The Killing Ground

by Jack Higgins

  The Killing Ground

  Jack Higgins

  Sean Dillon takes on a mission of mercy, in which he will be shown none.

  Intelligence operative Sean Dillon stops Caspar Rashid at Heathrow Airport -and is pulled into danger. The man's daughter has been kidnapped by Rashid's own father and taken to Iraq to be married to one of the Middle East 's most feared terrorists.

  Rashid begs Dillon for help-but he has no idea of the terrible chain of events he is about to unleash, nor of the danger he is about to face.

  Jack Higgins

  The Killing Ground

  The Sean Dillon series 14, 2008

  Now the field of battle is a land of standing

  corpses; those determined to die will live; those

  who hope to escape with their lives will die.

  – WU CH’I

  FOR HENRIETTA WITH LOVE

  Chapter 1

  BLAKE JOHNSON WAS RECEIVED WITH COURTESY AT THE American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, as befitted President Jake Cazalet’s most important security adviser, the head of a secret White House operation known simply as the Basement. An aide took him to the Ambassador’s office, a fine young Marine captain in dress uniform bearing medals from Bosnia, Iraq and Afghanistan. “The Ambassador’s hosting a cocktail party, mostly for those who weren’t invited to Brussels for the conference.”

  “And who would that be?” Blake asked. “The dregs of every embassy in London, Major.”

  “I know the feeling. And it’s not ‘Major’- Vietnam was a long time ago.”

  “Once a Marine always a Marine, Major. My dad was in Vietnam, and my grandfather was in North Africa and in Normandy on D-Day.”

  “They must be proud of you. That Navy Cross speaks for itself.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll alert the Ambassador.” He went out. Blake helped himself to scotch from a decanter on the sideboard and moved to the window at the terrace and looked into Grosvenor Square, the roads shining in the streetlights, rain pounding down.

  He stood under the canopy, inhaling the freshness, savoring his drink, and the door opened behind him. He turned and it was the Ambassador, Frank Mars, a friend of many years’ standing. As little more than boys, they’d served together in Nam. Mars shook his hand warmly.

  “It’s good to see you, Blake, but also a bit of a surprise. I thought you were in Brussels with the President.”

  “Well, at first I wasn’t going, but the President decided that his meeting with the Prime Minister and President Putin might veer into my territory, so he decided he wanted me in Brussels anyway. I’m meeting Charles Ferguson tonight and we’re flying over together.”

  Ferguson was the head of the group of special operatives often referred to as the Prime Minister’s private army. Blake had run many operations with him, and the tempo had only picked up of late.

  Mars topped up their glasses and they stood there, looking into the square. “All the years I’ve known this place and now I have to look down at those great ugly concrete blocks protecting us. The terrorists have accomplished what two world wars could not.”

  “Not to mention the Cold War,” Blake said. “Still, it all helped lead to this, those years of strife, the atomic submarines, the cancer of communism, East versus West.”

  “We got it wrong with Berlin in 1945,” said Mars, “allowing Russia to take the city. That’s when they first sensed they could roll over us. I remember the first trip I made behind the Wall in Berlin. It chilled the soul.”

  Blake gestured to the left of the square to the statue of Eisenhower on its plinth. “What do you think he’d make of it? After all, it was he, Roosevelt and Winston Churchill who were responsible.”

  “I’d remind you that Joseph Stalin had something to do with it,” Mars pointed out.

  Blake nodded thoughtfully. “And now we have Vladimir Putin. Think the Cold War is on its way back?”

  Frank Mars put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Blake, old friend, it’s not on its way, it’s arrived. From the moment Putin became President of the Russian Federation, he had an agenda. We’ve seen it unfold bit by bit, and he’s got the money to back it up, all that gas and oil. I think he’s capable of anything. And there’s something else about him that’s very dangerous indeed.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “He’s a patriot.” Mars swallowed his drink. “But enough of that. Come and let me introduce you to my guests.”

  * * * *

  MOST OF THE GUESTS were not too important, mostly minor attachés of one kind or another; the big fish were either in Brussels already or on the way there. After a little bit of talk, Blake stood in the corner, and soon Mars joined him.

  “So, if you’re flying off tonight, you’re not staying at the embassy house off South Audley Street.”

  “Right. My luggage is there, though, and I’m expecting Sean Dillon and Billy Salter to pick me up and deliver me to Farley Field to join Ferguson.”

  “So Ferguson ’s promoted young Salter to be an agent in the Secret Intelligence Service, I understand.”

  “Yes. Mind you, Ferguson had to obliterate Salter’s criminal records from the files to get him in. But he and Dillon make quite a team.”

  “You could say that. An East Ender gangster and the most fearsome enforcer the Provisional IRA ever had. Quite a combination!”

  As they talked, Blake noticed someone observing them, a man with Slavic features, an excellent suit and an eager smile. He was going heavy on the vodka and, as Blake watched, took another from a waiter’s tray.

  Mars half-turned and murmured to Blake, “Colonel Boris Lhuzkov, senior commercial attaché for the Embassy of the Russian Federation. Of course, he’s actually head of station for the GRU. They’re all something else over there. Would you like a word?”

  “If I must.”

  Mars waved and Lhuzkov gulped another vodka and rushed over, smiled ingratiatingly and shook hands. “A great pleasure, Mr. Ambassador.”

  “Why, Boris, I thought you’d be in Brussels.”

  “That is reserved for those more important than I.” He glanced inquiringly at Blake.

  Mars said, “Mr. Johnson is on his way to Brussels this evening. It seems the President can’t talk to your boss without him.”

  “Blake Johnson? Mr. Johnson, your reputation goes before you.” Lhuzkov shook hands and his hand was damp and trembled a little.

  “Yes, well, just another day at the office,” Blake said, and suddenly had had enough. “You’ll excuse me. I must thank you for the offer of the embassy house, Frank. I’ll stop over another time.”

  “Of course.”

  Lhuzkov watched as Blake went to fetch his raincoat, then immediately went into a corner and called a number on his mobile phone. “He’s on his way now, to the embassy house. Yes. Do it now,” and he switched off and went down to the cloakroom.

  * * * *

  BLAKE REFUSED A CAR and accepted an umbrella, went down to the steps into the square and walked down toward South Audley Street. He made a brief call on his mobile and was answered by Sean Dillon in the passenger seat of Harry Salter’s Aston Martin. Billy was driving.

  “Where are you?” Sean demanded.

  “Moving down to the embassy house. I felt like the walk, the rain, all that stuff. The romance of a great city.”

  “You damn fool. You know you’re a marked man. Anybody special at the embassy?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes, a guy called Boris Lhuzkov, station head of the GRU, apparently.”

  “Idiot,” Sean said. “You know the moment you landed here, the GRU were on to you, don’t you?” He switched off.

  “Where is he?” Billy demanded, pulling his hat down.

  “Near the embassy h
ouse. Make it fast. Pass him, as a matter of fact. Go straight up that little side lane. Turn in there. Whoever’s up to no good is probably parked by the house. I’ll bail out fast and you can join me. Are you tooled up?”

  “What do you think?”

  Billy moved out to pass three parked cars and then Blake, the umbrella over his head. They ignored him, moved into the turning by the house and noticed a small sedan. Billy slowed, and Dillon pulled a Walther PPK with a silencer from his raincoat pocket, opened the door of the slow-moving car and rolled out. The car carried on. He pulled open the door of the waiting sedan and menaced the two men waiting inside. One of them was just clutching the driving wheel, but the other had a Browning, which Dillon wrenched from his hand. Billy arrived a moment later, opened the car door and relieved the driver of a Colt.25 from his waistband.

  “Here, what is this?” the driver protested. It started, the usual bluster.

  “I hate people being stupid,” Billy said. “Don’t you?”

  “Absolutely,” Dillon told him, and at that moment Blake turned the corner and approached.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “Just go and get your luggage and we’ll be on our way, idiot,” Dillon told him. “Get moving.”

  “Did I have company? Ah well, I knew I could rely on you two.” Blake laughed and went to the front door of the house.

  “Assume the position, both of you,” Dillon said, which they did with reluctance. Billy went through their pockets, did a quick check and found a wad of fifty-pound notes. “Two thousand,” he said, counting. “Must have been more originally. Had to be.”

  Dillon stuck his pistol in the first man’s ear. “Who put you up to this?”

  “Get stuffed,” the man said. He sounded Cockney; the driver stayed silent.

  “Stupid and arrogant,” Dillon said. “A lethal combination.” And he shot half the man’s left ear off.

  The man cursed and moaned at the same time, and Dillon said, “If you want the other one taken care of as well, that’s all right with me.” He slipped the two thousand into the man’s pocket. “You can keep this. Just tell me who it was.”

  “George Moon,” the man said, gasping, “Runs the Harvest Moon pub in Trenchard Street, Soho. Farms out work.”

  “And pretty dirty work, too, if that old sod’s still at it.”

  “And who was he representing?” Billy said to the driver. “You might as well come clean.”

  “Russian guy. Moon said he was called Lhuzkov. He met us in a pub in Kensington across the High Street from the Russian Embassy.”

  “And the gig was to kill off Blake Johnson.”

  “Something like that.”

  Dillon gave him his handkerchief. “It’s clean. Now piss off and find a hospital.”

  They couldn’t get in the car fast enough.

  Billy said, “Nice and generous of you, letting them keep the two grand.”

  “It helped grease the wheels, Billy. A little pain, a little reward.”

  The front door opened and Blake came out carrying a couple of flight bags. He put them in the back of the car. “Anybody dead?”

  “We wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

  Blake said, “Who was it?”

  “Couple of small-time hoods, hired by Lhuzkov.”

  Blake said, “Interesting. He wouldn’t have done that on his own.”

  “Don’t worry,” Billy said. “We’ll sort that lot out. It’ll be a pleasure.”

  They drove off. Dillon lit a cigarette and leaned back. “Foot down to Farley Field, Billy. Ferguson won’t be pleased if Blake’s late.”

  * * * *

  AT FARLEY FIELD, the rain fell relentlessly. Ferguson ’s pilots, Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry, busied themselves with the aircraft, while the General drank coffee and a Bushmills whiskey and stood at the window of the small lounge staring out at the rain. He was indeed not best pleased.

  “You’re late.”

  “Well, if you can be bothered to wipe the scowl from your face, General dear, I have news for you,” Dillon told him.

  Ferguson ’s face became wary. “And what would that be?”

  “A couple of gentlemen of evil intent tried to hurry Blake into a better world.”

  “Explain. Billy, I need another drink.”

  He sampled the Bushmills and listened and Blake watched, amused. “What I want to know,” said Ferguson, “is what’s with all this bloody game-playing? A third-rate colonel working for Russian military intelligence wants to shoot the President’s key security man, and the best he can do is hire these incompetents? Somebody’s head is going to roll.”

  “All right,” Billy said. “So where does that get us?”

  “Well, obviously, we’re going to have to look into whoever put Lhuzkov up to it, but that will have to wait until I return in four days. After Brussels, Putin visits Germany, and the Prime Minister and the President will be trying desperately to knock some sense into France.”

  “I’ll be glad to help with the France thing,” Billy said.

  “Very funny. I’ve got something else for you to do. We’ve gotten a tip that some very bad actors may be flying in during the next twenty-four hours. Don’t know who or from where, but it bears checking out. Sean, you know a lot of these people by sight-you and Billy, go to Heathrow and haunt passport control, see who’s flying in from nasty places. We’ve got other men there, too, but they haven’t got your experience.”

  Dillon nodded.

  “Meanwhile,” Blake said, “we have to be off. Coming, General?” He got up onto the plane, and Ferguson turned on the steps. “I’ll send the Gulfstream back in case of emergencies. Use it at your discretion if something comes up. You might also want to check in at the Holland Park safe house. Major Roper’s just gotten in a new batch of satellite computer equipment. Very powerful stuff-you’ll find it interesting. And Greta’s there now-I thought it would be good experience for her.”

  He was referring to Major Greta Novikova, once employed by the Russian Army in Chechnya and Iraq. Circumstances had made it seem sensible for her to transfer allegiance to Ferguson.

  The door closed, the plane started to move, and they turned back to the Aston and drove away. Dillon called Billy’s father, Harry Salter, at his pub, the Dark Man.

  “Are you on your own?”

  “Roper and Greta’re here, that’s all. Managing a steak with all the trimmings, with Sergeants Henderson and Doyle eating fish and chips in a booth in their best blazers and flannels and trying not to look like military police. Can’t say they’re succeeding. Are you coming round?”

  “No, but you can do me a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Tell Roper that Lhuzkov was hanging around having drinks at the embassy.”

  “Huh. Light a match close to that one and the vodka would explode. What a clown.”

  “Yes, well, that clown arranged for a couple of nobodies to take out Blake, who was rather foolishly walking down South Audley Street in the rain. Stupid because he knows it’s open season on him.”

  “Here, we can’t have that. What’s the game?”

  “Oh, Billy and I sorted it with a little ungentle persuasion that left one of them with only half an ear. But it was Lhuzkov who laid it on, and our old friend George Moon who did the hiring. Paid them two grand, apparently.” He gave Harry the rest of the details.

  “George Moon? I didn’t realize he was still breathing. Had a nice little wife, Ruby: she was straight, he wasn’t. Right, it’s taken care of. Are you coming to the pub?”

  “No, Ferguson ’s got a job for us.”

  “Well, enjoy yourselves.” Harry switched off the mobile and nodded across to his two minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall. “I’ll have a large scotch, I’m thinking. Vodka, Greta?”

  She was most attractive, wearing a black silk Russian shirt and trousers and knee-length boots. Her hair was tied at the nape of her neck.

  “Why not?”
<
br />   “A large one?”

  “Is there any other one for a Russian?”

  “Probably not. What about the Major?”

  Roper sat in his state-of-the-art wheelchair, wearing a reefer coat, his collar turned up to his bomb-scarred face. He didn’t get a chance to say no because Dora brought the drinks on a tray and distributed them.

  “Good girl, Dora,” Harry said. “What are we going to do without you? She’ll be leaving in a week, Australia. Got a daughter and two girls. Wants to test the water. Might never come back. Here’s to her.”

  Greta swallowed her vodka. “Knock back that whiskey,” she told Roper, “because I know you’re eager to get back to your machines. That’s all he ever does,” she said. “Eats sandwiches, drinks a bottle of scotch a night, smokes, hardly sleeps and plays around on those damn machines.”

  “Yes,” Roper said. “It’s a wonderful life.”

  “Let’s move it, gentlemen,” Greta called to the military police. “Take it easy, Harry.”

  The policemen took the chair out to the special van, loaded it and a few moments later drove off to Holland Park.

  “Another one, boss?”

  Harry shook his head. “No, I’ve got a mind to a bit of action. Remember George Moon?”

  “And his boyfriend, Big Harold,” Baxter said.

  “A couple of years ago, they tried to run Roper into traffic in his wheelchair.”

  Sam Hall laughed. “I remember, the Major shot Harold in the side of the knee and Moon through the thigh. The word to the police was they’d been attacked by muggers. The cops didn’t have much sympathy. They would have been only too glad to do it themselves.”

  “So what’s the point?”

  “On behalf of a Russian geezer who is no friend of Dillon and Billy, George Moon produced a couple of lowlifes who tried to take out Blake Johnson for two grand.”

  “Anybody damaged?” Baxter said grimly.