Dark Justice

IRAQ
8

An hour out of Baghdad, the Citation down to thirty thousand feet, Billy was reading Roper’s report for the fourth time. Dillon had found a half bottle of Irish whiskey in the bar box and poured a large one.

Billy closed the report. “This guy Belov, his bleeding life’s been a saga, and Ashimov – he’d kill the Pope, wouldn’t he?”

“I’d agree with you. I’d say he was the one who pushed Mrs. Morgan off that jetty.”

“And this Novikova woman?”

“A looker, Billy, but don’t be fooled. You don’t make major in the GRU by being soft. That’s why Ashimov’s rushed her to Baghdad.”

“To take care of Selim.”

“He’s a walking dead man.”

“And where’s that leave us?”

“They’ll be expecting us, Billy. Let’s put it that way.”

The telephone rang at his side; he answered and found Roper. “I thought you’d like to know that Greta Novikova landed safely four hours ago,” Roper said. “She didn’t go to the embassy. She’s at the Al Bustan.”

“Well, that’s nice. What about Selim?”

“Dropped in at Kuwait twelve hours ago, collected his car and set off north. It’s a long, hard drive to Baghdad these days, Sean. Sharif is meeting you at the hotel early evening.”

“Thanks.”

“Have fun.”

Dillon replaced the phone. Billy said, “What was that?”

Dillon told him.

Billy was highly amused. “What are we going to do about Novikova? Have a drink in the bar?”

“Who knows? Stranger things have happened.”

“Another thing, those two IRA geezers at this Drumore Castle. Did you know them in the old days?”

“You could say that.”

“Friends or enemies? I mean, if Ashimov asked them to try and blow your head off, would they do it?”

“Yes.”

“For a price?”

“That and the game, Billy.” Dillon poured another whiskey. “Especially if they couldn’t think of anything better to do.”

“Crazy,” Billy said. “All you Micks are crazy.”

Parry appeared. “Landing in fifteen minutes. It’ll be a very fast descent, so strap up well.” He smiled. “It’s the missiles, the ones some peasant fires from his shoulder. We’d just as soon avoid them if we could.”

“That really makes my day,” Billy said. “Thanks very much,” and did as he was told.

But the landing went perfectly. Baghdad looked like most large airports except for the guards, the gun pits, the hardware heavily on display everywhere and lots of military aircraft. They taxied to the main RAF area, parked under instructions and Lacey switched off.

Parry left the cockpit and opened the door. “Good flight, huge tailwind. We’re over an hour early.” An RAF Land Rover drove up to meet them and a sergeant got out in camouflage battle dress and saluted Lacey.

“If you gentlemen will get in, I’ll see to the luggage and take you to the mess. Parker’s my name.”

“What about transport down to town?” Dillon asked.

“Taken care of, sir, what we call a safe taxi. You’ll be fine. It’s been quiet lately.”

They were drinking very English tea in the RAF mess, eating biscuits with Lacey and Parry, when a flight lieutenant turned up.

“I’m Robson – police.” He shook hands with Lacey. “Haven’t seen you since Kosovo. Heard about your Air Force Cross. Good show.” He turned to Parry. “We’ve never met, but good show, too. I’ve seen your priority rating – higher even than the Prime Minister turning up. I’ve been in the RAF long enough to know it doesn’t pay to ask questions. You chaps are obviously moving in very exalted circumstances. Mr. Dillon?”

“That’s me.”

Robson handed him an envelope. “A red Security One tag. It covers everything.”

“Everything?”

“Oh yes, immediate response if you’re in trouble, and I presume you gentlemen could be?” He handed a similar envelope to Billy. “Mr. Salter.”

“I feel a whole lot better,” Billy said.

Robson turned back to Dillon. “There’s a safe taxi parked outside with Sergeant Parker at the wheel in civvies. He’ll be on line. Mobile number in your envelopes. Twenty-four-hour watch.” He turned to Lacey and Parry. “I’ve had special instructions. Informed General Ferguson at the MOD that you’d landed and was told you two were to stay and wait here, the Citation refueled for instant takeoff when required.”

“So they can’t go to downtown Baghdad and have a drink with us?” Dillon asked.

“Too dangerous, old boy,” Robson said.

“Of course,” Billy told him. “This just gets better all the time.”

“Your bags are in the taxi, gentlemen, no inspection at the gate.” He smiled. “But why would there be? You’re just a journalist and a photographer.” He got up. “All I can say is enjoy.”

The run to Baghdad itself was calm enough, with plenty of traffic, a lot of it local – cars, trucks and vans, plus lots of donkeys loaded with produce, peasants walking beside them. It was late afternoon, but they were headed for tomorrow’s markets in Baghdad. Rounding it all off were military vehicles of every kind everywhere.

Dillon said to Parker, “So tell us the worst, Sergeant.”

“Well, I’m an old hand. Served in both Gulf Wars, Bosnia and Kosovo in between. If you think things are better because the Yanks grabbed Saddam, you’d be wrong. Plenty of Iraqis were pleased about that, but lots weren’t and they still hate each other. Sunni Muslims, Shiites, stir in a few Kurds, mix it with so-called ‘Muslim freedom fighters’ from all over the world, and that’s not even counting Al Qa’eda.”

“You shouldn’t have joined,” Billy said.

“Well, I did.” Parker laughed. “And you know what? I love every bloody awful minute of it.” He hesitated. “I’m not supposed to ask, but, well, I spent fifteen years in the RAF police. I’ve been around the houses.”

“Which means?” Dillon said.

“Well, you sound Northern Ireland. I should know, because I did four tours there. But Belfast Telegraph? I doubt it. As for Mr. Salter, with the greatest respect, he’s been around the block as well.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t made warrant officer,” Dillon said.

“I once had a falling-out with a warrant officer and punched him.” Robson opened the glove compartment in the car and produced a Browning. “Should I keep this handy?”

“Very sensible.”

“Thank God. Things have been getting boring lately.”

Baghdad was Baghdad. The streets all seemed to be some kind of a market, the traders’ voices high as they shouted to passersby, music blaring out from scores of shops, and traffic everywhere, so much of it that they were reduced to a crawl.

“Is the Al Bustan far?” Dillon asked.

“Which one? There are several. It’s a very common name. Still, don’t worry, I know the right one.”

The evening dusk was setting in as they finally moved off a road not far from Al Rashid Street in the old quarter and turned up a narrow lane and halted at a gate that stood open but had a bar across it. An Iraqi peered out of a small hut and took his time coming.

“Get it up, for Christ’s sake,” Parker told him.

The man said something pretty basic in Arabic, and Dillon reached out through the open window, grabbed him by the throat and told him exactly what to do in reasonably fluent street Arabic himself. The startled man staggered back, got the bar up and Parker drove on.

The hotel was very old-fashioned, the grounds quite large, with a swimming pool and a number of cottage apartments dotted around surrounded by palm trees. They coasted up to the main entrance, braked to a halt, and a couple of porters came down the steps to meet them and take the luggage. Parker didn’t get out.

He said to Dillon. “ Belfast Telegraph? I never heard Arabic like that on the Shankill.”

“We spoke it on the Falls Road all the time.”

“I’m sure you did.” Parker smiled. “I look forward to hearing from you,” and drove away.

The reception area was very old-fashioned as well, with three great fans hanging from the ceiling and swirling around. In the taxi, Billy had extracted two cameras from his bag and had slung them around his neck. He took a couple of pictures of the foyer and moved to an archway opening into a huge bar and café area. He took more pictures and turned to Dillon.

“Brilliant. Just like Casablanca. All we need is Rick.”

“You’ve made your point, Billy.”

The man behind reception interrupted. “Gentlemen, my name is Hamid. I am the manager. May I help you?”

“Dillon and Salter,” Dillon told him.

“Ah, Mr. Dillon. We weren’t expecting you yet.”

“Hell of a tailwind,” Billy put in.

Dillon lit a cigarette. “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. Cottage Five.”

“I was hoping to meet Miss Novikova.” Dillon said it in Arabic, and Hamid was startled. “She’s arrived, I know that.”

“Yes, she arrived a few hours ago. Cottage Seven.” He snapped his fingers to the two porters, who picked up the bags and led the way out, Billy and Dillon following, down a narrow path leading through the palm trees. They saw tables beside the pool, sheltered by umbrellas, people sitting around having drinks. As the porters forged ahead, Dillon pulled Billy close to him.

“The end table with the green-and-white umbrella. The woman in a light blue dress sitting with what looks like an Iraqi. Black hair, bushy mustache.”

“Yes?”

“That’s Greta Novikova.”

“And the guy?”

“Sharif. I’ve seen his photo. Keep moving.”

They passed on, following the porters to the cottage. One of the porters unlocked the door and they led the way in. It was all very acceptable. A sitting room, two bedrooms and a shower room. There was even a small kitchen and a terrace.

Dillon paid the porters off, unlocked the French windows and moved out onto the terrace. Billy joined him. “What do you think about Novikova?”

“I don’t know, Billy, except that she shouldn’t be so cozy with Sharif.”

“So what do we do?”

“Unpack, have a shower – you can go second – and speak to Sharif when he turns up. After that, venture out into the bar, and who knows? We might just bump into Novikova.”

Billy smiled. “Harry’s right, you are a sod.”

Toward the end of her flight, Greta had received a call from Ashimov. “Ah, the wonders of cyberspace. It’s just as I thought. Dillon’s on his way to Baghdad, too. I’ve even got his estimated time of arrival.”

“I’m impressed.”

“To the great Ashimov, anything is possible. I’ve arranged for two mercenary friends of mine in Baghdad, Igor Zorin and Boris Makeev, to handle the dirty work.”

“Are they good?”

“Ex-paratroopers, good Chechen experience. They’ll do. Like you, Dillon is staying at the Al Bustan. He’s got a backup with him, that young gangster, Billy Salter. They’re posing as press.”

“Isn’t that going to be awkward, them staying here, too?”

“Not really. He’d have run you down soon enough. The beauty of it is that the manager at the Al Bustan, a guy called Hamid, has worked for me many times before. He’s already informed me that a Major Sharif, a former Republican Guard, was making inquiries about Dillon’s arrival. I gave Hamid instructions to speak to this man on my behalf. To seduce him with money. You like it?”

“Poor Dillon.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to speak to Sharif before Dillon and Salter get there. Stay in touch.”

At the Al Bustan, Hamid couldn’t do enough for her, the magic name of Belov pervading the air. He took her to her cottage personally, then called Major Sharif on his mobile. Greta didn’t bother to unpack; instead she simply went and sat at the table by the pool and ordered a large vodka cocktail from a passing waiter. She was sipping it, thinking, when Sharif approached and introduced himself. He was a large man in his forties, with black hair and mustache, and sad eyes. He wore a creased linen suit, and the bulge in the right-hand pocket indicated a weapon.

He half bowed. “Major Novikova?”

“Major Sharif. Please sit. Would you like a drink?”

When he had sat, she said, “I don’t like to waste time, so listen carefully.” She filled him in with a few terse sentences. “Do you know Zorin and Makeev?”

“I’ve seen them around. They’re the kind who turn their hand to anything.”

“What about Selim in Ramalla?”

“I’ve already made inquiries. I have contacts in the area. His great-uncle is expecting him tonight.”

“Tell Dillon he’s arriving tomorrow. We’ll meet here later with Makeev and Zorin and decide on our next move. And let’s be clear: Ferguson may pay you well, but if you want top dollar, Josef Belov pays more.” She smiled. “In case you were wondering.”

“I am very content, Major.” He took out a card. “My mobile number. Give me yours.” She did.

“Good. Call me as soon as you hear he’s arrived.”

“Of course.”

He half bowed and walked away.

Showered and changed into a fresh shirt and a tan linen suit, Dillon went through the hardware bag from the quartermaster at Farley Field, found a Walther, checked it out and slipped it into his right jacket pocket. He went out on the terrace, lit a cigarette and Billy joined him.

“I’m hungry. When do we eat?”

At that moment, Sharif came along the path through the palm trees.

“Mr. Dillon?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Major Sharif. You arrived early. Sorry I wasn’t here.”

Dillon put a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “That’s okay, no big deal, was it, Billy?”

Billy responded well. “Hell, no.” He held out his hand. “Good to meet you.”

Dillon said, “There’s one thing straightaway. I’ve heard from London that Greta Novikova is staying here.”

“I’ve only just heard that myself. I’ve just checked in for the night and the manager told me. We have an arrangement. He does me favors.”

“But you wouldn’t know her?”

“No. I don’t think she’s worked in Baghdad before.”

“I see. So, what about Selim? Is he turning up here?”

“He would have booked ahead, and he hasn’t. I expect he’s still driving up from Kuwait, and I think he’ll go straight to his uncle’s place in Ramalla. He’ll probably arrive tomorrow, but I’ll have better information later.”

Dillon smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “No, me ould son,” and he nodded to Billy, who took out a Walther and stood with his back to the door. “I think you’ve got better information now.”

Sharif knew a real pro when he saw one and sighed heavily, not even angry. There was a kind of resignation to him.

“Could I have a drink, Mr. Dillon? I’m that kind of Muslim.”

Dillon found a bottle of Scotch in the bar box and two glasses and poured. Sharif drank it down. He held the glass out and Dillon poured another.

Sharif said, “I was a Republican Guard and military intelligence under Saddam, because we all have to get by in life, which means I was a bad boy. But then I lost my wife and my daughter in the bombing, and that was the war, so fuck Saddam and fuck all of you, the Americans, the Brits and now the Russians, for ruining my country.”

“I appreciate the point.” Dillon toasted him. “As it happens, I’m Irish – IRA Irish, so I can be your worst nightmare. With the credentials I’ve got, I could turn you in to the Yanks, and I’m sure they’d like to have you.”

“And the alternative?”

“Work with us and I’ll guarantee that Ferguson will pay you as agreed and give you a clean slate. Mind you, he’ll expect you to continue working for him.”

Sharif was astounded. “Can this be true?”

He turned to Billy, who shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I just kill people when he tells me to.”

“The world’s gone crazy.”

“So they tell me,” Dillon said. “Are you in or out?”

“I’m in.”

“Good man. Now tell me what happened between you and her.”

Sharif did, and Billy said, “Zorin and Makeev sound like trouble.”

“That’s why I have you, Billy.” Dillon went to the quartermaster’s hardware bag, took out a file, opened it and selected a computer printout. “Does this look familiar?”

Sharif looked surprised. “Why, that’s Ramalla, and that’s the Selim farm just outside in the orange grove by the river. It was damaged in the war, but the old man still lives there on his own. Women relatives call in to see to his needs, so my contact informs me.”

Dillon went back to the bag and opened a false bottom that contained ten thousand American dollars operating money. He took out two thousand in fifties and handed it over.

“That’s to be going on with.”

Sharif looked astonished, but stashed the money away. “What can I say?”

“How long to Ramalla?”

“It’s forty kilometers, an hour, could be less. You want me to take you?”

“No, I have a driver who knows his way around. What I want you to do is check with your contact and call me on my mobile the moment you hear Selim’s arrived. We’ll be ready and waiting to go.”

“And Novikova?”

“Call her half an hour later. Billy and I will be a nice surprise for her and her friends when they turn up.”

“Couldn’t we just grab Selim and scarper?” Billy demanded.

“Not if we want to rub Ashimov’s nose in it. He’ll have a lot of explaining to do to Belov.” He turned to Sharif. “Off you go, then.”

Sharif said, once again slightly bewildered, “You trust me, Mr. Dillon?”

“Let’s say you strike me as an honorable man. But don’t forget to tell her you’ve told me there’s no chance of Selim before tomorrow. In the meantime, Billy and I will sample the delights of the Al Bustan restaurant and bar. It’s been a long day.”

Sharif went out, shaking his head, and Dillon called Sergeant Parker on his mobile.

“It’s Dillon. Do you know a place called Ramalla?”

“I certainly do.”

“You’re taking us there tonight. Dress in civilian clothes and don’t forget the Browning.”

“Like that, is it? If I leave now, I could be with you in an hour.”

“Dress smartly, old son. Remember it’s the Al Bustan.”

“You’ve got to be joking.” Parker laughed and switched off.

Dillon then tried Lacey and tracked him down in the mess. “Dillon here. How’s everything with you?”

“There are some interesting people around, but otherwise it’s boring. Since we’re on standby, we can’t have a drink. Whatever you’re up to, do get on with it, old lad.”

“I can’t promise, but somewhere around midnight could be a possibility. Would that give you a problem?”

“Red Priority One? Sean, they all jump to that.”

“There’s a possible passenger, but that would imply perfection in an imperfect world.”

“We’re entirely in your hands. Take care.”

Dillon snapped his Codex Four shut and turned to Billy. “That’s it for now. Let’s try that bar.”