The Killing Ground Part 13

"I can go, see what the situation is in the mosque itself." Caspar produced a pack of cigarettes and lit one. "There's no need to worry about me anymore, gentlemen. All my doubts are absolved, all pa.s.sion spent. It's going to work, I know that now. The only thing is how."

"I know one thing," Hal Stone said. "Her visit to the mosque will do us no good. A family affair. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I'm afraid so. It's a kind of state visit to the Imam, and my uncle and Hussein are bound to go."

Dillon said, "Roper was right. It all comes down to recognizing the opportunity and taking it."

"What do you mean?" Hal Stone said.

"Billy and I weren't available, but you two were. All you had to do was shoot the two boys. Billy?"

Billy poured Dillon a Bushmills and handed it to him. "I'm afraid he's right, gents." He turned to Caspar."It's why we're along, to be worse than the bad guys. Don't kid yourself about those two nice boys with their Kalashnikovs. They've accompanied her from Baghdad. They've done their share of killing."

Caspar took a deep breath. "How would it be done?"

"We keep a lookout and hope for an approach. Billy and I can be in the water, just in diving jackets. Silenced Walthers are just as good in water."

"And the woman with Sara?"

"Straight down the companionway and lock her in a cabin," He looked across to the jetty. "Turn up the speed, and we're there in fifteen minutes. Warn Lacey we're on our way, pile into the station wagon and it's the airport next stop. If by some odd chance Hussein turns up, we'll kill him, too."

"I'm going to the stateroom to call Lacey and Parry and bring them up to date. Then Ferguson. Then bed. See you all in the morning."

FERGUSON WAS HIMSELF IN BED reading defense papers and having a brandy nightcap. Dillon brought him up to snuff.

"You really think you can pull it off?" Ferguson asked.

"If they visit us again like they did today, yes. I'll tell you one thing-Sara Rashid is no ordinary thirteen-year-old."

"My dear Dillon, go to Shakespeare. Juliet was thirteen."

"Jesus, General, that's all right then, we're home and dry. Good night to you, as they say in Belfast!"

THE BROKER, in a sense, was going to war. Ferguson would fall to Hussein Rashid. Now it was time to settle scores elsewhere: the Salters, both Harry and Billy. He knew all about the events involving George Moon and Big Harold, so he also knew Ruby Moon now ruled the bar at the Dark Man.

He brooded for a while. Besides the Dark Man, Salter had opened a highly successful high-end restaurant, he recalled, the kind of place that attracted only the best people. Trouble there would hit Salter hard.

He looked in his book and found Chekov's number.

"Who is it? I'm in bed and not alone. It's too d.a.m.ned late."

"The Broker."

Chekov was suddenly all attention. The Broker heard him say, "Get some clothes on and get the h.e.l.l out of here or I'll give you a slapping."

He was back to the phone in a minute. "What can I do for you?"

"You know Harry Salter and his nephew Billy?"

"Who doesn't? He's a hard old b.a.s.t.a.r.d, that one. Why, what do you want?"

"I want them permanently removed. He and his people have caused serious distress to General Volkov and the President."

"Well, we can't have that."

"No. I think this is work for Stransky-Big Ivan. You know that fancy restaurant of Salter's?"

"I've been there. Harry's Place."

"Destroy it. You know what to do."

"And?"

"Salter started life as a river rat. Let him end there. Put him in the Thames along with his nephew and his hard men."

"What about Dillon?"

"What about him?"

"He and the Salters are like brothers."

"Then let them die like brothers."

CHEKOV TOOK A TAXI to the Dorchester Hotel, where he knew he would find many members of the Russian community. Many of them were millionaires, and some billionaires, and they were a hard-drinking lot. When they wanted to avoid trouble of the violent or disruptive sort, they brought in Ivan Stransky.

He was six-foot-four, built like a brick wall, his hair cropped and half of his left ear missing, left in Chechnya where he'd served in a Guards regiment. He was standing at the end of the bar, a black leather coat straining at his shoulders, a cigarette between his fingers, and saw Chekov at once.

A waitress was pa.s.sing and Chekov said, "Scotch whiskey, my lovely, two large ones and make it the cheap stuff."

He took a seat in the corner and Stransky sat beside him. "What can I do for you?" said the big man.

"What do you know about Harry Salter?"

Stransky smiled without humor. "A major gangster who's gone legit, they say-warehouse developments, casinos, apartment blocks. They say he's worth four or five hundred million."

"But I bet he hasn't entirely given up his old ways, has he?"

"Of course not. Action is the juice of life to a man like him. It's the game that appeals. He's not rubbish, he's got b.a.l.l.s and brains and in his time, he's killed. He's got a nephew, Billy, who's a younger version. So, what about him?"

"I want you to start giving Salter a bad time, as a favor to a broker friend of mine. Eventually, we're going to eliminate him, but we're going to work up to it, let him think about it a bit. We'll start with that fancy restaurant of his, Harry's Place. A lot of rich people go there-they wouldn't like it if their cars got messed up; it would be very bad for business, you know what I mean?"

"When do you want this?"

"Right now. Sudden blitz, so that he knows whoever did it means it. A hunting party will do. Five or six top men."

"My pleasure."

Chekov finished his whiskey. "Have another."

"No. I'd rather get moving. There are people I'll need to talk to."

"Good."

They hadn't mentioned money. It was not necessary. Stransky went out and Chekov called the waitress over. "Large whiskey, my love. I'll have the expensive stuff this time, the Highland Special that's eight hundred pounds a shot."

Outside the hotel on the left-hand side were private limousines waiting, their chauffeurs chatting beside them, and Stransky's own Mer-cedes was there, his driver, a hard-looking young man called Bikov, standing by it smoking a cigarette. "Get in." Stransky opened the rear door.

"What's up, boss?" Bikov demanded.

"Cafe Rosa, quickly. Will Makeev and the boys still be there?"

"Sure. They're having a card school tonight."

"I need five, maybe six of them."

"Trouble?"

"No, to make trouble. You know Harry Salter?"

"Of course I do."

"That restaurant of his, Harry's Place-Chekov wants it messed up good. Let's see if Makeev and his boys are interested."

"For Chekov? You won't have to ask twice."

BEHIND THE BAR at the Dark Man, Ruby called to Harry, who was sitting in a booth. Joe Baxter and Sam Hall were propping up the bar behind him.

"It's thinning out a bit, Harry. We can go if you like. Rita can close up."

She came round the bar in a demure white blouse and a black velvet skirt and shoes to die for.

"Bleeding marvelous," Harry said and turned to his minders. "Isn't she?"

"Absolutely, Harry," they chorused.

"Right, let's check how things are going at Harry's Place. Leave the Aston, we'll go in the Shogun." He handed Ruby in and followed her.

"I'm really looking forward to this," Ruby said. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to take me there."

"Don't be silly, girl, we just haven't had the opportunity. Anyway, you look like a princess. Doesn't she look like a princess, boys?"

"A queen, Harry," Baxter said.

"Get stuffed," Ruby told him and leaned back. "I wonder how it's going in Hazar?"

"We'll know soon enough, girl, but one thing's for sure, if anybody can handle it, Dillon and Billy can." He leaned forward and said to Baxter, "Are we tooled up?"

Baxter dropped a hidden flap. "The Colt twenty-fives, just like you said, boss, two of them."

"Guns, Harry?" Ruby was shocked. "Is that necessary?"

"There are funny people around these days, love. Russian Mafia, Albanians, fourteen-year-olds in knife gangs who'll stick a shiv in you as soon as look at you. I've got mates who are Italian Mafia and they're the good guys now."

Sam Hall pulled in outside the warehouse Salter had transformed into Harry's Place, a red neon sign above the door and a queue outside. Two young black men in dinner suits had the door.

"The Harker twins," Harry told Ruby.

Baxter and Hall took the Shogun to the car park, and Harry and Ruby walked along the side of the queue. They found five youths in black leather pushing and shoving, alarming people ahead of them.

Ruby said, "They're Russians, Harry. I used to serve a lot like that at the old pub."

They were, in fact, Makeev and four of his friends, who'd been hired by Stransky as ordered.

"Here, you bleeding well cut it out," Harry told them.

They jeered in good c.o.c.kney English, "Who the h.e.l.l are you, her father?"

He handed Ruby up the steps, where one of the Harker twins apologized profusely. "Sorry, boss, real sorry and more bad news. Big Ivan Stransky and another guy came in just before these guys turned up."

Baxter and Hall arrived on the run and ranged themselves beside the Harkers, making a formidable barrier. Harry said, "Don't let them in. We'll see what Stransky wants."

He held out his hand, Baxter slipped a Colt .25 into it and Harry took Ruby's arm as Fernando, the headwaiter, appeared, full of apologies.

"Not needed," Harry said. "This is Mrs. Moon. Take us to my table." He added to Baxter and Hall, "You come with us."

The place was rather pretty, in an Art Deco style, with a c.o.c.ktail bar, small, intimate tables, a dance floor, a trio playing music of the Cole Porter variety. Harry's table was in a booth with mirrors behind it and Baxter and Hall stood one on each side.

A waiter in a white waistcoat with bra.s.s b.u.t.tons who had responded to Harry's nod brought a large brandy and ginger ale for him and a champagne c.o.c.ktail for Ruby.

"I thought you should have a champagne c.o.c.ktail on your first visit."

"It's lovely," she said. "What's that?"

"Brandy and ginger ale. They call it a Horse's Neck."

"I wonder why?"

"Doesn't really matter, Ruby-it's a British thing. We're funny that way. Here's to you. You look lovely."

He took his drink straight down and nodded to the waiter, then folded his arms as Stransky, Bikov behind him, came down the steps from the bar and crossed the dance floor toward them.