Rough Justice

by Higgins, Jack

  “Well, I don’t know what they’d say at the National, but Hollywood would love you.”

  He pulled on a pair of thin black gloves and picked up the bag. “That’s it, then. Let’s go.”

  Her arms were around his neck in a moment. “You really are a bloody madman, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  She reached up and kissed him for a moment. “If you don’t come back, I’ll never forgive you. Now let’s go.” She opened the door and led the way out.

  THEY WERE ALL in the wheelhouse when Monica led Dillon in. Billy said, “Even Harry would be impressed.”

  “Just right, Sean,” Ferguson told him. “And on time. Lots of rain and nicely misty. Collyban over to starboard, but can’t see it. Mountains of Mourne running down to the sea, or whatever the damn song says. I’m going to move in closer because, in spite of the weather, by the wonders of modern technology, the navigating screen gives a perfect picture. We’re easing in beside the point now, and there’s the disused workings in the cliff face and the stone jetty. I think we can ease in alongside, so no need to use the tender. Helen, you know the ropes, so take Billy with you. A few minutes only, mind you.”

  Helen was already on her way, Billy behind her. A moment later, she was in the prow, a line in one hand and a folded umbrella in the other, ready to jump, and Billy was amidships. The jetty loomed out of the mist, great granite stones from another age. Helen already had bulky yellow fenders over the side, Billy the same, and then they touched close and both of them were across with their lines.

  “God bless,” Monica called, but Dillon was out and making his way down to the deck.

  He brushed past Helen, who said, “Take care.” She handed him the umbrella.

  Billy called, “Look after yourself.”

  They were back on board a moment later, and the Avenger moved away, increased power, faded into the rain. The only company he had were disturbed seagulls circling above him, calling angrily.

  “Oh, get stuffed, why don’t you?” Dillon called, raised the umbrella, and moved along the jetty to the track curving up toward the clifftops.

  Drumore Place

  14

  FLYNN’S GARAGE, AS THE SIGN SAID, WAS ON THE EDGE OF COLLYBAN, HAD been home to Mickeen Oge these forty years, and the ancient pumps that stood in front of it bore witness to that fact. The garage doors were down, giving the place a rather desolate look, and the cottage that went with it and stood slightly up the hill behind looked a couple of hundred years old and had a small barn with the door open, two goats standing patiently looking out at the rain.

  Mickeen Oge was in the office inside the garage, a small gnarled man of seventy-eight in a very old tweed suit, long gray hair falling almost to his collar. He was impatient and considerably excited, had drink taken and decided to have another, sloshing Irish whiskey into a glass. He went to the window, peering out as he drank it, and swore at the sight of the priest with an umbrella turning in to the forecourt.

  He opened the Judas gate in the main door and stepped out. “I’m closed, Father, you’ll have to go to Malone’s down by the church.”

  Dillon passed and stood for a moment looking at him, umbrella in one hand, carpetbag in the other, and the strange tint of the glasses under the velour hat.

  “You’re not closed, you ould bastard, just stupid to be standing out here in the rain. It’s enough to give a man of your years pneumonia.”

  Mickeen was astonished. “Sean, is that you?”

  “No, it’s Father Martin Sharkey, so get in with you.”

  The old man turned, stepped inside the Judas gate, and Dillon followed.

  THERE WAS THE USUAL garage smell, oil and petrol, and vehicles of one kind or another parked here and there. The office was an untidy clutter. Dillon sat on a chair by the desk and Mickeen took one on the other side, found a second glass, and poured for him.

  “May you die in Ireland.”

  “An excellent sentiment, and I very well might in the next few hours.”

  “That bad?” Mickeen shook his head. “I mind well in the old days, twenty years or more ago, when you played Father Sharkey, it was always the hard time. You mentioned Drumore and those there who needed seeing to?”

  “Remember Michael Quinn?”

  “The one who was Chief of Staff in his day?”

  “He runs security for Belov International, from Drumore Place in Louth.”

  “Not much more than forty-five miles from here over the border. Look, Sean, is the Provisional IRA in this?”

  “Those days are gone, Mickeen. Having said that, Quinn tried to have me and friends killed in London last year and failed. He also supplied an ex-Provo to knock off a friend of mine in London a few days ago.”

  “And did he succeed?”

  “The job turned sour, and my friend’s wife was killed by mistake.”

  “Jesus, Sean.”

  “So Quinn must pay for that, and the man who ordered Quinn, he must pay, and it’s never-ending. Didn’t we find that in the Troubles?”

  “We surely did.”

  Dillon reached for the whiskey and poured another. “I know, I shouldn’t, as I’m driving, but this is Ireland, and whoever heard of a policeman stopping a priest in his car to check if he’d been drinking?”

  “I’ll remember that and start wearing a priest’s collar myself.” Mickeen drank it down. “To business.”

  “Always that.” Dillon put the carpetbag on the table, produced the manila envelope, and took out the wad of notes. “One thousand pounds, ould son, in crisp fifties. Don’t spend it all at once.”

  “Sure, and what would I spend it on? I was joking, Sean, this is family, after all. It’d be a blot on my soul to take a penny, so don’t argue with me.”

  Dillon gave him a brief hug, put the money back in the envelope, and returned it to the carpetbag. “You sentimental old bastard.”

  “Exactly,” Mickeen Oge said. “So now for your car.”

  He led the way into the garage, pressed a button, and the door opened, creaking away, disclosing the pumps. He turned and walked to one of the cars and slapped it on the roof. It had recently been cleaned and was black as night.

  “What is it?” Dillon asked.

  “A Ford Anglia.”

  “Did you find it on the Ark or what?”

  “Don’t ask. Old but trustworthy. An excellent drive, Sean, my word on it, and it suits your disguise as a simple man of God. The tank’s full.”

  Dillon put his carpetbag on the backseat and embraced Mickeen. “It’s been good to see you. At the end of the day, family’s everything, as you said.”

  “Are you trying to make me cry? Go on, fug off.”

  Dillon got behind the wheel and switched on the engine. He leaned out of the window. “Sounds perfect.”

  “And didn’t I tell you? Away with you, and God help Michael Quinn.”

  “So you still have faith in Father Sharkey?”

  “In Sean Dillon, you idiot. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have sold you the car. Now, bugger off and do what must be done.”

  THE FALCON, well out of Russian air space, was climbing up over north Germany and leveling out at forty thousand feet. Volkov sat alone in the rear cabin and looked through the archway to the forward cabin, where he could see Makeev and Grigorin sitting on either side of the aisle. The cockpit door opened and the senior pilot, Captain Sono, emerged and came down the aisle.

  “A great pleasure to be flying you again, General. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yes, try and remember the name is Ivan Petrovsky, I thought I’d made that clear. No mention of me at all in any conversation you have with Control.”

  “I understand perfectly. Your orders in the matter have been strictly adhered to, and so it will continue. It’s just that when dealing with you personally . . .” Here, he hesitated. “It’s difficult when I know who you are.”

  Volkov was human enough to be rather pleased. “Nice to discover at my age th
at I’m such a great man.” He smiled. “Go on, go away and fly the plane.”

  “Any further orders, sir?”

  “Make sure there’s a limousine waiting for us. No driver is needed. Tell Captain Makeev and Grigorin to join me.”

  They came at once, hard, intelligent young men with considerable battle experience. “General,” Makeev, the senior one, said. “How can we serve you?”

  “By getting out the vodka you’ll find in the icebox behind me and filling three glasses.” Makeev smiled and Grigorin did as ordered. Volkov raised his glass. “To President Putin, to the Motherland.” He emptied his glass at one swallow, and so did they. “Once more.” He pushed his glass forward. “And then we talk.”

  HE TOLD THEM EVERYTHING, including about Miller in Kosovo and Beirut, and the activities of Ferguson, Dillon, and the Salters. He was quite open about the Russian connection and the various failures of the London Mafia because of the Salters, and acknowledged his own connection with Al Qaeda through the Broker and his dealings with the IRA over many years. When he was ended, of course, he flattered them totally.

  “Everything I’ve mentioned is known to our President, a man already making the Russian Federation great in the eyes of the world again.”

  “And succeeding, Comrade General,” Grigorin said, eyes blazing.

  “I’m glad you called me that,” Volkov told him. “That we are all comrades together just like the old days is as it should be—and our mission is ordered by the President himself.” He reached for the bottle and filled the glasses again himself. “I welcome your comments.”

  “Well, Al Qaeda and the whole Muslim thing can rot in hell. We both served in Afghanistan and Chechnya,” Makeev reminded him.

  Grigorin said, “So General Ferguson and these gangster people he employs have made monkeys of the Moscow Mafia in London. These oligarchs and the people who work for them disgrace the name of all Russians.”

  “They’re rubbish,” Makeev said. “So the Salter people don’t particularly impress me, and neither do these Provisional IRA people.”

  “Not even the man Sean Dillon?” Volkov asked.

  The two men looked at each other inquiringly, and Makeev shrugged. “Not particularly.”

  “So if I assigned each of you to the Embassy in London, you would be willing to serve?”

  “In what capacity, General?” Makeev asked.

  “I’m sure we could find something suitable to your talents, but that lies in the future. Now we must consider the situation which lies before us, the question of Michael Quinn.”

  “And what exactly would the General like us to do in the matter?” Grigorin asked.

  “Kill him. Of course he has bodyguards, old IRA hands who could prove a problem.”

  Makeev turned to Grigorin and they both smiled. He turned back to Volkov. “Oh, we’ve handled bodyguards before, Comrade General.”

  “Excellent,” Volkov said. “Our arrival will be something of a surprise, a pleasant one, I hope. No need to alarm him. I always think the smiler with the knife is the sensible way. Now go and eat, I’ve got work to do.”

  “Of course.” Makeev nodded to Grigorin and they returned to their cabin.

  Volkov opened his briefcase, took out a file, and started to go through it.

  DILLON HAD PASSED through Warrenpoint, the scene of one of the worst disasters suffered by the British Army at the hands of the IRA in the entire history of the Troubles. He crossed the border into County Louth in the Irish Republic north of Dundalk with no trouble or hindrance, pausing for a few moments, remembering the old days at the crossings, the police, the soldiers. It was as if it had never been. Sitting there in the Ford at the side of a windswept road, he felt a sense of desolation, wondering what it had all been about.

  He got out of the Ford, lit a cigarette, and stood there smoking it, thinking back, but that was stupid and he remembered a fine writer who had made an obvious point. The past was a distant country and people did things differently there. He took out his Codex and called Roper. “Just checking in.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Well on the way. I came round Warrenpoint by Carlingford Loch and I’ve just crossed the border. Rotten weather and very depressing.”

  “You’ll pass through Dundalk next?”

  “That’s it. Any news from the Avenger?”

  “Not at the moment. Everything went well with Mickeen?”

  “Perfect. He turned sentimental on me and refused the thousand pounds, but got me a twenty-year-old black Ford Anglia in first-class mechanical condition. I think you’d make money out of it in London. Can you tell me anything about the Falcon flight?”

  “Yes, I’m hacked into the Dublin control system. It’s still got an arrival time of three o’clock.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “One thing. Bad March weather isn’t the only problem in that part of the world. It gets dark pretty early. I suppose what I mean is it gets damn gloomy.”

  “I’ll bear it in mind.” Dillon got back in the Ford and followed the road down to Dundalk.

  ON BOARD THE AVENGER, Ferguson had the wheel, Monica and Helen standing in the rain on the flybridge, each wearing the yellow oilskins stamped with Avenger on the back. They’d also discovered a couple of naval-style peaked caps and wore one each.

  Ferguson had already punched in Drumore as his destination, and now full details of the small harbor appeared on the screen. There were only five fishing boats lying off a stone jetty, and the area indicated for visitors at anchorage was a hundred yards out. There was nothing there. Two or three inflatables were pulled up on the small beach area at the bottom of the harbor pilings, but not much else.

  “Not exactly the thrill of your life,” Monica said.

  “When I was last here, it was all action by night,” Helen said. “Way beyond the village is the big house, Drumore Place, on the hill. There are only about thirty cottages, and over there where you see a low stone wall, that’s a car park in front of the pub, the Royal George.”

  “But I thought they were all Republicans hereabouts, so why call a pub after an English king?”

  “It’s a very old pub, and only the Irish could explain it to you.”

  Ferguson’s voice came over the speaker beside the flybridge wheel. “This is the designated area for visitors, so I’m anchoring here, ladies.”

  He pressed a button on the wheelhouse control box and the anchor dropped automatically. He turned to Billy. “I’ll call Roper.”

  Which he did, and the reply was instant. “Where are you?”

  “Just anchored at Drumore. The weather is as you forecast—terrible.”

  “Well, I had heard it rained a lot in Ireland. Just two o’clock. You’ve done well.”

  “This is an incredible boat. Two great-looking ladies in yellow oilskins and navy caps up on the flybridge, but I doubt whether anyone would be looking. What about Dillon?”

  “Everything went perfectly, and his uncle furnished him with a rather old Ford Anglia.”

  “I didn’t know they still did them.”

  “I said old, didn’t I? The Falcon’s still on course for an arrival time of three.”

  “I wonder if I should call him—Dillon I mean.”

  “I’d leave it. You never know where he could be. He’ll call you when it suits.”

  HELEN AND MONICA stayed on the flybridge for a little longer. A man with an umbrella and a dog on a lead walked along the jetty and paused, obviously admiring the boat, then turned and went away. A couple of men emerged from a wheelhouse on a fishing boat and stared across, then retreated out of the rain.

  “We’re not having much of an impact,” Monica said. “Let’s go down and have a word with Charles.”

  In fact, Patrick Ryan, the publican up at the Royal George, had been more than interested. His mother, Mary, who was cook at Drumore Place, was sitting in the lounge bar enjoying a drink with Hamilton, the butler from the house. Sitting at a table by the window were th
ree of Quinn’s security men, all wearing navy blue reefer jackets and jeans like a uniform. Nolan, Tone, and Logan were their names and they were eating Irish stew. Ryan had got a digital camera, a pair of Zeiss glasses from behind the bar, went to the large front door, and opened it. He took a couple of photos, then focused the Zeiss glasses on the two women.

  “My God, a couple of crackers there,” he said.

  Nolan, a hard brute of a man with tangled hair and unshaven chin, got up, came across, and grabbed the glasses. “Let’s have a look.” He focused them and whistled. “Look what we’ve got here, boys. I wouldn’t mind one of those.”

  He was joined by Logan and passed the glasses to him. “Jesus,” Logan said, “I could go for either of them.”

  “Or both,” Nolan said, and at that point, Helen and Monica went below and found Ferguson and Billy enjoying a coffee in the kitchen.

  “I was wondering,” Monica said. “We don’t appear to be attracting a great deal of notice. What if Helen and I went ashore and descended on the pub?”

  “I’d consider that most unwise.”

  “What if I went with them?” Billy said.

  “I wouldn’t imagine a crew member would do that.” Monica shook her head. “He’d take you in on the tender, that’s what crew members do.”

  Billy laughed. “I can see the logic, and it gets the message across to the natives. I’ll take them and wait for them like an obedient deckhand.”

  “Half an hour,” Ferguson said. “That’s all, so get on with it.”

  ON THE FALCON fast approaching its destination, Volkov was approached by Captain Sono. “I’m sorry to bother you, General, but may I inquire how long you intend to stay in Drumore? It wasn’t made clear.”

  “Two days, three at the most. Why?”

  “There is a certain irregularity in the port engine. Don’t be alarmed. We can land safely, but I wouldn’t want to try to fly back to Moscow without a proper check, and we can’t do that at our destination.”