by Jack Higgins
Dillon was very pale, his eyes dark holes. “I’ll see you there. I’ll make my own way.”
He went to the bar, got another drink and came back. Blake Johnson said, “I’d join you, but I’ve got a plane standing by. As I said before, my instincts tell me that some of the answers to the Belov affair might be found at Drumore Place. I was thinking of dropping in at Belfast Airport on my way back, hiring a car and driving down there, an American tourist on the way through to Dublin. How does that sound?”
“Jesus,” Billy said. “Are you sure?”
Dillon said, “Your plane is official, booked out by the Embassy?”
“Of course.”
“Right. We took out Kelly and his boys, but that still is IRA country. I’d take a Walther PPK for your armpit and a Colt twenty-five with hollow-point cartridges in an ankle holster. If they find the Walther, there’s a chance they’ll miss the Colt.”
“That bad?”
“I’ve said. It’s IRA country. Kelly’s gone, someone comes in to fill the vacuum.”
“Shall I go with him?” Billy asked.
“Don’t be silly. You’d spoil his American tourist image. We’ve got things to do here anyway. I’m leaving. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Dillon turned and left, and Levin, glancing up, caught his eye. Levin went back to his newspaper. Dillon, on his way out, frowned. There was something there, but he was tired and his brain wasn’t functioning as well as normal. There was a terrible pressure on him, his one thought Hannah and what had happened to her. All the violence, everything he’d done for Ferguson, the killings, the mayhem, and she had been thrown into it and Dillon, as he walked to the Mini Cooper, was left with the inescapable feeling that it had somehow been his fault.
Behind, as the rest of the group stirred, Levin got up and left. He went back to his Mercedes, got in and phoned Ashimov.
“Have I got news for you.”
Ashimov was sitting after dinner beside the open fire in the Great Hall of Drumore Place with Greta and Liam Bell. “Tell me,” he said, and listened. After a while, he said, “Excellent. You stay on in London and keep a close eye on Dillon. Leave Blake Johnson to me.”
He switched off, turned to Bell and Greta and said, “We’re going to have an interesting visitor. One of President Jake Cazalet’s most trusted associates.”
“What’s he coming for?” Greta asked.
“To find out what’s happened here since Kelly and the rest of us faded from the scene.”
He told her what Levin had heard. “He’s good – damn good, but so is Blake Johnson. I’ll pull his photo out of the computer for you,” he told Bell. “A war hero in Vietnam, then the FBI, now the President’s most trusted security man.”
“We’ll give him a warm welcome,” Bell said.
Greta put in, “If he sniffs around and finds nothing, wouldn’t that be better?”
“Possibly.” But Ashimov’s eyes were glittering. “All right, we’ve seen off Bernstein, but what a coup to get Johnson. That would really hurt Cazalet, hurt all of them.” He turned to Bell. “We’ll make a decision when he turns up tomorrow.”
“I’m your man,” Bell said, and finished his drink.
IRELANDLONDON
5
For Blake, it started early the following morning. His first stop was the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square to call on the Ambassador, as a matter of protocol.
The Ambassador was all cordiality. “I appreciate we haven’t been able to do much for you this time, Blake. It’s a matter of security, I understand.”
“Absolutely,” Blake told him. “A matter under presidential warrant.”
“With you, that usually means dealings with Charles Ferguson. I notice your Gulfstream is using Farley Field, that small RAF base Ferguson uses for his special operations.”
“That’s right.”
“Enough said. My transport people tell me you have a stopover in Belfast.”
“A visit to make. I’ll only be on the ground a few hours.”
“Blake, we first knew each other in Saigon thirty-five years ago. I know what kind of visit you make.” He came round the desk and embraced Blake warmly. “God bless, my friend, and take care. My regards to the President.”
An Embassy Mercedes and a chauffeur took him from there to the chapel in a very short space of time. It stood on the edge of the cemetery and there were a number of limousines parked outside, drivers in uniform standing around. A large notice at the door said “Private Bereavement.” Blake went in and found a modest company assembled. Rabbi Bernstein was being helped by another rabbi who was wearing black ribbons and handing them out to people who were obviously family members up at the front, who pinned them to their clothes. The coffin was very plain, in accordance with Jewish custom, and closed.
Ferguson, the Salters and Roper stood at the back of the pews, Dillon slightly apart, though Billy Salter stood close to him. They both wore black suits and ties and crisp white shirts, and looked like the Devil’s henchmen. In a strange way it was as if they were brothers, faces bone white, skin stretching taut over cheekbones.
A eulogy was made. The other rabbi whispered to Bernstein, who made a hand motion. He said to the assembly, “My grief speaks for itself that my beloved granddaughter is taken too early. There is one person who knows her worth more than most.” Billy turned to look at Dillon, but Bernstein carried on, “Major General Charles Ferguson, for whom she worked, on secondment from Special Branch, for a number of years.”
Ferguson walked down the aisle and joined the two rabbis. “What can I say about this truly remarkable and gifted human being? A scholar of Oxford University who chose the life of a police officer, who placed her life at risk, who was wounded more than once, who rose to the rank of Detective Superintendent in Special Branch – these are extraordinary achievements.”
Dillon took a step back, Blake was aware of that. Ferguson turned to Bernstein and said, “Rabbi, excuse me if I preempt your role, but I must quote, with your permission, from Proverbs.”
“With my permission and my blessing,” Julian Bernstein told him.
In a strong voice, Ferguson said, “A woman of worth who can find; for her price is far above rubies.”
Dillon took a huge, choking breath, stepped even farther back, turned and went out, and Billy went after him.
Dillon was standing by the Mini Cooper. It had started to rain. He took a trench coat out and pulled it on. Billy waved to Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, who were standing by the People Traveller, and Hall produced a large black umbrella and hurried over, opening it. Dillon lit a cigarette, hands shaking.
Billy held the umbrella over him and said to Baxter, “Get the flask out.” Baxter did and Billy said, “Bushmills. Get it down.” Dillon stared at him vacantly. “She’d expect you to.”
Dillon swallowed. He paused, then had another swallow. He shook his head, face flushed. “Tell me, Billy, why does it always rain at funerals?”
“I’d say it’s because the script demands it. It’s life imitating art. You want another one?”
“Maybe just one.”
At that moment, Igor Levin arrived late. He parked and went forward to the entrance, glanced briefly at Dillon, then went on. There was something more, Dillon was aware of that, but his emotion was too great. He drank a little more Bushmills and returned the flask to Joe Baxter, and a moment later people emerged from the chapel.
There was a family plot, the open grave ready. People huddled round, a festoon of umbrellas against the rain. Dillon and Billy stood at the rear, Ferguson and company on the other side, Levin hidden amongst a group of friends, the umbrellas concealing everything.
As the coffin was lowered, the other rabbi put an arm around Julian Bernstein and said in a loud voice, “May she come to her place in peace.”
Dillon turned to Billy. “I’m out of it. The rest is for family. The Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, I’ve no business with it. I’m not sure if I was even a friend.”
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“Come off it, Dillon, she thought the world of you.”
“Not really, Billy. I brought her too much grief. I can’t get that out of my head. I dragged her into one lousy job after another.”
“No place she did not willingly go, Dillon.”
“So why do I feel so bloody guilty?” He got in the Mini Cooper. “I’ll be in touch, Billy.”
Blake Johnson hurried over and leaned down. “Sean, are you okay?”
“See you, Blake. Take care in bandit country.”
He drove away. Blake said, “What do you think?”
“A volcano waiting to explode.”
“I thought so. Anyway, I have to go now.”
“Take care in Ireland.”
“I will.”
Blake went to his limousine and was driven away. Levin, standing nearby, anonymous in the umbrellaed crowd, had heard the exchange between Blake and Billy. Now he returned to his Mercedes and phoned Ashimov, telling him of events at the funeral.
“So, he’s on his way?” Ashimov asked.
“So it seems.”
“Well, we’ve passed a computer printout of his photo to the lads. I think he’s assured of a warm welcome.”
“You’re in charge,” Levin said.
Actually, the smart thing, he thought, would be to allow Blake Johnson to nose around a little, accept his pose as an American tourist and then send him on his way. On the other hand, he’d already learned not to expect the smart thing from the IRA, and Ashimov was beginning to worry him. He was proving far too emotional. But then that wasn’t his business, he just took orders, and he drove away.
At Farley Field, Blake found his Gulfstream waiting, two American Air Force officers standing by in flying overalls. “Any problems?” Blake asked.
“None, sir. Good weather for Belfast.”
“Not raining?”
“Hell, it always rains in Belfast, sir.”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be, we’ll see. You must excuse me for a minute. I have to go see someone.”
By arrangement with Ferguson, he had an appointment in the operations room with the Quartermaster, an ex-Guards sergeant major. The man had the weaponry waiting as Dillon had suggested, a Walther in a shoulder holster and a.25 Colt, a snub nose with a silencer.
“Like you asked, sir, hollow point, and the ankle holster you ordered. Will you be all right with this lot in Belfast, sir?”
“Diplomatic immunity, Sergeant Major.”
“I was wondering about the shoulder holster, sir. Is that wise?”
“Yes. If things go that way with the people I’m dealing with, they’ll think they’ve disarmed me, only I’ll still have the ankle holster.”
“If your luck is good, sir.”
“Oh, it always is, Sergeant Major.”
He went out to the Gulfstream, where he found a stewardess, a young sergeant named Mary, who was there to cater to his needs onward to Washington. They took off and climbed to thirty thousand feet and she came and offered him refreshment.
All he had was a brandy and ginger ale. Funny, as he sipped it he remembered the British Navy Commander who’d introduced him to it in Saigon back in good old Vietnam all those years ago. Of course, the Brits weren’t supposed to be there, but their Navy, with Borneo experience, had offered considerable expertise for American swift boats in the Mekong Delta. To the Royal Navy, this drink had been called a Horse’s Neck since time immemorial, and Blake, especially when confronted with stress, loved that mixture of brandy, ice and ginger ale beyond most things. It was the kind of thing that made life worth living. He savored every drop and thought of the present situation, which inevitably brought him back to his dear friend Sean Dillon. So many things they’d accomplished together. In various ways, Dillon had been part of saving two American presidents from an untimely end, and in the affair with President Clinton and the Prime Minister, Major, he’d taken wounds that had come close to ending his life.
But he was still here. It was Hannah Bernstein who had gone, and Blake, surprised at his own emotion, waved to Mary and ordered another brandy and ginger ale. It was one too many, but this was Ireland after all.
So what awaited him in Ballykelly and Drumore? To his surprise he found that he didn’t really care. He’d survived Vietnam, the curse of most of his generation, and had medals to prove it. He’d survived the worst the FBI could offer, had taken a bullet to save his President’s life, had survived even worse things since.
“What can these IRA clowns do to me?” He finished his Horse’s Neck, opened his briefcase and took out a small miracle of modern technology that clipped low down behind the belt. A backup if his mobile phone went, which it well might.
“To hell with the IRA, time to move on,” he said. “What will be, will be.”
The Gulfstream descended, landed and taxied all the way round to the Special Affairs arrivals. Mary opened the door and he got up.
“Okay, son, let’s get it done,” he breathed.
It was what his old unit commander used to say in Vietnam. It was amazing how everything that ever touched you in your life stayed with you until the end.
“See you later, Mary,” he said, and went down the Airstairs door.
His Air Force pilots were right. It was raining as he drove out of the airport in a BMW. He’d already tasted the difference in the way people spoke. He’d certainly experienced an Irish accent on many occasions, but the Northern Irish one was totally different. He switched on his route-finder and punched in his destination. The details of where to go and how flowed through, and he followed them.
And what a wonderful and beautiful place it was, he thought, as he drove through the mountains and then crossed the border into the Irish Republic and followed the coast road into County Louth toward Drumore.
An hour and a half later, he came to Ballykelly, rain driving in, came to the development and airstrip with a huge sign saying “Belov International.” He paused by the main entrance, got out and looked. A man in a security uniform came out of the gate hut and walked across.
“Can I help you?”
Blake said, “No, I’m driving down to Dublin from Belfast. I was surprised to see Belov International. I didn’t know they were in Ireland. Back home in Texas, they’re huge. Is Drumore down the road?”
“It is, sir. Eight or ten minutes.”
Blake nodded and drove away. The security guard went back to his hut and phoned Liam Bell.
“The American’s just been here. He’s on his way to Drumore now.”
“Good man.” Bell switched off his mobile and turned to Ashimov and Greta as they stood outside Drumore Place. “He’s here. What do you want to do?”
Ashimov glanced at Greta. He was very worked up. “All right, let’s see how he behaves.”
Greta said, “Yuri, let him nose around and then go. There’s no you, no me, and Josef Belov is supposedly a couple of thousand miles away. He’ll find nothing and do no harm.”
“You don’t see it, Greta. This is one of our prime targets, the American President’s right-hand man.”
“If he dies here, it will send a message,” she said.
Ashimov appeared to struggle with himself. “All right.” He turned to Bell. “We’ll just go and observe him. Greta and I will stay out of the way, see what happens. But if he says or does anything suspicious – take care of it.”
“Good man yourself,” Bell said. “Leave it to me.”
Blake came down in the BMW and there was Drumore Place up on the hill and the village below, the small port, no more than half a dozen fishing boats, perhaps thirty cottages and houses, the pub, the Royal George, and a fine view out to sea and a strong coastline. Blake took the car down, went through the main street and ended up in the car park in front of the Royal George.
He got out of his BMW and went toward the low wall and looked down at the harbor. Behind, up on the hillside in the copse, Ashimov and Greta were watching. He passed her the glasses.
“It�
�s him.” She looked and Bell came forward. “So, what do you want?”
“Let’s see what he does.”
Below, Blake went toward the Royal George. There was a strangeness to the village, he’d noticed that, a lack of people, which said a great deal. He opened the door and went in.
Patrick Ryan was behind the bar, and over by the window, two of Bell’s men, Casey and Magee, sat at a window table enjoying Irish stew. Blake went to the bar and Ryan said, “And what can I do for you, sir?”
“I’m passing through on my way to Dublin.” Blake accentuated his American accent. “Lovely harbor. Thought I could have some lunch.”
“Indeed you can, sir.”
Blake turned and glanced at Casey and Magee. “Maybe I’ll have what those guys are having, and a beer to go with it.”
Ryan gave him that, returned from the kitchen and said, “It’s on its way, sir.”
Blake said, “You know, I’m from Texas and one of our biggest firms is Belov International. I was amazed, when I passed through Ballykelly, up the road, to see they have a branch there.”
A girl came through with his stew and put it on a nearby table. Blake sat down and Ryan said, “A grand man, Mr. Belov. Done wonders for the community, the village.”
Blake said brightly, “Oh, he comes here, does he?”
“Owns the big house, Drumore Place. We see him now and then, but he goes around the world, if you see what I mean. Was here recently, but I believe he’s in Russia at the moment.”
Blake was already working his way through the Irish stew. He was aware of the two men by the window, lighting up cigarettes, sitting there, staring at him. It occurred to him that he could be in trouble here. He wolfed down the stew, finished his beer and went to the bar.
“What do I owe you?”
Ryan said, “Have it on the house, sir. We don’t get many tourists this time of the year. You’re our first.”
