by Jack Higgins
“Giles Roper gave me a going-away present. An electronic key the people we’re involved with have produced, although Scotland Yard will be unhappy about its potential. If necessary, we’ll give it a try, because he might be enjoying an early supper. If so, we’ll gain access and wait for him.”
—
WHICH, IN THE END, was what happened on the Quai des Brumes. They found a barge that was a twin to Holley’s, the deck lights on but only the dimmest light showing at the stateroom windows. They went down a roped gangplank, and Dillon, a gun in one hand, knocked on the door several times without a response.
“I’ll try the magic key,” Holley said, but he prepared for somebody calling “Who’s there” from the bedroom.
The door opened with ease, and he moved in, Colt in hand, Dillon and Hannah backing him, weapons ready. There was no response, no one at home in what appeared to be a very comfortable interior—paneled stateroom, plush sofas, many books on the shelves, an extremely advanced television and computer-linked phone system.
A further check disclosed two bedrooms, each with a shower, and a reasonable kitchen. The stern was open to the deck but had a canopy stretched tightly over it, a roof against the rain, and a curtain obscured the entrance from the stateroom.
Holley took down a book to examine, and said, “This has got his photo on the back, the distinguished look.”
“Well, it would,” Hannah said. “His achievements as a scholar speak for themselves.”
She had been crouched at a porthole by the entrance, and now added, “But you can discuss that with him yourself. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s approaching now. Walking stick, cap, and a naval duffel coat against the rain.”
Dillon rushed to her side to check, looking over her shoulder. “She’s right, Daniel.”
Holley, who had been pulling the curtain across, opening it to the stern, moved to one side of Hannah, drawing his pistol again, and Dillon went to the other.
A key rattled, the door opened, and the Master stepped inside, immediately discovering Hannah. There was a certain shock but then an instant smile as the door swung back and closed behind him.
“Why, Hannah, it’s you. Plus the great Sean Dillon and the formidable Daniel Holley, the pride of the Provisional IRA. Am I to take it this is a hunting party?”
“The best idea you’ve had yet. Weber sends his regards. He must be a disappointment for you.”
He held Hannah’s look for a moment, then tossed his cap onto the sofa, followed by his stick, suddenly angry. “What nonsense; you’ve been searching all over my home seeking God knows what. Disturbing everything. What the hell were you doing in the stern? The doors left open and those beautiful curtains all over the place.”
He strode across, reached up to pull them back, and turned, a Walther PPK in his hand. Hannah, who had been waiting for such a move, holding the Colt against her thigh, shot him between the eyes, sending him staggering back through the open door and over the stern rail.
She went out to look, and Dillon and Holley followed. “I felt he must have something up his sleeve, he argued too much, and the second he reached up, I thought he must probably be groping for a weapon.”
“Good job you used your silenced Colt. That way, we get going and leave the River Seine to carry him away. The current is more than strong enough here,” Holley said. “We’ll walk a reasonable distance before taking a cab. We’ve got the umbrellas. Are you okay?”
“More tired than I’ve ever been in spite of having spent twenty hours in bed. It’s not that I’m sorry I killed him. He was a monster, but enough is enough, I think. It’s definitely time for Highfield Court, Sadie’s wonderful food, and that marvelous piano of mine.”
“Well, hang in there,” Dillon said. “Because we’ve got a Falcon jet waiting at Charles de Gaulle that can’t wait to fly you back to all that.”
—
AN HOUR LATER, Holley was sitting alone in the cockpit of the Falcon for the relatively short flight to Farley Field with light rain and winds only, and he was tired and looking forward to his bed at Holland Park. Dillon came in and took the other seat.
“How is she?” Holley asked.
“Asleep,” Dillon said. “Her face is as calm and contented as any marble saint in her village church.”
“Do you think Roper knew what he was doing when he allowed her to come with us?”
“Of course he did. Her hatred of the Master was so real that he knew he’d get the right result if she was involved.”
“And will he want to use her again?”
“He’d be a fool not to, but then he knows he’ll have a couple of old-fashioned Provos like you and me to keep an eye on her.”
“It sounds good to me,” Holley said.
“As long as you remember one thing where Hannah is concerned,” Dillon told him. “It’s an old saying, but true: The female of the species is deadlier than the male.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Since The Eagle Has Landed—one of the biggest-selling thrillers of all time—every novel Jack Higgins has written, including his most recent works, A Devil Is Waiting, The Death Trade, and Rain on the Dead, has become an international bestseller. He has had simultaneous number-one bestsellers in hardcover and paperback, and many of his books have been made into successful movies, including The Eagle Has Landed, To Catch a King, On Dangerous Ground, Eye of the Storm, and Thunder Point.
Higgins, who lived in Belfast until he was twelve, had several close calls with bombs and gunfire at an early age. After leaving school at fifteen, he served three years with the Royal Horse Guards in Eastern Europe during the cold war. Subsequently, he was a circus roustabout, a factory worker, a truck driver, and a laborer, before entering college at age twenty-seven. He has degrees in sociology, social psychology, and economics from the University of London, and a doctorate in media from Leeds Metropolitan University.
A fellow of the Royal Society of Arts, and an expert scuba diver and marksman, Higgins lives on Jersey in the Channel Islands.
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