LITMIR.BIZ

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his presence and, standing there, the three Rashid brothers and young Kate had never felt closer.

      Later, at the reception in the Great Hall at Dauncey Place, Paul Rashid was approached by Charles Ferguson. The Brigadier said, ‘This is a rotten business, Paul. I’m so sorry. She was a great lady.’

      Kate said, ‘Do you know something you’re not telling us, Brigadier?’

      Ferguson looked at her. ‘Give me a call sometime.’

      He walked away. Kate said, ‘Paul?’

      ‘As soon as we’re done here,’ her brother said, ‘we’ll go and see him.’

      Two days later, Paul and Kate Rashid arrived at Charles Ferguson’s Georgian flat in Cavendish Place, London. They were admitted by Ferguson’s Gurkha manservant, Kim, and found that Ferguson was not alone. Two other people were there, one of them a small man, his hair so fair that it was almost white.

      ‘Lady Kate, this is Sean Dillon, who works for my department,’ Ferguson said, then introduced the other, a red-haired woman. ‘Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein from Special Branch. Lord Loch Dhu, how can I help? May we offer you a glass of champagne?’

      ‘No, thank you. My sister perhaps, but I would prefer a Bushmills Irish whiskey like the one Mr Dillon is pouring.’

      ‘Good man yourself,’ Dillon told him, ‘but first, the ladies,’ and he poured champagne.

      Hannah Bernstein said to Kate, ‘You went to Oxford, I believe? I was at Cambridge myself.’

      ‘Well, that’s not your fault,’ Kate said and gave a small smile.

      Her brother said, ‘I did Irish time, with the Grenadier Guards and the SAS. I heard many things about Sean Dillon there.’

      ‘Probably all true,’ Hannah Bernstein told him, with an undertone Rashid could not decipher.

      ‘Don’t listen to her,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll always be the man in the black hat to her, but to you and me, Major, to soldiers everywhere, we’re the men who handle the crap the general public can’t. That’s a showstopper,’ Dillon added and turned to Kate. ‘Wouldn’t you agree that’s a showstopper?’

      She wasn’t in the least offended. ‘Absolutely.’

      ‘So,’ Paul Rashid said, ‘Igor Gatov, a commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy, kills my mother while driving on the wrong side of the road, drunk. The police say he has diplomatic immunity.’

      ‘I’m afraid so.’

      ‘And he’s gone back to Moscow?’

      ‘No, he’s needed here,’ Ferguson told him.

      ‘Needed?’ Rashid asked.

      ‘The Secret Security Services would not thank me for telling you this, but they’re not my best friends. Tell him, Superintendent.’

      ‘But how far do I go?’ she asked.

      ‘As far as it takes,’ Dillon said. ‘This Russian shite takes out a great lady and walks away.’ He poured another Bushmills, toasted young Kate, turned to Paul Rashid, and said in good Arabic, ‘Gatov is a dog of the first water. If the Superintendent hesitates, don’t hold it against her. She has delicate sensibilities. Her grandfather is a rabbi.’

      ‘And my father was a sheik,’ Paul Rashid said to her in Hebrew. ‘Perhaps we have much in common.’

      Her surprise was obvious. ‘I’m not sure what to say,’ she replied in the same.

      ‘Well, I am,’ Dillon cut between them in English. ‘It’s not just the Russian Embassy that’s keeping Gatov from justice. There’s the American connection.’

      There was a pause. ‘What would that be?’ Paul Rashid asked.

      Hannah said to Rashid, ‘As you know, the Americans and Russians are great rivals in southern Arabia, but they will work together if it suits them.’

      Paul said, ‘I know all this, but what has it to do with my mother’s death?’

      It was Dillon who told him, and in Arabic. ‘This piece of dung is a double agent. He worked for the Americans on the other side of the coin. It’s not only the Russians who don’t want him in court, but the Yanks as well. He’s too important.’

      ‘Too important for what?’ Paul Rashid asked.

      It was Ferguson who said, ‘The Americans and Russians are working on some kind of oil deal – and Gatov was brokering it. He’s right in the middle. There are billions to be made down there.’

      Dillon said, ‘He’s right. Arabia Felix, Happy Arabia, that’s what they called it in the old days.’

      Kate Rashid, who had listened in silence, said, ‘So we’re talking about money here?’

      ‘I’d say so,’ Dillon said.

      ‘And to facilitate their wheeler-dealing, both the Americans and Russians look upon my mother’s death simply as an inconvenience?’

      ‘A severe one.’

      She paused and glanced at her brother, who nodded. She said, ‘Some days ago, at the Oasis of Shabwa, an interesting event took place. Were you aware, Brigadier, that the Sultan of Hazar had allied himself not only with a major American oil company but also a Russian one?’

      Ferguson frowned. ‘No, that’s news to me.’

      ‘Two assassins attempted to kill my brother on the night we received news of my mother’s accident.’ She nodded to Dillon. ‘One tried to kill me. My brother saved my life and shot him dead.’

      ‘The important thing is that we discovered from the second assassin that I was targeted by the Sultan himself on behalf of the Americans and Russians,’ Paul Rashid told them.

      Ferguson nodded. ‘He told you everything?’

      ‘Of course,’ Dillon put in.

      Ferguson said, ‘Are you suggesting that your mother’s death was deliberate?’

      ‘No,’ Paul said. ‘The police have gone over the evidence with us, and I see nothing these dogs could have gained by murdering my mother. But what is clear to me is that, for them, life is cheap. And I plan to make it very expensive.’

      He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Thank you very much for your information, Brigadier.’ He turned to Dillon. ‘In the Guards in South Armagh, a Loyalist politician told me once that Wyatt Earp could account for the deaths of twenty men, but that Sean Dillon didn’t even know his total.’

      ‘A slight exaggeration,’ Dillon told him. ‘I think.’

      Rashid smiled at each of them and turned to follow Kim. Kate held out a hand to Dillon. ‘You’re a very interesting man.’

      ‘Oh, you have a way with the words, girl dear.’ He kissed her hand. ‘And a face to thank God for.’

      ‘That’s my sister, Mr Dillon,’ Rashid said.

      ‘And how could I forget it?’

      They left, and before Ferguson could say anything, his red phone rang. He picked it up, listened, had a brief conversation, then replaced the receiver, his face grave.

      ‘It would seem the Sultan of Hazar has just been assassinated.’ He turned to Dillon. ‘A remarkable coincidence, don’t you think?’

      The Irishman lit a cigarette. ‘Oh, yes, remarkable.’ He blew out smoke. ‘I know one thing. I feel sorry for Igor Gatov.’

      That evening, there was a function at the Dorchester, a political affair attended by the Prime Minister, and Ferguson, Bernstein and Dillon had been drafted for security, not without a little grumbling.

      Dillon and the Superintendent moved in from the

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