Jack Higgins - Dark Justice

“As you say.”

“I like that. Maybe I could teach you how to do as you’re told.”

She was very close to him. “But I always do.” She took out the Makarov, rammed it into his back and shot him twice. He went down like a stone.

“Now what?” Billy asked Dillon.

“Another bad night in Iraq, Billy. We get the hell out of here.” He nodded to Parker. “You did well.” He turned to Selim. “I could shoot you, but you’ll do better with Ferguson. Stay here and you’re a dead man one way or another when Ashimov hears you’re on the loose.” He turned to Greta. “Isn’t that so, Major?”

“I’d have to agree.”

“But you didn’t shoot me, you shot your own man,” Selim argued. “It makes no sense.”

“Well, she’s a woman.” Dillon pushed him over to Parker. “Get him in the station wagon.”

Parker took Selim away, a hand on his arm, and Dillon and Greta paused in the doorway, Billy watching, his Uzi back in his hands. Dillon gave her a cigarette, took one himself and lit them with his old Zippo.

“Give you a lift, lady?”

“I don’t think so. I’ll take the Cherokee, get back to the Al Bustan and pack. Next step for you is the airport, I imagine.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Does it really matter? Let’s say I liked you and I didn’t like them, and Sharif, as it happened, screwed things up big-time.”

“Yeah, but where’s that leave you with Ashimov and Belov?” Billy demanded.

“Oh, I’ll give a satisfactory version of events. I’m good at that, and there’s no one to contradict me.”

Dillon opened the door of the Cherokee and said, “In you go, girl.” Which she did, and put down the window. He leaned in. “I owe you one. I owe you a life.”

“That means a lot to an Arab, Dillon, but you’re Irish and a bastard. A charming one, but that’s what you are.”

She switched on the engine. “Buy me a drink at the Dorchester sometime and we’ll call it quits.”

“It’s a deal.”

“One more thing.” She smiled out at him. “I’m still on the other side.”

“I never doubted it.”

She drove away, and Billy said, “That’s a hell of a woman.”

“A one-off, Billy. Now let’s get moving.”

They started up to the orange grove and he took out his Codex Four and called Lacey. “We’re on our way, plus the passenger I mentioned.”

“No problem, Sean. I’ve spoken to Robson, so it was all in the security pipeline. I’ll confirm it now. We’ll be waiting. Was it rough?”

“You wouldn’t want to know.”

“That bad? Ah, well, see you soon.”

Dillon took out his cigarettes and said to Selim, who sat between him and Billy, “Do you use these?”

Selim was trembling a little. “Not for years.”

“Then have one now. It’ll help settle your nerves. Stay here and Belov’s people will get you one way or another, but you’re too valuable to waste, which is why I’m taking you back to Ferguson. As I’ve told you, play ball and you’ll be fine.”

“But my roots are here.”

“Bollocks,” Billy said. “Look out there at the romance of Iraq. Bleeding peasants at this time of night in the pouring rain, leading donkeys for the morning market in Baghdad to make a few bob. It’s a shithole.”

“And you’re British anyway,” Dillon said. “Born in London, went to St. Paul’s, Cambridge.”

“You went to St. Paul’s?” Billy said. “I didn’t know that. I was there for two years. My uncle Harry wanted to make a gentleman of me.”

Selim was interested in spite of himself. “What happened?”

“They expelled me when I was sixteen for beating up two prefects. I’ve never told anyone that before, not even you, Dillon.”

“Well, there you go.” Dillon smiled. “A great man once said England was a splendid, tolerant and noble country, and even though I’m Irish, I’d have to agree. Let’s put it this way. There are mosques all over London.”

The first thing Greta did at the cottage when she got back was to call and arrange an early-morning departure for the Falcon. Then she phoned Ashimov, finding him in bed, because in London it was three in the morning. He was all attention, sat up and reached for a cigarette.

“How’s it going?”

“I’m on my way back, that’s how it’s going. Sharif sold us out.”

“I’ll have his balls for that, I promise.”

“No need. They ambushed us at Ramalla – Dillon, Slater and Sharif. There was a firefight. Zorin and Makeev were killed. I managed to shoot Sharif and got away in the darkness. I saw Dillon, Salter and some other men take Selim away to a station wagon. I was close enough to hear Dillon say something like ‘Let’s get out of here. Next stop the airport.’ I waited until they’d gone and came back to the house in the Jeep.”

“It’s like a black comedy,” he said. “A total farce.”

“I’m sure they’re going to squeeze Selim dry in some London safe house,” she said.

“Yes, I’ll have to find out where that is. But at least you’re safe, my love. I’ll expect you tomorrow.”

She put the phone down, quite pleased with herself, and went to bed.

At Baghdad Airport, they gained access through a discreet security entrance, where Robson and Lacey waited in a Land Rover.

“Follow us, Sergeant, straight to the plane,” Robson called.

They did and found the Citation waiting, ready to go. The two vehicles stopped at the bottom of the steps and they all got out.

Robson said, “Please board now, gentlemen. You’ve sort of never been here, if you follow me. Much better all round.”

“You’ve got a good man here.” Dillon turned and shook hands with Parker. “We’ll do it again sometime.”

“Once around the houses with you is enough for any man, but good luck.”

Billy pushed Selim up the steps, Dillon followed and then Lacey, who closed the door. Selim sank into a seat. Lacey joined Parry in the cockpit.

Dillon took out his Codex Four and called Ferguson, as Greta had done with Ashimov, finding him in bed.

“Who in the hell is it at this time in the morning?”

“Dillon. Just leaving Baghdad Airport.”

“Have you got him?”

“That we have.”

“Was it bad?”

“Oh, the usual. Billy did well. Two more notches.”

“And Novikova?”

“Still in one piece. Quite a girl, but I’ll tell you later.”

“Good man, Sean, we’ll be waiting at Farley.”

The Citation started along the runway, lifted and rose very quickly. Billy tilted his seat. “I’m for a nap,” he said and closed his eyes.

Selim was shaking slightly, and Dillon opened one of the lockers, produced a blanket. “There you go, wrap yourself in that.”

Selim said in a small voice, “Thank you, Mr. Dillon.”

Dillon opened the bar box, found half a bottle of Bushmills whiskey and a glass, into which he poured a large one.

“That ‘Committee for Racial Harmony’ you’ve been sitting on at the House of Commons, play your cards right and you could be back there before you know it, sitting on the Terrace by the Thames, with tea, cakes and cucumber sandwiches. Think about it.”

He sat back and poured himself another whiskey.

The Citation landed at Farley Field at ten in the morning, under gray skies and heavy rain, remarkably like Iraq. Ferguson waited in the Daimler, Hannah Bernstein standing beside it in a raincoat, an umbrella over her head. Behind them was a Land Rover containing two men in civilian clothes. They were, in fact, staff sergeants in the Royal Military Police, named Miller and Dalton, and they worked for Ferguson at the Holland Park safe house. As the Citation rocked to a halt, they got out of the car.