Edge of Danger (17 page)

‘Jesus, wasn’t Nantucket enough for you? Wasn’t this?’

‘No, not until I get my revenge. Not until I am satisfied. Land Rovers will take you. Leave

now and work fast. I want a plan ready when I get there.’

He stood up and walked away and joined Kate and George at the fireside. She was upset; the screams from Bronsby were hard to take.

‘Paul, is this necessary?’

‘My people expect it, Kate. It is hard, but it is what they expect.’

She sat there, unhappy, upset. Bronsby cried out again, quite dreadfully, on and on before stopping.

Ali said, ‘I think he has gone, Sahb.’

Villiers sat there brooding about it. Ferguson said, ‘Dear God.’

Dillon turned to Blake. ‘Well, there you go. It must remind you of the joys of the Vietcong in the Mekong Delta.’

Harry Salter said, ‘And we let people like these into the country.’

Dillon managed a hard smile. ‘Why, Harry. You’re a racist.’

Villiers picked up an AK. ‘All right. That’s enough, Ali, let’s take a look. I’ve waited long enough.’

Dillon said, ‘Would you mind some company?’

Villiers hesitated, then said, ‘I suppose that at the end of the day we are from the same side of the street. Let’s do it.’

They went up the hill, Villiers, Dillon, Billy, Harry, and Blake, and they found Cornet Bronsby pegged out. He was quite dead, his skin peeled down from the chest, his private parts stuffed in his mouth.

‘There was no need for that, Sahb,’ Ali said. ‘I am ashamed. There is no honour in this.’

He was carrying an old British Lee Enfield bolt action rifle. As he turned to lead the way, he stumbled, tripped and fell over, the rifle flying from his hands. Dillon helped him to his feet and Villiers picked up his rifle.

Ali held his arm. ‘Ah, it’s bad, Sahb, maybe broken.’

‘We’ll see,’ Villiers told him. ‘We’ll go back to the camp. Tell half a dozen men to carry him down, but tell them to be careful.’

‘No need, Sahb. The triumph up on the hill is in what they have done. They will kill no more. We are of the blood. I know.’

‘Well, I’m not,’ Dillon said.

They brought Cornet Richard Bronsby down the

mountainside to the camp and loaded the corpse into a body bag and onto a Land Rover.

Ferguson had a look. ‘Why on earth would they do such a thing?’

Villiers said, ‘This kind of mutilation is a warning. With all respect to Dillon, I’ve seen as bad in Ireland.’

Dillon lit a cigarette. ‘He’s right, but he’s wrong in one respect. I was IRA for more than twenty-five years. I killed soldiers, I killed Loyalists, but always as a soldier, never like this.’ He turned to Villiers. ‘They’ll taunt you as the sun comes up, you know that.’

Villiers nodded. ‘And that will be five hundred metres away. It’s a funny thing, Dillon. I was never much good with a rifle. That’s why I used Ali. Now, he’s cracked his arm, and in the morning, they’ll stand up, scream and shout, and give us a hard time.’

Dillon smiled. ‘I hope they do, Colonel, I hope they do.’ He picked up Ali’s Lee Enfield. ‘My grandfather used one of these in 1917 in the trenches of Flanders. He was awarded a medal for bravery in the field. It’s a bolt-action, single-round, Three-oh-Three.’

Tony Villiers lit a cigarette and passed the packet

across. ‘I also remember that the preferred weapon of IRA snipers in South Armagh was the Lee Enfield.’

‘Well, I’m from County Down myself, but I would agree with you,’ Dillon said.

In the morning, Dillon, Ferguson and the others drank coffee as light filtered through. The orange globe of the sun slowly arose, suffusing the dawn light.

Suddenly, six figures appeared on the hill five hundred metres away. Dillon looked through the Zeiss glasses. Paul Rashid sprang into view, George and three Bedu and Kate with him.

‘Guess who,’ Dillon said and passed the glasses to Villiers.

Villiers said, ‘Christ.’

One of the Scouts was behind him holding Ali’s Lee Enfield. Dillon snapped his fingers and said in Arabic, ‘Now.’

On the hill, Paul Rashid looked through his own glasses. ‘It’s Dillon,’ he said. ‘Tony Villiers and Ferguson, Billy Salter and his uncle.’

One of the Scouts passed Dillon the Lee Enfield. Dillon secured its belt around his wrist. And then,

for some perverse reason, he fired to miss, kicking up sand between Paul Rashid’s feet. Rashid dived for cover, pulling Kate with him. Then Dillon shot the man on the end of the line, then shot another one.

Ferguson said, ‘They’re running scared, Sean. We’ll have a go back home in London. Leave it.’

‘Like hell I will. I’ve just shot those two. I’ll make it four. Watch.’

He took number three, then four, and four was George Rashid.

It was quiet, and on the ridge Kate fell on her knees in horror. Paul said, ‘Leave him,’ and grabbed her hand. ‘Come with me now.’

They made it to a Land Rover and departed. Villiers led the way up the hill. The four Arabs were all very dead, eyes staring, arms outstretched.

Villiers said, ‘You’re one hell of a marksman, Dillon.’

Harry Salter said, ‘Christ, they should call you the Executioner.’

Villiers and Ferguson were looking at the four Arabs, and it was Ferguson who said, ‘Dear God, this one is George Rashid.’

‘Have we got a problem?’ Dillon asked.

‘Well, Paul Rashid won’t be pleased.’

‘Neither will Mrs Bronsby, so stuff Paul Rashid

and his bloody money.’ Dillon stood up and walked

away.

At the Rashid villa at the port, Kate Rashid stood in a shower letting the heat soak into her, a futile attempt to make herself feel better. She had lost a brother, but more than that, this girl who was half English aristocrat, an Oxford MA, had been forced to confront Bronsby’s truly dreadful torture.

She dried herself, pulled on a robe and went out. Paul Rashid sat by the open french window, working his way through papers. He looked up.

‘How are you?’

‘How should I be? George is dead.’

‘Yes, and it was Dillon who killed him. Do you still like him, Kate?’

‘We killed Bronsby, and in a terrible way.’

‘True, and the good book says an eye for an eye. I don’t mean the Koran, I’m referring to the Bible.’

‘So now we get home to what?’

‘We don’t go home, not yet. This is Hazar. I still rule the Rashid, not the Council of Elders.

The attempt was in the Empty Quarter, disputed territory. No one can touch us.’

‘So what do you intend, brother?’

‘Dinner at the Excelsior. If I were a gambling man, I’d say that’s exactly where our friends will go this evening. I think that of all of them, it’s Dillon who will expect it. You know I love old movies. So often they depict life in a way life itself doesn’t.’

‘So what happens? There’s a confrontation, guns are pulled?’

‘Not necessarily. What happened to me at Shabwa?’

‘The assassins?’

‘These people are always available. They take quat, they would kill their grandparents for the right price. If we take out Dillon and his friends, to a certain degree it pays for George.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘We return to London.’

‘To what?’

‘Oh, I’ll think about it. Now get dressed. Wear a nice frock and we’ll go to the Excelsior and see if I’m right.’

On the Sultan, they sat under the stern awning and had a drink.

Ferguson said, ‘What happens now, Tony?’ Villiers said, ‘You can’t touch him, but then you know that.’

‘We couldn’t even touch him in Manhattan,’ Blake said.

Dillon nodded. ‘Or London.’ Ferguson asked, ‘So what happens?’ There was a sudden flurry of rain and Ali, who had accompanied Villiers, reached for a bottle of champagne, his left arm in a sling, and refreshed the glasses.

Dillon said, ‘I’d ask Harry. He’s a student of human nature. The Krays and Al Capone couldn’t hold a candle to him.’

Harry drank some champagne. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, you little Irish so-and-so. As you said, the bastard can’t be touched here or apparently anywhere else, but you, with the Colonel and Billy behind you, screwed up Rashid’s plans and killed his brother. Now, it’s just like Brixton in the old days. Eyes everywhere. We go into Hazar to have dinner at this Excelsior place and he’ll know in ten minutes.’ Professor Hal Stone said, ‘Correction. Five minutes.’

‘Sure,’ Dillon said. ‘Just like Belfast on a bad Saturday night.’

Ferguson said, ‘So what do we do?’

It was Billy who answered, ‘Well, actually, I’m hungry myself. I say let’s go ashore to the Excelsior and take them on. If they’re not there, we have a decent meal.’

Villiers laughed out loud. ‘You young bastard. It’s marvellous to find you confirm everything I’ve heard.’

‘Only one thing,’ Harry Salter said. ‘If we go, we go tooled up.’ He turned to Hal Stone. ‘You know what that means, Professor?’

‘I used to work for the Security Services, remember? You mean a pistol under my arm? I’m quite happy with that.’

Dillon laughed. ‘If only they knew about you at high table at Corpus Christi.’

‘I put up with it,’ Hal Stone said. ‘The wine list is excellent.’

Ferguson said, ‘So we’re going to eat and we’re all going armed?’

‘You old bugger,’ Dillon said. ‘You’ll be disappointed if they’re not there.’

They sat on the terrace at the Excelsior, the awning flapping, a light rain drumming. There were Ferguson, Dillon, Billy and his uncle. Hal Stone had decided to stay to watch things on the Sultan. There were lights on ships across the harbour, lights up in Hazar town.

‘Looks like a TV programme about package holidays,’ Billy said.

It was at that moment that Paul Rashid walked in with his sister.

Dillon stood up. ‘Kate, you’re looking grand.’

‘Dillon,’ she said.

Paul Rashid wore a tropical linen suit and a Guards tie.

Villiers stood up. ‘Paul.’ He offered his hand.

Rashid took it. ‘Colonel Tony Villiers, Kate. You know the story. The Gulf War.’

Villiers turned on his considerable charm. ‘Guardsmen are all the same, Lady Kate. You see the tie and always ask which regiment.’

‘And you and the Earl and General Ferguson were all Grenadiers,’ Dillon said.

‘And Cornet Bronsby,’ Billy put in. ‘Let’s not forget him. The Household Cavalry, Blues and Royals.’

There was a pause. It was Rashid who said, ‘So I believe.’

Tony Villiers said, ‘The trouble with the Households is that all that people see are those glamorous uniforms. They don’t see them in places like Kosovo, in Challenger tanks and armoured cars.’

‘They also provide a lot of volunteers for G Squadron in Twenty-Two SAS,’ Ferguson put in.

‘Well, that’s a bleeding show stopper,’ Harry said. ‘I’m Harry Salter. Can I get you a drink?’

‘I’ve heard about you, Mr Salter. You used to know the Kray brothers,’ Kate said.

‘They were gangsters, love, and so was I. It was what we were, only I got smart and turned legitimate.’

‘Almost,’ Billy said.

‘Okay, almost. Glass of champagne, love?’

‘No. With all due respect, there is a limit,’ Paul Rashid told him. He turned to Dillon. ‘I saw you, I knew it was you. With George, I mean.’

‘And Bronsby, that means nothing?’

‘George meant more.’

‘The Arab side rising to the surface.’

‘You couldn’t be more wrong, Dillon. The Dauncey side.’

It was Ferguson who said, ‘I’ll be formal, my Lord. Leave it. It’s gone too far. I would hope you have no expectations.’

‘Of course he has,’ Dillon said. ‘That’s why Aidan Bell isn’t here.’

‘Really?’ Ferguson turned to Rashid. ‘Could that be true?’

‘Wait and see.’

‘I’ve spoken to the Prime Minister about you. He was very angry.’

‘And so was the President,’ Blake Johnson said.

‘What a pity.’ Rashid smiled, a smile that could chill the heart. ‘And I so much wanted to please the both of them. Well, I will just have to think of some other way. Good night, gentlemen.’ Paul Rashid walked out, his sister on his arm.

There was silence and it was Harry Salter who said, ‘I just hope you’ve got the message. We’re going to get fucked when we leave here.’

‘Really?’ Ferguson opened a menu. ‘Well, the kebabs they mention sound delicious. We might as well eat and enjoy ourselves.’

‘And then walk down the dark streets of Hazar shoulder to shoulder?’ Blake said.

‘Yes, something like that, so make your choice,’ Ferguson told him.

The Rashid Gulfstream took off from Haman and Aidan Bell sat back, accepted a whiskey and started to read a supply of English papers which had come out from London on the trip in.

The Premier and the Prime Minister were going to take a trip down the Thames to the Millennium Dome. The two-page article in the Daily Telegraph carried an itinerary. A night trip down the river. The major television companies would be involved and the two leaders, everything you could want.

Bell sat back, a half-smile on his face. It was like Time magazine and Cazalet all over again, not that Nantucket had worked out as expected, but this could be different. He’d always done well in London. All right, he’d lost the team, but this could be one of those jobs where you were better on your own.

He called to the steward for another drink and started to work through the article again.

Ferguson was right. The kebabs were excellent, and they ate with enthusiasm.

Billy said, ‘All right, so we survive, which I certainly intend, we survive and get back to Wapping

in one piece. What happens then, General? What’s Rashid’s next move?’

‘Dillon?’

Dillon sat back. ‘It has to have something to do with Bell. That’s why he isn’t here.’

‘Seen getting onto a Rashid Gulfstream at Haman military airbase, booked for London,’ Villiers said.

‘Nice of you to tell us.’

‘I decided to save it in case you didn’t want dessert.’

Blake said, ‘Come on, Sean, what is his agenda?’

Dillon lit a cigarette. ‘He failed with the American President. He failed with the Elders. Maybe this time his target really is the obvious one. The Russian Premier’s due soon in London, isn’t he, Charles?’