The Dogs of War

Only then did he slip on his jacket and head for a long-awaited dinner to be followed by a long-desired full night’s sleep.

While Shannon slept, Simon Endean also was winging his way southward to Africa on the overnight flight. He had arrived in Paris by the first flight on Monday and taken a taxi immediately to the embassy of Dahomey on the Avenue Victor Hugo. Here he had filled out a lengthy pink form requesting a six-day tourist visa. It was ready for collection just before the closing of the consular office on the Tuesday afternoon, and he had caught the midnight flight to Cotonou via Niamey. Shannon would not have been particularly surprised to know that Endean was going to Africa, for he assumed the exiled Colonel Bobi had to play a part in Sir James Manson’s scheme of things and that the former commander of the Zangaran army was cooling his heels somewhere along the mangrove coast. But if Endean had known Shannon had just returned from a secret visit to the general in the same area of Africa, it would have quite ruined his sleep aboard the UTA DC-8 that night, despite the pill he had taken to ensure an uninterrupted slumber.

Marc Vlaminck called Shannon at his hotel at ten-fifteen the next day. “He agrees to the meeting, and he’ll bring the sample,” said the Belgian. “Do you want me to come too?”

“Certainly,” said Shannon. “When you get to the hotel, ask at reception for the room of Mr. Brown. One other thing. Have you bought that truck I asked you to get?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Has this gentleman seen it yet?”

There was a pause while Vlaminck thought. “No.”

“Then don’t bring it to Brussels. Hire a car and drive yourself. Pick him up on the way. Understand?”

“Yes,” said Vlaminck, still perplexed. “Anything you say.”

Shannon, who was still in bed but feeling a sight better, rang for breakfast and had his habitual five minutes under the shower, four of them in steaming hot water and sixty seconds under a stream of ice-cold.

The coffee and rolls were on the side table when he emerged. He placed two calls from the bedside phone, to Benny Lambert in Paris and Mr. Stein of Lang and Stein in Luxembourg.

“Have you got that letter for me?” he asked Lambert.

The little crook’s voice sounded strained. “Yes, I got it yesterday. Luckily my contact was on duty on Monday, and I saw him that night. He produced the letter of introduction yesterday evening. When do you want it?”

“This afternoon,” said Shannon.

“All right. Have you got my fee?”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it right here.”

“Then come to my place about three,” said Lambert.

Shannon thought for a moment. “No, I’ll meet you here,” he said and gave Lambert the name of his hotel. He preferred to meet the little man in a public place. Rather to his surprise, Lambert agreed to come to the hotel with what sounded like elation in his voice. There was something not quite right about this deal, but Shannon could not put his finger on it. He did not realize that he had given the Paris crook the information he would later sell to Roux.

Mr. Stein was engaged on the other phone when the call came, so, rather than wait, Shannon said he would ring back. This he did an hour later.

“About the meeting to launch my holding company, Tyrone Holdings,” he began.

“Ah yes, Mr. Brown,” said Stein’s voice. “Everything is in order. When would you suggest?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” replied Shannon. It was agreed the meeting would be in Stein’s office at three. Shannon got the hotel to reserve a seat on the express from Paris to Luxembourg ju

st after nine the next morning.

“I must say, I find it all very strange, very strange indeed.”

Mr. Duncan Dalgleish, Senior, in appearance and manner matched his office, and his office looked as if it had been the scene for the reading of the will of Sir Walter Scott.

He examined the four share-transfer deeds signed by Lady Macallister and witnessed by Mrs. Barton carefully and at length. He had muttered, “Aye,” in sorrowful tones several times, and the glances he shot at the younger man from London were disapproving. He was evidently quite unused to handling certified checks from a bank in Zurich, and he had held them between forefinger and thumb as he read them. He was examining the four deeds again as he spoke.

“Ye’ll understand, Lady Macallister has been approached before concerning the sale of these shares. In the past she has always seen fit to consult the firm of Dalgleish, and I have always seen fit to advise her against selling the stock,” he went on.

Thorpe thought privately that no doubt other clients of Mr. Duncan Dalgleish were holding on to piles of valueless stock on the basis of his advice, but he kept his face polite.

“Mr. Dalgleish, you must agree the gentlemen whom I represent have paid Lady Macallister close to twice the face value of the stock. She, for her part, has freely signed the deeds and empowered me to collect the shares on presentation of check or checks totaling thirty thousand pounds. Which you now hold in your hand.”

The old man sighed again. “It’s just so strange that she should not have consulted me first,” he said sadly. “I usually advise her on all her financial matters. For this I hold her general power of attorney.”