Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 2: Angel of Death, Drink With the Devil, The President’s Daughter

‘Good God, Dillon, you stink like a sewer,’ Ferguson said.

‘I think it was a sewer,’ Dillon told him.

Hannah passed him a blanket, concern on her face. ‘You look terrible.’

‘So, our friend here decided to speak up, did he?’ Ferguson said.

‘Freighter called the Alexandrine about a mile out of the harbour. Algerian flag. Quinn’s out there now. There’s a meeting with Rassi and Bikov at seven when the plutonium passes over.’

Ferguson smiled fiercely. ‘Excellent. Everything comes to he who waits.’ He turned to Walid Khasan. ‘Don’t you agree, Major?’

‘I certainly do.’ Khasan’s English had lost its accent.

‘Major?’ Hannah Bernstein said, looking bewildered.

‘Yes, allow me to introduce Major Gideon Cohen of Mossad.’

‘Israeli Intelligence?’ she said. ‘You didn’t tell me.’

‘What’s more to the point, he didn’t tell me,’ Dillon chipped in.

‘Yes, well, I didn’t want to spoil your performance, dear boy. I mean, we all know what a brilliant actor you were at RADA.’

‘And still am, you old bastard.’

‘Yes, well, I thought the real thing would give you an edge and I knew you would cope. You always do, Dillon.’

‘And what about me, Brigadier?’ Hannah demanded. ‘You didn’t trust me, that’s what it came down to.’

‘Not at all. Thought you’d give a better performance if you thought it was for real, just like Dillon.’

They were all laughing and Omar lit a cigarette and put it in Dillon’s mouth. ‘Captain Moshe Levy.’

‘All Mossad?’ Dillon asked.

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Even Anya?’

She laughed. ‘And still Anya. Lieutenant Anya Shamir.’

‘You’re mad, the lot of you,’ Dillon said. ‘Operating here in Beirut like this. Israelis. They’d hang you in the market place.’

‘Oh, we manage,’ Gideon Cohen said.

‘Will somebody tell me what’s going on here?’ Francis Callaghan asked and turned to Dillon. ‘This whole thing was a fucking set-up, is that what they’re saying?’

‘So it would appear, Francis.’

‘You rotten, lousy bunch of bowsers.’ Callaghan jumped up, the blanket slipping down to reveal the filth that covered his clothes. He was almost in tears.

Ferguson said, ‘Don’t be a silly boy. You’ve really done rather well. You’ll fly back to London and answer every question the Chief Inspector here asks you.’

‘And what if I tell her to stuff it?’

‘Ah, well, in that event you’ll just have to stand trial at the Old Bailey as a participant in numerous bombings and murders. Plenty unsolved on the files that we can hang on you. I’d say you could draw about four life sentences.’

Callaghan slumped in the chair, mouth open, staring at Ferguson. It was Dillon who said with surprising gentleness, ‘It’s coming to an end, Francis, twenty-five years of slaughter. Be sensible and help that end to come about. You do what the Brigadier wants and you won’t end up in a cell for the rest of your life.’

Callaghan nodded, looking dazed. ‘But I should have met Daniel last night. How do you know how he’s reacting to my disappearance? Maybe he’s changed the meet.’

‘Leave that to us, boy.’ Ferguson nodded to Moshe Levy and he and his two men lifted Callaghan up and Anya followed.

‘Now what?’ Dillon demanded.

‘Well, I think it would be useful if Major Cohen arranged for a little reconnaissance, just to check that the Alexandrine is still at anchor out there. Once we know that position we’ll decide on what to do tonight.’

‘I’ll go out myself in a speedboat,’ Cohen told him and wrinkled his nose. ‘You really do stink, Dillon.’

‘You realize there were rats down there?’ Dillon said. ‘One bite and you could get Weil’s disease. I mean, forty per cent of people who get that die.’

‘Not you, Dillon,’ Hannah Bernstein said. ‘You’ve so much Bushmills Irish Whiskey in your blood it’s the rat who would die. Now for God’s sake let’s get you back to the Al Bustan and a bath.’

Dillon stood in a hot shower for a solid thirty minutes, lathering his body with showergel, shampooing his hair several times. Finally, he turned the bath taps on and padded to his suite to find the ice box. There was a half-bottle of Bollinger champagne inside. He opened it, found a glass, went and climbed into the bath and just lay there, stewing in the hot water and savouring the ice-cold champagne.

After a while, the wall phone sounded and he picked it up. ‘Dillon.’

‘It’s me,’ Hannah said. ‘Are you decent?’

‘How dare you suggest such a terrible thing.’

‘Very funny. Major Cohen’s turned up. The Brigadier’s meeting him on the terrace. He wants both of us there.’

‘Ten minutes,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll see you down there.’ He replaced the phone, finished the champagne, climbed out of the bath and reached for a towel.

The terrace was bright in the afternoon sunshine, the awnings billowing in the breeze. When Dillon arrived, Ferguson, Hannah and Cohen were sitting at a table under an umbrella by the balustrade.

‘Well, I must say you smell better,’ Ferguson observed.

‘I’ll ignore that.’ Dillon turned to Cohen. ‘All right, Major, what’s the situation?’

‘The Alexandrine is there all right. There are quite a few ocean-going ships at anchor that far out so it was easy to have a run round in a speedboat and check the situation.’

‘Anything unusual?’

‘Definitely. Security lights rigged all the way round the entire ship. I’d say it’s going to be very difficult to get anywhere near in darkness and it will be dark at seven.’

‘Look, what if we forget about the Alexandrine?’ Hannah suggested. ‘What if we concentrate on intercepting Bikov and Rassi before they actually get out there?’