Baron?”
“Don’t bother with your disposal team, General, I’m not Rupert Dauncey.”
“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ferguson said.
“Don’t bother. I know everything.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means that I am declaring
Jihad
on you in memory of my dear friend Kate Rashid. Tell that to Dillon, and the rest of your friends.”
Rossi joined him, closed the door and they drove away.
“Well, to quote our hostile friend, at least now we know where we stand, Charles.” Blake shook hands. “I’ll see you.”
Ferguson went to his Daimler, the chauffeur standing beside it. Dillon was waiting in the rear and Ferguson joined him. He punched a number on his mobile. It was answered instantly.
“Who is this?”
“Roper, this is Ferguson. Get yourself down to the Dark Man and bring the file you’ve prepared on von Berger. We’ve got problems.”
“Will Sean be with you?”
“Yes.”
“On my way.”
As they drove off, Dillon said, “Well?”
“Oh, the Prime Minister put the boot in hard. No kind of government cooperation. They’ll place all sorts of obstacles in the Baron’s way.”
“And how did he take it?”
“He’s just declared
Jihad
on all of us in memory of Kate Rashid – and he told me he wasn’t a candidate for the disposal team.”
“That’s interesting.”
“He knows, Dillon, God knows how. So I think it’s time we had a council of war.”
“Well, that makes sense.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “Quite like old times.”
As they progressed through the usual bad London traffic, Dillon thought about von Berger and what he would entail. The Daimler turned along a narrow lane between warehouse developments and came out on a wharf beside the Thames. They parked outside
The Dark Man,
Salter’s pub, its painted sign showing a sinister individual in a dark cloak.
The main bar was very Victorian: mirrors, mahogany bars behind, porcelain beer pumps. Dora, the barmaid, sat on a stool reading
The London Evening Standard.
The afternoon trade was light except for four men in the corner booth, and a fifth alongside. Harry Salter, his nephew Billy, his minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, and Major Roper in his wheelchair.
Harry Salter looked up, saw Dillon first. “You little Irish bastard. And you, General. What’s going on?”
“Oh, a great deal, Harry.” Ferguson squeezed in. “We’ve got trouble and it affects all of us. How are you, Roper?”
The man in the state-of-the-art wheelchair smiled. He wore a reefer coat, his hair down to his shoulders, and his face was a taut mass of the scar tissue associated with burns. A Royal Engineers’ bomb disposal expert, decorated with the George Cross, his extraordinary career had been terminated by what he called a “silly little bomb” in a family car in Belfast.
He’d survived and discovered a whole new career in computers. Now, if you wanted to find out anything in cyberspace, it was Roper you called.
“I’m fine, General.”
“And you have the file?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Excellent.”
“Here, what goes on?” Harry Salter asked.
Ferguson said, “You see to the drinks, Dillon, and I’ll fill them in.”
Afterward, Harry Salter said, “So we’re back with Kate Rashid. She was going to knock us all off, and now
this
geezer has taken over.”
Dillon, standing at the bar, was joined by Billy, who said, “What do you think, Dillon?”
“I think he’s serious business, Billy.”
“Well, we’ve handled serious business before.”
“Yes, and it got you a bullet through your neck, eighteen stitches in your face and two bullets through the pelvis.”
“Dillon, I’m fit now. I work with a personal trainer every day.”
“Billy, you jumped out of an airplane for me at four hundred feet, twice. It’s over, that kind of thing.”
“So, I’m still good on the street.”
“We’ll see, younger brother.”
Behind them, Ferguson had finished. Harry Salter
“Don’t bother with your disposal team, General, I’m not Rupert Dauncey.”
“Oh, dear, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ferguson said.
“Don’t bother. I know everything.”
“So what does that mean?”
“It means that I am declaring
Jihad
on you in memory of my dear friend Kate Rashid. Tell that to Dillon, and the rest of your friends.”
Rossi joined him, closed the door and they drove away.
“Well, to quote our hostile friend, at least now we know where we stand, Charles.” Blake shook hands. “I’ll see you.”
Ferguson went to his Daimler, the chauffeur standing beside it. Dillon was waiting in the rear and Ferguson joined him. He punched a number on his mobile. It was answered instantly.
“Who is this?”
“Roper, this is Ferguson. Get yourself down to the Dark Man and bring the file you’ve prepared on von Berger. We’ve got problems.”
“Will Sean be with you?”
“Yes.”
“On my way.”
As they drove off, Dillon said, “Well?”
“Oh, the Prime Minister put the boot in hard. No kind of government cooperation. They’ll place all sorts of obstacles in the Baron’s way.”
“And how did he take it?”
“He’s just declared
Jihad
on all of us in memory of Kate Rashid – and he told me he wasn’t a candidate for the disposal team.”
“That’s interesting.”
“He knows, Dillon, God knows how. So I think it’s time we had a council of war.”
“Well, that makes sense.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “Quite like old times.”
As they progressed through the usual bad London traffic, Dillon thought about von Berger and what he would entail. The Daimler turned along a narrow lane between warehouse developments and came out on a wharf beside the Thames. They parked outside
The Dark Man,
Salter’s pub, its painted sign showing a sinister individual in a dark cloak.
The main bar was very Victorian: mirrors, mahogany bars behind, porcelain beer pumps. Dora, the barmaid, sat on a stool reading
The London Evening Standard.
The afternoon trade was light except for four men in the corner booth, and a fifth alongside. Harry Salter, his nephew Billy, his minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, and Major Roper in his wheelchair.
Harry Salter looked up, saw Dillon first. “You little Irish bastard. And you, General. What’s going on?”
“Oh, a great deal, Harry.” Ferguson squeezed in. “We’ve got trouble and it affects all of us. How are you, Roper?”
The man in the state-of-the-art wheelchair smiled. He wore a reefer coat, his hair down to his shoulders, and his face was a taut mass of the scar tissue associated with burns. A Royal Engineers’ bomb disposal expert, decorated with the George Cross, his extraordinary career had been terminated by what he called a “silly little bomb” in a family car in Belfast.
He’d survived and discovered a whole new career in computers. Now, if you wanted to find out anything in cyberspace, it was Roper you called.
“I’m fine, General.”
“And you have the file?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Excellent.”
“Here, what goes on?” Harry Salter asked.
Ferguson said, “You see to the drinks, Dillon, and I’ll fill them in.”
Afterward, Harry Salter said, “So we’re back with Kate Rashid. She was going to knock us all off, and now
this
geezer has taken over.”
Dillon, standing at the bar, was joined by Billy, who said, “What do you think, Dillon?”
“I think he’s serious business, Billy.”
“Well, we’ve handled serious business before.”
“Yes, and it got you a bullet through your neck, eighteen stitches in your face and two bullets through the pelvis.”
“Dillon, I’m fit now. I work with a personal trainer every day.”
“Billy, you jumped out of an airplane for me at four hundred feet, twice. It’s over, that kind of thing.”
“So, I’m still good on the street.”
“We’ll see, younger brother.”
Behind them, Ferguson had finished. Harry Salter
Similar Books
