“Oh, damn you, Harry, I don’t know. In fact, I don’t know anything anymore. Now let’s see where this friend of yours is and have a drink.”
Dillon had managed to find a corner table and had a bottle of Krug champagne open. Monica was charmed. He jumped to his feet, took her hand, and kissed it.
“Lady Starling, it’s always a pleasure to meet a truly handsome woman, as Jane Austen would have Darcy say.”
She was totally thrown and laughed. “Am I to take that as a compliment?”
“You can take it any way you like, as long as you approve of Krug nonvintage. People of taste and discernment consider it the best in the world. It’s the grape mix.”
He handed her a glass, then Miller and she sampled it. “I must say that is rather good.”
“Then here’s to an enjoyable evening.”
“I’m Harry’s sister, you know that?”
“I know everything about you. University don, Cambridge, fellow in archaeology, a foremost expert on the Dark Ages, especially in what happened to the Romans in Britain after the collapse of the Empire.”
“You are well informed.”
“Punch your name into any computer and up you come.”
“And you, Mr. Dillon, what do you do?”
“Play a passable barroom piano. I’m also a bit of a linguist, and you can turn a pound or two with that.”
“Bit of a linguist,” Harry said. “Speaks everything, including Irish.”
“I see.” She was intrigued. “As you’re not an MP, you’re some sort of civil servant, I take it?”
“An excellent description of what I do. I serve the Crown.” He topped up her glass. “You’ve just time to finish that, and we’ll get to our seats. I’m looking forward to seeing the great Olivia Hunt strutting her stuff.”
Harry laughed, and Monica said, “You enjoy theater, do you?”
“Oh, yes, very much.” The bell sounded, and the final call to their seats. “Here we go, then,” and he gave her his arm.
AFTERWARD, they waited with Ellis for a few moments beside the Mercedes. Olivia and Colin Carlton came out quite quickly, on a high, flushed with triumph. Before being introduced to Dillon, she said, “Oh, what are we going to do? There’s one too many for the Merc.”
It lacked something certainly, and Dillon made his move quickly. “I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you many times. Let me say old Noël would have been proud of you tonight, and you, Mr. Carlton.” He nodded at Miller. “I’ll see you soon, Harry.” He gave Monica the most devastating of smiles. “Lady Starling, a sincere sensation.”
He simply faded into the passing crowd, leaving Ellis holding the passenger door and a slightly embarrassed silence. “Oh, dear,” Olivia said, “have I said the wrong thing?”
Miller said calmly, “We’d better get moving, Ellis, we’re on limited time for the table. I’ll sit with you in front.” As she brushed past him to get in, Monica gave his hand a brief squeeze.
AT THE SAVOY, as they passed through the tables, Olivia was recognized by many people, and there was a certain amount of applause. The maître d’ couldn’t have been more obliging and led them to an excellent window table.
Olivia was still on a high. “Champagne, Harry.” She pulled Carlton to his feet. “Come on, darling, I want to dance.”
Miller waved to the wine waiter. “Krug, nonvintage.”
“Are you certain, Major Miller?”
“Absolutely. Best in the world.” He glanced at Monica. “It’s the grape mix.”
The waiter departed, and she laughed. “I did like your new friend, Harry.”
“Yes, he is rather special, isn’t he?”
“Don’t be annoyed with Olivia. You know what actors can be like.”
“Of course. Her behavior where Dillon was concerned lacked a certain grace, but it’s her loss.”
“I really liked that man,” Monica said as the Krug arrived. “What does he do?”
“He works for the Prime Minister under General Charles Ferguson. Security work, that sort of thing.”
“Some sort of spook, is that what you mean?”
“Why, what did you imagine he might be?”
“I’m not sure. There was something of the soldier about him.”
“An interesting observation.”
“What is?” Olivia demanded, as she and Carlton sat down and the waiter filled their glasses.
“Oh, we were talking about Harry’s new friend, Sean Dillon,” Monica told her.
“Strange little man,” Carlton said. “What’s he do?”
“Started out in your business,” Miller said. “A student at RADA at nineteen. Played Lyngstrand in Ibsen’s Lady from the Sea.”
“Really?” Carlton shook his head. “I always think it’s a big mistake allowing students to ruin great plays that are obviously out of their reach.”
“Actually, he did it for the National Theatre,” Miller told him.
There was a pause, and Monica said, “Well, that’s a showstopper if ever I heard one.”
Olivia was slightly bewildered, and Carlton said, “Strange, I’ve never heard of him.”
“He gave it all up way before your time, exchanged the theater of the stage for the theater of the street.”
Olivia said, “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”
“Anything you want it to.” Miller stood up and gave his hand to Monica. “Let’s take a turn round the floor—it’s been a long time.”
ACROSS THE SEA in the Irish Republic, Michael Quinn was visiting Drumore Place in County Louth, the headquarters of Belov International. It was no hardship to him. He enjoyed everything about it: the small harbor, the villagers who did as they were told, the pub, the Royal George run by Patrick Ryan, whose mother was cook at the big house, Drumore Place, with old Hamilton, the butler. He always felt like a lord of the manor when he visited, and sat now by the fire in the great hall drinking whiskey, when his satellite phone sounded. He answered and found Volkov.
“I thought I’d find you there.”
“It’s good to hear from you, General. What can I do for you?”
“The mystery of Washington—you still have no news of what happened to Tod Kelly and his underling?”
“Absolutely nothing. They’ve totally disappeared. Why, have you any?”
“Miller.”
Quinn was immediately alert. “What’s he done now?”
“Listen and learn,” Volkov told him.
When he was finished, Quinn said, “The bastard. Is there no end to him?”
“Apparently not. I’ve had enough. I want Miller dead. Now. Come to London, take one of the Belov jets.”
“But Ferguson—what happens when the news of Miller’s death gets out, right in his own backyard?”
“Ferguson will understand. It’s all part of the game we play. Remember, last year, when I wanted Ferguson taken out and as many of his people as possible? The Green Tinker affair? What a screwup. Four old IRA gun hands and a couple of doped-up hoodlums and Dillon, Salter, and Igor Levin disposed of the lot. But disposed is the operative word, Quinn. It never happened—that’s always Ferguson’s solution. Nothing ever comes to court—he has a disposal unit which has the use of a crematorium. In accusing you of anything, he would also have to accuse his own people.”
“I accept that. I’d also like to point out that in the wrong circumstances, he could dispose of me.”
“Not unless he has to.”
“That’s a great comfort. All right, so tell me what you want to happen to Miller.”
“The thing we have to remember about Miller is that there is no public knowledge of his secret side. So I don’t want anything to look suspicious. I don’t want a bomb in his limousine, or someone on a dark and rainy night shooting him in the back. What I want is his death by accident. The public will accept an accident. Ferguson, Dillon, the Prime Minister, they’ll all know the truth, but they won’t be able to say so. They won’t be able to blame us publicly. We R
ussians are easily blamed in such matters, but on this occasion . . .”
“You get away with it.”
“Exactly. Think about it for a day or two, then when you are ready to go, I’ll fix it for Max Chekhov to order you to London. This is important, you must understand. It will say to Ferguson that you do not fuck with the Russians. I’d say you could spend up to fifty thousand pounds for Miller’s death.”
VOLKOV OBVIOUSLY CALLED the Broker about it, too, because it wasn’t much more than half an hour later that Quinn received the Broker’s call.
“So we have a situation here?”
“I certainly do,” Quinn said. “I don’t know about you.”
“Perhaps I can be of use. The Brotherhood flourishes in London—it can provide individuals with any kind of skill you might need.”
“But Drecq Khan got kicked out.”
“But he left somebody in his place, a man named Ali Hassim. He owns a corner shop in Delamere Road in West Hampstead. I will speak to him about you. If there is any way he can help, he will.”
“I’ve got to think about it. There may be someone from the old days, people who used to do this kind of thing, but not regularly.”
“Did you know many like that when you were with the IRA?”
“Some. There were people in London who were sleepers, some in respectable middle-class jobs, anything from teaching to banking. They’d turn out sometimes for one job only. In ’seventy-nine, a Member of Parliament was blown up by a car bomb as he drove up the ramp out of the underground car park at the House of Commons. They never got anybody for that, and the word always was that the people involved only did the one job ever.”
“Interesting that there could be individuals like that still in London. The man next door, as it were.”
“Why not? There are thousands of Irish born in London. Anyway, here’s one thing you could do. If this Ali Hassim has people who can help, it would be useful to get a report on the comings and goings at Miller’s house, wherever that is.”
“I already know where it is. The family has owned a townhouse in Mayfair for many years. Excellent area, good address, 15 Dover Street. I’ll see Hassim gets it.”
He was away then, and Quinn poured himself a large whiskey, went and stirred the fire, sat down and thought about it.
ALI HASSIM found that with his age he slept lightly, and frequently dozed on his couch beside the fire in the back room of his shop, which is where the Broker found him when he called.
“Are you awake, my brother?” he said in Arabic.
“Who is it?”
“The Broker.”
“Blessings on you.”
“And you. I hear your wife died since we last talked.”
“A heart attack. It was her time. What can I do for you?”
“Do things go well for the Army?”
“Oh, yes, thanks to the money Osama provides. We do obvious good, provide soup kitchens for the unbelievers, hostels for the poor, that sort of thing. Too much good to be bad.”
“Which must make it difficult for people like Charles Ferguson.”
“That’s the whole idea. The Army cloaks the activities of the Brotherhood, but I have severely curtailed those in the present climate. I have no wish to draw the attention of the authorities to our activities, but it would be difficult for Ferguson to actually prove anything.”
“Do you hear from Khan these days?”
“Very seldom. His task in Beirut must be demanding.”
“And brings its own troubles. Listen to me well.” The Broker proceeded to tell him everything.
Afterward, Ali Hassim said, “Truly, something should be done about all this. The death of this man Miller would not bother me in the slightest. As you know, it was Ferguson and his people who were responsible for the disappearance of my nephew, Abu. You can rely on me and my people to assist you in this matter.”
“Excellent. I knew I could rely on you. I’ll leave it with you.”
Ali Hassim sat there, thinking. Suddenly, he was no longer tired but quite alert. He went to his laptop and soon produced Miller’s details on the screen, read them with interest, then had the copier throw up a few photos. He got his mobile out and inserted a number.
“Abdul? I’m putting a photo through to your laptop. The client is a politician, Harry Miller, the address 15 Dover Street. Basic surveillance. Background, daily pattern, comings and goings. Low-key, but priority.”
So—life got interesting again, and he went and made coffee in his small kitchen.
THE MORNING AFTER the Savoy, Olivia was sleeping late, as was her usual practice after the previous night’s performance. Miller had slept in the spare bedroom so that he didn’t disturb her. He and Monica had breakfast together. “Are you coming down to Stokely this weekend?”
“It’s very sweet of you, Harry, but it’s time I got back to work, and then there’s my book.”
“Still at it after four years.”
“It’s very complicated stuff.”
“Yes, well, the Romans were very complicated people. Come on, Ellis is due about now. We’ll take you to Kings Cross for the train.”
She was finishing her coffee. “I was thinking of Dillon. He is a spook, isn’t he, Harry?”
Miller said, “He’ll roar with laughter when I tell him you said that. Actually, he was a top enforcer with the Provisional IRA.”
She almost choked on her coffee, she laughed so much. “Honestly, Harry, you are an idiot sometimes.”
“Okay, I give up. Come on, let’s get going.”
THEY DROPPED HER OFF, he kissed her good-bye, then Ellis took him to Downing Street. He didn’t have an appointment with the Prime Minister, but walked into him by chance as the great man was coming out of his office. He pulled Miller to one side and said in little more than a whisper, “Bloody good work. My God, it’s given the bastards a black eye.”
As he rushed away and went downstairs, Simon Carter emerged. “There you are, Miller. Been up to your tricks again while I’ve been away.”
“Well, the tricks got a result,” Miller told him. “Doesn’t that please you?”
“There’s a way of doing things, a proper way, sensible diplomatic overtures. Not Ferguson’s way and not your way. You’re going too far. For God’s sake, man, it could be the death of you, can’t you see that?”
Miller sometimes called him Simon because he knew it annoyed him. “My dear Simon, I didn’t know you cared.”
“What’s the point?” Carter said. “Carry on like this and see where your stupidity gets you.” He went downstairs.
Miller checked a few things, then called Ellis, went outside and got into the Mercedes when it arrived, and told Ellis to make it the House of Commons. He went in at the St. Stephens Entrance, went through the central lobby to his office, then down to the House and passed the bar. The debate was about some aspect of housing policy, the speeches very partisan, and suddenly he was so bored he couldn’t stand it anymore. He went to the Whip’s Office, said he had something to do for the Prime Minister for three days, a common occurrence, and left the House, calling Ellis on his Codex.
He told him to take him to Dover Street, but when he got there, there was no Olivia, so he phoned and found her at the hairdressers. “Do you fancy lunch?” he asked. “A run out into the country, perhaps?”
“Good God no,” she said. “I’ve got a working lunch with Colin, then the whole afternoon I have a run-through with my new understudy. Francine’s been offered a play at the West Riding Playhouse. Management has told her she can go.”
So that was that. “I’m going away for a day or two. I’ll leave you Ellis full time. I’ll take the Mini Cooper. Is that okay?”
“I suppose so. Where are you going?”
“I haven’t been to Folly’s End for ages. I feel like getting away for a day or two. It’s time I checked the place out.”
She sounded perfectly cheerful. “If that’s what you’ve got to do, that’s what you’ve got
to do. Tell Ellis where I am. He can pick me up from here.”
He changed into casual clothes—black velvet cords, black shirt, bomber jacket—and threw a few things in an old duffel bag, found a trench coat, and went downstairs. The Mini Cooper was parked at the curb, covered by a resident’s parking permit like many townhouses in Mayfair. Ellis was pulled in farther along, waiting for him, sitting behind the wheel, reading the Mail.
Close by was a man in a yellow oilskin jacket with a yellow handcart. He was sweeping the pavement with slow, deliberate strokes.
Miller said, “Change of plan, Ellis. Madame is at the hairdressers. That’s Joe Hansford.”
“What are you going to do, Major?”
“I think I’m going to go down to West Sussex, Folly’s End, for a couple of days. I’ll have a check on how things are at the cottage.”
“We haven’t been there for a year at least.”
“I know, Ellis, time I did. On your way now.” He closed the door and Ellis drove off. Miller nodded cheerfully to the sweeper, went back to the Mini Cooper, got inside, and drove away. Within minutes, he was driving out into Park Lane and turning up toward Marble Arch.
His intended destination was a few miles along the coast from Bognor Regis, not even a proper village, just an inlet where there was room for half a dozen boats to anchor, a scattering of cottages, and a pub called Smugglers’, and behind it what was left of the grass runways of a Battle of Britain fighter station, Haddon Field. His father had bought one of the cottages after the Second World War for five hundred pounds. The times spent there had been one of the most cherished memories of childhood. He couldn’t wait to get there.
ABDUL, THE SWEEPERS’ FOREMAN, had done Dover Street himself and reported what he had overheard to Ali Hassim on his mobile.
“You’ve done well,” Ali told him. “It doesn’t need to be a full-time operation. Just tell your boys to keep an eye out generally and report anything of interest.”
He searched a shelf above his desk that contained a series of travel handbooks covering most parts of the country, and found what he was looking for, an area map of West Sussex, and soon located Folly’s End. He thought about it, then phoned a member of the Brotherhood, who worked for a financial house in the City.
Rough Justice Page 15
