Midnight Runner (2002)

by Jack - Sd 10 Higgins

  He heard a sudden rush of feet behind him and, as he turned, Newton shouldered him, sending him staggering. He fell to one knee and Cook kicked him in the chest. Quinn rolled over and managed to get to his feet as Cook ran in again. It all came back, the tricks of the trade, and he blocked Cook's punches, wrestled and threw him over his hip. Newton moved in from behind and slid an arm around his neck. Quinn dropped to his knees and turned over, tossing Newton over his head.

  And then they were on their feet, both of them facing him. "Right, mate," Cook said. "This is where you get done."

  And then there was a shot, the sound flat on the damp air, and Dillon arrived, Walther in hand. "I don't think so." He moved close. "Who put you up to this? Dauncey?"

  "Get stuffed," Cook said.

  Dillon kicked him between the legs, sending him down, turned to Newton, grabbed him by the front of his tracksuit, and held the Walther against his left ear.

  "You have two choices. Number one, I blow your ear off. Number two, you tell me who sent you."

  Newton panicked. "Okay, okay, it was Dauncey."

  "There, wasn't that easy? I'd see to your friend if I were you, then report in and tell him Dillon was here." He chuckled. "Though I wouldn't want to be in your shoes when he finds out you've blown it." He nodded to Quinn. "Let's get out of here," and they jogged away.

  A t about the same time Newton and Cook were reporting the sad news to Dauncey, Quinn and Dillon confronted Ferguson at Cavendish Place. Hannah had just arrived in response to a call from Ferguson and was in time to hear what had taken place, both at the Priory and in the park.

  Dillon finished his story and smiled. "So we know where we are. War to the knife."

  "That's as may be," Ferguson told him, "but we still can't prove a thing. Dauncey will deny any relationship to those men."

  "I couldn't care less," Quinn said. "This isn't about the law, Charles. It's about what we know and what we do about it."

  "The President has spoken to me, you know." Ferguson shrugged. "You're on your own in this."

  "No, he's not. He's got me," Dillon said.

  "Then you no longer work for me," Ferguson told him calmly. "I'd think it over."

  "I have." Dillon turned to Quinn. "Let's go, Senator."

  Afterwards, Hannah said, "Are you sure about this, sir?"

  "Only that Dillon will go to work with his usual ruthlessness."

  "And that suits you?"

  He smiled at her. "Admirably."

  13

  L ATER IN THE DAY, DAUNCEY LUNCHED WITH KATE RASHID and told her with annoyance about the events of that morning.

  She shook her head. "What is this, the third time, Rupert? Either Quinn has a charmed life or we're seriously going to have to reexamine our way of doing business." She gave him a pointed look, but then she smiled. "But right now, I really don't care. Quinn was just the sideshow. The main event is about to begin."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I've heard from Barry Keenan. Colum McGee has arranged a meet."

  "Where?"

  "Drumcree, in three days' time. We'll go over Thursday afternoon, stay at the Europa, and drive down to Drumcree Friday morning. If things go well, we should be able to fly back from Aldergrove that evening."

  "And is that when you're finally going to tell me what you're up to?"

  "Absolutely, darling."

  At the same time, Dillon and Quinn were ringing the bell at Regency Square. The door clicked open, and they found Roper at work as usual.

  "I was just going to get in touch with you," he told Dillon. "Rashid and Dauncey are flying to Thursday afternoon. They're staying at the Europa and coming back Friday evening."

  "You think this is important?" Quinn asked Dillon.

  "I don't know. It could just be business, but the last time I was in Ireland with Kate Rashid, she was hiring the IRA. We'll fly out before her and see where she goes. Maybe I'll even show you the delights of City."

  "Now that you've finished, could I get a word in?" Roper said.

  "About what?"

  "It so happens I know where she's going. I know I'm a simple soul, but it seemed logical to me that they would have some company cars, and I found it in their database: a chauffeur, name of Hennesy, and his Volvo. He'll be driving them around."

  "You clever bastard."

  "No, I'm a brilliant bastard. I remember about your involvement with Rashid and Aidan Bell and the IRA last year...and that the name Drumcree figured largely."

  "Jesus," Dillon said. "Don't tell me..."

  "Oh, but I am telling you. Hennesy picks her and Dauncey up at the Europa at nine-thirty Friday morning and proceeds to the Royal George at Drumcree. That's a strange name for a pub in the IRA heartland."

  "Well, I'm from County Down myself, and people have a sense of history where I come from. It's always been called that. Anything else?"

  "Of course. As you'll recall, Drumcree was originally Aidan Bell's patch, before you killed him and his two henchmen, Tony Brosnan and Jack O'Hara."

  "To be accurate, I killed Aidan and Jack. It was Billy Salter who shot Brosnan."

  "I stand corrected. Anyway, I thought I'd access both the RUC and Army Intelligence at Lisburn, just to check on the Drumcree situation at the moment."

  Quinn, who had stood by in silence, said, "You can do that?"

  "I can do anything," Roper said, and smiled. "Even the White House."

  "Never mind that," Dillon said. "Drumcree?"

  "Oh, yes. Well, according to Lisburn, a chap called Barry Keenan runs things there now. Do you know him?"

  "A long time ago. Aidan Bell's nephew."

  "He has two minders, named Sean Casey and Frank Kelly. But they're not with the Provos anymore, they're Real IRA."

  "Barry was always tops in the explosives business. Big with the bombs." Dillon nodded. "She's at it again."

  "But at what, exactly?" Quinn asked.

  "I'd say she's hiring Keenan to do what he does best--blow something up. Only not just any old thing, otherwise why go to the trouble of hiring the man considered by many the finest bombmaker in the IRA?"

  "How do we find out the target?" Quinn asked.

  "If she followed the pattern from last time, she'll meet Keenan in the snug at the Royal George. It's a kind of back parlor. She isn't about to speak to him in the bar," Dillon said to Roper. "A listening device, preferably with a recorder. We'd need to stick it somewhere in the snug."

  "Will we have time to plant it?"

  "They should be there by eleven, certainly not any earlier. If we leave at seven-thirty, we'll be there at nine. They do breakfast at the pub, an Irish fry-up. One of us can dump the recorder in the snug." He turned to Roper. "But can you supply the right article?"

  "Nothing run-of-the-mill would do. They might talk a long time. As it happens, I've got just the thing. It'll give you two hours." He held up a small gadget, silver in appearance and no bigger than the palm of his hand.

  "From when?" Dillon asked.

  "From when you turn it on." He produced a black plastic box with a scarlet button. "Remote control. Just press the button when you see her go in the pub."

  "That should do it?"

  "As long as we can recover the recorder afterwards," Quinn said.

  "We travel hopefully on that one," Dillon told him.

  He took the recorder and the remote control and slipped them into one of his pockets. Roper said, "There's just one thing, Dillon. Your face isn't exactly foreign to the IRA, and certainly in Drumcree, where you've been before."

  "True, but the British Army knew my face, too, and couldn't lay a hand on me in thirty years." He turned to Daniel Quinn. "I did a bit of theater work before I answered the call of the glorious cause." He laughed. "I once walked down the Falls Road dressed as a bag lady, and no one suspected. I can fix myself up."

  "Taking the Gulfstream?" Roper asked.

  "No, I'll fly myself on this one."

  Roper looked at him questioningly.
r />   "I'll explain later, old son. Let's go, Daniel."

  Back in the Mercedes, Dillon said, "There's an aero club at Brancaster out in Kent. They have a nice Beechcraft there."

  "Will we have any problems?"

  "No. I still have top security clearance."

  "Even though Ferguson has disowned you?"

  "Don't worry about Ferguson. He's playing silly buggers. Noninvolvement simply means deniability for him. He still wants the results."

  "You're sure of that?"

  "Absolutely. Now let's go book that Beechcraft."

  T here was no problem with the plane except that the available slot was after lunch the following day, later than Dillon had wanted. They had something to eat in a roadside cafe on the way back, and Luke took him to Stable Mews.

  Dillon went into the kitchen, poured a Bushmills, and sat at the table. Everything was in motion now, he could feel it. He didn't know exactly what Rashid was up to, but the time for waiting was over, and that felt good. Only one thing bothered him. After all, Ireland was Ireland. If things got out of hand, would Quinn be able to do what was necessary? Could he pull the trigger without question? He'd handled himself well so far, but killing a man was different from beating up a couple of thugs.

  Dillon sighed. He needed somebody to protect his back and that meant only one person.

  He drove to Park Place, and when Quinn answered the door, he said, "I've got to see some friends of mine. Come on, it'll complete your education."

  They drove down to Wapping and parked outside the Dark Man. Dora was behind the bar, polishing glasses. There was no sign of Harry or Billy.

  "They're down on the boat," she said.

  Dillon led the way along the wharf and it started to rain a little. "Amongst other enterprises, Harry has a few riverboats. He's had one of the smaller ones, the Lynda Jones, refurbished. It's his pride and joy. Wait till you see."

  There was a desolate air to the river at this point, which was strangely attractive: some decaying boats, two half-sunken barges. The Lynda Jones was at the end and reached by a gangway. Baxter and Hall were varnishing on the prow, Harry and Billy sat at a table under the stern awning, reading: Harry, a newspaper and Billy, a book.

  "Philosophy, Billy?"

  They both looked up and Harry said, "Well, look what the cat dragged in."

  "Harry, Billy, I'd like you to meet a friend, Senator Daniel Quinn."

  Harry frowned, then got up and held out his hand. "We know all about you, Senator, sit down." He turned to Dillon. "I assume this isn't a social visit, Dillon. What's up?"

  "In a minute, Harry. First--Billy, why don't you show me that new paneling you've put in the saloon?"

  They left Harry and Quinn at the table, and Billy led the way in. Dillon closed the door and Billy turned. "What is it?"

  "Kate Rashid's going to, and I'm following her. Quinn's coming with me because he's hell-bent on some sort of revenge for what happened to his daughter. But here's the thing. He was a great war hero in Vietnam, but that was a long time ago. A lot of people over there know me, Billy. I need someone to watch my back."

  "Well, you've got him. I'm bored here, anyway. It's always a laugh a minute with you, Dillon, isn't it? Let's go and break the news to Harry."

  When they told him, Harry's reaction was quick. "Maybe I should come, too."

  "No need," Dillon said. "With luck, we'll be in and out of Drumcree in an hour or two."

  "And hopefully find out what that bitch intends," Harry said.

  "It must be something special," Dillon agreed.

  "But if she sees you, the game's up, Dillon. Come to think of it, she's met the Senator, too."

  "And Billy. So he and Quinn will just have to make sure she doesn't see them. It's different for me. Watch."

  He went into the saloon and closed the door. When it opened again, he shuffled out, head slightly to one side, his left arm stiff, shoulder down. The face seemed twisted, the entire body language had changed.

  Harry recoiled in his chair. "Unbelievable."

  Dillon straightened and said dryly, "Yes, I was a great loss to the theater. There's one thing you both should know, however. For various reasons, this trip isn't sanctioned by Ferguson. I'm doing it on my own, so whatever you do, you'll be doing it for me, Billy."

  "So how will you get tooled up? You won't be able to take arms through to," Harry said.

  "I still have my contacts over there, Harry. A phone call will do it."

  "Well, bring this little bugger back in one piece. It grieves me to say it, Dillon, but since we met you, he's developed a taste for this sort of caper."

  And Billy Salter, a London gangster, four times in prison, a man who had killed in his time, a lover of moral philosophy, smiled coldly.

  "Well, you know what Heidegger said: 'For authentic living, what is necessary is the resolute confrontation of death.'"

  "You must be cracked," Harry said.

  "Let's just say I have a better chance of finding what is necessary in than at the Flamingo Club in Wapping on a Saturday night."

  T wenty-four hours later, Harry delivered Billy to the Brancaster Aero Club, Joe Baxter at the wheel of the Jaguar. Billy was wearing a black leather bomber jacket and Joe Baxter carried his bag. Billy leaned on the rail, looking at the planes.

  "I wonder which is ours?"

  A small man was leaning on the rail nearby. He had a bag at his feet and was also wearing a bomber jacket and a cloth cap, from which black hair escaped. His glasses were tinted and he had a dark moustache.

  He said in a faultless upper-class English accent, "That's yours over there, old chap. Beechcraft. Smashing plane. The red-and-cream job."

  "Looks good to me," Harry said.

  "Well I'm happy you're happy." Dillon turned to greet Daniel Quinn. "Morning, Senator. If you're ready, we'll get out of here."

  Harry said, "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself."

  Dillon picked up his bag. "Right, gentlemen, let's get going," and he went through the gate in the fence and led the way to the Beechcraft.

  The flight to Aldergrove airport outside was smooth and uneventful. They went through customs and security and Dillon led the way to the long-term parking lot.

  "Shogun four-door, dark green," he told the other two and gave them the number. "Somewhere on the fourth floor."

  It was Billy who discovered it. Dillon reached under the rear and found a magnetized key box, with which he opened the rear door. He lifted the trap inside, where tools and odds and ends were kept. There was a tin box, and when Dillon opened it, it proved to contain three Walther PPKs, each with a Carswell silencer and spare magazine. There was also a field medical kit with Royal Army Medical Corp on the lid.

  He took one Walther and said to the others, "Help yourselves."

  Billy hefted his in his hand. "Feels good, eh, Senator?"

  Quinn gazed down at his Walther. "Strange, Billy, it feels strange."

  "Where are we staying?" Billy asked as they drove away.

  "Well, not the Europa. There's a nice enough hotel just up the road from it, the Townley. If you like, I'll show you around a little. But remember, Senator, at all times you're a bluff, honest Yankee tourist, right? As for you, Billy, if we're going down the Falls Road, keep your mouth shut. They don't like the English much."

  "You know it well?" Quinn asked.

  "Particularly the sewers. I used to play hide-and-seek in there with British paratroopers more years ago than I care to remember."

  "And that's a bleeding showstopper if I ever heard one," Billy said.

  L ater, Dillon was driving along the Falls Road. They'd eaten at a small restaurant in a side street, visited a couple of bars, and then he'd taken the other two on the grand tour.

  "So this is the famous Falls Road. Hell, it looks so normal, just another city street," Quinn said.

  "Well, this one's run with blood in its time," Dillon said. "Plenty of pitched battles between the Provos and the British
troops." He was quiet for a moment. "It was a hard way to live."

  "So why did you?" Quinn said. "Why did you do it?"

  Dillon lit a cigarette, one-handed, and didn't reply. Billy said, "Leave it, Senator."

  "But why?"

  Billy leaned toward him. "Say you're an actor in London. You get a phone call to say your father's dead, caught in the crossfire of a firefight between Brit Paras and the IRA. What do you do? You come home and bury him, then you join the glorious cause. It's the kind of thing you do at nineteen."

  There was silence, then Quinn said, "I'm sorry," but before things could go any further, Dillon's Codex rang.

  "Who is it?"

  "Ferguson. Roper told me you went to, which I assume you meant him to do. Where are you?"

  "The Falls Road."

  "Just the place for you. Anyway, the minute you know what she's up to, let me know."

  "Why, Charles, I thought I was on my own now. I thought I no longer worked for you. Isn't that what you said?"

  "Don't be coy, Dillon, you know exactly what's going on."

  "Well, what if I don't want to work for you anymore?"

  "Don't be stupid, either. Where else would you go?" And Ferguson put his phone down.

  "Who was that?" Billy inquired. "Ferguson?"

  "Welcoming me back into the fold."

  "Unctuous bastard."

  "Why, Billy, you've been reading another book. We'll drop in at a real Irish bar I know on the way back to celebrate, and then an early night."

  D rumcree was typical of the villages on the Down coast. A small harbor, gray stone houses, fishing boats--that was about it. They pulled up outside the Royal George, an eighteenth-century inn, nicely refurbished, the sign a portrait of King George the Third, obviously recently repainted.

  "I'm starving." Dillon got out and they followed him. He said over his shoulder to Quinn, "Don't forget, you're the Yank abroad."

  A bell tinkled as they went in. Three young men, one in a reefer coat, two in anoraks, were sitting in the windowseat eating sizable breakfasts. There was no one behind the bar.

  Dillon assumed his version of a Southern accent and said genially, "Hey, what you boys are eating looks real good. How's a man get service round here?"