Rough Justice

by Higgins, Jack

It made him feel desperately uneasy, and he went downstairs to his room. He’d washed his raincoat in the shower to remove the Guinness and hung it over a central heating radiator to dry, so it wasn’t available when he decided to go out and explore the waterfront. Raining it was, but there were some umbrellas in a stand next to the door, and he took one and went out. It was early evening now, darkness not far away.

  There were boats of every description, large ferryboats lined up in the outer harbor with freighters and cargo ships. Closer to home lay a variety of smaller craft and several trawlers, plus a couple of rust-streaked freighters with Glasgow registrations.

  He walked along slowly, thinking. According to Kelly, there was a fair chance the Lost Hope would dock tomorrow evening, but Glover’s orders had been explicit. On no account was he to use his contact number for backup unless Kelly and Ryan were in the frame together. So the boat was due in, the Stingers on board, but where was Ryan?

  He paused to light a cigarette under the umbrella. There was a small supermarket beside a warehouse on the other side of the road, and Sister Bridget emerged with a grocery cart and paused to put up an umbrella.

  “Just doing my chores,” she called. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” he replied.

  She crossed the road, her umbrella in one hand shielding the groceries. “Having a look round, are you? Do you like the boats?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “I grew up in a fishing village in Galway. My father and three brothers were all fishermen. I used to love the trawlers, drifting into harbor when they’d been away a few days, like that one there.”

  Miller turned, and sure enough there was a large deep-sea trawler nosing in, festooned with nets, men in oilskins working the decks.

  “The Lost Hope,” she said. “I like that name. I don’t know why.” Her face was shining. “It’s been in several times since I’ve been at the priory.”

  “Is that a fact?” Miller said calmly.

  “I must be getting back, they’re waiting for these things in the kitchen. I’ll see you later.”

  “Of course.”

  He watched as the Lost Hope eased in toward a berth where a couple of dockworkers waited on the quay to catch thrown lines, and for a moment there was a flurry of movement from the men on deck. Only one thing was certain now. The early arrival changed everything. But whatever he did had to be carefully considered. He was aware of a woman’s raised voice, and turned. On the other side of the quay a little farther along, a white van had stopped. Flannery was beside it, the driver’s door open and Sister Bridget’s trolley on its side, her packages spilling as she wrestled with him.

  “Would you leave me alone?” There was anger in her voice.

  Miller arrived on the run, pulled Flannery away, and swung him around. The stink of alcohol permeated everything and the man was obviously drunk.

  Miller shoved him back against the van. “Leave her.”

  “Put your hands on me, would you?” Flannery swung at him. “I’ll show you, you English bastard.”

  The Sergeant-Major in charge of what the Intelligence Corps called the self-defense with extreme prejudice course would have been proud of him. Miller kicked Flannery with precision under his left kneecap, jabbed the knuckles of his right hand into the stomach, and when Flannery doubled over, raised a knee into his face, breaking his nose, then turned him and ran him headfirst into the cab.

  Suddenly, there was Kelly running toward him from the pub door and, beyond, Father Sharkey outside the priory, watching. Miller gathered Sister Bridget’s groceries and packages and put them in her trolley.

  “There you go, Sister.”

  Kelly arrived. “What in the hell’s going on?”

  “Oh, just teaching your man here some manners.” Miller turned to the girl. “I’ll see you back.”

  “I’m so grateful. He won’t leave me alone.”

  As they neared the priory, Sharkey moved toward them. “Are you all right, Bridget?

  “Thanks to Mr. Blunt, I am.” She went in.

  “I’m impressed,” Sharkey said.

  “Yes, well, I’m like you, Father. I lose my temper.”

  “Strange, I didn’t get that impression. It seemed to me you knew exactly what you were doing. Kelly won’t be pleased. I’d take care from now on. You’re certainly an interesting kind of surveyor.”

  “Thanks for the advice, Father.”

  Miller followed Bridget inside, cursing silently. What a stupid thing to do. In a way, he’d blown his cover. There had been a question in Sharkey’s eyes, and he’d put it there, and then he suddenly thought of the girl and decided he didn’t give a damn.

  HE WENT to his room, sat on the bed thinking about it, and went outside and looked out along the quay at the Lost Hope, lights all over her as darkness eased in. No speaking to his contact unless he could guarantee a meet between Kelly and Ryan: Those were his orders. On the other hand, there was the Lost Hope, which he knew from the overheard conversation in the cellar with Kelly and Flannery definitely had the Stingers on board. Perhaps half a loaf was better than none?

  He opened his locker, lifted a piece of plywood in the bottom, and took out the box. He’d loaded the Colt earlier, and now he strapped the holster around his right ankle, screwed on the silencer and seated the Colt in the holster. His raincoat was dry now, so he put it on and went out. Bridget wasn’t at the reception desk. He could hear voices in the chapel, and he eased the door open and listened. It was Father Sharkey talking to some young woman.

  “I’ll have words with the Mother Superior in the morning and see if we can help.”

  Miller took his chance, opened the sacristy door, stepped inside, and reached for the phone on Sharkey’s desk. He dialed the contact number, and the answer was instantaneous.

  “Who is this?” The voice was calm, controlled.

  “Lieutenant Harry Miller. The Lost Hope has arrived early. I can confirm Stinger missiles are on board. I can also confirm AK47s in Kelly’s pub cellar.”

  “And Ryan?”

  “I’ve no idea. No sign of him. I thought something was better than nothing. What do I do? I’m in the priory.”

  “Go outside, keep the Lost Hope under observation, and we’ll come quickly. That means not in uniform.”

  Miller replaced the receiver, opened the door carefully, and stepped out to find Bridget at her desk.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Blunt. I thought the Father was in there.”

  “No, he’s in the chapel. I was just borrowing the phone.” He walked to the door, which stood open for the street people who would be there for their supper later on.

  He stood outside for a moment, there was a strange clicking, and Mr. Fallon appeared from the shadows leaning on his walking stick. Miller said, “Taking some exercise, Mr. Fallon?”

  “Not really,” Fallon told him. “What I’m doing is checking up on you, you bastard.” He produced a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver from his left raincoat pocket.

  Flannery slipped up behind him, his face battered, the nose broken. He was clutching a sawn-off shotgun. “There’s him, Mr. Ryan, and you can see what he did to me.”

  He ran his hand over Miller, checked the pockets. “Nothing, Mr. Ryan.” He slapped Miller across the face. “Who are you?”

  “More important, what are you?” Ryan said. “All that clever unarmed-combat stuff.”

  “Maybe he’s SAS,” Flannery said.

  “Whatever he is, through the side door of the pub with him and down to the cellars, where he’ll talk fast enough. I’ve got my cutters with me.”

  Flannery jammed his sawn-off in Miller’s back and urged him to the pub, and Ryan followed.

  INSIDE, flattened against the wall by the open door, Bridget had heard everything and was terrified. That bad things happened was a way of life in Belfast, but Sharkey solved it for her, following the young woman he’d been talking to out of the chapel. He was still wearing his violet stole from confession.

  “
Good night to you,” he told the woman, who brushed past Bridget and went out.

  Sharkey was smiling as he came to Bridget, but he stopped when he saw her face. “What is it, girl?”

  “It’s Mr. Blunt,” she said. “Mr. Fallon isn’t called that at all. His real name is Ryan, and he and Flannery have taken Mr. Blunt down to the cellars next door. I believe something terrible is going to happen to him.”

  “Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Sharkey’s face was completely calm. He opened the sacristy door, led her inside. “Sit down, there’s a good girl.”

  She did as she was told, and he put a Gladstone bag on the table, took out a Walther, and quickly fitted a silencer on the end. He slipped it into the right-hand pocket of his cassock with another magazine.

  “Stay there, my darling, and don’t tell a soul.”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  “As a priest, I would say I’m about God’s work, but all is not what it seems.”

  He hurried out, through into the chapel, got the door open to the crypt, found the lantern, and descended.

  MILLER, forced down the stairs, found Dolan waiting at the open door at the bottom, holding a Browning. He slapped Miller across the face and shoved him into the cellar where Kelly waited by the table. Ryan entered, tearing at his face, ripping away the bandages and plaster of Paris. “Christ, am I glad to be rid of that stuff. It’s been hell. Sit him down.”

  He removed his raincoat and took out a cloth bundle and unwrapped it, revealing bolt cutters and a pair of pliers. He sat opposite Miller, such an ordinary-looking little man who was, in fact, a monster. There was still the sickly-sweet smell to him.

  Miller flinched in spite of himself, and Ryan said, “You like the way I smell? I didn’t. The wrong kind of perfume, but it was essential, you see, to smell that way That’s what I told the Paki doctor I used to prepare my file and the medical notes. Everything had to be right, and it even fooled the Mother Superior. The truly good are so easy.”

  “The doctor? You killed him?” Miller said.

  “Now, how would you be knowing that? You’re quite right. He ended up in a canning factory in South Armagh.”

  “Well, he would, wouldn’t he, after being stupid enough to trust a creature like you.”

  He leaned on the table on his left arm and eased down his right hand, trying to find the butt of the Colt. Ryan said cheerfully, “There’s the bolt cutter, they’re for fingers, then the pliers for fingernails. You can take your choice. Hold his arms, boys,” and Dolan and Flannery did, which was exactly the moment that Sharkey, having eased back the bolts on the other side of the door, hurled it open and came through, the Walther extended.

  He shot Dolan in the side of the head and Kelly in the throat, and as the hands slipped from him, Miller found the Colt, pulled it out of the ankle holster, and shot Ryan between the eyes, the hollow-point bullet penetrating the skull so that the back disintegrated and the force hurled Ryan backward in his chair. Flannery turned in a panic, making for the door, and Sharkey shot him twice in the back, then leaned over to Kelly, who was choking, and finished him off with a head shot. The silenced weapons had made only the usual muted sounds, but suddenly through the ceiling there was the sound of stamping feet and shouted commands.

  “Would you happen to know who that would be?” Sharkey demanded.

  “SAS retrieval squad. They might have expected to find me dead.”

  “Well, you’re not, and as I just saved your life, you owe me, so let’s get out of here.”

  He turned and went through the door, and Miller went after him and shot the bolts. They started through toward the crypt. “They’re bound to hit the priory—they knew I was there.”

  Sharkey turned, holding the lantern. “You can go that way if you want, and no hard feelings, but I’ve got my own exit.”

  He turned to the far corner, where it was dark and wet. There was an old Victorian manhole cover, and when he removed it, the smell was powerful and yet Miller made an instant decision.

  “I’m with you.”

  “Then down you go.”

  Miller descended a steel ladder and Sharkey followed, pulling the manhole cover over his head. Miller found the tunnel so small he had to crouch, but emerged on the bank of a large tunnel, a brown stream coursing through it.

  “The main sewer,” Sharkey told him. “Don’t worry, we’ll pass right through all the Protestant shit from the Shankhill and come up in the Ardoyne.”

  They emerged some time later behind a wall on a factory yard. It was still raining, and fog crouched at the end of the street.

  “Quite a show,” Miller said. “How did all that happen?”

  “It was dear little Bridget. She saw Ryan and Flannery lift you, heard everything.”

  “God bless her indeed. Where are we?”

  “The Ardoyne, all friends here.”

  “You mean your kind of friends?”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Oh, the sort of people who found Liam Ryan a bad advertisement for the Republican movement, and a chief of staff who called in a top enforcer to take care of things.”

  “And that would be me?”

  “Well, you’re no priest, that’s for sure, but you gave a good performance as one.”

  “Funny you should say that. I used to be an actor, then I gave it up for the theater of the street when the Troubles started.”

  “No chance of your name?”

  “Which one? It certainly isn’t Martin Sharkey, any more than yours is Mark Blunt. Who are you with?”

  “Intelligence Corps.”

  “I didn’t think you were SAS. Too clever by half. Turn round, walk straight down two hundred yards, and you’ll find the main road into the town center if you’re lucky. I’m away now. One piece of advice. Make sure you’re playing the game in future and it isn’t playing you.”

  He walked away, and so did Miller. After a while, he turned to look, but there was no sign of the man he’d known as Martin Sharkey, only the fog at the end of the street. It was as if he’d never been.

  London

  Washington

  6

  THE MEETING IN THE PRIME MINISTER’S STUDY AT DOWNING STREET WAS composed of Ferguson, Simon Carter, and Harry Miller. At the Prime Minister’s request, Ferguson had provided a breakdown of his department’s activities in the previous couple of months, and Carter and Miller had both been provided with copies.

  “I’m impressed with the way you and your people handled this Rashid affair,” said the Prime Minister. “The Hammer of God—such a theatrical title! But responsible for so many deaths. Excellent work, General.” He turned to Carter. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “The outcome of the whole affair was reasonably satisfactory,” said Carter, “although I still find it difficult to accept the actions of Dillon and the Salters.”

  “It would appear they got the job done,” the Prime Minister said mildly.

  “Of course, Prime Minister, but there are loose ends,” Carter told him.

  Oddly enough, it was Miller who spoke up. “I’ve read the report, and I think it quite excellent. What loose ends?”

  “The leader of this Army of God we discovered in London, Professor Drecq Khan—he could have been apprehended, but instead I understand the Salters allowed him to flee the country.”

  “General?” the Prime Minister asked.

  “Khan gave us important information that was crucial to the successful completion of the whole operation—and he’s no good to us in a prison cell. We know exactly where he is—in Beirut—and we have people watching him. I assure you, Prime Minister, we’ll know his next move before he does. He’s the gift that keeps on giving.”

  “And this man the Broker, the mystery man who gives him orders?” the Prime Minister said.

  Carter cut in. “You don’t seem to be any closer to discovering his identity.”

  “But we do know a lot more about his associates now.”

&nb
sp; Again, Miller cut in. “And we know that he deals at the very highest level of Russian intelligence—with General Ivan Volkov.”

  “Which is as close as one can get to President Putin,” the Prime Minister remarked. “No, I think it’s an excellent result, General. And I assume the two of you have now discussed liaising as appropriate?” He glanced at Miller.

  “Absolutely.”

  The Prime Minister turned to Carter. “All right, Simon?”

  “As always, you have my full support.”

  “Good.” The Prime Minister turned to Miller. “There’s a meeting at the United Nations tomorrow that I can’t go to. I’d like you to attend on my behalf, and President Cazalet would like you to call in and see him in Washington on the way back. My staff will give you the details.” He grinned. “Sorry if it disturbs your social life.”

  “No problem, Prime Minister.”

  They departed and went downstairs. As they went out of the door to Ferguson’s Daimler, Carter said softly, “Watch yourself with this man, Major, he could get you into trouble.”

  “Oh, I think I’m a big boy now,” Miller told him.

  Ferguson said, “Can I give you a lift, Simon?”

  “No, thank you, Charles, it would be a lift with the devil. I’ll walk.” He started down to the security gates.

  “Miserable sod, always was,” Ferguson said. “And all those years sitting behind a desk haven’t improved him. What about lunch? Are you up for it?”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Dillon and Roper were intending to take a break at the Dark Man. Let’s join them. It would give you a chance to get to know them better and meet the Salters, and for me to tell everybody what a hell of a job we did on the Rashid affair.”

  “Well, you did.” Miller followed him into the Daimler. “You have some remarkable people on your team.”

  They drove out of the security gates into Whitehall. Ferguson said, “Yes, well, you’ve done some pretty remarkable things yourself. Roper showed me your original report on your trip to Belfast in 1986.” He shook his head. “Dillon as a priest.” He chuckled. “Always the actor. I spoke to him late last night and he filled in even more.”