Edge of Danger (13 page)

Colonel Tony Villiers was a tall, saturnine Grenadier Guardsman in his late forties, many of those years with the SAS. He had soldiered from the Falklands to the Gulf War through countless tours in Ireland. Decorated several times, there wasn’t much he hadn’t seen, and a tour in Bosnia and Kosovo had compounded it. He sat there in a small motor cruiser now, in headcloth and khaki uniform, a young officer with him, and coasted in to the Sultan.

He came up the ladder and Hal Stone greeted him. ‘We’ve met before. I’m Charles Ferguson’s cousin.’

‘That’s a recommendation,’ Villiers said. ‘And this is Cornet Richard Bronsby, Blues and Royals.’

‘So we’re still at it,’ Hal Stone said. ‘Just like the good old colonial days. This is Sean Dillon, by the way, and Billy and Harry Salter.’

‘I know about everyone,’ Villiers said. ‘Charles Ferguson has been very forthcoming.’

A few moments later, sitting in the stern of the Sultan under an awning, Dillon said, ‘And just how much has good old Charles told you?’

‘Enough to indicate that he doesn’t know what the Rashids are up to, which is why he’s sent you and your friends, Dillon.’

‘You and I have been close in the past but never met, thank Christ,’ Dillon said.

Villiers said, ‘God help me, but I spent enough time chasing you all over South Armagh.’

‘Ah, well,’ Dillon said. ‘I suppose we’re off the same side of the street. Is Cornet Bronsby?’

‘He’s just learning.’

‘Good, then let’s have a drink and see what the Rashids are up to.’

They pulled beers out of a cooler, and Villiers said, ‘Paul Rashid is an old comrade. We did the Gulf together, he got an MC. He’s a first-class soldier.’

‘Who runs this place,’ Dillon said.

‘That he does. And, yes, before you ask me, there’s little doubt that he’s responsible for the Sultan’s death.’

‘So what would you say they’re up to? Why do you bring a notorious IRA terrorist and his team to a place like Hazar?’

‘Because you want them to kill someone for you, I’d have thought.’

‘But who?’ Dillon asked.

‘We’ll have to see. Unfortunately, I can’t stay. We’ve trouble on the Border from Yemeni Marxists, so Bronsby and I must get back and do a little policing.’

‘Stay in touch,’ Dillon said.

‘You can rely on it. Just one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The youngest Rashid brother, George, the one who was a Second Lieutenant with One Para in Ireland? My spies tell me he’s up in the Empty Quarter, operating with the Rashid out of Shabwa Oasis. George not only speaks fluent Arabic but the Rashid dialect.’

‘Well, good for him,’ Dillon said. ‘My Arabic isn’t too bad. My Irish is perfect.’

Villiers laughed and replied in Irish, ‘I had a grandmother from Cork who used to force it into me when I spent school holidays with her. Good man yourself, Dillon. Keep the faith. Here’s my mobile number if you need me.’

Dillon turned to Cornet Bronsby. ‘Listen to your man here, son, he’s the best. You’re in bad company up there, so if you want to live …’ He shrugged.

Cornet Richard Bronsby smiled, which made him look about fifteen. ‘I’d say I’ve been in extraordinary company, Mr Dillon.’

He held out his hand and Dillon took it. ‘Well, as we say in Ireland, watch your back.’

Towards evening, Dillon and Billy decided to dive again. There was still plenty of light, and it was warm and the wind gentle as they drifted in. In the harbour, Kate Rashid sat on the stern deck of an Arab dhow and watched through glasses. Kelly stood beside her.

‘Dillon and Billy Salter. They’re going down again.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Kill them now,’ she said. ‘Take Said and Achmed with you, and I want no slip-ups, Kelly. There’s too much at stake here.’

‘As you say, Lady Kate.’

Dillon pulled on his jacket with his tank and Billy did the same. Harry and Hal Stone checked their gear.

‘Christ, this is great,’ Billy said.

‘You’ve got your knife?’

‘Of course I have.’

‘Then take a spear gun.’

‘Why, Dillon?’

‘Because sharks are not unknown in these waters.’

‘Really?’ Billy laughed. ‘Well, you learn something new every day.’

Harry said, ‘You bleeding watch yourself.’

Billy grinned, pulled down his mask, and went over. Dillon laughed at Hal Stone. ‘What was it Suetonius said, “Those who are about to die salute you”?’

‘I could give it to you in Latin,’ Stone told him.

‘Oh, it’s the thought that counts,’ said Dillon, and went over the rail after Billy.

There was the blue vault again, that strange feeling of space extending all around them, the freighter below. Dillon and Billy went down together, spear guns in hand. They saw barracudas again, and three or four manta rays down on the bottom. Dillon felt good, enjoying every moment as he dived down, Billy following. They went through the first torpedo hole entry, followed each other through the maze of passages, then emerged through the stern torpedo hole … when Kelly plunged down toward them with Said and Achmed, all three clutching spear guns.

Dillon tapped Billy on the back and pushed him away as Achmed fired a spear. It narrowly missed Billy. Dillon jack-knifed, spiralled, fired upwards and caught Achmed in the chest.

Kelly fired his spear and it dropped into Dillon’s

left sleeve, a glancing blow that did no damage except to rip the material of his diving suit.

Kelly closed, a knife in his hand, and Dillon grabbed for his left wrist. As they wrestled, Said fired at Billy, who swerved to one side and fired in return. The spear caught Said under the chin.

Dillon and Kelly struggled frantically, then Dillon pulled him round and slashed with his knife across Kelly’s air hose. There was a great disturbance in the water, bubbles everywhere, and then Kelly stopped kicking and drifted away.

Achmed struggled to pull the spear from his

chest and Billy swerved around him and slashed at

his air hose. Then Billy hovered beside Dillon and

they watched the three bodies sink below them.

Dillon gave the thumbs-up sign and they started

to ascend.

On deck, they sprawled exhausted. ‘For God’s sake,’ Hal Stone said. ‘What went on down there? The Third World War? I looked over the stern rail.

I could see.’

‘We were attacked,’ Dillon said. ‘A guy named Kelly, ex-SAS. Head of security for the Rashids. The other two seemed Arab.’

‘Jesus,’ Harry Salter said. ‘It must be the bird, that Lady Kate Rashid.’

‘Oh, I think you can count on that, Harry. We’re an encumbrance, a serious one.’

‘Which means only one thing,’ Hal Stone said. ‘Whatever they’re up to here, it’s still something that could fail.’

‘Yes, I’m inclined to agree with you.’ Dillon got up. ‘Let’s get a shower, Billy, and clean clothes, then we’ll go and book dinner at the Excelsior. Who knows who might be there?’

Hal Stone stayed on board as Dillon, Harry, and Billy went to the Excelsior. The bar was not all that busy, and the restaurant was almost empty, Arab workers standing waiting. There were white linen tablecloths, silver, crystal, just like the old days.

They sat in deep chairs by the bar. Dillon ordered a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, then called Villiers on his mobile.

Villiers said, ‘Still with us, Dillon?’

‘Only just.’ Dillon filled him in.

Villiers said, ‘It reinforces what I said. Whatever is going on is damned important. Keep me posted.’

They sat talking, and Lady Kate Rashid drifted

into the bar, Bell with her. Dillon got up. ‘Watch my back, Billy, Costello’s out there on the terrace.’ He walked to the bar, Billy leaned on the other end and looked toward Costello, then he took out his Browning and put it on the bar.

Dillon said, ‘They tell me the food’s not bad here.’

‘It’s not Le Caprice, but it’s okay.’ ‘Aidan here would be happier with Irish stew, but you can’t have everything. I hope you’re not looking for Kelly?’ She went very still. ‘He rather foolishly attacked Billy and me down on the freighter. It got very nasty. Knives, air hoses being slashed, quite messy. The last I saw of him, he was on the bottom, very dead indeed, along with two Arab divers. Rather stupid, Kate.’ ‘You shite, Dillon,’ Bell said. ‘Oh, come on, Aidan, did you want me to roll over and die?’

Bell smiled reluctantly. ‘You’d never do that.’ ‘Never, so if you don’t mind, Billy and I will go back to the diving now.’

Bell burst into laughter and turned to Kate. ‘And if you believe that, you’ll believe anything.’

The next day, Bell and his three friends crammed into a Cessna 310 and flew up to a landing strip near Shabwa Oasis, where they were met by George Rashid, who was dressed as a Bedu.

‘I’ll take you to the road to the Holy Wells,’ he said. ‘We want you to know the situation exactly.’

He led the way to a triple-benched Jeep, sat in the front with a driver, and Bell and his men got in behind. They drove through the heat, the dust rising.

Costello said, ‘What a bloody country.’

‘It separates the men from the boys,’ George Rashid said. ‘And one other thing that’s very important for you to understand - this area here, where Hazar borders the Empty Quarter? It’s always been disputed territory, which means no one has legal jurisdiction. You could kill the Pope here and no one could do anything about it.’

‘Well, that’s useful,’ Bell said.

They stopped at the main Rashid camp at Shabwa Oasis to refuel and renew water supplies, and took the opportunity to eat.

Costello said, ‘What is this?’

‘It’s goat stew with rice,’ George Rashid told them.

Costello said, ‘Excuse me.’ He went some little distance away and was sick behind a palm tree.

When he returned, George Rashid said, ‘Are you all right, Mr Costello?’

‘Not really. On the other hand, when you worked South Armagh with One Para, I’ll lay odds you ate pub food in every village.’

‘Absolutely.’ George grinned. ‘Irish potatoes and bread and cabbage in season.’

‘Screw you,’ Costello said. ‘You’re making it worse.’

Bell said, ‘Come on, let’s go and look at the site, then we can go back to Hazar and get you an egg sandwich, Pat.’

The road ran through a defile between shallow stone outcrops, and beyond it sand dunes marched away to the horizon. The Jeep pulled in on a slope and George got out.

‘That one spot there, below where the road is, is not in the open. It’s the obvious place for an ambush. The Holy Wells are ten miles east.’

‘Let’s take a look.’

Bell led the way into the defile, followed by George and the others. It was quiet down there, the sides of the defile rising three hundred feet.

Bell said, ‘We’ll make it a line bomb, boys, one side of the road to the other. I’ll do it up with Costello. You two can set up with a light machine gun on that ridge. Lay down covering fire. Take out anyone left.’

George said, ‘Well, that looks pretty damned

good to me.’

‘So - we’ll go back to Hazar and check on the supplies you have to offer.’

‘Whatever you need, you get,’ George said and led the way back to the Jeep.

Hal Stone called Dillon, Harry and Billy to the stern deck of the Sultan under the awning.

‘I’ve been checking with my local contacts, and George Rashid, Bell and his friends flew up-country in a Three-Ten. Landed near Shabwa, stayed a couple of hours and came back.’

‘And we don’t know why?’ Dillon said.

‘I’m afraid not. I have my boys sniffing around for rumours, but nothing’s come up.’

Dillon thought about it, then said, ‘If we flew up to Shabwa, would it make a difference?’

‘As regards finding things out? I’m not sure, and what do you mean by we?’

‘Well, for starters, I can fly anything. I don’t need a pilot, just a plane.’

‘That’s interesting. Ben Carver, who owns Carver Air Transport, has two Three-Tens and a Golden Eagle, just for local flights.’

‘Fine, so hire me a plane. Harry, Billy, and I will fly to Shabwa and nose around.’

‘Well, if that’s what you want to do,’ Stone said, ‘I’ll arrange it.’

At the villa, Kate Rashid was working on company papers when her mobile rang. George said, ‘I’ve had word from a source in Hazar, Dillon and the Salters are flying up to Shabwa in one of Carver’s Three-Tens. Dillon’s piloting.’

‘I sometimes think he has a death wish,’ Kate said.

‘What do we do?’

‘I’m getting tired of him, brother. Shoot Dillon and his friends out of the sky.’ ‘A pleasure,’ George Rashid said.

Later in the day, the 310 coasted toward Shabwa, Billy and Harry sitting behind Dillon, the sky a deep blue, the sand dunes, some three hundred feet high, stretching to infinity. Dillon throttled back, eased the control column, slid over an enormous dune and saw below him a column of three vehicles, all crammed with men. The next thing he knew, they were firing at him.

The windscreen and a side window shattered, and Harry cried out as a splinter sliced his right cheek. A burst of machine-gun fire cut into the port wing. Dillon hauled back, banked away, and boosted speed. The column disappeared behind them, but the engines coughed angrily, and then first the port, then the starboard engine, cut out. Silence enveloped them, broken only by the wind.

The sand dune in front was five hundred feet high. Billy said, ‘Christ, Dillon, I’ve never seen anything like it.’

‘Well, Brighton Beach it isn’t, Billy. Hang on, you two.’

Dillon hauled back on the column, scraped across the ridge and drifted down to a soft sand plain below. The plane bounced a couple of times, wheels up, then ploughed to a halt. Dillon switched off.

‘You two okay?’

Salter said, ‘That’s it. No more foreign holidays. After this, I won’t even do a day trip to Calais.’

Dillon got the door open and scrambled out over the wing. Billy and his uncle followed. Harry said, ‘What happens now?’

‘They’ll come looking,’ Dillon said. ‘If you want my opinion, they knew it was us, if you follow me.’

‘So where does that leave us?’ Billy demanded.

‘Let’s see.’

Dillon got his coded mobile out and started to search his pockets. ‘Damn! I don’t have Villiers’s number with me.’ He thought a moment. ‘All right.’ And called Ferguson in London. He got an almost instant reply. ‘Charles, it’s me. We’re in trouble.’