact that they were joined by two men I am familiar with. Selim Rassi, a very important figure in the Party of God movement, and a man from the Russian Embassy called Ilya Bikov. He’s supposed to be in public relations, but he’s a Captain in the Federal Service of Counter Espionage.”

“KGB,” Dillon said.

“Change the name, but the same smell. They went down to a dock, boarded a high-speed boat, and took off. I couldn’t follow, so I don’t know where they went. A lot of shipping out there.”

“So what happens now?” Hannah Bernstein asked.

Walid Khasan smiled. “Callaghan always has a drink in the bar around six o’clock.” He checked his watch. “Which is in about ten minutes. Shall we go?”

The lounge bar was very pleasant, windows open to a terrace, and the view overlooked the city, the harbor crowded with shipping, the blue waters of the Mediterranean sparkling in the fading sunshine as evening fell. There was no sign of Callaghan, but there was a sudden call to prayer from a mosque down there in the city, then another and yet another, the sounds echoing across the rooftops.

“Very pleasant,” Hannah Bernstein said. “And yet in the middle of all this people have to kill each other.”

“A very old-fashioned habit in this part of the world,” Walid Khasan told her.

At that moment Francis Callaghan came up the steps from the garden and sat down at a table at the other end of the terrace. Dillon, Hannah, and Walid Khasan sat down at a table at their end of the terrace. When a waiter approached, Walid Khasan ordered a pitcher of lemonade for all of them.

“You can’t get alcohol until after seven,” he said to Dillon apologetically.

“I’ll do my best to hang on,” Dillon said.

Francis Callaghan waved a waiter away and took what looked like a diary from his pocket. He flipped through the pages, put it back into his pocket, and lit a cigarette.

“He’s waiting for someone,” said Hannah. “ Perhaps Quinn?”

“I doubt it,” Walid Khasan told her. “As I told you, the only time Quinn has surfaced was at that dockside cafe. I think our friend Callaghan is simply filing time. He may have an appointment to see Quinn later.”

“Fine,” Dillon said. “When he goes, we follow him.” He turned to Hannah. “You stay here and hold the fort.”

“Thanks very much,” she said indignantly.

“Don’t be so sensitive. You need to make a progress report to Ferguson, don’t you? That link is essential especially if we need to move fast to get out of Beirut.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She made a face. “Damn you, Dillon. Next time round I’m going to be a man.”

Callahan made his move about twenty minutes later, passing them on the way into the hotel.

“Here we go,” Dillon said to Hannah. “See you later,” and he and Walid Khasan got up and followed Callaghan.

He crossed the foyer, went out of the front entrance, and hailed a taxi. As it took off, Walid Khasan led the way across to another taxi. He pushed Dillon into the rear and scrambled in after him.

“If you lose him, Ali,” he said to the swarthy Arab behind the wheel, “I’ll have your manhood.” He leaned back and smiled at Dillon. “One of my men.”

Charles Ferguson in his office at the Ministry of Defence listened to what Hannah Bernstein had to say.

“So far so good,” he said. “With any luck, Callaghan could lead us straight to Quinn. You could be out of there in twenty-four hours.”