Rough Justice

by Higgins, Jack

  “That’s my pleasure.” Dillon took her arm and walked her away.

  Ferguson nodded to Miller. “A word, Harry.”

  He moved out into a large sun lounge and they followed, joining him when he sat in a corner. “Roper’s spread the word about what happened to this chap Bolton. It’s something we’ve all got to take on board.”

  “I’d say it’s obvious what’s gone on,” Harry Salter said.

  Billy nodded. “I agree. So what to do about it? It’s time we sorted the Army of God people and Ali Hassim.”

  “Hold your horses.” Ferguson turned to Miller. “You made an assumption about Bolton at Folly’s End, that he was Army of God?”

  “True, and I baited him by making a reference to the Brotherhood.”

  “But you didn’t have any substantial proof that he was a member?”

  “No, but Roper discovered his mother was Muslim.”

  “So what? That wouldn’t have any significance legally. Legally, the Army of God is a registered religious charity that happens to be Islamic, and the Brotherhood is just a rumor. So I don’t want anybody going kicking any doors in.”

  “That’s a pity,” Harry Salter said. “Last year when we had trouble with that worm Drecq Khan, he shot his mouth off big-time when we dangled him from the hoist over the stern of the Lynda Jones and dumped him in the Thames.”

  “I want none of that,” Ferguson said. “And that’s an order. We need something more positive, a real breakthrough. I’ve got a feeling we’ll get one. We’ll have to wait.”

  Monica, enjoying her glass of champagne on the patio with Dillon beside a half-open French window, had heard most of what they’d said, even though Dillon had tried to guide her away. Ferguson and company rose and followed Roper into the hotel, where the call to lunch had just been made.

  “What a bunch,” Monica said to Dillon. “I can’t believe it. Villains, the lot of you.”

  “Young Billy Salter’s an agent of Her Majesty’s Secret Security Services. Roper was the greatest bomb-disposal expert in the British Army till he tried to defuse one too many and got a wheelchair and the George Cross out of it. Good old Charlie Ferguson has a DSO and the Prime Minister’s full confidence, just like your brother. They help keep people out of harm’s way in a world gone mad. They are soldiers who take care of those things ordinary folk can’t.”

  “And you?” she demanded. “The pride of the IRA?”

  “Peace in Ireland, Monica, that’s what we’ve got now.” He reached to a passing waiter’s tray, took two fresh glasses, and offered her one. “I’m simply along for the ride.”

  “I just bet you are.” She sipped her champagne, more excited than she’d been for years.

  AT DERRY STREET later that day, Fahy was much worse. The pain was indescribable, the shot of whiskey each time it got bad, unsustainable. He felt himself to be groggy, the whiskey going to his head, and finally put his phone over to the answering machine and fell on the couch and blacked out. One hour later, it rang and a message was received, but he didn’t respond. In fact, it rang three or four times, but nothing could break through that fog of alcohol and he continued to sleep.

  EARLY EVENING at Stokely. The guests departed, Aunt Mary retired some time later, and the Senator followed her. Miller and Monica sat in the drawing room, having a coffee.

  “I’m bushed,” she said. “A hard day.”

  “What did you think of my friends?”

  “I don’t know what they do to the Queen’s enemies, but they scare me.”

  “I thought you got on rather well with Sean Dillon. There’s hope for you there, Monica.”

  “What nonsense. He probably sleeps with a gun under his pillow. You’ve got yourself mixed up with a strange crowd. Where is it going to lead?”

  “Hopefully to whoever was behind the plot to finish me off.” He got up. “I’m restless, love, I’m not going to stay on here longer than I have to. Do me a favor. Comfort Aunt Mary and encourage the Senator to stay on for as long as he wants. I think he needs to.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m going to call Arthur and tell him I’m going back to Dover Street.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.” He reached for the phone.

  She saw him off at the door fifteen minutes later, hugged him fiercely. “Take care, promise me?”

  “I always do.”

  She stood there, listening to the Mercedes fade into the distance, and as she turned to go back inside, she was afraid.

  FAHY CAME BACK to life, his head aching. The liquor was by the phone, so he poured another and went in the kitchen, turned on the cold tap in the sink, and splashed water on his face.

  Behind him Sister Ursula’s voice said, “Mr. Fahy, this is most urgent. Maggie isn’t well. Please come at once.” It cut off and he toweled his head vigorously and the machine came alive again with the same message, and then a third time as he struggled into his coat. As he made for the door, the phone itself rang and he grabbed it.

  “My dear chap,” the Broker said, “I was wondering how you are.”

  “I’ve no bloody time,” Fahy said “An emergency with my wife.” He slammed the phone down and ran out into the garage, raised the door, and got in the Triumph and drove away.

  The Broker, at his desk, then dialed the number of St. Joseph’s Hospice, which he had already obtained. When a nun on reception answered, he said, “I’m inquiring about a Mrs. Margaret Fahy, a patient.”

  “Are you a relative?”

  “Yes, her brother-in-law.” The lie came smoothly.

  “I’m afraid the news is bad. She passed away a couple of hours ago. A stroke.”

  “I see. How unfortunate.”

  A little later, Fahy parked the Triumph outside and staggered in. “My wife,” he demanded. “I’m Sean Fahy. I want to see my wife and now.”

  The nun rang the alarm bell.

  IT TOOK TWO NIGHT PORTERS to handle him while Sister Ursula was sent for and managed to calm him. They took him through to a small white-tiled mortuary where his wife lay on a gurney covered with a white sheet. Ursula pulled it back so he could see the pale, waxen face.

  “It was very quick, she died in a few seconds. A massive stroke. A kindness really, God’s kindness.”

  Fahy slumped down on a metal chair. “I never did her a kindness, I was nothing but a worry to her for years, until the end, when I thought I could buy her a bit of happiness for a while. I couldn’t even get that right, so it cost another woman her life.”

  “I don’t understand,” Sister Ursula said, and thought him rambling. “Go home and get a good night’s sleep. Come back in the morning, and Father Doyle will be here to help you make the arrangements.”

  “Yes.” He nodded vaguely, brushed past the porters, and left.

  He made it back, parked the Triumph inside the garage, left the door open, and went upstairs. He sat there numb and the pain started again, and he found the Bushmills and was drinking from the bottle when the phone went.

  The Broker said, “I was worried about you. I checked on your wife’s condition at the Hospice and discovered the bad news.”

  “That’s right. She’s dead, cursed by God, a punishment to me for murdering an innocent woman, because that’s what I did. I took the job for your stinking money to see to my wife’s future, and do you want to know why? I’ve got cancer of the pancreas. I’ve got days to live, that’s all, and if I could put right what I’ve done, I would, so to hell with you.” He slammed down the phone.

  The Broker contacted Ali Hassim and quickly explained the situation. “This man is clearly unbalanced. He must be eliminated. There is no knowing what he might do.”

  “You’re right. Leave it to me. I’ll send Abdul to deal with him.”

  FAHY WAS SITTING THERE, feeling strangely alert. He’d had another swig from the bottle. Time had no meaning, the whiskey now seemed to have no effect on him, and then he heard the rumble of an engine through the floor and h
e got up and went downstairs to the garage. There was a BMW motorcycle parked beside the Triumph. He examined it, puzzled, then turned and Abdul moved in, the knife cutting into the left side of the stomach as Fahy faced him.

  “For Christ’s sake,” he cried, and staggered back into what had once been a fireplace in Victorian times.

  “No, for Allah’s sake.” Abdul stood there, staring at him, knife in hand.

  Fahy said, “Listen, you stupid bastard, I served the IRA well for years in London and the police never rumbled me, but if they did, I always had my ace in the hole ready, and it’s still there.”

  He put his hand up inside the chimney, grasped the Smith & Wesson .38 revolver hanging from a nail, and shot Abdul between the eyes.

  IT STARTED TO rain again, quite hard. Fahy went to the door and listened. No one appeared to have been disturbed, but then, it was the kind of area where people minded their business, and with crime at the level it was in London these days, shootings and knifings not uncommon, it didn’t pay to go looking for trouble.

  His left hand was covered in blood, and he sat down at the desk again and opened a deep drawer. There were useful items from the old IRA days, some British Army field service wound packs and various medicines. He took the cover off one of the packs, opened a bottle of Dettol, and poured it all over the wound, not caring. He tightened the linen holding straps as hard as he could, then found a plastic pack of morphine ampules, snapped the end of one, and stuck it in.

  “Daft idiot, you’ve had it, the bastards have done for you, Ali Hassim, the Army of God and this bugger.” He stirred Abdul’s body with his foot. “Muslim terrorists, Al Qaeda, so the Broker must be a Muslim in spite of his fancy talk.” He swayed in the chair but pulled himself together. “You can’t die yet, you old sod. Got to pay the bastards off, and there’s only one man who can do that for you.”

  He opened the drawer, took out the notes he’d made to help him plan the whole Dover Street operation, and found the telephone number he needed.

  ARTHUR FOX dropped Miller off after receiving instructions about the following day, and Miller let himself into the house that seemed curiously quiet, as if it knew that nothing would ever be the same again. He listened to the stillness, then went into the kitchen, made a cup of tea, returned to the sitting room, looked out at the bow window, and the phone rang.

  He picked it up, and the first thing he heard were the words “Christ, it hurts!” followed by a terrible groan.

  There was a pause, and Miller said, “Who’s there? What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m dying, that’s what’s wrong with me. Muslim fella from the Army of God stuck a knife in me. I’ve shot the bastard. Just let me take another pull at this Bushmills.” There was a gurgle. “That’s better.”

  “Who are you?”

  “If you’re Miller, I’m the man who tried to kill you, only it all went wrong, as you know better than anyone. My name’s Sean Fahy.”

  There was that feeling of everything easing into a different time frame again, and yet Miller felt totally in control. “Just take your time and tell me where you are.”

  “You’ve got to promise me first. No police, no ambulance, and I mean that. I’ve a pistol in the desk, and if I hear sirens approaching, I’ll finish myself off. Now, do you want to hear about Quinn, a man called the Broker, Ali Hassim and his Brotherhood? I’ve even got Russians in the plot.”

  Miller said, “Just tell me where you are.”

  “Your word, Major, that you’ll just let me die.”

  “Your dying gives me no problem at all.”

  “Derry Street Garage, Kilburn. I’ll hang on for you, I swear.” He laughed hoarsely. “Let’s hope the Bushmills lasts out.”

  MILLER GRABBED a raincoat, slipped a Walther and silencer into a pocket, and went out to the Mini Cooper. He drove carefully through empty, rain-soaked streets, calling Roper on his phone. Roper had been sleeping in his chair as he often did, but came awake as Miller’s voice boomed over the speakers.

  “What’s up?” Roper asked, and Miller told him.

  When he was finished, Roper said, “You’ll need backup.”

  “What I need is no interference. Fahy wants to unload and I believe it’s genuine, so I don’t want anything to interfere.”

  “Would Dillon be okay?”

  “Nobody else. I need to hear what Fahy has to say more than I’ve ever needed anything in my life.”

  “Good luck, that’s all I can say. I’ll alert the others.”

  DERRY STREET was dark and still, and in his lights Miller saw that many of the houses were boarded up, obviously awaiting the attention of the developers. There was a narrow cul-de-sac beside the garage, and he coasted the Mini Cooper in and switched off. The garage door was partially down, rain pouring over in a kind of waterfall. He ducked under and found it quite dark. The only light was at the far end, where Fahy sat behind the desk.

  “Is it yourself, Major? Come in. A terrible time in the morning, one o’clock.”

  Miller moved past the Triumph, noted the BMW and Abdul on his back, also the pistol that Fahy raised in his bloody left hand. “Would you be having one of these in your pocket, Major?”

  “Different model.”

  “Yes, it would be. This was hanging from a nail in the fireplace. The bastard stuck me and got the last surprise of his life. One between the eyes. I was never big with the handgun, the bomb was my specialty.”

  “So?” Miller waited, hands in pocket.

  “I used to work for Quinn in the glory days, but I haven’t been active for years. He phoned me from this Drumore Place in Louth and offered me fifty grand to top you and said he was in charge of security for Belov International and that people wanted you dead. I told him to get stuffed.”

  “But you changed your mind?”

  “My wife was in a hospice near here, Alzheimer’s. The nuns were wonderful, but the National Health people said they wouldn’t pay for her there anymore. They were going to put her in some dump. I couldn’t have that. All I gave her was trouble for years, and I wanted to make it up to her.”

  “With fifty thousand pounds?”

  “Something like that. Quinn told me you knocked off a few of the boys during the Troubles so it was tit-for-tat.”

  “What did you do to the Amara?”

  “I designed a gadget I’d used in the old days. Twenty minutes after starting, the brake fluid system was burned out. I fitted it while he was in the café. In your street. He didn’t have any brakes when he tried to stop at those lights.” His voice was fading a little. “It was meant for you. Quinn and his Russian bosses wanted it and the Broker man wanted it. He represented Al Qaeda and took over my payment with Osama money. Ali Hassim and his people are controlled by the Broker.”

  “Did you ever see the Broker?”

  “Never. Only spoke on the phone. He sounded English and very top drawer. A messenger delivered an envelope with a key in it at noon. He went off at once, and the Broker phoned a few minutes later to say it was the key to locker seven at a place called The Turkish Rooms in Camden.”

  “Explain,” Miller said.

  Fahy did, and ended, “The envelope I found contained an open bank draft for fifty thousand pounds, one of those untraceable Swiss jobs. HSBC accepted it in my account without hesitation.”

  “When was this?”

  “The day before the accident.” His head lolled and he sagged across the desk and pushed himself up, leaving a bloody handprint. “I never even saw your wife get in the car. I’d no idea, but she did, and you haven’t heard the best bit. My wife died, Major, died of a stroke. It’s all been for nothing. She’s lying in the morgue up there in St. Joseph’s. I’m supposed to see Father Doyle, and he’ll sort things out later today.”

  His eyes were sunken, there was sweat on his face, and he was trembling now as Miller said, “So that’s it, you’ve told me everything?”

  “I think so. I’m sorry about your wife. Is there any chance you c
ould forgive me?”

  “Not really. I can’t even forgive myself.”

  Fahy gave him a ghastly smile. “Somehow I thought you’d say that.” He went down in a kind of slow motion, his head to one side and eyes staring. Sean Dillon stepped out of the darkness, leaned over, and searched for a pulse. “Dead,” he said, closed Fahy’s eyes, and lifted him out of the chair and down to the floor.

  “Did you hear any of that?” Miller asked.

  “Just about everything.” He called Roper and got an instant reply. “Two disposals. Utmost dispatch. I’ll wait for the team. Derry Street Garage, Kilburn. I’ll report details later.”

  “What happens now?” Miller asked.

  “Years ago, Ferguson got tired of a system where you bag the bad guys and then clever lawyers get them off. If you accept that a bullet is a more efficient answer, you need the disposal team to clean up. Those two will be six pounds of ash around two hours from now.”

  “And you can do that?”

  “Ferguson can do anything. Blake Johnson does roughly the same thing for the President. Would you quarrel with that? Take Abdul here.” He bent down and picked up the knife still in Abdul’s hand. “You heard how he was part of the plot in Dover Street that ended in the death of your wife, acting on orders from the Army of God. And Fahy? Did he really deserve pity because of his wife?”

  “Do I?” Miller asked.

  “Now you’re being stupid. Sam Bolton wanted to give you information about your wife and ended up stabbed to death, probably by Abdul here with that same knife and on Ali Hassim’s orders.”

  “Then shouldn’t we dispose of him while we’re at it?”

  “We very well may, but Ferguson has to make the decision.”

  “She was my wife,” Miller said bleakly.

  “I know, old son, I know.” There was a quiet rumble outside and then silence. “Here they are.”

  Dillon pulled the door right up and a large black van drove straight in. Four men in black overalls got out and the one obviously in charge nodded to them. “Gentlemen.” He walked over and examined Abdul and then Fahy. The other three produced body bags, eased the corpses in, and put them in the back of the van. Then two of them produced cleaning equipment and went to work.