Dark Justice

11

At China Wharf, while Fahy and Regan did the cooking, Kelly contacted Ashimov. “So here we are. What next?”

“We’ll come round and see you to discuss that. Greta did some research in her GRU files and discovered that Ferguson has a safe house in Holland Park.”

“Well, that’s useful. Is Selim there?”

“I’d be amazed if he wasn’t. Just to make sure, though, she’s got a couple of her people from the embassy on watch there, posing as workmen. I’ll let you know what they find out.”

He drove to the embassy, and found Greta in her office, putting papers into her briefcase. She looked flushed and excited.

“It marches, Yuri. It marches. Not only was Selim definitely in the safe house, he’s now left. He was seated with Ferguson behind two men in a Land Rover. It’s definite.”

“So where were they going?”

“I don’t know, but my number-two man, a young lieutenant called Ivanov, is on their trail on a motorcycle.”

“Is he any good?”

“Excellent. They won’t give him the slip, even if they try.”

“Then while we’re waiting to hear what he comes up with, let’s go visit those Irish clods at China Wharf.”

The Land Rover moved south out of London through heavy traffic to Leatherhead, then onward to Dorking, stopping on the other side for fuel. It was busy, with plenty of cars around, and Ivanov was able to be unobtrusive. He called Greta just as she was arriving at China Wharf with Ashimov. He told her where he was. “The main road leads to Horsham. Does that make any sense?”

“Plenty. I think you may find a village near there named Huntley. Stay with it and call me back.”

“Huntley?” Ashimov said.

“Ferguson’s other safe house.” She held up her briefcase. “It’s all in here.”

“Good. Then let’s go in.”

The road to St. Leonard’s Forest passed through impressive woodland, but was not very busy, only the occasional car and the odd farm vehicle. Ivanov stayed way back, allowing anything that came to overtake him. The road was comparatively straight and he was able to keep the Land Rover in view far up front.

In the end, he had luck, but you always needed that. A large agricultural container truck came up behind him, and he pulled over to let it pass. It provided perfect cover for another couple of miles and he stayed well back, looking beyond it until he saw the Land Rover turn off the road. He slowed, taking his time, allowing the truck to move on, and came to high walls topped by what, to his practiced eye, looked like an electronic fence. There was a gate, obviously also electronic, a small lodge and a sign that said HUNTLEY HALL INSTITUTION.

He kept on going. The walls extended for about a quarter of a mile, the grounds heavily wooded. He had a glimpse of the roof of a large house in the distance, no more, and then he came to the village of Huntley itself – very English, very traditional, cottages scattered on the main street, a stone bridge over a brook, a village store, a fuel station and a pub called the Huntley Arms.

He stopped for fuel, and a young woman served him. His English was perfect, which was how he had been trained. “I seemed to get lost in Horsham. I wanted to cut across to the Brighton Road.”

“Keep going, you’ll come to the A Twenty-three and that’ll take you all the way down to Brighton.”

“This is certainly an out-of-the-way place.”

“That’s true. Nothing much happens here.”

He followed her to the kiosk and got his money out. “What was that place I passed, Huntley Park Institution?”

“Some sort of medical outfit. People in rehab, or that sort of thing. I wouldn’t know, really. They keep to themselves.”

He noticed there were a dozen trailers scattered in the woodland at the back of the garage.

“Who do you rent those to?”

“Nobody’s staying now. Bird-watchers sometimes, people down for the shooting. We get quite busy in the summer.”

“I like this place,” he said. “Give me a card,” which she did, and he added, “While I’m here, I might as well have something to eat. Is the pub any good?”

“It’s all right. Pies, sandwiches, that sort of thing. You won’t find anyone in there now except my granddad. He’s got nothing better to do than drink beer with no one staying in the trailers.”

He gave her a dazzling smile. “I’ll give it a go.”

She was right, for when he went in the pub it was exactly what he would have expected. A stone-flagged floor, an oaken bar backed by bottles, a beamed ceiling, about twenty empty tables and a log fire on an open hearth. An old man in a padded jacket and tweed cap was seated by the fire drinking a pint of beer.

A middle-aged woman appeared from somewhere at the back of the bar, drying her hands. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Took the wrong road from Horsham and lost my way. I’ll have a beer, just one since I’m driving, and maybe you could find me a cheese sandwich. The young lady at the garage suggested I come in.”

“That would be Betty.”

“My granddaughter,” the old man called. “Harold Laker’s my name.”

“Maybe I could buy you a beer,” Ivanov said.

“A pint of bitter wouldn’t be a burden.”

“The old scrounger.” The woman smiled. “Go on, you join him and I’ll bring your drinks and the sandwiches.”

Harold Laker was eighty years old and boasted of it. He’d been born on a local farm, worked all his life in the village, and he demolished a pint and accepted another as Ivanov kept him talking.

“Of course, it wasn’t just the farming in the old days. There was the fishing, the foxhunting, though that’s long gone. The shooting’s really the only big thing left in season.”

“What kind of birds?”

“All kinds. Good pheasant, especially on the estate when Lord Faversham was alive. I used to carry his guns, load for him. Wonderful wildlife on the estate. Rabbits, hares. Not these days, mind you.”

“Why not?”

“Well, when he died, he left it to the nation, and the powers that be turned it into some sort of medical institution.”

“I noticed it when I was driving in. What goes on in there?”

“Nobody really knows, but they do say it’s for people with head problems. Never see any of them round here, mind you.” He sighed. “It was a poacher’s paradise, that estate.”

“I suppose you had your share, but not now with all that security. Electric fences, cameras at the gate.”

“And inside the grounds.”

“Really? And how would you know that?”

“Well, let’s just say if I want a bird or two or a hare or a nice pheasant, I know where to go.”

“You amaze me.”

The old man patted the side of his nose with his finger. “Mum’s the word. You don’t always need to go over a fence.”

There was cunning in his eyes, and Ivanov laughed.

“You old devil. You obviously know what other people don’t.” He rose. “Well, I must be away. It’s been great talking to you, Mr. Laker.” He went to the counter and paid his bill. “And give him another pint.”

“He can talk the hind leg off a donkey,” she said.

“Oh, he’s all right. Reminds me of my grandfather. You never know what you can learn!”

When he rode away, he took the road back to Horsham, slowing to have another look at the gates as he went past Huntley Hall. About four miles farther on, he turned into a nice quiet turnoff in some trees and called Greta Novikova, who was seated at the sitting-room table at China Wharf with Ashimov and the four Irishmen, various documents spread in front of her.

“Ivanov. What have you got for me?”

“Ferguson has definitely taken Selim to Huntley Hall, but there’s a lot more to it than that. Shall I leave it until I get back to London?”

“No, I want it now. Just let me plug in my recorder.”

When he was finished, she cut in, the recorder still on.

“What do you think?”

“About Harold Laker? He’s like my grandfather in Ukraine. A cunning old peasant. If you want my opinion, he’s known that estate all his life and he poaches it to suit himself.”

“But how? With all that security?”

“All I know is, the old bugger said when he needed a bird or two, or a rabbit or a hare, he knew where to go and, I quote, ‘You don’t always need to go over a fence.’ ”

“He’s got a way in,” she said, and there was awe in her voice.

“I’d say so.”

“You’ve done well. Come home, Sergei.”

She hung up and turned to Ashimov. “What do you think?”

“We’ll have to send one of these lads for a little chat with Mr. Laker. But first things first. Let’s have a look at those plans you showed us, Greta.”

She laid them out, Huntley Hall quite plain, and the rolling areas of woodland. “You can see where there are CCTV cameras and electronic devices in the trees at certain points. Mind you, these plans aren’t perfect.”

“Why not?” Kelly demanded.

“Because they’re based on memory. Five years ago, we had a British spy called Sharkey in our hands in Moscow, and an exchange was arranged for one of our men, Orlov, who was being held at Huntley Hall. On the odd occasion, he was allowed out for a walk in the grounds and picked up a certain amount of visual information.”

Tod said, “Sounds risky. Then I’m inclined to go with what Ivanov’s said. The old man has a way in. I think Kelly and I should go down there in the morning. We’ll put up at this trailer site Ivanov mentioned, get to know the old boy and find out his secret.”

“By breaking his fingers?”

“Oh, you always want to do things the hard way, Dermot. No, three bottles of Bushmills should do it, and he’ll turn out to be as greedy as people like him usually are.” He turned to Greta. “Ivanov didn’t sound Russian, what I heard. Does he have any kind of accent?”

“No, he was picked out because his mother was English.”

“Right, so he’s your English nephew, Dermot, who told you about the place. That’s why we’re calling in on our way to London from Brighton.”

It was Ashimov who said, “Sounds good to me, but let’s take it a step further. If in some way you can gain access to the grounds, what’s the next move?”

“There isn’t one,” Tod said. “Not in advance. If he’s taken out for a walk when we’re around, we’ll shoot him.”

“And if not?”

“We’ll handle things the way the cards fall.”

There was silence, then Fahy said, “What about us?”

“You’ll keep your eye on Major Roper. You’ve got all his details you need,” Tod said. “Even you can’t miss a bionic man in a wheelchair.”

“Do we waste him if we get the chance?” Regan demanded.

“No. You wait to hear how we fare with Ferguson and Selim.”

“And Dillon?” Fahy asked.

“You could try,” Greta said and pushed some papers over to them. “That’s his cottage in Stable Mews and a recent photo of him. Also his Mini car and its number.”

Tod laughed. “Did you itemize his body count?”

“I didn’t want to frighten anyone off.” She pushed some other papers over. “Dillon’s friends, the Salters. The young one is as bad as Dillon and his uncle was one of the biggest gangsters in London in his time, so be warned.”

“If the need for any extras arises while we’re away,” she went on, “a car or something like that, you call Danny Malone. He’ll fix you up. He used to be a supplier for the Provos.”

“The only one left is Bernstein, the Special Branch Superintendent.”

“Huh,” Fahy said. “I’m not worried about her. Woman coppers should stick to desk work.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. It says here that she shot dead a woman, a leading Loyalist hard-liner named Norah Bell,” Greta pointed out.

“And wasn’t she the original bitch from hell, Protestant or not?” Dermot said.

Tod smiled. “Well, we’ve all got our wicked ways. Norah’s were just a little bit more wicked than most. Is that it, then?”

“I’d say so. We’ll keep an eye on Bernstein,” Greta said. She put her papers in her briefcase, got up and asked Ashimov, “Shall we go?”

“I think so.” He nodded casually to the others. “Stay in touch at all times.”

“We have all your mobile numbers, so if we don’t hear from you, you’ll be hearing from us.”

As she and Ashimov went to the door, Tod said, “You don’t think we can pull this off, do you?”

“Well, pigs might fly.” Ashimov lit a cigarette.

Dermot said, “Is it because of Dillon?”

Greta said, “Let’s put it this way. I saw him in action in Iraq the other night, and if I hadn’t seen it for myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. So take care.”

She and Ashimov went out, and Fahy exploded. “Dillon – fuggin’ Sean Dillon. That’s all we hear about.” He reached for a raincoat. “I’m away out for a drink.”

“And I’m with you,” Regan told him. “What about you two?”

“We have things to do for our morning departure,” Tod said. “But watch it, you two. Stay out of trouble.”

They went out and Dermot put a large canvas bag on the table and opened it. He took out an AK-47 and passed it to Tod. “Give it a thorough check. I’ll do the other.”

“Pass me a silencer,” which Dermot did. “What about you? Do you really think we can pull this off?” Tod asked as he took the AK apart.

“We’ve done it before, we can do it again. We’re still here, aren’t we?”

“And so’s Sean Dillon. That’s the trouble.”

At about the same time, Belov landed at Ballykelly in the Republic, close to Drumore. Practically the first thing he did was phone Ashimov, who had just parked outside an Italian restaurant in Bayswater, Greta at his side.

“Bring me up to date,” Belov demanded.

Ashimov did. “It’s all in place.”

“A lot of what-ifs,” Belov said, “and I don’t like that.”

For once, Ashimov took the hard line. “No, I disagree. Kelly and Murphy have good reputations. Major Novikova’s spadework has been excellent. This lead to Huntley Hall looks more than promising. I think we’re in good shape.”

“All right, I hear what you’re saying. I’ll stay here until we get some sort of resolution.”

Greta said, “The great man?”

“Getting nervous. To hell with him. Let me buy you a nice dinner.”

Walking along Wapping High Street, Fahy said to Regan, “This Dark Man pub the Salters own can’t be far from here. Why don’t we have a look?”

“Sounds good to me.”

They made inquiries to a man at the newspaper stand on a corner, who directed them a couple of streets along to the left. They walked down between the old warehouses, came out on the wharf beside the Thames, and there was the Dark Man, a few cars parked nearby.

“The very place,” Fahy said. “Shall we go in?”

“Let’s take it slowly,” Regan told him, and at that moment, lights approached down toward the wharf and they stepped back into shadows. A Range Rover stopped. Billy Salter got out and went into the pub.

“It’s Salter,” Fahy said. “Let’s take a look.”

They peered in through one of the windows. The bar was busy, but Billy was talking to Dillon at the counter.

Regan said, “Jesus, it’s Dillon.”

Fahy said, “Are you carrying?”

“No, mine’s back in the weapon bag.”

“So’s mine. Christ. We could have taken a pop at him from the shadows.”

“That’s a fact,” Regan said, although there was a certain relief in his voice.

“Well, there’s one thing I can do.” Fahy took out a switchblade knife and pushed the button. He jabbed it into the two front tires, which started to deflate. “That’ll give Salter and bloody Dillon something to think about.”

They were laughing like schoolboys as they cleared off. There was a final hiss of air from the tires and then an old and ravaged bag lady in layers of clothes, a woolen hat pulled over her head, stepped out of the darkness and took a look. She turned, put down her bags and went into the bar. She tapped Billy on the shoulder.

He turned. “Now then, Gladys, not in the bar.”

“You’d better come outside, Billy, it’s the big car of yours.”

Billy frowned and Dillon swallowed his drink and went after him.

“The bastards,” Billy said outside. “Who was it, Gladys?”

“Couple of men in raincoats. It is raining, Billy. One of them had one of those funny knives where the blade springs up, and he stuck it in the tires. They were laughing. They said, ‘That will give Salter and bloody Dillon something to think about.’ ”

“Christ, if I get my hands on them.” Billy kicked one of the tires.

“They were Irish,” she said.

“Irish?” Billy said. “Bleeding Irish?”

“Hold it,” Dillon told him. “You’re sure, Gladys?”

“Oh, yes, they didn’t speak like you. I mean, you’re funny Irish. It was the other way.”

“Who in the hell’s got it in for me?” Billy said. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe it’s something to do with me,” Dillon said. “I know many Irishmen who could get very personal where I’m concerned. You’d better call the garage and see to the Range Rover. I’ve got to make a few inquiries. I’ll see you later.”

He hailed a cab on the High Street and told the driver to take him to Kilburn, where he started his rounds, working from pub to pub, talking to barmen, not that anything came up, but then it wouldn’t. The IRA weren’t operating in London. Those days had gone. And then, finally, there was the Green Man.

He went up the alley at the side, paused and peered in through the window. There he was, Danny Malone, a good comrade in the old days, but that was a long, long time ago. Danny was obviously going over his accounts, so Dillon tried the back door. It eased to his touch and he moved along the small hall, opened the door to the back room and went in.

Malone had been thinking about Dillon extremely uneasily since Kelly had mentioned him. In a sense, it had made him face up to what he was getting involved in, the kind of thing that had sent him to prison for fifteen years, and the fact that Dillon was involved made it worse. Now, he looked up and his face sagged.

“Sean, it’s you.”

“God save the good work, Danny,” Dillon said and added, when Malone said nothing, “God save you kindly was the response to that. You’re forgetting your manners.”

“I’m sorry, Sean, I was so shocked. I mean, it’s been years.”

“Oh, I’ve had you in mind always, Danny.”

Dillon lit a cigarette, and Malone’s smile was ghastly. “So you work for Ferguson and the Prime Minister now.”

“Oh, you know me, always the practical one. It got me out of a Serb prison. I was glad to hear they’d released you, Danny. Lucky for you the Peace Process came along when it did.”

Malone was terrified, realizing just how stupid he’d been to get involved in the way he had, took a deep breath, and fought to keep control.

“Was there something you wanted, Sean?”

“Oh, just a word, Danny. My friend Billy Salter left his Range Rover outside the Dark Man at Wapping tonight. Two Irish guys came along, one of whom stuck a flick knife in two tires. They cleared off, laughing and saying it would give me and Billy something to think about.”

Dillon reached under his coat, produced a Walther from his rear waistband, laid it on the table and lit another cigarette. “Any ideas, Danny, anyone in town from over the water?”

And Malone gave the performance of his life. “From over the water, Sean? You know yourself there’s been nothing in London since the Peace Process. We all got early release. Take me. Fifteen years, but I only served five and the full sentence is still on the books. Any kind of involvement and I’m back inside to serve my full time. Do you think I’m mad? Who would be that crazy?”

Dillon said, “No, I suppose they’d have to be very stupid. I mean, what about that wife of yours, Jean? You wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt her.”

“She’s hurting enough, Sean. Breast cancer.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Dillon said, and meant it. He took a card from his pocket and dropped it on the table. “My mobile number is on there. Anything comes up, let me know.”

He put the Walther back in his waistband and went out.

Malone went into the small toilet next door and was sick. He rinsed his face, then went back, found a bottle of whiskey and poured a large one. He was sweating and desperate to keep control. Boredom, a yearning for some action again, had made him respond to Kelly’s phone call in the way he had. So foolish. Dillon had believed him, that was the important thing. But what to do about Kelly? If he left it, there was the chance that whatever the job was would fail anyway. On the other hand, it struck him that if he told Kelly of Dillon’s appearance, it might be enough to make him abort the mission. He took a deep breath, picked up the phone and called Kelly at China Wharf.

“And you’re sure, absolutely sure, that Dillon bought your performance?”

“It would have got me work at the National Theatre. The business about my wife helped.”

“Yes, that was a good ploy.”

“Not a ploy, Dermot, true.”

“Dammit, man, I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter. What does is that I don’t know what you’re up to and I don’t want to. On the other hand, the Dark Man is only a quarter of a mile away from China Wharf on the riverfront. If you want the two Irishmen who attended to Billy Salter’s Range Rover, I think you know who they are, but it’s your problem, not mine. I’m out of the whole damn business. I’ve got a nice little villa in Spain where my wife is right now, resting in the sun, and I think I’ll leave my bar staff in charge and go and join her.”

He put the phone down, opened the office safe, found his passport, a checkbook and two thousand in mad money and phoned for a taxi to Heathrow. Then he ran upstairs and packed.

Fahy was first in through the door over at China Wharf, was tripped by Tod, went headfirst on his hands and knees, and received a severe kicking in the ribs from Kelly.

“Mind his face,” Tod said, holding Regan still, an arm up his back.

At the appropriate moment, he released Regan and shoved him down to receive the same treatment. Finally, Tod heaved them to their feet and Kelly explained exactly what they’d done.

“Stupid, the pair of you, not a brain between you, and now I’ve lost Danny Malone.” He slapped each one across the face. “You’ve got your orders, so stick to them. Do you understand me or do you want to go off the end of China Wharf into the Thames?”

They didn’t have a word to say, he was a figure of such menace, and his ferocious reputation preceded him.

Tod said, “Go on, get out of it and go to bed.” He turned to Kelly as they went out. “Are we still on?”

“Of course we are. There’s no reason for Sean to suspect anything. Even Malone doesn’t know why we’re here, so tomorrow we’ll go for a run in the country. Let’s have a drink on it.”

At Huntley Hall, the meal in the old oak-paneled room had been impressive by any standards. All of Selim’s dietary requirements had been taken care of, although Ferguson had worked his way through roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings. Dalton and Miller acted as waiters, standing quiet and watchful, between the courses. Ferguson had drunk Burgundy, Selim mineral water.

Ferguson said, “Was the meal satisfactory?”

“Excellent.”

“You can thank the Army Catering Corps.”

“I’m impressed. There’s not much sign of staff.”

“Oh, they’re there in their unobtrusive way. Let’s go into the hall.”

The hall was impressive, a floor of stone flags scattered with rugs, deep comfortable sofas, a log fire burning on a wide hearth. To one side, French windows with heavy curtains looked out over a terrace with a balustrade.

Selim sat in a wing-backed chair. “You do very well.”

“Yes, it’s a nice place.” Ferguson turned to Miller. “I’ll have a port if you don’t mind, Staff Sergeant, a large one.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Miller went to a sideboard to get it and Ferguson sat opposite Selim. “I won’t bother to offer you one.”

“There was a time when I would have accepted with pleasure. In those days I didn’t take my religion seriously. Public school, Cambridge and all that, and then, a few years ago, I changed.”

“I can see how awkward that would have been for you.”

“That I turned to Islam? Not at all. I’m British, General Ferguson, but also a Muslim. I have no difficulty with that. These islands have been home to an infinite variety of people since the Romans occupied them two thousand years ago.”

“I suppose you’re right. After all, I’m half Scots, half Irish.” Ferguson finished his port and stood. “Let’s have a breath of air on the terrace.”

“That would be nice.”

Dalton pressed a button and the French windows opened. Ferguson led the way outside. The air was fresh and damp, the shrubbery dense on the other side of the lawn, trees beyond. There were half a dozen garden statues out there, Roman figures revealed by security lights.

“We had a good start today,” Ferguson said. “Our chat about Ashimov and Belov was very interesting.”

“In a strange sort of way, Ashimov is angry with the world, and this manifests itself in his willingness to kill people. Belov simply wants to control the world. Power, ultimate power, is everything to him. He is someone to beware of much more than me, General.”

“You’re important enough. The list of organizations you’ve mentioned and the coded computer details of the young men that have been sent to Al Qa’eda training camps, that’ll all be extremely helpful.”

“May Allah forgive me.”

It was then that Ferguson came to the important part. “You could be of enormous use to us, you know – not just now, but in the future.”

“In betraying my own people?”

“What a shame,” Ferguson said. “You’ve spoiled it. I thought you were British.”

Selim groaned. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m speaking on behalf of my religion. I’m British, but a Muslim. In Tudor times, many people were Catholics at a time when this was forbidden, but still English. In fact, when some of them were trained for the priesthood in Rome…”

Ferguson broke in. “It was called the English College and they produced Jesuit priests known as ‘Soldiers of Christ,’ the best in the business.”

“Many of whom died here in England for their faith.”

“Well, let’s try and see nothing like that happens to you,” Ferguson said. “In we go. A decent night’s sleep and we start again tomorrow.”

The French windows closed behind them as they went inside. There was only the quiet and then an owl hooted, and there was a rustle in the shrubbery where a garden statue of some Roman emperor stood half revealed. Harold Laker peered out beside it, gazing toward the terrace at the scene inside the house through the French windows. He smiled, then disappeared back into the shrubbery and it was quiet again.