by Jack Higgins
The old man said, “This rumor that he tried to blow up the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet in ’ninety-one. You think it’s true?”
“Oh, yes, and it made him rich. He was paid a fortune by the Iraqis. Money means nothing to him.”
“A warrior, a soldier, just like you, Marco.”
“And you, Baron.”
“A long time ago.” The old man smiled. “Now give me a cigarette, and don’t tell me I shouldn’t.”
The Grenadier was a first-class pub much frequented by Guards officers, an opulent Victorian sort of place with an impressive mahogany bar and booths where one could eat well on traditional English food. At that time in the afternoon, it was quiet when Marco walked in. He stood there looking around, his trench coat damp, a briefcase in one hand, then recognized Newton and Cook from their computer photos and approached.
“I’m Rossi.”
They were what he’d expected, big men in their mid-forties, once solid, now fleshing out, in bad suits.
They looked at him, carefully showing nothing. “What can we do for you? Want a drink?” Cook asked.
Rossi took off his coat and waved to the bar. “A large vodka martini and two large Scotches.” He sat down and didn’t smile when he said, “Trust me. You’re going to need them.”
Newton said, “What is this?”
“Shut up. You used to work for Rupert Dauncey at Rashid and now you work for a shit company – I can’t even remember the name – so I ask the questions.”
Cook looked sullen, but said nothing.
“Dauncey gave you orders to follow a guy named Sean Dillon. I’d like to know what those orders were.”
“Is Dillon in this?” Newton asked.
“Would that matter?”
Cook said, “He kills people, that bastard.”
“And it bothers you?”
“It would bother anyone with sense.”
Marco nodded. “All right, how’s this for sense?” He pushed the briefcase over. “There’s five grand in there. You were dogging Dillon just after he returned to London from Hazar. If you want what’s in there – start talking.”
Newton said, “We heard the whispers. They were going to blow up a railway bridge in Hazar, the Rashids. Dillon fucked them up, along with a pal of his.”
“And who would that be?”
“Billy Salter, a well-known gangster. His uncle, Harry, has been one of the most important guvnors in the East End for years. Gone legit now – supposedly. He’s big in property development by the Thames. They’re very thick with Dillon.”
“So it would seem.”
“The thing is, the Rashids got their hands on Billy at the end of that business in Hazar. Kate Rashid went crazy. Shot Salter a few times. In the back, if you follow me.”
“And Dillon wasn’t pleased?”
“No, and neither was the countess. Dauncey told us she wanted us to jump him in London, sling him in the back of the van and drive him down to Dauncey Place to take care of him proper.”
“And this was when?”
“The night before she flew off in that plane.”
Marco nodded. “Let me guess. Dillon got the drop on you?”
“That’s right,” Cook said.
“Taunted us, really,” Newton said. “Told us to tell Dauncey he’d be seeing him soon.”
“And did you?”
“Yes, I did, and not because I’d much time for Dauncey. It was just that I liked to think he might be able to sort Dillon out if he appeared.”
“So Dillon probably turned up in the early hours of the morning when she flew out.”
“I’d say so.”
“It didn’t occur to you to notify the police of any of this after you read about the crash?”
“You’ve got to be joking,” Newton said. “Whatever went on here wasn’t the kind of thing we wanted to get involved with.”
“All right. Anything else?”
“That’s it.”
Marco pushed the briefcase a little closer. “Then this is yours.” He stood and pulled on his trench coat. “Nine o’clock, Monday morning, report to the Rashid security division. Ask for Taylor. I’ll tell him to expect you.”
Newton looked at Cook, uncertain. “I’m not so sure. I mean, Dillon…”
“Leave Dillon to me. On the other hand, if you’d rather stay working as bouncers at some third-rate nightclub, feel free.”
Newton stood up and said hurriedly, “No, we’re with you, Mr. Rossi.”
Which bound them to him and suited him perfectly.
“In fact, you could take the rest of the day off and do me a favor. Dillon has a cottage in a place called Stable Mews.”
Newton glanced at Cook. “Yes, we know it.”
“Hang around outside. See where he goes. Follow him.” He took out a card. “My mobile number is on that. If there’s anything interesting, give me a call.”
Within fifteen minutes of arriving at Stable Mews, Newton and Cook saw Dillon drive out of the garage in a Mini Cooper and followed him. Twenty minutes later, they reached Harley Street and saw Dillon park, and walk up steps to a door, a brass plate beside it, and go in.
“I’ll go,” Newton said.
He checked the plate, frowned and came back to the car, then called Rossi on his mobile. “It says Professor the Reverend Susan Haden-Taylor, Clinical Psychiatrist.”
“And he’s still in there?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come straight around.”
A moment later, Dillon emerged, but didn’t return to his car. Instead, he went down the street, turned the corner and crossed the road to a church. Newton saw him go inside, paused, then crossed the road himself. He phoned Rossi, who was in his car.
“He’s gone round the corner to a church called St. Paul’s, and get this – the priest’s name on the notice board is the same as the psychiatrist’s.”
“I’ll be with you in a few minutes,” Rossi told him and switched off.
Now what in the hell was Dillon up to?
The church was Victorian and smelled of damp, also of burning candles and incense. It was a dark and secret place, only the altar glowing in candlelight, a statue of the Virgin and Child to one side. It was old-fashioned Church of England, but it always took Dillon back to his Roman Catholic childhood and the Jesuits who’d had a hand in his education.
“Remember, wee Sean,” he said. “One corruption is all corruption. By the small things shalt thou know them.” And how many times had that helped him over the years? Of course, in the end, it meant you didn’t trust anybody.
The vestry door was closed. He listened to the murmur of voices, sighed and sat in one of the pews, thinking of Kate Rashid. “Two churches in one day, old son. This could get to be a habit.”
Behind him, Marco Rossi slipped in cautiously through the open door, saw him, faded into the darkness at the rear and sank onto a rush-bottomed chair behind a pillar in the corner. After a while the vestry door opened and a young girl emerged, crying a little. Professor Susan Haden-Taylor was with her, a calm, pleasant woman in a clerical collar and a cassock. She put an arm round the girl, who was carrying a bag.
“Off you go, Mary. They’re expecting you. St. Paul’s Hospice, Sloan Street. Stay as long as you like. We’ll sort it out together. God bless.”
“And God bless you, Reverend.”
The girl moved out. Professor Haden-Taylor didn’t notice Dillon in the gloom of the other side of the aisle, picked up a broom from somewhere, went to the altar and started to sweep the floor.
“If it’s not one thing, it’s another with you,” Dillon said. “Comforting the weak and then brushing the bloody floor.”
She paused, turned and saw him. “Seventeen, Sean, that’s all, and with no one to help her. And she’s not weak. She’s just been diagnosed with breast cancer.”
“God dammit,” he exploded. “Me and my big mouth.”
“It’s your nature,” she said calmly.
�
��God, I feel rotten. Can I help? Could I give you a check?”
“Easily done, Sean. After all, you’re a rich man. All that money for a wicked deed. Trying to see off the Prime Minister…” She smiled like an angel. “But I’ll take the check. The hospice needs to have the central heating refurbished and some plumbing work in the kitchen.”
“It’s the hard woman you are, but it’s a deal.”
“Excellent.” She sat in a pew two rows away, facing him. “Not that it will do your immortal soul much good, mark you. You can have a cigarette if you want. God won’t mind.”
“The decent ould stick he is.” Dillon lit up. “So now what? A final debriefing, Ferguson said. I thought I’d covered everything.”
“I just want you to cover it again.”
“Why?”
“It’s called catharsis, Sean. A kind of mental outpouring which could be good for you. That’s an unlocking of things you’ve been turning away from.”
“Like thirty years with the IRA? All the killing? You’ve got to be joking.”
“All right. Your conflict with the Rashids. You killed all three brothers.”
“Who were trying to kill me.”
“You ruined Kate Rashid’s plans and she tried to kill Billy Salter. You came back to London angry and she tried to have you kidnapped.”
“You’ve heard all this.”
“And I want to hear it again. Tell me everything.”
“All right. I told the guys I jumped to tell Rupert Dauncey I’d be calling in at Dauncey Place in the early hours of the morning.”
“How did you feel?”
“Well, I armed myself to the teeth and drove down from London. Ferguson hadn’t ordered it. This was me.” He lit another cigarette and drifted into the past. “I liked Kate Rashid, always did, but she was barking mad, responsible for too much blood, and Billy was the last straw.” In a way he ignored her, thinking back. “I always told myself, the IRA, all the killing, was because my father was killed in the crossfire of a firefight between Provos and Brit paratroopers in Belfast, but driving down that morning, in the darkness and rain, I remembered one of my favorite philosophers, Heidegger. For authentic living, he said, what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death. So what if, for me, it’s been a mad game, constantly seeking death? Any psychiatrist worth their salt could have come up with that one.”
“Did you believe that?”
He smiled. “Not really. Only as a motivation.”
“So what happened at the house?”
“I already told you. I let Rupert get the drop on me. Why? Because I think I was a little mad, too, that morning. A death wish. I was on the edge, and she’d gone way over the edge. She had the Black Eagle on her private landing strip, so Rupert tied my hands, we got on board and took off. She made it clear he was going to throw me out at three thousand feet. I had a knife in my boot and cut myself free.”
“And?”
“Rupert dropped the Airstairs door. I had a small Colt in an ankle holster. Full of surprises, me. I shot him in the head and pushed him out.”
“And she?”
“Went right over. Said we’d go to hell together. The Black Eagle has an ignition key. She switched off and threw the key out. I took over the control and made an engineless water landing. Unfortunately, she had a gun in her purse and tried to shoot me. I managed to jump out with the dinghy and she went down with the plane.” He shrugged. “But you know all this.”
“Do you feel any different now?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What would you say was the worst moment?”
He frowned. “Two, I suppose. Being swept in on the Sussex Bore at such speed in the dinghy, and then finding Rupert Dauncey’s body alongside, all the way into the estuary marsh. We grounded at the old abandoned pier at Marsham.”
“Which was when you called Ferguson?”
“I had my mobile with me. I filled him in.”
“And what did he do?”
“Came down with the disposal team from London. I sat under the pier for three hours in the rain and waited.”
“The disposal team?”
“From the crematorium we use in North London. Rupert Dauncey became eight pounds of gray ash very quickly.”
“Did that bother you?”
“Not really. He was responsible for many things, but the death of the young daughter of a friend particularly damned him.”
“And Kate Rashid?”
“I’d seen the GPS as we went down in the sea, so I knew where she was. Ferguson gave the job to the Royal Marine Special Boat Squadron. We went in an old fishing boat.”
“You chose to go?”
“That’s right. Found her in the cabin at ninety feet.”
“You saw her?”
“I pulled her out. Went up with her on the line. You have to do that slowly from ninety feet.”
“It must have been quite an experience.”
“You could say that.” He lit another cigarette. “Going through it all again, has it helped? I don’t feel particularly cathartic. What’s that make me? Psychotic?”
She said calmly, “There’s a quotation: ‘There are men of a rough persuasion who are willing to take care of the kinds of situations that ordinary people can’t. They’re called soldiers.’”
“I know that one, and you couldn’t have paid me a greater compliment. If that’s all, I’ll be on my way. Thanks, love.”
“Take care, Dillon.”
He turned away, paused and turned back. “Look, sometimes I get this dream. I’m going down to the plane and I reach it and hang on and look inside and she isn’t there. Does that make any kind of sense?”
“Perfectly.” She shook her head. “My poor Dillon, such a good man in spite of everything, and yet you are what you are.”
“You’re a great comfort.”
“Watch your back, my friend. Isn’t that what they say in Belfast?”
He went and she turned, went up to the altar and knelt in prayer. Behind her, Marco Rossi tiptoed out.
The Baron was using the Rashid house in South Audley Street not far from Park Lane. He sat by the fire in the Georgian living room and listened intently. When Marco was finished, the old man took a deep breath.
“Get me a brandy, Marco. We always suspected this, but it’s still a shock.”
Marco went and got the drink, gave it to him and offered a cigarette from a silver case. “So what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing yet. We’ll see what the Prime Minister has to say tomorrow.”
“And then?”
“Marco, you didn’t meet Kate Rashid. It was just before you came into my life, and our business dealings, of their very nature, had to be private, but one thing is a fact. I am only sitting here now because of her. I can only pay her back in one way. What she failed to achieve, I will achieve for her.”
Marco looked taken aback. “What? You don’t mean – Cazalet?”
“Oh, I have something in mind for the President, all right, but we’ll take it slowly. Ferguson and Dillon come first. Yes, first we’ll deal with them. I’m sure you’ll be up for that, Marco, won’t you?”
At Downing Street the following morning, the Baron and Marco Rossi were admitted and shown to the Cabinet Room, where they found Ferguson and Blake Johnson waiting, standing on either side of the Prime Minister, who sat in his usual center chair.
“Baron,” he said. “Please be seated. This won’t take long.”
The Baron sat and Rossi stood behind him. “I appreciate your frankness. What is the problem, Prime Minister?”
“Berger International was already giving us problems. Your dealings with Iraq, for example, are not acceptable.”
“It’s a free market.”
“Not when it comes to arms-dealing. Now we hear of your connection with Rashid and your control over the oil market. It won’t do, not in the context of terrorism, and the Middle East and Southern Arabia. To be frank, my government will plac
e every obstacle we can think of in your way.”
“Excellent.” The Baron stood up. “So now we know where we stand. Good morning, Prime Minister,” and he walked out, followed by Rossi.
The Prime Minister turned to Ferguson. “Keep an eye on him, General. I don’t trust that man one bit.”
Outside Number Ten, the Baron was still sitting in his Rolls-Royce, the door open, Rossi standing beside it, as Ferguson approached.
“Was there something else, Baron?”
“Don’t bother with your disposal team, General, I’m not Rupert Dauncey.”
“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ferguson said.
“Don’t bother. I know everything.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means that I am declaring Jihad on you in memory of my dear friend Kate Rashid. Tell that to Dillon, and the rest of your friends.”
Rossi joined him, closed the door and they drove away.
“Well, to quote our hostile friend, at least now we know where we stand, Charles.” Blake shook hands. “I’ll see you.”
Ferguson went to his Daimler, the chauffeur standing beside it. Dillon was waiting in the rear and Ferguson joined him. He punched a number on his mobile. It was answered instantly.
“Who is this?”
“Roper, this is Ferguson. Get yourself down to the Dark Man and bring the file you’ve prepared on von Berger. We’ve got problems.”
“Will Sean be with you?”
“Yes.”
“On my way.”
As they drove off, Dillon said, “Well?”
“Oh, the Prime Minister put the boot in hard. No kind of government cooperation. They’ll place all sorts of obstacles in the Baron’s way.”
“And how did he take it?”
“He’s just declared Jihad on all of us in memory of Kate Rashid – and he told me he wasn’t a candidate for the disposal team.”
“That’s interesting.”
“He knows, Dillon, God knows how. So I think it’s time we had a council of war.”
“Well, that makes sense.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “Quite like old times.”
