Edge of Danger

He flicked his lighter, touching the edge of Gatov’s petrol-soaked jacket, which immediately started to burn. Then George and Michael pushed, and the BMW rushed down the hill and hit the end of an old stone bridge, where it fireballed.

The next morning, at the Ministry of Defence, Hannah Bernstein took a signal flimsy to Ferguson in his office. It detailed the terrible accident that had burned Igor Gatov to death.

‘Dear me,’ Ferguson said. ‘Another remarkable coincidence.’

Sean Dillon leaned against the door and lit a cigarette. ‘The question is – what coincidence is going to be next?’

Sitting in the drawing room of Kate’s house in South Audley Street, Paul Rashid said, ‘Gatov is dead. The Sultan is dead. Such executions are right and just. But they are not enough.’

Michael said, ‘What do you mean, brother?’

‘I mean it is not enough simply to have eliminated two small men. Their deaths will quickly be swallowed up and the great powers will continue to swagger arrogantly around the world as if nothing has happened. America and Russia, the two Great Satans, have attacked Arab culture, they have walked over the Bedu, they have screwed Arabia and Hazar out of what is rightfully theirs – and ours. We must teach them a lesson they will never forget.’

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked George.

‘First: Kate. I want you to contact our friends in the Army of Allah, the Sword of God, Hezbollah, everyone. I want them screaming about the US and Russia trying to plunder Arabia. I want them creating havoc whenever and wherever possible.’

‘Then what?’ said Michael.

‘Then we assassinate the President of the United States.’

There was a stunned silence. Michael said in a whisper, ‘But why, Paul?’

‘Because Gatov was just a servant. Because the Sultan was just a pawn. Because it is no good killing just the little people. If we don’t make a statement – and I mean a big statement – the great powers will never understand. They will never leave us alone. Properly orchestrated, the killing of President Jake Cazalet will tell the world once and for all that Arabia is for the Arabs. For Cazalet, the buck stops here – isn’t that what they say? Oh, we could kill the Russian Premier instead – he’s just as culpable – but Cazalet will make a much bigger impact.’

There was more silence. Michael said, ‘You’re serious about this?’

‘Yes, Michael. Never more serious. It is time to take a stand.’ He looked hard at him. ‘This is for the Bedu.’ He shifted his eyes to George. ‘This is for Hazar.’ He rested his gaze on Kate, and they sat, their eyes locked, for what seemed like minutes. Finally, ‘This is for Mother.’ The harsh whisper seemed to fill the room.

After a moment, Kate said, ‘But who will attempt this thing?’

‘A mercenary. With the peace process taking over Northern Ireland, there are many expert IRA killers at loose ends.’ He produced an envelope and passed it to her. ‘This man, one Aidan Bell, comes highly recommended. He is to be found in County Down. It seems he shot a Russian general for the Chechens, and blew up his staff. A man willing to take risks. Go and see him, Kate. Take George with you. He’s soldiered over there and knows the ropes.’

There was no longer any hesitation. A decision had been reached. ‘Of course, brother.’

‘One other thing.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘You liked Sean Dillon?’

‘I told you.’

‘Go and see him. Arrange an accidental meeting. Concoct a story. See what he knows of Aidan Bell.’

She smiled. ‘It’ll be a pleasure.’

‘Well, don’t make it too much of one.’ He smiled back at her.

LONDON (#uf39780a1-8464-54ed-b676-eb30b6c925a3)

3 (#ulink_445da365-17d7-5cac-bac8-9f0c33381f77)

Kate Rashid went through the information her brother had supplied and it was good, detailed stuff. Aidan Bell was forty-eight years of age, had been a member of the IRA since the age of twenty, and had never served a day in prison. For years, he’d been a member of the Irish National Liberation Army, a very extremist organization. He had often been at loggerheads with the Provisional IRA but was responsible for some important hits.

The most interesting fact was that over the years, he had also worked as a mercenary, cash on the nail, for many foreign revolutionary movements.

Kate put the matter into the hands of her head of security at Rashid Investments, a trusted man and ex-paratrooper named Frank Kelly. Not in complete detail, however. She didn’t trust any employee that much. At this stage, all she wanted was a chance to meet Dillon as if by chance, and it came on the following Monday night.

Kelly phoned her at the South Audley Street house, which was only five minutes up the road from the Dorchester. ‘Dillon has just gone into the Piano Bar. He seems dressed for a night out, got a dark blue suit on and a Guards tie.’

‘But he wasn’t in the Guards.’

‘Probably taking the piss, if you’ll excuse my language, ma’am. I did a lot of Irish time in One Para. I know about this guy.’

‘I didn’t realize you were in One Para, Kelly. Did you know my brother George?’

‘Yes, ma’am, though he was way above me. He was a Second Lieutenant, and I was just a Sergeant in my day.’

‘Fine. Have you a car there?’

‘One of the company Mercs.’

‘Drive up and get me. You can come to the Dorchester and wait. You personally, Kelly. I don’t want anyone else.’

‘Lady Kate, I wouldn’t dream of making it anyone else,’ Kelly told her.

He picked her up, a well-dressed man no more than five foot eight, with a good, hard face and hair close-cropped, the Army bit that wouldn’t go away. In no time, he had dropped her at the Dorchester and parked in one of the privileged spaces.

She went through the swinging doors, trim in a black trouser suit. As she walked into the bar, there was music, and there was Dillon playing the piano again.

Guiliano turned up. ‘Lady Kate, what a pleasure. The usual table?’

‘No, the bottom left by the piano. I’d like to speak to the pianist.’

‘Ah, Mr Dillon. He’s good, isn’t he? Sits in before our regular comes, only now and then. Lord knows what he does the rest of the time. You know him?’

‘You could say that.’

He escorted her to the table. She nodded to Dillon, ordered a glass of Krug champagne, sat down, and took out her mobile phone, which was strictly against bar rules. She called her brother George at his apartment not too far away.

When he answered, she said, ‘I’m in the Piano Bar at the Dorchester. Dillon is here and Frank Kelly is outside. Call him on his mobile, and tell him to pick you up. I want you.’

‘Of course,’ George said. ‘See you soon.’

Dillon was really very good, she decided. He was playing the old standards, the kind of things she liked. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth and he suddenly moved into ‘Our Love Is Here to Stay’, a slightly crooked grin on his face. As he came to the end, the regular pianist appeared, Dillon smiled and slid off the piano bench, and the other man took over.

The Irishman came across to her. ‘Serendipity, isn’t that the word? This is a total and unexpected pleasured.’

‘Why, Mr Dillon, you’re a man of erudition.’

‘Well, unlike you, I didn’t go to Oxford. I had to make do with the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art.’