Dark Justice (20 page)

He hailed a cab on the High Street and told the driver to take him to Kilburn, where he started his rounds, working from pub to pub, talking to barmen, not that anything came up, but then it wouldn't. The IRA weren't operating in London. Those days had gone. And then, finally, there was the Green Man.

He went up the alley at the side, paused and peered in through the window. There he was, Danny Malone, a good comrade in the old days, but that was a long, long time ago. Danny was obviously going over his accounts, so Dillon tried the back door. It eased to his touch and he moved along the small hall, opened the door to the back room and went in.

Malone had been thinking about Dillon extremely uneasily since Kelly had mentioned him. In a sense, it had made him face up to what he was getting involved in, the kind of thing that had sent him to prison for fifteen years, and the fact that Dillon was involved made it worse. Now, he looked up and his face sagged.

"Sean, it's you."

"God save the good work, Danny," Dillon said and added, when Malone said nothing, "God save you kindly was the response to that. You're forgetting your manners."

"I'm sorry, Sean, I was so shocked. I mean, it's been years."

"Oh, I've had you in mind always, Danny."

Dillon lit a cigarette, and Malone's smile was ghastly. "So you work for Ferguson and the Prime Minister now."

"Oh, you know me, always the practical one. It got me out of a Serb prison. I was glad to hear they'd released you, Danny. Lucky for you the Peace Process came along when it did."

Malone was terrified, realizing just how stupid he'd been to get involved in the way he had, took a deep breath, and fought to keep control.

"Was there something you wanted, Sean?"

"Oh, just a word, Danny. My friend Billy Salter left his Range Rover outside the Dark Man at Wapping tonight. Two Irish guys came along, one of whom stuck a flick knife in two tires. They cleared off, laughing and saying it would give me and Billy something to think about."

Dillon reached under his coat, produced a Walther from his rear waistband, laid it on the table and lit another cigarette. "Any ideas, Danny, anyone in town from over the water?"

And Malone gave the performance of his life. "From over the water, Sean? You know yourself there's been nothing in London since the Peace Process. We all got early release. Take me. Fifteen years, but I only served five and the full sentence is still on the books. Any kind of involvement and I'm back inside to serve my full time. Do you think I'm mad? Who would be that crazy?"

Dillon said, "No, I suppose they'd have to be very stupid. I mean, what about that wife of yours, Jean? You wouldn't want to do anything to hurt her."

"She's hurting enough, Sean. Breast cancer."

"That's a damn shame," Dillon said, and meant it. He took a card from his pocket and dropped it on the table. "My mobile number is on there. Anything comes up, let me know."

He put the Walther back in his waistband and went out.

Malone went into the small toilet next door and was sick. He rinsed his face, then went back, found a bottle of whiskey and poured a large one. He was sweating and desperate to keep control. Boredom, a yearning for some action again, had made him respond to Kelly's phone call in the way he had. So foolish. Dillon had believed him, that was the important thing. But what to do about Kelly? If he left it, there was the chance that whatever the job was would fail anyway. On the other hand, it struck him that if he told Kelly of Dillon's appearance, it might be enough to make him abort the mission. He took a deep breath, picked up the phone and called Kelly at ChinaWharf.

And you're sure, absolutely sure, that Dillon bought your performance?"

"It would have got me work at the National Theatre. The business about my wife helped."

"Yes, that was a good ploy."

"Not a ploy, Dermot, true."

"Dammit, man, I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter. What does is that I don't know what you're up to and I don't want to. On the other hand, the Dark Man is only a quarter of a mile away from ChinaWharf on the riverfront. If you want the two Irishmen who attended to Billy Salter's Range Rover, I think you know who they are, but it's your problem, not mine. I'm out of the whole damn business. I've got a nice little villa in Spain where my wife is right now, resting in the sun, and I think I'll leave my bar staff in charge and go and join her."

He put the phone down, opened the office safe, found his passport, a checkbook and two thousand in mad money and phoned for a taxi to Heathrow. Then he ran upstairs and packed.

Fahy was first in through the door over at ChinaWharf, was tripped by Tod, went headfirst on his hands and knees, and received a severe kicking in the ribs from Kelly.

"Mind his face," Tod said, holding Regan still, an arm up his back.

At the appropriate moment, he released Regan and shoved him down to receive the same treatment. Finally, Tod heaved them to their feet and Kelly explained exactly what they'd done.

"Stupid, the pair of you, not a brain between you, and now I've lost Danny Malone." He slapped each one across the face. "You've got your orders, so stick to them. Do you understand me or do you want to go off the end of ChinaWharf into the Thames?"

They didn't have a word to say, he was a figure of such menace, and his ferocious reputation preceded him.

Tod said, "Go on, get out of it and go to bed." He turned to Kelly as they went out. "Are we still on?"

"Of course we are. There's no reason for Sean to suspect anything. Even Malone doesn't know why we're here, so tomorrow we'll go for a run in the country. Let's have a drink on it."

At Huntley Hall, the meal in the old oak-paneled room had been impressive by any standards. All of Selim's dietary requirements had been taken care of, although Ferguson had worked his way through roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings. Dalton and Miller acted as waiters, standing quiet and watchful, between the courses. Ferguson had drunk Burgundy, Selim mineral water.

Ferguson said, "Was the meal satisfactory?"

"Excellent."

"You can thank the Army Catering Corps."

"I'm impressed. There's not much sign of staff."

"Oh, they're there in their unobtrusive way. Let's go into the hall."

The hall was impressive, a floor of stone flags scattered with rugs, deep comfortable sofas, a log fire burning on a wide hearth. To one side, French windows with heavy curtains looked out over a terrace with a balustrade.

Selim sat in a wing-backed chair. "You do very well."

"Yes, it's a nice place." Ferguson turned to Miller. "I'll have a port if you don't mind, Staff Sergeant, a large one."

"Certainly, sir."

Miller went to a sideboard to get it and Ferguson sat opposite Selim. "I won't bother to offer you one."

"There was a time when I would have accepted with pleasure. In those days I didn't take my religion seriously. Public school, Cambridge and all that, and then, a few years ago, I changed."

"I can see how awkward that would have been for you."

"That I turned to Islam? Not at all. I'm British, General Ferguson, but also a Muslim. I have no difficulty with that. These islands have been home to an infinite variety of people since the Romans occupied them two thousand years ago."

"I suppose you're right. After all, I'm half Scots, half Irish." Ferguson finished his port and stood. "Let's have a breath of air on the terrace."

"That would be nice."

Dalton pressed a button and the French windows opened. Ferguson led the way outside. The air was fresh and damp, the shrubbery dense on the other side of the lawn, trees beyond. There were half a dozen garden statues out there, Roman figures revealed by security lights.

"We had a good start today," Ferguson said. "Our chat about Ashimov and Belov was very interesting."

"In a strange sort of way, Ashimov is angry with the world, and this manifests itself in his willingness to kill people. Belov simply wants to control the world. Power, ultimate power, is everything to him. He is someone to beware of much more than me, General."

"You're important enough. The list of organizations you've mentioned and the coded computer details of the young men that have been sent to Al Qa'eda training camps, that'll all be extremely helpful."

"May Allah forgive me."

It was then that Ferguson came to the important part. "You could be of enormous use to us, you know--not just now, but in the future."

"In betraying my own people?"

"What a shame," Ferguson said. "You've spoiled it. I thought you were British."

Selim groaned. "I didn't mean it that way. I'm speaking on behalf of my religion. I'm British, but a Muslim. In Tudor times, many people were Catholics at a time when this was forbidden, but still English. In fact, when some of them were trained for the priesthood in Rome . . ."

Ferguson broke in. "It was called the EnglishCollege and they produced Jesuit priests known as 'Soldiers of Christ,' the best in the business."

"Many of whom died here in England for their faith."

"Well, let's try and see nothing like that happens to you," Ferguson said. "In we go. A decent night's sleep and we start again tomorrow."

The French windows closed behind them as they went inside. There was only the quiet and then an owl hooted, and there was a rustle in the shrubbery where a garden statue of some Roman emperor stood half revealed. Harold Laker peered out beside it, gazing toward the terrace at the scene inside the house through the French windows. He smiled, then disappeared back into the shrubbery and it was quiet again.

Chapter 12.

The following morning around ten, after breakfast, Kelly and Tod Murphy left in the Ford Transit and Fahy and Regan sat at the kitchen table, disgruntled, ribs aching.

"Now what?" Fahy asked.

"Don't ask me, Brendan," Regan replied.

"Maybe we should split up. I'll go and have a look at Roper's place, while you check out Dillon's cottage or the Bernstein woman's address."

"I thought Ashimov and Novikova were seeing to her?"

"Come off it. You're just trying to avoid anything to do with Dillon," Fahy said.

"That's a damn lie. Anything could happen. It's a sound idea to have a look at Bernstein, though."

"Okay, we'll use cabs," Fahy said. "We'll meet back here in two or three hours. It's better than sitting round here like a gorilla in its own shit while Dermot and Tod go and have all the fun. I'm telling you, though, I'm not setting a foot out the door without a pistol in my pocket."

"Well, I'm with you there, so let's get on with it."

On the outskirts of Horsham, Kelly and Tod pulled in at a fuel station, filled up and went into the small cafe and ordered coffee.

Kelly lit a cigarette. "I wonder what those two idiots are getting up to. I don't trust them an inch. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea bringing them along."

"
Hmm
. Let me check," Tod said, and called Regan. "It's Tod. Where are you?"

"We're out and about. I'm checking Dillon's place and Fahy's having a look where Roper lives. I thought I might take in Bernstein's pad, too."

"Weren't you listening before? Ashimov and Novikova are on her case, so stay out of there. Familiarize yourself with Dillon's and Roper's places, but don't hang around, and don't try anything serious until you're told to."

"It's like talking to children," he said to Kelly after he'd clicked off.

"They've lost their edge," Kelly said. "Money in the pocket, too much booze and sitting around on their fat backsides at Drumore."

The mobile went and he answered. It was Ashimov. "Where are you?"

"Horsham. Quit worrying. We'll be there soon."

He rang off and said to Tod, "To hell with all of them. Let's you and me get on with it," and he led the way out.

Tod said as they walked to the Transit, "Why haven't you told him about Sean, and Danny Malone doing a runner?"

"Why bother the man? He might lose faith, and we can't have that." He unlocked the Transit. "Next stop, Huntley."

Greta Novikova left the Russian Embassy on foot from KensingtonPalaceGardens, crossed to the pub on the other side and went in. Ashimov was seated at the bar reading a newspaper.

"Ah, there are you. Would you like a drink?"

"Not at the moment. What's going on?"

"I've spoken to Kelly. They were at Horsham."

"That's no more than half an hour to Huntley from there. Things ought to be happening soon."

"I hope so. But I've been around a long time, Greta. If it works, it works. If it doesn't, something else will come along. Survival is the name of the game."

"And you always do."

"Because I take precautions. For example, I have a company Falcon on standby at a flying club called Archbury about half an hour out of London. On standby until I tell it to stand down. Why? It's insurance. It means that if anything goes wrong, I can get the hell out of here quickly." He smiled. "I know, nothing will go wrong, you will say. And as a tribute to your faith, I intend to take you to lunch at the Ivy. Come on."