Rough Justice (30 page)

 
 
AT HOLLAND PARK,
they had all assembled: the Salters, Dillon, and Miller, distributed around the computer room, Sergeants Doyle and Henderson stiffly military in spite of their ties and navy blue blazers.

Ferguson was calmly stern. “In spite of the way we do business, there has to be a method to our madness. You went off the reservation, Harry, with Ali Hassim. I appreciate how you feel, we all do. But you can’t do anything like that again.” He relented slightly. “For one thing, you were taking a chance on acting alone, and we wouldn’t like to lose you.”

“I take your point.”

“He’s right,” Dillon said. “Remember what Father Sharkey told you?”

“I always have,” Miller said. “That’s why I’m still here.”

“So what happens now?” Billy asked.

“We still can’t do anything about the Broker, since we don’t know who he is. Quinn, though, that’s another matter.”

Bill perked up. “We’ve had a bit of experience with that place he’s holed up, Drumore. Had a little bit of a shoot-up there a while ago.” He grinned. “There’re some villains who won’t be bothering anybody anymore. Wouldn’t mind trying it again.”

Roper said to Ferguson, “Moscow might not appreciate it. How far do you want to go?”

“Quinn’s got away with murder for years, and he’s certainly an accessory to the murder of Olivia and Vaughan. He should pay for that.”

“I’d like to see the bleeder in court at the Old Bailey,” Harry Salter said.

Ferguson said, “I’m thinking of something much simpler.”

“And definitely more certain,” Miller said.

“If you want to end it once and for all, a frontal attack would be needed.” That was Dillon.

“We’d need more information on Quinn’s situation there,” Roper said.

Billy looked at his uncle and grinned. “And I know just who could fill us in. Max Chekhov. And I know where he lives.”

Harry Salter stood up. “Make an old man happy, General, and let Billy and me go and lift him.”

Ferguson smiled. “Dammit, why not? No rough stuff, mind you.”

“Hardly likely. We put him on sticks, didn’t we? We’ll be back in no time.”

They went out, and a few minutes later, Miller’s phone sounded. “Hello, love, where are you?” It was Monica.

“Oh, with General Ferguson and the crew. How are things at Stokely?”

“Excellent when I left. Aunt Mary’s suddenly come to life, and it’s had quite an effect on the Senator. They’re getting on famously. Since they’ve got the Grants to look after them, I thought I’d join you for a few days. I’m on the train just about to coast into Kings Cross. Don’t worry about me, I’ll get a taxi. I’ve got my key. By any chance . . . is Sean Dillon there?”

Miller grinned. “Sean? A friend of yours.” He handed the phone to him. “Monica.”

Dillon was genuinely pleased and retired to a corner to talk. Ferguson said, “What’s this development? Dillon moving into the aristocracy?”

Miller shrugged and said a surprising thing. “She could do worse. She’s been a widow too long.”

“Well, God help us, but Dillon would certainly turn her life around.”

 
 
MAX CHEKHOV DECIDED
to cheer himself up, and what better venue than the bar at the Dorchester Hotel, a favorite for many of his friends and only a short distance away. The walk would do him good, exercise his right leg, so savagely kneecapped by a hit man delivering flowers on behalf of the Salters. Of course, even Chekhov had to admit he’d asked for it. He plodded along, stick tapping, and a scarlet Alfa Romeo pulled in at the curb and Harry Salter stepped out.

“Max, my old friend,” he said. “Nice to see you. No need to walk, we’ll give you a lift.”

Chekhov panicked. “Get away from me!”

Harry pulled open the passenger door and stepped behind him. “Of course, I could say I’ll blow your spine in two if you don’t do as you are told, but I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” He shoved his head down and pushed him in the back of the car and climbed in after him. “There you go. An old friend just waiting to have a chat.”

“And who would that be?”

“General Charles Ferguson. Only the best for you, Maxie boy.”

Chekhov groaned. “Oh my God.”

Billy said, “Nice to see you again, Max.” He drove away.

 
 
BILLY LED CHEKHOV
in and they all assembled. Ferguson said, “So, Mr. Chekhov, how are you?”

“How do you expect me to be? This is illegal, you know it is. What are you going to do?”

“What do you expect? A flight to Egypt to some very small concrete room where the torturers get to work on you? We don’t do things like that.”

“What about your friend, Dillon? I seem to remember his favorite parlor trick is shooting off half of somebody’s ear if they won’t talk.”

“I’ve given that up for Lent, Max,” Dillon told him. “Be sensible and just answer a few questions. Allow me to introduce you to Major Harry Miller here. He was a target for Volkov, the Broker, and the Army of God, and they were so inefficient they managed between them to kill his wife and his chauffeur. It’s not surprising he isn’t pleased with you.”

“Okay, so there was a mistake, but there was no mistake on his part when he shot dead Captain Igor Zorin of the Fifteenth Siberian Storm Guards in Kosovo.”

Roper broke in. “So you know about that? Of course, the fact that Zorin was going to rape a few young girls and burn a mosque doesn’t matter to you?”

“Look, I don’t know what you want. I don’t know anything about the death of the Major’s wife. I didn’t have any thing to do with the death of the man Fahy or this Hassim.”

He stopped suddenly, aware that he had said too much. “Who said anything about the death of a man called Fahy?” Miller asked. “The man you’re referring to doesn’t exist. In fact, there’s no report of his death, no body, so where does your information come from?”

No one spoke until Ferguson said, “This is a safe house under my command. I can hold you here for as long as I like and I don’t need to tell anyone that you are here. Our version of a cell is extremely comfortable but a hundred percent secure. The food is excellent, I eat it myself. Books, a television, it’s all yours, but there you stay until you tell me what I want to know, and if that means till Christmas, you’ll be here for the next ten months. Sergeants Doyle and Henderson will be responsible for you. Take over, gentlemen.”

Chekhov suddenly had had enough, and that meant enough of everyone—the President and the Russian Federation, General Ivan Volkov, the Broker, Quinn, the whole business.

“General Ferguson,” he said wearily. “I’m tired, and the pain in my right knee, thanks to the Salters’ generosity, is almost killing, so I’ll make a bargain with you. Give me a very large vodka, followed by another, and then I’ll answer any question you care to put to me if I can.”

“Done.” Ferguson smiled. “In fact, you can have a whole ruddy bottle if you like.”

He sang like a bird and, by the end of it, was thoroughly drunk. “Is that it?”

“Absolutely,” Ferguson said. “You’ve been very informative. You’ll have to stay with us for a week, though just until we’ve got things sorted.”

“Anything you say. Can I go to bed now?”

“Of course. Have a good night.” Doyle and Henderson took him away.

 
 
“SO THE BROKER
is thoroughly shafted,” Roper said.

“Interesting, Putin playing hardball in spite of Al Qaeda,” Dillon said.

“And now we have Quinn’s setup at Drumore Place, along with the number of guards,” Ferguson said.

“You’d like to snatch him?” Miller asked.

“Or something.” Ferguson nodded. “The day after tomorrow, Volkov arrives.”

“You wouldn’t be thinking of snatching him also?”

“No—but he could always happen to be in the line of fire.”

“If there was a line of fire.”

They all waited. Ferguson said, “I’ve had enough of these people and the incredible harm they do. Quinn and any of his old comrades who are foolish enough to back him up, deserve anything they get. If Volkov happens to be there, so much the better.”

Excitement stirred. “What are you thinking about?” Billy demanded.

“The other year, we attacked in an old motor launch called the
Highlander
and sailed from Oban, remember?”

Dillon smiled. “How could we forget? But getting close to that tiny port, especially during the day, would be impossible, the way things are now. Quinn would be certainly well-prepared.”

“Not if you were in the right kind of boat,” said Ferguson. “The kind of thing only multimillionaires can afford.”

They looked at him.

“You mean some sort of gin palace?” Billy said.

“A vulgar term, but yes. An appallingly wealthy friend of mine owns quite a nice, large yacht. As you may be aware, I’m something of a sailor, did the Atlantic crossing single-handed in my time. A boat like that demands attention, especially with a handsome woman on the stern deck drinking a cocktail. Nobody could imagine it being there for anything else but pleasure, a cruise off the Irish coast.”

They were stunned. Harry Salter said, “Genius! That handsome woman, though—a bird like that would be putting herself in harm’s way.”

“You’ve got someone in mind?” Dillon asked.

“Helen Black.”

“The sergeant major? I remember her well,” Billy said. “What a woman.”

“But first, I need to secure the loan of the boat, so have a drink or something while I speak to my friend. I’ll use the office.” He went away.

Miller said, “The sergeant major?”

“Military police,” Harry Salter said. “Used to run this place for Ferguson.”

“Got the Military Cross for shooting a member of the IRA in Derry who was leaving a van with Semtex on board outside a nurses’ hostel,” Dillon said. “Took a bullet in the left thigh, got the guy who did it, then sat up and shot his friend in the back as he ran away. Went to Oxford, but refused a commission every time one was offered. Her husband was an officer in the Household Cavalry. Killed in Iraq the other year.”

“Well, I’m sorry about that, but I must say she sounds impressive,” Miller said.

“A handsome lady. Never had any children. About the same age as Monica.”

“Really?” Miller said. “I look forward to meeting her.”

Ferguson came back. “The boat is mine. Wait till you see it. Avenger Class Ten. If you thought you knew what a motorboat was, think again. It’s in the Isle of Wight at the moment, and my friend will have it rushed up to Oban, delivered by two of his men. It will be waiting for us by the afternoon.”

“Good God, can it get there in time?” Billy said.

“Believe me, this boat is sensational. Wait till you see the wheelhouse, and there’s a flybridge up top.”

“Who’s going?” Miller asked.

“Me, to give things authority. You, Harry. Dillon, Billy, and Helen Black. Sorry,” he told Harry Salter, “not this time.”

“Never mind, my bleeding arthritis wouldn’t stand up to it. I was sorry to hear Mrs. Black’s husband bought it in Iraq, I didn’t know.”

“About two years ago. She’s over it now. Writes children’s books these days. All I’ve told her is the job is fairly similar to what she helped us on three years or so ago. She’s quite a sailor in her own right. She accepted without question. I’ve invited her to dinner tonight at Quantinos. Harry,” he said to Miller, “I’d like you to meet her. You can come too, Sean,” he added to Dillon.

“Actually, as you heard, my sister has just arrived from Stokely. Perhaps she could join us?” Miller said.

“Make up the party?” Ferguson thought about it. “Yes. Why not? Now there are things to do. We’ll all meet later, gentlemen.”

 
 
MILLER FOLLOWED FERGUSON
out to where their cars were waiting. Ferguson said, “Tell me, Harry, how much does Lady Starling know about everything?”

“Keep calling her that, Charles, and she’ll brain you. Monica she is, and that’s what she expects. The answer is, she’s recently had to face up to my murky past, because I’ve told her. When you were discussing things with us after the funeral, she was outside on the patio with Dillon. She heard a lot of what was said.”

“Bloody fool should have tried to move her on.”

“He did, but she’s a determined woman. I discussed things with her before returning to London. I told her I’d make them pay.”

“Does she know about recent events?”

“No, but she will do when I get back to Dover Street.”

“Good. Then I can make the whole situation clear to Helen Black when we meet tonight.”

 
 
MILLER CALLED IN
at the Cabinet Office to thank Henry Frankel for all his help with the funeral. “The least I could do, old man,” Frankel said. “You didn’t want the Prime Minister, did you?”

“As it happens, no. Why do you ask?”

“He’s hosting at Chequers for three days, the French and Dutch foreign secretaries. The usual thing, trying to make sense of the EU.”

“Well, that should provide an entertaining weekend.”

“What about you, Harry?”

“Nothing too exciting. I might go back to Stokely and take it easy for a while. If anything comes up, you can always get me on my phone.” He left, and Arthur drove him back to Dorset Street.

It was late afternoon now and he found Monica in the sitting room reading
Country Life.
She tossed it to one side. “What’s happening?”

“For one thing, I intend to have an early-evening drink, and you might care to join me. After that, you’ll want to have a shower and find a decent frock, because we’re going out to dinner.”

“That sounds nice. Anywhere special?”

“Quantinos at seven. It’s early, but we have a big day tomorrow. And it has to do with what I’m about to tell you. I’ve been honest with you about my past, and after you overheard Ferguson at the funeral, you asked me if I knew who was responsible for the assassination attempt. I said there were several possibilities, but I intended to get the lot of them.”