Rough Justice

by Higgins, Jack

  The door behind him creaked, and Monica said, “Could I have one of those?”

  “Bad for your health, girl.” He passed his cigarette to her and lit another. She sat in one of the swivel chairs, and he found her.

  “It’s nice like this,” she said. “The rain, the sea, ships at anchor with riding lights. Are you a rain man?”

  “It’s bred in the bones if you’re from Northern Ireland. I’m a rain walker, yes, and I’ve always liked it, the city at night, wet streets stretching into autumnal darkness as you walk enclosed in your own private world, a feeling that something absolutely marvelous is going to come round the next corner.”

  “I would have thought it would most likely be a mugger these days.”

  “It’s a cynic you are, but maybe you’re right, perhaps I see it through the eyes of youth. London by night, I loved that.”

  “But you’re Irish.”

  “My mother passed away when I was born, so after a few years my father came to London for the work. We lived in Kilburn. I went to a school with a good drama department, and that led me to trying for a scholarship at RADA, as you’ve heard.”

  “But you moved on quickly. What happened, Sean?”

  “I’d managed to ignore the first few years of the Troubles. Then my father went home to Belfast on a trip, got caught in a firefight, and was killed by British paratroopers.”

  “And you went back and joined the glorious cause?”

  “That’s it. Was sent to Algeria to a training camp that processed young idealists like me who needed to know how to kill people successfully.”

  There was silence for a moment. Finally, she said, “It’s what you would expect from a young boy, his father killed and so on.”

  He lit another cigarette. “I turned out to be too good at it. Don’t have any illusions about me, Monica. As someone once said, Wyatt Earp killed seventeen men. I haven’t the slightest idea what my score is, except that it’s more. Don’t make me a hero figure with an Irish tricolor in one hand and a pistol in the other, like some Easter Rising painting on the wall of a Dublin bar. When I tried to blow up John Major and the War Cabinet in February 1991, I was being well paid, just as I was when I worked for the Israelis and also the PLO. I’m very even-handed. That’s what Ferguson liked about me when he blackmailed me into joining him.”

  “No redeeming features at all?”

  “An acceptable barroom piano, I suppose.”

  They sat in silence in the yellow light, rain dripping from the roof. “You can’t make me hate you, Sean, because of what you’ve done. It would mean I’d have to hate my brother, and I can’t do that. You’re a good man, Sean Dillon, in spite of yourself, I think.”

  The pain he felt was intense, for it was one of the last things that Hannah Bernstein, Ferguson’s strong right hand, had said to him as she lay close to death in Rosedene. He struggled for breath for a moment.

  Monica grabbed his arm. “What is it?”

  “Someone very close who could never forgive me the past said the same words before her death. It was at Rosedene, and painful to discuss.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He pulled himself together. “Nonsense, girl, I’m fine. Let me give you a lesson.” Between them was a flap on the cabin wall. “Watch me.” He pulled a ring and opened it to reveal a battery of fuses. He produced a pistol from his pocket. “Walther PPK and ready to serve you. Just point and pull the trigger.” It fitted in beside the fuses, and he closed the flap. “Useful if someone tries to climb over the rail to get at you.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  “Naturally, I’ll do exactly the same in the wheelhouse. I’ll show you.” He pulled her up. “You’re in the death business now, love.”

  “Really?” Suddenly, she slipped her right hand round his neck and kissed him fiercely and for a long moment, then pulled away. “And that, Mr. Dillon, is life. Think about it.”

  “I certainly will.”

  “Good. I’m tired now, so you can take me to the bar, get me a nightcap, and I’ll go to bed for a while, only don’t keep telling me what a terrible man you are. It gets boring.”

  She opened the door and went in. He hesitated, then followed, more surprised than he had been in years.

  LATER, Dillon occupied himself checking the weaponry, particularly the sawn-off, loading it with two shells, seeing that everything worked. It had been a long time since he’d had a shotgun, a murderous weapon, especially with steel-ball shot. The Lupara, Sicilians called it, and much favored by the Mafia.

  Ferguson appeared in the saloon. “My word, that should do the job.” “It’s been known to. Everything else in stock. You’ll know it like the back of your hand.”

  “You’ve got your nylon-and-titanium waistcoat?”

  “Wouldn’t be without it. I brought two, gave Monica the other, just in case she was anywhere near the odd angry shot. We had a nightcap. She’s gone to bed.”

  “Very decent of you. She’s a lovely lady.” He hesitated, as if about to say something, but changed his mind. “I’m going to check the wheelhouse. The others all seem to have their heads down.”

  “I’ll join you, but I’m going to have a drink first. Can I get you anything?”

  “Coffee.” Ferguson grinned. “With a touch of whiskey in it.”

  DILLON JOINED HIM a little later and found him in one of the two swing seats close to the steering wheel, checking the controls. Dillon passed a mug to him and sat down. Ferguson was more than satisfied, sat back, and sipped his coffee.

  “Try the bottom flat. Full of fuses.” Ferguson did so and found a Walther.

  “You?” he said.

  “Yes. All the comforts of home. Monica joined me up here for a nightcap, was here when I put it in place. I’d already shown her the Walther in the similar flap on the stern deck next to the chairs.”

  “Useful information, I suppose, but you’d never expect her to be able to use one, a Cambridge don.”

  “Well, the only other Cambridge don I know is your cousin, Hal Stone, who’s been up to scratch for you on several occasions.”

  “True.” Ferguson sipped his coffee, and Dillon decided to put him out of his misery.

  “I know what you’re trying to say, Charles. She’s gone through hell of late, including discovering incredible things about her brother. She has enough trouble coming to terms with all that without a wretch like me entering her life.”

  “You have a way with the words, Dillon, something I’ve always admired.”

  “I should also point out that all those doctorates indicate a lady with the kind of intellect that enables her to see through any false romantic image attached to a man like me.”

  He swallowed his whiskey, and Ferguson said, “Good God, I always thought you a man of intelligence, but I see now I was wrong in my assumption. You obviously know nothing at all about women.” He shook his head. “Let’s turn in. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

  So they did just that.

  THEY DIDN’T LEAVE until seven, and Ferguson was at the wheel as they moved out of the harbor. A gray, bitter morning, a headwind pushing rain toward them, and once out of the harbor entrance, the sea started to heave, and he throttled back the powerful engines, enjoying the whole business.

  Helen and Monica had found him, while Dillon and Billy stayed below, checking each weapon carefully, loading the pistols and Uzi machine pistols. The Colt .25 hollow-points weren’t forgotten, laid out with their ankle holsters on the saloon table with the other weapons. Billy examined the sawn-off.

  “A real killer, this one.”

  “It’s supposed to be,” Dillon said.

  Billy shook his head. “We’re really going to war this time.”

  “I thought that was the idea.”

  Monica appeared and sat down, watching. Billy said, “What are you taking for yourself?”

  Dillon lifted up an old-fashioned carpetbag and opened it. He held up a Bible and a violet stole. “In case I have to hear
confession. Black shirt, white clerical collar, and how about this?” He produced a soft black trilby hat in velour and put it on. Then he took out a pair of Zeiss-tinted glasses and put them on also. “Very popular item at the Vatican this year. What do you think?”

  Monica cut in. “Put all that together with a black suit and you’ll look like the devil himself.”

  “Now you wound me, but I’ll be in Ireland, remember, where a priest receives instant respect more than anywhere else in the world.” He produced a manila envelope. “One thousand pounds in fifties for Mickeen Oge Flynn. I was forgetting.”

  She said, “Just look at you. Acting again. It’s meat and drink to you, isn’t it?”

  “So you’ve found me out?” It was as if they were alone. “Very clever, but the performance isn’t on stage, love, it’s for real.”

  “And don’t you think I know that?” She shook her head. “To hell with it. I’ll see what’s happening on deck.”

  She went out, and Billy said, “I don’t think she’s happy.”

  “I can see that.”

  ”You might be getting in a bit deep here.”

  “Oh, really?” Dillon said. “Well, thanks for telling me. I’m going to my cabin to check my suit and things.”

  He took the carpetbag and went out, and Billy said softly, “I can’t believe it—Dillon in love?”

  A moment later, Monica returned. “Has he gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I wonder if you’d do me a favor.” She picked up a Walther from the table. “Could you show me how to handle one of these?”

  Billy smiled. “My pleasure, Lady Starling.”

  IN THE WHEELHOUSE, things were getting interesting. Ferguson started to increase speed, racing the heavy weather that threatened from the east, and the waves grew rougher. Helen Black had had considerable experience of yachting in her time.

  “Is it hard going?”

  “Not at all, handles like a dream.” He got up, still holding the wheel. “Take over. I’m going to get a coffee. Just put your foot down and let’s see some speed.”

  She did just that, and the Avenger surged forward suddenly into a curtain of mist and rain until she saw, to her astonishment, that they were racing ahead at forty-five knots. Suddenly she was happy, really happy, for the first time since her husband’s death.

  SHE STAYED at the wheel for an hour and a half, then handed it back to Ferguson and went below and joined Monica in the kitchen, where they devised a prelunch break together timed for ten o’clock. There was minestrone soup direct from the can, a selection of sandwiches ranging from salad, to ham, corned beef, and a cheese, tomato and onion pizza. Everything was laid out at one end of the saloon table.

  “Marvelous,” Billy said. “I’m hungry already.”

  “Amazing what you can do with a microwave,” Helen told him. “God knows how they got on round the Horn.”

  Dillon had his soup, then took a plate of sandwiches and joined Ferguson in the wheelhouse. “We’re really cracking on. When should we make Collyban?”

  “About eleven-thirty. This thing flies. I’ve never known anything like it.”

  “Excellent. Not much more than forty miles to the Belov complex and airstrip.”

  “Always supposing that Roper’s prediction for when Volkov’s Falcon lands is accurate.”

  “It’s been my experience that he’s never wrong.” Dillon’s plate was empty now, and he put it down. “Away you go and get yourself something to eat, and I’ll spell you for a while.”

  Which Ferguson did, and Dillon sat, his hands on the wheel. Monica came in with a mug. “Tea,” she said. “And whiskey in it. I took a chance.”

  “What a woman. I suspect you may turn out to be a treasure.” He drank some of the tea and put the mug on the ledge. “How are you doing? Seasick, by any chance?”

  “Helen gave me a pill last night, and I’ve rung Rosedene on the Codex that Charles got me. The news is good, Sean, Harry’s stirring already.” Sitting beside him, she took his left hand in her two. “It’s such a relief, I can’t tell you.”

  “You just did. I’m glad for you, and glad for Harry.” He stood up. “Slide into this seat and take the wheel. I’m going to say hello to Roper.”

  She did as she was told and it proved easier than she thought. Dillon opened his old silver case, put two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them, and put one between her lips.

  “So I’m Bette Davis and it’s Now, Voyager. What are you up to?”

  “The last of the great romantics, that’s me.”

  “That’ll be the day.” She sat there, one hand on the wheel, absurdly happy, as she smoked a cigarette in the company of this extraordinary man who had come into her life, this thoroughly dangerous man.

  Dillon said to Roper, “How are you?”

  “I’d rather be you out there on that boat like a bullfighter, moving into the circle of danger, and I’d rather you be me, squatting beside a bomb in a Belfast street, but that was then, this is now.”

  “Ah, one of those days, is it? Hang in there. There’s an old Spanish saying: ‘It’s not the same to talk of bulls as to be in the bullring.’”

  “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s an existentialist kind of thing. Seek for it too hard and it won’t happen, but somewhere up ahead, something totally marvelous might come round the corner.”

  “What in the hell’s got into you? Okay, you’ve even got Billy tuned into moral philosophy, but this is ridiculous. What are you doing right now?”

  “I’m on what passes for a bridge in this boat, and letting Monica have a trick at the wheel.”

  “I don’t believe it. She’s really touched a nerve, hasn’t she? You can’t afford it, not with what you’ve got on your plate. Volkov would be easy, but Grigorin and Makeev are Spetsnaz. What in the hell are you going to do about them?”

  “Kill them,” Dillon told him.

  “And you think that’s going to be easy?”

  “I’ve got Holy Mother Church on my side and Father Martin Sharkey. There’s a saying where I come from: If you can’t trust a priest in Ireland, where can you trust him?”

  “And what’s that pearl of wisdom supposed to mean?”

  “That for Volkov and his minders, I’m just a priest, someone not to be taken seriously. Keep the faith, old lad, call me closer to the arrival time for the Falcon.” He switched off.

  Monica shook her head. “Totally crazy.”

  “Well, I’m from County Down, and we’re all supposed to be a little mad there.” He started to thumb a number.

  “Who are you calling now?”

  “My uncle at Collyban.” The phone was picked up instantly, and Dillon said, “It’s me, Mickeen, Sean. Are you ready for me?”

  Mickeen had obviously been on the drink already. “Sean, me boy. I can’t believe it, but ready I am, plus a Ford saloon car.”

  “An old saloon car, I imagine.”

  “For one thousand pounds, what do you expect, but it’s a good runner, my word on it. When are ye arriving?”

  “I said noon, and with luck, should keep my word. Is there anyone else at your place?”

  “I only keep the one mechanic, Paddy O’Rourke, him who’s serviced the car, but I’ll give him the afternoon off.”

  “Good man yourself, and don’t be too shocked by my appearance. I don’t want you dying on me.”

  “SO EVERYTHING’S SET?” Monica asked.

  “It looks like it, and not long to go.” He held up the Codex. “The brilliance of these things is that nothing fazes them. I’m always there in a matter of seconds, and you’ll hear my voice. Once I leave the boat, you’ll move on to Drumore, anchor off the harbor, and wait.”

  “For you to do what you have to do?”

  “Something like that. Ferguson will sort things out, Billy is outstanding, believe me, and Helen is all soldier.”

  She kept her right hand on the wheel and produced a Walther from the left-h
and pocket of the yellow oilskin coat she was wearing. “I got Billy to give me a quick lesson in what to do with this.”

  He was angry again. “He shouldn’t have done that, damn him, it’s not expected of you. I won’t have it.”

  Her smile was instant, an inner glow that was remarkable. “Poor old Sean, I’ve caught you out, you do care.”

  There was an edge of desperation in his voice. “This has gone too far, love, I’m not right for a woman like you, never could be.”

  “You can be anything you want, so don’t talk nonsense. Go and change and tell Charles to come up and take the wheel.”

  Her calmness, her certainty, totally defeated him. “I’ll do that and see you later.”

  IT WAS LIKE the acting, preparing for a performance. Black trousers and shoes, black shirt, the snow white band of the clerical collar. He put his right foot up on a stool, fastened the soft leather holster around his ankle, and slipped the Colt .25 hollow-point in place. His black jacket with wallet, a false passport in the name of Father Martin Sharkey, born in Ban-bridge, County Down, Northern Ireland, a wallet with two hundred pounds in it plus a false credit card from the Catholic Guild. The Zeiss glasses completed a satisfactory image; the velour trilby was just right and the black raincoat perfect. It certainly wasn’t the Dillon anyone could have seen on any previous visits to Drumore.

  In the carpetbag was his violet stole, the Bible, Mickeen’s money, and on the narrow bed was an Uzi machine pistol, the stock folded, the sawn-off and a Walther PPK with silencer, and a fragmentation hand grenade. The door opened and Monica slipped in. She stood looking at him.

  “My God.” She shook her head in disbelief. “We’re close.”

  He put the Uzi and the sawn-off in the carpetbag with ammunition and slipped the Walther into his right raincoat pocket. “Will I do?”