The Killing Ground (2 page)

“Must have been more originally. Had to be.”

Dillon stuck his pistol in the first man’s ear. “Who put you up to this?”

“Get stuffed,” the man said. He sounded Cockney; the driver stayed silent.

“Stupid
and
arrogant,” Dillon said. “A lethal combination.” And he shot half the man’s left ear off.

The man cursed and moaned at the same time, and Dillon said, “If you want the other one taken care of as well, that’s all right with me.”

He slipped the two thousand into the man’s pocket. “You can keep this.

Just tell me who it was.”

“George Moon,” the man said, gasping, “Runs the Harvest Moon pub in Trenchard Street, Soho. Farms out work.”

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“And pretty dirty work, too, if that old sod’s still at it.”

“And who was he representing?” Billy said to the driver. “You might as well come clean.”

“Russian guy. Moon said he was called Lhuzkov. He met us in a pub in Kensington across the High Street from the Russian Embassy.”

“And the gig was to kill off Blake Johnson.”

“Something like that.”

Dillon gave him his handkerchief. “It’s clean. Now piss off and find a hospital.”

They couldn’t get in the car fast enough.

Billy said, “Nice and generous of you, letting them keep the two grand.”

“It helped grease the wheels, Billy. A little pain, a little reward.”

The front door opened and Blake came out carrying a couple of flight bags. He put them in the back of the car. “Anybody dead?”

“We wouldn’t do a thing like that.”

Blake said, “Who was it?”

“Couple of small-time hoods, hired by Lhuzkov.”

Blake said, “Interesting. He wouldn’t have done that on his own.”

“Don’t worry,” Billy said. “We’ll sort that lot out. It’ll be a pleasure.”

They drove off. Dillon lit a cigarette and leaned back. “Foot down to Farley Field, Billy. Ferguson won’t be pleased if Blake’s late.”

A T F A R L E Y F I E L D , the rain fell relentlessly. Ferguson’s pilots, Squadron Leader Lacey and Flight Lieutenant Parry, busied themselves with the aircraft, while the General drank coffee and a Bushmills whiskey and stood at the window of the small lounge staring out at the rain. He was indeed not best pleased.

“You’re late.”

“Well, if you can be bothered to wipe the scowl from your face, General dear, I have news for you,” Dillon told him.

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Ferguson’s face became wary. “And what would that be?”

“A couple of gentlemen of evil intent tried to hurry Blake into a better world.”

“Explain. Billy, I need another drink.”

He sampled the Bushmills and listened and Blake watched, amused.

“What I want to know,” said Ferguson, “is what’s with all this bloody game-playing? A third-rate colonel working for Russian military intelligence wants to shoot the President’s key security man, and the best he can do is hire these incompetents? Somebody’s head is going to roll.”

“All right,” Billy said. “So where does that get us?”

“Well, obviously, we’re going to have to look into whoever put Lhuzkov up to it, but that will have to wait until I return in four days.

After Brussels, Putin visits Germany, and the Prime Minister and the President will be trying desperately to knock some sense into France.”

“I’ll be glad to help with the France thing,” Billy said.

“Very funny. I’ve got something else for you to do. We’ve gotten a tip that some very bad actors may be flying in during the next twenty-four hours. Don’t know who or from where, but it bears checking out. Sean, you know a lot of these people by sight—you and Billy, go to Heathrow and haunt passport control, see who’s flying in from nasty places. We’ve got other men there, too, but they haven’t got your experience.”

Dillon nodded.

“Meanwhile,” Blake said, “we have to be off. Coming, General?” He got up onto the plane, and Ferguson turned on the steps. “I’ll send the Gulfstream back in case of emergencies. Use it at your discretion if something comes up. You might also want to check in at the Holland Park safe house. Major Roper’s just gotten in a new batch of satellite computer equipment. Very powerful stuff—you’ll find it interesting.

And Greta’s there now—I thought it would be good experience for her.”

He was referring to Major Greta Novikova, once employed by the Russian Army in Chechnya and Iraq. Circumstances had made it seem sensible for her to transfer allegiance to Ferguson.

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The door closed, the plane started to move, and they turned back to the Aston and drove away. Dillon called Billy’s father, Harry Salter, at his pub, the Dark Man.

“Are you on your own?”

“Roper and Greta’re here, that’s all. Managing a steak with all the trimmings, with Sergeants Henderson and Doyle eating fish and chips in a booth in their best blazers and flannels and trying not to look like military police. Can’t say they’re succeeding. Are you coming round?”

“No, but you can do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Tell Roper that Lhuzkov was hanging around having drinks at the embassy.”

“Huh. Light a match close to that one and the vodka would explode.

What a clown.”

“Yes, well, that clown arranged for a couple of nobodies to take out Blake, who was rather foolishly walking down South Audley Street in the rain. Stupid because he knows it’s open season on him.”

“Here, we can’t have that. What’s the game?”

“Oh, Billy and I sorted it with a little ungentle persuasion that left one of them with only half an ear. But it was Lhuzkov who laid it on, and our old friend George Moon who did the hiring. Paid them two grand, apparently.” He gave Harry the rest of the details.

“George Moon? I didn’t realize he was still breathing. Had a nice little wife, Ruby: she was straight, he wasn’t. Right, it’s taken care of. Are you coming to the pub?”

“No, Ferguson’s got a job for us.”

“Well, enjoy yourselves.” Harry switched off the mobile and nodded across to his two minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall. “I’ll have a large scotch, I’m thinking. Vodka, Greta?”

She was most attractive, wearing a black silk Russian shirt and trousers and knee-length boots. Her hair was tied at the nape of her neck.

“Why not?”

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“A large one?”

“Is there any other one for a Russian?”

“Probably not. What about the Major?”

Roper sat in his state-of-the-art wheelchair, wearing a reefer coat, his collar turned up to his bomb-scarred face. He didn’t get a chance to say no because Dora brought the drinks on a tray and distributed them.

“Good girl, Dora,” Harry said. “What are we going to do without you? She’ll be leaving in a week, Australia. Got a daughter and two girls.

Wants to test the water. Might never come back. Here’s to her.”

Greta swallowed her vodka. “Knock back that whiskey,” she told Roper, “because I know you’re eager to get back to your machines. That’s all he ever does,” she said. “Eats sandwiches, drinks a bottle of scotch a night, smokes, hardly sleeps and plays around on those damn machines.”

“Yes,” Roper said. “It’s a wonderful life.”

“Let’s move it, gentlemen,” Greta called to the military police. “Take it easy, Harry.”

The policemen took the chair out to the special van, loaded it and a few moments later drove off to Holland Park.

“Another one, boss?”

Harry shook his head. “No, I’ve got a mind to a bit of action. Remember George Moon?”

“And his boyfriend, Big Harold,” Baxter said.

“A couple of years ago, they tried to run Roper into traffic in his wheelchair.”

Sam Hall laughed. “I remember, the Major shot Harold in the side of the knee and Moon through the thigh. The word to the police was they’d been attacked by muggers. The cops didn’t have much sympathy.

They would have been only too glad to do it themselves.”

“So what’s the point?”

“On behalf of a Russian geezer who is no friend of Dillon and Billy, George Moon produced a couple of lowlifes who tried to take out Blake Johnson for two grand.”

“Anybody damaged?” Baxter said grimly.

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“One of them left minus half his left ear, and the other one told Dillon the score.”

“So that leaves George Moon in deep trouble.”

“I’d say so.” Harry got up. “So let’s make it a visit to the Harvest Moon, home of the worst pint of beer in London. And make sure you’re carrying.”

T R E N C H A R D S T R E E T W A S V I C T O R I A N , and the Harvest Moon even more so. They arrived over cobblestones to the pub, with its half-moon over the door.

Harry told Sam Hall, “Wait by the car. Anything could happen in a dump like this.”

Hall nodded, lit a cigarette and paused for a moment. The door swung open and a rough voice called, “I told you to lock up.”

Ruby Moon stepped into the rain trying to put a mackintosh on. Big Harold reached behind and pulled her hair, making her cry out. “Cry?

I’ll make you cry,” he said, and then slapped her twice across the face.

“You need discipline. I’ll enjoy taking care of that.”

Harry turned to Joe Baxter. “Look at that. Neanderthal man come back to haunt us from the Stone Age, and it slaps girls around, too.” He moved her to one side and she burst into angry tears.

“Won’t do,” Harry said and removed his smart military trench coat, which he placed over her shoulders. “Do you know who I am?”

She’d stopped crying. “Oh, God, I think so.”

“For maybe you know my nephew, young Billy?”

“If he’s who I think he is, I do.”

“That’s good. Slip up to your bedroom. Find a few necessaries, put them in a suitcase and come back. Anything else you can get tomorrow.

I’m losing Dora at my pub, the Dark Man at Cable Wharf, and you can take over the bar. Now hurry.”

“But this animal? What’s he going to do? He won’t let me go.”

“Dear me, I was forgetting.”

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Harry offered his hand to Baxter, who passed him a .25 Colt with a silencer, and as Big Harold tried to step back, Harry shot him through the fleshy part of the thigh and shoved him back on the stair.

“Find him a towel in the gents,” Harry said. “And you get upstairs, girl.”

She ran up wildly, and Harry and Baxter followed.

Inside, George Moon was peering through a half-open door, and Harry could see a room lined with books behind him. Moon was small, balding and generally unsavory and, just now, sweating profusely. He retreated to his desk and sank into a chair.

“Harry, my old friend, is that you?”

“Old friend? You must be bleeding joking.”

Salter put his gun on the table and walked to a sideboard.

“Whiskey—a large one, and feel free yourself, Joe.”

“Certainly,” Baxter said.

Moon didn’t have the bottle to reach for the Colt. Harry said, “I’m in a hurry, George,
old friend
. A couple of geezers tried to knock off an actual friend of mine tonight, but Dillon and my boy Billy managed to turn things around.”

“On my life, Harry, I swear—”

“Nothing. You pain me in my backside. Now confirm that a Russian named Lhuzkov approached you for two hard men.”

“All right. It’s true. It was for two grand, and I gave him two men—good men. I was just brokering the deal.”

“For two grand? That’s rubbish money these days. Give me the truth.”

Harry slapped the gun on the sweaty face. “I’ll do for you, I swear it.”

“Please, I’ll tell. They met me in a Daimler at Hyde Park, Lhuzkov was driving. The passenger was also a Russian, cigar-smoking, drinking vodka out of a flask, laughing all the time. He had a bad scar from his left eye down to the corner of the nose. He gave me a briefcase with ten grand in it.”

“So you pocketed eight and gave those two guys only two? Very naughty.”

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“Harry, I wasn’t sure what to do.” He struggled for something good to say. “I know who the other one was, though. I saw him in the Dorchester bar one evening and got his name out of a waiter. Someone named Max Chekov.”

“Yes, ten thousand quid would make more sense.” Harry turned to Baxter. “See if the safe works!”

Moon moaned, “Please, Harry,” but the safe did work and there was even a key in the door. Baxter held up a briefcase. The contents spoke for themselves.

“Excellent. Ruby can buy some nice things. Go down and get her in the car.”

“Yes, boss.”

Baxter went out and Harry made for the door, and paused. “Dear me, I was forgetting Ruby is leaving you.” He shot Moon through the right thigh. Harry said, “It would be wise to get some medical help for that.

These days, terrible things happen, street robberies, guns—it’s just a shame.” He shook his head. “Get me?”

He left, the room was quiet, then there was only the sound of the limousine driving away. Moon groaned and reached for the telephone.

I N T H E B E N T L E Y , Harry passed the briefcase over. “You’ll need a savings account.”

Ruby examined it. “My God, this can’t be happening.”

“It is happening. You’ll do a great job running the pub, I’m never wrong about people. Happy days, sweetheart.”

A T H E A T H R O W it wasn’t busy, possibly due to the lateness of the hour and, though the custom and passport officers on duty regarded them with deep suspicion, they knew better than to object to Dillon and Billy’s presence.

They’d been there a couple of hours, with no one particularly inter-

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esting coming through, when a new entry on the arrivals screen caught Dillon’s attention.

“Well, look at that, Billy,” he said. “An old friend. Hazar.”