Dark Justice

charge, gave you unlimited discretion, total resources, unlimited money…”

“I’m sorry, Josef. Makeev and Zorin came highly recommended, they did good work in the past.”

“And now they’re dead, along with this Sharif and his four friends. The only one who comes out of it with any credit is Novikova. Dillon and this Salter boy are serious business.”

“I agree.”

“Then deal with them seriously. Enough messing about. You tell me Kelly and Murphy knew him in the IRA? Fine. That means they’ll know how he works. Tell them to get a crew together and to sort Ferguson’s people out once and for all. Just get it done. I’m coming to Belfast myself. I had planned to return to London, but under the circumstances I think it’s best I stay away, let them do their work. Don’t fail me, Yuri.”

Greta arrived soon afterward, and Yuri greeted her warmly. “Did you manage to get any sleep?”

“I had a couple of vodkas and crashed out for most of the trip.”

“Good. We’re driving down to the Royal George for lunch. I want you to meet Dermot Kelly and Tod Murphy.”

They went out to the car. “What about Belov?”

“I’ve spoken to him.”

“And?”

“He wants us to go to war. I’ll explain as we go.”

At the Royal George, they sat in a corner booth with Kelly and Murphy, enjoyed a shepherd’s pie with Guinness and Greta gave her version of the events at Ramalla.

They found the whole thing very amusing, and it occurred to her, and not for the first time, that the Irish were not like other people. They never seemed to take anything seriously. It made her think of Dillon, and in a way that didn’t sit comfortably with her.

“Jesus, but Sean’s the one,” Kelly said. “You’ve got to give it to the bastard.”

“Mind you, this Billy Salter’s close behind him,” Tod Murphy said. “Maybe his mother was a Cork woman.”

“No, that was Ferguson,” Kelly said. “She was a Cork woman. It’s a known fact.”

It was Greta, exasperated, who said, “Well, if you’ve finished exploring the niceties of Irish family relationships, could we decide exactly what you intend to do?”

“Oh, Tod’s the planning genius when you can get his nose out of a book,” Kelly told her.

“We’ll get together some of the old outfit,” Tod said. “Me and Dermot and two others. That will be enough.”

“For Dillon and Salter? I wonder.”

“How will you travel?” Ashimov asked.

“There’s a fella I know called Smith who runs air taxis, not far from here. He’s been doing illegal flights for years. Goes in under six hundred feet, so he’s not on the radar. Has a Navajo twin-engine job that’ll do six. There are still old World War Two airstrips here and there, where the local farmer looks the other way if there’s enough money in the envelope. Saves going through security, and we can take the right hardware.”

“And where will you stay, in Kilburn?” Ashimov asked, naming the most Irish borough in London, virtually a ghetto.

“If there’s ever a hint of IRA trouble, Scotland Yard makes straight for Kilburn,” Kelly said. “We’ve got contacts that could help, but it’s best to keep out of there. In fact, we’ll try Indian territory.” He glanced at Murphy. “China Wharf?”

“Perfect.”

“That’s in Wapping,” Kelly said. “It’s an old tea warehouse owned by Tod’s aunt Molly. She married an Englishman named Harris. Special Branch never knew about her. She turned it into a lodging house years ago. We used to use it as a bolt-hole in London.”

“She’s a widow lady of eighty-three,” Tod said. “Can’t be bothered anymore, so she lives on the ground floor and leaves the other rooms empty.”

“Sounds good to me.” Ashimov got up. “You sort it all out. Move when you want to. Meanwhile, Greta will research where Ferguson keeps his safe houses.”

“Fine by us,” Kelly said.

“Good.”

Afterward, Yuri and Greta walked down toward the pier. “It’s beautiful,” she said, as they looked over the tiny harbor.

“There’s not much going on these days. Only half a dozen fishing boats, and they’re out at the moment. The boat at the end of the pier is Dermot’s, the Kathleen. He’s had her for years. She’s his pride and joy.”

It was a thirty-foot cabin cruiser, shabby, with paint peeling, and Greta said, “It doesn’t look like much.”

“It sn’t meant to, but it’s got twin screws, radar, automatic steering and a depth sounder. Everything you need for an illegal passage by night, plus thirty knots.”

He lit a cigarette. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the estate and then it’s back to London.”

Jake Cazalet was sitting at his desk in the Oval Office signing papers when Blake Johnson came in.

“I’ve just had Charles Ferguson on the line, Mr. President. Dillon seems to have come through big-time.”

“Tell me.”

Blake did, and afterward, the President said, “The man never ceases to amaze me. So what happens now?”

“Ferguson will squeeze Selim dry if he can. Any leads they can prise out of him could prove invaluable.”

“You don’t need to tell me.”

“Naturally, they’ll pass all the relevant information on to us.”

“I’d expect them to. In this, Blake, we must rely on Ferguson. Selim is a British citizen.” He sighed and shook his head. “My God, the times we live in.” He smiled suddenly. “I shouldn’t think Josef Belov’s too happy about all this.”

“I shouldn’t imagine he is, sir,” and Blake went out.

On a quiet side road in Holland Park stood an Edwardian town house in the middle of about an acre of gardens surrounded by high walls. A sign at the electronic gate said PINE GROVES NURSING HOME. It was, in fact, Ferguson’s safe house.

Hannah, Miller and Dillon delivered Selim there, and were admitted by military police wearing a kind of uniform of navy blue blazers and flannel slacks.

Selim said, “Nursing home?”

“We have medical facilities,” said Dillon. “So it’s not a total lie. Don’t be deceived by appearances. Security is everything here. The police may not be in army uniform, but they’re all armed. There are no bars, but the windows are electrically wired. This is a fortress, Doctor Selim. Resign yourself to that. Now Sergeant Dalton will show you to your room. We’ll talk later.”

Selim was amazed at his treatment. The room was decent, with a window overlooking the garden. A selection of clothes was available in the drawers and a closet. He showered and changed, then Miller took him down to a sitting room of sorts with a table, chairs, a gas fire and a mirror.

Dalton said, “We’re aware of your food requirements, so the chef has prepared a special meal.” The door opened and Miller came in with a tray, which he placed on the table. “If there’s anything unsatisfactory, please say so, sir.”

“No, this is fine.” Selim sat down and started to eat. “I would appreciate some tea.”

Which was provided and he continued to eat, and on the other side of the mirror, Ferguson, Dillon, Hannah and Roper watched, waiting until he had finished. Miller reappeared and took away the tray. Dalton waited, watchful.

Selim raised his voice. “If you are there behind the mirror, General Ferguson, do come in now. Whatever else I may be, I’m not a fool.”