And then, out of Saudi and skirting Iraq, flying three UN peace officials, he’d been bounced by an Iraqi MiG and fired on. He had pulled his father’s old Luftwaffe trick, gone down low and used full flaps at the last moment, and the MiG had gone headfirst into the desert to avoid him. The three UN officials had been delighted at still being in the land of the living. One of them, an Irish woman, had said he deserved a medal. Instead, the Luftwaffe had thrown him out for flouting their no-combat rules.
Since then, he’d discovered the lucrative delights of various kinds of smuggling using an old Storch from the Second World War, doing night runs, sometimes as far as Poland.
He had fair hair and insolent blue eyes and wore his father’s old black leather Luftwaffe flying jacket, his personal talisman, and he sat there, thinking about the phone call. Roper had been impressive, had even managed fluent German. The mention of Ferguson was enough. Roper had said he only wanted information on the Baron’s movements at Neustadt, but there had to be more to it than that. It was quite exciting, really. He was aware of the Baron’s background, knew of the general whispers about who Rossi was, had a professional’s respect for his flying record. No, the prospect intrigued, and he did have that drunken oaf, Hans Klein, to call on, who helped him on occasion on cigarette runs. A bar girl approached him; he waved her away and dialed Klein’s number. After a while there was an answer.
The words were slurred. He’d been drinking. “Who is this?”
“Max Kubel. Where are you living now?”
“Not much better than a pigsty. The cottage at the back of the church. You know the Baron robbed me of my farm, and that son of his-”
“Beat the shit out of you.”
“I’ll have my day. What do you want? Are you doing another run?”
“Soon, Hans, but I need to know what’s going on in Neustadt. The Baron’s movements, and Rossi’s. Are they in or out?”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll pay you well, you stupid bastard, and you’ll do it anyway because you hate them. You’ve got my mobile number, so get on with it.”
He switched off, feeling suddenly incredibly cheerful, and the bar girl came back and stroked his hair. “A drink, Max?”
He ran a hand up her leg. “Very definitely. Whiskey, liebchen, malt whiskey. We’ll both have one.”
“And then? Can I come back?”
“We’ll see, Elsa, we’ll see.”
At Harry’s Place, they reached the end of their meal and split up. On the pavement, as they all started for their cars, Dillon said, “I’ll hang on with Roper and share his cab.”
“If you like,” Ferguson said.
They departed, the cab drove up, the driver got out and put the ramp down and Dillon pushed Roper inside. “Stable Mews,” he called to the driver when he got in, and turned to Roper. “On your way.”
“What are you up to?”
“Me? Nothing. I’m restless, that’s all.”
“That’s when I worry about you.”
“No need.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment.”
“He murdered Sara Hesser.” Dillon lit a cigarette. “I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life. I should shoot him, but Ferguson says no, even though we’ve taken out people as bad as Rossi before.”
“Maybe Ferguson is intent on handling this differently.”
“And maybe Marco Rossi has his own ideas about handling. Maybe he’s a lot like me.” The cab drew up in Stable Mews and Dillon got out.
Roper said, “Sean – whatever it is – don’t.”
“You’re a great guy, Roper, one of the few people in this rotten old world I truly admire, but, as we say in Belfast, good night to you.”
He let himself into the cottage, went upstairs, changed into jeans and a bomber jacket, went down, opened the secret drawer under the stairs, selected a Walther and slipped it into the back of his jeans. He left a few moments later in his Mini Cooper.
After the meeting at Harry’s Place, Rossi had phoned Newton and Cook and told them to report to South Audley Street.
“You stay on Ferguson. First thing tomorrow, you find out every single place he goes.”
“But why?” Newton said. “What’s the purpose of this?”
“The purpose, you stupid oaf, is that we’re going to lift him at the right moment.”
There was consternation on both faces. “Now look here,” Cook said. “We’re not into that.”
Marco Rossi said, “You’re into what I say you are or I’ll see you never work again. Do what you’re told and don’t fuck with me.”
There was a moment of hesitation, then Newton said, “As you say, Mr. Rossi.”
“Right, get on with it. And don’t use your car. Get a white van, something anonymous, right?”
They went out and Gibson, who’d been in the room, watching, said, “They used to be SAS? No wonder the Provos did so well. What happens now?”
“There’s an old airbase at Fotley; it’s got a decaying runway but it’s usable. I’ll have one of our planes left there. When we lift Ferguson, I’ll fly it myself.”
“To where?”
“Schloss Adler. The game starts there. The game, Derry, that will bring in Sean Dillon.”
“Well, that will suit me fine.”
In South Audley Street, Dillon left the Mini and walked through light rain to the side street where the Rashid house stood. He stood in the shadows and watched, and suddenly the door opened and Newton and Cook emerged. He recognized them at once and drew back into the shadows. They crossed to their car and got in. It was only then that Dillon hurried across the street, opened the door and put the muzzle of his Walther to Newton ’s temple.
“Hello, guys, am I your worst nightmare or not?”
Newton said, “Christ, it’s you, Dillon.”
“As ever was. What’s going on with Rossi?”
“For God’s sake, we just work for Rashid on security. He’s our new boss. That’s all, I swear.”
He was genuinely fearful and Dillon sensed it. “Okay, piss off, but come up against me and I’ll kill you, both of you.”
They drove away. Dillon turned to walk and the door opened and Rossi emerged in a blue tracksuit, a towel at his throat. He started to run.
Dillon called, “Hey, you bastard.”
Rossi paused, turned and saw him. “Dillon, is that you? What are you going to do, shoot me?”
“I’d love to, but you’ve been put off-limits at the moment.” Dillon shook out a cigarette and lit it. “Killing the old woman – a big war hero like you. It couldn’t have given much of a kick.”
“Fuck you, Dillon,” Rossi said.
“You’ve got it wrong. Right time, right place, I’ll kill you, Marco. She was a nice old lady. You shouldn’t have done it.”
He turned and walked away. Marco Rossi took a deep breath and started to run again. Behind him, the front door of the house gently closed. The Baron had followed him, had wanted a word, and instead had heard everything. He turned, and with a heavy heart mounted the stairs.
The Daimler picked Ferguson up the following morning at Cavendish Place, where Newton and Cook were parked in a British Telecom van, wearing appropriate yellow anoraks. They followed at a discreet distance to Harley Street, watched the Daimler park and waited, Cook opening the rear door of the van, taking out a large toolbox and looking busy. Newton strolled up the street, glancing at the brass nameplate on the door as he passed, and returned to Cook.
He leaned against the van and lit a cigarette. “Some surgeon, name of Merriman.”
Professor Henry Merriman was a large, avuncular man who greeted Ferguson warmly. A young nurse stood at a side table, various medical items laid out beside her.