The Killing Ground

LONDON
DUBLIN
KUWAIT
Chapter 4

AT FARLEY FIELD, AS THE GULFSTREAM TOUCHED DOWN, Dillon looked out and saw Ferguson standing under an umbrella smoking a cigarette.

“What do you think, trouble?” Billy asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. You might be surprised,” Dillon answered.

Parry opened the door and they moved out, followed by Lacey, who said, “Dammit, Sean, we don’t like our time wasted.”

“I’m not sure that’s a correct description. Savage and his wife were blown up in their boat on the Tigris.”

“And four very unpleasant geezers tried to take us out in the bar at Savage’s club. When we left, it looked like the Last Chance Saloon in a bad movie,” Billy pointed out.

“How many?” Lacey said slowly.

“Four,” Dillon told him. “So your time wasn’t wasted-and I suspect we’re about to use your services again.”

“Where to this time?” Lacey said.

“You’ve been there before. Hazar.”

“Christ Almighty,” Parry said.“You nearly left your bones there, Billy.”

“Well, I didn’t, and I’ve no intention of leaving them there this time.” They reached Ferguson, who said, “All right, gentlemen, get in the back of the Daimler and explain yourselves. Your body count is beginning to rival Tombstone ’s.”

After Dillon sketched in the events, he said, “After all, General, you did say we could use the Gulfstream in an emergency.”

“Yes, but I hadn’t envisaged this.”

“And it all started with you,” Billy said. “Last time you saw us, you suggested we go to Heathrow and haunt passport control.”

“Which is where we came up with Caspar Rashid.” Dillon cut in.

“All right, all right.” Ferguson was getting testy as they coasted through London toward Holland Park. “I’m the first to admit he could be very useful for us.”

“Have you told him we failed to get Sara?”

“Not yet. I thought his wife should be considered, too. She’s operating now, but Major Novikova will tell her, and then bring her to us. Eleven o’clock should be about right.”

“Great,” Billy said. “Time for a full English breakfast.”

“We don’t have a cook,” Dillon reminded him.

“Who says so?” Ferguson frowned. “All I had to do was telephone the Civil Service pool. A Mrs. Hall appeared almost straightaway, answers to Maggie. She’s from Jamaica, though-I’m not sure about the full English breakfast.”

“For God’s sake, General, they probably invented it.” That was Billy.

“SO THEY FAILED?” At the hospital, Molly Rashid was very pale, no color in her face at all, and weary suddenly in a way she hadn’t been before. Greta noticed that at once and the hands were shaking.

“You need a drink,” she said.

“No.” Molly ran a hand through her hair. “I’ve got another operation this afternoon.”

“I don’t think so. Your right hand is shaking like a leaf. You couldn’t possibly operate in your present condition.”

Molly covered her face with both hands. “What am I going to do?”

Greta got a glass, took a bottle of vodka from the fridge. She almost filled the glass. “Come on, take it straight down. It numbs the brain.”

Molly hesitated, then did as she was told. She gagged, staggered to the sink. For a moment, it was as if she was going to be sick, but she took a couple of deep breaths and pulled herself together.

“My God, that hit the spot.” She turned and smiled wanly. “We’d better go and face it, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Greta said, “I suppose we should.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN you failed?” Rashid said, as he turned from the window to Dillon.

“We simply couldn’t get anywhere near her.”

“Oh, dear, you couldn’t get anywhere near her. My father will be pleased.”

“Mr. Rashid, your father is dead.”

Rashid was stricken, aged visibly, took a step, stumbled, reached for a chair and grabbed hold of it to steady himself.

“I think you’d better sit down,” Dillon said.

Which Rashid did. “How did he die? Was it you?”

“No, I’d nothing to do with it. He was killed going out of the main gate of his villa with his chauffeur. Car bomb. The word is that it was a Sunni operation.”

“Were there any other casualties?”

“Yes, four men intent on killing us.”

He seemed to come alive again, not that it lasted. “Since they obviously didn’t succeed, I assume you managed to kill them.”

“That’s correct. Your wife has been informed…Major Novikova went to give her the sad news and bring her back here for a conference.”

“A conference?” He said it slowly, as if he was finding it difficult to speak at all or to understand. He plucked at words, reaching in a futile way and running his fingers through his hair. And then he took an enormous deep breath, took out a cigarette, lit it and inhaled deeply.

“That’s better, I think. Let’s get to it and see if there’s some way of sorting this out.”

THEY SAT IN the committee room, Ferguson at the head of the table, Rashid and Molly close together, holding hands. Greta was pouring coffee. Dillon and Billy stood together by the window, listening, and Roper, in his chair, was at the far end of the table.

“I’ll come directly to the point,” Ferguson said. “There was a bargain between you and my people.”

“Which was not fulfilled,” Rashid said. “I don’t see my daughter here.”

“That was due to circumstances,” Dillon said. “The body count makes that clear. The point now is what comes next.”

“Comes next?” Rashid asked.

“Of course,” Ferguson told him. “Nothing has changed fundamentally. You want your daughter back, and so do we. And we know her destination, Hazar. It’s a place we’ve all worked in before.”

“You were there yourself recently,” Dillon said. “What for?”

Rashid didn’t reply, his face showing great emotion. It was his wife who intervened.“For God’s sake, Caspar, talk to them. What happened wasn’t their fault. We’re not playing games here. People died. I want my daughter back, so tell them what they need to know to make that happen.”

Caspar sighed. “I was fooled into believing that my uncle Jemal in Hazar would act as a middleman between my father and me.”

“What made you think that?”

“Not what, but who. It was the Broker. He first spoke to me over a year ago when I was being pressured by Army of God fanatics to join their organization. A colleague at the university, Professor Dreq Khan, was the chief mover and shaker behind the Army of God, and at first they seemed harmless, just a charitable organization, but then, on my world travels, I started receiving approaches from a number of extreme groups. When I tried to withdraw from my involvement, Dreq Khan warned me that I would be considered a traitor, that I would be targeted by Muslim extremists. And then came my daughter’s abduction.

“The Broker told me that if I did what they told me, he would arrange for Jemal to act as a go-between with my father, so I felt I had no choice. I mainly acted as a bagman under orders, passing highly technical information on various matters to Khan, who obviously passed it on. Then the Broker told me I should come to Hazar, that they were ready to talk to me, but it was all a lie. They just wanted me to take a look at an old railway that al-Qaeda wanted to update. I was near to despair-and that’s when you found me.”

“So here we are,” Ferguson said.

“Here we are. And the Mideast wasn’t the only place they sent me. They sent me to Ireland, too. I’m a visiting professor at Trinity College, Dublin.”

“Good God,” Ferguson said. “Are you going to tell us that’s a center of Muslim radicalism?”

“Not at all, but in my bagman identity, I had to act as a go-between for certain organizations there.”

“Such as?” Ferguson asked.

“Outfits claiming to be security firms. It’s an open secret that with peace in Northern Ireland, many former members of the Provisional IRA have found themselves on the scrapheap and don’t much care for it. One way out for them is crime. I believe that in the last year there have been at least seventy shootings in the Dublin area that show evidence of having been committed by professionals.”

“So what?” Dillon said. “What do you expect after thirty-odd years of their own war?”

“I accept that, but what I’m talking about are firms claiming legitimacy in security affairs, but actually supplying what can only be described as mercenaries. People hired as instructors for terrorist training camps in North Africa, Algeria. One of them, for instance, is called Scamrock Security, run by a man named Michael Flynn.”

“And you have details of these camps?” Roper asked.

“Of some of them-yes. There are one or two in the Empty Quarter as well.”

There was a long silence while Ferguson drummed his fingers on the table. Finally, he said, “You’ve given us a lot to digest. While Roper’s working on this information, we have to consider our next step regarding your daughter, which would be to move the action to Hazar. Would you wish us to do that?”

It was Molly who answered instantly, “Oh, God, yes, I want my daughter more than anything. But can you do it?”

“As I said, we’ve operated in Hazar in the past. For the past three years my cousin, Professor Hal Stone of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, has been diving on an ancient Phoenician wreck on the edge of the harbor at Hazar. He works from an old dhow, using Arabs. It’s a shoestring operation, but I happen to know his diving season is soon to start. Dillon and Billy are expert divers themselves and he’d welcome us, I assure you. We’d pass as a perfectly acceptable group of mad English archaeologists. Would that be acceptable? You could come with us.”

“No, not that.” She shook her head. “I’m partway through some of the most important work of my life.” She turned to her husband. “Caspar?”

“Of course.” He nodded. “I must.”

“Isn’t there the chance you’ll be recognized?” Billy asked.

Caspar shook his head. “I’ll wear robes, a fold of cloth across my face, use the language. It will work.” Suddenly, he looked fierce, determined. “It must work.”

“Right,” Ferguson said. “Things to do. I must contact my cousin. You, Dr. Rashid, will oblige me by pouring your heart out to Roper. As for you,” he said to Dillon, “see to the plane.”

Molly Rashid stood up. “I’ll get back to the hospital.”

Ferguson put an arm around her shoulder. “Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll succeed, I promise you.”

Greta said, “I’ll take you back.”

They went out and Caspar waited until the door closed and said, “There is something else of great importance I must tell you.”

“And what would that be?” Ferguson asked.

“Sara’s cousin, the man who is to be her future husband when she is of age.”

“Hussein, isn’t it?” Roper said. “A medical student.”

“Does the Hammer of God mean anything to you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“When I last counted, his score was twenty-seven Allied soldiers and a handful of political assassinations in Europe.”

“Good God,” Ferguson said. “Tell us about him.”

Which Rashid did.

When he had finished, Dillon said trimly, “Well, at least we know.” He turned to Billy, “Let’s get moving.” As they left, he said to Roper, “Michael Flynn. Years ago he was IRA chief of staff till he ended up in the Maze Prison. Look him up.”

SITTING IN HIS SUITE in Paris, Volkov went over in his mind the last conversation he had had with Vladimir Putin. The elimination of Ferguson and company made sense. It had already started with the murder of Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein the year before.

Igor Levin was a more difficult case, however, because he had a few million sterling tucked away in London. He could not be bought. Chomsky, the sergeant who had gone to Dublin with him, was a clever one, but irritatingly seemed to feel some sort of loyalty to Levin. Popov was the weak link.

Volkov took out his address book, found Popov’s number in Dublin and phoned him. It was a mobile and found Popov strolling along Wellington Quay beside the River Liffey. It was raining and Popov was holding an umbrella over his head, a young woman named Mary O’Toole at his side.

“My dear Popov,” Volkov spoke in Russian, “Volkov speaking. How are you? It’s been some time.”

Popov was shocked and replied with difficulty, “General, I can’t believe it. It’s been so long.”

“Oh, I like to keep in touch,” Volkov said.

Popov and the girl were approaching a hotel he knew. He squeezed her waist. “Mary, my love, you go in and get us a table in the cocktail bar. This is important.”

So she went and he reverted to Russian. “General, I don’t know what to say.”

“Why, just that you’re happy to hear from me. How’s the job? Still at Scamrock Security? How is my old friend Mr. Flynn?”

Popov swallowed hard. “My God, I didn’t realize…”

“That I got you the job? Oh, yes, Flynn and I go way, way back, to the very early days of the Irish struggle. That he hasn’t mentioned this to you shows how much he is to be trusted. I presume you find that your experience in military intelligence is of value in your work.”

“Absolutely, General.”

“You’ve heard about Belov International? That Max Chekov is the new chief executive officer? Did you ever serve under him?”

“I never had that privilege.”

“You may have that pleasure to come. I trust that I can still rely on you?”

“Of course, General.”

“Excellent. How is Chomsky?”

“He breezed through his law exams and works for a city attorney as a legman.”

“And Levin?”

“Enjoys himself. He is, after all, rich.”

“As I’m well aware. So, nice to talk to you. I’ll be in touch. But, please: keep this conversation private.”

For some reason he couldn’t explain, Popov was thrilled. “Of course, General.”

The line went dead and he went up the steps to the hotel two at a time. The bar was half empty and Mary was seated in a booth by the window. She was a secretary at Scamrock Security, was used to hearing him speaking foreign languages, for he was proficient in German and French.

“Russian,” she said, “that’s a new one. You always surprise me.”

Popov had an English mother, and he’d been raised on the language as a child in Moscow. He was perfectly able to pass himself off as an Englishman, and did.

“Business,” he said. “You can never get away from it. Now what would you like to drink?”

CHOMSKY WAS A different proposition. He had a first-class academic brain and a firm belief in himself. He’d completed his law degree in just over a year at Trinity, a phenomenal achievement, and working as a legman for a top firm of attorneys suited him perfectly. He much preferred to be out of the office, for he could handle himself and had a medal for bravery in Chechnya to prove it.

He was walking through Temple Bar, one of his favorite places in the city, with its bars, restaurants, shops and galleries, and was making for Crown Alley with its cafés and brightly painted shops. His intention was to meet Levin, enjoy a drink, go to the cinema and eat afterward.

When his phone rang and he heard Volkov’s voice, it did not affect him the way it had Popov. He was used to handling people, especially under the stress of legal and illegal situations. Nothing in life surprised him anymore.

He dodged in a doorway to avoid the rain. “General, what a surprise.”

“I thought I’d catch up. My spies tell me you performed magnificently in your law exam.”

“True, though I say it myself.”

“And your work for the Riley partnership. More than interesting.”

Chomsky laughed. “Why, General, you’ve been checking up on me.”

“My dear boy, we do have an embassy in Dublin in which the GRU is well represented. Checking on your activities gives them something to do.”

“I can imagine.”

“And how is Levin?”

“Come now, General, I’m sure you are well aware how he is. He has a luxury apartment looking out over the Liffey, and more than one lady, and he enjoys his life completely.”

“But a bit boring for someone of his background, I should have thought.”

“On that, I can’t comment.”

“This firm Popov works for, Scamrock Security, my information is that it supplies contract mercenaries to the trade. Now that there is peace in Ireland, there must be many members of the Provisional IRA seeking gainful employment.”

“Now if it was the police saying that to me, General, I’d have to say I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But of course. Nice to talk to you. Good-bye for now.”

“And what was all that about?” Chomsky asked himself as he stepped out into the road.

VOLKOV CAUGHT LEVIN a few moments later, after he had stepped out of the rain into a quiet bar called Kelly’s. It was an old-fashioned sort of a place with comfortable booths giving privacy. He was greeted with familiarity by a barman named Mick, who brought him a large Bush-mills whiskey.

Chomsky entered the bar at that moment. “Same for me, Mick.” He took off his raincoat. “Guess who’s just been on the phone to me?”

“Shock me,” Levin said.

“Volkov.”

At the same moment, Levin’s mobile rang. He answered it and smiled and leaned close to Chomsky so that he could hear it was Volkov.

“General, what a pleasure,” Levin said amiably.

“Ah, Chomsky has joined you. You are still close?”

“Siamese twins.”

“This is good. How are you?”

“In excellent spirits. Rain in Dublin is curiously refreshing, and the girls are more than beautiful, they have Irish charm. Life couldn’t be better. Where are you, Moscow?”

“No, Paris. I’m with President Putin at the Brussels Conference. He was asking after you, Igor.”

“Really?” Levin said.

“Yes, Charles Ferguson was in Brussels, too, with the British Prime Minister. It jogged Putin’s memory. Ferguson ’s people have been an intolerable nuisance.”

“You could say that.”

“Plus Blake Johnson. My original order was to get rid of the lot of them, but we only succeeded with Superintendent Hannah Bernstein.”

The mention made Levin feel uncomfortable, always had in spite of the fact that all he had done there was chauffeur an IRA hit man to Heathrow Airport.

“What’s this all about?” he asked.

“Why, I miss your valuable services, you and the boys. The President wants you. I told him you’d decamped to Dublin and that it was difficult.”

“And what did he say?”

“To tell you that your President needs you and Russia needs you. Think about it. Good help is hard to find, and you’re the best. It’s amazing how frequently people let you down.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll give you an example. A few days ago, Blake Johnson was in London, available to all, walking down the street. Lhuzkov and Max Chekov arranged for a couple of would-be assassins to take care of him. Instead, Dillon and Salter took care of them. It was ludicrous. You would never have let that happen.”

“Like you said, good help is hard to find. Never mind, General, if at first you don’t succeed. You know the rest.”

“My poor Levin, you must find life infinitely boring not being in the game. Just think about what I’ve said. We’ll speak again.”

“The old bastard,” Chomsky said. “We’ll speak again.” He waved to the barman. “Same again, Mick.”

“Interesting, though,” Levin said. “A piece of crap like Max Chekov in charge of Belov International. I’ve been following that one closely.”

“Nothing changes, it would seem,” Chomsky said. “I wonder…do you think he’s called Popov?”

“A good point. Don’t tell Popov about our conversations with Volkov. Just see if he mentions his. In fact, why don’t you phone him now?”

Chomsky did, finding Popov still with Mary in the cocktail bar of the hotel.

“Hello. It’s me,” Chomsky said in English. “I’m just having a drink with Igor and then we’re going to a show. Do you want to join us?”

Popov didn’t even hesitate. “Not tonight, thanks. I’m about to have dinner with Mary.”

“That’s all right then. So, how are things with you? Anything new?”

“No, just the same old thing.”

“Okay, just thought I’d ask. Have a good time!”

He slipped his mobile into his pocket. “He’s having dinner again with the girl from the office.”

“He’s getting serious,” Levin said.

“No, I don’t think so. Not if the way he’s talked in the past is anything to go by.”

“But he didn’t mention Volkov, did he? It’s inconceivable that the General would have spoken to us and not to him.”

“Which shows he’s stupid, then. Surely he would know that we’d assume that he had.” Chomsky shrugged. “What does it prove?”

“That maybe-just maybe-friend Popov is in Volkov’s pocket, has been since we left London. I knew one of you was. I’m satisfied it isn’t you. Circumstances indicate otherwise.”

“Thanks very much. Is there any reason why it matters?”

“I think Volkov’s approach indicates that there could be. But enough.” Levin got up. “The delights of James Bond await. We’ll dine afterwards.”

MICHAEL FLYNN was in his early fifties, almost six feet tall, a powerful figure of a man in an excellent suit of Donegal tweed, his face strong and purposeful, the face of a man who didn’t waste time on anything. His office at Scamrock Security had paneled walls of oak, dark green velvet curtains at the windows, green velvet carpet, the desk and furniture speaking of a successful man who liked to be exact. In the great days of revolution, he had been, for a while, chief of staff in the Provisional IRA, although prison had followed that.

Those days were far behind him. Now he was a successful businessman, head of a company offering its expertise in the field of international security.

He looked out the window at the rain, but he was in a cheerful mood. Business was good, the death business-with all the wars and rumors of wars, it was the kind of world in which his business could only thrive. He returned to his desk, took the stopper out of a cut glass decanter and poured whiskey into a glass, and then his mobile sounded, the special one he kept only in his inside pocket.

“Yes,” he said.

“Mr. Flynn, this is Volkov.”

“Sweet Jesus.” Flynn swallowed the whiskey and poured another.“It’s been a while since I heard from you.” He sat on the edge of the desk. “So what can I do for you?”

“Oh, I just wanted to keep you informed. As you know, I have a direct pipeline to al-Qaeda.”

“The Broker, right?”

“Yes. He has informed me that an associate of mine, Abdul Rashid, was car-bombed in Baghdad. It was a Sunni operation.”

“So how does this touch me?”

“A man you supplied worked for him. His name was Terence O’Malley, a Provo.”

“The schoolmaster. A good man. Came from Bangor. What happened?”

“He was killed in a firefight with a man named Sean Dillon and a London gangster called Billy Salter. Have you heard of them?”

“You could say that. Dillon and I were comrades in the old days. Salter I know only by reputation. What was it about?”

“A personal matter. Old Rashid had kidnapped his granddaughter from England, a girl of thirteen. Apparently, Dillon and Salter were trying to get her back. A good deed in a naughty world.”

“That sounds like Sean Dillon. Mad as a hatter.”

“Anyway, I thought you should know.”

“I appreciate it. Listen,” Flynn said. “The new company, Belov International. Does it need security work?”

“As a matter of fact, it probably does, especially at the Irish end, Drumore Place. That’s a good idea, Flynn. We’ll speak about it later. Goodbye for now.”

Flynn sat there thinking about it. A pity about O’Malley. A good comrade and big for the Cause, but like so many, unable to handle a future without it.

He poured another whiskey and raised his glass. “Here’s to you, Terence, rest in peace.”

He emptied his glass, put on a trench coat and went out.