Angel of Death (13 page)

“Freighter called the
Alexandrine
about a mile out of the harbor. Algerian flag. Quinn’s out there now. There’s a meeting with Rassi and Bikov at seven when the plutonium passes over.”

Ferguson smiled fiercely. “Excellent. Everything comes to he who waits.” He turned to Walid Khasan. “Don’t you agree, Major?”

“I certainly do.” Khasan’s English had lost its accent.

“Major?” Hannah Bernstein said, looking bewildered.

“Yes, allow me to introduce Major Gideon Cohen of Mossad.”

“Israeli Intelligence?” she said. “You didn’t tell me.”

“What’s more to the point, he didn’t tell me,” Dillon said.

“Yes, well I didn’t want to spoil your performance, dear boy. I mean, we all know what a brilliant actor you were at RADA.”

“And still am, you old bastard.”

“Yes, well I thought the real thing would give you an edge and I knew you would cope. You always do, Dillon.”

“And what about me, Brigadier?” Hannah demanded. “You didn’t trust me, that’s what it came down to.”

“Not at all. Thought you’d give a better performance if you thought it was for real, just like Dillon.”

They were all laughing and Omar lit a cigarette and put it in Dillon’s mouth. “Captain Moshe Levy.”

“All Mossad?” Dillon asked.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Even Anya.”

She laughed. “And still Anya. Lieutenant Anya Shamir.”

“You’re mad, the lot of you,” Dillon said. “ Operating here in Beirut like this. Israelis. They’d hang you in the marketplace.”

“Oh, we manage,” Gideon Cohen said.

“Will somebody tell me what’s going on here?” Francis Callaghan asked and turned to Dillon. “This whole thing was a fucking setup, is that what they’re saying?”

“So it would appear, Francis.”

“You rotten, lousy bunch of bowsers.” Callaghan jumped up, the blanket slipping down, revealing the filth that covered his clothes. He was almost in tears.

Ferguson said, “Don’t be a silly boy. You’ve really done rather well. You’ll fly back to London and answer every question the Chief Inspector here asks you.”

“And what if I tell her to stuff it?”

“Ah, well in that event you’ll just have to stand trial at the Old Bailey as a participant in numerous bombings and murders. Plenty unsolved on the files that we can hang on you. I’d say you could draw about four life sentences.”

Callaghan slumped in the chair, mouth open, staring at him. It was Dillon who said with surprising gentleness, “It’s coming to an end, Francis, twenty-five years of slaughter. Be sensible and help that end to come about. You do what the Brigadier wants and you won’t end up in a cell for the rest of your life.”

Callaghan nodded, looking dazed. “But I should have met Daniel last night. How do you know how he’s reacting to my disappearance? Maybe he’s changed the meet?”

“Leave that to us, boy.” Ferguson nodded to Moshe Levy and he and his two men lifted Callaghan up and Anya followed.

“Now what?” Dillon demanded.

“Well, I think it would be useful if Major Cohen arranged for a little reconnaissance, just to check that the
Alexandrine
is still at anchor out there. Once we know that position, we’ll decide on what to do tonight.”

“I’ll go out myself in a speedboat,” Cohen told him and wrinkled his nose. “You really do stink, Dillon.”

“You realize there were rats down there?” Dillon said. “One bite and you could get Weil’s disease. I mean, forty percent of people who get that die.”

“Not you, Dillon,” Hannah Bernstein said. “You’ve so much Bushmills Irish Whiskey in your blood, it’s the rat who would die. Now for God’s sake, let’s get you back to the Al Bustan and a bath.”

Dillon stood in a hot shower for a solid thirty minutes, lathering his body with shower gel, shampooing his hair several times. Finally, he turned the bath taps on, padded to his suite to find the ice box. There was a half bottle of Bollinger champagne. He opened it, found a glass, went and climbed into the bath and just lay there, stewing in the hot water and luxuriating in the ice-cold champagne.

After a while, the wall phone rang and he picked it up. “Dillon.”

“It’s me,” Hannah said. “Are you decent?”

“How dare you suggest such a terrible thing.”

“Very funny. Major Cohen’s turned up. The Brigadier’s meeting him on the terrace. He wants both of us there.”

“Ten minutes,” Dillon said. “I’ll see you down there.” He replaced the phone, finished the champagne, climbed out of the bath, and reached for a towel.

The terrace was bright in the afternoon sunshine, the awnings billowing in the breeze. When Dillon arrived, Ferguson, Hannah, and Cohen were sitting at a table under an umbrella by the balustrade.

“Well I must say you smell better,” Ferguson observed.

“I’ll ignore that.” Dillon turned to Cohen. “All right, Major, what’s the situation?”

“The
Alexandrine
is there all right. There are quite a few ocean-going ships at anchor that far out, so it was easy to have a run round in a speedboat and check the situation.”

“Anything unusual?”

“Definitely. Security lights rigged all the way round the entire ship. I’d say it’s going to be very difficult to get anywhere near in darkness, and it will be dark at seven.”

Hannah said, “Look, what if we forget about the
Alexandrine
? What if we concentrate on intercepting Bikov and Rassi before they actually get out there?”

“Not possible,” Cohen said. He took a map from his pocket and unfolded it. “This is Beirut. Now out there is the
Alexandrine
, and here” — he tapped a finger — “here are three yacht basins and two areas of high density for small craft. If Quinn has been alerted to Callaghan’s disappearance, the last thing he will do is take a speedboat from the area I first saw them.”

There was silence. Hannah said, “Then what do we do? If the ship is protected by security lights, we couldn’t make an approach.”

“Oh yes we could,” Ferguson said. “We could go in underwater.”

Dillon groaned. “You mean I could.”

“He’s really too modest, Major,” Ferguson said. “He actually blew up some PLO boats the other year in this very harbor and on behalf of your people.”

“Yes, I’m very well aware of that fact,” Cohen said. “I’ve studied the file.” He smiled at the Irishman. “I’ll be honest, Dillon, none of my people are underwater specialists. You’d be on your own.”

“Jesus!” Dillon said. “Tell me something new.”

“I can get you anything you want as regards scuba equipment. Anything.”

“How kind,” Dillon said. “I’ll call again. Could you also get me a little Semtex and a few timer pencils?”

“Yes, that would be no problem.”

“What on earth is this, Dillon?” Ferguson put in. “Semtex? We don’t need to blow the damn ship up.”

“Maybe we do,” Dillon said. “Maybe we do.” He turned to Cohen. “Now let’s see how we’re going to do this.”

It was already dark by six-fifteen, when Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah Bernstein, on a small private dock next to a yachting marina, watched Cohen and Moshe Levy check the diving equipment. There were two air tanks, an inflatable jacket, a pair of nylon fins, an underwater torch, and a dive bag.

Dillon was already wearing a black nylon diving suit and cowl. He opened the dive bag and took out a Browning Hi-Power. There was a Carswell silencer, which he screwed on the end, and a twenty-round clip.

“You’re going to war again,” Hannah said.

“That’s right.” He took a block of Semtex from the bag and two pencil timers. “Three minutes?” he asked Cohen.

“Yes,” the Major said. “That’s what you asked for and that’s what I’ve done, but I think you’re crazy.”

“I usually am.”

“You’re sure you’ll recognize them?” Hannah demanded.

“Jesus, girl, I saw those fax pictures the Brigadier brought, didn’t I?”

Ferguson, who had been a silent observer, said, “Let him get on with it, Chief Inspector.”

“And save the free world?” Dillon laughed. “Isn’t it interesting that it’s always sods like me that have to do it, Brigadier?” He turned to Cohen, who had finished loading the large inflatable tied to the dock, helped by Levy.

“You and me, Major,” Dillon said and climbed down.

Levy untied the line securing them to the dock and at that moment, Hannah stepped down.

“Chief Inspector,” Ferguson said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going along for the ride, sir, just for once. I’m tired of being a bystander.”

Dillon laughed out loud and she nodded to Cohen, who started the twin outboard motors, and they slipped away from the dock into the darkness.

All the security lights were on view as they coasted in toward the
Alexandrine
. Cohen cut the engines about a hundred yards out and they came to a halt and just floated, virtually motionless. The Israeli produced a night sight and had a look toward the general harbor.

“Something coming. A motor boat.”

It appeared from the shadows into the pool of light surrounding the
Alexandrine
and coasted in to the ship’s ladder. Two men clambered over and started up.

“That’s them, Bikov and Rassi.” He passed the sight to Dillon. “See for yourself.”

Dillon had only seconds to catch them before they reached the deck. He nodded. “Looks like them to me. Let’s do it.”

He passed the sight to Cohen, went and put on a weight belt, then clamped a tank to his inflatable and pulled it on, fastening the Velcro tabs across his chest. He hooked the diving bag at his waist. He took out the Hi-Power and slipped the weapon inside his jacket.

“I don’t like it, this diving,” Hannah whispered. “It’s not natural.”

“The only danger is from going deep,” he said. “The air we breathe is part oxygen and nitrogen. The deeper I go, the more nitrogen is absorbed, and that’s when the trouble starts, only I’m not going deep. I’ll cross to the
Alexandrine
at fifteen or twenty feet. No sweat.” He pulled on his mask. “Do you still love me?”

“Go to hell, Dillon!” she said.

“I’ve been doing that for a long time now, dear girl,” he said and fell back into the water.

Dillon's approach took only a few moments. He surfaced by the platform at the bottom of the steel stairway at the side of the ship. He eased out of the inflatable and tank and clipped them to the rail beside the platform, then clambered up onto the platform. He opened his jacket and took out the Browning and cocked it. At that very moment, an Arab seaman holding an AK-47 appeared at the top of the stairs and started down. He saw Dillon and tried to bring the gun to bear, but Dillon shot him instantly, the silenced weapon making a dull thud as it hit the Arab in the chest and knocked him over the rail into the water.

Dillon started up the stairway and a voice called in Arabic, “Achmed, where are you?”

Dillon paused. Another Arab appeared, also armed with an AK-47. He stood there, quite unconcerned, and Dillon took careful aim and shot him in the head. The man dropped his rifle and went over the rail into the water.

A hundred yards away in the darkness Hannah Bernstein, looking through the night sight, shuddered. “My God, there were guards, two of them.”

“What did he do?” Cohen asked.

“He shot them both.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” and he took the night sight from her gently.

Dillon moved along the deck, keeping to the shadows. He heard laughter, peered through a porthole, and found half a dozen sailors playing cards, smoking and drinking.

“And merciful Allah wouldn’t be too pleased about that,” he said softly and moved on.

He came to some sort of salon, glanced in through a square window, and found Selim Rassi and Daniel Quinn sitting on either side of a table. There was a small briefcase between them. There was no sign of the Russian.

Dillon opened the salon door and stepped inside. Quinn had his back to him, but the Arab saw him at once and reached inside his jacket. Dillon shot him twice in the heart, sending him backwards in his chair.

Quinn turned, his own chair going over, and Dillon said, “Easy, Danny boy, easy.”

“Who in the hell are you?” Quinn demanded.

“Oh, we go back a long way, you and me — Derry in the old days. Sean Dillon, Danny, your worst nightmare.”

“Dillon.” Quinn’s face was pale. “You fucking bastard. Working for the Brits now.”

“But I thought that was your side, Danny? Make your mind up. Now open the case.”

“You go to hell.”

Dillon’s hand came up, he fired, and part of Quinn’s right ear disintegrated. He lurched against the table, a hand to his ear.

Dillon said, “Open it!”

Quinn unclipped the briefcase. Inside were two objects resembling thermos flasks. Dillon picked one up and slipped it in his dive bag. He did the same with the other.

“What have I got here?”

“Plutonium 239. Three hundred grams.”

Dillon said, “That could take out half of Dublin.”

“For God’s sake, Dillon, you’re not with the IRA anymore. We can show the fucking Fenians we mean business.”

“It’s finished, Danny,” Dillon said. “Peace coming whether you like it or not. We’ve got Callaghan. He’ll sing like a bird. I killed Daley in Belfast and five of your foot soldiers. You’re finished, me ould son.”

The door opened behind him, he turned, dropping to one knee, and found Bikov there. Dillon fired twice, knocking him out to the deck, and behind him Quinn dropped behind the desk, drew a pistol, and fired at the same time, shouting at the top of his voice.

Dillon went out, crouching low in time to catch the seamen emerging onto the deck farther along. Several of them were armed, and when they saw him they fired.

He darted to the other side of the ship, paused beside the engine room, and took out the Semtex block. He activated both three-minute timers, raised the engine room hatch and dropped them in, then he went up a ladder to the top deck.

Cohen had been watching through the night sight. As gunfire cracked, Hannah said, “What is it?”