by Jack Higgins
“Well, damn her eyes,” Billy said.
“That’s one point of view. So I went to the palace on my own. A nasty, wet day it was, too. The Regiment was proud of me. Gave me leave.”
“Which you used to sail to Long Island. You thought a hard sea voyage would blow the cobwebs away?” Dillon said.
“Something like that.”
“But in the end, you were still the man who shot five men dead, right?”
“That’s right.”
“General, they asked for it and they got it,” Billy said.
“True, Billy, I did my duty and it cost me Mary.” He said to Dillon, “God knows why I bothered to tell you after all these years. I think I’m getting maudlin in my old age. Take the wheel and I’ll go and have a rest,” and he went out.
Billy said, “My God, I said he was harder than Harry, but I never dreamed he was capable of a thing like that.”
“Oh, he probably killed before in all those rotten little wars, Billy. Cork Street was his spectacular.” He lit a cigarette. “Remember what I told you before, about the people who take care of the bad things that ordinary folk find impossible to handle? The soldiers? I’m a soldier, whether people approve of me or not, and so are you, and then we get Charles Ferguson, a decent, honorable man who could have been a banker or a lawyer. Instead he’s spent his life saving his country.”
Behind them, Ferguson said from the doorway, “That’s nice of you, Dillon, but don’t let’s overdo it, and as far as the steering goes, I’d say a couple of points west.”
In Drumgoole, in the back room of the pub, Derry Gibson ate bacon and eggs served by the local publican, one Keith Adair, his right-hand man in the little port.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” Adair asked.
“No, this is grand. It’s the weather I don’t like. It’s bad out there and getting worse. I’d hoped the Mona Lisa could come in to the jetty by the old stone quarry. If it gets worse, the skipper will have to drop his hook out in the bay.”
“That’ll make it more difficult to unload, Derry. Mind you, plenty of local fishermen have signed up for that.”
“Well, they would, wouldn’t they? What about the local Peelers?”
“They’ve closed the police station down, Derry. Some trouble up in Castleton, so they’ve gone up there to help out.”
“Excellent. They know which side their bread’s buttered on.”
At that moment, the phone sounded and Adair passed it to him.
“Mr. Gibson, it’s Janet from The Orange George.”
“I know who you are, Janet. What’s the problem?”
“Well, I was wondering if you knew where Patrick is? It’s been a couple of days. He phoned once and said his uncle Arthur had died unexpectedly and I was to carry on running the pub, only we got cut off and I’ve got bills coming in and I can’t write the checks, so I thought I’d speak to you, knowing you’re the real owner.”
“Just a minute,” Derry told her. “He doesn’t have an uncle Arthur.”
“Well, that’s what he said.”
And years of bad living made Derry Gibson sit up very straight. He nodded to Adair and switched the phone to speaker.
“When did you last see him, Janet?”
“Later in the morning when you went off for the plane to Belfast. I was doing breakfasts. This small man came in. Black bomber jacket, jeans and that funny kind of fair hair, almost white. He asked for Patrick, and at that moment Patrick came in by the rear door.”
“And what happened?”
“Well, the little guy said, ‘Patrick, my old son, it’s me, Sean Dillon.’ He had one of those kind of Belfast accents like yours, Mr. Gibson.”
Derry Gibson went cold. “And what happened?”
“That was it. Nothing until the phone call, and then today, I was talking to that old Kelly guy who sells the newspapers outside, and he said he was surprised to see Patrick getting in a Shogun with three guys, because he knew two of them well, Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy. Big gangsters.”
It was enough. Derry Gibson said, “There’s a lot going on here you don’t know about, Janet. Just keep things going. If you look in the right-hand top drawer of Patrick’s desk, you’ll find a company credit card. Use it to pay bills. I’ll be in touch.”
He switched off and turned to Adair. “Sean Dillon and those Salter guys. That means Ferguson.”
“Jesus, they’ll have squeezed Murphy dry,” Adair said. “We’re up the creek.”
“No, not the way Ferguson and Dillon work.” Gibson’s face was hard. “Every job is a black operation to them. No police, no SAS, just Dillon and whatever he comes up with. It’s always been the way he plays the game.”
“Which means?”
Gibson laughed and it was as if he was enjoying it. “He’s at sea already, homing on the Mona Lisa.”
“So what do we do?”
“Give him a welcome, his last on this earth. I’ll phone Rossi and let him know what to expect.”
On the bridge of the Mona Lisa, Martino was at the wheel, Rossi at one side, the boat pounding through heavy weather as darkness really descended. The ship-to-shore sounded, and Martino answered. He turned to Rossi.
“It’s for you.”
Rossi took it and listened to what Gibson had to say. “In Sean Dillon’s hands, Murphy will spill his guts.” Rossi felt strangely calm, not in the least put out. “Dillon really is a piece of work.”
“So what do we do?”
“Well, it’s up to the captain in this weather. If he can come in and make the jetty, fine,” Gibson said. “If it’s too rough, drop the anchor in the bay. I’ll have suitable backup here in Drumgoole, but you break out your weapons on board and keep a weather eye out for any likely craft.”
“You really think Dillon is actually at sea?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. He and Ferguson will see the Mona Lisa as a prime target and they’ll do it their way. Look, all this rubbish about Northern Ireland and peace initiatives. It’s crap, because the IRA and Sinn Fein have abused the system, and the British government has let them do it. I’m a good Orange Prod and I know it, because someone like Ferguson classes me with the IRA.”
“So what are you saying?”
“That Ferguson doesn’t play by the rules, because he knows the justice system doesn’t work. That’s why he has Sean Dillon. He’ll come in the hard way.”
He hung up.
Rossi stood there thinking, and turned to Martino.
“Break out the weapons and tell everyone to keep watch. Any other boat, we approach with caution.”
“Why, señor?”
Rossi smiled grimly. “We’re about to have company, Captain.”
11.
DILLON SPOKE TO Roper as the Highlander ploughed through heavy seas toward the Northern Irish coast.
“It’s rough,” Dillon said. “And getting rougher.”
“If the Mona Lisa’s off Drumgoole, try and make it to the entrance to the bay by the jetty to the old quarry. There’s a trough. Four hundred feet.”
“Thanks, that’s helpful.”
“And please watch it. Things are really moving out there. Don’t, for God’s sake, consider only the great Sean Dillon and his mission to save the world.”
The voice crackled over the ship-to-shore radio, and Dillon turned to Ferguson and Billy, who were listening.
He said, “Message received and understood, Roper. We who are about to die salute you, only I don’t plan to die just yet. This weather might be just what we need. Over and out.”
Dillon took a bottle of Lamb’s Navy rum out of the flare drawer, pulled the cork and swallowed deep. He passed the bottle to Ferguson. “You’re going to need it, Charles.”
Ferguson didn’t hesitate. He drank, wiped the neck and offered the bottle to Billy, who said, “No, I’ll manage. I’m so bleeding scared I don’t feel seasick anymore.”
Ferguson was at the wheel, which responded surprisingly well. “W
hat happens now?” he demanded.
Dillon leaned over the chart table. “I don’t know. If the Mona Lisa ties up at that jetty, fine. If it puts its anchor down in the bay, I’ll go in underwater with Semtex and timer pencils. An in-and-out job. Blow the bottom out of her, and down she goes.”
“It won’t be too deep if she’s at the jetty.”
“We’ll have to see. The bay would be better. There’ll be a hell of a lot of confusion there. God help all the small harbor craft, the fishing boats.”
“So that’s it, then?” Ferguson said.
“That’s exactly it, Charles.” Dillon smiled. “We’re totally in the hands of the weather. I’ll go below and get into my wet suit.”
“Me too,” Billy said.
“Not in a million years. You can run the inflatable, take me close, but that’s it. Open the weapons bag and arm up, Billy, I won’t be long,” and he went below.
In Drumgoole harbor, the scene was total confusion, the wind coming in off the Irish Sea and gusting to storm force. Smaller craft were already being torn from their moorings and smashed against the harbor walls. Other craft were breaking free and being sucked out into the bay on the other side of the jetty. In the midst of all this, the Mona Lisa emerged, her deck lights on, a kind of ghost ship, very old-fashioned, her superstructure high, Martino and Rossi way up on the bridge.
Derry Gibson’s voice came over the ship-to-shore. “Don’t come in, you’ll smash up against the old jetty. Drop your hook, and if you’re lucky you’ll find it about sixty or seventy feet, but there’s a trough of four hundred feet, I can’t help you there.”
Rossi said, “No news of our friends?”
“Jesus, Marco, if they’re out there, they’ll be as much in harm’s way as the rest of us. I’ll join you. We’ve got an RNLI inshore inflatable lifeboat here. They can handle most things. I’ll see you.”
Way out in the bay, the Highlander hove to and Ferguson tossed out a sea anchor, and Dillon, in his wet suit, looked out toward the distant Mona Lisa through night binoculars. Billy was using another pair.
“Dillon, there are boats floating out of the harbor, bouncing off the Mona Lisa’s hull like rubber balls.”
“Only they’re splintering, Billy. I’ve counted at least three in a sinking condition, but the Mona Lisa’s got an anchor chain down.”
Dillon put the weapons bag on the chart table, took out an arm holster, a Browning with the same twenty-round magazine in it as the hidden one, put it on, then crossed a weapons bag over his shoulder, took out three Semtex blocks and inserted ten-minute pencil timers. He slipped an inflatable belt around his waist.
“Nothing bulletproof?” Ferguson said.
“A titanium waistcoat under my wet suit, Charles, the best I can afford.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Cross her stern. We’ll drift in like the other boats. I’ll go over and climb the anchor line.”
“With luck?”
“Oh, we all need that, Charles.”
“And me?” Billy asked.
“When I hopefully survive long enough to jump over the rail, you may need to bring the inflatable in and pick me up. Turn it on and the engine goes to forty knots. I’ll send a flare up.”
“Not in this weather,” Ferguson said.
A huge crosswind turned them half over, and they all staggered and grabbed. Billy said, “You can’t, Dillon, it’s madness.”
Dillon put an arm around him. “You’re a great guy, Billy, but I don’t care anymore. I’m going to blow the hell out of that boat and everybody on it, whether that’s Gibson, Rossi – or even me,” and he said it with great deliberation.
The Mona Lisa bucked on its anchor as one craft after another crashed against it. There was total confusion on deck; the crew, who had previously been at the ready with their AK47s, now panicked as the boat rolled from side to side.
The Highlander eased forward and Dillon slipped over the side as they passed the stern of the Mona Lisa. The waves sucked him in, tossed him over, and he grabbed the anchor line. He hung there, his rubber gloves giving him a grip as the Highlander sped away.
He started to haul himself up, waves washing over him, and then reached the hole at the top and slid in through to the stern. There were two of the crew there, Fabio and Gomez, utterly confused by the waves breaking over the rails, clutching their AK47s.
They saw Dillon get to his knees, and then he pulled out the Browning and shot both of them in the head.
High up on the bridge, it was Derry Gibson who recognized the sound for what it was. “He’s here, the bastard’s here.”
“Who is?” Martino asked.
“Dillon, you miserable idiot.”
Gibson went out, looked down and saw Fabio and Gomez rolling in the scuppers.
“There you are.”
Martino, at his side, was horrified. “I can’t believe it.”
At that moment, Arturo and Enrico came round the central area on the port side, grabbing for the rail in the heavy sea, and Dillon, crouched in the stern, shot them both.
He moved forward on the port side, heavy seas breaking over him, reached the prow of the boat, heaved the hatch back on the engine room, took out the three blocks of Semtex with the timer pencils and dropped them in.
Bullets ripped up the decks beside him. He turned and found the man, Sancho, standing there, firing an AK47, and up high on the wheelhouse deck, Martino, Rossi and Gibson at the rail. He seemed to be facing an inevitable death, and then bullets cut across the decks, Martino was hurled back, and Sancho went down. Gibson ducked and ran away. Dillon looked over and saw Billy at the wheel of the inflatable, Ferguson standing up and spraying the Mona Lisa with the Browning from the wheelhouse.
Dillon ran and vaulted over the rail, and as the inflatable went by, grabbed a line and was hauled away.
“Out, out, out,” Gibson called to Rossi.
He went down the side ladder, ended up in the bouncing inflatable, and had the engine revving as Rossi joined him. A moment only, and they sped away through the heavy sea. A moment later out of the gloom, the Highlander’s inflatable appeared, Ferguson standing up with the Browning, Dillon trailing behind. Ferguson had no chance to fire; they were away.
Rossi said, “Ferguson, young Salter.”
“And Dillon,” Gibson said.
Behind them, the three Semtex blocks Dillon had dropped into the engine room exploded one after the other. The Mona Lisa simply blew apart. Parts of her superstructure flew up and then rained down into the storm below. The boat tilted, the stern rose, the Mona Lisa slid over the edge of the trough and went all the way down. There was another muffled explosion, an enormous convulsion to the already-disturbed sea surface, boats thrown all over the place, and then a strange calm. The wind dropped just then, only the rain continued, hard and forceful. The inflatable reached the Highlander and drifted against the side.
Dillon pulled himself up the ladder, paused and turned. “You must have been fantastic when you were young, Charles, because you are indescribable now.”
“Don’t forget, Billy, and don’t try to butter me up, Dillon. Just get on board and let’s turn for Oban. We’ve done what we came here for.”
“Except that Marco Rossi and Derry Gibson are left standing.”
“We’ll sort them another day.”
Rossi phoned his father. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I want out of this damned country.”
“Why? What happened?”
Rossi explained, and his father actually found it rather funny. “Ferguson, at his age. You must admit, Marco, it’s rather admirable.”
“Well, I’ve got a boat with two million pounds of weaponry sent down to the bottom by your admirable Ferguson.”
“Come home and we’ll discuss it.”
Afterward, the Baron sat, smoking a cigarette and sipping a large brandy, and he was actually smiling.
The Highlander ploughed on, Ferguson at the wheel. Billy appeared with the bacon sa
ndwiches.
“I’ll tell you what, you old bastard, you were great back there. Harry won’t believe it when I tell him.”
“You didn’t do badly yourself, Billy.”
Dillon came in, now changed, in jeans and a shirt. Ferguson said, “I’ll say it now. You were totally mad. Frankly, Dillon, you’ve got a death wish.”
“You’re right, General, but it got the job done.”
“I think you should visit Professor Susan Haden-Taylor again.”
“No, she’s washed her hands of me, and so has God. For the moment, we’ve succeeded in what we set out to achieve. Fewer arms for the conflict in Northern Ireland – and I’ll be willing to bet we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest with Rossi and von Berger. Now we wait and see where it leads – with luck, to the diary. By the way, I’ve phoned Harry, told him his nephew is still in the land of the living.”
“Thanks very much, Dillon,” Billy said.
“That’s all right, Billy, he worries about you. Now, would it be all right if I had a bacon sandwich?”
12.
IN DRUMGOOLE, THERE was a certain amount of chaos, but Northern Ireland had been used to chaos for almost thirty-five years. Nevertheless, Derry Gibson was in the market to move on.
“We’ll have the Peelers all over the place for a while,” he said to Rossi in the pub after the Mona Lisa went down. “I’ll lie low.” He was having a whiskey, and shook his head as he drank it down. “Sean Dillon – what a bastard he is, and Ferguson.”
“Yes, you should never underestimate your opponent. I’ll be out of this pesthole first thing in the morning. As far as I’m concerned, you can give Northern Ireland back to the Indians.”
“I think you’re being a bit rough.”
“I could be a damn sight rougher. I could point out, for instance, that you haven’t paid anything on the Mona Lisa contract. She’s gone down and Rashid doesn’t get a penny.”
“What happened, happened, Rossi. You were screwed and I was screwed. By Dillon and Ferguson.”
