informed of the Morgan affair in Manhattan, the intended attempt on the American President's life, an enterprise so simple it might well have succeeded if it hadn't been for the activities of Charles Ferguson and his people.
But he was separate from all that. When the Berger empire crashed, he had taken over its oil interests in southern Arabia. There was nothing America could do about that. It made him one of the most powerful businessmen in the world, highly approved of by the Russian Federation.
He had the old Rashid house in South Audley Street in London; he'd bought Drumore Place , his castle on the cliffs of Drumore in the IrishRepublic, and put Dermot Kelly in charge, ostensibly as estate manager, and the money continued to roll in.
He was Josef Belov, man of mystery, unbelievably wealthy, and always at his side was Yuri Ashimov.
NORTHERN IRELAND
NANTUCKET
Chapter 7.
Ashimov arrived at BelfastAirport in a company jet, and could have taken a helicopter onward to Drumore on the Louth coast, but instead, he'd had a car organized by his people in Belfast, or Belov's people, to be strictly accurate.
It was raining, but no surprise in that. It seemed to rain five days a week in Belfast, but he liked that and he liked Northern Ireland and the accent in which people spoke, so different from that in the Republic. It was a wonderfully beautiful place, which was why he preferred to spend a couple of hours drivng through the mountains and then crossing the border into the IrishRepublic and following the coast road to Drumore.
There was a Beretta, his preferred weapon, in the glove compartment. No border checks in these days of peace. He checked it, put it under his raincoat for easy access and drove away. The rain beat down, he turned on some music on BBC Radio, sat back and enjoyed the whole experience. There he was, born in the Ukraine, and yet he loved these crazy people.
An hour and a half later, and the Irish Sea stretched away to his left on the coast road, wind and rain driving in, and he was whistling along with the BBC when he saw DrumoreVillage in the distance, and the castle, Drumore Place , standing tall on the edge of the cliffs outside. It was an imposing sight, with towers and battlements and everything you would want a castle to have. There was only one problem. It wasn't particularly ancient. It had been built by Anglo-Irish Lord Drumore, wealthy from the sugar trade in the West Indies, in the early nineteenth century, his homage to the romantic tradition, and none the worse for that.
Ashimov drove down through the small port, turned into the parking lot of the local pub, the Royal George, which sounded as Orange Loyalist as you would have liked and dated from Loyalist times. But the people locally liked their traditions, and in spite of being staunchly Republican, refused to have the name altered.
As Ashimov got out of his car, a van drew up alongside. There were two young men in it. The one opening the passenger door bumped into Ashimov as he was getting out.
The youth, longhaired and unshaven and wearing an old combat jacket, got out, full of aggression.
"You want to watch it."
"I'm sorry," Ashimov said.
"Stupid prick."
Ashimov reached in the car, found the Beretta and put it in his pocket. "If you say so."
He walked to the pub entrance, and the young man and his driver burst into laughter. "I said he was a prick."
Inside, the bar was totally traditional, a beamed ceiling, dark oak booths, logs burning on the great stone hearth, an old marble-topped counter, the barman reading a newspaper, any bottle a man could fancy ranged behind him.
By one of the bow windows, a man of around fifty sat eating a meat-and-potato pie. He had red hair, a reckless look to him, and a slight smile. This was Dermot Kelly, a veteran since the age of seventeen of the Irish troubles. The man who sat in the window seat close to him, smoking and reading a book, was one Tod Murphy, who looked like some sort of
But he was separate from all that. When the Berger empire crashed, he had taken over its oil interests in southern Arabia. There was nothing America could do about that. It made him one of the most powerful businessmen in the world, highly approved of by the Russian Federation.
He had the old Rashid house in South Audley Street in London; he'd bought Drumore Place , his castle on the cliffs of Drumore in the IrishRepublic, and put Dermot Kelly in charge, ostensibly as estate manager, and the money continued to roll in.
He was Josef Belov, man of mystery, unbelievably wealthy, and always at his side was Yuri Ashimov.
NORTHERN IRELAND
NANTUCKET
Chapter 7.
Ashimov arrived at BelfastAirport in a company jet, and could have taken a helicopter onward to Drumore on the Louth coast, but instead, he'd had a car organized by his people in Belfast, or Belov's people, to be strictly accurate.
It was raining, but no surprise in that. It seemed to rain five days a week in Belfast, but he liked that and he liked Northern Ireland and the accent in which people spoke, so different from that in the Republic. It was a wonderfully beautiful place, which was why he preferred to spend a couple of hours drivng through the mountains and then crossing the border into the IrishRepublic and following the coast road to Drumore.
There was a Beretta, his preferred weapon, in the glove compartment. No border checks in these days of peace. He checked it, put it under his raincoat for easy access and drove away. The rain beat down, he turned on some music on BBC Radio, sat back and enjoyed the whole experience. There he was, born in the Ukraine, and yet he loved these crazy people.
An hour and a half later, and the Irish Sea stretched away to his left on the coast road, wind and rain driving in, and he was whistling along with the BBC when he saw DrumoreVillage in the distance, and the castle, Drumore Place , standing tall on the edge of the cliffs outside. It was an imposing sight, with towers and battlements and everything you would want a castle to have. There was only one problem. It wasn't particularly ancient. It had been built by Anglo-Irish Lord Drumore, wealthy from the sugar trade in the West Indies, in the early nineteenth century, his homage to the romantic tradition, and none the worse for that.
Ashimov drove down through the small port, turned into the parking lot of the local pub, the Royal George, which sounded as Orange Loyalist as you would have liked and dated from Loyalist times. But the people locally liked their traditions, and in spite of being staunchly Republican, refused to have the name altered.
As Ashimov got out of his car, a van drew up alongside. There were two young men in it. The one opening the passenger door bumped into Ashimov as he was getting out.
The youth, longhaired and unshaven and wearing an old combat jacket, got out, full of aggression.
"You want to watch it."
"I'm sorry," Ashimov said.
"Stupid prick."
Ashimov reached in the car, found the Beretta and put it in his pocket. "If you say so."
He walked to the pub entrance, and the young man and his driver burst into laughter. "I said he was a prick."
Inside, the bar was totally traditional, a beamed ceiling, dark oak booths, logs burning on the great stone hearth, an old marble-topped counter, the barman reading a newspaper, any bottle a man could fancy ranged behind him.
By one of the bow windows, a man of around fifty sat eating a meat-and-potato pie. He had red hair, a reckless look to him, and a slight smile. This was Dermot Kelly, a veteran since the age of seventeen of the Irish troubles. The man who sat in the window seat close to him, smoking and reading a book, was one Tod Murphy, who looked like some sort of
Similar Books
