Dark Justice

deranged loner, so there was a chance he could lead us to his New York contacts.”

“Only he didn’t.”

“The few days he was here, he didn’t meet a soul. I had two old FBI hands follow him when we found that the address he’d given Icon Security was false. He was staying in a small hotel; they discreetly gained access to his room and found nothing. No ID on him, no passport at his death. I’d say they’d all been destroyed, probably on orders from his handlers in London.”

“They obviously were hanging him out to dry.”

“Exactly, and the cyanide tooth indicates the equivalent of a suicide bombing. He wasn’t meant to survive.”

Cazalet said, “Okay, I know there’s a lot of supposition here, but I admit it makes a hell of a lot of sense. It still leaves the question of the AK. Where did that come from?”

“It certainly wasn’t in his hotel room,” Clancy said. “We figure it was probably left in some locker, maybe a train or bus station.”

“By his unknown contacts in New York,” Blake put in. “By prearrangement. He’d have been given the location, supplied with a key. Again, it’s supposition, but I’d say he didn’t pick that bag up until he was on his way to work.”

“Yes, it makes sense, all of it,” Cazalet said. “He would have made an interesting prisoner, but now he’s dead, which leaves us with a dead end.” He frowned. “Except for Ferguson and his people.”

“Exactly what I was thinking, Mr. President. Maybe we can find out more from the English end.”

“The mother,” Cazalet said, “maybe she knows something.”

“I don’t know. A handicapped, aging lady in a wheelchair is hardly the sort of person that Al Qa’eda would be recruiting,” Blake said. “But she and her son were welcomed warmly at the local mosque.”

“Which is where we should look.” Cazalet nodded. “ Ferguson ’s the man to handle it.” He smiled. “It’s London next stop for you, Blake. I’ll speak to Ferguson myself and promise him every assistance.”

“What about me, Mr. President?” Clancy said.

“No way. I need you to watch my back. You took a bullet for me once, Clancy. You’re my good-luck charm.”

“As you wish, Mr. President.”

Blake said, “I’d like to keep a low profile on this one. I’ll fly over in one of our private planes, with your permission, and use Farley Field outside London, Ferguson ’s base for special operations.”

“By all means. As soon as you can.” He hesitated. “When you asked me to cancel dinner with Senator Black, you didn’t tell me much, and I hesitated. Thank God I had enough faith in you.”

“Just doing my job, Mr. President.”

Blake went and opened the door, and Cazalet called, “And, Blake…”

“Mr. President?”

“Take them down. Whoever they are, take them down.”

“You can count on it, Mr. President,” and Blake went out.

LONDON 3

The Gulfstream came in to Farley Field right on time and Blake thanked the crew, alighted and walked across the tarmac, pausing to look around him. A lot of water under the bridge at this place, and not just the struggles with the Rashid empire.

A voice called, “Hey, Blake. Over here.”

Blake turned and saw a Daimler by the control tower, parked close to the entrance of the operations room. The man standing beside it was no more than five feet five, with hair so fair it was almost white. He wore an old black leather bomber jacket and jeans, and a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. The man was Sean Dillon, once a feared enforcer for the IRA and now Ferguson ’s right hand.

Blake shook hands. “How are you, my fine Irish friend?”

“All the better for seeing you. The right royal treatment you’re getting, Ferguson sending the Daimler.”

They climbed in the back and the chauffeur drove away. Blake said, “So how are things?”

“Pretty warm since Ferguson heard from the President. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Blake, but that was a close call.”

“You know how it is, Sean, you’ve been there. I remember how you saved President Clinton and Prime Minister Major on that Thames riverboat years back, and took a knife in the back for your trouble.”

“From Norah Bell, the original bitch and worse than any man, and it took a decent woman like Hannah Bernstein to shoot her dead.”

“How is Hannah?”

“Wonderful, as usual. If she didn’t work for Ferguson, I think she’d have been Chief Superintendent by now or even Commander at Scotland Yard.”

“But she loves you all too much to move on?”

“Blake, she’s still trying to reform the lot of us. You know her grandfather is a rabbi. It’s that moral perception of hers. She’s been shot to bits, had her life shortened in any number of ways, and still hangs in there trying to keep Ferguson and me in check.”

“And fails in that respect.” It was a statement, not a question.

Dillon said, “Blake, the world’s gone to hell in a handbasket. Terrorism, Al Qa’eda, all that stuff since nine- eleven, has changed everything. It can’t be combated by the old-fashioned rules of war. It isn’t like that.”

“I agree.” Blake shrugged. “A few years ago, I’d never have said that, in spite of what I had to do during my time in Vietnam. I believed in the decencies, the rule of law, justice, all that stuff. But the people we have to deal with these days – there are no rules as far as they’re concerned, so there are no rules as far as I’m concerned. I’ll take them down any way I can.”

“Good man yourself, I couldn’t agree more.” Dillon lit another cigarette. “I speak Arabic, you know that, and I’ve spent my share of time in the Middle East. Even worked for the PLO in the old days when I was a naughty boy, and I think I know the Arab mind a bit. Most Muslims in the States or the UK are decent people, interested only in making a living and raising their families, but there’s a few of them who have a different political agenda, and it’s dealing with them that’s the problem.”

“Take Morgan. English father, Muslim mother, raised a Christian,” Blake said. “I know what happened to his parents, his mother returning to the Islamic faith and Morgan finding that same faith himself. But what turned him into the assassin who tried to take out the President?”

“Well, that’s what you’re here to find out,” Dillon told him. “And Ferguson, Hannah and Roper are waiting at Cavendish Place to discuss it with you.”

The Embassy of the Russian Federation is situated in Kensington Palace Gardens and it was typical November weather, rain falling, when Greta Novikova emerged through the main gates and paused at the edge of the pavement, waiting for the traffic to pass.

She was a small girl, unmistakably Slavic, with black hair to her shoulders, dark intense eyes, and high cheekbones, and she wore an ankle-length coat in soft black leather over a black Armani suit. She would have made heads turn anywhere. She was a commercial attache at the embassy and had the degree to prove it, but in fact, at thirty-five years old she was a major in the GRU, Russian Military Intelligence.

She crossed the road during a break in the traffic and entered the pub opposite. Early lunchtime it wasn’t very busy, but the man she was seeking was at the far end of the bar in the window seat reading the London Times.

He was a couple of inches short of six feet, and wore a fawn raincoat over a dark wool suit. His hair was close-cropped, and a scar ran from the bottom of his left eye to the corner of his mouth. The eyes were cold and