Rough Justice (14 page)

 
 
IT WAS A MEMORABLE
evening indeed, and the following morning Miller was reading the papers in the plane when Parry entered the cabin.

“If there’s anything you want, Major, we have it in the kitchen area. The Yanks are always so generous.”

“You enjoyed yourself last night, didn’t you?”

“You don’t need to ask. Thanks for arranging it all.”

“I can’t claim credit for that. The President wanted to meet you for himself.”

“It was certainly something I’ll never forget.”

“What’s our flight time?”

“There is some dicey weather ahead, but with luck we could manage Farley in, let’s say, six hours.”

“London time six in the evening. If I have my car waiting at Farley, there could be a decent chance of making my wife’s evening performance at the Gielgud.”

“With any luck, sir.”

Alone again, Miller called his chauffeur, Ellis Vaughan, and found him waiting outside Harrods while Olivia and Monica were inside shopping. Ellis informed him that Olivia had booked him for herself and Monica for the evening performance.

Miller said, “Stick to your arrangement, Ellis, and don’t tell her I’ve spoken to you. There’s a chance I could surprise her.”

“As you say, Major.”

They were well over thirty thousand and climbing high over the Atlantic. Miller found his laptop, put it on the table in front of him, and started on his report for the Prime Minister. An hour later, Ferguson spoke to him.

“I understand you’ve shot somebody again.”

“Couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid.”

“Is there any chance of a story reaching the press?”

“Absolutely not. The man I shot, and his henchman, were picked up quickly by the Secret Service. The police had no involvement.”

“The Prime Minister and Simon Carter are worried about the media getting wind of it.”

“They can’t possibly. It never happened.” He felt strangely impatient. “Listen, Charles, the Prime Minister’s all right, but like any politician he worries too much. As for Carter, I’ve never rated him. He’s an old woman fussing at the slightest thing. It’s not just that he’s the ultimate desk man, he has a problem. Every so often he gets drunk out of his skull, and nothing but venom, poison, and malice oozes out of him. He did it once when I was with him in the Reform Club at a dinner he’d persuaded me to have with him a couple of years ago. He was trying to curry favor because of my position with the Prime Minister. The character assassination he did on you and your organization was unforgivable. I wouldn’t repeat it to you. No one was spared—Dillon, the Salters, details of confidential missions. I simply walked out on him.”

Ferguson said, “I’m well aware of his hatred for me, always have, but so what? I work with him when I have to. Better the devil you know.”

“I suppose so. If there was any leak to the media, it would probably be from here, but I don’t think so. I’ll see you soon.”

He switched off and returned to his report.

 
 
AS FOR THE THEATER,
he made it with half an hour to spare. He greeted Ellis, who was reading the
Evening Standard
in the Mercedes parked outside, patted Marcus on the head, and with one brisk knock on the dressing room door, he went inside to find Olivia seated at the mirror applying makeup, Monica at her side, just like last time. They both expressed enthusiasm to a certain degree, but it was all rather flat in some indefinable way, and he finally found himself next to Monica in the same seats as the first night. Even the play didn’t seem quite what it had been.

At the restaurant afterward, they had champagne and Monica tried to be cheerful. “Come on, what was it like? The UN, then Washington in your own Gulfstream? Tell us about it!”

“I had to sit on a committee meeting on behalf of the Prime Minister—no big deal.”

“And Washington? What was that all about? Did you really see the President?

“In the Oval Office in the White House, and we had dinner. He’s a great man, everything they say.”

“So what was it all about? What happened?”

Miller shrugged. “I can’t tell you that—it was confidential.”

Olivia, who had been silently toying with her food, suddenly had a minor explosion. “For God’s sake, Harry, all of a sudden you’re Mr. Big, flying off in your fancy plane to see the President, but we little nobodies, we’re nothing, God knows we’re not important enough to be told anything! Maybe life as a politician has gone to your head.”

“You could be right,” he told her calmly, pushed back his chair, stood up, and said to Monica, “You pay, love, when you go, and I’ll tell Ellis I’m walking, I could do with the air. I’ll use the other spare bedroom for tonight. Get a good night’s sleep, Olivia, I think you need it.” He walked out.

 
 
A COUPLE OF HOURS LATER
, after the house was quiet, he went down to the sitting room, poured himself a scotch from the drinks cabinet, lit a cigarette, and sat there in the dark with just the light from the street outside. In a strange way, he felt no emotion about what had happened, none at all.

There was the creak of a floorboard and Monica appeared in a dressing gown. “Do you want a drink?” he asked.

“No, I want you, Harry, my dearest brother, and I don’t want what’s just happened with Olivia to happen at all.”

“The demands of the show, they’re probably living on her nerves a bit.” He shrugged. “She’ll come round.”

“Suddenly you’re the mystery man, Harry. Where do you go, what do you do? Why this apparent elevation in your status?”

“I just did what the Prime Minister told me to do.”

“But no story for us, for Olivia?”

“I’m sorry you and Olivia find my lack of explanation frustrating, but there it is.”

“Top secret.”

“Yes.”

“You always were a bit of a self-dramatist.”

“If you say so. I think I’ll go back to bed now.”

He went out. “Damn you, Harry,” she said softly, stood looking at the drinks cabinet for a moment, and then went and poured herself a scotch.

7

QUINN RECEIVED A CODED E-MAIL FROM THE BROKER NOTING THAT THE
Gulfstream had landed at Farley Field with a perfectly healthy Harry Miller on board, demanding an explanation. There was no instant reply, and finally, after two days, Quinn phoned him.

“Tod Kelly left his house in Georgetown the night Miller was at the Hay-Adams Hotel,” Quinn told him. “He had one of his best hit men with him, Jack Regan. Since then, they’ve gone missing.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly that. They’re not in police custody and discreet inquiries by contacts in the police can’t find any sign of them. Hospitals, morgues, they’ve all been tried without success. They’ve vanished without a trace.”

“Which can only mean one thing,” the Broker told him. “They’ve been sorted out in some way.”

“This isn’t going to look good to Volkov,” Quinn said. “I’m supposed to provide security for the whole of Belov International, and this happens.”

The Broker surprised him by coming in on his side. “You did your job. It’s Kelly who failed. Miller must have been onto him. I’ll tell Volkov that.”

Which he did, but Volkov didn’t seem as upset as he expected. “Miller can wait until another time. I was going to contact you anyway about something else.”

“What’s that?”

“Something’s just landed on my desk. This is absolute top security. According to a reasonably reliable source, the North Koreans are transporting plutonium-239 to Syria, possibly in some old freighter called the
Valentine.
This could just be a rumor.”

“Plain talk here. Are you involved?”

“Absolutely not, and with some delicate international negotiations going on right now, we can’t be seen as seeming like we are.”

“I can see your point, but the truth is it would suit you very well if this consignment reached Syria.”

“Perhaps, but we can’t have any direct involvement in the matter, and the Syrians, which means the Iranians, just don’t tell us enough. If we know that plutonium had actually gotten through to them, it’d strengthen our hand in the whole nuclear game we’re playing. And as for the North Koreans—those awkward sods go their own way and give us the cold shoulder.”

“When, in a way, you wish them well and hope the whole thing is a success?”

“Something like that,” Volkov admitted. “To be frank, it would be nice to see the plutonium get through, if only because it would give the Israelis a black eye.”

“Well, using some battered old freighter to deliver imported goods has worked many times before, the slow-boat ploy,” the Broker said.

“Yes, but there are a lot of boats out there from North Africa, passing off the coast of Lebanon, plowing onward to Syria, ending up in Latakia. This
Valentine
will be only one of many.”

“So what do you want me to do?” the Broker asked.

“This man of yours, Drecq Khan, he ended up in Beirut, didn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Tell Khan to ask around and see what he can turn up. I’ll send a couple of GRU agents from our embassy in Beirut to help in any way they can. And remember, we don’t want the Israelis getting wind of it.”

BEIRUT HAD ONCE
been as popular as the South of France, a mecca for the rich, with casinos and hotels as fine as anywhere in the world. The population was a mixture of Christians, Muslims, and Druse, and then emergent Islamic nationalism had entered the equation and fighting had broken out in 1975 between the Christian Phalangist Party and the Muslim militia. In the thirty years since, death and destruction had virtually destroyed a country that had once been the pride of the Middle East, and the recent brief invasion by the Israelis and the battle with the forces of Hezbollah hadn’t helped.

But life went on, and Professor Drecq Khan, in exile from London, sat in the study of the old French villa overlooking the harbor from which he ran the affairs of the Army of God and its side organization, the Brotherhood.

Khan had once been very respected in London, a member of all sorts of interfaith committees in Parliament and at the United Nations, but then his terrorist activities had been revealed, and—well, he still shuddered at the thought of Harry Salter’s stern warning that if he ever returned to London he’d be dead in a week.

A terrible pity, because he’d liked London better than anywhere else on earth. Now he was here in Beirut, the wreck of a city it had once been, the recent Israeli invasion and war with Hezbollah having made certain of that. So he sat in the old villa with four Muslim servants and hated it. The only thing he wasn’t short of was money, Al Qaeda saw to that, so he was able to administer to the various branches of the Army of God, or rather his accountant did.

This was Henri Considine, of French-Lebanese extraction, a Christian from a family once important in the Phalangist Party who had suffered like many others from one civil war after another. He was in his fifties, his house badly damaged in the Israeli invasion, his wife a victim of the bombing. There seemed little left to live for, then the administration job had come up with Drecq Khan. The pay was poor and his Christianity was just about tolerated, but he was allowed a room downstairs because Khan was hopeless at handling accounts.

Considine was in the next room to Khan now, working away, the door slightly ajar, when the phone rang. Khan had a habit of keeping it on speaker, and Considine heard every word.

“It’s the Broker. How are you, Khan?”

It was common for Considine to scribble down what he heard, because often what was said was then put on his plate to handle. He’d learned shorthand in his youth, so it was easy to catch whole conversations.

“How are things there?”

“Dreadful. The place is a wreck, and there’s been nothing but killing since. I curse the day General Charles Ferguson and his people entered my life.”

“At least you are alive.”

“Not if I go back to London. What is this? What do you want?”

“Listen carefully. There is a rumor the North Koreans are transporting plutonium-239 to Syria in some old freighter supposedly called the
Valentine.
Volkov will arrange for a couple of GRU agents from the Embassy to give you any assistance you want. It’s important for Volkov to know if there really is such a ship out there.”

“But what for? You’ve said it’s only a rumor.”

“Rumor is one thing, but this ship actually reaching Latakia with the plutonium is another. If that happens, Volkov wants to know. Anything heading for Syria would be passing through Lebanese waters, so make inquiries, talk to sailors, fishermen. Make it known that you’re looking for news of a boat called the
Valentine.
It’s important. Put some of Osama’s money to good use.”

“If you say so.” Drecq sat for a moment after he had switched off, then decided to go down into town to the hiring hall used by Army of God headquarters. “I’m going out,” he called to Considine, and departed.

Considine sat thinking about it, particularly the reference to London and this General Charles Ferguson, and the dread Osama. And then he remembered something—the Café Albert, where he was still able to afford a drink because his boyhood friend, Alphonse, was the owner. An Englishman always sat in the corner table, according to Alphonse, and he was the military attaché from the British Embassy. Maybe he would find such a story of interest. Perhaps there could even be the chance of a visa to England for Henri Considine? He was almost running as he went out the door.

 
 
CAPTAIN DAVID STAGG
was in Beirut at the Embassy, and not somewhere like Afghanistan, because that was exactly where he’d been a year before with 3 Para. His leadership of a ferocious charge had sent him home with a bullet in the left hip that had left him with a permanent limp. But his appointment as a military attaché to the Embassy in Beirut had been a blessing. There was plenty going on and he liked the buzz. He was sitting at his usual table in Café Albert, reading a two-day-old copy of the
Times
and enjoying a large gin and tonic, when Henri approached.