Jack Higgins: The Killing Ground

“Yes,” Roper said. “It’s a wonderful life.”

“Let’s move it, gentlemen,” Greta called to the military police. “Take it easy, Harry.”

The policemen took the chair out to the special van, loaded it and a few moments later drove off to Holland Park.

“Another one, boss?”

Harry shook his head. “No, I’ve got a mind to a bit of action. Remember George Moon?”

“And his boyfriend, Big Harold,” Baxter said.

“A couple of years ago, they tried to run Roper into traffic in his wheelchair.”

Sam Hall laughed. “I remember, the Major shot Harold in the side of the knee and Moon through the thigh. The word to the police was they’d been attacked by muggers. The cops didn’t have much sympathy. They would have been only too glad to do it themselves.”

“So what’s the point?”

“On behalf of a Russian geezer who is no friend of Dillon and Billy, George Moon produced a couple of lowlifes who tried to take out Blake Johnson for two grand.”

“Anybody damaged?” Baxter said grimly.

“One of them left minus half his left ear, and the other one told Dillon the score.”

“So that leaves George Moon in deep trouble.”

“I’d say so.” Harry got up. “So let’s make it a visit to the Harvest Moon, home of the worst pint of beer in London. And make sure you’re carrying.”

TRENCHARD STREET WAS VICTORIAN, and the Harvest Moon even more so. They arrived over cobblestones to the pub, with its half-moon over the door.

Harry told Sam Hall, “Wait by the car. Anything could happen in a dump like this.”

Hall nodded, lit a cigarette and paused for a moment. The door swung open and a rough voice called, “I told you to lock up.”

Ruby Moon stepped into the rain trying to put a mackintosh on. Big Harold reached behind and pulled her hair, making her cry out. “Cry? I’ll make you cry,” he said, and then slapped her twice across the face. “You need discipline. I’ll enjoy taking care of that.”

Harry turned to Joe Baxter. “Look at that. Neanderthal man come back to haunt us from the Stone Age, and it slaps girls around, too.” He moved her to one side and she burst into angry tears.

“Won’t do,” Harry said and removed his smart military trench coat, which he placed over her shoulders. “Do you know who I am?”

She’d stopped crying. “Oh, God, I think so.”

“For maybe you know my nephew, young Billy?”

“If he’s who I think he is, I do.”

“That’s good. Slip up to your bedroom. Find a few necessaries, put them in a suitcase and come back. Anything else you can get tomorrow. I’m losing Dora at my pub, the Dark Man at Cable Wharf, and you can take over the bar. Now hurry.”

“But this animal? What’s he going to do? He won’t let me go.”

“Dear me, I was forgetting.”

Harry offered his hand to Baxter, who passed him a.25 Colt with a silencer, and as Big Harold tried to step back, Harry shot him through the fleshy part of the thigh and shoved him back on the stair.

“Find him a towel in the gents,” Harry said. “And you get upstairs, girl.”

She ran up wildly, and Harry and Baxter followed.

Inside, George Moon was peering through a half-open door, and Harry could see a room lined with books behind him. Moon was small, balding and generally unsavory and, just now, sweating profusely. He retreated to his desk and sank into a chair.

“Harry, my old friend, is that you?”

“Old friend? You must be bleeding joking.”

Salter put his gun on the table and walked to a sideboard. “Whiskey-a large one, and feel free yourself, Joe.”

“Certainly,” Baxter said.

Moon didn’t have the bottle to reach for the Colt. Harry said, “I’m in a hurry, George, old friend . A couple of geezers tried to knock off an actual friend of mine tonight, but Dillon and my boy Billy managed to turn things around.”

“On my life, Harry, I swear-”

“Nothing. You pain me in my backside. Now confirm that a Russian named Lhuzkov approached you for two hard men.”

“All right. It’s true. It was for two grand, and I gave him two men- good men. I was just brokering the deal.”

“For two grand? That’s rubbish money these days. Give me the truth.” Harry slapped the gun on the sweaty face. “I’ll do for you, I swear it.”

“Please, I’ll tell. They met me in a Daimler at Hyde Park, Lhuzkov was driving. The passenger was also a Russian, cigar-smoking, drinking vodka out of a flask, laughing all the time. He had a bad scar from his left eye down to the corner of the nose. He gave me a briefcase with ten grand in it.”

“So you pocketed eight and gave those two guys only two? Very naughty.”

“Harry, I wasn’t sure what to do.” He struggled for something good to say. “I know who the other one was, though. I saw him in the Dorchester bar one evening and got his name out of a waiter. Someone named Max Chekov.”

“Yes, ten thousand quid would make more sense.” Harry turned to Baxter. “See if the safe works!”

Moon moaned, “Please, Harry,” but the safe did work and there was even a key in the door. Baxter held up a briefcase. The contents spoke for themselves.

“Excellent. Ruby can buy some nice things. Go down and get her in the car.”

“Yes, boss.”

Baxter went out and Harry made for the door, and paused. “Dear me, I was forgetting Ruby is leaving you.” He shot Moon through the right thigh. Harry said, “It would be wise to get some medical help for that. These days, terrible things happen, street robberies, guns-it’s just a shame.” He shook his head. “Get me?”

He left, the room was quiet, then there was only the sound of the limousine driving away. Moon groaned and reached for the telephone.

IN THE BENTLEY, Harry passed the briefcase over. “You’ll need a savings account.”

Ruby examined it. “My God, this can’t be happening.”

“It is happening. You’ll do a great job running the pub, I’m never wrong about people. Happy days, sweetheart.”

AT HEATHROW it wasn’t busy, possibly due to the lateness of the hour and, though the custom and passport officers on duty regarded them with deep suspicion, they knew better than to object to Dillon and Billy’s presence.

They’d been there a couple of hours, with no one particularly interesting coming through, when a new entry on the arrivals screen caught Dillon’s attention.

“Well, look at that, Billy,” he said. “An old friend. Hazar.”

Billy stopped smiling and shivered a little at the memory of the ordeals they’d gone through in that desolate Middle Eastern country. “Dear God, Kate Rashid of blessed memory.”

“Is that how you remember her?”

“She was some woman.” Billy shook his head at the thought of the woman who had sworn to kill them, and almost succeeded. “If I never see that place again, I’ll only be too happy.”

“A long time ago,” Dillon said. “But thinking of her brings events flowing back, enough to want to take a look at who’s doing night runs from Hazar these days to good old London. Let’s see.”

AS THE QUEUES LENGTHENED, a supervisor called over the loudspeaker for people specifically traveling from Hazar to move to a special section, which they did with surprisingly little fuss.

Caspar Rashid was one of them, a tall handsome man, comparatively light in color, his chin and mouth covered by a beard that was almost blond. He had one piece of folding hand luggage and a briefcase.

Billy said, “He looks like a Bedouin.”

“That’s because he is, Billy. Let’s join him.”