by Jack Higgins
‘Of course, and I’m coming with you. I was at Queen’s University in Belfast more years ago than I care to remember. It will be interesting to go back.’
Dillon said to Roper, ‘Make sure we’re allowed to land at Belfast City Airport by the docks.’
Holley cut in. ‘And book us a suite at the Europa.’ He turned to Dillon. ‘Let’s get going.’
* * *
Roper managed to get the flight classified as a Ministry of Defence priority, so everything worked perfectly, including the landing at Belfast. As a result, it was only ten-thirty when they reached the hospital and were directed to the neurological unit. At that time of night, it was fairly quiet, the corridors empty except for the occasional nurse.
The reception area was on the third floor. There were chairs, a vending machine for drinks, magazines, and an ageing woman with grey hair behind the desk. She smiled pleasantly as they approached.
‘We don’t often get visitors this late, so I suspect you’ll be the gentlemen from London for Mr Flynn. We were told you were on your way. Dillon and Holley, isn’t it? I’ve issued you with identity tags. Please put them on. It’s regulations.’
‘How is my uncle?’ Dillon asked.
‘I’m not allowed to give out that information. All I can say is that he’s had major surgery and that Mr Frank Jordan performed the operation himself. He’s a truly wonderful surgeon, so your uncle is in good hands.’
‘Can we see him?’ Dillon asked, meaning Mickeen.
‘The surgeon? Oh, yes, he’s come in especially.’
At that moment, the man himself came down the corridor. He seemed about sixty, with a well-used face and a shock of grey hair. He wore the standard white coat, a stethoscope sticking out of one pocket.
Dillon stood and held out his hand. ‘Sean Dillon and my friend, Daniel Holley. I’m Mickeen’s nephew.’
‘Let’s sit down and talk.’ Jordan turned to the receptionist. ‘Tea for three, Molly. Make it using your own kettle behind the desk there. I hate that bloody machine.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ she said.
‘So how bad is it?’ Dillon asked as they sat.
‘I’m a plain man, Mr Dillon, and I always prefer to tell the truth, or at least as I see it. It’s as bad as it could be. His left arm is broken – it was obviously raised as the vehicle collapsed – and there’s a flesh wound on the right, but those aren’t the problems. It’s the head injuries. He has skull fractures of the utmost severity.’
‘And brain damage?’ Dillon said.
‘Yes, lacerations to a certain degree. We’ve worked on him for four hours, and put in a titanium plate in one area.’
Molly had produced the tea, put the tray on a table beside them and poured. Dillon asked, ‘What kind of chance does he have, a man of his age who’s drunk a pint of whiskey every day of his life?’
‘He could die five minutes from now, but head trauma is a strange business. Patients can hang in there for weeks.’ Jordan was drinking his tea.
‘Is that normal?’ Holley asked.
‘There’s no such thing as normal in a case like this. I’ve had many patients over the years who continue to sleep.’
‘You mean they don’t revive at all?’ Dillon asked.
‘It’s been known to last for months, and when the patient comes to, they’ve been in dream-time. Usually they’ve completely lost their memory.’
Dillon nodded. ‘Can we see him?’
‘Only through the door. Come with me.’
The private room was at the very end of the corridor. There was a square observation window in the door. Mickeen resembled a mummy, with all his bandages. He was festooned with bottles and tubes, electronic machines bleeping away. A man in a white coat sat in the corner reading a book.
‘Who’s he?’ Dillon asked.
‘The night nurse. With such a serious matter, Mr Flynn will continue to have one at his side in case of emergencies.’
Holley said, ‘There’s nothing for you here, Sean. Let’s go and book in at the hotel.’
They paused before walking back to reception and Jordan said, ‘I understand you’re based in London, so seeing him on a regular basis would be difficult. There’s not much you could do anyway, though, even if you came in every day.’
Dillon shook hands. ‘You’re right. But what if I moved him to London?’
Jordan paused. ‘I think he’d be all right, but that would require a private air ambulance; it’d cost many thousands of pounds.’
Holley said, ‘We’ve got that kind of money.’
Jordan frowned. ‘Just who are you people?’
Dillon produced his MI5 warrant card. ‘You look a decent sort of man, so I’m going to take a chance. We work for a special security outfit on behalf of the Prime Minister, and we have a private hospital called Rosedene in Holland Park, small but superbly equipped. It takes care of people damaged in our line of work. It’s run by a Professor Charles Bellamy. He’s put me together a few times.’
‘But I know him,’ Jordan said. ‘We were colleagues at Guy’s Hospital in London for years.’
‘Give me your card and I’ll have him contact you and make the arrangements. You are sure Mickeen can be moved?’
‘Oh, yes, in an air ambulance, but, as I say, it will cost you.’ He produced his card and said, ‘My private mobile number. I’m used to being wakened at all hours, so your people can call me any time. All I need is the right authorization. Take care, gentlemen.’ Jordan walked away.
‘A good man, that one,’ Dillon said.
‘I agree. Now, if you don’t mind me bringing up mundane matters, can I remind you we haven’t had any dinner?’
‘At this time of night, they’ll call it supper,’ Dillon said, as they arrived back in reception.
Holley thanked the receptionist for the tea. ‘Will you be wanting a taxi?’ she asked.
‘We have one waiting. Come on, Sean,’ and they walked down to the lift.
It was quiet again, not a soul about. Molly took a mobile from her handbag and dialled a number and said to the man who answered, ‘Is that you, Mr Carson? It’s Molly. We’ve just had two visitors from London to see Flynn, a Sean Dillon and a Daniel Holley.’
‘Did they see Jordan?’ Brian Carson asked.
‘They’ve just left after a long chat. I heard everything.’
Which she hadn’t, of course, for the conversation concerning the possibility of transferring Mickeen to London in the air ambulance had taken place outside his room at the other end of the corridor.
‘So what did the doctor have to say?’
‘That they’d operated for four hours and there’s brain damage. It’s the kind of situation where if he died five minutes from now, no one would be surprised. On the other hand, he’s not just unconscious, he’s in a coma, and he could stay like that for ages. Nobody knows how long, but Mr Jordan said that when such people do awake, they’ve often lost their memory.’
‘Well, dying would be better, but the situation could be worse. My friends will have to accept how things are.’
‘They came in a private jet. They must be big operators.’
‘That’s an understatement. If I told you they were both Provos in their day, would it surprise you? Hell on wheels, those two.’
‘Holy Mother of God,’ she said.
‘You’ve done well, Molly, it will be noted. Goodnight to you.’
Justin Talbot was sitting in a wing-backed chair on a dais in his mother’s studio. He wore an open-necked black shirt and black velvet cord trousers, his arms folded, hair tousled. He’d been there an hour while his mother worked on a new portrait. She was standing at her easel, only a few feet away in her paint-stained smock, a palette in one hand, a brush in the other.
‘For God’s sake, how much longer? It’s been an hour already.’
‘It’s difficult, love,’ she said. ‘I can’t get exactly the expression I want.’
His mobile trembled in his breast pocket. H
e answered it and Kelly said, ‘Are you alone?’
‘Just a minute.’ Justin got up. ‘I’ve got to answer this.’
‘Really, Justin.’ She was annoyed.
The studio was above the east end of the stable. There was an exit door that opened on to a metal platform and stairs down to the cobbled yard. He closed the door behind him. Jean went to the sink in the corner and pretended to be cleaning brushes as she pushed the window open enough to hear him. Not that she learned much, except that he was angry.
Kelly, having told him everything Carson had to say, said, ‘It could be worse.’
‘Come on, Jack,’ Justin said. ‘The little bugger might decide to wake up at any time.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘Couldn’t your people get someone to pull the plug on him? That would take care of the whole damn business.’
‘Very risky. Let’s just wait and see for the moment.’
‘All right, but nothing’d better go wrong, you hear me?’ He switched off in exasperation.
Jean was back at her portrait in an instant. ‘Bad news, darling?’
‘No, just a problem with the farm. Look, can’t we call it a day? I’m tired.’
He was angry and mutinous. She laughed. ‘That’s the expression I’m after: it’s absolutely perfect. Just another half-hour, darling.’
Dillon called Roper and explained the situation to him.
‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing,’ he said, when Dillon was finished. ‘Ferguson will have a fit. He gave you explicit instructions not to go to Ireland at the moment, and that ambulance plane will cost a fortune.’
‘It was a bloody emergency,’ Dillon said.
Holley boomed in. ‘And I’ve already said I’ll pay for the damn thing.’
‘So forget Ferguson,’ Dillon said. ‘Will you kindly take Frank Jordan’s mobile number, call and make the arrangements? Next, contact Professor Charles Bellamy at Rosedene. Make everything a matter of extreme urgency, so that by the time Ferguson arrives, it’s a done deal.’
‘All right, I’ll get on to it, but only because I can’t wait to see Ferguson’s reaction when he finds out. Presumably you’re coming back in the morning?’
‘We’ll see. For the moment, all we’re interested in is some supper. Take care, Roper.’
The two-bedroom suite at the Europa Hotel had a dining room, and Dillon and Holley ordered room service – a lobster salad apiece, new potatoes, cabbage with bacon – and drank ice-cold non-vintage Krug champagne. It was touching midnight when the waiter reappeared and cleared.
‘What time is Ferguson’s Gulfstream getting in?’ Holley asked.
‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ Dillon said.
‘You’ve got to go back and face the old man’s wrath some time,’ Holley told him.
‘But not just yet.’ Dillon yawned. ‘We could stay on for a day or so, since we’re here. Roper will take care of everything for moving Mickeen. We could rent a car. Go for a drive.’
‘To where?’
‘My mother died giving birth to me in Collyban. I lived with Mickeen as a child, while my father was away working, then he returned and took me away with him to London when I was twelve.’
‘So you haven’t seen much of your uncle over the years?’
‘Two or three times by night when I was on the run during the Troubles, and I paid him a flying visit the other year on business for Ferguson. The truth is, the old sod’s the only close relative I’ve got left. I was surprised at the sense of loss I felt looking at him in that hospital bed.’
‘So where is this leading?’
‘Paddy O’Rourke, his mechanic at the garage, found him. I wouldn’t mind going to see him. I could let him know how Mickeen is.’
‘You’re talking nonsense, Sean, that would only depress him. What’s really eating at you?’
‘Okay, so I hadn’t been in touch with Mickeen since God knows when, and I phoned him on a whim because I thought he’d be able to tell me the time and place of the Talbot funeral.’
‘And he could. So what’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I don’t know, except that somehow I feel responsible.’
‘I don’t see how you could be, but if you feel like that, give O’Rourke a call and we’ll drive down and see him. How far?’
‘Fifty miles, here or there. I’ll get in touch with him in the morning. Are you carrying?’
‘One of the advantages of diplomatic privilege.’ Holley pulled up his right trouser leg and showed the ankle holster with the Colt .25. ‘No well-dressed man should be without one.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’ Dillon put his foot on a chair and showed an identical Colt. ‘Silenced, with hollow points.’
‘Why settle for less? That will always do the job. But why are you asking?’
‘Collyban was always Republican territory, IRA bandit country. I used to be a hero to people there who’d never even seen me, and then Ferguson came along and somehow I doubt they’d still be feeling the same.’
‘Once in, never out – that’s been the motto of the IRA since its inception, hasn’t it? So screw them, we’re still Provos, whether they like it or not,’ Daniel told him. ‘I’m away to bed.’
At eight o’clock the following morning, they were working their way through breakfast in the café when Roper called Dillon.
‘Ferguson got in just after three this morning. He asked me if I had anything special to report.’
‘And you said nothing, I presume?’
‘Exactly. I just hope I don’t regret it. Anyway, your Mr Frank Jordan doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet. Mickeen Oge Flynn will be picked up at nine and taken to Belfast City Airport to board the air ambulance for London. Rosedene is waiting for him.’
‘Excellent.’
‘In fact, Jordan has decided to go along. He said he’d like to keep an eye on Flynn, and, besides, it’s costing so much he might as well get something out of it!’
‘Roper, you’ve done wonders,’ Dillon said. ‘I’m truly grateful – and hopefully, so will be Mickeen.’
‘So what are your plans?’
‘We’ve ordered a car and we’re driving down to Collyban.’
Roper was concerned. ‘What in the hell are you up to, Sean? I’d have thought it very unwise to visit anywhere in that area. And, dammit, you’re only fifteen miles from Crossmaglen where Holley’s mother was born, so he’s as bad as you are. What’s this obsession with living dangerously?’
‘Oh, Roper, it’ll be just a quiet day out in County Down. What could be nicer? You worry too much.’ And he switched off.
‘We have to put the cat amongst the pigeons,’ Holley said.
‘No, that happens when Ferguson wakes up and finds out what happened, but we’ll deal with that when the explosion takes place.’
He found the piece of paper with O’Rourke’s number on it, poured himself a second cup of tea and called him. ‘Who’s that?’ O’Rourke’s voice was wary.
‘Paddy, me ould son,’ Dillon told him cheerfully. ‘It’s Mickeen’s only nephew, Sean Dillon.’
O’Rourke gasped, ‘Jesus, Sean, where are you?’
‘In Belfast, Paddy. I flew in last night thinking Mickeen was going to die on me. Four hours they operated on him. The brain was damaged, you see, and him in a coma.’
‘What do you mean?’ O’Rourke asked cautiously.
‘He’s in a deep sleep, and nobody knows if he’ll wake up. Anyway, I’m having him transferred to London in an air ambulance. There’s a special hospital where I’ll be able to keep an eye on him.’
‘And when’s that?’
‘Nine o’clock.’
‘Well, that’s fantastic. I found him, you know. I don’t know how to thank you.’
‘Save it till I see you, Paddy.’
‘See me?’ O’Rourke said.
‘I’ve got a friend with me called Daniel Holley. We’ve hired a car and we’re driving down. You
can show me where it happened, and I can discuss what we’re going to do with the garage.’
O’Rourke was flabbergasted. ‘But you shouldn’t come here to Collyban, Sean. There’s plenty who wouldn’t like it. No knowing what they might do.’
‘Not to worry, Paddy, I can look after myself.’
‘Well … if you’re sure. What time would you be coming?’
‘We should be there by eleven. If you’re not at the garage, we’ll look for you in the pub.’
‘The Green Man?’ O’Rourke was horrified. ‘Never in there, Sean. It’s IRA to the hilt.’
‘And didn’t I join as a volunteer at nineteen when my father was shot by Brit paratroopers? Do you say I have no right to go in?’
‘Not me, Sean, but others would.’
‘Well, enough talk. You know when to expect us.’ He switched off and said to Holley, ‘Did I stir the hornets’ nest enough?’
‘That’s an understatement,’ Holley said. ‘Let’s get moving.’
Martin Curry was working behind the bar at the Green Man, washing glasses. There was not a soul in the place when Paddy O’Rourke entered through the side door, which was hardly surprising at nine o’clock.
‘Jesus, Paddy, isn’t it a bit early, even for you?’
‘Will you give me a large one, Martin, for pity’s sake, and me having the shock of my life.’
‘And what would that be?’ Curry asked.
‘I’ve just had Sean Dillon on the mobile. He’s been to see Mickeen in the hospital in Belfast. He says he’s coming down to see me this morning to discuss what’s going to happen to the garage.’
Curry was thunderstruck ‘He must be mad.’ He poured Paddy a double whiskey. ‘Drink that down and tell me exactly what he said.’
Jack Kelly was sitting at his desk in the back office of the Kilmartin Arms, doing his accounts, when Curry phoned. He ended by telling Jack, ‘I’ll have two or three of the boys in. We’ll sort the bastard out.’
‘Take it easy, Martin. The old days are gone. We have to be careful how we go.’
‘Christ, are you going chicken on me after what we’ve been through together? Sean Dillon is a disgrace to the village where he was born.’
