Jack Higgins - Dark Justice

Soon after, he was standing by an old jetty around the corner from the Queen Street Mosque, overlooking the river. He leaned on a rail smoking a cigarette, enjoying the landscape, the views, the boats passing. Selim appeared after a while, a handsome bearded man wearing a Burberry raincoat, an umbrella guarding him from the rain.

“Yuri, my friend.” He smiled. “You said it was urgent. Why not call at my office at the mosque?”

“Not again,” Ashimov told him. “I’ve got news for you. Our friend Morgan’s trip to New York would seem to have disappeared into a black hole.”

“How unfortunate,” Selim said calmly.

“Listen.” Ashimov went through everything.

Afterward, Selim said, “We can’t be certain he met a bad end. That’s supposition, surely?”

“Ali, my friend, if Ferguson ’s lot are involved, particularly this Dillon, then the end is as certain as the coffin lid closing.”

“You consider the man exceptional, it would seem.”

“And for good reason. He’s a man of many skills. An experienced pilot, for instance, and linguist. Russian and Arabic, for example.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Besides his years with the IRA, he worked for the PLO as a mercenary, and for the Israelis in Lebanon in the old days.” Ashimov lit a cigarette. “He kills at the drop of a hat, this one.”

“Oh, in a dark street on a rainy night, I’m sure he’s as susceptible to a knife under the ribs as anyone.”

“My dear Ali.” Ashimov smiled. “If you believe that, you’ll be making the worst mistake of your life.”

Selim said, “So what about Mrs. Morgan? If they’re sniffing around there, she could be saying the wrong things.”

“I don’t know. She’s an aging cripple in a wheelchair. She can’t speak in much more than a whisper. And what could she tell him? That she’s a woman who returned to Islam after her husband’s death, whose son also discovered the faith and lightened her grief. Wouldn’t you, as her imam, agree with all this?”

“Of course.”

“Exactly, and you are a man of impeccable background and highly respected. Whatever has happened to the son has no connection with you. You’re too important, Ali, that’s why we keep you out of it. You even sat on a committee at the House of Commons last week. Nothing could be more respectable. No, my friend, you’re a real asset.”

“And too valuable to lose,” Selim said. “And loose ends are loose ends. If Mrs. Morgan should happen to mention you and me in the same breath, they’ll discover who you are. The man who is Belov’s security.”

Ashimov sighed. “All right, leave it to me. Now we better split up. I’ll be in touch.”

Selim hesitated. “Morgan was a soldier of God. If worse has come to the worst, he is also a true martyr.”

“Save that tripe for the young fools at the mosque, your Wrath of Allah fanatics. Go on, get going.”

Selim went, and Ashimov stayed there thinking about it. Perhaps Selim had a point. After all, why would Bernstein and Dillon be calling on the old lady at all? Better to be safe than sorry. He looked over at the incoming tide, then pulled up his collar against the rain, walked around to Chandler Street and rang the bell at number thirteen.

She answered it after a while and peered out over the chain. “It’s me. Mr. Ashimov,” he said. “Dr. Selim’s friend. He asked me to call and see if you wanted to go to the mosque.”

“That is kind,” she said. “I was going to go a little later.”

“Since I’m here, why don’t you go now? It’s much easier if I push you,” he said. “Bring an umbrella. It’s raining.”

She closed the door, undid the chain and opened it again and Ashimov stepped in. “Let me help you.” He reached for a raincoat and a beret hanging on a hall stand and helped her. “There you are, and here’s an umbrella.” He took one down and gave it to her.

“So kind,” she said.

“Not at all. Have you got your key?”

“Yes.”

“You had a visit this afternoon, I believe. A lady from the Welfare Department?”

“Did I?” She frowned. “I can’t remember.”

“Yes, with a gentleman. What did they ask you? About your son in New York?”

She was confused and bewildered. Few things seemed real to her anymore, and her memory was fading fast these days.

“I can’t remember. I can’t remember anyone calling.”

Which was true, for she was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. It was obvious to Ashimov that he was wasting his time.

“Never mind. Let’s be on our way, then.”

The rain was driving down, no one around as they went along the street, the fog drifting up from the river. They went past the shop, which now showed a closed sign inside the door.

“It’s going to be a dirty night later,” he said.

“I think you’re right.”

“But still a nice view of the Thames.” He turned in at the old wooden jetty, the wheels of her chair trembling over the warped wooden boarding.

“There you are.” He paused at the top of the steps going down to the river.

“I like it at night with the lights on the boats.”

Her voice was like a small wind through the trees on a dark evening, as he looked at the river high with water lapping at the bottom of the steps. Then he shoved the chair forward. Strangely enough, she didn’t call out, but gripped the arms of her chair tightly, and when she hit the water, she went under instantly as the chair emptied her out.

It was only four or five feet deep, a mud bank when the tide was out. Someone would find her soon enough. He’d done her a favor, really. He lit a cigarette and walked away.

A few minutes later, standing in a doorway, he phoned Ali Selim. “You can relax. Mrs. Morgan has met with an unfortunate accident.”

“What are you talking about?” Ashimov told him. Selim sounded horrified. “Was that necessary?”

“Come on, Selim, you were the one talking about loose ends. Now, don’t forget, if the police inquire, you were unhappy about her habit of going to the mosque alone in her wheelchair, which is why you often sent young men to fetch her.”

Selim took a deep breath. “Of course.”

“She was prematurely aging, confused a great deal of the time.”

“She had Alzheimer’s.”

“Well, there you are. I’ll leave it with you,” and Ashimov hung up.

It was at ten the following morning that Patel, exercising his small terrier, found the body and the wheelchair on the beach. He called the Wapping police, and since Hannah had put a tracer on Mrs. Morgan, she was notified at once at the Ministry of Defence.

Ferguson was in a Defence Committee meeting, but Dillon was in the office and she quickly filled him in.

“So what do we do?” he demanded.

“Get down to Chandler Street fast and I’ll put a red flag on the case and take command. You come with me. You might be useful.”

They used a department limousine with a civilian driver, retired police. Hannah said, “It’s one hell of a coincidence.”

“And you know how much I believe in those.”

Just then, Dillon’s mobile rang. “Sean? It’s Roper. I’ve got something interesting for you on Ashimov and also on the Wrath of Allah thing.”

“Hold on to it for just a bit. Mrs. Morgan’s turned up on a mudflat at the end of her street, and Hannah and I are on our way. We’re just about there. I’ll call you later.”

They took a turn, and then there they were. There was a police paramedic’s ambulance, the usual team, and a sergeant in charge who jumped to attention when Hannah showed him her warrant card and assumed command.

“Not much of a scene of crime, ma’am,” he said. “Plenty of mud.” She and Dillon looked over the rail. “It’s obvious what happened. The gent who found her said she was always pushing herself in her wheelchair up and down the street to the Queen Street Mosque. Come off the pavement twice before in the past and ended up in the gutter.”