The Midnight Bell

by Jack Higgins

  “My respects to him, my dear. He’s well, I trust?”

  “Dead,” Hannah told her. “A UVF hit man finished him off.”

  It was amazing how Molly’s face hardened. “May he rot in hell. But never mind—come away in and meet the boys. They’ve known Sean all their lives.”

  She led the way, they followed, and Hannah was enraptured. The furniture, the carpeting, the pictures on the walls, it was serious art by any standard. An archway gave way to a conservatory crammed with tropical plants, small palm trees at the back, the two Magee brothers in elegant black suits seated at each end of a glass table, dark hair and tanned faces, with the look of highwaymen from some romantic tale about them.

  Molly advanced, smiling, Dillon following. “Cheer up, darlings, for haven’t I got Sean Dillon with his cousin, Hannah Flynn. She’s at college here in London, although I don’t know what’s she studying.”

  Hannah, who had held back, now showed them, with a touch of bravado, for there was a Bechstein grand piano beside the archway, the lid open. She remained standing, leaned down, and played one-handed the opening bars of a rather dashing Italian sonatina she was fond of.

  Larry Magee pushed himself up in an instant, leaning on his walking stick, then came forward and held out his hand. “I don’t know where Sean’s been keeping you, but that was a wonderful intro.”

  “Do you play yourself?”

  “I did my poor best to please my mother but never got far and nowhere near your standard.”

  “You wouldn’t, and her studying at the Royal College of Music,” Dillon told him.

  “Well, I’m pleased to hear it and hope to see a lot of you. I’m Larry Magee and the facsimile at the other end of the table is my twin brother, Tad, a fearsome creature with a bad reputation.” Magee smiled and gave her his hand.

  “I’d tell you where to go, brother, but there’s a lady in the room,” Tad said. “Please join us, Hannah. I see you’re walking wounded, like Larry. With Sean involved, that smells like the Troubles to me.”

  “Car bomb,” she said. “Took my parents and left me with the stick.”

  “Are you from County Down, like Sean here and my own family?”

  “No, I have a horse farm at Drumgoole in the Republic. Inherited, of course, and my aunt Meg is running it while I’m at college.”

  “And what will you do when the concert halls start calling?” Dillon inquired.

  “I don’t think that’s likely.”

  “Well, as a man who has played good barroom piano all my life, I’d say it’s pretty certain.”

  Molly, who had slipped out, returned now with coffee, which she poured out for everyone. “Is there anything else, Tad?”

  “I don’t think so. Get yourself ready. We’re due at the church in an hour and a half.”

  She retired, and Dillon said, “Kilburn?”

  Tad nodded. “Mary and Joseph in Flood Street. It was her church for all those years, good and bad, so it seemed fitting. The present priest is a nice boy, but I’ve got old Father Sharkey to agree to take the service. Eighty-five, but he’s up for it. The organist’s in hospital and there’s no choir available, which is unfortunate.”

  “I can manage the organ,” Hannah said. “I’ve been playing the one in my parish church in Drumgoole since I was fourteen. I can’t help with the choir. Was there any special piece of music your mother liked to hear?”

  It was Larry who answered. “‘Danny Boy.’ She used to sing it around the house when we were boys.”

  “I remember it well,” Dillon said.

  “Then ‘Danny Boy’ is what you get.” Hannah turned to Dillon. “We’d better be off. We need to change into something suitable.”

  “We’ll go to my place,” Dillon said. “There’s a boutique around the corner that can find something for you.”

  Tad moved out ahead and went upstairs; Larry escorted them to the front door and opened it. “Our lawyers have made it clear to us that my father will be charged with only the minimal offense of drunk driving. That means he walks free.”

  Dillon said, “It stinks, but there’s nothing to be done about it.”

  “I could have him taken care of.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” Hannah grabbed him by the lapels and shook him. “I imagine Special Branch at Scotland Yard will already be waiting to see if anything happens to him. Your mother wouldn’t like it, but they’d love catching a Magee at last.”

  Dillon said, “Finbar’s not worth putting yourself in harm’s way over, Larry.”

  “I know, but he’s never been able to get his head around the mystery of what happened to the Maria Blanco. Convinced you had something to do with it.”

  “So how could I be in two places at once?” Dillon asked. “But never mind that. We’ve got a funeral to go to.”

  He took Hannah down to the Mini, and they scrambled in. She said, “What was that all about?”

  “It’s between me and my God, cousin,” Dillon said, and drove away.

  —

  THE RAIN HAD STARTED at the house just as Tad, Larry, and Molly were about to be picked up by their limousine. A quick check indicated that there were sufficient umbrellas and waterproofs on board, so they moved on.

  “You’d think the Almighty could do better than this,” Tad grumbled. “The grave could flood.”

  “Your mother would have said don’t be blasphemous,” Molly told him.

  “I can’t help it, Tad. Let’s get inside and do right by her,” Larry said, and they got out quickly, pushing into the shelter of handheld umbrellas, making for the church door held open for them and moving in to find Dillon waiting. There was a good turnout, older people from another time who had known Eileen Magee well and remembered her kindly.

  It was incredibly peaceful. Mary and the Christ Child in the chapel just inside the door, and as Hannah moved into that great hymn, “Abide with Me,” the undertakers started up the aisle to present the coffin to Starkey, Molly and the brothers keeping to the left, the bearded man who was Finbar Magee pacing them on the right.

  Everyone sat as Starkey started the service. There was a hush as he extolled Eileen’s virtues and gave the blessing and the prayers for the dead, and then a wonderful thing happened. The organ started up, playing “Danny Boy,” and Hannah’s voice rose with it, and not one person moved until her music died away.

  Molly was crying and so were others as people made their way out. It was still raining, and the undertaker whispered to Tad, “A bit of water in the grave, sir. We’ll take care of your mother tonight back at the Chapel of Rest and see what tomorrow brings.”

  Hannah had closed up the organ and came across. “Best I could do.”

  “And bloody marvelous,” Larry said. “Wasn’t she, Tad?”

  “You really are quite a girl, Hannah.” Tad put an arm around her and kissed her cheek. “We’re very grateful, and please tell Molly to stop crying.”

  A voice echoed from the right, and they turned to see Finbar standing by the confessional boxes. “And what about me, your father? I came to face the shame of it, didn’t I, or doesn’t that count?”

  “You devious bastard, I don’t believe you,” Tad replied. “You’re lucky I allow you to leave this place still walking. Never show your face here again.”

  Larry added, “Get back to Ulster while you still can. That’s sound advice. You’re not wanted here and never will be.”

  “Then damn the lot of you and go to hell,” his father replied, pushing his way through the thickening crowd and disappearing.

  Larry turned to Dillon and Hannah. “Is there any chance we could have supper together?”

  “Another time,” Dillon said. “But my masters call, and like a good boy, I obey. Sorry I can’t explain.”

  “Seriously? We’re not supposed to know you’ve been working for British Inte
lligence for years now?”

  “Okay, but we’ve got a real crisis facing us, believe me. We’ll see you when we can, but for the moment, it’s all hands to the pumps.”

  “Which includes me,” Hannah called, as she followed Dillon to the Mini, jumped in, and they drove away.

  “I like that girl,” Larry said.

  “So do I.” Tad nodded. “A very special lady.” He sighed. “Let’s get out of here.” And he led the way to where Molly waited in the limousine.

  —

  DILLON TURNED INTO PARK LANE, driving toward Marble Arch, and Hannah said, “When you were speaking at Holland Park about the Magees at Drumore, you said that the Maria Blanco was a big old launch tied up to the jetty and used by Cousin Eli to fish from. I get the feeling there’s more to it than that. Why don’t you tell me what all the fuss is about?”

  “God help me, girl, why are women so persistent? You won’t leave me alone until I do, will you?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then shut up and listen. I was called to Belfast and told by the Army Council that I was needed in Algeria by the Gaddafi training camp to help with new recruits for the IRA. I’d trained there myself, and so had my good friend after me, Daniel Holley, who you’ve not had a chance to meet.”

  “Is he a Provo?”

  “Oh, yes, but of a special kind. A Protestant.”

  “Sweet Jesus.” She was shocked. “And what kind of a Provo would a damn Prod be?”

  “The kind whose sweet young Catholic cousin was raped and murdered by UVF scum, so he executed the four who had done it. There was nowhere for him to go except to join the IRA after that.”

  “Mother of God,” she said.

  “But enough of his background. He works for Ferguson like the rest of us do, so you’ll be meeting him one of these days. He’s partner in a shipping line out of Algiers. He’s half Irish, and his mother is a decent Catholic woman from Crossmaglen, but never mind that. Do you want the rest of the Maria Blanco story?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Hugh Tulley got word from an informer that one of the Belfast banks was sending twenty-five million pounds in gold bullion to Dublin concealed in a meat wagon that would be passing his way. A common enough trick in those days to avoid holdups.”

  “So he decided to have a go?” Hannah said.

  “You could say that. A brisk gunfight on a country road with night falling that left three policemen in plainclothes dead, Tulley wounded, and two of their own dead. The alarm was raised all over County Down, and the RUC swung into action.”

  “So what happened next?”

  “Tulley thought of Eli, on his own at Drumore, Finbar being in the Maze, and the answer to his problem seemed obvious. Get to Drumore as fast as possible, transfer the bullion to the Maria Blanco, and take to the seas.”

  “And did that work?” she asked.

  “With difficulty, because of people’s wounds, but they made Eli, a man of enormous strength, help them. They intended to sail away, but it became obvious that Tulley and one of the other men were close to death and they were all bleeding.”

  “What did you do?” Hannah asked.

  “Well, you have to remember that the RUC did not know where they were, so if they took Eli’s Land Rover, there was hope for them at the cottage hospital nearby, where the nuns were kind.”

  “And come back for the bullion later?” Hannah asked. “That seems a thin chance to me. What about Eli? What was he up to?”

  “Not much. They found some old-fashioned shackles in the boathouse hanging on a peg with two keys, which they were careful to take with them when they left him chained.”

  “And Tulley’s boys?”

  “The first roadblock was enough, and they held their hands up.”

  “And Eli?”

  “The police found him, still shackled. He said he heard the boat’s engines and managed to peer through a crack in the wall planking and glimpsed a shadow in the wheelhouse as the Maria Blanco moved out to sea.”

  “And Tulley and company?”

  “He was crippled. They were in the Maze together with Finbar when the legend of the Maria Blanco and its cargo was born.” Dillon shrugged. “The RUC looked at every possibility, turned the criminal underworld in Ulster inside out, but never got a hint, and that’s the way it is to this day.”

  “I bet it is. So what happened to Eli?”

  “Well, as he’d been a victim, life went on, Finbar serving his time in the Maze for another year, obsessed with the knowledge of what had happened. I think it was the fact of it all having taken place in Drumore and, because of that, having it somehow slip through his fingers that got to him.”

  Hannah nodded. “I can see that.” She was frowning. “Sean, I hope you don’t mind my saying that you seem incredibly knowledgeable about the whole business. Did you by chance have anything to do with it?”

  “Thank God I didn’t,” he said cheerfully. “Booked out of Belfast on the afternoon plane to London Heathrow, which I left the following morning on the ten-thirty flight to Algiers.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me?” she said.

  “Of course not. You can’t be in two places at the same time. So let’s leave the mystery of the Maria Blanco to continue to torment Finbar.”

  “That’s all very well, cousin,” she replied. “But I think it will continue to torment a lot of people, including me. Twenty-five million in bullion, how much will that be now?”

  “I wouldn’t think about that; it will ruin the rest of your day.”

  Dillon laughed and turned into the safe house at Holland Park to find Ferguson’s Daimler parked there, and as he and Hannah got out of the Mini, Ferguson, Cazalet, and Blake emerged from the main entrance.

  Ferguson said, “Everything go all right at the funeral?”

  “Not really,” Dillon said. “The father turned up, drunk as usual, and distinctly not wanted.”

  “Always bad news, Finbar,” Ferguson said. “But we’ve been having a further development here. The Master’s on the phone again. Roper will fill you in. Henry Frankel’s returned to Downing Street, and we’re off to join him and the Prime Minister.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Dillon asked.

  “Yes, actually. Since you’re an old IRA hand, the Prime Minister may value your opinion on al-Qaeda and ISIS and the possibility of them hitting the streets of London. If you can spare us the time, that is?”

  Dillon, at his most Irish, said, “God save you, General, for giving me the opportunity to serve.”

  “Get in, damn you,” Ferguson ordered, which Dillon did.

  Ferguson turned, a smile on his face. “Impossible man, but what can one do? You’d better go and report to Major Roper, Hannah.”

  He climbed in beside Doyle, the Daimler moved away, and Hannah turned and went in.

  —

  ROPER, SMOKING A CIGARETTE, a glass of whiskey in his hand, leaned back in his wheelchair, Sara sitting beside him enjoying a coffee.

  “Where’s Dillon?” he asked.

  “The general decided he should accompany them to Downing Street and that Sean might be useful because of his IRA experience.”

  “Well, Dillon could certainly write the book on that.”

  Hannah jumped to Dillon’s defense. “He had reason enough. His father died in a firefight in Belfast, so he was fighting a just cause.”

  “So was I, defusing bombs all over Belfast, the kind that murdered your parents and crippled you.”

  “I thought he was your friend.” Hannah was angry, face flushed.

  “But he is,” Roper said. “Also an enigma. Fought the revolution worldwide, found it just as easy to work for the Israelis as he did the PLO. Learned Arabic when the IRA sent him to one of the Gaddafi training camps and discovered he had a gift for languages, and now
he speaks several.”

  She looked bewildered. “I didn’t know all of that.”

  “And you probably don’t know this,” Roper said. “His attempt to blow up the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet almost succeeded. That was during the Gulf War.”

  Hannah took a deep breath. “Damn him, he even plays the best barroom piano I ever heard.”

  “A lively lad.”

  They were on their way in to lunch, but they got no farther than the door when an alert call sounded. “Hang on,” Roper said. “Ferguson wants a word.”

  Ferguson’s face came on the screen from his office on the third floor of the ministry. Hannah could see paneled walls, a picture or two, and a mahogany desk that somehow suited Ferguson’s personality. Henry Frankel and Dillon sat on either side of him.

  Frankel said, “Just to let you know that President Cazalet has made it clear he intends to honor his speaking commitment, so we’ll need to keep the security high. He’s at Downing Street now with Blake Johnson, and I’ll be joining them soon.”

  Sara said, “I imagine the White House will be annoyed that he’s not returning to the States.”

  “Perhaps,” Ferguson told her. “But these are troubled times, and good friends need to stand together.”

  “So what do we need to do? It’s like we’re going to war.”

  Dillon cut in. “Someone once said that in war all a soldier knows is his own small part of the front. Al-Qaeda may be all over the world, but this is our part of the front. We’ve disposed of two Masters already, and now we have a third. Our battle is to give him what we gave them.”

  “Well said, Sean,” Ferguson said.

  “There you go,” Dillon said. “Calling me Sean again.”

  “On your way, you rogue,” Ferguson told him. “And don’t forget to check underneath your car for bombs.”

  “As if I would,” Dillon said, and the screen faded to black.

  —

  “ANY QUESTIONS?” Roper asked Sara, but it was Hannah who replied.

  “If we’re going to war, who exactly are we going to war with?”

  “You’ve got your studies,” Sara told her. “Nobody’s suggesting you should get involved in this.”