The Death Trade sd-20

by Jack Higgins

  4

  It started to rain at about three-thirty, when Dillon and Sara looked in on Roper. “So there you are,” he said. “Was that nice?”

  “Perfect,” Sara told him. “What about the general?”

  “All quiet since he went to bed.” Roper lit one of his eternal cigarettes and poured himself a whiskey shot.

  “Excellent idea,” Dillon said. “I’ll drop Sara off at her place and see you tomorrow, to finalize the trip.”

  “Two-thirty from Farley Field, the Gulfstream to waft you off to Paris and the joys of the Ritz. What a way to earn a living.”

  “I know, Giles, and so kind of you to remind us how lucky we are,” Sara told him.

  “Let’s hope your luck lasts when you leave. My security cameras outside have noted a London black cab that pulled up and parked amongst the plane trees halfway down the street about twenty minutes ago. It’s still there. There it is, on screen three.”

  “He could be early for a pickup in one of those Victorian villas on the other side of the road,” Sara said, and at that moment Farouk got out of the cab in spite of the pouring rain and relieved himself into the bushes.

  Roper went in for a close-up. “A large young man in grubby denims and kicking boots, the kind who only shaves his skull, never his face. What’s he doing out there?”

  Dillon shrugged. “He could be a hard-rock laborer on some building site. But let’s go and see. Is that all right with you, girl?”

  “Absolutely,” Sara said and led the way out.

  They stood in the porch for a moment, the rain bouncing from the flagstone of the courtyard. “God help us, but it’s like Belfast on a wet Saturday night. Even an umbrella won’t do you much good. Let’s see what’s in the cloakroom.”

  There was an ample choice hanging from the pegs in there, and Sara selected a khaki anorak and jungle hat to go with it that was so soft, it crushed in the hand. Dillon helped himself to a military trench coat and an old black trilby hat.

  “Will I do?” he asked.

  “If you want to look like a French gangster in one of those old Jean Gabin movies.”

  He smiled wickedly. “But that’s exactly what I was hoping for.”

  He took her arm and they ran through the rain to the Mini.

  * * *

  Abu was in a small car park outside a burger bar on the main road, one of several bikers and truck drivers. He and Farouk had a highly sophisticated device in the left ear that allowed them to communicate with each other, and it was Farouk who used it first.

  “The main gate is moving, so I’m getting out of here now. I’ll pull in on the main road.

  “Excellent, and I’ll be on your tail unless it turns out to be a false alarm. Remember to switch on your For Hire lights so you look nice and normal.”

  Roper picked up the cab on his security camera the moment it moved and called Dillon on his radio. “You’ve got traffic, Sean, take care.”

  On the main road, Farouk had pulled in to the curb, switching his For Hire lights on, and was immediately approached by a middle-aged couple. He turned them away, saying he was booked, and the Mini flashed by a moment later. He allowed three or four cars to pass before pulling out, and Abu did the same thing so that he hung well back, relying on Farouk to give him a running commentary as to where their quarry was going.

  Meanwhile, Dillon, handling the Mini carefully in the pouring rain, had Roper on the line.

  “He’s definitely on your tail, Sean. What do you intend to do about it? Are you sure the cab is the only vehicle you have to contend with?”

  “It’s all your security cameras noted. A few cars, the odd van or truck behind, is all. It’s early morning, remember.”

  “What about Sara?”

  “Just now she’s reloading her Colt .25.”

  “Never mind that. What’s going to happen to her?”

  “Well, I can’t take her home to Mayfair, because gunfire at this hour in the morning would certainly disturb the neighbors.”

  “You could drop her off at the Dorchester?”

  “Get real, Giles,” Sara told him. “I’m going where Sean is, so no arguments.”

  “I’ll come back to you on that,” Dillon told him. “Just now, I want to try some heavy driving. I’ll leave the radio on so you can monitor.”

  * * *

  Sara said, “Are we aiming for your place?”

  “Let’s say the general direction, then I’m going to divert down to the Thames. There are some decaying warehouses on Butler’s Wharf. A couple of cobbled streets, a few alleys, and the warehouses waiting to be knocked down. With development money being in short supply these days, everything is locked up. I often do my early-morning run down there, and I know it well.”

  “So what are you suggesting?”

  “Bottom of the hill is the big gate into the yard of an old warehouse. It’s been smashed open by someone so you could drive inside.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  “Because if someone was pursuing you at speed and you swerved into that yard, the only way the cab would have to go would be straight along the wharf. As that collapsed halfway along two years ago, they’d go straight over the end to drop forty foot into the Thames.”

  “My God,” she said. “And that’s the best you have to offer? You must be crazy.”

  “That’s what everyone says, so let’s get on with it. Driving should be fun, don’t you agree? I’ve had this little beauty for years and it’s been supercharged, which gives you quite a turn of speed, so let’s do it, shall we?”

  He dropped a gear, slammed his foot down, and the engine roared as he swerved out of the tail of traffic and took off. Farouk was caught napping, but only for a moment, then smiled in delight.

  “You want to play games, do you? Well, let’s see what you’ve got,” and he pulled out of what traffic there was and roared after Dillon, leaving Abu far behind.

  * * *

  Belted in tightly, Sara braced herself with both hands as they swung off the High Street into a network of mean lanes and run-down houses, with lights still on in some of them, Dillon working the wheel and the brake pedal expertly, sliding on cobbles slippery in the rain.

  Farouk, on his tail, was enjoying himself, because this bastard was as good as anyone he had ever raced against and that was meat and drink to him. He drove as he hadn’t driven for years, and Abu, far behind because he’d been totally caught out, was shouting loud in Farouk’s ear, demanding answers.

  “He’s broken away,” Farouk told him. “We’re headed down to the Thames. It looks like he’s trying to shake me off in the warren above Butler’s Wharf. I don’t know what he’s playing at, but he’s a hell of a driver.”

  “But what would he be trying to do down there?” Abu called.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Farouk replied.

  “Well, take care. This guy is special, I told you.”

  Dillon turned into Butler Walk and slowed, the narrow alley dropping steeply, just the odd streetlight still working, the warehouse below. What was left of the wharf jutted out into the river, lights sparkling on the other side, a couple of tugs moving toward the estuary, lights on.

  Farouk roared in behind him, Dillon glanced sideways at Sara, who braced herself, a fierce look on her face, and nodded. He stamped hard, gunning the engine, and they plunged down, gathering momentum. At the head of the wharf was a single light, and it seemed to rush toward them.

  Farouk followed, giving it everything he had, teeth bared as he shouted, “I’ve got you, you bastard.”

  The lamp and the light were suddenly larger, but it illuminated the entrance to the warehouse on the left, the two wooden gates standing half open, and Dillon stamped on the brake pedal, jerked the hand brake, spinning the Mini around to slide in through the entrance, bouncing the gates and sliding to a halt.

  Farouk, desperately trying to brake too late, hurtled along the wharf and over the edge and plunged down into the Thames. Dill
on slid from behind the wheel, ran out of the yard onto the wharf, but there was only darkness down there, and he turned and went back to see how Sara was doing.

  From the top of the alley, Abu had witnessed what had happened and was filled with rage. He had tried to impress on Farouk how dangerous Dillon was, but his friend wouldn’t listen. Now he was dead. There was only vengeance left, and with Allah’s blessing, Abu intended to have it. He switched off the motor, eased the hand brake, and sitting astride, freewheeled down the alley.

  * * *

  Dillon, returning to the yard, discovered Sara struggling with her seat belt, which had jammed because of the impact the Mini had suffered when bouncing the half-open gates aside. She’d lowered the window, and he leaned down.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I will be when I’ve cut myself out.” She was struggling in the confined space, trying to find the flick-knife in her right boot, when suddenly the Montesa swerved silently into the yard at a surprising speed.

  “Behind you, Sean,” she cried.

  The Montesa slid sideways, and as Dillon turned, Abu swung his arm in a powerful blow that had him on his knees. Abu let the bike fall, kicked Dillon in the body, turned and wrenched the Mini door open.

  “Get out, bitch,” he said, drawing his Glock. “I want you to watch. My name is Abu, and mark it well.”

  Dillon had raised himself to one knee, his right hand under his jacket feeling for the Walther against his back.

  Abu said, “There is only one God and Osama is his Prophet.”

  Sara found the flick-knife, sprang the blade, slicing the seat belt in a second, reached out of the open door and stabbed Abu in the back of the leg, withdrew the razor-sharp blade, and stabbed at the base of his right buttock before tumbling out against him.

  He howled in agony, kicking at her, discharging the Glock twice into the ground. Dillon’s hand swung up and he shot him in the center of his forehead, hurling him back against the Mini. He slid to the ground and sat there, eyes open.

  Sara said, “I wonder what he’s staring at?”

  “Who knows?” Dillon said. “Eternity, if there is anything out there.” He closed Abu’s eyes. “You’re a remarkable woman, and you saved my life.”

  She lifted her hands. “Look at them, Sean, not even the hint of a shake. Would you say that was normal?”

  “What it indicates is that you’re a warrior of the Old Testament Sword of the Lord — and — Gideon variety, and thank heaven for it.”

  The rain became heavy and driving, and Dillon took her hand and they ran to the shelter of a deep doorway, where Sara said, “It’s as if something’s trying to wash it all away, the blood, everything. What happens now? Nobody seems to be interested.”

  “They wouldn’t be,” Dillon said. “Not in what’s happening in a wasteland like this, a mile away from the main road and civilization.”

  He produced his silver cigarette case, put one in his mouth. Sara said, “Give me one.”

  “You don’t smoke.”

  “Now and then.” She snapped her fingers. “Come on!”

  She took the one he offered, his Zippo flared, and she inhaled without coughing. “When did all this start?” he demanded.

  “Afghanistan,” she said. “A godsend on occasions.”

  “I can see where it would be,” he told her. “So enjoy, while I speak to Roper.”

  Which he did, hurrying across to another doorway and calling in, giving Roper a swift and accurate account of events.

  Sara was sitting on a ledge in the corner of the doorway when he went back. “Teague and the disposal team will be here in half an hour. You’ll just have to hang on. Would you like another cigarette?”

  “Why not.” He gave her one, and she said, “Our own private undertaker.”

  “Abu will be six pounds of gray ash about two hours from now.”

  “And how long has Ferguson been getting away with this?”

  “Since Ireland and the Troubles. He was annoyed by really bad guys evading punishment because of human rights lawyers and the like. So, in a sense, we stopped taking prisoners. It saves a hell of a lot of court time. You don’t approve, do you?”

  “Don’t be too sure about that. Afghanistan was a cruel taskmaster. Perhaps it dulled the senses. Exposure to the butchery of children, innocent civilians, made one indifferent to the lives of those who had murdered them. If anything, a quick bullet seemed too easy for them.”

  “Had anything happened to make you feel that?”

  “Six months before the fuss at Abusan when they gave me an MC, I was on a similar gig with three brigade reconnaissance guys. We touched on a village called Mira and came under fire from the Taliban. We poured it in, they gave up. We found fourteen dead, mainly children. It looked like two families, with four young women who appeared to have been raped.”

  “And the Taliban?”

  “They stood there, hands on heads, impassive and unconcerned as I passed along the line, Glock in hand. I reached the last one, and he smiled and pursed his lips as if to kiss me, so I shot him between the eyes and worked my way backward, taking out all four.”

  It was quiet there in the rain, and Dillon said softly, “And what did your three companions do?”

  “There wasn’t much they could do, it had happened so quickly. They swore to keep their mouths shut, not that it mattered. BRF duties are some of the most dangerous in the army. They were dead, one by one, over the next four months.”

  “Which leaves you alone with your guilty secret?”

  “Not quite, Sean, now that I’ve told you.”

  Dillon put an arm around her shoulders. “I’m glad you did, girl, perhaps I can help carry your burden.”

  “But there is no burden,” she said. “Those men deserved what they got. I don’t feel the slightest guilt in the matter, so what does that say about me?”

  Dillon actually laughed. “God save us, Sara, I can’t help you there, being in the same boat.” He passed her the pack of cigarettes. “Have another if you want, I’m going to check out the Mini.”

  His clothes were completely soaked now, and Abu had slumped onto his side. Dillon pulled the body away from the car and laid the corpse out on its back.

  He crossed himself and, remembering Abu’s final words, murmured, “You’ll know all about it now, son.”

  He turned to the Mini and inspected it as best he could. The passenger door required a bang to close it, but the fact that the gates standing half open had bounced out of the way on the Mini’s passage into the yard meant there was little damage. The lights still worked, and he found that he could drive it around the yard. As he was doing that, a large black van coasted in silently and four men in black overalls got out.

  “Good to see you in one piece, Mr. Dillon,” the man in charge said. “No injuries, I trust?”

  Dillon shook hands. “I’m in perfect working order, and so is Captain Gideon, Mr. Teague.”

  “A pleasure to see you, ma’am,” Teague said as Sara approached.

  Two of his colleagues were already easing Abu into a black body bag, the third had righted the Montesa and was wheeling it to the rear of the van.

  “No problem with the bike, we’ll dispose of it, but I’d be obliged if you would show me what happened with the London cab.”

  Which Dillon did, Sara following them. They stood on the broken end of the wharf, and Teague shone a powerful torch. “Forty feet down and possibly a depth of thirty feet. Remember, the Thames is fiercely tidal, so the wreck of the cab could be swept away. No exchange of fire?”

  “Absolutely not,” Dillon told him.

  “So if it ever was examined — say, by the river police — it would pass as a very unfortunate accident.”

  “Which you could say it was, in a manner of speaking,” Dillon told him.

  “So that’s what we’ll leave it as.” Teague turned to Sara. “What a world we live in, ma’am. So pleased you’re in one piece. The Mini being usable, Mr. Dillon, I pr
esume you’ll be driving back to Holland Park?”

  Dillon turned to Sara. “Would you rather go home?”

  “I think that would be a good idea. I’ve got to face them sometime, put on a show of normality.” She held out her hand to Teague. “I’m sure we’ll meet again, but I hope it’s later rather than sooner.”

  She went to the Mini, and Teague said, “A remarkable lady.”

  “You can say that again. That al-Qaeda assassin had me in his sights, and she took him on with a spring blade. Saved my life.”

  “So you owe her, and big-time. Always remember that, my friend.” Teague shook hands, went to the van where the others waited, got in, and was driven away.

  Dillon went to the Mini, where he found Sara behind the wheel. He slipped into the passenger seat. His only comment was “When you drop a gear and put your foot down hard, there’s a huge power surge. It’s the supercharger.”

  “Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind,” she told him, switched on, and drove away. He selected a CD and music drifted out. Fred Astaire. As the intro played, Sara joined in, singing softly: “There may be trouble ahead / But while there’s music and moonlight and love and romance / Let’s face the music and dance.”

  “Great lyrics,” Dillon said.

  “A lesson for everybody.” She hummed along and never said another word until they reached South Audley Street and Highfield Court, where she drove into the drive. Dillon got out as she moved halfway to the house and turned. “Night bless, Sean, it’s been a sincere sensation. See you later.”

  “Take it easy,” he said, got behind the wheel, and reversed out of the drive.

  The front door opened to her, and Sadie, wrapped in a dressing gown, stood to one side as Sara entered and closed the door behind her. “It must be four o’clock in the morning, and you’ve been drinking, I can smell it.”

  “And singing in a piano bar.” Sara made for the stairs. “Is Granddad all right?”

  “Went to his bed hours ago. Honestly, Sara, I don’t know what’s to become of you.”