by Jack Higgins
“I’m feeling unnecessary already.”
“I can see how you would, but in a way, a lot of pilots are these days.”
“Whatever happened to romance and high adventure, but thanks anyway.”
Opening the cockpit door a crack, Dillon bellowed, “Here we go, so belt up,” then started to move toward the end of the runway. He turned, giving the engines full throttle, and rose above the trees as he eased back on the control stick, his spirits lifting as they always did.
—
ABOUT FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, Hannah appeared with coffee, sitting in the left-hand seat as she offered it to him and opened a tin box of assorted biscuits. Dillon put the plane on automatic pilot, drank the coffee, and sampled the biscuits.
“They don’t seem to have heard of tea,” she said. “Sorry about that.”
“Not your fault, and all that tea to look forward to in County Down.”
“Spoken like a true Irishman.”
“Who lived in London from the age of twelve and only returned home at nineteen when his father met a bad end in the Troubles. A funny old life when you look at it. How are Tad and his father getting on back there?”
“Well, Finbar’s not speaking too well, which is my fault entirely.”
“You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for. The things he said were unforgiveable.”
“The point is, what are you going to do about it? Dump him on Eli?”
“I don’t know. His responsibility for his wife’s death is impossible to deny,” Dillon said. “Only a quirk in the law allows him to walk free. He’s an easy man to hate and always has been. Tad and Larry have no time at all for him now.”
“Which still doesn’t deal with my original question,” Hannah said.
“I certainly don’t have an answer, but perhaps Tad has one.” Dillon nodded. “Some sort of solution. I’ll go back and see how they’re getting on.”
He got up, and Hannah said, “What are you doing? You can’t leave me. Who’s going to fly the plane?”
Dillon pointed to the instrument panel. “See that button? It means the plane is on automatic pilot. Don’t touch it. I’ll be back.”
—
FINBAR’S FACE WAS a nightmare covered in dry blood. That he was in considerable pain was obvious, and he glared at Dillon, eyes full of hate as he nursed the glass of brandy and soda that Tad had given him.
Dillon said, “How are you?”
It took an effort, but Finbar could speak slowly. “How do you think, you stupid bastard? I’ll make you pay, you and that little whore. She’ll be begging for mercy by the time I’ve finished with her. As for you, Dillon, you’ll never see the Maria Blanco, but I will, you see if I don’t. What do you have to say to that?”
“That if you try to do harm to my cousin in any way, I’ll find you wherever you are, and I’ll put a bullet between your eyes.”
“Just try it,” Finbar said, shaking. “I’ll show you.”
“You’ll show me nothing, you shite. You’re a fantasy man, Finbar, and you can’t see the difference between fantasy and reality anymore. Keep quiet from now on, or I might really open the door and throw you out.”
Dillon moved away and sat opposite Tad, who had been reading a newspaper and now put it down.
“Enjoying yourself, Sean?”
“Not really, but it does raise the serious question of what to do with him. He’s your father, that’s a fact, but his offenses put him beyond hope. I doubt if a priest could help.” Dillon shook his head. “He’ll be off to London again when your back’s turned.”
“Not if I clip his wings for good.”
Dillon frowned. “And you think you could do that? How?”
“I don’t think this is the right place to discuss it. Later, perhaps.”
Dillon nodded, a slight smile on his face. “I look forward to it.”
He went back to the cockpit, and Hannah said, “Thank God you’re back.” He smiled as he sat, and she added, “You look pleased with yourself. What’s happened?”
“Something or nothing.” Dillon took control again. “Onward to Dunkelly and we shall see.”
—
HEAVY RAIN ENLIVENED the situation considerably as they crossed the County Down coast, but the approach to Dunkelly, a small airfield very similar to Barking, gave Dillon no trouble at all as he landed and taxied to where Eli stood beside a Ford estate car talking to a middle-aged man who was wearing an old leather flight jacket.
They stood waiting as the Chieftain rolled to a halt. A few minutes later, the airstair door opened, and Dillon was first out, followed by Hannah.
Eli gripped Dillon’s hand hard enough to make him wince. “By God, but it’s good to see you, Sean.”
“And you,” Dillon said. “This is my cousin, Hannah Flynn. Try not to crush her hand.”
The other man held his out. “Billy Spillane, Sean, I run this place. A bloody legend, you are, and no mistake.”
Behind them, Finbar negotiated the steps gingerly, his handcuffed wrists out in front of him. Spillane said, “God save us, have you been in another car crash or something? You look dreadful.”
“No thanks to that bitch standing there. All her fault.”
“What a lying bastard you are,” Dillon said, and turned to Spillane. “He got what he deserved.”
“Absolutely,” Tad Magee announced, as he came down the steps. “I’d have thought you’d have realized that after all these years.” He turned to Eli and embraced him. “Good to see you.”
Eli’s smile was enormous. “And always good to see you, Tad. I got your letter.”
“And you saw the lawyer, Michael Strachan?”
“In Belfast yesterday, as you instructed.”
“Good man yourself, so let’s take ourselves off to Drumore House and see if the old place is still standing. Stick him in the rear of the estate car, Eli, and we’ll join you. I’ll drive.”
“Like hell you will,” Finbar cried, and kicked out, but Eli squeezed him around the neck with his enormous hands, and a few seconds was enough for Finbar to end up in the rear seat gasping for breath.
“Excellent,” Tad Magee said. “Let’s get moving,” so the others got in and he drove away.
—
HANNAH WAS ASTONISHED by Drumore House as she took a walk with Dillon under a borrowed umbrella after the others had gone in. The rain fell, there was the Irish Sea rolling out beyond the boathouse and the jetty below, waves flowing in.
Dillon smoked a cigarette with what was obviously conscious pleasure as he looked down at the tide coming in.
“You love all this, don’t you?” Hannah said.
“Well, I am a County Down man, my love,” Dillon said. “Born in Collyban farther along the coast from here, raised by my mother’s brother, Mickeen Oge Flynn, when she passed on and my father went to Kilburn to make a future for us. He did finally and had me join him when I was twelve. Having said that, I didn’t think much of Collyban, but I’ve always liked it here.”
“It’s not the decrepit old place I’d expected,” she said. “Substantial building, eighteenth century from the look of it, and soundly built.”
“You’re quite right,” he said. “The Magees have a history. They were squireens, a nice estate in the county and prosperous with it.”
“I thought there might be something like that,” Hannah said. “It’s a special place, the cliffs on the other side wrapping around.”
“And dangerous. Deep water closer than you would imagine, a jagged coastline, caves that can drown you if you don’t get out in time. Although I was older than Tad and Larry, I enjoyed some great holidays with them.”
“I bet you did.” She smiled, and the rain increased into a solid downpour on the instant.
“Sorry about that,” Dillon said. “I’m afraid that the rain a
round here is particularly Irish and has a habit of doing exactly what it wants. We’d better go in.”
—
TAD AND THE OTHER TWO were seated at the huge old kitchen table. He was drinking tea at one end, a folder of paper in front of him. Eli was shoving logs into the ancient oven, and Finbar sat with handcuffed hands wrapped around a large glass of beer.
When Dillon and Hannah entered, Tad said, “There you are. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Finbar said, “What the hell do those two have to do with anything?”
Tad ignored him. “Join us, Sean, and you, Hannah.”
“What’s going on here?” Finbar demanded.
“If you shut up, you’ll find out,” Tad told him, as Sean and Hannah sat down, Eli facing them, solemn as a judge, his craggy old face giving nothing away.
Tad opened the folder, took out several documents, and spread them on the table.” Ten years ago, my mother approached Larry and me in great distress because life had become unbearable with your drunken ways. You were in constant debt, besieged by creditors, and she begged us to help in some way, which we did, paying over the odds through our company for the small house in Kilburn.”
“Did that make you feel good or something?”
“Not particularly. Since you carried on in exactly the same way during the years that followed, we had to do the same thing for this place.”
“You seem to have forgotten that in both cases you put your mother’s name on the properties,” Finbar said.
“And you expect to inherit them?”
“Of course I will. I was her husband.”
There was a pause, and it was Hannah who spoke. “What a truly despicable creature you are.”
“You shut your mouth, you bitch,” he said. “I was her husband; I’m entitled.”
“Don’t worry,” Tad said, and picked up one of the documents before him and held it up. “Have you read her will lately?”
Finbar glared at him. “I’ve told you, I was her husband, so I’m entitled to inherit.”
“No, you’re not,” Tad told him. “She cut you out of her will a long time ago. The house in Kilburn was sold, so you’ve no decent base in London anymore. If you attempt to stay, you’ll have a nasty accident one night, I promise you.”
“You can’t do that,” Finbar said, but for the first time, there was an uncertainty in his voice.
“I suggest you stick to County Down,” Tad said. “I don’t know what you could do to make a living, but perhaps the new owner of Drumore House will find you something to do.” He smiled across the table. “Would that be possible, Eli?”
“I’d say it would depend on how he behaves,” Eli said.
“Eli?” Finbar croaked. “She left this estate to him?”
“Actually, she left it to me,” Tad said. “But I’d rather keep it in the family, and Eli has agreed, so as soon as I’ve signed this deed of transfer that Sean and Hannah will witness, it goes to Mr. Strachan in Belfast to put through court.”
He pushed the document along the table, rolling a pen with it, which Hannah caught, did her signing, and passed it to Dillon, who did the necessary, then pushed it back to Tad. Then he reached across the table and shook a massive hand.
“Good luck, old son.”
Hannah joined in. “I’d say this wonderful place deserves you, Eli.”
He smiled, and Tad pushed a key across to him. “The handcuffs if you want to release him now, but don’t trust him, not even a little bit. He’ll never forgive you for having what he sees as his. Promise you’ll take what I say to you seriously.”
Eli didn’t say a word, simply went to Finbar and unlocked the handcuffs. Finbar stood there, rubbing his wrists. “Bastard,” he said. “I’ll fix you for this if it’s the last thing I do.”
Eli swung him around, giving him a kick in the backside that sent him staggering into the corridor, then returned to the others.
“That’s the way,” Dillon told him. “Show him who’s boss and keep it up.”
Eli sat down. “There is something I have to tell you about Finbar,” he said to Tad. “Something serious.” He turned to Dillon. “It involves you also, Sean. He was on a phone call, and the man on the other end described you as an IRA assassin working for General Charles Ferguson in London.”
“Who the hell said that?” Dillon demanded.
“It was the day before the funeral; we were in here at breakfast when Finbar’s mobile rang. He was in a bad mood and answered, turning his phone on speaker. It was a total stranger, who said he felt Finbar had been treated very unfairly in the matter of his wife’s death and had put twenty thousand pounds in his bank account so that he could go to the funeral.”
“That’s incredible,” Hannah said.
“No, it’s not,” Dillon told her. “There’s more to it, isn’t there, Eli? You heard everything, so tell us. This is important. More than you could know.”
—
ELI HELD NOTHING BACK, telling them everything he could recall of the exchange between the Master and Finbar. Tad sat there taking it all in with extraordinary calm, turning to Dillon when the big man was finished.
“I suspected you were in intelligence of some sort, Sean, but this takes the biscuit, and you, too, Hannah? That’s extraordinary.”
“It just sort of happened,” she said. “There are a lot of bad people around these days. But music is still of prime importance in my life.”
“And so it should be,” Tad said. “You have a remarkable gift for it.”
“Which I won’t let her forget,” Dillon said. “You don’t need to worry about that, but let’s consider the present. You’re involved with the wider situation, Tad, whether you like it or not. The people I work for out of Holland Park have been up against this Master business before and have enjoyed some success, but whoever the individual is, he’s controlled by the al-Qaeda Grand Council. Their knowledge is amazing. They seem to know everything there is to know about everybody, so be prepared. It can be unnerving if the Master decides to call.”
“What about ISIS?” Tad asked.
“Rubbish as far as AQ are concerned. There is only one God, and Osama is his Prophet, that is their creed above everything.”
“All very complicated,” Tad said, and at that moment, Dillon’s phone rang.
When he was with Hannah, he’d got into the habit of leaving it on speaker, and the Master’s voice echoed clearly. “There you are, Mr. Dillon. You have been active. Good morning to you, Hannah, and welcome, Mr. Magee. You have been busy, too, I must say, as opposed to your father, who I see is no longer center stage. I had promised to help him solve the mystery of the Maria Blanco, but not now. He can stew in his own juice.”
“That’s his problem,” Tad said, “and I think you’ll find me an entirely different kind of man to deal with—not that I plan to deal with you at all, you shite.”
“Tsk, temper, temper. Who knows? In the world we inhabit today, anything is possible. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Magee. Have a good flight.”
Dillon switched off, and Tad said, “Incredible.”
“Yes, quite a performance,” Dillon said. “But you heard the man. Let’s say a fond farewell to you, Eli, and get back to the airfield. Don’t take any crap from you-know-who, and you’ve got my phone number so you can let me know if you hear from this guy again. We’ll get off now, up into the wide blue yonder. Just give us a lift back to the airfield.”
6
ON THE QUAI DES BRUMES, the Master opened the door leading out to the stern of the barge.
The awning stretched tightly, rain pattering down, and he stepped out, a cup of coffee in his right hand, and stood there savoring the damp smell that was a mixture of the rain and the River Seine. He loved it all completely and never tired of it.
But there was work to be done. What a stupid fool Finbar Mag
ee had turned out to be, but his son was obviously an entirely different proposition. The gangster was still there, lurking under the surface, the hard man waiting to move in spite of the Savile Row suit and the Aston Martin. He would have to be careful there.
And Samuel Hunter. A dishonest man by nature in spite of the medals. He reviewed what he knew. On a previous visit to London, Hunter had discovered the old RAF base at Charnley in Essex, where Hans Weber operated half a dozen Dakotas. Weber traded mainly with West Africa under the rather grand name of Havoc International, shipping cargo, mostly to Ghana and Nigeria, and then carrying on to Mali to pick up any general cargo needed in France and England.
But Timbuktu had been invaded by rebels operating under the black flag of al-Qaeda, ignorant tribesmen unaware that Timbuktu had been a center for Islamic learning for hundreds of years. The books and manuscripts in its libraries were worth many, many millions, especially on the black market, although it was an affront to Islam to sell them.
Over champagne and an excellent meal at the Hilton in Park Lane, which he regretted later, Weber had let the cat out of the bag by telling Hunter how he had already smuggled out some early manuscripts of the Koran, passed them to the right dealers in London, and cleared one hundred thousand pounds, leaving some dealers begging for more.
It had been obvious to Hunter that by increasing the cargoes and loading a Dakota to full capacity several millions could be made out of such valuable items, and he was determined to have his way in spite of Weber’s reluctance.
The truth was that Weber was regretting his involvement and desperately tried to get out of it by changing his mobile and moving out of his usual hotel into a one-bedroom flat in Hatherley Court in Bayswater that was owned by a cousin.
None of this had helped as Hunter had sent an e-mail to Charnley airfield indicating that he was on his way to London.
The Master smiled and punched in some numbers on his phone.
In Bayswater, Weber sat in despair by the window in his pajamas, drinking coffee for his breakfast, the rain pattering against the window, and then the ancient house phone of the flat rang. He stared at it for a minute or so, but as the ringing persisted, he picked the phone up, and the Master said, “So there you are, Mister Weber. It’s not Colonel Samuel Hunter, which I’m sure is a relief to you.”