Jack Higgins - Dark Justice

“Well, not me,” Danny Malone said. “I’ll be off now. You let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” and he went out.

At Holland Park, they stood with Miller and looked through the false mirror. Selim sat at the table drinking tea, while Dalton sat on the other side and they chatted.

“You are a very reasonable man, Mr. Dalton,” Selim was saying.

Miller said, “Fred’s done a really good job on him, General. I actually think he’s about ready to see reason.”

“Then in we go,” and Ferguson led the way.

Selim and Dalton stopped talking and Dalton stood up, but Selim remained seated. “You wanted to see me,” Ferguson said. “Do I assume you’re going to be sensible?”

“General, I know you are not the Gestapo. You won’t wire up my extremities, or inject me with succinylcholine or put me in a bath of water until I nearly drown. It isn’t the British way. But I do know that you will sentence me to death if, as you have threatened, you return me to Iraq or anywhere else in the Middle East.”

“So what is your decision?”

“I’m a contemptible coward who believed in my mission but is quite simply afraid to die. As you rightly point out, it would be slow and painful. So, yes, I will co-operate.”

“Fine.” Ferguson stayed calm. “But you must tell me everything, and I do mean everything. Not only the names of the wretched young men drawn into your world of violence, but the identities of your sponsors, the moneymen, the Belovs.”

Selim was just as calm. “You can never touch Belov. He’s much too powerful.”

“That may be true, but we can damn well try.”

“Good luck to you. However, I do have terms.”

“Terms?” Ferguson frowned.

“Certainly. I will deal only with you. I will talk only with you. Mr. Dillon may have saved my life in Iraq, but he killed friends of mine while doing it. I respect Superintendent Bernstein, but she is Jewish and it would not be seemly. The sergeants have treated me decently, so I have no objection to them. However, I don’t like this place.” He shook his head. “I really don’t like it at all. We are in the middle of London. There are too many of my brothers around here, too many people who would surely try to kill me if they knew I was here, no matter how good the security is. Is there somewhere else we could go?”

“Jesus, son, you don’t want much,” Dillon said.

Hannah turned to Ferguson. “Huntley Hall, sir. It’s away from here, and the security’s just as good.”

“That’s true. Roper could come down and handle the technical stuff.”

“No,” Selim said. “I said only you, and I meant it.”

“I shouldn’t think that would be a problem, sir,” Hannah said. “Roper could handle it by remote. He’s done it before.”

Selim said, “Huntley Hall?”

“It’s a lovely old house in St. Leonard’s Forest near Horsham, about an hour and a half from London. It used to be Lord Faversham’s place. When he died, he left it to the nation. There’s lots of woodland. Excellent pheasant shooting.”

“And now you’ve turned it into the kind of place where the only things that get shot are intruders?”

Dillon laughed. “You’ll love it.”

Ferguson stood up and said to Dalton and Miller, “Get him ready. I’ll go home and pack. When I return, we’ll drive down to Huntley. Be prepared to stay for as long as it takes. Dr. Selim, I’ll see you later.”

They took him out and Ferguson turned to Dillon and Hannah. “It’s something of a surprise, but I’ll take it as far as I can. You’re in charge here, Superintendent.”

“Very well, sir. You can rely on me.”

“And you,” Ferguson said. “Try to behave yourself.”

“Don’t I always?” Dillon said.

“That’ll be the day,” Ferguson said and led the way out.

It was approximately an hour and a half later that he returned, this time in a cab, bag in hand. Fifteen minutes later, the Land Rover emerged, Miller and Dalton in the front, Ferguson and Selim in the rear.

A few yards down the road a Telecom van was parked, a manhole cover was up and a man in helmet and yellow jacket was working. He had a clear look as the Land Rover went by and spoke into a small mike in Russian.

“Land Rover just coming your way now. Two in the front. Ferguson and Selim in the rear. Stick to them like glue. I’ll notify Major Novikova.”

The Land Rover paused at the end of the one-way street, then turned into the main road. A motorcycle, ridden by a man in black leather, emerged from a side street and took up station, staying well back.

At China Wharf, while Fahy and Regan did the cooking, Kelly contacted Ashimov. “So here we are. What next?”

“We’ll come round and see you to discuss that. Greta did some research in her GRU files and discovered that Ferguson has a safe house in Holland Park.”

“Well, that’s useful. Is Selim there?”

“I’d be amazed if he wasn’t. Just to make sure, though, she’s got a couple of her people from the embassy on watch there, posing as workmen. I’ll let you know what they find out.”

He drove to the embassy, and found Greta in her office, putting papers into her briefcase. She looked flushed and excited.

“It marches, Yuri. It marches. Not only was Selim definitely in the safe house, he’s now left. He was seated with Ferguson behind two men in a Land Rover. It’s definite.”

“So where were they going?”

“I don’t know, but my number-two man, a young lieutenant called Ivanov, is on their trail on a motorcycle.”

“Is he any good?”

“Excellent. They won’t give him the slip, even if they try.”

“Then while we’re waiting to hear what he comes up with, let’s go visit those Irish clods at China Wharf.”

The Land Rover moved south out of London through heavy traffic to Leatherhead, then onward to Dorking, stopping on the other side for fuel. It was busy, with plenty of cars around, and Ivanov was able to be unobtrusive. He called Greta just as she was arriving at China Wharf with Ashimov. He told her where he was. “The main road leads to Horsham. Does that make any sense?”

“Plenty. I think you may find a village near there named Huntley. Stay with it and call me back.”

“Huntley?” Ashimov said.

“Ferguson’s other safe house.” She held up her briefcase. “It’s all in here.”

“Good. Then let’s go in.”

The road to St. Leonard’s Forest passed through impressive woodland, but was not very busy, only the occasional car and the odd farm vehicle. Ivanov stayed way back, allowing anything that came to overtake him. The road was comparatively straight and he was able to keep the Land Rover in view far up front.

In the end, he had luck, but you always needed that. A large agricultural container truck came up behind him, and he pulled over to let it pass. It provided perfect cover for another couple of miles and he stayed well back, looking beyond it until he saw the Land Rover turn off the road. He slowed, taking his time, allowing the truck to move on, and came to high walls topped by what, to his practiced eye, looked like an electronic fence. There was a gate, obviously also electronic, a small lodge and a sign that said HUNTLEY HALL INSTITUTION.

He kept on going. The walls extended for about a quarter of a mile, the grounds heavily wooded. He had a glimpse of the roof of a large house in the distance, no more, and then he came to the village of Huntley itself – very English, very traditional, cottages scattered on the main street, a stone bridge over a brook, a village store, a fuel station and a pub called the Huntley Arms.

He stopped for fuel, and a young woman served him. His English was perfect, which was how he had been trained. “I seemed to get lost in Horsham. I wanted to cut across to the Brighton Road.”