Dark Justice

4

It was at ten the following morning that Patel, exercising his small terrier, found the body and the wheelchair on the beach. He called the Wapping police, and since Hannah had put a tracer on Mrs. Morgan, she was notified at once at the Ministry of Defence.

Ferguson was in a Defence Committee meeting, but Dillon was in the office and she quickly filled him in.

“So what do we do?” he demanded.

“Get down to Chandler Street fast and I’ll put a red flag on the case and take command. You come with me. You might be useful.”

They used a department limousine with a civilian driver, retired police. Hannah said, “It’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“And you know how much I believe in those.”

Just then, Dillon’s mobile rang. “Sean? It’s Roper. I’ve got something interesting for you on Ashimov and also on the Wrath of Allah thing.”

“Hold on to it for just a bit. Mrs. Morgan’s turned up on a mudflat at the end of her street, and Hannah and I are on our way. We’re just about there. I’ll call you later.”

They took a turn, and then there they were. There was a police paramedic’s ambulance, the usual team, and a sergeant in charge who jumped to attention when Hannah showed him her warrant card and assumed command.

“Not much of a scene of crime, ma’am,” he said. “Plenty of mud.” She and Dillon looked over the rail. “It’s obvious what happened. The gent who found her said she was always pushing herself in her wheelchair up and down the street to the Queen Street Mosque. Come off the pavement twice before in the past and ended up in the gutter.”

Hannah said, “Right. Get her up out of there and deliver her to Peel Street Morgue. I’m going to call in Professor George Langley. He’ll handle it.”

She walked away with her mobile and stood in a doorway. Dillon saw Patel lurking outside his shop and went over.

“This must have been a shock for you?”

“A terrible shock. It was a higher tide than usual last night. It’s amazing she wasn’t swept away.”

“Are you surprised by what happened?”

“Not really. She’d had a few close calls in that wheelchair and she was worse these days.”

“What do you mean, worse?”

“Couldn’t handle herself, confused, no memory worth speaking of. She didn’t know which way she was pointing. She was very upset when Henry went off to the States.” Patel hesitated. “What was it all about before, you and the Superintendent and those inquiries?”

Dillon lied glibly. “Her son was only on a special tourist visa, but seems to have gone missing, and we had a request to check it out. A lot of people do that. Go as tourists and fade into the landscape.”

“A lot of people do that here, too,” Patel said.

“The way of the world.”

Dillon went over to Hannah as she finished her call. “What next?”

“I’ve spoken to Langley, and he’s going straight to the morgue.” A couple of paramedics carried Mrs. Morgan past them in a body bag. “Poor old lady,” Hannah said.

“And nothing we can do. But speaking of doing things, Roper seems to have come up with some stuff about Ashimov and the Wrath of Allah thing.”

“Good. I’ll speak to the General,” which she did briefly and turned to Dillon. “He suggests we all meet up at Roper’s apartment, get filled in together.”

“Sounds good to me.” He shook his head. “I accept everything Patel says about Mrs. Morgan and her wheelchair, about her incompetence and so on, her minor accidents – but it doesn’t explain what she was doing on the jetty in the first place.”

“Exactly what I was thinking.”

Roper’s apartment was on the ground floor, with a ramp entrance to facilitate his wheelchair. The entire place was designed for not only a handicapped person, but one determined to look after himself. His equipment was state-of-the-art, some of it top secret and supplied by Ferguson.

Dillon and Hannah had been with him for perhaps ten minutes when Ferguson arrived and joined them.

“So where are we?” he asked Hannah. “With Mrs. Morgan, I mean.”

“I’ve pulled in Professor Langley, sir. He’s working on her now.”

“He won’t find much, not in my opinion.” Dillon told Ferguson all Patel had said. “So there you are. It’s highly suspicious, but I doubt we can prove it’s any more than an accident.”

Ferguson looked gloomy. “One thing’s certain. We can’t throw the fact that Henry Morgan is dead into the pot, because we’re not supposed to know. So where does that leave us?”

“With Yuri Ashimov, for one thing,” Roper said. “Formerly the pride of the KGB.” He punched his computer keys and Ashimov’s photo emerged. One or two in uniform, others in a more social situation.

“What’s he up to now?”

“Head of security for Josef Belov and his outfit.”

“The oil billionaire?” Dillon asked.

“That’s the man,” Roper said. “Man of mystery, that’s his front. A billionaire many times over, and friend of Putin.”

“So what on earth would Ashimov be doing around Mrs. Morgan?”

“It must have been something to do with the son,” Hannah said. “Has to be.”

“And the interesting question is Who sent Henry Morgan to New York with the intention of shooting the President?” Dillon turned to Hannah. “You said Dr. Ali Selim was clean as a whistle.”

It was Roper who broke in. “He is, as far as my researches show.”

“Then why is he involved with a man like Ashimov? What’s the purpose?” Dillon shook his head. “There has to be a reason.” He turned to Roper. “What did you find out about the Wrath of Allah?”

“It was an Arab militant group some years ago during the civil war in Lebanon. With the end of that war, it seemed to disappear from view. Last year, the Israeli Mossad tried to establish if it was an offshoot of Al Qa’eda, but got nowhere.

“Well, it meant something to Henry Morgan,” Ferguson said. “It may have disappeared, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. One of our greatest security problems is the way a few terrorists can hide themselves in the mass of an ordinary decent Muslim population. How can you tell the difference?”

“Mao Tse-tung invented that strategy years ago, and it eventually won him China,” Dillon pointed out.

“I’ve got something else for you, recently pulled out of my printer.” Roper handed three photos across. “Greta Novikova. Supposed to be a secretary at the Russian Embassy, but in reality a major in the GRU. Used to be Ashimov’s girlfriend. Neat coincidence, her being assigned to London, isn’t it?”

“Quite a lady,” Dillon said admiringly. He slipped a copy into his breast pocket. “Maybe I’ll run into her.”

Hannah’s mobile went, she answered and listened. “Fine, we’ll be there.” She turned to Ferguson. “Professor Langley, sir. He can give us a preliminary.”

“Excellent,” Ferguson said. “You hang in there, Major. I’ll keep you informed.”

They filed into Ferguson ’s Daimler, and as it moved away, Greta Novikova eased out in her Opel and went after them.

George Langley was a small, gray-haired energetic man whom they had all met in the pursuance of previous cases. Many people considered him the greatest forensic pathologist in London, and not much escaped him.

The Peel Street Morgue was an old building, some of it Victorian, but the interior was modern enough. A receptionist led them into a white-tiled room with fluorescent lighting and modern steel operating tables. Mrs. Morgan lay on one of them. The wounds from her examination had been stitched up.

“My God, I never get used to this part,” Hannah said softly.

Langley came in from the preparation room in shirtsleeves, drying his hands on a towel.

“Ah, there you are, Charles.”

“Good of you to be so quick off the mark, George. What have you got for me?”

“Death by drowning. No suggestion of foul play. Strangely enough, no bruising. On the other hand, she was as light as a feather. Very undernourished. Her previous medical history isn’t good. The car accident, which reduced her to the wheelchair, was very grave. I’ve checked the records. I’ve also checked with her GP, and she was being treated for Alzheimer’s.”

“So that’s it?”

“I’d say so. It’s interesting that the man who found her, Patel, speaks of these minor accidents she suffered in the wheelchair. I notice a report by the scene-of-crime sergeant who went to see the imam at Queen Street. Sounded most distressed, said he’d implored her many times not to venture out alone, and usually sent someone to escort her.”

“Which still leaves us wondering what she was doing at the end of the jetty,” Dillon said.

“I’ve had a quick look. Nothing out of the ordinary. The Alzheimer’s would make her subject to confusion, memory loss, considerable general stress. If she turned right, she’d turn the corner for the Queen Street Mosque; if she turned left, she’d find herself on the jetty and only a few yards to the steps.” He didn’t even frown when he said, “Are you looking for suspicious circumstances here, Charles? You usually are.”

“No, no. It’s an unrelated matter.”

“Unrelated, huh? Which brings you hotfoot, plus the Superintendent and Dillon? Highly unlikely, I’d have thought. However, I can’t help you with this one and I’ve other things to do. I’ll be on my way.”

They left and walked to the Daimler. Ferguson paused, frowning, and said to Dillon, “What’s that you usually say? About making it a we-know-that-they-know-and-they-know-that-we-know situation?”

“I’d say you mean you want Dr. Ali Selim pushed a little.”

“Exactly. I’ll leave it to you. Blake’s at the American Embassy at the moment. We’ll all catch up later.”

“Don’t you think I should provide a police presence for Selim, sir?” Hannah asked.

“No. Some things require the Dillon touch, Superintendent.”

They got in and drove away. Dillon said, “You’ve noticed the Opel sedan trailing us?”

“Absolutely. Don’t forget to find out who it is.”

Ferguson dropped him off. Hannah was not pleased, and Dillon leaned down to her through the open window. “Keep the faith, love.”

“Well, you keep your fists in your pockets.”

The rain increased, and Dillon glanced at the Opel and decided to leave it alone. He went inside the mosque and followed a sign that said OFFICE.

In the Opel, Greta Novikova called Ashimov on his mobile. “They were all at this Major Roper’s place in Regency Square – Ferguson, Bernstein and Dillon. They’ve now dropped Dillon at Queen Street. Why?”

“I should imagine because Mrs. Morgan has met an untimely accident and Mr. Dillon is about to speak to Selim about it.”

“What do you mean, accident?”

“Her wheelchair appears to have deposited her in the Thames. These things happen. Stay there and follow Dillon when he comes out.”

Dillon found the office, knocked and walked in. There was no one at reception, so he tried the next door and found his quarry working at a desk.

“Dr. Ali Selim?”

Selim recognized him at once from a computer photo Ashimov had left him.

He managed a smile. “Can I help?”

Dillon decided to let it all hang out. “Oh, I think so, me ould son.” He lit a cigarette.

“Not in here. It is an affront,” Selim told him.

“I know, a terrible vice, but we all have them. I can see you know who I am, your face twitched, but then a guy like Ashimov would be right on the ball about me and my friends. We have a video of the two of you, by the way. That would go down big at the House of Commons, don’t you think? And I notice his girlfriend, Greta Novikova, is outside.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well, in broad terms you do, and I could fill in the rest for you. Henry Morgan walks up a Manhattan street in the rain and disappears into oblivion, his mother goes off the jetty in Chandler Street and into the Thames. A very unfortunate family.”

Selim’s face turned pale.

“Get out of here. I’ll call the police.”

“Oh, I don’t think you will, not with Ashimov on your back.” Dillon dropped his cigarette in a half-filled cup of coffee by Selim’s right hand. “Say your prayers, son, you’re going to need them. Oh, and good luck with the Wrath of Allah.”

It was a long shot, but the shock on Selim’s face was obvious.

Dillon went out and paused on the pavement, looking across. Greta Novikova was taking a photo, and she was badly caught out when he crossed the street quickly, opened the passenger door and got in.

“Now, look here…,” she started to say.

“Oh, cut it out, girl dear. I know who you are and you know who I am.” He produced a packet of Marlboros and took two out. “I bet you smoke, too. Most Russians do.”

“Bastard,” she said. But she almost looked amused.

He lit the cigarettes and passed her one. “Let’s go.”

“Go? Where to exactly?”

“My place in Stable Mews. Don’t pretend you don’t know where that is.”

She drove away, half smiling. “I bet Selim was messing himself in there.”

“Something like that. I told him we know about Ashimov and you, and who knows? Perhaps Ashimov’s boss, the mysterious Josef Belov.”

“You’re playing with fire, Dillon,” she said. “I’d be very careful.”

“Oh, I always am.”

She paused at the end of Stable Mews. “Can I go now?”

“Of course – unless you’d like to have dinner with me.”

“The great Sean Dillon with a romantic side? I doubt it. Besides, you’ve chosen a bad night. I have a function at the Dorchester ballroom this evening on behalf of the Russian Embassy.”

Dillon got out and leaned in. “Oh, I’m sure I could gain admission.”

She drove back to the embassy, turning over this strange man in her mind, and phoned Ashimov to tell him what had happened. “I’ve got a crazy idea he could turn up tonight.”

“So he’s challenging us, is he? Well, we’ll challenge back. I’ll go with you. Pick me up at seven.”

After she hung up, she went into her computer, into her secret GRU files, accessed Dillon and was breathless at what she discovered. This was the man who’d been responsible for the mortar bomb attack on Downing Street in ninety-one? A feared enforcer for the IRA for years, a killer many times over… once an actor at the National Theatre? She read, fascinated.

I put the fear of God into Selim,” Dillon told Ferguson on the phone.

“I thought you would. What’s your verdict?”

“Well, the obvious thing is that he didn’t deny any of it – Morgan, Ashimov, the Novikova woman, the lot.”

“Well, he wouldn’t, would he? By the way, Blake’s been in touch. He’s taken all that stuff I gave him on the Muslim situation in the UK and gone straight back to Washington.”

“What a shame. I’d hoped to take him to the Dorchester tonight. The Russian Embassy’s got a function on in the ballroom. Get me a security pass, Charles, Novikova’s going to be there. Perhaps Ashimov will be with her. I’d like to run with it.”

“Only if you run with me, you rogue. We’ll go together.”

“Cocktails at seven, Charles, not black tie. The embassy’s trying to make friends and influence people – and I understand that there might be a surprise guest or two.”

“Are you referring to the fact that when President Putin finished at the European Union’s Paris conference this morning, he decided to divert his plane to RAF Northolt for a chat with the Prime Minister this afternoon? And that he’s not due to depart until late tonight?”

“And how would you be knowing that?”

“Because I’ve been notified of his flight plan out of Northolt to Moscow. It’s what they pay me for, dear boy.”

“So I’ll meet you there?”

“And the Superintendent, too, I think. Dress things up a little. And do me a favor.”

“Yours to command.”

“Wear one of your better suits. We mustn’t let the side down. This should be interesting. I knew Putin rather well in the bad old days, you know, when he was a colonel in the KGB.”

“I bet you exchanged shots across the Berlin Wall.”

“Something like that. Meet us at the Dorchester as you say, at seven.”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

In the ballroom at the Dorchester, the great and the good mingled with politicians and civil servants, and waiters passed through the crowd with trays loaded with vodka and the finest champagne, as the Russian Embassy did its best to impress. Yuri Ashimov and Greta stood by a pillar, drinking iced vodka.

“It’ll be a hell of a shock for these people when Putin appears with the Prime Minister,” Greta said.

“It’ll be an even bigger one for you when Belov appears.”

“Belov?” She was bewildered. “But why?”

“Because Putin wanted him. Out of all the oil magnates, Josef, my love, is the one the President trusts. They go back a long way.” He reached for another vodka as a waiter passed. “I spoke to him a couple of hours ago. Brought him up to speed on the Henry Morgan affair.”

“Does Putin know about that?”

“Of course not. There are limits. Josef was philosophical about it, but he wasn’t happy about Ferguson and his friends.”

“What do we do if Dillon turns up?”

“I hope he does. I have a friend named Harker, Charlie Harker. A crook of the first water, dabbles in everything from protection to drugs to women. Such people have their uses.”

“What’s he going to do?”

“I mentioned Dillon and gave him a photo. Harker has arranged for two or three of his men to, shall we say, pay special attention to him if he does show up.”

Greta said, “I’ve checked on Dillon, Yuri. He’s hell on wheels.”

“Well, so am I, my love.”

“But it isn’t you who’ll be doing it. That’s what worries me.”

“Well, we’ll just have to see what happens. Because there he is.”

At the same moment, a voice echoed over a microphone as the Russian ambassador called for attention.

“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. I had intended a few words at this moment, but someone far more important has arrived – and with a very special guest.”

He gestured and, through the side door, President Putin appeared, the British Prime Minister at his side. The crowd broke into spontaneous applause. The two men stopped for a moment, acknowledging the crowd, then moved on, pausing to shake hands here and there. They were followed by several men, obviously security, but not all.

“The man on the left,” Ferguson said. “Black suit, steel-rimmed glasses, cropped hair. Josef Belov. Now, what’s he up to?”

Belov looked to be around sixty, his face very calm, giving nothing away. Putin paused for a moment and listened as Belov whispered, “The man standing over there with the woman and the small man with very fair hair, his name is Ferguson. He runs the Prime Minister’s private intelligence outfit.”

“I know very well who he is, we’re old adversaries from the Cold War. What is he to you?”

“No friend.”

“Josef,” Putin said, “I don’t know what you get up to these days and I don’t want to know. You are useful to the State. Your billions, and your importance to the oil industry from Iraq to southern Arabia, speaks for itself. However, no one is indispensable, so I’d advise you to be discreet.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

Belov faded away and Putin moved on, the crowd parting. He reached Ferguson and smiled.

“It’s good to meet old friends. General Ferguson now. I like that. You at last outrank me.”

“I believe so, Colonel.”

Putin smiled and held out his hand, which Ferguson took. “I’m glad you remembered.”

“That we swapped shots?”

Putin shrugged. “A long time ago.”

“Yes, sir.”

Putin turned to walk away, then paused and turned back, his face enigmatic. “And Charles?”

“Sir?”

“I’d take care if I were you – great care.”

“Oh, I will, sir, you may depend on it.”

Putin moved on.

Hannah said, “What was all that about, sir? It was as if he was warning you.”

“Yes, Superintendent. I do believe he was. Now where’s Belov gone?”

“Over by the bar with Ashimov and Greta Novikova,” Dillon pointed out.

“Well, let’s join them.” Ferguson smiled. “Could be interesting.”

“They’re coming,” Ashimov said. “Perhaps you’d better go.”

“Why on earth should I?” Belov said. “This champagne is so good, I’d like another glass. Don’t let’s pretend with them. I doubt if they will.” He turned and smiled. “General Ferguson. A long-overdue pleasure.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Ferguson said. “I think you know who my friends are, I certainly know yours.” He nodded to Greta. “A pleasure, Major,” took her hand and kissed it. “Mind you, the GRU always had style.” He turned to Ashimov. “Unlike the KGB.”

Ashimov didn’t react, and it was Belov who said, “Which would include me, General. There is an English phrase about people in glass houses throwing stones, isn’t there? Especially when you have a man like Mr. Dillon at your side, although you, Superintendent, are a credit to Scotland Yard.” He emptied his glass, toasting her. “Shall we all have another?”

“An excellent idea,” Ferguson said. “I see we have no secrets.”

“Especially about you,” Dillon said. “And especially about Henry Morgan in Manhattan, and his mother’s unfortunate accident.” A waiter passed, and they all took glasses of champagne from his tray. “The only thing that confuses me is what one of the richest men in the world would be doing with a bruiser like Ashimov here and a loser like Ali Selim.”

“Ah, you don’t understand the bigger picture, Dillon,” Ferguson said. “Money isn’t everything. You’re a good case in point. You’re rich, but-”

“But he likes to play the game,” Belov said.

“Exactly. Being wealthy is like having everything and nothing at the same time, and a man needs more. I remember interrogating a man named Luhzkov years ago. He lectured in economics at London University. A deep-cover agent for the KGB. He often spoke with sincere admiration of a Colonel Belov who headed Department Three of the KGB. Belov’s main task was to create chaos in the Western world – chaos, fear and uncertainty, until the cracks showed and governments toppled.”

Belov seemed to stay very calm, though his lips tightened, as did his grip on the champagne glass, and it was Dillon who said, “Just as in Iraq.” He shook his head. “All those wonderful oil fields up for grabs, and since Saddam ended up in a cell, who knows where they’ll end up?”

Belov put his glass on the bar. “I’ve heard enough stupidity for one evening. We’ll be moving on.”

He nodded to Ashimov and Greta and walked away, moving out through the entrance and pausing. Ashimov waved for the limousine.

“I’m sorry, Josef.”

“Then do something about it. I have hugely important matters in hand. Our future in Iraq and southern Arabia are on the line. Where Ferguson and his people are concerned, I give you a free hand.”

“I’ve something special lined up for Dillon tonight.”

“Good. Just get on with it.” Ashimov held the door open for him. Belov got in and put the window down. “I’ll be at the Rashid house on South Audley Street for the next three days, then I’m flying to the castle.”

“And then Iraq?”

“No, Moscow. I’ve got to keep the President on our side.”

The limousine drove away, and Greta said, “The castle?”

“ Drumore Place. It’s in County Louth in the Irish Republic. His latest acquisition. A couple of hundred acres, and whatever you want a castle to be, that’s what it is. One advantage for him is that the area is a hotbed of Irish nationalism. In that area, the IRA has no idea that the war is over, especially the local commander, one Dermot Kelly.”

“Isn’t that a problem?”

“For Josef with all his wealth? For a man with no love of the British? The locals have embraced him like one of their own. He goes back a long way with Kelly.”

“And you? Do they embrace you as well?”

“Of course. My natural charm.”

She smiled. “Now what?”

“I’ll give you a nice dinner.”

“And Dillon?”

“Oh, he’ll be well taken care of.” He waved for a passing taxi.