Rough Justice

by Higgins, Jack

  “Excellent.” Stagg was driving, and Hassan and Sharif in the rear looked frightened and bewildered. Miller got in.

  “Have no fear,” he said in Arabic, “I mean you no harm. I want to know about the Valentine, that’s all. Think about it.”

  The private security facility was heavily guarded by men in dark uniforms and had obviously been a hotel in earlier times. The guards, as it turned out, were all Lebanese Christians and the captain in charge had a French name, Duval. He had Considine taken away to a medical facility and showed Miller, Stagg, and Cohen, together with the two Arabs, into an interrogation room. It all turned out to be incredibly easy, mainly because Hassan and particularly old Sharif were genuinely frightened and eager to please.

  “You take over, Colonel,” Miller said to Cohen.

  Cohen spoke to them in Arabic. “The Valentine—why is there a problem with this ship? Everyone seeks it, and no one knows where it is.”

  “He knows,” Ali Hassan said eagerly, “he knows all about it.” Sharif nodded. “It’s not called the Valentine, not in reality, but the job is.”

  Miller suddenly saw it. “It’s a code, a name for the matter in hand, whatever the contraband is?”

  Hassan said, “This is true, and it’s a Valentine before the real ship is selected. In this case, the real ship is Circe, a freighter out of Tripoli, but chartered by North Korean agents. It carries plutonium among a general cargo of machinery. It left Tripoli last week and its destination is Latakia in Syria.”

  Miller said, “But how in the hell does Sharif know so much?”

  The old man plucked at Hassan’s arm and muttered to him. Hassan said, “His mind is weak, he is very old. Could he have a cigarette?”

  Cohen produced a pack, shook one out and proffered a light, and Sharif took the cigarette with shaking fingers. He sucked at it greedily. Hassan said, “His third wife’s brother-in-law has a nephew named Hamid who is a sailor but works only on special runs. Contraband, drugs, arms, that sort of thing. He likes the big money, which is why he took the offer as a crew member of Circe.”

  The old man plucked at his arm again, voice hoarse, and whispered. Hassan nodded. “He says all this is true because Circe is only forty miles offshore from Lebanon at the moment, and getting close to what’s known as the Careb Shoals.”

  “And how in the hell does he know that?” Stagg demanded.

  Hassan spread his hands. “This is true, gentlemen, you must believe me. Hamid calls Sharif’s house on his cell phone every couple of days. He spoke to him this morning.” The old man nodded, then took a cell phone from a pocket in his jacket.

  There was silence for a moment, then Miller said, “It’s so damn simple when you get down to it—the thing that’s revolutionized modern times more than anything else. You can ring up from anywhere. You better take his phone, Colonel, and Hassan’s, if he’s got one.” Which Hassan did.

  “What do we do now, sir?” Stagg asked.

  “That’s not a matter for us. I’d say it’s a matter for the Colonel.” He turned to Cohen. “Isn’t that so?”

  “I’ll contact my people at once. We have a satellite facility over Syria and Iran which can be diverted at short notice to identify such a target. That is all we need, together with the old man’s information. I’ll leave you now and get on with my job.”

  “We’ll see Hassan and Sharif are held here for a few days,” Stagg said, and they went out past a guard outside the door.

  “Good. A safe journey home, if I don’t see you again. It’s been interesting,” Cohen said.

  He went out, and they followed and asked Captain Duval about Considine. “He’s still out from the anesthetic. I’ll show you.” He led the way down the corridor to the small medical facility. Considine was sleeping, his right arm heavily bandaged. “It could have been worse, but it missed the bone and went straight through. Three or four days and he’ll be fine.”

  “You’ll see to him?” Miller said to Stagg as they went out.

  “Of course, sir, but what about his visa?”

  “No problem, I promise you. So what do we do with Hassan’s car, steal it?”

  Duval came up behind them. “We’ll see to it. I’ll have one of my men take you wherever you want to go.”

  As they got in the car provided, Stagg said, “When are you returning to London?”

  “I think I’ll leave in the morning, but let’s have a last drink together. Café Albert just after seven?”

  “You’re on.”

  AT HOLLAND PARK an hour later, Roper was in the computer room as usual, Dillon and Ferguson having coffee in the corner, when Miller came on. “It’s me,” he told Roper. “Is Ferguson there?”

  Roper immediately put him on speaker, and Ferguson called, “I’m here, Harry, what’s happening?”

  “It’s done,” Miller said. “It wasn’t a ship, it was a code name. The actual ship in question’s called Circe, and by now Colonel Gideon Cohen will have passed all the relevant information to Mossad.”

  Ferguson said, “Tell me.”

  Which Miller did, while Roper recorded it. At the end, Miller said, “I couldn’t see the point of killing Khan. I thought you’d prefer him in place. Squeezing the name of his Brotherhood crony was an extra.”

  “It certainly was. We won’t lift this Ali Hassim, of course, it’s enough to know who he is. It’s an amazing result, Harry. Dammit all, you only flew in this morning.”

  “Things just fell right,” Miller said. “Stagg’s a good man, and certainly worth more than military attaché in the mess Beirut has become.”

  “I’ll bear him in mind.”

  “And Henri Considine? He was the key to the whole thing.”

  “He’ll get his visa within days. I’ll put it forward under a Prime Minister’s Warrant.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I can do anything, Harry.”

  “So we leave it to the Israelis now?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Roper, speak to Lacey at the airport. Make it about a ten o’clock departure. I must go, I’m meeting Stagg for a drink.”

  Dillon cut in. “Good work, Harry, see you soon.”

  It was quiet for a moment, and then Ferguson said, “I’ll listen to it again later.”

  “As much as you like,” Roper said. “Interesting how shocked the Broker was to find Harry in Beirut.”

  “Well, the Code Three I authorized obviously had an effect. We know the Russians and others monitor flight details from there. I suppose that includes the Broker. After all, we do the same when we can.”

  “It’s all happened so quickly.” Dillon shook his head. “Hot stuff. Harry Miller, you’ve got to give him credit.”

  “Oh, I do,” Ferguson said. “Now all we have to do is await the final chapter.”

  STAGG AND MILLER sat at a table against a pillar in Café Albert. Alphonse approached, carrying an ice bucket in which was a bottle of champagne and two glasses, which he set out on the table. He got the bottle open and started to pour.

  “Bollinger, just as you asked for, gentlemen. Henri doesn’t appear to be coming in tonight. This is unusual.”

  “He’s busy elsewhere,” Stagg told him. “But he’s well, I assure you.”

  “I’m relieved to hear it. We live in troubled times in Beirut, only war and then rumors of war. Enjoy your champagne, gentlemen.”

  Miller raised his glass. “To a job well done. You were first class.”

  “That’s good of you to say so. You were a hard act to follow.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Miller said, “why aren’t you married? Yes, Roper looked you up on one of his computers.”

  Stagg’s face grew solemn. “I was almost. Engaged. Lovely girl, daughter of family friends, grew up in the same village.”

  Miller sensed it, that something had gone deeply wrong. “So what happened?”

  “Iraq happened. Like everybody else, she saw it all on television. Told me
she couldn’t marry someone who killed people for a living.”

  “Life’s a bitch sometimes, but if that’s how she feels . . .” Miller shrugged. “You know, I like this place. It’s straight out of Casablanca. Rick’s Café.”

  The trio began to play and the pianist started to sing in French, and Stagg said, “I agree, and there’s a taxi driver friend of yours coming in behind you that looks straight out of that movie’s cast.”

  Gideon Cohen, Walid Khasan to the hilt, took off his cap and bowed. “Your taxi, sir. I know I’m early, but I can wait.”

  “Fine, we’ll see you in a little while.”

  Cohen started to turn away, then smiled. “There’s a story going round the waterfront that some ship blew up forty miles out, close to the Careb Shoals.”

  He went out, and Miller reached for the champagne. “Well, there you are.” He emptied it into the two glasses. “What can I say? Those Syrians won’t be pleased, or the North Koreans.”

  “The person I’m sorry for,” Stagg said, “is poor old Sharif. He’s going to spend a long time waiting for that relative of his to come home.”

  Miller said, “Well, he shouldn’t have joined. Come on, you can drop me at the Al Bustan and I’ll say my good-byes to both of you.”

  AT HOLLAND PARK, Roper sat thinking, phoned Ferguson at Cavendish Place and found him still up, sitting beside the fire, having a whiskey before going to bed.

  “I’ve heard from General Cohen. Circe was located about an hour ago by an F-151 of the Israeli Air Force. Two minutes, and it sank like a stone.”

  “Excellent,” Ferguson said. “Volkov is not going to like that piece of news at all. Try and get some sleep, Major.”

  He cut off and Roper sat there, watching the world of cyberspace ceaselessly turning on his screens.

  “Sleep,” he murmured. “Who needs sleep?” He reached for the bottle and poured another whiskey.

  London

  8

  WHEN THE BAD NEWS REACHED VOLKOV, HE WAS ANGRIER THAN HE HAD been in years and contacted the Broker at once. “I presume you’ve heard about the culmination of this Valentine affair?”

  “I’m still trying to extract full details from Drecq Khan. I haven’t been able to contact him for several hours.”

  “Miller appears to have gone on the rampage in Beirut, abetted by Stagg, and in the process shooting the two GRU agents I had ordered to assist Khan. From what one of them reports from his hospital bed, it seems that Khan had a traitor in his camp, a man named Considine.”

  “I suspected such an individual existed, and suggested that Khan explore the possibility when we last spoke. Informants had told him of Miller’s arrival, but that meant nothing to him, and then he received word that Stagg had been making inquiries about the Valentine matter.”

  “Ferguson has been clever on this one, I can see that,” Volkov said. “He’s a devious bastard. When you’ve found Khan, call me back with his story.”

  Khan had made himself unavailable for one reason only. He was truly afraid of what the Broker’s reaction was going to be, this man who was Osama’s personal representative. But in the end, the Broker had to be faced, there was no getting away from it.

  When he finally made the connection, the Broker showed his anger. “Where have you been? Explain yourself!”

  “Miller was like a madman, and this Captain Stagg was no better. You were right, there was a traitor in my office itself, the accountant Considine. He made a run for it, Torin and Bikov chased him and managed to wound him, then Miller and Stagg shot both of them.”

  “I’m surprised Miller didn’t finish you off while he was at it.”

  “Only because he gave me a message. He said you failed in Washington with Kelly, whatever that means, and that you would fail with Valentine. He also said he intended to destroy you and General Volkov.”

  “Really? Was that all?”

  Khan lied, for it was impossible for him to admit selling out Ali Hassim in London. The consequences of such treachery in a matter affecting Al Qaeda would have been death.

  “Nothing—nothing more, I swear it. What should I do now?”

  “Put your house in order or take the consequences.”

  VOLKOV LISTENED as the Broker went through the whole thing again. “It’s not acceptable, any of it,” the Russian told him. “First, Quinn’s people in Washington disappearing, now this spectacular slap in the face in Beirut. It’s going to be very difficult to explain to the President.”

  “And we must not forget the Zorin affair.”

  “Don’t mention that damn Zorin business. I’ve had Sergei Zorin imploring my help because his sister, Olga, discovered the truth.”

  “How did she do that?” the Broker asked.

  “Apparently, she’s been having her driver take her to her son’s grave at Minsky Park every day. Then, a few days ago, her son’s sergeant from Kosovo turned up with flowers, spurred on by drunken sentimentality. The drink also made him tell her the truth about her son’s death. She immediately spoke to her brother, who saw the sergeant, Stransky, and got the whole story out of him.”

  “What have you done about this?” the Broker asked.

  “Had the sergeant sentenced to a penal battalion. He’s already on his way to Siberia.”

  “And Mrs. Zorin?”

  “Inconsolable. Demanding that her brother do something.”

  “And what does she mean by that?”

  “Well, in Moscow it would be quite simple and handled by some Mafia hit man.”

  “And London? If you really are targeting Miller . . .”

  “We haven’t been too successful with the London Mafia lately. Max Chekhov is still on sticks and lucky not to have lost a leg. Whatever I decide has to be something special. I want to think about it. I’ve warned Zorin off, by the way. I can bring the full wrath of the President down on his head if he doesn’t behave, in spite of his money. His sister will have to continue wailing, but not for long, as it happens. I understand her heart is a source for anxiety. It appears she’s only kept alive with the right pills.”

  Even the Broker felt a chill at Volkov’s words. “You are certain of it?”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve had words with her doctor.”

  It was enough, and the Broker hurriedly moved on. “I suppose Miller will be back in London around now?”

  “Yes, and Ferguson and those bastards who work with him will be over the moon, but not for long,” Volkov said. “I swear it.”

  AT HOLLAND PARK, Miller sat in the computer room with Roper and Dillon and went through everything again. He hadn’t seen the Prime Minister. Ferguson had, though, and there was a general feeling of a job well done.

  “Watch out, though,” Roper said. “Volkov has got to be furious.”

  “Kosovo, Washington, and now Beirut—that’s three times, Harry. That makes you an ace. He must be wondering how long this’ll go on,” Dillon said.

  Roper shook his head. “No, he isn’t. He’s saying what can I do to stop this guy. You’ve got to take care.”

  “It might be an idea to start carrying,” Dillon put in.

  “A Walther?” Miller laughed. “It’s just not possible. I’d never get through House of Commons security, never mind Downing Street. Anyway, nobody’s going to shoot me down just yet. Frankly, I feel great. I could even stand another showing of Noël Coward.”

  “Well, you can count me out,” Roper told him. “As Bionic Man, I need plenty of advance warning to prepare for that kind of adventure. Try Dillon—he’s an expert in the theater, as we all know.”

  “Would you join me, Sean?” Miller asked.

  “Why not?” Dillon said, and checked his watch. “If we go now, we’ll just about make it.”

  Miller said to Roper, “Curtain down at ten. Do me a favor. See if we can have a table for late supper at the Savoy. They might even have dancing.”

  “I’ll let you know,” Roper said, and they went out fast.

  AT THE GIELGUD, Miller was gree
ted by astonishment in his wife’s dressing room. He was alone, Dillon having suggested waiting in the bar. Miller had sorted out the extra seat with Marcus, and found Monica, as usual, watching Olivia prepare.

  “What on earth happened?” Monica asked. “I thought you were going to be gone for some days.”

  “So did I, but it was just one of those things. All the people I needed to see were immediately available, it’s a quiet time at the moment, very little disruption, but with the situation what it is, you never know—there was certainly no reason to stay. I thought you’d be back at Cambridge.”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m going up tomorrow,” Monica said.

  His Codex went and he answered it. “Smooth as silk at the Savoy. The moment I said the name, nothing was too good for you. The fame of the Prime Minister’s Rottweiler can achieve anything, it would appear. Enjoy.”

  “What was that?” Olivia inquired.

  “I’ve arranged supper at the Savoy. We’ll send you off in style, darling,” he told Monica.

  Olivia said, “Actually, Colin Carlton had asked us to dinner.”

  “Well, that’s all right,” Miller said. “Make a party of it. I’ve brought a friend along. He’s waiting in the bar.”

  “Who is it?” she asked with a slight frown. “An MP?”

  “Anything but. A chap I’ve had dealings with lately—Sean Dillon. You’ll like him.”

  She was obviously annoyed for some reason, her plans disrupted. Monica said hastily, “We’ll go and have a drink with him in the bar. We’ll see you after, Olivia.”

  They went out of the stage door and walked around to the front of the theater. “She’s not pleased,” Miller said.

  “She wasn’t expecting you, Harry. She’s got things organized, and then you come roaring back and expect . . .”

  Suddenly, she was flustered, and he said, “Expect what?”