The Killing Ground

LONDON
HAZAR
Chapter 6

AT HOLLAND PARK, THEY ALL MET FOR A FINAL BRIEFING: the Rashids, Harry and Billy Salter, Ferguson and Hal Stone, Dillon, Greta, Roper, Boyd and Henderson, Lacey and Parry.

“I’ll turn you over to Roper,” Ferguson said. “He’s worked everything out.” Roper swung round his wheelchair. “If this is going to work, the greatest thing in our favor is speed. You all know about what happened in Hazar, the narrow escape with the plane and so on. Computer records indicate that a Learjet for Rashid Shipping has been booked in exactly seven days. I think it’s a reasonable assumption it’s for Hussein Rashid.”

“How can you be sure? It could have something to do with Sara,” Molly said.

“Not likely, my dear,” Ferguson told her. “They’ve gone to such trouble to get her to a place of safety. Why would they disturb things now?”

“But such thinking works in our favor,” Roper said. “She’s only just got there. Who in their right mind would imagine her spirited away so soon?”

“So why are we wasting our time talking when we should be there?” Caspar Rashid demanded.

He was restless, sweating a little.

Roper said, “Our plane leaves at five in the morning. The flight takes ten hours.”

“And you would rather I didn’t come?”

Ferguson cut in. “On the contrary. Having the girl recognize her own father in the midst of the confusion when we snatch her back has considerable merit to it.”

“And your suggestion that you could wear robes, a fold of cloth across your face, to pass as a desert Bedouin speaks for itself,” Roper put in.

“Obviously, Professor Stone has to go. After all, it’s his gig. Billy and Dillon will pose as divers to explain their presence and give credibility to him. The two pilots will pretend to attend to maintenance on the aircraft.”

“What about me?” Greta asked.

“Continue to act as minder to Dr. Molly, if you would, Greta.”

“Fine.”

Ferguson said to Rashid, “Satisfied?”

Rashid, perhaps understandably, still appeared nervous.

Roper said, “Let’s examine the situation calmly. You aren’t going to get your daughter back by presenting yourself at your uncle’s house and asking for her. Frankly, getting our hands on her is likely to be completely opportunistic: walking in a garden, walking in the street, swimming off a beach. Who knows?”

“I suppose so,” Rashid said reluctantly.

“He’s right, darling,” Molly told him.

“All I can tell you is that when it does happen, it will have to be damn quick. That’s why we’ll have the pilots hanging round the plane for a quick departure.”

“That’s about it then,” Ferguson told them. “Now our new cook has promised an early dinner, so let’s get on with it.”

Roper said, “Just one thing. Something I want to show you.” They all turned. “I hope we’re successful-I hope like hell-but the one unproven quantity is the Hammer of God himself, Hussein Rashid. Here he is.”

On a screen appeared a photo of Hussein taken from the security camera at Kuwait Airport. In this one he’d taken off his black Ray-Ban sunglasses for a moment and his bearded face was on show. He had, in a strange way, the look of a young Che Guevara.

“What’s your point?” Ferguson said.

“It’s this. The moment the Gulfstream leaves the ground at Hazar, we release to the press this portrait of Hussein Rashid, Hammer of God, known associate of Osama bin Laden. Rumor has it he could be in Britain. It’ll make it very difficult for him to follow us.”

“My God, you wonderful bastard,” Ferguson said. “How in the hell could he cope with that?” He turned to Molly Rashid. “And they may just be the end of your problem.”

The dinner bell sounded and he offered her his arm. “Shall we go in?”

IN HAZAR the heat of the day was intense and Sara was not happy. If things had been difficult at her grandfather’s villa in Iraq, they were infinitely worse at the great house at Kafkar. To start with, her uncle had stipulated that not only Jasmine would have a bed in her room, but also two older family widows. Armed guards on the terraces made things no better.

“It’s intolerable,” she told Hussein. “I feel as if I’m being swallowed whole.”

“Let things settle down,” he urged her. “After everything that’s happened, he’s feeling a bit paranoid.”

“I’m not even allowed to eat with you. I’m consigned to the women, and most of them are old enough to be my grandmother. I can’t go for a swim in the pool unless I dress for it the way Muslim girls do. It’s like going swimming at Brighton in Edwardian times.”

“But you are a Muslim girl, and before you waste my time arguing the point, I will remind you that your uncle is very old-fashioned.”

“Tell me about it.” She was furious and gestured down to the private beach and the sea beyond. “It looks so normal down there. Tourists, water skiing, Jet Skis, speedboats, and up here it’s armed guards, a parallel world.”

“What nonsense.”

“Even you leave me for most of the time.”

“I have important matters to attend to.”

“I can imagine. Back to the war or something, everything a discussion. I’ve seen you, constantly on that satellite phone, arranging things with your friend the Broker.”

He was shocked. “What’s this?”

“The pool at Fuad. I heard him shouting at you on the phone when the static was bad.”

He shrugged. “He’s simply an investment counselor-a broker, just as I said.”

“Can I at least go shopping in the town or out in the bay in a motorboat?”

“We’ll see.” He stood up.

“Or go to town to visit the mosque. Even your uncle can’t say no to that.”

He smiled, aware of how much of a child she was when she chose, and was suddenly acutely aware of what he had promised her grandfather.

“It’s all for your own good. It really is. I’ll see what I can do.”

“And let Hassim and Hamid guard me. At least they’re friends, as is Khazid. They know what war’s about, not like the people here. Not like you.”

He was touched. She couldn’t have pleased him more, which was exactly why she’d said it.

“I’ll do what I can. Be a good girl.” And he left her to Jasmine and the other two women, who’d been seated some little distance away.

Sara moved to the balustrade at the edge of the terrace and looked down toward the harbor. There was a life down there, things were busy. The old dhow, the Sultan, was picturesque and fit the landscape. There was activity on deck; they were unloading a large rubber boat with what looked like gas cylinders. It was difficult to see at this distance. However, at that moment, Hamid appeared with Hassim. They both wore camouflage trousers, green T-shirts and sunglasses and carried AK rifles. There was no doubt they looked good and were much admired by the female staff.

Hamid said, “Hussein has sent us, little cousin. He says you are bored.”

He delivered this in English, for he was trying to improve it and she knew that. He had a pair of Zeiss glasses slung around his neck.

She said, “Excellent-you can start by letting me have your glasses.”

He handed them over. She raised them to her eyes, focusing on the dhow. There was an Arab on deck and another, a desert Bedouin, very dashing in black robes and black-and-white turban, a fold across his face leaving only the eyes uncovered.

Although she did not know it, her father was helping Selim, the caretaker of the Sultan, pull up air canisters as they were passed from the rubber boat by Dillon and Billy. At the same moment, Hal Stone emerged from the wheelhouse.

“What are you looking at?” Hamid asked.

“The big dhow. Hussein told me all about it. It’s used by a Cambridge University professor as a diving platform. There is a very ancient boat down there-Phoenician, I believe. You know about that?”

“Sure I do,” Hamid said, “I learned about the Phoenicians in school. Let’s look.” She gave him the glasses and he raised them. “Yes, that’s diving equipment they’re taking on board. It must be fun. I’d like to try.” He passed the glasses to Hassim.

“If we were allowed to go out in a boat, we could take a look,” she said.

“That would depend on your uncle.” He accepted a cigarette from Hamid and they sat on a bench and smoked.

THE GULFSTREAM HAD MANAGED an uneventful trip, with no need to refuel. They had discussed things over and over again. Caspar Rashid’s recent trip to Hazar had been his first since boyhood. His face was not a familiar one, certainly not to the caretaker of the Sultan.

Each of them had photos provided by Roper. First, one of Sara in her school uniform with her mother and father taken earlier that year, then group photos of Dillon, Billy and Hal Stone taken with Molly and Caspar. These were all obviously to establish credentials with Sara, though they provided no solution about how to make contact.

The first situation they encountered had to do with Selim. There had been a family death up country in the Empty Quarter. It required his presence and he needed five days for the trip. If anything, it made things easier, though, particularly regarding Caspar. Hal Stone provided Selim with his blessing and a hundred American dollars, checked that he’d stocked up on everything needed in the galley, and ran him across to the jetty in the early evening. While there, Dillon and Billy hired Jet Skis from a hire shop, plus a battered station wagon, and returned to the dhow, where they found Hal Stone and Caspar looking across to the Rashid house through glasses.

There was plenty of tourist traffic around and Hal said, “The Jet Skis made sense. There’s a lot of that kind of stuff over there. You can blend in.”

“That’s the idea,” Dillon said. “Get a diving suit on, Billy, and we’ll take a look. Hello.” He stiffened. “There are two guys walking along a terrace over there with slung rifles.” He paused. “Yes, two more and a third above.”

“Place is a fortress,” Billy said. “Come on, take a look.”

“Okay, and remember, we’re just tourists. Do what everybody else is doing and nothing more.”

AT THE AIRFIELD it was bakingly hot, but as a shabby, unshaven police lieutenant had told them, it wasn’t a busy time of year for them. The BA flight to London was their main connection to London and that was only three times a week. The rest of the traffic was made up of smaller aircraft, private jets owned by the rich or local firms. The lieutenant’s name was Said, and they gave him cigarettes and Lacey slipped him five hundred dollars, the direct result of such munificence being the empty hangar he had allocated them. It was a damned sight cooler than being outside and there were even crew quarters with four truckle beds, a shower room and a toilet. Everything was broken down and shabby, but as Lacey had said, with luck, it wouldn’t be for long.

The first task was to refuel, which they did, and then they returned the Gulfstream to the hangar and removed the port engine’s cowling. Said appeared and watched them for a couple of minutes.

“Are you sure you want to sleep here? I could send you to a good hotel. My cousin-”

Lacey cut him off. “This engine wasn’t its usual happy self, so we’re going to check it out.”

“Working for the United Nations is good,” Parry told him, “We not only get excellent wages, but very good expenses. We’ll spend it later in a better place, Dubai.”

“Or the South of France,” Lacey smiled. “You get a better class of girls there.”

“I see your point. I see from the files that you were here before.”

“A couple of years ago,” Lacey said calmly.

“The United Nations again?”

“Well, for Professor Stone, really,” Parry said. “The United Nations Ocean Survey funds him.”

“All for the sake of some old boat ninety feet down. In the old days, there were sponges down there. As a boy my father was one of those who dived to the boat. He and his friends jumped holding big rocks and the weight took them straight down.”

“Jesus,” Parry said, “hadn’t they heard of the bends?”

“They would snatch a sponge and go straight back to the surface. Such youths were much admired for their bravery.”

“Well, they would be,” Lacey said drily.

“The café in the terminal keeps going even when business isn’t good. Her cooking is to be recommended. She is a cousin of mine on my mother’s side.”

Lacey said, “I’ll see how the engine goes, but I’ll need to test-fly it. Will that be okay?”

“Of course. Whenever you want. You can see what it’s like here. Agraveyard.”

He turned and walked away. Lacey said, “I think you can say that’s sorted. I vote we check out the café.” Parry gazed out over the single runway, everything shimmering in the great heat, the mountains in the distance lining the Empty Quarter. “I know one thing,” he said as he joined Lacey. “This has to be the last place God made.”

“You can say that again.”

“I wonder how they’re doing on the Sultan.”

“I’ll call them later. Give them time to settle in.”

They entered the small terminal, where there were no passengers to be seen, just Arabs here and there who were obviously staff. The restaurant was open, and the smell was appetizing.

“My God, that does look good. Let’s give it a try.” And Lacey led the way.

THE WIND WAS BLOWING in from the land, warm and musky, with a certain amount of sand in it. Dillon and Billy sat amongst the diving equipment and got ready and Billy was so eager he was first. He was wearing a green diving suit and clamped a tank to his inflatable and an Orca computer to the line of his air pressure gauge. He spat in his mask and pulled it on, made an okay signal with a finger and thumb, and went over the rail backward.

Dillon went after him, the complete bliss of it enveloping him, the great blue vault of the sea, the myriad of fish. He checked the dive computer, which told him his depth, how long he’d been down, how long he could stay.

The old freighter was clear below at ninety feet, covered in barnacles and marine growth of all kinds, fish passing in and out of portholes. Billy ventured inside through the jagged hole the German torpedoes had left and Dillon followed. They played a kind of hide-and-seek in those dark, sunken passageways, emerging by the stern and hovering over a mixture of sand, sea grass and detritus that was what was left of the ancient Phoenician trading ship. Billy had found a figurine there once, a temple votive figure of a woman with a swollen belly and big eyes. In Hazar he’d come as close to death as a man could, but he’d made it through because in his pocket was Sam, the name he’d given the votive figure. She was his good luck piece and yet, when an old boy at the British Museum had gone potty over her, Billy had handed her over. Still, he knew the glass display case she lived in, could see her whenever he wanted.

He turned away and pointed, a gloved hand on a rail. Dillon beckoned to him and they started up toward the keel of the Sultan and the diving platform at the bottom of the boarding ladder. As they surfaced, a large rubber boat swept past. Hamid was at the tiller, Hassim in the bow, an AK across his knees. Sara was seated in the center beside Jasmine.

IT HAD NOT BEEN INTENDED, the excursion round the bay, but Hussein and old Jemal had been summoned to what was called the South Port along the coast from where the freight ships for the Indian trade operated, the terminus for the single-track steam railway and the oil pipeline. They were late for an appointment, and when Sara asked if they could cruise the harbor, the old man, half-deaf, was in a fuss and under pressure and relented, telling Hamid he had full responsibility and not to go far.

“On Wednesday morning, I’m taking you to the mosque to meet the Imam. Don’t forget. Study your Koran. I want him to be impressed with you,” he told Sara.

“Of course, Uncle.”

The truth was the business at South Port in which he and Hussein were mixed up was very delicate and involved arrangements for various illegal cargoes north to militia sources in Iraq. In any case, the young people set off in their boat, its powerful outboard motor pushing them very fast on a crisscrossing route in the harbor, and Sara became more demanding, urging them on. She’d observed the Sultan, the people on deck and those entering the water.

“They’re diving,” she said. “Circle around,” which Hamid did, and Hassim leaned over, cradling the AK, and peered down through the incredibly crystal clear water.

“You can see everything, Sara-the boat, the divers-look, little cousin.”

He had spoken in English and she replied in the same language. “Gosh, it’s absolutely marvelous.”

On deck, standing beside Hal Stone, Caspar Rashid heard her voice and moaned slightly and one foot moved forward, but, cloaked in his desert robes, the fold of his turban hiding half of his face, there was no way she could recognize him. Hal Stone squeezed hard on his arm, felt Caspar pause and then a sigh went out of him.

And now Sara said exactly the right thing. “I wonder if you’re Professor Hal Stone of Cambridge University?”

“Why, yes, I am, but how did you know that?”

“Oh, I’ve been told all about you and the old freighter down there on top of the Phoenician ship. I’m from the big house over there on the bluff. My name is Sara Rashid. It’s a pretty romantic story.” At that moment, Dillon emerged, followed by Billy, and they grabbed the edge of the diving platform.

Hal Stone, thinking very fast on his feet, took his hand out of the pocket of his bush jacket, palming two of the small photos provided by Roper.

“Fancy you knowing all that. Of course, it’s not quite true. I am a professor at Cambridge, but home is Fifteen Gulf Road in Hampstead. It’s awfully nice to meet you.” He leaned down, dropping to one knee, and pressed the palmed photos into her right hand as he shook it.

She frowned, and for a moment might have ruined everything, but it was only a small moment and Hal carried on. “We’ll be here for a while. Perhaps you could visit us properly. But what am I thinking of? I’ve offered you no hospitality. Caspar, ice water for our guests.”

And Caspar Rashid responded with a nod, turned as if to go and the strangest thing happened. Her face was wiped clean for the briefest of moments, and then she smiled and it was the most wonderful smile Hal Stone had seen in his life.

Hamid said, “Thank you for your offer of hospitality, but we must go now, Sara.”

“I hope to see you again, Professor. Are you diving again tomorrow? I can’t come on Wednesday, I’m visiting the Imam at the mosque.”

“Oh, yes, tomorrow you can see the divers at work. The water is so clear and we always hope to find something special.”

Caspar said, “I think we already have.”

The boat turned away, Sara slipping her hand into her pocket. Her heart was beating furiously, she had to swallow hard. She said to Hamid, “The Arab, who was he?”

“A Bedouin by his robes. Obviously the boat’s caretaker. A real country boy from the look of him, from the Empty Quarter. Are you okay?”

“Fine, just fine, but I’m tired and I’ve had enough. Take me back.”

They did and repaired to her suite, where she took refuge from her women in the sanctuary of the bathroom. There she examined the photos. The first was the one of her in school uniform taken earlier in the year with her mother and father. The second showed Hal Stone, Dillon and Billy and her father in Bedouin robes, only in this one, his face was not concealed by the flap of his turban.

Hot tears sprang to her eyes, her hands shook a little. The photo of Stone and company she examined again and again, taking so long that Jasmine knocked on the bathroom door and called to ask if she was unwell. She had never felt better, suddenly full of energy, the life force flooding through her. Very carefully she cut the photos into pieces with little nail scissors, put them down the toilet and flushed them away.

The women were waiting. “Are my uncle and Hussein back yet?”

“No, Sara,” Jasmine said, “but supper is ready.”

“Then so am I.” Sara smiled. “Let’s go down to the terrace and enjoy ourselves.”

They did, and the servants lit the flares and candles and set the floor cushions and piled food high on the side tables, and two musicians sat cross-legged and plucked the strings of their instruments, the music plaintive on the evening air, and she moved over to the balustrade and looked out across the harbor to the Sultan. Its deck lights were on and she had never been so excited in her life.

IN THE SULTAN, seated in canvas chairs at a table in the stern, they discussed the situation. “I must say it was a hell of a thing to do,” Caspar Rashid said. “For a while there, I didn’t know whether I was coming or going.”

Hal Stone said, “Remember what Roper said about the whole thing being opportunistic? Well, what happened earlier was a perfect example. Everything just fell into place. It occurred to me that those two Arab boys couldn’t have the slightest idea where she lived in London.”

“Good point,” Billy said.

“She’s a remarkable young woman,” Dillon said. “To field that ball and the mention of her father’s name took some doing.”

“But slipping in her visit to the mosque on Wednesday was a nice one,” Hal Stone said.

“Yes, but we can’t go in as a team,” Billy pointed out.

“I can go, see what the situation is in the mosque itself.” Caspar produced a pack of cigarettes and lit one. “There’s no need to worry about me anymore, gentlemen. All my doubts are absolved, all passion spent. It’s going to work, I know that now. The only thing is how.”

“I know one thing,” Hal Stone said. “Her visit to the mosque will do us no good. A family affair. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m afraid so. It’s a kind of state visit to the Imam, and my uncle and Hussein are bound to go.”

Dillon said, “Roper was right. It all comes down to recognizing the opportunity and taking it.”

“What do you mean?” Hal Stone said.

“Billy and I weren’t available, but you two were. All you had to do was shoot the two boys. Billy?”

Billy poured Dillon a Bushmills and handed it to him. “I’m afraid he’s right, gents.” He turned to Caspar.“It’s why we’re along, to be worse than the bad guys. Don’t kid yourself about those two nice boys with their Kalashnikovs. They’ve accompanied her from Baghdad. They’ve done their share of killing.”

Caspar took a deep breath. “How would it be done?”

“We keep a lookout and hope for an approach. Billy and I can be in the water, just in diving jackets. Silenced Walthers are just as good in water.”

“And the woman with Sara?”

“Straight down the companionway and lock her in a cabin,” He looked across to the jetty. “Turn up the speed, and we’re there in fifteen minutes. Warn Lacey we’re on our way, pile into the station wagon and it’s the airport next stop. If by some odd chance Hussein turns up, we’ll kill him, too.”

“I’m going to the stateroom to call Lacey and Parry and bring them up to date. Then Ferguson. Then bed. See you all in the morning.”

FERGUSON WAS HIMSELF IN BED reading defense papers and having a brandy nightcap. Dillon brought him up to snuff.

“You really think you can pull it off?” Ferguson asked.

“If they visit us again like they did today, yes. I’ll tell you one thing-Sara Rashid is no ordinary thirteen-year-old.”

“My dear Dillon, go to Shakespeare. Juliet was thirteen.”

“Jesus, General, that’s all right then, we’re home and dry. Good night to you, as they say in Belfast!”

THE BROKER, in a sense, was going to war. Ferguson would fall to Hussein Rashid. Now it was time to settle scores elsewhere: the Salters, both Harry and Billy. He knew all about the events involving George Moon and Big Harold, so he also knew Ruby Moon now ruled the bar at the Dark Man.

He brooded for a while. Besides the Dark Man, Salter had opened a highly successful high-end restaurant, he recalled, the kind of place that attracted only the best people. Trouble there would hit Salter hard.

He looked in his book and found Chekov’s number.

“Who is it? I’m in bed and not alone. It’s too damned late.”

“The Broker.”

Chekov was suddenly all attention. The Broker heard him say, “Get some clothes on and get the hell out of here or I’ll give you a slapping.”

He was back to the phone in a minute. “What can I do for you?”

“You know Harry Salter and his nephew Billy?”

“Who doesn’t? He’s a hard old bastard, that one. Why, what do you want?”

“I want them permanently removed. He and his people have caused serious distress to General Volkov and the President.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

“No. I think this is work for Stransky-Big Ivan. You know that fancy restaurant of Salter’s?”

“I’ve been there. Harry’s Place.”

“Destroy it. You know what to do.”

“And?”

“Salter started life as a river rat. Let him end there. Put him in the Thames along with his nephew and his hard men.”

“What about Dillon?”

“What about him?”

“He and the Salters are like brothers.”

“Then let them die like brothers.”

CHEKOV TOOK A TAXI to the Dorchester Hotel, where he knew he would find many members of the Russian community. Many of them were millionaires, and some billionaires, and they were a hard-drinking lot. When they wanted to avoid trouble of the violent or disruptive sort, they brought in Ivan Stransky.

He was six-foot-four, built like a brick wall, his hair cropped and half of his left ear missing, left in Chechnya where he’d served in a Guards regiment. He was standing at the end of the bar, a black leather coat straining at his shoulders, a cigarette between his fingers, and saw Chekov at once.

A waitress was passing and Chekov said, “Scotch whiskey, my lovely, two large ones and make it the cheap stuff.”

He took a seat in the corner and Stransky sat beside him. “What can I do for you?” said the big man.

“What do you know about Harry Salter?”

Stransky smiled without humor. “A major gangster who’s gone legit, they say-warehouse developments, casinos, apartment blocks. They say he’s worth four or five hundred million.”

“But I bet he hasn’t entirely given up his old ways, has he?”

“Of course not. Action is the juice of life to a man like him. It’s the game that appeals. He’s not rubbish, he’s got balls and brains and in his time, he’s killed. He’s got a nephew, Billy, who’s a younger version. So, what about him?”

“I want you to start giving Salter a bad time, as a favor to a broker friend of mine. Eventually, we’re going to eliminate him, but we’re going to work up to it, let him think about it a bit. We’ll start with that fancy restaurant of his, Harry’s Place. A lot of rich people go there-they wouldn’t like it if their cars got messed up; it would be very bad for business, you know what I mean?”

“When do you want this?”

“Right now. Sudden blitz, so that he knows whoever did it means it. A hunting party will do. Five or six top men.”

“My pleasure.”

Chekov finished his whiskey. “Have another.”

“No. I’d rather get moving. There are people I’ll need to talk to.”

“Good.”

They hadn’t mentioned money. It was not necessary. Stransky went out and Chekov called the waitress over. “Large whiskey, my love. I’ll have the expensive stuff this time, the Highland Special that’s eight hundred pounds a shot.”

Outside the hotel on the left-hand side were private limousines waiting, their chauffeurs chatting beside them, and Stransky’s own Mer-cedes was there, his driver, a hard-looking young man called Bikov, standing by it smoking a cigarette. “Get in.” Stransky opened the rear door.

“What’s up, boss?” Bikov demanded.

“Café Rosa, quickly. Will Makeev and the boys still be there?”

“Sure. They’re having a card school tonight.”

“I need five, maybe six of them.”

“Trouble?”

“No, to make trouble. You know Harry Salter?”

“Of course I do.”

“That restaurant of his, Harry’s Place-Chekov wants it messed up good. Let’s see if Makeev and his boys are interested.”

“For Chekov? You won’t have to ask twice.”

BEHIND THE BAR at the Dark Man, Ruby called to Harry, who was sitting in a booth. Joe Baxter and Sam Hall were propping up the bar behind him.

“It’s thinning out a bit, Harry. We can go if you like. Rita can close up.”

She came round the bar in a demure white blouse and a black velvet skirt and shoes to die for.

“Bleeding marvelous,” Harry said and turned to his minders. “Isn’t she?”

“Absolutely, Harry,” they chorused.

“Right, let’s check how things are going at Harry’s Place. Leave the Aston, we’ll go in the Shogun.” He handed Ruby in and followed her.

“I’m really looking forward to this,” Ruby said. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to take me there.”

“Don’t be silly, girl, we just haven’t had the opportunity. Anyway, you look like a princess. Doesn’t she look like a princess, boys?”

“A queen, Harry,” Baxter said.

“Get stuffed,” Ruby told him and leaned back. “I wonder how it’s going in Hazar?”

“We’ll know soon enough, girl, but one thing’s for sure, if anybody can handle it, Dillon and Billy can.” He leaned forward and said to Baxter, “Are we tooled up?”

Baxter dropped a hidden flap. “The Colt twenty-fives, just like you said, boss, two of them.”

“Guns, Harry?” Ruby was shocked. “Is that necessary?”

“There are funny people around these days, love. Russian Mafia, Albanians, fourteen-year-olds in knife gangs who’ll stick a shiv in you as soon as look at you. I’ve got mates who are Italian Mafia and they’re the good guys now.”

Sam Hall pulled in outside the warehouse Salter had transformed into Harry’s Place, a red neon sign above the door and a queue outside. Two young black men in dinner suits had the door.

“The Harker twins,” Harry told Ruby.

Baxter and Hall took the Shogun to the car park, and Harry and Ruby walked along the side of the queue. They found five youths in black leather pushing and shoving, alarming people ahead of them.

Ruby said, “They’re Russians, Harry. I used to serve a lot like that at the old pub.”

They were, in fact, Makeev and four of his friends, who’d been hired by Stransky as ordered.

“Here, you bleeding well cut it out,” Harry told them.

They jeered in good Cockney English, “Who the hell are you, her father?”

He handed Ruby up the steps, where one of the Harker twins apologized profusely. “Sorry, boss, real sorry and more bad news. Big Ivan Stransky and another guy came in just before these guys turned up.”

Baxter and Hall arrived on the run and ranged themselves beside the Harkers, making a formidable barrier. Harry said, “Don’t let them in. We’ll see what Stransky wants.”

He held out his hand, Baxter slipped a Colt.25 into it and Harry took Ruby’s arm as Fernando, the headwaiter, appeared, full of apologies.

“Not needed,” Harry said. “This is Mrs. Moon. Take us to my table.” He added to Baxter and Hall, “You come with us.”

The place was rather pretty, in an Art Deco style, with a cocktail bar, small, intimate tables, a dance floor, a trio playing music of the Cole Porter variety. Harry’s table was in a booth with mirrors behind it and Baxter and Hall stood one on each side.

A waiter in a white waistcoat with brass buttons who had responded to Harry’s nod brought a large brandy and ginger ale for him and a champagne cocktail for Ruby.

“I thought you should have a champagne cocktail on your first visit.”

“It’s lovely,” she said. “What’s that?”

“Brandy and ginger ale. They call it a Horse’s Neck.”

“I wonder why?”

“Doesn’t really matter, Ruby-it’s a British thing. We’re funny that way. Here’s to you. You look lovely.”

He took his drink straight down and nodded to the waiter, then folded his arms as Stransky, Bikov behind him, came down the steps from the bar and crossed the dance floor toward them.

“Nice little place you’ve got, Harry,” Stransky said.

“Mr. Salter to you. Now what can I do for you and the fairy prince here?”

Bikov’s hand went in his pocket, his face tightened, but Sam Hall stepped close and slipped his hand in the same pocket. “Gawd bless me, but someone’s got a big one.” He produced a Smith amp; Wesson Bankers Special and put it on the table in front of Harry.

“A little old-fashioned,” Harry said. “Bloody rude bringing it in at all, ladies present and so on.”

Stransky looked around. “Ladies? I don’t see any ladies.” He smiled at Ruby. “Of course, I don’t count the whore here.”

“She’s got more class than you any day, you fat pig.”

Stransky stopped smiling. “You’ll be sorry you said that, Salter, and when you’re gone”-he laughed out loud, reached over and patted Ruby’s face-“we’ll see.”

“Outside,” Harry told him.

“What an excellent idea. Come on, Bikov,” and they went.

“What do you think, boss?” Baxter said.

“They’ll be up to no good outside with that bunch he brought along.” He sighed. “I’m really getting too old for this. Let’s go out and see what they’re up to. You stay, Ruby love.”

“Not bloody likely.”

“All right, then stay by the door. Just be a good girl. I told Billy I’d look after you.”

“What a liar you are, Harry Salter.” She took his arm and the whole group left. “There was a story about you going the rounds year before last when the Franconi twins were running wild over half of London. The word was they got an IRA expert to put a bomb in your Jaguar.”

“God was on my side,” he told her cheerfully. “The guy got the timer wrong and it blew up before Billy and I got there.”

“And is it true the Franconis are in cement on the North Circular Road?”

“Ruby, love, do I look like I’d do a thing like that?”

Outside, the queue had gone and it was quiet, only the sound of the trio playing “Night and Day” drifting out. “What’s happening?” Harry asked the Harkers.

“The Russian punks cleared off, as far as I know, and Stransky and his driver went off to get his car.”

But Harry didn’t believe it, and with Hall and Baxter walked to the car park. Suddenly, the Russians appeared, three of them with baseball bats swinging sideways into the cars, smashing windows, denting fenders.

Harry didn’t hesitate, took the Colt from his pocket and ducked under Makeev’s flailing baseball bat, stuck the weapon against the Russian’s right kneecap and pulled the trigger. The others, shocked, wavered and Baxter picked up the baseball bat Makeev had dropped. He swung it sideways, fracturing the side of a man’s face, and then the other way, fracturing an arm.

The Harker twins arrived on the run, Ruby behind them, and Harry fired in the air.

The Russians froze. Makeev was writhing on the ground, moaning terribly. Harry reached out and pulled the nearest Russian over. “You came in a car-which is it?” The man pointed to a white van. “Get him in it, in fact all of you get in it and deliver him to Saint Mary’s. Of course, you’ll stay shtum because I wasn’t here, was I? I was elsewhere. Lots of people saw me. Who was the contract for?” he inquired of the driver. “Better tell me, sunshine, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Stransky said it was for Max Chekov.”

“Really?” Harry said. “The oligarch? Interesting. Thanks very much.”

The van drove away, and Stransky, sitting in his car nearby, whispered to Bikov, “We better go.”

“I’ll have to switch on the engine,” Bikov said.

Harry’s boys moved in their direction instantly and Harry himself tapped on the window on the passenger’s side. “Get the door open unless you want broken glass all over you.”

Stransky complied. “Now look, Harry.”

“I thought you knew only my friends call me Harry. What have I done to Chekov to make him annoyed?”

“He was doing a favor for a friend, that’s all I know, some broker guy told me to mess you up.” He didn’t bother telling Harry that wasn’t all Chekov intended to do.

“Bizarre,” Harry said. “But I like it. London ’s everybody’s favorite destination these days, capital of the world, even for the gangsters. I feel it might be necessary for me to keep up the reputation of the British gangster.”

He reached inside the car, prodded Stransky’s left kneecap and pulled the trigger. He couldn’t tell what Stransky said because it was in Russian, but the man howled like a werewolf.

“Go on, get out of here,” Harry said, and Bikov put his foot down and drove away.

Baxter and Hall applauded as he offered his arm to Ruby. “God, you’re a hard man,” Ruby said. “I never realized.”

“Well, let’s go back inside. Champagne for everyone!”

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as Chekov was getting out of the shower in his sumptuous apartment off Park Lane, the front doorbell sounded. Chekov cursed, because the maid didn’t come in until nine o’clock. He went to the window, toweling himself. The flat was a duplex, and when he looked out a motorcycle was parked at the curb and a man stood on the step wearing black leather and helmet and a yellow waistcoat with Express Delivery emblazoned on it. He held a cardboard box and waited. Chekov pulled on a robe, went downstairs and opened the door.

The face was anonymous behind the black plastic. “Mr. Max Chekov?”

“That’s me. What have we got here?” He took the box in both hands.

“Flowers,” the man said. “Lilies.” He pulled at the end of the box, produced a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun, rammed it against Chekov’s left knee and pulled the trigger.

Chekov was hurled backward. The man said, “Have a nice day,” went down the steps to the motorcycle and drove away.