by Jack Higgins
“As I recall, they found Semtex at his lodgings and assorted weaponry.”
“True,” Dillon said, “but when they stood him up at the Old Bailey, he wouldn’t cough. They sent him down for fifteen years.”
“And good riddance,” Hannah said.
“Ah, well, now, everyone has their own point of view,” Dillon told her. “To you he’s a terrorist, whereas Dermot sees himself as a gallant soldier fighting a just cause.”
“Not anymore he doesn’t,” Ferguson said. “I’ve just had a call from the Governor at Wandsworth Prison. Riley wants to do a deal.”
“Really?” Dillon had stopped smiling, a slight frown on his face. “Now why would he want to do that?”
“Have you ever been inside Wandsworth, Dillon? If you had, you’d know why. Hell on earth, and Riley’s had six months to sample it and another fourteen and a half years to go, so let’s see what he’s got to say.”
“And you want me?” Dillon said.
“Of course. After all, you knew the damn man. You, too, Chief Inspector. I’d like your input.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “The Daimler is waiting, so let’s be off,” and he led the way out.
They waited in the interview room at Wandsworth, and after a while, the door opened and Jackson pushed Riley into the room and closed the door.
Riley said, “Sean, is that you?”
“As ever was, Dermot.” Dillon lit a cigarette, inhaled, and passed it to him.
Riley grinned. “You used to do that in the old days in Derry. Remember when we ran rings round the Brits?”
“We did indeed, old son, but times change.”
“Well, you’ve certainly changed,” Riley said. “And from one side to the other.”
“All right,” Ferguson broke in. “So you’ve had the old pals act. Now let’s get down to business. What do you want, Riley?”
“Out, Brigadier.” Riley sat on one of the chairs at the table. “Six months is enough. I can’t face anymore, I’d rather be dead.”
“Like all those people you killed,” Hannah said.
“And who might you be?”
“A Detective Chief Inspector, Special Branch,” Dillon told him, “so mind your manners.”
“I was fighting a war, woman,” Riley began, and Ferguson cut in.
“And now you’ve had enough of the glorious cause,” Ferguson said. “So what have you got for me?”
Riley appeared to hesitate and Dillon said, “Hard as nails this old bugger, Dermot, but very old-fashioned. A man of honor, so tell him.”
“All right.” Riley raised a hand. “You people always thought there were three Active Service Units operating in London. There was a fourth and a different kind of setup. Nice house in Holland Park. Three guys and a woman, all with good jobs in the City. Another thing – all handpicked because they’d been born in England or raised here. Perfect for deep cover.”
“Names?” Ferguson demanded.
“It won’t do you any good. Not one of them has a police record of any kind, but here goes.”
He rattled off four names, which Hannah Bernstein wrote down in her notebook. Dillon watched impassively.
Ferguson said, “Address?”
“Park Villa, Palace Square. It’s on old Victoria Place in a nice garden.”
“So you had dealings with them?” Dillon asked.
“No, but a friend of mine, Ed Murphy, was their supplier. He got a little indiscreet one night. You know how it is with the drink taken. Anyway, he told me all about them.”
“And where’s Murphy now?”
“Rotated back to Ireland last year.”
Dillon turned to Ferguson and shrugged. “If it was me, I’d be long gone, especially after Dermot was lifted.”
“But why?” Hannah demanded. “There’s no connection.”
“But there always is,” Dillon said.
“Stop this bickering,” Ferguson told them. “It’s worth a try.”
He banged on the door, and when it opened and Jackson appeared, took an envelope from his pocket. “Take that to the Governor and get it countersigned. It’s a warrant for this man’s release into my custody. Afterwards, take him back to his cell to collect his things. We’ll be waiting in my Daimler in the courtyard.”
“Very well, Brigadier.” Jackson stamped his booted feet as if back on the parade ground and stood to one side as they filed past.
A number of people were waiting in the rain outside the main gate for prisoners on release. Among them was the lawyer who had called himself George Brown, standing beside a London black cab, an umbrella over his head. The driver looked like your average London cabbie, which he was, a very special breed, dark curly hair flecked with gray, a nose that had at some stage been broken.
“Do you think it’s going to work?” he asked.
At that moment, the gates opened and several men emerged, the Daimler following.
“I do now,” Brown said.
As the Daimler passed, Riley, sitting beside Dillon and opposite Ferguson and Hannah, glanced out and recognized Brown at once. He looked away.
Brown waved to a Ford sedan on the other side of the road and pointed as it moved away from the curb and went after the Daimler.
Brown got into the cab. “Now what?” the driver asked.
“They’ll follow them. Ferguson’s got to keep him somewhere.”
“A safehouse?”
“Perhaps, but what would be safer than having him stay at Dillon’s place in Stable Mews, very convenient, for Ferguson’s flat is just round the corner in Cavendish Square. That’s why I’ve made the arrangements I have. We’ll see if I’m right. In the meantime, we wait here. I chose visiting day because I was just one of two or three hundred people and no one at reception will remember me, but the prison officer who took me to Riley will. Jackson is his name.” He glanced at his watch. “The present shift should have just finished. We’ll wait and see if he comes out.”
Which Jackson did twenty minutes later and hurried away along the street to the nearest tube station. A keen snooker player he was, in a tournament at the British Legion that evening, and wanted to get home to shower and change.
The tube was as busy as usual, and as he entered, the black cab pulled in at the curb and Brown got out and went after him. Jackson went down the escalator and hurried along the tunnel, Brown close behind, but keeping a few people between them. The platform was crowded and Jackson pushed his way through and waited on the edge. There was the sound of the train in the distance, and Brown slipped in closer as the crowd surged forward. There was a rush of air, a roaring now as the train appeared, and Jackson was aware of a hand against his back, the last thing he remembered in this life as he plunged headfirst onto the track and directly into the path of the train.
The black cab driver waited anxiously. He’d already had to turn down several fares, was sweating a little, and then Brown emerged from the tube entrance, hurried along the pavement, and got in the back.
“Taken care of?” the driver asked and switched on his engine.
“As the coffin lid closing,” Brown told him and they drove away.
Ferguson said, “You’ll stay with Dillon at his place. Only five minutes’ walk from my flat.”
“Very convenient,” Riley said.
“And try and be sensible, there’s a good chap. Don’t try playing silly buggers and making a run for it.”
“And why would I do that?” Riley said. “I want to walk away from this clean, Brigadier. I don’t want to have to look over my shoulder for the rest of my life.”
“Good man.”
At that moment, the Daimler turned into Stable Mews, negotiating a gray BT van parked on the pavement, a manhole cover raised behind a small barrier. A telephone engineer wearing a hard hat and a distinctive yellow oilskin jacket with the BT logo printed across the back worked in the manhole.
Ferguson said, “Right, out you get, you two. The Chief Inspector and I have work to do.”
&nbs
p; “When will we make the hit?” Dillon asked.
“Sometime tonight. Sooner rather than later.”
The Daimler moved away and Dillon unlocked the door of the cottage and led the way in. It was small and very Victorian, with a scarlet and blue Turkish carpet runner up the hall. A door stood open to a living room, polished wood block floor, a three-piece suite in black leather, oriental rugs scattered here and there. Above the fireplace was an oil painting, a scene of the Thames River by night in Victorian times.
“Jesus,” Riley said, “that’s an Atkinson Grimshaw and worth a powerful lot of money, Sean.”
“And how would you be knowing that?” Dillon asked.
“Oh, once I had to visit Liam Devlin at his cottage at Kilrea outside Dublin. He had at least six Grimshaws on the walls.”
“Five now,” Dillon said and splashed Bushmills whiskey into two glasses on the sideboard. “He gave that one to me.”
“So the old bugger is still alive.”
“He certainly is. Eighty-five and still claiming seventy.”
“The living legend of the IRA.”
“The best,” Dillon said. “On my best day and his worst, the best. To Liam.” He raised his glass.
Outside on the corner of the mews, the man working in the manhole got out, opened the door of the van, and went inside. Another man dressed as a BT engineer sat on a stool manipulating a refractive directional microphone, a tape recorder turning beside it.
He turned and smiled. “Perfect. Heard everything they said.”
And at nine o’clock that evening, Palace Square in Holland Park was sealed off by the police. Ferguson, Dillon, and Riley sat in the Daimler at the gate of Park Villa and watched armed police of the antiterrorist squad smash the front door down with their hammers and flood inside.
“So far so good,” Ferguson said.
Dillon took the car umbrella, got out and lit a cigarette, and stood there in the pouring rain. Hannah Bernstein emerged from the front door and came toward them. She wore a black jump suit and flak jacket, a holstered Smith & Wesson pistol on her left hip.
Ferguson opened the door. “Any luck?”
“A stack of Semtex, sir, and lots of timers. Looks as if we’ve really nipped some sort of bombing campaign in the bud.”
“But no Active Service Unit?”
“I’m afraid not, Brigadier.”
“I told you,” Dillon said. “Probably long gone.”
“Sod it!” Ferguson told him. “I wanted them, Dillon.”
Riley said, “Well, I kept my side of the bargain. Not my fault.”
“Yes, but not enough,” Ferguson told him.
Riley was really working very well. He added a little anxiety to his voice. “Here, you won’t send me back, not to Wandsworth?”
“I don’t really have much choice.”
Riley switched to panic. “No, not that. I’ll do anything. Lots of things I could tell you and not just about the IRA.”
“Such as?”
“Two years ago. The Jumbo from Manchester that blew up over the Irish Sea. Two hundred and twenty dead. That Arab fundamentalist lot, the Army of God, was behind that, and you know who was in charge.”
Ferguson’s face had gone very pale. “Hakim al Sharif.”
“I can get him for you.”
“You mean you know where that murderous bastard is?”
“I spoke with him last year. He was also supplying arms for the IRA.”
Ferguson raised a hand. “That’s enough.” He looked up at Hannah. “Get in, Chief Inspector. We’ll go to Dillon’s cottage and pursue this further.”
The kettle in Dillon’s kitchen was the old-fashioned kind that whistled when it boiled. Ferguson was on the telephone checking in to the office and Riley was on the couch by the fireplace, Hannah Bernstein at the window.
She got up as the kettle sounded, and Dillon said, “None of that. It wouldn’t be politically correct. I’ll make the tea.”
“Fool, Dillon,” she told him.
He made a large pot, put it on a tray with milk and sugar and four mugs, and took it in. “Barry’s Tea, Dermot,” he said, naming Ireland’s favorite brand. “You’ll feel right at home.”
Hannah poured and Ferguson put the phone down. He took the tea Hannah offered and said, “All right, let’s start again.”
Riley said, “Before I was lifted here in London last year, I was pulled in by the Chief of Staff in Dublin as a courier. I had to fly to Paris, visit a certain bank where there was a briefcase in a safe deposit. All I know is it was a lot of money in American dollars. I never knew how much. I understood it was a down payment against an arms shipment to Ireland.”
“And then?”
“I had exact instructions and I followed them. Flew to Palermo in Sicily where I hired a car and drove across to the south coast of the island, a fishing port called Salinas, a real nothing of a place. I was told to phone a certain number and simply say: ‘The Irishman is here.”’
“Go on,” Ferguson urged.
“Then I was to wait at this bar on the waterfront called the English Café.”
The story was so good that Riley was almost believing it himself, and it was Dillon who said, “And they came?”
“Two men in a Range Rover. Arabs. They took me to this villa by the sea about six or seven miles out of Salinas. Nothing else around. There was a jetty, some sort of motorboat.”
“And Hakim al Sharif?” Hannah asked.
“Oh, yes. Very hospitable. He checked out the cash, gave me a sealed letter for the Chief of Staff in Dublin, and made me stay the night.”
“How many people?” Dillon asked.
“The two fellas that picked me up were obviously his minders, then there was an Arab couple in a small cottage next door. The woman cooked and her husband was a general handyman. It seemed as if they looked after the place when he was away.” He drank some of his tea. “Oh, and there was a younger Arab woman who lived with them. I think she was there to make Hakim happy on occasions. That’s how it seemed, anyway.”
“Anything else of interest?” Ferguson asked.
“Well, he wasn’t your ordinary Muslim. Drank a great deal of Scotch whiskey.”
“So he opened up?” Dillon said.
“Only to the extent that his tongue loosened. Kept going on about the jobs he’d pulled and how he’d made fools of the intelligence services of a dozen countries. Oh, and he told me he’d had the villa for six years. Said it was the safest base he’d ever had, because all the local Sicilians were crooks of one sort or another and everybody minded their own business.”
“And he’s still there?” Hannah asked.
Riley managed to sound reluctant. “I don’t see why not, but I couldn’t swear to it.”
There was silence. Ferguson said, “God, I’d love to get my hands on him.”
“Well, if he is there, and I think there’s a fair chance he is,” Riley said, “you could get what you want. I mean, it’s another country, but you knock people off from other countries all the time, don’t tell me you don’t.”
“It’s certainly a thought.” Ferguson nodded.
“Look, send Dillon,” Riley said. “Send whoever you want and I’ll go with them, put myself on the line every step of the way.”
“And make a run for it first chance you get, Dermot boy,” Dillon said.
“Jesus, Sean, how many times do I have to tell you? I want out of this clean. I don’t want to be on the run for the rest of my life.” He turned to Ferguson. “Brigadier?”
Ferguson made his decision. “Take him out for a meal or something, Dillon. I’ll phone you in two hours.” He turned to Hannah. “Right, Chief Inspector, we have work to do.”
He went out, she raised her eyebrows at Dillon, and followed.
Dillon went to a drawer in the sideboard, opened it and took out a silenced Walther, which he tucked into the waistband of his cords at the rear under his coat.
“Like they say in those bad movie
s, Dermot, one false move and I’ll kill you.”
“No, you won’t, Sean, because I’m not going to make one.”
“Good, then it’s the King’s Head on the other side of the square. Great pub grub. They do a shepherd’s pie like your mother used to make, and after six months in Wandsworth I’d say you could do with.”
Riley groaned. “Just show me the way.”
They hadn’t been back at the cottage for more than five minutes when the phone rang. Dillon picked it up.
“Ferguson,” the Brigadier said. “This is the way of it.”
Dillon listened intently, then nodded. “Fine. We’ll expect you at nine o’clock in the morning.”
He put the phone down and lit a cigarette. Riley said, “Is it on?”
Dillon nodded. “Ferguson’s been in touch with the Marine Commando Special Boat Squadron at Akrotiri, the British sovereign base area in Cyprus. A Captain Carter and four men have been given the job. They’ll leave for Sicily by boat posing as fishermen. Weather permitting, they should make it to Salinas by early evening tomorrow.”
“And you and me?”
“Ferguson will pick us up at nine with Hannah Bernstein and take us out to Farley Field. That’s an RAF proving ground. You and I, plus Bernstein, fly in the department’s Lear jet to Sicily. We drive to Salinas. Carter will make himself known on arrival. The Lear will fly on to Malta.”
“Why Malta?”
“Because that’s where we go after Carter and his boys snatch Hakim. You and I go in with them, by the way.”
“Just like old times.”
“Short sea voyage. Do you good after Wandsworth.”
Riley nodded. “Would you anticipate any problem with Hakim at Malta?”
“None at all. They’re on our side. I mean, it isn’t Bosnia. A shot of something to subdue him, and the Lear, after all, bears RAF rondels. By the time Hakim has stopped being sick, he’ll be in London.”
In the BT van, the man at the directional microphone nodded to his friend, then turned off the tape recorder.
