by Jack Higgins
“Downing Street,” Dillon announced a moment later.
“Would you look at those gates?” Danny said in wonder. “I like the Gothic touch. Sure and they’ve done a good job there.”
Dillon moved with the traffic round Parliament Square and went back up Whitehall toward Trafalgar Square. “We’re going back to Bayswater,” he said. “Notice the route I’ve chosen.”
He moved out of the traffic of Trafalgar Square through Admiralty Arch along the Mall, round the Queen Victoria Monument, past Buckingham Palace and along Constitution Hill, eventually reaching Marble Arch by way of Park Lane and turning into the Bayswater Road.
“And that’s simple enough,” Danny Fahy said.
“Good,” Dillon said. “Then let’s go and get a nice cup of tea at my truly awful hotel.”
Ferguson said, “You’re getting too restless, Martin.”
“It’s the waiting,” Brosnan told him. “Flood’s doing his best, I know that, but I don’t think time is on our side.”
Ferguson turned from the window and sipped a little of the cup of tea he was holding. “So what would you like to do?”
Brosnan hesitated, glanced at Mary and said, “I’d like to go and see Liam Devlin in Kilrea. He might have some ideas.”
“Something he was never short of.” Ferguson turned to Mary. “What do you think?”
“I think it makes sense, sir. After all, a trip to Dublin’s no big deal. An hour and a quarter from Heathrow on either Aer Lingus or B.A.”
“And Liam’s place at Kilrea is only half an hour from the city,” Brosnan said.
“All right,” Ferguson said. “You’ve made your point, both of you, but make it Gatwick and the Lear jet, just in case anything comes up and you need to get back here in a hurry.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mary said.
As they reached the door, Ferguson added, “I’ll give the old rogue a call, just to let him know you’re on your way,” and he reached for the phone.
As they went downstairs Brosnan said, “Thank God. At least I feel we’re doing something.”
“And I get to meet the great Liam Devlin at long last,” Mary said and led the way out to the limousine.
In the small café at the hotel, Dillon, Angel and Fahy sat at a corner table drinking tea. Fahy had the Ordnance Survey map partially open on his knee. “It’s extraordinary. The things they give away. Every detail.”
“Could it be done, Danny?”
“Oh, yes, no trouble. You remember that corner, Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall? That would be the place, slightly on an angle. I can see it in my mind’s eye. I can plot the distance from that corner to Number Ten exactly from this map.”
“You’re sure you’d clear the buildings in between?” Dillon said.
“Oh, yes. I’ve said before, Sean, ballistics is a matter of science.”
“But you can’t stop there,” Angel said. “We saw what happened to that man in the car. The police were on him in seconds.”
Dillon turned to Fahy. “Danny?”
“Well, that’s all you would need. Everything pre-timed, Angel. Press the right switch to activate the circuit, get out of the van and the mortars start firing within a minute. No policeman could act fast enough to stop it.”
“But what would happen to you?” she demanded.
It was Dillon who answered. “Just listen to this. We drive up from Cadge End one morning early, you, Danny, in the Ford transit, and Angel and me in the Morris van. We’ll have that BSA motorcycle in the back of that. Angel will park the Morris, like today, in the garage at the end of the road. We’ll have a duckboard in the back so I can run the BSA out.”
“And you’ll follow me, is that it?”
“I’ll be right up your tail. When we reach the corner of Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall, you set your switch, get out of the Ford and jump straight on my pillion and we’ll be away. The War Cabinet meets every morning at ten. With luck we could get the lot.”
“Jesus, Sean, they’d never know what hit them.”
“Straight back to Bayswater to Angel waiting in the garage with the Morris, put the BSA in the back and away we go. We’ll be in Cadge End while they’re still trying to put the fires out.”
“It’s brilliant, Mr. Dillon,” Angel told him.
“Except for one thing,” Fahy said. “Without the bloody explosives, we don’t have any bloody bombs.”
“You leave that to me,” Dillon said. “I’ll get your explosives for you.” He stood up. “But I’ve got things to do. You two go back to Cadge End and wait. I’ll be in touch.”
“And when would that be, Sean?”
“Soon-very soon,” and Dillon smiled as they went out.
Tania was knocking at his door precisely at noon. He opened it and said, “You’ve got it?”
She had a briefcase in her right hand, opened it on the table to reveal the thirty thousand dollars he’d asked for.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll just need ten thousand to be going on with.”
“What will you do with the rest?”
“I’ll hand it in at the desk. They can keep your briefcase in the hotel safe.”
“You’ve worked something out, I can tell.” She looked excited. “What happened at this Cadge End place?”
So he told her and in detail, the entire plan. “What do you think?” he asked when he’d finished.
“Incredible. The coup of a lifetime. But what about the explosives? You’d need Semtex.”
“That’s all right. When I was operating in London in eighty-one I used to deal with a man who had access to Semtex.” He laughed. “In fact he had access to everything.”
“And who is this man? How can you be sure he’s still around?”
“A crook named Jack Harvey and he’s around all right. I looked him up.”
“But I don’t understand.”
“Amongst other things he has a funeral business in Whitechapel. I looked it up in the Yellow Pages and it’s still there. By the way, your Mini, I can still use it?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I’ll park it somewhere in the street. I want that garage free.”
He picked up his coat. “Come on, we’ll go and have a bite to eat and then I’ll go and see him.”
“You’ve read the file on Devlin, I suppose?” Brosnan asked Mary Tanner as they drove through the center of Dublin and crossed the River Liffey by St. George’s Quay and moved on out of the other side of the city, driven by a chauffeur in a limousine from the Embassy.
“Yes,” she said. “But is it all true? The story about his involvement with the German attempt to get Churchill in the war?”
“Oh, yes.”
“The same man who helped you break out of that French prison in nineteen seventy-nine?”
“That’s Devlin.”
“But, Martin, you said he claimed to be seventy. He must be older than that.”
“A few years is a minor detail where Liam Devlin is concerned. Let’s put it this way, you’re about to meet the most extraordinary man you’ve ever met in your life. Scholar, poet and gunman for the IRA.”
“The last part is no recommendation to me,” she said.
“I know,” he told her. “But never make the mistake of lumping Devlin in with the kind of rubbish the IRA employs these days.”
He retreated into himself, suddenly sombre, and the car continued out into the Irish countryside, leaving the city behind.
Kilrea Cottage, the place was called, on the outskirts of the village next to a convent. It was a period piece, single-storeyed with Gothic-looking gables and lead windows on either side of the porch. They sheltered in there from the light rain while Brosnan tugged an old-fashioned bell pull. There was the sound of footsteps, the door opened.
“Cead míle fáilte,” Liam Devlin said in Irish. “A hundred thousand welcomes,” and he flung his arms around Brosnan.
The interior of the house was very Victorian. Most of the furniture was mahogany,
the wallpaper was a William Morris replica, but the paintings on the walls, all Atkinson Grimshaws, were real.
Liam Devlin came in from the kitchen with tea things on a tray. “My housekeeper comes mornings only. One of the good sisters from the convent next door. They need the money.”
Mary Tanner was totally astonished. She’d expected an old man and found herself faced with this ageless creature in black silk Italian shirt, black pullover, gray slacks in the latest fashionable cut. There was still considerable color in hair that had once been black and the face was pale, but she sensed that had always been so. The blue eyes were extraordinary, as was that perpetual ironic smile with which he seemed to laugh at himself as much as at the world.
“So, you work for Ferguson, girl?” he said to Mary as he poured the tea.
“That’s right.”
“That business in Derry the other year when you moved that car with the bomb. That was quite something.”
She felt herself flushing. “No big deal, Mr. Devlin, it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”
“Oh, we can all see that on occasions; it’s the doing that counts.” He turned to Brosnan. “Anne-Marie. A bad business, son.”
“I want him, Liam,” Brosnan said.
“For yourself or for the general cause?” Devlin shook his head. “Push the personal thing to one side, Martin, or you’ll make mistakes, and that’s something you can’t afford to do with Sean Dillon.”
“Yes, I know,” Brosnan said. “I know.”
“So, he intends to take a crack at this John Major fella, the new Prime Minister?” Devlin said.
“And how do you think he’s likely to do that, Mr. Devlin?” Mary asked.
“Well, from what I hear about security at Ten Downing Street these days, I wouldn’t rate his chances of getting in very high.” He looked at Brosnan and grinned. “Mind you, Mary, my love, I remember a young fella of my acquaintance called Martin Brosnan who got into Number Ten posing as a waiter at a party not ten years ago. Left a rose on the Prime Minister’s desk. Of course, the office was held by a woman then.”
Brosnan said, “All in the past, Liam, what about now?”
“Oh, he’ll work as he always has, using contacts in the underworld.”
“Not the IRA?”
“I doubt whether the IRA has any connection with this whatsoever.”
“But they did last time he worked in London ten years ago.”
“So?”
“I was wondering. If we knew who recruited him that time, it could help.”
“I see what you mean, give you some sort of lead as to who he worked with in London?”
“All right, not much of a chance, but the only one we’ve got, Liam.”
“There’s still your friend Flood in London.”
“I know, and he’ll pull out all the stops, but that takes time and we don’t have much to spare.”
Devlin nodded. “Right, son, you leave it with me and I’ll see what I can do.” He glanced at his watch. “One o’clock. We’ll have a sandwich and perhaps a Bushmills together, and I suggest you go to your Lear jet and hare back to London. I’ll be in touch, believe me, the minute I have something.”
Dillon parked round the corner from Jack Harvey’s funeral business in Whitechapel and walked, the briefcase in one hand. Everything was beautifully discreet, down to the bell push that summoned the day porter to open the door.
“Mr. Harvey,” Dillon lied cheerfully. “He’s expecting me.”
“Down the hall past the Chapels of Rest and up the stairs. His office is on the first floor. What was the name, sir?”
“Hilton.” Dillon looked around at the coffins on display, the flowers. “Not much happening.”
“Trade, you mean.” The porter shrugged. “That all comes in the back way.”
“I see.”
Dillon moved down the hall, pausing to glance into one of the Chapels of Rest, taking in the banked flowers, the candles. He stepped in and looked down at the body of a middle-aged man neatly dressed in a dark suit, hands folded, the face touched with makeup.
“Poor sod,” Dillon said and went out.
At the reception desk, the porter picked up a phone. “Miss Myra? A visitor. A Mr. Hilton, says he has an appointment.”
Dillon opened the door to Harvey’s outer office and moved in. There were no office furnishings, just a couple of potted plants and several easy chairs. The door to the inner office opened and Myra entered. She wore skin-tight black trews, black boots and a scarlet, three-quarter length caftan. She looked very striking.
“Mr. Hilton?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Myra Harvey. You said you had an appointment with my uncle.”
“Did I?”
She looked him over in a casual way and behind him the door opened and Billy Watson came in. The whole thing was obviously prearranged. He leaned against the door, suitably menacing in a black suit, arms folded.
“Now what’s your game?” she said.
“That’s for Mr. Harvey.”
“Throw him out, Billy,” she said and turned to the door.
Billy put one rough hand on Dillon’s shoulder. Dillon’s foot went all the way down the right leg, stamping on the instep; he pivoted and struck sideways with clenched fist, the knuckles on the back of the hand connecting with Billy’s temple. Billy cried out in pain and fell back into one of the chairs.
“He’s not very good, is he?” Dillon said.
He opened his briefcase and took out ten one-hundred-dollar bills with a rubber band round them and threw them at Myra. She missed the catch and had to bend to pick them up. “Would you look at that,” she said. “And brand new.”
“Yes, new money always smells so good,” Dillon said. “Now tell Jack an old friend would like to see him with more of the same.”
She stood there looking at him for a moment, eyes narrowed, then she turned and opened the door to Harvey’s office. Billy tried to get up and Dillon said, “I wouldn’t advise it.”
Billy subsided as the door opened and Myra appeared. “All right, he’ll see you.”
The room was surprisingly businesslike with walls paneled in oak, a green carpet in Georgian silk and a gas fire that almost looked real, burning in a steel basket on the hearth. Harvey sat behind a massive oak desk smoking a cigar.
He had the thousand dollars in front of him and looked Dillon over calmly. “My time’s limited, so don’t muck me about, son.” He picked up the bank notes. “More of the same?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t know you. You told Myra you were an old friend, but I’ve never seen you before.”
“A long time ago, Jack, ten years to be precise. I looked different then. I was over from Belfast on a job. We did business together, you and me. You did well out of it as I recall. All those lovely dollars raised by IRA sympathizers in America.”
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 re
st 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 amp; 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.”
