baseball cap took a knife from his pocket and sprang the blade. "You little bastard, I'll show you."
"Well, let's be having you, then."
The knife swung, Dillon caught hold of the wrist, turned it and the arm like a steel bar, then ran him headfirst into the railings. The man slumped to the pavement, his nose broken, blood on his mouth.
Dillon crouched beside him. "Now then, who sent you?"
"Get stuffed," the man moaned.
"You've got balls, I'll give you that." Dillon was carrying a Walther PPK in his waistband at the rear under his jacket, and now he produced it. "But I've got this, and where I come from we find a bullet through the kneecap cures most ills. A crippling experience, mind you."
"Okay." The man put a hand up. "It was Charlie Harker put us on your case. Gave us a grand to cripple you."
"Harker? And who would he be?"
"He runs everything on the river, from here down to the Isle of Dogs."
"Really?" Dillon reached inside the man's anorak, found a wad of notes and took them out. "A thousand quid from this Charlie Harker." He shook his head. "It gives me more pleasure to leave it with you than to take it."
"Screw you," the man said.
"I said you have balls. Not many brains, though. Now, if I were you, I'd call an ambulance."
He walked away, and stood on the corner thinking about it. Charlie Harker who ran everything on the river down to the Isle of Dogs? The name didn't mean a thing to Dillon. On the other hand, he knew someone to whom it very probably did. He flagged down a passing cab, told the driver to take him to Wapping High Street and got in.
He was thinking of Harry Salter, once one of the most feared men in London, a very old-fashioned gangster, now a multimillionaire from the warehouse developments he'd built on the side of the Thames. The relationship between Harry, his nephew Billy, and Dillon and Ferguson had become close, tested in the fire on a number of occasions. If anyone knew about Harker, it would be Harry Salter.
At the same moment, Charlie Harker was in a pub called the Red Lion in Kilburn in London, sitting reading the Evening Standard and enjoying a pint. Most people stayed well clear of him, well aware that it was best for their health. A large, heavily built man in a dark suit leaned against the wall behind him. His name was Mosby and he was Harker's minder.
Harker's mobile went. He answered it and found Ali Selim on the other end. "Mr. Harker, I must see you."
"What for?"
"The latest consignment to Iraq. I'll have to delay it for a while."
"You can't do that, it's all arranged. Leaving tomorrow night."
"It's not convenient."
"I don't care. The deal is five grand a head, so five heads makes it twenty-five, like we agreed, old son, and twenty-five is what I expect whether it's on or it's off. Does Ashimov know about this?"
"Look, be reasonable. I'll come and see you if you like. Where are you?"
"The Red Lion, but don't come without the cash. I'm beginning to worry about you, and that would never do."
Selim put the phone down and sat thinking about it. It was the thing he hated most, having to deal with people like Harker, but what could he do? It was essential to keep the traffic on the move to Iraq on a regular basis, now more than ever. At least there was the money from Ashimov to keep it going.
He found a canvas bag and opened the safe in the corner of the office. There was money in there, a great deal of money, stacked neatly in bundles of fifty-pound notes. He counted out the required amount, put it in the bag and got his hat and a raincoat.
He was worried, running scared. He believed in what he was doing. His cause was just and he believed in Allah above everything, but all of a sudden, things seemed to have gotten out of hand. The Morgan thing had looked so promising, so absurdly simple with Ashimov's support, and not only had it failed, it had brought Ferguson and his people into the equation, and this Dillon. He shuddered. A truly frightening man. And then this
"Well, let's be having you, then."
The knife swung, Dillon caught hold of the wrist, turned it and the arm like a steel bar, then ran him headfirst into the railings. The man slumped to the pavement, his nose broken, blood on his mouth.
Dillon crouched beside him. "Now then, who sent you?"
"Get stuffed," the man moaned.
"You've got balls, I'll give you that." Dillon was carrying a Walther PPK in his waistband at the rear under his jacket, and now he produced it. "But I've got this, and where I come from we find a bullet through the kneecap cures most ills. A crippling experience, mind you."
"Okay." The man put a hand up. "It was Charlie Harker put us on your case. Gave us a grand to cripple you."
"Harker? And who would he be?"
"He runs everything on the river, from here down to the Isle of Dogs."
"Really?" Dillon reached inside the man's anorak, found a wad of notes and took them out. "A thousand quid from this Charlie Harker." He shook his head. "It gives me more pleasure to leave it with you than to take it."
"Screw you," the man said.
"I said you have balls. Not many brains, though. Now, if I were you, I'd call an ambulance."
He walked away, and stood on the corner thinking about it. Charlie Harker who ran everything on the river down to the Isle of Dogs? The name didn't mean a thing to Dillon. On the other hand, he knew someone to whom it very probably did. He flagged down a passing cab, told the driver to take him to Wapping High Street and got in.
He was thinking of Harry Salter, once one of the most feared men in London, a very old-fashioned gangster, now a multimillionaire from the warehouse developments he'd built on the side of the Thames. The relationship between Harry, his nephew Billy, and Dillon and Ferguson had become close, tested in the fire on a number of occasions. If anyone knew about Harker, it would be Harry Salter.
At the same moment, Charlie Harker was in a pub called the Red Lion in Kilburn in London, sitting reading the Evening Standard and enjoying a pint. Most people stayed well clear of him, well aware that it was best for their health. A large, heavily built man in a dark suit leaned against the wall behind him. His name was Mosby and he was Harker's minder.
Harker's mobile went. He answered it and found Ali Selim on the other end. "Mr. Harker, I must see you."
"What for?"
"The latest consignment to Iraq. I'll have to delay it for a while."
"You can't do that, it's all arranged. Leaving tomorrow night."
"It's not convenient."
"I don't care. The deal is five grand a head, so five heads makes it twenty-five, like we agreed, old son, and twenty-five is what I expect whether it's on or it's off. Does Ashimov know about this?"
"Look, be reasonable. I'll come and see you if you like. Where are you?"
"The Red Lion, but don't come without the cash. I'm beginning to worry about you, and that would never do."
Selim put the phone down and sat thinking about it. It was the thing he hated most, having to deal with people like Harker, but what could he do? It was essential to keep the traffic on the move to Iraq on a regular basis, now more than ever. At least there was the money from Ashimov to keep it going.
He found a canvas bag and opened the safe in the corner of the office. There was money in there, a great deal of money, stacked neatly in bundles of fifty-pound notes. He counted out the required amount, put it in the bag and got his hat and a raincoat.
He was worried, running scared. He believed in what he was doing. His cause was just and he believed in Allah above everything, but all of a sudden, things seemed to have gotten out of hand. The Morgan thing had looked so promising, so absurdly simple with Ashimov's support, and not only had it failed, it had brought Ferguson and his people into the equation, and this Dillon. He shuddered. A truly frightening man. And then this
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