by Jack Higgins
“All right, Captain,” he said defensively. “I’m only doing my job. It’s not like the old days here, you know. We have the RUC on our backs. Every death has to be investigated fully, otherwise there’s the devil to pay.”
The sergeant came in. “The Colonel’s on the wire, boss.”
“Fine,” the young lieutenant said and went out.
Brosnan said to Devlin, “Do you think it was Dillon?”
“A hell of a coincidence if it wasn’t. A bag woman?” Devlin shook his head. “Who’d have thought it?”
“Only Dillon would be capable.”
“Are you trying to say he came over from London specially?” Mary demanded.
“He knew what we were about thanks to Gordon Brown, and how long is the scheduled flight from London to Belfast?” Brosnan asked. “An hour and a quarter?”
“Which means he’s got to go back,” she said.
“Perhaps,” Liam Devlin nodded. “But nothing’s absolute in this life, girl, you’ll learn that, and you’re dealing with a man who’s kept out of police hands for twenty years or more, all over Europe.”
“Well it’s time we got the bastard.” She looked down at McGuire. “Not too nice, is it?”
“The violence, the killing. Drink with the devil and this is what it comes down to,” Devlin told her.
Dillon went in through the back door of the hotel at exactly two-fifteen and hurried up to his room. He stripped off the jeans and jumper, put them in the case and shoved them up into a cupboard above the wardrobe. He washed his face quickly, then dressed in white shirt and tie, dark suit and blue Burberry. He was out of the room and descending the back stairs, briefcase in hand, within five minutes of having entered. He went up the alley, turned into the Falls Road and started to walk briskly. Within five minutes he managed to hail a taxi and told the driver to take him to the airport.
The officer in charge of Army Intelligence for the Belfast city area was a Colonel McLeod and he was not the least bit pleased with the situation with which he was confronted.
“It really isn’t good enough, Captain Tanner,” he said. “We can’t have you people coming in here like cowboys and acting on your own initiative.” He turned to look at Devlin and Brosnan. “And with people of very dubious background into the bargain. There is a delicate situation here these days and we do have the Royal Ulster Constabulary to placate. They see this as their turf.”
“Yes, well, that’s as may be,” Mary told him. “But your sergeant outside was kind enough to check on flights to London for me. There’s one at four-thirty and another at six-thirty. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to check out the passengers rather thoroughly?”
“We’re not entirely stupid, Captain, I’ve already put that in hand, but I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that we are not an army of occupation. There is no such thing as martial law here. It’s impossible for me to close down the airport, I don’t have the authority. All I can do is notify the police and airport security in the usual way and as you’ve been at pains to explain, where this man Dillon is concerned, we don’t have much to tell them.” His phone went. He picked it up and said, “Brigadier Ferguson? Sorry to bother you, sir. Colonel McLeod, Belfast HQ. We appear to have a problem.”
But Dillon, at the airport, had no intention of returning on the London flight. Perhaps he could get away with it, but madness to try when there were other alternatives. It was just after three as he searched the departure board. He’d just missed the Manchester flight, but there was a flight to Glasgow due out at three-fifteen and it was delayed.
He crossed to the booking desk. “I was hoping to catch the Glasgow flight,” he told the young woman booking clerk, “but got here too late. Now I see it’s delayed.”
She punched details up on her screen. “Yes, half-hour delay, sir, and there’s plenty of space. Would you like to try for it?”
“I certainly would,” he said gratefully and got the money from his wallet as she made out the ticket.
There was no trouble with security and the contents of his briefcase were innocuous enough. Passengers had already been called and he boarded the plane and sat in a seat at the rear. Very satisfactory. Only one thing had gone wrong. Devlin, Brosnan and the woman had got to McGuire first. A pity, that, because it raised the question of what he’d told them. Harvey, for example. He’d have to move fast there, just in case.
He smiled charmingly when the stewardess asked him if he’d like a drink. “A cup of tea would be just fine,” he said and took a newspaper from his briefcase.
McLeod had Brosnan, Mary and Devlin taken up to the airport, and they arrived just before the passengers were called for the four-thirty London flight. An RUC police inspector took them through to the departure lounge.
“Only thirty passengers, as you can see, and we’ve checked them all thoroughly.”
“I’ve an idea we’re on a wild-goose chase,” McLeod said.
The passengers were called and Brosnan and Devlin stood by the door and looked each person over as they went through. When they’d passed, Devlin said, “The old nun, Martin, you didn’t think like doing a strip search?”
McLeod said impatiently, “Oh, for God’s sake, let’s get moving.”
“An angry man,” Devlin said as the colonel went ahead. “They must have laid the cane on something fierce at his public school. It’s back to London for you two, then?”
“Yes, we’d better get on with it,” Brosnan said.
“And you, Mr. Devlin?” Mary asked. “Will you be all right?”
“Ah, Ferguson, to be fair, secured me a clean bill of health years ago for services rendered to Brit Intelligence. I’ll be fine.” He kissed her on the cheek. “A real pleasure, my love.”
“And for me.”
“Watch out for the boy here. Dillon’s the original tricky one.”
They had reached the concourse. He smiled and suddenly was gone, disappeared into the crowd.
Brosnan took a deep breath. “Right, then, London. Let’s get moving,” and he took her arm and moved through the throng.
The flight to Glasgow was only forty-five minutes. Dillon landed at four-thirty. There was a shuttle-service plane to London at five-fifteen. He got a ticket at the desk, hurried through to the departure lounge, where the first thing he did was phone Danny Fahy at Cadge End. It was Angel who answered.
“Put your Uncle Danny on, it’s Dillon,” he told her.
Danny said, “Is that you, Sean?”
“As ever was. I’m in Glasgow waiting for a plane. I’ll be arriving at Heathrow Terminal One at six-thirty. Can you come and meet me? You’ll just have time.”
“No problem, Sean. I’ll bring Angel for the company.”
“That’s fine and, Danny, be prepared to work through the night. Tomorrow could be the big one.”
“Jesus, Sean—” but Dillon put the phone down before Fahy could say anything more.
Next, he phoned Harvey’s office at the undertaker’s in Whitechapel. It was Myra who answered.
“This is Peter Hilton here, we met yesterday. I’d like a word with your uncle.”
“He isn’t here. He’s gone up to Manchester for a function. Won’t be back until tomorrow morning.”
“That’s no good to me,” Dillon said. “He promised me my stuff in twenty-four hours.”
“Oh, it’s here,” Myra said. “But I’d expect cash on delivery.”
“You’ve got it.” He looked at his watch and allowed for the time it would take to drive from Heathrow to Bayswater to get the money. “I’ll be there about seven forty-five.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
As Dillon put the phone down, the flight was called and he joined the crowd of passengers hurrying through.
Myra, standing by the fire in her uncle’s office, came to a decision. She got the key of the secret room from his desk drawer and then went out to the head of the stairs.
“Billy, are you down there?”
He came
up a moment later. “Here I am.”
“Been in the coffin room again, have you? Come on, I need you.” She went along the corridor to the end door, opened it and pulled back the false wall. She indicated one of the boxes of Semtex. “Take that to the office.”
When she rejoined him, he’d put the box on the desk. “A right bloody weight. What is it?”
“It’s money, Billy, that’s all that concerns you. Now listen and listen good. That small guy, the one who roughed you up yesterday.”
“What about him?”
“He’s turning up here at seven forty-five to pay me a lot of money for what’s in that box.”
“So?”
“I want you waiting outside from seven-thirty in those nice black leathers of yours with your BMW handy. When he leaves, you follow him, Billy, to bloody Cardiff if necessary.” She patted his face. “And if you lose him, sunshine, don’t bother coming back.”
It was snowing lightly at Heathrow as Dillon came through at Terminal One. Angel was waiting for him and waved excitedly.
“Glasgow,” she said. “What were you doing there?”
“Finding out what Scotsmen wear under their kilts.”
She laughed and hung onto his arm. “Terrible, you are.”
They went out through the snow and joined Fahy in the Morris van. “Good to see you, Sean. Where to?”
“My hotel in Bayswater,” Dillon said. “I want to book out.”
“You’re moving in with us?” Angel asked.
“Yes,” Dillon nodded, “but I’ve a present to pick up for Danny first at an undertaker’s in Whitechapel.”
“And what would that be, Sean?” Fahy demanded.
“Oh, about fifty pounds of Semtex.”
The van swerved and skidded slightly, Fahy fighting to control it. “Holy Mother of God!” he said.
At the undertaker’s, the night porter admitted Dillon at the front entrance.
“Mr. Hilton, is it? Miss Myra’s expecting you, sir.”
“I know where to go.”
Dillon went up the stairs, along the corridor and opened the door of the outer office. Myra was waiting for him. “Come in,” she said.
She was wearing a black trouser suit and smoking a cigarette. She went and sat behind the desk and tapped the carton with one hand. “There it is. Where’s the money?”
Dillon put the briefcase on top of the carton and opened it. He took out fifteen thousand, packet by packet, and dropped it in front of her. That left five thousand dollars in the briefcase, the Walther with the Carswell silencer and the Beretta. He closed the case and smiled.
“Nice to do business with you.”
He placed the briefcase on top of the carton and picked it up and she went to open the door for him.
“What are you going to do with that, blow up the Houses of Parliament?”
“That was Guy Fawkes,” he said and moved along the passage and went downstairs.
The pavement was frosty as he walked along the street and turned the corner to the van. Billy, waiting anxiously in the shadows, manhandled his BMW up the street past the parked cars until he could see Dillon stop at the Morris van. Angel got the back door open and Dillon put the carton inside. She closed it and they went round and got in beside Fahy.
“Is that it, Sean?”
“That’s it, Danny, a fifty-pound box of Semtex with the factory stamp on it all the way from Prague. Now, let’s get out of here, we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
Fahy drove through a couple of side streets and turned onto the main road, and as he joined the traffic stream, Billy went after him on the BMW.
TWELVE
FOR TECHNICAL REASONS the Lear jet had not been able to get a flight slot out of Aldergrove Airport until five-thirty. It was a quarter-to-seven when Brosnan and Mary landed at Gatwick and a Ministry limousine was waiting. Mary checked on the car phone and found Ferguson at the Cavendish Square flat. He was standing by the fire warming himself when Kim showed them in.
“Beastly weather and a lot more snow on the way, I fear.” He sipped some of his tea. “Well, at least you’re in one piece, my dear, it must have been an enlivening exprience.”
“That’s one way of describing it.”
“You’re absolutely certain it was Dillon?”
“Well, let’s put it this way,” Brosnan said, “if it wasn’t, it was one hell of a coincidence that someone decided to choose that moment to shoot Tommy McGuire. And then there’s the bag lady act. Typical Dillon.”
“Yes, quite remarkable.”
“Admittedly he wasn’t on the London plane, sir, coming back,” Mary said.
“You mean you think he wasn’t on the plane,” Ferguson corrected her. “For all I know the damned man might have passed himself off as the pilot. He seems capable of anything.”
“There is another plane due out to London at eight-thirty, sir. Colonel McLeod said he’d have it thoroughly checked.”
“A waste of time.” Ferguson turned to Brosnan. “I suspect you agree, Martin?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Now, let’s go over the whole thing again. Tell me everything that happened.”
When Mary was finished, Ferguson said, “I checked the flight schedules out of Aldergrove a little while ago. There were planes available to Manchester, Birmingham, Glasgow. There was even a flight to Paris at six-thirty. No big deal to fly back to London from there. He’d be here tomorrow.”
“And there’s always the sea trip,” Brosnan reminded him. “The ferry from Larne to Stranraer in Scotland and a fast train from there to London.”
“Plus the fact that he could have crossed the Irish border, gone to Dublin and proceeded from there in a dozen different ways,” Mary said, “which doesn’t get us anywhere.”
“The interesting thing is the reason behind his trip,” Ferguson said. “He didn’t know of your intention to seek out McGuire until last night when Brown revealed the contents of that report to Novikova, and yet he went rushing off to Belfast at the earliest opportunity. Now why would that be?”
“To shut McGuire’s mouth,” Mary said. “It’s an interesting point that our meeting with McGuire was arranged for two o’clock, but we were nearly half an hour early. If we hadn’t been, Dillon would have got to him first.”
“Even so, he still can’t be certain what McGuire told you, if anything.”
“But the point was, sir, that Dillon knew McGuire had something on him, that’s why he went to such trouble to get to him, and it was obviously the information that this man Jack Harvey was his arms supplier in the London campaign of eighty-one.”
“Yes, well, when you spoke to me at Aldergrove before you left I ran a check. Detective Inspector Lane of Special Branch tells me that Harvey is a known gangster and on a big scale. Drugs, prostitution, the usual things. The police have been after him for years with little success. Unfortunately, he is now also a very established businessman. Property, clubs, betting shops and so forth.”
“What are you trying to say, sir?” Mary asked.
“That it isn’t as easy as you might think. We can’t just pull Harvey in for questioning because a dead man accused him of something that happened ten years ago. Be sensible, my dear. He’d sit still, keep his mouth shut and a team of the best lawyers in London would have him out on the pavement in record time.”
“In other words it would be laughed out of court?” Brosnan said.
“Exactly.” Ferguson sighed. “I’ve always had a great deal of sympathy for the idea that where the criminal classes are concerned, the only way we’re going to get any justice is to take all the lawyers out into the nearest square and shoot them.”
Brosnan peered out of the window at the lightly falling snow. “There is another way.”
“I presume you’re referring to your friend Flood?” Ferguson smiled tightly. “Nothing at all to stop you seeking his advice, but I’m sure you’ll stay within the bounds of legality.”
“Oh, we wi
ll, Brigadier, I promise you.” Brosnan picked up his coat. “Come on, Mary, let’s go and see Harry.”
Following the Morris wasn’t too much of a problem for Billy on his BMW. The snow was only lying on the sides of the road and the tarmac was wet. There was plenty of traffic all the way out of London and through Dorking. There wasn’t quite as much on the Horsham road but still enough to give him cover.
He was lucky when the Morris turned at the Grimethorpe sign because it had stopped snowing and the sky had cleared exposing a half-moon. Billy switched off his headlamp and followed the lights of the Morris at a distance, anonymous in the darkness. When it turned at the Doxley sign, he followed cautiously, pausing on the brow of the hill, watching the lights move in through the farm gate.
He switched off his engine and coasted down the hill, pulling in by the gate and the wooden sign that said Cadge End Farm. He walked along the track through the trees and could see into the lighted interior of the barn across the yard. Dillon, Fahy and Angel were standing beside the Morris. Dillon turned, came out and crossed the yard.
Billy beat a hasty retreat, got back on the BMW and rolled on down the hill, only switching on again when he was some distance from the farm. Five minutes later he was on the main road and returning to London.
In the sitting room Dillon called Makeev at the Paris apartment. “It’s me,” he said.
“I’ve been worried,” Makeev told him. “What with Tania ...”
“Tania took her own way out,” Dillon said. “I told you. It was her way of making sure they didn’t get anything out of her.”
“And this business you mentioned, the Belfast trip?”
“Taken care of. It’s all systems go, Josef.”
“When?”
“The War Cabinet meets at ten o’clock in the morning at Downing Street. That’s when we’ll hit.”
