Part 7 (1/2)

”What for?”

”The latest consignment to Iraq. I'll have to delay it for a while.”

”You can't do that, it's all arranged. Leaving tomorrow night.”

”It's not convenient.”

”I don't care. The deal is five grand a head, so five heads makes it twenty-five, like we agreed, old son, and twenty-five is what I expect whether it's on or it's off. Does As.h.i.+mov know about this?”

”Look, be reasonable. I'll come and see you if you like. Where are you?”

”The Red Lion, but don't come without the cash. I'm beginning to worry about you, and that would never do.”

Selim put the phone down and sat thinking about it. It was the thing he hated most, having to deal with people like Harker, but what could he do? It was essential to keep the traffic on the move to Iraq on a regular basis, now more than ever. At least there was the money from As.h.i.+mov to keep it going.

He found a canvas bag and opened the safe in the corner of the office. There was money in there, a great deal of money, stacked neatly in bundles of fifty-pound notes. He counted out the required amount, put it in the bag and got his hat and a raincoat.

He was worried, running scared. He believed in what he was doing. His cause was just and he believed in Allah above everything, but all of a sudden, things seemed to have gotten out of hand. The Morgan thing had looked so promising, so absurdly simple with As.h.i.+mov's support, and not only had it failed, it had brought Ferguson and his people into the equation, and this Dillon. He shuddered. A truly frightening man. And then this business of Mrs. Morgan's so-called accident. It was a terrible business, and yet his own motives in all this had been so pure.

There was a knock on the door and the caretaker, Abdul, looked in. ”Can I get you anything, Doctor?”

”No, I've got to go out for a while. I'll see you later.”

He went out to the yard outside, found his Peugeot and drove away.

Dillon's cab turned from Wapping High Street and moved along a narrow lane between warehouse developments, finally stopping outside Salter's pub, the Dark Man, its painted sign showing a sinister individual in a black coat.

The bar was reasonably busy without being crowded, a fine old London pub, bright and cheerful, with Victorian gilt mirrors behind the mahogany bar, bottles ranged against them. Dora, the chief barmaid, sat on a stool behind the bar, smoking a cigarette.

”Why, Mr. Dillon. Haven't seen you for a while. They're in the corner booth.”

Which they were: Harry, his nephew Billy - at twenty-nine a hard and ruthless young man, who had killed a number of times, although usually on the side of right - and Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, Salter's minders. They were playing cards, and Salter glanced up and smiled, genuine pleasure on his face.

”Why, Dillon, it's good to see you. It's been too long. You and Ferguson been up to your usual shenanigans, I a.s.sume?”

”Something like that.” Dillon called to Dora. ”A large Bushmills over here, love.”

Billy had stopped smiling, and there was a slight frown on his face. ”Trouble, Dillon?”

”How did you guess?”

”Because it follows you around and I've come to recognize the signs.”

Dora arrived with the whiskey and Dillon tossed it back. ”Does Charlie Harker mean anything to you, Harry?”

Salter's face turned to stone. ”That sc.u.mbag. I don't mind cigarette runs or illegal immigrants from Amsterdam, but young girls on the game, p.o.r.n, drugs - that's filth.”

Billy said, ”What is he to you?”

Dillon told them.

Afterward, Harry shook his head. ”We can't have that, Charlie getting ideas above his station.”

”It's not so much Harker as who put him up to it that I'm interested in,” Dillon said.

Harry turned to Billy. ”What do you think?”

”Friday night. That means the Red Lion in Kilburn. He uses the snug like an office. The punters turn up to pay him protection money.”

”Well, let's pay him a call. It could enliven the evening.”

Ali Selim managed to park quite close to the Red Lion, but on the other side of the road. He was about to get out when a large Mercedes pulled up and the Salters got out. He was aware of Dillon first, and he recognized Harry and Billy Salter from photos he'd been shown. He stayed, head down, until they'd gone up the alley at the side of the pub. Only then did he get out of the Peugeot and cross to the other side. He darted into the shadows of an entrance at the end of the alley and watched as the Salters and Dillon went into the side entrance of the pub, leaving Baxter and Hall to guard the door. This was bad, very bad, he knew that and waited, his mouth dry.

Inside the Red Lion, a man was at the door of the snug, and he turned, his mouth gaping, when he saw Salter, who smiled genially.

”Why, Jacko, you look even uglier than usual.” He grabbed him by the tie, swung him around, and Billy punched him very hard under the breastbone and head-b.u.t.ted him. Jacko went down and Billy opened the door for his uncle.

Harker was sitting at a table, counting wads of cash, Mosby leaning over beside him. They both looked up, startled.

”Why, Harry, what's going on?” Harker demanded.

”You may well ask, particularly since a couple of a.r.s.eholes claiming to be working for you just had a go at Dillon here down by Shepherd's Market, and I can't be having that because he's a friend of mine.”

”I don't know what you're talking about.”

”Oh, dear, so we're going to have to do it the hard way, are we?” Mosby slipped a hand inside his coat and Dillon produced the Walther. ”Don't be stupid,” Salter said. ”Put whatever you've got in there on the table and get out, unless you'd like Dillon to leave your brains on the wall.”

Mosby didn't even hesitate. He took a.38 Smith & Wesson from his pocket, laid it down and cleared off.

”Now, look,” Harker said. ”I don't know what's going on here, but...”

Salter slapped him across the face. ”Bring him along, Billy, and mind the garbage on the way out.”

He stood outside as Billy shoved Harker out and Baxter and Hall grabbed him. ”We'll go down to my place at Wapping. I've got a nice old riverboat there, the Lynda Jones Lynda Jones, but then you know that. Nice night to go on the river.”

”Look, Harry, what do you want?”

”To know what you were playing at with my friend Mr. Dillon, who put you up to it.”

”No way.” Harker didn't sound afraid. ”Leave it, Harry, you've no idea what you're getting into. The people I'm involved with could swallow you whole.”

”That'd be a new sensation for me.” Salter was completely unconcerned. ”If I were you, I'd think about it, Charlie. Now let's go.”

Standing in the doorway in the alley, Ali Selim had heard everything and it was enough. He made for the Peugeot and drove away quickly, reaching the mosque twenty minutes later. The first thing he did was call Heathrow Airport and book a first-cla.s.s ticket on a plane to Kuwait that was leaving in two hours. He tossed a few things into a suitcase, together with the cash he'd taken for Harker plus his pa.s.sport, and was ready to go. He hesitated, then picked up the telephone and called As.h.i.+mov, who was sitting in an Italian restaurant with Greta.

”It's me, Ali. We've got problems.”

”Tell me.”

Selim did. ”Ferguson and his people are getting too close, and if Harker spills the beans about what he's been doing for us, it would seriously compromise Wrath of Allah.”