Dark Justice

by Jack Higgins

  They reached the damaged end of the farmhouse. Half the roof was gone, what had been double barn doors missing. It was dark inside, but Dillon took a chance and flicked on a small flashlight, revealing some rusting farm machinery. He switched off. “Not much here.”

  There was a sudden rattling on the part of the roof left intact and rain fell in an absolute downpour. “Christ,” Billy said. “I thought this was Iraq.”

  “It rains in Iraq, Billy. Sometimes it rains like hell in Iraq.”

  He led the way along the front of the farmhouse and past the Land Rover. There were shutters at the windows, half closed, and Dillon peered in, Billy at his shoulder. They saw a living room with a large table, on which stood an oil lamp. There were chairs, a wooden sideboard, a fire of logs on a stone hearth. A radio was playing music softly, but there was no sign of anyone.

  “We’ll try the other barn,” Dillon whispered and moved on.

  There was a narrow window on each side of the barn door, and Dillon peered inside. “Well, there’s your man, Billy. Take a look.”

  Inside, there were stalls for animals, and a large loft with bales of hay and reeds. There was also Selim in a shirt and jeans clearing out a stall with a rake.

  Dillon said, “In we go.”

  He reached for the door handle and a donkey brayed at the back of the barn and several more answered, and that was strange, because at that time of night and in all that rain, why would they not be in the barn? But before he could react, the tailgate of the Land Rover swung open behind him and Sharif got out holding an AK-47. Two men in red-and-black-checked kaffiyehs over their faces got out behind him, also holding AKs. Dillon had started to turn, but the muzzle of Sharif’s gun touched his back.

  “I wouldn’t, I really wouldn’t. I have no desire to kill you, or you, Mr. Salter. Please pass the Uzi over.”

  “Fuck you,” Billy said, but did as he was told.

  “You should beware the Wrath of Allah, Mr. Salter.”

  “Jesus, you’re one of them,” Dillon said.

  Sharif was searching them, found the two Walthers and passed them to his friends. “Actually, I’m not. I don’t care about Al Qa’eda, or Wrath of Allah, or any of them. I’m not even a good Muslim. But I love my country. That’s what’s important to me, and I want you all to go away.”

  “Including the Russians.”

  “Especially the Russians. You think I want to see people like Belov getting their hands on our oil, running our country? I think not. Now, let’s go inside and wait for Major Novikova and her friends. It’ll be a nice surprise, I think.”

  He pulled open the door and Selim stopped raking and turned, startled and then relieved. “Major, you’ve got him.”

  “So it would seem, me ould son,” Dillon told him. “If you’re interested, Ashimov and Belov want you dead. I, on the other hand, can cut you a deal with Ferguson that could ensure your return to the delights of London.”

  They heard the sound of a car in the distance, and Sharif said, “Get ready to close the door a little.” Two more men stood up behind hay bales above in the loft.

  “On the other hand,” Dillon said to Selim as one of the men pulled on the door, “maybe you want to stay down on the farm?”

  All this had been seen by Parker through the night glasses as he stood by the station wagon. He reached for the Uzi and at the same moment heard the approach of the Cherokee and raised the night glasses again, tracking the Jeep as it descended from the main road to the farm. It slowed on the final run, and Makeev, clutching an AK, rolled out headfirst and darted through long grass to the rear of the barn. The Jeep came to a halt behind the Land Rover, Zorin and Greta Novikova got out, and at that moment, the door of the barn swung open and Sharif appeared with his friends. It was enough, and Parker started down the hill at a run.

  Greta Novikova said to Sharif, “So you’ve betrayed us?” “I’ve betrayed both sides. I’ve thought it over carefully and decided to become a patriot, which is what my four friends are. I spoke to them and they were happy to oblige.”

  “I think it would pay you to think again. Josef Belov has a long arm.”

  “Never mind that. What happened to Makeev?”

  And Dillon, speculating, stuck his oar in. “That would be me. The bastard was rude to the lady on the terrace of the hotel, and I broke his nose for him.” He smiled amiably. “Or something like that.”

  In fact, Makeev, at that moment, having gained access to the barn through a rear door, was mounting wooden steps to the entrance to the left, but his progress was awkward, the steps breaking away with some noise. One of the men in the loft appeared, cried out an alarm and fired, hitting Makeev in the chest, and Makeev shot him in return, then fell backward down the stairs.

  Down below, Dillon nodded to Billy and they both pulled the Colts from their ankle holsters and confronted Sharif and his men. Nobody fired. There was a kind of tableau, a frozen moment, the door swinging all the way back in the wind, rain driving in.

  Sharif raised his AK. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dillon,” and Parker appeared in the doorway and shot him twice.

  What happened then was very fast, very quick. Dillon swung, threw himself at Greta, flinging her out of the way. “Get in one of the stalls,” he cried, as bullets shredded the floor beside him from the loft. He turned, firing twice, and the man up there came down headfirst.

  Billy had dodged into the shelter of a stall and picked off one man carefully, a bullet to the head, and shot the other in the back as he turned to run away.

  There was silence, and then Parker walked in, soaked. “Jesus” was all he could say.

  Selim cowered on hands and knees in one of the stalls, and Zorin had produced a pistol. Greta moved out into the open. “For God’s sake, put it away. We’ve lost.”

  Sharif groaned and moved a little and Dillon dropped to one knee, not that there was much to be done. Sharif couldn’t even manage a smile.

  As Dillon stood up, Zorin moved in behind him and put his pistol to his back. “I’ve had enough for one night, so I’m leaving and taking this bastard with me.” He glanced at Greta. “You want to come, get over here.”

  “As you say.”

  “I like that. Maybe I could teach you how to do as you’re told.”

  She was very close to him. “But I always do.” She took out the Makarov, rammed it into his back and shot him twice. He went down like a stone.

  “Now what?” Billy asked Dillon.

  “Another bad night in Iraq, Billy. We get the hell out of here.” He nodded to Parker. “You did well.” He turned to Selim. “I could shoot you, but you’ll do better with Ferguson. Stay here and you’re a dead man one way or another when Ashimov hears you’re on the loose.” He turned to Greta. “Isn’t that so, Major?”

  “I’d have to agree.”

  “But you didn’t shoot me, you shot your own man,” Selim argued. “It makes no sense.”

  “Well, she’s a woman.” Dillon pushed him over to Parker. “Get him in the station wagon.”

  Parker took Selim away, a hand on his arm, and Dillon and Greta paused in the doorway, Billy watching, his Uzi back in his hands. Dillon gave her a cigarette, took one himself and lit them with his old Zippo.

  “Give you a lift, lady?”

  “I don’t think so. I’ll take the Cherokee, get back to the Al Bustan and pack. Next step for you is the airport, I imagine.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Does it really matter? Let’s say I liked you and I didn’t like them, and Sharif, as it happened, screwed things up big-time.”

  “Yeah, but where’s that leave you with Ashimov and Belov?” Billy demanded.

  “Oh, I’ll give a satisfactory version of events. I’m good at that, and there’s no one to contradict me.”

  Dillon opened the door of the Cherokee and said, “In you go, girl.” Which she did, and put down the window. He leaned in. “I owe you one. I owe you a life.”

  “That means a lot to an Arab, Dil
lon, but you’re Irish and a bastard. A charming one, but that’s what you are.”

  She switched on the engine. “Buy me a drink at the Dorchester sometime and we’ll call it quits.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  “One more thing.” She smiled out at him. “I’m still on the other side.”

  “I never doubted it.”

  She drove away, and Billy said, “That’s a hell of a woman.”

  “A one-off, Billy. Now let’s get moving.”

  They started up to the orange grove and he took out his Codex Four and called Lacey. “We’re on our way, plus the passenger I mentioned.”

  “No problem, Sean. I’ve spoken to Robson, so it was all in the security pipeline. I’ll confirm it now. We’ll be waiting. Was it rough?”

  “You wouldn’t want to know.”

  “That bad? Ah, well, see you soon.”

  Dillon took out his cigarettes and said to Selim, who sat between him and Billy, “Do you use these?”

  Selim was trembling a little. “Not for years.”

  “Then have one now. It’ll help settle your nerves. Stay here and Belov’s people will get you one way or another, but you’re too valuable to waste, which is why I’m taking you back to Ferguson. As I’ve told you, play ball and you’ll be fine.”

  “But my roots are here.”

  “Bollocks,” Billy said. “Look out there at the romance of Iraq. Bleeding peasants at this time of night in the pouring rain, leading donkeys for the morning market in Baghdad to make a few bob. It’s a shithole.”

  “And you’re British anyway,” Dillon said. “Born in London, went to St. Paul’s, Cambridge.”

  “You went to St. Paul’s?” Billy said. “I didn’t know that. I was there for two years. My uncle Harry wanted to make a gentleman of me.”

  Selim was interested in spite of himself. “What happened?”

  “They expelled me when I was sixteen for beating up two prefects. I’ve never told anyone that before, not even you, Dillon.”

  “Well, there you go.” Dillon smiled. “A great man once said England was a splendid, tolerant and noble country, and even though I’m Irish, I’d have to agree. Let’s put it this way. There are mosques all over London.”

  The first thing Greta did at the cottage when she got back was to call and arrange an early-morning departure for the Falcon. Then she phoned Ashimov, finding him in bed, because in London it was three in the morning. He was all attention, sat up and reached for a cigarette.

  “How’s it going?”

  “I’m on my way back, that’s how it’s going. Sharif sold us out.”

  “I’ll have his balls for that, I promise.”

  “No need. They ambushed us at Ramalla – Dillon, Slater and Sharif. There was a firefight. Zorin and Makeev were killed. I managed to shoot Sharif and got away in the darkness. I saw Dillon, Salter and some other men take Selim away to a station wagon. I was close enough to hear Dillon say something like ‘Let’s get out of here. Next stop the airport.’ I waited until they’d gone and came back to the house in the Jeep.”

  “It’s like a black comedy,” he said. “A total farce.”

  “I’m sure they’re going to squeeze Selim dry in some London safe house,” she said.

  “Yes, I’ll have to find out where that is. But at least you’re safe, my love. I’ll expect you tomorrow.”

  She put the phone down, quite pleased with herself, and went to bed.

  At Baghdad Airport, they gained access through a discreet security entrance, where Robson and Lacey waited in a Land Rover.

  “Follow us, Sergeant, straight to the plane,” Robson called.

  They did and found the Citation waiting, ready to go. The two vehicles stopped at the bottom of the steps and they all got out.

  Robson said, “Please board now, gentlemen. You’ve sort of never been here, if you follow me. Much better all round.”

  “You’ve got a good man here.” Dillon turned and shook hands with Parker. “We’ll do it again sometime.”

  “Once around the houses with you is enough for any man, but good luck.”

  Billy pushed Selim up the steps, Dillon followed and then Lacey, who closed the door. Selim sank into a seat. Lacey joined Parry in the cockpit.

  Dillon took out his Codex Four and called Ferguson, as Greta had done with Ashimov, finding him in bed.

  “Who in the hell is it at this time in the morning?”

  “Dillon. Just leaving Baghdad Airport.”

  “Have you got him?”

  “That we have.”

  “Was it bad?”

  “Oh, the usual. Billy did well. Two more notches.”

  “And Novikova?”

  “Still in one piece. Quite a girl, but I’ll tell you later.”

  “Good man, Sean, we’ll be waiting at Farley.”

  The Citation started along the runway, lifted and rose very quickly. Billy tilted his seat. “I’m for a nap,” he said and closed his eyes.

  Selim was shaking slightly, and Dillon opened one of the lockers, produced a blanket. “There you go, wrap yourself in that.”

  Selim said in a small voice, “Thank you, Mr. Dillon.”

  Dillon opened the bar box, found half a bottle of Bushmills whiskey and a glass, into which he poured a large one.

  “That ‘Committee for Racial Harmony’ you’ve been sitting on at the House of Commons, play your cards right and you could be back there before you know it, sitting on the Terrace by the Thames, with tea, cakes and cucumber sandwiches. Think about it.”

  He sat back and poured himself another whiskey.

  LONDON

  10

  The Citation landed at Farley Field at ten in the morning, under gray skies and heavy rain, remarkably like Iraq. Ferguson waited in the Daimler, Hannah Bernstein standing beside it in a raincoat, an umbrella over her head. Behind them was a Land Rover containing two men in civilian clothes. They were, in fact, staff sergeants in the Royal Military Police, named Miller and Dalton, and they worked for Ferguson at the Holland Park safe house. As the Citation rocked to a halt, they got out of the car.

  The door of the plane opened, the steps came down. Lacey came first, followed by Dillon, Selim behind him huddled in his blanket. Billy was next and then Parry. Ferguson went to greet them.

  He said formally, “You are Dr. Ali Selim?”

  “That’s right.” Selim seemed quite calm now.

  Ferguson turned and said to Hannah, “Superintendent?”

  There was a reluctance to her, but she said, “Under the Anti-Terrorism Act, you may be held indefinitely. Under the Official Secrets Act, you may not speak of it or why you are here.”

  “Am I not entitled to a lawyer?” Selim asked.

  “No.” Ferguson turned to the staff sergeants. “Deliver him to the safe house. Treat him well. Give him a change of clothes and whatever food he wants. Remember that he’s a Muslim.”

  Hannah said, “I’d like to go with him, sir.”

  The military police were putting Selim in the rear of the Land Rover, and Ferguson took Hannah to one side. “I know you don’t approve, my dear, but desperate situations require desperate remedies. However, we’re not the Gestapo. We won’t mistreat him. Now, off you go. I’ll see you later.”

  She turned to Dillon, obviously unhappy. “Good to see you back, Sean.”

  Dillon felt sorry for her, but it was Billy who said, “Don’t waste your sympathy, Superintendent. They’d have killed us, and they tried hard enough – even wanted to kill Selim. People like you, your conscience, your morality. Nothing’s ever enough, is it?”

  Dillon said, “Leave it, son,” and she turned and got in the Land Rover and was driven away.

  The rain suddenly increased. Billy said, “To hell with it. It’s me for the Dark Man and a full English breakfast.”

  “An excellent idea.” Ferguson turned to Lacey and Parry. “My thanks, gentlemen. We’ll be seeing each other soon, I’m sure.”

  He go
t in the Daimler with Dillon and Billy and was driven away.

  The Dark Man, like most London pubs these days, offered breakfast. Dora was on duty, greeted them with enthusiasm and vanished into the kitchen. The place was quiet, and they settled in a booth, and five minutes later, Harry burst in with Joe Baxter and Sam Hall. He embraced Billy in a bear hug.

  “Jesus, that was quick.”

  “The way it happened, Harry,” Dillon said.

  Salter turned to his nephew. “What was it like, Baghdad?”

  “Well, it wasn’t like a Sinbad movie. It was pissing with rain most of the time. To be honest, Harry, I feel sorry for them.”

  “So you got Selim?”

  Dillon glanced at Ferguson, who nodded. “You might as well tell him.”

  Which Dillon did, as Dora arrived with the breakfasts.

  Afterward, Harry put an arm around Billy. “You young bastard, you’ve done it again.”

  “We were lucky this time,” Billy told him. “Or at least Dillon was. If it hadn’t been for Novikova, he’d have been a dead man. That Makeev creep was a bad sod.”

  “So what happens now?” Harry demanded.

  “We’ll put Selim into a safe house,” Ferguson said. “We’ll see what he’s got to say.”

  “So you won’t be standing him up at the Old Bailey?” Harry said. “For conspiracy in Mrs. Morgan’s death?”

  “It’s pointless. We wouldn’t get anywhere. What’s far more important is information about what Selim’s been up to with the Wrath of Allah.”

  “And how are you going to get that? This isn’t the Algerian War and the French Foreign Legion. You’re not going to wire up his bits and pieces to a car battery.”

  “There are more subtle ways.”

  “The Superintendent wasn’t very happy,” Billy said. “With all that Anti-Terrorism Act stuff and the fact that he doesn’t get a lawyer.”

  “It can’t be helped. As I said earlier, we live in difficult times. It is war to the knife. Things have changed. Speaking of which – you know about the Omega Program, Dillon?”