Book 13 in the Sean Dillon series, 2005

The Playa de Toros in Ibiza is a typical small-town bullring, a concrete circle, benches ringed around, average bulls, toreros desperate to make their bones. It was unbearably hot even on the shady side at four o’clock in the afternoon as Dillon waited at the barrera. As the President led the procession on, the band started to play “The Virgin of Macarena,” that most poignant of paso dobles, that promised only death down there in the ring; death in the afternoon, Hemingway had called it. The toreros tossed off their capes, works of art in themselves, to friends in the crowd, who draped them over the barrera, then the toreros were handed the plain fighting capes and made a few practice swings, the horses of the picadors stirring uneasily. There was a long moment, a signal from the President, and as a bugle sounded, the red door on the far side, the Gate of Fear, burst open. The bull came through from the darkness, a runaway train that skidded to a halt as the crowd roared. Peons moved out to try him, capes ready, the scene looking like the most dangerous thing on earth, but Dillon knew no fear. He vaulted over the barrera down into the arena. The crowd roared as he ran forward and flung himself on his knees in front of the bull and bared his chest. “Hey, toro. Just for me, the Pass of Death,” because he knew that was all it would take and he deserved it. She was dead and it was his fault and the bull charged, the crowd screamed and he cried out and came awake, sitting up in bed, soaked in sweat and more afraid than he had ever been.

It was Washington, early evening, bad March weather, but General Charles Ferguson, comforted by the luxury of the Hay-Adams Hotel, stood at a window of the bar and enjoyed a scotch and soda. Newly arrived from London, he was curiously exhilarated by the rain pounding against the window and his proximity to the White House.

On the other hand, he also just liked the hotel for its own sake. In its sheer luxury it was everything a hotel should be, and anybody who was anybody stayed there, the great and the good and the power brokers. Whatever else he was, he was certainly that, the man responsible for running a special intelligence unit out of the Ministry of Defence in London, responsible only to the Prime Minister of the day, irrespective of politics.

The man for whom he waited, Blake Johnson, was head of a unit at the White House called the Basement. It had been in existence since the Cold War days, an intelligence unit answerable only to the current President, totally separate from the CIA, FBI and the Secret Service. They had achieved great things together.

Ferguson could see the main entrance of the hotel, where now a limousine drew up and two men got out and hurried up the steps. Blake Johnson was a tall, handsome man in his mid-fifties. The man with him was very big and very black: Clancy Smith, once the youngest sergeant major in the Marine Corps and now the President’s favorite Secret Service man. Ferguson greeted them warmly.

“Great to see you both.”

“No Dillon this trip?” Johnson asked.

He was referring to Sean Dillon, in the past a feared IRA enforcer, now Ferguson ’s strong right hand.

“There didn’t seem any need and he’s concerned about Hannah Bernstein. She’s really in a very bad way thanks to that Russian bastard Ashimov.”

“President Cazalet will want to hear all about that. Let’s go.”

They drove along Constitution Avenue toward the White House, where as usual these days and in spite of the weather, there were demonstrators. Their driver tried the East Entrance, where they were greeted warmly by a Secret Service agent on duty, who escorted them to the President’s secretary, a pleasant and cheerful lady who admitted them to the Oval Office. There they found Jake Cazalet in shirtsleeves at his desk, as usual, working his way through a pile of documents.

“So you made it. I heard the weather wasn’t too good.” Cazalet came round the desk and shook Ferguson warmly by the hand. “Good to see you, General, as always. I think whiskey is in order, considering this damn rain. Clancy, if you’d be kind enough to do the honors.” He turned to the other two and said to Ferguson, “You took a bullet in the shoulder, I understand?”

“I was lucky, Mr. President. A bad crease, thanks to the IRA mercenaries employed by Belov’s people, but that’s all.”

Josef Belov, the billionaire head of Belov International, had once been a colonel in charge of the KGB’s old Department 3. His intentions now were as they had been then – disruption of the Western world as much as possible, encouragement and financial support for terrorism of all kinds. He had very nearly succeeded in assassinating President Cazalet, and, thwarted in that, he had been successful in injuring Ferguson and putting one of his best operatives, Superintendent Hannah Bernstein of Special Branch, in the hospital. Belov had been killed in a shoot-out in Ireland, along with his agents Yuri Ashimov and Major Greta Novikova of the GRU, as well as assorted IRA guns-for-hire. But the pain they had caused lingered on, in both the body and the soul.

“Belov was backed by the Russian government?”

“At the highest level.”

Clancy handed out the drinks, and then stood against the wall behind them, arms folded.

“Right, tell me the worst,” Cazalet said.

“I’d say that’s Hannah Bernstein,” Blake told him.

Cazalet was immediately concerned. “Just how bad is she?”

“Very,” Ferguson told him. “Ashimov ran her down in the street deliberately. She’s undergoing treatment at a specialized neurological unit right now.”

“Anything we can do, General, just ask – that goes without saying.”

“She’s in good hands, sir. She’s in the care of George Dawson, one of the best brain surgeons in the business. But there’s a limit to what the human body can stand, Mr. President. This could be the end of her career.”

“She won’t like that.”

There was silence, for there was nothing to say. After a while, Ferguson carried on.

“Thanks to the efforts of Major Roper, our computer expert, we established that Major Ashimov had fled to Belov’s house in County Louth, in company with Novikova. He also established that Belov himself was there – but about to leave for Moscow.”

“And knowing Dillon, he decided to stop him.”

Ferguson nodded. “By a beach drop, backed up by young Billy Salter.”

“Our young gangster friend? He does get around. Must have been difficult, though.”

“Mr. President, that is a particularly IRA area. There isn’t a policeman for miles, and strangers stick out like sore thumbs. Any kind of trouble, people keep their heads down and stay indoors. They don’t want to know. It was a very tricky drop.”

“So, what was the body count?”

“Three IRA in the house, plus Ashimov. Novikova, Belov and an IRA man named Tod Murphy made it out to sea in a boat, but Dillon had rigged it with a little Semtex and detonated it by remote control.”

“By God, he’s a ruthless bastard,” Cazalet said. “After that, I think I could do with another one. Clancy?”

Clancy obliged and recharged their glasses. It was Blake who said, “The curious thing is – this all took place three weeks ago and there hasn’t been a word about it anywhere. You’d think that Belov’s death would have caused ripples at least.”