said, “A right bastard, this one. Just as bad as her.”
“So it would appear. What do you think, Roper?”
“Well, the coming together of Rashid and Berger does make them one of the most powerful corporations in the world. It’s the apotheosis of capitalism – if that doesn’t sound too Marxist.”
Ferguson nodded. “It’s like a bad novel, the whole thing.” He turned to Harry Salter. “I’ve had a trying morning, Harry. Could I have your famous shepherd’s pie and an indifferent red wine? I’m in need of comfort.”
6.
AT THE RASHID house in South Audley Street the Baron sat in the drawing room with Marco.
“So what’s our game plan?” Marco asked.
“Let’s start by taking some action against the small fry, these gangsters, the Salters.”
“I’ll work something out. I have Newton and Cook keeping Dillon’s place under surveillance.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Just to keep an eye on him, see where he goes, what contacts he makes. I’ve given Newton the addresses of those involved on a regular basis with him, also computer photos.”
“Where did you get those?”
“From the computer right here in the study. There’s a mass of information there – details of various schemes and operations Kate Rashid has put into play.”
“Business?”
“Of a sort.”
“I’ll leave it all to you, for the moment, Marco. With the merger of the two companies, I have enough on my hands. Just keep me informed.”
“Of course, Father,” Marco said and went out.
The next morning, the “council of war” had moved to Roper’s apartment in Regency Square. It was on the ground floor, with its own entrance and a slope to aid wheelchair users. Roper insisted on looking after himself and had had the apartment, from bathroom to kitchen, specially designed to take care of his problems.
His sitting room had been turned into a state-of-the-art computer laboratory, including some highly classified equipment, which was there mainly because it suited Charles Ferguson. Over the years since his disaster in Belfast, Roper had become a legend in the world of computers. He had broken every kind of system from Moscow to Washington and he had proved his worth to Ferguson and the Prime Minister on more than one occasion.
On that morning, Sean Dillon arrived first in his Mini Cooper, parked and pressed the doorbell. The voice box crackled and Roper said, “Who is it?”
“Sean, you idiot, let me in.”
The door swung open and he went through into the sitting room and found Roper in his wheelchair at the bank of computers. He crossed to a sideboard, found a bottle of Irish whiskey and poured one.
“Paddy? Okay, well, it’s not Bushmills, but you’re improving.”
“I’m on a pension, Dillon. The Ministry of Defence being as parsimonious as it is, I have to watch my pennies.”
“You could always sell your medals. The Military Cross would do okay, but the George Cross would make a fortune.”
“You’re always so amusing.” Roper tried a smile, always difficult with that ravaged, burned face.
“Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. Ferguson said you had found something?”
“Yes, but let’s wait for them.” The front doorbell went and he pressed the remote control. “Here they are.”
A moment later, Ferguson appeared, and with him a woman in her late thirties, with red hair, wearing an Armani trouser suit. She looked like some high-level business executive, but she was Ferguson’s assistant, Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein, on loan to him from Special Branch. She had an M.A. in psychology from Oxford, but she had killed more than once in the line of duty.
“Ah, Dillon,” the general said, “we can get straight on with it. What have you got for us, Major?”
“You wanted me to have a look at von Berger in general, the way he’s been able to take over Rashid? Well, I discovered something interesting. A couple of years ago, he hiked two billion into Rashid for
“So it would appear. What do you think, Roper?”
“Well, the coming together of Rashid and Berger does make them one of the most powerful corporations in the world. It’s the apotheosis of capitalism – if that doesn’t sound too Marxist.”
Ferguson nodded. “It’s like a bad novel, the whole thing.” He turned to Harry Salter. “I’ve had a trying morning, Harry. Could I have your famous shepherd’s pie and an indifferent red wine? I’m in need of comfort.”
6.
AT THE RASHID house in South Audley Street the Baron sat in the drawing room with Marco.
“So what’s our game plan?” Marco asked.
“Let’s start by taking some action against the small fry, these gangsters, the Salters.”
“I’ll work something out. I have Newton and Cook keeping Dillon’s place under surveillance.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Just to keep an eye on him, see where he goes, what contacts he makes. I’ve given Newton the addresses of those involved on a regular basis with him, also computer photos.”
“Where did you get those?”
“From the computer right here in the study. There’s a mass of information there – details of various schemes and operations Kate Rashid has put into play.”
“Business?”
“Of a sort.”
“I’ll leave it all to you, for the moment, Marco. With the merger of the two companies, I have enough on my hands. Just keep me informed.”
“Of course, Father,” Marco said and went out.
The next morning, the “council of war” had moved to Roper’s apartment in Regency Square. It was on the ground floor, with its own entrance and a slope to aid wheelchair users. Roper insisted on looking after himself and had had the apartment, from bathroom to kitchen, specially designed to take care of his problems.
His sitting room had been turned into a state-of-the-art computer laboratory, including some highly classified equipment, which was there mainly because it suited Charles Ferguson. Over the years since his disaster in Belfast, Roper had become a legend in the world of computers. He had broken every kind of system from Moscow to Washington and he had proved his worth to Ferguson and the Prime Minister on more than one occasion.
On that morning, Sean Dillon arrived first in his Mini Cooper, parked and pressed the doorbell. The voice box crackled and Roper said, “Who is it?”
“Sean, you idiot, let me in.”
The door swung open and he went through into the sitting room and found Roper in his wheelchair at the bank of computers. He crossed to a sideboard, found a bottle of Irish whiskey and poured one.
“Paddy? Okay, well, it’s not Bushmills, but you’re improving.”
“I’m on a pension, Dillon. The Ministry of Defence being as parsimonious as it is, I have to watch my pennies.”
“You could always sell your medals. The Military Cross would do okay, but the George Cross would make a fortune.”
“You’re always so amusing.” Roper tried a smile, always difficult with that ravaged, burned face.
“Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself. Ferguson said you had found something?”
“Yes, but let’s wait for them.” The front doorbell went and he pressed the remote control. “Here they are.”
A moment later, Ferguson appeared, and with him a woman in her late thirties, with red hair, wearing an Armani trouser suit. She looked like some high-level business executive, but she was Ferguson’s assistant, Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein, on loan to him from Special Branch. She had an M.A. in psychology from Oxford, but she had killed more than once in the line of duty.
“Ah, Dillon,” the general said, “we can get straight on with it. What have you got for us, Major?”
“You wanted me to have a look at von Berger in general, the way he’s been able to take over Rashid? Well, I discovered something interesting. A couple of years ago, he hiked two billion into Rashid for
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