Angel Of Death

BEIRUT
1994
SIX

The Lebanon was kind of Arab Belfast, a setting for destruction unparalleled in modern world history. The country had once been the Switzerland of the Middle East, with Beirut its capital as popular with the wealthy of the world as the south of France, and yet since 1975, when serious fighting had broken out between members of the Christian Phalangist Party and the Muslim Militia, only death and destruction had followed.

In his room on the fourth floor of the Al Bustan Hotel, Sean Dillon poured out a small Bushmills from the bottle he had brought with him. He’d need to conserve it. He was just adding a little mineral water when there was a knock on the door. He put down his glass and went to open it. Hannah Bernstein stood there, wearing a linen suit the color of pale straw, and tinted glasses.

“Ah, Miss Cooper,” he said.

“Mr. Gaunt.”

“Come in.”

He went back to the window and picked up his drink and she joined him.

“It looks quite a place,” she said.

“Used to be the most sophisticated place in the Middle East. Nearly three million people, Christians, Muslim, and Druses.”

“And what went wrong?”

“Emerging Arab fundamentalism. It was originally French, which gave it a very sophisticated base, then in seventy-five the Christians and Muslims got stuck into each other, then Palestine refugees moved in and made things worse. After that, the Israelis, then the Syrians, then the Israelis again, but there’s always that Arab fundamentalism eating away at the heart of things in the Middle East. Don’t know the answer.” He raised his glass. “Here endeth the lesson.”

“Very unhealthy,” she said. “Poor old Dillon. You’re a doer, not a philosopher. Let’s remember that and get on with it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Now if you’ll put your jacket on and come next door to my room, Walid Khasan is on his way up.”

“Why didn’t you say?”

He picked up a lightweight navy-blue blazer and followed her next door. Her room was exactly like his and he checked the French windows to the terrace. There was a knock at the door. When Hannah opened it, a man in his mid-forties stood there. He wore a crumpled white suit, had long black hair, a wrinkled face and olive skin.

“Good afternoon. I am Walid Khasan.” He spoke with a strong foreign accent.

“Amy Cooper,” Hannah told him, “and this is Harry Gaunt. Do come in.”

“Please, this is not necessary,” he said as he entered and placed a briefcase on the table. “I am very well aware of who you are, Miss Bernstein, and you, Mr. Dillon.”

She closed the door and Dillon said in fluent Arabic, “So Ferguson filled you in totally?”

“Yes, but then he usually does,” Walid Khasan replied in the same language.

“Good.” Dillon switched back to English. “I’m afraid the Chief Inspector has no Arabic.”

“Hebrew only, I’m afraid,” Hannah said.

Walid Khasan replied at once in excellent Hebrew. “Oh, I can speak that also, but it is not to be recommended in Beirut. The Israelis are not popular here.”

“What a pity,” she said in Hebrew. “I’ll remember that, of course. We have enough problems.”

Walid Khasan opened the briefcase, took out two Walther PPK pistols with silencers, and several clips of ammunition. “I trust these will hold you. I can supply heavier artillery, Mr. Dillon, if necessary, but I’ll require notice.”

“You’ll get it when necessary.” Dillon checked the Walther and put it in his waistband at the rear and an extra clip in his blazer pocket. Hannah put hers in her shoulder bag.

“So,” Dillon said, “what about our friends from Belfast?”

Walid Khasan opened the French window and sat down in a wicker chair. “Francis Callaghan is staying here on the floor below and uses his own name. He’s supposed to represent an Irish electronics firm from Cork. I’ve checked and the firm is genuine. They specialize in hotel contracts, security, and that sort of thing.”

Hannah leaned on the rail and Dillon sat opposite Khasan. “And Quinn?”

“I’ve seen him only once and he certainly isn’t staying here.”

“What happened?” Hannah asked.

“I’ve had Callaghan followed by people working for me. He seems to have spent his time as any tourist would. Visiting historic remains, shopping.” He smiled. “It may surprise you, but there is still a certain normality here.”

“And nothing out of the ordinary?” she asked.

“Oh yes. One day, when I was following him myself, he had lunch at a cafe right on the waterfront. The sort of place dockworkers might use. He met Daniel Quinn there.” He smiled. “The Brigadier supplied me with color faxes of these men. It was definitely Quinn.”

“You’re sure?” Hannah demanded.

“Oh yes. More interesting was the fact that they were joined by two men I am familiar with. Selim Rassi, a very important figure in the Party of God movement, and a man from the Russian Embassy called Ilya Bikov. He’s supposed to be in public relations, but he’s a Captain in the Federal Service of Counter Espionage.”

“KGB,” Dillon said.

“Change the name, but the same smell. They went down to a dock, boarded a high-speed boat, and took off. I couldn’t follow, so I don’t know where they went. A lot of shipping out there.”

“So what happens now?” Hannah Bernstein asked.

Walid Khasan smiled. “Callaghan always has a drink in the bar around six o’clock.” He checked his watch. “Which is in about ten minutes. Shall we go?”

The lounge bar was very pleasant, windows open to a terrace, and the view overlooked the city, the harbor crowded with shipping, the blue waters of the Mediterranean sparkling in the fading sunshine as evening fell. There was no sign of Callaghan, but there was a sudden call to prayer from a mosque down there in the city, then another and yet another, the sounds echoing across the rooftops.

“Very pleasant,” Hannah Bernstein said. “And yet in the middle of all this people have to kill each other.”

“A very old-fashioned habit in this part of the world,” Walid Khasan told her.

At that moment Francis Callaghan came up the steps from the garden and sat down at a table at the other end of the terrace. Dillon, Hannah, and Walid Khasan sat down at a table at their end of the terrace. When a waiter approached, Walid Khasan ordered a pitcher of lemonade for all of them.

“You can’t get alcohol until after seven,” he said to Dillon apologetically.

“I’ll do my best to hang on,” Dillon said.

Francis Callaghan waved a waiter away and took what looked like a diary from his pocket. He flipped through the pages, put it back into his pocket, and lit a cigarette.

“He’s waiting for someone,” said Hannah. “ Perhaps Quinn?”

“I doubt it,” Walid Khasan told her. “As I told you, the only time Quinn has surfaced was at that dockside cafe. I think our friend Callaghan is simply filing time. He may have an appointment to see Quinn later.”

“Fine,” Dillon said. “When he goes, we follow him.” He turned to Hannah. “You stay here and hold the fort.”

“Thanks very much,” she said indignantly.

“Don’t be so sensitive. You need to make a progress report to Ferguson, don’t you? That link is essential especially if we need to move fast to get out of Beirut.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She made a face. “Damn you, Dillon. Next time round I’m going to be a man.”

Callahan made his move about twenty minutes later, passing them on the way into the hotel.

“Here we go,” Dillon said to Hannah. “See you later,” and he and Walid Khasan got up and followed Callaghan.

He crossed the foyer, went out of the front entrance, and hailed a taxi. As it took off, Walid Khasan led the way across to another taxi. He pushed Dillon into the rear and scrambled in after him.

“If you lose him, Ali,” he said to the swarthy Arab behind the wheel, “I’ll have your manhood.” He leaned back and smiled at Dillon. “One of my men.”

Charles Ferguson in his office at the Ministry of Defence listened to what Hannah Bernstein had to say.

“So far so good,” he said. “With any luck, Callaghan could lead us straight to Quinn. You could be out of there in twenty-four hours.”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“We’ll see. Keep me posted and watch your back, Chief Inspector.”

He put down the phone. Sat there brooding for a moment and then rang through to Simon Carter’s office.

“ Ferguson here,” he said. “The Prime Minister insists I keep you informed, so here’s where we are.”

It was really quite pleasant sitting under an umbrella at one of the tables of the waterside cafe Callaghan had led them to. Colored lights were strung overhead, there was a buzz of conversation, and the tables were crowded.

“Plenty of booze being consumed here,” Dillon observed.

“Ah, but Beirut is a mixed society, my friend,” Walid Khasan reminded him.

Callaghan was at a table by the far rail drinking a beer. He appeared totally unconcerned, looking over the crowd and then out into the harbor.

“And this is where he met Quinn and Bikov?” Dillon asked.

“Yes. Actually he sat at the same table.”

“Excellent. If this thing works as it should, I could be in and out like Flynn.” He waved to a waiter and ordered two lagers.

At that moment Callaghan got up and crossed to the door marked Men’s Room. “Is there another way out of there?” Dillon asked.

“No, definitely not. I’ve been in.”

“Good.” Dillon relaxed and lit a cigarette as the waiter arrived with the lagers.

Francis Callaghan stood at the urinal and as he adjusted his trousers and turned, the door to one of the stalls opened, and a young Arab in khaki shirt and pants emerged holding a Sterling submachine gun, silenced version.

“Good evening, Mr. Callaghan,” he said in good English. “I could blow your spine off with this thing and they wouldn’t even hear out there in the cafe, but we wouldn’t want that, would we?” He reached in Callaghan’s right pocket and removed a Colt automatic. “That’s better. Now stand on that stool we have so thoughtfully provided and climb through the window where my colleagues are waiting to receive you.”

Callaghan did exactly as he was told. His years of involvement in the struggle of Ulster had taught him the advisability of playing it cool in a situation like this. He clambered through the window and was pulled down by two more young Arabs. There was a van backed up behind them, the door open. One of them handcuffed his hands behind him.

Callaghan said, “Look, if it’s money…”

He got no further. One of the men slapped him across the face. “Shut up!” he said and pulled a linen bag over his head.

He was pushed into the back of the van, the door slammed, and they drove away.

After fifteen minutes with no sign of Callaghan returning, Walid Khasan got up. “I’ll check it out,” he said and eased his way through the tables to the men’s room. He was out again in seconds and returned.

“Don’t tell me,” Dillon said. “He’s gone.”

“I’m afraid so. He must have used the window. The only other way out.”

“You think he knew he was being followed?”

“I’d be surprised. We’ve been very careful and I was told he didn’t know you by sight.”

“That’s true enough.”

“Then I think it more likely he was just being careful and taking precautions in case he was being followed.”

“So what do we do now?”

Walid Khasan frowned, considering the matter. Finally he said, “I’ll go for a run in the taxi with Ali, circle the area, see if we can spot him. You stay here in case Quinn shows up.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Dillon told him.

“Yes, well there’s not much else that we can do, my friend. I’ll see you in half an hour.”

He left and Dillon sat there waiting. A young woman was working her way through the tables. She had hair as black as night, long to her shoulders, good breasts and hips in a clinging silky dress, dark eyes and a full red mouth. She finally reached him after much lewd comment from men at the surrounding tables.

“You are tourist?” she said in English with a heavy accent.

“You could say that, me darling.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “You need a nice girl then, or a bad girl? Whichever is okay by Anya. Fifty dollars American. My place is close by.”

“Oh moon of my delight, heaven is here in your presence,” Dillon told her in Arabic. “Unfortunately business requires me to wait here for a friend.” He took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to her. “This is for the pleasure of looking on you.”

She smiled her delight, tucked it down her cleavage, and made off.

In London, Rupert Lang rang the bell of Yuri Belov’s mews house and was admitted instantly.

“Something important?” Belov asked as he led the way into the sitting room.

“Yes, I tried to get you the other day, but they told me you were in Paris. Some very interesting developments. The Belfast thing went extremely well. In fact, Grace probably saved Dillon’s life.”

“I heard that January 30 had claimed responsibility for several deaths,” Belov said. “IRA it wasn’t. The Protestant factions must be furious. Dillon certainly doesn’t pull any punches.”

“The whole thing was a setup,” Lang said. “He took care of them, of course, but there was an extra man in the shadows. He’d have got Dillon in the back if Grace hadn’t intervened, so we thought we might as well claim the whole lot while we were at it.”

“And what’s happened now?”

“Dillon made Daley talk before killing him. It seems that Quinn is in Beirut to do a deal for a supply of plutonium. He’s dealing with a man called Selim Rassi of the Party of God and a KGB Captain called Bikov.”

“Bikov?” Belov shook his head. “I don’t know him, but these Party of God people are pretty ruthless.” He shook his head. “Plutonium. All my sources indicate that the Protestant para-militaries in Ulster have reached a new mood of desperation, but plutonium. That brings in the threat of nuclear devices. That’s a whole new dimension.”

“Yes, but see it from their point of view. Sinn Fein, which is really the same as the IRA, get three percent of the vote in the Republic of Ireland and ten percent in Ulster, and yet as the product of a ruthless campaign of terrorism, they end up having achieved peace negotiations, which could mean the Protestants being thrown to the wolves, the Army packing it in, and the threat of some sort of departure by the British Government. It could be a recipe for civil war.”

“Another Bosnia, my friend,” Belov said. “But the threat that could be imposed if this plutonium could be used in a nuclear device would be incalculable. A whole new and terrible world.” He walked to the sideboard, poured a couple of whiskys, came back, and gave one to Lang. “Let’s hope our friend Dillon has the right kind of luck.”

At that moment Francis Callaghan was standing in front of a desk in a rather gloomy room illuminated by a single lightbulb. They had only just pulled the bag off his head and he was dazzled after the darkness. He was also, for the first time, beginning to feel thoroughly frightened. The young man who had kidnapped him in the toilet at the cafe sat behind the desk smoking a cigarette, the Uzi machine gun in front of him. He was examining Callaghan’s passport.

“You are from Cork, I see. You represent an electronics firm?”

“That’s right,” Callaghan told him eagerly. “ Francis Callaghan. I’m at the Al Bustan. If you look in my wallet there’s a permit from the Ministry of Supply.”

“You’re a liar.” The young man nodded and someone standing behind Callaghan punched him in the kidneys so that he went down on one knee. “You’re an Irish terrorist, Protestant variety, here with Daniel Quinn to acquire a supply of plutonium from a KGB agent named Bikov and Selim Rassi of the Party of God.”

“There’s been a mistake,” Callaghan said.

The young man nodded again. This time a rifle butt thudded into Callaghan’s back and he went down again. The two men who had been standing behind him started to kick him in the body savagely.

“Not his face,” the young man ordered.

After a while they stopped, pulled Callaghan up, and sat him in a chair. He was in considerable pain and half sobbing as he said, “You’ve got the wrong man.”

“Really.” The young man leaned back and lit another cigarette. “I don’t think so, but we’ll see.” He nodded to the others. “Let’s save some time. Put him in the well. I don’t think he’ll last long down there.”

They grabbed Callaghan by the arms, picked him up and hustled him out along a passage, across a courtyard, and into a barn. There was the round, low stone wall of a well in the center. One of the men provided a key and unfastened Callaghan’s handcuffs. The other picked up a rope with a loop on the end and slipped it over his head beneath his arms.

“Now look here,” he said.

One of them slapped him, then they ran him across the barn and shoved him over the wall, hanging on to the rope, bracing themselves as he swung against the stonework. They lowered him quite quickly, and after about thirty feet, he splashed into water. He had a moment of panic as he went under, but it was only about four feet deep, the bottom a thick and slimy ooze and the stench was terrible.

“Loosen the rope,” one of them called.

Callaghan did as he was told, looking up at the faces peering down at him, watching the rope going up. It was bitterly cold and he shivered and then the light went out and there was only the darkness.

At that moment back at the cafe, Dillon leaned over the rail looking out at the shops in the darkness of the harbor, waiting for Walid Khasan. There had been no sign of Quinn, not that he’d really expected one. He went down some steps to a lower level where motor boats were moored. As he lit a cigarette, there was a footfall and he turned and found Anya, the prostitute, there.

“So here you are,” she said in Arabic.

“So it would appear,” he said. “And the answer is still the same.”

“What a pity.” She reached in her shoulder bag, produced a Colt.32 automatic with a silencer on the end, and rammed it into his side. “No one will hear, Mr. Dillon, so I suggest you do as I say.” She reached in his pocket and found the Walther. “So, now we walk to the other end and mount the steps, all very sensibly. You follow me?”

“Oh, if needs be, I’m the most sensible man in the world, girl dear,” he told her in English.

“Good, then let’s get moving.”

There were several cars parked at the top of the dock and she took him across to the other side where the same van which had transported Callaghan earlier was waiting. Two men moved out of the shadows. One of them pulled a bag over his head and the other handcuffed him. They pushed him in the rear and joined him. Anya got behind the wheel and drove away.

When they took the bag off his head he was standing in the same room Callaghan had found himself in earlier and the same young man sat behind the desk. The two men stood behind Dillon and the girl went and leaned against the wall, smoking a cigarette.

“You do good work,” Dillon told her. “I’m only sorry I didn’t take you up on your offer.”

The man behind the desk said, “My sister, Mr. Dillon, so mind your mouth.”

He nodded and one of the men put a rifle butt into Dillon’s back, sending him down on his knees. They lifted him up and put him in a chair.

The young man said, “You are Sean Dillon, an ex -IRA enforcer now working for Brigadier Charles Ferguson of British Intelligence. You are staying at the Al Bustan with a good-looking lady called Amy Cooper who is really Chief Inspector Bernstein of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch.” He shook his head. “Jewish. We don’t like Jews here in Beirut. They’ve given us a lot of trouble.”

“Well good for them,” Dillon said.

One of the men clouted him across the side of the head and the young man said, “My name is Omar, that is all you need to know. I’m with the Dark Wind group. You’ve heard of us?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of you.”

“I know why you are here. To find an Irish Protestant terrorist called Daniel Quinn who is here to do a deal with Selim Rassi of the Party of God and a piece of KGB slime called Ilya Bikov.”

“You’ve a vivid imagination.”

One of the men hit Dillon again and Omar said, “You were following Callaghan tonight, Quinn’s right-hand man. You were a nuisance, Mr. Dillon. You see, we of Dark Wind don’t care for the Party of God at the best of times, but in this case, we would like the plutonium for ourselves.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

“Like you, I don’t know where Quinn and Selim are hanging out. However, we do have Callaghan at the bottom of the well on the other side of the courtyard. He won’t like it down there, he won’t like it at all, and neither will you.”

“I see,” Dillon said. “I’m to have a bath too?”

“You will end up dirtier than you went in, Mr. Dillon. It’s rather unpleasant. I don’t think Callaghan will last the night. He’ll talk by morning.”

“You seem sure about that.”

“Oh, I am. You see, I’ve had a rather ingenious idea. I’ve nothing against you, so I’ll have a message sent to Walid Khasan and the Chief Inspector offering to sell you back.”

“Now isn’t that kind of you,” Dillon said.

“Ah, there’s a catch. Once down there with Callaghan, you go to work on him. I don’t care how you do it, but you get him to tell us where Quinn may be found.”

“Is that all?” Dillon said.

Omar got up, came round, put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. “Enjoy it, Dillon, your last for some time, and be sensible. You see, if you don’t get Callaghan to talk, I won’t sell you back. I’ll have you shot.”

Dillon smiled at Anya. “See where an interest in good-looking women gets you? I should have listened to my aunt Mary.”

Anya laughed out loud and Omar smiled. “I like you, Dillon, but business is business.” He nodded to the two men. “Take him.”

They led Dillon along the passage, across the courtyard, and into the barn. They paused at the well while one of them removed his handcuffs, then slipped the loop over his head.

“Over you go,” he ordered.

Dillon climbed over the wall and they lowered him down into the darkness. He was aware of the water, cold and clammy, the stench, glanced up as he slipped out of the rope and saw them peering down. They pulled up the rope.

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.