Dark Justice

5

At the bar at the Dorchester Ballroom, they were finishing the champagne. Hannah said, “You were a bit heavy, sir.”

“Oh, I intended to be. Luhzkov hung himself. Now we all know where we are, which is how I prefer it.”

“You ould devil. What you’re looking for is a reaction,” Dillon said.

“Something like that. I spoke to Roper earlier. Told him to compute a report on Belov. Everything there is. I expect you two to read it thoroughly.”

“Of course, sir,” Hannah said.

“Good. On our way, then.”

They paused at the cloakroom to get coats, and it had started to rain slightly when they went out on the pavement and the Daimler coasted in.

“I’ll drop you off,” Ferguson said.

“Not me, if you don’t mind,” Dillon told him. “I feel like the walk.”

“In the rain, dear boy?” Ferguson opened the door for Hannah. “You’ll have to excuse him, Superintendent. It’s an Irish thing, the rain.”

“Sure, and your sainted mother, being a Cork woman, would have agreed with you.”

“Take care, you rogue, and stay out of trouble.”

“Always do, General.”

Dillon watched the Daimler drive off, then walked away, his collar up against the rain. He went across the entrance of the hotel and made his way down through Mayfair in the general direction of Shepherd’s Market.

That he was being followed had been obvious since leaving the ballroom. Two men, one in a reefer coat and knitted cap, the other in an anorak and baseball cap. Stupid, really, and they’d stuck out like a sore thumb among the kind of people leaving the Dorchester.

Just before reaching Shepherd’s Market, he paused on a corner to light a cigarette, then turned into a narrow side street of old town houses, fronted by Victorian spiked railings, with steps leading down to basement areas. He quickened his pace, then dashed down a flight of steps and waited in the darkness.

There was a sound of running steps. A voice said, “Where’s he gone, for Christ’s sake?”

Dillon came up the steps and stood behind them, hands in the pockets of his raincoat.

“So there you are, lads,” he said. “I was beginning to give up on you.”

“Why, you little squirt.” The man in the reefer coat turned to his friend. “Leave this to me.”

He took a length of lead pipe from one pocket. Dillon said, “Very old-fashioned.”

“Is that so?”

The man made a sudden rush, arm raised to strike down. Dillon swayed to one side, stamped against the side of one of the man’s knees so that he lurched past him, head down, and Dillon put a foot to his backside and sent him headfirst down the steps to the basement.

The man in the baseball cap took a knife from his pocket and sprang the blade. “You little bastard, I’ll show you.”

“Well, let’s be having you, then.”

The knife swung, Dillon caught hold of the wrist, turned it and the arm like a steel bar, then ran him headfirst into the railings. The man slumped to the pavement, his nose broken, blood on his mouth.

Dillon crouched beside him. “Now then, who sent you?”

“Get stuffed,” the man moaned.

“You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.” Dillon was carrying a Walther PPK in his waistband at the rear under his jacket, and now he produced it. “But I’ve got this, and where I come from we find a bullet through the kneecap cures most ills. A crippling experience, mind you.”

“Okay.” The man put a hand up. “It was Charlie Harker put us on your case. Gave us a grand to cripple you.”

“Harker? And who would he be?”

“He runs everything on the river, from here down to the Isle of Dogs.”

“Really?” Dillon reached inside the man’s anorak, found a wad of notes and took them out. “A thousand quid from this Charlie Harker.” He shook his head. “It gives me more pleasure to leave it with you than to take it.”

“Screw you,” the man said.

“I said you have balls. Not many brains, though. Now, if I were you, I’d call an ambulance.”

He walked away, and stood on the corner thinking about it. Charlie Harker who ran everything on the river down to the Isle of Dogs? The name didn’t mean a thing to Dillon. On the other hand, he knew someone to whom it very probably did. He flagged down a passing cab, told the driver to take him to Wapping High Street and got in.

He was thinking of Harry Salter, once one of the most feared men in London, a very old-fashioned gangster, now a multimillionaire from the warehouse developments he’d built on the side of the Thames. The relationship between Harry, his nephew Billy, and Dillon and Ferguson had become close, tested in the fire on a number of occasions. If anyone knew about Harker, it would be Harry Salter.

At the same moment, Charlie Harker was in a pub called the Red Lion in Kilburn in London, sitting reading the Evening Standard and enjoying a pint. Most people stayed well clear of him, well aware that it was best for their health. A large, heavily built man in a dark suit leaned against the wall behind him. His name was Mosby and he was Harker’s minder.

Harker’s mobile went. He answered it and found Ali Selim on the other end. “Mr. Harker, I must see you.”

“What for?”

“The latest consignment to Iraq. I’ll have to delay it for a while.”

“You can’t do that, it’s all arranged. Leaving tomorrow night.”

“It’s not convenient.”

“I don’t care. The deal is five grand a head, so five heads makes it twenty-five, like we agreed, old son, and twenty-five is what I expect whether it’s on or it’s off. Does Ashimov know about this?”

“Look, be reasonable. I’ll come and see you if you like. Where are you?”

“The Red Lion, but don’t come without the cash. I’m beginning to worry about you, and that would never do.”

Selim put the phone down and sat thinking about it. It was the thing he hated most, having to deal with people like Harker, but what could he do? It was essential to keep the traffic on the move to Iraq on a regular basis, now more than ever. At least there was the money from Ashimov to keep it going.

He found a canvas bag and opened the safe in the corner of the office. There was money in there, a great deal of money, stacked neatly in bundles of fifty-pound notes. He counted out the required amount, put it in the bag and got his hat and a raincoat.

He was worried, running scared. He believed in what he was doing. His cause was just and he believed in Allah above everything, but all of a sudden, things seemed to have gotten out of hand. The Morgan thing had looked so promising, so absurdly simple with Ashimov’s support, and not only had it failed, it had brought Ferguson and his people into the equation, and this Dillon. He shuddered. A truly frightening man. And then this business of Mrs. Morgan’s so-called accident. It was a terrible business, and yet his own motives in all this had been so pure.

There was a knock on the door and the caretaker, Abdul, looked in. “Can I get you anything, Doctor?”

“No, I’ve got to go out for a while. I’ll see you later.”

He went out to the yard outside, found his Peugeot and drove away.

Dillon’s cab turned from Wapping High Street and moved along a narrow lane between warehouse developments, finally stopping outside Salter’s pub, the Dark Man, its painted sign showing a sinister individual in a black coat.

The bar was reasonably busy without being crowded, a fine old London pub, bright and cheerful, with Victorian gilt mirrors behind the mahogany bar, bottles ranged against them. Dora, the chief barmaid, sat on a stool behind the bar, smoking a cigarette.

“Why, Mr. Dillon. Haven’t seen you for a while. They’re in the corner booth.”

Which they were: Harry, his nephew Billy – at twenty-nine a hard and ruthless young man, who had killed a number of times, although usually on the side of right – and Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, Salter’s minders. They were playing cards, and Salter glanced up and smiled, genuine pleasure on his face.

“Why, Dillon, it’s good to see you. It’s been too long. You and Ferguson been up to your usual shenanigans, I assume?”

“Something like that.” Dillon called to Dora. “A large Bushmills over here, love.”

Billy had stopped smiling, and there was a slight frown on his face. “Trouble, Dillon?”

“How did you guess?”

“Because it follows you around and I’ve come to recognize the signs.”

Dora arrived with the whiskey and Dillon tossed it back. “Does Charlie Harker mean anything to you, Harry?”

Salter’s face turned to stone. “That scumbag. I don’t mind cigarette runs or illegal immigrants from Amsterdam, but young girls on the game, porn, drugs – that’s filth.”

Billy said, “What is he to you?”

Dillon told them.

Afterward, Harry shook his head. “We can’t have that, Charlie getting ideas above his station.”

“It’s not so much Harker as who put him up to it that I’m interested in,” Dillon said.

Harry turned to Billy. “What do you think?”

“Friday night. That means the Red Lion in Kilburn. He uses the snug like an office. The punters turn up to pay him protection money.”

“Well, let’s pay him a call. It could enliven the evening.”

Ali Selim managed to park quite close to the Red Lion, but on the other side of the road. He was about to get out when a large Mercedes pulled up and the Salters got out. He was aware of Dillon first, and he recognized Harry and Billy Salter from photos he’d been shown. He stayed, head down, until they’d gone up the alley at the side of the pub. Only then did he get out of the Peugeot and cross to the other side. He darted into the shadows of an entrance at the end of the alley and watched as the Salters and Dillon went into the side entrance of the pub, leaving Baxter and Hall to guard the door. This was bad, very bad, he knew that and waited, his mouth dry.

Inside the Red Lion, a man was at the door of the snug, and he turned, his mouth gaping, when he saw Salter, who smiled genially.

“Why, Jacko, you look even uglier than usual.” He grabbed him by the tie, swung him around, and Billy punched him very hard under the breastbone and head-butted him. Jacko went down and Billy opened the door for his uncle.

Harker was sitting at a table, counting wads of cash, Mosby leaning over beside him. They both looked up, startled.

“Why, Harry, what’s going on?” Harker demanded.

“You may well ask, particularly since a couple of arseholes claiming to be working for you just had a go at Dillon here down by Shepherd’s Market, and I can’t be having that because he’s a friend of mine.”

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

“Oh, dear, so we’re going to have to do it the hard way, are we?” Mosby slipped a hand inside his coat and Dillon produced the Walther. “Don’t be stupid,” Salter said. “Put whatever you’ve got in there on the table and get out, unless you’d like Dillon to leave your brains on the wall.”

Mosby didn’t even hesitate. He took a.38 Smith amp; Wesson from his pocket, laid it down and cleared off.

“Now, look,” Harker said. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but…”

Salter slapped him across the face. “Bring him along, Billy, and mind the garbage on the way out.”

He stood outside as Billy shoved Harker out and Baxter and Hall grabbed him. “We’ll go down to my place at Wapping. I’ve got a nice old riverboat there, the Lynda Jones, but then you know that. Nice night to go on the river.”

“Look, Harry, what do you want?”

“To know what you were playing at with my friend Mr. Dillon, who put you up to it.”

“No way.” Harker didn’t sound afraid. “Leave it, Harry, you’ve no idea what you’re getting into. The people I’m involved with could swallow you whole.”

“That’d be a new sensation for me.” Salter was completely unconcerned. “If I were you, I’d think about it, Charlie. Now let’s go.”

Standing in the doorway in the alley, Ali Selim had heard everything and it was enough. He made for the Peugeot and drove away quickly, reaching the mosque twenty minutes later. The first thing he did was call Heathrow Airport and book a first-class ticket on a plane to Kuwait that was leaving in two hours. He tossed a few things into a suitcase, together with the cash he’d taken for Harker plus his passport, and was ready to go. He hesitated, then picked up the telephone and called Ashimov, who was sitting in an Italian restaurant with Greta.

“It’s me, Ali. We’ve got problems.”

“Tell me.”

Selim did. “ Ferguson and his people are getting too close, and if Harker spills the beans about what he’s been doing for us, it would seriously compromise Wrath of Allah.”

“Don’t panic. I’ll handle it. Just keep cool, all right?”

Greta Novikova said, “Trouble?” Ashimov called for his bill and told her quickly.

She was worried. “Can you handle this?”

“You shouldn’t need to ask. We’ll take a taxi to my place, where we’ll get my car and suitable weaponry. You can chauffeur me.” He smiled a terrible smile. “They’re only gangsters, my love. I handled them in Moscow, I’ll handle them now.”

Ali Selim, of course, would not have agreed with him. He rang the bell for Abdul, the caretaker, and met him on his way out to the car.

“Something’s come up. I’m needed in Iraq. I’m not sure for how long, but I’ll be in touch.”

“As you say, Doctor.” Abdul never questioned the imam’s comings and goings.

Selim got into the Peugeot and drove away. The Baghdad airport, as happened so frequently, was closed to aviation traffic, which was why he was headed to Kuwait. He’d drive the rest of the way. It was surprising how cheerful he felt, the closer he got to Heathrow and away from Queen Street.

The Lynda Jones was moored at the other end of the wharf from the Dark Man. More than fifty years old, it had been lovingly restored, and it was the joy of Harry’s life – it took him back to his childhood days as a river rat. He sat there now with Billy, at a table under an awning, and Baxter and Hall held Harker between them.

Dillon stood by the stern railing, light spilling out into the darkness, the occasional boat passing, all lit up. The whole place had a rather melancholy air to it, although, for the life of him, he couldn’t think why. He shivered slightly and lit a cigarette.

Harry said, “Okay, Charlie, don’t waste my time. Who told you to stick those two hoods on Dillon?”

Harker tried to struggle, and Baxter and Hall held him firmly. Billy leaned forward and slapped his face.

Harker said wildly, “I’ve told you, Harry, you don’t know what you’re getting into. This is big-time stuff, believe me.”

“And who are we, the little people? Fuck this for a game of soldiers.” Salter nodded to Billy. “Try the hoist and put him over.”

Baxter and Hall put the struggling Harker down and Billy pulled on the stern hoist, took the hemp rope suspended from it and looped it around Harker’s ankles. Baxter and Hall heaved until Harker was clear of the side, then swung him over and dropped him headfirst into the river.

He hung there for a while, struggling, weakened, then stopped. “Have him up,” Harry told them.

Baxter and Hall pulled Harker out, then swung him over the rail. He lay on the deck, retching up river water.

“Had enough?” Billy demanded.

“You’ve signed your own death warrants,” Harker said weakly.

“We’re wasting our bleeding time here,” Salter said. “Over with him again.”

“No, for God’s sake. I’ll tell you.”

They untied him and sat him on a chair. “Give him a fag,” Salter said, which Billy did.

Dillon cut in. “So who told you to put those guys onto me?”

“A Russian called Ashimov. He runs security for that oil billionaire, Belov. Ashimov has links with Dr. Ali Selim at the Queen Street Mosque. They recruit English-born Muslims for some outfit called the Wrath of Allah. To arrange an underground route for them to Iraq or Syria. They use one of my boats to Amsterdam, then go on to Kuwait on false passports.”

“You bloody bastard,” Salter said. “What do you do when they come back and set bombs off in London?”

Before Harker could reply, there came a single shot. It took Harker over the rail into the water.

Ashimov grabbed Greta’s sleeve. “Come on, move it,” and they hurried away through the shadows.

Leaving the Volvo close to the Dark Man, he and Greta had watched from the shadows and heard something of what was being said. Without hesitating, Ashimov had pulled out a Beretta, taken careful aim and fired. He seldom missed.

On the Lynda Jones, the four of them crouched, waiting, and Billy reached to flick off the light switch. A moment later, they heard a car start up and move away. “Well, that’s it, whoever it was,” Salter said.

“A pound to a penny it was Ashimov,” Dillon said.

Billy switched on the deck lights again and they peered over. “No sign of Harker,” Dillon said.

Billy shrugged. “There won’t be. The tide’s going out.”

“Well, at least we know where we stand,” Dillon said. “So if you gents will excuse me, I’ll go and have words with Ali Selim. I’ll keep you posted.”

“No, you won’t,” Billy said. “I’ll take you in the Range Rover.”

In his quarters at the mosque, Abdul was cooking a late supper when the doorbell sounded. He went to open it and found Dillon standing there, who pushed him back and stepped in.

“Get me Selim.”

“But he isn’t here. He left a couple of hours ago.”

“Left? Where’s he gone?”

Abdul was sensible enough to be frightened. “ Iraq. He said something had come up, that he was needed.”

“Is that so? And when is he due back?”

“He wasn’t sure. He – he said he’d be in touch.”

Dillon snorted. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

Dillon returned to the Range Rover, and when Billy asked, “Everything okay?” told him what had happened.

“I’d say he’s done a runner,” Billy said. “Once you started sniffing around, that would be enough. What’s next?”

“I’ll call Ferguson.”

When he did, Ferguson said, “The waters really are getting muddied, aren’t they? I’ll speak to Roper. Meet me at his place.”

Dillon turned to Billy. “Regency Square.”

“The Major’s place? Things are starting to get interesting. Quite like old times.” And he drove away.

It was shortly afterward that Abdul again answered the doorbell at the mosque and found Ashimov, who pushed past him, Greta following.

Abdul was by now extremely agitated. “He’s not here. Doctor Selim has gone away.”

“What in the hell do you mean, gone away?”

“To Iraq.”

Ashimov was thunderstruck. “When did this happen?”

“Two hours or so ago.”

“Tell me exactly what he said.”

Abdul did and added, “There was someone else looking for him. A small man with very fair hair. He was very frightening.”

“I bet he was,” Ashimov said grimly and turned to Greta. “Let’s get moving.”

They got into his Volvo. “Where to now?” she said.

“Back to my place. We’ll check it out. He can’t be going to Baghdad, there are no commercial flights at the moment, so it has to be Kuwait.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll go after him. I can’t go myself, Belov wants me at his place in Northern Ireland, but you can. Use our GRU contacts, they’ll get you into the Baghdad airport. Use Belov’s name if you need to. I’ll arrange some muscle for you.”

She took a deep breath. “Are you sure?”

“Smell powder again, Greta. You’ll enjoy it.”

“All right, I’ll do it.”

“Just be careful. If I were Ferguson I wouldn’t let it go, this thing. He’ll send somebody.”

“Dillon?”

“Seems the most likely. He speaks good Arabic and Russian, has lots of Middle East experience. I’ll confirm it for you.”

“To hell with him. I’ll still do it.”

“Good girl.” He was smiling as they passed Buckingham Palace. “But don’t stay at the embassy. The Al Bustan is much more fun.”

Ferguson, Dillon and Billy stood beside Roper’s bank of computers. The Major’s fingers danced over the keys for a while and he sat back.

“Definite confirmation. There was a slight delay, but the jumbo took off an hour ago. Selim has seat three-A in the first-class cabin. Nice. I can also tell you that’s his fourth time to Kuwait in the last ten months.”

“What else?” Ferguson demanded.

“I can give you the name of the rental-car firm he uses. It’s always the same one. And he stays at the Al Bustan hotel in Baghdad. A good hotel, though somewhat damaged by the war. A favorite with correspondents.”

“Family?” Dillon added.

“Yes, there are still relatives, in a village called Ramalla about forty clicks north of Baghdad. His great-uncle lives there on a small farm by the Tigris. I’ve pulled a map of the location from the computer. Nicely detailed.”

“Any more information on Wrath of Allah?”

“I’m still trawling. We can always try Sharif, of course.”

“And who would he be?” Dillon asked.

“A major in the Republican Guard during Saddam’s day. Intelligence. He’s worked for me for a while now. Very expensive, but worth it. I’ll give you his photo and details.”

“Why not the Americans?”

“He’s not keen on them. Lost his wife and daughter in the bombing during the war. He’ll be of considerable value to you when you get there.”

“So I’m going?”

“It’s essential, dear boy, that you find Selim and haul him back,” said Ferguson. “We know a great deal about him, but there’s a lot more we need to know, particularly about his dealings with Ashimov and Belov.”

“So you don’t want me to kill him?”

“You’re always so basic. No, not if it can be helped. Our Russian friends will have a different point of view, but never mind that. The Superintendent is arranging your papers now. You’ll be pleased to know you’re a correspondent for the Belfast Telegraph. You do analysis, think pieces, not instant news. Your Northern Irish accent will suit the role admirably. The Superintendent has alerted Lacey and Parry. We’ll use the Citation XL. As it’s RAF, it can land at Baghdad even though commercial planes are grounded.”

At that moment the door buzzer sounded, and Roper pressed the release. Hannah Bernstein came in.

“Everything pushing ahead?” Ferguson asked.

“I think so, sir. They’re working on Dillon’s papers now, the plane will be ready for morning departure and I’ve spoken to Sharif. He’s arranging for you to stay at the Al Bustan, which should be perfectly satisfactory.”

“I don’t think so,” Billy said.

Ferguson frowned. “And why not?”

“Because you shouldn’t be the one going. If Dillon is to pass without suspicion as a newspaper reporter, he needs a photographer with him. I mean, what he really needs is someone to watch his back, but it would be convenient, in this case, if that someone could also pass himself off as a photographer.”

“And you could?”

“After Kate Rashid and company shot the hell out of me in Hazar, I had to forget my favorite hobby, diving, and so I took up photography. Did a course at the London College of Printing.”

“And you think you know your stuff?”

“First of all, I’d need two cameras, if not three. I’m sure you saw the photographers during the war, draped in the damn things. As for lenses, a wide-angle zoom and a long zoom. Nikon, I think, though I wouldn’t bother with digital because that would mean I’d need a laptop. Now, as far-”

“Spare me, for God’s sake.” Ferguson turned to Hannah. “Process his papers, Superintendent.” He nodded to Dillon. “Is that all right with you?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. Since you’re going in with the RAF, there won’t be any problem over weapons.” He said to Roper, “Have you got the Belov report ready?”

“Right here.” Roper pushed five copies over.

“Excellent.” Ferguson picked one up and gave it to Dillon. “Gives you something to read on the plane.”

“I look forward to it.”

“You take one, too, Superintendent, and you, young Salter, you’d better get home and break the good news to Harry. Now, we all have a great deal to do. I suggest we get a move on.”

RAF Northolt on the edge of London catered not only to the royal family and the Prime Minister and other politicians, but was a great favorite with executive jets. So it was there the following morning that Ashimov delivered Greta Novikova to a waiting Falcon.

The two pilots were British, named Kelso and Brown, but the stewardess was Russian and introduced herself as Tania.

Ashimov kissed Greta on both cheeks. “Safe journey. I’ll have someone introduce himself at the hotel. You can take it from there.”

“Just one question, Yuri. Do I kill him?”

“Whatever you think best, my dear. Though it does rather seem like he’s served his purpose, doesn’t it?” He smiled. “Now, off you go.”

Later, watching the Falcon rise, he smiled slightly to himself. What a woman. What a marvelous bloody woman. And then he turned and walked to his waiting limousine.

At Farley Field, the small RAF installation used by Ferguson ’s people for covert operations, Dillon, Hannah and Ferguson arrived in the Daimler and were met by Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry standing beside a Citation XL. Both men wore flying overalls with rank tabs, and the plane had RAF roundels.

“Good to see you, Sean,” Lacey said. “Will it be messy?”

“Well, you know me. It usually is.”

He gave Parry his traveling bag to take on board and Lacey said, “The Quartermaster’s left a bag for you inside. He said you’d find everything you need.”

“Excellent,” Ferguson said. “I do admire efficiency.”

At that moment, an Aston Martin came around the corner of the terminal building, and Harry and Billy got out and approached, Harry carrying his nephew’s bag.

“You’ve done it again, you little Irish sod,” said Harry to Dillon. “I mean, we’ve had bad times before, but going to Baghdad! That’s a bit rich, even for you.”

He gave the bags to Parry, and Dillon said, “I’m under orders, Harry, from your man here, and Billy’s a volunteer.”

“Well, more fool him.”

Hannah took two envelopes from her briefcase and gave them one each. “New passports, still in your real identities. They document that you’ve been to every war zone possible in the past few years. Your press credentials are all in order. Hopefully, Sharif will have important information for you when you arrive.”

At that moment, Ferguson ’s mobile went and he answered it. “Yes?” He frowned. “I see. Thanks.” He put it away. “Roper. A Falcon owned by Belov International took off from Northolt an hour ago with Greta Novikova on board, destination Baghdad.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Dillon said.

Harry embraced Billy and turned to Dillon. “Bring him back in one piece or else.”

As Billy went up the steps, Hannah hesitated, then kissed Dillon on the cheek. “My God, I finally made it.” He smiled. “Keep the faith.”

She walked away, and Ferguson said, “Do be careful, Dillon. It would seriously inconvenience me if you didn’t make it back, you and Billy both. As for Selim, if the Russians get to him, I think he’s a dead man. I’m sure that’s what Novikova is all about. Do what seems appropriate. Do I make myself clear?”

“You always do.”

Dillon went up the steps and joined Billy. They settled down and Parry pulled up the door, then joined Lacey in the cockpit, where the squadron leader already had the engines rumbling into life.

“Here we go,” Billy said. “Into the bleeding war zone again.”

“Come off it, Billy, you love it.”

Dillon opened his bag and produced Roper’s notes. He started to read while Billy worked his way through the Daily Mail. It didn’t take long, perhaps twenty minutes, before Dillon was finished.

“Any good?” Billy asked.

“Roper does a good job. He should write thrillers.” He tossed it across. “Read it and learn what we’re up against. The full and active life of Josef Belov.”