Читать книгу Edge of Danger - Jack Higgins, Justin Richards - Страница 8

Something terrible indeed. Driving home to Dauncey Place, Lady Kate had been involved in a head-on collision with a car driving on the wrong side of the road. The Rashids made it to the hospital ten minutes before she died, time enough only to stand, the four of them, and hold her hands.

‘My lovely boys,’ Lady Kate said in her bad Arabic, always the family joke. ‘My gorgeous girl. Always love each other.’ And she was gone.

Michael and George broke into a storm of weeping, but not Kate. She clutched Paul’s hand as he leaned down to kiss his mother’s forehead and her eyes burned, but there were no tears. Those would come later – after she discovered the man responsible for this.

But when the name came, there was only more bad news. A chief inspector of the Hampshire Police told them that, yes, the other driver, one Igor Gatov, had been driving on the wrong side of the road on his way to London from Knotsley Hall, which was owned by the Russian Embassy. And, yes, he had most certainly been drunk, and miraculously had been able to walk away from the crash with only minor injuries. But unfortunately, he was also a commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy in London, which meant that he had diplomatic immunity. Their mother’s killer could not be tried in an English court.

In deference to their mother’s Christianity, they buried her in the mausoleum at Dauncey village church on a March afternoon. One of the most important imams in London graced the proceedings with his presence and, standing there, the three Rashid brothers and young Kate had never felt closer.

Later, at the reception in the Great Hall at Dauncey Place, Paul Rashid was approached by Charles Ferguson. The Brigadier said, ‘This is a rotten business, Paul. I’m so sorry. She was a great lady.’

Kate said, ‘Do you know something you’re not telling us, Brigadier?’

Ferguson looked at her. ‘Give me a call sometime.’

He walked away. Kate said, ‘Paul?’

‘As soon as we’re done here,’ her brother said, ‘we’ll go and see him.’

Two days later, Paul and Kate Rashid arrived at Charles Ferguson’s Georgian flat in Cavendish Place, London. They were admitted by Ferguson’s Gurkha manservant, Kim, and found that Ferguson was not alone. Two other people were there, one of them a small man, his hair so fair that it was almost white.

‘Lady Kate, this is Sean Dillon, who works for my department,’ Ferguson said, then introduced the other, a red-haired woman. ‘Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein from Special Branch. Lord Loch Dhu, how can I help? May we offer you a glass of champagne?’

‘No, thank you. My sister perhaps, but I would prefer a Bushmills Irish whiskey like the one Mr Dillon is pouring.’

‘Good man yourself,’ Dillon told him, ‘but first, the ladies,’ and he poured champagne.

Hannah Bernstein said to Kate, ‘You went to Oxford, I believe? I was at Cambridge myself.’

‘Well, that’s not your fault,’ Kate said and gave a small smile.

Her brother said, ‘I did Irish time, with the Grenadier Guards and the SAS. I heard many things about Sean Dillon there.’

‘Probably all true,’ Hannah Bernstein told him, with an undertone Rashid could not decipher.

‘Don’t listen to her,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll always be the man in the black hat to her, but to you and me, Major, to soldiers everywhere, we’re the men who handle the crap the general public can’t. That’s a showstopper,’ Dillon added and turned to Kate. ‘Wouldn’t you agree that’s a showstopper?’

She wasn’t in the least offended. ‘Absolutely.’

‘So,’ Paul Rashid said, ‘Igor Gatov, a commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy, kills my mother while driving on the wrong side of the road, drunk. The police say he has diplomatic immunity.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘And he’s gone back to Moscow?’

‘No, he’s needed here,’ Ferguson told him.

‘Needed?’ Rashid asked.

‘The Secret Security Services would not thank me for telling you this, but they’re not my best friends. Tell him, Superintendent.’

‘But how far do I go?’ she asked.

‘As far as it takes,’ Dillon said. ‘This Russian shite takes out a great lady and walks away.’ He poured another Bushmills, toasted young Kate, turned to Paul Rashid, and said in good Arabic, ‘Gatov is a dog of the first water. If the Superintendent hesitates, don’t hold it against her. She has delicate sensibilities. Her grandfather is a rabbi.’

‘And my father was a sheik,’ Paul Rashid said to her in Hebrew. ‘Perhaps we have much in common.’

Her surprise was obvious. ‘I’m not sure what to say,’ she replied in the same.

‘Well, I am,’ Dillon cut between them in English. ‘It’s not just the Russian Embassy that’s keeping Gatov from justice. There’s the American connection.’

There was a pause. ‘What would that be?’ Paul Rashid asked.

Hannah said to Rashid, ‘As you know, the Americans and Russians are great rivals in southern Arabia, but they will work together if it suits them.’

Paul said, ‘I know all this, but what has it to do with my mother’s death?’

It was Dillon who told him, and in Arabic. ‘This piece of dung is a double agent. He worked for the Americans on the other side of the coin. It’s not only the Russians who don’t want him in court, but the Yanks as well. He’s too important.’

‘Too important for what?’ Paul Rashid asked.

It was Ferguson who said, ‘The Americans and Russians are working on some kind of oil deal – and Gatov was brokering it. He’s right in the middle. There are billions to be made down there.’

Dillon said, ‘He’s right. Arabia Felix, Happy Arabia, that’s what they called it in the old days.’

Kate Rashid, who had listened in silence, said, ‘So we’re talking about money here?’

‘I’d say so,’ Dillon said.

‘And to facilitate their wheeler-dealing, both the Americans and Russians look upon my mother’s death simply as an inconvenience?’

‘A severe one.’

She paused and glanced at her brother, who nodded. She said, ‘Some days ago, at the Oasis of Shabwa, an interesting event took place. Were you aware, Brigadier, that the Sultan of Hazar had allied himself not only with a major American oil company but also a Russian one?’

Ferguson frowned. ‘No, that’s news to me.’

‘Two assassins attempted to kill my brother on the night we received news of my mother’s accident.’ She nodded to Dillon. ‘One tried to kill me. My brother saved my life and shot him dead.’

‘The important thing is that we discovered from the second assassin that I was targeted by the Sultan himself on behalf of the Americans and Russians,’ Paul Rashid told them.

Ferguson nodded. ‘He told you everything?’

‘Of course,’ Dillon put in.

Ferguson said, ‘Are you suggesting that your mother’s death was deliberate?’

‘No,’ Paul said. ‘The police have gone over the evidence with us, and I see nothing these dogs could have gained by murdering my mother. But what is clear to me is that, for them, life is cheap. And I plan to make it very expensive.’

He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thank you very much for your information, Brigadier.’ He turned to Dillon. ‘In the Guards in South Armagh, a Loyalist politician told me once that Wyatt Earp could account for the deaths of twenty men, but that Sean Dillon didn’t even know his total.’

‘A slight exaggeration,’ Dillon told him. ‘I think.’

Rashid smiled at each of them and turned to follow Kim. Kate held out a hand to Dillon. ‘You’re a very interesting man.’

‘Oh, you have a way with the words, girl dear.’ He kissed her hand. ‘And a face to thank God for.’

‘That’s my sister, Mr Dillon,’ Rashid said.

‘And how could I forget it?’

They left, and before Ferguson could say anything, his red phone rang. He picked it up, listened, had a brief conversation, then replaced the receiver, his face grave.

‘It would seem the Sultan of Hazar has just been assassinated.’ He turned to Dillon. ‘A remarkable coincidence, don’t you think?’

The Irishman lit a cigarette. ‘Oh, yes, remarkable.’ He blew out smoke. ‘I know one thing. I feel sorry for Igor Gatov.’

That evening, there was a function at the Dorchester, a political affair attended by the Prime Minister, and Ferguson, Bernstein and Dillon had been drafted for security, not without a little grumbling.

Dillon and the Superintendent moved in from the Park Lane entrance to the ballroom, checked all the arrangements and, satisfied, followed Ferguson through. And there at the bar was the Earl of Loch Dhu and his sister.

Ferguson said, ‘Talk about a bad penny. Hannah and I will continue with the security. See if there’s anything more you can find out, Dillon.’

Kate and Paul Rashid stood together, watching the crowd, as Dillon approached and said, ‘What a coincidence.’

‘I’ve never believed in coincidences, Mr Dillon,’ Paul Rashid told him. ‘Have you?’

‘Funny you should say that. Like you, I’m a cynic, but today –’

Just then, a young man interrupted. ‘My Lord, the Prime Minister would like a word.’

Rashid said to the Irishman, ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Dillon, our conversation will have to wait. However, I’d appreciate it if you’d see to my sister for me.’

‘It’d be an honour.’

Rashid walked away and Kate turned to Dillon. ‘Well, as long as you’re seeing to me, how about a fresh drink?’

Dillon was just turning to hand her a glass when a rather large man with a florid face appeared, and gave her a squeeze from behind. ‘Kate, my darling,’ he said in a booming voice.

Seeing he would have no chance to talk to her now, Dillon decided to leave – but managed to step on the man’s right foot as he moved away. The man let her go. ‘Damn you, you clumsy oaf.’

Dillon smiled. ‘So sorry.’ He bowed to Kate. ‘I’ll be in the Piano Bar.’

He walked through the main hotel to the Dorchester’s Piano Bar, where, since it was still early evening, it was quiet. Guiliano, the manager, greeted him warmly, for they were old friends.

‘Glass of champagne?’

‘Why not?’ Dillon said. ‘And I’ll give you a tune on the piano while you’re waiting for your man to turn up.’

He was well into a Gershwin melody when Kate Rashid appeared.

‘I see you’re a man of many talents.’

‘Good barroom piano is all it is, ma’am. What happened to the gentleman?’

‘The gentleman – and I use the term loosely – is Lord Gravely, a life peer who inhabits the House of Lords and does little good there.’

‘I wouldn’t think your brother would welcome his attention to you.’

‘That’s an understatement. Did you really need to stand on his foot?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Well, I’m glad. The man is an absolute pig. He’s always grabbing at me, groping me. The man just won’t take no for an answer. He deserves a sore foot, and a lot more besides.’

She picked up his glass of champagne and finished it off. ‘Anyway, I just came by to say thank you. Now I’d better be off. I asked for my car at seven.’

Seeing that there was to be no further conversation, Dillon smiled. ‘It’s been a sincere sensation.’

She walked out and Dillon came to the end of his tune and decided to follow her. He didn’t know why exactly, but there just seemed to be unfinished business.

He went out of the main door, turned right into Park Lane and found limousines picking up people from the reception at the ballroom entrance. Lady Kate Rashid was standing on the pavement, a shawl about her shoulders, and there, suddenly, was Lord Gravely again. He put his arm around her and pulled her close, whispering in her ear. She struggled and two things happened simultaneously. Paul Rashid’s Daimler coasted in to the kerb, with Rashid in the back, and as he scrambled out Dillon moved in on Gravely and screwed both fists into his kidneys. Gravely cried out and released Kate, and her brother pulled her away into the car. Gravely turned on Dillon in a fury and, pivoting, Dillon gave Gravely a reverse elbow strike to the mouth, whereupon his lordship slid down to the pavement.

As they were driven away, Rashid looked out of the rear window and saw Dillon melt into the crowd and a policeman approach Gravely. ‘A remarkable man, Dillon. I owe him one. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine, brother, and I’m the one who owes him.’

‘You like him?’

‘Very much.’

‘I’ll have him checked out thoroughly.’

‘No, Paul, that I’ll do for myself.’

After a lawyers’ meeting the following morning, the two of them drove down to Dauncey Place. Paul had phoned ahead, so his brothers were there as well, and they’d given photos of Gatov to Betty Moody. Betty in turn had spoken to the locals.

When he saw her in the bar that evening, she gave him his usual glass of champagne and spoke in a low voice.

‘He’s in the village, Paul; arrived at lunchtime with a party from the Russian Embassy.’

‘Good.’ He savoured the champagne.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

I’m going to execute him, Betty,’ he told her and smiled over her sharp intake of breath.

Later that night, he spoke to his brothers in the Great Hall. Betty was there as well – she’d come up from the pub with last-minute information overheard from the local staff at Knotsley Hall: Gatov was leaving at eleven to drive overnight to London.

Paul Rashid told his brothers what he intended to do, but he’d purposely excluded Kate. ‘I don’t want her involved,’ he said. ‘This is men’s work.’

What he did not know was that Kate was on the minstrel gallery above, and listening. Furious, she was about to call out, but Betty appeared behind her and fastened a hand on her shoulder. ‘You mind your manners, girl. Your brothers are going in harm’s way. They don’t need you making it difficult for them.’

And Lady Kate Rashid, for the moment a child again, did as she was told.

That night, Igor Gatov drove around a corner of a narrow country lane and found a van tilted into a ditch and someone lying in the middle of the road. He got out of his BMW, walked forward and leaned over the figure on the ground. It was Paul Rashid, and he struck him across the neck.

He and his brothers wore black Special Forces overalls. Michael and Paul carried the semiconscious Gatov to the BMW and pushed him behind the wheel.

George went to the van, got in and reversed it out of the ditch. Paul Rashid took a bottle from his overalls and doused Gatov in petrol.

‘Fire purifies, so the Koran tells us,’ he said, then switched on the engine of the BMW and slipped off the handbrake. ‘It’s not much of an exchange for my mother, but it’s better than nothing.’

He flicked his lighter, touching the edge of Gatov’s petrol-soaked jacket, which immediately started to burn. Then George and Michael pushed, and the BMW rushed down the hill and hit the end of an old stone bridge, where it fireballed.

The next morning, at the Ministry of Defence, Hannah Bernstein took a signal flimsy to Ferguson in his office. It detailed the terrible accident that had burned Igor Gatov to death.

‘Dear me,’ Ferguson said. ‘Another remarkable coincidence.’

Sean Dillon leaned against the door and lit a cigarette. ‘The question is – what coincidence is going to be next?’

Sitting in the drawing room of Kate’s house in South Audley Street, Paul Rashid said, ‘Gatov is dead. The Sultan is dead. Such executions are right and just. But they are not enough.’

Michael said, ‘What do you mean, brother?’

‘I mean it is not enough simply to have eliminated two small men. Their deaths will quickly be swallowed up and the great powers will continue to swagger arrogantly around the world as if nothing has happened. America and Russia, the two Great Satans, have attacked Arab culture, they have walked over the Bedu, they have screwed Arabia and Hazar out of what is rightfully theirs – and ours. We must teach them a lesson they will never forget.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked George.

‘First: Kate. I want you to contact our friends in the Army of Allah, the Sword of God, Hezbollah, everyone. I want them screaming about the US and Russia trying to plunder Arabia. I want them creating havoc whenever and wherever possible.’

‘Then what?’ said Michael.

‘Then we assassinate the President of the United States.’

There was a stunned silence. Michael said in a whisper, ‘But why, Paul?’

‘Because Gatov was just a servant. Because the Sultan was just a pawn. Because it is no good killing just the little people. If we don’t make a statement – and I mean a big statement – the great powers will never understand. They will never leave us alone. Properly orchestrated, the killing of President Jake Cazalet will tell the world once and for all that Arabia is for the Arabs. For Cazalet, the buck stops here – isn’t that what they say? Oh, we could kill the Russian Premier instead – he’s just as culpable – but Cazalet will make a much bigger impact.’

There was more silence. Michael said, ‘You’re serious about this?’

‘Yes, Michael. Never more serious. It is time to take a stand.’ He looked hard at him. ‘This is for the Bedu.’ He shifted his eyes to George. ‘This is for Hazar.’ He rested his gaze on Kate, and they sat, their eyes locked, for what seemed like minutes. Finally, ‘This is for Mother.’ The harsh whisper seemed to fill the room.

After a moment, Kate said, ‘But who will attempt this thing?’

‘A mercenary. With the peace process taking over Northern Ireland, there are many expert IRA killers at loose ends.’ He produced an envelope and passed it to her. ‘This man, one Aidan Bell, comes highly recommended. He is to be found in County Down. It seems he shot a Russian general for the Chechens, and blew up his staff. A man willing to take risks. Go and see him, Kate. Take George with you. He’s soldiered over there and knows the ropes.’

There was no longer any hesitation. A decision had been reached. ‘Of course, brother.’

‘One other thing.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘You liked Sean Dillon?’

‘I told you.’

‘Go and see him. Arrange an accidental meeting. Concoct a story. See what he knows of Aidan Bell.’

She smiled. ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’

‘Well, don’t make it too much of one.’ He smiled back at her.