Dark Justice (19 page)

"I like this place," he said. "Give me a card," which she did, and he added, "While I'm here, I might as well have something to eat. Is the pub any good?"

"It's all right. Pies, sandwiches, that sort of thing. You won't find anyone in there now except my granddad. He's got nothing better to do than drink beer with no one staying in the trailers."

He gave her a dazzling smile. "I'll give it a go."

She was right, for when he went in the pub it was exactly what he would have expected. A stone-flagged floor, an oaken bar backed by bottles, a beamed ceiling, about twenty empty tables and a log fire on an open hearth. An old man in a padded jacket and tweed cap was seated by the fire drinking a pint of beer.

A middle-aged woman appeared from somewhere at the back of the bar, drying her hands. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Took the wrong road from Horsham and lost my way. I'll have a beer, just one since I'm driving, and maybe you could find me a cheese sandwich. The young lady at the garage suggested I come in."

"That would be Betty."

"My granddaughter," the old man called. "Harold Laker's my name."

"Maybe I could buy you a beer," Ivanov said.

"A pint of bitter wouldn't be a burden."

"The old scrounger." The woman smiled. "Go on, you join him and I'll bring your drinks and the sandwiches."

Harold Laker was eighty years old and boasted of it. He'd been born on a local farm, worked all his life in the village, and he demolished a pint and accepted another as Ivanov kept him talking.

"Of course, it wasn't just the farming in the old days. There was the fishing, the foxhunting, though that's long gone. The shooting's really the only big thing left in season."

"What kind of birds?"

"All kinds. Good pheasant, especially on the estate when Lord Faversham was alive. I used to carry his guns, load for him. Wonderful wildlife on the estate. Rabbits, hares. Not these days, mind you."

"Why not?"

"Well, when he died, he left it to the nation, and the powers that be turned it into some sort of medical institution."

"I noticed it when I was driving in. What goes on in there?"

"Nobody really knows, but they do say it's for people with head problems. Never see any of them round here, mind you." He sighed. "It was a poacher's paradise, that estate."

"I suppose you had your share, but not now with all that security. Electric fences, cameras at the gate."

"And inside the grounds."

"Really? And how would you know that?"

"Well, let's just say if I want a bird or two or a hare or a nice pheasant, I know where to go."

"You amaze me."

The old man patted the side of his nose with his finger. "Mum's the word. You don't always need to go over a fence."

There was cunning in his eyes, and Ivanov laughed.

"You old devil. You obviously know what other people don't." He rose. "Well, I must be away. It's been great talking to you, Mr. Laker." He went to the counter and paid his bill. "And give him another pint."

"He can talk the hind leg off a donkey," she said.

"Oh, he's all right. Reminds me of my grandfather. You never know what you can learn!"

When he rode away, he took the road back to Horsham, slowing to have another look at the gates as he went past Huntley Hall. About four miles farther on, he turned into a nice quiet turnoff in some trees and called Greta Novikova, who was seated at the sitting-room table at ChinaWharf with Ashimov and the four Irishmen, various documents spread in front of her.

"Ivanov. What have you got for me?"

"Ferguson has definitely taken Selim to Huntley Hall, but there's a lot more to it than that. Shall I leave it until I get back to London?"

"No, I want it now. Just let me plug in my recorder."

When he was finished, she cut in, the recorder still on.

"What do you think?"

"About Harold Laker? He's like my grandfather in Ukraine. A cunning old peasant. If you want my opinion, he's known that estate all his life and he poaches it to suit himself."

"But how? With all that security?"

"All I know is, the old bugger said when he needed a bird or two, or a rabbit or a hare, he knew where to go and, I quote, 'You don't always need to go over a fence.' "

"He's got a way in," she said, and there was awe in her voice.

"I'd say so."

"You've done well. Come home, Sergei."

She hung up and turned to Ashimov. "What do you think?"

"We'll have to send one of these lads for a little chat with Mr. Laker. But first things first. Let's have a look at those plans you showed us, Greta."

She laid them out, Huntley Hall quite plain, and the rolling areas of woodland. "You can see where there are CCTV cameras and electronic devices in the trees at certain points. Mind you, these plans aren't perfect."

"Why not?" Kelly demanded.

"Because they're based on memory. Five years ago, we had a British spy called Sharkey in our hands in Moscow, and an exchange was arranged for one of our men, Orlov, who was being held at Huntley Hall. On the odd occasion, he was allowed out for a walk in the grounds and picked up a certain amount of visual information."

Tod said, "Sounds risky. Then I'm inclined to go with what Ivanov's said. The old man has a way in. I think Kelly and I should go down there in the morning. We'll put up at this trailer site Ivanov mentioned, get to know the old boy and find out his secret."

"By breaking his fingers?"

"Oh, you always want to do things the hard way, Dermot. No, three bottles of Bushmills should do it, and he'll turn out to be as greedy as people like him usually are." He turned to Greta. "Ivanov didn't sound Russian, what I heard. Does he have any kind of accent?"

"No, he was picked out because his mother was English."

"Right, so he's your English nephew, Dermot, who told you about the place. That's why we're calling in on our way to London from Brighton."

It was Ashimov who said, "Sounds good to me, but let's take it a step further. If in some way you can gain access to the grounds, what's the next move?"

"There isn't one," Tod said. "Not in advance. If he's taken out for a walk when we're around, we'll shoot him."

"And if not?"

"We'll handle things the way the cards fall."

There was silence, then Fahy said, "What about us?"

"You'll keep your eye on Major Roper. You've got all his details you need," Tod said. "Even you can't miss a bionic man in a wheelchair."

"Do we waste him if we get the chance?" Regan demanded.

"No. You wait to hear how we fare with Ferguson and Selim."

"And Dillon?" Fahy asked.

"You could try," Greta said and pushed some papers over to them. "That's his cottage in Stable Mews and a recent photo of him. Also his Mini car and its number."

Tod laughed. "Did you itemize his body count?"

"I didn't want to frighten anyone off." She pushed some other papers over. "Dillon's friends, the Salters. The young one is as bad as Dillon and his uncle was one of the biggest gangsters in London in his time, so be warned."

"If the need for any extras arises while we're away," she went on, "a car or something like that, you call Danny Malone. He'll fix you up. He used to be a supplier for the Provos."

"The only one left is Bernstein, the Special Branch Superintendent."

"Huh," Fahy said. "I'm not worried about her. Woman coppers should stick to desk work."

"I wouldn't be so sure. It says here that she shot dead a woman, a leading Loyalist hard-liner named Norah Bell," Greta pointed out.

"And wasn't she the original bitch from hell, Protestant or not?" Dermot said.

Tod smiled. "Well, we've all got our wicked ways. Norah's were just a little bit more wicked than most. Is that it, then?"

"I'd say so. We'll keep an eye on Bernstein," Greta said. She put her papers in her briefcase, got up and asked Ashimov, "Shall we go?"

"I think so." He nodded casually to the others. "Stay in touch at all times."

"We have all your mobile numbers, so if we don't hear from you, you'll be hearing from us."

As she and Ashimov went to the door, Tod said, "You don't think we can pull this off, do you?"

"Well, pigs might fly." Ashimov lit a cigarette.

Dermot said, "Is it because of Dillon?"

Greta said, "Let's put it this way. I saw him in action in Iraq the other night, and if I hadn't seen it for myself, I wouldn't have believed it. So take care."

She and Ashimov went out, and Fahy exploded. "Dillon--fuggin' Sean Dillon. That's all we hear about." He reached for a raincoat. "I'm away out for a drink."

"And I'm with you," Regan told him. "What about you two?"

"We have things to do for our morning departure," Tod said. "But watch it, you two. Stay out of trouble."

They went out and Dermot put a large canvas bag on the table and opened it. He took out an AK-47 and passed it to Tod. "Give it a thorough check. I'll do the other."

"Pass me a silencer," which Dermot did. "What about you? Do you really think we can pull this off?" Tod asked as he took the AK apart.

"We've done it before, we can do it again. We're still here, aren't we?"

"And so's Sean Dillon. That's the trouble."

At about the same time, Belov landed at Ballykelly in the Republic, close to Drumore. Practically the first thing he did was phone Ashimov, who had just parked outside an Italian restaurant in Bayswater, Greta at his side.

"Bring me up to date," Belov demanded.

Ashimov did. "It's all in place."

"A lot of what-ifs," Belov said, "and I don't like that."

For once, Ashimov took the hard line. "No, I disagree. Kelly and Murphy have good reputations. Major Novikova's spadework has been excellent. This lead to Huntley Hall looks more than promising. I think we're in good shape."

"All right, I hear what you're saying. I'll stay here until we get some sort of resolution."

Greta said, "The great man?"

"Getting nervous. To hell with him. Let me buy you a nice dinner."

Walking along Wapping High Street, Fahy said to Regan, "This Dark Man pub the Salters own can't be far from here. Why don't we have a look?"

"Sounds good to me."

They made inquiries to a man at the newspaper stand on a corner, who directed them a couple of streets along to the left. They walked down between the old warehouses, came out on the wharf beside the Thames, and there was the Dark Man, a few cars parked nearby.

"The very place," Fahy said. "Shall we go in?"

"Let's take it slowly," Regan told him, and at that moment, lights approached down toward the wharf and they stepped back into shadows. A Range Rover stopped. Billy Salter got out and went into the pub.

"It's Salter," Fahy said. "Let's take a look."

They peered in through one of the windows. The bar was busy, but Billy was talking to Dillon at the counter.

Regan said, "Jesus, it's Dillon."

Fahy said, "Are you carrying?"

"No, mine's back in the weapon bag."

"So's mine. Christ. We could have taken a pop at him from the shadows."

"That's a fact," Regan said, although there was a certain relief in his voice.

"Well, there's one thing I can do." Fahy took out a switchblade knife and pushed the button. He jabbed it into the two front tires, which started to deflate. "That'll give Salter and bloody Dillon something to think about."

They were laughing like schoolboys as they cleared off. There was a final hiss of air from the tires and then an old and ravaged bag lady in layers of clothes, a woolen hat pulled over her head, stepped out of the darkness and took a look. She turned, put down her bags and went into the bar. She tapped Billy on the shoulder.

He turned. "Now then, Gladys, not in the bar."

"You'd better come outside, Billy, it's the big car of yours."

Billy frowned and Dillon swallowed his drink and went after him.

"The bastards," Billy said outside. "Who was it, Gladys?"

"Couple of men in raincoats. It is raining, Billy. One of them had one of those funny knives where the blade springs up, and he stuck it in the tires. They were laughing. They said, 'That will give Salter and bloody Dillon something to think about.' "

"Christ, if I get my hands on them." Billy kicked one of the tires.

"They were Irish," she said.

"Irish?" Billy said. "Bleeding Irish?"

"Hold it," Dillon told him. "You're sure, Gladys?"

"Oh, yes, they didn't speak like you. I mean, you're funny Irish. It was the other way."

"Who in the hell's got it in for me?" Billy said. "It doesn't make sense."

"Maybe it's something to do with me," Dillon said. "I know many Irishmen who could get very personal where I'm concerned. You'd better call the garage and see to the Range Rover. I've got to make a few inquiries. I'll see you later."