Jack Higgins - Dark Justice

“No, ride shotgun. I never take anything for granted, and there are night glasses in the bag.” He lit a cigarette. “I’ve never trusted anyone or anything in my life. That’s why I’m here.”

Later, moving off the main road, Parker switched off the engine and coasted some distance down through the orange grove and halted. The farm lay below, a light in the windows. There were two or three boats passing down the Tigris toward Baghdad. It was extraordinarily peaceful.

“They came to Ramalla,” Dillon said. “Very biblical.”

“I’m not much on the Bible,” Billy said.

“Well, I have the Irish attitude. There’s nothing can happen in life that hasn’t already happened in the Bible.” He took two pairs of night glasses from the bag and gave one to Parker. “Take a look.”

When he did himself, the house was plainly visible, with what looked like a barn on each side, one of them damaged, part of the roof gone. There was a parked Land Rover.

“That’s the war for you,” Dillon said and passed the glasses to Billy. “Notice the license plate on the Land Rover. It’s Kuwaiti.”

Billy passed them back. “So how do we do this?”

“We’ll go down on foot. You take the Uzi and leave the other for the sergeant.” He turned to Parker. “You’ve got the glasses. Monitor us.”

“What for, exactly?”

“Who knows? Just do it. Come on, Billy,” and he got out of the station wagon and started down the hill, Billy following.

They reached the damaged end of the farmhouse. Half the roof was gone, what had been double barn doors missing. It was dark inside, but Dillon took a chance and flicked on a small flashlight, revealing some rusting farm machinery. He switched off. “Not much here.”

There was a sudden rattling on the part of the roof left intact and rain fell in an absolute downpour. “Christ,” Billy said. “I thought this was Iraq.”

“It rains in Iraq, Billy. Sometimes it rains like hell in Iraq.”

He led the way along the front of the farmhouse and past the Land Rover. There were shutters at the windows, half closed, and Dillon peered in, Billy at his shoulder. They saw a living room with a large table, on which stood an oil lamp. There were chairs, a wooden sideboard, a fire of logs on a stone hearth. A radio was playing music softly, but there was no sign of anyone.

“We’ll try the other barn,” Dillon whispered and moved on.

There was a narrow window on each side of the barn door, and Dillon peered inside. “Well, there’s your man, Billy. Take a look.”

Inside, there were stalls for animals, and a large loft with bales of hay and reeds. There was also Selim in a shirt and jeans clearing out a stall with a rake.

Dillon said, “In we go.”

He reached for the door handle and a donkey brayed at the back of the barn and several more answered, and that was strange, because at that time of night and in all that rain, why would they not be in the barn? But before he could react, the tailgate of the Land Rover swung open behind him and Sharif got out holding an AK-47. Two men in red-and-black-checked kaffiyehs over their faces got out behind him, also holding AKs. Dillon had started to turn, but the muzzle of Sharif’s gun touched his back.

“I wouldn’t, I really wouldn’t. I have no desire to kill you, or you, Mr. Salter. Please pass the Uzi over.”

“Fuck you,” Billy said, but did as he was told.

“You should beware the Wrath of Allah, Mr. Salter.”

“Jesus, you’re one of them,” Dillon said.

Sharif was searching them, found the two Walthers and passed them to his friends. “Actually, I’m not. I don’t care about Al Qa’eda, or Wrath of Allah, or any of them. I’m not even a good Muslim. But I love my country. That’s what’s important to me, and I want you all to go away.”

“Including the Russians.”

“Especially the Russians. You think I want to see people like Belov getting their hands on our oil, running our country? I think not. Now, let’s go inside and wait for Major Novikova and her friends. It’ll be a nice surprise, I think.”

He pulled open the door and Selim stopped raking and turned, startled and then relieved. “Major, you’ve got him.”

“So it would seem, me ould son,” Dillon told him. “If you’re interested, Ashimov and Belov want you dead. I, on the other hand, can cut you a deal with Ferguson that could ensure your return to the delights of London.”

They heard the sound of a car in the distance, and Sharif said, “Get ready to close the door a little.” Two more men stood up behind hay bales above in the loft.

“On the other hand,” Dillon said to Selim as one of the men pulled on the door, “maybe you want to stay down on the farm?”

All this had been seen by Parker through the night glasses as he stood by the station wagon. He reached for the Uzi and at the same moment heard the approach of the Cherokee and raised the night glasses again, tracking the Jeep as it descended from the main road to the farm. It slowed on the final run, and Makeev, clutching an AK, rolled out headfirst and darted through long grass to the rear of the barn. The Jeep came to a halt behind the Land Rover, Zorin and Greta Novikova got out, and at that moment, the door of the barn swung open and Sharif appeared with his friends. It was enough, and Parker started down the hill at a run.

Greta Novikova said to Sharif, “So you’ve betrayed us?” “I’ve betrayed both sides. I’ve thought it over carefully and decided to become a patriot, which is what my four friends are. I spoke to them and they were happy to oblige.”

“I think it would pay you to think again. Josef Belov has a long arm.”

“Never mind that. What happened to Makeev?”

And Dillon, speculating, stuck his oar in. “That would be me. The bastard was rude to the lady on the terrace of the hotel, and I broke his nose for him.” He smiled amiably. “Or something like that.”

In fact, Makeev, at that moment, having gained access to the barn through a rear door, was mounting wooden steps to the entrance to the left, but his progress was awkward, the steps breaking away with some noise. One of the men in the loft appeared, cried out an alarm and fired, hitting Makeev in the chest, and Makeev shot him in return, then fell backward down the stairs.

Down below, Dillon nodded to Billy and they both pulled the Colts from their ankle holsters and confronted Sharif and his men. Nobody fired. There was a kind of tableau, a frozen moment, the door swinging all the way back in the wind, rain driving in.

Sharif raised his AK. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dillon,” and Parker appeared in the doorway and shot him twice.

What happened then was very fast, very quick. Dillon swung, threw himself at Greta, flinging her out of the way. “Get in one of the stalls,” he cried, as bullets shredded the floor beside him from the loft. He turned, firing twice, and the man up there came down headfirst.

Billy had dodged into the shelter of a stall and picked off one man carefully, a bullet to the head, and shot the other in the back as he turned to run away.

There was silence, and then Parker walked in, soaked. “Jesus” was all he could say.

Selim cowered on hands and knees in one of the stalls, and Zorin had produced a pistol. Greta moved out into the open. “For God’s sake, put it away. We’ve lost.”

Sharif groaned and moved a little and Dillon dropped to one knee, not that there was much to be done. Sharif couldn’t even manage a smile.

As Dillon stood up, Zorin moved in behind him and put his pistol to his back. “I’ve had enough for one night, so I’m leaving and taking this bastard with me.” He glanced at Greta. “You want to come, get over here.”