Dark Justice

‘To a point – only to a point.’ She turned into Monk Street and stopped. He said, ‘Sometimes I think it was better in the old days, Greta. Afghanistan, Chechnya, Iraq. To smell powder again.’ He shook his head. ‘That would be wonderful.’

‘You must be raving mad,’ she told him.

‘Very probably.’ He patted her silken knee. ‘You’re a lovely girl, so go and do what Belov is paying you to do. Extract a few more facts from Mrs Morgan, but keep your masters at the GRU happy.’

He got out of the Opel and walked away.

Heavy traffic on Wapping High Street held her back a little, but she finally found what she was looking for: Chandler Street, backing down to the Thames. Many cars were parked there, which gave her good cover, and she pulled in, switched off and settled down, her camera at the ready.

Number Thirteen, that had amused her when she’d looked at the file, an old Victorian terrace house. She sat there, looking along the street to the grocery shop on the corner opposite the river. There was no one about, not a soul. It started to rain and then a red Mini drew up opposite and Hannah Bernstein and Sean Dillon got out.

Hannah pressed the bell and they waited. Finally they heard the sounds of movement, the door was opened on a chain and Mrs Morgan peered out. She was old, faded, much older than her years, as Hannah had indicated. She had a long scarf wrapped around her head, the chador worn by most Muslim women. The voice was almost a whisper.

‘What do you want?’

‘It’s me, Mrs Morgan, Miss Bernstein from the social services. I thought I’d call again.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘This is Mr Dillon, my supervisor. May we come in?’

‘Just a moment.’ The door closed while she disengaged the chain, then opened again. When they entered, she had turned to precede them in the wheelchair.

All this, Greta Novikova had captured on her camera.

In the small sitting room the air was heavy and close and smelled of musk, a strange, disturbing aroma that was somehow alien and not quite right.

Hannah said, ‘I just thought I’d check on you, Mrs Morgan, as we happened to be passing.’

Dillon, more direct, said, ‘Your son is in New York, I understand, Mrs Morgan. Have you heard from him?’

Her voice was muted, and she coughed, ‘Oh, he’ll be too busy. I’m sure he’ll phone when he’s got time.’

Hannah was angry and glared at Dillon. He nodded and she carried on reluctantly. ‘Have you seen Dr Selim lately?’

‘Oh, yes, at the mosque. When my son’s away Dr Selim sends a young man to wheel me along to Queen Street. It’s not far. He’s been very good, Dr Selim, helping us so much, helping me and my Henry to discover our faith.’

Hannah felt wretched. ‘I’m sure that’s been very nice for you.’

‘Yes, he’s called around two or three times since Henry’s been away, with his friend.’

There was a pause, her breathing heavy. Dillon said, ‘And who was that?’

‘Oh, I can’t remember his name. Very strange, Russian, I think. He had a terrible scar right down from his eye to the corner of his mouth.’

Dillon said sternly in Arabic, ‘Have you told me everything, old woman? Do you swear to this, as Allah commands?’

She looked fearful and replied in Arabic, ‘There is no more. I don’t know his name. My son said he was a Russian friend. That’s all I know.’

Hannah said, ‘I don’t know what you’re saying, Dillon, but leave it. She’s frightened.’

Dillon smiled, suddenly looking devastatingly charming, and kissed Mrs Morgan on the forehead. ‘There you are, my love.’ He turned to Hannah and led the way out.

Outside, she said, ‘What a bastard you are. What were you saying?’

‘Just checking if she was telling the truth.’

‘Right, let’s go.’

‘I’m not ready yet, Hannah.’ He nodded to the corner shop at the end of the street. ‘Let’s have a word down there. The Russian gentleman with the scar interests me. Maybe he’s been in.’

They walked down the pavement towards the shop, and behind them Greta Novikova turned her Opel into the street and drove away.

The sign on the shop window said ‘M. Patel’. Dillon nodded. ‘Indian, that’s good.’

‘Why, particularly?’ Hannah asked.

‘Because they’re smart and they don’t screw around. They’ve got a head for business and they want to fit in. So let’s see what Mr Patel has to say and let’s use your warrant card.’

The shop was neat and orderly, and obviously sold a bit of everything. The Indian behind the counter reading the Evening Standard was in shirtsleeves and looked about fifty. He glanced up, smiling, looked them over and stopped smiling.

‘Can I help?’

Hannah produced her warrant card. ‘Detective Superintendent Bernstein, Special Branch. Mr Dillon is a colleague. We’re pursuing inquiries, which involve a Mrs Morgan who lives up the street. You know her?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Her son’s away,’ Dillon said. ‘New York, I understand?’

‘Yes, she did tell me that. Look, what is this?’

‘Don’t fret, Mr Patel, everything’s fine. Mrs Morgan is friendly with a Dr Ali Selim. You know who he is?’

Patel’s face slipped. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘And you don’t like him.’ Dillon smiled. ‘A Hindu–Muslim thing? Well, never mind. Sometimes when he sees Mrs Morgan he has a friend with him. Bad scar, from his eye to his mouth. She thinks he’s Russian.’

‘That’s right, he is. He’s called in to buy cigarettes, sometimes with the Arab. Selim calls him Yuri. They were in yesterday.’

Hannah glanced up at the security camera. ‘Was that working?’

He nodded. ‘I was busy, so when the tape stopped I didn’t run it back. I took it out and put a fresh tape in.’

‘Good,’ Dillon said. ‘I’m sure you have a television in the back room. Get us the tape and we’ll run it back.’

Patel proved accommodating, closed the shop for a while and ran the tape through for them. Finally he stopped.

‘There they are.’

Hannah and Dillon had a look. ‘So that’s him?’ Dillon said. ‘The Russian.’

‘Yes. And I’ve remembered something else,’ Patel said. ‘One day he was on his own and his mobile rang and he said, “Ashimov here.”’

‘You’re sure about that?’ Hannah asked.

‘Well, that’s how it sounded.’

‘Good man, yourself,’ Dillon said. ‘You’ve helped enormously.’

Patel hesitated. ‘Look, is Mrs Morgan in trouble? I mean, she’s not fit to be out, but she’s nice enough.’

‘No problem,’ Hannah said. ‘We’re just pursuing some inquiries.’

‘And I know exactly what that means with you people.’

Dillon patted him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, old son, we’re the good guys.’

They went out and walked towards the Mini. ‘Yuri Ashimov,’ Hannah said. ‘Interesting.’

‘Let’s go and see what Roper makes of it,’ Dillon suggested.

At Monk Street, Greta linked her digital camera to Ashimov’s television and ran the photos of Dillon and Hannah.

‘There you are. The social services I assume. I’ve no idea who the man is.’

Ashimov swore softly. ‘But I do. My God, Greta, you’re on to something here.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Last year, when Baron von Berger of Berger International was killed in that plane crash, and Belov took over his oil concessions and put me in charge of general security…I started going over all of Berger International’s previous security records. Did you know that Berger was in a state of open warfare against a man named General Charles Ferguson? Have you heard of him?’

‘Of course I have,’ Greta said. ‘He runs that special intelligence outfit for the Prime Minister.’

‘Gold star for you, Greta.’ Ashimov pointed to the last picture on the screen. ‘That’s Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein, Ferguson’s assistant.’

‘Good God,’ Greta said.

Ashimov flicked to Dillon. ‘And this gentleman – this one really is special. Sean Dillon, Ferguson’s strong right hand, and once the Provisional IRA’s top enforcer. For twenty years or more the British Army and the RUC couldn’t lay a hand on him.’

‘And now he works for the Prime Minister? That’s unbelievable.’

‘Well, it’s typically British. They’ll turn their hand to anything if it suits.’

‘So where does this leave us?’

‘With Ferguson’s outfit checking Mrs Morgan, whose son was supposed to have a go at President Jake Cazalet in New York and has now disappeared, or so it would seem. Would you say the appearance of Dillon and Bernstein at her front door was a coincidence?’

‘Not for a moment. What do you intend to do?’

‘I’ll alert Dr Ali Selim, naturally. We’ll take it from there. I’ll show them the photos.’

‘And Belov?’

‘He left this sort of thing in my hands, but I keep him informed.’ He smiled. ‘He’s not involved, Greta my love, you must understand. He’s too important. As regards operations at what you might call the coal face, I’m in charge.’ He smiled and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Trust me.’

Soon after, he was standing by an old jetty round the corner from the Queen Street mosque, overlooking the river. He leaned on a rail smoking a cigarette, enjoying the landscape, the views, the boats passing. Selim appeared after a while, a handsome bearded man wearing a Burberry raincoat, an umbrella guarding him from the rain.

‘Yuri, my friend.’ He smiled. ‘You said it was urgent. Why not call at my office at the mosque?’

‘Not again,’ Ashimov told him. ‘I’ve got news for you. Our friend Morgan’s trip to New York would seem to have disappeared into a black hole.’

‘How unfortunate,’ Selim said calmly.

‘Listen.’ Ashimov went through everything.

Afterwards Selim said, ‘We can’t be certain he met a bad end. That’s supposition, surely?’

‘Ali, my friend, if Ferguson’s lot are involved, particularly this Dillon, then the end is as certain as the coffin lid closing.’

‘You consider the man exceptional, it would seem.’

‘And for good reason. He’s a man of many skills. An experienced pilot, for instance, and a linguist. Russian and Arabic, for example.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

‘Besides his years with the IRA, he worked for the PLO as a mercenary, and for the Israelis in Lebanon in the old days.’ Ashimov lit a cigarette. ‘He kills at the drop of a hat, this one.’

‘Oh, in a dark street on a rainy night, I’m sure he’s as susceptible to a knife under the ribs as anyone.’

‘My dear Ali.’ Ashimov smiled. ‘If you believe that, you’ll be making the worst mistake of your life.’

Selim said, ‘So, what about Mrs Morgan? If they’re sniffing around there, she could be saying the wrong things.’

‘I don’t know. She’s an ageing cripple in a wheelchair. She can’t speak in much more than a whisper. And what could she tell him? That she’s a woman who returned to Islam after her husband’s death, whose son also discovered the faith and lightened her grief. Wouldn’t you, as her imam, agree with all this?’

‘Of course.’

‘Exactly, and you are a man of impeccable background and highly respected. Whatever has happened to the son has no connection with you. You’re too important, Ali, that’s why we keep you out of it. You even sat on a committee at the House of Commons last week. Nothing could be more respectable. No, my friend, you’re a real asset.’

‘And too valuable to lose,’ Selim said. ‘And loose ends are loose ends. If Mrs Morgan should happen to mention you and me in the same breath, they’ll discover who you are. The man who is Belov’s security.’

Ashimov sighed. ‘All right, leave it to me. Now we’d better split up. I’ll be in touch.’

Selim hesitated. ‘Morgan was a soldier of God. If the worst has come to the worst, he is also a true martyr.’

‘Save that tripe for the young fools at the mosque, your Wrath of Allah fanatics. Go on, get going.’

Selim went, and Ashimov stayed there thinking about it. Perhaps Selim had a point. After all, why would Bernstein and Dillon be calling on the old lady at all? Better to be safe than sorry. He looked over at the incoming tide, then pulled up his collar against the rain, walked round to Chandler Street and rang the bell at Number Thirteen.

She answered it after a while and peered out over the chain. ‘It’s me. Mr Ashimov,’ he said. ‘Dr Selim’s friend. He asked me to call and see if you wanted to go to the mosque.’

‘That is kind,’ she said. ‘I was going to go a little later.’

‘Since I’m here, why don’t you go now? It’s much easier if I push you,’ he said. ‘Bring an umbrella. It’s raining.’

She closed the door, undid the chain and opened it again, and Ashimov stepped in. ‘Let me help you.’ He reached for a raincoat and a beret hanging on a hall stand and helped her. ‘There you are, and here’s an umbrella.’ He took one down and gave it to her.

‘So kind,’ she said.

‘Not at all. Have you got your key?’

‘Yes.’

‘You had a visit this afternoon, I believe. A lady from the social services department?’

‘Did I?’ she frowned. ‘I can’t remember.’

‘Yes, with a gentleman. What did they ask you? About your son in New York?’

She was confused and bewildered. Few things seemed real to her any more, and her memory was fading fast these days.

‘I can’t remember. I can’t remember anyone calling.’

Which was true, for she was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. It was obvious to Ashimov that he was wasting his time.

‘Never mind. Let’s be on our way, then.’

The rain was driving down, no one around as they went along the street, the fog drifting up from the river. They went past the shop, which now showed a closed sign inside the door.

‘It’s going to be a dirty night later,’ he said.

‘I think you’re right.’

‘But still a nice view of the Thames.’ He turned in at the old wooden jetty, the wheels of her chair trembling over the warped wooden boarding.

‘There you are.’ He paused at the top of the steps going down to the river.

‘I like it at night with the lights on the boats.’

Her voice was like a small wind through the trees on a dark evening, as he looked at the river high with water lapping at the bottom of the steps. Then he shoved the chair forward. Strangely enough, she didn’t call out, but gripped the arms of her chair tightly, and when she hit the water she went under instantly as the chair emptied her out.

It was only four or five feet deep, a mud bank when the tide was out. Someone would find her soon enough. He’d done her a favour, really. He lit a cigarette and walked away.

A few minutes later, standing in a doorway, he phoned Ali Selim. ‘You can relax. Mrs Morgan has met with an unfortunate accident.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Ashimov told him. Selim sounded horrified. ‘Was that necessary?’

‘Come on, Selim, you were the one talking about loose ends. Now, don’t forget, if the police enquire, you were unhappy about her habit of going to the mosque alone in her wheelchair, which is why you often sent young men to fetch her.’

Selim took a deep breath. ‘Of course.’

‘She was prematurely ageing, confused a great deal of the time.’

‘She had Alzheimer’s.’

‘Well, there you are. I’ll leave it with you,’ and Ashimov rang off.

4

It was at ten the following morning that Patel, exercising his small terrier, found the body and the wheelchair on the beach. He called the Wapping police, and since Hannah had put a tracer on Mrs Morgan, she was notified at once at the Ministry of Defence.

Ferguson was in a Defence Committee meeting, but Dillon was in the office and she quickly filled him in.

‘So what do we do?’ he demanded.

‘Get down to Chandler Street fast and I’ll put a red flag on the case and take command. You come with me. You might be useful.’

They used a department limousine with a civilian driver, retired police. Hannah said, ‘It’s one hell of a coincidence.’

‘And you know how much I believe in those.’

Just then, Dillon’s mobile rang. ‘Sean? It’s Roper. I’ve got something interesting for you on Ashimov and also on the Wrath of Allah thing.’

‘Hold on to it for just a bit. Mrs Morgan’s turned up on a mud flat at the end of her street, and Hannah and I are on our way. We’re just about there. I’ll call you later.’

They took a turn, and then there they were. There was a police paramedic’s ambulance, the usual team, and a sergeant in charge who jumped to attention when Hannah showed him her warrant card and assumed command.

‘Not much of a scene of crime, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Plenty of mud.’ She and Dillon looked over the rail. ‘It’s obvious what happened. The gent who found her said she was always pushing herself in her wheelchair up and down the street to the Queen Street mosque. Come off the pavement twice before in the past and ended up in the gutter.’

Hannah said, ‘Right. Get her up out of there and deliver her to Peel Street morgue. I’m going to call in Professor George Langley. He’ll handle it.’

She walked away with her mobile and stood in a doorway. Dillon saw Patel lurking outside his shop and went over.

‘This must have been a shock for you?’

‘A terrible shock. It was a higher tide than usual last night. It’s amazing she wasn’t swept away.’

‘Are you surprised by what happened?’

‘Not really. She’d had a few close calls in that wheelchair and she was worse these days.’

‘What do you mean, worse?’

‘Couldn’t handle herself, confused, no memory worth speaking of. She didn’t know which way she was pointing. She was very upset when Henry went off to the States.’ Patel hesitated. ‘What was it all about before, you and the Superintendent and those inquiries?’

Dillon lied glibly. ‘Her son was only on a special tourist visa, but seems to have gone missing, and we had a request to check it out. A lot of people do that. Go as tourists and fade into the landscape.’

‘A lot of people do that here, too,’ Patel said.

‘The way of the world.’

Dillon went over to Hannah as she finished her call. ‘What next?’

‘I’ve spoken to Langley and he’s going straight to the morgue.’ A couple of paramedics carried Mrs Morgan past them in a body bag. ‘Poor old lady,’ Hannah said.

‘And nothing we can do. But speaking of doing things, Roper seems to have come up with some stuff about Ashimov and the Wrath of Allah thing.’

‘Good. I’ll speak to the General,’ which she did briefly and turned to Dillon. ‘He suggests we all meet up at Roper’s apartment, get filled in together.’

‘Sounds good to me.’ He shook his head. ‘I accept everything Patel says about Mrs Morgan and her wheelchair, about her incompetence and so on, her minor accidents – but it doesn’t explain what she was doing on the jetty in the first place.’

‘Exactly what I was thinking.’

Roper’s apartment was on the ground floor, with a ramp entrance to facilitate his wheelchair. The entire place was designed for not only a handicapped person, but one determined to look after himself. His equipment was state-of-the-art, some of it top secret and supplied by Ferguson.

Dillon and Hannah had been with him for perhaps ten minutes when Ferguson arrived and joined them.

‘So where are we?’ he asked Hannah. ‘With Mrs Morgan, I mean.’

‘I’ve pulled in Professor Langley, sir. He’s working on her now.’

‘He won’t find much, not in my opinion.’ Dillon told Ferguson all Patel had said. ‘So there you are. It’s highly suspicious, but I doubt we can prove it’s any more than an accident.’

Ferguson looked gloomy. ‘One thing’s certain. We can’t throw the fact that Henry Morgan is dead into the pot because we’re not supposed to know. So where does that leave us?’

‘With Yuri Ashimov, for one thing,’ Roper said. ‘Formerly the pride of the KGB.’ He punched his computer keys and photos of Ashimov emerged. One or two in uniform, others in a more social situation.

‘What’s he up to now?’

‘Head of security for Josef Belov and his outfit.’

‘The oil billionaire?’ Dillon asked.

‘That’s the man,’ Roper said. ‘Man of mystery, that’s his front. A billionaire many times over, and friend of Putin.’

‘So what on earth would Ashimov be doing around Mrs Morgan?’

‘It must have been something to do with the son,’ Hannah said. ‘Has to be.’

‘And the interesting question is, who sent Henry Morgan to New York with the intention of shooting the President?’ Dillon turned to Hannah. ‘You said Dr Ali Selim was clean as a whistle.’

It was Roper who broke in. ‘He is, as far as my researches show.’

‘Then why is he involved with a man like Ashimov? What’s the purpose?’ Dillon shook his head. ‘There has to be a reason.’ He turned to Roper. ‘What did you find out about the Wrath of Allah?’

‘It was an Arab militant group some years ago during the civil war in Lebanon. With the end of that war it seemed to disappear from view. Last year the Israeli Mossad tried to establish if it was an offshoot of al-Qaeda, but got nowhere.’

‘Well, it meant something to Henry Morgan,’ Ferguson said. ‘It may have disappeared, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. One of our greatest security problems is the way a few terrorists can hide themselves in the mass of an ordinary decent Muslim population. How can you tell the difference?’

‘Mao Tse-tung invented that strategy years ago and it eventually won him China,’ Dillon pointed out.

‘I’ve got something else for you, recently pulled out of my printer.’ Roper handed three photos across. ‘Greta Novikova. Supposed to be a secretary at the Russian Embassy, but in reality a major in the GRU. Used to be Ashimov’s girlfriend. Neat coincidence, her being assigned to London, isn’t it?’

‘Quite a lady,’ Dillon said admiringly. He slipped a copy into his breast pocket. ‘Maybe I’ll run into her.’

Hannah’s mobile rang; she answered and listened. ‘Fine, we’ll be there.’ She turned to Ferguson. ‘Professor Langley, sir. He can give us a preliminary.’

‘Excellent,’ Ferguson said. ‘You hang in there, Major. I’ll keep you informed.’

They filed into Ferguson’s Daimler, and as it moved away Greta Novikova eased out in her Opel and went after them.

George Langley was a small, grey-haired, energetic man whom they had all met in the pursuance of previous cases. Many people considered him the greatest forensic pathologist in London, and not much escaped him.

The Peel Street morgue was an old building, some of it Victorian, but the interior was modern enough. A receptionist led them into a white-tiled room with fluorescent lighting and modern steel operating tables. Mrs Morgan lay on one of them. The wounds from her examination had been stitched up.

‘My God, I never get used to this part,’ Hannah said softly.

Langley came in from the preparation room in shirt sleeves, drying his hands on a towel.

‘Ah, there you are, Charles.’

‘Good of you to be so quick off the mark, George. What have you got for me?’

‘Death by drowning. No suggestion of foul play. Strangely enough, no bruising. On the other hand, she was as light as a feather. Very undernourished. Her previous medical history isn’t good. The car accident, which reduced her to the wheelchair, was very grave. I’ve checked the records. I’ve also checked with her GP and she’s being treated for Alzheimer’s.’

‘So that’s it?’

‘I’d say so. It’s interesting that the man who found her, Patel, speaks of these minor accidents she suffered in the wheelchair. I notice a report by the scene-of-crime sergeant who went to see the imam at Queen Street. Sounded most distressed, said he’d implored her many times not to venture out alone, and usually sent someone to escort her.’

‘Which still leaves us wondering what she was doing at the end of the jetty,’ Dillon said.

‘I’ve had a quick look. Nothing out of the ordinary. The Alzheimer’s would make her subject to confusion, memory loss, considerable general stress. If she turned right, she’d turn the corner for the Queen Street mosque; if she turned left, she’d find herself on the jetty and only a few yards to the steps.’ He didn’t even frown when he said, ‘Are you looking for suspicious circumstances here, Charles? You usually are.’