Dark Justice Part 11

"Quite simple. Ferguson doesn't want a trial at the Old Bailey. The Muslims wouldn't like that. He's sent Sean to bring Selim back. A nice, quiet inquisition in some safe house in London, and you and Mr. Belov wouldn't like that."

"Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that. But how would you two feel if I had trouble in London with Ferguson and his people? What would you say if I said I needed you? It would include taking on Dillon."

They looked at each other and smiled.

"Ah, now," said Murphy. "He was a comrade, to be sure. But that doesn't mean there might not be a score or two to settle."

"Things run well here, as you know," Kelly said. "We do things our way and Belov's money for the farmers keeps things sweet."

Tod cut in. "But with the Peace Process, it gets awfully boring. What you suggest could be interesting."

"But just so you realize," Kelly added. "If there's something Sean Dillon could give master cla.s.ses in, it's b.l.o.o.d.y mayhem."

"So where would that leave you?"

"Oh, we'd give him a run for his money." And Tod Murphy smiled.

It was later that day that President Jake Cazalet walked on the sh.o.r.e at Nantucket. He loved the old beach house with its seafront of beach and sand dunes, and came down whenever he could, certainly most weekends. The helicopter delivered him from Was.h.i.+ngton late on a Friday, picked him up again Sunday evening.

He had a cook and housekeeper in from the local town. No fuss and good plain cooking, he would say. He'd always insisted that only two Secret Service men accompany him and one always had to be Clancy Smith. The other usually handled communications.

Even with only two minders, however, the security around him was electronically state-of-the-art, especially since the a.s.sa.s.sination attempt on him three years before while running through the nearby marsh.

He was walking on the beach now with his beloved flat-coated retriever, Murchison, and with Clancy Smith. The surf boiled, the sky was slate gray, rain showering in so hard that the two men each carried an umbrella. They paused for Clancy to light the President's cigarette.

"It feels good to get away from everything, Mr. President."

"My G.o.d, but it does. The smell of that salt in the air is really something."

"It sure is."

In the distance came the unmistakable sound of a helicopter approaching. Clancy said, "That will be Blake coming in, sir."

"And our English cousins," Cazalet said. "It always gives me a strange feeling when I hear those things." He looked along to where the helicopter was dropping in on the beach. "Takes me right back to Vietnam." He flicked his cigarette away. "Okay, let's go and greet our guests."

Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein sat together on the other side of the coffee table by the fire, Cazalet facing them, Clancy leaning against the wall by the French windows behind. Murchison lay on the rug, watching.

Cazalet said, "I read Major Roper's report on Josef Belov with interest, if that's the right word. I've spoken to the Prime Minister only briefly, for obvious reasons."

"Which is why he thought it a good idea that we talk, Mr. President."

"Thank G.o.d we do, otherwise I could have been dead on that sidewalk in Manhattan. It could have succeeded so easily. I'll never understand it, the drive to a.s.sa.s.sinate."

"Actually, the Superintendent knows a bit about it," said Ferguson. "She has a master's degree in psychology."

Cazalet said, "Superintendent?"

"Motive, sir, is the basic requirement."

"And hate," Cazalet said. "Deep conviction."

"Not always," she replied. "For one kind of a.s.sa.s.sin, professional, the motive is usually money, and a target like you would be a big payday. But the money is no good if he doesn't survive. It's often a Day of the Jackal Day of the Jackal kind of thing for them - meticulous planning and a guaranteed exit." kind of thing for them - meticulous planning and a guaranteed exit."

Cazalet nodded. "And the other kind?"

"Usually the most successful. You'll remember President Reagan, shot at close quarters by a man in the crowd who knew he would stand no chance of getting away."

"So we're back with what I said in the first place. The motive is hate, deep conviction."

"And often a genuine religious belief. It's interesting that the word a.s.sa.s.sin a.s.sa.s.sin is derived from the Arabic. During the Middle Ages, members of various cults under the influence of has.h.i.+sh attempted to kill many leaders of the Crusades." is derived from the Arabic. During the Middle Ages, members of various cults under the influence of has.h.i.+sh attempted to kill many leaders of the Crusades."

"Jewish zealots in biblical times used the same tactics on the Romans," Ferguson put in.

Hannah said, "It can derive from a feeling of deep frustration, Mr. President. It was Lenin who said the purpose of terrorism is to terrorize. It's the only way a small country can fight against an empire."

"That was one of Michael Collins's favorite sayings when he led the IRA back in 1920 against the British," Ferguson said.

Cazalet nodded. "All very interesting, but how does it explain Morgan?"

"I don't know any religion on earth that doesn't have its extremists," Hannah said. "Right through history, and usually those extremists are the kind of people who are extremely good at brainwas.h.i.+ng others, particularly young people."

"Into becoming a.s.sa.s.sins, suicide bombers?" Cazalet shook his head.

"Of course, the religious leaders who spread the word are usually reluctant to put themselves on the line."

"Understandably." Cazalet got up. "I arranged a light lunch with cook and gave her the afternoon off. I wanted us to have privacy. It's waiting for us in the kitchen. Lead the way, Clancy. You'll join us, of course."

The conversation over lunch was much more social and pleasant, ranging from what was worth seeing on the West End stage to Cazalet and Hannah comparing student days at Harvard and Cambridge.

Cazalet turned to Ferguson. "Did you go to university, General?"

"Too busy. I always intended to, but we had conscription then. After two years in the army, I got a taste for it, I suppose. I was eighteen and Communist Arabs were shooting at me, so when they offered me a commission..." He shrugged. "It seemed the natural thing to do."

"All those rotten little wars," Hannah couldn't help saying. "You couldn't get enough."

"Ah, there speaks the psychologist," Ferguson said cheerfully. "But not my my rotten little wars, my dear. All the way through, and that includes Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Kosovo and the two Gulf Wars, I was a member of that happy band of brothers called soldiers who take care of those things from which the general public turns its face. I've always liked to think it an honorable profession." He smiled at Cazalet and Clancy. "Of course, I do not include the marines in that sentiment." rotten little wars, my dear. All the way through, and that includes Northern Ireland, Bosnia, Kosovo and the two Gulf Wars, I was a member of that happy band of brothers called soldiers who take care of those things from which the general public turns its face. I've always liked to think it an honorable profession." He smiled at Cazalet and Clancy. "Of course, I do not include the marines in that sentiment."

"We thank the General," Clancy said, and they all laughed, but Hannah was uncomfortable and it showed. The trouble was that she was changing inside herself and her head and she didn't know what to do about it.

Cazalet, sensing something wasn't right, smiled at her rea.s.suringly and stood up. "Okay, folks, to work," and he led them back to the sitting room.

So, if I'm getting this right," he said a while later, "this Dr. Ali Selim, sensing personal disaster, has fled to Iraq. We're aware that he has been controlled by this Major Yuri As.h.i.+mov, who is head of security for the Belov organization. Which I a.s.sume means a plentiful source of financial support for Muslim extremist groups."

"There's no possibility of proving that in a court of law, Mr. President," Hannah said.

"It's just about impossible to touch Josef Belov," Ferguson said. "He's far too powerful, one of the richest men in the world, and a friend of Putin."

"Even if it was revealed that he'd donated money to some of these Muslim organizations," Hannah said, "it would be impossible to prove that he'd acted except in good faith."

"So where does that leave us?" Cazalet asked.

"The most worrying aspect is the recruitment of young British Muslims to join militant groups in the Middle East," Ferguson said. "To be trained in camps in Syria or Iraq, even in southern Arabia, and then returned to Britain and America, often as sleepers, to lead apparently normal lives until their special abilities are required. Cannon fodder for Al Qa'eda."

"You think Wrath of Allah is part of that?"

"It wouldn't surprise me. We know a great deal about them and a great deal about Belov, as you've read. Don't forget that when he was with the KGB, he was totally dedicated to helping the downfall of all Western values. A kind of old-fas.h.i.+oned Bolshevik. He's got all the money in the world, so money is only a means to an end."

"But what's the point?" Cazalet demanded. "Why behave as he does?"

"The game, Mr. President," Hannah said. "The game is the thing. The ultimate power of being able to move his way around the chessboard and laugh at us all, be untouchable."

"So what do we do about it?" Cazalet asked.

Ferguson said, "Sending that GRU major, Novikova, on Selim's trail to Baghdad probably means the worst. That Selim's served his purpose and knows too much. I imagine they'll finish him off if they can, though I'm not completely sure of that."

"Which is why you've sent Dillon. To save him?"

"Dillon will do what seems appropriate in the circ.u.mstances. If that means saving him, fine, and if that means making sure Selim meets a bad end, so be it. If Selim can be retrieved, there's always the possibility of squeezing more information out of him about the Belov connection." He shrugged. "If not, he's dispensable."

Cazalet said, "Whichever way it goes, it's going to get very nasty."

"Exactly, Mr. President, but that's what my organization was set up for all those years ago. We're responsible only to the Prime Minister. n.o.body else can touch us - the Security Services, the Ministry of Defence, even Parliament."

"A license to kill," Cazalet said.

"If that's what it takes. We're dealing with global terrorism. It's a whole new threat, and we can't cope with it by playing according to the rule book."

"I totally agree, Mr. President," Blake said.

"The Prime Minister's made it plain that I'm in charge and that I'm to take any steps that seem appropriate. That, in effect, is why I'm here. He wanted to make it clear to you that such an att.i.tude will reflect our policy in the future."

"So you'll forget the legal system, the courts and everything that goes with it?"

"Desperate times call for desperate remedies."

Cazalet turned to Hannah. "From what I've come to know about you, Superintendent, I'd say such an att.i.tude might give you a moral problem."

"It does, sir. In a troubled world, it seems to me that if we don't have the law, a justice system, we have nothing."

"Which is exactly what our enemies count on," Ferguson replied. "It's a question of survival. We either fight back or go under. Anyway, that will be our plan of action from now on. The Prime Minister wanted you to know."

Cazalet turned to Blake. "You agree with all this?"

"I'm afraid so, sir. Everything we stand for, all our values, are on the line these days. As the General says, we fight back, or go under."

"I thought you'd say that." Cazalet sighed. "Okay, General, anything we can do."

"We're together on this, Mr. President?"

"We always have been."

"And Belov?" Blake put in. "He's pretty untouchable."

"n.o.body is untouchable." Cazalet wasn't smiling now. "Take him down, gentlemen, whatever it takes."

Three hours later, rising up from Andrews Air Force Base in the Citation and leveling at fifty thousand feet, Ferguson unfastened his seat belt and smiled at the pretty young RAF sergeant standing over him.

"I'll have a large Scotch, my dear." He turned to Hannah on the other side of the aisle. "What about you, Superintendent?"

"I don't think so, sir. I'm having difficulty enough keeping my head straight."

"Right now, Superintendent, even as we speak, Dillon and young Billy Salter are out there in harm's way dealing with some very nasty people."

"I know that, sir."

"Then you'll have to decide which side you're on. It's up to you, Superintendent." And he drank his whiskey.

IRAQ.

8.

An hour out of Baghdad, the Citation down to thirty thousand feet, Billy was reading Roper's report for the fourth time. Dillon had found a half bottle of Irish whiskey in the bar box and poured a large one.

Billy closed the report. "This guy Belov, his bleeding life's been a saga, and As.h.i.+mov - he'd kill the Pope, wouldn't he?"

"I'd agree with you. I'd say he was the one who pushed Mrs. Morgan off that jetty."

"And this Novikova woman?"

"A looker, Billy, but don't be fooled. You don't make major in the GRU by being soft. That's why As.h.i.+mov's rushed her to Baghdad."

"To take care of Selim."

"He's a walking dead man."

"And where's that leave us?"

"They'll be expecting us, Billy. Let's put it that way."

The telephone rang at his side; he answered and found Roper. "I thought you'd like to know that Greta Novikova landed safely four hours ago," Roper said. "She didn't go to the emba.s.sy. She's at the Al Bustan."

"Well, that's nice. What about Selim?"