Jack Higgins: The Killing Ground

“Here, what is this?” the driver protested. It started, the usual bluster.

“I hate people being stupid,” Billy said. “Don’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Dillon told him, and at that moment Blake turned the corner and approached.

“What’s going on?” he demanded.

“Just go and get your luggage and we’ll be on our way, idiot,” Dillon told him. “Get moving.”

“Did I have company? Ah well, I knew I could rely on you two.” Blake laughed and went to the front door of the house.

“Assume the position, both of you,” Dillon said, which they did with reluctance. Billy went through their pockets, did a quick check and found a wad of fifty-pound notes. “Two thousand,” he said, counting. “Must have been more originally. Had to be.”

Dillon stuck his pistol in the first man’s ear. “Who put you up to this?”

“Get stuffed,” the man said. He sounded Cockney; the driver stayed silent.

“Stupid and arrogant,” Dillon said. “A lethal combination.” And he shot half the man’s left ear off.

The man cursed and moaned at the same time, and Dillon said, “If you want the other one taken care of as well, that’s all right with me.” He slipped the two thousand into the man’s pocket. “You can keep this. Just tell me who it was.”

“George Moon,” the man said, gasping, “Runs the Harvest Moon pub in Trenchard Street, Soho. Farms out work.”

“And pretty dirty work, too, if that old sod’s still at it.”

“And who was he representing?” Billy said to the driver. “You might as well come clean.”

“Russian guy. Moon said he was called Lhuzkov. He met us in a pub in Kensington across the High Street from the Russian Embassy.”

“And the gig was to kill off Blake Johnson.”

“Something like that.”

Dillon gave him his handkerchief. “It’s clean. Now piss off and find a hospital.”

They couldn’t get in the car fast enough.

Billy said, “Nice and generous of you, letting them keep the two grand.”

“It helped grease the wheels, Billy. A little pain, a little reward.”

The front door opened and Blake came out carrying a couple of flight bags. He put them in the back of the car. “Anybody dead?”

“We wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

Blake said, “Who was it?”

“Couple of small-time hoods, hired by Lhuzkov.”

Blake said, “Interesting. He wouldn’t have done that on his own.”

“Don’t worry,” Billy said. “We’ll sort that lot out. It’ll be a pleasure.”

They drove off. Dillon lit a cigarette and leaned back. “Foot down to Farley Field, Billy. Ferguson won’t be pleased if Blake’s late.”

AT FARLEY FIELD, the rain fell relentlessly. Ferguson ’s pilots, Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry, busied themselves with the aircraft, while the General drank coffee and a Bushmills whiskey and stood at the window of the small lounge staring out at the rain. He was indeed not best pleased.

“You’re late.”

“Well, if you can be bothered to wipe the scowl from your face, General dear, I have news for you,” Dillon told him.

Ferguson ’s face became wary. “And what would that be?”

“A couple of gentlemen of evil intent tried to hurry Blake into a better world.”

“Explain. Billy, I need another drink.”

He sampled the Bushmills and listened and Blake watched, amused. “What I want to know,” said Ferguson, “is what’s with all this bloody game-playing? A third-rate colonel working for Russian military intelligence wants to shoot the President’s key security man, and the best he can do is hire these incompetents? Somebody’s head is going to roll.”

“All right,” Billy said. “So where does that get us?”

“Well, obviously, we’re going to have to look into whoever put Lhuzkov up to it, but that will have to wait until I return in four days. After Brussels, Putin visits Germany, and the Prime Minister and the President will be trying desperately to knock some sense into France.”

“I’ll be glad to help with the France thing,” Billy said.

“Very funny. I’ve got something else for you to do. We’ve gotten a tip that some very bad actors may be flying in during the next twenty-four hours. Don’t know who or from where, but it bears checking out. Sean, you know a lot of these people by sight-you and Billy, go to Heathrow and haunt passport control, see who’s flying in from nasty places. We’ve got other men there, too, but they haven’t got your experience.”

Dillon nodded.

“Meanwhile,” Blake said, “we have to be off. Coming, General?” He got up onto the plane, and Ferguson turned on the steps. “I’ll send the Gulfstream back in case of emergencies. Use it at your discretion if something comes up. You might also want to check in at the Holland Park safe house. Major Roper’s just gotten in a new batch of satellite computer equipment. Very powerful stuff-you’ll find it interesting. And Greta’s there now-I thought it would be good experience for her.”

He was referring to Major Greta Novikova, once employed by the Russian Army in Chechnya and Iraq. Circumstances had made it seem sensible for her to transfer allegiance to Ferguson.

The door closed, the plane started to move, and they turned back to the Aston and drove away. Dillon called Billy’s father, Harry Salter, at his pub, the Dark Man.

“Are you on your own?”

“Roper and Greta’re here, that’s all. Managing a steak with all the trimmings, with Sergeants Henderson and Doyle eating fish and chips in a booth in their best blazers and flannels and trying not to look like military police. Can’t say they’re succeeding. Are you coming round?”

“No, but you can do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Tell Roper that Lhuzkov was hanging around having drinks at the embassy.”

“Huh. Light a match close to that one and the vodka would explode. What a clown.”

“Yes, well, that clown arranged for a couple of nobodies to take out Blake, who was rather foolishly walking down South Audley Street in the rain. Stupid because he knows it’s open season on him.”

“Here, we can’t have that. What’s the game?”

“Oh, Billy and I sorted it with a little ungentle persuasion that left one of them with only half an ear. But it was Lhuzkov who laid it on, and our old friend George Moon who did the hiring. Paid them two grand, apparently.” He gave Harry the rest of the details.

“George Moon? I didn’t realize he was still breathing. Had a nice little wife, Ruby: she was straight, he wasn’t. Right, it’s taken care of. Are you coming to the pub?”

“No, Ferguson ’s got a job for us.”

“Well, enjoy yourselves.” Harry switched off the mobile and nodded across to his two minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall. “I’ll have a large scotch, I’m thinking. Vodka, Greta?”

She was most attractive, wearing a black silk Russian shirt and trousers and knee-length boots. Her hair was tied at the nape of her neck.

“Why not?”

“A large one?”

“Is there any other one for a Russian?”

“Probably not. What about the Major?”

Roper sat in his state-of-the-art wheelchair, wearing a reefer coat, his collar turned up to his bomb-scarred face. He didn’t get a chance to say no because Dora brought the drinks on a tray and distributed them.

“Good girl, Dora,” Harry said. “What are we going to do without you? She’ll be leaving in a week, Australia. Got a daughter and two girls. Wants to test the water. Might never come back. Here’s to her.”

Greta swallowed her vodka. “Knock back that whiskey,” she told Roper, “because I know you’re eager to get back to your machines. That’s all he ever does,” she said. “Eats sandwiches, drinks a bottle of scotch a night, smokes, hardly sleeps and plays around on those damn machines.”