Rough Justice (29 page)

His eyes were sunken, there was sweat on his face, and he was trembling now as Miller said, “So that’s it, you’ve told me everything?”

“I think so. I’m sorry about your wife. Is there any chance you could forgive me?”

“Not really. I can’t even forgive myself.”

Fahy gave him a ghastly smile. “Somehow I thought you’d say that.” He went down in a kind of slow motion, his head to one side and eyes staring. Sean Dillon stepped out of the darkness, leaned over, and searched for a pulse. “Dead,” he said, closed Fahy’s eyes, and lifted him out of the chair and down to the floor.

“Did you hear any of that?” Miller asked.

“Just about everything.” He called Roper and got an instant reply. “Two disposals. Utmost dispatch. I’ll wait for the team. Derry Street Garage, Kilburn. I’ll report details later.”

“What happens now?” Miller asked.

“Years ago, Ferguson got tired of a system where you bag the bad guys and then clever lawyers get them off. If you accept that a bullet is a more efficient answer, you need the disposal team to clean up. Those two will be six pounds of ash around two hours from now.”

“And you can do that?”

“Ferguson can do anything. Blake Johnson does roughly the same thing for the President. Would you quarrel with that? Take Abdul here.” He bent down and picked up the knife still in Abdul’s hand. “You heard how he was part of the plot in Dover Street that ended in the death of your wife, acting on orders from the Army of God. And Fahy? Did he really deserve pity because of his wife?”

“Do I?” Miller asked.

“Now you’re being stupid. Sam Bolton wanted to give you information about your wife and ended up stabbed to death, probably by Abdul here with that same knife and on Ali Hassim’s orders.”

“Then shouldn’t we dispose of him while we’re at it?”

“We very well may, but Ferguson has to make the decision.”

“She was my wife,” Miller said bleakly.

“I know, old son, I know.” There was a quiet rumble outside and then silence. “Here they are.”

Dillon pulled the door right up and a large black van drove straight in. Four men in black overalls got out and the one obviously in charge nodded to them. “Gentlemen.” He walked over and examined Abdul and then Fahy. The other three produced body bags, eased the corpses in, and put them in the back of the van. Then two of them produced cleaning equipment and went to work.

“The Muslim in leathers obviously owned the BMW?” the one in charge asked.

“That’s right, Mr. Teague,” Dillon said. “The white van and the Triumph are Sean Fahy’s, the owner of the garage.”

“We’ll remove them. Leave the place orderly, but an implication that Fahy has departed for pastures new.”

“What about the BMW?”

“One of my people will leave it in a multistory car park. It will languish until someone moves it to a police pound. I’d go if I were you, gentlemen, leave us to tidy up.”

Miller followed Dillon outside. “What did you come in?”

“That ancient Mini is mine.”

“Are you going home?”

“No, I’ll make for Holland Park and give Roper the gory details. We’ve got good staff quarters. Always useful.”

“I might see you there, then.”

“You wouldn’t be going to do anything you shouldn’t?”

“Now, do I look like that kind of chap?”

“Yes, you do,” Dillon said, and got in his Mini and drove away.

 
 
MILLER KNEW WHERE
Ali Hassim lived from discussions with Roper about the Army of God, especially when he’d reported back on events at Folly’s End when he had met Bolton. The corner shop, Delamere Road, Hampstead. He drove there through increasing rain. By then, it was about three o’clock in the morning. The shop was in darkness, but when he circled round to the rear, there was a yard with a garage and steps up to a back door and a dim light at the window.

He drove some distance away, sat in the Mini for a moment, screwing the silencer on the Walther, then he got out, locked the car, and walked back. There wasn’t a soul about, not even any traffic. He went up the back steps and stood in the porch, holding the Walther against his leg. There was a bell push and he tried it.

Ali Hassim had found that with age he slept lightly, and he rested on the couch by the fire, having awakened from a doze half an hour earlier, and been disturbed to find no sign of Abdul or the BMW, which meant that when the bell sounded, he went to the door at once and opened it on the chain.

“Abdul, is that you?”

He had spoken in Arabic, and Miller replied in the same language. “There has been a problem. I must speak with you.”

Almost as a reflex, Hassim undid the chain. Miller stepped in, kicked the door closed behind him, slapped Hassim across the face and sent him staggering back against the wall.

He carried on in English. “Harry Miller. I’m sure you’re familiar with my face since you’ve taken an interest in me. Abdul sends his regards. He knifed Fahy, only Fahy shot him dead in return. You know what the Irish are like—unpredictable.” Hassim tried to scramble away, and Miller grabbed him and threw him back into the hall.

“Leave me alone,” Hassim cried, totally terrified.

“I can’t do that till you’ve heard the rest. Fahy bled to death, but not before he’d invited me round to hear his confession. I know everything. Quinn at Drumore Place, Volkov and company—and the Broker, we mustn’t forget him. I suppose you’re going to tell me you’ve never met?”

Ali Hassim grabbed at the question as if it offered him some chance. “No one has, I swear it, not even General Volkov or any of the Russians. He’s a voice. He chooses the people he deals with, he serves Osama. When he first spoke in Arabic, I thought him an Arab, but his English is perfect.”

“Tell me about Bolton.” He pushed the end of the silencer into Hassim’s stomach. “Who killed him? He was murdered in the City. It’s been on the police reports on television. I know you sent him to spy on me at Folly’s End, so speak the truth or I’ll kill you.”

“Abdul did it. He didn’t like Bolton, envied him his job in the City, his success.”

“And you had nothing to do with it and didn’t send Abdul to Dover Street posing as a traffic warden?”

“No, I swear it.”

“You’d swear to anything, you bastard.” The Walther swung up, coughed once, the bullet hitting Ali Hassim between the eyes, killing him instantly. There was blood on the wall as he slid down, and Miller turned, opened the door, switched off the light, and went out. Fifteen minutes later, he reached the Mini, got behind the wheel, and drove away.

He felt nothing; what was done, was done. Someone the system couldn’t touch, a man obviously responsible for many deaths, had been eradicated and he didn’t feel the slightest regret.

He was admitted to Holland Park by Sergeant Doyle on night shift twenty minutes later, left the Cooper for the sergeant to park, and went and found Roper and Dillon in the computer room.

“What did you do?” Dillon asked.

“Disposed of him. They’ll find him when whoever works for him turns up in the morning. People involved in extreme Islamic groups not only argue, they kill each other all the time.” He turned to Roper. “That he sent Abdul to waste Fahy was a fact, but he denied having given Abdul orders to kill Bolton. He said that had been an act of jealousy on Abdul’s part.”

“Anything else?”

“To Fahy, the Broker was a voice on the phone. A toff, as he described it. Hassim said his English was perfect, but he thought he was an Arab at first, he spoke the language so well. He swore to me that even Volkov and his Russian chums have only heard the voice, and I must say I believed him.”

“And shot him,” Dillon said. “And Ferguson isn’t going to like that.”

“Too bad. Now, who’s going to join me in a drink?”

12

ALI HASSIM’S BODY WAS DISCOVERED AT SEVEN O’CLOCK THAT MORNING BY
the young woman who worked for him behind the counter, so it was quickly in the hands of the police. A detective inspector had a look and told his sergeant to get Forensics in.

“Some Muslim religious thing, I suppose. They’ll all keep mum about it, but we’ll have to go through the motions.”

The word spread rapidly through the Army of God community, so within hours of the discovery, the Broker was on the phone to Moscow. Volkov was stunned by the news.

“Unbelievable. Who was responsible? Could it be some other Islamic faction?”

“In my opinion, no. Everyone knows Al Qaeda supports the Army of God. To attack us would obviously be unwise.”

“Ferguson’s people—Miller perhaps?”

“There’s no evidence they knew about Hassim. And wait, that’s not all. Let me tell you about Fahy.”

When he was done, Volkov said, “It’s like a bad novel. His wretched wife dies, he’s consumed by guilt, and goes over the edge. Hassim told you he’d send Abdul to take care of him? Did he?”

“I checked out Fahy’s garage personally. The back door was unlocked, the flat was empty, and the garage had no vehicles in it, totally deserted.”

“So he’s moved on. And Abdul?”

“Lived at the back of Hassim’s shop. He’s disappeared, too, with his BMW motorcycle, that’s the word among the Brotherhood.”

Volkov said, “To say I have a bad feeling about this would be an understatement. Many long and violent years in this business tells me that Fahy and Abdul have met the same fate as Ali Hassim.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I’ll have to speak to the President. I’ll be in touch with you again quite soon.”

 
 
PUTIN LISTENED
without any evidence of emotion, and Volkov ended rather lamely, “It seems to be a mystery.”

“Don’t be absurd, it’s perfectly obvious. It’s been organized in some way by Ferguson, and Miller’s decided to join in, seeking revenge for his wife.”

“So what do we do?”

“Stand back for a bit, let this play out. I’m getting disillusioned by the Broker, though—too many failures. In fact, this whole hidden-identity thing has become an absurdity. Tell him if he isn’t willing to disclose his identity, then I don’t want anything more to do with him. And for now, I think it’s best if everybody keeps their distance from him. Tell Chekhov, too.

“As for Fahy, he was hired by Quinn, and I’m getting tired of Quinn. Dispose of him as you see fit.” The secret door opened and closed again, and he was gone.

 
 
CHEKHOV,
on the phone, received all the news and said glumly, “It’s like a bad Saturday night in Moscow with the Mafia on the loose. It’s certainly not what I came to London for.”

“Don’t be stupid. You didn’t
come
to London, you were
sent
there, and as far as the President is concerned, you signed up for life. There are ways he could stamp on that bank account of yours. Do you want that?”

“Of course not.” Privately, Chekhov didn’t think it likely, but he couldn’t afford to take the chance.

“So don’t rock the boat, and remember—if the Broker phones, you aren’t interested.”

“What about Quinn?”

“I’m going to pay him a visit. I’m taking Yuri Makeev with me, and Grigorin.”

“The executioners?” Chekhov shuddered. “God help him.”

“Naturally, you will not tell him. It would distress me to find that you had.”

“Of course not,” Chekhov said hastily.

“Good. I want this to be a real surprise for Michael Quinn.”

 
 
QUINN WAS NEXT
on his list, and Volkov gave him the same message about the Broker but told him not to worry. “I’ll be over to see you in a few days. We’ll be able to talk and sort things out.”

He switched off, leaving Quinn sitting beside the fire in the great hall at Drumore Place and wondering nervously what “sort things out” meant.

 
 
FINALLY, THE BROKER.
In a strange way, it gave Volkov a certain satisfaction, waiting for him to answer the phone. “It’s me again,” Volkov told him.

“What did the President say?”

“He wasn’t too pleased. Basically, he wants us to stand back now, keep a low profile. But he did make one point concerning you. He’s tired of the voice-on-the-phone business. He wants to know who you are.”

There was a short pause. The Broker said, “I can’t do that.”

“Is that your final answer?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then he’s instructed me to inform you that he doesn’t want anything to do with you anymore. Don’t call me, don’t call Chekhov, don’t call Quinn.”

The Broker’s voice was calm as usual. “General Volkov, you are aware I speak for Al Qaeda? Osama will not be pleased.”

“The President couldn’t care less, my friend. He has other fish to fry.”

The Broker was still calm. “He may come to regret this.”

“A word of advice, my friend. Don’t try to threaten him. He is more powerful than Osama, more powerful than you.”

“Let us hope his confidence is not misplaced.”

 
 
SHORTLY AFTERWARD,
Quinn answered the phone, still beside the fire, but now drinking a large Irish whiskey. “Who is this?”

“The Broker.”

Quinn, thoroughly angry, said, “Piss off and don’t call again.”

“But you could be in great danger, my friend.”

“I’ve been in great danger for the last thirty years of my life. Now bugger off.”

He looked at the phone, the special one with which he’d always answered the Broker’s calls, then tossed it into the log fire.

 
 
CHEKHOV WAS STANDING
on his terrace, looking across Park Lane to Hyde Park, remembering what Volkov had said. He had the special mobile in his pocket because one hand held his walking stick, the other a drink, so he knew who it would be when it sounded.

He put the drink on a ledge, took out the phone, and heard the Broker say, “My dear Chekhov.”

“Never again.”

Chekhov dropped the phone, stamped on it with his good left foot, and picked up his drink, gazing out at Hyde Park, aware of a strange feeling of freedom.