The lights picked out a sign that said Grimethorpe airfield, the paintwork peeling. Dillon turned into a narrow tarmac road that was badly potholed. A few moments later, they came to the airfield. There were three hangars, an old control tower, a couple of Nissen huts, a light at the windows of one of them. A jeep was parked there and Dillon pulled in beside it. As they got out, the door of the Nissen hut opened and a man stood there.
"Who is it?"
"It's me, Mr. Grant, Angel Fahy. I've brought someone to see you."
Grant, like most pilots, was small and wiry. He looked to be in his mid-forties, wore jeans and an old flying jacket of the kind used by American aircrew in the Second World War. "You'd better come in, then."
The interior of the Nissen hut was warm, heated by a coke-burning stove, the pipe going up through the roof. Grant obviously used it as a living room. There was a table with the remains of a meal on it, an old easy chair by the stove facing a television set in the corner. Beneath the windows on the other side there was a long, sloping desk with a few charts.
Angel said, "This is a friend of my uncle's."
"Hilton," Dillon said. "Peter Hilton."
Grant put his hand out, looking wary. "Bill Grant. I don't owe you money, do I?"
"Not to my knowledge." Dillon was back in his public-school role.
"Well, that makes a nice change. What can I do for you?"
"I want a charter in the next few days. Just wanted to check if you might be able to do something before I tried anywhere else."
"Well, that depends."
"On what? You do have a plane, I take it?"
"I've got two. The only problem is how long the bank lets me hang onto them. Do you want to have a look?"
"Why not?"
They went out, crossed the apron to the end hangar, and he opened a Judas so they could step through. He reached to one side, found a switch and lights came on. There were two planes there, side by side, both twin engines.
Dillon walked up to the nearest. "I know this baby, a Cessna Conquest. What's the other?"
"Navajo Chieftain."
"If things are as tricky as you say, what about fuel?"
"I always keep my planes juiced up, Mr. Hilton, always full tanks. I'm too old a hand to do otherwise. You never know when a job might come up." He smiled ruefully. "Mind you, I'll be honest. What with the recession, there aren't too many people looking for charters these days. Where would you like me to take you?"
"Actually I was thinking of going for a spin myself one day," Dillon said. "I'm not sure when."
"You're certified, then?" Grant looked dubious.
"Oh, yes, fully." Dillon took out his pilot's license and passed it across.
Grant examined it quickly and handed it back. "You could handle either of these two, but I'd rather come myself, just to make sure."
"No problem," Dillon said smoothly. "It's the West Country I was thinking of. Cornwall. There's an airfield at Land's End."
"I know it well. Grass runway."
"I've got friends near there. I'd probably want to stay overnight."
"That's fine by me." Grant switched off the lights and they walked back to the Nissen hut. "What line are you in, Mr. Hilton?"
"Oh, finance, accountancy, that sort of thing," Dillon said.
"Have you any idea when you might want to go? I should point out that kind of charter's going to be expensive. Around two thousand five hundred pounds. With half a dozen passengers that's not so bad, but on your own . . ."
"That's fine," Dillon said.
"Then there would be my overnight expenses. A hotel and so on."
"No problem." Dillon took ten fifty-pound notes from his wallet and put them on the table. "There's five hundred down. It's a definite booking for some time in the next four or five days. I'll phone you here to let you know when."
Grant's face brightened as he picked up the bank notes. "That's fine. Can I get you a coffee or something before you go?"
"Why not?" Dillon said.
Grant went into the kitchen at the far end of the Nissen hut. They heard him filling a kettle. Dillon put a finger to his lips, made a face at Angel and crossed to the charts on the desk. He went through them quickly, found the one for the general English Channel area and the French coast. Angel stood beside him watching as he traced his finger along the Normandy coast. He found Cherbourg and moved south. There it was, Saint-Denis, with the landing strip clearly marked, and he pushed the charts back together. Grant in the kitchen had been watching through the half-open door. As the kettle boiled, he quickly made coffee in three mugs and took them in.
"Is this weather giving you much trouble?" Dillon said. "The snow?"
"It will if it really starts to stick," Grant said. "It could make it difficult for that grass runway at Land's End."
"We'll just have to keep our fingers crossed." Dillon put down his mug. "We'd better be getting back."
Grant went to the door to see them off. They got in the Mini and drove away. He waved, closed the door and went to the desk and examined the charts. It was the third or fourth down, he was sure of that. General English Channel area and the French coast.
He frowned and said softly, "And what's your game, mister, I wonder?"
As they drove back through the dark country lanes Angel said, "Not Land's End at all, Mr. Dillon, it's that Saint-Denis place in Normandy, that's where you want to fly to."
"Our secret," he said and put his left hand on hers, still steering. "Can I ask you to promise me one thing?"
"Anything, Mr. Dillon."
"Let's keep it to ourselves, just for now. I don't want Danny to know. You do drive, do you?"
"Drive? Of course I do. I take the sheep to market in the Morris van myself."
"Tell me, how would you like a trip up to London tomorrow morning with me, you and Danny?"
"I'd like it fine."
"Good, that's all right, then."
As they carried on through the night her eyes were shining.
NINE
IT WAS A cold, crisp morning, winter on every hand, but the roads were clear as Dillon drove up to London, Angel and Danny Fahy following in the Morris van. Angel was driving, and more than competently. He could see her in his rearview mirror and she stayed right on his tail all the way into London until they came to the Bayswater Road. There was a plan already half-formed in his mind and he got out of the Mini-Cooper, parked it at the curb and opened the doors of Tania's garage.
As Angel and Danny drew up behind him he said, "Put the Morris inside." Angel did as she was told. When she and Danny Fahy came out, Dillon closed the doors and said, "You'll remember the street and the garage, if you lose me, that is?"
"Don't be silly, Mr. Dillon, of course I will," Angel said.
"Good. It's important. Now get in the Mini. We're going for a little run round."
Harry Flood was sitting at the desk in his apartment at Cable Wharf checking the casino accounts from the night before when Charlie Salter brought in coffee on a tray. The phone rang and the small man picked it up. He handed it to Flood.
"The Professor."
"Martin, how goes it?" Flood said. "I enjoyed last night. The Tanner lady is something special."
"Is there any news? Have you managed to come up with anything?" Brosnan asked.
"Not yet, Martin, just a minute." Flood put a hand over the receiver and said to Salter, "Where's Mordecai?"
"Doing the rounds, Harry, just like you asked him, putting the word out discreetly."
Flood returned to Brosnan. "Sorry, old buddy, we're doing everything we can, but it's going to take time."
"Which we don't really have," Brosnan said. "All right, Harry, I know you're doing your best. I'll stay in touch."
He was standing at Mary Tanner's desk in the living room of her Lowndes Square flat. He put the phone down, walked to the window and lit a cigarette.
"Anything?" she asked and crossed the room to join him.
"I'm afraid not. As
Harry has just said it takes time. I was a fool to think anything else."
"Just try and be patient, Martin." She put a hand on his arm.
"But I can't," he said. "I've got this feeling and it's hard to explain. It's like being in a storm and waiting for that bloody great thunderclap you know is going to come. I know Dillon, Mary. He's moving fast on this. I'm certain of it."
"So what would you like to do?"
"Will Ferguson be at Cavendish Square this morning?"
"Yes."
"Then let's go to see him."
Dillon parked the Mini-Cooper near Covent Garden. An enquiry in a bookshop nearby led them to a shop not too far away specializing in maps and charts of every description. Dillon worked his way through the large-scale Ordnance Survey maps of Central London until he found the one covering the general area of Whitehall.
"Would you look at the detail in that thing?" Fahy whispered. "You could measure the size of the garden at Number Ten to half an inch."
Dillon purchased the map, which the assistant rolled up tightly and inserted into a protective cardboard tube. He paid for it and they walked back to the car.
"Now what?" Danny asked.
"We'll take a run round. Have a look at the situation."
"That suits me."
Angel sat in the rear, her uncle beside Dillon as they drove down toward the river and turned into Horse Guards Avenue. Dillon paused slightly on the corner before turning into Whitehall and moving toward Downing Street.
"Plenty of coppers around," Danny said.
"That's to make sure people don't park." A car had drawn in to the curb on their left and as they pulled out to pass, they saw that the driver was consulting a map.
"Tourist, I expect," Angel said.
"And look what's happening," Dillon told her.
She turned and saw two policemen converging on the car. A quiet word, it started up and moved away.
Angel said, "They don't waste time."
"Downing Street," Dillon announced a moment later.
"Would you look at those gates?" Danny said in wonder. "I like the Gothic touch. Sure and they've done a good job there."
Dillon moved with the traffic round Parliament Square and went back up Whitehall toward Trafalgar Square. "We're going back to Bayswater," he said. "Notice the route I've chosen."
He moved out of the traffic of Trafalgar Square through Admiralty Arch along the Mall, round the Queen Victoria Monument, past Buckingham Palace and along Constitution Hill, eventually reaching Marble Arch by way of Park Lane and turning into the Bayswater Road.
"And that's simple enough," Danny Fahy said.
"Good," Dillon said. "Then let's go and get a nice cup of tea at my truly awful hotel."
Ferguson said, "You're getting too restless, Martin."
"It's the waiting," Brosnan told him. "Flood's doing his best, I know that, but I don't think time is on our side."
Ferguson turned from the window and sipped a little of the cup of tea he was holding. "So what would you like to do?"
Brosnan hesitated, glanced at Mary and said, "I'd like to go and see Liam Devlin in Kilrea. He might have some ideas."
"Something he was never short of." Ferguson turned to Mary. "What do you think?"
"I think it makes sense, sir. After all, a trip to Dublin's no big deal. An hour and a quarter from Heathrow on either Aer Lingus or B.A."
"And Liam's place at Kilrea is only half an hour from the city," Brosnan said.
"All right," Ferguson said. "You've made your point, both of you, but make it Gatwick and the Lear jet, just in case anything comes up and you need to get back here in a hurry."
"Thank you, sir," Mary said.
As they reached the door, Ferguson added, "I'll give the old rogue a call, just to let him know you're on your way," and he reached for the phone.
As they went downstairs Brosnan said, "Thank God. At least I feel we're doing something."
"And I get to meet the great Liam Devlin at long last," Mary said and led the way out to the limousine.
In the small cafe at the hotel, Dillon, Angel and Fahy sat at a corner table drinking tea. Fahy had the Ordnance Survey map partially open on his knee. "It's extraordinary. The things they give away. Every detail."
"Could it be done, Danny?"
"Oh, yes, no trouble. You remember that corner, Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall? That would be the place, slightly on an angle. I can see it in my mind's eye. I can plot the distance from that corner to Number Ten exactly from this map."
"You're sure you'd clear the buildings in between?" Dillon said.
"Oh, yes. I've said before, Sean, ballistics is a matter of science."
"But you can't stop there," Angel said. "We saw what happened to that man in the car. The police were on him in seconds."
Dillon turned to Fahy. "Danny?"
"Well, that's all you would need. Everything pre-timed, Angel. Press the right switch to activate the circuit, get out of the van and the mortars start firing within a minute. No policeman could act fast enough to stop it."
"But what would happen to you?" she demanded.
It was Dillon who answered. "Just listen to this. We drive up from Cadge End one morning early, you, Danny, in the Ford transit, and Angel and me in the Morris van. We'll have that BSA motorcycle in the back of that. Angel will park the Morris, like today, in the garage at the end of the road. We'll have a duckboard in the back so I can run the BSA out."
"And you'll follow me, is that it?"
"I'll be right up your tail. When we reach the corner of Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall, you set your switch, get out of the Ford and jump straight on my pillion and we'll be away. The War Cabinet meets every morning at ten. With luck we could get the lot."
"Jesus, Sean, they'd never know what hit them."
"Straight back to Bayswater to Angel waiting in the garage with the Morris, put the BSA in the back and away we go. We'll be in Cadge End while they're still trying to put the fires out."
"It's brilliant, Mr. Dillon," Angel told him.
"Except for one thing," Fahy said. "Without the bloody explosives, we don't have any bloody bombs."
"You leave that to me," Dillon said. "I'll get your explosives for you." He stood up. "But I've got things to do. You two go back to Cadge End and wait. I'll be in touch."
"And when would that be, Sean?"
"Soon--very soon," and Dillon smiled as they went out.
Tania was knocking at his door precisely at noon. He opened it and said, "You've got it?"
She had a briefcase in her right hand, opened it on the table to reveal the thirty thousand dollars he'd asked for.
"Good," he said. "I'll just need ten thousand to be going on with."
"What will you do with the rest?"
"I'll hand it in at the desk. They can keep your briefcase in the hotel safe."
"You've worked something out, I can tell." She looked excited. "What happened at this Cadge End place?"
So he told her and in detail, the entire plan. "What do you think?" he asked when he'd finished.
"Incredible. The coup of a lifetime. But what about the explosives? You'd need Semtex."
"That's all right. When I was operating in London in eighty-one I used to deal with a man who had access to Semtex." He laughed. "In fact he had access to everything."
"And who is this man? How can you be sure he's still around?"
"A crook named Jack Harvey and he's around all right. I looked him up."
"But I don't understand."
"Amongst other things he has a funeral business in Whitechapel. I looked it up in the Yellow Pages and it's still there. By the way, your Mini, I can still use it?"
"Of course."
"Good. I'll park it somewhere in the street. I want that garage free."
He picked up his coat. "Come on, we'll go and have a bite to eat and then I'll go and see him."
"You've read the file on Devlin, I suppose?" Brosnan asked Mary Tanner as
they drove through the center of Dublin and crossed the River Liffey by St. George's Quay and moved on out of the other side of the city, driven by a chauffeur in a limousine from the Embassy.
"Yes," she said. "But is it all true? The story about his involvement with the German attempt to get Churchill in the war?"
"Oh, yes."
"The same man who helped you break out of that French prison in nineteen seventy-nine?"
"That's Devlin."
"But, Martin, you said he claimed to be seventy. He must be older than that."
"A few years is a minor detail where Liam Devlin is concerned. Let's put it this way, you're about to meet the most extraordinary man you've ever met in your life. Scholar, poet and gunman for the IRA."
"The last part is no recommendation to me," she said.
"I know," he told her. "But never make the mistake of lumping Devlin in with the kind of rubbish the IRA employs these days."
He retreated into himself, suddenly sombre, and the car continued out into the Irish countryside, leaving the city behind.
Kilrea Cottage, the place was called, on the outskirts of the village next to a convent. It was a period piece, single-storeyed with Gothic-looking gables and lead windows on either side of the porch. They sheltered in there from the light rain while Brosnan tugged an old-fashioned bell pull. There was the sound of footsteps, the door opened.
"Cead mile failte," Liam Devlin said in Irish. "A hundred thousand welcomes," and he flung his arms around Brosnan.
The interior of the house was very Victorian. Most of the furniture was mahogany, the wallpaper was a William Morris replica, but the paintings on the walls, all Atkinson Grimshaws, were real.
Liam Devlin came in from the kitchen with tea things on a tray. "My housekeeper comes mornings only. One of the good sisters from the convent next door. They need the money."
Mary Tanner was totally astonished. She'd expected an old man and found herself faced with this ageless creature in black silk Italian shirt, black pullover, gray slacks in the latest fashionable cut. There was still considerable color in hair that had once been black and the face was pale, but she sensed that had always been so. The blue eyes were extraordinary, as was that perpetual ironic smile with which he seemed to laugh at himself as much as at the world.
Eye Of the Storm (1992) Page 15