Dark Justice

LONDON
10

The Citation landed at Farley Field at ten in the morning, under gray skies and heavy rain, remarkably like Iraq. Ferguson waited in the Daimler, Hannah Bernstein standing beside it in a raincoat, an umbrella over her head. Behind them was a Land Rover containing two men in civilian clothes. They were, in fact, staff sergeants in the Royal Military Police, named Miller and Dalton, and they worked for Ferguson at the Holland Park safe house. As the Citation rocked to a halt, they got out of the car.

The door of the plane opened, the steps came down. Lacey came first, followed by Dillon, Selim behind him huddled in his blanket. Billy was next and then Parry. Ferguson went to greet them.

He said formally, “You are Dr. Ali Selim?”

“That’s right.” Selim seemed quite calm now.

Ferguson turned and said to Hannah, “Superintendent?”

There was a reluctance to her, but she said, “Under the Anti-Terrorism Act, you may be held indefinitely. Under the Official Secrets Act, you may not speak of it or why you are here.”

“Am I not entitled to a lawyer?” Selim asked.

“No.” Ferguson turned to the staff sergeants. “Deliver him to the safe house. Treat him well. Give him a change of clothes and whatever food he wants. Remember that he’s a Muslim.”

Hannah said, “I’d like to go with him, sir.”

The military police were putting Selim in the rear of the Land Rover, and Ferguson took Hannah to one side. “I know you don’t approve, my dear, but desperate situations require desperate remedies. However, we’re not the Gestapo. We won’t mistreat him. Now, off you go. I’ll see you later.”

She turned to Dillon, obviously unhappy. “Good to see you back, Sean.”

Dillon felt sorry for her, but it was Billy who said, “Don’t waste your sympathy, Superintendent. They’d have killed us, and they tried hard enough – even wanted to kill Selim. People like you, your conscience, your morality. Nothing’s ever enough, is it?”

Dillon said, “Leave it, son,” and she turned and got in the Land Rover and was driven away.

The rain suddenly increased. Billy said, “To hell with it. It’s me for the Dark Man and a full English breakfast.”

“An excellent idea.” Ferguson turned to Lacey and Parry. “My thanks, gentlemen. We’ll be seeing each other soon, I’m sure.”

He got in the Daimler with Dillon and Billy and was driven away.

The Dark Man, like most London pubs these days, offered breakfast. Dora was on duty, greeted them with enthusiasm and vanished into the kitchen. The place was quiet, and they settled in a booth, and five minutes later, Harry burst in with Joe Baxter and Sam Hall. He embraced Billy in a bear hug.

“Jesus, that was quick.”

“The way it happened, Harry,” Dillon said.

Salter turned to his nephew. “What was it like, Baghdad?”

“Well, it wasn’t like a Sinbad movie. It was pissing with rain most of the time. To be honest, Harry, I feel sorry for them.”

“So you got Selim?”

Dillon glanced at Ferguson, who nodded. “You might as well tell him.”

Which Dillon did, as Dora arrived with the breakfasts.

Afterward, Harry put an arm around Billy. “You young bastard, you’ve done it again.”

“We were lucky this time,” Billy told him. “Or at least Dillon was. If it hadn’t been for Novikova, he’d have been a dead man. That Makeev creep was a bad sod.”

“So what happens now?” Harry demanded.

“We’ll put Selim into a safe house,” Ferguson said. “We’ll see what he’s got to say.”

“So you won’t be standing him up at the Old Bailey?” Harry said. “For conspiracy in Mrs. Morgan’s death?”

“It’s pointless. We wouldn’t get anywhere. What’s far more important is information about what Selim’s been up to with the Wrath of Allah.”

“And how are you going to get that? This isn’t the Algerian War and the French Foreign Legion. You’re not going to wire up his bits and pieces to a car battery.”

“There are more subtle ways.”

“The Superintendent wasn’t very happy,” Billy said. “With all that Anti-Terrorism Act stuff and the fact that he doesn’t get a lawyer.”

“It can’t be helped. As I said earlier, we live in difficult times. It is war to the knife. Things have changed. Speaking of which – you know about the Omega Program, Dillon?”

Harry said, “And what would that be?”

“It’s an implant containing a computer chip that tracks a person’s whereabouts. The Prime Minister and cabinet ministers each have one. He insisted I had it done last year. At the time, he didn’t want it spread any further, but he’s changed his mind since the attempt on Cazalet. He wants us to use every tool at our disposal, and he’s authorized me to include anyone I think appropriate. So I’m insisting that you, Dillon and the Superintendent get it also. Major Roper’s already got one.” He gave Dillon a card. “Professor Henry Merriman, Harley Street. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Christ,” Billy said. “Bionic man.”

Harry burst into laughter. Ferguson said, “Not so fast, Billy. You’ve gotten yourself up to your neck in my affairs for some time now, and this particular situation is bad and getting worse. So under the circumstances, I think you’d better have one implanted, too.”

It was Dillon’s turn to laugh. “There goes your love life, Billy.”

Billy did not look amused.

Ashimov was still at Drumore Place and arranged for a company car to pick Novikova up at Belfast Airport. Then he phoned Belov in Moscow and broke the bad news. Belov took it badly.

“Here I am up to my neck in difficult negotiations, and this kind of thing happens. It won’t do, Yuri. I put you in charge, gave you unlimited discretion, total resources, unlimited money…”

“I’m sorry, Josef. Makeev and Zorin came highly recommended, they did good work in the past.”

“And now they’re dead, along with this Sharif and his four friends. The only one who comes out of it with any credit is Novikova. Dillon and this Salter boy are serious business.”

“I agree.”

“Then deal with them seriously. Enough messing about. You tell me Kelly and Murphy knew him in the IRA? Fine. That means they’ll know how he works. Tell them to get a crew together and to sort Ferguson’s people out once and for all. Just get it done. I’m coming to Belfast myself. I had planned to return to London, but under the circumstances I think it’s best I stay away, let them do their work. Don’t fail me, Yuri.”

Greta arrived soon afterward, and Yuri greeted her warmly. “Did you manage to get any sleep?”

“I had a couple of vodkas and crashed out for most of the trip.”

“Good. We’re driving down to the Royal George for lunch. I want you to meet Dermot Kelly and Tod Murphy.”

They went out to the car. “What about Belov?”

“I’ve spoken to him.”

“And?”

“He wants us to go to war. I’ll explain as we go.”

At the Royal George, they sat in a corner booth with Kelly and Murphy, enjoyed a shepherd’s pie with Guinness and Greta gave her version of the events at Ramalla.

They found the whole thing very amusing, and it occurred to her, and not for the first time, that the Irish were not like other people. They never seemed to take anything seriously. It made her think of Dillon, and in a way that didn’t sit comfortably with her.

“Jesus, but Sean’s the one,” Kelly said. “You’ve got to give it to the bastard.”

“Mind you, this Billy Salter’s close behind him,” Tod Murphy said. “Maybe his mother was a Cork woman.”

“No, that was Ferguson,” Kelly said. “She was a Cork woman. It’s a known fact.”

It was Greta, exasperated, who said, “Well, if you’ve finished exploring the niceties of Irish family relationships, could we decide exactly what you intend to do?”

“Oh, Tod’s the planning genius when you can get his nose out of a book,” Kelly told her.

“We’ll get together some of the old outfit,” Tod said. “Me and Dermot and two others. That will be enough.”

“For Dillon and Salter? I wonder.”

“How will you travel?” Ashimov asked.

“There’s a fella I know called Smith who runs air taxis, not far from here. He’s been doing illegal flights for years. Goes in under six hundred feet, so he’s not on the radar. Has a Navajo twin-engine job that’ll do six. There are still old World War Two airstrips here and there, where the local farmer looks the other way if there’s enough money in the envelope. Saves going through security, and we can take the right hardware.”

“And where will you stay, in Kilburn?” Ashimov asked, naming the most Irish borough in London, virtually a ghetto.

“If there’s ever a hint of IRA trouble, Scotland Yard makes straight for Kilburn,” Kelly said. “We’ve got contacts that could help, but it’s best to keep out of there. In fact, we’ll try Indian territory.” He glanced at Murphy. “China Wharf?”

“Perfect.”

“That’s in Wapping,” Kelly said. “It’s an old tea warehouse owned by Tod’s aunt Molly. She married an Englishman named Harris. Special Branch never knew about her. She turned it into a lodging house years ago. We used to use it as a bolt-hole in London.”

“She’s a widow lady of eighty-three,” Tod said. “Can’t be bothered anymore, so she lives on the ground floor and leaves the other rooms empty.”

“Sounds good to me.” Ashimov got up. “You sort it all out. Move when you want to. Meanwhile, Greta will research where Ferguson keeps his safe houses.”

“Fine by us,” Kelly said.

“Good.”

Afterward, Yuri and Greta walked down toward the pier. “It’s beautiful,” she said, as they looked over the tiny harbor.

“There’s not much going on these days. Only half a dozen fishing boats, and they’re out at the moment. The boat at the end of the pier is Dermot’s, the Kathleen. He’s had her for years. She’s his pride and joy.”

It was a thirty-foot cabin cruiser, shabby, with paint peeling, and Greta said, “It doesn’t look like much.”

“It sn’t meant to, but it’s got twin screws, radar, automatic steering and a depth sounder. Everything you need for an illegal passage by night, plus thirty knots.”

He lit a cigarette. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the estate and then it’s back to London.”

Jake Cazalet was sitting at his desk in the Oval Office signing papers when Blake Johnson came in.

“I’ve just had Charles Ferguson on the line, Mr. President. Dillon seems to have come through big-time.”

“Tell me.”

Blake did, and afterward, the President said, “The man never ceases to amaze me. So what happens now?”

“Ferguson will squeeze Selim dry if he can. Any leads they can prise out of him could prove invaluable.”

“You don’t need to tell me.”

“Naturally, they’ll pass all the relevant information on to us.”

“I’d expect them to. In this, Blake, we must rely on Ferguson. Selim is a British citizen.” He sighed and shook his head. “My God, the times we live in.” He smiled suddenly. “I shouldn’t think Josef Belov’s too happy about all this.”

“I shouldn’t imagine he is, sir,” and Blake went out.

On a quiet side road in Holland Park stood an Edwardian town house in the middle of about an acre of gardens surrounded by high walls. A sign at the electronic gate said PINE GROVES NURSING HOME. It was, in fact, Ferguson’s safe house.

Hannah, Miller and Dillon delivered Selim there, and were admitted by military police wearing a kind of uniform of navy blue blazers and flannel slacks.

Selim said, “Nursing home?”

“We have medical facilities,” said Dillon. “So it’s not a total lie. Don’t be deceived by appearances. Security is everything here. The police may not be in army uniform, but they’re all armed. There are no bars, but the windows are electrically wired. This is a fortress, Doctor Selim. Resign yourself to that. Now Sergeant Dalton will show you to your room. We’ll talk later.”

Selim was amazed at his treatment. The room was decent, with a window overlooking the garden. A selection of clothes was available in the drawers and a closet. He showered and changed, then Miller took him down to a sitting room of sorts with a table, chairs, a gas fire and a mirror.

Dalton said, “We’re aware of your food requirements, so the chef has prepared a special meal.” The door opened and Miller came in with a tray, which he placed on the table. “If there’s anything unsatisfactory, please say so, sir.”

“No, this is fine.” Selim sat down and started to eat. “I would appreciate some tea.”

Which was provided and he continued to eat, and on the other side of the mirror, Ferguson, Dillon, Hannah and Roper watched, waiting until he had finished. Miller reappeared and took away the tray. Dalton waited, watchful.

Selim raised his voice. “If you are there behind the mirror, General Ferguson, do come in now. Whatever else I may be, I’m not a fool.”

Dillon grinned at the General.

“Right, in we go, people,” Ferguson said, and led the way.

Ferguson nodded to Dalton. “If you’d go into the other room and observe, I’d appreciate it.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Roper maneuvered his wheelchair, as Hannah and Ferguson sat down. Dillon sat on the windowsill, smoking a cigarette.

“To clarify things,” Ferguson said, “I’m responsible for the Prime Minister’s personal security system. I have no connection with the other security services. I have carte blanche on behalf of the Prime Minister to operate as I see fit. Detective Superintendent Bernstein is my assistant, on loan from Special Branch at Scotland Yard.”

“And Mr. Dillon? I know what Mr. Dillon does. He kills people.”

“And Wrath of Allah doesn’t?” Dillon asked.

“Superintendent, I appeal to you. Why am I denied a lawyer? Is this just?”

Hannah had trouble with that and it showed. She turned to Ferguson. “Sir, perhaps…”

“Perhaps nothing. Major Roper, why don’t you begin?”

Roper said, “I’ve prepared a report, Dr. Selim. It details your relationship to Henry Morgan, and, of course, his intention to assassinate the President of the United States. It outlines the suspicious death of his mother. It makes clear the basic links between these two and the Queen Street Mosque, as well as your relationship with Yuri Ashimov and, through him, Josef Belov.”

“None of this can be proven,” Selim said, but his voice was subdued.

“There’s little doubt that there has been a trade in young British Muslims, recruited for terrorist camps originally in Iraq, now in various Muslim countries. I have in my possession considerable confidential information regarding the traffic between the Belov organization and you, acting as a front man for a number of so-called charities.”

“All of it perfectly legitimate,” Selim said weakly. “Anything else is a lie.”

“Many donations to the Children’s Trust in Beirut.”

“All for charitable works, education.”

“Charitable? The Children’s Trust is a front of Hizbollah. That’s well known. Both the Marxist League and Free the People have links with Al Qa’eda. The Children’s Trust in Iraq is simply another way of saying Party of God, one of the most militant terror groups.”

“None of this can be proved.” Selim was desperate now. “All the trusts, the educational groups, any payments by me on the Belov company’s behalf were made in good faith. You can’t say otherwise. Mr. Belov paid for our building work at Queen Street, even the new school.”

“I have a list of organizations you’ve passed money to,” Roper said. “It’s a fact.”

“I’m running out of patience,” Ferguson told him. “I’m the first to agree that we stand very little chance of bringing Belov to a courtroom. He’s too rich, too powerful, and he’s covered his back too well. What I want from you are details of the camps, the lists of organizations, names and addresses. Do that properly and you’ll be let off the hook. Slate clean.”

“I can’t,” Selim said weakly.

“All right. If that’s the way it is, then I’ll have you flown back to Iraq, or Saudi Arabia, if you like. We’ll dump you, then spread the word that you talked. If you’re lucky, Belov’s people will get to you first. A bullet would be preferable to being skinned alive by your own people, don’t you think?”

Selim jumped up. “No, I beg you.”

“Think about it, Selim. Think hard. I’ll give you a little time. Come along, people,” and he led the way out.

In the other room, Ferguson said to Dalton, “Keep a close eye on him, Sergeant. Anything comes up, phone me. Otherwise we’ll speak tomorrow.”

“Fine, sir.” Dalton went out.

Ferguson said to the others, “Any questions?”

Roper said, “I’ll get back to my computers, sir. Miller can take me in the van.”

“I’ll go with you,” Dillon said. “You can drop me off.”

Hannah said, “I have to confess I still don’t find this easy, sir, his lack of legal representation.”

“You think we’re infringing on his human rights, Superintendent?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, in the circumstances in which we find ourselves, I’m not very interested in such a viewpoint. Does this mean that you would prefer to return to your normal duties at Scotland Yard?”

She hesitated. “You make it hard for me, sir.”

“I have to. But I’ll give you an option. Tomorrow morning, when you go to Harley Street to see Merriman to have the Omega implant, I suggest you visit the Reverend Susan Haden-Taylor at St. Paul’s Church. You may recall I put Dillon in touch with her last year when I wanted his head cleared after the Rashid affair.”

“And you think she could help?”

“She’s a priest of the Church of England, as well as a top psychiatrist,” Dillon said. “But most important, she’s a truly good human being and she certainly helped me.”

Hannah took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll do that,” and she went out.

Dillon walked behind Roper’s chair with Ferguson. “You can be a hard ould bastard, Charles.”

“It’s a hard ould world, Sean, and getting harder.”

They stood and watched Roper wheel up the ramp into the back of the van. Miller raised the ramp and closed the door and Dillon called, “Wait for me.” He turned to Ferguson. “Are we winning, Charles?”

“God knows, but as I’ve said before, we won’t if we just play patty-cake,” and Ferguson got in the Daimler and was driven away.

Dillon got in the rear of the van beside Roper’s chair. “Well?” he demanded. “What do you think?”

Roper’s eyes were dark in the ravaged, burned face. “Don’t ask me, Sean. I’m what’s left over after a car bomb.”

About ten miles from Drumore Place, Tod Murphy turned the Land Rover into a narrow lane and came to a couple of hangars, a decaying control tower and a crumbling tarmac runway. If ever a place looked rundown, it was this, but then World War Two and the days when it had been used to patrol the Irish borders had been over for a long time. A single-engine Archer stood outside one of the hangars; the doors of the other stood open, revealing a twin-engine Navajo. The door of the Nissen hut opened and a man in old black flying overalls appeared: Ted Smith, around fifty, balding slightly and, like many pilots, rather small.

“Is it yourself, Tod?”

“Who else would it be, you daft bugger? Is the Navajo up and running?”

“First class. You fancy a day out?”

“You could say that. Four of us. Me, Dermot and two of the boys, Fahy and Regan.”

“What for? A day’s fishing over the border?”

“Farther than that. That place we used to go in the old days before the bloody Peace Process. Dunkley. The one that was a Lancaster bomber station in the war.”

Smith’s face dropped. “Jesus, Tod, not that again. I thought those days were behind us.”

“You’ll do as you’re told and you’ll be well taken care of. But if you say no, Dermot is likely to take care of you permanently. You follow?” He laughed and slapped Smith on the shoulder. “Don’t look so worried. A quick one, Ted, just like the old days. In and out. You’ll be away before you know it.”

“Jesus, Tod, I don’t know. I’m getting old for that sort of jig.”

Tod took an envelope from his inside pocket and offered it to him. “Two thousand quid to seal the bargain, just to be going on with. We’ll leave early in the morning. When we want to come back, I’ll phone you. There’ll be a big, big payday at the end of it, and just for dropping us onto a very old airfield in Kent, miles from anywhere.”

As usual, greed won the day, and Smith took the envelope. “All right, I’ll do it, Tod. Seven-thirty in the morning.”

“Good man, yourself. I’ll see you then,” and Tod got back into the Land Rover.

Damn the IRA, but what could he do? Smith turned and went back into the Nissen hut.

And at half past seven the following morning, the Navajo, fully loaded, took off in spite of Smith’s reluctance.

“There’s a lot of bad weather out there, a front moving in over the Irish Sea.”

“Then we’ll rely on the ham sandwiches and good Irish whiskey to keep our spirits up,” Dermot told him. “Jesus, Tod, we’ve done this run at night in the old days and black as the hob of hell, so let’s get on with it.”

Which they did, and the whiskey flowed as the Navajo was pushed by a fierce tailwind over the Irish Sea, dampening the spirits of Kelly’s men. They crossed the English coast over Morecambe. It was raining even harder now, a front advancing as they turned down toward the south country.

As Smith adjusted his course, Kelly, sitting beside him, said, “Everything okay?”

“It should start to quiet down. If it doesn’t, we could always turn back.”

“You wouldn’t want to do that. Then I’d have to break your legs, wouldn’t I?” Dermot smiled, looking terrible. “Just get on with it,” and he got up and joined the others in the cabin.

It was raining in London, too, a short time later, as Billy got out of a cab at Professor Merriman’s office in Harley Street and went inside. Dillon and Hannah Bernstein were already in Reception.

The young nurse behind the desk said, “Who’s first?”

“That’ll be me,” Hannah told her. “I’ve got another appointment.”

“Then follow me, please.”

In his office, Merriman greeted her warmly while the nurse busied herself with items on a side table.

“It only takes a moment, Superintendent, but you’ll have to remove your blouse. You can keep your bra on. I only need an armpit.”

“Will it hurt?” Hannah asked as she took off her blouse.

“Not with this. An excellent anesthetic.” The nurse handed him a plastic ampule. There was a slight prick on her arm and the skin went numb. “It’s instant,” he said, and the nurse handed him a sort of aluminum pistol. He placed the muzzle into her right armpit and pulled the trigger. She didn’t feel a thing.

“Is that it?” she asked, as she pulled her blouse on.

“Absolutely. Your implant is already code indexed into the Omega computer. Where you go, it goes.”

“I’m not sure I’m happy about that.”

“It’s a tool, Superintendent, that’s all. A reflection of the world we live in.”

She pulled on her jacket and coat. “That’s one way of looking at it,” she said. “Tell me, St. Paul’s Church is near here, I believe?”

“End of the street and turn left.”

“Thank you and good morning.”

She went out and was followed by the nurse, who called Billy in. Dillon stood up.

“On your way already?”

“I have an appointment.”

“At St. Paul’s. She’s a remarkable lady and good at extracting confessions. I should know.”

“I’ll see you later, then, back at the office.”

She left, and Billy emerged. “No big deal.”

“Good. I hate needles.”

Billy said, “I’ll see you later. I’ve got a bit of business back at the Dark Man.”

“You’re an idiot, Billy. Smuggled cigarettes from Amsterdam and you don’t even need the money. You’ll be back behind bars at Wandsworth.”

“That’ll be the day,” Billy said and left.

When Dillon emerged into Harley Street, it was still raining. He lit a cigarette, looked down the pavement in the direction Hannah had gone and walked the same way. St. Paul’s Church was on the other side of the street when he turned the corner, a notice board in front with the times of services and the name of the priest. He went up the steps, eased open the small Judas gate in the main door and stepped inside.

It was Victorian, a half-dark sort of place, and there was the smell of damp, candles and incense. He noticed a statue of the Virgin and Child, more candles flickering there, all very old-fashioned Church of England, except for the newer fashion that allowed women priests.

Susan Haden-Taylor was a calm, pleasant woman in a clerical collar and cassock. She was sitting on the opposite side of the aisle from Hannah, two pews away, but facing her.

“Yes,” she was saying. “Charles Ferguson has spoken to me of your dilemma. And his.”

“And his?” Hannah was astonished and showed it.

“Yes. There are always two sides to everything, however simplistic that may sound. Charles tells me you read psychology at Cambridge.”

“That’s right.”

“And that your father is Arnold Bernstein. I know his work. One of the finest general surgeons in London.”

“And my grandfather is Rabbi Julian Bernstein.”

“Leaving you totally walled in by morality.”

“Something like that.”

At the back of the church, Dillon sat on a chair behind a pillar in the corner and listened.

“During my time with the police,” said Hannah, “I’ve killed when I had no choice and I’ve been wounded myself. I even killed a woman once, a truly evil person who was trying to kill a friend. I could accept all this as somehow being part of the job.”

“So what is the problem now? You know you can speak freely. As both a priest and a psychiatrist, I must keep your confidence.”

Hannah told her. When she was done, Susan Haden-Taylor said, “I’m not taking sides, just examining the situation. In spite of what he’s been responsible for, you want Selim to have a legal representative, which means due process of law and an eventual trial, which will probably take six months to come to court, if not longer.”

“I know all the difficulties.”

“Whereas Ferguson wants the details of all those who’ve passed through this Wrath of Allah organization before they have time to set more bombs off. In pursuit of that aim, he obviously feels that giving Selim a hard time is worth it. Don’t you?”

“Dammit.” Hannah was extremely frustrated. “It makes me sound so bloody unreasonable. I’ve been raised on the law, I believe in the law. It’s all we’ve got.”

“So do I, but the times are changing very rapidly and we must face that. Global terrorism provides a whole new perspective. It’s not that you’re wrong, Hannah, but it’s not that Ferguson is wrong either. And one final point. As in all things, each of us has personal choice.”

“Which means?”

“If you really feel strongly about this matter, it would be better if you resigned. Better for yourself. In fact, better for everyone.”

“How strange,” Hannah said. “That makes me feel as if I’d be running away.”

“It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid. Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“No, thanks, I’d better get on.”

Dillon got up at once and slipped out through the Judas gate, where he lit a cigarette and stood waiting. She came out a few minutes later.

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I thought I’d hang around outside and see how you got on.”

“You were right. She is a remarkable woman.”

They started along Harley Street. “Are you still with us, then?”

“I suppose so. I’ll give it another week or two and see. As I was leaving, she said the strangest thing.”

“And what was that?”

“That when Christ told us to turn the other cheek, he didn’t tell us to do it twice. What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

Dillon grinned. “It makes perfect sense to me,” and he hailed a cab.

At Dunkley in Kent, the visibility was poor in the pouring rain as Smith eased the Navajo down on the old decaying bomber runway and rolled to a halt by the decrepit hangars. A white Ford Transit was parked nearby, a man in a cloth cap and bomber jacket holding an umbrella.

Tod got the door open and they all piled out with their bags. Smith peered out, and Kelly said, “Keep your mobile with you at all times. When I call, you come running.”

“You can rely on me, Dermot, but I’m best out of it now.”

He closed the door, went into the cockpit and took off fast a moment later. Dermot led the way to the Transit, holding out his hand.

“So you came yourself, Danny.” He turned to Fahy and Regan. “Danny Malone. Runs the best pub in Kilburn, the Green Man, and a good friend from the great days.”

“Sure, and I thought I’d come myself, Dermot.” They got in and he climbed behind the wheel. “And I’ve spoken to your aunt Molly about China Wharf, only she isn’t there, Dermot. She’s spending time at Brighton with an old friend.”

“Well, that’s a damn shame,” Tod put in.

“No trouble. She told me where a key was hidden and I checked and it was there. I’ve been to the supermarket, stocked you up with provisions. You’ll be as right as rain. The job? Is it big?”

“When the time’s right,” Kelly said. “Dillon’s involved. That’s all you need to know. Maybe we’ll get him this time.”

At the Ministry of Defence, Hannah knocked on the door of Ferguson’s office and went in, followed by Dillon. Ferguson, at his desk, looked up and sat back.

“So you’re both part of Omega now. We should form a club.”

“A very exclusive one, sir,” Hannah said.

“Did you see Susan Haden-Taylor?” She nodded. “And what did she think?”

“What did you expect her to think?” Dillon said. “That difficult decisions are the privilege of rank whereas we, the poor bloody foot soldiers, just pull the trigger?”

“Oh, shut up for once, Dillon,” Ferguson told him. “Have you made any decision yet, Superintendent?”

“If I could think it over for a week or so, sir, I’ll soldier on.”

The phone rang, he picked it up. “Ferguson.” Suddenly he smiled. “Excellent. I’ll be with you shortly.” He put the phone down. “It looks like you’ll have to, Superintendent. That was Dalton. Selim wants to see me. You’d both better come along.”

China Wharf was a relic of the old tea clipper days, but times had changed and most of the warehouses were developed or boarded up and awaiting their turn. Danny Malone unlocked the door and led the way in, followed by the others. There was a large sitting room, all the furniture old-fashioned, a kitchen on the same scale. He put the key on the table.

“Two bedrooms and a bathroom down the hall, five bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs from when it was a lodging house.”

“It’ll be fine,” Kelly said, and turned to Tod. “I’ll phone Ashimov and let him know we made it. Then we’ll get together with him and Novikova, see what she’s got.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now bacon and eggs, a good old fry-up, sounds good to me. But who’s going to cook it, that’s the thing.”

“Well, not me,” Danny Malone said. “I’ll be off now. You let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” and he went out.

At Holland Park, they stood with Miller and looked through the false mirror. Selim sat at the table drinking tea, while Dalton sat on the other side and they chatted.

“You are a very reasonable man, Mr. Dalton,” Selim was saying.

Miller said, “Fred’s done a really good job on him, General. I actually think he’s about ready to see reason.”

“Then in we go,” and Ferguson led the way.

Selim and Dalton stopped talking and Dalton stood up, but Selim remained seated. “You wanted to see me,” Ferguson said. “Do I assume you’re going to be sensible?”

“General, I know you are not the Gestapo. You won’t wire up my extremities, or inject me with succinylcholine or put me in a bath of water until I nearly drown. It isn’t the British way. But I do know that you will sentence me to death if, as you have threatened, you return me to Iraq or anywhere else in the Middle East.”

“So what is your decision?”

“I’m a contemptible coward who believed in my mission but is quite simply afraid to die. As you rightly point out, it would be slow and painful. So, yes, I will co-operate.”

“Fine.” Ferguson stayed calm. “But you must tell me everything, and I do mean everything. Not only the names of the wretched young men drawn into your world of violence, but the identities of your sponsors, the moneymen, the Belovs.”

Selim was just as calm. “You can never touch Belov. He’s much too powerful.”

“That may be true, but we can damn well try.”

“Good luck to you. However, I do have terms.”

“Terms?” Ferguson frowned.

“Certainly. I will deal only with you. I will talk only with you. Mr. Dillon may have saved my life in Iraq, but he killed friends of mine while doing it. I respect Superintendent Bernstein, but she is Jewish and it would not be seemly. The sergeants have treated me decently, so I have no objection to them. However, I don’t like this place.” He shook his head. “I really don’t like it at all. We are in the middle of London. There are too many of my brothers around here, too many people who would surely try to kill me if they knew I was here, no matter how good the security is. Is there somewhere else we could go?”

“Jesus, son, you don’t want much,” Dillon said.

Hannah turned to Ferguson. “Huntley Hall, sir. It’s away from here, and the security’s just as good.”

“That’s true. Roper could come down and handle the technical stuff.”

“No,” Selim said. “I said only you, and I meant it.”

“I shouldn’t think that would be a problem, sir,” Hannah said. “Roper could handle it by remote. He’s done it before.”

Selim said, “Huntley Hall?”

“It’s a lovely old house in St. Leonard’s Forest near Horsham, about an hour and a half from London. It used to be Lord Faversham’s place. When he died, he left it to the nation. There’s lots of woodland. Excellent pheasant shooting.”

“And now you’ve turned it into the kind of place where the only things that get shot are intruders?”

Dillon laughed. “You’ll love it.”

Ferguson stood up and said to Dalton and Miller, “Get him ready. I’ll go home and pack. When I return, we’ll drive down to Huntley. Be prepared to stay for as long as it takes. Dr. Selim, I’ll see you later.”

They took him out and Ferguson turned to Dillon and Hannah. “It’s something of a surprise, but I’ll take it as far as I can. You’re in charge here, Superintendent.”

“Very well, sir. You can rely on me.”

“And you,” Ferguson said. “Try to behave yourself.”

“Don’t I always?” Dillon said.

“That’ll be the day,” Ferguson said and led the way out.

It was approximately an hour and a half later that he returned, this time in a cab, bag in hand. Fifteen minutes later, the Land Rover emerged, Miller and Dalton in the front, Ferguson and Selim in the rear.

A few yards down the road a Telecom van was parked, a manhole cover was up and a man in helmet and yellow jacket was working. He had a clear look as the Land Rover went by and spoke into a small mike in Russian.

“Land Rover just coming your way now. Two in the front. Ferguson and Selim in the rear. Stick to them like glue. I’ll notify Major Novikova.”

The Land Rover paused at the end of the one-way street, then turned into the main road. A motorcycle, ridden by a man in black leather, emerged from a side street and took up station, staying well back.