Midnight Runner

The trooper with Varley said, ‘Bloody politicians. Maybe it does them good to see some real shit for a change.’

Varley grabbed his arm and squeezed hard. ‘Thirty years ago, while serving with the Special Forces in Vietnam, that “bloody politician” won the Congressional Medal of Honor. So why don’t you just button your lip and get us out of here?’

The trooper slid behind the wheel, Varley and Quinn got in the rear, and they moved out. The Corporal of Horse said, ‘You know what we do in London, don’t you, Senator? The Household Cavalry? We ride around in breastplates and helmets with plumes and sabres, and the tourists love us. The British public, too. They think that’s all we are: chocolate soldiers. So why did I serve in the Falklands at nineteen, in the Gulf War and Bosnia, and now this shit heap?’

‘So the great British public is misinformed.’

Varley produced a half bottle from his pocket. ‘Would you like some brandy, Senator? It’s strictly against regimental regulations, but medicinal on occasion. Even though it is rotgut.’

It burned all the way down, and Quinn coughed and handed it back. ‘Sorry about what happened back there. I feel as if I let you down.’

‘It happens to all of us, sir. Don’t worry about it.’

‘The thing is, I have a daughter. Helen. That young woman was just about her age.’

‘Then I’d say you could do with an extra swallow.’ And Varley passed the bottle back to him.

Quinn took another drink and thought about his daughter.

Who at that moment in time was seated in an Oxford pub called the Lion, which was popular with students and just down the street from an old school hall where Act of Class Warfare had its Oxford headquarters. She was sitting in one corner with a young, long-haired student named Alan Grant, drinking dry white wine and laughing a lot. Grant was doing a trick for her. His brother was a security specialist and had sent Grant a new toy – a pen that doubled as a tape recorder. Grant had been amusing himself by recording snatches of conversation and playing them back with appropriately caustic comments. Helen thought it was a riot.

In a booth on the other side of the bar, Rupert Dauncey sat with a minor Oxford professor named Henry Percy, a woolly minded individual fond of just about any kind of cause.

‘Thank you for the cheque, Mr Dauncey. We at Act of Class Warfare are incredibly grateful for the continuing support of the Rashid Educational Trust.’

Rupert Dauncey had already decided the man was a hypocritical creep and wondered how much of the cash had actually stuck to his fingers, but he decided to play the game.

‘We’re glad to be of help. Now what’s all this on Saturday? Some kind of demonstration in London? I hear you’re going.’

‘Indeed we are. Liberty in Europe Day! The United Anarchist Front has organized it.’

‘Really? I thought there already was liberty in Europe. Well, never mind. So your rosy-cheeked students are going to take part.’

‘Of course.’

‘You know the police don’t like demonstrations in Whitehall. They can so easily turn into riots.’

‘The police can’t stop us. The voice of the people will be heard!’

‘Yes, of course,’ Rupert agreed dryly. ‘Are you leading this thing or are you just one of the marchers?’

Percy stirred uneasily. ‘Actually, I, uh, I won’t be able to be there on Saturday…I have a prior commitment.’

I just bet you have, Rupert Dauncey thought, but he smiled. ‘Do me a favour. That nice girl over there, I heard her speaking as I passed. I believe she’s American. Is she one of your members?’

‘Yes on both counts. Helen Quinn. Rhodes Scholar. Charming girl. Her father is actually a senator.’

Rupert, who knew very well who she was, and even knew the boy’s name, said, ‘Introduce me on the way out, won’t you? I love meeting fellow Americans abroad.’

‘Of course.’ Percy got up and led the way. ‘Hello, you two. Helen, I’d like you to meet Rupert Dauncey, a countryman of yours.’

She smiled. ‘Hi there, where are you from?’

‘Boston.’

‘Me too! That’s great. This is Alan Grant.’

Grant obviously saw the whole thing as an intrusion and had turned sullen. He pointedly ignored Dauncey. Rupert carried on. ‘You’re a student here?’ he asked her.

‘St Hugh’s.’

‘Ah, an excellent college, I’m told. Professor Percy tells me you’re going to this rally on Saturday.’

‘Absolutely.’ She was full of enthusiasm.

‘Well, take care, won’t you? I’d hate to see anything happen to you there. Goodbye. I hope to see you again.’

He walked out with Percy, and Grant said in a cockney accent, ‘Posh git, who does he think he is?’

‘I thought he was nice.’

‘Well, that’s women for you.’ He touched a button in his pocket, and Rupert’s voice rang out: ‘I’d hate to see anything happen to you there.’

‘I know what he’d like to see happen to you,’ he grumbled. ‘Felt like punching him in the nose.’

‘Oh, Alan, stop it!’ Honestly, sometimes Alan just went too far, Helen thought.

For Hannah Bernstein and Dillon, the flight to Moidart crossed the Lake District, the Solway Firth and the Grampian Mountains, and soon the islands of Eigg and Rum came into view, the Isle of Skye to the north. They descended to an old World War II airstrip with a couple of decaying hangars and a control tower. An estate car was parked outside the tower, a man in a tweed suit and cap beside it. Lacey taxied the Lear toward him and switched off. Parry opened the door, dropped the steps, and Lacey led the way down. The man came forward.

‘Squadron Leader Lacey, sir?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Sergeant Fogarty. They’ve sent me from Oban.’

‘Good man. The lady is Detective Superintendent Bernstein from Scotland Yard. She and Mr Dillon here have important business at Loch Dhu Castle. Take them there and do exactly what the Superintendent tells you. You’ll bring them back here.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Lacey turned to the others. ‘See you later.’

They approached the castle in twenty minutes, still as imposing as they remembered it, and set well back from the road. The walls were ten feet high, and smoke curled up from the chimney of the lodge. The gates were shut. Dillon and Hannah got out, but there were no handles, and when he pushed, nothing happened.

‘Electronic. That’s an improvement from the old days.’

The front door opened and a man with a hard, raw-boned face appeared. He wore a hunting jacket and carried a sawn-off shotgun under his left arm.

‘Good afternoon,’ Hannah said.

He had a hard Scots voice. ‘What do you want?’ He sounded decidedly unfriendly.

‘Now then,’ Dillon told him. ‘This is a lady you’re dealing with, so watch your tone. And who might you be, son?’

The man stiffened, as if sensing trouble. ‘My name’s Brown. I’m the factor here, so what do you want?’

‘Mr Dillon and I were here some years ago for the shooting,’ Hannah told him. ‘We rented Ardmurchan Lodge.’

‘We know you’re running adventure courses for young people at the castle these days,’ Dillon said, ‘but we wondered if Ardmurchan Lodge might not still be available. My boss – General Ferguson – would love to rent it for the shooting again.’

‘Well, it isn’t, and the shooting season’s over.’

‘Not the kind I’m interested in,’ Dillon told him amicably.

Brown took the shotgun from under his arm. ‘I think you’d better leave.’

‘I’d be careful with that – I’m a police officer,’ Hannah said.

‘Police officer, my arse. Get out of here.’ He cocked the shotgun.

Dillon raised a hand. ‘We don’t want any problems. Obviously, the lodge isn’t available. Come on, Hannah.’

They went back to the car. ‘Drive on just out of sight of the gate,’ Dillon told Fogarty.

‘What happened back there is an intelligence matter, Sergeant, you understand?’ Hannah said.

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘Good, then pull in,’ Dillon told him. ‘I’m going over the wall and you can give me a push.’

They stopped and got out, Fogarty joined his hands together, and Dillon put his left foot in them. The big sergeant lifted, and Dillon pulled himself over the wall, dropped into the trees on the other side and moved towards the lodge.

Brown was in the kitchen, the gun on the table, and dialling a number on the wall phone, when he heard a slight creak and felt a draught of air. Brown dropped the phone and reached for the shotgun and then became aware of the Walther in Dillon’s right hand.

‘Naughty, that,’ Dillon said. ‘I might have shot you straight away instead of just thinking about it.’

‘What do you want?’ Brown said hoarsely.

‘You were phoning the Countess of Loch Dhu in London, am I right?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Dillon slashed him across the face with the Walther. ‘Am I right?’ he asked again.

Brown staggered back, blood on his face. ‘Yes, damn you. What do you want?’

‘Information. Act of Class Warfare. School parties, right? Kids having a nice week in the country, climbing, canoeing on the loch, trekking. That’s what you offer?’

‘That’s right.’ Brown got a handkerchief out and mopped blood from his face.

‘And what about the other courses for the older ones?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘The guys and girls who like to hide their faces with balaclavas and take part in riots. Let me guess. You teach them interesting things like how to make petrol bombs and handle policemen on horseback.’

‘You’re crazy.’

Dillon slashed him again.

‘I can’t help you,’ Brown said wildly, his face crumbling. ‘It’s as much as my life’s worth.’

‘Really?’ Dillon grabbed him by the throat, pushed him across the table, and rammed the muzzle of the Walther against the side of his right knee. ‘And what’s a knee worth? You’ve got ten seconds to decide.’

‘No, no. All right. I’ll tell you. It’s true. They run training courses, just as you say. They come from all over the country, sometimes even abroad. But I just take care of the house and grounds – that’s all I know, I swear it!’

‘Oh, I doubt that very much. But that’s all right. All I needed was your confirmation. That wasn’t too bad, was it? Now if you’ll just open the gates, I’ll be on my way.’ He picked up the shotgun and tossed it through the open door into some bushes. ‘Then I suggest you make that phone call to the good Countess. I’m sure she’ll be most interested.’

Brown shuffled to the front door, pressed a button in a black box, and opened the door. Outside, the main gates began to part. Dillon stopped and turned.

‘Don’t forget now. Dillon was here, and give her my love.’

He walked out into the road and half-ran to the car. He got in beside Hannah and said to Fogarty, ‘Back to the plane.’

They drove away. Hannah said, ‘You didn’t leave anyone dead back there?’

‘Now, would I do a thing like that? It turns out he was a very reasonable man, our factor. I’ll tell you about it on the plane.’

Brown, between a rock and a hard place, took Dillon’s advice, of course, and phoned Kate Rashid at her house in London but found that she was out, which made him feel worse. Desperate, his face hurting like hell now, he tried the mobile number he’d been given for emergencies. Kate and Rupert were eating at the Ivy. She listened as Brown poured it all out.

She said calmly, ‘How badly are you hurt?’

‘I’m going to need stitches. The bastard slashed my face with his Walther.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Tell me again what he said.’

‘Something like, say Dillon was here and give her my love.’

‘That’s my Dillon. Get yourself a doctor, Brown. I’ll talk to you later.’ She put her mobile on the table.

The waiter had stood back respectfully. When Rupert nodded, he now poured Cristal champagne in both glasses and withdrew.

‘To your bright eyes, cousin,’ he toasted her. ‘Why is it I smell trouble from the little I’ve heard?’

‘Actually, what you smell is Sean Dillon.’ She drank a little champagne and then told him what Brown had said. ‘What’s your opinion, darling?’

‘Well, obviously they were there on Charles Ferguson’s behalf. They didn’t even pretend. Their only reason for visiting Loch Dhu was to let you know that they knew.’

‘What a clever boy you are. Anything else?’

‘Yes. In a way, he’s calling you out.’

‘Of course he is. Oh, General Ferguson’s in charge, but it always comes down to Dillon. He spent all those years with the IRA, and the Army and the RUC never touched his collar once, the bastard.’

‘But a clever bastard. So what now?’

‘We’ll see him tonight. It’s time you two met.’

‘And how do we do that?’

‘Because, as you said, he’s calling me out. It’s an invitation, and I know just where to find him.’

6

Later that afternoon at Ferguson’s flat, the General sat by the fire, listening to Hannah Bernstein’s account of the trip. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘You seem to have behaved with your usual ruthless efficiency, Sean.’

‘Ah, well, the man needed it.’

‘So what happens now?’

‘She won’t let it go. It’s like one of those old Westerns. The villain comes out of the saloon to meet the hero for a gunfight in the street.’

‘An interesting parallel.’

‘She won’t be able to resist a face-to-face.’

‘And where will this event take place?’

‘Where we’ve met so often before – the Piano Bar at the Dorchester.’

‘When?’

‘Tonight. She’ll be expecting me.’

Ferguson nodded. ‘You know, you could be right. I’d better come with you.’

‘What about me, sir?’ Hannah asked.

‘Not this time, Superintendent. You’ve had a strenuous day. You could do with a night off.’

She bridled. ‘You know, I did pass a stringent medical exam before Special Branch allowed me to return to duty. I’m fine, really I am.’

‘Yes, well, I’d still prefer you to take the night off.’

‘Very well, sir,’ she said reluctantly. ‘If you’ve no further need of me, I’ll get back to the office and clear a few things up. Are you coming, Sean?’

‘Yes, you can take me to Stable Mews.’

Ferguson said, ‘Seven o’clock about right, Sean?’

‘Fine by me.’

She dropped him at his cottage, but Dillon didn’t go in. He waited until the Daimler had turned the corner, rolled up the garage door, got into the old Mini Cooper he kept as a run-around, and drove away.

He was thinking about Harry Salter. Salter was a very old-fashioned gangster, now reasonably respectable, but not completely so, and he and his nephew, Billy, had been involved as much as anyone else in the feud that had led to the death of Kate Rashid’s brothers.

Traffic was as bad as London traffic usually is, but Dillon finally reached Wapping High Street, turned along a narrow lane between warehouse developments, and came out on a wharf beside the Thames. He parked outside the Dark Man, Salter’s pub, its painted sign showing a sinister individual in a dark cloak.

The main bar was very Victorian, with gilt-edged mirrors behind the mahogany bar, and porcelain beer pumps. Bottles ranged against the mirror seemed to cover every conceivable choice for even the most hardened drinker. Dora, the chief barmaid, sat on a stool reading the London Evening Standard.

At that time in the afternoon, before the evening trade got going, the bar was empty except for the four men in the corner booth playing poker. They were Harry Salter; Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, his minders; and Harry’s nephew, Billy.

Harry Salter threw down his cards. ‘These are no bleeding good to me,’ and then he looked up and saw Dillon and smiled.

‘You little Irish bastard. What brings you here?’

Billy turned in his chair and his face lit up. ‘Hey, Dillon, great to see you,’ and then he stopped smiling. ‘Trouble?’

‘How did you guess?’

‘’Cos you and me have been to hell and back more times than I can count. By now, I can tell the signs. What’s up?’

There was an eagerness in his voice and Dillon said, ‘I’ve been the ruin of you, Billy. You never used to be so willing to put yourself in danger. Remember when I quoted your favourite philosopher: “The unexamined life is not worth living”?’

‘And I said that to me it meant the life not put to the test is not worth living. So what’s up?’

‘Kate Rashid.’

Billy stopped smiling. They all did. Harry said, ‘I’d say that calls for a drink. Bushmills, Dora.’

Dillon lit a cigarette and Billy said, ‘Let’s hear it.’

‘Remember Paul Rashid’s funeral, Billy?’

‘Don’t I just. No mourners, she said, but you had to go anyway.’

‘And you said, “Is that it then?” and I said, “I don’t think so.” And then when we ran into her at the Dorchester, she sentenced us all to death.’

‘Well, she can try,’ Harry said. ‘As I told her then, people have been trying to knock me off for forty years and I’m still here.’

Billy said, ‘Look, what’s happened, Dillon? Let’s be having it.’

Dillon swallowed his Bushmills and told them everything. They’d worked with him and Blake Johnson in the past, knew all about the Basement, so there was no reason to hide anything. He finished by telling them what had happened at Loch Dhu and what he intended to do.

‘So you think she’ll be there tonight?’ Harry Salter asked.

‘I’m certain of it.’

‘Then Billy and I will be there, too. We’ll have another drink on it,’ and he called to Dora.

A little while later, Dillon punched the doorbell at Roper’s place. The Major said over the voice box, ‘Who is it?’

‘It’s Sean, you daft sod.’

The electronic lock buzzed, and Dillon pushed open the door. Roper was seated at his computer bank in his wheelchair.

‘I’ve had Ferguson on the line. He told me about Loch Dhu, but I’d like to hear it from you.’

Dillon lit a cigarette and told him. ‘So there you are. Pretty much as we thought.’

‘So it would appear.’

‘What have you got? Anything new?’

‘Well, I thought I’d see if I could trace Kate Rashid’s travel patterns. She uses a company Gulfstream, so I can access times easily enough – air traffic slots have to be booked – and I can ascertain when she’s been on board through Passport Control and Special Branch.’

‘Any significant pattern?’

‘Not much. She’s only been up to Loch Dhu once recently. Used the same old airstrip you did. Here’s something that might be interesting, though: she went to Belfast last month.’

‘Now that is interesting. Any thoughts on where she went?’

‘Yes. She landed late afternoon and had a slot booked back to Heathrow the following afternoon, so that seemed to indicate a hotel for the night. So I started with the Europa, accessed their booking records, and there she was.’

‘And why was she there?’

Roper shook his head. ‘That I don’t know. But if she does it again, I’ll let you know. You could follow her. Of course, it could be perfectly legitimate. Rashid Investments has taken a big stake in Ulster since peace broke out.’

‘Peace?’ Dillon laughed harshly. ‘Believe that, you’ll believe anything.’

‘I agree with you. After all, I was the one who defused a hundred and two bombs. Too bad it wasn’t a hundred and three.’ He patted the arm of the wheelchair.

‘I know,’ Dillon said. ‘You know, considering I was on the other side, I sometimes wonder why you put up with me.’

‘You were never a bomb man, Sean. Anyway, I like you.’ He shrugged. ‘By the way, if you want a drink, there’s a bottle of white wine in the fridge over there. It’s all I’m allowed.’

Dillon groaned. ‘God help me, but it will do to take along.’ He got the bottle from the fridge. ‘Jesus, Roper, it’s so cheap it’s got a screw top.’

‘Don’t moan about it, pour it. I’m a reserve officer on a pension.’

Dillon obeyed, and put a glass at Roper’s right hand while Roper played with the keys. Dillon took a swallow and made a face. ‘I think someone made this in the backyard. What are you looking at now?’

‘Rupert Dauncey. Quite a character, but nothing we don’t know about him already. There’s something about him, though, a ruthlessness, always on the edge. There’s a dark side to that one.’

‘Ah, well there’s a dark side to all of us. Can you tell if he was with Kate on the Irish trip?’

‘There are Special Branch regulations regarding passengers on executive jets. He wasn’t on board. He’s a comparatively new arrival to her entourage, remember.’

‘I suppose so.’

Roper drank some wine. ‘However, he is on board tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, with the Countess. Would you like to know where they’re going?’

‘Where?’

‘Hazar.’

‘Hazar, hmm? That means Hamam airport. You know, the RAF built it in the old days. There’s only one runway, but it can take anything, even a Hercules. Check on something for me. Last time I was there, we used an outfit called Carver Air Transport. See if they’re still there.’

Roper tapped his keys. ‘Yes, they are. Ben Carver? Ex-Squadron Leader in the RAF?’

‘The old sod,’ Dillon said. ‘So what’s Kate up to?’

‘That’s what Ferguson asked when I told him. Of course, there are a dozen different reasons why she could be going down there, but Ferguson said he would contact Tony Villiers, ask him to keep an eye on her.’ Colonel Tony Villiers was the Commander of the Hazar Scouts.

‘That should help. Villiers is good, and he isn’t particularly keen on the Rashids since they skinned his second-in-command, Bronsby.’

‘Yes, they do have their little ways. Now go away, Dillon. I’ve got work to do.’

At that moment, on the border between Hazar and the Empty Quarter, Tony Villiers was encamped with a dozen of his Hazar Scouts and three Land Rovers. A small fire of dried camel dung burned, a pan of water on top.

His men were all Rashid Bedu and all accepted Kate Rashid as leader of the tribe, but the clan spilled across the border as well. There were good men over there in the Empty Quarter and there were bad men, bandits who crossed into Hazar at their own risk, for the Scouts had sworn a blood oath to Villiers. Honour was of supreme importance to them – each one would kill his own brother if necessary, rather than violate his oath.

They sat around the fire, AK assault rifles close at hand, wearing soiled white robes and crossed bandoliers. Some smoked and drank coffee, others ate dates and dried meat.

Tony Villiers wore a head cloth and crumpled khaki uniform, a Browning pistol in his holster. He’d never got used to dates and had just eaten the contents of a large can of baked beans cold. One of the men came across with a tin cup.

‘Tea, Sahb?’

‘Thanks,’ Villiers replied in Arabic.

He sat down and leaned against a rock, drank the bitter black tea, smoked a cigarette, and looked out to the Empty Quarter. It was disputed territory there, and utterly lawless. As someone had once said, you could kill the Pope there and no one would be able to do a thing. That’s why he kept to his side of the border whenever possible.

Villiers, approaching fifty now, had served in the Falklands and every little war in between up to the Gulf and Saddam, then had ended up on secondment here in Hazar. It was just like in the old days, a British officer commanding native levies, and it was beginning to pall.

‘Time to go, old son,’ he said softly. As he lit another cigarette, the mobile in his left breast pocket rang.

The Codex Four was not available on the open market. It had been developed for intelligence use in places where strict security was necessary, and Villiers had his courtesy of Ferguson.

‘That you, Tony? Ferguson here.’

‘Charles, how’s every little thing at the Ministry of Defence?’

‘Put your scrambler on.’

Villiers pressed a red button. ‘Done.’

Ferguson said, ‘Where are you?’