Rough Justice (17 page)

“Why, it’s you, Stagg,” Torin said. “You just can’t stay away from us. Who’s your friend?”

Miller stood up and stamped hard on his foot. Torin half fell across the table. “So sorry,” Miller said. “Clumsy of me.”

He pushed away through the crowd, Stagg following to where Cohen had left the taxi. As they reached it, he approached. “In you get, let’s move it.”

He threaded his way through the crowd, brushing the Russians aside. “Bad news. Word of your arrival has leaked, Major—the staff at the Al Bustan have a way of doing that.”

He turned into one narrow street and then another. Suddenly, Stagg’s mobile rang. He answered at once as Cohen pulled over. He listened intently, a hand raised to still the others. “Yes, of course, you must do that to cover yourself. I’ll call you back.”

“What?” Miller asked.

“Considine. Khan had left his answering machine on. There were two messages. One, an informant leaving word about you, the other from someone called Ali Hassan, who says he has an old man, a sailor named Sharif, who knows something about the
Valentine.
He said he didn’t want to bring him to the hiring hall because he’s very old and gets confused. He said he’d bring him to the villa by car in an hour and wait for Khan there.”

“This could be it,” Cohen exclaimed.

“What have you told Considine?”

“We have to consider his safety. Khan frequently calls in to retrieve his calls. Considine can say he was out for his lunch break when the calls were received, but he’s bound to tell Khan, if only to cover his back. I’ve told him to go ahead.”

“I agree with you. So what do you suggest now?”

“Just up the hill from the villa is a suburban area pretty well destroyed in the bombing during the war. There’s what’s left of an old church, St. Mary’s Chapel. That’s where I met Considine face-to-face. I suggest we take up stations there and await events.”

“While Considine sweats it out in the office?”

“We’d better check.”

Stagg called back, and Considine said, “I can’t stay on. I told Khan, and he’s coming straight back.”

Stagg quickly briefed him on the plan. “There are three of us up here in the Chapel. We’ll be monitoring you all the time. Good luck.”

“Maybe I’ll need it,” Considine said, and switched off.

 
 
FROM THE RAVAGED CEMETERY
of St. Mary’s Chapel, Cohen looked down to the villa with a pair of Zeiss glasses. An old Peugeot estate car arrived, and Torin and Bikov got out, followed by Khan and Abdul, the hiring hall foreman.

Cohen passed the glasses to Miller, who just managed to catch the men as they walked through the ruined arches at the rear of the villa and went inside.

“The game’s afoot,” Miller said. “We can only pray.”

“Especially for Considine,” Cohen said.

 
 
KHAN SAT AT HIS
desk listening to the answering machine, obviously feeling rather pleased with himself, but there was also considerable relief at the prospect of solving the riddle of the
Valentine.
As he had learned to his cost over the years, where the Broker was concerned, failure was not an option. His telephone rang and he flicked on the speakerphone.

“Khan here,” he said in Arabic.

The Broker replied in English. “It’s me. What’s been happening? I’m disappointed not to have heard from you.”

At his desk next door, Considine heard every word and, taking advantage of the fact that the Russians were downstairs in the kitchen, moved closer to the door to listen.

“What’s happening?” the Broker asked.

“As regards Beirut itself, there’s a man named Miller just flown in. It seems he’s a member of a UN committee on Lebanon.”

The Broker was stunned. “Have you any idea what he’s really doing there?”

“He’s being looked after by the military attaché at the British Embassy, a man named Stagg. Word has come to me that Stagg has also been trying to discover the whereabouts of the
Valentine.
Anyway, none of this matters. I’ve had word from a reliable informant who is bringing someone here within the hour who knows all about the
Valentine.
”

The Broker said, “This man Miller represents the British Prime Minister and is usually up to no good. His visit must involve the
Valentine
in some way. The fact that Stagg has been asking around speaks for itself. How tight is your security? Is everyone close to you totally reliable?”

Khan was alarmed. “I’m sure they are.”

“They’d better be. Contact me when you have real news—and check your people.”

He cut off, leaving Khan trembling with fear. Considine was already down the stairs, and he passed the open kitchen door where Torin and Bikov were enjoying coffee. They glanced at him as he went outside and started through the orchard.

Khan called for Considine and, not getting a reply, looked for him in the next room. Finding him gone, he suddenly realized what his absence might imply.

He descended the stairs, shouting, “Considine, where are you?”

Torin stepped out of the kitchen. “He went out a couple of minutes ago.”

“Get him,” Khan cried. “He’s a bloody traitor. I think he’s sold me out to Stagg,” Which was enough to send Torin out on the run, Bikov at his heels.

Considine got through the orchard and reached the road as Torin fired his first shot. On the hill, it brought the three men to their feet, and Miller glanced through the glasses. “He’s in trouble.” He turned to Cohen. “You go down in your taxi and block the road. We’ll take them on.”

He pulled the Colt out of his ankle holster and started down, and Stagg did the same and followed. “We’ll need to get close, sir.”

“Then we get close.”

As they went through the cemetery, both the Russians fired at Considine, who dodged through the gravestones, keeping his head down. Suddenly, he jerked, clutching at his right arm. Torin walked close, taking deliberate aim, and Miller, close now and running fast, shot him in the left shoulder. Torin dropped his weapon, spun around, then fell to the ground. Miller, still on the run, stumbled and Bikov took deliberate aim, his weapon held in both hands. Stagg, running slower than Miller because of his hip, took a snap shot that caught Bikov in the right knee, the hollow-point cartridge doing real damage.

He picked up Bikov’s weapon and tossed it away. “I’d say you need a good surgeon. Better phone your embassy and tell them to come running.”

“Fuck you,” Torin said.

“Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?”

Bikov sat leaning against a gravestone, clutching his shoulder, blood oozing between his fingers. Stagg picked up the gun, a Stechkin. “How is he?” he asked Miller, who was helping Considine stand.

“It could be worse. Arm shot, it’s gone straight through.” Miller took a handkerchief and bound it as tightly as possible. He looked down, saw Cohen arrive in his taxi and brake, and Khan and Abdul hurriedly went inside the villa. “What happened?” he asked Considine.

“The Broker came on, and when Khan told him of your arrival, he was very angry. He said you represented the British Prime Minister, that you were always up to no good. He said the fact that Captain Stagg had been seeking news of the
Valentine
must mean the story had been leaked by somebody close to Khan and told him to check. That’s when I ran for it.”

“And the
Valentine
story?”

“He knows an informant exists, but he was more interested in you.”

“And I suspect that’s our informant arriving right now,” Stagg said. An old station wagon was approaching and slowed down, then halted at the sight of Cohen’s taxi blocking the road, and he went forward to speak to the two men inside. After a while, he produced a pistol and fired a shot in the air.

“Here we go.” Miller gave Considine his arm and they went down through the cemetery.

Stagg rummaged in Torin’s pocket, found his mobile, and tapped in a number. He handed it to him. “There you go, Russian Embassy.” He went after the others.

Cohen said, “This is Ali Hassan and Sharif, who knows all about the
Valentine,
don’t you? I was just demonstrating that I meant business.” He’d put the older man in the back and the younger, the driver, with him. “You two go with them, I’ll follow with Considine—that’s if you’ve got somewhere to go.”

“Yes, I’ll call them, a private security facility I have access to,” Stagg said.

“Well, while you’re arranging that, I’m going inside to speak to Khan,” Miller said. “Give me that Stechkin.” Stagg handed him Bikov’s weapon. “What are you going to do?”

“Have a word with Khan. I won’t be long.”

He went down through the orchard and entered the rear door. The four domestic servants Khan employed had all cleared off. Miller went straight up the stairs, the Stechkin hanging in his right hand, and kicked open the door of what proved to be Considine’s office. Abdul scrambled from behind the door to grab at him, Miller hit him across the face with the Stechkin, and he fell down.

Drecq Khan was gibbering behind the desk, terrified. “You know who I am, you miserable bastard,” Miller said.

“Please don’t kill me.”

“I would, but then you wouldn’t be able to tell the Broker I’m going to make it my personal business to destroy him and Volkov. They failed in Washington with Kelly and his chum, and they’re going to fail with operation
Valentine.
Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve read your file. When the Salters chased you out of London, you left the Brotherhood still intact. You must have left someone in charge. Who is it?”

Khan said desperately, “Please believe me . . .”

Miller fired the Stechkin into the wall, narrowly missing his skull. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll put the next bullet between your eyes.”

And Khan totally believed him. “Ali Hassim—he has a corner shop in Delamere Road in West Hampstead.”

“I’d take a shower if I were you. You’re beginning to smell bad.” Miller walked out.

When he found the others, Cohen said, “You didn’t kill him?”

“Of course not. I was squeezing some juice out of him,” and he told Cohen what it was.

“Thanks very much. Mossad will be grateful for that knowledge, even if it is in London. Now let’s get going. The boy wonder here has organized entry for us to that private security place he mentioned.”

“Excellent.” Stagg was driving, and Hassan and Sharif in the rear looked frightened and bewildered. Miller got in.

“Have no fear,” he said in Arabic, “I mean you no harm. I want to know about the
Valentine,
that’s all. Think about it.”

The private security facility was heavily guarded by men in dark uniforms and had obviously been a hotel in earlier times. The guards, as it turned out, were all Lebanese Christians and the captain in charge had a French name, Duval. He had Considine taken away to a medical facility and showed Miller, Stagg, and Cohen, together with the two Arabs, into an interrogation room. It all turned out to be incredibly easy, mainly because Hassan and particularly old Sharif were genuinely frightened and eager to please.

“You take over, Colonel,” Miller said to Cohen.

Cohen spoke to them in Arabic. “The
Valentine
—why is there a problem with this ship? Everyone seeks it, and no one knows where it is.”

“He knows,” Ali Hassan said eagerly, “he knows all about it.” Sharif nodded. “It’s not called the
Valentine,
not in reality, but the job is.”

Miller suddenly saw it. “It’s a code, a name for the matter in hand, whatever the contraband is?”

Hassan said, “This is true, and it’s a
Valentine
before the real ship is selected. In this case, the real ship is
Circe,
a freighter out of Tripoli, but chartered by North Korean agents. It carries plutonium among a general cargo of machinery. It left Tripoli last week and its destination is Latakia in Syria.”

Miller said, “But how in the hell does Sharif know so much?”

The old man plucked at Hassan’s arm and muttered to him. Hassan said, “His mind is weak, he is very old. Could he have a cigarette?”

Cohen produced a pack, shook one out and proffered a light, and Sharif took the cigarette with shaking fingers. He sucked at it greedily. Hassan said, “His third wife’s brother-in-law has a nephew named Hamid who is a sailor but works only on special runs. Contraband, drugs, arms, that sort of thing. He likes the big money, which is why he took the offer as a crew member of
Circe.
”

The old man plucked at his arm again, voice hoarse, and whispered. Hassan nodded. “He says all this is true because
Circe
is only forty miles offshore from Lebanon at the moment, and getting close to what’s known as the Careb Shoals.”

“And how in the hell does he know that?” Stagg demanded.

Hassan spread his hands. “This is true, gentlemen, you must believe me. Hamid calls Sharif’s house on his cell phone every couple of days. He spoke to him this morning.” The old man nodded, then took a cell phone from a pocket in his jacket.

There was silence for a moment, then Miller said, “It’s so damn simple when you get down to it—the thing that’s revolutionized modern times more than anything else. You can ring up from anywhere. You better take his phone, Colonel, and Hassan’s, if he’s got one.” Which Hassan did.

“What do we do now, sir?” Stagg asked.

“That’s not a matter for us. I’d say it’s a matter for the Colonel.” He turned to Cohen. “Isn’t that so?”

“I’ll contact my people at once. We have a satellite facility over Syria and Iran which can be diverted at short notice to identify such a target. That is all we need, together with the old man’s information. I’ll leave you now and get on with my job.”

“We’ll see Hassan and Sharif are held here for a few days,” Stagg said, and they went out past a guard outside the door.

“Good. A safe journey home, if I don’t see you again. It’s been interesting,” Cohen said.