Dark Justice Part 13

"Mr. Dillon?"

"That's right."

"I'm Major Sharif. You arrived early. Sorry I wasn't here."

Dillon put a hand on Billy's shoulder. "That's okay, no big deal, was it, Billy?"

Billy responded well. "h.e.l.l, no." He held out his hand. "Good to meet you."

Dillon said, "There's one thing straightaway. I've heard from London that Greta Novikova is staying here."

"I've only just heard that myself. I've just checked in for the night and the manager told me. We have an arrangement. He does me favors."

"But you wouldn't know her?"

"No. I don't think she's worked in Baghdad before."

"I see. So, what about Selim? Is he turning up here?"

"He would have booked ahead, and he hasn't. I expect he's still driving up from Kuwait, and I think he'll go straight to his uncle's place in Ramalla. He'll probably arrive tomorrow, but I'll have better information later."

Dillon smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "No, me ould son," and he nodded to Billy, who took out a Walther and stood with his back to the door. "I think you've got better information now."

Sharif knew a real pro when he saw one and sighed heavily, not even angry. There was a kind of resignation to him.

"Could I have a drink, Mr. Dillon? I'm that kind of Muslim."

Dillon found a bottle of Scotch in the bar box and two gla.s.ses and poured. Sharif drank it down. He held the gla.s.s out and Dillon poured another.

Sharif said, "I was a Republican Guard and military intelligence under Saddam, because we all have to get by in life, which means I was a bad boy. But then I lost my wife and my daughter in the bombing, and that was the war, so f.u.c.k Saddam and f.u.c.k all of you, the Americans, the Brits and now the Russians, for ruining my country."

"I appreciate the point." Dillon toasted him. "As it happens, I'm Irish - IRA Irish, so I can be your worst nightmare. With the credentials I've got, I could turn you in to the Yanks, and I'm sure they'd like to have you."

"And the alternative?"

"Work with us and I'll guarantee that Ferguson will pay you as agreed and give you a clean slate. Mind you, he'll expect you to continue working for him."

Sharif was astounded. "Can this be true?"

He turned to Billy, who shrugged. "Don't look at me. I just kill people when he tells me to."

"The world's gone crazy."

"So they tell me," Dillon said. "Are you in or out?"

"I'm in."

"Good man. Now tell me what happened between you and her."

Sharif did, and Billy said, "Zorin and Makeev sound like trouble."

"That's why I have you, Billy." Dillon went to the quartermaster's hardware bag, took out a file, opened it and selected a computer printout. "Does this look familiar?"

Sharif looked surprised. "Why, that's Ramalla, and that's the Selim farm just outside in the orange grove by the river. It was damaged in the war, but the old man still lives there on his own. Women relatives call in to see to his needs, so my contact informs me."

Dillon went back to the bag and opened a false bottom that contained ten thousand American dollars operating money. He took out two thousand in fifties and handed it over.

"That's to be going on with."

Sharif looked astonished, but stashed the money away. "What can I say?"

"How long to Ramalla?"

"It's forty kilometers, an hour, could be less. You want me to take you?"

"No, I have a driver who knows his way around. What I want you to do is check with your contact and call me on my mobile the moment you hear Selim's arrived. We'll be ready and waiting to go."

"And Novikova?"

"Call her half an hour later. Billy and I will be a nice surprise for her and her friends when they turn up."

"Couldn't we just grab Selim and scarper?" Billy demanded.

"Not if we want to rub As.h.i.+mov's nose in it. He'll have a lot of explaining to do to Belov." He turned to Sharif. "Off you go, then."

Sharif said, once again slightly bewildered, "You trust me, Mr. Dillon?"

"Let's say you strike me as an honorable man. But don't forget to tell her you've told me there's no chance of Selim before tomorrow. In the meantime, Billy and I will sample the delights of the Al Bustan restaurant and bar. It's been a long day."

Sharif went out, shaking his head, and Dillon called Sergeant Parker on his mobile.

"It's Dillon. Do you know a place called Ramalla?"

"I certainly do."

"You're taking us there tonight. Dress in civilian clothes and don't forget the Browning."

"Like that, is it? If I leave now, I could be with you in an hour."

"Dress smartly, old son. Remember it's the Al Bustan."

"You've got to be joking." Parker laughed and switched off.

Dillon then tried Lacey and tracked him down in the mess. "Dillon here. How's everything with you?"

"There are some interesting people around, but otherwise it's boring. Since we're on standby, we can't have a drink. Whatever you're up to, do get on with it, old lad."

"I can't promise, but somewhere around midnight could be a possibility. Would that give you a problem?"

"Red Priority One? Sean, they all jump to that."

"There's a possible pa.s.senger, but that would imply perfection in an imperfect world."

"We're entirely in your hands. Take care."

Dillon snapped his Codex Four shut and turned to Billy. "That's it for now. Let's try that bar."

9.

Sharif, the old intelligence hand, decided to brave Greta Novikova face-to-face, and knocked on the door of Cottage Seven. She opened it, dressed in a bathrobe, a towel around her head.

"I've seen them," he said.

"You'd better come in and tell me everything."

Which he did, or his version of everything. "He's a hard one, this Dillon."

"More than you'll ever know. But the important thing is you've made it clear that Selim won't be there until tomorrow."

"Absolutely. He'd no reason not to believe me."

"And any news from Ramalla?"

"As I said, definitely later tonight. I'm going to check my sources now. I have police contacts in the area. A matter of some delicacy."

"Then get on with it. I have Zorin and Makeev turning up soon." She opened the door for him. "What is Dillon doing now?"

"He told me they were going to the bar."

"I'm sure he would."

She let him out, stood there frowning for a moment, then went into the bedroom and started to dress.

The bar and restaurant area was hardly busy, with no more than a couple of dozen people scattered around the tables, three or four on bar stools. The fans stirred on the flaking ceiling, the ornate mirrors at the back of the bar were cracked in places, and here and there the wall was pockmarked with bullet holes, but the two barmen wore white jackets, the headwaiter a tuxedo. They were all trying. The war, after all, was over.

Billy had two cameras slung around his neck and snapped away with genuine enthusiasm, going out through the open French windows to the terrace and the floodlit pool area. He returned.

"Great, Dillon, just great. We could make a movie."

Dillon had discovered an acceptable bar champagne and toasted him. "Just your thing, Billy. You'd look great in a white tuxedo. We'll get Harry to put up the money."

And then Greta Novikova walked into the bar, elegant in a very simple black silk dress that was short, but not too short, set off by gold high-heel shoes, with her hair tied back.

"I was wondering where you'd got to," Dillon said. "But it was worth the wait, girl. You look grand."

"You're a cheeky b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Dillon, I'll say that for you. I'll have champagne on the terrace."

She walked out, heads turning, and selected a table and Dillon ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon from the headwaiter.

"Ferguson is obviously extremely generous when he allows you to order stuff like that," Greta said.

Billy was seated on the bal.u.s.trade, snapping away. "Oh, Dillon's the man for you. He's got plenty stacked away."

As the headwaiter uncorked the bottle and a waiter brought three gla.s.ses, Dillon said, "That's a great lie, or part of a one. Billy here and his uncle Harry have millions in property development by the Thames, but he's a boy of simple tastes. Prefers being a photographer."

"Photographer, my a.s.s," she said to Dillon in Russian.

"And what was that all about?" Billy asked.

"I couldn't bear to tell you," Dillon said. "But it was rude." He turned to the headwaiter. "Only two gla.s.ses. The boy doesn't drink."

"No, he just shoots people when the mood takes him," Greta said, and sipped some of her champagne. "I know very well who you are. Your uncle is one of the most notorious gangsters in London, and you're not far behind."

"I'll have to run faster, then."

Dillon produced a pack of Marlboros and gave her a light. "So where do we go from here? You know what the game is, or think you do."

"But my game could be different from yours. We Russians can be very devious." She emptied her gla.s.s in a quick swallow. "Not vodka. Now, there's a real drink. Buy a bottle and I'll trade gla.s.s for gla.s.s with you."

Billy was laughing. "You're one of a kind, lady. Go on, Dillon, give it a go."

And Dillon liked her, liked her more than any woman in a long time, as she leaned across the table so close that he could smell her perfume, her chin on one hand. "Come on, Dillon." She was challenging him now. "Would you like to give it a go?"

There was a pause, then Dillon said, "I capitulate." He ordered a bottle of vodka, which was provided almost instantly.

She insisted on having the first one. "I am the taster." She took it straight back, Russian style, and made a face. "Now, this one they've made in some backyard in Baghdad. Try it, Dillon."

He did, and it burned like fire. He coughed, tears in his eyes. "Well, it's not Irish whiskey, but it'll do to take along. Let's save some for your friends. They'll be joining you, I'm sure." She poured him another with a steady hand. "Makeev and Zorin."

"Sounds like a variety act," Billy said.

"Ah, Mr. Salter, there you would be making a mistake. They come highly recommended."

Two men came out through the French windows, strangely similar in black s.h.i.+rts and tan suits, around forty, hard and fit with military-style haircuts.

The nearest one said in Russian, "Major Novikova. Igor Zorin. This is Boris Makeev."

"Make it English. Mr. Dillon here speaks Russian almost as well as you do."

"A man of taste, which doesn't extend to his choice of vodkas," Makeev said. "But when you're Irish, anything's better than nothing, I suppose."

Makeev drank from the bottle, made a face and spat it out onto the table, spotting Greta's dress. "Control yourself," she said angrily. "That's an order."

"We're not in the army now," Makeev told her. "We're working for wages, and I can tell you we don't take kindly to women who try to give orders."