“Totally, sir.”
“So get on with it, then, what have you got?”
Stagg told him.
When he was finished, Ferguson said, “You did right. This is an affair of the utmost seriousness. Drecq Khan—do you know him?”
“No, sir, but I’ve heard of him. The chap I took over from left a file on him, pointing out his London connection, but making it clear he was no longer welcome.”
“And Considine’s connection with him?”
“To start off with, he’s French Lebanese, a Christian, and he’s an accountant who does the books for Khan, lost everything in the war, including his wife.”
“Right. This is what I want you to do. Call me back in an hour. Have you told the Ambassador about this matter?”
“No, General, he’s on two weeks’ leave in Switzerland.”
“Excellent. Don’t say a word to anyone. Carry out your usual duties, but you now belong to me. Considine will be essential to what I have in mind. Make sure he’s up for it.”
“He’s that, all right, sir. He’s hoping he might get his English visa out of this.”
“Cheap at the price. We’ll speak again in an hour.”
ROPER SAID, “This old freighter, the Valentine—I can put out a search for such a ship, but the problem with vessels like that is false identity. I know cases of these old contraband rust buckets changing their name three or four times over the years.”
“I accept that,” Ferguson said, “I also accept the rumor could be false, but it’s worth finding out because of the connections with Drecq Khan and the Broker.”
“In a way, Considine is the most important player,” Miller said. “Your eyes and ears.”
“As long as he’s willing to play spy,” Dillon put in. “He’s going to have the two GRU agents hanging around the place.”
Ferguson nodded. “Obviously, I like to have someone on the ground.” He turned to Dillon. “You’re no good, Sean, Drecq Khan knows you too well.”
“And that’s a fact, and he knows Billy and Harry even better. They were the ones who put Khan through the wringer.”
“Which only leaves me,” Harry Miller said.
“Impossible.” Ferguson shook his head.
“Why not? I’ll go as myself, acting for the Prime Minister. In fact, I already did it just after the Israelis withdrew from Lebanon, as part of a United Nations committee.”
“I didn’t know that,” Ferguson said.
“Believe me, Charles, even my wife didn’t know. I was supposed to be in Germany. I was only away five days. Even Carter and MI6 didn’t know until after it was all over.”
“It must have been unpleasant,” Dillon said.
“That’s one way of describing it. I’m still a member of the committee. We’ll both speak to the Prime Minister, Charles, it will work, I promise you.”
Roper said, “You really don’t have any choice, General. Volkov knows who Harry really is, but nobody can argue with his status.”
Miller said, “An under secretary of state on a fact-finding tour representing the British Prime Minister. We could sort out the details today and I’ll go tomorrow.”
“All right, you’re on,” Ferguson said. “We’ll see the Prime Minister together. And we’re in luck—we don’t need to have that bastard Simon Carter in on the discussion.”
“Why, what’s he up to?”
“He sits on the UN Security Committee for Central America. He left yesterday for Honduras. Let’s get moving.” As they moved out, he said to Roper, “Take Stagg’s call and fill him in.”
He and Miller went out quickly, and Dillon reached for the scotch and poured a couple, handing one to Roper.
“What do you think?” Roper asked.
“Harry Miller? We’ve seen what he’s capable of.”
“But is that enough?”
“I know where we could get a little help. I’ve been in Beirut twice in past years, and each time I had Mossad backing. There’s a man named Cohen, General Arnold Cohen. He’s the head of Section One, Activities in Arab Countries.”
“Activities in Arab Countries.” Roper smiled. “He sounds interesting.” And then Stagg came through.
“What’s happening, sir?”
“Can you confirm that Considine is willing to be involved all the way on this thing? It could be dangerous.”
“Absolutely, sir, that visa is his prize. He’ll do anything for it.”
“Excellent. If things work according to plan, we’re sending an MP tomorrow, Major Harry Miller, who has under secretary of state rank and is a member of a United Nations committee on Lebanon. He’s been a troubleshooter for the Prime Minister in the past. His presence won’t seem out of place, and you’ll do exactly what he tells you.”
“Of course, sir.”
“He is, shall we say, capable of handling himself in highly charged situations. It brings out the soldier in him.”
“I must say I like the sound of that, sir.”
“Let me run through the whole thing again with you. . . .”
AN HOUR LATER, General Arnold Cohen was seated at his desk in the study of his Tel Aviv home when the phone rang.
“This is Sean Dillon, you old sod. Shalom.”
“The Devil himself.” Cohen was delighted, but also alert. “Still working for Charles Ferguson?”
“What else? What about that son of yours, busy as ever?”
He was referring to Lieutenant Colonel Gideon Cohen, a major field agent for Mossad.
“Okay, he’s out and about, business as usual. Listen, Dillon, I heard what happened to Hannah Bernstein.”
“Sorely missed,” Dillon told him. “But I also hope you heard what happened to those responsible for her murder, Arnold. But we have a slight problem. I’m going to pass you over to Major Giles Roper, who you may know runs the Holland Park safe house for us. He’ll explain.”
“I’ll be delighted. Major Roper’s fame goes before him. What can I do for him?”
Roper intervened. “Well, this is what we’ve got, General.”
When he was finished, Cohen said, “I’ll be honest with you, Major, I know you have something of a genius for what you do, but I have some pretty damn good people working for me, too. I already knew that there was a lot more to Harry Miller than met the eye. This information about Volkov and the Valentine is interesting, though. Such rumors are relatively common in our experience, but it’s certainly worth checking out.”
“Can you assist in Beirut?”
“Yes, I do have someone on the ground.”
“Can I have details?”
“No,” Cohen said flatly. “My agent will be in touch with Miller when it suits him. We have to take great care these days. Beirut is no place for a Jew.”
“I can imagine.”
“Leave it with me. I’ll be in touch as things happen.”
“And I thank you.”
LATER, Ferguson came on the speakerphone. “The Prime Minister has authorized it. I’ve okayed Lacey and Parry for the flight in the morning, using a Gulfstream bearing UN colors.”
“Just to make it look official?”
“Of course.”
“Something else for you.” Roper told him about his conversation with Arnold Cohen.
“He and his people have always been totally reliable. If he says he has a man on the ground, he has a man on the ground. I’ll call Harry about this, and you notify Stagg.”
“I already have.”
“There is one thing,” Ferguson added. “Miller wants suitable weaponry supplied. Will you speak to the quartermaster about that?”
“Of course,” Dillon said. “Leave it to me.”
“And Roper,” Ferguson carried on. “Let’s keep as low a profile on this as possible. Miller’s just making a routine trip for the PM.”
“Shouldn’t be too difficult.” Roper shrugged. ”It’s pretty uninteresting to most people in the general scheme of things.”
“I’ll put it on a Co
de Three at Farley, so the department and destination aren’t noted. We can’t control the fact of his arrival in Beirut, but it would mean he isn’t expected.”
THINGS AT DOVER STREET had improved a certain amount. Olivia was deeply ashamed of the events in the restaurant in Shepherd’s Market, and Monica had taken advantage of a midterm vacation at Cambridge to stay on, hoping that her presence might help the situation.
Miller had business at Parliament and returned to Dover Street at about four o’clock, and discovered that Olivia and Monica had gone out in the Mini Cooper. He packed and everything was ready in his room.
Ellis, who was waiting outside, took him back to Downing Street, where he dropped him off. Later, at about five, he phoned Dover Street and Monica answered the phone.
“Are you coming to the play?” she asked.
“Sure, I’ve told Ellis to pick you up. I’ll see you there. I’m busy at the Cabinet Office.”
“What’s the big flap?” his sister said. “If one’s allowed to ask? Are we going to war somewhere else?”
“No, but I’m going to Beirut in the morning. I’ll probably be away for a week, perhaps less. I won’t know till I get there.”
She was shocked. “Beirut? But what on earth for? All they seem to do is shoot each other.”
“I’m a member of a UN committee on Lebanon, remember? I missed the last visit.” Once again the lies, the deceit. “Anyway, things aren’t looking too good and the PM wants me to give him a report.”
“Olivia isn’t going to like this.”
“Monica, my sweet, that’s just too bad. She’s got her job, I’ve got mine. I’ll see you at the theater and I’ve booked a restaurant afterwards.”
Strange, the feeling of relief that coursed through him. The truth was he actually felt good about going to Beirut. He went and sat at his computer and got on with some work.
IN BEIRUT, two hours on, it was already into the evening, and Drecq Khan sat behind a desk at the hiring hall on the Beirut waterfront with one of the assistants, Abdul Mir. Many men waited patiently, squatting in the hall, seeking work, seamen among them.
“The word has gone out to many people,” Abdul said. “It takes time, but there is a problem.”
“And what would that be?”
“Captain Stagg, the Military Attaché from the British Embassy. It seems he’s been doing the rounds himself, seeking information on a boat named the Valentine.”
“Is that so?” Khan said.
Earlier in the day, two men in crumpled linen suits had approached him, Bikov and Torin, the GRU men from the Russian Embassy that Volkov had promised. They had slightly worried him, for Khan was meticulous about his appearance, and these were definitely men who preferred the unshaven look. They had been sitting at a street café outside for a couple of hours, and now he went out to them.
“Has something come up?” Torin asked.
“Perhaps. Do you know a man from the British Embassy named Stagg?”
“Sure we do. What’s he up to?”
“Apparently, he’s also seeking news of the Valentine.”
“Is that a fact?” Bikov said. “Then we’ll have to have words with him.”
“Don’t kill him,” Khan said. “What I really want to know is how he’s involved in this Valentine business in the first place.”
“We’ll treat him with all respect,” Bikov said.
Torin added, “Then we’ll kill him.” He stood up and said, “Come on, Boris, I’ve heard he’s at the Café Albert most nights.”
They walked away. Khan watched them go, pushing through the crowded streets of the old town, shrugged, and went back inside the hall.
THE CAFÉ ALBERT wasn’t crowded, but it would be later when the trio started playing. Stagg stood at one end of the bar, enjoying a large vodka tonic and a cigarette. He could see the door reflected in the mirror on the opposite wall, Torin and Bikov entering. Stagg’s Russian was reasonable, thanks to Sandhurst, but he didn’t need to use it. Torin and Bikov had served in London, he knew that well.
“Ah, the Brothers Grimm,” he said as they approached. “What are you two up to?”
Torin nodded to the bartender, who poured two vodkas without being asked. “At least you drink good vodka, even though you kill it with tonic.”
“Never mind that,” Bikov said. “We want words, my friend.”
“Ah, it’s friend, is it?” Stagg asked.
“We’re just wasting time here.” Bikov gripped Stagg’s left arm lightly. “We’re taking a little walk outside, where you can tell us why you are so interested in a ship called the Valentine.”
“So that’s what all this is about?”
“Exactly, and you see the hand Ivan has in his pocket? I don’t need to tell you he’s prepared to put a bullet in your head.”
“My arse he is.” Stagg was actually laughing as they went out into the crowded street. “What a couple of clowns you are. So you’re going to cut me down in a street as crowded as this?”
Torin said, “Life is cheap in Beirut.”
“That line is so bad you must have got it from a B movie.”
Bikov was enraged and raised his fist to strike, and as Stagg blocked it, an ancient Renault car parked across the street started up and nosed across, scattering people. The driver called, “Your cab, Captain Stagg.” The driver got out, came around, and opened the passenger door. He wore a shabby linen suit and looked around fifty, with long black hair, a bush mustache, and olive skin. “Sir?”
“Thank you. Another time, gentlemen.” Stagg got in, the cabdriver got behind the wheel, and they moved away. “Home, Captain?” He had a heavy accent, and Stagg couldn’t work out what it was.
“Yes, if you know where that is.”
“British Embassy compound.”
“Are you going to tell me who you are?”
“I’m your cabdriver. Look, people like those Russian bastards carry guns in their pockets.”
Stagg raised his right knee to the dashboard, the trouser rolled up revealing the revolver in the ankle holder. “Colt .25?”
The cabdriver nodded. “I might have known.” He pulled in outside the embassy gate. “No charge, Captain.”
“Well, I’m obliged,” Stagg told him. “I’m sure I’ll see you again.” He nodded to the guards, went in to his quarters, and reported this latest turn of events to Roper at Holland Park.
THAT EVENING IN LONDON, Miller caught up with them, Olivia and Monica in Olivia’s dressing room as usual, and found his wife in excellent spirits as she sat applying her makeup. “Monica was telling me about your trip, Harry.”
“Yes, sorry about the short notice.”
“That’s all right. If you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. It must be something to see, the Prime Minister’s Rottweiler springing into action.”
Monica looked troubled, but Miller laughed. “A thrill a minute. We’ll see you later.”
ANOTHER WONDERFUL NIGHT, the audience absolutely lapping it up. Monica and Miller waited by the stage door, and she said, “This thing is going to run for months.”
“I’m sure Noël Coward would have been delighted.” Miller observed. “A pity he’s dead.”
“What a terrible thing to say,” Monica told him. “What’s got into you?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, I just feel good.” It was Beirut, of course, the prospect of stepping into the War Zone again.
The dinner was superb, Olivia in an excellent mood, Miller at his most charming, Monica grateful that it had all worked so well. Miller paid, and they went to the door and found it raining. There was a pedestrian way through the market; in some places, metal tables and chairs sat outside cafés that had closed for the night. The headwaiter gave the women an umbrella, and they walked together, threading their way through the tables.
A young man was talking loudly in a doorway to a woman, who broke away and ran off. The smell of alcohol was strong, and he swigged it from a bottle, but he was obviously on somet
hing. He almost fell over a chair, grabbing at Monica, and he pulled her to him and placed the bottle he’d been drinking from on the nearest table. He smiled at Miller as he fondled her.
“What are you going to do about that, then?”
Miller picked up the bottle by the neck and smashed him across the side of the skull. Surprisingly, the bottle didn’t break, but the man released his grip on Monica and fell across the table and down to the pavement.
Miller said, “Come on, girls, let’s go,” took each of them by the elbow, and urged them around the corner to where Ellis waited.
Monica stayed surprisingly calm. “Are you just going to leave him?”
“Well, I can’t think of anything else to do with him, can you? If I called the police in, they’d just say I’d infringed his human rights.”
Since he was leaving early in the morning, he slept in the second spare bedroom and found himself downstairs in the sitting room after midnight, having scotch and a cigarette, and it was there that Monica found him.
“The man in the alley—you looked like you’d done that sort of thing before.”
No deceit, no lies this time. “Yes, you could say that.”
She said softly, “I’ve never really known you, have I, Harry?”
“My darling sister, what’s infinitely worse is that I’ve never really known me. A bit late in the day to find that out.” He got up. “I’m for bed.”
WHEN HE ARRIVED at Farley, he found no Ferguson, but Dillon waiting for him with the quartermaster, who took them into his office, where he had a Walther with silencer on his desk, five magazines, and a .25 Colt with hollow-point cartridges. There was an ankle holster.
“An ace in the hole, sir, if you need one. I’ve found over many years it can make a difference.
“You don’t need to tell me, Sergeant Major.” Miller put the weapons in his carry bag and said to Dillon, “Thank God for diplomatic status and no security check.”
Parry appeared in the doorway. “Ready to go, Major.”
They walked to the door, and Miller looked out at the rain. “Ah, well, at least the sun will be shining out there.”
Rough Justice Page 12
