Dark Justice (7 page)

"The man on the left," Ferguson said. "Black suit, steel-rimmed glasses, cropped hair. Josef Belov. Now, what's he up to?"

Belov looked to be around sixty, his face very calm, giving nothing away. Putin paused for a moment and listened as Belov whispered, "The man standing over there with the woman and the small man with very fair hair, his name is Ferguson. He runs the Prime Minister's private intelligence outfit."

"I know very well who he is, we're old adversaries from the Cold War. What is he to you?"

"No friend."

"Josef," Putin said, "I don't know what you get up to these days and I don't want to know. You are useful to the State. Your billions, and your importance to the oil industry from Iraq to southern Arabia, speaks for itself. However, no one is indispensable, so I'd advise you to be discreet."

"Of course, Mr. President."

Belov faded away and Putin moved on, the crowd parting. He reached Ferguson and smiled.

"It's good to meet old friends.
General
Ferguson now. I like that. You at last outrank me."

"I believe so, Colonel."

Putin smiled and held out his hand, which Ferguson took. "I'm glad you remembered."

"That we swapped shots?"

Putin shrugged. "A long time ago."

"Yes, sir."

Putin turned to walk away, then paused and turned back, his face enigmatic. "And Charles?"

"Sir?"

"I'd take care if I were you--great care."

"Oh, I will, sir, you may depend on it."

Putin moved on.

Hannah said, "What was all that about, sir? It was as if he was warning you."

"Yes, Superintendent. I do believe he was. Now where's Belov gone?"

"Over by the bar with Ashimov and Greta Novikova," Dillon pointed out.

"Well, let's join them." Ferguson smiled. "Could be interesting."

They're coming," Ashimov said. "Perhaps you'd better go."

"Why on earth should I?" Belov said. "This champagne is so good, I'd like another glass. Don't let's pretend with them. I doubt if they will." He turned and smiled. "General Ferguson. A long-overdue pleasure."

"Oh, I doubt that," Ferguson said. "I think you know who my friends are, I certainly know yours." He nodded to Greta. "A pleasure, Major," took her hand and kissed it. "Mind you, the GRU always had style." He turned to Ashimov. "Unlike the KGB."

Ashimov didn't react, and it was Belov who said, "Which would include me, General. There is an English phrase about people in glass houses throwing stones, isn't there? Especially when you have a man like Mr. Dillon at your side, although you, Superintendent, are a credit to Scotland Yard." He emptied his glass, toasting her. "Shall we all have another?"

"An excellent idea," Ferguson said. "I see we have no secrets."

"Especially about you," Dillon said. "And especially about Henry Morgan in Manhattan, and his mother's unfortunate accident." A waiter passed, and they all took glasses of champagne from his tray. "The only thing that confuses me is what one of the richest men in the world would be doing with a bruiser like Ashimov here and a loser like Ali Selim."

"Ah, you don't understand the bigger picture, Dillon," Ferguson said. "Money isn't everything. You're a good case in point. You're rich, but--"

"But he likes to play the game," Belov said.

"Exactly. Being wealthy is like having everything and nothing at the same time, and a man needs more. I remember interrogating a man named Luhzkov years ago. He lectured in economics at LondonUniversity. A deep-cover agent for the KGB. He often spoke with sincere admiration of a Colonel Belov who headed Department Three of the KGB. Belov's main task was to create chaos in the Western world--chaos, fear and uncertainty, until the cracks showed and governments toppled."

Belov seemed to stay very calm, though his lips tightened, as did his grip on the champagne glass, and it was Dillon who said, "Just as in Iraq." He shook his head. "All those wonderful oil fields up for grabs, and since Saddam ended up in a cell, who knows where they'll end up?"

Belov put his glass on the bar. "I've heard enough stupidity for one evening. We'll be moving on."

He nodded to Ashimov and Greta and walked away, moving out through the entrance and pausing. Ashimov waved for the limousine.

"I'm sorry, Josef."

"Then do something about it. I have hugely important matters in hand. Our future in Iraq and southern Arabia are on the line. Where Ferguson and his people are concerned, I give you a free hand."

"I've something special lined up for Dillon tonight."

"Good. Just get on with it." Ashimov held the door open for him. Belov got in and put the window down. "I'll be at the Rashid house on
South Audley Street
for the next three days, then I'm flying to the castle."

"And then Iraq?"

"No, Moscow. I've got to keep the President on our side."

The limousine drove away, and Greta said, "The castle?"

"
Drumore Place
. It's in CountyLouth in the IrishRepublic. His latest acquisition. A couple of hundred acres, and whatever you want a castle to be, that's what it is. One advantage for him is that the area is a hotbed of Irish nationalism. In that area, the IRA has no idea that the war is over, especially the local commander, one Dermot Kelly."

"Isn't that a problem?"

"For Josef with all his wealth? For a man with no love of the British? The locals have embraced him like one of their own. He goes back a long way with Kelly."

"And you? Do they embrace you as well?"

"Of course. My natural charm."

She smiled. "Now what?"

"I'll give you a nice dinner."

"And Dillon?"

"Oh, he'll be well taken care of." He waved for a passing taxi.

Chapter 5.

At the bar at the Dorchester Ballroom, they were finishing the champagne. Hannah said, "You were a bit heavy, sir."

"Oh, I intended to be. Luhzkov hung himself. Now we all know where we are, which is how I prefer it."

"You ould devil. What you're looking for is a reaction," Dillon said.

"Something like that. I spoke to Roper earlier. Told him to compute a report on Belov. Everything there is. I expect you two to read it thoroughly."

"Of course, sir," Hannah said.

"Good. On our way, then."

They paused at the cloakroom to get coats, and it had started to rain slightly when they went out on the pavement and the Daimler coasted in.

"I'll drop you off," Ferguson said.

"Not me, if you don't mind," Dillon told him. "I feel like the walk."

"In the rain, dear boy?" Ferguson opened the door for Hannah. "You'll have to excuse him, Superintendent. It's an Irish thing, the rain."

"Sure, and your sainted mother, being a Cork woman, would have agreed with you."

"Take care, you rogue, and stay out of trouble."

"Always do, General."

Dillon watched the Daimler drive off, then walked away, his collar up against the rain. He went across the entrance of the hotel and made his way down through Mayfair in the general direction of Shepherd's Market.

That he was being followed had been obvious since leaving the ballroom. Two men, one in a reefer coat and knitted cap, the other in an anorak and baseball cap. Stupid, really, and they'd stuck out like a sore thumb among the kind of people leaving the Dorchester.

Just before reaching Shepherd's Market, he paused on a corner to light a cigarette, then turned into a narrow side street of old town houses, fronted by Victorian spiked railings, with steps leading down to basement areas. He quickened his pace, then dashed down a flight of steps and waited in the darkness.

There was a sound of running steps. A voice said, "Where's he gone, for Christ's sake?"

Dillon came up the steps and stood behind them, hands in the pockets of his raincoat.

"So there you are, lads," he said. "I was beginning to give up on you."

"Why, you little squirt." The man in the reefer coat turned to his friend. "Leave this to me."

He took a length of lead pipe from one pocket. Dillon said, "Very old-fashioned."

"Is that so?"

The man made a sudden rush, arm raised to strike down. Dillon swayed to one side, stamped against the side of one of the man's knees so that he lurched past him, head down, and Dillon put a foot to his backside and sent him headfirst down the steps to the basement.

The man in the baseball cap took a knife from his pocket and sprang the blade. "You little bastard, I'll show you."

"Well, let's be having you, then."

The knife swung, Dillon caught hold of the wrist, turned it and the arm like a steel bar, then ran him headfirst into the railings. The man slumped to the pavement, his nose broken, blood on his mouth.

Dillon crouched beside him. "Now then, who sent you?"

"Get stuffed," the man moaned.

"You've got balls, I'll give you that." Dillon was carrying a Walther PPK in his waistband at the rear under his jacket, and now he produced it. "But I've got this, and where I come from we find a bullet through the kneecap cures most ills. A crippling experience, mind you."

"Okay." The man put a hand up. "It was Charlie Harker put us on your case. Gave us a grand to cripple you."

"Harker? And who would he be?"

"He runs everything on the river, from here down to the Isle of Dogs."

"Really?" Dillon reached inside the man's anorak, found a wad of notes and took them out. "A thousand quid from this Charlie Harker." He shook his head. "It gives me more pleasure to leave it with you than to take it."

"Screw you," the man said.

"I said you have balls. Not many brains, though. Now, if I were you, I'd call an ambulance."

He walked away, and stood on the corner thinking about it. Charlie Harker who ran everything on the river down to the Isle of Dogs? The name didn't mean a thing to Dillon. On the other hand, he knew someone to whom it very probably did. He flagged down a passing cab, told the driver to take him to Wapping High Street and got in.

He was thinking of Harry Salter, once one of the most feared men in London, a very old-fashioned gangster, now a multimillionaire from the warehouse developments he'd built on the side of the Thames. The relationship between Harry, his nephew Billy, and Dillon and Ferguson had become close, tested in the fire on a number of occasions. If anyone knew about Harker, it would be Harry Salter.

At the same moment, Charlie Harker was in a pub called the Red Lion in Kilburn in London, sitting reading the
Evening Standard
and enjoying a pint. Most people stayed well clear of him, well aware that it was best for their health. A large, heavily built man in a dark suit leaned against the wall behind him. His name was Mosby and he was Harker's minder.

Harker's mobile went. He answered it and found Ali Selim on the other end. "Mr. Harker, I must see you."

"What for?"

"The latest consignment to Iraq. I'll have to delay it for a while."

"You can't do that, it's all arranged. Leaving tomorrow night."

"It's not convenient."

"I don't care. The deal is five grand a head, so five heads makes it twenty-five, like we agreed, old son, and twenty-five is what I expect whether it's on or it's off. Does Ashimov know about this?"

"Look, be reasonable. I'll come and see you if you like. Where are you?"

"The Red Lion, but don't come without the cash. I'm beginning to worry about you, and that would never do."

Selim put the phone down and sat thinking about it. It was the thing he hated most, having to deal with people like Harker, but what could he do? It was essential to keep the traffic on the move to Iraq on a regular basis, now more than ever. At least there was the money from Ashimov to keep it going.

He found a canvas bag and opened the safe in the corner of the office. There was money in there, a great deal of money, stacked neatly in bundles of fifty-pound notes. He counted out the required amount, put it in the bag and got his hat and a raincoat.

He was worried, running scared. He believed in what he was doing. His cause was just and he believed in Allah above everything, but all of a sudden, things seemed to have gotten out of hand. The Morgan thing had looked so promising, so absurdly simple with Ashimov's support, and not only had it failed, it had brought Ferguson and his people into the equation, and this Dillon. He shuddered. A truly frightening man. And then this business of Mrs. Morgan's so-called accident. It was a terrible business, and yet his own motives in all this had been so pure.

There was a knock on the door and the caretaker, Abdul, looked in. "Can I get you anything, Doctor?"

"No, I've got to go out for a while. I'll see you later."

He went out to the yard outside, found his Peugeot and drove away.