by Jack Higgins
Sitting in the drawing room of Kate's house in South Audley Street, Paul Rashid said, 'Gatov is dead. The Sultan is dead. Such executions are right and just. But they are not enough.'
Michael said, 'What do you mean, brother?'
'I mean it is not enough simply to have eliminated two small men. Their deaths will quickly be swallowed up and the great powers will continue to swagger arrogantly around the world as if nothing has happened. America and Russia, the two Great Satans, have attacked Arab culture, they have walked over the Bedu, they have screwed Arabia and Hazar out of what is rightfully theirs – and ours. We must teach them a lesson they will never forget.'
'What do you have in mind?' asked George.
'First: Kate. I want you to contact our friends in the Army of Allah, the Sword of God, Hizbullah, everyone. I want them screaming about the US and Russia trying to plunder Arabia. I want them creating havoc whenever and wherever possible.' 'Then what?' said Michael.
'Then we assassinate the President of the United States.'
There was a stunned silence. Michael said in a whisper, 'But why, Paul?'
'Because Gatov was just a servant. Because the Sultan was just a pawn. Because it is no good killing just the little people. If we don't make a statement – and I mean a big statement – the great powers will never understand. They will never leave us alone. Properly orchestrated, the killing of President Jake Cazalet will tell the world once and for all that Arabia is for the Arabs. For Cazalet, the buck stops here – isn't that what they say? Oh, we could kill the Russian Premier instead – he's just as culpable – but Cazalet will make a much bigger impact.'
There was more silence. Michael said, 'You're serious about this?'
'Yes, Michael. Never more serious. It is time to take a stand.' He looked hard at him. 'This is for the Bedu.' He shifted his eyes to George. 'This is for Hazar.' He rested his gaze on Kate, and they sat, their eyes locked, for what seemed like minutes. Finally, 'This is for Mother.' The harsh whisper seemed to fill the room.
After a moment, Kate said, 'But who will attempt this thing?'
'A mercenary. With the peace process taking over Northern Ireland, there are many expert IRA killers at loose ends.' He produced an envelope and passed it to her. 'This man, one Aidan Bell, comes highly recommended. He is to be found in County Down. It seems he shot a Russian general for the Chechens, and blew up his staff. A man willing to take risks. Go and see him, Kate. Take George with you. He's soldiered over there and knows the ropes.'
There was no longer any hesitation. A decision had been reached. 'Of course, brother.'
'One other thing.' He lit a cigarette. 'You liked Sean Dillon?'
'I told you.'
'Go and see him. Arrange an accidental meeting. Concoct a story. See what he knows of Aidan Bell.'
She smiled. 'It'll be a pleasure.'
'Well, don't make it too much of one.' He smiled back at her.
London
County Down, Northern Ireland Kate Rashid went through the information her brother had supplied and it was good, detailed stuff. Aidan Bell was forty-eight years of age, had been a member of the IRA since the age of twenty, and had never served a day in prison. For years, he'd been a member of the Irish National Liberation Army, a very extremist organization. He had often been at loggerheads with the Provisional IRA but was responsible for some important hits.
The most interesting fact was that over the years, he had also worked as a mercenary, cash on the nail, for many foreign revolutionary movements.
Kate put the matter into the hands of her head of security at Rashid Investments, a trusted man and ex-paratrooper named Frank Kelly. Not in complete detail, however. She didn't trust any employee that much. At this stage, all she wanted was a chance to meet Dillon as if by chance, and it came on the following Monday night.
Kelly phoned her at the South Audley Street house, which was only five minutes up the road from the Dorchester. 'Dillon has just gone into the Piano Bar. He seems dressed for a night out, got a dark blue suit on and a Guards tie.' 'But he wasn't in the Guards.' 'Probably taking the piss, if you'll excuse my language, ma'am. I did a lot of Irish time in One Para. I know about this guy.'
'I didn't realize you were in One Para, Kelly. Did you know my brother George?'
'Yes, ma'am, though he was way above me. He was a Second Lieutenant, and I was just a Sergeant in my day.'
'Fine. Have you a car there?' 'One of the company Mercs.' 'Drive up and get me. You can come to the Dorchester and wait. You personally, Kelly. I don't want anyone else.'
'Lady Kate, I wouldn't dream of making it anyone else,' Kelly told her.
He picked her up, a well-dressed man no more than five-feet-eight, with a good, hard face and hair close-cropped, the Army bit that wouldn't go away. In no time, he had dropped her at the Dorchester and parked in one of the privileged spaces.
She went through the swinging doors, trim in a black trouser suit. As she walked into the bar, there was music, and there was Dillon playing the piano again.
Guiliano turned up. 'Lady Kate, what a pleasure. The usual table?'
'No, the bottom left by the piano. I'd like to speak to the pianist.'
'Ah, Mr Dillon. He's good, isn't he? Sits in before our regular comes, only now and then. Lord knows what he does the rest of the time. You know him?'
'You could say that.'
He escorted her to the table. She nodded to Dillon, ordered a glass of Krug champagne, sat down, and took out her mobile phone, which was strictly against bar rules. She called her brother George at his apartment not too far away.
When he answered, she said, 'I'm in the Piano Bar at the Dorchester. Dillon is here and Frank Kelly is outside. Call him on his mobile, and tell him to pick you up. I want you.'
'Of course,' George said. 'See you soon.'
Dillon was really very good, she decided. He was playing the old standards, the kind of things she liked. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth and he suddenly moved into 'Our Love Is Here to Stay', a slightly crooked grin on his face. As he came to the end, the regular pianist appeared and Dillon smiled, slid off the piano bench and the other man took over.
The Irishman came across to her. 'Serendipity, isn't that the word? This is a total and unexpected pleasure.'
'Why, Mr Dillon, you're a man of erudition.' 'Well, unlike you, I didn't go to Oxford. I had to make do with the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art.' 'You were an actor?'
'Oh, come off it, Kate Rashid, you know damn well what I was, all of it.'
She smiled, and as Guiliano came up she said, 'His personal preference used to be Krug, but I understand he's switched to Louis Roederer Cristal. We'll have a bottle.'
Dillon produced a silver cigarette case, opened it and took one out. She said, 'You might ask a lady,' reached, took the case from him, examined it and selected a cigarette herself. 'Art deco. A man of taste. Or perhaps a souvenir of the National Theatre?'
'You are well informed,' Dillon said. He flicked his Zippo and gave her a light as the champagne arrived. He lit his own cigarette. 'You know, there's coincidence, which could be this meeting, and then there's Carl Jung.'
'You mean synchronicity? A deeper motivation is intended?' He toasted her. 'So what are we into here?'
At that moment, George came down the steps into the bar and joined them, Frank Kelly following. Kate said, 'Ah, here come two freebooters, from One Para. Dillon, this one is my brother George.'
But it was Kelly that Dillon bothered with. 'I wouldn't wear a shoulder holster if I were you, son. It's too difficult to dump your gun in a bad situation. It's better in your pocket, and don't say stuff you or I'll say stuff you.'
Kelly actually smiled, and Kate said, 'Sit at the next table, Frank, so you can hear.'
He smiled again at Dillon. 'Yes, ma'am, like a good dog I obey.'
Dillon laughed out loud. 'Well, this dog I like. Can he have a drink?'
'Not on duty,' Kelly said. 'And by the way, I'm fr
om County Down, too, you Fenian bastard.'
'So we know where we are.' Dillon smiled. 'Go on, have one Bushmills, and sit down and hear what the lady wants.'
Her story was quite convincing. 'The thing is, Dillon, we, that is, Rashid Investments, are moving into Ulster in a big way because of the peace process, but we're experiencing roadblocks, if you know what I mean. Our developments would bring high employment, but we're being leaned on.'
'So?' Dillon asked.
'Well, we need what I suppose you would call protection. People who might help.'
'And who might that be?'
She waved to a waiter and paused until he'd poured more champagne. 'Have you heard of a man called Aidan Bell?'
Dillon almost fell over the table laughing. 'Jesus, girl, he's tried to shoot me more than once. Our Aidan was big with what you might call fringe organizations on the hard right of the IRA.' "I heard he was possibly responsible for killing Lord Mountbatten.' "Weil, I was accused of that myself.'
They also say you attacked Number Ten Downing Street in February ninety-one with mortar bombs.' 'Never proved.' He smiled. 'Mind you, if we'd had a bit more time…'
'All right,' she said. 'So you're a bad boy, but I need to get to Aidan Bell to see if we can do a deal. Protection, call it what you want. He lives in a place called Drumcree in County Down.'
'I know it well, I'm from Down myself, but then you know that.'
'I'm supposed to meet him on Thursday. I'll take George.' She turned to Kelly. 'Can I count on you, too?'
'Of course, ma'am.'
Dillon said to him, 'Good man yourself,' and turned to her. 'And you're asking for me? I work for Ferguson.'
'So you'll tell him. This isn't an intelligence matter. I want back-up, that's all, and in that damn place you're the best. What's the matter, doesn't Ferguson ever let you work freelance?'
'I'll see what the good Brigadier thinks, and I'll let you know.'
At Ferguson's flat later that night, he gave the Brigadier a rundown of what had taken place.
Hannah Bernstein heard it all, too. When Dillon was finished, Ferguson thought about it, then turned to her.
'What do you think?'
'On the surface, it makes sense. The Rashid outfit is definitely into Ulster these days, but so are a lot of people. On the other hand, it's a good story. Too good.'
Ferguson turned to Dillon, who smiled and said, 'I always believed in women coppers. She's right.'
Ferguson nodded. 'There's a hidden agenda. See if you can find out what, Sean.'
'There you go, calling me Sean again.' Dillon smiled. 'Still and all, things are quiet. I'll take a look.'
'And keep in touch,' Ferguson told him.
The Rashid Gulfstream flew from RAF Northolt, a popular venue with executive jets that found problems with the congestion of Heathrow. Besides the two pilots, the other people on board were Kate, Dillon, George Rashid and Kelly. Dillon had arrived last, and once they were in flight, he opened the bar box and found a half bottle of Bushmills.
'We still don't know what's happening,' Kate said.
'Well, it's reasonably simple. Aidan Bell at Drumcree is expecting you sometime tomorrow to discover whatever you want to discuss with him. We land this afternoon at Aldergrove. My arrangements are that we go to a little fishing port called Magee, sail overnight to Drumcree and you can see Bell in the morning.'
There was silence. She said, 'Are you sure about this?'
'It's a nice forty-foot boat called Aran. I could handle it myself, but these two can act as deckhands. It leaves Aidan Bell slightly left-footed, you arriving that way – he won't expect it – so a bright girl should do rather well.'
'Bastard,' she told him. 'Why is it I think of you like that?'
'Because that's what I am.'
'Well, as long as you're my bastard on this thing, all right?'
Not that she believed him, not for a moment, but she had her agenda and she was playing it through.
The flight was normal, the drive down to the coast just as uneventful. Magee was a small place, the kind that in the old days had been mainly occupied with fishing. The Aran was tied up at the pier, a shabby boat, as Dillon had said, forty feet, but having used Ferguson's best efforts, he knew it had twin screws and the kind of engine you needed for action by night. He waited until almost midnight before leaving.
They had a simple meal of fried eggs and canned spaghetti bolognese, and even split a bottle of white wine so cheap that it had a screw cap instead of a cork.
'We'll take our leave,' Dillon said. 'The weather isn't too bad. Wind's six or seven. Half engines mostly.' He nodded to George and Kelly. 'You two cast off, then I suggest you get some sleep. There's no way of knowing how things will go in the morning.'
'And what about you?' Kate asked.
'I'll manage.'
'Dillon, I've been sailing boats for years.'
'Then if it gets rough, you can give me a hand.'
As the Aran moved out to sea, the tide was still running in. Visibility was poor, rain drifting. Kate stood beside Dillon in the wheelhouse, with only the light over the chart table.
"Rain squalls and maybe fog in the morning,' he said. 'Are you okay? There are sea-sickness pills in that drawer.'
'I told you, Dillon, I've sailed before. I'll make some tea and perhaps a sandwich.'
Not long afterwards, he smelled bacon, and she came into the wheelhouse with a thermos flask of tea and three sandwiches. 'Two for you, one for me.' 'And you half Bedu, eating bacon.' 'Islam is a wonderful moral faith, Dillon.' 'And how does that sit with those twelfth-century Dauncey Christians?'
'Oh, they were hard people and their beliefs were very similar in some ways. You know something, Dillon? I'm half Bedu, but my God, I'm proud of my Dauncey roots. There are a lot of great ancestors there.'
Dillon finished his second bacon sandwich. 'It's an unusual situation, I can see that. I'm not sure about the aristocracy, Kate, but I like you. What about George and Kelly?'
'Last seen getting their heads down.'
'Good. I'll do the same, and since you keep boasting of your sailing prowess, I'll hand it over.'
When he returned four hours later, it was to a rolling motion. He had been lying on one of the bench seats in the saloon, come awake slowly and gone up the companionway. He opened the door of the wheelhouse to the sight of dawn, a grey light, heavy mist and rain, and the Down coast a couple of miles away. Kate stood there, hands steady on the wheel.
'Good man yourself,' Dillon said. 'I'll take over.' He eased her aside. 'Are you okay?'
'Fine. I haven't enjoyed anything so much in years. I'll make some tea. Would you like some more sandwiches?'
'See what the deckhands want. I'd say we'll arrive at Drumcree in about an hour. I know the place from the old days. There's a pub called the Royal George. Don't be misled by the name. It's a hotbed of Republicanism. We'll call in and ask for Bell.'
'Surprise him, is that your tactic?'
'Oh, you could say that. Let me be sure I've got this straight, Kate Rashid. You don't want me there when you meet him, am I right?'
'It's business, Dillon, private company business. George can come with me.'
'Fine,' Sean Dillon told her and turned the wheel. 'Now what about that tea?'
George and Kelly joined them eventually in the wheelhouse, drank mugs of tea, and listened to Dillon.
'The pub, the Royal George, is a good Fenian institution and right on the jetty. You've both done Ulster time, so you know the kind of place.'
'Should we be carrying?' Kelly asked.
'Feel under the chart table. There's a catch.'
A flap fell down, Kelly pulled out a drawer and there was an assortment of handguns inside. 'I'll take the Walther in my pocket, so when I'm searched they'll discover it,' Dillon said. 'You'll find three ankle holsters with short-barrelled two-twos. One for each of us.'
'You think we'll need them?' George asked him.
'This is Ind
ian territory and I'm one of the Indians.' Dillon smiled. 'Keep the faith, people. Slow and easy.'
Drumcree was a small place, with a tiny harbour, a jetty, a scattering of houses in grey stone and a few fishing boats. They coasted in, Dillon eased to the jetty, and George jumped over the rail andtied up. It was very quiet, no one about.
'There you go, Kate,' Dillon pointed. 'The Royal George.'
It was obviously eighteenth-century, but the roof looked sound and the sign was in green, with black lettering and what looked like fresh gilding.
'So what do we do?' Kate demanded.
'Well, like any decent pub in these parts, they'll do an Irish breakfast. I'd say let's partake and I'll tell mine host to inform Aidan Bell we're here.'
'And that will do it?'
'Absolutely. We're already on their screen, as they say.' He turned to the other two. 'You stay with the boat, Kelly, and be prepared for anything.'
A bell tinkled as they went in the bar. Dillon and George were in jerseys and reefer coats, Kate wore a black jumpsuit and carried a briefcase. There were three men sitting in the window seat eating breakfast; one was middle-aged with a beard, the other two were younger. They turned to stare, men of a rough persuasion with hard faces. A man appeared behind the bar, thickset, white-haired.
'Can I help you?'
'We'd like breakfast,' Kate said.
The well-bred English voice sliced through the quiet like a knife, and the men at the window continued to stare.
'Breakfast?' the man said.
Dillon cut in, making his Belfast accent even more pronounced. 'That's it, me ould son, three Ulster fry-ups. We've just sailed in from Magee. Then phone Aidan Bell and tell him Lady Kate Rashid is here.'
'Phone Aidan Bell?' the man said.
'What's your name?' Dillon asked.
'Patrick Murphy,' the man replied, as a reflex.
'Good man yourself, Patrick, now breakfast and Bell, in whatever order you want.'
Murphy hesitated and then said, 'Take a seat.'
Which they did, on the opposite side from the three men. Dillon lit a cigarette, there was a murmur of conversation, then the bearded man got up and crossed to the table. He stood there looking at them.