Rough Justice (39 page)

“I haven’t the slightest idea.” Quinn was standing so close that Dillon was able to slide his right hand over his shoulder to pull him close. At the same moment, he put his left into the carpetbag and took out the fragmentation grenade. “But I know what this is.” He pulled the pin with his teeth and held the lever tight, the pin bouncing on the table.

Riley raised the Uzi threateningly and Nolan pointed the revolver. “I wouldn’t,” Dillon said. “Because I release this lever, it not only kills Quinn and myself obviously, but most people in a radius of twelve yards.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Quinn said desperately. “You’ll kill the woman, too.”

“You intended to do that anyway, didn’t you, and probably after having your way with her.”

Quinn took a chance. “I don’t believe any of this. Shoot her, Nolan.”

On the balcony, Billy didn’t even wait to see what Nolan would do, shooting him through the head. Monica dodged away, and Dillon called, “Run for it, out to the garden.”

It was Riley who ran, turning and darting out into the hall, running headlong into Ferguson, who shot him instantly. In the confusion, Quinn suddenly wrenched himself free of Dillon, ran to Monica, got an arm around her neck, and held his Browning to her side. He started to walk backward, dragging her roughly.

“Now, I don’t know what you’re going to do with that thing, Sean, but I’m out of here with the lady, and that’s a fact.”

He’d reached the French window behind him and kicked it open, keeping well behind Monica, as they all stood watching.

“And so’s this.” Dillon dropped down on his left knee and pulled a Colt .25 hollow-point from the holster on his right ankle and shot Michael Quinn between the eyes without hesitation.

Quinn went backward, crashing through French windows to the terrace, and Monica darted to one side as Dillon continued through. He stood looking down at Quinn, remembering Derry a long, long time ago with something like regret, and then he turned and went back in, still holding the grenade in his left hand, the Colt in his right.

“I’m sorry,” he said to Monica. “I must have scared you.”

He walked across the room, putting the Colt in his pocket, picked up the pin from the table and fit it back in the grenade, which he then dropped into his carpetbag. Billy and Helen had been picking up the fifty-pound notes, and she put them all back into the manila envelope, which she dropped into the carpetbag.

“How kind,” Dillon said.

“Waste not, want not.”

“It’s over, then?” Billy said.

“There’s an old saying that nothing ever is, but one thing’s for sure. I think we should get the hell out of here.” He turned to Ferguson. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“While we can.” Ferguson looked around him. “God knows what our Russian friends are going to make of all this. Let’s go, people.”

He led the way out, pausing at the front door, turning all the lights out, leaving the charred house that had been Drumore Place in the darkness behind them.

 
 
THEY WERE HEADING OUT
to sea twenty minutes later, Ferguson at the wheel, and he put the Avenger up to top speed, racing through the night as if trying to put what had happened at Drumore Place behind them as quickly as possible. Dillon called in to Roper from his cabin.

“It’s finished,” he said.

“You mean Quinn?”

“And seven of his men.”

“That’s quite a score.”

“Ten in all when you count Volkov and his minders.”

“I wonder what Putin will make of it?”

“Not much, I expect. He doesn’t like messes. Volkov and the GRU guys have gone for the deep six and it’s doubtful if anyone will ever find them. They’ll remain a permanent mystery. I think GRU security will clear up the mess at Drumore House quickly and wind down the activities locally of Belov International.”

“So Volkov, Quinn, Fahy, and Ali Hassim, all responsible in some way for the death of Harry Miller’s wife, and all have paid the price.”

“Which leaves only the Broker.”

“Well, I can’t help you there, Sean. All my vaunted expertise in the fields of computers, the ins and outs of cyberspace, all my wizardry has failed.”

“Picasso said computers only give answers.”

“Well, mine isn’t giving me an answer on this.”

“Perhaps it’s too complicated—for the computer, I mean. Maybe there’s a simpler solution.”

Roper said, “Well, I’ll take that on board.”

“How’s Harry?”

“I had a brief word. He’s hoarse and slow, but Maggie said he’s been propped up and is managing to do a little reading.”

“That’s encouraging. I’ll go now. See you soon.”

 
 
HE LOOKED IN
at the saloon, found Monica and Helen having a glass of wine, Billy green tea. There was the remains of a meal on the table.

“Did you want something to eat?” Monica asked.

“Not really, but Ferguson might. I’ll join him in the wheelhouse.”

He found Ferguson listening to the radio weather forecast. “Winds five to six,” he said. “Could be worse. How are you?”

“Winding down. I’ve spoken to Roper. He tells me Harry is improving. I’ll spell you if you like.”

“Yes, I would. What are the others doing?”

“They’ve eaten. Now they’re having a drink.”

“A satisfactory result. The Russians won’t be pleased, it’s put a dent in things for them, but they won’t do anything about it, just clean up the mess. That’s all they can do for the moment.”

“And pay us back next time?”

“Of course. The name of the game, Sean.”

He went out and Dillon sat there, the wheel on automatic, and lit a cigarette. After a while, the door opened and Monica found him. She reached for the cigarette between his lips, smoked it herself for a moment, and then gave it back.

He said, “I had to take that chance with Quinn.”

“I never doubted you.”

“They tell me you had to shoot somebody.”

“A very objectionable man, Nolan’s pal, who was helping abduct me.”

“Does that give you a problem?”

“I haven’t had time to sort out whether it does. My life has totally changed in just a few weeks—everything is different, and I’m different with it. I don’t know what that means.”

“It could be you take a deep breath and go back to the gleaming spires of Cambridge University and dinner at high table. You’d be a sensation with the students if they knew what you’ve been up to.”

“Well, they won’t, will they?” She took his left hand and held it firmly. “But you do.”

They sat there together, the Avenger plowing on into the night.

15

TWO O’CLOCK OF THAT SAME MORNING AT HOLLAND PARK, ROPER SAT IN
front of his screens, a glass of whiskey in his hand, running through the computer the material he had put together concerning the Miller affair, everything that he considered to be of any significance, even matters before Miller’s time that had in any way related to the Broker.

The link with Al Qaeda, with Drecq Khan, who had been empowered to organize the Army of God, the involvement with the Provisional IRA during the final years of the Troubles, Volkov, the Russian factor, so important. A man of a certain international stature, the Broker had to be. From his voice, a Westerner, although no one had every suggested he might be an American. Upper-class English, because as one person had described him, he sounded posh.

Roper reached for the whiskey, drank a little, and said softly, “But then, the bugger also speaks rather good Arabic.” He laughed. “So does Dillon, so does Harry Miller, so what does that prove?”

Sergeant Doyle appeared. “Here you are again, Major Roper, overdoing it. What am I going to do with you?”

“I’ve had the good word from both Dillon and General Ferguson. They’re on their way back from the Irish venture, and it’s been a total success. They’ll be in Oban in the morning, where Lacey and Parry are waiting. Probably here around noon.”

“Well, that’s good, sir. Can I get you anything?”

“Answer a riddle for me that I can’t answer myself.”

“And what would that be?”

“Who the bloody Broker is. You’ve been involved enough around here and long enough to have heard him mentioned in a number of important matters.”

“That’s true, sir, so what’s the problem?”

“Identity, Sergeant. You’ve been a military policeman for long enough to know that’s the first order of priority in any crime, knowing who you’re looking for, and in this case, all we have is a voice on the phone. To everyone he’s been involved with, even at the level of General Ivan Volkov, President Putin’s personal security man, he’s always been a voice on the phone. One person after another in this affair has described him that way, someone reminiscent of an Oxford professor but who speaks Arabic.”

Doyle said, “Well, begging your pardon, Major, but maybe he
is
an Oxford professor who speaks Arabic. There were some funny buggers in our business produced by the Cambridge system, weren’t there?”

“You’re quite right. Burgess, Maclean, Kim Philby, all worked for the KGB. I’ve put some of the relevant facts together like a documentary, and it’s not long. I’ll show it again and see what you think. Run your copper’s eye over it.”

He lit a cigarette and leaned back in his wheelchair. Doyle, genuinely interested, watched instantly. When it was over, he said, “You’ve got some really good stuff there. In fact, you’ve built a hell of a case against him to which no court in the world could deny a guilty verdict.”

“Guilty, the anonymous man,” Roper said.

“Where did you get those photos of Fahy?”

“That was Teague and his disposal team. They found them when they cleared the flat and garage.”

“What I found particularly interesting was Fahy’s dying confession. I felt a certain sympathy for the poor sod, but that was only because of his wife.”

“So you’re a decent guy.”

“The statements that made up his confession, given to you by Dillon and Major Miller, don’t vary an inch. The business of the motorcycle deliveryman in leathers giving him the envelope containing the key was so bizarre it had to be true.”

“Do you think he was the Broker?”

“God, no.”

“Why are you so sure?”

“A copper’s nose, Major Roper. After years of practice, you learn to go with your instinct. First suspicions are right most of the time.”

“And yours tells you the guy on the motorbike wasn’t the Broker?”

“It just doesn’t seem probable. He was compelled by Fahy to make that bank draft an open one. As I understand it, anyone who had it in their possession could have used it. That’s why the messenger was delivering an envelope with just a key. He didn’t know it was for a locker at this Turkish bath place. The Broker told Fahy that over the phone.”

“You’re right, that’s an interesting point.”

“I accessed the place’s membership list. There’s no card in the name of Smith and Company, and it’s impossible to check all the Smiths in London. It’s a dead end there.”

“I suppose so. Think it has anything to do with the gay subculture?”

“I doubt it. That was long ago. All kinds of people come and go now. No fuss.”

Doyle said, “I suppose that’s why he chose it. Nice and quiet. People minding their own business.”

“When you say he, you mean the Broker?”

“Who else? The bike messenger delivered a key and had no means of knowing where it fitted. If the Broker was that cautious, he’d never risk anyone else delivering the envelope to the locker. He’d do it himself.” He shook his head. “He put the bank draft in the locker, then gave the key to the messenger somewhere else.”

Roper poured another whiskey and drank it. “So simple—so bloody obvious, so why didn’t I see it before?”

“You were expecting the computer to think for itself, and they don’t. We’re still a long way from conceptual thought with those things.”

Roper’s fingers danced over the keys, and he produced the Web site for The Turkish Rooms on the screen. “There you go, Tony—a steam room, marble slab massage, an ice-cold pool. You’ll love it.”

“I see.” Doyle grinned. “You want me to look the place over?”

“After you’ve provided me with a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea. It opens at nine-thirty.” He reached for a cigarette. “London has more CCTV cameras in place than anywhere else in the world, did you know that?” He grinned. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

 
 
AFTER DOYLE
had left, Roper stayed by his screens. Pain, as usual, was ever present in his bomb-ravaged body, but he held off taking the most effective of his pills, poured another large whiskey, and sat there reviewing the situation. Perhaps the Broker was doing exactly the same thing somewhere, considering what to do, wondering what might happen.

Roper went out through the corridor to the entrance hall, opened the front door, wheeled his chair into the porch, and lit a cigarette, staring out at the rainswept courtyard, feeling himself at the end of something in a way he never had before. Doyle found him there when he drove into the yard and got out of the car.

“Are you okay, sir?”

“I’ve been better, Tony. How did you get on?”

“Fine. Geezer called Harvey in a tracksuit was on duty. Grenadier Guards in his day. I flashed my ID card and he was very civil. Guided tour, cup of coffee in the café. Ten percent off as a serving soldier.”

“And the security aspects, what about that?”

“CCTV cameras in the entrance and inside. He was joking about that and the lack of privacy in the changing rooms, but he said it’s all these health and safety laws they have to observe these days.”

“But sometimes useful,” Roper said.

“Do you think you’d be able to access them, sir?”

“If the CIA can infiltrate the London railway stations, I should be able to penetrate The Turkish Rooms.”