LITMIR.BIZ

       3

      The Gulfstream landed at Farley Field late that night. Ferguson’s Daimler was waiting, as well as the Mercedes provided by the Cabinet Office for Miller.

      ‘We’ll get together later,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’ve got to get cracking and prepare that report for the Prime Minister.’

      His Daimler moved away and Miller said, ‘We’ll take you to Holland Park, Sean.’ His driver, Arthur Fox, was behind the wheel.

      ‘Care to join me for a late dinner there?’

      ‘No, I need to get to Dover Street and sort this sack of mail that Arthur has brought me. Ferguson’s not the only one with problems. I’ve got the Cabinet Office on my back.’ Mentioning his sister, he added, ‘I had a text from Monica while you were asleep. She’s enjoying being Visiting Professor at Harvard so much, she’s agreed to an extension.’

      ‘She didn’t tell me.’

      ‘Maybe she’s going off you, you mad Irish bogtrotter.’

      ‘And pigs might fly,’ Dillon told him. ‘Tell her congratulations and I’ll be in touch. Now we’ve got an hour before we get to London, so start on your mail and let me sleep.’

      Two hours later, the Malik Shipping plane landed at London City Airport and taxied to the private facility—Daniel Holley had decided to leave Paris earlier than he had planned. His diplomatic passport sped him through and, forty-five minutes later, he was at the Dorchester, where he found Concetto Marietta, the guest liaison manager, waiting to escort him to one of the Park Suites.

      He slept for a few hours and then he called Roper. ‘When can we meet? I’d love to see what your famous Holland Park safe house looks like from the inside.’

      ‘Ferguson’s seeing the Prime Minister this morning, and Miller probably feels he should show his face in the House, but I’m here. So’s Dillon, who’s upstairs asleep. Come along whenever you want; we’ll have lunch.’

      ‘I might just do that. I want to stop off and see a friend first, but then I’ll come over.’

      ‘I’ll see you when I see you.’

      * * *

      Holley walked up to Shepherd Market, past the restaurants and the shops, then paused at a door with the name ‘Selim Malik’ painted in gold above it, admired the Egyptian hand-painted temple effigies displayed on either side of the frame, then pressed a button.

      The door opened and Selim was there, exactly the same as the last time Daniel had seen him: small and happy, with dark curling hair turning silver, olive face, fringe beard and good humour in his eyes. He wore a ruffled shirt, velvet jacket and trousers, as always.

      He was crying as he embraced Daniel. ‘It’s so good to see you. My cousin Hamid phoned me to say I might expect you, but still I am overcome. This is a champagne moment!’

      Selim Malik produced a bottle of Krug and poured each of them a glass, saying, ‘It’s so wonderful the way everything has turned out. You’ve outfoxed them all, even the great Putin. Hamid has told me of how you sorted those Albanian bastards out, and the Al Qaeda plot on Putin.’ He gripped Holley’s arm. ‘He will be your friend for life now.’

      ‘I didn’t do it for gain,’ Daniel told him. ‘I did it because what they were planning was wrong.’

      ‘You are a saint.’ Selim got up. ‘But you must take great care. People who say bin Laden is dead are stupid. What he is, what he stands for, will never die. This doesn’t mean I admire him. I fear him, but what I have said is true.’

      ‘I’m afraid you have a point,’ Daniel agreed.

      Selim went into the other room and returned with a Gladstone bag. ‘I’ve been keeping this in my strong room. It’s exactly what you had last time.’

      There was an ankle-holster, a silenced Colt .25 and a couple of boxes of hollow-point cartridges, a silenced Walther, ammunition, a razor-sharp flick knife and a bulletproof vest.

      ‘This is wonderful,’ Daniel said. ‘But hang on to the knife and the vest. I brought my own.’

      ‘You must be prepared for any eventuality,’ Selim said. ‘If word of your involvement ever got out, Al Qaeda would put you on its international hit list. The blessings of Allah would be on any man who disposed of you.’

      ‘Well, let’s hope they don’t hear. I’ve something else to ask you. What do you know about British-born Muslims fighting for the Taliban in Afghanistan?’

      Selim frowned. ‘Where have you heard this? Some newspaper story, I suppose.’

      ‘Not at all. Selim, you’re my friend. Last time we met, we had to face bad men and great danger and you were brilliant, so believe me when I say I know for a fact that many young British Muslims are fighting in Afghanistan. The evidence has been presented to me. Let me tell you about it.’

      When Holley was done, Selim was distressed. ‘What can I say? I must believe what you tell me is true. But a mystery man known only as Shamrock leading Taliban recruits in a successful battle with Allied troops? It still sounds incredible.’

      ‘Have you heard anything that would confirm it? Even a hint?’

      ‘I don’t know. I have been to North Pakistan and the border areas as an art dealer, and of course there are many Brits in that area, contractors dealing with the Pakistan Army, others offering their services as security experts, many of them obviously ex-soldiers. I am sure there is a lot of illegal arms-dealing with the Taliban, too. But these are just guys out to make a buck. This other business, this Shamrock…’ He sighed wearily. ‘It’s so nonsensical that it must be true. I shall ask around.’

      Holley got up and picked up the Gladstone bag. ‘I’d appreciate it. I’m at the Dorchester. I’ll see myself out.’

      Selim sat there thinking about it, then reached for his mobile and started to ring round, choosing a few old friends only, people he’d known in the art world for years; people he felt he could trust.

      Military rule was the accepted way in Algiers, certainly to men such as Hamid Malik. Law and order was an essential requirement to the development of good business, and this benefited the poor as well as the rich. But even for a wealthy man, it was sensible to cultivate people in the right places. The man he was enjoying coffee with was certainly that: Colonel Ali Hakim, a no-nonsense military policeman. He and Malik had been close friends over years of political upset and violence, the kind that had made military rule

Скачать книгу