Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1

by Ian St. James

  Suddenly Mick was afraid the deal was being called off. Reilly proffered a pack of cigarettes and he took one gratefully, straightening his back in a determined manner. He met the man's dark eyes without blinking and searched his mind for something to say which might convince him. But after a moment or two the man nodded and Mick knew it was all right.

  "We'll talk money first," the man said. "Twenty thousand pounds, payable in instalments."

  "Instalments? You'd better not make them too far apart," Mick said uneasily.

  "Five thousand today. Another five in Cologne. And ten when you reach your destination."

  Mick nodded his acceptance. The truth was that he was more worried about how the cash would be explained to Molly - afterward. "And how do I get the cash?" he asked.

  "You don't," the man said. "Payment will be made by insurance endowment policies. Three policies - made out in your name with your wife as beneficiary."

  "Insurance policies?" Mick's brow crinkled. "That'll take some thinking about." He turned to Reilly. "You never said anything about—"

  "Think about it Mick. How else can twenty thousand pounds be explained to Molly? Come to that, how else could she explain it, if the police ever checked? It makes sense—"

  "I don't like it," Mick shook his head. "Cash is best. With this there's no—"

  "Security?" the tall man interrupted. "Oh, but there is. We were very busy yesterday - and all for your benefit."

  "Listen to him, Mick," Reilly urged. "I'd never have gone along with it unless it made sense."

  The man said, "We went to the bank yesterday and deposited twenty thousand pounds. Bank of Ireland, Gresham Street, Dublin. Mr. Reilly has the paying in slip if you wish to inspect it." He paused long enough for Mick to see the answering nod from Big Reilly. "The bank have been instructed to make payment against three policies, all of which mature within the next seven days. They receive the policy document and then they pay out - it's as simple as that."

  Mick scratched his head. "And just how would these policy documents get to them?"

  Reilly grinned. "Simple. I've got them." He reached into an inside pocket and withdrew a bundle of papers. "Or at least I've got two of them. The bank's already got the first one."

  The man smiled thinly. "And one matures today. For five thousand pounds."

  Reilly was still grinning. "The bank wrote to Molly last night. Just a short letter saying a policy has matured, and enclosing a nice fat check. She'll have it Monday morning."

  Mick began to feel a lot better. Getting the cash to Molly had been worrying him. This way was as foolproof as any he had thought of. More foolproof if he was honest about it. And this way it was only Big Reilly that he had to trust—not the dark-haired man who watched him so closely.

  The man read his mind. "Mr. Reilly sends the second policy when you've passed Cologne and the final one when you reach your destination. The bank can only cancel the arrangements if they fail to receive all policies by the end of a month."

  Mick was about to query that when the sound of his truck distracted him. He took a step to the door, but Big Reilly stopped him. "It's okay Mick, they're just moving it out the way, that's all."

  The dark-haired man smiled. "For the next month the bank can only pay out against the policies. Nobody can withdraw the money in the meantime - if that's what you were thinking."

  Mick grinned as if such a thought had never entered his head, but secretly he was pleased - very pleased.

  Big Reilly beamed at him. "The bank's already sent five thousand Mick. And don't worry about the rest, Molly will get every penny of it, I'll make sure of that."

  Mick was nodding his acceptance of the arrangement and grinning foolishly. There wasn't a man living he'd trust more than Big Reilly, wasn't that the truth of it? And now it was just up to the two of them - Mick to drive the truck and Reilly to make sure the bank paid Molly afterwards. It was a marvellous arrangement - far better than any he had dared hope for.

  "There is another matter," the dark-haired man said, "I understand that you were planning to stay in Germany after finishing the job?"

  Mick was caught halfway between surprise and amusement. "In a manner of speaking," he said carefully, straight-faced but with a glint in his eye.

  The man shook his head. "I'm sorry, but that won't suit us at all. If they identify you, it's but a short step to Reilly here - and from him perhaps to us. By then it might be unimportant, but loose ends like that are - unprofessional."

  And whatever else you are, Mick thought, it's for sure you're not that. He wondered what Reilly had said about his condition and was surprised as the man apparently read his mind again.

  "Severely damaged kidneys are not unique," he said. "I'm not a doctor, of course, but—" he shrugged, watching the effect of his words on Mick's expression. "Arrangements can be made. So, after the job you'll be taken to Switzerland, to the Arab clinic at Lucerne, where you will undergo an operation."

  "An operation?" Mick was dazed.

  "I can't guarantee the outcome," the man said. "But some of the most skilful surgeons in the world reside at that clinic. The best doctors money can buy. I'm giving you the chance of life - a good chance - a sight better chance than you've got now."

  Mick sat down beside the stove. A chance of life! Just when he'd made his mind up to end it. Did he want that? It changed everything. A chance of life the man said. A chance to see Molly and the boy again! Not soon perhaps but someday. To see Molly again.

  "I - I don't know," Mick groped for the right words. How could he explain that he had settled his mind to it. A man should settle his affairs and this was his way of doing it. But a chance to see Molly again?

  "It's not an offer Mr. Malone," the man said. "It's part of our agreement."

  It changed everything. A chance of life. A proper life, a whole man again, without this constant ache in the back and cramp in his guts that creased him at times. And with Molly with money in the bank and the boy with the best schooling money could buy. And himself with a chance of seeing them again.

  A minute passed before he trusted himself to speak. Even then the words fell short of what he wanted to say, of what he really felt. Words could never explain his gratitude. Words might explain what he felt for his family but they were private words, not for the ears of a stranger. So he would express himself not with words but actions he thought, as the determination welled up inside him. Nothing would stop him from finishing this job, nothing! Never in his life had he felt so certain, so determined. Never before had he experienced such single mindedness of purpose. If the job could be done, then Mick Malone was the man to do it, he'd see to that.

  He glanced across to where Big Reilly stood grinning at the door, and then turned to the tall dark man. In a thick gruff voice, almost unrecognisable as his own, he said: "It's a condition I accept - and thanks."

  Reilly came over and slapped an arm round his shoulder, while the tall man thrust out a hand to shake his own. They were so pleased, it could have been their own lives they were saving. After a minute or two Reilly brewed tea on the stove and they talked of the route Mick would take to Germany. Once there, someone would contact him with his final instructions - and that was all he knew. Then he heard the engine of his truck outside and it was time to go.

  "Big Reilly was right," the man said at the door. "I am proud to know you, Mr. Malone."

  They shook hands and Mick straightened his broken body until he felt ten feet tall. Then the man said, "But from now on you make contact with nobody - that's another condition, understand? Whatever happens - even if something goes wrong - you'll make no attempt to contact anyone, not the factory, not Big Reilly here, not a single living soul. Just wait for us to contact you. It's a dangerous journey you're going on, but do it my way and we'll all come through it."

  Again Mick struggled for the right words. And again he was unable to find any strong enough to express his determination. In the end he simply shook hands and said: "Don't worry - we'll
do it your way all right." And then he left.

  It was not until half an hour later, as he approached the outskirts of Limerick, that Mick realised his truck was in some way different. The clutch pressure was maybe an ounce stronger and the load behind him felt strange, as if the cargo had been restacked or had transferred its weight slightly. But that was impossible. He had supervised the loading himself, all of the restraining ties had been checked and double-checked.

  But something was different. He looked around the cab, concentrating on his immediate surroundings. Everything looked the same, the same St. Christopher swung on the key ring, the same map folder was lodged in its place, the same cushion pressed into the small of his back. The same tax discs, the same spare pack of cigarettes. Yet the upholstery had an odd smell to it and although the dashboard was scratched in a similar way, similar was not identical.

  At the first lay-by he stopped and clambered down from the cab. At the back the same TIR plates adorned the doors above the same license plate, and the bodywork looked as it usually did. He slid beneath the vehicle to examine the chassis number and found it as shown in the log book. But something was different, he was convinced of that. He reached back into the cab to release the catch which held the engine cover in place - and there he found it. Six months ago the cab had been sprayed with a paint batch that had differed from the original. Not much, but a tone darker than the company's usual green livery. He had been called across to the paint-shop to give his opinion. Some paint had been sprayed on the underside of the bonnet to demonstrate the difference. Mick had told them to go ahead - saying a blind man would be pleased to spot it - and the next day the lorry had been on the road again, looking like new. But the painters had forgotten the underside of the bonnet and the two shades of green had remained ever since. Except that now, as Mick stared at it, all of the paintwork was the very same shade of green.

  He ran his hand over it, feeling for a difference in the thickness of paint, knowing there would be none, but needing to check just the same. After that he searched the cab, remembering having dropped a lighted cigarette between the seats which had burned a hole in the fabric. Now there was no hole. He examined the offside mirror, remembering a hairline crack caused by a bump in the yard. There was no crack. And all this despite the chassis and engine numbers being correct. But all doubt vanished from his mind. It was not his lorry. His had been swapped while he had talked to the others in the office at the bam.

  He smoked a cigarette, feeling confused and more than a little angry. Big Reilly must have known, yet he hadn't said a word. But then, wasn't that Reilly's way all over - never tell a man more than he needs to know. And did it make the slightest difference? To the twenty thousand pounds to Molly and a future for the boy? Or the chance of an operation and the gift of life itself? He was dealing with a very clever man, that was for sure. A very thorough man. A man who thought of everything. And now it was up to Mick himself, hadn't the man said as much, and hadn't Mick given his word?

  He switched the engine on and checked his mirror before pulling away from the lay-by. Without Mick knowing his jaw had thrust forward and the determined glint was back in his eye. Hell could freeze over before Mick Malone let that man down. Dammit, hell would freeze over - nothing would stop him from taking this load to wherever they wanted it - whatever it was. And he still felt that way an hour later - when he rolled down the ramp and on to the ferry bound for France.

  Noon Saturday

  Ross sat alone in the small room that had once been the butler's pantry, thinking about the meeting which had just ended. Twomey had made it look like a walk in the park, but that did not prevent Ross sharing some of the doubts which had been expressed around the table. He shovelled sugar into a cup of appalling.coffee and gloomily waited for the others to join him. Hell, if they only had one worthwhile lead! Something tangible for a change - something to work on.

  The door opened and LeClerc walked in. "Is that coffee?" he nodded at the pot.

  "Skimmed mud. What happened?"

  "We spent the first two hours analysing data from the London. Waste of time for the non-scientists." LeClerc chanced the coffee. "Then I had a separate meeting with Harrison. You heard about this factory belonging to Hayes? Weil they want me to go to Paris at once - if it's all right with you?"

  Ross nodded gloomily.

  "How did your end go?" LeClerc asked.

  Ross shrugged. "Twomey thinks Katoul will contact us. With a blackmail note."

  "And you disagree?"

  "I don't know. Hope to Christ he's right, that's all. Meanwhile, I just wish we could do something positive."

  LeClerc nodded. "They're all convinced the bomb's in Europe. Ugh, it's undrinkable." He pulled a face and emptied his cup over the rubber plant. "What do you think?"

  "About Europe? It's possible. The CIA is having a fit about the summit conference, and Twomey's issued every cop in Europe with a Geiger counter."

  LeClerc smiled. "You're tired. It's a bit more positive than that. The Dutch police have already hit six Red Brigade cells and from what I hear the German GX9 squad are planning more than a hundred raids for tonight."

  Ross held up his hands. "Yeah, I know. The biggest manhunt in Europe. Twomey told me. I'm impressed."

  "But you think we should be doing something else?"

  "Damn right I do, but don't ask me what." He was interrupted by the arrival of Dorfman. "You get lost on the way, Archie?"

  "Just staying in touch with the Irish situation." He felt the coffeepot. "Still no trace of the boys who went to Copenhagen."

  "That Copenhagen thing is the only thing keeping that theory alive." Ross sounded bored, he shook his head. "I still don't think it means anything."

  Dorfman poured himself some coffee and changed the subject. "I understand Paul's going to Paris?"

  A knock at the door revealed the sergeant from Special Branch enquiring about their travel arrangements. "One flight to Paris immediately," Ross said. "And I want a car to take Mr. Dorfman and me to the Hayes house at Henley. And I want someone maintaining round-the-clock radio contact with the Health Farm. We'll stay here tonight and return to Malta as early as possible in the morning - okay?" The sergeant nodded and withdrew.

  Dorfman seemed surprised. "Special Branch have been in residence at 'The Willows' for forty-eight hours. Every floorboard in the house will have been taken up by now."

  "Well, we'll take them up again. Then we'll take every tile off the roof. If those dummies had done their job right to begin with we'd be talking to Hayes now instead of looking at his corpse."

  Dorfman scowled at his coffee. "You think Katoul was running Hayes?"

  "I think the guy running Katoul was running Hayes. And he thinks people are more disposable than Kleenex."

  Dorfman stuck his neck out. "I think Reilly and Brady have been disposed of as well."

  Ross sighed. "You won't be satisfied until you go over to Ireland to look for yourself, will you?"

  Dorfman maintained an attentive silence.

  "Tell you what we'll do," Ross decided. "We'll try this place on the Thames first, and in the morning you can look over the Hayes London office. Then if we're still scoring zero you get over to Ireland while I get back to the Health Farm."

  Dorfman tried to conceal his satisfaction by pouring his coffee over the rubber plant. Ross watched him for a moment, then closed his eyes and tried to imagine the whereabouts of Suzy Katoul.

  1330 Saturday

  Suzy Katoul was still in the cottage at Conlaragh. Big Reilly had spread a map of Dublin across the bed and was explaining the exact location of the Holy Cross Prison for the sixth time since he and Abou had returned from Pallas Glean. Enlarged photographs of the approach roads to the prison had been pinned to the whitewashed walls and every so often Abou would stare at one as if committing it to memory.

  "Steve Cassidy is in the detention block here," Reilly pointed to the rough sketch map. "It used to be the prison hospital until a few years ago."<
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  Abou nodded, no more than faintly amused at the prospect of inflicting casualties in a building once a hospital. He pointed. "How high are the walls here?"

  "Twelve feet."

  "And the hoist?"

  "Has a maximum upward reach of fifteen," Reilly said with satisfaction.

  Abou examined another photograph. It showed a hydraulic hoist mounted on the back of a lorry, like a gigantic pair of dividers, with a platform set at one end. In Dublin such vehicles are used by Corporation electricians when maintaining overhead street lighting, and indeed the City's crest of arms was painted on the driver's cab of the one shown in the photograph.

  "And it raises at a foot a second," Abou murmured, rehearsing the details of the operation in his mind's eye. "Very well, let's go through it once again."

  Reilly curbed his impatience. If they had been over the plan once they had been over it a dozen times, but something told him that the man opposite would examine it a dozen times more if he felt unhappy about the slightest detail.

  Suzy smoked another cigarette and tried to concentrate. Not that the plan to release Cassidy was of any direct concern to her. She would have left Ireland by then anyway. Left Ireland and left Abou. But now that it had come to it, the prospect of being alone frightened her. Not just the prospect of being away from Abou's protection, but the thought of what she had to do. It had made sense originally, when Abou had first told her. There had been something intensely dramatic about it. "A uniquely historic mission" he had called it and she had succumbed to the glamor of it. But now that it was only hours away the dangers terrified her, even though Abou promised it would only last twenty-four hours at the most. Then they would be reunited, reunited in triumph, their photographs on every front page in the world and their names on everybody's lips. And in one audacious move she would have liberated Palestine! The very prospect made her tremble.

  "Good enough," Abou frowned with final approval. He picked up the map and folded it into squares. "Now let's hear your plans."