Rough Justice (36 page)

 
 
THE FALCON,
well out of Russian air space, was climbing up over north Germany and leveling out at forty thousand feet. Volkov sat alone in the rear cabin and looked through the archway to the forward cabin, where he could see Makeev and Grigorin sitting on either side of the aisle. The cockpit door opened and the senior pilot, Captain Sono, emerged and came down the aisle.

“A great pleasure to be flying you again, General. Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yes, try and remember the name is Ivan Petrovsky, I thought I’d made that clear. No mention of me at all in any conversation you have with Control.”

“I understand perfectly. Your orders in the matter have been strictly adhered to, and so it will continue. It’s just that when dealing with you personally . . .” Here, he hesitated. “It’s difficult when I know who you are.”

Volkov was human enough to be rather pleased. “Nice to discover at my age that I’m such a great man.” He smiled. “Go on, go away and fly the plane.”

“Any further orders, sir?”

“Make sure there’s a limousine waiting for us. No driver is needed. Tell Captain Makeev and Grigorin to join me.”

They came at once, hard, intelligent young men with considerable battle experience. “General,” Makeev, the senior one, said. “How can we serve you?”

“By getting out the vodka you’ll find in the icebox behind me and filling three glasses.” Makeev smiled and Grigorin did as ordered. Volkov raised his glass. “To President Putin, to the Motherland.” He emptied his glass at one swallow, and so did they. “Once more.” He pushed his glass forward. “And then we talk.”

 
 
HE TOLD THEM EVERYTHING,
including about Miller in Kosovo and Beirut, and the activities of Ferguson, Dillon, and the Salters. He was quite open about the Russian connection and the various failures of the London Mafia because of the Salters, and acknowledged his own connection with Al Qaeda through the Broker and his dealings with the IRA over many years. When he was ended, of course, he flattered them totally.

“Everything I’ve mentioned is known to our President, a man already making the Russian Federation great in the eyes of the world again.”

“And succeeding, Comrade General,” Grigorin said, eyes blazing.

“I’m glad you called me that,” Volkov told him. “That we are all comrades together just like the old days is as it should be—and our mission is ordered by the President himself.” He reached for the bottle and filled the glasses again himself. “I welcome your comments.”

“Well, Al Qaeda and the whole Muslim thing can rot in hell. We both served in Afghanistan and Chechnya,” Makeev reminded him.

Grigorin said, “So General Ferguson and these gangster people he employs have made monkeys of the Moscow Mafia in London. These oligarchs and the people who work for them disgrace the name of all Russians.”

“They’re rubbish,” Makeev said. “So the Salter people don’t particularly impress me, and neither do these Provisional IRA people.”

“Not even the man Sean Dillon?” Volkov asked.

The two men looked at each other inquiringly, and Makeev shrugged. “Not particularly.”

“So if I assigned each of you to the Embassy in London, you would be willing to serve?”

“In what capacity, General?” Makeev asked.

“I’m sure we could find something suitable to your talents, but that lies in the future. Now we must consider the situation which lies before us, the question of Michael Quinn.”

“And what exactly would the General like us to do in the matter?” Grigorin asked.

“Kill him. Of course he has bodyguards, old IRA hands who could prove a problem.”

Makeev turned to Grigorin and they both smiled. He turned back to Volkov. “Oh, we’ve handled bodyguards before, Comrade General.”

“Excellent,” Volkov said. “Our arrival will be something of a surprise, a pleasant one, I hope. No need to alarm him. I always think the smiler with the knife is the sensible way. Now go and eat, I’ve got work to do.”

“Of course.” Makeev nodded to Grigorin and they returned to their cabin.

Volkov opened his briefcase, took out a file, and started to go through it.

DILLON HAD PASSED
through Warrenpoint, the scene of one of the worst disasters suffered by the British Army at the hands of the IRA in the entire history of the Troubles. He crossed the border into County Louth in the Irish Republic north of Dundalk with no trouble or hindrance, pausing for a few moments, remembering the old days at the crossings, the police, the soldiers. It was as if it had never been. Sitting there in the Ford at the side of a windswept road, he felt a sense of desolation, wondering what it had all been about.

He got out of the Ford, lit a cigarette, and stood there smoking it, thinking back, but that was stupid and he remembered a fine writer who had made an obvious point. The past was a distant country and people did things differently there. He took out his Codex and called Roper. “Just checking in.”

“Where are you?”

“Well on the way. I came round Warrenpoint by Carlingford Loch and I’ve just crossed the border. Rotten weather and very depressing.”

“You’ll pass through Dundalk next?”

“That’s it. Any news from the Avenger?”

“Not at the moment. Everything went well with Mickeen?”

“Perfect. He turned sentimental on me and refused the thousand pounds, but got me a twenty-year-old black Ford Anglia in first-class mechanical condition. I think you’d make money out of it in London. Can you tell me anything about the Falcon flight?”

“Yes, I’m hacked into the Dublin control system. It’s still got an arrival time of three o’clock.”

“That’s fine.”

“One thing. Bad March weather isn’t the only problem in that part of the world. It gets dark pretty early. I suppose what I mean is it gets damn gloomy.”

“I’ll bear it in mind.” Dillon got back in the Ford and followed the road down to Dundalk.

ON BOARD THE AVENGER,
Ferguson had the wheel, Monica and Helen standing in the rain on the flybridge, each wearing the yellow oilskins stamped with
Avenger
on the back. They’d also discovered a couple of naval-style peaked caps and wore one each.

Ferguson had already punched in Drumore as his destination, and now full details of the small harbor appeared on the screen. There were only five fishing boats lying off a stone jetty, and the area indicated for visitors at anchorage was a hundred yards out. There was nothing there. Two or three inflatables were pulled up on the small beach area at the bottom of the harbor pilings, but not much else.

“Not exactly the thrill of your life,” Monica said.

“When I was last here, it was all action by night,” Helen said. “Way beyond the village is the big house, Drumore Place, on the hill. There are only about thirty cottages, and over there where you see a low stone wall, that’s a car park in front of the pub, the Royal George.”

“But I thought they were all Republicans hereabouts, so why call a pub after an English king?”

“It’s a very old pub, and only the Irish could explain it to you.”

Ferguson’s voice came over the speaker beside the flybridge wheel. “This is the designated area for visitors, so I’m anchoring here, ladies.”

He pressed a button on the wheelhouse control box and the anchor dropped automatically. He turned to Billy. “I’ll call Roper.”

Which he did, and the reply was instant. “Where are you?”

“Just anchored at Drumore. The weather is as you forecast—terrible.”

“Well, I had heard it rained a lot in Ireland. Just two o’clock. You’ve done well.”

“This is an incredible boat. Two great-looking ladies in yellow oilskins and navy caps up on the flybridge, but I doubt whether anyone would be looking. What about Dillon?”

“Everything went perfectly, and his uncle furnished him with a rather old Ford Anglia.”

“I didn’t know they still did them.”

“I said old, didn’t I? The Falcon’s still on course for an arrival time of three.”

“I wonder if I should call him—Dillon I mean.”

“I’d leave it. You never know where he could be. He’ll call you when it suits.”

 
 
HELEN AND MONICA
stayed on the flybridge for a little longer. A man with an umbrella and a dog on a lead walked along the jetty and paused, obviously admiring the boat, then turned and went away. A couple of men emerged from a wheelhouse on a fishing boat and stared across, then retreated out of the rain.

“We’re not having much of an impact,” Monica said. “Let’s go down and have a word with Charles.”

In fact, Patrick Ryan, the publican up at the Royal George, had been more than interested. His mother, Mary, who was cook at Drumore Place, was sitting in the lounge bar enjoying a drink with Hamilton, the butler from the house. Sitting at a table by the window were three of Quinn’s security men, all wearing navy blue reefer jackets and jeans like a uniform. Nolan, Tone, and Logan were their names and they were eating Irish stew. Ryan had got a digital camera, a pair of Zeiss glasses from behind the bar, went to the large front door, and opened it. He took a couple of photos, then focused the Zeiss glasses on the two women.

“My God, a couple of crackers there,” he said.

Nolan, a hard brute of a man with tangled hair and unshaven chin, got up, came across, and grabbed the glasses. “Let’s have a look.” He focused them and whistled. “Look what we’ve got here, boys. I wouldn’t mind one of those.”

He was joined by Logan and passed the glasses to him. “Jesus,” Logan said, “I could go for either of them.”

“Or both,” Nolan said, and at that point, Helen and Monica went below and found Ferguson and Billy enjoying a coffee in the kitchen.

“I was wondering,” Monica said. “We don’t appear to be attracting a great deal of notice. What if Helen and I went ashore and descended on the pub?”

“I’d consider that most unwise.”

“What if I went with them?” Billy said.

“I wouldn’t imagine a crew member would do that.” Monica shook her head. “He’d take you in on the tender, that’s what crew members do.”

Billy laughed. “I can see the logic, and it gets the message across to the natives. I’ll take them and wait for them like an obedient deckhand.”

“Half an hour,” Ferguson said. “That’s all, so get on with it.”

 
 
ON THE FALCON
fast approaching its destination, Volkov was approached by Captain Sono. “I’m sorry to bother you, General, but may I inquire how long you intend to stay in Drumore? It wasn’t made clear.”

“Two days, three at the most. Why?”

“There is a certain irregularity in the port engine. Don’t be alarmed. We can land safely, but I wouldn’t want to try to fly back to Moscow without a proper check, and we can’t do that at our destination.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“I’ve checked with the Belov facility at Dublin. If I drop you off and carry straight on to Dublin Airport, they’re confident they can handle the problem in two days at the most.”

“Then that’s what you must do. How long to landing?”

“Half an hour.”

“Excellent.”

 
 
AT ABOUT THAT TIME,
Dillon called Ferguson. “How are things?”

“Safely in port, which looks thoroughly miserable. Nothing but bloody rain. The two girls have gone ashore in their finery to sample the delights of the Royal George. Billy’s taken them in the tender. I can see him from here at the harbor steps, waiting for them.

“Well, they should certainly stun the occupants of the bar.”

“Where are you?”

“There’s a Catholic chapel just off the road by the Belov complex. It provides an excellent view of the airstrip. I’ll be able to see the landing.”

“And then?”

“I don’t know, Charles. From here, the most direct approach to Drumore is the road along the cliffs, dropping down to the village and onwards to the big house. I’ll wait and see. There’s a way inland, but it’s longer. Leave it to me, and don’t call.”

“If that’s what you want.”

 
 
AND DILLON
had been right about the effect Helen and Monica would have on the Royal George. It was Mrs. Ryan who had borrowed the glasses to observe the boat who saw them coming. “Oh, my Lord,” She said. “There are two women off the boat and coming up here.”

Ryan came around the bar and snapped away over his mother’s shoulder. Nolan and Logan were up fast, Nolan grabbing for the glasses from the old woman, but he didn’t need them, for Helen and Monica were already halfway there. Mrs. Ryan went behind the bar, and Ryan went into his office and got on the telephone to Drumore Place.

When he was answered, he said, “We’ve had an event, Mr. Quinn, a strange boat in the harbor.”

Quinn was immediately on edge. “What kind of strange boat? Who is it? Can you tell?”

“The kind of boat that must have cost a million, and I don’t mean euros, and there’s two women come ashore like something out of a magazine. Your mother’s here, and Hamilton. Oh, and Nolan and Logan and Tone.”

“I can just imagine what those three would be like with a couple of rich bitches to slaver over. I don’t want any trouble now.”

“Jesus, your mother’s here, I told you.”

“Well, you keep a hand on things.”

Ryan peered into the bar. Helen and Monica were sitting at a small round table. They’d taken their caps off, and Hamilton was delivering two large gin and tonics to them on a tray. Ryan snapped them twice, his lens in the close-up mode.

“Isn’t this marvelous, darling?” Monica said. “Such fun.”

“Absolutely,” Helen told her. “Drink up.”

“Oh, I will, darling—believe me, I need it. That bloody voyage. I’d give anything for a cigarette, but I believe you can no longer smoke in an Irish pub.”

The three security men had gazed at them in awe and then whispered to each other, but now Nolan was on his feet and across with a packet of cigarettes in his hand. He opened it. “Sure, you can have one of mine and bugger the law. Ryan won’t mind.”