by Jack Higgins
“So what are we going to do?” Makeev demanded.
“Do?” Aroun looked up at Rashid. “We’re going to give our friend Dillon a very warm reception on a cold day, isn’t that so, Ali?”
“At your orders, Mr. Aroun,” Rashid said.
“And you, Josef, you’re with us in this?” Aroun demanded.
“Of course,” Makeev said because there was little else he could say. “Of course.” When he poured another glass of champagne, his hands were shaking.
As the Mercedes came out of the trees at Grimethorpe, the Conquest banked and flew away. Brosnan was driving, Mary beside him, Harry Flood in the back.
Mary leaned out of the window. “Do you think that’s him?”
“Could be,” Brosnan said. “We’ll soon find out.”
They drove past the open hangar with the Navajo Chieftain inside and stopped at the huts. It was Brosnan, first through the door, who found Grant. “Over here,” he said.
Mary and Flood joined him. “So it was Dillon in that plane,” she commented.
“Obviously,” Brosnan said grimly.
“Which means the bastard’s slipped the lot of us,” Flood said.
“Don’t be too sure,” Mary told him. “There was another plane in that hangar,” and she turned and ran out.
“What goes on?” Flood demanded as he followed Brosnan out.
“Amongst other things, the lady happens to be an Army Air Corps pilot,” Brosnan said.
When they reached the hangar, the Airstair door of the Navajo was open and Mary was inside in the cockpit. She got up and came out. “Full tanks.”
“You want to follow him?” Brosnan demanded.
“Why not? With any luck we’ll be right up his tail.” She looked fierce and determined, opened her handbag and took out her cellnet phone. “I’m not having this man get away with what he’s done. He needs putting down once and for all.”
She moved outside, pulled up the aerial on her phone and dialed the number of Ferguson’s car.
The limousine, leading a convoy of six unmarked Special Branch cars, was just entering Dorking when Ferguson received her call. Detective Inspector Lane was sitting beside him, Sergeant Mackie in front beside the driver.
Ferguson listened to what Mary had to say and made his decision. “I totally agree. You must follow Dillon at your soonest to this Saint-Denis place. What do you require from me?”
“Speak to Colonel Hernu at Service Five. Ask him to discover who owns the airstrip at Saint-Denis so we know what we’re getting into. He’ll want to come himself, obviously, but that will take time. Ask him to deal with the authorities at Maupertus Airport at Cherbourg. They can act as a link for us when I get close to the French coast.”
“I’ll see to that at once, and you take down this radio frequency.” He gave her the details quickly. “That will link you directly to me at the Ministry of Defence. If I’m not back in London they’ll patch you through.”
“Right, sir.”
“And Mary, my love,” he said, “take care. Do take care.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.” She closed her cellnet phone, put it in her handbag and went back into the hangar.
“Are we on our way, then?” Brosnan asked.
“He’s going to talk to Max Hernu in Paris. He’ll arrange a link for us with Maupertus Airport at Cherbourg to let us know what we’re getting into.” She smiled tightly. “So let’s get going. It would be a shame to get there and find he’d moved on.”
She climbed up into the Navajo and moved into the cockpit. Harry Flood went next and settled himself into one of the cabin seats. Brosnan followed, pulled up the Airstair door, then went and settled in the co-pilot’s seat beside her. Mary switched on first one engine, then the other, completed her cockpit check, then took the Navajo outside. It had started to snow, a slight wind whipping it across the runway in a curtain as she taxied to the far end and turned.
“Ready?” she asked.
Brosnan nodded. She boosted power, the Navajo roared along the runway and lifted up into the gray sky as she pulled back the control column.
Max Hernu was sitting at his desk in his office at DGSE headquarters going through some papers with Inspector Savary when Ferguson was put through to him. “Charles, exciting times in London this morning.”
“Don’t laugh, old friend, because the whole mess could well land in your lap,” Ferguson said. “Number one, there’s a private airstrip at a place called Saint-Denis down the coast from Cherbourg. Who owns it?”
Hernu put a hand over the phone and said to Savary, “Check the computer. Who owns a private airstrip at Saint-Denis on the Normandy coast?” Savary rushed out and Hernu continued. “Tell me what all this is about, Charles.”
Which Ferguson did. When he was finished, he said, “We’ve got to get this bastard this time, Max, finish him off for good.”
“I agree, my friend.” Savary hurried in with a piece of paper and passed it to Hernu who read it and whistled. “The airstrip in question is part of the Château Saint-Denis estate which is owned by Michael Aroun.”
“The Iraqi billionaire?” Ferguson laughed harshly. “All is explained. Will you arrange clearance for Mary Tanner with Cherbourg and also see that she has that information?”
“Of course, my friend. I’ll also arrange a plane at once and get down there myself with a Service Five team.”
“Good hunting to all of us,” Charles Ferguson said and rang off.
There was a great deal of low cloud over the Normandy coast. Dillon, still a few miles out to sea, came out of it at about a thousand feet and went lower, approaching the coastline at about five hundred feet over a turbulent white-capped sea.
The trip had gone like a dream, no trouble at all. Navigation had always been his strong point, and he came in off the sea and saw Château Saint-Denis perched on the edge of the cliffs, the airstrip a few hundred yards beyond. There was some snow, but not as much as there had been in England. There was a small prefabricated hangar, the Citation jet parked outside. He made a single pass over the house, turned into the wind and dropped his flaps for a perfect landing.
Aroun and Makeev were sitting by the fire in the Great Hall when they heard the sound of the plane overhead. Rashid hurried in and opened the French windows. They joined him on the snow-covered terrace, Aroun holding a pair of binoculars. Three hundred yards away on the airstrip, the Cessna Conquest landed and taxied toward the hangar, turning to line itself up beside the Citation.
“So, he’s here,” Aroun said.
He focused the binoculars on the plane, saw the door open and Dillon appear. He passed the binoculars to Rashid who had a look, then handed them to Makeev.
“I’ll go down and pick him up in the Land-Rover,” Rashid said.
“No you won’t.” Aroun shook his head. “Let the bastard walk through the snow, a suitable welcome, and when he gets here, we’ll be waiting for him.”
Dillon left the holdall and the briefcase just inside the Conquest when he climbed down. He walked across to the Citation and lit a cigarette, looking it over. It was a plane he’d flown many times in the Middle East, a personal favorite. He finished the cigarette and lit another. It was bitterly cold and very quiet, fifteen minutes and still no sign of any transport.
“So that’s the way it is?” he said softly and walked back to the Conquest.
He opened the briefcase, checked the Walther and the Carswell silencer and eased the Beretta at the small of his back, then he picked up the holdall in one hand, the briefcase in the other, crossed the runway and followed the track through the trees.
Fifty miles out to sea, Mary identified herself to the tower at Maupertus Airport. She got a reply instantly.
“We’ve been expecting you.”
“Am I clear to land at Saint-Denis airstrip?” she asked.
“Things are closing in rapidly. We had a thousand feet only twenty minutes ago. It’s six hundred now at the most. Advise you try here.”
&n
bsp; Brosnan heard all this on the other headphones and turned to her in alarm. “We can’t do that, not now.”
She said to Maupertus, “It’s most urgent that I see for myself.”
“We have a message for you from Colonel Hernu.”
“Read it,” she said.
“The Saint-Denis airstrip is part of Château Saint-Denis and owned by Mr. Michael Aroun.”
“Thank you,” she said calmly. “Out.” She turned to Brosnan. “You heard that? Michael Aroun.”
“One of the wealthiest men in the world,” Brosnan said, “and Iraqi.”
“It all fits,” she said.
He unbuckled his seatbelt. “I’ll go and tell Harry.”
Dillon trudged through the snow toward the terrace at the front of the house and the three men watched him come. Aroun said, “You know what to do, Josef.”
“Of course.” Makeev took a Makarov automatic from his pocket, made sure it was ready for action and put it back.
“Go and admit him, Ali,” Aroun told Rashid.
Rashid went out. Aroun went to the sofa by the fire and picked up a newspaper. When he went to the table to sit down, he placed the newspaper in front of him, took a Smith & Wesson revolver from his pocket and slipped it under.
Rashid opened the door as Dillon came up the snow-covered steps. “Mr. Dillon,” the young captain said. “So you made it?”
“I’d have appreciated a lift,” Dillon told him.
“Mr. Aroun is waiting inside. Let me take your luggage.”
Dillon put the case down and held on to the briefcase. “I’ll keep this,” he smiled. “What’s left of the cash.”
He followed Rashid across the enormous stretch of black and white tiles and entered the Great Hall where Aroun waited at the table. “Come in, Mr. Dillon,” the Iraqi said.
“God bless all here,” Dillon told him, walked across to the table and stood there, the briefcase in his right hand.
“You didn’t do too well,” Aroun said.
Dillon shrugged. “You win some, you lose some.”
“I was promised great things. You were going to set the world on fire.”
“Another time perhaps.” Dillon put the briefcase on the table.
“Another time.” Aroun’s face was suddenly contorted with rage. “Another time? Let me tell you what you have done. You have not only failed me, you have failed Saddam Hussein, President of my country. I pledged my word to him, my word, and because of your failure, my honor is in shreds.”
“What do you want me to do, say I’m sorry?”
Rashid was sitting on the edge of the table, swinging a leg. He said to Aroun. “In the circumstances, a wise decision not to pay this man.”
Dillon said, “What’s he talking about?”
“The million in advance that you instructed me to deposit in Zurich.”
“I spoke to the manager. He confirmed it had been placed in my account,” Dillon said.
“On my instructions, you fool. I have millions on deposit at that bank. I only had to threaten to transfer it elsewhere to bring him to heel.”
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Dillon said calmly. “I always keep my word, Mr. Aroun. I expect others to keep theirs. A matter of honor.”
“Honor? You talk to me of honor.” Aroun laughed out loud. “What do you think of that, Josef?”
Makeev, who had been standing behind the door, stepped out, the Makarov in his hand. Dillon half-turned and the Russian said, “Easy, Sean, easy.”
“Aren’t I always, Josef?” Dillon said.
“Hands on head, Mr. Dillon,” Rashid told him. Dillon complied. Rashid unzipped the biker’s jacket, checked for a weapon and found nothing. His hands went round Dillon’s waist and discovered the Beretta. “Very tricky,” he said and put it on the table.
“Can I have a cigarette?” Dillon put a hand in his pocket and Aroun threw the newspaper aside and picked up the Smith & Wesson. Dillon produced a cigarette pack. “All right?” He put one in his mouth and Rashid gave him a light. The Irishman stood there, the cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “What happens now? Does Josef blow me away?”
“No, I reserve that pleasure for myself,” Aroun said.
“Mr. Aroun, let’s be reasonable.” Dillon flicked the catches on his briefcase and started to open it. “I’ll give you back what’s left of the operating money and we’ll call it quits. How’s that?”
“You think money can make this right?” Aroun asked.
“Not really,” Dillon said and took the Walther with the Carswell silencer from the briefcase and shot him between the eyes. Aroun went over, his chair toppling, and Dillon, turning, dropped to one knee and hit Makeev twice as the Russian got off one wild shot.
Dillon was up and turning, the Walther extended, and Rashid held his hands at shoulder height. “No need for that, Mr. Dillon, I could be useful.”
“You’re damn right you could be,” Dillon said.
There was a sudden roaring of an aircraft passing overhead. Dillon grabbed Rashid by the shoulder and pushed him to the French windows. “Open them,” he ordered.
“All right.” Rashid did as he was told and they went out on the terrace from where they could see the Navajo landing in spite of the mist rolling in.
“Now who might that be?” Dillon asked. “Friends of yours?”
“We weren’t expecting anyone, I swear it,” Rashid said.
Dillon shoved him back in and put the end of the Carswell silencer to the side of his neck. “Aroun had a nice private safe hidden safely away in the apartment at Avenue Victor Hugo in Paris. Don’t tell me he didn’t have the same here.”
Rashid didn’t hesitate. “It’s in the study, I’ll show you.”
“Of course you will,” Dillon said and shoved him toward the door.
Mary taxied the Navajo along the strip and lined it up to the Conquest and the Citation. She killed the engine. Brosnan was already into the cabin and had the door open. He went down quickly and turned to give Flood a hand. Mary followed. It was very quiet, wind lifting the snow in a flurry.
“The Citation?” Mary said. “It can’t be Hernu, there hasn’t been enough time.”
“It must be Aroun’s,” Brosnan told her.
Flood pointed to where Dillon’s footsteps, clearly visible in the snow, led toward the track to the wood, the château standing proudly on the other side. “That’s our way,” he said and started forward, Brosnan and Mary following.
FIFTEEN
THE STUDY WAS surprisingly small and paneled in bleached oak, the usual oil paintings of past aristocrats on the walls. There was an antique desk with a chair, an empty fireplace, a television with a fax machine and shelves lined with books on one wall.
“Hurry it up,” Dillon said and he sat on the end of the desk and lit a cigarette.
Rashid went to the fireplace and put his hand to the paneling on the right-hand side. There was obviously a hidden spring. A panel opened outwards revealing a small safe. Rashid twirled the dial in the center backwards and forwards, then tried the handle. The safe refused to open.
Dillon said, “You’ll have to do better.”
“Just give me time.” Rashid was sweating. “I must have got the combination wrong. Let me try again.”
He tried, pausing only to wipe sweat from his eyes with his left hand, and then there was a click that even Dillon heard.
“That’s it,” Rashid said.
“Good,” Dillon told him. “Let’s get on with it.” He extended his left arm, the Walther pointing at Rashid’s back.
Rashid opened the safe, reached inside and turned, a Browning in his hand. Dillon shot him in the shoulder spinning him around and shot him again in the back. The young Iraqi bounced off the wall, fell to the floor and rolled on his face.
Dillon stood over him for a moment. “You never learn, you people,” he said softly.
He looked inside the safe. There were neat stacks of hundred-dollar bills, French francs, Engl
ish fifty-pound notes. He went back to the Great Hall and got his briefcase. When he came back he opened it on the desk and filled it with as much money as he could from the safe, whistling softly to himself. When the briefcase could hold no more he snapped it shut. It was at that moment he heard the front door open.
Brosnan led the way up the snow-covered steps, the Browning Mordecai had given him in his right hand. He hesitated for a moment and then tried the front door. It opened to his touch.
“Careful,” Flood said.
Brosnan peered in cautiously, taking in the vast expanse of black and white tiles, the curving stairway. “Quiet as the grave. I’m going in.”
As he started forward, Flood said to Mary, “Stay here for the moment,” and went after him.
The double doors to the Great Hall stood fully open and Brosnan saw Makeev’s body at once. He paused, then moved inside, the Browning ready. “He’s been here, all right. I wonder who this is?”
“Another on the far side of the table,” Flood told him.
They walked round and Brosnan dropped to one knee and turned the body over. “Well, well,” Harry Flood said, “even I know who that is. It’s Michael Aroun.”
Mary moved into the entrance hall, closing the door behind her, and watched the two men go into the Great Hall. There was a slight eerie creaking on her left and she turned and saw the open door to the study. She took the Colt .25 from her handbag and went forward.
As she approached the door, the desk came into view and she also saw Rashid’s body on the floor beside it. She took a quick step inside in a kind of reflex action and Dillon moved from beind the door, tore the Colt from her hand and slipped it into a pocket.
“Well, now,” he said, “isn’t this an unexpected pleasure?” and he rammed the Walther into her side.
“But why would he kill him?” Flood asked Brosnan. “I don’t understand that.”
