Inside the Red Lion, a man was at the door of the snug, and he turned, his mouth gaping, when he saw Salter, who smiled genially.
“Why, Jacko, you look even uglier than usual.” He grabbed him by the tie, swung him around, and Billy punched him very hard under the breastbone and head-butted him. Jacko went down and Billy opened the door for his uncle.
Harker was sitting at a table, counting wads of cash, Mosby leaning over beside him. They both looked up, startled.
“Why, Harry, what’s going on?” Harker demanded.
“You may well ask, particularly since a couple of arseholes claiming to be working for you just had a go at Dillon here down by Shepherd’s Market, and I can’t be having that because he’s a friend of mine.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, dear, so we’re going to have to do it the hard way, are we?” Mosby slipped a hand inside his coat and Dillon produced the Walther. “Don’t be stupid,” Salter said. “Put whatever you’ve got in there on the table and get out, unless you’d like Dillon to leave your brains on the wall.”
Mosby didn’t even hesitate. He took a.38 Smith amp; Wesson from his pocket, laid it down and cleared off.
“Now, look,” Harker said. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but…”
Salter slapped him across the face. “Bring him along, Billy, and mind the garbage on the way out.”
He stood outside as Billy shoved Harker out and Baxter and Hall grabbed him. “We’ll go down to my place at Wapping. I’ve got a nice old riverboat there, the Lynda Jones, but then you know that. Nice night to go on the river.”
“Look, Harry, what do you want?”
“To know what you were playing at with my friend Mr. Dillon, who put you up to it.”
“No way.” Harker didn’t sound afraid. “Leave it, Harry, you’ve no idea what you’re getting into. The people I’m involved with could swallow you whole.”
“That’d be a new sensation for me.” Salter was completely unconcerned. “If I were you, I’d think about it, Charlie. Now let’s go.”
Standing in the doorway in the alley, Ali Selim had heard everything and it was enough. He made for the Peugeot and drove away quickly, reaching the mosque twenty minutes later. The first thing he did was call Heathrow Airport and book a first-class ticket on a plane to Kuwait that was leaving in two hours. He tossed a few things into a suitcase, together with the cash he’d taken for Harker plus his passport, and was ready to go. He hesitated, then picked up the telephone and called Ashimov, who was sitting in an Italian restaurant with Greta.
“It’s me, Ali. We’ve got problems.”
“Tell me.”
Selim did. “ Ferguson and his people are getting too close, and if Harker spills the beans about what he’s been doing for us, it would seriously compromise Wrath of Allah.”
“Don’t panic. I’ll handle it. Just keep cool, all right?”
Greta Novikova said, “Trouble?” Ashimov called for his bill and told her quickly.
She was worried. “Can you handle this?”
“You shouldn’t need to ask. We’ll take a taxi to my place, where we’ll get my car and suitable weaponry. You can chauffeur me.” He smiled a terrible smile. “They’re only gangsters, my love. I handled them in Moscow, I’ll handle them now.”
Ali Selim, of course, would not have agreed with him. He rang the bell for Abdul, the caretaker, and met him on his way out to the car.
“Something’s come up. I’m needed in Iraq. I’m not sure for how long, but I’ll be in touch.”
“As you say, Doctor.” Abdul never questioned the imam’s comings and goings.
Selim got into the Peugeot and drove away. The Baghdad airport, as happened so frequently, was closed to aviation traffic, which was why he was headed to Kuwait. He’d drive the rest of the way. It was surprising how cheerful he felt, the closer he got to Heathrow and away from Queen Street.
The Lynda Jones was moored at the other end of the wharf from the Dark Man. More than fifty years old, it had been lovingly restored, and it was the joy of Harry’s life – it took him back to his childhood days as a river rat. He sat there now with Billy, at a table under an awning, and Baxter and Hall held Harker between them.
Dillon stood by the stern railing, light spilling out into the darkness, the occasional boat passing, all lit up. The whole place had a rather melancholy air to it, although, for the life of him, he couldn’t think why. He shivered slightly and lit a cigarette.
Harry said, “Okay, Charlie, don’t waste my time. Who told you to stick those two hoods on Dillon?”
Harker tried to struggle, and Baxter and Hall held him firmly. Billy leaned forward and slapped his face.
Harker said wildly, “I’ve told you, Harry, you don’t know what you’re getting into. This is big-time stuff, believe me.”
“And who are we, the little people? Fuck this for a game of soldiers.” Salter nodded to Billy. “Try the hoist and put him over.”
Baxter and Hall put the struggling Harker down and Billy pulled on the stern hoist, took the hemp rope suspended from it and looped it around Harker’s ankles. Baxter and Hall heaved until Harker was clear of the side, then swung him over and dropped him headfirst into the river.
He hung there for a while, struggling, weakened, then stopped. “Have him up,” Harry told them.
Baxter and Hall pulled Harker out, then swung him over the rail. He lay on the deck, retching up river water.
“Had enough?” Billy demanded.
“You’ve signed your own death warrants,” Harker said weakly.
“We’re wasting our bleeding time here,” Salter said. “Over with him again.”
“No, for God’s sake. I’ll tell you.”
They untied him and sat him on a chair. “Give him a fag,” Salter said, which Billy did.
Dillon cut in. “So who told you to put those guys onto me?”
“A Russian called Ashimov. He runs security for that oil billionaire, Belov. Ashimov has links with Dr. Ali Selim at the Queen Street Mosque. They recruit English-born Muslims for some outfit called the Wrath of Allah. To arrange an underground route for them to Iraq or Syria. They use one of my boats to Amsterdam, then go on to Kuwait on false passports.”
“You bloody bastard,” Salter said. “What do you do when they come back and set bombs off in London?”
Before Harker could reply, there came a single shot. It took Harker over the rail into the water.
Ashimov grabbed Greta’s sleeve. “Come on, move it,” and they hurried away through the shadows.
Leaving the Volvo close to the Dark Man, he and Greta had watched from the shadows and heard something of what was being said. Without hesitating, Ashimov had pulled out a Beretta, taken careful aim and fired. He seldom missed.
On the Lynda Jones, the four of them crouched, waiting, and Billy reached to flick off the light switch. A moment later, they heard a car start up and move away. “Well, that’s it, whoever it was,” Salter said.
“A pound to a penny it was Ashimov,” Dillon said.
Billy switched on the deck lights again and they peered over. “No sign of Harker,” Dillon said.
Billy shrugged. “There won’t be. The tide’s going out.”
“Well, at least we know where we stand,” Dillon said. “So if you gents will excuse me, I’ll go and have words with Ali Selim. I’ll keep you posted.”