by Jack Higgins
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?"
The three stopped talking amongst themselves, and one of them, a hard-faced youth with cropped red hair, looked Dillon and his friends over with a certain contempt.
"Tourists, are you?"
"That's right," Dillon said, and indicated Quinn. "My friend's grandpappy was born in. Emigrated to the good old US of A years ago."
"Well, that must have been nice for him," Red Hair said. "Ring the bell on the bar."
Which Dillon did, and a moment later, the publican came out, one Patrick Murphy, who Dillon remembered well from his last visit. He didn't recognize Dillon for a moment but was obviously surprised to see them.
"Can I help?"
"You can indeed. A large Bushmills whiskey, a pint of Guinness, and an orange juice."
One of the three men, the one who sported a fringe beard, burst into laughter. "Have you ever heard the like? Orange juice."
Dillon put a restraining hand on Billy's arm and ignored them as Murphy got the drinks and said, "Will there be anything else?"
"Yes," Dillon told him. "We'll have some breakfast. Where's the men's room?"
"Just along the corridor."
Dillon knew very well where it was, next to the snug, but, of course, he wasn't supposed to. He brought the drinks to the table.
"I need the toilet," he announced. "Anyone else?"
"I'm fine," Quinn said.
Dillon went along the corridor, paused outside the men's room, aware of sounds from the kitchen, then opened the snug door and moved in. There was a fire on the open hearth, chairs arranged beside it, a coffee table in between, a smell of polish and a general tidiness that argued that Murphy had made a special effort. A row of books stood on the window ledge beside the fire. Dillon placed the recorder behind them, turned, and went out.
The breakfast was excellent and Dillon kept up the performance. "Hey, this is damn good."
"It sure is," Quinn told him. "A hell of a good idea dropping in here."
Murphy appeared with a large pot of tea, milk, and three cups. Dillon said, "Fantastic. Is there anything round here worth looking at? That old castle up on the hill, for instance?"
"There's not much there," Murphy said. "However, Drumcree House is half a mile up the road. That's National Trust, it's open from ten o'clock. It's worth a look, if that kind of thing takes your fancy."
"Thanks for the tip. Say, do you do lunch, my friend?"
"Yes."
"Well, we'll do the tourist bit and be back."
The three men at the window whispered together again, then got up. The one with the beard paid Murphy at the bar and followed the others out.
Quinn said, "Not exactly friendly."
"They wouldn't be. All strangers are under suspicion in areas like this. That's why it's essential to keep the American touch. I'll pay the bill, and let's go and act like tourists."
They explored the village, what there was of it, and paused at the Shogun, where Dillon found a pair of binoculars. They went to the end of the jetty and took turns checking the fishing boats out at sea, then they climbed up the hill to the castle. It wasn't much except for the view, and then the Volvo they were waiting for came down the road below, entered the village, and pulled up at the pub.
"And here they are, right on time," Dillon said, as Hennesy got out and opened the door for Kate Rashid, and Rupert moved round to join her.
"Now what?" Billy asked.
"Hang on. There's no sign of Keenan yet." But almost immediately an old Ford wooden-framed station wagon appeared from a back lane and pulled up behind the Volvo. Dillon focused the binoculars. "There you go: Barry Keenan, Sean Casey, Frank Kelly."
They watched the three men enter the pub, and Billy said, "So, what do we do?"
"They'll be a while, too long for us to hang around watching. We'll go up the road for an hour or so and take a look at Drumcree House. We'll come back later."
B arry Keenan had the look of a scholar more than anything else--of medium height and wearing a tweed suit, his black hair peppered with gray--and yet he was a man who had been responsible for many deaths. Casey and Kelly were typical IRA foot soldiers, straight off a building site or a farm.
Kate and Rupert had already been shown through to the snug by Murphy, and the three men joined them. Outside, Dillon and his friends were walking toward the Shogun. He operated the remote control and a tiny red light came on.
"We're in business." He smiled and opened the driver's side of the Shogun. "Let's go."
A pleasure to meet you," Keenan told her. "What do I call you?"
"Countess will do."
"The Countess it is, and your friend?"
"My cousin, Rupert Dauncey."
"Right, Countess, let's get started. What do you want from me?"
"What did Colum tell you?"
"He said you needed a bomb expert and that Hazar was the destination. That was all he knew, except that it would be a big payday."
"He's right there." She pushed the briefcase she'd brought with her across the coffee table. "A hundred thousand pounds, evidence of my good faith."
Keenan opened it, revealing the stashed banknotes. "Jesus," Sean Casey whispered. Keenan showed no emotion and closed the briefcase.
"That's an advance against one million pounds," she said.
Kelly and Casey looked at each other with wide eyes. Keenan said, "And what would you expect me to do for money like that?"
"Blow up a bridge for me."
"In Hazar?"
"No, the Empty Quarter. That's north of it. It's disputed territory, so even if you should get caught, you couldn't even be tried in a court of law. It makes some activities...easier."
"I know all about the place," Keenan said. "I know you and your brother hired my uncle, Aidan Bell, to blow some people up last year, but it got all cocked up, and the three men he brought with him all died. I even know who killed them: Sean Dillon and that old bastard Ferguson."
Kelly said, "A damn traitor, Sean, and him working for the Brits."
"Tell me, I used to hear from Aidan for a while, but then he stopped. Do you know how he is?"
"What he is, Mr. Keenan, is dead. Dillon shot him."
"But we'd have heard," Kelly said.
"No, Ferguson has a disposal team. Cremation off the record. His outfit does it all the time."
Keenan stayed calm, and yet the skin seemed to have stretched over his cheeks and the eyes were dark. "Have you any more good news for me?"
"About Dillon?" She nodded. "He killed my three brothers as well."
There was a long silence. "Will he be involved in this business?"
"Not that I know of. Does that make a difference?"
He shook his head. "I'll settle with him later, after I've sorted this bridge. Tell me about it."
She opened the briefcase and removed a file from a flap inside the lid. "It's all there. Photos of the bridge, specifications, everything."
"I'll look later. Just tell me."
"The bridge at Bacu spans a five-hundred-foot gorge and is four hundred yards wide. It was constructed during the Second World War for military purposes and was never needed. It carries a single railway track. The rolling stock is Indian, and it's very old-fashioned. It still uses steam."
"Anything else?"
"Oil pipes run along it as well, from fields in Southern Arabia all the way to the coast. The pipes are controlled by my company. That was part of the original leasing agreements with both American and Russian interests. Quite simply, they are my pipes. If that bridge is blown and the pipes go with it, the international oil market will be thrown into chaos. They represent one-third of the world's supply. I've had engineering reports from experts that tell me that it would take two years to replace the Bacu."
"And why would you want to blow up your own pipelines?"
"I told you: I want to cre
ate chaos. Understand this, Mr. Keenan. I have more money now than I could ever possibly need. What I do not have is my mother and my three brothers. I hold Dillon responsible for that, and Ferguson, and some others, but most especially I hold responsible the President of the United States. I will have my revenge on him, if not by killing him outright, then by throwing America into the worst economic depression it has known in several decades. Cazalet's presidency will be ruined, history will record him as a failure--and that, for a man like Cazalet, is something worse than death. Yes, this will do nicely, I think. Will you do it?"
Keenan whistled. "Remind me never to get you mad at me. Yes, I'll do it."
Kelly said, "Are you sure, Barry? It could be a hard one."
"So when have we been afraid of hard ones? What are we, a bunch of old women like the Provos, making peace?"
"I want fast action here. Can you be at Dublin Airport at nine o'clock tomorrow morning? I'll have a plane pick your men up and fly you straight to Hazar."
"By God, woman, you move fast."
"That's the way I prefer to work. I've also just got word that a train is leaving our freight yard at Al Mukalli in the Oman to go north into the Empty Quarter by way of the Bacu Bridge. It's carrying forty tons of high explosives meant for use in exploratory work in the American fields."
"Jesus," Keenan said. "A hell of a bang that would make, especially if the train happened to be on the bridge at the time and helped by a touch of Semtex. When does the train leave?"
"Three days from now, the seventh. You'll have two clear days in Hazar Town to get ready, and my helicopter can take you down to Al Mukalli to join the train. It leaves at four o'clock in the morning. You'll have four hours before you reach the Bacu, plenty of time to do what you have to. There'll only be the driver and fireman up front, and a guard at the rear. When you're finished at the Bacu, I'll pick you up in the helicopter."
"Suits me. I'll read the file and make a list of what we'll need." He turned to his men. "Dublin Airport in the morning, then."
She and Keenan got up. "We're flying back from Aldergrove this afternoon, then we'll refuel and carry straight on to Hazar. We'll be waiting for you when you arrive. You'll find my coded mobile number in that file."
"It's been a sincere sensation, Countess. I'll see you off."
Outside, he and his men watched the Volvo drive away. Casey said, "What a body on that woman. I'd love to give her one."
"You know your trouble, Sean?" Keenan said. "You don't know a great lady when you see one," and he kicked him in the right shin. "Now let's talk about this job."
14
B OTH VEHICLES HAD GONE WHEN DILLON AND THE OTHER two got back to the pub. "In we go," he said. "And we'll have a drink at least."
Four old men were sitting in the corner drinking Guinness and laughing together. The red-haired young man who'd been having breakfast with his two friends was back in the window seat, also drinking Guinness and reading a newspaper.
Murphy was at the bar. "What's your pleasure, gentlemen?"
"Same as before," Dillon said. "I'll be back in a minute."
He went along the corridor, opened the snug door, and was out again in seconds, returning to the bar. They sat at a table and Murphy brought the drinks over.
"Will you be having lunch then?"
"No, thanks," Dillon said. "We've decided to get back to."
The red-haired man swallowed the rest of his Guinness and left. Quinn said, "You got the recorder?"
"Yes, everything's fine."
"Great, we can listen to it in the Shogun."
"If we get a chance."
Billy said, "What do you mean?"
"Keep your shooter ready is what I mean, and you, Senator. Come on, drink up and let's get moving."
He paid the bill and said to Murphy, "Thanks, old buddy, see you again."
As he got behind the wheel, Billy said, "What makes you think we could be in trouble?"
"Just a bad feeling about those three fellas earlier. I could be wrong, but I've told you before, this is Indian territory."
Billy was beside him and Quinn was in the rear seat. "What do we do?"
"If we're stopped, I'll keep my hands on the wheel to make them feel good. You and Billy have your guns ready under your coats, and get out on the passenger side so the Shogun's between them and you."
A black Ford car appeared from behind them, the man with red hair at the wheel.
"Why am I always right?" Dillon asked.
At that moment, a red Toyota skidded out of a farm track up ahead and braked to a halt, blocking the road. Dillon got close, quite deliberately, as he braked. The one with the beard slid from behind the wheel, and his passenger, wearing a reefer coat, produced a .38 Smith & Wesson.
"Can I help you?" Dillon asked.
"Yeah, by turning out your pockets and producing well-filled wallets. This is Real IRA country, boyo. As enthusiastic members, we're always in the market for funds for the organization."
"Why, that sounds like highway robbery to me," Dillon told him.
"Exactly. Out of the car."
The red-haired man had eased from the Ford and took an old Webley from his pocket. "Come on," he called.
Billy and Quinn got out, each with a hand under his coat. "Hands on heads," the bearded man shouted.
"Now," Dillon called, and reached for the Walther tucked against the small of his back under his coat, drew it, and rammed the muzzle against the bearded man's ear and fired.
Billy's hand came up, his arm extended, and he shot the man in the reefer coat in the left hand. The man screamed and dropped his Smith & Wesson. The red-haired man, totally shocked and covered by Quinn's Walther, stepped back in alarm, lowering his gun. Quinn froze, and his hand and the Walther shook. Seizing the opportunity, the red-haired man's arm swung up and he shot Quinn in the right shoulder, sending him staggering. Billy half-turned, his Walther extended, and shot the man through the right thigh. He lurched back and fell over.
Dillon slid from behind the wheel, went round the Shogun, got an arm around Quinn, picked up the Walther he'd dropped, and put it in his pocket. "You take the wheel, Billy. I'll see to the Senator."
He opened the rear door of the Shogun, found the army medical kit, and put it in beside Quinn, who was clutching his shoulder.
Dillon squatted down beside the bearded man, who was holding a handkerchief to his shattered ear, his face twisted in agony.
"I'd say you and your friends need some medical assistance, old buddy," he said, still maintaining his American persona. "I could call the RUC for you, but I don't think you'd like that."
He got in the back of the Shogun. "Move it, Billy, and just keep going."
He got Quinn's jacket off and then unbuttoned the shirt, eased it down, and checked the wound. "How is it?" Quinn asked.
"Still in there. Not gone through. Don't worry, this is an army kit, there's everything necessary to treat a gunshot wound."
"What he needs is a bleeding hospital," Billy said.
"No, Billy, what he needs is to get the hell out of Northern Ireland."
He found a scalpel in the box and cut the sleeve away. It was surprising how little blood there was. He got an antibiotic ampoule out and stabbed it into Quinn and did the same thing with a morphine ampoule. Only then did he apply a field service dressing pad and tie it firmly in place.
He got what was left of the shirt off him, then leaned over the backseat, thanking God they'd booked out of the hotel, opened Quinn's suitcase, and found a checked flannel sports shirt which he helped him into.
Afterwards, he found a sling in the kit, eased Quinn's right arm into it, then got his jacket back on. The rent in the sleeve hardly showed, and he could always put his raincoat over his shoulder on the way to the plane.
He eased Quinn back in the corner of the back seats. "Okay, Senator?"
"I let you down," Quinn said. "I can't believe it. I just couldn't pull that trigger. I don't understand--a man like me."
/> "I've said it before, Vietnam was a long time ago. Just take it easy."
He got out his Codex and called Ferguson at the Ministry. "Oh, do I have a tale of woe."
"Tell me." Dillon did, sticking to the bare facts. Afterwards, Ferguson said, "What do you want me to do?"
"Get us a slot out of Aldergrove. We should be there in an hour. They've got the Beechcraft out of Brancaster registered in my name. It'll be two hours to Brancaster, so have an ambulance there in three to pick Quinn up and take him to Rosedene. I'd also contact Henry Bellamy if I were you."
"I'll get back to you."
Quinn said, "Rosedene?"
"A special little hospital we use."
"And Henry Bellamy?"
"Professor of Surgery at Guy's Hospital, the finest surgeon in London, many people think."
Quinn closed his eyes and opened them again. "What about the recording?"
"That's a thought. Let's hear it."
He switched on the tape and it came through, clear as a bell. "A pleasure to meet you," Keenan said. "What do I call you?"
A fterwards, Quinn said weakly, "She's crazy, of course."
"A raving loony. She must be," Billy said.
Dillon nodded. "She always was a bit that way, Billy." His Codex rang. It was Ferguson, who said, "Your slot's arranged and the ambulance will be at Brancaster. And I've fixed up Henry Bellamy. Are you certain the Senator's up to the plane trip?"
"He has to be. If I deliver him to the Royal Victoria Hospital in, they'll call in the RUC. Does he need that kind of publicity? I think not, and the three badly damaged specimens we left beside the road outside Drumcree would agree."
"All right, we'll keep our fingers crossed. So Kate Rashid was having a meeting with Barry Keenan? How did you find out?"
"Some inspired computer trawling by Roper. I won't bore you with the details. The only important thing is, I knew she was going to the Royal George in Drumcree, and Roper discovered that it's Real IRA country and Keenan runs things, and remember what he's famous for? One of the best bombmakers in the business. It seemed logical to assume Kate was up to her old tricks."
"And is she?"
"She certainly is. We planted a recorder in the snug at the George and retrieved it later. You've got the whole meeting on tape. Anyway, I have to go. We're just coming up to Aldergrove."
