Sharif went out, shaking his head, and Dillon called Sergeant Parker on his mobile.
“It’s Dillon. Do you know a place called Ramalla?”
“I certainly do.”
“You’re taking us there tonight. Dress in civilian clothes and don’t forget the Browning.”
“Like that, is it? If I leave now, I could be with you in an hour.”
“Dress smartly, old son. Remember it’s the Al Bustan.”
“You’ve got to be joking.” Parker laughed and switched off.
Dillon then tried Lacey and tracked him down in the mess. “Dillon here. How’s everything with you?”
“There are some interesting people around, but otherwise it’s boring. Since we’re on standby, we can’t have a drink. Whatever you’re up to, do get on with it, old lad.”
“I can’t promise, but somewhere around midnight could be a possibility. Would that give you a problem?”
“Red Priority One? Sean, they all jump to that.”
“There’s a possible passenger, but that would imply perfection in an imperfect world.”
“We’re entirely in your hands. Take care.”
Dillon snapped his Codex Four shut and turned to Billy. “That’s it for now. Let’s try that bar.”
9
Sharif, the old intelligence hand, decided to brave Greta Novikova face-to-face, and knocked on the door of Cottage Seven. She opened it, dressed in a bathrobe, a towel around her head.
“I’ve seen them,” he said.
“You’d better come in and tell me everything.”
Which he did, or his version of everything. “He’s a hard one, this Dillon.”
“More than you’ll ever know. But the important thing is you’ve made it clear that Selim won’t be there until tomorrow.”
“Absolutely. He’d no reason not to believe me.”
“And any news from Ramalla?”
“As I said, definitely later tonight. I’m going to check my sources now. I have police contacts in the area. A matter of some delicacy.”
“Then get on with it. I have Zorin and Makeev turning up soon.” She opened the door for him. “What is Dillon doing now?”
“He told me they were going to the bar.”
“I’m sure he would.”
She let him out, stood there frowning for a moment, then went into the bedroom and started to dress.
The bar and restaurant area was hardly busy, with no more than a couple of dozen people scattered around the tables, three or four on bar stools. The fans stirred on the flaking ceiling, the ornate mirrors at the back of the bar were cracked in places, and here and there the wall was pockmarked with bullet holes, but the two barmen wore white jackets, the headwaiter a tuxedo. They were all trying. The war, after all, was over.
Billy had two cameras slung around his neck and snapped away with genuine enthusiasm, going out through the open French windows to the terrace and the floodlit pool area. He returned.
“Great, Dillon, just great. We could make a movie.”
Dillon had discovered an acceptable bar champagne and toasted him. “Just your thing, Billy. You’d look great in a white tuxedo. We’ll get Harry to put up the money.”
And then Greta Novikova walked into the bar, elegant in a very simple black silk dress that was short, but not too short, set off by gold high-heel shoes, with her hair tied back.
“I was wondering where you’d got to,” Dillon said. “But it was worth the wait, girl. You look grand.”
“You’re a cheeky bastard, Dillon, I’ll say that for you. I’ll have champagne on the terrace.”
She walked out, heads turning, and selected a table and Dillon ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon from the headwaiter.
“ Ferguson is obviously extremely generous when he allows you to order stuff like that,” Greta said.
Billy was seated on the balustrade, snapping away. “Oh, Dillon’s the man for you. He’s got plenty stacked away.”
As the headwaiter uncorked the bottle and a waiter brought three glasses, Dillon said, “That’s a great lie, or part of a one. Billy here and his uncle Harry have millions in property development by the Thames, but he’s a boy of simple tastes. Prefers being a photographer.”
“Photographer, my ass,” she said to Dillon in Russian.
“And what was that all about?” Billy asked.
“I couldn’t bear to tell you,” Dillon said. “But it was rude.” He turned to the headwaiter. “Only two glasses. The boy doesn’t drink.”
“No, he just shoots people when the mood takes him,” Greta said, and sipped some of her champagne. “I know very well who you are. Your uncle is one of the most notorious gangsters in London, and you’re not far behind.”
“I’ll have to run faster, then.”
Dillon produced a pack of Marlboros and gave her a light. “So where do we go from here? You know what the game is, or think you do.”
“But my game could be different from yours. We Russians can be very devious.” She emptied her glass in a quick swallow. “Not vodka. Now, there’s a real drink. Buy a bottle and I’ll trade glass for glass with you.”
Billy was laughing. “You’re one of a kind, lady. Go on, Dillon, give it a go.”
And Dillon liked her, liked her more than any woman in a long time, as she leaned across the table so close that he could smell her perfume, her chin on one hand. “Come on, Dillon.” She was challenging him now. “Would you like to give it a go?”
There was a pause, then Dillon said, “I capitulate.” He ordered a bottle of vodka, which was provided almost instantly.
She insisted on having the first one. “I am the taster.” She took it straight back, Russian style, and made a face. “Now, this one they’ve made in some backyard in Baghdad. Try it, Dillon.”
He did, and it burned like fire. He coughed, tears in his eyes. “Well, it’s not Irish whiskey, but it’ll do to take along. Let’s save some for your friends. They’ll be joining you, I’m sure.” She poured him another with a steady hand. “Makeev and Zorin.”
“Sounds like a variety act,” Billy said.
“Ah, Mr. Salter, there you would be making a mistake. They come highly recommended.”
Two men came out through the French windows, strangely similar in black shirts and tan suits, around forty, hard and fit with military-style haircuts.
The nearest one said in Russian, “Major Novikova. Igor Zorin. This is Boris Makeev.”
“Make it English. Mr. Dillon here speaks Russian almost as well as you do.”
“A man of taste, which doesn’t extend to his choice of vodkas,” Makeev said. “But when you’re Irish, anything’s better than nothing, I suppose.”
Makeev drank from the bottle, made a face and spat it out onto the table, spotting Greta’s dress. “Control yourself,” she said angrily. “That’s an order.”
“We’re not in the army now,” Makeev told her. “We’re working for wages, and I can tell you we don’t take kindly to women who try to give orders.”
Billy took a step toward him, and Dillon said, “Leave it.”
Sergeant Parker appeared through the French windows, wearing a dark blue blazer and flannel slacks. He put his right hand inside the blazer and stood, silent and watchful.
“Nothing to say?” Makeev asked.
“Your hair fascinates me,” Dillon said. “Shaved off like that, the two of you look like a couple of convicts on the run. Now, the SAS at Hereford, England, grow their hair long because they don’t know from one day to the next when they might have to go undercover. But then, they’re the best. You can’t be expected to compare.”
“Why, you little shit,” Makeev said in Russian, leaned down to grab Dillon by the shirtfront and was promptly head-butted. He staggered back, and Billy put out a foot and tripped him, following it up with a kick in the ribs.