Dark Justice Page 8

  “Ah, the new GRU girl, the lieutenant?”

  “Greta Novikova. Quite special. Why not join us?”

  The telephone on the desk rang and Belov answered, then switched into Arabic. He paused, listening, then put the phone down, frowning.

  “Now, what in the hell does that mean?”

  “Well, I can’t comment unless you tell me.”

  “That was the man himself, Saddam. He wants to see me at the presidential palace.”

  “Which one?” Ashimov asked dryly.

  Belov ignored him. “You can forget dinner. Better phone this Greta and cancel. I’ll need you with me.”

  Ashimov was all attention now. “Of course, Colonel, at your orders,” and he reached for the phone.

  They drove through the city in a Range Rover, found a small crowd of people at the presidential palace and a few cars. They paused at the gates, where Belov presented his identity card and they were passed through with an efficiency that indicated they were expected. They stopped at the bottom of the huge steps leading up to the palace.

  Belov said to Ashimov, “You’re carrying?”

  He took a Walther from the shoulder holster under his left arm and Ashimov produced a Beretta. “Of course.”

  Belov opened the glove compartment and put the Walther in. “And you. If we take the hardware inside, we’ll set every alarm bell in the palace ringing.”

  They went up the steps to the entrance and found an army colonel waiting impatiently. “Colonel Belov, he keeps asking for you. This way. I’m Colonel Farouk.”

  The lighting was subdued, the statues in the marbled corridors only half visible in the dusk. They halted at a beaten copper doorway, a sentry on each side. The colonel went in. A moment later, he came out.

  “He’ll see you now, gentlemen,” he said, and leaned forward and murmured in Belov’s ear, “For the sake of all of us, take care, Colonel. He’s in one of his manic phases. Anything is possible.”

  He opened the door and ushered them in. Saddam sat behind a huge desk with a shaded light as he looked up from some papers. He wasn’t in uniform, and he stood up and came around the desk and spoke in Arabic, extending his hand.

  “Colonel Belov, good to see you, and who is this?”

  “My aide, Major Yuri Ashimov.”

  “Also of the KGB or the Federal Service of Counterespionage or whatever you’re calling it now. Does Department Three no longer exist? I rely on Moscow.”

  “Excellency, you may be sure it still exists for the specific purpose for which it was created, however much our masters juggle around with changes.”

  Saddam’s eyes glittered. It was as if he was on something, and he paced around the desk restlessly. “Sit down.” He gestured to two chairs.

  “It’s good to know you are still operating, Belov. I have always looked on you as a friend, but these days, times are uncertain, the Americans waiting for any excuse to pounce. I’ve done everything they’ve asked for in the treaty, and what happens? The oil stays in the ground, no way of getting it out.” Which was not strictly true, but he carried on. “And the exclusion zone, I’m constantly harried by their air force.”

  At that moment, a siren sounded in the distance and the palace was plunged into darkness. He hurried to the great windows and watched as lights turned out in patches.

  “Curse them. I’ve never felt so impotent. And what can I do?” He turned, hands wide. “Tell me, what can I do?”

  He was smiling madly, sweat on his face, turned, picked up a vacant chair and hurled it across the room in a rage and then seemed to pull himself together.

  “But no, I’m a poor host. Now what about that? Women or wine? Boring. Action, passion, that’s the thing. Tell me, Colonel, did you come in an embassy limousine?”

  “No, Excellency, Major Ashimov drove us here in a Range Rover.”

  “A Range Rover?” The lights came on again, extending across the city. “It’s been a long time since I drove one of those. I’m sure you’ll lend it to me.”

  “Of course, Excellency.”

  “Then let’s go,” and Saddam led the way out.

  It was a fact known only to intimates that he frequently roamed the city late at night, driving himself, often with no guards of any kind, even though Belov had heard that guards did usually attempt to follow him. Farouk was half running to keep up with him as Saddam plowed ahead.

  Belov tugged on Ashimov’s sleeve and they held back. “He’s in one of his mad moods, so we just go with the flow. Anything can happen. We’ll arm ourselves the moment we get in the Range Rover.”

  “As you say, Colonel.”

  They passed outside the main door at the top of the steps while Farouk pleaded. “Allow me to bring an escort, Excellency, that at least.”

  “It’s a shameful thing if I can’t drive through my own city without an armed guard. You will wait here.”

  He started down the steps to the Range Rover, and Belov paused by Farouk. “Give me your pistol.” Farouk took a Browning from his holster and handed it over. “Good. Now, my advice is to follow us at a discreet distance.”

  In later years, he often wondered whether Saddam had seen himself as the great Caliph Haroun al Rashid in the Baghdad of old, mingling with the common people in disguise by night, but that couldn’t be true, for he drove the Range Rover like a madman, scattering the crowd outside the palace, and bouncing three cars out of the way.

  He laughed harshly. “I am an excellent driver, is it not so, Colonel?”

  “Of course, Excellency.”

  Belov had the Browning in his pocket and now opened the glove compartment, passed Ashimov his Beretta and slipped the Walther into his shoulder holster.

  They carved their way down into the city, swerving from one street to another, colliding with a number of vehicles, people jumping for their lives, and Saddam, in high good humor, drove even faster.

  Ashimov murmured to Belov, “We’re being followed.”

  “I know. I suggested it to Farouk.”

  “They’re not military vehicles.”

  Saddam, oblivious to all this, crossed an intersection that led him onto a four-lane highway.

  “Now for some real speed,” Saddam cried, but at the same moment a red Ferrari accelerated beside them, a man leaning out of the rear window with a machine pistol. As he started to fire, Ashimov shot him in the head.

  Another man in the front passenger seat beside the driver sprayed the Range Rover again, bursting one of the front tires. Saddam cursed, working the wheel furiously, and the Range Rover rammed into the metal road barrier and came to a halt.

  A number of passing vehicles accelerated out of the way, but the Ferrari swerved, braking ahead of the Range Rover, and three men got out, all armed. At the same moment, an old white van pulled in, the rear doors opened and three more men joined the others.

  Belov got out of the Range Rover and pulled Saddam with him. “Stay down, Excellency.”

  Ashimov joined him, his face sliced open from one eye to the corner of his mouth. “Are you all right?” Belov asked.

  “Not really.” Ashimov fired twice at the ones who crouched behind the van and the Ferrari. “Traffic seems to have ground to a halt back there.”

  “Who can blame them.”

  Saddam also had blood on his face and seemed dazed. “In my own city,” he said. “In Baghdad.”

  Belov weighed the Browning in one hand, the Walther in the other. He smiled slightly at Ashimov. “Shall we get it done?”

  “Why not?”

  “You take the left, I’ll see to the right.”

  A burst of machine-pistol fire thudded into the Range Rover and he called in Arabic, “No more, Saddam is dead. I’ll come out with my friend.”

  There was a pause, excited conversation. A voice called, “Throw out your weapons.”

  “We only have one gun,” Belov shouted, stood up with the Walther in his left hand, and threw it toward the other vehicles, Ashimov rising beside him.

&
nbsp; “Now,” Belov said, as the six men moved into the open, and he fired very rapidly, knocking down the three on the right while Ashimov took out the three on the left. There was a movement in the van, its driver peered out and Ashimov shot him.

  It was then they heard vehicles approaching fast. “Farouk and his boys,” Belov said. “The cavalry arriving rather late.” He took out a pocket handkerchief and gave it to Ashimov. “Best I can do.”

  “I’ll treasure it, Colonel,” and Ashimov held it to his face.

  In the Ambassador’s office the following morning at the Russian Embassy by the Tigris, Belov and Ashimov faced an angry man.

  “You had no right to become involved,” the Ambassador said. “This has gone all the way to the President in Moscow. It may not have occurred to you, Colonel, but our government’s position in the Iraq situation is a very delicate one.”

  “I see,” Belov said. “You’ve been informed of the circumstances. Should I have refused Saddam’s invitation to the palace? I think that would have been difficult. Should I have refused to accompany him on his drive? I think not.”

  “Good God, man, no one appointed you to be his guardian angels. Eight men – you killed eight.”

  “I believe so. I would like to bring to your attention Major Ashimov’s gallant conduct in this affair. As you can see, his face will never be the same again. He’s lucky not to have lost an eye. I suggest he be recommended for a decoration.”

  “Denied,” the Ambassador said. “And for the excellent reason that it never happened. That will suit Saddam, and it certainly suits our government.” He paused and then carried on. “A sense of self-importance can be considered a sin in some quarters. You go too far, Colonel, and this could seriously affect your career.”

  The threat was implicit, but at that moment, the phone on his desk rang. He answered, listened, and the change on his face was plain.

  “Of course, Excellency,” he said in Arabic and put down the phone. “That was Saddam. He wishes to see you both at once.”

  “And do we go?” Belov asked, curiously gentle.

  “I don’t seem to have any choice.”

  “I’m sure Moscow will agree when you inform them. You will excuse us, then?” He nodded to Ashimov and led the way out.

  At the presidential palace, they were met by Farouk, who was ecstatic. “What you did was heroic, incredible, Colonel.”

  “You know who they were?”

  “Oh, yes. Two of them were still alive and soon talked. Shiite rebels, naturally. They never stop trying. He’s waiting for you eagerly.”

  When Farouk ushered them in, Saddam was behind his desk in full uniform. He got to his feet, came around and embraced Belov, then turned to Ashimov, examined the scar covered by gauze that ran from his eye to his mouth.

  “How bad?”

  “Sixteen stitches. An interesting memento, Excellency.”

  “I like that.” Saddam laughed. “Every morning you look in the mirror to have a shave, you’ll be reminded of me. Now sit down, the both of you. I have things to say.

  “I felt anger last night, but mainly impotence. I’m hedged in by the Americans and the British, even the United Nations are hardly my friends. The Shiites rebel, also the Kurds. I deal with them and people compare me to Hitler.”

  “Excellency, what can I say?”

  “I have only one great weapon. Money. Many billions deposited in safe havens around the world, and money on that level is power.”

  There was a heavy pause. Belov, for want of anything better, said, “I wouldn’t argue with that.”

  “Which brings me to the point. I owe you two my life. In my religion, this leaves me with a debt that must be repaid in some way. A sacred duty.” He turned to Ashimov. “You were obeying the Colonel’s instructions last night, am I right?”

  “Absolutely, Excellency.”

  “A fine soldier doing his duty. You have my eternal gratitude. As to your future, I leave that to your colonel here – in safe hands, I think, when you hear what I have to say.”

  He went back behind his desk and sat, speaking directly to Belov.

  “These are strange times in Russia, so many State-owned enterprises going on offer to the open market, and at such reasonable prices.”

  “True, Excellency.”

  “All my billions languish all over the world, from Geneva to Singapore, and I can’t invest because of the attitude of the Americans and the United Nations. It would amuse me to outfox them.”

  “In what way?” Belov said carefully.

  “By discharging my debt to you, Colonel, for saving my life. I understand that at the moment there are a number of oil fields up for grabs in Siberia, for sale by a government very short of the almighty dollar.”

  “That’s true, Excellency.”

  “How far would one billion dollars take you?”

  Belov glanced at Ashimov, who looked awestruck, took a deep breath and turned back to Saddam. “A very long way, Excellency. There could be difficulties, but difficulties are meant to be overcome. If I can serve you in any way, it would be an honor.”

  Saddam shook his head impatiently. “Not for me, my friend, for yourself. Don’t you think my life is worth a billion dollars?”

  For a moment, Belov was speechless as the enormity of it sank in, but finally managed to say, “I’m overwhelmed.”

  Saddam roared with laughter. “One billion? A drop in the ocean, but think what you could do. Give the damned Americans a run for their money. Now, that I would like to see. That would please me.”

  “But, Excellency, what can I do for you?”

  “Who knows? Be my friend in bad times? A man in the shadows when needed?” There was a briefcase on the desk, and he pushed it across. “I’ve had my people prepare these documents in here carefully. There are code words and passwords in here that will give you access to one billion dollars.”

  He stood up, and Belov and Ashimov got up hurriedly. Saddam gestured at the briefcase. “Take it, Colonel.” And he laughed harshly. “My debt is paid.”

  In the month that followed that extraordinary meeting, Belov found an excuse to visit Geneva, a certain caution in him, a refusal to believe it could be true. He took Ashimov with him, and it certainly was true, for the bankers jumped to attention.

  So he returned to Moscow and resigned from the service, together with Ashimov, whom he took on as his personal aide. With all the expertise gained from so many years in intelligence, he compiled a list of the sort of people he needed to know, not only businessmen but also crooked politicians on the take, and if any such people wouldn’t play ball or tried to cause trouble, there was always Yuri Ashimov of the scarred face to take care of them.

  In Siberia, government contracts were readily available, especially for someone with an apparently unlimited supply of dollars. After those early deals, he never really looked back, and in the Russia of those days, no one queried them.

  Within five years, the original billion had become six, and when his old KGB friend Putin became President, it was just the icing on the cake. People didn’t want democracy; they wanted strength and power and got exactly that from Putin, which suited Belov perfectly, and on his end his economic miracle suited the government perfectly, so everyone was happy.

  The emergence of Al Qa’eda and the growth of the terror movement were unfortunate, for one way or another, it led to the second Gulf War and the demise of Saddam, but the prospect of the Iraqi oil fields becoming available danced enticingly in front of him, and so he was content.

  The postwar turmoil in Iraq was understandable. Although the capture of Saddam by American troops seemed to herald the prospect of a more stable future, at least for Iraq, Belov had never bought the idea that the fall of Saddam would have much effect on the Arab world anyway. Muslim militants such as Al Qa’eda would still pursue what they saw as a holy war with America and the Western world, pursue that war by what they saw as the only means available to them – terror.

  So B
elov was pro-Arab, but only because it suited him. There was no doubt he was anti-American, but for obvious business reasons. The Brits were all right, because the Brits were the Brits and he had a weakness for London, but his old philosophy held true and was like a devil in him. To create chaos, fear and uncertainty in the Western world and in pursuit of those aims, it made sense to aid the cause of Muslim militants. But that side of things he left to Yuri Ashimov. It was not that he didn’t want to know – it was just that he didn’t want to know too much.

  The money, of course, made all the difference. There were charitable trusts, educational trusts for young people, in reality fronts for those like Wrath of Allah, the Party of God and others, who were particularly dedicated to such enterprises as, for example, recruiting young British-born Muslims to take them to training camps in the Middle East. He had been informed of the Morgan affair in Manhattan, the intended attempt on the American President’s life, an enterprise so simple it might well have succeeded if it hadn’t been for the activities of Charles Ferguson and his people.

  But he was separate from all that. When the Berger empire crashed, he had taken over its oil interests in southern Arabia. There was nothing America could do about that. It made him one of the most powerful businessmen in the world, highly approved of by the Russian Federation.

  He had the old Rashid house in South Audley Street in London; he’d bought Drumore Place, his castle on the cliffs of Drumore in the Irish Republic, and put Dermot Kelly in charge, ostensibly as estate manager, and the money continued to roll in.

  He was Josef Belov, man of mystery, unbelievably wealthy, and always at his side was Yuri Ashimov.

  NORTHERN IRELANDNANTUCKET

  7

  Ashimov arrived at Belfast Airport in a company jet, and could have taken a helicopter onward to Drumore on the Louth coast, but instead, he’d had a car organized by his people in Belfast, or Belov’s people, to be strictly accurate.

  It was raining, but no surprise in that. It seemed to rain five days a week in Belfast, but he liked that and he liked Northern Ireland and the accent in which people spoke, so different from that in the Republic. It was a wonderfully beautiful place, which was why he preferred to spend a couple of hours drivng through the mountains and then crossing the border into the Irish Republic and following the coast road to Drumore.