by Jack Higgins
Dillon held his arms up into the night, rain battering his face, then started to run.
5
AT HOLLAND PARK, Ferguson was troubled and restless. So much had happened, so many things to take into consideration. He slept with difficulty and was not in the best of spirits when he awakened and discovered it was nine-thirty, with heavy rain still beating against the window.
He felt old beyond his years, with a foul mouth and a splitting headache, but thank God for the swimming pool and the steam room, so he pulled on a tracksuit and slippers, and went downstairs.
It was unusually quiet, which surprised him, so he moved toward the computer room and found Maggie Hall looking anxious along with the chef and several members of the kitchen staff, all peering through the half-open front door and talking nervously among themselves.
“What on earth is going on?” Ferguson demanded.
“It’s Major Roper, General,” Maggie told him. “There was a special delivery, a very nice suitcase President Cazalet left here not long ago. Major Roper isn’t happy.”
“Then what in the hell are you and your staff hanging around here for?” Ferguson said. “Back to the kitchen, the lot of you.”
Which they did, and he helped himself to the umbrella from the stand at the door, ventured outside, raised it, and hesitated at the spectacle before him. The safe house’s Subaru was parked in the opening in the pouring rain, its tailgate raised, giving Giles Roper some sort of shelter as he leaned forward to examine the contents of the open suitcase inside the car. Staff Sergeant Tony Doyle stood beside him holding an umbrella to give him as much protection as possible, his own combat cape streaming with rain. Ferguson took a deep breath and went to join them.
“It would be an insult to ask what you’re doing,” he said.
“I’m certainly not wasting my time, General, but then I was warned.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sergeant Doyle and I were enjoying a cup of tea when we heard a vehicle drive in and out of the courtyard. He investigated and returned with what he found, the suitcase. A few minutes later, the Master called. Sent his respects to President Cazalet and said I didn’t have long.”
“The bastard,” Ferguson said. “It’s not just talk, I presume?”
“I’m afraid not,” Roper said. “As I advise you to make clear to whomever is driving through the gate now.”
He carried on, and Ferguson hurried across to the Mini as Sara and Hannah got out. He spoke briefly to them, explaining the situation, and they started forward.
“Don’t be stupid and get inside,” Roper said. “If there’s one thing in this life that I’m an expert on, it’s bomb disposal. Thirty years of the Troubles in Ireland got two-thirds of the people in my business killed and put others like me into a wheelchair.”
Hannah looked dreadful, but Sara took her arm. “We’ll leave Major Roper to it. He’s got enough to worry about.”
Ferguson said, “What about the Howler, Giles?” The Howler was an experimental gadget Roper had acquired many years ago for bomb control.
“I’ve got it here, but nothing is a hundred percent, General,” Roper told him. “It’s got real power, but harnessing it takes patience and a lot of know-how. The man who created the Howler was a genius, no doubt about that. It does about eighty percent of what he intended, and that requires real effort and ability. You could argue it’s better than nothing.”
“Why couldn’t he finish it?” Sara asked.
“Because I shot him dead,” Roper said. “But if you don’t mind, I really have to get on with it. It takes a lot of concentration.”
—
THEY SAT IN the dining room drinking tea and coffee, the atmosphere grim, Maggie Hall hovering anxiously in the background. An hour later, Roper rolled in, Tony Doyle following behind.
Roper pushed the Howler across to Ferguson, who took a deep breath, and said, “All done?”
“Oh, yes. The Master is going to be so disappointed. A tricky business, mind you. I can’t think of anyone else in the business who could have handled it.”
Hannah said, “Why did you say that?”
He ignored her for a moment, and said to Maggie, “Irish whiskey in my tea, I think I’ve earned it, and bacon and eggs.” She hurried away, and he turned to Hannah. “Where were we?”
“You know damn well where we were.”
“Oh, that.” He smiled, but in a way no one had ever smiled at her before, the eyes dark and empty. “An old story, my love, when the world was young and someone like me could believe he was invincible because he’d shot dead two IRA assassins who’d ambushed him and had a Military Cross for it.”
“But I thought you received the George Cross,” Sara said.
“I did. That was for dismantling the Portland Hotel bomb, which took me nine hours and even longer for the Ministry of Defence to honor me.”
“Which still doesn’t explain the Howler,” Hannah put in.
“One of the cleaners at my billet, a nice Protestant girl named Jean Murray, told me that her brother, Kenny, was studying electronics at Queen’s University and was working on a thing he called a Howler that would enable him to switch off any kind of electronic control system. The possibilities were obvious concerning bombs, and I asked to meet him.”
“So what happened?” Sara demanded. “Do I smell some sort of scam here?”
“The Howler was real enough, but Jean and Kenny were IRA, and it was a kidnap plot, the purpose of which was to squeeze the juice out of me about the secrets of the British Army’s bomb-disposal units.”
There was silence, then Sara said, “Well, as you’re still here, you obviously handled the situation.”
“They were amateurs, really. Searched me, lifted my Browning, and missed out on the ankle holster with a Colt .25 loaded with hollow-point cartridges. Kenny was taunting me, a gun in his hand, when I shot him dead.”
Hannah crossed herself, and when she spoke, it was obviously with some difficulty. “And Jean Murray?”
“I left her with her brother and returned to the unit.”
Hannah was obviously experiencing difficulty with the whole business. “And did you ever see her again?”
“Oh, yes, the following morning, when I was leaving my billet to attend a staff conference at the Grand Central Hotel and found her waiting for me outside. I stopped to speak to her, and she showed me a black plastic control.
“She said, ‘You wanted the Howler, so here it is,’ and held it high for a moment. ‘But your real present is in that shopping bag under your seat.’”
“God in heaven,” Hannah said.
“So she blew herself up into heaven or hell, depending how you look at it,” Roper said. “Crippled me pretty effectively and placed me in a wheelchair for the rest of my life.”
There was a dead silence, broken only by Maggie pushing in the breakfast trolley. Roper looked down at the eggs and bacon. “Having said all that, I suppose things could be worse,” and he started to eat.
The others followed him as Maggie served them, subdued by what he had said. It was his Codex sounding that broke the ice. He switched it on and the Master spoke.
“Ah, you’re still with us, Major Roper? You must be as good as everybody says you are!”
“That’s quick, damn you,” Roper said. “How on earth do you do it?”
“I’ve told you before. Our people are everywhere. That’s why we will win and you will lose, my friend. It is inevitable.”
“Why don’t you go to hell, mister?” Hannah called.
“Master, Hannah, not mister, and as for hell, I have been there during my lifetime and it wasn’t nice. Allah protect you.”
He switched off. Roper said, “A considerable nuisance, that man. What are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing we can do until you find him
for us, Giles,” said Ferguson.
“Easier said than done, General. Trying to penetrate the al-Qaeda network is the same as trying to penetrate the highest levels of the CIA.”
It was Hannah who broke in. “I thought you were Major Giles Roper, king of cyberspace, never been known to fail. Where’d he go?”
Sara almost choked on her cup of coffee, but Roper ignored her. He chuckled, and then the chuckle turned into a full laugh. “Thanks for the challenge, Hannah. I accept it gladly. I’ll run him down if it’s the last thing I do. And since I don’t want it to be the last thing I do, I suppose I’d better get on with it.”
He pressed a button, reversed his wheelchair, and went out. Tony Doyle said, “I’ll see if he needs anything,” and left.
Dillon walked in wearing a terry-cloth robe, his hair damp, face flushed. “Breakfast over?” he said.
“Good God, where have you been?” Ferguson demanded.
“I didn’t go to bed until the early hours. I was busy making sure that the bastard Omar Bey came to a bad end in the Thames at the wheel of his van. I thought Roper would have told you.”
“Well, he didn’t,” Ferguson said, and Sara interrupted. “You’re sure, Sean?”
“Absolutely. No bullet between the eyes, General. He drove straight through the railings on Rangoon Wharf.”
“With a little assistance from you.”
“Of course.”
“Bad cess to him and good riddance,” Hannah said.
“Ah, the fierce one, my cousin,” Dillon said to Ferguson. “But what would you have us do next?”
“I presume our American friends are still at your house,” he said to Sara.
“Yes, they are,” she said.
“Go and check on them. Should Johnson and Cazalet have to leave for any reason, I don’t want Sadie to remain in the house alone. You must bring her here.”
“She’s stubborn enough to say no, General, and probably so will Grandpa when he gets back.”
“Well, Dillon will never stand for that, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Anyway, you go back and assess the situation.”
Sara started out, and Hannah said, “What about me, General?”
“I don’t know,” Ferguson told her. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the Royal College of Music practicing scales or something?”
“Very amusing, sir,” she said. “But it happens to be the autumn holiday.”
“Well, I suppose you could practice here. Perfectly good piano over there. Dillon plays it all the time.” He turned to Dillon. “Don’t you?”
“I do indeed, but not like she does.”
“Oh, sort it out, Sean, I’m expected at Downing Street.”
“There he goes, calling me Sean again when he needs something, Hannah.”
“Complete nonsense,” Ferguson said, and went out.
“So,” Hannah said. “What do we do, cousin?”
“Oh, something will turn up,” he said. “I’ll go and make myself presentable.”
—
KILBURN, THE IRISH QUARTER in London since late Victorian times, was famous for its pubs, and the Green Tinker was one of the best, its landlord, Pat Ryan, a popular man who in his youth had served in the IRA for several years but all that was behind him now. Trouble was the last thing he needed, particularly when it was called Finbar Magee, who had been at the height of drunken rage the previous night, cursing his sons to hell at the bar, challenging other customers to fight with him. It had taken four members of staff to handcuff him and put him in a back room to sleep it off.
Head barman Jack Kelly had looked in to ascertain Finbar’s situation and returned to find Ryan drinking tea at the bar and reading the Times. He glanced up.
“How is he?”
“Terrible. You should have got the police this time. It can’t go on.”
“I couldn’t do that to Tad Magee’s father.”
“Who was mouthing Tad off terribly last night, cursing him and his brother, Larry, making serious threats. You and the Magee brothers go back a long way, Pat. Together in the IRA in your youth.”
“True enough, though not to be mentioned.”
“So give Tad a call and get something done once and for all.”
Ryan said, “I suppose you’re right. Pour me a large Bushmills Irish Whiskey, and maybe another, and I’ll give it a go.”
—
IN NEED OF a change of clothes, Dillon was being driven to his cottage, Hannah at the wheel of the Mini, when Tad contacted him on his Codex.
“Sean, are you doing anything?”
Dillon switched over to speaker. “Nothing special.”
“I need a favor. I know you can fly jets, but what about a twenty-five-year-old Chieftain in excellent condition?”
“I know it well,” Dillon told him. “A real airplane.”
“So you could fly one?”
“Tad, I can fly a Boeing if I have to. What’s the story?”
“I have a Chieftain, beautiful specimen, piston engines, operating out of a small flying club called Barking in Kent. Unfortunately, the pilot I normally use is out of the country, and I need a flight to another small airfield called Dunkelly in County Down.”
“Would this be for an illegal purpose?” Dillon asked.
“Only if we throw my father out of the plane when we are over the Irish Sea. I’m kicking him out of London, and serve the bastard right. When an Irish pub in Kilburn can’t put up with his drunken ways, it’s time to go. Can you help?”
“Of course I can.”
“Then meet me at the Green Tinker in Kilburn.”
“When would you like me?”
“As soon as possible,” Tad told him. “Is that okay?”
“Not as long as you don’t mind Hannah being with me. She’s with me now.”
“That’s all right by me.”
“We’ll join you at the Tinker soon.”
“When would that be? I want him out of London before tonight.”
“Then how about this? If you can get him to this Barking place, we’ll meet you.”
“Are you sure you’ll find it?” Tad asked.
“That’s what sat navs are for,” Dillon told him. “We’ll see you there.”
He switched off and turned to Hannah. “Any objections to a flying visit to County Down?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Excellent, then punch in Barking airfield and away we go.”
—
THEY STOPPED AT a village pub for soup and sandwiches, and carried on to Barking, finding it little more than a hamlet. The tiny airport, as with most such places outside London, was a relic of the Second World War, with a single runway, an aging flight-control office, and a couple of shabby hangars. There were a couple of dozen aircraft parked, mainly single-engine, the rather splendid twin-engine Chieftain to one side.
Dillon saw a Land Rover with Tad beside it talking to Pat Ryan and Jack Kelly from the Green Tinker and Finbar standing to one side looking dangerous.
He got out of the Mini and approached them. “God bless all here.”
“Good to see you, Sean,” Pat Ryan said.
“My cousin, Hannah Flynn,” Dillon said, as she limped up, leaning on her stick.
It was apparent then that Finbar was handcuffed, and his face was twisted and ugly.
“Cripples now, is it, Dillon? But that’s about all you’re fit for.”
Everyone was shocked, but before Dillon could make a proper response, Hannah had produced her Colt .25 from her right-hand pocket and jammed it into his mouth, splintering Finbar’s teeth.
“This weapon is not only silent but also fires hollow-point cartridges. You’ll be dead in ten seconds if I decide to pull the trigger, and I’ve done that several times, as Sean Dillon will tell y
ou. I’ve also survived a car bomb that destroyed my parents. Walk softly around me, or I will shoot you. Nothing more’s certain. Now get on the damn plane and behave yourself, or I’ll open the door over the Irish Sea and shove you out myself.”
Finbar’s mouth gaped; he turned to the plane and heaved himself inside. To the others who were gazing at her, including Tad, Dillon said, “She plays great piano, too, but you know what they say about Provos.”
“Once in, never out,” Tad said, and the others nodded, including Dillon, as they watched Hannah mount the steps into the plane.
A man in brown overalls was approaching from the flight-control office. “Ready to go, Mr. Magee?”
“That’s it, then.” Tad shook hands with Kelly and Ryan. “We’ll get off. I’ll beg a lift from Sean and Hannah when we get back.”
“Any time, Tad, you know that,” Pat Ryan said.
“Is that it, then?” Dillon asked Tad, as they went to the plane. “No one’s asked to see my pilot’s license, no flight plan. What’s going to happen when we land at Dunkelly?”
“Someone will check the engine and refuel for the trip.” Tad smiled. “Sean, you did the same thing for me and Larry all those years ago when we got shot up by the RUC and you needed to get us to England.”
“That was then, this is now,” Dillon said.
“Some things never change,” Tad told him. “So be grateful.”
Tad led the way up the steps, found Hannah in a seat up front, Finbar farther back holding a cloth to his mouth. Dillon closed the airstair door and then went forward, brushing past Tad and Hannah and entering the cockpit with its double seats. Everything seemed to be in order, so he checked out the wind and weather with the man in the flight-control office.
“I’m ready to go. How does it look?”
“No wind to speak of, possibly heavy rain on your first approach. Tad said you are a very experienced pilot.”
“You could say that.”
“Then you’ll see this aircraft has been fitted with a much more advanced navigation system than the original. I’ve inserted all the usual flight details necessary to reach Dunkelly. If you check the folder I’ve left you on the right-hand seat, you’ll find it’s simple.”