“Just remember Drecq Khan is a slippery toad,” Dillon said. “Be careful.” He watched Miller walk to the Gulfstream and board, then turned and went to his car.
WHEN THEY LANDED at Beirut International Airport late in the day, there was no fuss, for Stagg had arranged it that way. The presence of United Nations troops in the country made a difference from the old days and the facilities for UN traffic were impeccable.
Stagg was waiting when the Gulfstream rolled to a halt, and Miller took to him straightaway as they shook hands. “Good to meet you, Major.”
“My pleasure,” Miller told him.
Lacey and Parry came down the steps. “The UN provides crew quarters here at the airport for people like you. They consider it desirable. It’s a rough old town out there.”
“Oh, we’ll get by.” Lacey turned to Miller. “Take care—we’d hate to lose you.”
“I will,” Miller said, and followed Stagg to a waiting taxi, which looked a little the worse for wear.
“Sorry about this,” Stagg said as they got in. “A lot of things look a bit rough, but there’ve been a few wars here.”
“I was here for a few days after the recent ones on the Prime Minister’s behalf.”
“I didn’t know that. You’re staying at the Al Bustan, which, unlike a lot of other places, has survived. You’ll find it thoroughly civilized.”
“Excellent.” Miller continued in Russian, “How reliable is this driver?”
Stagg replied in the same language. “A Christian Phalangist. What we call a safe driver. How did you know I spoke Russian?”
“Major Roper is rather thorough.”
“I spoke to him last night. We’re two hours ahead of London here and I had a spot of bother.”
“Boris Bikov and Ivan Torin, pride of the GRU? He told me.”
“Very bad guys, and capable of quite a lot. The mystery was this taxi driver.”
“I don’t think so. We have a link with General Arnold Cohen of Mossad, and he said he had a man on the ground.”
“And you think that’s who it was?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. His English was good, but his accent very heavy. I couldn’t work out what his background was. You think he’ll be in touch?”
“I’m certain of it, but enough for now. I need to settle in and shower, and a late lunch would be nice.”
STAGG HAD BEEN RIGHT, the Al Bustan was still everything that could be desired in a good hotel. Stagg sat on the balcony and read that day’s copy of the Times, which Miller had brought from the plane. Inside in the suite, Miller showered, changed into a khaki bush shirt and jeans, and pulled on ankle boots. Stagg came through and found him fitting the holster to his right ankle.
“Are you carrying?” Miller asked.
“You bet, just like you, and with hollow-points, the Colt is as good as it gets. It’s needed in this town, believe me. There are people here who’d kill you for your boots.”
“Well, we can’t have that.” Miller pulled on a linen jacket and reached for his Ray Bans. “Let’s go downstairs.”
There was a pleasant bar, French windows to the terrace outside and a fine view of the city, although the bombings hadn’t helped. The Mediterranean was still there, the harbor crowded with shipping, and far out to sea, ships on the horizon plowed on to other destinations than Beirut. Calls to prayer echoed over the rooftops.
A waiter approached, and Stagg said, “Is lemonade all right, Major? You can’t get alcohol until after seven.”
Miller laughed. “It’s good for us, I suppose.” Stagg gave the order. Miller carried on, “Now tell me more about Drecq Khan.”
Which Stagg did, at least as much as he was able.
“So, what do you suggest?” said Miller when he was finished.
“We could have a look round the usual haunts, sir. I’ll show you the hiring hall, the waterfront. If Khan is away from the villa this afternoon, I could ask Considine to meet us, but I stress it should be brief.”
“Have you done this?”
“Once, but frankly, I prefer my mobile phone link with him. One only needs the wrong person to see him and we could be in real trouble.”
“Well, let’s leave that option for the moment. You call him and find out the latest, while I sample the lemonade.”
He sat there, staring out to the harbor, and called Roper on his Codex Four. Roper, as usual seated in front of his screens, greeted him warmly. “How is it?”
“Unusual,” Miller said. “It’s the sunshine that made it a millionaires’ paradise all those years ago. Stagg’s first class, by the way. I don’t know why I’ve called. Sitting here looking out to sea, I find myself wondering what it’s all about. Do you ever feel like that?”
“Only seven days a week. Stay well, Harry, and watch those bad guys. Sorry I’ve not managed to come up with the Valentine yet.”
Stagg returned. “Khan has had many calls to various Muslim sources regarding the Valentine. He seems to be using the muscle of the Army of God to impress the importance of his search.”
“And the Broker?”
“Not a word. Khan is at the hiring hall now.”
“So let’s go and see the sights. Is your safe taxi on hand, or do you have to get another one?”
“He waits.”
They went down to the rank and found the driver beside the taxi, checking the wheels. “I can’t understand it. Two flat tires, sir. I’ll have to get the garage.”
There was the sound of an engine starting up and the battered Renault from the previous night drove up. “Taxi, gentlemen?” The driver was smiling. “You said you’d see me again,” he said to Stagg.
“Yes, I did, didn’t I? I suppose you can guess who this is, sir?”
“I’m sure I can,” Miller said. “Let’s get in.”
They drove away, and the driver said, “Where now? The hiring hall?”
“Who are you?” Miller asked.
“Well, I certainly know who you are.” Stagg was astonished. The accent of the night before had been replaced by a perfect English one. “We have something in common, gentlemen.”
“And what would that be?” Miller asked.
“We all went to Sandhurst. And, by the way, I outrank you. Lieutenant Colonel Gideon Cohen.” He laughed, and his voice changed to the one Stagg had heard the previous night. “Or Walid Khasan, if you like.”
“My God, you’ve got guts,” Miller told him. “If they knew you were a Jew, they’d hang you in the street.”
“Yes, well, I’m lucky I do a good Muslim.” He turned down the hill through a maze of streets, making for the waterfront. “Do either of you speak Arabic?”
“I do,” Miller said. “Enough to get by.”
“It gave me something to do when I was in therapy,” Stagg said.
“Six months in hospital with that wound of yours.”
“Why do you ask?” Miller said.
“It helps deal with these people, the fact that you do, because most of the time, they don’t expect it. I’ll park by the seawall. Have a walk round, get the feel. I’ve got things to do. Order a whiskey, have a coffee at the Green Parrot by the hiring hall, I’ll find you.”
They got out and watched where he parked, then moved into the crowd. People milled in and out of the hiring hall. Miller and Stagg, in the press by the door, looked in and saw Drecq Khan on the platform at his desk. Miller recognized him instantly from the material he’d been shown in the Holland Park files.
“That’s Khan,” Miller said. “Let’s get that coffee.”
They sat for a while at a table on the railed area in front of the Green Parrot, sampling the thick syrupy coffee, when Torin and Bikov appeared, pushing through the crowd. “Here come the GRU,” Stagg said. They exchanged words and came over.
“Why, it’s you, Stagg,” Torin said. “You just can’t stay away from us. Who’s your friend?”
Miller stood up and stamped hard on his foot. Torin half fell across the table. “So sorry,” Miller
said. “Clumsy of me.”
He pushed away through the crowd, Stagg following to where Cohen had left the taxi. As they reached it, he approached. “In you get, let’s move it.”
He threaded his way through the crowd, brushing the Russians aside. “Bad news. Word of your arrival has leaked, Major—the staff at the Al Bustan have a way of doing that.”
He turned into one narrow street and then another. Suddenly, Stagg’s mobile rang. He answered at once as Cohen pulled over. He listened intently, a hand raised to still the others. “Yes, of course, you must do that to cover yourself. I’ll call you back.”
“What?” Miller asked.
“Considine. Khan had left his answering machine on. There were two messages. One, an informant leaving word about you, the other from someone called Ali Hassan, who says he has an old man, a sailor named Sharif, who knows something about the Valentine. He said he didn’t want to bring him to the hiring hall because he’s very old and gets confused. He said he’d bring him to the villa by car in an hour and wait for Khan there.”
“This could be it,” Cohen exclaimed.
“What have you told Considine?”
“We have to consider his safety. Khan frequently calls in to retrieve his calls. Considine can say he was out for his lunch break when the calls were received, but he’s bound to tell Khan, if only to cover his back. I’ve told him to go ahead.”
“I agree with you. So what do you suggest now?”
“Just up the hill from the villa is a suburban area pretty well destroyed in the bombing during the war. There’s what’s left of an old church, St. Mary’s Chapel. That’s where I met Considine face-to-face. I suggest we take up stations there and await events.”
“While Considine sweats it out in the office?”
“We’d better check.”
Stagg called back, and Considine said, “I can’t stay on. I told Khan, and he’s coming straight back.”
Stagg quickly briefed him on the plan. “There are three of us up here in the Chapel. We’ll be monitoring you all the time. Good luck.”
“Maybe I’ll need it,” Considine said, and switched off.
FROM THE RAVAGED CEMETERY of St. Mary’s Chapel, Cohen looked down to the villa with a pair of Zeiss glasses. An old Peugeot estate car arrived, and Torin and Bikov got out, followed by Khan and Abdul, the hiring hall foreman.
Cohen passed the glasses to Miller, who just managed to catch the men as they walked through the ruined arches at the rear of the villa and went inside.
“The game’s afoot,” Miller said. “We can only pray.”
“Especially for Considine,” Cohen said.
KHAN SAT AT HIS desk listening to the answering machine, obviously feeling rather pleased with himself, but there was also considerable relief at the prospect of solving the riddle of the Valentine. As he had learned to his cost over the years, where the Broker was concerned, failure was not an option. His telephone rang and he flicked on the speakerphone.
“Khan here,” he said in Arabic.
The Broker replied in English. “It’s me. What’s been happening? I’m disappointed not to have heard from you.”
At his desk next door, Considine heard every word and, taking advantage of the fact that the Russians were downstairs in the kitchen, moved closer to the door to listen.
“What’s happening?” the Broker asked.
“As regards Beirut itself, there’s a man named Miller just flown in. It seems he’s a member of a UN committee on Lebanon.”
The Broker was stunned. “Have you any idea what he’s really doing there?”
“He’s being looked after by the military attaché at the British Embassy, a man named Stagg. Word has come to me that Stagg has also been trying to discover the whereabouts of the Valentine. Anyway, none of this matters. I’ve had word from a reliable informant who is bringing someone here within the hour who knows all about the Valentine.”
The Broker said, “This man Miller represents the British Prime Minister and is usually up to no good. His visit must involve the Valentine in some way. The fact that Stagg has been asking around speaks for itself. How tight is your security? Is everyone close to you totally reliable?”
Khan was alarmed. “I’m sure they are.”
“They’d better be. Contact me when you have real news—and check your people.”
He cut off, leaving Khan trembling with fear. Considine was already down the stairs, and he passed the open kitchen door where Torin and Bikov were enjoying coffee. They glanced at him as he went outside and started through the orchard.
Khan called for Considine and, not getting a reply, looked for him in the next room. Finding him gone, he suddenly realized what his absence might imply.
He descended the stairs, shouting, “Considine, where are you?”
Torin stepped out of the kitchen. “He went out a couple of minutes ago.”
“Get him,” Khan cried. “He’s a bloody traitor. I think he’s sold me out to Stagg,” Which was enough to send Torin out on the run, Bikov at his heels.
Considine got through the orchard and reached the road as Torin fired his first shot. On the hill, it brought the three men to their feet, and Miller glanced through the glasses. “He’s in trouble.” He turned to Cohen. “You go down in your taxi and block the road. We’ll take them on.”
He pulled the Colt out of his ankle holster and started down, and Stagg did the same and followed. “We’ll need to get close, sir.”
“Then we get close.”
As they went through the cemetery, both the Russians fired at Considine, who dodged through the gravestones, keeping his head down. Suddenly, he jerked, clutching at his right arm. Torin walked close, taking deliberate aim, and Miller, close now and running fast, shot him in the left shoulder. Torin dropped his weapon, spun around, then fell to the ground. Miller, still on the run, stumbled and Bikov took deliberate aim, his weapon held in both hands. Stagg, running slower than Miller because of his hip, took a snap shot that caught Bikov in the right knee, the hollow-point cartridge doing real damage.
He picked up Bikov’s weapon and tossed it away. “I’d say you need a good surgeon. Better phone your embassy and tell them to come running.”
“Fuck you,” Torin said.
“Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”
Bikov sat leaning against a gravestone, clutching his shoulder, blood oozing between his fingers. Stagg picked up the gun, a Stechkin. “How is he?” he asked Miller, who was helping Considine stand.
“It could be worse. Arm shot, it’s gone straight through.” Miller took a handkerchief and bound it as tightly as possible. He looked down, saw Cohen arrive in his taxi and brake, and Khan and Abdul hurriedly went inside the villa. “What happened?” he asked Considine.
“The Broker came on, and when Khan told him of your arrival, he was very angry. He said you represented the British Prime Minister, that you were always up to no good. He said the fact that Captain Stagg had been seeking news of the Valentine must mean the story had been leaked by somebody close to Khan and told him to check. That’s when I ran for it.”
“And the Valentine story?”
“He knows an informant exists, but he was more interested in you.”
“And I suspect that’s our informant arriving right now,” Stagg said. An old station wagon was approaching and slowed down, then halted at the sight of Cohen’s taxi blocking the road, and he went forward to speak to the two men inside. After a while, he produced a pistol and fired a shot in the air.
“Here we go.” Miller gave Considine his arm and they went down through the cemetery.
Stagg rummaged in Torin’s pocket, found his mobile, and tapped in a number. He handed it to him. “There you go, Russian Embassy.” He went after the others.
Cohen said, “This is Ali Hassan and Sharif, who knows all about the Valentine, don’t you? I was just demonstrating that I meant business.” He’d put the older man in the back and the younger, the driver
, with him. “You two go with them, I’ll follow with Considine—that’s if you’ve got somewhere to go.”
“Yes, I’ll call them, a private security facility I have access to,” Stagg said.
“Well, while you’re arranging that, I’m going inside to speak to Khan,” Miller said. “Give me that Stechkin.” Stagg handed him Bikov’s weapon. “What are you going to do?”
“Have a word with Khan. I won’t be long.”
He went down through the orchard and entered the rear door. The four domestic servants Khan employed had all cleared off. Miller went straight up the stairs, the Stechkin hanging in his right hand, and kicked open the door of what proved to be Considine’s office. Abdul scrambled from behind the door to grab at him, Miller hit him across the face with the Stechkin, and he fell down.
Drecq Khan was gibbering behind the desk, terrified. “You know who I am, you miserable bastard,” Miller said.
“Please don’t kill me.”
“I would, but then you wouldn’t be able to tell the Broker I’m going to make it my personal business to destroy him and Volkov. They failed in Washington with Kelly and his chum, and they’re going to fail with operation Valentine. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve read your file. When the Salters chased you out of London, you left the Brotherhood still intact. You must have left someone in charge. Who is it?”
Khan said desperately, “Please believe me . . .”
Miller fired the Stechkin into the wall, narrowly missing his skull. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll put the next bullet between your eyes.”
And Khan totally believed him. “Ali Hassim—he has a corner shop in Delamere Road in West Hampstead.”
“I’d take a shower if I were you. You’re beginning to smell bad.” Miller walked out.
When he found the others, Cohen said, “You didn’t kill him?”
“Of course not. I was squeezing some juice out of him,” and he told Cohen what it was.
“Thanks very much. Mossad will be grateful for that knowledge, even if it is in London. Now let’s get going. The boy wonder here has organized entry for us to that private security place he mentioned.”
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