'Harker, John Harker.'
'Well, I think you've been a naughty boy, Mr Harker. Closed from September till Easter, and you allow unauthorized guests like my old friend Jack Barry.'
'I don't know what you mean.' The old man was shaking.
Dillon produced his Walther and said cheerfully, 'Maybe your memory will improve if I stick this behind your right kneecap and pull the trigger.'
Harker gave in instantly. 'His lordship's at home, I'll grant you that, and what can I do about it, an old man like me?'
'His lordship, is it?' Dillon laughed. 'How often is he here?'
'On and off during the winter months and there are others who know, estate workers from the village.'
'Who will keep their mouths firmly shut, I shouldn't wonder,' Hannah said.
'What else can we all do?' the old man said. 'These are desperate times and his lordship is not a man to cross.'
'A bullet in the head, is it?' Dillon asked.
'No need for that, not with the Soak Hole to teach a man a lesson. Tim Leary died in it last year.'
'And what would the Soak Hole be?'
'It's a kind of funnel in the cliffs. The sea explodes up through it. His lordship puts people down there to teach them a lesson.'
'Good God!' Hannah said.
'I shouldn't imagine he's got anything to do with it,' Dillon told her, and turned to Harker. 'To business. A white Ford Transit van. It arrived a little earlier, right?'
Harker nodded. 'It went down to Belfast this afternoon. Came back about forty minutes ago.'
'Who was in it?'
'Bobby Daley and Sean Bell, two of his lordship's men when it went, just Bell at the wheel when it came back.'
'And you were curious and went up the drive to see what was what.'
Harker was startled. 'How did you know?'
i know everything. What happened?'
'I was some distance away, but I saw Bell open the van's rear door and Bobby Daley got out with another man, and the three of them went inside.'
'And you, being curious, went closer, stood under a tree or whatever, and waited.'
Again, Harker was astonished. 'And how would you be knowing that?'
'Because I'm Irish, you daft bugger, I'm from County Down, I have the second sight. There's also the fact that you're wet
through because you were standing in the rain. Now who does Barry have up at the castle?'
'Only Daley and Bell.'
'Good man. Now we'll walk up there nice and quiet and you lead the way. Some suitable back path would do nicely.'
'Anything you say, sir.'
Lamps set in various parts of the grounds gave a certain amount of light as they walked along a narrow path through shrubbery and lush woodland, the castle battlements looming beyond. Suddenly, Harker paused.
'I think someone's coming,' he whispered.
They moved into the trees, and a moment later, Daley moved out of another path and started towards the castle. 'That's him,' Harker whispered. 'That's Bobby.'
Daley carried on towards the castle and Dillon said, 'Where's he been, that's the thing?'
'There's only the cliffs and the Soak Hole down there.'
Dillon turned to Hannah. 'Why would Barry not make the meet in Belfast? Why go to all the trouble of hauling Blake up here? It doesn't make sense.'
'Only if it stinks,' she said.
'I agree.' Dillon turned to Harker. 'The Soak Hole it is, and be discreet.'
Sean Bell sheltered under a tree at the side of the track, the lamp on the ground at his feet. He was distinctly unhappy, already wet from driving rain, and couldn't even smoke, since the cigarettes disintegrated in seconds. There came a hollow booming sound like some dinosaur in pain, as the Soak Hole erupted high into the air. He wondered how the American was doing. He wouldn't last long on a night like this.
There was a click as the silencer on the end of Dillon's Walther
nudged Bell's right ear, and Dillon said, 'The hard way, Mr Bell, is to blow your brains out, so be good.'
'Who the fug are ye?' Bell gasped, as Dillon ran his hands over him and recovered a.38 revolver.
'Webley.38. Long past its sell-by date. You must be hard up, you lot,' and he stuffed the weapon in a pocket of his bomber jacket. 'Dillon's the name.'
'Oh, my God!'
'Tonight's bad news for you. I suspect you've got an American friend of mine somewhere nearby.'
He ground the Walther in again and Bell cried out in pain. 'He's in the Soak Hole. The entrance is just down the track.'
'And why would he be in there?'
'Barry knew he wasn't what he seemed. We were waiting for him.'
'Really? Well, lead the way.'
Bell picked up the lamp and walked down the track, stepping back as the Soak Hole thundered white spray high into the night.
'Watch him,' Sean told Hannah, and walked to the edge of the steps leading down. 'Are you still there, Blake? It's Dillon.'
Blake, on the platform and hanging on to a rusting iron bolt, colder than he had ever been in his life, shouted back, 'What kept you?'
'Come away up,' Dillon called.
A couple of minutes passed, and then Blake appeared, climbing slowly. 'Jesus, Dillon, that was bad. I feel terrible. Takes me back to a tidal swamp I once spent six hours in back in Vietnam.'
'What happened?'
'Barry knew everything. My name, the President, the Basement. He said he had excellent sources, but wanted any facts I had to disclose about you and Ferguson.'
'Let's go up to the castle and oblige him.'
'Only too happy,' Blake said. 'Just one thing.' He turned to
Bell, who was standing at the top of the steps. 'Here's for you, you bastard.' He punched Bell very hard, and he went backwards headfirst with a cry. A moment later, the Soak Hole fountained.
'Can we go now?' Dillon asked.
'My pleasure.'
Blake led the way up to the courtyard and paused at the massive front door. Dillon said to Harker, 'Down to the gate, Da, sit inside and hold your tongue. Do that and I won't shoot you. Is it a bargain?'
The old man scuttled away. Hannah said, 'Has anyone got a spare pistol here?'
Dillon produced the Webley. 'I think this should be in a museum, but it will probably do the job.'
'Then let's get on with it,' Blake said and opened the door.
In the library, Daley put another log on the fire, and Barry stood by the French windows staring out as the rain drove against them. 'A desperate night, Bobby. I wonder how Mr Johnson is getting on.'
'Better than you think,' Blake said, easing the door open and leading the way in.
They all stood in a kind of tableau and Barry threw back his head and laughed. 'Dear God, it's you, Sean.'
'As ever was, Jack, come to haunt you. Charles Ferguson wants words, even more so after what I've heard from my friend here. An inside source of information? It could only be at White House level. You really are a naughty boy.'
'Always was, Sean, always was. I presume Bell has gone the way of all flesh?'
'Absolutely.'
'Ah, well, comes to us all. Pour Mr Johnson a brandy, Bobby, a large one. I expect he needs it.' He raised his glass to Blake. 'One old Vietnam hand to another.'
'Not really. I killed, but not in the way you did.' Blake took the brandy from Daley and looked at the paintings on the wall. 'Would that be a Confederate uniform there?'
Barry looked at the portrait. 'Yes. The stout gentleman on the end there was Francis the First. Made his money in Barbados in the eighteenth century. Sugar and slaves. Came back and bought a title. They were all called Francis. That's where Frank comes from.' 'Until you?'
'Yes, Jack for John. The one who fought for the Confederacy was killed at Shiloh. In letters home he said he'd chosen that side because grey suited his eyes.'
'That would figure, if he's anything like you,' Blake said. 'But let's get down to business. You knew I was coming in place of McGuire.'
'What happened to him?'
'As you well know, he's in a safe house in London emptying his guts,' Hannah said. 'The dog.'
'Yes,' Dillon told him. 'But they usually are. So, you know everything, it appears.'
'Always did, you know that, always one step ahead. That's what keeps me going.'
'And you wanted information about Brigadier Ferguson, so we hear,' Hannah said.
'Well, I would, wouldn't I? Always the old fox, that one.' 'You'll be seeing him soon enough,' Dillon told him. 'I'm sure you'll have an interesting conversation.'
'I'm certain we will.' Barry turned to the ice bucket and poured more Sancerre. He moved and stood at one side of the fireplace. 'Give Mr Johnson another brandy, Bobby. I'm sure he could do with it.'
Daley went to the sideboard and reached for the brandy-
decanter, then he pulled open a drawer and turned, a gun in his hand.
'There you go. Tables turned, I think,' Barry said.
But Dillon's hand was already under the back of his bomber jacket; his hand swung up, and there was a dull thud as he shot Daley in the heart, hurling him back against the sideboard, still clutching the decanter as he crashed to the floor.
Hannah cried out, and Dillon turned to see a section of the wood panelling beside the fireplace swing open, and Barry simply stepped back. There was a click as Dillon ran to it, but the panelling was immovable.
'Damn his eyes!' Blake said.
'I should have known,' Dillon told him. 'He'd never have used this place without an escape route or two. It's a rabbit warren. We'll never catch him now.'
Hannah looked down at Daley. 'What about him? Should we call the RUC?'
'That's the last thing we need.' There was an Indian rug on the floor, and Dillon rolled the body up in it. 'Help me get him on my shoulder.'
Blake did as he was told. 'Now what?'
'Let's get out of here. I'll dispose of the evidence. He can join Bell in the Soak Hole.'
He led the way down to the hall and Blake got the massive door open. Rain dashed in and Dillon said, 'The grand night it is for dirty work. I'll see you at the gate,' and he strode away.
When Blake and Hannah reached the cottage, there was no sign of Harker, although the light was still on. They got into the Land Rover out of the rain and Dillon appeared a few minutes later. 'All done and dusted. The paths of the wicked all reach a sticky end.' He went to the cottage door and kicked on it. It opened and Harker peered out. 'We lost them,' Dillon told him.
'His lordship and Daley took off through some secret passage.'
'There's a few of those up there.'
'Anyway, no need for Barry to know of your part in this. Keep your mouth shut and you'll be all right. It never happened.'
'Damn right I'll keep my mouth shut. I'll open the gate for you.'
Dillon got behind the wheel of the Land Rover and drove out and started along the coast road.
'Now what?' Hannah demanded.
'You can call the Lear jet to pick us up in the morning. Ferguson likes to hear bad news as soon as possible, you know that.' He spoke over his shoulder to Blake. 'What about you? Is it back to Washington?'
'No, I think I should follow this through. I'll come to London with you and help you brave Ferguson's wrath.'
'Right, then next stop the Europa and some decent room service.'
FIVE
The Lear jet flew over at midnight and they found Flight Lieutenants Lacey and Parry waiting for them, ready for a seven o'clock departure. It was all very official. The Lear carried RAF rondels and Lacey and Parry wore RAF flying overalls with rank insignia.
'Nice to see you again, Mr Johnson,' Lacey said and turned to Dillon, who was last up the steps. 'Are we going into action again, Sean?'
'Well, let's put it this way. I wouldn't book that holiday in Marbella,' Dillon said, and went up the steps.
They took off and climbed to thirty thousand and turned across the Irish Sea. Hannah found the tea and coffee flasks and Dillon three cups.
'You said Ferguson expects us like yesterday at the Ministry of Defence?'
'That's what he said.'
'How did he sound?'
'Neutral.'
Dillon poured tea into his cup. 'Oh, dear, that's when he's at his wont.'
The big surprise was Ferguson in the Daimler limousine waiting at Farley Field. Lacey took them across, providing what shelter he could with a large golf umbrella.
'Get in, for heaven's sake, and let's get on with it. Nice to see
you, Blake. Sit beside me.' Hannah and Dillon took the jump seats and she pressed the button to close the dividing window. 'Right, let's hear the worst,' Ferguson carried on. 'You do the talking, Dillon, the Irish are good at that.'
'You'd never believe his sainted mother was from Kerry,' Dillon told Blake, 'but there you go and here I go.'
He went through the events in Belfast and at Spanish Head, leaving nothing out. Ferguson listened, his face grave, until Dillon was finished.
'What a mess. He actually knew you weren't McGuire, and that was only arranged within the last few days.'
'More than that, Brigadier. He knows about the Basement, boasted about his inside source.' 'But who could that be?'
'Has to be someone in the White House. A lot of people operate out of there one way or another.'
'But the Basement is supposed to be very hush-hush,' Ferguson said.
'Just like your outfit, Brigadier, but how many people know about it?' Blake observed. 'Computer accessing is another problem. We've even had kids hack in.' 'So have we,' Ferguson agreed.
'And we do ourselves when we can, sir,' Hannah pointed out. 'Paris, Moscow...'
'Even Washington,' Dillon said. 'So, you've no clues?' Ferguson asked Blake. 'Not really. I had to use the Travel Bureau, that's a polite name for the Forging Department. I wanted a passport as Tommy McGuire in case Barry wanted to see it. Then there were travel arrangements. Plane tickets, the room at the Europa, all as McGuire.'
'And all on computers,' Hannah said.
'But it still leaves the one incontrovertible fact that he knew
who you were. I don't like it.' Ferguson showed a spark of anger. 'Don't like it at all. And you can bet the President won't like it either.'
'You can say that again,' Blake said with feeling.
Ferguson nodded. 'So what's to be done?'
It was Dillon who said, 'I've been thinking about McGuire. There might be more than he's told us.'
'What makes you think that?' Hannah asked.
'There always is with people like him, you've been a copper long enough to know that.' He turned to Ferguson. 'Let me have a go at him.'
'Does that mean beating it out of him?' Hannah demanded.
'No. Just putting the fear of God in him.'
Ferguson nodded. 'Right, it's all yours.'
'Good,' Dillon said. 'This is what we'll do..."
The safe house at Holland Park was a mid-Victorian mansion behind high walls. It looked innocuous enough, but had the kind of security that made it impregnable. McGuire had been amazed at the comfort. His own room, en suite, television, excellent food. What he didn't know was that he was on screen even when he went to the toilet.
Occasionally he was taken down to a drawing room that was very pleasantly furnished with an open fire and an even larger television. He was served a more than decent meal. There was even a bottle of Chablis. The guard was just as decent, Mr Fox, who didn't wear a uniform, just a navy blue suit. Of course, McGuire didn't realize that Fox carried a.38 Smith & Wesson Magnum in a holster under his left arm, just as he didn't appreciate that the large gold-framed mirror provided a perfect view for anyone in the next room, which on this occasion meant Ferguson, Blake and Hannah Bernstein.
They watched McGuire finishing his lunch, Fox standing
against the wall. There was a knock at the door, Fox unlocked it and Dillon walked in.
'Well, you seem to be doing all right, Tommy,' he
said. McGuire stared at him. 'It's you. What do you want?' 'Oh, just to bringyou up to date on what happened in Ulster.' He lit a cigarette, took the half-bottle of wine from its bucket and poured it into McGuire's empty glass. He sampled it. 'Not bad. Yes, we missed out on Jack Barry. He managed to fly the coop. We got rid of two of his men, Daley and Bell. Do they mean anything to you?' 'Never heard of them.'
Jack Higgins - Dillon 07 - The White House Connection Page 7
