Brown shuffled to the front door, pressed a button in a black box, and opened the door. Outside, the main gates began to part. Dillon stopped and turned.
"Don't forget now. Dillon was here, and give her my love."
He walked out into the road and half-ran to the car. He got in beside Hannah and said to Fogarty, "Back to the plane."
They drove away. Hannah said, "You didn't leave anyone dead back there?"
"Now, would I do a thing like that? It turns out he was a very reasonable man, our factor. I'll tell you about it on the plane."
B
rown, between a rock and a hard place, took Dillon's advice, of course, and phoned Kate Rashid at her house in London but found that she was out, which made him feel worse. Desperate, his face hurting like hell now, he tried the mobile number he'd been given for emergencies. Kate and Rupert were eating at The Ivy. She listened as Brown poured it all out.
She said calmly, "How badly are you hurt?"
"I'm going to need stitches. The bastard slashed my face with his Walther."
"Well, he would, wouldn't he? Tell me again what he said."
"Something like, say Dillon was here and give her my love."
"That's my Dillon. Get yourself a doctor, Brown. I'll talk to you later." She put her mobile on the table.
The waiter had stood back respectfully. When Rupert nodded, he poured Cristal champagne in both glasses and withdrew.
"To your bright eyes, cousin," he toasted her. "Why is it I smell trouble from the little I've heard?"
"Actually, what you smell is Sean Dillon." She drank a little champagne and then told him what Brown had said. "What's your opinion, darling?"
"Well, obviously they were there on Charles Ferguson's behalf. They didn't even pretend. Their only reason for visiting Loch Dhu was to let you know that they knew."
"What a clever boy you are. Anything else?"
"Yes. In a way, he's calling you out."
"Of course he is. Oh, General Ferguson's in charge, but it always comes down to Dillon. He spent all those years with the IRA, and the Army and the RUC never touched his collar once, the bastard."
"But a clever bastard. So what now?"
"We'll see him tonight. It's time you two met."
"And how do we do that?"
"Because, as you said, he's calling me out. It's an invitation, and I know just where to find him."
Chapter
6.
L
ATER THAT AFTERNOON AT FERGUSON'S FLAT, THE GENeral sat by the fire, listening to Hannah Bernstein's account of the trip. "Excellent," he said. "You seem to have behaved with your usual ruthless efficiency, Sean."
"Ah, well, the man needed it."
"So what happens now?"
"She won't let it go. It's like one of those old Westerns. The villain comes out of the saloon to meet the hero for a gunfight in the street."
"An interesting parallel."
"She won't be able to resist a face-to-face."
"And where will this event take place?"
"Where we've met so often before--the Piano Bar at The Dorchester."
"When?"
"Tonight. She'll be expecting me."
Ferguson nodded. "You know, you could be right. I'd better come with you."
"What about me, sir?" Hannah asked.
"Not this time, Superintendent. You've had a strenuous day. You could do with a night off."
She bridled. "You know, I did pass a stringent medical exam before Special Branch allowed me to return to duty. I'm fine, really I am."
"Yes, well, I'd still prefer you to take the night off."
"Very well, sir," she said reluctantly. "If you've no further need of me, I'll get back to the office and clear a few things off. Are you coming, Sean?"
"Yes, you can take me to Stable Mews."
Ferguson said, "Seven o'clock about right, Sean?"
"Fine by me."
S
he dropped him at his cottage, but Dillon didn't go in. He waited until the Daimler had turned the corner, rolled up the garage door, got into the old Mini Cooper he kept as a run-around, and drove away.
He was thinking about Harry Salter. Salter was a very old-fashioned gangster, now reasonably respectable, but not completely so, and he and his nephew, Billy, had been involved as much as anyone else in the feud that had led to the death of Kate Rashid's brothers.
Traffic was as bad as London traffic usually is, but Dillon finally reached Wapping High Street, turned along a narrow lane between warehouse developments, and came out on a wharf beside the Thames. He parked outside The Dark Man, Salter's pub, its painted sign showing a sinister individual in a dark cloak.
The main bar was very Victorian, with gilt-edged mirrors behind the mahogany bar, and porcelain beer pumps. Bottles arranged against the mirror seemed to cover every conceivable choice for even the most hardened drinker. Dora, the chief barmaid, sat on a stool reading the London Evening Standard.
At that time in the afternoon, before the evening trade got going, the bar was empty except for the four men in the corner booth playing poker. They were Harry Salter; Joe Baxter, and Sam Hall, his minders; and Harry's nephew, Billy.
Harry Salter threw down his cards. "These are no bleeding good to me," and then he looked up and saw Dillon and smiled.
"You little Irish bastard. What brings you here?"
Billy turned in his chair and his face lit up. "Hey, Dillon, great to see you," and then he stopped smiling. "Trouble?"
"How did you guess?"
"'Cos you and me have been to hell and back more times than I can count. By this time, I can tell the signs. What's up?"
There was an eagerness in his voice and Dillon said, "I've been the ruin of you, Billy. You never used to be so willing to put yourself in danger. Remember when I quoted your favorite philosopher: 'The unexamined life is not worth living'?"
"And I said that to me it meant the life not put to the test is not worth living. So what's up?"
"Kate Rashid."
Billy stopped smiling. They all did. Harry said, "I'd say that calls for a drink. Bushmills, Dora."
Dillon lit a cigarette and Billy said, "Let's hear it."
"Remember Paul Rashid's funeral, Billy?"
"Don't I just. No mourners, she said, but you had to go anyway."
"And you said, 'Is that it then?' and I said, 'I don't think so.' And then when we ran into her at The Dorchester, she sentenced us all to death."
"Well, she can try," Harry said. "As I told her then, people have been trying to knock me off for forty years and I'm still here."
Billy said, "Look, what's happened, Dillon? Let's be having it."
Dillon swallowed his Bushmills and told them everything. They'd worked with him and Blake Johnson in the past, knew all about the Basement, so there was no reason to hide anything. He finished by telling them what had happened at Loch Dhu and what he intended.
"So you think she'll be there tonight?" Harry Salter asked.
"I'm certain of it."
"Then Billy and I will be there, too. We'll have another drink on it," and he called to Dora.
A
little while later, Dillon punched the doorbell at Roper's place. The Major said over the voice box, "Who is it?"
"It's Sean, you daft sod."
The electronic lock buzzed, and Dillon pushed open the door. Roper was seated at his computer bank in his wheelchair.
"I've had Ferguson on the line. He told me about Loch Dhu, but I'd like to hear it from you."
Dillon lit a cigarette and told him. "So there you are. Pretty much as we thought."
"So it would appear."
"What have you got? Anything new?"
"Well, I thought I'd see if I could trace Kate Rashid's travel patterns. She uses a company Gulfstream, so I can access times easily enough--air traffic slots have to be booked--and I can ascertain when she's been on board through Passport Control and Special Branch."
"Any significant pattern?"
"Not much. She's only been up to Loch Dhu once recently. Used the same old airstrip you did. Here's something that might be interesting, though: She went to last month."
"Now that is interesting. Any thoughts on where she went?"
"Yes. She landed late afternoon and had a slot booked back to Heathrow the following afternoon, so that seemed to indicate a hotel for the night. So I started with the Europa, accessed their booking records, and there she was."
"And why was she there?"
Roper shook his head. "That I don't know. But if she does it again, I'll let you know. You could follow her. Of course, it could be perfectly legitimate. Rashid Investments has taken a big stake in Ulster since peace broke out."
"Peace?" Dillon laughed harshly. "Believe that, you'll believe anything."
"I agree with you. After all, I was the one who defused a hundred and two bombs. Too bad it wasn't a hundred and three." He patted the arm of the wheelchair.
"I know," Dillon said. "You know, considering I was on the other side, I sometimes wonder why you put up with me."
"You were never a bomb man, Sean. Anyway, I like you." He shrugged. "By the way, if you want a drink, there's a bottle of white wine in the fridge over there. It's all I'm allowed."
Dillon groaned. "God help me, but it will do to take along." He got the bottle from the fridge. "Jesus, Roper, it's so cheap it's got a screw top."
"Don't moan about it, pour it. I'm a reserve officer on pension."
Dillon obeyed, and put a glass at Roper's right hand while Roper played with the keys. Dillon took a swallow and made a face. "I think someone made this in the backyard. What are you looking at now?"
"Rupert Dauncey. Quite a character, but nothing we don't know about him yet. There's something about him, though, a ruthlessness, always on the edge. There's a dark side to that one."
"Ah, well there's a dark side to all of us. Can you tell if he was with Kate on the Irish trip?"
"There are Special Branch regulations regarding passengers on executive jets. He wasn't on board. He's a comparatively new arrival to her entourage, remember."
"I suppose so."
Roper drank some wine. "However, he is on board tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, with the Countess. Would you like to know where they're going?"
"Where?"
"Hazar."
"Hazar, hmm? That means Hamam airport. You know, the RAF built it in the old days. There's only one runway, but it can take anything, even a Hercules. Check on something for me. Last time I was there, we used an outfit called Carver Air Transport. See if they're still there."
Roper tapped his keys. "Yes, they are. Ben Carver? Ex-Squadron Leader in the RAF?"
"The old sod," Dillon said. "So what's Kate up to?"
"That's what Ferguson asked when I told him. Of course, there are a dozen different reasons why she could be going down there, but Ferguson said he would contact Tony Villiers, ask him to keep an eye on her." Colonel Tony Villiers was the Commander of the Hazar Scouts.
"That should help. Villiers is good, and he isn't particularly keen on the Rashids since they skinned his second-in-command, Bronsby."
"Yes, they do have their little ways. Now go away, Dillon. I've got work to do."
A
t that moment, on the border between Hazar and the Empty Quarter, Tony Villiers was encamped with a dozen of his Hazar Scouts and three Land Rovers. A small fire of dried camel dung burned, a pannier of water on top.
His men were all Rashid Bedu and all accepted Kate Rashid as leader of the tribe, but the clan spilled across the border as well. There were good men over there in the Empty Quarter and there were bad men, bandits who crossed into Hazar at their own risk, for the Scouts had sworn a blood oath to Villiers. Honor was of supreme importance to them--each one would kill his own brother, if necessary, rather than violate his oath.
They sat around the fire, AK assault rifles close at hand, wearing soiled white robes and crossed bandoliers. Some smoked and drank coffee, others ate dates and dried meat.
Tony Villiers wore a head cloth and crumpled khaki uniform, a Browning pistol in his holster. He'd never gotten used to dates and had just eaten the contents of a large can of baked beans cold. One of the men came across with a tin cup.
"Tea, Sahb?"
"Thanks," Villiers replied in Arabic.
He sat down and leaned against a rock, drank the bitter black tea, smoked a cigarette, and looked out to the Empty Quarter. It was disputed territory there, and utterly lawless. As someone had once said, you could kill the Pope there and no one would be able to do a thing. That's why he kept to his side of the border whenever possible.
Villiers, approaching fifty now, had served in the Falklands and every little war in between up to the Gulf and Saddam, then had ended up on secondment here in Hazar. It was just like in the old days, a British officer commanding native levies, and it was beginning to pall.