by Jack Higgins
He put the phone down, opened the office safe, found his passport, a checkbook and two thousand in mad money and phoned for a taxi to Heathrow. Then he ran upstairs and packed.
Fahy was first in through the door over at China Wharf, was tripped by Tod, went headfirst on his hands and knees, and received a severe kicking in the ribs from Kelly.
“Mind his face,” Tod said, holding Regan still, an arm up his back.
At the appropriate moment, he released Regan and shoved him down to receive the same treatment. Finally, Tod heaved them to their feet and Kelly explained exactly what they’d done.
“Stupid, the pair of you, not a brain between you, and now I’ve lost Danny Malone.” He slapped each one across the face. “You’ve got your orders, so stick to them. Do you understand me or do you want to go off the end of China Wharf into the Thames?”
They didn’t have a word to say, he was a figure of such menace, and his ferocious reputation preceded him.
Tod said, “Go on, get out of it and go to bed.” He turned to Kelly as they went out. “Are we still on?”
“Of course we are. There’s no reason for Sean to suspect anything. Even Malone doesn’t know why we’re here, so tomorrow we’ll go for a run in the country. Let’s have a drink on it.”
At Huntley Hall, the meal in the old oak-paneled room had been impressive by any standards. All of Selim’s dietary requirements had been taken care of, although Ferguson had worked his way through roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with all the trimmings. Dalton and Miller acted as waiters, standing quiet and watchful, between the courses. Ferguson had drunk Burgundy, Selim mineral water.
Ferguson said, “Was the meal satisfactory?”
“Excellent.”
“You can thank the Army Catering Corps.”
“I’m impressed. There’s not much sign of staff.”
“Oh, they’re there in their unobtrusive way. Let’s go into the hall.”
The hall was impressive, a floor of stone flags scattered with rugs, deep comfortable sofas, a log fire burning on a wide hearth. To one side, French windows with heavy curtains looked out over a terrace with a balustrade.
Selim sat in a wing-backed chair. “You do very well.”
“Yes, it’s a nice place.” Ferguson turned to Miller. “I’ll have a port if you don’t mind, Staff Sergeant, a large one.”
“Certainly, sir.”
Miller went to a sideboard to get it and Ferguson sat opposite Selim. “I won’t bother to offer you one.”
“There was a time when I would have accepted with pleasure. In those days I didn’t take my religion seriously. Public school, Cambridge and all that, and then, a few years ago, I changed.”
“I can see how awkward that would have been for you.”
“That I turned to Islam? Not at all. I’m British, General Ferguson, but also a Muslim. I have no difficulty with that. These islands have been home to an infinite variety of people since the Romans occupied them two thousand years ago.”
“I suppose you’re right. After all, I’m half Scots, half Irish.” Ferguson finished his port and stood. “Let’s have a breath of air on the terrace.”
“That would be nice.”
Dalton pressed a button and the French windows opened. Ferguson led the way outside. The air was fresh and damp, the shrubbery dense on the other side of the lawn, trees beyond. There were half a dozen garden statues out there, Roman figures revealed by security lights.
“We had a good start today,” Ferguson said. “Our chat about Ashimov and Belov was very interesting.”
“In a strange sort of way, Ashimov is angry with the world, and this manifests itself in his willingness to kill people. Belov simply wants to control the world. Power, ultimate power, is everything to him. He is someone to beware of much more than me, General.”
“You’re important enough. The list of organizations you’ve mentioned and the coded computer details of the young men that have been sent to Al Qa’eda training camps, that’ll all be extremely helpful.”
“May Allah forgive me.”
It was then that Ferguson came to the important part. “You could be of enormous use to us, you know – not just now, but in the future.”
“In betraying my own people?”
“What a shame,” Ferguson said. “You’ve spoiled it. I thought you were British.”
Selim groaned. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m speaking on behalf of my religion. I’m British, but a Muslim. In Tudor times, many people were Catholics at a time when this was forbidden, but still English. In fact, when some of them were trained for the priesthood in Rome…”
Ferguson broke in. “It was called the English College and they produced Jesuit priests known as ‘Soldiers of Christ,’ the best in the business.”
“Many of whom died here in England for their faith.”
“Well, let’s try and see nothing like that happens to you,” Ferguson said. “In we go. A decent night’s sleep and we start again tomorrow.”
The French windows closed behind them as they went inside. There was only the quiet and then an owl hooted, and there was a rustle in the shrubbery where a garden statue of some Roman emperor stood half revealed. Harold Laker peered out beside it, gazing toward the terrace at the scene inside the house through the French windows. He smiled, then disappeared back into the shrubbery and it was quiet again.
12
The following morning around ten, after breakfast, Kelly and Tod Murphy left in the Ford Transit and Fahy and Regan sat at the kitchen table, disgruntled, ribs aching.
“Now what?” Fahy asked.
“Don’t ask me, Brendan,” Regan replied.
“Maybe we should split up. I’ll go and have a look at Roper’s place, while you check out Dillon’s cottage or the Bernstein woman’s address.”
“I thought Ashimov and Novikova were seeing to her?”
“Come off it. You’re just trying to avoid anything to do with Dillon,” Fahy said.
“That’s a damn lie. Anything could happen. It’s a sound idea to have a look at Bernstein, though.”
“Okay, we’ll use cabs,” Fahy said. “We’ll meet back here in two or three hours. It’s better than sitting round here like a gorilla in its own shit while Dermot and Tod go and have all the fun. I’m telling you, though, I’m not setting a foot out the door without a pistol in my pocket.”
“Well, I’m with you there, so let’s get on with it.”
On the outskirts of Horsham, Kelly and Tod pulled in at a fuel station, filled up and went into the small café and ordered coffee.
Kelly lit a cigarette. “I wonder what those two idiots are getting up to. I don’t trust them an inch. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea bringing them along.”
“Hmm. Let me check,” Tod said, and called Regan. “It’s Tod. Where are you?”
“We’re out and about. I’m checking Dillon’s place and Fahy’s having a look where Roper lives. I thought I might take in Bernstein’s pad, too.”
“Weren’t you listening before? Ashimov and Novikova are on her case, so stay out of there. Familiarize yourself with Dillon’s and Roper’s places, but don’t hang around, and don’t try anything serious until you’re told to.”
“It’s like talking to children,” he said to Kelly after he’d clicked off.
“They’ve lost their edge,” Kelly said. “Money in the pocket, too much booze and sitting around on their fat backsides at Drumore.”
The mobile went and he answered. It was Ashimov. “Where are you?”
“Horsham. Quit worrying. We’ll be there soon.”
He rang off and said to Tod, “To hell with all of them. Let’s you and me get on with it,” and he led the way out.
Tod said as they walked to the Transit, “Why haven’t you told him about Sean, and Danny Malone doing a runner?”
“Why bother the man? He might lose faith, and we can’t have that.” He unlocked the Transit. “Next stop, Huntley.”
Greta Novikova le
ft the Russian Embassy on foot from Kensington Palace Gardens, crossed to the pub on the other side and went in. Ashimov was seated at the bar reading a newspaper.
“Ah, there are you. Would you like a drink?”
“Not at the moment. What’s going on?”
“I’ve spoken to Kelly. They were at Horsham.”
“That’s no more than half an hour to Huntley from there. Things ought to be happening soon.”
“I hope so. But I’ve been around a long time, Greta. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, something else will come along. Survival is the name of the game.”
“And you always do.”
“Because I take precautions. For example, I have a company Falcon on standby at a flying club called Archbury about half an hour out of London. On standby until I tell it to stand down. Why? It’s insurance. It means that if anything goes wrong, I can get the hell out of here quickly.” He smiled. “I know, nothing will go wrong, you will say. And as a tribute to your faith, I intend to take you to lunch at the Ivy. Come on.”
“But that’s impossible to get into.”
“The magic name of Belov works wonders, even at the Ivy.” He had a hand on her elbow as they went out. “Let’s go over to the embassy and pick up your Opel. I’ll show you Bernstein’s house on the way.”
“That should be interesting. I’ve only seen a photo.”
“A lady of some wealth, I’d say. You’ll be surprised.”
Regan had checked Stable Mews, but there was no sign of Dillon’s Mini car outside the cottage. He didn’t linger, but moved out to the square and hailed a cab. With a grin, he told the driver to take him to the end of Lord North Street, which was where Hannah Bernstein lived. When he got there, he walked a bit down the street toward Millbank and Victoria Tower Gardens and stood looking across.
In a way, he was just being bloody-minded, because he was angry at being put down by Tod as he had been. It was particularly unfortunate, given the circumstances, that Ashimov and Greta came down Lord North Street at that moment.
Ashimov, who was driving, said to her, “Impressed?” as they slowed at Hannah’s house.
“Very,” Greta told him. “I see what you mean.”
They picked up speed, passing Regan on the corner, and she recognized him.
“My God, it’s Regan, one of Kelly’s men.”
Ashimov pulled in at the curb. “Stupid bastard, he’s not supposed to be here.”
He got out of the Opel, Greta joined him and they advanced on Regan. “What in the hell are you doing here?” she demanded.
Regan, of course, recognized them instantly. “I was just having a look at the Bernstein woman’s place.”
“It’s not your affair,” she said. “You and your friend were told to check out Dillon’s and Roper’s places. We’re seeing to Bernstein.”
“All right,” Regan told her. “I was just trying to get the job done. I’ve been to Dillon’s.”
“Just do as you’re told,” Ashimov advised him. “You understand me?”
“Okay, okay.” Regan spread his hands. “No need to make a big case out of it.” He turned, walked away and crossed through traffic to Victoria Tower Gardens, very angry indeed.
Ashimov drove away and was just as angry. “Peasants. Totally unreliable.”
“You’re right, they’re clodhoppers,” Greta said. “But, Yuri, the important thing is what’s happening in Huntley. We can check on Bernstein later.”
“And Dillon. I wonder what he’s up to?”
“Never mind. Just get me to the Ivy. I’m starving.”
At that moment, Dillon was entering the Piano Bar at the Dorchester Hotel, where he was warmly greeted by Guiliano, the manager.
“She’s waiting for you,” Guiliano said and led him to where Hannah Bernstein was sitting.
Hannah was looking terrific in a black Armani trouser suit. Dillon ordered two glasses of champagne, kissed her on the forehead and sat down.
“I’ve had a morning of paperwork,” Dillon said. “It was intensely boring.”
“Me, too. I didn’t see you at the office.”
“I did it at home. Any news?”
“Yes, Ferguson’s phoned me twice. He’s very pleased with the way things are going with Selim. Apparently, he had a real breakthrough and it’s going well this morning.”
“I had a minor development of a personal nature last night,” and he told her what had happened to Billy Salter’s Range Rover and his call on Danny Malone.
“There couldn’t be any significance to it,” she said. “We all know who Malone was. I helped put him away. He wouldn’t do anything stupid enough to send him back to complete his sentence.”
“I suppose even Danny couldn’t be that silly. Anyway, a day of rest. Where do you want to have lunch? Mulligans?”
“No, right here will do for me, plus another glass of champagne.”
“Sounds good to me,” and he waved to Guiliano.
Regan, walking along by the Thames in a fury, rang Fahy. “Where are you?” “Watching Roper. He left his house and went to a pub on the corner of the main road. I checked the bar, and he was reading the paper in a booth by the window and the staff was making a big fuss over him. Ordered Irish stew.”
“Well, he’s got taste at least. I’m pissed off,” and he told Fahy what had happened. “First of all, it’s Tod kicking ass and then the bloody Russians.”
“Oh, to hell with the lot of them. A decent meal and a glass, that’s what you need.”
“That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard all day. I could murder a pint. Where shall we go?”
And the reconnaissance turned to talk of pubs.
At Huntley, Kelly and Tod arrived to something of a surprise. Two of the trailers on the site behind the garage were occupied, cars parked outside, three children playing ball.
Kelly said, “Jesus Christ, that’s just what we need.”
“No, in fact that is exactly what we need. A couple of families around, kids playing.” Tod shrugged. “A nice, normal environment.” He got out of the Transit. “Come on, Dermot, do your stuff.”
Betty Laker came out of the kiosk. “Fill it up?” she asked.
“No, actually,” Dermot told her. “We’re on our way from Brighton to London, and my nephew called in here – a big lad, in black leather, Suzuki motorcycle. Do you remember him?”
“Oh, I remember him,” she said. Her grandfather came out of the kiosk behind her. She turned. “That young man on the motorcycle you were talking to in the pub. This gentleman is his uncle.”
“Well, he met us in Brighton and told us what a nice place Huntley was. He mentioned the trailer site, so we thought we’d stop off and look around. Can you manage us?” Kelly asked.
“Of course we can,” the old man said. “I’ll handle this, Betty, love. Just follow me, gentlemen.”
They parked by the other cars, the trailer was clean and decent, basically simple and perfectly acceptable. Tod, who was carrying two bags, dropped them on one of the beds.
“Looks fine to me.”
“And what would you gentlemen be up to, then?” Laker asked, taking a cigarette from behind his ear and lighting it.
“Landscape gardening,” Tod told him. “Mostly big estates. Places that have a problem, we get called in all over the country.”
“You’re Irish lads?”
“That’s it,” Kelly said. “Always on the go in our line of work. Never in one place more than a few weeks. It’s hard graft.”
“And it gives you an appetite,” Tod intervened. “There’s a pub around here, I believe.”
“There certainly is, and the food’s good. I’ll show you the way.”
Tod opened one of the bags and there was a clunk as he took out two bottles of Scotch and put them on the side. The old man licked his lips.
“You’re well supplied, I’ll give you that.”
“I don’t like to run out, and that’s a fact.” Kelly smiled. “But let’s go ov
er to the pub now and get something to eat. Maybe you’d join us?”
“Be glad to,” Laker said and led the way out.
The three of them had shepherd’s pie, the Scotch whiskey flowed and the old man loved it.
Tod said, “Funny place this. Dermot’s nephew was telling us about the big house.”
“Huntley Hall? I know all about that.”
“Yes, so he told us.”
“And what he knew was what he’d heard from you,” Kelly said. “He passed it on the way in. Huntley Hall Institution. They’ve certainly got some security there. I mean, some of the big country estates we’ve worked on have got walls like that, but that electronic fence on top is something else again.”
Tod slipped off to the bar and got three more large whiskeys. He brought them back and pushed one over to Laker, who took it with alacrity.
“Ah, it’s special, see. They have to have that kind of security, cameras and so forth, to keep people in. They’re all head cases, that’s the story. It’s not like it was in Lord Faversham’s day. I was telling your nephew, a poacher’s paradise that estate were.”
Tod eased another whiskey over to him. “Not any longer. Not if there’s no way of getting in now. You certainly can’t climb that fence!”
“Oh, I don’t know. There’s ways and there’s ways. You don’t always need to go over a fence.”
“You’ve got a point there,” Tod said. “You could go under, I suppose.”
“Now, I never said that, never did,” Laker said, and accepted another whiskey that was pushed his way.
“No, I don’t believe it,” Kelly said. “There’s no way you could get in a place like that.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be too sure.” Laker was already drunk and a little belligerent.
Tod said, “It doesn’t sound likely to me, I admit. In fact, I’d bet on it.”
The hook was there, and Laker took it. “You put your money where your mouth is and I’ll bloody well show you.”
“All right.” Kelly took out his wallet and produced two fifty-pound notes. “There you go. A hundred quid says you’re making it up.”