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

‘Now, isn’t he the grand man?’

‘Are you there, Callaghan?’ she called.

‘And where else would I bloody be?’

‘We’ve struck a deal. Tell them where to find Quinn and they’ll let you leave with us.’

‘And then what?’

‘You’ll fly back to London and sing your heart out.’

‘Screw you.’

‘Then they’ll leave you down there to rot. Your choice.’ She leaned over further. ‘Bye for now, Dillon, see you soon.’

The lights went out and Callaghan said, ‘Lousy, stinking bitch.’

‘Oh, she can be all of that.’ Dillon laughed. ‘But I like her.’

It was unbelievably cold down there. After a few hours Dillon found that he’d somehow got used to the stench, but not the cold – that was mind-numbing. Sitting on the ledge, leaning back, he actually dozed off and came awake in a split second to hear Callaghan.

‘Get away from me, damn you!’

There was a splash in the water and Dillon felt a rat scurry across his arm. ‘Are you all right, Francis?’

‘No, I’m bloody well not.’

Dillon checked his watch, a Rolex Divers, the face phosphorescent. ‘Seven-thirty. Break of a new day. They’ll be starting to serve a traditional English breakfast at the Al Bustan. Fried eggs, bacon, sausage, toast and marmalade, nice hot pot of tea or coffee.’

‘Shut your mouth,’ Callaghan said.

‘I can dream, can’t I? That’s exactly what I’m going to have when the Brigadier arrives and gets me out of here. Nice long hot shower to get rid of the stink, clean clothes and then that breakfast. Doesn’t matter what time of day it is, I want the breakfast.’

‘Screw you, Dillon, I know what you’re trying to do.’

‘I’m not trying to do anything, Francis. Our operation to catch Quinn is blown. It’s Dark Wind’s business now. We’re out. You could have been useful back in London, but if you prefer to be a hero of the glorious revolution – if that’s how you see yourself – well, that’s your problem.’

‘Shut up, will you? Just shut up!’

Beirut International Airport was served only by the national carrier MEA, but when Ferguson arrived at nine o’clock in the morning after a night flight via Cyprus, the Lear jet in its United Nations colours was accepted without question as were the papers the forgery department at the Ministry of Defence in London had supplied at such short notice. Hannah Bernstein and Walid Khasan met him as he came through into the terminal. He wore a linen suit, Panama hat and Guards tie, and carried his malacca cane. He handed his overnight bag to Walid Khasan and kissed Hannah on the cheek.

‘You’re looking agitated, my dear.’

‘I’ve a right to be.’

‘Not at all.’ He nodded to Walid Khasan. ‘It’s been a long time.’

They went out to the yellow taxi, where Walid’s man, Ali, sat behind the wheel. Walid sat in the front, and Ferguson and Hannah in the rear.

‘Shall we go straight there?’ Walid asked.

‘Good God, no,’ Ferguson said. ‘I need a shower and some breakfast. Do this fellow Omar good to wait.’

‘And what about Dillon, sir?’ Hannah demanded.

‘And since when did you get worked up about his welfare, Chief Inspector? He’ll survive.’ He opened his briefcase and took out some coloured faxes which he passed to Walid Khasan. ‘Is this them?’

Walid nodded. ‘That’s Selim Rassi and the other is the Russian, Bikov.’

‘Good.’ Ferguson took them back and put them in the briefcase.

Hannah Bernstein said, ‘But does that matter, sir? I don’t understand.’

‘You will, my dear,’ Ferguson told her. ‘You will.’

It was still very dark down there in spite of the fact that it was eleven o’clock in the morning when Dillon checked his watch. He hadn’t heard a sound from Callaghan for a while.

‘Are you still with us, Francis?’

There was a splashing sound, then Callaghan said warily, ‘Only just.’ He sounded terrible. ‘I can’t take much more, Dillon.’

At that moment the light was turned on up above and Omar leaned over. ‘Your friends are here, Mr Dillon. Our business has been concluded satisfactorily so we’ll bring you up now. We’ll drop the rope.’

‘What about Callaghan?’

‘Has he spoken?’

‘No.’

‘Then he stays. Here comes the rope now.’

As it dropped down Callaghan surged through the water and grabbed at Dillon. ‘Don’t leave me. I’ve had enough, Dillon. Can’t take any more, not on my own.’

‘Steady, son.’ Dillon put one arm around him and reached for the rope. ‘Just tell me about Quinn.’

‘He’s on a freighter called Alexandrine, Algerian registration. It’s anchored about a mile out of the harbour. There was a meeting arranged on board for seven o’clock tonight with Selim Rassi and Bikov. The Russian’s delivering the plutonium then.’

‘The truth, is it?’ Dillon said. ‘If you’re lying these lads up above will skin you.’

‘I swear it.’ Callaghan sounded desperate. ‘Just get me out, Dillon. Take me to London with you. I’ve had enough.’

‘Sensible lad.’ Dillon pulled the loop over him and under his armpits. ‘Haul away,’ he called.

He waited as Callaghan rose above him and was pulled over the edge of the well. The rope came down again. Dillon pulled it over his head.

‘Here we go.’

He went up quickly, pushing his feet against the side, and hands reached to pull him over the round wall. They were all there – Omar and his two men, Anya, Walid Khasan, Hannah, Ferguson, and Callaghan draped in a blanket.