Jack Higgins - Angel Of Death

“Very pleasant,” Hannah Bernstein said. “And yet in the middle of all this people have to kill each other.”

“A very old-fashioned habit in this part of the world,” Walid Khasan told her.

At that moment Francis Callaghan came up the steps from the garden and sat down at a table at the other end of the terrace. Dillon, Hannah, and Walid Khasan sat down at a table at their end of the terrace. When a waiter approached, Walid Khasan ordered a pitcher of lemonade for all of them.

“You can’t get alcohol until after seven,” he said to Dillon apologetically.

“I’ll do my best to hang on,” Dillon said.

Francis Callaghan waved a waiter away and took what looked like a diary from his pocket. He flipped through the pages, put it back into his pocket, and lit a cigarette.

“He’s waiting for someone,” said Hannah. “ Perhaps Quinn?”

“I doubt it,” Walid Khasan told her. “As I told you, the only time Quinn has surfaced was at that dockside cafe. I think our friend Callaghan is simply filing time. He may have an appointment to see Quinn later.”

“Fine,” Dillon said. “When he goes, we follow him.” He turned to Hannah. “You stay here and hold the fort.”

“Thanks very much,” she said indignantly.

“Don’t be so sensitive. You need to make a progress report to Ferguson, don’t you? That link is essential especially if we need to move fast to get out of Beirut.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She made a face. “Damn you, Dillon. Next time round I’m going to be a man.”

Callahan made his move about twenty minutes later, passing them on the way into the hotel.

“Here we go,” Dillon said to Hannah. “See you later,” and he and Walid Khasan got up and followed Callaghan.

He crossed the foyer, went out of the front entrance, and hailed a taxi. As it took off, Walid Khasan led the way across to another taxi. He pushed Dillon into the rear and scrambled in after him.

“If you lose him, Ali,” he said to the swarthy Arab behind the wheel, “I’ll have your manhood.” He leaned back and smiled at Dillon. “One of my men.”

Charles Ferguson in his office at the Ministry of Defence listened to what Hannah Bernstein had to say.

“So far so good,” he said. “With any luck, Callaghan could lead us straight to Quinn. You could be out of there in twenty-four hours.”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“We’ll see. Keep me posted and watch your back, Chief Inspector.”

He put down the phone. Sat there brooding for a moment and then rang through to Simon Carter’s office.

“ Ferguson here,” he said. “The Prime Minister insists I keep you informed, so here’s where we are.”

It was really quite pleasant sitting under an umbrella at one of the tables of the waterside cafe Callaghan had led them to. Colored lights were strung overhead, there was a buzz of conversation, and the tables were crowded.

“Plenty of booze being consumed here,” Dillon observed.

“Ah, but Beirut is a mixed society, my friend,” Walid Khasan reminded him.

Callaghan was at a table by the far rail drinking a beer. He appeared totally unconcerned, looking over the crowd and then out into the harbor.

“And this is where he met Quinn and Bikov?” Dillon asked.

“Yes. Actually he sat at the same table.”

“Excellent. If this thing works as it should, I could be in and out like Flynn.” He waved to a waiter and ordered two lagers.

At that moment Callaghan got up and crossed to the door marked Men’s Room. “Is there another way out of there?” Dillon asked.

“No, definitely not. I’ve been in.”

“Good.” Dillon relaxed and lit a cigarette as the waiter arrived with the lagers.

Francis Callaghan stood at the urinal and as he adjusted his trousers and turned, the door to one of the stalls opened, and a young Arab in khaki shirt and pants emerged holding a Sterling submachine gun, silenced version.

“Good evening, Mr. Callaghan,” he said in good English. “I could blow your spine off with this thing and they wouldn’t even hear out there in the cafe, but we wouldn’t want that, would we?” He reached in Callaghan’s right pocket and removed a Colt automatic. “That’s better. Now stand on that stool we have so thoughtfully provided and climb through the window where my colleagues are waiting to receive you.”

Callaghan did exactly as he was told. His years of involvement in the struggle of Ulster had taught him the advisability of playing it cool in a situation like this. He clambered through the window and was pulled down by two more young Arabs. There was a van backed up behind them, the door open. One of them handcuffed his hands behind him.

Callaghan said, “Look, if it’s money…”

He got no further. One of the men slapped him across the face. “Shut up!” he said and pulled a linen bag over his head.

He was pushed into the back of the van, the door slammed, and they drove away.

After fifteen minutes with no sign of Callaghan returning, Walid Khasan got up. “I’ll check it out,” he said and eased his way through the tables to the men’s room. He was out again in seconds and returned.

“Don’t tell me,” Dillon said. “He’s gone.”

“I’m afraid so. He must have used the window. The only other way out.”

“You think he knew he was being followed?”

“I’d be surprised. We’ve been very careful and I was told he didn’t know you by sight.”

“That’s true enough.”

“Then I think it more likely he was just being careful and taking precautions in case he was being followed.”

“So what do we do now?”

Walid Khasan frowned, considering the matter. Finally he said, “I’ll go for a run in the taxi with Ali, circle the area, see if we can spot him. You stay here in case Quinn shows up.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Dillon told him.

“Yes, well there’s not much else that we can do, my friend. I’ll see you in half an hour.”

He left and Dillon sat there waiting. A young woman was working her way through the tables. She had hair as black as night, long to her shoulders, good breasts and hips in a clinging silky dress, dark eyes and a full red mouth. She finally reached him after much lewd comment from men at the surrounding tables.

“You are tourist?” she said in English with a heavy accent.

“You could say that, me darling.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “You need a nice girl then, or a bad girl? Whichever is okay by Anya. Fifty dollars American. My place is close by.”

“Oh moon of my delight, heaven is here in your presence,” Dillon told her in Arabic. “Unfortunately business requires me to wait here for a friend.” He took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to her. “This is for the pleasure of looking on you.”

She smiled her delight, tucked it down her cleavage, and made off.

In London, Rupert Lang rang the bell of Yuri Belov’s mews house and was admitted instantly.

“Something important?” Belov asked as he led the way into the sitting room.

“Yes, I tried to get you the other day, but they told me you were in Paris. Some very interesting developments. The Belfast thing went extremely well. In fact, Grace probably saved Dillon’s life.”

“I heard that January 30 had claimed responsibility for several deaths,” Belov said. “IRA it wasn’t. The Protestant factions must be furious. Dillon certainly doesn’t pull any punches.”

“The whole thing was a setup,” Lang said. “He took care of them, of course, but there was an extra man in the shadows. He’d have got Dillon in the back if Grace hadn’t intervened, so we thought we might as well claim the whole lot while we were at it.”