Day of Reckoning sd-8

by Jack Higgins

  Dillon drove down Horse Guards Avenue in the green Mini Cooper.

  Blake said, 'So Harry's still working the rackets.'

  'Oh, sure, it's in his blood. But like I was saying, it's all smuggling — booze, diamonds, that kind of thing — no drugs. He's an old-fashioned family man, in values, anyway.'

  'Aren't we all?'

  They reached Wapping and pulled up outside the Dark Man. It was a typical London pub; the painted sign showed a sinister individual in a black cloak.

  It was early for the drink trade, noon an hour and a half away, but it was open. They went into the main bar, which was very Victorian, the bottles ranged against mirrors, an enormous mahogany bar smelling of polish, the porcelain beer handles waiting for action.

  Three men were in the corner booth, drinking tea and reading newspapers: Billy Salter, Harry's nephew, and Joe Baxter and Sam Hall.

  'What's this, a thieves' kitchen?' Dillon asked.

  Billy looked up, and a delighted smile appeared on his wicked face. 'Dear God, it's you, Dillon, and our American friend, Mr Johnson. We remember you.'

  Baxter and Hall laughed, and Billy said, 'Well, we're not in the nick, and I suppose that's one good thing. What brings you here?' He smiled eagerly. 'Could it be trouble?'

  'Why, are you getting bored, Billy?' Dillon asked. 'Let's see Harry and decide.'

  'He's down at the boat.'

  'The Lynda Jones?'

  'Sure. Refurbished. His pride and joy. I'll show you. Let's take a walk.'

  They went along the wharf, passing a few boats, one or two old barges sunk into the water. It started to rain as they reached the boat. Harry Salter was sitting at a table under an awning, reading The Times. Dora, the chief barmaid from the Dark Man, was pouring tea. He patted her ample rear.

  'I've said it before, Dora, you've got a great arse.'

  'Now, isn't that the poet in him?' Dillon said. 'Such a majestic choice of language.'

  Salter looked up and took off his reading glasses. 'Christ, Dillon, it's you.' He glanced at Blake. 'And the bleeding Yank again. Here, what's going on?' The blue eyes hardened in the well-lined face. 'Trouble?'

  'Well, let's put it this way. You owe me, and this is payback time. You'd have been dead meat when the Hooker mob had you if Blake and I hadn't stuck an oar in.'

  'No problem. I always pay my debts. Anyway, I like you, Dillon. You remind me of Billy here. I mean, you don't give a stuff. Mad as a hatter.'

  'Seeking death, you mean,' Dillon asked.

  'That's it,' Billy said. 'You and me both, Dillon, brothers under the skin. Have we got a problem?'

  'Well, if it is, its name is Jago.'

  Billy's face turned pale. 'Harold and Tony, those two bastards.'

  'You don't like them?'

  Salter said, 'Dillon, we're friends, right? I'm doing well on the cigarette run from Europe. There are big profits, with the tax differential. But I've had three cargoes hijacked in two months. I know it's the Jagos, but I can't prove it. So what's your problem?'

  A guy called Jack Fox fronts for the Solazzo family.'

  'The Colosseum?' Billy said. 'Hey, we know about them. The Jagos have been running with him. In-and-out jobs, security trucks.'

  'Always cash,' Salter said. 'What's your interest?'

  'Fox had Blake's wife murdered. She was a reporter who got close, too close, so he had her wasted.'

  'Jesus,' Salter said. 'The fucking bastard.' He turned to Blake. 'Look, what can I say?'

  'That you'll help us, will do.'

  'Well, you can bloody well count on that. What's going on?'

  'Fox needs cash flow. You won't have heard yet, but we closed the Colosseum and the betting shops down last night.'

  'And how in the hell did you do that?'

  Dillon said to Blake, 'Go on, tell him,' which Blake did, and Salter and his boys fell about laughing.

  'Dear God,' Billy said. 'I mean, that's beautiful.'

  'Yes, but the Jagos were there, and we know Fox needs a big tickle. Eyes and ears, Harry, see what you can find out.' 'We certainly will.' Salter rubbed his hands together. 'Life suddenly becomes interesting again, eh, Billy?'

  Billy looked wolfish. 'It certainly does.' He turned to Dillon. 'I'm reading this paperback on philosophy. Pinched it from the hairdresser. Better than a novel. This guy Heidegger. Have you heard of him, Dillon?'

  'German. A great favourite of Heinrich Himmler, I believe.'

  'Never mind that. This Heidegger says that life is action and passion, and that a man fails to take part in the action and passion of his times at the peril of being judged not to have lived.'

  'That's really very erudite, Billy.'

  'Don't take the piss out of me, Dillon. I didn't get much schooling and I know I'm a tearaway, but I've got a brain. I like books and I know what erudite means, which is that I'm a clever bastard.'

  'I never doubted it.' Dillon took out a card and scribbled numbers. 'My house, my mobile, Ferguson at his Cavendish Square flat. Do what you can, Harry.'

  'Sure will, my old son.'

  Dillon and Blake went to the gangplank and Dillon noticed

  some air bottles. 'Hey, Billy, you're still at the scuba diving?' 'Master diver now,' Billy said. 'Are you a master diver?' 'As a matter of fact, I am.'

  'Oh, go and stuff yourself, Dillon. We'll be in touch,' and Billy went back to his uncle.

  The Gulfstream did not carry RAF roundels, so when it landed at Dublin Airport it was simply directed to an area that handled private planes. Flight Sergeant Madoc got the door open. Like Lacey and Parry, he wore the kind of navy blue uniform used by flight crews throughout the world. He put an umbrella up against the driving rain.

  'There's a limousine by the hangar,' Madoc said, and led the way towards a black Mercedes.

  But there was another vehicle waiting there, a Garda police car, a uniformed officer at the wheel, a large man in a fawn Burberry trenchcoat and tweed cap sitting beside him.

  He got out, smiling. 'Dan Malone, Special Branch, chief superintendent. We've never met.'

  'Ah, you outrank me, sir.'

  'Heard they've put you up to Super. I bet the boys at Special Branch at Scotland Yard didn't like that.'

  'Malone? That's a good Irish name. We have a Detective Sergeant Terry Malone in Special Branch.'

  'My nephew. English mother, born in London. Can we have words, away from the pride of the RAF here?'

  They moved out of the rain into the hangar, and he took a cigarette from a crumpled pack. 'Do you use these things?'

  'No.'

  'Good for you. You'll live longer than me. Listen, we're all together these days, what with Europe and the peace process. And I know all about you, Superintendent, just like most of Dublin Special Branch. Your reputation precedes you. Ferguson's and Dillon's, too.'

  'What are you trying to say?'

  'That we're not looking the other way where the IRA is concerned. On the other hand, if Ferguson's sent you over, something's up. I'll be honest with you. I leaned on your driver, who told me he was to take you to Kilrea, and that means only one thing. You're going to see Liam Devlin, the old sod.'

  'Ah, you like him, too?'

  'Yes, damn you, I do. So — is there something I should know about?'

  'I'm seeking information.'

  'Is this a hot one?'

  'It could be.' She took a chance then. 'One cop to another?'

  'One cop to another.'

  'Does Brendan Murphy mean anything to you?'

  'That bastard? Dear God, is he in this?' He frowned. 'But he wouldn't be in this jurisdiction. He's always stayed north of the border. What is this?'

  'This is just a rumour right now. Could be an arms dump in County Louth. Could be an Arab terrorist connection in Lebanon.'

  'So that's why you've come to see Devlin?'

  'That's right. If anyone will have heard a whisper, it'll be him.'

  'No doubt about that.' Malone frowned. 'You'll keep me informed?'
/>   'Of course. We might even need your good offices.'

  'Fine. I'll hear from you, then.' He walked her back to thelimousine and opened the door. 'And watch your back, peace or no peace.'

  'What peace?' she asked, got in the limousine, and closed the door.

  It was just after noon when she reached Devlin's Victorian cottage next to the convent in Kilrea village. She told the driver to wait, went up the path, and knocked on the door. It opened and he stood there, an ageless figure in black Armani slacks and shirt, his hair silver, his eyes very blue, a man who still held literary seminars as a visiting professor at Trinity College, but also a lifetime member of the IRA who had killed many times.

  'Jesus, girl, you look wonderful.' He embraced her. 'You look grand. Come away in.'

  'You're not looking too bad yourself.'

  He led her to the sitting room.

  He turned. 'Would you like a drink or something?' 'No, I'd like to get on with it.'

  She sat down and he took the opposite chair. 'Get on with it, then.'

  'Do you know a man called Brendan Murphy?'

  His face hardened. 'Is that dog in this?'

  'A bad one?'

  'As bad as they come.' He took a cigarette from the old silver case and lit it. 'You'd better tell me.'

  When she was finished, he sat there, frowning. 'Yes, that sounds like Murphy.'

  'I was thinking. Where would Murphy get the kind of money he'd need to pay for an underground arms bunker and weaponry?'

  'Drugs. Protection. This early release of prisoners the government's been doing has handed Ulster back to the Godfathers on both sides, Loyalist and Catholic.'

  'Have you any information on what Murphy could be up to?'

  'Only in general. The word is that he did time in Libya, not only in training but also working for various Arab outfits. He'll be the one supplying the contacts for Fox in this Lebanon business.'

  'Nothing more specific?'

  He shook his head, then his eyes narrowed. 'However, I might know somebody who could help. But I want your words as regards confidentiality.'

  'IRA?'

  'Exactly.'

  She nodded. 'My hand on it.'

  He reached for the phone. 'Let's see.'

  In Dublin, Michael Leary was just pulling on his raincoat to go out when the phone rang.

  'Leary,' he said.

  'Michael, my old son, Liam Devlin.'

  'Jesus, Liam, my heart's sinking already, because that can only mean you want something.'

  'And don't I always? I'll meet you at the Irish Hussar for a snack, and I'll have a Special Branch superintendent with me.'

  'What? The Garda I don't need.'

  'No, this is the Scotland Yard variety, name of Bernstein. A woman with brains and beauty, Michael. Works with Sean Dillon.'

  'My God.' Leary groaned. 'I don't want to know.' 'You'll love it, son. See you soon,' and Devlin put the phone down.

  In Hannah's limousine on the way to Dublin a short while later, Devlin pulled the glass screen across and filled her in on Michael Leary.

  'A nice lad. He went to Queen's University, Belfast. Read English literature. Taught for a while.'

  'And then took up the glorious cause.'

  'He had his reasons.'

  'But an educated man taking up guns and bombs.'

  'You mean all members of the IRA should be off a building site and wear hobnailed boots? Hannah, after the Second World War the Jews who fought to create Israel, the members of Irgun and the Stern gang, used guns and bombs, and many of them had been to the finest universities in Europe.'

  'Point taken.'

  He found a cigarette and opened his window to let the smoke blow away. 'I might also mention, with my usual modesty, that I was educated by Jesuits myself and took a first class honours degree at Trinity.'

  'All right, I surrender. I can't talk. I've killed people myself. It is just that I don't like bombs.'

  'And neither do I.'

  'So, more about Leary.'

  'Michael was on the active list for years. We worked together, except that he liked the bombs more than you or I do. He was running one in a truck over the border to Ulster, and it went off. Killed the two men with him and took off half of his left leg. The good news was he was still in the Republic, so he didn't end up in the Maze prison.'

  'So his active career was over?'

  'Oh, he ran the Dublin intelligence section for the chief of staff, but once the peace process started he'd had enough. He knows Dillon well, from Derry in the old days, when they were facing soldiers.'

  'And now what?'

  'He writes thrillers. The kind you see on the stalls at airports, and doing well.'

  'Good God.' She frowned. 'Will he help?'

  'Let's put it this way: He's like a lot of people these days. Big for peace. We'll see.'

  Devlin directed the driver to a quay on the River Liffey, where they parked outside the Irish Hussar.

  'It's a favourite with good Republicans and Sinn Fein supporters, and the food is excellent,' Devlin told her. The bar was very old-fashioned with mahogany and mirrors, bottles offering every kind of drink. It was busy, people sampling good simple pub food. Leary sat in a booth in the far corner. He had a pint of Guinness at his right hand, a plate of Irish stew in front of him.

  'Don't getup,' Devlin told him. 'This is my friend Hannah, so let's start with that.'

  Leary looked at her, a good-looking man of forty-five, black hair streaked with silver. He hesitated, then held out his hand. Hannah also hesitated, then took it.

  'Sit down.'

  'The stew looks good,' she said, as a waitress appeared. 'I think I'd like to sample that.'

  'And you, Professor Devlin?' the waitress asked.

  'Ah, now you're stroking me.' He turned to Hannah. 'Eileen's a student at Trinity. For her sins, she comes to my occasional seminars.'

  'Nonsense, you're the best, everyone knows that,' Eileen said.

  'Which gets you an A for your next essay. An all-day breakfast for me. A grand old playwright and novelist called Somerset Maugham once said that to dine well in England you should eat breakfast three times a day. Bushmills Whiskey for me, my love.'

  'A mineral water would do fine for me,' Hannah said. 'Still writing through the night, Michael?'

  'The leg, Liam. Hurts like hell at night, so I can't sleep and I refuse to take the morphine.'

  'I'd stick to the Bushmills if I were you.'

  Eileen brought the drinks and departed. Leary went back to his stew. 'So, what's it about?'

  'Brendan Murphy. Friend of yours?'

  'Nobody's friend, that one. As far as I'm concerned, he's a gangster. A disgrace to the movement.'

  'Would the chief of staff share your view?'

  'Certainly. All the old hands want peace to work, Liam, except for people like Murphy. .'

  'Who have a vested interest in keeping things going,' Hannah said.

  'Exactly. Splinter groups like the Continuity IRA, the Real IRA, they all have other agendas.'

  The breakfast and the Irish stew arrived and they started to eat.

  'And where would Murphy be now?' Hannah asked.

  'God knows, Superintendent.' Leary pulled up short. 'As you must know better than most, these days in the Republic, Ulster, and the UK, they're letting them out, not locking them up. Murphy can come and go as he pleases. He's only in trouble if he crosses the line with the Provisional IRA.'

  'Would he be dealt with?'

  'Certainly. No question. We're an army, Hannah, with rules and regulations. Now what's all this about and why should I help?'

  'Because fifteen years ago I saved your life in County Down after you were shot. Got you over the border.'

  'Liam, I paid off on that one when you, Dillon and that Yank were after Dermot Riley, and I told you he was back and probably at the farm at Tullamore, and down you went.'

  And you told the chief of staff, who sent Bell and Barry down. Two walking ape men.
They tortured Bridget Riley, with cigarette burns on the face.'

  And Dillon killed Bell and you shot Barry in the back. We got it all from Dermot.'

  'Yes, disgraceful in a man of my age.' Devlin nodded. 'All right, tell him, Hannah.'

  Which she did. The underground bunker in County Louth, Fox, the Lebanese connection. Everything.

  Leary sat there frowning, then said, 'Let me make one thing clear, and I'm speaking for Provos in general here. We won't give up our arms. History has shown that to be an unwise thing to do.'

  'So, you're happy to think that this bunker might exist and Murphy's in charge.'

  'No, I'm damn well not, and the chief of staff won't be pleased.'

  'You'll tell him?' Hannah asked.

  'I have no choice.'

  'Ah, well, for once, you've got something in common, you two,' Devlin said. 'So what can you do, Michael?'

  'We can trawl County Louth, but it's a hell of a lot of county and Murphy has a lot of hard-line friends there, so I'm not hopeful.' He frowned suddenly. 'I've just thought of something. Sean Regan. Remember him, Liam?'

  'From Derry,' Devlin said. 'Shot a military policeman and cleared off to America. As I recall, the peeler recovered.'

  'That was two years ago. Regan came back and was working with Murphy in Europe. Apparently, he was on a plane from Paris to Dublin three weeks ago that was diverted to Heathrow because of fog. His name came up on the computer security check and he was lifted.'

  'I wonder why I don't know about this.' Hannah frowned.

  'Well, according to my information, the Secret Intelligence Service picked him up at Heathrow on one of their special warrants and spirited him away. I'd have thought you'd have known that. Don't your departments share information?'

  'Only some of the time.'

  Devlin turned to Hannah. 'What do you think?'

  'If Regan's been working for Murphy, he might well know something. Frankly, it's our best lead.'

  'I can't see that there's anything else I can do,' Devlin said. 'Michael here will spill the beans to the chief of staff, and if I do get any crumbs from the table, I'll let you know.'

  They got up and walked to the door. Outside, Leary shook Hannah's hand. 'Superintendent, it was a sincere pleasure, but don't let's make a habit of it,' and he walked away.