Eye of the Storm

by Jack Higgins

  Dillon opened the door and walked into musty silence. The dimly lit shop was crammed with a variety of items. Television sets, video recorders, clocks. There was even a gas cooker and a stuffed bear in one corner.

  There was a mesh screen running along the counter and the man who sat on a stool behind it was working on a watch, a jeweler’s magnifying glass in one eye. He glanced up, a wasted-looking individual in his sixties, his face gray and pallid.

  “And what can I do for you?”

  Dillon said, “Nothing ever changes, Patrick. This place still smells exactly the same.”

  Macey took the magnifying glass from his eye and frowned. “Do I know you?”

  “And why wouldn’t you, Patrick? Remember that hot night in June of seventy-two when we set fire to that Orangeman, Stewart’s, warehouse and shot him and his two nephews as they ran out. Let me see, there were the three of us.” Dillon put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it carefully. “There was you and your half-brother, Tommy McGuire, and me.”

  “Holy Mother of God, Sean Dillon, is that you?” Macey said.

  “As ever was, Patrick.”

  “Jesus, Sean, I never thought to see you in Belfast city again. I thought you were . . .”

  He paused and Dillon said, “Thought I was where, Patrick?”

  “London,” Patrick Macey said. “Somewhere like that,” he added lamely.

  “And where would you have got that idea from?” Dillon went to the door, locking it and pulled down the blind.

  “What are you doing?” Macey demanded in alarm.

  “I just want a nice private talk, Patrick, me old son.”

  “No, Sean, none of that. I’m not involved with the IRA, not anymore.”

  “You know what they say, Patrick, once in, never out. How is Tommy these days, by the way?”

  “Ah, Sean, I’d have thought you’d know. Poor Tommy’s been dead these five years. Shot by one of his own. A stupid row between the Provos and one of the splinter groups. INLA were suspected.”

  “Is that a fact?” Dillon nodded. “Do you see any of the other old hands these days? Liam Devlin, for instance?”

  And he had him there, for Macey was unable to keep the look of alarm from his face. “Liam? I haven’t seen him since the seventies.”

  “Really?” Dillon lifted the flap at the end of the counter and walked round. “It’s a terrible liar you are.” He slapped him across the face. “Now get in there,” and pushed him through the curtain that led to the office at the rear.

  Macey was terrified. “I don’t know a thing.”

  “About what? I haven’t asked you anything yet, but I’m going to tell you a few things. Tommy McGuire isn’t dead. He’s living somewhere else in this fair city under another name and you’re going to tell me where. Secondly, Liam Devlin has been to see you. Now I’m right on both counts, aren’t I?” Macey was frozen with fear, terrified, and Dillon slapped him again. “Aren’t I?”

  The other man broke then. “Please, Sean, please. It’s my heart. I could have an attack.”

  “You will if you don’t speak up, I promise you.”

  “All right. Devlin was here a little earlier this morning enquiring about Tommy.”

  “And shall I tell you what he said?”

  “Please, Sean.” Macey was shaking. “I’m ill.”

  “He said that bad old Sean Dillon was on the loose in London town and that he wanted to help run him down and who could be a better source of information than Dillon’s old chum, Tommy McGuire. Am I right?”

  Macey nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good, now we’re getting somewhere.” Dillon lit another cigarette and nodded at the large, old-fashioned safe in the corner. “Is that where the guns are?”

  “What guns, Sean?”

  “Come on, don’t muck me about. You’ve been dealing in handguns for years. Get it open.”

  Macey took a key from his desk drawer, went and opened the safe. Dillon pulled him to one side. There were several weapons in there. An old Webley, a couple of Smith & Wesson revolvers. The one that really caught his eyes was an American Army Colt .45 automatic. He hefted it in his hand and checked the magazine.

  “Wonderful, Patrick. I knew I could depend on you.” He put the gun on the desk and sat down opposite Macey. “So what happened?”

  Macey’s face was very strange in color now. “I don’t feel well.”

  “You’ll feel better when you’ve told me. Get on with it.”

  “Tommy lives on his own about half a mile from here in Canal Street. He’s done up the old warehouse at the end. Calls himself Kelly, George Kelly.”

  “I know that area well, every stick and stone.”

  “Devlin asked for Tommy’s phone number and called him there and then. He said it was essential to see him. That it was to do with you. Tommy agreed to see him at two o’clock.”

  “Fine,” Dillon said. “See how easy it was? Now I can call on him myself before Devlin does and discuss old times, only I won’t bother to phone. I think I’ll surprise him. Much more fun.”

  “You’ll never get in to see him,” Macey said. “You can only get in at the front, all the other doors are welded. He’s been paranoid for years. Terrified someone’s going to knock him off. You’d never get in the front door. It’s all TV security cameras and that kind of stuff.”

  “There’s always a way,” Dillon said.

  “There always was for you.” Macey tore at his shirt collar, choking. “Pills,” he moaned and got the drawer in front of him open. The bottle he took fell from his hands.

  He lay back on the chair and Dillon got up and went round and picked up the bottle. “Trouble is, Patrick, the moment I go out of the door you’ll be on the phone to Tommy and that wouldn’t do, would it?”

  He walked across to the fireplace and dropped the pill bottle into the gleaming coals. There was a crash behind him and he turned to find Macey had tumbled from the chair to the floor. Dillon stood over him for a moment. Macey’s face was very suffused with purple now and his legs were jerking. Suddenly, he gave a great gasp like air escaping, his head turned to one side and he went completely still.

  Dillon put the Colt in his pocket, went through the shop and opened the door, locking it with the Yale, leaving the blind down. A moment later he turned the corner into the Falls Road and walked back toward the hotel as fast as he could.

  He laid the contents of the case on the bed in the shabby hotel room, then he undressed. First of all he put on the jeans, the old runners and a heavy jumper. Then came the wig. He sat in front of the mirror at the small dressing table, combing the gray hair until it looked wild and unkempt. He tied the headscarf over it and studied himself. Then he pulled on the skirt that reached his ankles. The old raincoat that was far too large completed the outfit.

  He stood in front of the wardrobe examining himself in the mirror. He closed his eyes, thinking the role, and when he opened them again it wasn’t Dillon anymore, it was a decrepit, broken, bag lady.

  He hardly needed any makeup, just a foundation to give him the sallow look and the slash of scarlet lipstick for the mouth. All wrong, of course, but totally right for the character. He took a half bottle of whisky from a pouch in the briefcase and poured some into his cupped hands, rubbing it over his face, then he splashed some more over the front of the raincoat. He put the Colt, a couple of newspapers and the whisky bottle into a plastic bag and was ready to leave.

  He glanced in the mirror at that strange, nightmarish old woman. “Showtime,” he whispered and let himself out.

  All was quiet as he went down the backstairs and went out into the yard. He closed the door behind him carefully and crossed to the door which led to the alley. As he reached it, the hotel door opened behind him.

  A voice called, “Here, what do you think you’re doing?”

  Dillon turned and saw a kitchen porter in a soiled white apron putting a cardboard box in the dustbin.

  “Go fuck yourself,” Dillon croaked.


  “Go on, get out of it, you old bag!” the porter shouted.

  Dillon closed the door behind him. “Ten out of ten, Sean,” he said softly and went up the alley.

  He turned into the Falls Road and started to shuffle along the pavement, acting so strangely that people stepped out of the way to avoid him.

  It was almost one and Brosnan and Mary Tanner at the bar of the Europa were thinking about lunch when a young porter approached. “Mr Brosnan?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Your taxi is here, sir.”

  “Taxi?” Mary said. “But we didn’t order one.”

  “Yes we did,” Brosnan said.

  He helped her on with her coat and they followed the young porter through the foyer, down the steps at the front entrance to the black cab waiting at the curb. Brosnan gave the porter a pound and they got in. The driver on the other side of the glass wore a tweed cap and an old reefer coat. Mary Tanner pulled the sliding glass partition to one side.

  “I presume you know where we’re going?” she said.

  “Oh, I certainly do, my love.” Liam Devlin smiled at her over his shoulder, moved into gear and drove away.

  It was just after one-thirty when Devlin turned the taxi into Canal Street. “That’s the place at the end,” he said. “We’ll park in the yard at the side.” They got out and moved back into the street and approached the entrance. “Be on your best behavior, we’re on television,” he said and reached to a bell push beside the massive, iron-bound door.

  “Not very homelike,” Mary commented.

  “Yes, well, with Tommy McGuire’s background he needs a fortress rather than a cozy semidetached on some desirable estate.” Devlin turned to Brosnan. “Are you carrying, son?”

  “No,” Brosnan said. “But she is. You are, I suppose?”

  “Call it my innate caution or perhaps the wicked habits of a lifetime.”

  A voice sounded through the box beside the door. “Is that you, Devlin?”

  “And who else, you stupid bugger. I’ve got Martin Brosnan with me and a lady friend of his and we’re freezing in this damn cold, so get the door open.”

  “You’re early. You said two o’clock.”

  They could hear steps on the other side and then the door opened to reveal a tall, cadaverous man in his mid-sixties. He wore a heavy Arran pullover and baggy jeans and carried a Sterling sub-machine gun.

  Devlin brushed past him, leading the way in. “What do you intend to do with that thing, start another war?”

  McGuire closed the door and barred it. “Only if I have to.” He looked them over suspiciously. “Martin?” He held out a hand. “It’s been a long time. As for you, you old sod,” he said to Devlin, “whatever’s keeping you out of your grave you should bottle it. We’d make a fortune.” He looked Mary over. “And who might you be?”

  “A friend,” Devlin told him. “So let’s get on with it.”

  “All right, this way.”

  The interior of the warehouse was totally bare except for a van parked to one side. A steel staircase led to a landing high above with what had once been glass-fronted offices. McGuire went first and turned into the first office on the landing. There was a desk and a bank of television equipment, one screen showing the street, another the entrance. He put the Sterling on the desk.

  Devlin said, “You live here?”

  “Upstairs. I’ve turned what used to be the storage loft into a flat. Now let’s get on with it, Devlin. What is it you want? You mentioned Sean Dillon.”

  “He’s on the loose again,” Brosnan said.

  “I thought he must have come to a bad end. I mean, it’s been so long.” McGuire lit a cigarette. “Anyway, what’s it to do with me?”

  “He tried to knock off Martin here in Paris. Killed his girlfriend instead.”

  “Jesus!” McGuire said.

  “Now he’s on the loose in London and I want him,” Brosnan told him.

  McGuire looked at Mary again. “And where does she fit in?”

  “I’m a captain in the British Army,” she said crisply. “Tanner’s the name.”

  “For God’s sake, Devlin, what is this?” McGuire demanded.

  “It’s all right,” Devlin told him. “She hasn’t come to arrest you, although we all know that if Tommy McGuire was still in the land of the living he’d draw about twenty-five years.”

  “You bastard!” McGuire said.

  “Be sensible,” Devlin told him. “Just answer a few questions and you can go back to being George Kelly again.”

  McGuire put a hand up defensively. “All right, I get the point. What do you want to know?”

  “Nineteen eighty-one, the London bombing campaign,” Brosnan said. “You were Dillon’s control.”

  McGuire glanced at Mary. “That’s right.”

  “We know Dillon would have experienced the usual problems as regards weapons and explosives, Mr. McGuire,” Mary said. “And I’ve been given to understand he always favors underworld contacts in that sort of situation. Is that so?”

  “Yes, he usually worked in that way,” McGuire said reluctantly and sat down.

  “Have you any idea who he used in London in nineteen eighty-one?” Mary persisted.

  McGuire looked hunted. “How would I know? It could have been anybody.”

  Devlin said, “You lying bastard, you know something, I can tell you do.” His right hand came out of the pocket of the reefer holding an old Luger pistol and he touched McGuire between the eyes. “Quick now, tell us or I’ll . . .”

  McGuire pushed the gun to one side. “All right, Devlin, you win.” He lit another cigarette. “He dealt with a man in London called Jack Harvey, a big operator, a real gangster.”

  “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Devlin said.

  There was a thunderous knocking on the door below and they all looked at the television screen to see an old bag lady on the front step. Her voice came clearly through the speaker. “The lovely man you are, Mr. Kelly. Could you spare a poor soul a quid?”

  McGuire said into the microphone, “Piss off, you old bag.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Mr. Kelly, I’ll die here on your step in this terrible cold, so I will for the whole world to see.”

  McGuire got up. “I’ll go and get rid of her. I’ll only be a minute.”

  He hurried down the stairs and extracted a five-pound note from an old wallet as he approached the door. He got it open and held it out. “Take this and clear off.”

  Dillon’s hand came up out of the plastic shopping bag holding the Colt. “A fiver, Tommy boy. You’re getting generous in your old age. Inside.”

  He pushed him through and closed the door. McGuire was terrified. “Look, what is this?”

  “Nemesis,” Dillon said. “You pay for your sins in this life, Tommy, we all do. Remember that night in seventy-two, you, me and Patrick when we shot the Stewarts as they ran out of the fire?”

  “Dillon?” McGuire whispered. “It’s you?” He started to turn and raised his voice. “Devlin!” he called.

  Dillon shot him twice in the back breaking his spine, driving him on his face. As he got the door open behind him, Devlin appeared on the landing, the Luger in his hand, already firing. Dillon fired three times rapidly, shattering the office window, then was outside, slamming the door behind him.

  As he started up the street, two stripped-down Land-Rovers, four soldiers in each, turned out of the main road, attracted by the sound of the firing and came toward him. The worst kind of luck, but Dillon didn’t hesitate. As he came to a drain in the gutter, he pretended to slip and dropped the Colt through the bars.

  As he got up someone called, “Stay where you are.”

  They were paratroopers in camouflage uniforms, flak jackets and red berets, each man with his rifle ready and Dillon gave them the performance of his life. He staggered forward, moaning and crying and clutching at the young lieutenant in charge.

  “Jesus, sir, there’s terrible things going on back ther
e in that warehouse. There’s me sheltering from the cold and these fellas come on and start shooting each other.”

  The young officer smelled the whisky and pushed him away. “Check what’s in the carrier, Sergeant.”

  The Sergeant rifled through. “Bottle of hooch and some newspapers, sir.”

  “Right, go and wait over there.” The officer pushed Dillon along the pavement behind the patrol and got a loudhailer from one of the Land-Rovers. “You inside,” he called. “Throw your weapons out through the door, then follow them with your hands up. Two minutes or we’ll come in to get you.”

  All members of the patrol were in a readiness posture, intent only on the entrance. Dillon eased back into the courtyard, turned and hurried past Devlin’s taxi, finding what he was seeking in seconds, a manhole cover. He got it up and went down a steel ladder, pulling the cover behind him. It had been a way in which he had evaded the British Army on many occasions in the old days and he knew the system in the Falls Road area perfectly.

  The tunnel was small and very dark. He crawled along it, aware of the sound of rushing water, and came out on the sloping side of a larger tunnel, the main sewer. There were outlets to the canal that ran down to Belfast Lough, he knew that. He pulled off the skirt and the wig and threw them in the water using the headscarf to wipe his lips and face vigorously, then he hurried along the side until he came to another steel ladder. He started up toward the rays of light beaming in through the holes in the cast iron, waited a moment, then eased it up. He was on a cobbled pathway beside the Canal, the backs of decaying, boarded-up houses on the other side. He put the manhole back in place and made for the Falls Road as fast as possible.

  In the warehouse, the young officer stood beside McGuire’s body and examined Mary Tanner’s ID card. “It’s perfectly genuine,” she said. “You can check.”

  “And these two?”

  “They’re with me. Look, Lieutenant, you’ll get a full explanation from my boss. That’s Brigadier Charles Ferguson at the Ministry of Defence.”