Dark Justice

by Jack Higgins

  Laker’s eyes gleamed and he reached for the money, but Kelly snatched his hand away. “Oh, no, you prove me wrong if you want this.”

  “I bloody well will.” Laker reached for the remaining whiskey and swallowed it down. He got up. “Come on, then. I’ll show you whether I’m lying or not,” and he made for the door.

  He led the way along the road out of the village, no more than five minutes’ walk, then turned into a track leading through heavy woodland. It was very quiet, only the birds making noise, lifting off and calling to each other.

  In spite of the drink taken, Laker was surprisingly steady on his feet. “This is Witch Wood. Don’t ask me why, but so it’s been called that since time long gone. If you could see through the trees, maybe fifty yards to the left is the main road, and the Huntley Hall estate on the other side.”

  “So what are we talking about here?” Tod asked as they walked along the track.

  “Round about eighteen hundred, Lord Ashley Faversham made a fortune in the sugar trade in Barbados, then came home to refurbish the family estate. But there was a problem. There used to be a river on the far side of the woods and it would overflow. It doesn’t exist now. It was diverted a long time ago to provide water for a canal project. But when it was there, and there was water seepage into the estate, Faversham had a series of tunnels built to run it off.”

  “And?”

  “And when the river was diverted, they had the tunnels closed off.”

  Tod could already see the way this was going. He took out his cigarettes and gave Laker one. “Except one of them was overlooked, wasn’t it?”

  Lake almost choked on his cigarette. “How did you know that?”

  “Oh, I’ve got that kind of mind,” Tod said. “Just show me where it is.”

  They plowed on, and Kelly said, “How long have you known about this?”

  “Since I were a lad,” Laker said. “My dad told me. It were a secret in the family, and still is.”

  “Good man, yourself,” Tod said. “Now let’s be seeing it.”

  A few minutes later, Laker turned left off the track, pushed into a thicket, paused, bent down, fumbled in the grass, found a handle and lifted an iron grille. The hole was quite wide. “I’ll lead the way,” he said, and started down an iron ladder.

  Below, it was damp, no more than that, with headroom to five feet. As Tod followed him, Kelly behind, Laker took a flashlight from his pocket. “Follow me.”

  He took off, and after a while, rays of light drifted through from above. “Airholes,” he said. “That means we’re under the road and into the gardens.”

  A few minutes later, they came to the end and another iron ladder gave way to another iron grille. He mounted first and pushed the grille back, and they followed and found themselves in a copse of dense foliage. The house was clearly visible through the trees.

  “You’ve got security lighting mounted on the house over the terrace. There’s a camera on the left and another on the right. More stuff like that on the drive. The real problem is the wall. Even if you got over it, there’s an electronic beam five foot inside. It should take care of anything.”

  “Except for a tunnel that they never knew about,” Tod said.

  “Exactly.”

  They moved forward, paused behind a couple of statues and looked across at the terrace. Just then, the French windows opened and Selim walked out, Ferguson behind him.

  Kelly said, “Christ, it’s them.”

  At the same moment, it started to rain and Laker said, “Right, let’s get out of here,” and he turned and started back to the access grille to the tunnel.

  Kelly grabbed at Tod’s arm as they went after him. “You saw who that was?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Christ, Tod, if we’d had a gun between us, it would have been so simple. Not only Selim, but Ferguson as well.”

  “And simple is what it will be,” Tod said. “We’ll be back, Kelly, ould son, never you fear,” and they went after the old man.

  When they surfaced at the entrance, Laker was in high spirits. “Did I tell you or did I tell you?” he chorused as they went back through Witch Wood. “That’s a hundred quid for me.”

  “You’re right, old son,” Kelly told him. “I was wrong and you were right. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself.”

  They reached the trailer site, and Tod said, “You owe the man a hundred quid, Dermot, so get it out and we’ll have a drink on it.”

  He led the way into their trailer, got one of the bottles of Scotch open and found three glasses. Kelly gave the old man the two fifty-pound notes and Tod handed him the glass of Scotch.

  “Bottoms up, me ould son, you deserve it.”

  Laker was thoroughly drunk now, and took the whiskey down in a long swallow. “Yes, I bloody well do.”

  Tod gave him the bottle. “Go on, you’ve earned it. Get off and have a lie down and we’ll see you later.”

  The old man clasped the bottle to his chest, lurched out of the door and staggered off toward the bungalow at the back of the garage.

  “Now, there’s a happy man,” Kelly said and closed the door against the driving rain. “So, what do you think?”

  “That we go back later in the day,” Tod said. “And we see if we get lucky. Only this time, we’ll be armed.”

  Kelly grinned. “You know, I’m actually believing it’s going to work. I’m even believing we could call Smith up and have him back over here tonight.”

  “And where would that leave Fahy and Regan?”

  “We could give them a call, tell them to walk away from the London end of things, get a plane to Dublin.” Kelly grabbed Tod by his arm. “For God’s sake, Tod, Ashimov wanted Selim and he gets him with Ferguson. To hell with the others, even Dillon. You can’t do much better than that.”

  “You’ve got a point, Dermot, but let’s see. We’ve still got to think of Regan and Fahy.”

  “Fuck them,” Kelly said. “If they can’t see to themselves, that’s their problem. Now let’s have another drink on it and decide when we’re going back in.”

  After a lunch that had contained considerably more than a single glass, Regan and Fahy wandered the streets for a while. Finally, rain coming down, Regan said to Fahy, “What now? Back to China Wharf?”

  “To hell with that,” Fahy said. “Let’s try the Roper fella’s place again. I’m tired of just standing around doing nothing. Something might turn up.”

  “I’m with you. Do we ring Dermot and Tod first?”

  “All we’ll get is a bollocking again.”

  “Then let’s just go,” and Regan stepped to the pavement and hailed a cab.

  In Regency Square, Roper had been looking at computer screens too long and was opening his mouth for a yawn when his mobile rang.

  “It’s Sean. What’s up?”

  “I’m tired, stressed, and I’ve been sitting at this damn thing too long. I need a break,” Roper said.

  “How about I come round and take you out for a drink or something?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Roper felt better already and reached in his pocket for cigarettes and found the pack was empty. He cursed. He’d been kept alive from his terrible injuries by a cocktail of drugs, and tobacco had become a mainstay. It was the same for a lot of soldiers in his situation, and the need was overpowering. He’d have to go out to the corner shop.

  He made for the front door, got it open and found it was raining. He took an umbrella from the hall stand, pressed one of the electronic buttons on his wheelchair to close the door behind him, went down the ramp to the pavement and raised the umbrella. He sailed, in a way, down the pavement, strangely exhilarated, down to the shop on the corner, where Mr. Khan had installed a ramp at one of the doors especially to facilitate Roper’s comings and goings.

  A large, bearded Muslim with a genial smile and a Cockney accent, Khan greeted Roper warmly. “What you run out of now, Major?”

  “
Cigarettes,” Roper said. “The old cancer sticks. I’ll take a carton of the usual.”

  “Maybe you should try and give up,” Khan said, as he got the carton and took Roper’s money.

  “And live longer, you mean, in my state?” Roper stowed the carton in a side pocket of the wheelchair. “Wouldn’t make much difference.”

  Khan tried to keep smiling, because he liked Roper. “Now then, Major, it’s not like you to be gloomy.”

  “You’re right. I’ll be Cheerful Charlie from now on.”

  He turned his wheelchair, and Khan said, “There was a man in here this morning asking if I knew where you lived.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “An Irish geezer, Ulster I’d say, you know what I mean? It’s a different kind of Irish accent, isn’t it?”

  And Roper, veteran of the Irish troubles for twenty years, the finest bomb-disposal man in the business, stopped smiling. “It certainly is. What did he want?”

  “Didn’t say. Just asked if I knew you. The thing is, I saw him again with another guy a little while ago, and he sounded the same as they walked past.”

  “Thanks,” Roper said. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

  He moved onto the pavement, put up his umbrella and took a Codex Four from his pocket and called Dillon.

  “Where are you?”

  “In a cab on my way. Traffic’s lousy.”

  “The fact is, I could have a problem. My friendly local shopkeeper, Mr. Khan, you know him, tells me I’ve been inquired about.”

  “And by whom would that be?” Dillon asked.

  “Couple of men, Northern Irish accents. I’ve got a lot of history there, Sean.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “On the street, on my way home.”

  “Take it easy, just get inside. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Are you carrying?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good man.”

  He switched off, and Roper started along the pavement.

  Regan and Fahy, standing in a doorway on the other side of the road, sheltering from the rain, saw him approach.

  “The man himself,” Fahy said.

  “What do we do?” Regan already had his hand on the butt of a Browning in his raincoat pocket.

  “Wait,” Fahy said. “Not out here on the street. Let him get himself together, then we move very fast over the road and help him inside.”

  Roper did his usual maneuver, turned to position, opened the door electronically, then started up the ramp. Quickly, Regan and Fahy darted over the road, and Fahy grabbed the end of the wheelchair.

  “Let’s help you, Major,” he said and pushed Roper in. Regan followed them and closed the street door behind them.

  “Now then, Major, let’s talk,” Fahy said, and pushed Roper into the living room beside his computer banks.

  Roper sat there facing them, no fear in him at all. Regan said, “Do we call Dermot and Tod, Brendan?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Fergus,” Fahy said. “You’ll be wanting to call Ashimov next. This is our affair.”

  “Dermot and Tod? That would be as in Kelly and Murphy,” Roper said. “Which means that you two idiots are Regan and Fahy.”

  “And how would you be knowing that?” Regan demanded.

  “Because you’re thick and stupid. You think we don’t know all about you? You work for Ashimov, and that means you work for Josef Belov. Where’s Belov now? Drumore Place? Does he know you’re here?”

  “You think you’re clever, don’t you?” Fahy said. “Too clever for your own good. We’ll have to do something about that,” and he took the Browning from his pocket.

  13

  At that precise moment in time, Kelly and Tod were moving through Witch Wood and paused at the iron grille in the thicket. They both wore hooded anoraks against the rain. Dermot had phoned Smith from the trailer, had told him to do the return flight to Dunkley at once. Smith had been unable to conceal his reluctance, but had soon seen the error of his ways.

  Kelly and Tod lit cigarettes. “Well, this is it,” Tod said. “This is where the luck comes in.”

  “Oh, you always need that.”

  “What about Fahy and Regan, or Ashimov, for that matter?” Tod asked.

  “Later,” Kelly said, “when we’ve got the good news. Now let’s get it done.”

  He pulled up the iron grille, went down the ladder and Tod dropped the weapon bag down and went after him.

  A short while later, at the end of the tunnel, they paused and opened the weapons bag. Tod produced an AK and a silencer and passed them to Kelly, took out another for himself. Kelly went up the ladder, opened the grille and exited, and Tod followed him. They moved through the dense foliage of the copse and crouched behind the Roman statues. It was quiet, only the occasional bird calling, and the rain hissed down steadily.

  “Come on,” Kelly said. “Make my day.”

  “That was a movie,” Tod murmured. “This could take more patience, so be patient.”

  In the sitting room, Ferguson and Selim were having tea at the end of an exhausting session. Dalton and Miller stood watchful as usual, as the two men talked.

  “Open the French windows, Staff Sergeant,” Ferguson said to Dalton. “Let’s have a breath of air.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Dalton pressed the button and the windows opened. “I like it,” Selim said. “The smell of the rain in the countryside, the sound of it falling through the trees.”

  “I know what you mean,” Ferguson said, and hesitated. “You know, Doctor, you obviously have a genuine love of your native land. Do you regret having been born in London?”

  “No, I love the damn place.” He laughed as he got to his feet. “I’m remembering something Mr. Dillon said to me. That I should remember there are mosques all over London.”

  He moved to the open windows, and Ferguson joined him. “Then what were you thinking of?”

  “There is a passage in the Koran, General, that says one sword is worth ten thousand words. Perhaps that is what I was thinking of.”

  And at that moment, Kelly shot him between the eyes, fragmenting the back of his skull. As the body hurtled back, bouncing against Ferguson, the General leaned over slightly to catch it and Tod Murphy’s bullet went askew, slicing Ferguson across the left shoulder. He sank to the floor, clutching Selim, and Dalton and Miller darted past, each drawing a Beretta and firing blindly into the woods, but Kelly and Tod were already working their way back through the copse and dropping down through the grille.

  “I got him,” Kelly said. “Clear in my sight, right between the eyes.”

  They stowed the rifles in the bag and hurried along the tunnel. “Not Ferguson,” Tod said. “I hit him, that’s a fact, but he moved at the last minute. I think I clipped his shoulder.”

  “Never mind, it’s a grand day’s work, that’s the truth of it,” Kelly said. “Come on, let’s get out of here and make for Dunkley and that Navajo. We’ve made our bonus for our Russian friends on this one. Belov will pay us in gold bars.”

  They were back at the village in fifteen minutes, put their belongings together and stowed them in the Transit. Tod went to the kiosk by the fuel pumps and found Betty.

  He got his wallet out. “I’ve just had a phone call. We’re needed in London, like yesterday.”

  “That’s a shame,” she said.

  “What do I owe you?”

  She told him, and he paid her. “It’s a smashing place, and we’ll be back.”

  He jumped in the Transit, got behind the wheel and drove away. Kelly was on a high, produced a bottle of whiskey and swallowed. “Jesus, but we did it.” He got his mobile out. “I’ll ring Fahy, tell him that he and Regan should move it.”

  He tapped out the number, and when it connected, said, “It’s Dermot, Brendan.”

  “And it’s Dillon here, you bastard, what do you think about that?”

  At Roper’s place, after Fahy had drawn the Browning from his pocket, things had not gone as he and
Regan had expected. Roper hadn’t seemed to care, had stayed incredibly calm.

  “What do I get, summary execution, IRA-style? You gentlemen have tried to shoot me and blow me up many times, and I’m still here. I need a smoke.”

  He took the carton of Marlboros from the side pocket of his wheelchair, pulled a pack out and extracted a cigarette. “Anyone got a light?” he asked, as he replaced the pack in the side pocket, only this time when his hand came out, it clutched a Walther, which he jammed against Fahy’s knee and pulled the trigger. Fahy cried out and fell back, dropping his Browning.

  At the same moment, Dillon’s voice echoed over the voice box. “Roper, it’s me.”

  Regan, confused, stood over Fahy, who was being noisy.

  Roper called, “They’re here, Sean, one down, one to get.” He pressed the electronic door button and raised his Walther to Regan, who ducked out into the corridor and ran for the rear of the house.

  Dillon burst in, gun in hand, and found Fahy groaning, Roper leaning over him. “There was Regan, Sean, and he cleared off through the kitchen.”

  “Call Rosedene,” Dillon said. “Get the paramedics in. I’ll be back.”

  He got to the front door and saw Regan hurrying down the pavement. Regan glanced over his shoulder and started to run. Dillon went after him, past the corner shop. Regan kept running headlong, scattering a few people on the pavement, then lurched into the main road as a red London double-decker bus came along and bounced him into the air.

  Traffic came to a halt, and people milled around as the driver got out of the bus. A police car turned out of the traffic stream and eased beside the bus. Dillon paused and listened, saw one of the policemen drop to one knee and examine Regan. He shook his head.

  “He’s dead.”

  The driver was shocked. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  More than one person called out, “That’s right. He ran into the road, head down.”

  Dillon turned discreetly and walked away.

  When he rejoined Roper, he found him holding the Walther on Fahy, who was clutching his trousered knee with both hands, groaning. Dillon went into the kitchen, found a couple of towels, went back, knelt and tied them tightly around Fahy’s knee.