“You’ve made your point, Billy.”
The man behind reception interrupted. “Gentlemen, my name is Hamid. I am the manager. May I help you?”
“Dillon and Salter,” Dillon told him.
“Ah, Mr. Dillon. We weren’t expecting you yet.”
“Hell of a tailwind,” Billy put in.
Dillon lit a cigarette. “Is there a problem?”
“Not at all. Cottage Five.”
“I was hoping to meet Miss Novikova.” Dillon said it in Arabic, and Hamid was startled. “She’s arrived, I know that.”
“Yes, she arrived a few hours ago. Cottage Seven.” He snapped his fingers to the two porters, who picked up the bags and led the way out, Billy and Dillon following, down a narrow path leading through the palm trees. They saw tables beside the pool, sheltered by umbrellas, people sitting around having drinks. As the porters forged ahead, Dillon pulled Billy close to him.
“The end table with the green-and-white umbrella. The woman in a light blue dress sitting with what looks like an Iraqi. Black hair, bushy mustache.”
“Yes?”
“That’s Greta Novikova.”
“And the guy?”
“Sharif. I’ve seen his photo. Keep moving.”
They passed on, following the porters to the cottage. One of the porters unlocked the door and they led the way in. It was all very acceptable. A sitting room, two bedrooms and a shower room. There was even a small kitchen and a terrace.
Dillon paid the porters off, unlocked the French windows and moved out onto the terrace. Billy joined him. “What do you think about Novikova?”
“I don’t know, Billy, except that she shouldn’t be so cozy with Sharif.”
“So what do we do?”
“Unpack, have a shower – you can go second – and speak to Sharif when he turns up. After that, venture out into the bar, and who knows? We might just bump into Novikova.”
Billy smiled. “Harry’s right, you are a sod.”
Toward the end of her flight, Greta had received a call from Ashimov. “Ah, the wonders of cyberspace. It’s just as I thought. Dillon’s on his way to Baghdad, too. I’ve even got his estimated time of arrival.”
“I’m impressed.”
“To the great Ashimov, anything is possible. I’ve arranged for two mercenary friends of mine in Baghdad, Igor Zorin and Boris Makeev, to handle the dirty work.”
“Are they good?”
“Ex-paratroopers, good Chechen experience. They’ll do. Like you, Dillon is staying at the Al Bustan. He’s got a backup with him, that young gangster, Billy Salter. They’re posing as press.”
“Isn’t that going to be awkward, them staying here, too?”
“Not really. He’d have run you down soon enough. The beauty of it is that the manager at the Al Bustan, a guy called Hamid, has worked for me many times before. He’s already informed me that a Major Sharif, a former Republican Guard, was making inquiries about Dillon’s arrival. I gave Hamid instructions to speak to this man on my behalf. To seduce him with money. You like it?”
“Poor Dillon.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to speak to Sharif before Dillon and Salter get there. Stay in touch.”
At the Al Bustan, Hamid couldn’t do enough for her, the magic name of Belov pervading the air. He took her to her cottage personally, then called Major Sharif on his mobile. Greta didn’t bother to unpack; instead she simply went and sat at the table by the pool and ordered a large vodka cocktail from a passing waiter. She was sipping it, thinking, when Sharif approached and introduced himself. He was a large man in his forties, with black hair and mustache, and sad eyes. He wore a creased linen suit, and the bulge in the right-hand pocket indicated a weapon.
He half bowed. “Major Novikova?”
“Major Sharif. Please sit. Would you like a drink?”
When he had sat, she said, “I don’t like to waste time, so listen carefully.” She filled him in with a few terse sentences. “Do you know Zorin and Makeev?”
“I’ve seen them around. They’re the kind who turn their hand to anything.”
“What about Selim in Ramalla?”
“I’ve already made inquiries. I have contacts in the area. His great-uncle is expecting him tonight.”
“Tell Dillon he’s arriving tomorrow. We’ll meet here later with Makeev and Zorin and decide on our next move. And let’s be clear: Ferguson may pay you well, but if you want top dollar, Josef Belov pays more.” She smiled. “In case you were wondering.”
“I am very content, Major.” He took out a card. “My mobile number. Give me yours.” She did.
“Good. Call me as soon as you hear he’s arrived.”
“Of course.”
He half bowed and walked away.
Showered and changed into a fresh shirt and a tan linen suit, Dillon went through the hardware bag from the quartermaster at Farley Field, found a Walther, checked it out and slipped it into his right jacket pocket. He went out on the terrace, lit a cigarette and Billy joined him.
“I’m hungry. When do we eat?”
At that moment, Sharif came along the path through the palm trees.
“Mr. Dillon?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Major Sharif. You arrived early. Sorry I wasn’t here.”
Dillon put a hand on Billy’s shoulder. “That’s okay, no big deal, was it, Billy?”
Billy responded well. “Hell, no.” He held out his hand. “Good to meet you.”
Dillon said, “There’s one thing straightaway. I’ve heard from London that Greta Novikova is staying here.”
“I’ve only just heard that myself. I’ve just checked in for the night and the manager told me. We have an arrangement. He does me favors.”
“But you wouldn’t know her?”
“No. I don’t think she’s worked in Baghdad before.”
“I see. So, what about Selim? Is he turning up here?”
“He would have booked ahead, and he hasn’t. I expect he’s still driving up from Kuwait, and I think he’ll go straight to his uncle’s place in Ramalla. He’ll probably arrive tomorrow, but I’ll have better information later.”
Dillon smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “No, me ould son,” and he nodded to Billy, who took out a Walther and stood with his back to the door. “I think you’ve got better information now.”
Sharif knew a real pro when he saw one and sighed heavily, not even angry. There was a kind of resignation to him.
“Could I have a drink, Mr. Dillon? I’m that kind of Muslim.”
Dillon found a bottle of Scotch in the bar box and two glasses and poured. Sharif drank it down. He held the glass out and Dillon poured another.
Sharif said, “I was a Republican Guard and military intelligence under Saddam, because we all have to get by in life, which means I was a bad boy. But then I lost my wife and my daughter in the bombing, and that was the war, so fuck Saddam and fuck all of you, the Americans, the Brits and now the Russians, for ruining my country.”
“I appreciate the point.” Dillon toasted him. “As it happens, I’m Irish – IRA Irish, so I can be your worst nightmare. With the credentials I’ve got, I could turn you in to the Yanks, and I’m sure they’d like to have you.”
