But he hesitated, and Doyle said, “You’re worried about this, aren’t you? What exactly are you looking for, sir?”
“You mean who, don’t you? Now that we may be close to identifying the Broker . . . I wonder if I want to know.”
He shook himself. “Make sure I’m not disturbed, Sergeant,” he said, and he glided back into the computer room.
GETTING INTO THE SYSTEM
turned out to be as easy as he thought. Once in, he found a choice of cameras, but it was the one covering the locker room that he wanted. He fast-forwarded it to the right date, then slowed it down after the time code indicated noon. He watched intently, going into close-up. No one was in the locker room, as Fahy had said, and then as the time code indicated twelve-twenty, a man in a fawn raincoat appeared. Roper could see only his back as he moved in quickly from the right. He unlocked number seven, took out a manila envelope, and turned, pausing to open it and to take out what was obviously the bank draft. Roper recognized Sean Fahy clearly, it was without doubt the man on the three or four photos Teague had supplied from the garage. Fahy didn’t even smile, simply locked up as ordered and walked away.
Roper moved back to just before the moment Fahy had arrived and put the episode into his copying system. When he was satisfied with what he had, he took the whole thing back to nine-thirty, opening time, and started to work his way through. It was ten-fifteen before two aging men came in talking, opened a locker each, and removed a terry-cloth robe. They undressed, talking amicably, put on the robes, and hung their clothes up in their lockers. They closed and locked them and vanished to elsewhere in the building, still talking. After that, there was nothing, and Roper pushed it on. Eleven o’clock and still nothing, eleven-fifteen, and he was beginning to wonder, and then it happened, just as he’d hoped it would. A man in a navy blue raincoat came into view, as Fahy had, moving in quickly from the right so Roper could only see his back. He had two manila envelopes ready in his left hand, placed one in the locker, then took out the key and dropped it in the other. He turned, sealing it, so ordinary, a furled umbrella hanging from his wrist, and walked away. Roper pulled back to enlarge the picture and watched him walk away through the door, knowing beyond any shadow of a doubt that he had finally found the Broker.
BAD WEATHER CONDITIONS
had delayed takeoff at Oban, and it was three in the afternoon when it finally landed at Farley. Ferguson decided to go straight to his flat at Cavendish Place and offered to drop Helen Black off at her house in his Daimler.
She kissed Dillon and Billy on the cheek and hugged Monica hard. “A remarkable few days. I won’t say we must do it again sometime, it doesn’t seem appropriate.”
“Exactly,” Monica said.
Harry arrived at that very moment in the Bentley in answer to Billy’s call. He got out and embraced his nephew. “Been a naughty boy again, have you?”
“We all have,” Dillon told him. “But we won’t go into that now. Billy will fill you in on the juicy bits. If you could drop Monica off at Rosedene, that would help. They’ll drop me at Stable Mews in a Farley car.”
“Could you come with me, Sean, to Rosedene?” she asked.
“If you’d like me to.”
“I would.” She took his hand lightly for a moment.
“Then of course I will.”
“We’ll catch up later,” Ferguson called, and they all dispersed.
AT ROSEDENE,
Maggie Duncan emerged from her office and greeted them in reception. “I’m glad you’re back. He’ll be pleased to see you.”
“He’s well, is he?” Monica asked eagerly.
“The truth is he’s still very poorly. The viciousness of the stabbing has not helped at all, but he’ll be so pleased to see you.”
Dillon said to Monica, “You go, have a bit of quiet time with him. I’ll avail myself of the facilities and have a good shower. I’ll see you in a while.”
She kissed him briefly and went along the corridor.
Maggie Duncan said, “That I should see the day.”
“And you won’t.” He shook his head. “Maggie, you know the man I am and the life I live. You’ve been patching me up for years. She’s a wonderful woman, and it may sound corny to say she’s far too good for me, but it’s the truth.”
“And have you told her that?” Maggie smiled. “I don’t know men. Go and have your shower, Sean.” She went back into her office.
MUCH LATER,
and having borrowed a fresh shirt from laundry, Dillon appeared at Miller’s room and found him sitting up and leaning against a recliner, his face quite haggard. Monica sat beside him, holding his hand and looking worried.
“There you are,” he said. “Up to your old tricks, it seems. I’ve just made Monica tell me all about it. No more Volkov? And Quinn.” Miller shook his head. “One thing you can say about you and me, Sean, the body count is remarkable. Lying here feeling lousy and rather sorry for myself, I begin to query the point. It won’t bring Olivia back.”
His distress was obvious, and it was at that point that Dillon realized how deeply damaged he was. “All we’re missing is the Broker.”
“Suddenly, I’m not interested. Having just discovered that my sister’s joined the club by killing her first man at Drumore, I wonder where it’s all going to end and whether it’s worth it.”
He was racked by coughing. Monica rang for the nurse, who came in, followed by Maggie Duncan. Dillon said, “I’ll get out of the way.”
He went into reception, walked out into the porch of the front door, and smoked a cigarette, looking out at the rain. After a while, Monica joined him and stood beside him, her left arm around his waist as if seeking security.
“He’s not good, Sean.”
“I can see that.”
“Not just in body, but in spirit.” They turned to go in and met Bellamy coming out of his office.
“Ah, there you are. I’m glad you’re here. I need a word.”
“I’d imagine you would,” Monica said.
“First, his physical health isn’t at all good. Some pretty serious infection of the wounds haven’t helped. To be frank, I’ve a nasty suspicion that the knife supplied to the young woman was poisoned, certainly contaminated in some way. I’m having checks done on that now, so we’ll see. The other thing is his mental state. He feels an enormous personal guilt because he had to kill that girl. He also feels a terrible guilt because his wife died in his place when he was the target. No reasonable argument is possible with him on that matter at the moment. If you don’t object, Lady Starling, I’d like to call in a colleague, one of the finest psychiatrists in London, as soon as possible to examine him and suggest proper therapy.”
“I’d welcome it.” She turned to Dillon. “He’s just told me he feels he should resign his seat.”
Dillon flared with anger. “Don’t let him do that, he was a good guy in all this. Volkov, Hassim, Fahy, and Quinn were bad people, the lot of them, responsible for so much evil and by intention.”
“I know,” she said. “And the damn Broker still out there.” She was half crying. “I must go back to him, Sean. I’ll stay the night.” She gave him a brief hug and departed.
“There it is,” Bellamy said. “Most unfortunate. I’ll speak to my colleague now. I’ll see you later, Sean.”
He went to his office and Dillon went out into the porch, and Harry Salter’s Bentley drew up, Billy at the wheel. They both looked serious, and Harry leaned out of the window. “Glad you’re here. Get in and quick.”
Dillon didn’t argue, only saying as Billy drove away, “Where’s the fire?”
“Ferguson called me at the Dark Man,” Harry told him. “Said he wanted me and Billy to pick you up here and join him and Roper at Holland Park.”
“What for?”
“He said we’d find out when we got there, but nothing had ever been more important.”
“Then put your foot down, Billy,” Dillon said.
AT HOLLAND PARK
in the computer room, the Salters, Dillon, and Ferguson watched the events at The Turkish Rooms unfold. At the last moment, as the Broker turned to walk away, Roper froze the image. There was a strange stillness for a moment, and then Ferguson spoke.
“It’s so totally damning that it’s breathtaking.”
“Not much to say, really.” Dillon shrugged. “So what do we do about it?”
“I know what I want to do,” Harry said. “Bury the bastard, and alive if possible.”
Billy nodded. “I’d second that.”
There was another long pause, and Roper said, “So how are you going to handle it, General, confrontational or what?”
Ferguson turned to Harry Salter. “You still have those pleasure boats on the Thames, don’t you?”
“That’s right. There’s the
River Queen
and the
Bluebell.
”
“Westminster Pier. Let’s say seven o’clock” He turned to Dillon. “Would that suit you—the
River Queen
?”
“Fair enough, but would he come?”
“He will if I make it seem important enough.”
“And what happens?” Dillon asked. “That’s the thing.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, the implications are too enormous, we simply go with the flow.” Ferguson stood and said to Roper, “I think you should be there with this.” He gestured at the frozen image and turned to Harry. “Do you have a television set on board?”
“In the lounge.”
“I’ll manage,” Roper said. “Billy and Harry will help.”
“No one else,” Ferguson said. “This is very personal for all of us. I’ll go off now and make contact. If it isn’t going to work, I’ll let you know and we’ll decide on something else.”
He went out. Harry said, “You could always wait for a wet Saturday night when the bastard is walking home and simply give him a bullet in the head.”
“If only life were that perfect,” Dillon said. “But let’s get started. There’s a lot to sort out.”
WESTMINSTER PIER
at around half past six. The rain had increased with force as darkness fell. Harry and Dillon had been on board the
River Queen
for some time, organizing things, and now Billy arrived in the van with Roper. He got him out, hurried ahead, went on board, and opened a section of the rail that allowed wheelchair access to the deck. He made sure that Roper had negotiated safely and once more moved ahead. He opened the door of the lower-deck saloon and Roper followed him in.
There was a television high up in a corner. Dillon and Harry were standing at the small bar, having a drink. “There’s your television,” Harry said, “and it does DVDs.”
“And I’ve made one. Put it in for me, Billy, and give me a drink, Harry. No sign of Ferguson?”
There was the sound of a car. “That’ll be him now.”
He went out on deck to put up the rail again and saw Ferguson paying off a taxi. It drove away, and Ferguson came toward him as Billy put up a sign that said:
Private Party Only.
Ferguson came up the gangway. “A taxi seemed the sensible thing to do.”
“I wonder if he’ll think so, too.”
“Who knows? Join the others and get moving as soon as he arrives.”
Billy went and Ferguson turned, waiting. It was quite still, just traffic sounds in the distance, and then a small man, holding a large black umbrella over his head, simply emerged from the darkness. He stood there, looking up at Ferguson, his face yellow in the jetty lights, his hair still obviously white: Simon Carter, Deputy Director of the Secret Security Services.
“There you are,” Ferguson called. “No taxi?”
“Walked along from the Houses of Parliament. What’s it all about? I thought all this kind of cloak-and-dagger stuff went out with the Cold War. What’s so important that we have to meet like this?”
He came up the gangway and boarded. Ferguson unhooked it. There was a line coil dropped over a deck post. Ferguson slipped it off, strode to another amidships, and did the same. The
River Queen
started to edge away at once on the current and the engine rumbled, started by Billy up in the wheelhouse.
“What in the hell is this?” Carter demanded.
“Evening cruise on the river, Simon, maybe as far as Chelsea while we discuss business. Sorry about the rain. It turns up everywhere when you least expect it. Raining on the coast road in Louth when Dillon ambushed Volkov and two GRU hard men and killed them, raining in Drumore last night when we finished off Michael Quinn and company at Drumore Place.”
Carter was dumbfounded. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
The saloon door opened and Sean Dillon said, “Come in, Mr. Carter.”
And Carter, urged forward by Ferguson’s hand in his back, had no option but to go.
THE FILM ENDED
with the frozen image of the Broker, turning to walk away. Billy, in the wheelhouse, had the windows open as they proceeded upriver toward Chelsea in spite of the rain, and had the rear door of the wheelhouse open at the top of the steps leading down to the saloon so that he could hear what went on.
“So what have you to say?” Ferguson demanded. “That screen damns you. Your guilt is absolute.”
“Don’t be so stupid. Guilty of what? A voice on the phone to everybody for years, that’s all.”
“To Volkov, and through him the President of the Russian Confederation himself,” Roper said. “High treason.”
“Even Kim Philby or Guy Burgess couldn’t compare with what you’ve done,” Ferguson said. “The links with Al Qaeda and the international implications alone are unbelievable, and the fact that it was all passing through Volkov’s hands.”
“I say again, even there, I was just a voice and I never met one of them. How do you prove a voice? Your people have always operated outside the law. Look at the things you do, your cavalier attitude toward the legal system, which is, why try a suspect when you can kill them and have your disposal unit handle the consequences? Yes, I know all about you.”
“You missed on Miller in Beirut, but you were away, as I recall, and I put a stop on any mention of his flight from Farley. I did that when we flew up to Oban the day before yesterday and foxed you again. Dillon got Volkov, we all finished off Quinn and his people. In case it hasn’t got through to you, Abdul, sent by Hassim, stabbed Fahy on your behalf, but Fahy shot him dead. He then made a dying confession to Dillon and Miller. Both he and Abdul went for disposal. Miller executed Hassim later that night.”