Wild Justice (33 page)

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Authors: Wilbur Smith

BOOK: Wild Justice
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C
olin Noble with his cheroot, and opposite him Kingston Parker with the amber meerschaum, seemed to be in competition as to who could soonest render the air in the room incapable of supporting human life. It was already thick and blue, and the temporary headquarters of Thor Command lacked air-conditioning – but within minutes Peter had become so immersed in what he was hearing that the discomfort was forgotten.
Colin Noble was going over the details of the Irish operation, and all that had been gleaned from it.
‘The house, the Old Manse, was burned to the ground, of course. The Irish constabulary had twenty men sifting through the ashes—' He spread his hands. ‘A big nix. Nothing at all.'
‘Next the contents of the Austin and its – provenance – now do you like that word, Peter baby? Provenance, that's a classy word.'
Parker smiled indulgently. ‘Please go on, Colin.'
‘The Austin was stolen in Dublin, and resprayed and fitted with the roof carrier. It contained nothing, no papers, nothing in the glove compartment or boot, it had been stripped and cleaned out by an expert—'
‘The men,' Parker prompted him.
‘Yes, sir. The men. The dead one first. Name of Gerald O'Shaughnessy, also known as “Gilly”, born Belfast 1946—' As he spoke Colin picked up the file that lay on the table in front of him. It was five inches thick. ‘– Do we want to read all of it? It's a hell of a story. The guy had a track record—'
‘Only as far as it concerns Atlas,' Parker told him.
‘There is no evidence as to when or how he became involved with this business—' Colin sketched the facts swiftly and succinctly. ‘– So we end with the contents of his pockets. Six hundred pounds sterling, thirty-eight rounds of .38 ammunition, and papers in the name of Edward and Helen Barry – forged, but beautifully forged.' Colin closed the file with a slap. ‘Nothing,' he repeated. ‘Nothing we can use. Now the other man Morrison – Claude Bertram Morrison – celebrated abortionist and dedicated alcoholic Struck off the medical rolls in 1969—' Again he recounted the sordid history swiftly and accurately. ‘– His price for the digital surgery was three thousand pounds – half in advance Hell, that's cheaper than the Blue Cross.' Colin grinned but his eyes were black and bright with anger. ‘I am pleased to report that he can expect a sentence of approximately fifteen years. They are going to throw the book at him. There is only one item of any possible interest which he could give us. Gilly O'Shaughnessy was the leader from whom he took his orders, O‘Shaughnessy in turn took his orders from somebody called—' He paused dramatically. ‘Yes, that's right. The name we have all heard before. Caliph.'
‘Just one point here,' Kingston Parker interrupted.
‘Caliph likes to use his name. He signs it on his correspondence. Even his lowliest thugs are given the name to use. Why?'
‘I think I can answer that.' Peter stirred and raised his head. ‘He wants us to know that he exists. We must have a focal point for our fear and hatred. When he was merely a nameless, faceless entity he was not nearly as menacing as he is now.'
‘I think you are right.' Parker nodded his head gravely. ‘By using the name he is building up a store of credibility which he will draw upon later. In future when Caliph says he will kill or mutilate we know he is in deadly earnest, there will be no compromise. He will do exactly as he promises. The man, or men, are clever psychologists.'
‘There is just one aspect of the Irish operation we have not yet considered,' Peter broke in, frowning with concentration. That is – who was it that tipped us off, and what was the reason for that telephone call?'
They were all silent, until Parker turned to Colin.
‘What do you think of that one?'
‘I have discussed it with the police, of course. It was one of the first things that puzzled us. The police believe that Gilly O'Shaughnessy picked his hideout in Ireland because he was familiar with the terrain, and had friends there. It was his old stamping ground when he was with the Provos. He could move and disappear, get things fixed.' Colin paused and saw the sceptical expression on Peter's face. ‘Well, look at it this way, Peter baby. He had a woman negotiate the lease on the Old Manse – Kate Barry, she called herself and signed it on the lease – so that was one ally. There must have been others, because he was able to buy a stolen and reworked automobile – he would have had difficulty doing that in Edinburgh or London without the word getting about.'
Peter nodded reluctantly. ‘All right, having the Irish connection helped him—'
‘– But there was the other side of the coin. O'Shaughnessy had enemies, even in the Provos. He was a ruthless bastard with a bloody record. We can only believe that one of those enemies saw the chance to make a score – the one who sold him the stolen auto, perhaps. We have had the recording of the tip-off call examined by language experts and had a run against the voice prints on the computer. Nothing definite. The voice was disguised, probably through a handkerchief and nose plugs, but the general feeling is that it was an Irishman who made the call. The boffins from the telephone department were able to test the loading of the line and guess it was a call from a foreign country – very likely Ireland, although they cannot be certain of that.'
Peter Stride raised one eyebrow slightly, and Colin chuckled weakly and waved the cheroot at him in a wide gesture of invitation.
‘Okay. That's my best shot,' he said. ‘Let's hear you do better. If you don't like my theories, you must have one of your own.'
‘You are asking me to believe it was all a coincidence; that O'Shaughnessy just happened to run into an old enemy who just happened to tip us off twenty-four hours before the deadline for Melissa-Jane's hand to be amputated. Then it just so happened that we reached Laragh at exactly the same moment as O'Shaughnessy was pulling out and making a run for it. Is that what you want me to believe?'
‘Something like that,' Colin admitted..
‘Sorry, Colin. I just don't like coincidence.'
‘Shoot!' Colin invited. ‘Let's hear how it really happened.'
‘I don't know,' Peter grinned placatingly. ‘It is just that I have this feeling that Caliph doesn't deal in coincidence either. I have this other feeling that somehow Gilly O'Shaughnessy had the death mark on his forehead from the beginning. I have this feeling it was all part of the plan.'
‘It must be great fun to have these feelings.' Colin was prickling a little. ‘But they sure as hell aren't much help to me.'
Take it easy.' Peter held up one hand in surrender. ‘Let's accept tentatively that it happened your way, then—'
‘But?' Colin asked.
‘No buts – not until we get some more hard evidence—'
‘Okay, buster.' There was no smile on Colin's face now, the wide mouth clamped in a grim line. ‘You want hard evidence, try this one for size—'
‘Hold it, Colin,' Parker shot in quickly, authoritatively. ‘Wait for a moment before we come to that.' And Colin Noble deflated with a visible effort, the cords in his throat smoothing out and the line of mouth relaxed into the old familiar grin as he deferred to Kingston Parker.
‘Let's backtrack here a moment,' Parker suggested. ‘Peter came up with the name Caliph. In the meantime we had picked up the same name – but from an entirely different source. I promised Peter I would tell him about our source – because I think it gives us a new insight into this entire business.' He paused and tinkered with his pipe, using one of those small tools with folding blades and hooks and spikes with which pipe smokers arm themselves. He scraped the bowl and knocked a nub of half-burned tobacco into the ashtray, before peering into the pipe the way a rifleman checks the bore of his weapon. Peter realized that Parker used his pipe as a prop for his performances, the way a magician distracts his audience with flourishes and mumbo-jumbo. He was not a man to underestimate, Peter thought again for the hundredth time. Kingston Parker looked up at him and smiled, a conspiratorial smile as if to acknowledge that Peter had seen through his little act.
‘Our news of Caliph comes from an unlikely direction – or rather, considering the name, a more likely direction. East. Riyadh to be precise. Capital city of Saudi Arabia, seat of King Khalid's oil empire. Our battered and beleaguered
Central Intelligence Agency has received an appeal from the King following the murder of one of his grandsons. You recall the case, I'm sure—' Peter had a strange feeling of
déjà-vu
as he listened to Kingston Parker confirming exactly the circumstances that he and Magda Altmann had discussed and postulated together, was it only three weeks before? ‘– You see the King and his family are in a very vulnerable position really. Did you know that there are at least seven hundred Saudi princes who are multimillionaires, and who are close to the King's affections and power structure? It would be impossible to guard that many potential victims adequately. It's really damned good thinking – you don't have to seize a hostage with all the attendant risks. There is virtually an unlimited supply of them walking around, ripe for plucking, and an inexhaustible supply of assassins to be either pressured or paid to do the job, just as long as you have the information and leverage, or just enough money. Caliph seems to have all that.'
‘What demand has been made upon Khalid?' Peter asked.
‘We know for certain that he has received a demand, and that he has appealed to the CIA for assistance to protect and guard his family. The demand came from an agency or person calling himself Caliph. We do not know what the demand is – but it may be significant that Khalid and the Shah of Persia have both agreed that they will not support a crude oil price increase at the next pricing session of OPEC, but on the contrary they will push for a five per cent decrease in the price of crude.'
‘Caliph's thinking has paid off again,' Peter murmured.
‘It looks like it, doesn't it.' Parker nodded, and then chuckled bitterly. ‘And once again you get the feeling, as with his demands to the South African Government, that his final objective is desirable – even if the way he goes about procuring it is slightly unconventional, to say the least.'
‘To say the very least,' Peter agreed quietly, remembering
the feel of Melissa-Jane's fever-racked body against his chest.
‘So there is no doubt now that what we feared, is fact. Caliph exists—' said Parker.
‘Not only exists, but flourishes,' Peter agreed.
‘Alive and well with a nice house in the suburbs.' Colin lit the stub of his cheroot before going on. ‘Hell! He succeeded at Johannesburg. He is succeeding at Riyadh – where does he go from there – why not the Federation of Employers in West Germany? The Trade Union leaders in Great Britain? – Any group powerful enough to affect the fate of nations, and small enough to be terrorized as individuals.'
‘It's a way to sway and direct the destiny of the entire world – you just cannot guard all the world's decision-makers from personal attack,' Peter agreed. ‘And it's no argument to point out that because his first two targets have been South Africa and the oil monopoly, then the long term results will be to the benefit of mankind. His ultimate target will almost certainly be the democratic process itself I don't think there can be any doubt that Caliph sees himself as a god. He sees himself as the paternal tyrant. His aim is to cure the ills of the world by radical surgery, and to maintain its health by unrestrained force and fear.'
Peter could remain seated no longer. He pushed back his chair and crossed to the windows, standing there in the soldier's stance, balanced on the balls of his feet with both hands clasped lightly behind his back. There was an uninspiring view of the high barbed-wire fence, part of the airfield and the corrugated sheet wall of the nearest hangar A Thor sentry paced before the gates with a white M.P. helmet on his head and side arm strapped to his waist. Peter watched him without really seeing him, and behind him the two men at the table exchanged a significant glance. Colin Noble asked a silent question and Parker answered with a curt nod of affirmative.
‘All right, Peter,' Colin said. ‘A little while back you asked for hard facts. I promised to give you a few.'
Peter turned back from the window and waited.
‘Item One. During the time that Gilly O'Shaughnessy held Melissa-Jane in Laragh, two telephone calls were made from the Old Manse. They were both international calls. They both went through the local telephone exchange. The first call was made at seven p.m. local time on the first of this month. That would have been the first day that they could have reached the hideout. We have to guess it was an “All Well” report to the top management. The second call was exactly seven days later again at seven o'clock local time precisely. To the same number. We have to guess that it was another report, “All is still well”. Both calls were less than one minute in duration. Just time enough to pass a pre-arranged code message—' Colin broke off and looked again at Kingston Parker.

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