by Jack Higgins
'George, you can pull Mackenzie out of Gresham Place.'
'Right, sir. Any further orders on that one?'
'I'll let you know.'
Baker put down the receiver, sighed heavily then started to work his way through the pile of paper that littered his desk.
9
Not that any of it mattered for at the very moment Mackenzie received word on his radio to go home, Morgan was hailing a cab at the corner of Pont Street after leaving the flat by scaling the wall of the rear courtyard.
He had already carefully reconnoitred the situation in daylight earlier that afternoon and knew exactly what he was doing. He told the driver to drop him at St Mark's College on the King's Road. From there, Chelsea Creek was only a brisk five-minute walk.
The paint factory of Wetherby and Sons stood on a pier jutting out into the Creek on the other side from the power station. Morgan paused in the shadows, tightening the soft black leather gloves he wore, took a balaclava from the pocket of his reefer and pulled it over his head.
The front gates were barred and flooded with the glare of security lights. There was also a sign warning of dog patrols, although that could mean something or nothing.
He'd already established the way in during an afternoon visit. There was a concrete weir, water pouring over it, stretching towards the maze of steelwork propping up the pier on which the factory stood.
He went down the bank and started across, taking his time at first, gauging the force of the water. But it wasn't anything he couldn't cope with, rising half-way up his calves, and the apron of the weir was broad enough, although green with slime and treacherous underfoot.
It took him no more than a couple of minutes to reach the far end. He paused for a moment, then climbed the maintenance ladder to the pier above, reaching the yard at the rear of the factory.
There was a fire escape to the first floor. The door at the top was held fast with an iron bar, a padlock on the end. Morgan produced a two-foot steel jemmy from inside his left boot, inserted it into the clasp of the padlock and twisted. It snapped instantly and he was inside.
From now on, he was into uncharted territory. Didn't even know what he intended next, for he was not sure what he would find.
He used his torch with care, noting that this floor held the bottling plant. There was a heavy smell of liquor to everything. He unscrewed the cap of one of several drums he found at one end of the room and sniffed. Industrial alcohol. So Jago was cutting good Scotch with more than water. With the kind of poison that was known to make people go blind.
From a window he could look down into the main courtyard. There was a hut by the gate and he could see a uniformed security guard reading in a chair, feet up on a desk. A large Alsatian slept on the floor beside him.
Morgan moved cautiously down wooden stairs and found himself in a large garage. There were two vans and a three-ton truck which contained dozens of cases of a very prestigious brand of Scotch whisky, or so it seemed.
There were big double doors, held together by a locking bar. He peered through a window and saw that a small ramp led down to the yard below. From that point, he couldn't even see the security guard, only the lighted window of the hut.
He thought about it for a while, then went back upstairs to the bottling rooms, unscrewed the cap of one of the drums of industrial alcohol and put it on to its side so the contents spilled across the floor.
He returned downstairs, leaned in the cab of the truck, put the gear stick into neutral and released the handbrake. Then he removed the locking bar and very carefully pulled back the double doors.
There was no sign of life from the hut at all. He went round to the rear of the truck, put his back to it and pushed. It started to roll, slowly at first, and then the front wheels were on the ramp. Its speed increased so suddenly that he lost his balance and fell.
As Morgan got to his feet and ran for the stairs, the truck lumbered across the yard and crashed into the double gates, tearing them from their hinges and grinding to a halt in the street outside.
By that time, he was already half-way across the bottling room. He paused to strike a match, tossed it into the pool of industrial alcohol which flared immediately, like gas exploding, driving him back out through the fire-escape door.
He paused half-way across the weir and glanced back to see flames blossom at the first-floor windows. He turned and waded on, climbing up to the road and hurrying away quickly through the maze of side streets leading to the King's Road.
Jago was still at the club when he received the news and he wasn't pleased. 'What in the hell goes on?' he demanded. 'Is someone trying to move in or what?'
'I don't know, Harvey,' Arnold told him.
'And the Scotch in the truck they found in the street? Where was that from?'
'Export stuff on the way to Harwich Docks. The boys lifted it the other night outside a truckers' cafe in Croydon.
'Jesus,' Harvey said. 'That's all I need. Coppers nosing into everything and maybe some burk left his fingerprints in the wrong place.'
'They can't get within a mile of you, Harvey.' Arnold assured him eagerly. 'The lease on that place is in the name of an Irish geezer called Murphy.'
'Then you get him on the first plane back to the Republic and I mean like yesterday.'
'No sweat, Harvey, he's already there. Some Dublin drunk who hadn't been over in years. That's why I picked him.'
The phone rang. Jago lifted it and said, 'Yes, what is it?'
'Ready to talk now, Mr Jago, or would you care for a further demonstration?' Morgan said.
'You bastard!'
'It's been said before, but let's get back to business. The source of the Mausers. Any information you can give me and I'm off your back for good.'
Arnold was listening on the desk speaker. He opened his mouth and Jago motioned him to silence.
'Okay, friend, you win. The character who handles that end of my business interests is called Goldman. Hymie Goldman. I'll get in touch with him and ring you back.'
'Is that a promise?' There was a certain irony in Morgan's voice.
Jago glanced at his watch. 'No later than one o'clock.'
He put down the receiver and went and poured himself a Scotch. He drank it slowly, reflectively, without saying a word and Arnold groaned inside for he had seen the expression before. Knew what it meant.
'All right, Arnold, this is what you do. Get Andy - Andy Ford. Then you go round to Douro Place and pick up Morgan's bird. We'll all meet up together at Wapping.' He glanced at his watch. 'I'll give you an hour.'
'Harvey, this could be real trouble. Why not tell him what he wants to know. Get him off our backs.'
'I could say because I've had it out with Hymie Goldman and there's nothing to tell.'
'Oh, God,' Arnold said.
'But that isn't enough. I mean, what he did to the booze plant was bad, but it's more than that, Arnold. He threatened me - me! Now we can't have that, can we?' He patted his brother on the cheek. 'Get moving, sweetheart, we haven't got all night.'
It was perhaps forty minutes later that Morgan's phone rang. 'All right, Colonel, you win. Farmer's Wharf, Wapping. You'll find a warehouse on the dock called Century Export Company. I'll be there in half an hour with the guy who handled the transaction you're interested in.'
'That's nice,' Morgan said. 'What will it cost me?'
'The original extra grand we agreed on. I don't see why I shouldn't have that.' Jago tried to sound injured. 'Afterwards, just stay off my back. I don't want police trouble. It costs time and money and I'm a capitalist all the way through.'
Morgan put down the phone, opened the right-hand drawer of the desk and took out first a Walther PPK, then a Carswell silencer, which he fitted over the muzzle of the Walther, whistling tunelessly. Then he removed the magazine from the butt, emptied it and started to reload carefully, taking his time.
The warehouse was old with heavy stone walls and dated from the great days of Victorian sailing sh
ips when Britain's merchant navy had reigned supreme.
The place was full of packing cases and Jago sat in the rear of his Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow beside Kate Riley, drinking brandy from the portable bar.
'You sure you won't have one, sweetheart?'
'You go to hell,' she said.
'Now that isn't nice.'
Arnold was by the door and Ford, a little, dark, dangerous-looking Scot in a green parka of the kind issued to American forces for winter use, was sitting on a packing case. He was nursing a sawn-off shotgun.
'Get that bloody thing out of sight,' Harvey said, tossing him a car rug, and checked his watch. 'He should be here any minute.'
High above them on the fire escape catwalk, Morgan peered down, carefully noting every detail of the situation. Ford and the shotgun, Arnold by the door, Jago in the rear of the Rolls with Kate.
Very quietly, he went back down the fire escape, then hurried along to the end of the street where he'd left the Porsche. He'd expected trouble, of course. Was prepared for it. Now, because of Kate, he was angry. As he got behind the wheel, his hands were shaking slightly.
Arnold said, 'He's coming, I can hear him.'
There was the roaring of the Porsche's V6 engine outside, then silence as it was switched off. The judas gate opened and Morgan stepped through. His military trenchcoat hung open, his hands were pushed deep into the pockets.
Kate grabbed for the door handle, got it open and was out and stumbling towards him.
'It's a trap, Asa!' she cried. 'They've been waiting for you.'
Morgan got an arm around her. Harvey Jago laughed and got out of the Rolls holding the brandy flask in one hand, a silver cup in the other.
'No need for that,' he said delightedly. 'I mean, we're all friends here, isn't that so, Colonel?'
Morgan smiled down at her, the coldest smile she'd ever seen and she saw for the first time that there were strange gold flecks in his eyes.
'Did they hurt you?'
'No.'
'That's all right then.'
He pushed her behind him and turned to Jago. 'I don't think your friend remembered to cock that shotgun when he put it under the rug.'
'Andy!' Jago cried.
Ford was already tossing the car rug aside, his thumbs reaching for the hammer. Morgan's hand appeared through the front of the trenchcoat, holding the Walther. He fired twice and the shotgun flew into the air as the little Scot tumbled backwards over the packing case.
Kate gave a sudden moan and Morgan was aware of her fingers digging into his shoulder. 'Outside, girl,' he said. 'Wait for me in the car.'
'Asa - this has gone far enough.'
'In the car, girl.'
She went. The judas closed softly behind her. Jago and his brother waited together by the Rolls.
'Tell him, Harvey. For Christ's sake tell him the truth.'
'All right,' Jago said. 'So I made a mistake. You can't blame a man for trying, Morgan. I mean you and me, we're off the same length of street. It takes one to know one.'
'Exactly.' Morgan took careful aim and shot off part of Jago's left ear.
Jago fell back against the Rolls, clutching the side of his head, blood pouring between his fingers.
Arnold ran forward and grabbed him by the lapels. Tell him, Harvey, for God's sake. He's a madman, this one. He'll have us all.'
'All right! All right!' Jago said and the essential toughness of the man was still there, in spite of the pain. 'Okay, here's how it was. Hymie Goldman supplied those Micks in Ulster with the two Mausers amongst other things. Then a couple of weeks ago he was sitting in here checking stock on his own. What we call special stock. He always does that on Wednesday night. Next thing he knows, this geezer in a balaclava appears from the shadows. Drops him a grand in old notes in an envelope and asks for a silenced handgun. Says a friend recommended him.'
'And?'
'Hymie still had one of those silenced Mausers left. He gave it to him with a box of ammo and he was away.'
'I see.' Morgan raised the Walther. 'I think I'll have the right ear this time.'
'I'm telling you the truth, I swear it,' Jago cried and for the first time there was real panic in his voice.
Morgan lowered the Walther. 'Yes, I'm afraid you are from the sound of it.' He looked across at Ford, lying back, mouth gaping, one leg propped up on the packing case. 'I don't know what you'll do with him, but I imagine you have your ways.'
He walked to the door. As he opened the judas, Jago said, 'I'll have you, Morgan. I'll have you for this.'
Morgan turned. 'No,' he said softly. 'I don't think you will. I think you'll find on sober reflection, Mr Jago, that the best thing to do is put it all down to experience and forget it.'
The door closed behind him. They heard the engine start, the Porsche move away.
The side of Jago's head, his hand and shoulder, were saturated in blood, but he was still in control.
'Harvey?' Arnold said, trembling with fright.
'It's all right. Get Doc Jordan on the phone. Tell him I've had an accident. We'll meet him at that private nursing home in Bailey Street.'
Arnold glanced across at Andy Ford. 'And him?'
'Just another drunken little Jock gone missing. Ring Sam at the club. Tell him I want the recovery team round here fast. I want this place clean by morning. They can dump him in the new Hendon bypass. There's five hundred tons of wet concrete a night pumping into those foundations. Thank God for progress. Now, help me into the car. You'll have to drive.'
Arnold did as he was told. 'I'm sorry, Harvey.' He was almost in tears.
'Never mind, Arnold. He was right. Put it all down to experience and forget it.'
He patted his brother on the cheek and fainted.
When they reached Douro Place, Morgan switched off the engine and turned to face her.
'I'm sorry about that.'
'No, you're not,' she said. 'You're a driven man, Asa, I see that now. You'll do anything to reach this mythical goal of yours. Pull anyone down with you as you nearly pulled me down tonight. And to what end? Are you any further forward?'
'No.'
'I've had it. You're too rich for my blood. I'm going straight in to pack and then I'm driving back to Cambridge - tonight.'
'If you're worried about what happened back there, don't be. The last thing Jago wants is police nosing around.'
'You mean he'll have no trouble disposing of the body? For God's sake, Asa, does that make it all right?'
She got out of the car and slammed the door. He stayed behind the wheel and pressed the button so that the that the electrically operated window slid down silently.
'I'm sorry, girl,' he said. 'But I've no choice, see?'
He started the engine and drove away. She stood there for quite a while, listening to the sound of the Porsche fade, then slowly, wearily, she went up the steps, fumbled for her key and got the door open.
10
It was raining heavily in the first grey light of dawn as Seumas Keegan went up the path to the back door of the cottage two miles outside Ballymena on the Antrim road. He was tired clean through to the bone and his right arm hurt like hell in spite of the white sling the doctor had given him.
Tim Pat Keogh had watched him approach from behind the kitchen curtain. Tully sat at the table by the fire eating bacon and eggs.
Tim Pat was holding a Sterling submachine-gun. He said, 'It's Keegan and he doesn't look too good. Shall I take him out?'
'Not yet,' Tully said. 'Let's see what he wants.'
Tim Pat opened the door. Seumas Keegan stood there, his face under the tweed cap pale and drawn, the old belted trenchcoat saturated by the heavy rain.
'Christ Jesus, but you look like a corpse walking.' Tim Pat said.
'Could I see Mr Tully?' Seumas asked.
Tim Pat pulled him into the kitchen and ran his hands over him expertly. He found a Colt automatic in the left-hand pocket of the trenchcoat and placed it on the table.
Tull
y kept on eating, looking the boy over at the same time. 'What do you want?'
'You said you could always use a good man, Mr Tully.'
Tully poured himself another cup of tea. 'What's wrong with your arm?'
Seumas glanced down at the sling. 'Broken, Mr Tully.'
'Now there's a thing,' Tully said. 'I mean, with a gun in your right hand, you were the best there was, O'Hagan always swore to that. But with your left, he said you couldn't hit a barn door.'
'A month or two, I'll be as good as new, Mr Tully, if you'd give me the chance.'
There was desperation on the boy's ravaged face now. Tully picked his teeth with a match. 'I don't think so, Seumas. To be honest with you, I'd say you could do with a long rest. Wouldn't you agree, Tim Pat?'
'I would indeed, Mr Tully.' Tim Pat smiled and cocked the Sterling.
Seumas stood there, shoulders hunched, head down for a moment, but when he looked up he was actually smiling.
'Somehow, that's what I thought you'd say, Mr Tully.'
He fired the Luger he was holding inside the sling, killing Tim Pat instantly.
As the big man's body was hurled back against the dresser, crockery cascading to the floor, Tully pulled at the drawer in the table, frantically reaching for the gun inside. Keegan's next shot took him in the left shoulder spinning him round, knocking him off the chair.
He crouched there for a moment, crying aloud in agony as he tried to get up. Keegan fired again, the bullet smashing into the base of Tully's skull, driving him head-first into the open hearth to sprawl across the burning logs.
There was a sudden spurt of flame as his jacket caught fire. Seumas stood there looking down at him for a moment, then turned and let himself out.
Morgan had tried going to bed but had slept only fitfully. Just after six, he gave up and went into the kitchen. He was making coffee when the phone rang. He could tell it was a public call box by the tone. There was the rattle of coins and then the ummistakable Ulster accent.