Angel of Death by Jack Higgins Page A

his watch. “Which is in about ten minutes. Shall we go?”
     
     
    The lounge bar was very pleasant, windows open to a terrace, and the view overlooked the city, the harbor crowded with shipping, the blue waters of the Mediterranean sparkling in the fading sunshine as evening fell. There was no sign of Callaghan, but there was a sudden call to prayer from a mosque down there in the city, then another and yet another, the sounds echoing across the rooftops.
    “Very pleasant,” Hannah Bernstein said. “And yet in the middle of all this people have to kill each other.”
    “A very old-fashioned habit in this part of the world,” Walid Khasan told her.
    At that moment Francis Callaghan came up the steps from the garden and sat down at a table at the other end of the terrace. Dillon, Hannah, and Walid Khasan sat down at a table at their end of the terrace. When a waiter approached, Walid Khasan ordered a pitcher of lemonade for all of them.
    “You can’t get alcohol until after seven,” he said to Dillon apologetically.
    “I’ll do my best to hang on,” Dillon said.
    Francis Callaghan waved a waiter away and took what looked like a diary from his pocket. He flipped through the pages, put it back into his pocket, and lit a cigarette.
    “He’s waiting for someone,” said Hannah. “ Perhaps Quinn?”
    “I doubt it,” Walid Khasan told her. “As I told you, the only time Quinn has surfaced was at that dockside cafe. I think our friend Callaghan is simply filing time. He may have an appointment to see Quinn later.”
    “Fine,” Dillon said. “When he goes, we follow him.” He turned to Hannah. “You stay here and hold the fort.”
    “Thanks very much,” she said indignantly.
    “Don’t be so sensitive. You need to make a progress report to Ferguson, don’t you? That link is essential especially if we need to move fast to get out of Beirut.”
    “Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She made a face. “Damn you, Dillon. Next time round I’m going to be a man.”
     
     
    Callahan made his move about twenty minutes later, passing them on the way into the hotel.
    “Here we go,” Dillon said to Hannah. “See you later,” and he and Walid Khasan got up and followed Callaghan.
    He crossed the foyer, went out of the front entrance, and hailed a taxi. As it took off, Walid Khasan led the way across to another taxi. He pushed Dillon into the rear and scrambled in after him.
    “If you lose him, Ali,” he said to the swarthy Arab behind the wheel, “I’ll have your manhood.” He leaned back and smiled at Dillon. “One of my men.”
     
     
    Charles Ferguson in his office at the Ministry of Defence listened to what Hannah Bernstein had to say.
    “So far so good,” he said. “With any luck, Callaghan could lead us straight to Quinn. You could be out of there in twenty-four hours.”
    “I suppose so, sir.”
    “We’ll see. Keep me posted and watch your back, Chief Inspector.”
    He put down the phone. Sat there brooding for a moment and then rang through to Simon Carter’s office.
    “Ferguson here,” he said. “The Prime Minister insists I keep you informed, so here’s where we are.”
     
     
    It was really quite pleasant sitting under an umbrella at one of the tables of the waterside cafe Callaghan had led them to. Colored lights were strung overhead, there was a buzz of conversation, and the tables were crowded.
    “Plenty of booze being consumed here,” Dillon observed.
    “Ah, but Beirut is a mixed society, my friend,” Walid Khasan reminded him.
    Callaghan was at a table by the far rail drinking a beer. He appeared totally unconcerned, looking over the crowd and then out into the harbor.
    “And this is where he met Quinn and Bikov?” Dillon asked.
    “Yes. Actually he sat at the same table.”
    “Excellent. If this thing works as it should, I could be in and out like Flynn.” He waved to a waiter and ordered two lagers.
    At that moment Callaghan got up and crossed to the door marked