by Jack Higgins
Harvey said. “Coogan. Michael Coogan.”
Dillon took off his glasses. “As ever was, Jack.”
Harry nodded slowly and said to his niece. “Myra, an old friend, Mr. Coogan from Belfast.”
“I see,” she said. “One of those.”
Dillon lit a cigarette, sat down, the briefcase on the floor beside him and Harvey said, “You went through London like bloody Attila the Hun last time. I should have charged you more for all that stuff.”
“You gave me a price, I paid it,” Dillon said. “What could be fairer?”
“And what is it this time?”
“I need a little Semtex, Jack. I could manage with forty pounds, but that’s the bottom line. Fifty would be better.”
“You don’t want much, do you? That stuff’s like gold. Very strict government controls.”
“Bollocks,” Dillon said. “It passes from Czechoslovakia to Italy, Greece, onwards to Libya. It’s everywhere, Jack, you know it and I know it, so don’t waste my time. Twenty thousand dollars.” He opened the briefcase on his knee and tossed the rest of the ten thousand packet by packet across the desk. “Ten now and ten on delivery.”
The Walther with the Carswell silencer screwed on the end of the barrel lay ready in the briefcase. He waited, the lid up, and then Harvey smiled. “All right, but it’ll cost you thirty.”
Dillon closed the briefcase. “No can do, Jack. Twenty-five I can manage, but no more.”
Harvey nodded. “All right. When do you want it?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“I think I can manage that. Where can we reach you?”
“You’ve got it wrong way round, Jack. I contact you.”
Dillon stood up and Harvey said affably, “Anything else we can do for you?”
“Actually there is,” Dillon said. “Sign of goodwill, you might say. I could do with a spare handgun.”
“Be my guest, my old son.” Harvey pushed his chair back and opened the second drawer down on his right hand. “Take your pick.”
There was a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, a Czech Cesca and an Italian Beretta, which was the one Dillon selected. He checked the clip and slipped the gun in his pocket. “This will do nicely.”
“Lady’s gun,” Harvey said, “but that’s your business. We’ll be seeing you, then, tomorrow.”
Myra opened the door. Dillon said, “A pleasure, Miss Harvey,” and he brushed past Billy and walked out.
Billy said, “I’d like to break that little bastard’s legs.”
Myra patted his cheek. “Never mind, sunshine, on your two feet you’re useless. It’s in the horizontal position you come into your own. Now go and play with your motorbike or something,” and she went back in her uncle’s office.
Dillon paused at the bottom of the stairs and slipped the Beretta inside the briefcase. The only thing better than one gun was two. It always gave you an ace in the hole and he walked back to the Mini-Cooper briskly.
Myra said, “I wouldn’t trust him an inch, that one.”
“A hard little bastard,” Harvey said. “When he was here for the IRA in nineteen eighty-one, I supplied him with arms, explosives, everything. You were at college then, not in the business, so you probably don’t remember.”
“Is Coogan his real name?”
“Course not.” He nodded. “Yes, hell on wheels. I was having a lot of hassle in those days from George Montoya down in Bermondsey, the one they called Spanish George. Coogan knocked him off for me one night, him and his brother, outside a bar called the Flamenco. Did it for free.”
“Really?” Myra said. “So where do we get him Semtex?”
He laughed, opened the top drawer and took out a bunch of keys. “I’ll show you.” He led the way out and along the corridor and unlocked a door. “Something even you didn’t know, darling.”
The room was lined with shelves of box files. He put his hand on the middle shelf of the rear wall and it swung open. He reached for a switch and turned on a light, revealing a treasure house of weapons of every description.
“My God!” she said.
“Whatever you want, it’s here,” he said. “Hand guns, AK assault rifles, M15s.” He chuckled. “And Semtex.” There were three cardboard boxes on a table. “Fifty pounds in each of those.”
“But why did you tell him it might take time?”
“Keep him dangling.” He led the way out and closed things up. “Might screw a few more bob out of him.”
As they went back into his office she said, “What do you think he’s up to?”
“I couldn’t care less. Anyway, why should you worry? You suddenly turned into a bleeding patriot or something?”
“It isn’t that, I’m just curious.”
He clipped another cigar. “Mind you, I have had a thought. Very convenient if I got the little bugger to knock off Harry Flood for me,” and he started to laugh.
It was just after six and Ferguson was just about to leave his office at the Ministry of Defence when his phone rang. It was Devlin. “Now then, you old sod, I’ve news for you.”
“Get on with it then,” Ferguson said.
“Dillon’s control in eighty-one in Belfast was a man called Tommy McGuire. Remember him?”
“I do indeed. Wasn’t he shot a few years ago? Some sort of IRA feud?”
“That was the story, but he’s still around up there using another identity.”
“And what would that be?”
“I’ve still to find that out. People to see in Belfast. I’m driving up there tonight. I take it, by the way, that involving myself in this way makes me an official agent of Group Four? I mean I wouldn’t like to end up in prison, not at my age.”
“You’ll be covered fully, you have my word on it. Now what do you want us to do?”
“I was thinking that if Brosnan and your Captain Tanner wanted to be in on the action, they could fly over in the morning in that Lear jet of yours, to Belfast, that is, and wait for me at the Europa Hotel, in the bar. Tell Brosnan to identify himself to the head porter. I’ll be in touch probably around noon.”
“I’ll see to it,” Ferguson said.
“Just one more thing. Don’t you think you and I are getting just a little geriatric for this sort of game?”
“You speak for yourself,” Ferguson said and put the phone down.
He sat thinking about it, then phoned through for a secretary. He also called Mary Tanner at the Lowndes Square flat. As he was talking to her, Alice Johnson came in with her notepad and pencil. Ferguson waved her down and carried on speaking to Mary.
“So, early start in the morning. Gatwick again, I think. You’ll be there in an hour in the Lear. Are you dining out tonight?”
“Henry Flood suggested the River Room at the Savoy, he likes the dance band.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Would you like to join us, sir?”
“Actually, I would,” Ferguson said.
“We’ll see you then. Eight o’clock.”
Ferguson put down the phone and turned to Alice Johnson. “A brief note, Eyes of the Prime Minister only, the special file.” He quickly dictated a report that brought everything up to date, including his conversation with Devlin. “One copy for the P.M. and alert a messenger. Usual copy for me and the file. Hurry it up and bring them along for my signature. I want to get away.”
She went down to the office quickly. Gordon Brown was standing at the copier as she sat behind the typewriter. “I thought he’d gone?” he said.
“So did I, but he’s just given me an extra. Another Eyes of the Prime Minister only.”
“Really.”
She started to type furiously, was finished in two minutes. She stood up. “He’ll have to hang on. I need to go to the toilet.”
“I’ll do the copying for you.”
“Thanks, Gordon.”
She went out and along the corridor, was opening the toilet door when she realized she’d left her handbag on the desk. She turned and h
urried back to the office. The door was partially open and she could see Gordon standing at the copier reading a copy of the report. To her astonishment, he folded it, slipped it in his inside pocket and hurriedly did another.
Alice was totally thrown, had no idea what to do. She went back along the corridor to the toilet, went in and tried to pull herself together. After a while she went back.
The report and a file copy were on her desk. “All done,” Gordon Brown said. “And I’ve requested a messenger.”
She managed a light smile. “I’ll get them signed.”
“Right, I’m just going down to the canteen. I’ll see you later.”
Alice went along the corridor, knocked on Ferguson’s door and went in. He was at his desk writing and looked up. “Oh, good. I’ll sign those and you can get the P.M.’s copy off to Downing Street straight away.” She was trembling now and he frowned. “My dear Mrs. Johnson, what is it?”
So she told him.
He sat there, grim-faced, and as she finished, reached for the telephone. “Special Branch, Detective Inspector Lane for Brigadier Ferguson, Group Four. Top Priority, no delay. My office now.”
He put the phone down. “Now this is what you do. Go back to the office and behave as if nothing had happened.”
“But he isn’t there, Brigadier, he went to the canteen.”
“Really?” Ferguson said. “Now why would he do that?”
When Tania heard Gordon Brown’s voice she was immediately angry. “I’ve told you about this, Gordon.”
“Yes, but it’s urgent.”
“Where are you?”
“In the canteen at the Ministry. I’ve got another report.”
“Is it important?”
“Very.”
“Read it to me.”
“No, I’ll bring it round after I come off shift at ten.”
“I’ll see you at your place, Gordon, I promise, but I want to know what you’ve got now and if you refuse, then don’t bother to call again.”
“No, that’s all right, I’ll read it.”
Which he did and when he was finished she said, “Good boy, Gordon, I’ll see you later.”
He put the phone down and turned, folding the copy of the report. The door to the phone box was jerked open and Ferguson plucked the report from his fingers.
TEN
DILLON WAS IN his room at the hotel when Tania called him. “I’ve got rather hot news,” she said. “The hunt for a lead on you is moving to Belfast.”
“Tell me,” he said.
Which she did. When she was finished, she said, “Does any of this make any sense?”
“Yes,” he said. “The McGuire fella was a big name with the Provos in those days.”
“And he’s dead, is he, or is he still around?”
“Devlin’s right about that. His death was reported, supposedly because of in-fighting in the Movement, but it was just a ruse to help him drop out of sight.”
“If they found him, could it give you problems?”
“Maybe, but not if I found him first.”
“And how could you do that?”
“I know his half-brother, a fella called Macey. He would know where he is.”
“But that would mean a trip to Belfast yourself.”
“That would be no big deal. An hour and a quarter by British Airways. I don’t know what time the last plane tonight gets in. I’d have to check.”
“Just a minute, I’ve got a B.A. Worldwide Timetable here,” she said and opened her desk drawer. She found it and looked at the Belfast schedule. “The last plane is eight-thirty. You’ll never make it. It’s quarter to seven now. It’s murder getting out to Heathrow in the evening traffic and this weather will make it worse. Probably at least an hour or maybe an hour and a half.”
“I know,” Dillon said. “What about the morning?”
“Same time, eight-thirty.”
“I’ll just have to get up early.”
“Is it wise?”
“Is anything in this life? I’ll handle it, don’t worry. I’ll be in touch.”
He put the phone down, thought about it for a while, then called British Airways and booked a seat on the morning flight with an open return. He lit a cigarette and walked to the window. Was it wise, she’d said, and he tried to remember what Tommy McGuire had known about him in eighty-one. Nothing about Danny Fahy, that was certain, because Fahy wasn’t supposed to be involved that time. That had been personal. But Jack Harvey was another matter. After all, it had been McGuire who’d put him onto Harvey as an arms supplier in the first place.
He pulled on his jacket, got his trenchcoat from the wardrobe and went out. Five minutes later he was hailing a cab on the corner. He got in and told the driver to take him to Covent Garden.
Gordon Brown sat on the other side of Ferguson’s desk in the half-light. He had never been so frightened in his life. “I didn’t mean any harm, Brigadier, I swear it.”
“Then why did you take a copy of the report?”
“It was just a whim. Stupid, I know, but I was so intrigued with it being for the Prime Minister.”
“You realize what you’ve done, Gordon, a man of your service? All those years in the Army? This could mean your pension.”
Detective Inspector Lane of Special Branch was in his late thirties and in his crumpled tweed suit and glasses looked like a schoolmaster. He said, “I’m going to ask you again, Mr. Brown.” He leaned on the end of the desk. “Have you ever taken copies like this before?”
“Absolutely not, I swear it.”
“You’ve never been asked by another person to do such a thing?”
Gordon managed to look suitably shocked. “Good heavens, Inspector, that would be treason. I was a Sergeant-Major in the Intelligence Corps.”
“Yes, Mr. Brown, we know all that,” Lane said.
The internal phone went and Ferguson lifted it. It was Lane’s sergeant, Mackie. “I’m outside, Brigadier, just back from the flat in Camden. I think you and the Inspector should come out.”
“Thank you.” Ferguson put the phone down. “Right, I think we’ll give you time to think things over, Gordon. Inspector?”
He nodded to Lane, got up and moved to the door and Lane followed him. Mackie was standing in the anteroom still in trilby and raincoat, a plastic bag in one hand.
“You found something, Sergeant?” Lane asked.
“You could call it that, sir.” Mackie took a cardboard file from his plastic bag and opened it. “A rather interesting collection.”
The copies of the reports were neatly stacked in order, the latest ones for the Prime Minister’s attention on top.
Lane said, “Christ, Brigadier, he’s been at it for a while.”
“So it would seem,” Ferguson said. “But to what purpose?”
“You mean he’s working for someone, sir?”
“Without a doubt. The present operation I’m engaged on is most delicate. There was an attack on a man working for me in Paris. A woman died. We wondered how the villain of the piece knew about them, if you follow me. Now we know. Details of these reports were passed on to a third party. They must have been.”
Lane nodded. “Then we’ll have to work on him some more.”
“No, we don’t have the time. Let’s try another way. Let’s just let him go. He’s a simple man. I think he’d do the simple thing.”
“Right, sir.” Lane turned to Mackie. “If you lose him, you’ll be back pounding the pavement in Brixton, and so will I, because I’m coming with you.”
They hurried out and Ferguson opened the door and went back in the office. He sat down behind the desk. “A sad business, Gordon.”
“What’s going to happen to me, Brigadier?”
“I’ll have to think about it.” Ferguson picked up the copy of the report. “Such an incredibly stupid thing to do.” He sighed. “Go home, Gordon, go home. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Gordon Brown couldn’t believe his luck. He got the doo
r open somehow and left, hurrying down the corridor to the staff cloakroom. The narrowest escape of his life. It could have meant the end of everything. Not only his career and pension, but prison. But that was it: no more and Tania would have to accept that. He went downstairs to the car park, pulling on his coat, found his car and was turning into Whitehall a few moments later, Mackie and Lane hard on his tail in the Sergeant’s unmarked Ford Capri.
Dillon knew that late-night shopping was the thing in the Covent Garden area. There were still plenty of people around in spite of the winter cold and he hurried along until he came to the theatrical shop, Clayton’s, near Neal’s Yard. The lights were on in the window, the door opened to his touch, the bell tinkling.
Clayton came through the bead curtain and smiled. “Oh, it’s you. What can I do for you?”
“Wigs,” Dillon told him.
“A nice selection over here.” He was right. There was everything—short, long, permed, blonde, redhead. Dillon selected one that was shoulder-length and gray.
“I see,” Clayton said. “The granny look?”
“Something like that. What about costume? I don’t mean anything fancy. Second-hand?”
“In here.”
Clayton went through the bead curtain and Dillon followed him. There was rack upon rack of clothes and a jumbled heap in the corner. He worked very quickly, sorting through, selected a long brown skirt with an elastic waist and a shabby raincoat that almost came down to his ankles.
Clayton said, “What are you going to play, Old Mother Riley or a bag lady?”
“You’d be surprised.” Dillon had seen a pair of jeans on top of the jumble in the corner. He picked them up and searched through a pile of shoes beside them, selecting a pair of runners that had seen better days.
“These will do,” he said. “Oh, and this,” and he picked an old headscarf from a stand. “Stick ’em all in a couple of plastic bags. How much?”
Clayton started to pack them. “By rights I should thank you for taking them away, but we’ve all got to live. Ten quid to you.”
