Jack Higgins - Dark Justice

“There’s a fella I know called Smith who runs air taxis, not far from here. He’s been doing illegal flights for years. Goes in under six hundred feet, so he’s not on the radar. Has a Navajo twin-engine job that’ll do six. There are still old World War Two airstrips here and there, where the local farmer looks the other way if there’s enough money in the envelope. Saves going through security, and we can take the right hardware.”

“And where will you stay, in Kilburn?” Ashimov asked, naming the most Irish borough in London, virtually a ghetto.

“If there’s ever a hint of IRA trouble, Scotland Yard makes straight for Kilburn,” Kelly said. “We’ve got contacts that could help, but it’s best to keep out of there. In fact, we’ll try Indian territory.” He glanced at Murphy. “China Wharf?”

“Perfect.”

“That’s in Wapping,” Kelly said. “It’s an old tea warehouse owned by Tod’s aunt Molly. She married an Englishman named Harris. Special Branch never knew about her. She turned it into a lodging house years ago. We used to use it as a bolt-hole in London.”

“She’s a widow lady of eighty-three,” Tod said. “Can’t be bothered anymore, so she lives on the ground floor and leaves the other rooms empty.”

“Sounds good to me.” Ashimov got up. “You sort it all out. Move when you want to. Meanwhile, Greta will research where Ferguson keeps his safe houses.”

“Fine by us,” Kelly said.

“Good.”

Afterward, Yuri and Greta walked down toward the pier. “It’s beautiful,” she said, as they looked over the tiny harbor.

“There’s not much going on these days. Only half a dozen fishing boats, and they’re out at the moment. The boat at the end of the pier is Dermot’s, the Kathleen . He’s had her for years. She’s his pride and joy.”

It was a thirty-foot cabin cruiser, shabby, with paint peeling, and Greta said, “It doesn’t look like much.”

“It sn’t meant to, but it’s got twin screws, radar, automatic steering and a depth sounder. Everything you need for an illegal passage by night, plus thirty knots.”

He lit a cigarette. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the estate and then it’s back to London.”

Jake Cazalet was sitting at his desk in the Oval Office signing papers when Blake Johnson came in.

“I’ve just had Charles Ferguson on the line, Mr. President. Dillon seems to have come through big-time.”

“Tell me.”

Blake did, and afterward, the President said, “The man never ceases to amaze me. So what happens now?”

“Ferguson will squeeze Selim dry if he can. Any leads they can prise out of him could prove invaluable.”

“You don’t need to tell me.”

“Naturally, they’ll pass all the relevant information on to us.”

“I’d expect them to. In this, Blake, we must rely on Ferguson. Selim is a British citizen.” He sighed and shook his head. “My God, the times we live in.” He smiled suddenly. “I shouldn’t think Josef Belov’s too happy about all this.”

“I shouldn’t imagine he is, sir,” and Blake went out.

On a quiet side road in Holland Park stood an Edwardian town house in the middle of about an acre of gardens surrounded by high walls. A sign at the electronic gate said PINE GROVES NURSING HOME. It was, in fact, Ferguson’s safe house.

Hannah, Miller and Dillon delivered Selim there, and were admitted by military police wearing a kind of uniform of navy blue blazers and flannel slacks.

Selim said, “Nursing home?”

“We have medical facilities,” said Dillon. “So it’s not a total lie. Don’t be deceived by appearances. Security is everything here. The police may not be in army uniform, but they’re all armed. There are no bars, but the windows are electrically wired. This is a fortress, Doctor Selim. Resign yourself to that. Now Sergeant Dalton will show you to your room. We’ll talk later.”

Selim was amazed at his treatment. The room was decent, with a window overlooking the garden. A selection of clothes was available in the drawers and a closet. He showered and changed, then Miller took him down to a sitting room of sorts with a table, chairs, a gas fire and a mirror.

Dalton said, “We’re aware of your food requirements, so the chef has prepared a special meal.” The door opened and Miller came in with a tray, which he placed on the table. “If there’s anything unsatisfactory, please say so, sir.”

“No, this is fine.” Selim sat down and started to eat. “I would appreciate some tea.”

Which was provided and he continued to eat, and on the other side of the mirror, Ferguson, Dillon, Hannah and Roper watched, waiting until he had finished. Miller reappeared and took away the tray. Dalton waited, watchful.

Selim raised his voice. “If you are there behind the mirror, General Ferguson, do come in now. Whatever else I may be, I’m not a fool.”

Dillon grinned at the General.

“Right, in we go, people,” Ferguson said, and led the way.

Ferguson nodded to Dalton. “If you’d go into the other room and observe, I’d appreciate it.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Roper maneuvered his wheelchair, as Hannah and Ferguson sat down. Dillon sat on the windowsill, smoking a cigarette.

“To clarify things,” Ferguson said, “I’m responsible for the Prime Minister’s personal security system. I have no connection with the other security services. I have carte blanche on behalf of the Prime Minister to operate as I see fit. Detective Superintendent Bernstein is my assistant, on loan from Special Branch at Scotland Yard.”

“And Mr. Dillon? I know what Mr. Dillon does. He kills people.”

“And Wrath of Allah doesn’t?” Dillon asked.

“Superintendent, I appeal to you. Why am I denied a lawyer? Is this just?”

Hannah had trouble with that and it showed. She turned to Ferguson. “Sir, perhaps…”

“Perhaps nothing. Major Roper, why don’t you begin?”

Roper said, “I’ve prepared a report, Dr. Selim. It details your relationship to Henry Morgan, and, of course, his intention to assassinate the President of the United States. It outlines the suspicious death of his mother. It makes clear the basic links between these two and the Queen Street Mosque, as well as your relationship with Yuri Ashimov and, through him, Josef Belov.”

“None of this can be proven,” Selim said, but his voice was subdued.

“There’s little doubt that there has been a trade in young British Muslims, recruited for terrorist camps originally in Iraq, now in various Muslim countries. I have in my possession considerable confidential information regarding the traffic between the Belov organization and you, acting as a front man for a number of so-called charities.”

“All of it perfectly legitimate,” Selim said weakly. “Anything else is a lie.”

“Many donations to the Children’s Trust in Beirut.”

“All for charitable works, education.”

“Charitable? The Children’s Trust is a front of Hizbollah. That’s well known. Both the Marxist League and Free the People have links with Al Qa’eda. The Children’s Trust in Iraq is simply another way of saying Party of God, one of the most militant terror groups.”

“None of this can be proved.” Selim was desperate now. “All the trusts, the educational groups, any payments by me on the Belov company’s behalf were made in good faith. You can’t say otherwise. Mr. Belov paid for our building work at Queen Street, even the new school.”

“I have a list of organizations you’ve passed money to,” Roper said. “It’s a fact.”

“I’m running out of patience,” Ferguson told him. “I’m the first to agree that we stand very little chance of bringing Belov to a courtroom. He’s too rich, too powerful, and he’s covered his back too well. What I want from you are details of the camps, the lists of organizations, names and addresses. Do that properly and you’ll be let off the hook. Slate clean.”