Dark Justice

LONDON
3

The Gulfstream came in to Farley Field right on time and Blake thanked the crew, alighted and walked across the tarmac, pausing to look around him. A lot of water under the bridge at this place, and not just the struggles with the Rashid empire.

A voice called, “Hey, Blake. Over here.”

Blake turned and saw a Daimler by the control tower, parked close to the entrance of the operations room. The man standing beside it was no more than five feet five, with hair so fair it was almost white. He wore an old black leather bomber jacket and jeans, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. The man was Sean Dillon, once a feared enforcer for the IRA and now Ferguson ’s right hand.

Blake shook hands. “How are you, my fine Irish friend?”

“All the better for seeing you. The right royal treatment you’re getting, Ferguson sending the Daimler.”

They climbed in the back and the chauffeur drove away. Blake said, “So how are things?”

“Pretty warm since Ferguson heard from the President. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Blake, but that was a close call.”

“You know how it is, Sean, you’ve been there. I remember how you saved President Clinton and Prime Minister Major on that Thames riverboat years back, and took a knife in the back for your trouble.”

“From Norah Bell, the original bitch and worse than any man, and it took a decent woman like Hannah Bernstein to shoot her dead.”

“How is Hannah?”

“Wonderful, as usual. If she didn’t work for Ferguson, I think she’d have been Chief Superintendent by now or even Commander at Scotland Yard.”

“But she loves you all too much to move on?”

“Blake, she’s still trying to reform the lot of us. You know her grandfather is a rabbi. It’s that moral perception of hers. She’s been shot to bits, had her life shortened in any number of ways, and still hangs in there trying to keep Ferguson and me in check.”

“And fails in that respect.” It was a statement, not a question.

Dillon said, “Blake, the world’s gone to hell in a handbasket. Terrorism, Al Qa’eda, all that stuff since nine-eleven, has changed everything. It can’t be combated by the old-fashioned rules of war. It isn’t like that.”

“I agree.” Blake shrugged. “A few years ago, I’d never have said that, in spite of what I had to do during my time in Vietnam. I believed in the decencies, the rule of law, justice, all that stuff. But the people we have to deal with these days – there are no rules as far as they’re concerned, so there are no rules as far as I’m concerned. I’ll take them down any way I can.”

“Good man yourself, I couldn’t agree more.” Dillon lit another cigarette. “I speak Arabic, you know that, and I’ve spent my share of time in the Middle East. Even worked for the PLO in the old days when I was a naughty boy, and I think I know the Arab mind a bit. Most Muslims in the States or the UK are decent people, interested only in making a living and raising their families, but there’s a few of them who have a different political agenda, and it’s dealing with them that’s the problem.”

“Take Morgan. English father, Muslim mother, raised a Christian,” Blake said. “I know what happened to his parents, his mother returning to the Islamic faith and Morgan finding that same faith himself. But what turned him into the assassin who tried to take out the President?”

“Well, that’s what you’re here to find out,” Dillon told him. “And Ferguson, Hannah and Roper are waiting at Cavendish Place to discuss it with you.”

The Embassy of the Russian Federation is situated in Kensington Palace Gardens and it was typical November weather, rain falling, when Greta Novikova emerged through the main gates and paused at the edge of the pavement, waiting for the traffic to pass.

She was a small girl, unmistakably Slavic, with black hair to her shoulders, dark intense eyes, and high cheekbones, and she wore an ankle-length coat in soft black leather over a black Armani suit. She would have made heads turn anywhere. She was a commercial attaché at the embassy and had the degree to prove it, but in fact, at thirty-five years old she was a major in the GRU, Russian Military Intelligence.

She crossed the road during a break in the traffic and entered the pub opposite. Early lunchtime it wasn’t very busy, but the man she was seeking was at the far end of the bar in the window seat reading the London Times.

He was a couple of inches short of six feet, and wore a fawn raincoat over a dark wool suit. His hair was close-cropped, and a scar ran from the bottom of his left eye to the corner of his mouth. The eyes were cold and watchful, and the face powerful. The face of a soldier, which in a way he had been. A man of forty-five who had joined the KGB at twenty and had made major when he had moved on to other things. Afghanistan, Chechnya, Iraq in the old days – he’d seen it all. His name was Yuri Ashimov.

He stood up and kissed her on both cheeks and spoke to her in Russian. “Greta, more lovely than usual. A drink?”

“I’ll have a vodka with you.”

He went to the bar, ordered two, brought them back, sat down, took out a pack of Russian cigarettes and lit one.

“So, as nothing incredibly shocking has happened in New York, you must have a story for me.”

“Not a thing,” she said.

“Come on, Greta, GRU handles all things Arabic and Muslim. There has to be something.”

“That’s the point. There isn’t. The President didn’t keep his damned appointment with Senator Black. After the function at the Pierre, he went straight to Washington.”

“And Morgan?”

“Certainly went to Gould amp; Co. as usual. One of our New York associates confirmed this. The only unusual activity was some sort of paramedic ambulance going down into the underground parking lot. It left half an hour later.”

“Did our associate follow?”

“He deemed it unwise.”

“I should bloody well think so. It stinks.”

“Do you think they got him?”

“Sounds likely. But if they have, they won’t let on, and it won’t affect us anyway. There were no direct contacts.”

Greta nodded. “I think they’d want him alive to see what he had to say. On the other hand, our American friends are a lot lighter on the trigger these days and he did have the cyanide tooth.”

“Alive or dead, they won’t advertise the fact. What about the mother?”

“I called yesterday, as you suggested. Brought flowers and a basket of fruit, supposedly from friends at the mosque.”

“How was she?”

“Faded – slightly confused as usual. She told me everyone at the mosque was so kind, Dr. Selim was fantastic. And she mentioned that someone from the Council Welfare Department had visited her. A woman, apparently.”

Ashimov frowned. “Why would the Welfare Department visit her?”

“Because she’s handicapped?”

“Rubbish. Her son’s well enough off. Why would Welfare visit?” He shook his head. “I don’t like it. Did she say if they would visit again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Be there, Greta. Just in case. If somebody turns up, I want a photo. I get an instinct for things.”

“Which is why you’re still here, my love.”

“True. But something here isn’t right. Let’s try and find out what it is.”

At Cavendish Place, Dillon and Blake were admitted by Kim, the General’s Ghurka manservant, and found Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein and Roper in the drawing room. Ferguson was in his sixties, a large, untidy man in a crumpled suit and a Guards tie. Hannah Bernstein was in her early thirties, with close-cropped red hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. Her Armani trouser suit was certainly more expensive than most people could afford on police pay. Major Roper sat in a state-of-the-art electric wheelchair, wearing a reefer coat, hair down to his shoulders, his face a taut mask of the kind of scar tissue that comes from burns, the explosion that had ended his career.

“Here he is, the man of the moment,” Dillon said. “I’m sure he’ll give it to us in graphic detail,” which Blake did, everything that had happened in Manhattan.

Afterward, Blake said, “So there it is. For the disposal system, I’m indebted to you, General. We’re fighting a new kind of war these days, although I can understand Hannah’s moral principles being bruised a bit.”

“Bruised or not, the Superintendent works for this department under the Official Secrets Act. Isn’t that right?” Ferguson glanced at her.

Hannah didn’t look easy, but said, “Of course, sir.”

“Good. Tell us about Mrs. Morgan, then.”

“She’s sixty-five and looks much older. I managed to get hold of her hospital records, and it’s bad. The automobile accident that killed her husband almost finished her off. She narrowly avoided being a paraplegic, but she has money. Her husband owned a pharmacy, which was sold after his death, and there was insurance, so she’s well-fixed.”

“Go on.”

“Her family disowned her when she married a Christian, but now she’s returned to Islam, as you know. Her son started taking her to the Queen Street Mosque in her wheelchair. It used to be a Methodist chapel.”

“And he turned, too?”

“Apparently.”

Blake said, “That really interests me, the idea of a highly educated man, ostensibly English for thirty years of his life, a university academic, turning to a faith he’d never accepted before in his life.”

“And then ending up in Manhattan with the intention of killing the President,” Dillon said.

“Which makes me wonder what goes on at the Queen Street Mosque,” Blake said. “Some of these places are hotbeds of intrigue, pump out the wrong ideas. Sure, we finally captured Saddam in Iraq. But how long ago was that and how many terrorist attacks have there been since?”

Ferguson said, “In his last message, Bin Laden spoke of his young extremists as being ‘soldiers of God,’ and what concerns us is that young men from this country could be among them. It makes places like the Queen Street Mosque of special interest.”

Hannah said, “If you’re looking for suicide bombers, though, it doesn’t seem like the place.” She opened a file and passed it across. “Dr. Ali Selim, the imam. Forty-five, born in London, father a doctor from Iraq who sent the boy to St. Paul ’s School, one of our better establishments. Selim went to Cambridge, studied Arabic, and later took a doctorate in comparative theology.”

Blake looked at the file, particularly the photo. “Impressive. I like the beard.” He passed the file to the others.

Hannah said, “He’s a member of the Muslim Council, the Mayor of London’s Interfaith Committee, and any number of government boards. Everyone I speak to tells me he’s a wonderful man.”

“Maybe he’s too wonderful,” Dillon said.

“I’ve checked with the local police. Not a hint of trouble at the Queen Street Mosque.”

There was a pause, and Ferguson turned to Roper. “Have you any thoughts, Major?”

“I can only process facts, opinions, suppositions. Unless I have something to go on, I can’t help.”

“Well, I’ll give you something,” Blake said. “And it’s been intriguing the hell out of me. Does the Wrath of Allah mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“When Clancy and I faced Morgan, in the moment before he bit on the cyanide tooth, Morgan said, ‘Beware the Wrath of Allah.’ ”

Roper frowned and shook his head. “It doesn’t strike a chord, but I’ll run it by my computer.”

“So, the way ahead on this one appears plain,” Ferguson said. “I think you, Superintendent, should have another word with Mrs. Morgan in your guise as a welfare worker.”

Hannah wasn’t comfortable and showed it. “That’s a difficult one, sir. I mean, her son is dead and she doesn’t even know it.”

“Which can’t be helped, Superintendent. It’s an unusual situation, I agree, but when one considers the gravity of the deed Morgan was trying to commit, I feel that any means that will help us to reach an explanation would be justified. See to it, and use Dillon as backup. His knowledge of Arabic may prove useful.” He turned to Blake. “We’ll drop Roper off at his house, and you and I can continue to the Ministry of Defence, where I’ll show you everything we have on Muslim activity in the UK.”

“Suits me fine,” Blake said.

Ferguson turned to the others. “All right, people, there’s work to be done, let’s get to it.”

After leaving the pub on Kensington High Street, Greta and Ashimov crossed the road to the embassy and got into a dark blue Opel sedan. She checked the glove compartment and found a digital camera.

“Excellent,” he told her. “You can drop me at my apartment in Monk Street and keep in touch on your mobile. Anything of significance, I want to know.”

“Of course.” She drove out into the traffic. “Where’s Belov at the moment?”

“The good Josef is in Geneva. All those billions, my love, it keeps him so busy.” There was an edge of bitterness there.

“Come off it,” she said. “Money is power and you love it, andworking for Josef Belov is the ultimate power and you love that too.”

“To a point – only to a point.” She turned into Monk Street and stopped. He said, “Sometimes I think it was better in the old days, Greta. Afghanistan, Chechnya, Iraq. To smell powder again.” He shook his head. “That would be wonderful.”

“You must be raving mad,” she told him.

“Very probably.” He patted her silken knee. “You’re a lovely girl, so go and do what Belov is paying you to do. Extract a few more facts from Mrs. Morgan, but keep your masters at the GRU happy.”

He got out of the Opel and walked away.

Heavy traffic on Wapping High Street held her back a little, but she finally found what she was looking for: Chandler Street, backing down to the Thames. Many cars were parked there, which gave her good cover, and she pulled in, switched off and settled down, her camera at the ready.

Number thirteen. That had amused her when she’d looked at the file, an old Victorian terrace house. She sat there, looking along the street to the grocery shop on the corner opposite the river. There was no one about, not a soul. It started to rain, and then a red Mini car drew up opposite and Hannah Bernstein and Sean Dillon got out.

Hannah pressed the bell push and they waited. Finally, they heard the sounds of movement, the door was opened on a chain and Mrs. Morgan peered out. She was old, faded, much older than her years, as Hannah had indicated. She had a long scarf wrapped around her head, the chador worn by most Muslim women. The voice was almost a whisper.

“What do you want?”

“It’s me, Mrs. Morgan, Miss Bernstein from the Welfare Department. I thought I’d call again.”

“Oh, yes.”

“This is Mr. Dillon, my supervisor. May we come in?”

“Just a moment.” The door closed while she disengaged the chain, then opened again. When they entered, she had turned to precede them in the wheelchair.

All this, Greta Novikova had captured on her camera.

In the small sitting room, the air was heavy and close and smelled of musk, a strange, disturbing aroma that was somehow alien and not quite right.

Hannah said, “I just thought I’d check on you, Mrs. Morgan, as we happened to be passing.”

Dillon, more direct, said, “Your son is in New York, I understand, Mrs. Morgan. Have you heard from him?”

Her voice was muted, and she coughed. “Oh, he’ll be too busy. I’m sure he’ll phone when he’s got time.”

Hannah was angry and glared at Dillon. He nodded, and she carried on reluctantly. “Have you seen Dr. Selim lately?”

“Oh, yes, at the mosque. When my son’s away, Dr. Selim sends a young man to wheel me along to Queen Street. It’s not far. He’s been very good, Dr. Selim, helping us so much, helping me and my Henry, to discover our faith.”

Hannah felt wretched. “I’m sure that’s been very nice for you.”

“Yes, he’s called round two or three times since Henry’s been away with his friend.”

There was a pause, her breathing heavy. Dillon said, “And who was that?”

“Oh, I can’t remember his name. Very strange, Russian, I think. He had a terrible scar right down from his eye to the corner of his mouth.”

Dillon said sternly in Arabic, “Have you told me everything, old woman? Do you swear to this, as Allah commands?”

She looked fearful and replied in Arabic, “There is no more. I don’t know his name. My son said he was a Russian friend. That’s all I know.”

Hannah said, “I don’t know what you’re saying, Dillon, but leave it. She’s frightened.”

Dillon smiled, suddenly looking devastatingly charming, and kissed Mrs. Morgan on the forehead. “There you are, my love.” He turned to Hannah and led the way out.

Outside, she said, “What a bastard you are. What were you saying?”

“Just checking if she was telling the truth.”

“Right, let’s go.”

“I’m not ready yet, Hannah.” He nodded to the corner shop at the end of the street. “Let’s have a word down there. The Russian gentleman with the scar interests me. Maybe he’s been in.”

They walked down the pavement toward the shop, and behind them, Greta Novikova turned her Opel into the street and drove away.

The sign on the shop window said M. PATEL. Dillon nodded. “Indian, that’s good.”

“Why, particularly?” Hannah asked.

“Because they’re smart and they don’t screw around. They’ve got a head for business and they want to fit in. So let’s see what Mr. Patel has to say and let’s use your warrant card.”

The shop was neat and orderly, and obviously sold a bit of everything. The Indian behind the counter reading the Evening Standard was in shirtsleeves and looked about fifty. He glanced up, smiling, looked them over and stopped smiling.

“Can I help?”

Hannah produced her warrant card. “Detective Superintendent Bernstein, Special Branch. Mr. Dillon is a colleague. We’re pursuing inquiries, which involve a Mrs. Morgan who lives up the street. You know her?”

“Of course I do.”

“Her son’s away,” Dillon said. “ New York, I understand?”

“Yes, she did tell me that. Look, what is this?”

“Don’t fret, Mr. Patel, everything’s fine. Mrs. Morgan is friendly with a Dr. Ali Selim. You know who he is?”

Patel’s face slipped. “Yes, I do.”

“And don’t like him.” Dillon smiled. “A Hindu-Muslim thing? Well, never mind. Sometimes when he sees Mrs. Morgan, he has a friend with him. Bad scar, from his eye to his mouth. She thinks he’s Russian.”

“That’s right, he is. He’s called in to buy cigarettes, sometimes with the Arab. Selim calls him Yuri. They were in yesterday.”

Hannah glanced up at the security camera. “Was that working?”

He nodded. “I was busy, so when the tape stopped, I didn’t run it back. I took it out and put a fresh tape in.”

“Good,” Dillon said. “I’m sure you have a television in the back room. Get us the tape and we’ll run it back.”

Patel proved accommodating; he closed the shop for a while and ran the tape through for them. Finally he stopped.

“There they are.”

Hannah and Dillon had a look. “So that’s him?” Dillon said. “The Russian.”

“Yes. And I’ve remembered something else,” Patel said. “One day, he was on his own and his mobile rang and he said, ‘Ashimov here.’ ”

“You’re sure about that?” Hannah asked.

“Well, that’s how it sounded.”

“Good man, yourself,” Dillon said. “You’ve helped enormously.”

Patel hesitated. “Look, is Mrs. Morgan in trouble? I mean, she’s not fit to be out, but she’s nice enough.”

“No problem,” Hannah said. “We’re just pursuing some inquiries.”

“And I know exactly what that means with you people.”

Dillon patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, old son, we’re the good guys.”

They went out and walked toward the Mini. “Yuri Ashimov,” Hannah said. “Interesting.”

“Let’s go and see what Roper makes of it,” Dillon told her.

At Monk Street, Greta linked her digital camera to Ashimov’s television and ran the photos of Dillon and Hannah.

“There you are. The Welfare officer, I assume. I’ve no idea who the man is.”

Ashimov swore softly. “But I do. My God, Greta, you’re onto something here.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Last year, when Baron von Berger of Berger International was killed in that plane crash, and Belov took over his oil concessions and put me in charge of general security… I started going over all of Berger International’s previous security records. Did you know that Berger was in a state of open warfare against a man named General Charles Ferguson? Have you heard of him?”

“Of course I have,” Greta said. “He runs that special intelligence outfit for the Prime Minister.”

“Gold star for you, Greta.” Ashimov pointed to the last picture on the screen. “That’s Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein, Ferguson ’s assistant.”

“Good God,” Greta said.

Ashimov flicked to Dillon. “And this gentleman – this one really is special. Sean Dillon, Ferguson ’s strong right hand, and once the Provisional IRA’s top enforcer. For twenty years or more, the British Army and the RUC couldn’t lay a hand on him.”

“And now he works for the Prime Minister? That’s unbelievable.”

“Well, it’s typically British. They’ll turn their hands to anything if it suits.”

“So where does this leave us?”

“With Ferguson ’s outfit checking Mrs. Morgan, whose son was supposed to have a go at President Jake Cazalet in New York and has now disappeared, or so it would seem. Would you say the appearance of Dillon and Bernstein at her front door was a coincidence?”

“Not for a moment. What do you intend to do?”

“I’ll alert Dr. Ali Selim, naturally. We’ll take it from there. I’ll show them the photos.”

“And Belov?”

“He left this sort of thing in my hands, but I keep him informed.” He smiled. “He’s not involved, Greta my love, you must understand. He’s too important. As regards operations at what you might call the coal face, I’m in charge.” He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. “Trust me.”

Soon after, he was standing by an old jetty around the corner from the Queen Street Mosque, overlooking the river. He leaned on a rail smoking a cigarette, enjoying the landscape, the views, the boats passing. Selim appeared after a while, a handsome bearded man wearing a Burberry raincoat, an umbrella guarding him from the rain.

“Yuri, my friend.” He smiled. “You said it was urgent. Why not call at my office at the mosque?”

“Not again,” Ashimov told him. “I’ve got news for you. Our friend Morgan’s trip to New York would seem to have disappeared into a black hole.”

“How unfortunate,” Selim said calmly.

“Listen.” Ashimov went through everything.

Afterward, Selim said, “We can’t be certain he met a bad end. That’s supposition, surely?”

“Ali, my friend, if Ferguson ’s lot are involved, particularly this Dillon, then the end is as certain as the coffin lid closing.”

“You consider the man exceptional, it would seem.”

“And for good reason. He’s a man of many skills. An experienced pilot, for instance, and linguist. Russian and Arabic, for example.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Besides his years with the IRA, he worked for the PLO as a mercenary, and for the Israelis in Lebanon in the old days.” Ashimov lit a cigarette. “He kills at the drop of a hat, this one.”

“Oh, in a dark street on a rainy night, I’m sure he’s as susceptible to a knife under the ribs as anyone.”

“My dear Ali.” Ashimov smiled. “If you believe that, you’ll be making the worst mistake of your life.”

Selim said, “So what about Mrs. Morgan? If they’re sniffing around there, she could be saying the wrong things.”

“I don’t know. She’s an aging cripple in a wheelchair. She can’t speak in much more than a whisper. And what could she tell him? That she’s a woman who returned to Islam after her husband’s death, whose son also discovered the faith and lightened her grief. Wouldn’t you, as her imam, agree with all this?”

“Of course.”

“Exactly, and you are a man of impeccable background and highly respected. Whatever has happened to the son has no connection with you. You’re too important, Ali, that’s why we keep you out of it. You even sat on a committee at the House of Commons last week. Nothing could be more respectable. No, my friend, you’re a real asset.”

“And too valuable to lose,” Selim said. “And loose ends are loose ends. If Mrs. Morgan should happen to mention you and me in the same breath, they’ll discover who you are. The man who is Belov’s security.”

Ashimov sighed. “All right, leave it to me. Now we better split up. I’ll be in touch.”

Selim hesitated. “Morgan was a soldier of God. If worse has come to the worst, he is also a true martyr.”

“Save that tripe for the young fools at the mosque, your Wrath of Allah fanatics. Go on, get going.”

Selim went, and Ashimov stayed there thinking about it. Perhaps Selim had a point. After all, why would Bernstein and Dillon be calling on the old lady at all? Better to be safe than sorry. He looked over at the incoming tide, then pulled up his collar against the rain, walked around to Chandler Street and rang the bell at number thirteen.

She answered it after a while and peered out over the chain. “It’s me. Mr. Ashimov,” he said. “Dr. Selim’s friend. He asked me to call and see if you wanted to go to the mosque.”

“That is kind,” she said. “I was going to go a little later.”

“Since I’m here, why don’t you go now? It’s much easier if I push you,” he said. “Bring an umbrella. It’s raining.”

She closed the door, undid the chain and opened it again and Ashimov stepped in. “Let me help you.” He reached for a raincoat and a beret hanging on a hall stand and helped her. “There you are, and here’s an umbrella.” He took one down and gave it to her.

“So kind,” she said.

“Not at all. Have you got your key?”

“Yes.”

“You had a visit this afternoon, I believe. A lady from the Welfare Department?”

“Did I?” She frowned. “I can’t remember.”

“Yes, with a gentleman. What did they ask you? About your son in New York?”

She was confused and bewildered. Few things seemed real to her anymore, and her memory was fading fast these days.

“I can’t remember. I can’t remember anyone calling.”

Which was true, for she was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. It was obvious to Ashimov that he was wasting his time.

“Never mind. Let’s be on our way, then.”

The rain was driving down, no one around as they went along the street, the fog drifting up from the river. They went past the shop, which now showed a closed sign inside the door.

“It’s going to be a dirty night later,” he said.

“I think you’re right.”

“But still a nice view of the Thames.” He turned in at the old wooden jetty, the wheels of her chair trembling over the warped wooden boarding.

“There you are.” He paused at the top of the steps going down to the river.

“I like it at night with the lights on the boats.”

Her voice was like a small wind through the trees on a dark evening, as he looked at the river high with water lapping at the bottom of the steps. Then he shoved the chair forward. Strangely enough, she didn’t call out, but gripped the arms of her chair tightly, and when she hit the water, she went under instantly as the chair emptied her out.

It was only four or five feet deep, a mud bank when the tide was out. Someone would find her soon enough. He’d done her a favor, really. He lit a cigarette and walked away.

A few minutes later, standing in a doorway, he phoned Ali Selim. “You can relax. Mrs. Morgan has met with an unfortunate accident.”

“What are you talking about?” Ashimov told him. Selim sounded horrified. “Was that necessary?”

“Come on, Selim, you were the one talking about loose ends. Now, don’t forget, if the police inquire, you were unhappy about her habit of going to the mosque alone in her wheelchair, which is why you often sent young men to fetch her.”

Selim took a deep breath. “Of course.”

“She was prematurely aging, confused a great deal of the time.”

“She had Alzheimer’s.”

“Well, there you are. I’ll leave it with you,” and Ashimov hung up.