Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 2: Angel of Death, Drink With the Devil, The President’s Daughter

‘Oh, yes. One day when I was following him myself, he had lunch at a café right on the waterfront. The sort of place dock workers might use. He met Daniel Quinn there.’ He smiled. ‘The Brigadier supplied me with colour faxes of these men. It was definitely Quinn.’

‘You’re sure?’ Hannah demanded.

‘Oh, yes. More interesting was the fact that they were joined by two men I am familiar with: Selim Rassi, a very important figure in the Party of God movement, and a man from the Russian Embassy called Ilya Bikov. He’s supposed to be in public relations, but he’s a captain in the Federal Service of Counter Espionage.’

‘KGB,’ Dillon said.

‘Change the name, but the same smell. They went down to a dock, boarded a high-speed boat and took off. I couldn’t follow so I don’t know where they went. There’s a lot of shipping out there.’

‘So what happens now?’ Hannah Bernstein asked.

Walid Khasan smiled. ‘Callaghan always has a drink in the bar around six o’clock.’ He checked his watch. ‘Which is in about ten minutes. Shall we go?’

The lounge bar was very pleasant, with windows open to a terrace which overlooked the city and the harbour crowded with shipping. The blue waters of the Mediterranean sparkled in the fading sunshine as evening fell. There was no sign of Callaghan, but there was a sudden call to prayer from a mosque down there in the city, then another and yet another, the sounds echoing across the rooftops.

‘Very pleasant,’ Hannah Bernstein said. ‘And yet in the middle of all this, people have to kill each other.’

‘A very old-fashioned habit in this part of the world,’ Walid Khasan told her.

At that moment Francis Callaghan came up the steps from the garden and sat down at a table at the other end of the terrace. Dillon, Hannah and Walid Khasan sat down at a table at their end of the terrace. When a waiter approached Walid Khasan ordered a pitcher of lemonade for all of them.

‘You can’t get alcohol until after seven,’ he said to Dillon apologetically.

‘I’ll do my best to hang on,’ Dillon said.

Francis Callaghan waved a waiter away and took what looked like a diary from his pocket. He flipped through the pages, put it back into his pocket and lit a cigarette.

‘He’s waiting for someone,’ said Hannah. ‘Perhaps Quinn?’

‘I doubt it,’ Walid Khasan told her. ‘As I told you, the only time Quinn has surfaced was at that dockside café. I think our friend Callaghan is simply filling time. He may have an appointment to see Quinn later.’

‘Fine,’ Dillon said. ‘When he goes we follow him.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘You stay here and hold the fort.’

‘Thanks very much,’ she said indignantly.

‘Don’t be so sensitive. You need to make a progress report to Ferguson, don’t you? That link is essential, especially if we need to move fast to get out of Beirut.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’ She made a face. ‘Damn you, Dillon. Next time round I’m going to be a man.’

Callaghan made his move about twenty minutes later, passing them on his way into the hotel.

‘Here we go,’ Dillon said to Hannah. ‘See you later.’

Callaghan crossed the foyer, went out of the front entrance and hailed a taxi. As it took off Walid Khasan led the way across to another taxi. He pushed Dillon into the rear and scrambled in after him.

‘If you lose him, Ali,’ he said to the swarthy Arab behind the wheel, ‘I’ll have your manhood.’ He leaned back and smiled at Dillon. ‘One of my men.’

Charles Ferguson listened to what Hannah Bernstein had to say.

‘So far so good,’ he said. ‘With any luck Callaghan could lead us straight to Quinn. You could be out of there in twenty-four hours.’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘We’ll see. Keep me posted and watch your back, Chief Inspector.’

He put down the phone, sat there brooding for a moment, and then rang through to Simon Carter’s office.

‘Ferguson here,’ he said. ‘The Prime Minister insists I keep you informed, so here’s where we are.’

It was really quite pleasant sitting under an umbrella at one of the tables of the waterside café Callaghan had led them to. Coloured lights were strung overhead, the tables were crowded, and there was a buzz of conversation.

‘Plenty of booze being consumed here,’ Dillon observed.

‘Ah, but Beirut is a mixed society, my friend,’ Walid Khasan reminded him.

Callaghan was at a table by the far rail, drinking a beer. He appeared totally unconcerned, looking over the crowd and then out into the harbour.

‘And this is where he met Quinn and Bikov?’ Dillon asked.

‘Yes. Actually he sat at the same table.’

‘Excellent. If this thing works as it should do I could be in and out like Flynn.’ He waved to a waiter and ordered two lagers.

At that moment Callaghan got up and crossed to the door marked Men’s Room. ‘Is there another way out of there?’ Dillon asked.

‘No, definitely not. I’ve been in.’

‘Good.’ Dillon relaxed and lit a cigarette as the waiter arrived with the lagers.

Francis Callaghan stood at the urinal, and as he adjusted his trousers and turned, the door to one of the stalls opened and a young Arab in khaki shirt and pants emerged holding a Sterling sub-machine-gun, silenced version.

‘Good evening, Mr Callaghan,’ he said in good English. ‘I could blow your spine off with this thing and they wouldn’t even hear out there in the café, but we wouldn’t want that, would we?’ He reached in Callaghan’s right pocket and removed a Colt automatic. ‘That’s better. Now stand on that stool we have so thoughtfully provided and climb through the window where my colleagues are waiting to receive you.’

Callaghan did exactly as he was told. His years of involvement in the struggle of Ulster had taught him the advisability of playing it cool in a situation like this. He clambered through the window and was pulled down by two more young Arabs. There was a van backed up behind them, the door open. One of them handcuffed his hands behind him.

Callaghan said, ‘Look, if it’s money …’

He got no further. One of the men slapped him across the face. ‘Shut up!’ He pulled a linen bag over Callaghan’s head.

He was pushed into the back of the van, the door slammed and they drove away.

After fifteen minutes with no sign of Callaghan returning, Walid Khasan got up. ‘I’ll check it out,’ he said and eased his way through the tables to the Men’s Room. He was out again in seconds.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Dillon said. ‘He’s gone.’

‘I’m afraid so. He must have used the window. The only other way out.’

‘You think he knew he was being followed?’