The Killing Ground

“The Russian punks cleared off, as far as I know, and Stransky and his driver went off to get his car.”

But Harry didn’t believe it, and with Hall and Baxter walked to the car park. Suddenly, the Russians appeared, three of them with baseball bats swinging sideways into the cars, smashing windows, denting fenders.

Harry didn’t hesitate, took the Colt from his pocket and ducked under Makeev’s flailing baseball bat, stuck the weapon against the Russian’s right kneecap and pulled the trigger. The others, shocked, wavered and Baxter picked up the baseball bat Makeev had dropped. He swung it sideways, fracturing the side of a man’s face, and then the other way, fracturing an arm.

The Harker twins arrived on the run, Ruby behind them, and Harry fired in the air.

The Russians froze. Makeev was writhing on the ground, moaning terribly. Harry reached out and pulled the nearest Russian over. “You came in a car-which is it?” The man pointed to a white van. “Get him in it, in fact all of you get in it and deliver him to Saint Mary’s. Of course, you’ll stay shtum because I wasn’t here, was I? I was elsewhere. Lots of people saw me. Who was the contract for?” he inquired of the driver. “Better tell me, sunshine, I won’t hold it against you.”

“Stransky said it was for Max Chekov.”

“Really?” Harry said. “The oligarch? Interesting. Thanks very much.”

The van drove away, and Stransky, sitting in his car nearby, whispered to Bikov, “We better go.”

“I’ll have to switch on the engine,” Bikov said.

Harry’s boys moved in their direction instantly and Harry himself tapped on the window on the passenger’s side. “Get the door open unless you want broken glass all over you.”

Stransky complied. “Now look, Harry.”

“I thought you knew only my friends call me Harry. What have I done to Chekov to make him a

“He was doing a favor for a friend, that’s all I know, some broker guy told me to mess you up.” He didn’t bother telling Harry that wasn’t all Chekov intended to do.

“Bizarre,” Harry said. “But I like it. London ’s everybody’s favorite destination these days, capital of the world, even for the gangsters. I feel it might be necessary for me to keep up the reputation of the British gangster.”

He reached inside the car, prodded Stransky’s left kneecap and pulled the trigger. He couldn’t tell what Stransky said because it was in Russian, but the man howled like a werewolf.

“Go on, get out of here,” Harry said, and Bikov put his foot down and drove away.

Baxter and Hall applauded as he offered his arm to Ruby. “God, you’re a hard man,” Ruby said. “I never realized.”

“Well, let’s go back inside. Champagne for everyone!”

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, as Chekov was getting out of the shower in his sumptuous apartment off Park Lane, the front doorbell sounded. Chekov cursed, because the maid didn’t come in until nine o’clock. He went to the window, toweling himself. The flat was a duplex, and when he looked out a motorcycle was parked at the curb and a man stood on the step wearing black leather and helmet and a yellow waistcoat with Express Delivery emblazoned on it. He held a cardboard box and waited. Chekov pulled on a robe, went downstairs and opened the door.

The face was anonymous behind the black plastic. “Mr. Max Chekov?”

“That’s me. What have we got here?” He took the box in both hands.

“Flowers,” the man said. “Lilies.” He pulled at the end of the box, produced a sawn-off double-barreled shotgun, rammed it against Chekov’s left knee and pulled the trigger.

Chekov was hurled backward. The man said, “Have a nice day,” went down the steps to the motorcycle and drove away.

Chapter 7

IT WAS QUIET AT THE AIRPORT AT SIX IN THE MORNING, AS Lacey and Parry kept up a semblance of working on the Gulfstream, the cowling of the port engine still off. A hawk of some kind swept in, dived on some creature or other in the brush on the other side of the runway, and Said appeared in a Land Rover. “Have you fixed it?”

“Just about.” Lacey nodded. “Started early while it’s still cool.”

“I know what you mean. I’m going downtown early for the same reason.”

“Things don’t look too busy.”

“As usual, it’s like the morgue. There’s an old Dakota on a transport run from Kuwait, in around eleven o’clock, and today’s a British Airways flight. Due at three in the afternoon.”

“That should be lively.”

“Not really. I’ve seen the numbers. Seventy-three people. Hardly worth bothering with. I’ll see you later. I’ll need to be back for the Dakota.”

“I might be ready for that test flight later.”

“No problem. There’s no traffic, so just go.” He drove away and Parry said, “That’s nice of him.”

“Don’t count your chickens. Now let’s go across and see if she’s open for breakfast yet.”

ABOUT SEVEN, Caspar and Billy ran the inflatable to the jetty where the station wagon was parked. Billy got behind the wheel and drove it a short distance to the garage and made certain the tank was full. When he returned, Caspar passed him three flight bags. Billy was just wearing his green diving jacket, his eyes anonymous behind dark glasses. Caspar maintained his full disguise, the fold across his face. The harbor was barely stirring.

“It’s going to be hot later,” Billy said.

“You could be right.”

They got into the boat and Billy turned on the engine and moved away from the jetty.

“How are you feeling?”

“How should I feel?”

“Damn it, Caspar, you are her father.”

“True, but in such a situation as I find myself, I realize I’m still a Muslim and, as we say, Inshallah-as God wills.”

“Maybe.” Billy pushed up to top speed and went out in a long sweeping curve toward the Sultan. “And maybe not.”

HAL STONE WAS SITTING in a wicker chair, a cup of coffee on the table beside him, a pair of enormous glasses to his eyes, gazing toward the great house on the cliff.

“A number of gardeners working away. Activity already on the water, several fishing boats. Mainly on that side, things like motorboats, skiers. The beach over there attracts them.”

Billy took the glasses from him and looked.

“I see what you mean.” He handed them back. “Where’s Dillon?”

“In the galley seeing to bacon and eggs.”

“That’s even better,” Billy said, and went down the companionway.

Dillon was whisking scrambled eggs. Like Billy, he just wore a diving jacket. “I’ve left the weapons in the saloon on the table. You’d better take a look.”

“What about the woman?” Billy asked.

“She’ll be frightened out of her wits if things go our way. I’ve put some stuff out that should take care of it.”

Billy went into the saloon. There were two Walther PPKs on the table, Carswell silencers screwed in place. He handled them both expertly and two Uzi machine pistols that lay beside them. There were some plastic clip-on handcuffs, a roll of plastic tape.

Dillon looked in. “Breakfast’s ready.”

Billy turned, went to the kitchen behind him, picked up a laden tray and Dillon brought another. It was all calm and orderly, the sounds of traffic drifting across the water. They found the others at the table.

“What happens now?” Billy said as he ate.

“We finish eating, then we seem busy, just in case anyone is looking. Mess around with the diving equipment, stuff like that.”

Hal Stone said, “The Uzis on the table in the saloon. I shouldn’t think Caspar and I would need them.”