Dark Justice

9

Sharif, the old intelligence hand, decided to brave Greta Novikova face-to-face, and knocked on the door of Cottage Seven. She opened it, dressed in a bathrobe, a towel around her head.

“I’ve seen them,” he said.

“You’d better come in and tell me everything.”

Which he did, or his version of everything. “He’s a hard one, this Dillon.”

“More than you’ll ever know. But the important thing is you’ve made it clear that Selim won’t be there until tomorrow.”

“Absolutely. He’d no reason not to believe me.”

“And any news from Ramalla?”

“As I said, definitely later tonight. I’m going to check my sources now. I have police contacts in the area. A matter of some delicacy.”

“Then get on with it. I have Zorin and Makeev turning up soon.” She opened the door for him. “What is Dillon doing now?”

“He told me they were going to the bar.”

“I’m sure he would.”

She let him out, stood there frowning for a moment, then went into the bedroom and started to dress.

The bar and restaurant area was hardly busy, with no more than a couple of dozen people scattered around the tables, three or four on bar stools. The fans stirred on the flaking ceiling, the ornate mirrors at the back of the bar were cracked in places, and here and there the wall was pockmarked with bullet holes, but the two barmen wore white jackets, the headwaiter a tuxedo. They were all trying. The war, after all, was over.

Billy had two cameras slung around his neck and snapped away with genuine enthusiasm, going out through the open French windows to the terrace and the floodlit pool area. He returned.

“Great, Dillon, just great. We could make a movie.”

Dillon had discovered an acceptable bar champagne and toasted him. “Just your thing, Billy. You’d look great in a white tuxedo. We’ll get Harry to put up the money.”

And then Greta Novikova walked into the bar, elegant in a very simple black silk dress that was short, but not too short, set off by gold high-heel shoes, with her hair tied back.

“I was wondering where you’d got to,” Dillon said. “But it was worth the wait, girl. You look grand.”

“You’re a cheeky bastard, Dillon, I’ll say that for you. I’ll have champagne on the terrace.”

She walked out, heads turning, and selected a table and Dillon ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon from the headwaiter.

“ Ferguson is obviously extremely generous when he allows you to order stuff like that,” Greta said.

Billy was seated on the balustrade, snapping away. “Oh, Dillon’s the man for you. He’s got plenty stacked away.”

As the headwaiter uncorked the bottle and a waiter brought three glasses, Dillon said, “That’s a great lie, or part of a one. Billy here and his uncle Harry have millions in property development by the Thames, but he’s a boy of simple tastes. Prefers being a photographer.”

“Photographer, my ass,” she said to Dillon in Russian.

“And what was that all about?” Billy asked.

“I couldn’t bear to tell you,” Dillon said. “But it was rude.” He turned to the headwaiter. “Only two glasses. The boy doesn’t drink.”

“No, he just shoots people when the mood takes him,” Greta said, and sipped some of her champagne. “I know very well who you are. Your uncle is one of the most notorious gangsters in London, and you’re not far behind.”

“I’ll have to run faster, then.”

Dillon produced a pack of Marlboros and gave her a light. “So where do we go from here? You know what the game is, or think you do.”

“But my game could be different from yours. We Russians can be very devious.” She emptied her glass in a quick swallow. “Not vodka. Now, there’s a real drink. Buy a bottle and I’ll trade glass for glass with you.”

Billy was laughing. “You’re one of a kind, lady. Go on, Dillon, give it a go.”

And Dillon liked her, liked her more than any woman in a long time, as she leaned across the table so close that he could smell her perfume, her chin on one hand. “Come on, Dillon.” She was challenging him now. “Would you like to give it a go?”

There was a pause, then Dillon said, “I capitulate.” He ordered a bottle of vodka, which was provided almost instantly.

She insisted on having the first one. “I am the taster.” She took it straight back, Russian style, and made a face. “Now, this one they’ve made in some backyard in Baghdad. Try it, Dillon.”

He did, and it burned like fire. He coughed, tears in his eyes. “Well, it’s not Irish whiskey, but it’ll do to take along. Let’s save some for your friends. They’ll be joining you, I’m sure.” She poured him another with a steady hand. “Makeev and Zorin.”

“Sounds like a variety act,” Billy said.

“Ah, Mr. Salter, there you would be making a mistake. They come highly recommended.”

Two men came out through the French windows, strangely similar in black shirts and tan suits, around forty, hard and fit with military-style haircuts.

The nearest one said in Russian, “Major Novikova. Igor Zorin. This is Boris Makeev.”

“Make it English. Mr. Dillon here speaks Russian almost as well as you do.”

“A man of taste, which doesn’t extend to his choice of vodkas,” Makeev said. “But when you’re Irish, anything’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

Makeev drank from the bottle, made a face and spat it out onto the table, spotting Greta’s dress. “Control yourself,” she said angrily. “That’s an order.”

“We’re not in the army now,” Makeev told her. “We’re working for wages, and I can tell you we don’t take kindly to women who try to give orders.”

Billy took a step toward him, and Dillon said, “Leave it.”

Sergeant Parker appeared through the French windows, wearing a dark blue blazer and flannel slacks. He put his right hand inside the blazer and stood, silent and watchful.

“Nothing to say?” Makeev asked.

“Your hair fascinates me,” Dillon said. “Shaved off like that, the two of you look like a couple of convicts on the run. Now, the SAS at Hereford, England, grow their hair long because they don’t know from one day to the next when they might have to go undercover. But then, they’re the best. You can’t be expected to compare.”

“Why, you little shit,” Makeev said in Russian, leaned down to grab Dillon by the shirtfront and was promptly head-butted. He staggered back, and Billy put out a foot and tripped him, following it up with a kick in the ribs.

“Nice one,” Billy said.

As Zorin picked his friend up, Greta jumped to her feet, furious. “Go to my cottage and wait for me. Now!” she added fiercely.

“Billy, you just can’t get good help these days,” Dillon said.

“I don’t know what the world’s coming to.” Billy was smiling, but Greta wasn’t.

“Damn you to hell, Dillon,” and she turned and followed the other two down to the cottage area.

People had settled again, unfazed by a minor affray in a city where bombs and violence were part of their daily lives.

Parker said, “What in the hell was all that supposed to be about?”

“That, ould son, is the opposition, but I’ll fill you in down at our cottage. Time to move out, Billy, not that we actually unpacked.”

“It’s all go with you.”

As they went down the steps from the terrace, Dillon’s Codex Four went. It was Sharif. “Mr. Dillon, Selim arrived a short while ago at the farm.”

“We’re on our way. Don’t forget, half an hour and then call her.”

“As we arranged.”

Sharif switched off his mobile and stood there in the orange grove, aware of the smell, the lights of Ramalla Village over to his left, the farm beside the Tigris below, and felt strangely sad. Had he done the right thing? Who knew? It was in the hands of Allah now.

In their cottage, Dillon brought Parker up to speed and opened the hardware bag. He produced two Colt.25 semiautomatics in ankle holsters and gave one to Billy.

“A woman’s gun,” Parker said.

“Not with hollow-point cartridges. Put a Walther in your waistband behind your back, Billy.” He smiled at Parker. “If anybody searching finds it, they think that’s it.”

“My God, what is this, the third Gulf War?”

So Dillon told him.

Afterward, Parker said, “I knew it was big when Robson briefed me, but this is something else.”

“A totally black operation. That’s the way we work. You can sign the Official Secrets Act later.”

“Unless you’d prefer not to,” Billy said.

“Get stuffed. Like I said, it’s got a bit boring lately.”

Dillon took an Uzi machine pistol from the bag. “There are two of these in here, so with your Browning, I’d say we’re ready to rock and roll.”

“Just one thing,” Parker said. “Does all this mean you don’t trust Sharif?”

“No – what it means is I don’t trust anybody. So we take the hardware bag, leave anything else, leave the lights on and the radio.”

“And leave the bill at reception,” Billy said.

“Naturally.”

“I parked round the back. Ford station wagon.”

“Then, as they say in the movies, let’s get the show on the road,” Dillon told him.

And some ten minutes later, Greta Novikova was in the middle of telling Zorin and Makeev exactly what she thought of them when her mobile went. It was Sharif.

“He’s at Ramalla. Arrived a short while ago.”

“Excellent. Zorin and Makeev are with me now.”

“Do you want me to join you?”

“No, meet us there.”

“Do you still intend to dispose of them?”

“Of course, that’s the whole point of the exercise. Does it give you a problem?”

“Not at all.”

“I’ll see you later.”

Sharif switched off his mobile, looked over at the farm beside the river for a moment, then walked down through the orange trees toward it.

Zorin drove, Makeev beside him, in a Jeep Cherokee, Greta sitting in the back. Makeev was checking out an AK-47 with a folding stock.

“This should do the job,” he said, laughing, and punched Zorin on the shoulder. “An easy one, this. Not like hunting that Iraqi general in Basra.”

“You’ve worked for the Americans?” Greta asked.

“Good God, no. It was an honor killing. He’d raped somebody’s wife in the Saddam days. The family wanted revenge.”

“We hunted him down in a sewer,” Zorin said. “The family wanted his manhood, but this fool got him with a stick grenade.”

“So there wasn’t much left of his manhood.” Makeev laughed uproariously. “Not that you’d know much of that kind of thing sitting behind a GRU desk.”

It occurred to her then that they were both on something and it wasn’t drink. She was wearing a black crepe trouser suit, a purse in her lap. She put a hand inside and found what she sought, a Makarov. She fingered it, not nervous, just ready. She had killed on occasion, but these fools didn’t know that.

“Oh, I don’t know. There were sewers in Kabul. I was twenty-two years of age when the Mujahidin finally chased us out in ninety-two.”

They had stopped laughing. “You were in Afghanistan?” Makeev sounded incredulous.

“ Chechnya was worse. Now, they really were sewers.” Zorin swerved to avoid a line of donkeys with produce for tomorrow’s market, his headlights picking them out.

“Careful,” she said severely. “We want to get there in one piece.”

She took out a cigarette, lit it and sat back.

The run to Ramalla was smooth and took no more than fifty minutes. Dillon examined the map in the light of a flashlight as they got closer.

“I’d say pull in on the edge of the orange grove on the hill. That’s not much more than a hundred yards away. You’ll stay with the station wagon,” he told Parker.

“And miss all the fun?”

“No, ride shotgun. I never take anything for granted, and there are night glasses in the bag.” He lit a cigarette. “I’ve never trusted anyone or anything in my life. That’s why I’m here.”

Later, moving off the main road, Parker switched off the engine and coasted some distance down through the orange grove and halted. The farm lay below, a light in the windows. There were two or three boats passing down the Tigris toward Baghdad. It was extraordinarily peaceful.

“They came to Ramalla,” Dillon said. “Very biblical.”

“I’m not much on the Bible,” Billy said.

“Well, I have the Irish attitude. There’s nothing can happen in life that hasn’t already happened in the Bible.” He took two pairs of night glasses from the bag and gave one to Parker. “Take a look.”

When he did himself, the house was plainly visible, with what looked like a barn on each side, one of them damaged, part of the roof gone. There was a parked Land Rover.

“That’s the war for you,” Dillon said and passed the glasses to Billy. “Notice the license plate on the Land Rover. It’s Kuwaiti.”

Billy passed them back. “So how do we do this?”

“We’ll go down on foot. You take the Uzi and leave the other for the sergeant.” He turned to Parker. “You’ve got the glasses. Monitor us.”

“What for, exactly?”

“Who knows? Just do it. Come on, Billy,” and he got out of the station wagon and started down the hill, Billy following.

They reached the damaged end of the farmhouse. Half the roof was gone, what had been double barn doors missing. It was dark inside, but Dillon took a chance and flicked on a small flashlight, revealing some rusting farm machinery. He switched off. “Not much here.”

There was a sudden rattling on the part of the roof left intact and rain fell in an absolute downpour. “Christ,” Billy said. “I thought this was Iraq.”

“It rains in Iraq, Billy. Sometimes it rains like hell in Iraq.”

He led the way along the front of the farmhouse and past the Land Rover. There were shutters at the windows, half closed, and Dillon peered in, Billy at his shoulder. They saw a living room with a large table, on which stood an oil lamp. There were chairs, a wooden sideboard, a fire of logs on a stone hearth. A radio was playing music softly, but there was no sign of anyone.

“We’ll try the other barn,” Dillon whispered and moved on.

There was a narrow window on each side of the barn door, and Dillon peered inside. “Well, there’s your man, Billy. Take a look.”

Inside, there were stalls for animals, and a large loft with bales of hay and reeds. There was also Selim in a shirt and jeans clearing out a stall with a rake.

Dillon said, “In we go.”

He reached for the door handle and a donkey brayed at the back of the barn and several more answered, and that was strange, because at that time of night and in all that rain, why would they not be in the barn? But before he could react, the tailgate of the Land Rover swung open behind him and Sharif got out holding an AK-47. Two men in red-and-black-checked kaffiyehs over their faces got out behind him, also holding AKs. Dillon had started to turn, but the muzzle of Sharif’s gun touched his back.

“I wouldn’t, I really wouldn’t. I have no desire to kill you, or you, Mr. Salter. Please pass the Uzi over.”

“Fuck you,” Billy said, but did as he was told.

“You should beware the Wrath of Allah, Mr. Salter.”

“Jesus, you’re one of them,” Dillon said.

Sharif was searching them, found the two Walthers and passed them to his friends. “Actually, I’m not. I don’t care about Al Qa’eda, or Wrath of Allah, or any of them. I’m not even a good Muslim. But I love my country. That’s what’s important to me, and I want you all to go away.”

“Including the Russians.”

“Especially the Russians. You think I want to see people like Belov getting their hands on our oil, running our country? I think not. Now, let’s go inside and wait for Major Novikova and her friends. It’ll be a nice surprise, I think.”

He pulled open the door and Selim stopped raking and turned, startled and then relieved. “Major, you’ve got him.”

“So it would seem, me ould son,” Dillon told him. “If you’re interested, Ashimov and Belov want you dead. I, on the other hand, can cut you a deal with Ferguson that could ensure your return to the delights of London.”

They heard the sound of a car in the distance, and Sharif said, “Get ready to close the door a little.” Two more men stood up behind hay bales above in the loft.

“On the other hand,” Dillon said to Selim as one of the men pulled on the door, “maybe you want to stay down on the farm?”

All this had been seen by Parker through the night glasses as he stood by the station wagon. He reached for the Uzi and at the same moment heard the approach of the Cherokee and raised the night glasses again, tracking the Jeep as it descended from the main road to the farm. It slowed on the final run, and Makeev, clutching an AK, rolled out headfirst and darted through long grass to the rear of the barn. The Jeep came to a halt behind the Land Rover, Zorin and Greta Novikova got out, and at that moment, the door of the barn swung open and Sharif appeared with his friends. It was enough, and Parker started down the hill at a run.

Greta Novikova said to Sharif, “So you’ve betrayed us?” “I’ve betrayed both sides. I’ve thought it over carefully and decided to become a patriot, which is what my four friends are. I spoke to them and they were happy to oblige.”

“I think it would pay you to think again. Josef Belov has a long arm.”

“Never mind that. What happened to Makeev?”

And Dillon, speculating, stuck his oar in. “That would be me. The bastard was rude to the lady on the terrace of the hotel, and I broke his nose for him.” He smiled amiably. “Or something like that.”

In fact, Makeev, at that moment, having gained access to the barn through a rear door, was mounting wooden steps to the entrance to the left, but his progress was awkward, the steps breaking away with some noise. One of the men in the loft appeared, cried out an alarm and fired, hitting Makeev in the chest, and Makeev shot him in return, then fell backward down the stairs.

Down below, Dillon nodded to Billy and they both pulled the Colts from their ankle holsters and confronted Sharif and his men. Nobody fired. There was a kind of tableau, a frozen moment, the door swinging all the way back in the wind, rain driving in.

Sharif raised his AK. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dillon,” and Parker appeared in the doorway and shot him twice.

What happened then was very fast, very quick. Dillon swung, threw himself at Greta, flinging her out of the way. “Get in one of the stalls,” he cried, as bullets shredded the floor beside him from the loft. He turned, firing twice, and the man up there came down headfirst.

Billy had dodged into the shelter of a stall and picked off one man carefully, a bullet to the head, and shot the other in the back as he turned to run away.

There was silence, and then Parker walked in, soaked. “Jesus” was all he could say.

Selim cowered on hands and knees in one of the stalls, and Zorin had produced a pistol. Greta moved out into the open. “For God’s sake, put it away. We’ve lost.”

Sharif groaned and moved a little and Dillon dropped to one knee, not that there was much to be done. Sharif couldn’t even manage a smile.

As Dillon stood up, Zorin moved in behind him and put his pistol to his back. “I’ve had enough for one night, so I’m leaving and taking this bastard with me.” He glanced at Greta. “You want to come, get over here.”

“As you say.”

“I like that. Maybe I could teach you how to do as you’re told.”

She was very close to him. “But I always do.” She took out the Makarov, rammed it into his back and shot him twice. He went down like a stone.

“Now what?” Billy asked Dillon.

“Another bad night in Iraq, Billy. We get the hell out of here.” He nodded to Parker. “You did well.” He turned to Selim. “I could shoot you, but you’ll do better with Ferguson. Stay here and you’re a dead man one way or another when Ashimov hears you’re on the loose.” He turned to Greta. “Isn’t that so, Major?”

“I’d have to agree.”

“But you didn’t shoot me, you shot your own man,” Selim argued. “It makes no sense.”

“Well, she’s a woman.” Dillon pushed him over to Parker. “Get him in the station wagon.”

Parker took Selim away, a hand on his arm, and Dillon and Greta paused in the doorway, Billy watching, his Uzi back in his hands. Dillon gave her a cigarette, took one himself and lit them with his old Zippo.

“Give you a lift, lady?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll take the Cherokee, get back to the Al Bustan and pack. Next step for you is the airport, I imagine.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Does it really matter? Let’s say I liked you and I didn’t like them, and Sharif, as it happened, screwed things up big-time.”

“Yeah, but where’s that leave you with Ashimov and Belov?” Billy demanded.

“Oh, I’ll give a satisfactory version of events. I’m good at that, and there’s no one to contradict me.”

Dillon opened the door of the Cherokee and said, “In you go, girl.” Which she did, and put down the window. He leaned in. “I owe you one. I owe you a life.”

“That means a lot to an Arab, Dillon, but you’re Irish and a bastard. A charming one, but that’s what you are.”

She switched on the engine. “Buy me a drink at the Dorchester sometime and we’ll call it quits.”

“It’s a deal.”

“One more thing.” She smiled out at him. “I’m still on the other side.”

“I never doubted it.”

She drove away, and Billy said, “That’s a hell of a woman.”

“A one-off, Billy. Now let’s get moving.”

They started up to the orange grove and he took out his Codex Four and called Lacey. “We’re on our way, plus the passenger I mentioned.”

“No problem, Sean. I’ve spoken to Robson, so it was all in the security pipeline. I’ll confirm it now. We’ll be waiting. Was it rough?”

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

“That bad? Ah, well, see you soon.”

Dillon took out his cigarettes and said to Selim, who sat between him and Billy, “Do you use these?”

Selim was trembling a little. “Not for years.”

“Then have one now. It’ll help settle your nerves. Stay here and Belov’s people will get you one way or another, but you’re too valuable to waste, which is why I’m taking you back to Ferguson. As I’ve told you, play ball and you’ll be fine.”

“But my roots are here.”

“Bollocks,” Billy said. “Look out there at the romance of Iraq. Bleeding peasants at this time of night in the pouring rain, leading donkeys for the morning market in Baghdad to make a few bob. It’s a shithole.”

“And you’re British anyway,” Dillon said. “Born in London, went to St. Paul’s, Cambridge.”

“You went to St. Paul’s?” Billy said. “I didn’t know that. I was there for two years. My uncle Harry wanted to make a gentleman of me.”

Selim was interested in spite of himself. “What happened?”

“They expelled me when I was sixteen for beating up two prefects. I’ve never told anyone that before, not even you, Dillon.”

“Well, there you go.” Dillon smiled. “A great man once said England was a splendid, tolerant and noble country, and even though I’m Irish, I’d have to agree. Let’s put it this way. There are mosques all over London.”

The first thing Greta did at the cottage when she got back was to call and arrange an early-morning departure for the Falcon. Then she phoned Ashimov, finding him in bed, because in London it was three in the morning. He was all attention, sat up and reached for a cigarette.

“How’s it going?”

“I’m on my way back, that’s how it’s going. Sharif sold us out.”

“I’ll have his balls for that, I promise.”

“No need. They ambushed us at Ramalla – Dillon, Slater and Sharif. There was a firefight. Zorin and Makeev were killed. I managed to shoot Sharif and got away in the darkness. I saw Dillon, Salter and some other men take Selim away to a station wagon. I was close enough to hear Dillon say something like ‘Let’s get out of here. Next stop the airport.’ I waited until they’d gone and came back to the house in the Jeep.”

“It’s like a black comedy,” he said. “A total farce.”

“I’m sure they’re going to squeeze Selim dry in some London safe house,” she said.

“Yes, I’ll have to find out where that is. But at least you’re safe, my love. I’ll expect you tomorrow.”

She put the phone down, quite pleased with herself, and went to bed.

At Baghdad Airport, they gained access through a discreet security entrance, where Robson and Lacey waited in a Land Rover.

“Follow us, Sergeant, straight to the plane,” Robson called.

They did and found the Citation waiting, ready to go. The two vehicles stopped at the bottom of the steps and they all got out.

Robson said, “Please board now, gentlemen. You’ve sort of never been here, if you follow me. Much better all round.”

“You’ve got a good man here.” Dillon turned and shook hands with Parker. “We’ll do it again sometime.”

“Once around the houses with you is enough for any man, but good luck.”

Billy pushed Selim up the steps, Dillon followed and then Lacey, who closed the door. Selim sank into a seat. Lacey joined Parry in the cockpit.

Dillon took out his Codex Four and called Ferguson, as Greta had done with Ashimov, finding him in bed.

“Who in the hell is it at this time in the morning?”

“Dillon. Just leaving Baghdad Airport.”

“Have you got him?”

“That we have.”

“Was it bad?”

“Oh, the usual. Billy did well. Two more notches.”

“And Novikova?”

“Still in one piece. Quite a girl, but I’ll tell you later.”

“Good man, Sean, we’ll be waiting at Farley.”

The Citation started along the runway, lifted and rose very quickly. Billy tilted his seat. “I’m for a nap,” he said and closed his eyes.

Selim was shaking slightly, and Dillon opened one of the lockers, produced a blanket. “There you go, wrap yourself in that.”

Selim said in a small voice, “Thank you, Mr. Dillon.”

Dillon opened the bar box, found half a bottle of Bushmills whiskey and a glass, into which he poured a large one.

“That ‘Committee for Racial Harmony’ you’ve been sitting on at the House of Commons, play your cards right and you could be back there before you know it, sitting on the Terrace by the Thames, with tea, cakes and cucumber sandwiches. Think about it.”

He sat back and poured himself another whiskey.