Jack Higgins: The Killing Ground

“Christ Almighty. Titanium waistcoats again.”

Billy left, and Dillon walked Greta out and watched as Henderson let Billy out of the electronic gates. After he drove away, they went back inside.

“I think I’ll sleep in staff quarters,” Greta said, and at that moment Ferguson ’s voice echoed out of Roper’s computer, and he sounded annoyed.

“Isn’t anyone there?”

GRETA JUMPED, Roper placed a finger on his lips and Dillon poured Bushmills from a bottle on the corner table.

“I’m here, boss. You know us, we never close,” Roper said.

“How’s Brussels?” Dillon put in.

“Bloody boring, but that’s politics for you. As far as the Prime Minister is concerned, though, we’re into another time of the wolf.”

“A second Cold War?” Dillon said.

“I think we’ve known that for a while. General Volkov never leaves Putin’s side, and as for that fat fool Lhuzkov at the embassy, we’ll deal with him later. So things are quiet at the moment?”

“Absolutely, Your Honor, and boring with it.”

“The stage Irishman act is past its sell-by date, Dillon. All right, if that’s all, I’ll say good night. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

He clicked off and Dillon said, “I’m going to bed for a while. Knowing you, you’re going to get started on the false papers.”

“Nothing like a bit of forgery to pass away my lonely night. It’s like something out of Dickens,” and Roper turned to his beloved computers. “Sean-the mystery man from al-Qaeda, the Broker. Do you believe in him?”

“Absolutely,” Dillon said.

Roper smiled. “I’m so pleased. So do I.”

IN THE EMBASSY IN BRUSSELS, Vladimir Putin sat drinking vodka with General Volkov, his most trusted security adviser, and Max Chekov.

“So, things are proceeding well with Belov International?” the President said.

“Of course, Mr. President. Thanks to Belov’s untimely demise, we control oil fields and gas pipelines from Siberia to Norway and over the North Sea to England.” Volkov shrugged. “And we can stop most of those pipelines anytime we want.”

“Stop go, stop go. Play with them,” Chekov put in. “When you think of all the effort in the old days devoted to the threat of the atom bomb.” He shook his head. “Now we can achieve more than we ever dreamed of by just turning off a few taps.”

“Yes,” Putin said. “It was a wonderful gift, when Belov ended up at the bottom of the Irish Sea, thanks to Ferguson ’s people.”

“What’s happened to Belov’s Irish estate?”

Chekov said, “ Drumore Place. I’ve visited it twice. It has been developed for light industry. There’s a decent runway for light aircraft, and a helicopter pad. A nice little harbor. All in all, a useful property for us to have.” He smiled. “And if you ever want to visit and have a drink, there’s a great pub called the George.”

“Strange.” Putin, once a KGB colonel, knew his history. “King George was the man who oppressed the Irish peasantry in the eighteenth century for being Roman Catholic. They hated him for this, so why call their public house the George?”

Chekov said, “I asked the publican, a man called Ryan, the very question. He answered that it was their pub and they liked it the way it was. And let me note: they may all be Catholic by persuasion, but their real religion is the Provisional IRA.”

“Yes.” Putin sniffed at his drink. “Those former IRA men, so violent-and so useful for certain jobs. Well!” He raised his glass, “Let us drink to the future of Belov International.” He nodded toward Chekov. “And to its chief executive officer.”

The vodka went down and another, then Chekov excused himself. Volkov poured another couple of vodkas.

“What do you think of him?” Putin asked.

“Of Chekov?” said Volkov. “He’ll be fine. He’s got a good tough army record. The kind who laughs and kills, you know? And he’s so personally wealthy that he seems totally trustworthy from my point of view- and he’s just unlikely to get too greedy.”

“Good. Now, Volkov, concerning this sorry business with Blake Johnson. You need to check the quality of your staff. Taking on such a prestigious target is only worthwhile if success is certain. Failure is not an option. And I keep seeing that damn Dillon’s name popping up everywhere!”

“Of course, sir, I understand. As for Dillon-he’s an exceptional man.”

“Are you saying we have no such individuals? Whatever happened to Igor Levin, for example?”

Volkov hesitated. “He became unreliable, Mr. President. By the end of the Belov affair, he decamped to Dublin with two GRU sergeants, Chomsky and Popov. Chomsky, I believe, is studying law at Trinity College in Dublin now. It’s difficult.”

“You’re wrong,”Vladimir Putin said. “It’s very simple. Tell them their President needs them and Russia needs them. And if that doesn’t work- well, we have ways of dealing with people who ‘decamp,’ don’t we? As for Ferguson and company, I’m sick of them. It’s time to finish it once and for all. Every time we make headway in our goal, they interfere. Disorder, chaos, anarchy leading to a breakdown in the social order, this should be our aim. Cultivate our Arab friends, let them do the dirty work. Their favorite weapon is the bomb, which means civilian casualties-that’ll stoke the fires of hate for all things Muslim anywhere in Europe. You have my full authority.”

Volkov tried to smile. “I’m very grateful, Mr. President, for everything.”

“I’ll have a vodka with you, then I’ll let you go.”

“My pleasure.”Volkov went to the side table and refilled their glasses, which he brought back.

“I’ve been thinking,” Putin said. “This Arab you’re running in London, Professor Dreq Khan, the Army of God man. He seems almost untouchable, all those committees he’s on in Parliament, all those political connections. He could get away with murder.” He laughed. “Don’t you think?” He raised his glass. “To victory and to Mother Russia,” and he took the vodka down in one easy swallow.

CALLED OUT AT 2:30 A.M. to Warley General Hospital by an A amp;E Department that was two general surgeons short, Molly found herself dealing with far too many drunks and victims of violent attack, many of them women. And some of the patients were scuffling amongst themselves.

On duty, too, was Abu Hassim, a general porter, not tall but strong and wiry, and more than able to look after himself in that brawling crowd. Abu, born in Streatham, had a Cockney edge to his voice although his features were Arab.

He knew Molly, and she knew him enough to nod and say hello because he lived in a corner shop owned by his uncle and aunt half a mile from Molly’s house.

She was hot and sweaty and deadly tired, and as she pushed through the crowd, a man of thirty or so, hugely drunk, screaming and shouting and demanding a doctor, saw her.

“Who’s this babe?” he yelled, and tried to kiss her.

She cried out, “Leave me alone, damn you,” and tried to fight him off.

He slapped her on the side of the face. “Bitch.”

The crowd surged, and a hand pulled her away. It was Abu Hassim, who said, “That’s no way to treat a lady,” took one step forward and head-butted the drunk with great precision. The drunk went backward, and Abu grabbed him by the front of his jacket and eased him into a chair.

She wiped her face with a hand towel.“That was definitely not in the book, but thanks. Abu Hassim, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Doctor. Sorry about that-good thing I was here.”

“It certainly was. But all in a day’s work, I guess. Thanks again.”