Frank Barry smiled and opened his mouth to make some last bon mot, I suppose, but the words were never uttered. The air was full of a strange metallic chattering, bullets shredding his jacket, blood spurting from a dozen places, sending him staggering side-ways in a mad, drunken dance of death, to fall head first over the balustrade and disappear from view.
Binnie Gallagher lurched down the steps, clutching the Sten, and started across the gravel drive towards the Land-Rover. Norah sat there staring at him, frozen, waiting for the axe to descend.
He paused a yard or two away, stood there swaying, then suddenly said contemptuously, 'Oh, get to hell out of that, why don't you? You're not worth spitting on.'
It took a moment for it to sink in and then she switched on the engine quickly and drove away, turning into the corkscrew road that led down to the inlet.
Binnie dropped the Sten and moved past me, grabbing at the balustrade to keep himself from falling. 'A hell of a view, I'll give the bastard that much.'
As he started to fall, I ran to catch him and we went down together. His sweater was soaked in blood, the face very pale. He said, 'It was fun while it lasted, Major. Sure and the two of us could wrap the whole British Army up between us in six months. Isn't that the fact?'
I nodded. 'It is surely.'
He smiled for the last time. 'Up the Republic, Simon Vaughan,' he cried, and then he died.
The Brigadier said, 'I'm sorry about this. You liked him, didn't you?'
'You could say that.'
He coughed awkwardly. 'What about the girl?'
'She isn't going anywhere. I immobilized the engine, just in case. There are only a few bars of gold on board anyway. It's going to take a Navy diver to get the rest. I'll show them where.'
He coughed again as if to clear his throat. 'It's beginning to look as if we owe you rather a lot. If there's anything I can do ...'
'I'll tell you one thing you are going to do,' I said. 'You're going to pull the right kind of strings in the Republic so that you and I take this boy here back to Stradballa, which, in case you don't know it, is the village in Kerry where my mother was born.'
'I see,' he said. 'I suppose it could be arranged.'
'Oh, you'll arrange it all right,' I told him, 'or I'll know the reason why. Just like you'll arrange for him to be buried next to my sainted uncle, Michael Fitzgerald. And we'll have a stone. The finest marble you can buy.'
'And what will it say on it?'
'Binnie Gallagher, Soldier of the Irish Republican Army. He died for Ireland.' I looked down at Binnie. 'He'd like that.'
I turned away and lit a cigarette. The sky was dark and grey, swollen with rain. It seemed set for the day.
I said, 'Do you think we've accomplished anything? Really and truly?'
'We've won a little more time, that's all. In the end that's what soldiers are for. The rest is up to the politicians.'
'God help us all, then.'
There was a slight pause and he said, 'Vaughan, I've got a confession to make. The night you were arrested in Greece running those guns. I'm afraid I arranged the whole thing.'
'That's all right,' I said. 'I decided that was a distinct possibility within ten minutes of meeting you. Anyway, it got me out, didn't it?'
Or had it? I stood there at the balustrade, staring out into the grey morning and down below at the jetty, hidden by the overhang in the cliffs, the Kathleen's engine burst into life.
Ferguson moved beside me quickly, 'My God, she's getting away. I thought you said you immobilized the engine.'
The Kathleen appeared in the inlet far below, heading out to sea. I saw the bow wave as Norah Murphy increased speed. A moment later, the whole vessel seemed to split apart, orange flame spurting outwards as the fuel tanks went up. What was left went down like a stone.
'Fire from heaven,' I said. 'I warned her, but she wouldn't listen.'
'Oh my God,' whispered the Brigadier.
I gazed down at the dark waters, searching for some sign of Norah Murphy, the merest hint that she had existed, and found none. Then I turned and walked away through the rain.
A Biography of Jack Higgins
Jack Higgins is the pseudonym of Harry Patterson (b. 1929), the New York Times bestselling author of more than seventy thrillers, including The Eagle Has Landed and The Wolf at the Door. His books have sold more than 250 million copies worldwide.
Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, Patterson grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland. As a child, Patterson was a voracious reader and later credited his passion for reading with fueling his creative drive to be an author. His upbringing in Belfast also exposed him to the political and religious violence that characterized the city at the time. At seven years old, Patterson was caught in gunfire while riding a tram, and later was in a Belfast movie theater when it was bombed. Though he escaped from both attacks unharmed, the turmoil in Northern Ireland would later become a significant influence in his books, many of which prominently feature the Irish Republican Army. After attending grammar school and college in Leeds, England, Patterson joined the British Army and served two years in the Household Cavalry, from 1947 to 1949, stationed along the East German border. He was considered an expert sharpshooter.
Following his military service, Patterson earned a degree in sociology from the London School of Economics, which led to teaching jobs at two English colleges. In 1959, while teaching at James Graham College, Patterson began writing novels, including some under the alias James Graham. As his popularity grew, Patterson left teaching to write full time. With the 1975 publication of the international blockbuster The Eagle Has Landed, which was later made into a movie of the same name starring Michael Caine, Patterson became a regular fixture on bestseller lists. His books draw heavily from history and include prominent figures--such as John Dillinger--and often center around significant events from such conflicts as World War II, the Korean War, and the Cuban Missile Crisis.
Patterson lives in Jersey, in the Channel Islands.
Patterson as an infant with his mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. He moved to Northern Ireland with his family as a child, staying there until he was twelve years old.
Patterson with his parents. He left school at age fifteen, finding his place instead in the British military.
A candid photo of Patterson during his military years. While enlisted in the army, he was known for his higher-than-average military IQ. Many of Patterson's books would later incorporate elements of the military experience.
Patterson's first payment as an author, a check for PS67. Though he wanted to frame the check rather than cash it, he was persuaded otherwise by his wife. The bank returned the check after payment, writing that, "It will make a prettier picture, bearing the rubber stampings."
Patterson in La Capannina, his favorite restaurant in Jersey, where he often went to write. His passion for writing started at a young age, and he spent much time in libraries as a child.
Patterson visiting a rehearsal for Walking Wounded, a play he wrote that was performed by local actors in Jersey.
Patterson with his children.
Patterson in a graveyard in Jersey. Patterson has often looked to graveyards for inspiration and ideas for his books.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental
.
copyright (c) 1972 by Jack Higgins
ISBN: 978-1-4532-0041-4
This edition published in 2010 by Open Road Integrated Media
180 Varick Street
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
Cover design by Liz Connor
the Savage Day (1972) Page 18
