Rough Justice

by Higgins, Jack

  “Thanks very much.”

  “We’re fine,” Miller said. “Big Arthur’s at the wheel of my Mercedes.”

  “The fruits of office.” Ferguson kissed Monica’s hand. “Glad to have you aboard. Till tomorrow.” He gave Helen his arm.

  Miller and Monica followed them, and found Arthur waiting across the street. “Home, Arthur,” Miller said, and kissed Monica on the cheek. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “What do you think?” She smiled. “The only problem it leaves me with is what to wear. I’ll have to go through my wardrobes the minute we get back to Dover Street.”

  “Women,” he said. “How wonderfully practical you all are about the essentials in life.”

  AT DOVER STREET, she went straight in while Miller paused to explain the situation to Arthur and how it was going to affect him for the next few days. He arranged for him to be on standby in the morning, bade him goodnight, and followed Monica inside, hurrying as rain started to fall. Monica had gone straight upstairs, he could hear her racketing around. He smiled, then walked into the sitting room and noticed the red light on the answering machine.

  He paused at the sideboard, pouring a scotch, picked up the phone as he drank it, and listened to the recorded message. Then he had to sit down. He was stunned. It was a man speaking in Arabic.

  “It is ten o’clock and you are obviously out, Major Miller. If you have any interest at all in the identity of the Broker, a messenger will be waiting very close to you in the graveyard of St. Mary’s Church, Coin Street, until eleven o’clock. All your questions will be answered.”

  The Arabic was clear and fluent, he recognized that. He checked his watch. It was twenty minutes to eleven, and Coin Street was just down the road on the near side of St. Mary’s Square.

  Time was of the essence. He pulled open the middle drawer of the sideboard, produced a silenced Walther, dropped it in his raincoat pocket, and made for the front door. As he got it open, Monica appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “Harry, where on earth are you going?”

  “Business, love, in a hurry.”

  He went down the steps and started to rush along Dover Street in the rain, his Codex to his ear as he called Roper, who answered instantly.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Harry.” He was running across the square now. “Had a message from some Arab. Told me there’d be a messenger waiting for me in the graveyard of St. Mary’s, Coin Street.”

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Someone who can reveal the identity of the Broker.”

  Roper was shocked. “Dammit, Harry, it could be a trap. You need backup.”

  “No time. The messenger will only wait until eleven, and this is Mayfair, Giles, not Beirut. I’m just coming up to St. Mary’s now. I’ll be back.”

  Roper was already doing a conference call that took in Dillon, Billy Salter, and Ferguson at the same time.

  THERE WERE LIGHTS at the heavy iron gates of the churchyard, a couple on a wall of the church itself, and the gravel patch from the gate was shadowed as it wound its way through a forest of Gothic monuments and gravestones. His shoulders were soaked in the heavy rain, and he put his Codex in his pocket and gripped the Walther without taking it out.

  He saw an Angel of Death, common enough in Victorian times, a mausoleum with a couple of marble figures at the entrance, then something stirred and a young woman stepped out of the shadows clutching a small umbrella in her left hand. In the half-light from the church wall, he could see at once that she was Muslim. He couldn’t make out if she had on a full chador, because she was wearing a raincoat over her garments, but certainly her head was covered and part of her face. When she spoke, her English was excellent.

  “You are Major Miller?”

  Miller glanced beyond her and around. “Are you alone?”

  “Yes.”

  She couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, with great luminous eyes. The scarf had slipped from her face and she was beautiful.

  “Who sent you?” he said. “I was told there would be a messenger, but who from?”

  “I am that messenger,” she said. “I am from the Army of God, who serve only Allah as the Broker ordains.”

  “You know the Broker?” Miller was instantly eager beyond caution. “Who is he?” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Tell me, child.”

  “He is the voice of Allah who speaks to me on the telephone, who speaks to many. He has told me what must be done.” She added in Arabic, “You are accursed in the sight of Allah.”

  He was close, a hand on her shoulder now, and as she still gripped the umbrella, he was not aware of her right hand with the knife, thrusting it into his left side. He cried out in pain, trying to push her away, half turning, and now she stabbed him under the left shoulder so deeply that the knife stuck for a moment. He pulled away, his hand scrabbling in his pocket and finding the Walther.

  As he pulled it out, his leg collapsed so that he fell on his back and tried to scramble up, an arm raised to ward her off. She was a demon that could not be satisfied, and as she stabbed again and again, he pushed the end of the silencer against her heart and fired, only the once, but that was all it took, and she was hurled back against the doors of the mausoleum and slid down.

  He crawled over to her, slipping the Walther into his pocket with a bloodstained hand. He was racked with pain, blood oozing from so many places, but the only important thing was her and what the half-light from the church revealed. The young face gravely peaceful, eyes half open in death.

  He was aware of a strange buzzing from inside the other pocket and realized it was his Codex. Roper’s voice was urgent. “Are you all right, Harry? Dillon and Billy are on their way.”

  “Bleeding like a stuck pig, but then maybe that’s what I am. I kill kids now.” A kind of weeping possessed him.

  “What is it, old son? What’s wrong?”

  “It was the Broker himself who made that call. The bastard sent a young disciple, a lovely girl of sixteen or so. I wasn’t expecting it and tried to talk to her.” He was fading now. “She told me I was accursed in the sight of Allah and she stabbed and stabbed and stabbed. In the end, I shot her.” He took a deep breath. “So Dillon and Billy are coming?”

  “They sure are.”

  “And you’ve alerted the disposal team? We mustn’t forget them.” He tried to laugh. “What bastards we are, Roper.”

  “It’s the world we live in, old son.”

  And then Billy Salter’s red Alfa Romeo pulled inside the entrance and Dillon was out and running, dropping to one knee.

  Miller opened his eyes. “Who’s that coming in behind the car?”

  “It’s what we call the dark ambulance. We have a very private hospital called Rosedene. Absolute total security and privacy, and the finest general surgeon in London, Professor Henry Bellamy.”

  The paramedics hurrying up the park were all in black tracksuits. “It’s bloody funny, really,” Miller said. “It’s getting more like a funeral every minute.” He lost consciousness.

  AT ROSEDENE, Dillon sat with a very stressed Monica and Ferguson. They were subdued, waiting for news, and the matron, Maggie Duncan, looked in. “Before you ask me, he’s been stabbed several times, so it’s taking ages doing the necessary repair work. He’s lost a lot of blood, but that’s being taken care of. I’ll have one of the girls bring more tea and coffee. If you want anything stronger, Sean, you know where the medicinal whiskey is kept in Professor Bellamy’s office.” She turned to Monica. “Lady Starling, he isn’t going to die, so stop worrying. He’s in a mess, yes, but it will heal in time. I’m an expert. We specialize in people who end up in here badly knocked about. It’s the name of the game.”

  Monica jumped up and went across and kissed her. “Thank you so much.”

  Maggie smiled and went out, and a moment later Roper entered in his wheelchair, Billy and Harry Salter with him. Roper said, “Has Bellamy given the good word yet?”

 
“No, but Maggie Duncan’s been helpful,” Ferguson said.

  Monica put in, “She said he’s in a mess, but it will heal in time.”

  “But there’s the other side to this business,” Roper told her. “The Broker set Harry up. The girl was very high on coke and a couple of other things that are worse. A blood test showed it. The Broker used her as a weapon, it’s as simple as that. She told Harry she knew he was accursed in the sight of Allah. She’d been turned into a religious zombie by a truly evil man. Harry was weeping as he spoke to me. He said: ‘I kill kids now.’”

  “That’s bleeding nonsense,” Harry Salter said. “There’s only one guy bad in this business, and Gawd help him if I ever get my hands on him.”

  “Join the queue,” Ferguson said. “It would be a long one.” He turned to Roper. “That poor girl?”

  “The disposal team took care of it an hour ago.” He sighed. “Billy and I attended.”

  Bill was embarrassed. “I didn’t feel comfortable about her being alone. All she had with her was the knife, so there’s no means of knowing her identity. The Broker was covering his back in case anything went wrong.”

  Harry Salter said, “There’ll be a judgment day, you’ll see.”

  Shortly afterward, Bellamy came in straight from the operating theater. “A nasty business, and it’s taken some fancy embroidery, as they say in the trade. One thrust could have cost a kidney, but missed by a whisker. There were many wounds, but the trench coat he was wearing helped stop full penetration of most.”

  “Can I see him?” Monica asked.

  “Not for some time. He’s still under. If you’d care to stay with us, Matron can find you a room, no problem.”

  “Yes, I think I’d like that very much.”

  Bellamy turned to Ferguson. “He’ll need a couple of weeks to pull round to a reasonable level. We’ll say he’s got pneumonia, that’s to cover him with the Whips in Parliament. He hasn’t a cut on the face, and the rest of him will be covered one way or another.”

  “Sounds reasonable.” Bellamy left, and Ferguson said to Monica, “I’m damned sorry things have turned out this way, but it makes me more determined than ever to push the Irish trip through. We’ll leave you now to see how he gets on.” He glanced at his watch. “One o’clock.”

  Monica managed a faint smile. “Good luck to you all.” She went out to Maggie Duncan’s office.

  Ferguson said, “Yes, I know it’s early in the morning, but I suggest we adjourn to Holland Park to discuss matters.”

  “ALL RIGHT, what’s changed?” he said later.

  “Harry Miller and his sister won’t be coming,” Billy said. “That’s Dillon, Helen Black, me and you, General. Can it be done?”

  “Well, I could say stuff the arthritis,” Harry said.

  “All very well,” Dillon said, “but I’ve had an idea. We pick up the boat at Oban tomorrow afternoon, leave that night or early the following morning. We sail through the North Channel into the Irish Sea and skirt the coast of County Down and the Mourne Mountains.”

  “Is this a geography lesson?” Ferguson asked.

  “My uncle on my mother’s side, Mickeen Oge Flynn, has a garage in a place called Collyban. A mile round the point is a disused quarry in the cliff and a rather nice Victorian jetty. You’ll drop me off. I’ll walk a mile or two and call in on Mickeen, who’ll have a car waiting for me. I’ll wear a black suit and trilby hat, a clerical collar, a pair of Zeiss tinted glasses, the kind that change color, a slight disguise if you like.”

  “And what the hell do we do?”

  “Anchor off the harbor at Drumore as planned. Volkov and his heavies will drive down the coast road to Drumore when they get off their plane. I’ll see what they get up to.”

  “What you get up to, you mean,” Ferguson said.

  “If I can do myself a bit of good with the Russians, it would make up for Harry being in a bed at Rosedene, and it would just leave Quinn and company to deal with.”

  “Crackers,” Billy told him. “You can’t do much with the Russkies on your own.”

  “Ah, but it won’t be me. Father Martin Sharkey, that’s the name.”

  “Well, I’m against it,” Billy said.

  Ferguson shook his head. “Harry Miller is a significant loss to the operation. Dillon’s right. Anything he can do to even things up could prove crucial.” He turned to Dillon. “Okay, you get your way.” He stood up. “I don’t know what the rest of you are going to do, but I’m going to bed for a few hours. Staff accommodation will be fine. I suggest you do the same.”

  He left, and Harry Salter said, “We’ll go back to the Dark Man, Billy and me, and save him a trip in the morning. Farley Field at noon. We’ll see you there, Dillon.” He led the way out.

  Roper said, “Are you staying or going, Sean?”

  “I might as well get off to Stable Mews and get my disguise together. Mickeen Oge Flynn wouldn’t thank me for phoning him at this time.”

  “You never know.”

  “That’s true. He was always up for it during the Troubles.” He took his Codex out and thumbed the number. “There you are, transfer to your system and we can both listen.”

  The number rang for a couple of minutes and then there was a drowsy, slightly drunken voice. “Who the Christ is calling at this fuggin hour?”

  “It’s your nephew, you ould sod.”

  The other voice changed, came to life. “Sean, is it yourself?”

  “And no other. I’ll be dropping in to see you early in the morning, not today, tomorrow.”

  “Where from?”

  “The sea, you daft idiot. You’ll have a motorcar waiting for me, and I’ll have one thousand pounds in fifty-pound notes to slap in your hand.”

  “What is it, Sean, what are ye up to? Is it back to the great days?”

  “Gone forever, avic, but there are still those who need sorting out down Drumore way. Are you sound on this?”

  “Would you insult your old uncle? I’ll be here, and your car.” He chuckled. “But bring the cash!”

  He went, and Dillon turned to Roper. “You see, all you have to do is live right.”

  “So it would appear. Anything else you need?”

  “Yes, ask the quartermaster to get me a twelve-bore double-barreled shotgun, sawn off, naturally. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He went out and Roper lit a cigarette, poured whiskey into a paper cup, and started to probe cyberspace.

  Scotland

  Ireland

  13

  MONICA FOLLOWED MAGGIE DUNCAN’S ADVICE AND TOOK A SLEEPING PILL so that it was nine o’clock before she stirred, Maggie’s hand on her shoulder.

  “How is he?” Monica swung her legs to the floor.

  “Believe it or not, but he’s just had a cup of tea, with my assistance. Have a shower, shake yourself up, and you can see him.”

  When she went in his room, he was gaunter than she had ever seen him, eyes sunken. They had raised the bed behind him, he was on two drips, and a loose clinical smock covered his bandaged wounds.

  “Hello, love, sorry to put you through it again.”

  She kissed him fondly. “Don’t talk nonsense.”

  “That poor girl. She was like a demon, stabbing, stabbing.” He was very emotional. “I was desperate, and there was the gun in my pocket.”

  She sat on a chair beside the bed and tried to soothe him. “It wasn’t your fault. The Broker used that girl abominably, made sure she was on drugs, persuaded her she would be doing Allah’s bidding. I don’t accept that for a moment. The Prophet himself would damn him. The true evil of this man was to persuade the girl to do his bidding.”

  The door had opened quietly, and Dillon entered. “I couldn’t agree more.” He said to Miller, “The lady’s right. You’re as much a victim in this as anyone. How do you feel?”

  “Bloody awful, but the morphine’s kicked in. What’s happening, Sean?”

  “We leave at noon as planned.”

  “B
ut without me, and that leaves you short. Could Harry Salter take my place?”

  “He’s not really up to that sort of thing anymore, but we’re determined to go through with it. I’ve spoken to Helen and she’s still with us. I’ve rearranged the plan just to try and even things up.”

  “And how would you do that?”

  “Resurrect Father Martin Sharkey.”

  WHEN HE WAS FINISHED, Miller nodded. “I can see what you’re getting at and it’s a bold plan, Sean, but you’ll be on your own.”

  “Sure, and I’ve been on my own for most of my life, and I’m still here. I’ll be fine.”

  “Makeev and Grigorin are the best the GRU can provide, and that means damn good.”

  Monica looked troubled. “Don’t worry about me, love,” Dillon told her. “Let me tell you how I got into all this in the first place. Charles Ferguson got me out of a Serb prison, where I was awaiting a firing squad, but only on condition that I agreed to work for him. He said he had so many bad guys to handle, he wanted someone on his side who was worse than they were.”

  She was angry. “That’s so stupid.”

  “Not really. He saw me for what I was, and so should you.” He turned to Harry. “I’ll be in touch, you can count on it.”

  Monica didn’t stand up. “What about me, can I count on it?”

  “There’s an old Irish poem. ‘She turned my head not once, but twice.’” He smiled. “And that’s the kind of woman you are, Lady Starling. So let me get away out of this before I find myself in trouble. God bless all here.”

  The door closed behind him and Harry caught Monica smiling. “You like him, don’t you?” he said.

  “He’s an easy man to like.” There was sweat on Miller’s face, and she wiped it dry with a paper towel.

  “But frightening, I suppose?”

  She paused, frowning slightly. “But I don’t find you frightening, not in the slightest. Why would I feel differently about Dillon?”

  Miller smiled. “Maybe he finds you frightening?”