The Killing Ground Part 21

"We'll park the seaplane when we get there, then we'll go to the airport. You check on flights for us and call me back."

A half hour later, the Broker did. "I've checked. There are a lot of flights to French destinations including a number of cheap basic flights to provincial airports. Flights of the kind where they pack you in and don't even offer a cup of coffee, but they don't give a d.a.m.n who you are. One such destination is Rennes, which is less than fifty miles by train from Saint-Malo on the Brittany coast. Saint-Denis is only twelve miles outside of Saint-Malo. That should be your best bet. The booking is your affair."

"The insolence of this man is unique," Khazid said. "With his so-called perfect world showing signs of cracking, his condescension is breathtaking."

"Don't let it get to you." Hussein put things back on manual. "Try and get some sleep. I'm going to fly the plane." He took the control column, leaned back and started to enjoy himself.

FOUR O'CLOCK, a half-moon giving everything a faint luminosity, they came in from the sea at five hundred feet, turning parallel to the coast looking for just the right sort of place. It was Khazid who finally noticed one, a small crescent-shaped cove beneath a steep headland at the north end of the island. There were many opulent villas on the coast on either side of it and a lonely jetty, no boats tied up.

"The kind of place tourists with hire boats may use. Most of the villas have their own. I think people will think an item like a private aircraft properly belongs to somebody in a rich man's area like this."

"It does have a certain logic."

Hussein landed on the sea beyond the cove and taxied in, his engines reduced to a muted rumble. They coasted in and he cut the engines, allowing small waves to edge the plane against the jetty, then opened the door and got out, followed by Khazid with the curved rope of the line in one hand. He tied up, then got the two flight bags, pa.s.sing his to Hussein. There was a line of steps and a decent path beyond.

A pine wood was at the top and the path led them through it to an extensive vineyard beyond. There were villas here and there, cottages, but it was a scattered sort of landscape.

"Coats off," Hussein said. "Try to fit in, look casual."

The sky was pink, then gold, the sun rose, and they saw people occasionally in the distance. It was all incredibly beautiful. Reaching the main road, they came to their first village, and already life was stirring.

"Well?" Khazid said. "What next?"

"I don't know." At that moment, they came to the end of the village and found an inn with a pleasant garden, a young woman brushing a terrace.

She smiled and said good morning in Spanish, and Hussein answered in English. Khazid followed, putting on a slight French accent.

"Good morning, mademoiselle. I see no sign of a bus service."

"Not until noon. Do you have a problem?"

He said smoothly, "Our problem is a hire car which gave up the ghost on us, I'm afraid, and I've tried their number, but there is no reply."

"And we have a plane at noon," Hussein said.

"Oh, I see. So you need to get to Palma?"

"As soon as possible."

"As it happens, my barman, Juan, is going to town in the truck for supplies after he's had his breakfast. I'm sure you could come to an agreement with him. I'll go and have a word. Perhaps you would like some coffee and rolls while you're waiting?"

She went out and they sat at a small table. "We do have another problem," Hussein said. "The plane we didn't get, the one doing some sort of drug run from Khufra to France, was going to drop us off illegally- which meant that we could still keep our weapons."

"So no guns," Khazid said.

"And none from Romano. Everything we need will be provided by Darcus Wellington, that's what the Broker said."

"Okay. Let's get it over with." Khazid transferred the two Walthers and the Colt .25s into his pockets. "It breaks my heart, but if it must be done . . ." He shrugged. "I'll go and find a drain."

He moved into the vineyard beside the garden and disappeared. The girl returned with coffee, rolls and marmalade. She wrinkled her nose. "What happened to you?"

"I was trying to fix the car and fell into a ditch beside it."

"If you want to use the washroom, feel free. It's the door next to the bar. There's a shower."

So in he went, saying h.e.l.lo to a young man, presumably Juan, cleaning the bar top. In the washroom, he examined himself, a sorry sight, then stripped his clothes and showered and toweled himself vigorously, which made him look better, although the clothes were still dreadful. When he went back, Khazid was flirting outrageously with the girl and drinking red wine she had supplied.

"Come on, mon ami," mon ami," he said. "Try a gla.s.s. It's good for the heart." And Hussein, knowing what he was trying to do, took the wine down manfully. he said. "Try a gla.s.s. It's good for the heart." And Hussein, knowing what he was trying to do, took the wine down manfully.

Juan appeared, good-byes were said and they got in the rear of the open truck, their backs against the driver's cabin, and departed.

"Nice girl," Khazid said. "Just think. A couple of real desperadoes like us and she never knew."

"Better for her, I think, much better." Hussein leaned back and closed his eyes in the early morning sun.

AT THE AIRPORT, they gave Juan fifty dollars, then searched the numerous shops and selected a men's boutique. Hussein kept his flight bag, but gave Khazid his British pa.s.sport on the off chance they'd allow him to get both tickets. No one knew better than he did how slipshod matters of security could be, especially when dealing with large numbers of people.

In the boutique, the proprietor and an a.s.sistant who was obviously his boyfriend tut-tutted when he explained about the accident and set about clothing him from head to toe. Underwear, socks of silk, shirts, white and blue, an expensive tan summer suit from Armani and tan brogues finished things off. He stood and examined himself in the mirror. Yes, it would do for now. He noticed a khaki trench coat on a rail, bought that, too, and was just paying for it all when Khazid returned.

"My goodness, but you look stylish," he said.

"Flattery is the last thing I need. What about the tickets?"

"Easy. The girl was French, and I do French well. Two tickets in row E, taking off for Rennes at eleven-thirty. We're returning holiday-makers."

"Good. Hide those extra pa.s.sports in the special compartment in your flight bag; we'll buy a suitcase, put both flight bags inside so they can go in the hold. I'm going to speak to the Broker."

Which he did, calling him in with the panic b.u.t.ton, sitting in the corner of the airport lounge when they spoke.

"We had to dispose of our guns, an unlooked-for problem."

"There's nothing I can do about that, but you'll be all right when you reach England. Darcus Wellington may surprise you."

"You'll confirm to George Romano we're on the way?"

"All taken care of."

The Broker departed, and Hussein said to Khazid, "A decent meal, I think, is what we need now."

"I couldn't agree more." They made their way to one of the restaurants.

IRELAND.

LONDON.

Chapter 10.

IT HAD BEEN THE PREVIOUS DAY, TWENTY-FOUR HOURS before Hussein and Khazid reached Majorca, when Roper had astonished Boris Lhuzkov with his candid conversation. Obviously, Lhuzkov couldn't speak to the Broker, but Volkov was a different matter. He phoned him on his secure line at the Kremlin.

"I've got something for you-rather interesting."

"Well, that makes a change."

"I've just had a conversation with Roper at Holland Park."

"Have you, by G.o.d? Tell me everything."

IT COULDN'T BE QUITE EVERYTHING, for at that stage of the game, Hussein had just buried his uncle and his two friends. Admittedly, the photo planted by Roper in the British newspapers had just appeared, but the Broker hadn't made any mention to Volkov of Hussein's determination still to travel to England.

"What do you think?" Lhuzkov said. "Is Roper a loose cannon?"

"No, everything he does has a purpose. So he tells you Greta is working for Charles Ferguson. We suspected that anyway. He talks of Levin in Dublin. We know very well that Levin is in Dublin, and his sergeants. This Rashid business, the girl in Hazar, is interesting, though hardly surprising with Dillon and that wretched Salter involved. Personally, the idea that Hussein would for any reason come to England now confirms to me that it would be stupid. In my opinion, any hopes of using his services for any of our own problems must go out the window. But we've still got to do something about Ferguson. This unholy alliance with Dillon and Harry Salter and all his criminal connections is unacceptable."

"And so we see even the Moscow Mafia confounded." Lhuzkov laughed. "Now that Chekov is out of the picture for a while, what do you intend to do?"

"I'm not certain, but it must be something, and soon."

"It needs to be something to make people sit up and take notice," Lhuzkov told him. "Physical violence may be old-fashioned, but Stransky and Chekov certainly got the point."

"A great many people, not only in our line of work but in the criminal underworld, got the message that Harry Salter is back in business."

"If he ever went away."

"He's doing a very clever thing, Boris, and even the police reluctantly approve. The things he does, he does to bad people, unpopular people."

"Like Russians in London," Lhuzkov said. "Billionaire oligarchs and foot soldiers in the Mafia. So they got a rough pa.s.sage. Why should ordinary Londoners care?"

"I'd love to take Salter down," Volkov said.

"You'd never get near him, just the way you'd never get near Ferguson."

"I don't know,"Volkov said. "I've always believed if you want to shoot someone, it's perfectly possible. Look at that idiot who shot President Reagan."

"Honey, I forgot to duck, he said to his wife."

"Yes, he had a great sense of humor."

"For a man intent on destroying Communism and the Soviet Union."

"Thank you for reminding me. Let me remind you that when Igor Levin was given the job of disposing of that Chechnyan general, he got close enough to cut his throat in the hotel they were using as command headquarters."

"Yes, Levin was a true artist."

"Roper, of course, only talked to you so that you would talk to me. I wonder why?"

"Stirring the pot perhaps."

And with that, they hung up.

AND WHO IS HE ringing now? Lhuzkov wondered, and indeed Volkov was already calling Igor Levin. It was eleven o'clock on as wet a morning as Dublin could provide. Levin was at his apartment, with his great view of the Liffey obscured by the gray curtain of rain outside.

Levin answered, always aware that a call on his encoded phone meant someone important, and was surprised to find Volkov on the other end, considering how short a time it had been since the last one.

"General, what a surprise. What can I do for you?"

"I won't beat about the bush. When I spoke to you from Paris the other day, I told you I wanted you back. I also said I'd spoken to President Putin and he told me to tell you that Russia needs you and that he needs you."

Levin burst out laughing. "What a load of b.a.l.l.s. Who do you want killed?" He laughed again. "There are plenty of killers in Dublin. Shall I find you one?"

Volkov was furious and frustrated. "You Jewish ingrate," he shouted.

"Only half-Jewish, my mother of blessed memory. And may I remind you that in his time my father was a much-decorated colonel in the Red Army." He wasn't seething at the slur, he wasn't even angry. "Hey, General, I've served Russia well."

At the other end, Volkov breathed deeply a couple of times and moderated his tone. "My dear Levin, forgive me for what I have said. As for your father, he was indeed a great man. And you've just given me an idea. Excuse me."

HE HUNG UP and immediately phoned Michael Flynn at Scamrock Security, who was farther along the Liffey, sitting at his desk, dictating to his secretary, Mary O'Toole, the young woman Popov had been taking out recently.

"Mr. Flynn, it's Volkov. We need to talk."

"Certainly. Is it important?"

"Vitally-to both of us."

"Just a moment," Flynn said. "Mary, take your tea break. I'll call you later."

"Certainly, Mr. Flynn."

What transpired was unfortunate for Flynn. Mary had received the kind of attention a man in his late fifties may well give a pretty girl in her twenties. As usual, the affair hadn't lasted, leaving Mary, as girls often will in such cases, feeling aggrieved, especially as she was from a Fenian family and had been proud of her a.s.sociation with a pillar of the original Provisional IRA. Being a security specialist, Flynn had a number of recording devices servicing the room, some operated from the secretary's office outside. It was only recently that Mary had taken to listening in. She did so now.

"Drumore Place and the Belov International complex. Are you still interested in the security job there?" Volkov asked.

"By G.o.d, I am."