Solo (Aka the Cretan Lover) (v5) (14 page)

They went over the rise and down to the barn. The doors were still closed and there was no sign of the jeep.

He said to Morgan and Seumas, 'You cover me while I get the Land-Rover out, just in case they try anything funny,' and he tossed the Sterling to Morgan.

He got the barn door open, Morgan turned away, aware of him moving inside. The Land-Rover door slammed as O'Hagan got in. There was a colossal explosion, a blast of hot air and Morgan was flung forward on to his face.

He got to his knees, turned and found Seumas trying to get up, clutching his arm where a piece of metal was embedded like shrapnel.

The barn was an inferno, the wreck of the Land-Rover blazing fiercely.

Morgan was aware of the sound of an engine, dragged Seumas to his feet and shoved him into the trees, crouching down beside him. The jeep approached. It braked to a halt and Rafferty got out.

He walked forward, a hand shielding his face from the heat, going as close as he dared. Morgan stood up and emerged from the bushes.

'Rafferty?'

As Rafferty swung to face him, Morgan emptied the Sterling in three bursts, driving him back into the furnace of the barn. He threw the Sterling after him, picked up Seumas and got him to the jeep.

As he climbed behind the wheel he said, 'Do you know where we can find you a doctor? A safe doctor.'

'The Hibernian Nursing Home for the Aged. It's two miles this side of Ballymena,' Seumas told him and fainted.

Morgan removed the camouflage uniform in the washroom and stuffed it into a laundry basket. Underneath, he still wore his ordinary clothes. He checked his wallet, then washed his face and hands and returned to the small surgery.

The old doctor, Kelly, who appeared to run the place and a young nun were bending over Seumas whose arm and shoulder were bandaged. His eyes closed.

Doctor Kelly turned to Morgan. 'He'll sleep now. I've given him an injection. Good as new in a week.'

Seumas opened his eyes. 'You going, Colonel?'

'Back to London. I've things to do. You know, you never did tell me your second name.'

The boy smiled weakly. 'Keegan.'

Morgan wrote his London telephone number on the doctor's prescription pad and tore it off. 'If you think I can help any time, give me a ring.'

He moved to the door.

'Why, Colonel? Why did they do it?'

'From what I could gather, Tully had come up with some scheme or other that Liam didn't approve. He was going to inform the Army Council. I suppose this was Tully's way of stopping that.'

'I'll see him in hell first,' Seumas said and closed his eyes.

At the first public telephone box he came to, Morgan phoned Army Intelligence Headquarters at Lisburn and in as convincing an Ulster accent as he could muster, indicated where Brendan Tully and the Sons of Erin might be found, although he suspected they would already be long gone.

Then he caught a train in Ballymena for Belfast and went straight to the Europa where he booked out. By three o'clock he was at Aldergrove Airport waiting for the London flight.

John Mikali, twenty-eight thousand feet over Sweden,
en route
for Helsinki, was working his way through the file on Asa Morgan. The GRU man at the Russian Embassy in London had really been most thorough. Not only every aspect of Morgan's career in finest detail, but also details of his known associates, with photographs. Ferguson figured prominently as head of the anti-terrorist squad, Group Four, and so did Baker, although Mikali was already familiar with the Yorkshireman. Deville had a file on Special Branch personnel and Mikali had spent many hours in the past scanning their faces. Had done the same with their counterparts in Paris, Berlin and most other major cities he was in the habit of visiting.

He studied Asa Morgan's photograph again for quite a while then leaned back, thinking about it.

Not that he was worried. There was no way Morgan could get to him. Not a single clue, not a hint of a lead. The tracks were too well covered.

A blonde stewardess, an attractive girl with an excellent figure which was definitely enhanced by the navy blue uniform of British Airways, leaned over him.

'Are you giving a concert in Helsinki, Mr Mikali?'

'Yes. The Brahms Number One tomorrow night with the National State Orchestra.'

I'd love to come if I can get a ticket,' she said. We're on stopover for two days.'

She really was rather pretty. He smiled lazily. 'Let me know where you're staying and I'll have one sent round to you. And there's a party afterwards, if you've nothing better to do.'

Her face was flushed now and the breasts seemed to strain against the light white nylon blouse.

'That would be marvellous. Is there anything I can get you?'

'Half a bottle of champagne, I think.'

He sat there staring out of the window, feeling rather tired, but the truth was that he wasn't really in the mood for this concert. What he needed was a holiday. No need to return to London. He would fly to Athens from Helsinki after the concert. Even if there wasn't a direct flight and he had to go via Paris or Munich, he could be in Athens some time during the afternoon. And then Hydra.

The thought was pleasant and his spirits lifted as the stewardess brought the champagne. As he sipped it slowly, savouring the coldness, he found himself opening Morgan's file and starting to work his way through it again.

8

Harvey Jago inspected himself carefully in the bathroom mirror. In the red velvet jacket with the white silk scarf at the throat, the blond hair carefully combed, he made an imposing figure. He still looked like a useful light-heavyweight, good for fifteen rounds any day of the week, which was what he had been in early life - the signs were there in the broken nose, the scar tissue around the eyes. He could have had it straightened, but women liked it. It gave him a kind of rugged geniality, but it was the eyes that indicated the real man. Hard and cruel and pitiless.

This morning he was far from happy, for the previous evening one of his many business ventures, a house in Belgravia where young ladies in his employ catered to the whims of clients of the highest prestige, had been raided by the police.

It was not the embarrassment caused to the two peers of the realm and three Members of Parliament who had temporarily found themselves in the hands of the police which worried Jago - that was their lookout. He wasn't even worried about the fines that would have to be paid on behalf of the girls or the loss of the night's takings.

There was certainly no possibility of his personal involvement. The property was in someone else's name. That was what he kept front men for. No, what annoyed him was the lack of warning from those police officers on the Vice Squad who received handsome, weekly stipends to see that Jago's establishments were left alone. Somebody's head was going to have to roll.

He walked into the living-room and stood at the window of his penthouse apartment. It gave him a continuing pleasure to look out across Green Park to Buckingham Palace, which was why he'd bought the place. A long way from the back street in Stepney in which he'd been raised.

Maria, the little Filipino maid, brought coffee on a tray. He waited while she filled his cup and handed it to him.

'Thanks, love,' he said.

As she walked away, neat and trim in black dress and stockings, his brother, Arnold, entered. He was ten years younger than Jago, with thinning hair and hollow cheeks, and managed to look undernourished and anxious at the same time. Underneath that surface appearance, he had a brain which operated like a computer in matters of finance.

'Lovely arse on her, that girl,' Jago said. 'I'd give her a going-over, Arnold, I really would, only you know what I've always said about messing about with the staff.'

Arnold, who already had an arrangement with Maria which he was terrified his brother would find out about, said, 'Quite right, Harvey.'

'What's last night going to cost me?'

'Between thirteen and fifteen grand. I can't be more certain because of the legal end. Some of those girls are three-time losers, Harvey. It could mean the nick. They'll need a top brief and that comes expensive.'

'Anything it takes, Arnold. Another thing. The Vice Squad. I want to know who let us down and I want to know today.'

'It's being taken care of,' Arnold said. 'There's a bloke to see you. Name of Morgan.'

'What's he want?'

'Wouldn't say, but he told me to give you this.' Arnold handed him a wad of twenty-pound notes with a Midland Bank wrapper still around them. 'Five hundred.'

Jago held them to his nose. 'God, how I love the smell of this stuff. Okay, Arnold, wheel him in. Let's see what his game is.'

Morgan wore a polo-neck sweater and hadn't bothered to unbutton his military trenchcoat. Jago poured himself a Scotch and looked him over.

'Mr. Morgan,' Arnold said and stood by the door.

'Colonel, actually.'

Jago made a face. 'So what am I supposed to do, curtsy?' He picked up the five hundred pounds. 'I'm a busy man and all this buys you is limited conversation. Speak your piece or move on.'

'It's quite simple,' Morgan said. 'The Cohen shooting last week. The gun used was a Mauser 7.63 mm, Model 1932 with the SS bulbous silencer, a weapon of some rarity these days. Your organization supplied two of them to the IRA last year.'

'Who says so?' Arnold put in.

Morgan kept his eyes on Jago. 'A man called Brendan Tully. I was with him in Ulster yesterday.'

'Now look here,' Arnold began, but his brother stilled him with a hand.

'You're not the law, so what's your angle?'

'The man who shot Cohen ran my daughter down while making his escape. Killed her. I'd like to find him.'

'I get it now,' Jago said. 'You think the Mauser he used might have come from the same source as the others?'

'It would seem reasonable.' Morgan took a second packet of banknotes from his pocket and tossed it on the table. 'Another five hundred there, Mr Jago, so you see, I'm prepared to pay for the information.'

'It'll cost you,' Jago said.

'How much?'

'Another grand.'

'All right - when?'

'I don't deal with that end of things myself. I'll need to talk to the guy who does. I should know by tonight, if there is anything to know. I own a club in Chelsea, the Flamingo on Cheyne Walk. I'll see you there around nine.'

'All right.'

Morgan turned to the door and Jago said, 'And Colonel Morgan. Don't forget the other thousand.'

'Of course not, Mr Jago. I keep my word.'

'Delighted to hear it.'

'See that
you
do.'

Jago said softly, 'Is that a threat, Colonel?'

'Yes, come to think of it, I suppose it is,' Morgan told him and went out.

There was silence. Jago said, 'You know something, Arnold? That's the first time anyone's given me the hard word in years and we can't have that, now can we? Bad for business. I'm going to take a personal interest in Colonel Morgan. Very personal. Make sure there's a couple of good lads laid on for tonight. Dustbin men.'

'Yes, Harvey.'

Arnold turned to go out and Jago added, 'Another thing, from now on, we stop selling hardware to those Micks across there. They're all puddled, I've told you before. Stick to the Arabs in future.'

Back at the flat, Morgan put the coffee percolator on and then telephoned Security Factors Ltd. Jock Kelso sounded relieved to hear his voice.

'You're back then. Thank God for that. Did you see O'Hagan?'

'Briefly,' Morgan said. 'I'm afraid he's dead, Jock. Car bomb. I was lucky not to go with him.'

There was a heavy silence, then Kelso said, 'Did you find out what you wanted to know?'

'Oh, yes, that's why I'm ringing. What can you tell me about the Jago brothers?'

Kelso said, 'Probably the most important gangsters in London. Even the Mafia walk cautiously around those two. Arnold, the skinny one, is the brains. His elder brother, Harvey, is no fool either. Used to be a prizefighter.'

'A nasty piece of work. I've met him.'

'And that's an understatement. Last year an Italian gambler called Pacelli tried to palm loaded dice at one of Jago's gaming clubs. You know what Jago did? Cut off the top joint of each finger on Pacelli's right hand with garden shears. Are you trying to tell me he's the source of the Mausers?'

'That's the way it looks. I'm seeing him tonight. A place called the Flamingo in Cheyne Walk. Is it respectable?'

'Strictly top people.'

'Which means he'll behave himself. Tell me, Jock, how does he make his money?'

'Gaming clubs, protection, high-class whorehouses.'

'And that's it?'

'He does have one other profitable sideline, an associate of mine was involved in. It's not far from Cheyne Walk, near Chelsea Creek. A paint factory called Wetherby and Sons.'

'And?'

'It's what's known in the trade as a cut liquor still. What they usually do is hijack a tanker carrying Scotch whisky, or something similar, on the motorway. It's then heavily diluted with water. They have their own bottling plant and all the best labels. Supply clubs all over the country.'

'And the police - don't they know any of this?'

'They can never get close and when they do, there's always some front man in between to take the drop. I'd stay clear if I were you, unless you're prepared to go all the way.'

'Oh, but I am, Jock. I am.'

Morgan was sitting at his desk cleaning a Smith and Wesson Magnum when the phone rang. It was Kate Riley.

'You're back,' she said.

'Yes, last night.'

'Did you get anywhere?'

'I'll know that for sure later on tonight. Where are you calling from - Cambridge?'

'No, I'm in town for a few days, working at the Tavistock Clinic. I've borrowed the apartment of a colleague who's in New York for a month. It's in Kensington. Douro Place.'

'I'll tell you what,' Morgan said. 'I've got an appointment with the worst villain in London tonight at the Flamingo in Cheyne Walk.'

'But that's one of the most exclusive nightclubs in town.'

'So they tell me. You find yourself a pretty frock, comb your hair and I might be persuaded to take you.'

'You're on,' she said.

The place was everything they'd said it would be. Soft lights, sweet music, attentive waiters, the ultimate in luxury. Morgan and Kate Riley were obviously expected, were led to a corner table that was one of the best in the house.

The head waiter snapped a finger and a champagne bucket appeared. 'Mr Jago's compliments, sir. Tonight you are his guests.'

From his office high above the main restaurant Harvey Jago, resplendent in a black velvet evening suit, watched them through an ornamental grille.

'I like the look of his bird, Arnold. Real class, there. You can always tell.'

'What about him, Harvey? He's a colonel and all that, isn't he?'

'Rubbish,' Jago said. 'I don't know what his story is, but he's off the same length of street as you and me.'

'Shall I have him up?'

'Not just yet. Let them enjoy their meal. I mean, it's the dessert that counts, isn't it, Arnold?'

'What about men?' Morgan asked her.

'None of your business.'

'What do you do for a bit of action and passion, then?'

'Fly,' she said. 'I've had a licence for twelve years now. I'm really rather good.'

The head waiter came and whispered discreetly in Morgan's ear. He left Kate to finish the champagne and followed the man out and through a door marked Private. There was a flight of carpeted stairs. Arnold waited at the top.

'This way, Colonel.'

Morgan went up the stairs and entered the office, which was Jago's pride and joy and had been put together for him by one of the best interior designers in London. Everything was Chinese and some of the art objects had cost him a great deal of money.

Jago sat behind the desk, smoking a cigar. 'There you are. They looking after you all right down there?'

'Fine,' Morgan said. 'But my time is as limited as yours, Mr Jago. The information you promised me?'

'Didn't we say something about another grand, Arnold?' Jago said.

Morgan produced an envelope from his inside pocket. 'We'll hear what you have to say first. Then you get this.'

Jago sighed. 'Well, now, that's going to prove rather difficult. You see, I'm afraid we haven't been able to come up with the information you require.'

'Can't or won't?' Morgan asked.

'You can amuse yourself on long winter evenings thinking about that one.'

'And the thousand pounds I paid you earlier today?'

'My time, old sport, is valuable.' Jago looked at his watch. 'Show the Colonel out, Arnold. I've got things to do.'

Morgan walked to the door, paused and picked up a large Chinese vase from a lacquer table. 'Early nineteenth-century,' he said. 'Not particularly rare, but nice.'

He dropped it on the floor where it shattered into a hundred pieces. 'And that, my friend, is just the beginning,' he said and walked out.

Jago came round the desk on the run. He stood looking down at the broken pieces of the vase, his face working, then turned to his brother.

'You know what to do and tell them to make it good. If he ever does come out of hospital, I want it to be on sticks.'

Morgan had parked the Porsche some distance away. Kate Riley had her arm in his as they walked.

She said, 'So he wouldn't come through?'

'That's about the size of it.'

'What are you going to do now?'

'Persuade him to think again.'

They turned into the side street where he had left the Porsche.

Arnold Jago paused on the corner with two men. One of them was small and badly in need of a shave. The other was at least six feet tall with a hard, raw-boned face and big hands.

'Right, Jacko,' Arnold said. 'Make it good.'

'Leave it to us, Mr Jago.'

The two men started along the pavement beside the parked cars and Jacko paused, pulled the smaller man to a halt. Morgan and Kate Riley seemed to have completely disappeared.