Jack Higgins: Dark Justice

Ashimov frowned. “Why would the Welfare Department visit her?”

“Because she’s handicapped?”

“Rubbish. Her son’s well enough off. Why would Welfare visit?” He shook his head. “I don’t like it. Did she say if they would visit again?”

“I don’t know.”

“Be there, Greta. Just in case. If somebody turns up, I want a photo. I get an instinct for things.”

“Which is why you’re still here, my love.”

“True. But something here isn’t right. Let’s try and find out what it is.”

At Cavendish Place, Dillon and Blake were admitted by Kim, the General’s Ghurka manservant, and found Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein and Roper in the drawing room. Ferguson was in his sixties, a large, untidy man in a crumpled suit and a Guards tie. Hannah Bernstein was in her early thirties, with close-cropped red hair and horn-rimmed spectacles. Her Armani trouser suit was certainly more expensive than most people could afford on police pay. Major Roper sat in a state-of-the-art electric wheelchair, wearing a reefer coat, hair down to his shoulders, his face a taut mask of the kind of scar tissue that comes from burns, the explosion that had ended his career.

“Here he is, the man of the moment,” Dillon said. “I’m sure he’ll give it to us in graphic detail,” which Blake did, everything that had happened in Manhattan.

Afterward, Blake said, “So there it is. For the disposal system, I’m indebted to you, General. We’re fighting a new kind of war these days, although I can understand Hannah’s moral principles being bruised a bit.”

“Bruised or not, the Superintendent works for this department under the Official Secrets Act. Isn’t that right?” Ferguson glanced at her.

Hannah didn’t look easy, but said, “Of course, sir.”

“Good. Tell us about Mrs. Morgan, then.”

“She’s sixty-five and looks much older. I managed to get hold of her hospital records, and it’s bad. The automobile accident that killed her husband almost finished her off. She narrowly avoided being a paraplegic, but she has money. Her husband owned a pharmacy, which was sold after his death, and there was insurance, so she’s well-fixed.”

“Go on.”

“Her family disowned her when she married a Christian, but now she’s returned to Islam, as you know. Her son started taking her to the Queen Street Mosque in her wheelchair. It used to be a Methodist chapel.”

“And he turned, too?”

“Apparently.”

Blake said, “That really interests me, the idea of a highly educated man, ostensibly English for thirty years of his life, a university academic, turning to a faith he’d never accepted before in his life.”

“And then ending up in Manhattan with the intention of killing the President,” Dillon said.

“Which makes me wonder what goes on at the Queen Street Mosque,” Blake said. “Some of these places are hotbeds of intrigue, pump out the wrong ideas. Sure, we finally captured Saddam in Iraq. But how long ago was that and how many terrorist attacks have there been since?”

Ferguson said, “In his last message, Bin Laden spoke of his young extremists as being ‘soldiers of God,’ and what concerns us is that young men from this country could be among them. It makes places like the Queen Street Mosque of special interest.”

Hannah said, “If you’re looking for suicide bombers, though, it doesn’t seem like the place.” She opened a file and passed it across. “Dr. Ali Selim, the imam. Forty-five, born in London, father a doctor from Iraq who sent the boy to St. Paul ’s School, one of our better establishments. Selim went to Cambridge, studied Arabic, and later took a doctorate in comparative theology.”

Blake looked at the file, particularly the photo. “Impressive. I like the beard.” He passed the file to the others.

Hannah said, “He’s a member of the Muslim Council, the Mayor of London’s Interfaith Committee, and any number of government boards. Everyone I speak to tells me he’s a wonderful man.”

“Maybe he’s too wonderful,” Dillon said.

“I’ve checked with the local police. Not a hint of trouble at the Queen Street Mosque.”

There was a pause, and Ferguson turned to Roper. “Have you any thoughts, Major?”

“I can only process facts, opinions, suppositions. Unless I have something to go on, I can’t help.”

“Well, I’ll give you something,” Blake said. “And it’s been intriguing the hell out of me. Does the Wrath of Allah mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

“When Clancy and I faced Morgan, in the moment before he bit on the cyanide tooth, Morgan said, ‘Beware the Wrath of Allah.’ ”

Roper frowned and shook his head. “It doesn’t strike a chord, but I’ll run it by my computer.”

“So, the way ahead on this one appears plain,” Ferguson said. “I think you, Superintendent, should have another word with Mrs. Morgan in your guise as a welfare worker.”

Hannah wasn’t comfortable and showed it. “That’s a difficult one, sir. I mean, her son is dead and she doesn’t even know it.”

“Which can’t be helped, Superintendent. It’s an unusual situation, I agree, but when one considers the gravity of the deed Morgan was trying to commit, I feel that any means that will help us to reach an explanation would be justified. See to it, and use Dillon as backup. His knowledge of Arabic may prove useful.” He turned to Blake. “We’ll drop Roper off at his house, and you and I can continue to the Ministry of Defence, where I’ll show you everything we have on Muslim activity in the UK.”

“Suits me fine,” Blake said.

Ferguson turned to the others. “All right, people, there’s work to be done, let’s get to it.”

After leaving the pub on Kensington High Street, Greta and Ashimov crossed the road to the embassy and got into a dark blue Opel sedan. She checked the glove compartment and found a digital camera.

“Excellent,” he told her. “You can drop me at my apartment in Monk Street and keep in touch on your mobile. Anything of significance, I want to know.”

“Of course.” She drove out into the traffic. “Where’s Belov at the moment?”

“The good Josef is in Geneva. All those billions, my love, it keeps him so busy.” There was an edge of bitterness there.

“Come off it,” she said. “Money is power and you love it, andworking for Josef Belov is the ultimate power and you love that too.”

“To a point – only to a point.” She turned into Monk Street and stopped. He said, “Sometimes I think it was better in the old days, Greta. Afghanistan, Chechnya, Iraq. To smell powder again.” He shook his head. “That would be wonderful.”

“You must be raving mad,” she told him.

“Very probably.” He patted her silken knee. “You’re a lovely girl, so go and do what Belov is paying you to do. Extract a few more facts from Mrs. Morgan, but keep your masters at the GRU happy.”

He got out of the Opel and walked away.

Heavy traffic on Wapping High Street held her back a little, but she finally found what she was looking for: Chandler Street, backing down to the Thames. Many cars were parked there, which gave her good cover, and she pulled in, switched off and settled down, her camera at the ready.

Number thirteen. That had amused her when she’d looked at the file, an old Victorian terrace house. She sat there, looking along the street to the grocery shop on the corner opposite the river. There was no one about, not a soul. It started to rain, and then a red Mini car drew up opposite and Hannah Bernstein and Sean Dillon got out.

Hannah pressed the bell push and they waited. Finally, they heard the sounds of movement, the door was opened on a chain and Mrs. Morgan peered out. She was old, faded, much older than her years, as Hannah had indicated. She had a long scarf wrapped around her head, the chador worn by most Muslim women. The voice was almost a whisper.