Day of Reckoning sd-8

by Jack Higgins

  'I know that area,' Dillon said.

  'You wouldn't last long, Dillon. They're a funny lot. Strangers stand out like a sore thumb.'

  Ferguson said, 'Let's be specific.'

  'When I fled to the States, I was helped by a wealthy Irish American group who were a bit radical. Didn't approve of peace. I brokered a big financial deal for Brendan. The idea was to prepare for the future, the next war.'

  'Which explains the bunker,' Ferguson said.

  'But where did the arms come from?' Dillon asked. Behind the mirror, Roper was making notes.

  'Oh, that was a Mafia connection. Brendan had worked with them in Europe. A fella called Jack Fox.'

  'Fronting for the Solazzo family?' Hannah said.

  'Well, I always figured he was fronting for himself. He supplied the arms.'

  'Anything else?' Hannah asked. 'Lebanon, for example?' 'Christ, is there nothing you don't know?'

  'Get on with it,' Dillon said.

  'Murphy was trained in Libya years ago, has strong Arab contacts, can even get by with the language, enough to order a meal, anyway.'

  'So?' Ferguson asked.

  'Well, Fox controls the Solazzos' drug operations in Russia, so he has big contacts. Murphy has the Arab link.' 'Which Arab link?'

  Regan hesitated. 'Saddam. Iraq.'

  'That's nice,' Dillon said. 'What's intended?'

  'There's a freighter down from the Black Sea next week. Called the Fortuna. If it's on time, it's due at a place called Al Shariz, south of Beirut, next Tuesday.'

  Dillon took over. 'Russian crew?'

  'No, Arab. All Army of God.'

  'And the cargo?' Regan hesitated. 'Come on, what's the bloody cargo?'

  'Hammerheads.'

  There was a pause, and Hannah turned to Ferguson. 'Hammerheads, sir?'

  The door opened and Blake entered. 'Sorry, Brigadier, but I know all about those. They're short-range missiles mounted on a tripod that only take two minutes to erect. Their range is three hundred miles. Nuclear-tipped. They wouldn't take out Israel or Jordan completely, but Tel Aviv wouldn't look too good.'

  Ferguson turned to Regan. 'Have you told me the truth, told me everything?'

  Regan hesitated again. 'When the boat gets in, the Fortuna, Brendan will be on board. Fox meets them, gets paid in gold. Five million.'

  'Dollars or pounds?' Dillon asked.

  'How the fuck would I know? Paid on the boat is what I heard, because they want to arrange another consignment a

  month later.'

  'And all this is true?' Ferguson asked.

  'Yes, damn you.'

  Ferguson turned to Helen Black and Miller. 'Send him

  back to his room.'

  They took Regan out between them, and Roper came in

  after they left.

  'I've had a thought,' he said. 'I've got details of Fox's Gulfstream. It's parked at Heathrow, as I recall. Let me

  check its movements.'

  They followed him to his ground floor suite, where all his equipment had been set up. Roper started on the computer,

  fingers deft on the keys.

  He grunted. 'Fox has a slot booked out of Heathrow for Monday morning, destination Beirut.'

  'Wonderful,' Dillon said. 'Regan was telling the truth.' 'So what now, sir?' Hannah asked.

  Ferguson said, 'We can't send in the SAS, and we do have other business with Fox. Something more subtle is

  needed.'

  Hannah said, 'The Israelis wouldn't like this, Brigadier.'

  'Exactly what I was thinking.' Ferguson turned to Dillon. 'You went to Beirut the other year with the Superintendent here. Stayed at the Al Bustan.'

  'How could I forget it? It overlooks some excellent Roman

  ruins.'

  'You remember my man there, Walid Khasan?'

  'Very well. Lebanese Christian. He and the Superintendent

  got on rather well. Which is not surprising, considering that

  he was actually Major Gideon Cohen of Mossad.' 'Lieutenant colonel, now.'

  'Had a nice sister, Anya, I remember. A lieutenant.' 'Captain, now.'

  'And there was another one — what was his name? Captain Moshe Levy?'

  'Major. Everything goes up in the world, Dillon. Yes, I think Colonel Cohen might be interested. I'll give him a call.'

  Lieutenant Colonel Gideon Cohen wore uniform only on occasion. Sitting in his office now at the top of a secluded building in Tel Aviv, he was wearing a white shirt and linen Slacks, all very unmilitary for a Mossad colonel. Forty-nine years of age, he had olive skin, and hair that was still black and down to his shoulders.

  His sister, Captain Anya Shamir, sat at a corner desk, working a computer. She'd been a widow since her husband's death on the Golan Heights.

  In the other corner, Major Moshe Levy sat at a second computer. He was in uniform because he'd had a report to make at Army headquarters, and wore khaki shirt and slacks, paratroopers' wings and decorations. The phone on Gideon Cohen's desk rang.

  A voice said, 'This is Ferguson. Are you coded? I am.'

  'My dear Charles, of course I am.' Cohen waved to Anya and Moshe. 'Ferguson from London.'

  He pressed the audio button on his telephone. 'Charles, old boy.'

  'Don't call me old boy just because you went to Sandhurst. I'm glad to say I still outrank you.'

  'Something special, Charles?'

  'Something rotten in the state of Lebanon.'

  'Tell me.'

  Which Ferguson did.

  When he was finished, Cohen said, 'Hammerheads. We can't have that.'

  'Jerusalem wouldn't look too good after one of those.' 'Exactly. Charles, I need to consider this.'

  'What you mean is, you need to talk to the general, your uncle.'

  'I'm afraid so.'

  'That's no problem. But this is a black one, Gideon. Keep it close.'

  In his penthouse office, General Arnold Cohen, head of Mossad's Section One, the group with special responsibility for activities in Arab areas, listened gravely.

  When his nephew was finished, he said, 'Hammerheads. This is very serious.'

  'So what do we do? Call an air strike on this boat, the Fortuna?'

  'In Lebanese waters? Come on, Gideon, we're supposed to be nice at the moment while our British and American cousins castigate Saddam.'

  'And he's going to send Hammerhead strikes up our backside.'

  His sister, Anya, standing with Levy by the window, said, 'Can I make a point, Uncle?'

  'Of course you can. You've gotten away with murder with me ever since you learned to speak, so why should this time be different?'

  'Why don't we use Dillon, uncle? He's hell on wheels, that one — remember that job with him in Beirut the other year? He was incredible.'

  'She's right,' Levy put in. 'What's important here is disposing of this Fortuna boat and its cargo with a minimum of fuss, right?'

  'So?'

  'So we make it a small-scale operation. With Dillon to call on, the three of us — Anya, Moshe, me — can handle it in Al Shariz. The right equipment, and we can blow the damn boat to hell.'

  'He's right,' Gideon Cohen said. 'No adverse publicity. No air strikes.'

  'I like it,' the general said. 'Get on with it.'

  Ferguson said, 'Fine, Gideon. I'll send over Dillon. Also an American colleague, Blake Johnson, who works directly for the President. You'll find him most useful. I'll put Dillon on.'

  A moment later, Dillon said in bad Hebrew, 'How are you, you lying dog?'

  'Dillon, we seem to have business together.'

  They switched into English. 'I'm not sure how we'll do this,' Dillon said. 'If we're to blow this Fortuna out of the water, we'll need mines, Semtex, some scuba equipment.'

  'We'll take care of it. We'll keep it low-key. Myself, Levy, my sister. With you and this American, that's five. We don't want to draw attention, although things have changed since you operated in Beirut, my friend. It's not quite the war zone it used to
be. People are trying to build up the infrastructure again, tourism and so on.'

  'Where would Fox stay. Beirut?'

  'No, there's an old Moorish palace in Al Shariz which has been refurbished as a hotel. I'd say he'll be there. It's called the Golden House.'

  'No good for us, then.'

  'No problem. We'll come up on a motor yacht, like tourists. You and your friends can stay on board.'

  'We can't exactly sit in the bar at the Golden House, though. We don't want Fox to know it's us. It'd be much better if he thought it was an Israeli job.'

  'Do you recall my sister Anya?'

  'How could I forget? She played a lady of the night better than a lady of the night.'

  'Enough to ensnare this Fox.'

  Dillon laughed. 'Enough to ensnare friend Fox.'

  'You and Johnson, Levy and myself, we'll stay on our boat, the Pamir, well out of the way. Anya can squeeze what she can out of the guy. We'll send the Fortuna down when we're ready.'

  'You Israelis are such morally committed people,' Dillon said. 'But you'll sink that boat, crew and all, without a flicker.'

  'Not even half a flicker,' Cohen said. 'See you soon.' Dillon hung up, and Ferguson said, 'So, here we go again.' Hannah Bernstein said, 'What about me, Sir?'

  'Not this one, Superintendent. Dillon and Blake, plus our friends from Mossad, are enough. What I'd like you to do is get a little more basic with friend Regan as regards the bunker in County Louth.' He turned to Roper. 'I'm sure the Major here will be more than willing to help.'

  'A pleasure, Sir,' Roper said.

  'Sorry, Hannah, I'll have to love you and leave you.' Dillon turned to Blake and smiled, a strange excitement there. 'Here we go, old buddy, back to the war zone again.'

  9

  LEBANON

  AL SHARIZ

  Brendan Murphy leaned over the rail of the small coastal freighter, the Fortuna, and watched the distant lights of Syria. The ship was Italian-registered and had definitely seen better days, but under its battered exterior the essential bits, the engines, were in excellent condition. They'd left the Black Sea two days earlier and had made good time.

  The man who approached him, wearing a seaman's reefer coat, held a cup of coffee in one hand, which he passed to him. His name was Dermot Kelly and he had unfashionably Irish blond hair and a hard, pocked face. He lit a cigarette.

  'Jesus, Brendan, they're all fugging Arabs, this crew. If I light up in the saloon, they glare at me. Lucky I brought a bottle on board.'

  'Fundamentalists,' Murphy said. 'Army of God, this lot. They're just waiting for death in the service of Allah, so they can go to Paradise and have eternal pleasure and all those women.'

  'They must be crazy.'

  'Why? You mean we're Catholics and we're right, and they're Muslims and they're wrong? Come off it, Dermot.'

  An Arab, in a reefer coat the same as Kelly's, came down a ladder from the bridge. He was the captain and his name was Abdul Sawar.

  'How's it going?' Brendan demanded.

  'Excellent. We'll be on time.'

  'Well, that's good.'

  Sawar said, 'Any problems?'

  'Well, I miss bacon and eggs for breakfast,' Kelly told him.

  'We do our best, Mr Kelly, but some things are not possible.'

  'Well, you'd probably have a problem in reverse in Dublin,' Kelly told him.

  'Exactly.'

  Sawar went back up the ladder, and Murphy said, 'Don't stir the pot, Dermot. You can't expect good Irish bacon on an Italian boat crewed by Arabic fundamentalists off the coast of Syria.'

  'All right, so I'll just think of the money.'

  'The gold, Dermot, the gold. Speaking of which, we'll check it out.'

  He led the way to the stern of the ship, and went down a companionway to a rear saloon. There were two cargo boxes wrapped in sacking.

  Dermot lit a cigarette. 'They look like shire to me.' 'Five million in gold, Brendan.'

  'How do we know?'

  'Because Saddam wants another cargo next month, so he won't screw around with this one.'

  'Do you think it's all going to work?'

  'Like a Swiss watch. Fox will be on a plane. We'll offload the gold, and take it to the airport at Beirut, where the right officials have been bribed. The plane is routed to Dublin, but it puts down at an old air force base in Louth on the way. We unload our half and Fox carries on, announcing a mid-air change of destination.'

  'Where will he go?'

  'Supposedly Heathrow, but on the way there, when the plane is in uncontrolled air space, he'll put down on this estate nearby in Cornwall, called Hellsmouth. There's an RAF aerodrome there from the Second World War. The runway's a bit rough, but it can take a plane like the Gulfstream.'

  'Sounds good to me, Brendan.'

  'And me, Dermot.'

  The other man smiled, took a half bottle of Paddy whiskey from his pocket, unscrewed the top, and drank deeply. He passed it across.

  'Well, here's to Irish bacon and eggs, soda bread and rain.' He smiled. 'I miss the rain, Brendan. The good Irish rain.'

  Gideon Cohen, his sister and Moshe Levy had left a yachting marina on the coast near Haifa in a forty-foot boat of a kind regularly rented by tourists interested in diving. There were stocks of air bottles in the stern, bunks for seven people below, a good kitchen gallery, every convenience.

  Cohen's passport was British, in the name of Julian Grant; his sister and Levy had become a Mr and Mrs Frobisher, also British. Their background being impeccable, and Lebanon desperate for tourist money, they'd had no trouble getting the necessary visas, and pushed towards Al Shariz through the late afternoon.

  Cohen was at the wheel, Levy lounging beside him, Anya looking out of the half-open window.

  'So, let's go over it,' her brother said. 'You and Moshe book into the Golden Palace, and do remember, Moshe, this is my sister you're sharing a suite with.'

  'How could I forget, Colonel?'

  'Fox is booked in with these two hoods, Falcone and Russo. You make yourself available in the bar, Anya, just in case there's information available.'

  'Oh, dear,' she said. 'Here I go again. Stage Six at MGM, playing the whore.'

  Her brother smiled, and hugged her with his spare arm as he steered. 'No, the good-looking whore.' He shook his head. 'This is a bad one, little sister. We can't make a mistake.'

  'Well, at least we have Dillon.'

  He laughed out loud. 'My God, yes, the poor old Fortuna doesn't know what's going to hit it.'

  On the plane on the way to Beirut, Dillon said to Blake, 'So, we're interested in establishing an electronics factory, a joint Anglo-American project, jobs for all. Three days in and out.'

  'No problems?' Blake asked.

  'Certainly not. They're still trying to build up the country again, while surrounded by people who want to cut each other's balls off.'

  'So, we join Cohen's boat, look like recreational scuba divers.'

  'And send the Fortuna to the bottom. Hammerheads, the lot,' Dillon said.

  'And the crew?'

  'Murdering fanatics. If they didn't want the risk, they shouldn't have joined.'

  'But, Dillon, there's five million pounds in gold on board.'

  'Yes, isn't that, as Ferguson would say, delicious? It also goes to the bottom. A fabulous expression of conspicuous consumption.' He waved to Flight Sergeant Madoc. 'Bring me another Bushmills, I'm celebrating imagining how Jack Fox will feel.'

  Fox booked into the Golden House, with Falcone and Russo. He had a nice suite on the first floor — marble, scattered rugs, all very Moorish. He felt good. The Colosseum was a bad memory, and his lawyers seemed to think they might be able to fix things. Whether they did or not, the gold from the Fortuna was a certainty. Added to that, the cash Murphy owed him in Ireland from Irish-American arms orders would take the pressure right off.

  'Everything okay, Signore?' Falcone asked.

  'Couldn't be better. Tonight's the night, Aldo. Gold, there's no
thing like it. It's still the one commodity you can rely on. You've checked with the harbourmaster?'

  'Yes, Signore, the Fortuna is due in at ten. A crew of twelve, all Arab. It left the Black Sea the day before yesterday.' 'Where will they anchor, on the pier?'

  'No, it's full. A few hundred yards out in the entrance to the bay.'

  'Excellent. I'll have a shower, then dinner. I'll see you later.'

  Their plane landed in early evening. Dillon and Johnson booked in as Russel and Gaunt and took a taxi to Al Shariz. On the way, Dillon called Cohen on his mobile.

  'Lafayette, we are here. I'm saying that on behalf of Blake.'

  'Well, we're here, too. Lower yacht basin. Pamir, Pier Three.'

  'See you soon.' Dillon switched off his phone and relayed the information to the driver.

  On the Pamir, Cohen looked through a pair of Nightstalker glasses and watched the Fortuna drop anchor. He said to Anya, 'Off you go. All I want to know is what he's up to. It could give us a clue to his movements.'

  'Sure,' she said.

  'Another thing.' He was strangely awkward. 'Duty is duty, but you're my beloved sister. Don't get close to this one. He's bad news.'

  She kissed his cheek. 'Hey, little brother, don't worry.'

  She booked into the hotel, changed, then went down to the bar, resplendent in a black mini dress, her dark hair to her shoulders, and looking terrific. She sat at the bar, and Fox, over by the window, Falcone and Russo at the next table, saw her at once. He nodded to Falcone, got up, went to the bar, and sat next to her.

  'Hi, there.'

  'An American!' She smiled. 'What are you doing here?' 'Investigating tourist prospects,' he said glibly. 'What about you?'

  'Oh, I'm over from London with my husband, on the same errand.'

  'Your husband?' Fox was disappointed.

  'Yes, well, he's been called to Tel Aviv. Left me on my own for three days.'

  Fox put his hand on hers. 'That's terrible, a nice-looking lady like you all on her own. But you've got me now. Have you eaten?'

  'No.'

  'Well, join me.'

  Which she did, for a sumptuous meal, part Arab, part European, and lots of Cristal champagne. She endured his questing hand on her thigh and waited. Finally, Falcone, who had stood by the window, answered a mobile, came over and whispered.