Part 14 (1/2)
Billy took a step toward him, and Dillon said, ”Leave it.”
Sergeant Parker appeared through the French windows, wearing a dark blue blazer and flannel slacks. He put his right hand inside the blazer and stood, silent and watchful.
”Nothing to say?” Makeev asked.
”Your hair fascinates me,” Dillon said. ”Shaved off like that, the two of you look like a couple of convicts on the run. Now, the SAS at Hereford, England, grow their hair long because they don't know from one day to the next when they might have to go undercover. But then, they're the best. You can't be expected to compare.”
”Why, you little s.h.i.+t,” Makeev said in Russian, leaned down to grab Dillon by the s.h.i.+rtfront and was promptly head-b.u.t.ted. He staggered back, and Billy put out a foot and tripped him, following it up with a kick in the ribs.
”Nice one,” Billy said.
As Zorin picked his friend up, Greta jumped to her feet, furious. ”Go to my cottage and wait for me. Now!” she added fiercely.
”Billy, you just can't get good help these days,” Dillon said.
”I don't know what the world's coming to.” Billy was smiling, but Greta wasn't.
”d.a.m.n you to h.e.l.l, Dillon,” and she turned and followed the other two down to the cottage area.
People had settled again, unfazed by a minor affray in a city where bombs and violence were part of their daily lives.
Parker said, ”What in the h.e.l.l was all that supposed to be about?”
”That, ould son, is the opposition, but I'll fill you in down at our cottage. Time to move out, Billy, not that we actually unpacked.”
”It's all go with you.”
As they went down the steps from the terrace, Dillon's Codex Four went. It was Sharif. ”Mr. Dillon, Selim arrived a short while ago at the farm.”
”We're on our way. Don't forget, half an hour and then call her.”
”As we arranged.”
Sharif switched off his mobile and stood there in the orange grove, aware of the smell, the lights of Ramalla Village over to his left, the farm beside the Tigris below, and felt strangely sad. Had he done the right thing? Who knew? It was in the hands of Allah now.
In their cottage, Dillon brought Parker up to speed and opened the hardware bag. He produced two Colt.25 semiautomatics in ankle holsters and gave one to Billy.
”A woman's gun,” Parker said.
”Not with hollow-point cartridges. Put a Walther in your waistband behind your back, Billy.” He smiled at Parker. ”If anybody searching finds it, they think that's it.”
”My G.o.d, what is this, the third Gulf War?”
So Dillon told him.
Afterward, Parker said, ”I knew it was big when Robson briefed me, but this is something else.”
”A totally black operation. That's the way we work. You can sign the Official Secrets Act later.”
”Unless you'd prefer not to,” Billy said.
”Get stuffed. Like I said, it's got a bit boring lately.”
Dillon took an Uzi machine pistol from the bag. ”There are two of these in here, so with your Browning, I'd say we're ready to rock and roll.”
”Just one thing,” Parker said. ”Does all this mean you don't trust Sharif?”
”No - what it means is I don't trust anybody. So we take the hardware bag, leave anything else, leave the lights on and the radio.”
”And leave the bill at reception,” Billy said.
”Naturally.”
”I parked round the back. Ford station wagon.”
”Then, as they say in the movies, let's get the show on the road,” Dillon told him.
And some ten minutes later, Greta Novikova was in the middle of telling Zorin and Makeev exactly what she thought of them when her mobile went. It was Sharif.
”He's at Ramalla. Arrived a short while ago.”
”Excellent. Zorin and Makeev are with me now.”
”Do you want me to join you?”
”No, meet us there.”
”Do you still intend to dispose of them?”
”Of course, that's the whole point of the exercise. Does it give you a problem?”
”Not at all.”
”I'll see you later.”
Sharif switched off his mobile, looked over at the farm beside the river for a moment, then walked down through the orange trees toward it.
Zorin drove, Makeev beside him, in a Jeep Cherokee, Greta sitting in the back. Makeev was checking out an AK-47 with a folding stock.
”This should do the job,” he said, laughing, and punched Zorin on the shoulder. ”An easy one, this. Not like hunting that Iraqi general in Basra.”
”You've worked for the Americans?” Greta asked.
”Good G.o.d, no. It was an honor killing. He'd raped somebody's wife in the Saddam days. The family wanted revenge.”
”We hunted him down in a sewer,” Zorin said. ”The family wanted his manhood, but this fool got him with a stick grenade.”
”So there wasn't much left of his manhood.” Makeev laughed uproariously. ”Not that you'd know much of that kind of thing sitting behind a GRU desk.”
It occurred to her then that they were both on something and it wasn't drink. She was wearing a black crepe trouser suit, a purse in her lap. She put a hand inside and found what she sought, a Makarov. She fingered it, not nervous, just ready. She had killed on occasion, but these fools didn't know that.