Dark Justice

by Jack Higgins

  Harry said, “And what would that be?”

  “It’s an implant containing a computer chip that tracks a person’s whereabouts. The Prime Minister and cabinet ministers each have one. He insisted I had it done last year. At the time, he didn’t want it spread any further, but he’s changed his mind since the attempt on Cazalet. He wants us to use every tool at our disposal, and he’s authorized me to include anyone I think appropriate. So I’m insisting that you, Dillon and the Superintendent get it also. Major Roper’s already got one.” He gave Dillon a card. “Professor Henry Merriman, Harley Street. Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Christ,” Billy said. “Bionic man.”

  Harry burst into laughter. Ferguson said, “Not so fast, Billy. You’ve gotten yourself up to your neck in my affairs for some time now, and this particular situation is bad and getting worse. So under the circumstances, I think you’d better have one implanted, too.”

  It was Dillon’s turn to laugh. “There goes your love life, Billy.”

  Billy did not look amused.

  Ashimov was still at Drumore Place and arranged for a company car to pick Novikova up at Belfast Airport. Then he phoned Belov in Moscow and broke the bad news. Belov took it badly.

  “Here I am up to my neck in difficult negotiations, and this kind of thing happens. It won’t do, Yuri. I put you in charge, gave you unlimited discretion, total resources, unlimited money…”

  “I’m sorry, Josef. Makeev and Zorin came highly recommended, they did good work in the past.”

  “And now they’re dead, along with this Sharif and his four friends. The only one who comes out of it with any credit is Novikova. Dillon and this Salter boy are serious business.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then deal with them seriously. Enough messing about. You tell me Kelly and Murphy knew him in the IRA? Fine. That means they’ll know how he works. Tell them to get a crew together and to sort Ferguson’s people out once and for all. Just get it done. I’m coming to Belfast myself. I had planned to return to London, but under the circumstances I think it’s best I stay away, let them do their work. Don’t fail me, Yuri.”

  Greta arrived soon afterward, and Yuri greeted her warmly. “Did you manage to get any sleep?”

  “I had a couple of vodkas and crashed out for most of the trip.”

  “Good. We’re driving down to the Royal George for lunch. I want you to meet Dermot Kelly and Tod Murphy.”

  They went out to the car. “What about Belov?”

  “I’ve spoken to him.”

  “And?”

  “He wants us to go to war. I’ll explain as we go.”

  At the Royal George, they sat in a corner booth with Kelly and Murphy, enjoyed a shepherd’s pie with Guinness and Greta gave her version of the events at Ramalla.

  They found the whole thing very amusing, and it occurred to her, and not for the first time, that the Irish were not like other people. They never seemed to take anything seriously. It made her think of Dillon, and in a way that didn’t sit comfortably with her.

  “Jesus, but Sean’s the one,” Kelly said. “You’ve got to give it to the bastard.”

  “Mind you, this Billy Salter’s close behind him,” Tod Murphy said. “Maybe his mother was a Cork woman.”

  “No, that was Ferguson,” Kelly said. “She was a Cork woman. It’s a known fact.”

  It was Greta, exasperated, who said, “Well, if you’ve finished exploring the niceties of Irish family relationships, could we decide exactly what you intend to do?”

  “Oh, Tod’s the planning genius when you can get his nose out of a book,” Kelly told her.

  “We’ll get together some of the old outfit,” Tod said. “Me and Dermot and two others. That will be enough.”

  “For Dillon and Salter? I wonder.”

  “How will you travel?” Ashimov asked.

  “There’s a fella I know called Smith who runs air taxis, not far from here. He’s been doing illegal flights for years. Goes in under six hundred feet, so he’s not on the radar. Has a Navajo twin-engine job that’ll do six. There are still old World War Two airstrips here and there, where the local farmer looks the other way if there’s enough money in the envelope. Saves going through security, and we can take the right hardware.”

  “And where will you stay, in Kilburn?” Ashimov asked, naming the most Irish borough in London, virtually a ghetto.

  “If there’s ever a hint of IRA trouble, Scotland Yard makes straight for Kilburn,” Kelly said. “We’ve got contacts that could help, but it’s best to keep out of there. In fact, we’ll try Indian territory.” He glanced at Murphy. “China Wharf?”

  “Perfect.”

  “That’s in Wapping,” Kelly said. “It’s an old tea warehouse owned by Tod’s aunt Molly. She married an Englishman named Harris. Special Branch never knew about her. She turned it into a lodging house years ago. We used to use it as a bolt-hole in London.”

  “She’s a widow lady of eighty-three,” Tod said. “Can’t be bothered anymore, so she lives on the ground floor and leaves the other rooms empty.”

  “Sounds good to me.” Ashimov got up. “You sort it all out. Move when you want to. Meanwhile, Greta will research where Ferguson keeps his safe houses.”

  “Fine by us,” Kelly said.

  “Good.”

  Afterward, Yuri and Greta walked down toward the pier. “It’s beautiful,” she said, as they looked over the tiny harbor.

  “There’s not much going on these days. Only half a dozen fishing boats, and they’re out at the moment. The boat at the end of the pier is Dermot’s, the Kathleen. He’s had her for years. She’s his pride and joy.”

  It was a thirty-foot cabin cruiser, shabby, with paint peeling, and Greta said, “It doesn’t look like much.”

  “It sn’t meant to, but it’s got twin screws, radar, automatic steering and a depth sounder. Everything you need for an illegal passage by night, plus thirty knots.”

  He lit a cigarette. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the estate and then it’s back to London.”

  Jake Cazalet was sitting at his desk in the Oval Office signing papers when Blake Johnson came in.

  “I’ve just had Charles Ferguson on the line, Mr. President. Dillon seems to have come through big-time.”

  “Tell me.”

  Blake did, and afterward, the President said, “The man never ceases to amaze me. So what happens now?”

  “Ferguson will squeeze Selim dry if he can. Any leads they can prise out of him could prove invaluable.”

  “You don’t need to tell me.”

  “Naturally, they’ll pass all the relevant information on to us.”

  “I’d expect them to. In this, Blake, we must rely on Ferguson. Selim is a British citizen.” He sighed and shook his head. “My God, the times we live in.” He smiled suddenly. “I shouldn’t think Josef Belov’s too happy about all this.”

  “I shouldn’t imagine he is, sir,” and Blake went out.

  On a quiet side road in Holland Park stood an Edwardian town house in the middle of about an acre of gardens surrounded by high walls. A sign at the electronic gate said PINE GROVES NURSING HOME. It was, in fact, Ferguson’s safe house.

  Hannah, Miller and Dillon delivered Selim there, and were admitted by military police wearing a kind of uniform of navy blue blazers and flannel slacks.

  Selim said, “Nursing home?”

  “We have medical facilities,” said Dillon. “So it’s not a total lie. Don’t be deceived by appearances. Security is everything here. The police may not be in army uniform, but they’re all armed. There are no bars, but the windows are electrically wired. This is a fortress, Doctor Selim. Resign yourself to that. Now Sergeant Dalton will show you to your room. We’ll talk later.”

  Selim was amazed at his treatment. The room was decent, with a window overlooking the garden. A selection of clothes was available in the drawers and a closet. He showered and changed, then Miller took him down to a si
tting room of sorts with a table, chairs, a gas fire and a mirror.

  Dalton said, “We’re aware of your food requirements, so the chef has prepared a special meal.” The door opened and Miller came in with a tray, which he placed on the table. “If there’s anything unsatisfactory, please say so, sir.”

  “No, this is fine.” Selim sat down and started to eat. “I would appreciate some tea.”

  Which was provided and he continued to eat, and on the other side of the mirror, Ferguson, Dillon, Hannah and Roper watched, waiting until he had finished. Miller reappeared and took away the tray. Dalton waited, watchful.

  Selim raised his voice. “If you are there behind the mirror, General Ferguson, do come in now. Whatever else I may be, I’m not a fool.”

  Dillon grinned at the General.

  “Right, in we go, people,” Ferguson said, and led the way.

  Ferguson nodded to Dalton. “If you’d go into the other room and observe, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Roper maneuvered his wheelchair, as Hannah and Ferguson sat down. Dillon sat on the windowsill, smoking a cigarette.

  “To clarify things,” Ferguson said, “I’m responsible for the Prime Minister’s personal security system. I have no connection with the other security services. I have carte blanche on behalf of the Prime Minister to operate as I see fit. Detective Superintendent Bernstein is my assistant, on loan from Special Branch at Scotland Yard.”

  “And Mr. Dillon? I know what Mr. Dillon does. He kills people.”

  “And Wrath of Allah doesn’t?” Dillon asked.

  “Superintendent, I appeal to you. Why am I denied a lawyer? Is this just?”

  Hannah had trouble with that and it showed. She turned to Ferguson. “Sir, perhaps…”

  “Perhaps nothing. Major Roper, why don’t you begin?”

  Roper said, “I’ve prepared a report, Dr. Selim. It details your relationship to Henry Morgan, and, of course, his intention to assassinate the President of the United States. It outlines the suspicious death of his mother. It makes clear the basic links between these two and the Queen Street Mosque, as well as your relationship with Yuri Ashimov and, through him, Josef Belov.”

  “None of this can be proven,” Selim said, but his voice was subdued.

  “There’s little doubt that there has been a trade in young British Muslims, recruited for terrorist camps originally in Iraq, now in various Muslim countries. I have in my possession considerable confidential information regarding the traffic between the Belov organization and you, acting as a front man for a number of so-called charities.”

  “All of it perfectly legitimate,” Selim said weakly. “Anything else is a lie.”

  “Many donations to the Children’s Trust in Beirut.”

  “All for charitable works, education.”

  “Charitable? The Children’s Trust is a front of Hizbollah. That’s well known. Both the Marxist League and Free the People have links with Al Qa’eda. The Children’s Trust in Iraq is simply another way of saying Party of God, one of the most militant terror groups.”

  “None of this can be proved.” Selim was desperate now. “All the trusts, the educational groups, any payments by me on the Belov company’s behalf were made in good faith. You can’t say otherwise. Mr. Belov paid for our building work at Queen Street, even the new school.”

  “I have a list of organizations you’ve passed money to,” Roper said. “It’s a fact.”

  “I’m running out of patience,” Ferguson told him. “I’m the first to agree that we stand very little chance of bringing Belov to a courtroom. He’s too rich, too powerful, and he’s covered his back too well. What I want from you are details of the camps, the lists of organizations, names and addresses. Do that properly and you’ll be let off the hook. Slate clean.”

  “I can’t,” Selim said weakly.

  “All right. If that’s the way it is, then I’ll have you flown back to Iraq, or Saudi Arabia, if you like. We’ll dump you, then spread the word that you talked. If you’re lucky, Belov’s people will get to you first. A bullet would be preferable to being skinned alive by your own people, don’t you think?”

  Selim jumped up. “No, I beg you.”

  “Think about it, Selim. Think hard. I’ll give you a little time. Come along, people,” and he led the way out.

  In the other room, Ferguson said to Dalton, “Keep a close eye on him, Sergeant. Anything comes up, phone me. Otherwise we’ll speak tomorrow.”

  “Fine, sir.” Dalton went out.

  Ferguson said to the others, “Any questions?”

  Roper said, “I’ll get back to my computers, sir. Miller can take me in the van.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Dillon said. “You can drop me off.”

  Hannah said, “I have to confess I still don’t find this easy, sir, his lack of legal representation.”

  “You think we’re infringing on his human rights, Superintendent?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Well, in the circumstances in which we find ourselves, I’m not very interested in such a viewpoint. Does this mean that you would prefer to return to your normal duties at Scotland Yard?”

  She hesitated. “You make it hard for me, sir.”

  “I have to. But I’ll give you an option. Tomorrow morning, when you go to Harley Street to see Merriman to have the Omega implant, I suggest you visit the Reverend Susan Haden-Taylor at St. Paul’s Church. You may recall I put Dillon in touch with her last year when I wanted his head cleared after the Rashid affair.”

  “And you think she could help?”

  “She’s a priest of the Church of England, as well as a top psychiatrist,” Dillon said. “But most important, she’s a truly good human being and she certainly helped me.”

  Hannah took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll do that,” and she went out.

  Dillon walked behind Roper’s chair with Ferguson. “You can be a hard ould bastard, Charles.”

  “It’s a hard ould world, Sean, and getting harder.”

  They stood and watched Roper wheel up the ramp into the back of the van. Miller raised the ramp and closed the door and Dillon called, “Wait for me.” He turned to Ferguson. “Are we winning, Charles?”

  “God knows, but as I’ve said before, we won’t if we just play patty-cake,” and Ferguson got in the Daimler and was driven away.

  Dillon got in the rear of the van beside Roper’s chair. “Well?” he demanded. “What do you think?”

  Roper’s eyes were dark in the ravaged, burned face. “Don’t ask me, Sean. I’m what’s left over after a car bomb.”

  About ten miles from Drumore Place, Tod Murphy turned the Land Rover into a narrow lane and came to a couple of hangars, a decaying control tower and a crumbling tarmac runway. If ever a place looked rundown, it was this, but then World War Two and the days when it had been used to patrol the Irish borders had been over for a long time. A single-engine Archer stood outside one of the hangars; the doors of the other stood open, revealing a twin-engine Navajo. The door of the Nissen hut opened and a man in old black flying overalls appeared: Ted Smith, around fifty, balding slightly and, like many pilots, rather small.

  “Is it yourself, Tod?”

  “Who else would it be, you daft bugger? Is the Navajo up and running?”

  “First class. You fancy a day out?”

  “You could say that. Four of us. Me, Dermot and two of the boys, Fahy and Regan.”

  “What for? A day’s fishing over the border?”

  “Farther than that. That place we used to go in the old days before the bloody Peace Process. Dunkley. The one that was a Lancaster bomber station in the war.”

  Smith’s face dropped. “Jesus, Tod, not that again. I thought those days were behind us.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told and you’ll be well taken care of. But if you say no, Dermot is likely to take care of you permanently. You follow?” He laughed and slapped Smith on the shoulder. “Don’t lo
ok so worried. A quick one, Ted, just like the old days. In and out. You’ll be away before you know it.”

  “Jesus, Tod, I don’t know. I’m getting old for that sort of jig.”

  Tod took an envelope from his inside pocket and offered it to him. “Two thousand quid to seal the bargain, just to be going on with. We’ll leave early in the morning. When we want to come back, I’ll phone you. There’ll be a big, big payday at the end of it, and just for dropping us onto a very old airfield in Kent, miles from anywhere.”

  As usual, greed won the day, and Smith took the envelope. “All right, I’ll do it, Tod. Seven-thirty in the morning.”

  “Good man, yourself. I’ll see you then,” and Tod got back into the Land Rover.

  Damn the IRA, but what could he do? Smith turned and went back into the Nissen hut.

  And at half past seven the following morning, the Navajo, fully loaded, took off in spite of Smith’s reluctance.

  “There’s a lot of bad weather out there, a front moving in over the Irish Sea.”

  “Then we’ll rely on the ham sandwiches and good Irish whiskey to keep our spirits up,” Dermot told him. “Jesus, Tod, we’ve done this run at night in the old days and black as the hob of hell, so let’s get on with it.”

  Which they did, and the whiskey flowed as the Navajo was pushed by a fierce tailwind over the Irish Sea, dampening the spirits of Kelly’s men. They crossed the English coast over Morecambe. It was raining even harder now, a front advancing as they turned down toward the south country.

  As Smith adjusted his course, Kelly, sitting beside him, said, “Everything okay?”

  “It should start to quiet down. If it doesn’t, we could always turn back.”

  “You wouldn’t want to do that. Then I’d have to break your legs, wouldn’t I?” Dermot smiled, looking terrible. “Just get on with it,” and he got up and joined the others in the cabin.

  It was raining in London, too, a short time later, as Billy got out of a cab at Professor Merriman’s office in Harley Street and went inside. Dillon and Hannah Bernstein were already in Reception.