Day of Reckoning

Dermot lit a cigarette. 'They look like shire to me.' 'Five million in gold, Brendan.'

'How do we know?'

'Because Saddam wants another cargo next month, so he won't screw around with this one.'

'Do you think it's all going to work?'

'Like a Swiss watch. Fox will be on a plane. We'll offload the gold, and take it to the airport at Beirut, where the right officials have been bribed. The plane is routed to Dublin, but it puts down at an old air force base in Louth on the way. We unload our half and Fox carries on, announcing a mid-air change of destination.'

'Where will he go?'

'Supposedly Heathrow, but on the way there, when the plane is in uncontrolled air space, he'll put down on this estate nearby in Cornwall, called Hellsmouth. There's an RAF aerodrome there from the Second World War. The runway's a bit rough, but it can take a plane like the Gulfstream.'

'Sounds good to me, Brendan.'

'And me, Dermot.'

The other man smiled, took a half bottle of Paddy whiskey from his pocket, unscrewed the top, and drank deeply. He passed it across.

'Well, here's to Irish bacon and eggs, soda bread and rain.' He smiled. 'I miss the rain, Brendan. The good Irish rain.'

Gideon Cohen, his sister and Moshe Levy had left a yachting marina on the coast near Haifa in a forty-foot boat of a kind regularly rented by tourists interested in diving. There were stocks of air bottles in the stern, bunks for seven people below, a good kitchen gallery, every convenience.

Cohen's passport was British, in the name of Julian Grant; his sister and Levy had become a Mr and Mrs Frobisher, also British. Their background being impeccable, and Lebanon desperate for tourist money, they'd had no trouble getting the necessary visas, and pushed towards Al Shariz through the late afternoon.

Cohen was at the wheel, Levy lounging beside him, Anya looking out of the half-open window.

'So, let's go over it,' her brother said. 'You and Moshe book into the Golden Palace, and do remember, Moshe, this is my sister you're sharing a suite with.'

'How could I forget, Colonel?'

'Fox is booked in with these two hoods, Falcone and Russo. You make yourself available in the bar, Anya, just in case there's information available.'

'Oh, dear,' she said. 'Here I go again. Stage Six at MGM, playing the whore.'

Her brother smiled, and hugged her with his spare arm as he steered. 'No, the good-looking whore.' He shook his head. 'This is a bad one, little sister. We can't make a mistake.'

'Well, at least we have Dillon.'

He laughed out loud. 'My God, yes, the poor old Fortuna doesn't know what's going to hit it.'

On the plane on the way to Beirut, Dillon said to Blake, 'So, we're interested in establishing an electronics factory, a joint Anglo-American project, jobs for all. Three days in and out.'

'No problems?' Blake asked.

'Certainly not. They're still trying to build up the country again, while surrounded by people who want to cut each other's balls off.'

'So, we join Cohen's boat, look like recreational scuba divers.'

'And send the Fortuna to the bottom. Hammerheads, the lot,' Dillon said.

'And the crew?'

'Murdering fanatics. If they didn't want the risk, they shouldn't have joined.'

'But, Dillon, there's five million pounds in gold on board.'

'Yes, isn't that, as Ferguson would say, delicious? It also goes to the bottom. A fabulous expression of conspicuous consumption.' He waved to Flight Sergeant Madoc. 'Bring me another Bushmills, I'm celebrating imagining how Jack Fox will feel.'

Fox booked into the Golden House, with Falcone and Russo. He had a nice suite on the first floor — marble, scattered rugs, all very Moorish. He felt good. The Colosseum was a bad memory, and his lawyers seemed to think they might be able to fix things. Whether they did or not, the gold from the Fortuna was a certainty. Added to that, the cash Murphy owed him in Ireland from Irish-American arms orders would take the pressure right off.

'Everything okay, Signore?' Falcone asked.

'Couldn't be better. Tonight's the night, Aldo. Gold, there's nothing like it. It's still the one commodity you can rely on. You've checked with the harbourmaster?'

'Yes, Signore, the Fortuna is due in at ten. A crew of twelve, all Arab. It left the Black Sea the day before yesterday.' 'Where will they anchor, on the pier?'

'No, it's full. A few hundred yards out in the entrance to the bay.'

'Excellent. I'll have a shower, then dinner. I'll see you later.'

Their plane landed in early evening. Dillon and Johnson booked in as Russel and Gaunt and took a taxi to Al Shariz. On the way, Dillon called Cohen on his mobile.

'Lafayette, we are here. I'm saying that on behalf of Blake.'

'Well, we're here, too. Lower yacht basin. Pamir, Pier Three.'

'See you soon.' Dillon switched off his phone and relayed the information to the driver.

On the Pamir, Cohen looked through a pair of Nightstalker glasses and watched the Fortuna drop anchor. He said to Anya, 'Off you go. All I want to know is what he's up to. It could give us a clue to his movements.'

'Sure,' she said.

'Another thing.' He was strangely awkward. 'Duty is duty, but you're my beloved sister. Don't get close to this one. He's bad news.'

She kissed his cheek. 'Hey, little brother, don't worry.'

She booked into the hotel, changed, then went down to the bar, resplendent in a black mini dress, her dark hair to her shoulders, and looking terrific. She sat at the bar, and Fox, over by the window, Falcone and Russo at the next table, saw her at once. He nodded to Falcone, got up, went to the bar, and sat next to her.

'Hi, there.'

'An American!' She smiled. 'What are you doing here?' 'Investigating tourist prospects,' he said glibly. 'What about you?'

'Oh, I'm over from London with my husband, on the same errand.'

'Your husband?' Fox was disappointed.

'Yes, well, he's been called to Tel Aviv. Left me on my own for three days.'

Fox put his hand on hers. 'That's terrible, a nice-looking lady like you all on her own. But you've got me now. Have you eaten?'

'No.'

'Well, join me.'

Which she did, for a sumptuous meal, part Arab, part European, and lots of Cristal champagne. She endured his questing hand on her thigh and waited. Finally, Falcone, who had stood by the window, answered a mobile, came over and whispered.

Fox squeezed her thigh. 'Listen, I've got to go.' 'What a pity.'

It was ten o'clock. He said, 'I'll be a couple of hours. Will you still be here?'

'Of course. I'll see you.'

He went out with Falcone. She followed, and stood in the shadows of a palm tree and shrubbery while they talked on the terrace.

'The Fortuna is in, Signore.'

'Good. We offload the gold in two hours.'

'There's just one thing I don't understand,' Falcone said. 'These Hammerheads are short range?'