Dark Justice Part 10

"And do we go?" Belov asked, curiously gentle.

"I don't seem to have any choice."

"I'm sure Moscow will agree when you inform them. You will excuse us, then?" He nodded to Ashimov and led the way out.

At the presidential palace, they were met by Farouk, who was ecstatic. "What you did was heroic, incredible, Colonel."

"You know who they were?"

"Oh, yes. Two of them were still alive and soon talked. Shiite rebels, naturally. They never stop trying. He's waiting for you eagerly."

When Farouk ushered them in, Saddam was behind his desk in full uniform. He got to his feet, came around and embraced Belov, then turned to Ashimov, examined the scar covered by gauze that ran from his eye to his mouth.

"How bad?"

"Sixteen st.i.tches. An interesting memento, Excellency."

"I like that." Saddam laughed. "Every morning you look in the mirror to have a shave, you'll be reminded of me. Now sit down, the both of you. I have things to say.

"I felt anger last night, but mainly impotence. I'm hedged in by the Americans and the British, even the United Nations are hardly my friends. The Shiites rebel, also the Kurds. I deal with them and people compare me to Hitler."

"Excellency, what can I say?"

"I have only one great weapon. Money. Many billions deposited in safe havens around the world, and money on that level is power."

There was a heavy pause. Belov, for want of anything better, said, "I wouldn't argue with that."

"Which brings me to the point. I owe you two my life. In my religion, this leaves me with a debt that must be repaid in some way. A sacred duty." He turned to Ashimov. "You were obeying the Colonel's instructions last night, am I right?"

"Absolutely, Excellency."

"A fine soldier doing his duty. You have my eternal grat.i.tude. As to your future, I leave that to your colonel here - in safe hands, I think, when you hear what I have to say."

He went back behind his desk and sat, speaking directly to Belov.

"These are strange times in Russia, so many State-owned enterprises going on offer to the open market, and at such reasonable prices."

"True, Excellency."

"All my billions languish all over the world, from Geneva to Singapore, and I can't invest because of the att.i.tude of the Americans and the United Nations. It would amuse me to outfox them."

"In what way?" Belov said carefully.

"By discharging my debt to you, Colonel, for saving my life. I understand that at the moment there are a number of oil fields up for grabs in Siberia, for sale by a government very short of the almighty dollar."

"That's true, Excellency."

"How far would one billion dollars take you?"

Belov glanced at Ashimov, who looked awestruck, took a deep breath and turned back to Saddam. "A very long way, Excellency. There could be difficulties, but difficulties are meant to be overcome. If I can serve you in any way, it would be an honor."

Saddam shook his head impatiently. "Not for me, my friend, for yourself. Don't you think my life is worth a billion dollars?"

For a moment, Belov was speechless as the enormity of it sank in, but finally managed to say, "I'm overwhelmed."

Saddam roared with laughter. "One billion? A drop in the ocean, but think what you could do. Give the d.a.m.ned Americans a run for their money. Now, that I would like to see. That would please me."

"But, Excellency, what can I do for you?"

"Who knows? Be my friend in bad times? A man in the shadows when needed?" There was a briefcase on the desk, and he pushed it across. "I've had my people prepare these doc.u.ments in here carefully. There are code words and pa.s.swords in here that will give you access to one billion dollars."

He stood up, and Belov and Ashimov got up hurriedly. Saddam gestured at the briefcase. "Take it, Colonel." And he laughed harshly. "My debt is paid."

In the month that followed that extraordinary meeting, Belov found an excuse to visit Geneva, a certain caution in him, a refusal to believe it could be true. He took Ashimov with him, and it certainly was true, for the bankers jumped to attention.

So he returned to Moscow and resigned from the service, together with Ashimov, whom he took on as his personal aide. With all the expertise gained from so many years in intelligence, he compiled a list of the sort of people he needed to know, not only businessmen but also crooked politicians on the take, and if any such people wouldn't play ball or tried to cause trouble, there was always Yuri Ashimov of the scarred face to take care of them.

In Siberia, government contracts were readily available, especially for someone with an apparently unlimited supply of dollars. After those early deals, he never really looked back, and in the Russia of those days, no one queried them.

Within five years, the original billion had become six, and when his old KGB friend Putin became President, it was just the icing on the cake. People didn't want democracy; they wanted strength and power and got exactly that from Putin, which suited Belov perfectly, and on his end his economic miracle suited the government perfectly, so everyone was happy.

The emergence of Al Qa'eda and the growth of the terror movement were unfortunate, for one way or another, it led to the second Gulf War and the demise of Saddam, but the prospect of the Iraqi oil fields becoming available danced enticingly in front of him, and so he was content.

The postwar turmoil in Iraq was understandable. Although the capture of Saddam by American troops seemed to herald the prospect of a more stable future, at least for Iraq, Belov had never bought the idea that the fall of Saddam would have much effect on the Arab world anyway. Muslim militants such as Al Qa'eda would still pursue what they saw as a holy war with America and the Western world, pursue that war by what they saw as the only means available to them - terror.

So Belov was pro-Arab, but only because it suited him. There was no doubt he was anti-American, but for obvious business reasons. The Brits were all right, because the Brits were the Brits and he had a weakness for London, but his old philosophy held true and was like a devil in him. To create chaos, fear and uncertainty in the Western world and in pursuit of those aims, it made sense to aid the cause of Muslim militants. But that side of things he left to Yuri Ashimov. It was not that he didn't want to know - it was just that he didn't want to know too much.

The money, of course, made all the difference. There were charitable trusts, educational trusts for young people, in reality fronts for those like Wrath of Allah, the Party of G.o.d and others, who were particularly dedicated to such enterprises as, for example, recruiting young British-born Muslims to take them to training camps in the Middle East. He had been informed of the Morgan affair in Manhattan, the intended attempt on the American President's life, an enterprise so simple it might well have succeeded if it hadn't been for the activities of Charles Ferguson and his people.

But he was separate from all that. When the Berger empire crashed, he had taken over its oil interests in southern Arabia. There was nothing America could do about that. It made him one of the most powerful businessmen in the world, highly approved of by the Russian Federation.

He had the old Rashid house in South Audley Street in London; he'd bought Drumore Place, his castle on the cliffs of Drumore in the Irish Republic, and put Dermot Kelly in charge, ostensibly as estate manager, and the money continued to roll in.

He was Josef Belov, man of mystery, unbelievably wealthy, and always at his side was Yuri Ashimov.

NORTHERN IRELAND NANTUCKET.

7.

Ashimov arrived at Belfast Airport in a company jet, and could have taken a helicopter onward to Drumore on the Louth coast, but instead, he'd had a car organized by his people in Belfast, or Belov's people, to be strictly accurate.

It was raining, but no surprise in that. It seemed to rain five days a week in Belfast, but he liked that and he liked Northern Ireland and the accent in which people spoke, so different from that in the Republic. It was a wonderfully beautiful place, which was why he preferred to spend a couple of hours drivng through the mountains and then crossing the border into the Irish Republic and following the coast road to Drumore.

There was a Beretta, his preferred weapon, in the glove compartment. No border checks in these days of peace. He checked it, put it under his raincoat for easy access and drove away. The rain beat down, he turned on some music on BBC Radio, sat back and enjoyed the whole experience. There he was, born in the Ukraine, and yet he loved these crazy people.

An hour and a half later, and the Irish Sea stretched away to his left on the coast road, wind and rain driving in, and he was whistling along with the BBC when he saw Drumore Village in the distance, and the castle, Drumore Place, standing tall on the edge of the cliffs outside. It was an imposing sight, with towers and battlements and everything you would want a castle to have. There was only one problem. It wasn't particularly ancient. It had been built by Anglo-Irish Lord Drumore, wealthy from the sugar trade in the West Indies, in the early nineteenth century, his homage to the romantic tradition, and none the worse for that.

Ashimov drove down through the small port, turned into the parking lot of the local pub, the Royal George, which sounded as Orange Loyalist as you would have liked and dated from Loyalist times. But the people locally liked their traditions, and in spite of being staunchly Republican, refused to have the name altered.

As Ashimov got out of his car, a van drew up alongside. There were two young men in it. The one opening the pa.s.senger door b.u.mped into Ashimov as he was getting out.

The youth, longhaired and unshaven and wearing an old combat jacket, got out, full of aggression.

"You want to watch it."

"I'm sorry," Ashimov said.

"Stupid p.r.i.c.k."

Ashimov reached in the car, found the Beretta and put it in his pocket. "If you say so."

He walked to the pub entrance, and the young man and his driver burst into laughter. "I said he was a p.r.i.c.k."

Inside, the bar was totally traditional, a beamed ceiling, dark oak booths, logs burning on the great stone hearth, an old marble-topped counter, the barman reading a newspaper, any bottle a man could fancy ranged behind him.

By one of the bow windows, a man of around fifty sat eating a meat-and-potato pie. He had red hair, a reckless look to him, and a slight smile. This was Dermot Kelly, a veteran since the age of seventeen of the Irish troubles. The man who sat in the window seat close to him, smoking and reading a book, was one Tod Murphy, who looked like some sort of intellectual, with his black hair flecked with gray, and steel spectacles. Once a student of theology intent on the priesthood, he had followed the same path as Kelly, although in his case it had included fifteen years in the Maze Prison for murdering five people. It was only the Peace Process that had released him. He looked up, saw Ashimov at the bar and smiled.

The barman, without being told, had taken a bottle of cold vodka from the bar fridge and poured a large one. Before Ashimov could touch it, the two youths who had followed him in ranged alongside him. The youth in the combat jacket picked up the gla.s.s.

"What in the h.e.l.l would this be?" He drank some and made a face. "What kind of s.h.i.te is that?"

"My kind, and as you've touched it, you can buy me another."

"You what?" The youth grabbed for the front of Ashimov's coat and the Russian head-b.u.t.ted him.

The youth went down, and his friend cried out in anger and reached for the bottle of vodka on the bar. Dermot said, "Tod."

Murphy stood up, still holding his book. "Not in here, not without Dermot Kelly's say-so. I don't know where you're from, but this is an IRA pub and this gentleman is a friend of ours."

"f.u.c.k you," the youth said and smashed the bottle on the edge of the marble bar. Murphy kicked him under one knee and Ashimov grabbed him by the collar, screwed a short punch into his kidneys and ran him headfirst through the front door.

"Better clear the mess, Michael," Murphy said to the barman. "The terrible times we live in, Major. Kids down over the border from Belfast, always high on something. If it's not the drugs, it's the booze. But not in Drumore. We like a bit of law and order here."

"IRA law and order."

"Children can walk to school safe here, old people rest easy in their homes, young women walk home from the village dance, and with Mr. Belov the squire now, most people are in work and grateful. Farms around here are prosperous, thanks to Mr. Belov. If you were hoping to see him, he left yesterday in the helicopter for Belfast and onwards to Moscow."

"I knew."

"He's a close one, Mr. Belov."

"Because he's what you might call preoccupied with business on a worldwide scale. Anything else, he leaves to me. Now, what have you got for me?"

Tod Murphy, who as well as learning Irish in the Maze Prison had managed reasonable Russian, held up the book and said in that language, "The City of G.o.d, by St. Augustine. Serious reading for a serious man."

"So you still believe in G.o.d in spite of having walked over corpses all these years."

"Oh, yes," Tod Murphy said gravely. "h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation exist, redemption is possible. Christ is risen."

"As to walking over corpses, Major, we've all done that, as I understand it," Kelly told him.

"Especially Josef Belov," Ashimov said. "I think you'll find his body count exceeds the two of you put together."

"Very possibly, and I say the same of yours. But let's go up to the castle and we'll show you the ceiling they've refurbished in the Great Hall. Belov was pleased. Let's see what you think."

As they drove through the grounds, the vista was more than pleasing: the avenue of beech trees, the moat, the great entrance, the turrets, the towers. There was even a drawbridge that worked on an electronic system. The Great Hall was everything it ought to be: a huge staircase sweeping down, carpets scattered over the flagged floor, two enormous chandeliers hanging from the gilded ceiling, a log fire smoldering on the wide hearth, an oak table, twelve chairs around it, a couch on each side of the fire.

"You'll have a drink?" Kelly asked. "The kitchen's working on the lunch now."

"Why not?"

"And you can tell us why you've come," Murphy said.

"What do you know about a man named Sean Dillon?" Ashimov asked.

Tod Murphy simply stopped smiling and looked astonished. "Sean? What in the h.e.l.l is he to you?"

Dermot Kelly laughed out loud, and Ashimov said, "What is this? It sounds as if he's some kind of friend."

"Ah, Major, you'll never understand the Irish. Sean was more than a friend. He was the best, a true comrade," Kelly said. "We were on the run from Brit paratroopers in the sewers of Derry on one famous occasion. I took a bullet in the shoulder, but I could keep going. Tod here got one in the leg and fell by the wayside. When Sean found out, he went back for him."

"I'll drink to him any day," Murphy said.

Ashimov was bewildered. "This man works for Charles Ferguson, who heads the Prime Minister's secret security service. So secret, it's known in the trade-"

Kelly cut in, " - as the Prime Minister's private army, and they'd need the best, so they got Sean."

"I don't understand you."

"You'd need to be Irish to understand us, Major, and it's got nothing to do with religion. Sean Dillon is the best. They couldn't touch his collar for years, not the RUC, not the British Army. D'you know how he ended up working for Ferguson? During the Serb War, he was flying medical supplies in for children, the Serbs caught him."

"It's what's called a good deed in a naughty world," Tod Murphy said. "He was faced with a firing squad - and Ferguson blackmailed him. He saved his skin, wiped his slate clean, and in return Sean became his enforcer. We all know the story."

And Ashimov, in spite of his wealth of experience, was astonished. "And you don't mind?"

Kelly said, "I told you. He was a comrade. The best. But if he got you in his sights, you were dead. Still would be."

"So why do you want to know about him?" Kelly asked, and Ashimov told them.

When he had finished, Murphy said, "So this Ali Selim bowser is on the run in Iraq and you've got what's-her-name, Greta Novikova, on his tail?"

"Ferguson will have Sean on that one like a dose of salts," Kelly put in. He turned to Tod Murphy. "Put your priest's intellect on this. What's your conclusion?"