The Killing Ground

by Jack Higgins

  “Who is it? I’m in bed and not alone. It’s too damned late.”

  “The Broker.”

  Chekov was suddenly all attention. The Broker heard him say, “Get some clothes on and get the hell out of here or I’ll give you a slapping.”

  He was back to the phone in a minute. “What can I do for you?”

  “You know Harry Salter and his nephew Billy?”

  “Who doesn’t? He’s a hard old bastard, that one. Why, what do you want?”

  “I want them permanently removed. He and his people have caused serious distress to General Volkov and the President.”

  “Well, we can’t have that.”

  “No. I think this is work for Stransky-Big Ivan. You know that fancy restaurant of Salter’s?”

  “I’ve been there. Harry’s Place.”

  “Destroy it. You know what to do.”

  “And?”

  “Salter started life as a river rat. Let him end there. Put him in the Thames along with his nephew and his hard men.”

  “What about Dillon?”

  “What about him?”

  “He and the Salters are like brothers.”

  “Then let them die like brothers.”

  * * * *

  CHEKOV TOOK A TAXI to the Dorchester Hotel, where he knew he would find many members of the Russian community. Many of them were millionaires, and some billionaires, and they were a hard-drinking lot. When they wanted to avoid trouble of the violent or disruptive sort, they brought in Ivan Stransky.

  He was six-foot-four, built like a brick wall, his hair cropped and half of his left ear missing, left in Chechnya where he’d served in a Guards regiment. He was standing at the end of the bar, a black leather coat straining at his shoulders, a cigarette between his fingers, and saw Chekov at once.

  A waitress was passing and Chekov said, “Scotch whiskey, my lovely, two large ones and make it the cheap stuff.”

  He took a seat in the corner and Stransky sat beside him. “What can I do for you?” said the big man.

  “What do you know about Harry Salter?”

  Stransky smiled without humor. “A major gangster who’s gone legit, they say-warehouse developments, casinos, apartment blocks. They say he’s worth four or five hundred million.”

  “But I bet he hasn’t entirely given up his old ways, has he?”

  “Of course not. Action is the juice of life to a man like him. It’s the game that appeals. He’s not rubbish, he’s got balls and brains and in his time, he’s killed. He’s got a nephew, Billy, who’s a younger version. So, what about him?”

  “I want you to start giving Salter a bad time, as a favor to a broker friend of mine. Eventually, we’re going to eliminate him, but we’re going to work up to it, let him think about it a bit. We’ll start with that fancy restaurant of his, Harry’s Place. A lot of rich people go there-they wouldn’t like it if their cars got messed up; it would be very bad for business, you know what I mean?”

  “When do you want this?”

  “Right now. Sudden blitz, so that he knows whoever did it means it. A hunting party will do. Five or six top men.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Chekov finished his whiskey. “Have another.”

  “No. I’d rather get moving. There are people I’ll need to talk to.”

  “Good.”

  They hadn’t mentioned money. It was not necessary. Stransky went out and Chekov called the waitress over. “Large whiskey, my love. I’ll have the expensive stuff this time, the Highland Special that’s eight hundred pounds a shot.”

  Outside the hotel on the left-hand side were private limousines waiting, their chauffeurs chatting beside them, and Stransky’s own Mer-cedes was there, his driver, a hard-looking young man called Bikov, standing by it smoking a cigarette. “Get in.” Stransky opened the rear door.

  “What’s up, boss?” Bikov demanded.

  “Café Rosa, quickly. Will Makeev and the boys still be there?”

  “Sure. They’re having a card school tonight.”

  “I need five, maybe six of them.”

  “Trouble?”

  “No, to make trouble. You know Harry Salter?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “That restaurant of his, Harry’s Place-Chekov wants it messed up good. Let’s see if Makeev and his boys are interested.”

  “For Chekov? You won’t have to ask twice.”

  * * * *

  BEHIND THE BAR at the Dark Man, Ruby called to Harry, who was sitting in a booth. Joe Baxter and Sam Hall were propping up the bar behind him.

  “It’s thinning out a bit, Harry. We can go if you like. Rita can close up.”

  She came round the bar in a demure white blouse and a black velvet skirt and shoes to die for.

  “Bleeding marvelous,” Harry said and turned to his minders. “Isn’t she?”

  “Absolutely, Harry,” they chorused.

  “Right, let’s check how things are going at Harry’s Place. Leave the Aston, we’ll go in the Shogun.” He handed Ruby in and followed her.

  “I’m really looking forward to this,” Ruby said. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to take me there.”

  “Don’t be silly, girl, we just haven’t had the opportunity. Anyway, you look like a princess. Doesn’t she look like a princess, boys?”

  “A queen, Harry,” Baxter said.

  “Get stuffed,” Ruby told him and leaned back. “I wonder how it’s going in Hazar?”

  “We’ll know soon enough, girl, but one thing’s for sure, if anybody can handle it, Dillon and Billy can.” He leaned forward and said to Baxter, “Are we tooled up?”

  Baxter dropped a hidden flap. “The Colt twenty-fives, just like you said, boss, two of them.”

  “Guns, Harry?” Ruby was shocked. “Is that necessary?”

  “There are funny people around these days, love. Russian Mafia, Albanians, fourteen-year-olds in knife gangs who’ll stick a shiv in you as soon as look at you. I’ve got mates who are Italian Mafia and they’re the good guys now.”

  Sam Hall pulled in outside the warehouse Salter had transformed into Harry’s Place, a red neon sign above the door and a queue outside. Two young black men in dinner suits had the door.

  “The Harker twins,” Harry told Ruby.

  Baxter and Hall took the Shogun to the car park, and Harry and Ruby walked along the side of the queue. They found five youths in black leather pushing and shoving, alarming people ahead of them.

  Ruby said, “They’re Russians, Harry. I used to serve a lot like that at the old pub.”

  They were, in fact, Makeev and four of his friends, who’d been hired by Stransky as ordered.

  “Here, you bleeding well cut it out,” Harry told them.

  They jeered in good Cockney English, “Who the hell are you, her father?”

  He handed Ruby up the steps, where one of the Harker twins apologized profusely. “Sorry, boss, real sorry and more bad news. Big Ivan Stransky and another guy came in just before these guys turned up.”

  Baxter and Hall arrived on the run and ranged themselves beside the Harkers, making a formidable barrier. Harry said, “Don’t let them in. We’ll see what Stransky wants.”

  He held out his hand, Baxter slipped a Colt.25 into it and Harry took Ruby’s arm as Fernando, the headwaiter, appeared, full of apologies.

  “Not needed,” Harry said. “This is Mrs. Moon. Take us to my table.” He added to Baxter and Hall, “You come with us.”

  The place was rather pretty, in an Art Deco style, with a cocktail bar, small, intimate tables, a dance floor, a trio playing music of the Cole Porter variety. Harry’s table was in a booth with mirrors behind it and Baxter and Hall stood one on each side.

  A waiter in a white waistcoat with brass buttons who had responded to Harry’s nod brought a large brandy and ginger ale for him and a champagne cocktail for Ruby.

  “I thought you should have a champagne cocktail on your first visit.”

  “It�
�s lovely,” she said. “What’s that?”

  “Brandy and ginger ale. They call it a Horse’s Neck.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Doesn’t really matter, Ruby-it’s a British thing. We’re funny that way. Here’s to you. You look lovely.”

  He took his drink straight down and nodded to the waiter, then folded his arms as Stransky, Bikov behind him, came down the steps from the bar and crossed the dance floor toward them.

  “Nice little place you’ve got, Harry,” Stransky said.

  “Mr. Salter to you. Now what can I do for you and the fairy prince here?”

  Bikov’s hand went in his pocket, his face tightened, but Sam Hall stepped close and slipped his hand in the same pocket. “Gawd bless me, but someone’s got a big one.” He produced a Smith amp; Wesson Bankers Special and put it on the table in front of Harry.

  “A little old-fashioned,” Harry said. “Bloody rude bringing it in at all, ladies present and so on.”

  Stransky looked around. “Ladies? I don’t see any ladies.” He smiled at Ruby. “Of course, I don’t count the whore here.”

  “She’s got more class than you any day, you fat pig.”

  Stransky stopped smiling. “You’ll be sorry you said that, Salter, and when you’re gone”-he laughed out loud, reached over and patted Ruby’s face-“we’ll see.”

  “Outside,” Harry told him.

  “What an excellent idea. Come on, Bikov,” and they went.

  “What do you think, boss?” Baxter said.

  “They’ll be up to no good outside with that bunch he brought along.” He sighed. “I’m really getting too old for this. Let’s go out and see what they’re up to. You stay, Ruby love.”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  “All right, then stay by the door. Just be a good girl. I told Billy I’d look after you.”

  “What a liar you are, Harry Salter.” She took his arm and the whole group left. “There was a story about you going the rounds year before last when the Franconi twins were running wild over half of London. The word was they got an IRA expert to put a bomb in your Jaguar.”

  “God was on my side,” he told her cheerfully. “The guy got the timer wrong and it blew up before Billy and I got there.”

  “And is it true the Franconis are in cement on the North Circular Road?”

  “Ruby, love, do I look like I’d do a thing like that?”

  Outside, the queue had gone and it was quiet, only the sound of the trio playing “Night and Day” drifting out. “What’s happening?” Harry asked the Harkers.

  “The Russian punks cleared off, as far as I know, and Stransky and his driver went off to get his car.”

  But Harry didn’t believe it, and with Hall and Baxter walked to the car park. Suddenly, the Russians appeared, three of them with baseball bats swinging sideways into the cars, smashing windows, denting fenders.

  Harry didn’t hesitate, took the Colt from his pocket and ducked under Makeev’s flailing baseball bat, stuck the weapon against the Russian’s right kneecap and pulled the trigger. The others, shocked, wavered and Baxter picked up the baseball bat Makeev had dropped. He swung it sideways, fracturing the side of a man’s face, and then the other way, fracturing an arm.

  The Harker twins arrived on the run, Ruby behind them, and Harry fired in the air.

  The Russians froze. Makeev was writhing on the ground, moaning terribly. Harry reached out and pulled the nearest Russian over. “You came in a car-which is it?” The man pointed to a white van. “Get him in it, in fact all of you get in it and deliver him to Saint Mary’s. Of course, you’ll stay shtum because I wasn’t here, was I? I was elsewhere. Lots of people saw me. Who was the contract for?” he inquired of the driver. “Better tell me, sunshine, I won’t hold it against you.”

  “Stransky said it was for Max Chekov.”

  “Really?” Harry said. “The oligarch? Interesting. Thanks very much.”

  The van drove away, and Stransky, sitting in his car nearby, whispered to Bikov, “We better go.”

  “I’ll have to switch on the engine,” Bikov said.

  Harry’s boys moved in their direction instantly and Harry himself tapped on the window on the passenger’s side. “Get the door open unless you want broken glass all over you.”

  Stransky complied. “Now look, Harry.”

  “I thought you knew only my friends call me Harry. What have I done to Chekov to make him annoyed?”

  “He was doing a favor for a friend, that’s all I know, some broker guy told me to mess you up.” He didn’t bother telling Harry that wasn’t all Chekov intended to do.

  “Bizarre,” Harry said. “But I like it. London ’s everybody’s favorite destination these days, capital of the world, even for the gangsters. I feel it might be necessary for me to keep up the reputation of the British gangster.”

  He reached inside the car, prodded Stransky’s left kneecap and pulled the trigger. He couldn’t tell what Stransky said because it was in Russian, but the man howled like a werewolf.

  “Go on, get out of here,” Harry said, and Bikov put his foot down and drove away.

  Baxter and Hall applauded as he offered his arm to Ruby. “God, you’re a hard man,” Ruby said. “I never realized.”

  “Well, let’s go back inside. Champagne for everyone!”

  * * * *

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as Chekov was getting out of the shower in his sumptuous apartment off Park Lane, the front doorbell sounded. Chekov cursed, because the maid didn’t come in until nine o’clock. He went to the window, toweling himself. The flat was a duplex, and when he looked out a motorcycle was parked at the curb and a man stood on the step wearing black leather and helmet and a yellow waistcoat with Express Delivery emblazoned on it. He held a cardboard box and waited. Chekov pulled on a robe, went downstairs and opened the door.

  The face was anonymous behind the black plastic. “Mr. Max Chekov?”

  “That’s me. What have we got here?” He took the box in both hands.

  “Flowers,” the man said. “Lilies.” He pulled at the end of the box, produced a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun, rammed it against Chekov’s left knee and pulled the trigger.

  Chekov was hurled backward. The man said, “Have a nice day,” went down the steps to the motorcycle and drove away.

  Chapter 7

  IT WAS QUIET AT THE AIRPORT AT SIX IN THE MORNING, AS Lacey and Parry kept up a semblance of working on the Gulfstream, the cowling of the port engine still off. A hawk of some kind swept in, dived on some creature or other in the brush on the other side of the runway, and Said appeared in a Land Rover. “Have you fixed it?”

  “Just about.” Lacey nodded. “Started early while it’s still cool.”

  “I know what you mean. I’m going downtown early for the same reason.”

  “Things don’t look too busy.”

  “As usual, it’s like the morgue. There’s an old Dakota on a transport run from Kuwait, in around eleven o’clock, and today’s a British Airways flight. Due at three in the afternoon.”

  “That should be lively.”

  “Not really. I’ve seen the numbers. Seventy-three people. Hardly worth bothering with. I’ll see you later. I’ll need to be back for the Dakota.”

  “I might be ready for that test flight later.”

  “No problem. There’s no traffic, so just go.” He drove away and Parry said, “That’s nice of him.”

  “Don’t count your chickens. Now let’s go across and see if she’s open for breakfast yet.”

  * * * *

  ABOUT SEVEN, Caspar and Billy ran the inflatable to the jetty where the station wagon was parked. Billy got behind the wheel and drove it a short distance to the garage and made certain the tank was full. When he returned, Caspar passed him three flight bags. Billy was just wearing his green diving jacket, his eyes anonymous behind dark glasses. Caspar maintained his full disguise, the fold across his face. The harbor was barely stirring.

  “
It’s going to be hot later,” Billy said.

  “You could be right.”

  They got into the boat and Billy turned on the engine and moved away from the jetty.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “How should I feel?”

  “Damn it, Caspar, you are her father.”

  “True, but in such a situation as I find myself, I realize I’m still a Muslim and, as we say, Inshallah-as God wills.”

  “Maybe.” Billy pushed up to top speed and went out in a long sweeping curve toward the Sultan. “And maybe not.”

  * * * *

  HAL STONE WAS SITTING in a wicker chair, a cup of coffee on the table beside him, a pair of enormous glasses to his eyes, gazing toward the great house on the cliff.

  “A number of gardeners working away. Activity already on the water, several fishing boats. Mainly on that side, things like motorboats, skiers. The beach over there attracts them.”

  Billy took the glasses from him and looked.

  “I see what you mean.” He handed them back. “Where’s Dillon?”

  “In the galley seeing to bacon and eggs.”

  “That’s even better,” Billy said, and went down the companionway.

  Dillon was whisking scrambled eggs. Like Billy, he just wore a diving jacket. “I’ve left the weapons in the saloon on the table. You’d better take a look.”

  “What about the woman?” Billy asked.

  “She’ll be frightened out of her wits if things go our way. I’ve put some stuff out that should take care of it.”

  Billy went into the saloon. There were two Walther PPKs on the table, Carswell silencers screwed in place. He handled them both expertly and two Uzi machine pistols that lay beside them. There were some plastic clip-on handcuffs, a roll of plastic tape.

  Dillon looked in. “Breakfast’s ready.”

  Billy turned, went to the kitchen behind him, picked up a laden tray and Dillon brought another. It was all calm and orderly, the sounds of traffic drifting across the water. They found the others at the table.

  “What happens now?” Billy said as he ate.