Bad Company

acceptable.”

“It’s a free market.”

“Not when it comes to arms-dealing. Now we hear of your connection with Rashid and your control over the oil market. It won’t do, not in the context of terrorism, and the Middle East and Southern Arabia. To be frank, my government will place every obstacle we can think of in your way.”

“Excellent.” The Baron stood up. “So now we know where we stand. Good morning, Prime Minister,” and he walked out, followed by Rossi.

The Prime Minister turned to Ferguson. “Keep an eye on him, General. I don’t trust that man one bit.”

Outside Number Ten, the Baron was still sitting in his Rolls-Royce, the door open, Rossi standing beside it, as Ferguson approached.

“Was there something else, Baron?”

“Don’t bother with your disposal team, General, I’m not Rupert Dauncey.”

“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ferguson said.

“Don’t bother. I know everything.”

“So what does that mean?”

“It means that I am declaring Jihad on you in memory of my dear friend Kate Rashid. Tell that to Dillon, and the rest of your friends.”

Rossi joined him, closed the door and they drove away.

“Well, to quote our hostile friend, at least now we know where we stand, Charles.” Blake shook hands. “I’ll see you.”

Ferguson went to his Daimler, the chauffeur standing beside it. Dillon was waiting in the rear and Ferguson joined him. He punched a number on his mobile. It was answered instantly.

“Who is this?”

“Roper, this is Ferguson. Get yourself down to the Dark Man and bring the file you’ve prepared on von Berger. We’ve got problems.”

“Will Sean be with you?”

“Yes.”

“On my way.”

As they drove off, Dillon said, “Well?”

“Oh, the Prime Minister put the boot in hard. No kind of government cooperation. They’ll place all sorts of obstacles in the Baron’s way.”

“And how did he take it?”

“He’s just declared Jihad on all of us in memory of Kate Rashid – and he told me he wasn’t a candidate for the disposal team.”

“That’s interesting.”

“He knows, Dillon, God knows how. So I think it’s time we had a council of war.”

“Well, that makes sense.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “Quite like old times.”

As they progressed through the usual bad London traffic, Dillon thought about von Berger and what he would entail. The Daimler turned along a narrow lane between warehouse developments and came out on a wharf beside the Thames. They parked outside The Dark Man, Salter’s pub, its painted sign showing a sinister individual in a dark cloak.

The main bar was very Victorian: mirrors, mahogany bars behind, porcelain beer pumps. Dora, the barmaid, sat on a stool reading The London Evening Standard.

The afternoon trade was light except for four men in the corner booth, and a fifth alongside. Harry Salter, his nephew Billy, his minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, and Major Roper in his wheelchair.

Harry Salter looked up, saw Dillon first. “You little Irish bastard. And you, General. What’s going on?”

“Oh, a great deal, Harry.” Ferguson squeezed in. “We’ve got trouble and it affects all of us. How are you, Roper?”

The man in the state-of-the-art wheelchair smiled. He wore a reefer coat, his hair down to his shoulders, and his face was a taut mass of the scar tissue associated with burns. A Royal Engineers’ bomb disposal expert, decorated with the George Cross, his extraordinary career had been terminated by what he called a “silly little bomb” in a family car in Belfast.

He’d survived and discovered a whole new career in computers. Now, if you wanted to find out anything in cyberspace, it was Roper you called.

“I’m fine, General.”

“And you have the file?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Excellent.”

“Here, what goes on?” Harry Salter asked.

Ferguson said, “You see to the drinks, Dillon, and I’ll fill them in.”

Afterward, Harry Salter said, “So we’re back with Kate Rashid. She was going to knock us all off, and now this geezer has taken over.”

Dillon, standing at the bar, was joined by Billy, who said, “What do you think, Dillon?”

“I think he’s serious business, Billy.”

“Well, we’ve handled serious business before.”

“Yes, and it got you a bullet through your neck, eighteen stitches in your face and two bullets through the pelvis.”

“Dillon, I’m fit now. I work with a personal trainer every day.”

“Billy, you jumped out of an airplane for me at four hundred feet, twice. It’s over, that kind of thing.”

“So, I’m still good on the street.”

“We’ll see, younger brother.”

Behind them, Ferguson had finished. Harry Salter said, “A right bastard, this one. Just as bad as her.”

“So it would appear. What do you think, Roper?”

“Well, the coming together of Rashid and Berger does make them one of the most powerful corporations in the world. It’s the apotheosis of capitalism – if that doesn’t sound too Marxist.”

Ferguson nodded. “It’s like a bad novel, the whole thing.” He turned to Harry Salter. “I’ve had a trying morning, Harry. Could I have your famous shepherd’s pie and an indifferent red wine? I’m in need of comfort.”

6.

AT THE RASHID house in South Audley Street the Baron sat in the drawing room with Marco.

“So what’s our game plan?” Marco asked.

“Let’s start by taking some action against the small fry, these gangsters, the Salters.”

“I’ll work something out. I have Newton and Cook keeping Dillon’s place under surveillance.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Just to keep an eye on him, see where he goes, what contacts he makes. I’ve given Newton the addresses of those involved on a regular basis with him, also computer photos.”

“Where did you get those?”

“From the computer right here in the study. There’s a mass of information there – details of various schemes and operations Kate Rashid has put into play.”

“Business?”

“Of a sort.”

“I’ll leave it all to you, for the moment, Marco. With the merger of the two companies, I have enough on my hands. Just keep me informed.”