Rough Justice (16 page)

THE CAFÉ ALBERT
wasn’t crowded, but it would be later when the trio started playing. Stagg stood at one end of the bar, enjoying a large vodka tonic and a cigarette. He could see the door reflected in the mirror on the opposite wall, Torin and Bikov entering. Stagg’s Russian was reasonable, thanks to Sandhurst, but he didn’t need to use it. Torin and Bikov had served in London, he knew that well.

“Ah, the Brothers Grimm,” he said as they approached. “What are you two up to?”

Torin nodded to the bartender, who poured two vodkas without being asked. “At least you drink good vodka, even though you kill it with tonic.”

“Never mind that,” Bikov said. “We want words, my friend.”

“Ah, it’s friend, is it?” Stagg asked.

“We’re just wasting time here.” Bikov gripped Stagg’s left arm lightly. “We’re taking a little walk outside, where you can tell us why you are so interested in a ship called the
Valentine.
”

“So that’s what all this is about?”

“Exactly, and you see the hand Ivan has in his pocket? I don’t need to tell you he’s prepared to put a bullet in your head.”

“My arse he is.” Stagg was actually laughing as they went out into the crowded street. “What a couple of clowns you are. So you’re going to cut me down in a street as crowded as this?”

Torin said, “Life is cheap in Beirut.”

“That line is so bad you must have got it from a B movie.”

Bikov was enraged and raised his fist to strike, and as Stagg blocked it, an ancient Renault car parked across the street started up and nosed across, scattering people. The driver called, “Your cab, Captain Stagg.” The driver got out, came around, and opened the passenger door. He wore a shabby linen suit and looked around fifty, with long black hair, a bush mustache, and olive skin. “Sir?”

“Thank you. Another time, gentlemen.” Stagg got in, the cabdriver got behind the wheel, and they moved away. “Home, Captain?” He had a heavy accent, and Stagg couldn’t work out what it was.

“Yes, if you know where that is.”

“British Embassy compound.”

“Are you going to tell me who you are?”

“I’m your cabdriver. Look, people like those Russian bastards carry guns in their pockets.”

Stagg raised his right knee to the dashboard, the trouser rolled up revealing the revolver in the ankle holder. “Colt .25?”

The cabdriver nodded. “I might have known.” He pulled in outside the embassy gate. “No charge, Captain.”

“Well, I’m obliged,” Stagg told him. “I’m sure I’ll see you again.” He nodded to the guards, went in to his quarters, and reported this latest turn of events to Roper at Holland Park.

 
 
THAT EVENING IN LONDON,
Miller caught up with them, Olivia and Monica in Olivia’s dressing room as usual, and found his wife in excellent spirits as she sat applying her makeup. “Monica was telling me about your trip, Harry.”

“Yes, sorry about the short notice.”

“That’s all right. If you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. It must be something to see, the Prime Minister’s Rottweiler springing into action.”

Monica looked troubled, but Miller laughed. “A thrill a minute. We’ll see you later.”

 
 
ANOTHER WONDERFUL NIGHT,
the audience absolutely lapping it up. Monica and Miller waited by the stage door, and she said, “This thing is going to run for months.”

“I’m sure Noël Coward would have been delighted.” Miller observed. “A pity he’s dead.”

“What a terrible thing to say,” Monica told him. “What’s got into you?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea, I just feel good.” It was Beirut, of course, the prospect of stepping into the War Zone again.

The dinner was superb, Olivia in an excellent mood, Miller at his most charming, Monica grateful that it had all worked so well. Miller paid, and they went to the door and found it raining. There was a pedestrian way through the market; in some places, metal tables and chairs sat outside cafés that had closed for the night. The headwaiter gave the women an umbrella, and they walked together, threading their way through the tables.

A young man was talking loudly in a doorway to a woman, who broke away and ran off. The smell of alcohol was strong, and he swigged it from a bottle, but he was obviously on something. He almost fell over a chair, grabbing at Monica, and he pulled her to him and placed the bottle he’d been drinking from on the nearest table. He smiled at Miller as he fondled her.

“What are you going to do about that, then?”

Miller picked up the bottle by the neck and smashed him across the side of the skull. Surprisingly, the bottle didn’t break, but the man released his grip on Monica and fell across the table and down to the pavement.

Miller said, “Come on, girls, let’s go,” took each of them by the elbow, and urged them around the corner to where Ellis waited.

Monica stayed surprisingly calm. “Are you just going to leave him?”

“Well, I can’t think of anything else to do with him, can you? If I called the police in, they’d just say I’d infringed his human rights.”

Since he was leaving early in the morning, he slept in the second spare bedroom and found himself downstairs in the sitting room after midnight, having scotch and a cigarette, and it was there that Monica found him.

“The man in the alley—you looked like you’d done that sort of thing before.”

No deceit, no lies this time. “Yes, you could say that.”

She said softly, “I’ve never really known you, have I, Harry?”

“My darling sister, what’s infinitely worse is that I’ve never really known me. A bit late in the day to find that out.” He got up. “I’m for bed.”

 
 
WHEN HE ARRIVED
at Farley, he found no Ferguson, but Dillon waiting for him with the quartermaster, who took them into his office, where he had a Walther with silencer on his desk, five magazines, and a .25 Colt with hollow-point cartridges. There was an ankle holster.

“An ace in the hole, sir, if you need one. I’ve found over many years it can make a difference.

“You don’t need to tell me, Sergeant Major.” Miller put the weapons in his carry bag and said to Dillon, “Thank God for diplomatic status and no security check.”

Parry appeared in the doorway. “Ready to go, Major.”

They walked to the door, and Miller looked out at the rain. “Ah, well, at least the sun will be shining out there.”

“Just remember Drecq Khan is a slippery toad,” Dillon said. “Be careful.” He watched Miller walk to the Gulfstream and board, then turned and went to his car.

 
 
WHEN THEY LANDED
at Beirut International Airport late in the day, there was no fuss, for Stagg had arranged it that way. The presence of United Nations troops in the country made a difference from the old days and the facilities for UN traffic were impeccable.

Stagg was waiting when the Gulfstream rolled to a halt, and Miller took to him straightaway as they shook hands. “Good to meet you, Major.”

“My pleasure,” Miller told him.

Lacey and Parry came down the steps. “The UN provides crew quarters here at the airport for people like you. They consider it desirable. It’s a rough old town out there.”

“Oh, we’ll get by.” Lacey turned to Miller. “Take care—we’d hate to lose you.”

“I will,” Miller said, and followed Stagg to a waiting taxi, which looked a little the worse for wear.

“Sorry about this,” Stagg said as they got in. “A lot of things look a bit rough, but there’ve been a few wars here.”

“I was here for a few days after the recent ones on the Prime Minister’s behalf.”

“I didn’t know that. You’re staying at the Al Bustan, which, unlike a lot of other places, has survived. You’ll find it thoroughly civilized.”

“Excellent.” Miller continued in Russian, “How reliable is this driver?”

Stagg replied in the same language. “A Christian Phalangist. What we call a safe driver. How did you know I spoke Russian?”

“Major Roper is rather thorough.”

“I spoke to him last night. We’re two hours ahead of London here and I had a spot of bother.”

“Boris Bikov and Ivan Torin, pride of the GRU? He told me.”

“Very bad guys, and capable of quite a lot. The mystery was this taxi driver.”

“I don’t think so. We have a link with General Arnold Cohen of Mossad, and he said he had a man on the ground.”

“And you think that’s who it was?” He shook his head. “I don’t know. His English was good, but his accent very heavy. I couldn’t work out what his background was. You think he’ll be in touch?”

“I’m certain of it, but enough for now. I need to settle in and shower, and a late lunch would be nice.”

 
 
STAGG HAD BEEN RIGHT,
the Al Bustan was still everything that could be desired in a good hotel. Stagg sat on the balcony and read that day’s copy of the
Times
, which Miller had brought from the plane. Inside in the suite, Miller showered, changed into a khaki bush shirt and jeans, and pulled on ankle boots. Stagg came through and found him fitting the holster to his right ankle.

“Are you carrying?” Miller asked.

“You bet, just like you, and with hollow-points, the Colt is as good as it gets. It’s needed in this town, believe me. There are people here who’d kill you for your boots.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Miller pulled on a linen jacket and reached for his Ray Bans. “Let’s go downstairs.”

There was a pleasant bar, French windows to the terrace outside and a fine view of the city, although the bombings hadn’t helped. The Mediterranean was still there, the harbor crowded with shipping, and far out to sea, ships on the horizon plowed on to other destinations than Beirut. Calls to prayer echoed over the rooftops.

A waiter approached, and Stagg said, “Is lemonade all right, Major? You can’t get alcohol until after seven.”

Miller laughed. “It’s good for us, I suppose.” Stagg gave the order. Miller carried on, “Now tell me more about Drecq Khan.”

Which Stagg did, at least as much as he was able.

“So, what do you suggest?” said Miller when he was finished.

“We could have a look round the usual haunts, sir. I’ll show you the hiring hall, the waterfront. If Khan is away from the villa this afternoon, I could ask Considine to meet us, but I stress it should be brief.”

“Have you done this?”

“Once, but frankly, I prefer my mobile phone link with him. One only needs the wrong person to see him and we could be in real trouble.”

“Well, let’s leave that option for the moment. You call him and find out the latest, while I sample the lemonade.”

He sat there, staring out to the harbor, and called Roper on his Codex Four. Roper, as usual seated in front of his screens, greeted him warmly. “How is it?”

“Unusual,” Miller said. “It’s the sunshine that made it a millionaires’ paradise all those years ago. Stagg’s first class, by the way. I don’t know why I’ve called. Sitting here looking out to sea, I find myself wondering what it’s all about. Do you ever feel like that?”

“Only seven days a week. Stay well, Harry, and watch those bad guys. Sorry I’ve not managed to come up with the
Valentine
yet.”

Stagg returned. “Khan has had many calls to various Muslim sources regarding the
Valentine.
He seems to be using the muscle of the Army of God to impress the importance of his search.”

“And the Broker?”

“Not a word. Khan is at the hiring hall now.”

“So let’s go and see the sights. Is your safe taxi on hand, or do you have to get another one?”

“He waits.”

They went down to the rank and found the driver beside the taxi, checking the wheels. “I can’t understand it. Two flat tires, sir. I’ll have to get the garage.”

There was the sound of an engine starting up and the battered Renault from the previous night drove up. “Taxi, gentlemen?” The driver was smiling. “You said you’d see me again,” he said to Stagg.

“Yes, I did, didn’t I? I suppose you can guess who this is, sir?”

“I’m sure I can,” Miller said. “Let’s get in.”

They drove away, and the driver said, “Where now? The hiring hall?”

“Who are you?” Miller asked.

“Well, I certainly know who you are.” Stagg was astonished. The accent of the night before had been replaced by a perfect English one. “We have something in common, gentlemen.”

“And what would that be?” Miller asked.

“We all went to Sandhurst. And, by the way, I outrank you. Lieutenant Colonel Gideon Cohen.” He laughed, and his voice changed to the one Stagg had heard the previous night. “Or Walid Khasan, if you like.”

“My God, you’ve got guts,” Miller told him. “If they knew you were a Jew, they’d hang you in the street.”

“Yes, well, I’m lucky I do a good Muslim.” He turned down the hill through a maze of streets, making for the waterfront. “Do either of you speak Arabic?”

“I do,” Miller said. “Enough to get by.”

“It gave me something to do when I was in therapy,” Stagg said.

“Six months in hospital with that wound of yours.”

“Why do you ask?” Miller said.

“It helps deal with these people, the fact that you do, because most of the time, they don’t expect it. I’ll park by the seawall. Have a walk round, get the feel. I’ve got things to do. Order a whiskey, have a coffee at the Green Parrot by the hiring hall, I’ll find you.”

They got out and watched where he parked, then moved into the crowd. People milled in and out of the hiring hall. Miller and Stagg, in the press by the door, looked in and saw Drecq Khan on the platform at his desk. Miller recognized him instantly from the material he’d been shown in the Holland Park files.

“That’s Khan,” Miller said. “Let’s get that coffee.”

They sat for a while at a table on the railed area in front of the Green Parrot, sampling the thick syrupy coffee, when Torin and Bikov appeared, pushing through the crowd. “Here come the GRU,” Stagg said. They exchanged words and came over.