Rough Justice (31 page)

“And have you?”

Miller went to the sideboard and poured a brandy and ginger ale. “Horse’s Neck?”

He handed it to her and poured another. “I think I’m going to need it.”

“Sean Fahy, once a bomb maker, was given the contract and carried it through,” he told her. “He’s now dead and disposed of.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No, he was murdered by other people connected with the plot who wanted him silenced. I heard his confession as he was dying, and so did Dillon.”

She drank some of her brandy and steeled herself. “Go on.”

“If that’s what you want. Just listen. The full story.”

Afterward, she said, “I think I need another of these.” She gave him her glass. He got her the drink and she carried on. “This Ali Hassim, a dreadful man, a terrorist, I can see that, responsible for so much, but didn’t it bother you killing him?”

“Not in the slightest.”

She nodded and swallowed her drink straight down. “So Charles Ferguson is aware that you’re telling me all this?”

“Yes.”

“So what’s the next move?”

“Michael Quinn is sitting in Drumore Place, well protected, and General Volkov is flying in for who knows what purpose, but he intends to surprise Quinn.”

“And you want to do something about that?”

“That’s it. You’ll hear more at Quantinos, where Charles Ferguson and Sean Dillon will bring Helen Black up to speed.”

“Come to think about it, I shall enjoy meeting your sergeant major.” She got up. “I’d better go and sort some glad rags out. You know what we women are like when we’re in competition.”

She left him and went upstairs.

AT QUANTINOS,
Ferguson and Dillon had a drink in the bar, and it was there that Helen Black found them. She had streaked blond hair and an unlined face and was elegant in a deceptively simple little black dress and a short black diamante evening coat.

She kissed Dillon on the cheek. “Sean, you old devil.” She turned to Ferguson. “Indestructible as ever, Charles?” She put an arm around him.

“Sorry, my dear, about Terry.” He was referring to her husband.

“Old history now, Charles. Gone are the days when House Cavalry-men were chocolate soldiers riding around London in breastplates. Ireland, Bosnia, Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan—nothing but casualties these days, and their gallantry awards speak for themselves. Never mind that. Give me a scotch and soda and tell me about Harry Miller. Just another politician, I thought, and then you told me of another side to him. Can it be true?”

“Well, he shot somebody dead last night,” Dillon told her.

“To be accurate, it was in the early hours of the morning, but the person concerned richly deserved it,” Ferguson said. “Here he comes now.”

“The good-looking woman on his arm is his sister, Lady Starling. She’s a Cambridge don and a widow,” Dillon murmured.

“And it’s an open secret that Dillon fancies her.” Ferguson smiled. “The Salters have great hopes for him.”

Miller and Monica forced their way through. He took Helen’s hand. “Harry Miller.”

“And you’re Monica,” Helen said. “Dillon’s told me wonderful things.”

“You’re mischief making, woman,” Dillon said. “Will you stop it?”

Helen laughed. “He’s blushing. I can’t believe it. You’re at Cambridge, I hear. Which college?”

“New Hall.”

“I was at Oxford myself, St. Hughes.”

“Well, that’s not your fault.”

“No Oxbridge wrangling, if you please. Let’s get to the table,” Ferguson ordered, and took Helen’s arm.

 
 
THEY STARTED WITH
champagne, Dillon insisting on the usual Krug. “So what’s the plan?” Helen Black asked.

“Well, it isn’t to play patty-fingers. I remember last time out on the old
Highlander
you wore paratroop boots.”

“I still do when I’m gardening. They’re so comfortable.”

“You had a Colt .25 hollow-point stuffed into the right-hand one. When the opposition took over the boat, you shot a man named Kelly at the wheel and ended up in the water in the darkness, with Billy Salter and me facing death on deck.”

“And how in the hell did you get out of that?” Miller asked.

“Billy jackknifed under the keel, scrambled up the other side to the wheelhouse, and got the Walther concealed in a flap.”

“I remember it was bloody cold,” Helen said.

“Well, I should imagine it would be.” Monica was trying to take it all in. “I must say this is the most remarkable dinner party I can remember. Could we order now?”

 
 
THE MEAL,
as always, was excellent and afterward they had brandy and coffee, except for Dillon, who insisted on tea. Helen said, “So tell me about the motorboat.”

“Avenger Class Ten. You need to be seriously rich to own one. It’s the ultimate, every kind of luxury. It’s in the Isle of Wight, but a scratch crew of two men will rush it up to Scotland. It will be at Oban in the harbor waiting for us tomorrow afternoon.”

“May I ask why Oban?” Monica inquired.

“It suits my purposes. There’s an RAF air sea rescue base, so we can land there in my Gulfstream. The run down to Louth goes past Islay and down through the North Channel to the Irish Sea. It’ll be nothing to a boat with the speed the Avenger is capable of. An interesting trip.”

“So tell me fully now how you intend to handle it?”

“It’s simple enough. We’ll dress in what my friend’s sending—sailing gear that make us look like the crew of such a boat. You can appear on either the stern deck or on the flybridge up top, with dark glasses and champagne.”

“In other words, I’m a rich bitch?”

“Exactly. Touring the coast on the way down south. No need to hide. Then we drop anchor off their excuse for a port.”

“And get up to skulduggery under cover of darkness?”

“Something like that. Our general appearance and your cavorting around will keep the envious natives curious but happy, and that should include Quinn’s people.”

“Sounds good.” Helen nodded.

Monica took a deep breath. “But it would be even better with two.”

“Two what?” Ferguson asked.

“Two rich bitches cavorting around the deck.”

“My dear Monica, you can’t be serious.”

“Why not? I think it would make perfect sense, don’t you, Harry?”

Miller said, “It would be something of a departure, love. I mean, the academic life . . .”

“Don’t give me all that stuff about gleaming spires, dinners at high table, Oxbridge dons living a life so separate from the lives of others that it’s devoid of humanity. I not only admired my sister-in-law as a fine and talented actress, I also loved her as a human being. If I can help bring down rotten people who were responsible for her murder by lounging around on deck on this boat of yours, then I’d like to do it.” She turned to Helen Black. “I’m afraid I’d have to leave the gun stuffed into the boot to you, Helen. I don’t think I’d be very good at that.”

“You’re certain about this?” Ferguson said. “It’s a big step.”

“One I’m prepared to take, so can we agree that it’s settled?” She turned to Dillon, who was smiling slightly. “Don’t you say a word except to ask me to dance. There’s some perfectly good music going to waste here.”

She got up, and Dillon followed. “My pleasure, Lady Starling.”

“Don’t you dare start that,” she said, and they moved into the crowd of dancers.

The others watched. Helen Black said, “That’s one heck of a lady. She’s welcome aboard, as far as I’m concerned.”

Ferguson turned to Miller. “Harry?”

“I’ve found that it never pays to argue with Monica.”

“So, six of us it is, and Farley Field for that Gulfstream at noon tomorrow.”

“Suits me.” Miller turned to Helen Black. “Would you care to take a turn around the floor?” She smiled, and they joined the others.

Ferguson watched them, feeling quite paternal, took out his Codex and contacted Roper. “Slight change of plan. Six of us tomorrow for the Oban flight. Lady Starling’s decided two rich bitches on show on the flybridge would be better than one.”

“Good God. And Miller’s agreed?”

“He’d no choice, that lady’s her own woman. She’s dancing with Dillon at the moment. ‘Our love is here to stay.’ Isn’t that Cole Porter?”

“There’s hope for him yet. I’ll let Billy know the change. I’ve spoken to the quartermaster, explained the type of operation, and he’ll have suitable weaponry on board for you.”

“Nothing else to report.”

“Not really. I’ve confirmed there’s a flight plan for a Belov International Falcon leaving Moscow the day after tomorrow, checked through to Dublin with advance permission to land at their base in County Louth. The two pilots are mentioned as Yeltsin and Sono, and guess what?”

“Surprise me.”

“Chekhov was telling us the truth. Three passengers, including Grigorin and Makeev, pride of the GRU.”

“And the third?”

“Ivan Petrovsky, listed as a security expert.”

“Petrovsky, eh? That’s Ivan Volkov, trying to pretend he isn’t there,” Ferguson said. “A certain danger in that. It titillates.”

“It certainly does.” Roper laughed. “I’m on all night, so if you need me . . .”

He cleared the line just as the dancers returned to the table. Ferguson glanced at his watch. “Almost ten. I think it’s settle-the-bill time. A big day tomorrow. I’ll drop you off, if that suits, Helen?”

“Thanks very much.”

“We’re fine,” Miller said. “Big Arthur’s at the wheel of my Mercedes.”

“The fruits of office.” Ferguson kissed Monica’s hand. “Glad to have you aboard. Till tomorrow.” He gave Helen his arm.

Miller and Monica followed them, and found Arthur waiting across the street. “Home, Arthur,” Miller said, and kissed Monica on the cheek. “Did you enjoy it?”

“What do you think?” She smiled. “The only problem it leaves me with is what to wear. I’ll have to go through my wardrobes the minute we get back to Dover Street.”

“Women,” he said. “How wonderfully practical you all are about the essentials in life.”

 
 
AT DOVER STREET,
she went straight in while Miller paused to explain the situation to Arthur and how it was going to affect him for the next few days. He arranged for him to be on standby in the morning, bade him goodnight, and followed Monica inside, hurrying as rain started to fall. Monica had gone straight upstairs, he could hear her racketing around. He smiled, then walked into the sitting room and noticed the red light on the answering machine.

He paused at the sideboard, pouring a scotch, picked up the phone as he drank it, and listened to the recorded message. Then he had to sit down. He was stunned. It was a man speaking in Arabic.

“It is ten o’clock and you are obviously out, Major Miller. If you have any interest at all in the identity of the Broker, a messenger will be waiting very close to you in the graveyard of St. Mary’s Church, Coin Street, until eleven o’clock. All your questions will be answered.”

The Arabic was clear and fluent, he recognized that. He checked his watch. It was twenty minutes to eleven, and Coin Street was just down the road on the near side of St. Mary’s Square.

Time was of the essence. He pulled open the middle drawer of the sideboard, produced a silenced Walther, dropped it in his raincoat pocket, and made for the front door. As he got it open, Monica appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Harry, where on earth are you going?”

“Business, love, in a hurry.”

He went down the steps and started to rush along Dover Street in the rain, his Codex to his ear as he called Roper, who answered instantly.

“Who is this?”

“It’s Harry.” He was running across the square now. “Had a message from some Arab. Told me there’d be a messenger waiting for me in the graveyard of St. Mary’s, Coin Street.”

“What the hell is going on?”

“Someone who can reveal the identity of the Broker.”

Roper was shocked. “Dammit, Harry, it could be a trap. You need backup.”

“No time. The messenger will only wait until eleven, and this is Mayfair, Giles, not Beirut. I’m just coming up to St. Mary’s now. I’ll be back.”

Roper was already doing a conference call that took in Dillon, Billy Salter, and Ferguson at the same time.

 
 
THERE WERE LIGHTS
at the heavy iron gates of the churchyard, a couple on a wall of the church itself, and the gravel patch from the gate was shadowed as it wound its way through a forest of Gothic monuments and gravestones. His shoulders were soaked in the heavy rain, and he put his Codex in his pocket and gripped the Walther without taking it out.

He saw an Angel of Death, common enough in Victorian times, a mausoleum with a couple of marble figures at the entrance, then something stirred and a young woman stepped out of the shadows clutching a small umbrella in her left hand. In the half-light from the church wall, he could see at once that she was Muslim. He couldn’t make out if she had on a full chador, because she was wearing a raincoat over her garments, but certainly her head was covered and part of her face. When she spoke, her English was excellent.

“You are Major Miller?”

Miller glanced beyond her and around. “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

She couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, with great luminous eyes. The scarf had slipped from her face and she was beautiful.

“Who sent you?” he said. “I was told there would be a messenger, but who from?”

“I am that messenger,” she said. “I am from the Army of God, who serve only Allah as the Broker ordains.”

“You know the Broker?” Miller was instantly eager beyond caution. “Who is he?” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Tell me, child.”

“He is the voice of Allah who speaks to me on the telephone, who speaks to many. He has told me what must be done.” She added in Arabic, “You are accursed in the sight of Allah.”