Angel of Death (12 page)

Dillon turned, aware of the other man against the wall. “Would you be Francis Callaghan?”

“Who in the hell are you?”

One of the men called in English, “Have a good night,” and the light was turned out, leaving only the darkness.

Dillon said, “I’m supposed to be Harry Gaunt, working for the United Nations and staying at the Al Bustan.”

“Supposed to be.”

“I’m Sean Dillon. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“My God, I can’t believe it. The big IRA gunman that turned sides and works for Brit Intelligence?”

“The same. I was following you.”

“And why would you do that?”

“I want Quinn, Francis me boy. We know all about this plutonium deal and Selim Rassi and Bikov, so don’t bother to deny it.”

“Screw you,” Callaghan said.

“Have you heard from Belfast lately? Daley, Jack Mullin, and four more of your lads, all dead, Francis. Six at one blow just like the tailor in the fairy tale, only his were flies on a slice of jam and bread.”

“You’re a bloody liar.”

“Sorry, old son, but it’s the truth. I stiffed five of them myself.”

There was a silence for a moment, then Callaghan said, “Jesus!”

“He can’t help and neither can I. You see, they don’t need me. They’re going to sell me back to my people. Turn the odd pound. But you,” Dillon said, “either you come up with the right answers or they’ll have your balls.”

“I’ve got to think this out.” Callaghan sounded desperate.

“Well you’ve got a long, cold night ahead of you to make a decision.” Dillon waded across the well, feeling at the wall. “My God, this place stinks.” There was a movement in the water. “Rats too. All the comforts of home.”

Callaghan said, “I hate rats.”

“Well, son, I think you’ll be used to them by morning.”

Dillon found a ledge, sat down, water up to his waist, and folded his arms.

It was perhaps an hour later that the light came on again above. Dillon glanced up and saw Walid Khasan peering over the wall.

“Are you there, Mr. Dillon?”

“Yes,” Dillon called. “And Callaghan’s with me.”

“I’m sorry, my friend. They picked me up when I returned to the cafe.”

“Are you joining us?” Dillon called.

“No. Omar, their leader, has decided he’ll ransom you for one hundred thousand English pounds. I’m being released to go back to the hotel to inform Chief Inspector Bernstein. I just wanted to assure myself you were alive and well.”

“I’m alive and
in
the well, as you can see,” Dillon told him. “I don’t know for how long. Double pneumonia coming up, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s rather cold down here.”

“Try and hang on. I’ll be back and don’t worry. I know this Omar. Whatever else, he’s a man of his word.”

“And Callaghan?”

“Out of our hands now. Omar has made it clear. Either he comes up with the information as to Quinn’s whereabouts by morning or he stays down there till he dies. Good-bye for the moment.”

The light went out and Callaghan said, “The bastards. All right for you, Dillon.”

“There’s always a choice, Francis. You can come clean and tell them what they want to know.”

“They’ll kill me anyway.”

“Maybe not. Quinn’s their business now, not mine, but you could still be of use to my boss, Brigadier Charles Ferguson, and you must know who he is.”

“Become an informer, you mean?”

“Absolutely. I’m sure you could tell him a great deal about all those friends of yours in the UFF and the UVF. You see, if a cease-fire comes with the IRA, it’s the Protestant Loyalists the British Government are going to have to worry about.”

“And so they should. We’ll give them hell for selling us out.”

“Not from the bottom of a well in Beirut. Tell me where Quinn can be found and I’ll see if we can do a deal with Omar. You’ll be of no further use to him, but to us . . . That’s a different story.”

“I’ll see you in hell first.”

“Suit yourself, son. You’ll be a long time dead.”

There was a swishing in the water. Callaghan said, “Oh, Christ, the rats are back.”

Hannah Bernstein had been worried for some time. It was taking too long. She sat in her room at the Al Bustan, gazing out to the bright lights of the city below.

“Damn you, Dillon, where are you?” she said softly.

Born into a wealthy upper-class Jewish family, her father a famous surgeon, her grandfather a rabbi, the best schools, then Cambridge, she had astounded everyone by joining the police, and her rise to Detective Chief Inspector in Special Branch had been meteoric. On two occasions she had shot people in the line of duty, so violence was not unknown to her, but her weakness was a rather rigid moral code that made it difficult for her to cope with the Dillon of the old days, the legendary IRA gunman. She could never see his slate as wiped clean no matter what he was doing now on the side of right. Having said that, the truth was she liked him too much.

The empty hotel room had begun to feel oppressive. She went downstairs to the bar, waved a waiter away, and went out on the terrace. Leaning on the balustrade, she looked down over the gardens to the brightly illuminated car park. At that moment, a taxi drove up and Walid Khasan got out.

He started up the steps to the terrace and she called, “Over here.”

He paused, glanced up, then hurried to join her. “We’ve got trouble, I’m afraid,” he said. “Serious trouble.”

Her stomach knotted. “Tell me.”

When he was finished, she said, “Can this Omar be trusted?”

“Oh yes, but judge for yourself.”

Walid turned and waved to the taxi. The rear door opened and Omar got out. He paused halfway up the steps to light a cigarette, then joined them, smiling pleasantly.

“Chief Inspector, what a pleasure.”

She became very formal, very much the police officer. “Can we rely on your good faith?”

“Absolutely. We of Dark Wind always keep our word.”

“See that you do.” She glanced at Walid Khasan. “I’ll speak to the Brigadier. Obviously you’ll act as our contact in this matter.”

“Of course.”

She turned to Omar. “We’ll be in touch then.”

“A pleasure meeting you, Chief Inspector,” he said, turned, and went down the steps.

Beirut at that time of the year being three hours ahead of London, it was just before eight at the Cavendish Square flat and Charles Ferguson was about to leave for dinner at the Garrick Club when the phone rang.

“Bernstein,” she said. “Bad news, I’m afraid.”

Ferguson listened to what she had to say, then sighed. “Oh dear, what a bloody mess.”

“Can anything be done, sir?”

“Oh yes, plenty of cash in the contingency fund. Anticipating the need to perhaps get you out in a hurry, I ordered the RAF to respray one of our Lear jets in United Nations strip. That way it can land at Beirut International Airport. We’ll fly via Cyprus.”

“We, sir?”

“Yes, I’d better come myself. I’ll be with you to-morrow, Chief Inspector.”

“Thank God for that.”

“One thing you can do. You demand to see Dillon personally, to assure yourself he’s still in one piece. You also tell this chap Omar that I want Callaghan, too. This present job’s blown, of course, but he could be very useful to us. Fountain of knowledge as regards the Protestant movement.”

“Right, sir.”

“Be of good heart, Chief Inspector, I’ll be with you soon.”

When Walid Khasan and Hannah were led into the room, Omar stood up behind the desk. “A pleasure to see you again, Chief Inspector, and so soon.”

“Let’s make this brief.” She was as cold and formal as if charging someone at West End Central Police Station. “Brigadier Ferguson arrives tomorrow and your terms will be met.”

“Excellent.”

“Just one thing. You give us Callaghan too.”

“That could be arranged.” He shrugged. “ Depending on his willingness to give us the information we need.”

“Right, I’ll speak to Dillon now and I’ll make that point clear.”

The lights turned on and Dillon glanced up to see her peer down. “You all right, Dillon?”

“I’ve been better, girl dear, but you shouldn’t be here in such bad company.”

“We’ll have you out tomorrow. The Brigadier’s flying in.”

“Now isn’t he the grand man?”

“Are you there, Callaghan?” she called.

“And where else would I bloody be?”

“We’ve struck a deal. Tell them where to find Quinn and they’ll let you leave with us.”

“And then what?”

“You’ll fly back to London and sing your heart out.”

“Screw you.”

“Then they’ll leave you down there to rot. Your choice.” She leaned over further. “Bye for now, Dillon. See you soon.”

The lights went out and Callaghan said, “Lousy, stinking bitch.”

“Oh, she can be all of that.” Dillon laughed. “But I like her.”

It was unbelievably cold down there, and after a few hours Dillon found that he’d somehow got used to the stench, but not the cold — that was mind-numbing. Sitting on the ledge, leaning back, he actually dozed off and came awake in a split second to hear Callaghan.

“Get away from me, damn you!”

There was a splash in the water and Dillon felt a rat scurry across his arm. “Are you all right, Francis?”

“No, I’m bloody well not.”

Dillon checked his watch, which was a Rolex diver’s, the face phosphorescent. “Seven-thirty. Break of a new day. They’ll be starting to serve a traditional English breakfast at the Al Bustan. Fried eggs, bacon, sausage, toast and marmalade, nice hot pot of tea or coffee.”

“Shut your mouth,” Callaghan said.

“I can dream, can’t I? That’s exactly what I’m going to have when the Brigadier arrives and gets me out of here. Nice long hot shower to get rid of the stink, clean clothes, and then that breakfast. Doesn’t matter what time of day it is, I want the breakfast.”

“Screw you, Dillon. I know what you’re trying to do.”

“I’m not trying to do anything, Francis. Our operation to catch Quinn is blown. It’s Dark Wind’s business now. We’re out. You could have been useful back in London, but if you prefer to be a hero of the glorious revolution — if that’s how you see yourself — well that’s your problem.”

“Shut up, will you? Just shut up!”

Beirut International Airport was served only by the national carrier MEA, but when Ferguson arrived at nine o’clock in the morning after a night flight via Cyprus, the Lear jet in its United Nations colors was accepted without question, as were the papers the forgery department at the Ministry of Defence in London had supplied at such short notice. Hannah Bernstein and Walid Khasan met him as he came through into the terminal. He wore a linen suit and Panama hat and Guards tie and carried his Malacca cane. He handed his overnight bag to Walid Khasan and kissed Hannah on the cheek.

“You’re looking agitated, my dear.”

“I’ve a right to be.”

“Not at all.” He nodded to Walid Khasan. “It’s been a long time.”

They went out to the yellow taxi, where Walid’s man, Ali, sat behind the wheel. Walid sat in the front and Ferguson and Hannah in the rear.

“Shall we go straight there?” Walid asked.

“Good God, no,” Ferguson said. “I need a shower and some breakfast. Do this fellow Omar good to wait.”

“And what about Dillon, sir?” Hannah demanded.

“And since when did you get worked up about his welfare, Chief Inspector? He’ll survive.” He opened his briefcase and took out some colored faxes, which he passed to Walid Khasan. “Is this them?”

Walid nodded. “That’s Selim Rassi, and the other is the Russian, Bikov.”

“Good.” Ferguson took them back and put them in the briefcase.

Hannah Bernstein said, “But does that matter, sir? I don’t understand.”

“You will, my dear,” Ferguson told her. “You will.”

It was still very dark down there in spite of the fact that it was eleven o’clock in the morning when Dillon checked his watch. He hadn’t heard a sound from Callaghan for a while.

“Are you still with us, Francis?”

There was a splashing sound, then Callaghan said warily, “Only just.” He sounded terrible. “I can’t take much more, Dillon.”

At that moment the light was turned on up above and Omar leaned over. “Your friends are here, Mr. Dillon. Our business has been concluded satisfactorily, so we’ll bring you up now. We’ll drop the rope.”

“What about Callaghan?”

“Has he spoken?”

“No.”

“Then he stays. Here comes the rope now.”

As it dropped down, Callaghan surged through the water and grabbed at Dillon. “Don’t leave me. I’ve had enough, Dillon. Can’t take any more, not on my own.”

“Steady, son.” Dillon put one arm around him and reached for the rope. “Just tell me about Quinn.”

“He’s on a freighter called
Alexandrine
, Algerian registration. It’s anchored about a mile out of the harbor. There was a meeting arranged on board for seven o’clock tonight with Selim Rassi and Bikov. The Russian’s delivering the plutonium then.”

“The truth, is it?” Dillon said. “If you’re lying, these lads up above will skin you.”

“I swear it.” Callaghan sounded desperate. “Just get me out, Dillon. Take me to London with you. I’ve had enough.”

“Sensible lad.” Dillon pulled the loop over him and under his armpits. “Haul away,” he called.

He waited as Callaghan rose above him and was pulled over the edge of the well. The rope came down again. Dillon pulled it over his head.

“Here we go.”

He went up quite quickly, pushing his feet against the side, and hands reached to pull him over the round wall. They were all there, Omar and his two men, Anya, Walid Khasan, Hannah, Ferguson, and Callaghan draped in a blanket.

“Good God, Dillon, you stink like a sewer,” Ferguson said.

“I think it
was
a sewer,” Dillon told him.

Hannah passed him a blanket, concern on her face. “You look terrible.”

Ferguson said, “So, our friend here decided to speak up, did he?”