by Jack Higgins
Many people thought that Arnold Bernstein was the finest general surgeon in London, but to operate on his own daughter would have been unethical, which was why Professor Henry Bellamy of Guy's Hospital was in charge. He allowed Bernstein to observe in the operating theatre, which was as far as ethics would go.
Ferguson, Dillon, and Blake waited in the anteroom with Rabbi Julian Bernstein, Hannah's grandfather. They drank coffee and tea and waited through the four-hour operation.
'You must hate us all, Rabbi,' Ferguson told him.
The old man shrugged. 'How could I? This was the life she chose.'
The door opened, and Bellamy and Bernstein came out, still in their surgical gowns. They stood up and Ferguson said, 'How bad is it?'
'Very bad,' Bellamy told him. 'The stomach is damaged, the bladder, the spleen. One bullet went through the left lung, her spine is chipped. It's a miracle she's here.'
'But she is?' Dillon said.
'Yes, Sean, she is, and I think she'll pull through, but it's going to take time.'
'Thank God,' Rabbi Bernstein said.
'No, thank a great surgeon,' Dillon said, turned, and went out.
Ferguson called to him, 'Sean, wait.'
He caught up with Dillon on the front steps, Blake at his shoulder. 'Sean, you're not going to do anything stupid?'
'Now why would I do a thing like that?'
'I'll deal with Rashid.'
Dillon stood stone still, gazing at him. 'Then soon, General, soon. If you don't, I will. Just remember that.' And he went down the steps and walked away.
Blake Johnson said, 'An angry man, General.'
'Yes, and with every right to be. Let's talk things over, Blake, and see if we can come up with the right way to handle this.'
Back in Stable Mews, Dillon answered the door and found the older of the two men who had taken Ali Salim's body away. He was carrying a light black plastic urn.
'Ah, Mr Dillon. I presumed you'd want them.'
'What is it?'
'Ali Salim's ashes.'
Dillon took the urn. 'Excellent. I'll see they reach the right destination.'
He put the ashes on the hall stand, then phoned Ferguson. 'It's me. When are we seeing Rashid?'
'I'm not sure.'
'Well, I am. I told you: if you don't make a move, I'll face him myself.'
'There's no need for that. I'll phone him and arrange a meeting.'
'Do that.' Dillon put the phone down.
To his surprise, the doorbell sounded again, and when he opened it, he found Rabbi Bernstein standing there.
'May I come in, Sean?'
'Of course.'
The old man followed Dillon into the living room. Dillon turned, suddenly anxious. 'She's all right, isn't she?'
'So it would appear. Sean, I don't know all the details, but I know what she'd want me to tell you. She wouldn't want revenge.'
'Well, I do. I'm sorry, Rabbi, but I'm feeling very Old Testament at the moment. An eye for an eye.'
'You love my granddaughter?'
'Not in the way you mean. God knows, she doesn't love me. In fact, she hates what I stand for, but that doesn't matter here. I think a great deal of her, and I don't intend to let the man responsible for her present situation get away with it.'
'Even if she doesn't want that?' -'Yes. So, Rabbi, unless you want to stay for a cup of tea, you'd better go.'
'God help you, Sean.'
The old man went to the door. Dillon opened it for him. 'Sorry, Rabbi.'
Bernstein went out. Dillon closed the door, hesitated, then went back into the living room.
The phone rang. When he answered it, Ferguson said, 'Eleven o'clock tomorrow at my place. I'll expect you.'
'I'll be there,' Sean Dillon said, and put the phone down.
The following morning he checked at the hospital and found that she was poorly, but stable. That she was getting the finest treatment in London was a given – Ferguson wouldn't accept less – so there was nothing Dillon could do.
He dressed in dark leathers, a black bomber jacket and white scarf, and took the black plastic urn with him when he left and walked round to Ferguson's flat in Cavendish Place. Kim let him in and Dillon found Ferguson having tea and toast by the fire.
'I didn't have time for breakfast. Blake's on the phone to the President in my study. He'll be with us shortly. Help yourself to a drink. I know you like to start early.'
Dillon did just that, had a Bushmills with a little water. 'Any news from County Down?'
'Oh, Bell's there, all right, and his three cronies, Tommy Brosnan, Jack O'Hara and Pat Costello. Have I got it right?'
'Absolutely.'
Blake came in. 'The President sends his best.
He's very concerned about Hannah. Anything she needs, any kind of special treatment, you only have to ask.'
The front doorbell rang. Kim appeared and looked inquiringly at Ferguson, who nodded and the Gurkha opened the front door. Paul and Kate Rashid were shown in.
She wore a black suit, he was in a leather bomber jacket himself, pullover and slacks. They both seemed cheerful.
'A drink, sir?' Ferguson asked. 'Coffee, tea -something heavier?'
'I'll have what Dillon's drinking,' said Kate.
'Bushmills whiskey, girl, at eleven-fifteen in the morning? You have to be raised to it.'
'Well, I'll have to try, won't I?'
'Suit yourself.' Dillon poured her the whiskey and added a little water. 'Oldest whiskey in the world, they say. Invented by monks in Ireland.'
She took a sip. 'No Superintendent Bernstein this morning?'
'Yes, well, she's lucky to be here at all. She's in the hospital in intensive care. When we got back to my place last night, there was a guy named Ali Salim waiting. I've checked him out. A Party of God fanatic'
There was silence. Paul Rashid said, 'Is the Superintendent all right?'
'Oh, sure,' Dillon told him. 'She's got a damaged stomach, bladder, spleen, a bullet in the left lung, a chipped spine. Just the kind of thing you expect when some religious fanatic shoots a woman three times.'
Kate Rashid said carefully, 'And this Ali Salim? Where is he?'
'On the table over there.' Dillon nodded to the black plastic urn. 'I brought his ashes for you. Six pounds. That's all that's left.' He poured another Bushmills. 'Oh, didn't I tell you? I shot the bastard after he shot Bernstein.'
She sipped a little of her whiskey, then took a cigarette case from her purse and extracted one. Dillon gave her a light. 'There you go.'
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'About Superintendent Bernstein.'
'Well, you would be, wouldn't you? After all, it wasn't supposed to be her, it was supposed to be me.'
'Really?'
Paul Rashid cut in. 'Why are we here, General Ferguson?'
'Because I warned you before, Rashid, and now I'm telling you outright: If it's war you want, then it's war you'll get. I don't take kindly to my people getting shot. We're going to be over you so closely that you won't have room to breathe, let alone pursue your "alternative target".'
'Really? And who would that be?' Paul Rashid said.
'I can't help but notice that the Russian Premier is in town next month.'
'Is that so?' Paul Rashid told him. 'How interesting.'
'Also too damned obvious,' Dillon said, and lit another cigarette. 'No, he's got something else on the agenda.'
'You'll have to wait and see, won't you?' Paul Rashid got up. 'Come on, Kate.'
It was Blake who said, 'For God's sake, why, sir? Your mother's death was a tragedy, but why take it so far?'
'You're a decent man, Mr Johnson, and yet you still don't see it. The business interests in your country think they can walk in anywhere they like in the world, take over, corrupt, trample on people's rights. The Russians are exactly the same. Well, you won't get away with it in Rashid territory, in Hazar or the Empty Quarter. I have the financial resources to back me up and I have my people. Chew on that, my f
riend. One thing I'll promise, I'll surprise you.' He turned to his sister.
Dillon took them to the door and opened it. 'Try and make him see sense, Kate.'
'My brother always makes perfect sense, Dillon,' she told him.
'Then we'll all end up going down the same dark road to hell.'
'An interesting thought,' Paul Rashid observed, and led the way out.
The door closed, and Ferguson said, 'So, we know where we are.'
'Only with him,' Blake said. 'But we don't know the first damn thing about what he intends to do.'
'The ball's in your court,' Dillon said to Ferguson.
Ferguson nodded. 'Let's try the simple approach. We won't get very far trying to listen in to Rashid's phone calls, and coded mobiles make things even more difficult these days, but we'll tap them anyway. We can monitor his travel movements. His planes need a slot, passengers have to be declared beforehand. Special Branch can check them out. Meanwhile, we'll plough through all his friends, all his associates. Maybe we'll get lucky.'
'Sooner rather than later,' Blake said. 'There's an energy to Rashid that I find disturbing.'
'What will you do?' Dillon asked.
'I'm going home. There's a lot I have to talk about with the President. If there's anything you need me for, though, anything at all, just let me know and I'll be back.'
In the car, Paul Rashid pushed the glass divider closed and said to Kate, 'They'll be on our case in every possible way.'
T know. It'll be next to impossible to get to the Premier now.'
'He was never my alternative, Kate.'
She was amazed. 'But Paul, I assumed it must be.'
'Which is what I wanted everyone to think, and they did, except for Dillon, of course.'
'Then who?'
'For you and you alone: it's the Council of Elders in Hazar, all twelve of them. They're dragging their feet. They're afraid of me, and they don't want me – they distrust my influence with the tribes, and they're right to. Once I dispose of them and am named the Sultan, I will declare a jihad. Then all the great powers will have reason to tremble.'
'How do you intend to do it?'
'They'll all be together in two weeks. I want you to go down and base yourself in our office in Hazar. I'll join you later.'
'And how will the job be executed?'
'A suitable bomb, and for that we'll need Bell's expertise, and we'll also need to get you there to talk with him without people knowing. Speak to Kelly. He knows some dodgy people, the kind who do illegal flights in small planes from old RAF airstrips. In and out very quickly. Get it arranged.'
'As you say, brother.'
And Kelly came up trumps. He produced a place in Surrey called Grover's Air Taxis, where the proprietor was a shifty-looking middle-aged man in a brown flying jacket and overalls, who met them outside a Second World War Nissen hut, two hangars looming behind.
'Now then, Mick,' Kelly said. 'Let's call this lady Miss Smith and get on with it. As I told you, we need Drumcree. A couple of hours at the most, then back again.'
'No trouble. I can do the old Titan. It's got twin engines and an airstair door.'
'No problem on the approach?'
'None. I'll go in under six hundred from a couple of miles out at sea. There's an old RAF landing strip ten miles out of Drumcree. I'll use my local contact and have a car left there.'
'Good man, then let's go.'
'Just a minute. What about my money?'
Kate opened her briefcase, took out a brown paper envelope, and handed it to him.
'Can we leave now?'
Grover hesitated, obviously tempted to look into the envelope, then thought better of it.
'All right.' He turned and led the way to the end hangar, rolled back the door and disclosed the Titan.
'How long will it take?' Kelly asked.
'Hour and a half, depending on the wind.'
'Fine. Let's get on with it,' Kelly said, and ushered Kate through the airstair door.
She called Bell on her coded mobile when they were halfway across the Irish Sea. She caught him in the kitchen of his farmhouse.
'This is Kate Rashid. I'll be with you in an hour.'
'You'll what?'
'I want to discuss your vacation in a much warmer climate.'
'What are we talking about?'
'A big payday. The alternative target.'
'Well, that's for me, sweetheart.'
'Kelly's minding me,' she said, 'We'll see you at the Royal George.'
Without bothering to check with Ferguson, Dillon had been following Kate Rashid from the moment she'd left London. Wearing black leathers and astride a Suzuki motorcycle, he'd waited in a small copse and watched Kelly, Kate and Grover through glasses. When they got in the Titan and took off, Dillon drove to the village a mile down the road and went into the pub. There was a log fire burning, but no sign of customers. A middle-aged woman came in from the kitchen.
'My God, it's like a funeral parlour in here,' Dillon said cheerfully.
'It's early,' she said. 'What do you expect?'
'A Bushmills whiskey and directions to Hoxby.' He lied effortlessly and lit a cigarette. 'I was surprised to see a plane take off a little while ago.'
'Oh, that's Mick Grover's outfit. Just up the road in an old wartime feeder station. He does crop spraying, the odd charter flight. Don't know how he makes a living.'
'I don't know how I do.' Dillon grinned. 'You do food?'
'That's right.'
'I'll go and see to my business in Hoxby. I'll probably look in on my way back.'
Grover stayed with the plane, and Kelly drove Kate down to the Royal George. It was quiet enough at that time in the morning, only Patrick Murphy, the barman, reading the Belfast Telegraph at the bar. Kelly led the way in.
'Aidan Bell's expecting us.'
'He's in the snug.'
Kate went first and opened the door and Kelly followed. Aidan Bell sat by the fire, smoking a cigarette and drinking tea. He looked up.
'Lady Kate. Now this really does sound interesting. What do you want me to do?'
'What you do best. Twelve Arab sheiks, the Council of Elders in Hazar, are proving a problem.'
'Well now, we can't have that. On the other hand, I'd always understood that the Rashid would follow your brother anywhere. All those wild tribesmen.'
'They will, once the sheiks are taken care of. This one needs the expert touch. It also needs to be a spectacular. Make various people sit up and take notice. You'll need a team, of course.'
'No problem there. I've got some boys.'
'Are they any good?'
'We're all still here, aren't we? And, yes, to answer your question, they won't screw up like Liam. So what's the deal?'
'Rashid Investments has construction interests in Hazar, and I'm flying out today supposedly to supervise them. I want you and your "boys" to turn up the day after tomorrow at Dublin Airport. Our Gulfstream will run you down to Hazar. We'll talk things over more when you arrive.'
'What are you looking for? Some sort of ambush? A bomb? What's your pleasure?'
'We'll discuss that when I see you. Any equipment you need will be down there.'
'So all I have to do is think of the best way of disposing of twelve old Arab sheiks and getting away with my bollocks still intact?'
She laughed harshly. 'True. That last item could be a consideration. We Arabs are terrible people. You must be careful.'
He smiled. 'That I will, Lady Kate. You may be sure.' He raised his teacup. 'A toast. To peace, Lady Kate, to peace.' He took a swallow. 'And stuff it.'
Dillon had shepherd's pie at the pub and a glass of indifferent Sancerre. There were perhaps a dozen people in, locals from the look of them. He finished his meal, paid up and went to his Suzuki. Fifteen minutes later, he was in the copse overlooking the small airfield, waiting.
He sat there, thinking and smoking, sheltering from the light rain, and eventually he heard the sound of engines in the dista
nce and the Titan appeared and turned in for a landing. Dillon watched through his glasses as Kate Rashid, Kelly and Grover talked. Then she and her security man got into her Mercedes and drove away. Dillon waited for a while, then got on the Suzuki and drove down to the airstrip.
In the old Nissen hut, Grover was boiling the kettle on the stove when he heard the Suzuki. He went to the window and glanced out as Dillon got off and pushed the bike up on its stand. The Irishman removed his helmet, left it on the bike and came in, pushing the door open before him. Grover said, 'What can I do for you?' 'Information,' Dillon said. 'Answers. That kind of thing.'
'What in the hell are you talking about?' Dillon unzipped the front of his leathers, took out a Walther with a silencer, and shot the kettle off the stove.
Grover was terrified. 'What's this, for Christ's sake?'
'Well, for starters, you tell me what I want to know and I won't cripple you. So, let's get down to it. The people you just flew out and flew in again. Who were they?'
'Guy called Kelly. I've known him for years. The woman? He said her name was Smith.'
'Really? Where did you take them?' Grover hesitated and Dillon fired on the floor between Grover's feet. 'Where did you take them?'
'County Down. A place called Drumcree.'
'To see who?'
'How in the hell would I know? I flew them in, they left me at the airstrip and drove off to the village. That's all I know. They were back in an hour and a quarter for the return flight.'
'And you didn't hear a word?'
'No. I've no idea what they were up to.'
Dillon raised his Walther again, and Grover jumped. 'I don't know anything, I tell you!' He paused. 'Just that at one point during the flight, they were talking. I heard her say "hazard", "Hazar", something like that.'
'Good man yourself.' Dillon shoved the Walther back inside his leathers. 'Now, let's get one thing straight. What's just taken place is between you, me and my God. No Kelly and no Miss Smith. Are you with me? Because if you're not, I'll come back and blow your right kneecap off.'
'Look, I don't give a damn,' Grover told him. 'Just bugger off and leave me.'
'Don't make me come back.'
Dillon went out, put on his helmet and rode away.
Grover watched him go. 'To hell with them. To hell with the lot of them.' At least he had three and a half thousand pounds in the brown paper envelope.
