Dark Justice by Jack Higgins Read Free Book Online Page B

into Selim," Dillon told Ferguson on the phone.
    "I thought you would. What's your verdict?"
    "Well, the obvious thing is that he didn't deny any of it--Morgan, Ashimov, the Novikova woman, the lot."
    "Well, he wouldn't, would he? By the way, Blake's been in touch. He's taken all that stuff I gave him on the Muslim situation in the UK and gone straight back to Washington."
    "What a shame. I'd hoped to take him to the Dorchester tonight. The Russian Embassy's got a function on in the ballroom. Get me a security pass, Charles, Novikova's going to be there. Perhaps Ashimov will be with her. I'd like to run with it."
    "Only if you run with me, you rogue. We'll go together."
    "Cocktails at seven, Charles, not black tie. The embassy's trying to make friends and influence people--and I understand that there might be a surprise guest or two."
    "Are you referring to the fact that when President Putin finished at the European Union's Paris conference this morning, he decided to divert his plane to RAF Northolt for a chat with the Prime Minister this afternoon? And that he's not due to depart until late tonight?"
    "And how would you be knowing that?"
    "Because I've been notified of his flight plan out of Northolt to Moscow. It's what they pay me for, dear boy."
    "So I'll meet you there?"
    "And the Superintendent, too, I think. Dress things up a little. And do me a favor."
    "Yours to command."
    "Wear one of your better suits. We mustn't let the side down. This should be interesting. I knew Putin rather well in the bad old days, you know, when he was a colonel in the KGB."
    "I bet you exchanged shots across the Berlin Wall."
    "Something like that. Meet us at the Dorchester as you say, at seven."
    "Wouldn't miss it."
    In the ballroom at the Dorchester, the great and the good mingled with politicians and civil servants, and waiters passed through the crowd with trays loaded with vodka and the finest champagne, as the Russian Embassy did its best to impress. Yuri Ashimov and Greta stood by a pillar, drinking iced vodka.
    "It'll be a hell of a shock for these people when Putin appears with the Prime Minister," Greta said.
    "It'll be an even bigger one for you when Belov appears."
    "Belov?" She was bewildered. "But why?"
    "Because Putin wanted him. Out of all the oil magnates, Josef, my love, is the one the President trusts. They go back a long way." He reached for another vodka as a waiter passed. "I spoke to him a couple of hours ago. Brought him up to speed on the Henry Morgan affair."
    "Does Putin know about that?"
    "Of course not. There are limits. Josef was philosophical about it, but he wasn't happy about Ferguson and his friends."
    "What do we do if Dillon turns up?"
    "I hope he does. I have a friend named Harker, Charlie Harker. A crook of the first water, dabbles in everything from protection to drugs to women. Such people have their uses."
    "What's he going to do?"
    "I mentioned Dillon and gave him a photo. Harker has arranged for two or three of his men to, shall we say, pay special attention to him if he does show up."
    Greta said, "I've checked on Dillon, Yuri. He's hell on wheels."
    "Well, so am I, my love."
    "But it isn't you who'll be doing it. That's what worries me."
    "Well, we'll just have to see what happens. Because there he is."
    At the same moment, a voice echoed over a microphone as the Russian ambassador called for attention.
    "My lords, ladies and gentlemen. I had intended a few words at this moment, but someone far more important has arrived--and with a very special guest."
    He gestured and, through the side door, President Putin appeared, the British Prime Minister at his side. The crowd broke into spontaneous applause. The two men stopped for a moment, acknowledging the crowd, then moved on, pausing to shake hands here and there. They were followed by several men, obviously security, but not all.
    "The man on the left," Ferguson said. "Black suit, steel-rimmed glasses, cropped hair. Josef Belov. Now, what's he up