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Ferguson looked at her. ‘Give me a call sometime.’
He walked away. Kate said, ‘Paul?’
‘As soon as we’re done here,’ her brother said, ‘we’ll go and see him.’
Two days later, Paul and Kate Rashid arrived at Charles Ferguson’s Georgian flat in Cavendish Place, London. They were admitted by Ferguson’s Gurkha manservant, Kim, and found that Ferguson was not alone. Two other people were there, one of them a small man, his hair so fair that it was almost white.
‘Lady Kate, this is Sean Dillon, who works for my department,’ Ferguson said, then introduced the other, a red-haired woman. ‘Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein from Special Branch. Lord Loch Dhu, how can I help? May we offer you a glass of champagne?’
‘No, thank you. My sister perhaps, but I would prefer a Bushmills Irish whiskey like the one Mr Dillon is pouring.’
‘Good man yourself,’ Dillon told him, ‘but first, the ladies,’ and he poured champagne.
Hannah Bernstein said to Kate, ‘You went to Oxford, I believe? I was at Cambridge myself.’
‘Well, that’s not your fault,’ Kate said and gave a small smile.
Her brother said, ‘I did Irish time, with the Grenadier Guards and the SAS. I heard many things about Sean Dillon there.’
‘Probably all true,’ Hannah Bernstein told him, with an undertone Rashid could not decipher.
‘Don’t listen to her,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll always be the man in the black hat to her, but to you and me, Major, to soldiers everywhere, we’re the men who handle the crap the general public can’t. That’s a showstopper,’ Dillon added and turned to Kate. ‘Wouldn’t you agree that’s a showstopper?’
She wasn’t in the least offended. ‘Absolutely.’
‘So,’ Paul Rashid said, ‘Igor Gatov, a commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy, kills my mother while driving on the wrong side of the road, drunk. The police say he has diplomatic immunity.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘And he’s gone back to Moscow?’
‘No, he’s needed here,’ Ferguson told him.
‘Needed?’ Rashid asked.
‘The Secret Security Services would not thank me for telling you this, but they’re not my best friends. Tell him, Superintendent.’
‘But how far do I go?’ she asked.
‘As far as it takes,’ Dillon said. ‘This Russian shite takes out a great lady and walks away.’ He poured another Bushmills, toasted young Kate, turned to Paul Rashid, and said in good Arabic, ‘Gatov is a dog of the first water. If the Superintendent hesitates, don’t hold it against her. She has delicate sensibilities. Her grandfather is a rabbi.’
‘And my father was a sheik,’ Paul Rashid said to her in Hebrew. ‘Perhaps we have much in common.’
Her surprise was obvious. ‘I’m not sure what to say,’ she replied in the same.
‘Well, I am,’ Dillon cut between them in English. ‘It’s not just the Russian Embassy that’s keeping Gatov from justice. There’s the American connection.’
There was a pause. ‘What would that be?’ Paul Rashid asked.
Hannah said to Rashid, ‘As you know, the Americans and Russians are great rivals in southern Arabia, but they will work together if it suits them.’
Paul said, ‘I know all this, but what has it to do with my mother’s death?’
It was Dillon who told him, and in Arabic. ‘This piece of dung is a double agent. He worked for the Americans on the other side of the coin. It’s not only the Russians who don’t want him in court, but the Yanks as well. He’s too important.’
‘Too important for what?’ Paul Rashid asked.
It was Ferguson who said, ‘The Americans and Russians are working on some kind of oil deal – and Gatov was brokering it. He’s right in the middle. There are billions to be made down there.’
Dillon said, ‘He’s right. Arabia Felix, Happy Arabia, that’s what they called it in the old days.’
Kate Rashid, who had listened in silence, said, ‘So we’re talking about money here?’
‘I’d say so,’ Dillon said.
‘And to facilitate their wheeler-dealing, both the Americans and Russians look upon my mother’s death simply as an inconvenience?’
‘A severe one.’
She paused and glanced at her brother, who nodded. She said, ‘Some days ago, at the Oasis of Shabwa, an interesting event took place. Were you aware, Brigadier, that the Sultan of Hazar had allied himself not only with a major American oil company but also a Russian one?’
Ferguson frowned. ‘No, that’s news to me.’
‘Two assassins attempted to kill my brother on the night we received news of my mother’s accident.’ She nodded to Dillon. ‘One tried to kill me. My brother saved my life and shot him dead.’
‘The important thing is that we discovered from the second assassin that I was targeted by the Sultan himself on behalf of the Americans and Russians,’ Paul Rashid told them.
Ferguson nodded. ‘He told you everything?’
‘Of course,’ Dillon put in.
Ferguson said, ‘Are you suggesting that your mother’s death was deliberate?’
‘No,’ Paul said. ‘The police have gone over the evidence with us, and I see nothing these dogs could have gained by murdering my mother. But what is clear to me is that, for them, life is cheap. And I plan to make it very expensive.’
He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thank you very much for your information, Brigadier.’ He turned to Dillon. ‘In the Guards in South Armagh, a Loyalist politician told me once that Wyatt Earp could account for the deaths of twenty men, but that Sean Dillon didn’t even know his total.’
‘A slight exaggeration,’ Dillon told him. ‘I think.’
Rashid smiled at each of them and turned to follow Kim. Kate held out a hand to Dillon. ‘You’re a very interesting man.’
‘Oh, you have a way with the words, girl dear.’ He kissed her hand. ‘And a face to thank God for.’
‘That’s my sister, Mr Dillon,’ Rashid said.
‘And how could I forget it?’
They left, and before Ferguson could say anything, his red phone rang. He picked it up, listened, had a brief conversation, then replaced the receiver, his face grave.
‘It would seem the Sultan of Hazar has just been assassinated.’ He turned to Dillon. ‘A remarkable coincidence, don’t you think?’
The Irishman lit a cigarette. ‘Oh, yes, remarkable.’ He blew out smoke. ‘I know one thing. I feel sorry for Igor Gatov.’
That evening, there was a function at the Dorchester, a political affair attended by the Prime Minister, and Ferguson, Bernstein and Dillon had been drafted for security, not without a little grumbling.
Dillon and the Superintendent moved in from the Park Lane entrance to the ballroom, checked all the arrangements and, satisfied, followed Ferguson through. And there at the bar was the Earl of Loch Dhu and his sister.
Ferguson said, ‘Talk about a bad penny. Hannah and I will continue with the security. See if there’s anything more you can find out, Dillon.’
Kate and Paul Rashid stood together, watching the crowd, as Dillon approached and said, ‘What a coincidence.’
‘I’ve never believed in coincidences, Mr Dillon,’ Paul Rashid told him. ‘Have you?’
‘Funny you should say that. Like you, I’m a cynic, but today –’
Just then, a young man interrupted. ‘My Lord, the Prime Minister would like a word.’
Rashid said to the Irishman, ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Dillon, our conversation will have to wait. However, I’d appreciate it if you’d see to my sister for me.’
‘It’d be an honour.’
Rashid walked away and Kate turned to Dillon. ‘Well, as long as you’re seeing to me, how about a fresh drink?’
Dillon was just turning to hand her a glass when a rather large man with a florid face appeared, and gave her a squeeze from behind. ‘Kate, my darling,’ he said in a booming voice.
Seeing he would have no chance to talk to her now, Dillon decided to leave – but managed to step on the man’s right foot as he moved away. The man let her go. ‘Damn you, you clumsy oaf.’
Dillon smiled. ‘So sorry.’ He bowed to Kate. ‘I’ll be in the Piano Bar.’
He walked through the main hotel to the Dorchester’s Piano Bar, where, since it was still early evening, it was quiet. Guiliano, the manager, greeted him warmly, for they were old friends.
‘Glass of champagne?’
‘Why not?’ Dillon said. ‘And I’ll give you a tune on the piano while you’re waiting for your man to turn up.’
He was well into a Gershwin melody when Kate Rashid appeared.
‘I see you’re a man of many talents.’
‘Good barroom piano is all it is, ma’am. What happened to the gentleman?’
‘The gentleman – and I use the term loosely – is Lord Gravely, a life peer who inhabits the House of Lords and does little good there.’
‘I wouldn’t think your brother would welcome his attention to you.’
‘That’s an understatement. Did you really need to stand on his foot?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Well, I’m glad. The man is an absolute pig. He’s always grabbing at me, groping me. The man just won’t take no for an answer. He deserves a sore foot, and a lot more besides.’
She picked up his glass of champagne and finished it off. ‘Anyway, I just came by to say thank you. Now I’d better be off. I asked for my car at seven.’
Seeing that there was to be no further conversation, Dillon smiled. ‘It’s been a sincere sensation.’
She walked out and Dillon came to the end of his tune and decided to follow her. He didn’t know why exactly, but there just seemed to be unfinished business.
He went out of the main door, turned right into Park Lane and found limousines picking up people from the reception at the ballroom entrance. Lady Kate Rashid was standing on the pavement, a shawl about her shoulders, and there, suddenly, was Lord Gravely again. He put his arm around her and pulled her close, whispering in her ear. She struggled and two things happened simultaneously. Paul Rashid’s Daimler coasted in to the kerb, with Rashid in the back, and as he scrambled out Dillon moved in on Gravely and screwed both fists into his kidneys. Gravely cried out and released Kate, and her brother pulled her away into the car. Gravely turned on Dillon in a fury and, pivoting, Dillon gave Gravely a reverse elbow strike to the mouth, whereupon his lordship slid down to the pavement.
As they were driven away, Rashid looked out of the rear window and saw Dillon melt into the crowd and a policeman approach Gravely. ‘A remarkable man, Dillon. I owe him one. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine, brother, and I’m the one who owes him.’
‘You like him?’
‘Very much.’
‘I’ll have him checked out thoroughly.’
‘No, Paul, that I’ll do for myself.’
After a lawyers’ meeting the following morning, the two of them drove down to Dauncey Place. Paul had phoned ahead, so his brothers were there as well, and they’d given photos of Gatov to Betty Moody. Betty in turn had spoken to the locals.
When he saw her in the bar that evening, she gave him his usual glass of champagne and spoke in a low voice.
‘He’s in the village, Paul; arrived at lunchtime with a party from the Russian Embassy.’
‘Good.’ He savoured the champagne.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.
I’m going to execute him, Betty,’ he told her and smiled over her sharp intake of breath.
Later that night, he spoke to his brothers in the Great Hall. Betty was there as well – she’d come up from the pub with last-minute information overheard from the local staff at Knotsley Hall: Gatov was leaving at eleven to drive overnight to London.
Paul Rashid told his brothers what he intended to do, but he’d purposely excluded Kate. ‘I don’t want her involved,’ he said. ‘This is men’s work.’
What he did not know was that Kate was on the minstrel gallery above, and listening. Furious, she was about to call out, but Betty appeared behind her and fastened a hand on her shoulder. ‘You mind your manners, girl. Your brothers are going in harm’s way. They don’t need you making it difficult for them.’
And Lady Kate Rashid, for the moment a child again, did as she was told.
That night, Igor Gatov drove around a corner of a narrow country lane and found a van tilted into a ditch and someone lying in the middle of the road. He got out of his BMW, walked forward and leaned over the figure on the ground. It was Paul Rashid, and he struck him across the neck.
He and his brothers wore black Special Forces overalls. Michael and Paul carried the semiconscious Gatov to the BMW and pushed him behind the wheel.
George went to the van, got in and reversed it out of the ditch. Paul Rashid took a bottle from his overalls and doused Gatov in petrol.
‘Fire purifies, so the Koran tells us,’ he said, then switched on the engine of the BMW and slipped off the handbrake. ‘It’s not much of an exchange for my mother, but it’s better than nothing.’
