by Jack Higgins
Ryan laughed triumphantly. 'I've got you now,' and he fired again.
Dillon rolled frantically and went over the edge of the wharf, plunging into the dark waters below. It was bitterly cold and he surfaced to find Ryan peering down.
'So there you are.'
He raised his Smith amp; Wesson, and then Dillon heard a voice call: ' Mr Ryan.'
Ryan turned. Dillon heard a muted cough that he recognized as the sound of a silenced pistol, then Ryan came backwards over the edge of the wharf, hit the water beside Dillon and surfaced with a hole between his eyes. Dillon pushed him away and grabbed for a ring bolt. There was a footfall above, but no one looked over. When the voice spoke again, it was with an
Irish accent.
'Are you all right, Mr Dillon?'
'As ever was, ma'am, and who in God's name might you be?'
'Your guardian angel. Take care, my friend.'
He heard her walk away, as he swam to a wooden ladder and climbed up. As his head rose above the edge of the wharf, he caught a brief glimpse of her disappearing into the shadows, a dark shape under an umbrella that was gone in a moment.
He pulled himself over and stood up, streaming water. His Walther lay where it had fallen and Ryan's weapon was close by. He pushed the Walther into his waistband and picked up the Smith amp; Wesson, went to the edge of the wharf, looked down at Ryan's half-submerged body, then hurled the gun far out into the river.
'And you can chew on that, you bastard,' he said, and hurried back to the Mini Cooper.
He had a mobile phone in the glove compartment, got it out and dialled Cavendish Square. Ferguson sounded irate. 'Who is this?'
'It's me,' Dillon told him.
'Good God, do you know what time it is? I'm in bed. Can't it wait until the morning?'
'Not really. An old friend just passed on.'
Ferguson 's voice changed. 'Permanently?'
'Very much so.'
'You'd better come round then.'
'I need to go home first.'
'What on earth for?'
'Because I've been swimming in the Thames, that's why,' and Dillon switched off and drove away.
Ferguson thought about it and then phoned Hannah Bernstein.
She answered at once. 'Are you in bed?'
'No, reading actually. One of those nights. Can't sleep.' 'Phone through for one of the emergency cars and get round here. It would appear our Sean has been involved in some sort of mischief.' 'Oh, dear, bad?'
'The graveyard variety, or so it would seem. I'll see you soon.' He put down the phone, got out of bed and pulled on a robe, then he phoned through to Kim, his Ghurka manservant, woke him up and ordered tea.
Hedley had almost given up when he saw her at the end of the sidewalk in front of him, and as he coasted towards her, three youths came round the corner wearing bomber jackets and jeans, young animals of the kind to be found anywhere in the world, from New York to London. Hedley heard the ugly laughter and then they were on to her, one of them yanking her purse away. His anger was instant, he braked at the kerb and jumped out.
'Leave it.'
One of them pushed Helen against the wall and they all turned. The one with the purse said, 'Hey, nigger, get out of here, this is none of your business.'
They moved in on him and it all came back: ' Nam, the Delta, every dirty trick he'd ever learned. He grabbed the wrist of the one holding the purse, twisted the arm straight, and delivered a hammer blow that snapped the bone. His right elbow went back into the face of the one behind, breaking the nose, and his left foot scraped down the leg of the third, dislodging the kneecap.
They were on the sidewalk, crying in pain. He picked up the purse and took her arm. 'Can we go now?'
'My God, Hedley, you don't take prisoners.'
'Never could see the point.'
'What are you doing here?'
'I heard you leave, so I followed. Then I lost you when you went on foot.'
He held the door for her, she slipped in and he got in behind the wheel. Sounding a little breathless, she opened her purse, took out a bottle and shook a couple of pills into her palm.
'The flask, Hedley.'
'Lady Helen, you shouldn't.'
'The flask.' Her voice was insistent and he passed the flask over reluctantly. She drank, washing the pills down, a warm glow spreading through her. 'We'll go back to South Audley Street now and pack. Compton Place in the morning.'
As he pulled away, he said anxiously, 'Are you okay?'
'Never better. You see, I just executed Tim Pat Ryan.'
He swerved slightly, then regained control. 'You've got to be kidding me.'
'Not at all. Let me tell you about it.'
Kim opened the door to let Dillon in, and when the Irishman went into the drawing room, he found Hannah Bernstein, wearing a track suit, opposite Ferguson, who wore a robe over his pyjamas.
'God bless all here,' Dillon said.
'Enough of the stage Irishman, Dillon. Just tell us the worst,' Ferguson said wearily.
Dillon did, in a few brief sentences, then went and helped himself to the Bushmills.
'For God's sake, what am I to do with you?' Ferguson demanded. 'You know the present political situation. Hands off, no trouble, and yet out of some strange perversity, you went looking for it.'
'I only intended to lean on the bastard.'
For once it was Hannah Bernstein who spoke up.
'It's no great loss, sir. Ryan was like something from under a stone.'
'Yes, I admit to a certain satisfaction,' the Brigadier told her. 'But how does that fine Special Branch mind intend to handle it?'
'By leaving it alone, sir. Someone will find Ryan down there by the wharf soon enough. That leaves Scotland Yard and a Murder Squad investigation. Let's face it, a piece of filth like Ryan had more enemies than you could count. It's not our problem, sir.'
'I agree,' Ferguson said.
Dillon shook his head. 'Jesus, 'tis the hard woman you are. Whatever happened to that nice Jewish girl I fell in love with?'
'Comes of working with you.' She turned to Ferguson. 'To business, sir, our business. This woman with the Irish accent may have done us a favour, but I'd like to know who she is. With your permission, I'll trawl all intelligence sources on the computer at the Ministry of Defence and see what I can see.'
'Be my guest, Chief Inspector. There may be a Loyalist link here.'
'I don't think so,' Dillon said. 'Most Loyalists have the Ulster accent like my own. Hers was different.'
'No matter.' Ferguson stood. 'You can stay in one of the spare bedrooms, Chief Inspector, I don't want to turn you out again in the rain at this time in the morning.'
'Thank you, sir.'
He turned. 'You, of course, can walk home, Dillon. I mean, you Irish are used to the rain, aren't you?'
'God save your honour, 'tis the grand man you are. I'll take my shoes off at your door, tie them round my neck and walk barefoot to Stable Mews to save the leather.'
Ferguson laughed out loud. 'Just go, you rogue, go,' and Dillon went out.
In the study at South Audley Street, Lady Helen sat at the desk examining the file, and Hedley came in with tea on a tray. He put the tray down and poured tea into a cup.
She added milk, English style, and sipped it. 'Lovely.' She leaned over the file. 'Strange. Tim Pat Ryan was the last on the list, but the first to go.'
'Lady Helen, this can't go on.'
'Oh, yes, it damn well can. What's my money buy me that's worth anything, Hedley? Those bastards, all of them, were directly responsible for the butchery of my son. As a result, my husband died an early and unnecessary death, and I'll tell you another thing, old friend. I don't have much time. The pills I've been taking – I have a damaged heart.'
He was deeply shocked and sat down. 'I didn't realize.'
'You do now, so are you with me or against me? You could phone Dr Ingram and tell him I've gone mad. You could call Scotland Yard and they'd arrest me fo
r murder. It's up to you, isn't it?'
He stood up. 'You've been good to me, more than anyone else in my life.' He sighed. 'I still don't like it, but one thing's for sure. You need someone you can count on, and I'll be there for you, just like you were there for me.'
'Bless you, Hedley. Get some sleep and we'll leave for Comp-ton Place in the morning.'
He left the room and she sat there, wondering how Dillon was getting on, then she went and lay on the couch and pulled a comforter over herself.
London,
Washington,
Ulster
Chapter Three
At the ministry of Defence, Hannah Bernstein's efforts at trawling the computer proved useless. She even tried Dublin and British Army Headquarters at Lisburn, in Northern Ireland, but nothing. So, the matter was shelved. Ryan's death was a seven-day wonder; the newspapers spoke of rivalry between gangs in the East End and other parts of London. No one at Scotland Yard was shedding tears, underworld contacts proved useless, the case was shelved. Left open, of course, but shelved.
At Compton Place, Helen ate well, took long walks and got plenty of fresh air. She also practised at the pistol shooting range in the old barn, a reluctant Hedley giving her the benefit of his expertise. She had never realized how good he was until one afternoon, after supervising her, he picked up a Browning, one of many handguns her husband had accumulated over the years, and loaded it. There were seven cardboard targets at the far end of the barn, each a facsimile of a charging Chinese soldier, a legacy of the old colonel's time in the Korean War.
'I want you to watch.'
He was about thirty feet away. His hand swung, he fired rapidly and shot each target through the head. She was amazed and showed it as the sound died away.
'Incredible.'
'But I'm a trained soldier. Now, you, you're good, but handguns are unreliable unless you get close.'
'How close?'
He slammed a fresh clip into the butt of the Browning and handed it to her. 'Come with me.' He led her to the large centre target. 'Right, put it against his heart and pull the trigger.' She did as he ordered. 'Now you get it, that close.'
'I was about twelve feet away from Ryan.'
'Sure, but you could have missed and he might have got you.'
'All right, but I'd still like to return to the table and try again from there.'
'Be my guest.' The mobile phone on the table rang.
He opened it and passed it to her and she said, 'Helen Lang.' After a while, she nodded. 'My thanks. I'm so sorry.' She closed the phone and looked at Hedley. 'Tony Emsworth just died.'
'That's a shame. When is the funeral?'
'Wednesday.'
'Are we going?'
'Of course.' She was calm, but there was pain in her eyes. 'I've had enough, Hedley. I think I'll go back inside,' and she walked away.
It was a fine sunny morning for the funeral at Stukeley. As it was no more than an hour's drive from London, the church was full and Helen Lang, sitting on one side of the aisle, was almost amused to find Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein and Dillon on the other. On her way out, she paused to shake hands with Tony Emsworth's nephew and his wife, who had organized things.
'So nice of you to come, Lady Helen,' they chorused. 'We've arranged a reception at the Country Hoteljust outside the village. Do come.'
Which she did. The hotel lounge was crowded. She accepted a glass of indifferent champagne and then Charles Ferguson saw her and barrelled through the crowd.
'My dear Helen.' He kissed her on both cheeks. 'My God, you still look fifty and that's on a bad day. How do you do it?'
'You were always a charmer, Charles, a glib charmer, but a charmer.' She turned to Hannah at his shoulder. 'Beware of this one, my dear. I remember when he had an affair with the Uruguayan Ambassador's wife, and her husband challenged him to a duel.'
'Now, Helen, that's very naughty. This gorgeous creature is my assistant, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, and this Irish rogue is one Sean Dillon, who knew Tony quite well. Lady Helen Lang.'
Dillon wore an easy-fitting Armani suit of navy blue. Helen Lang took to him at once as they shook hands. At that moment, someone called to Ferguson, who turned and moved away. Dillon and Hannah went with him.
Ferguson said hello to the man who'd called him and Dillon pulled him around. 'Lady Lang, who is she?'
'Oh, I soldiered with her husband in Korea. Her son, Major Peter Lang, was Scots Guards and SAS. One of our best undercover agents in you-know-where. Someone in the IRA got on to him the other year and blew him up. Car bomb.'
Hannah Bernstein was talking to someone and Ferguson was hailed again. Suddenly, it was all too much for Helen Lang and, slightly breathless, she went out on to the terrace in the February sunshine. Dillon saw her go. There was something about her, something he couldn't define, so he went after her.
She was at the terrace balustrade tossing a couple of pills back when Dillon arrived. 'Can I get you a glass of champagne?'
'Frankly, I'd rather have whiskey.'
'Well, I'm your man. Will Irish do?'
'Why not?'
He was back in a few moments with two glasses. She put hers down, got out her silver case and held it out. 'Do you indulge?'
'Jesus, but you're a wonderful woman.' His old Zippo flared and he gave her a light.
'Do you mind if I say something, Mr Dillon?' she said. 'You're wearing a Guards tie.'
'Ah, well, I like to keep old Ferguson happy.'
She took a chance. 'I should mention that I know about you, Mr Dillon. My old friend Tony Emsworth told me everything, and for very special reasons.'
'Your son, Lady Helen.' Dillon nodded. 'I'm surprised you'd speak to me.'
'I believe war should still have rules, and from what Tony told me, you were an honourable man, however ruthless and, may I say, misguided.'
'I stand corrected.'
He bowed his head in mock humility. She said, 'You rogue. You can get me that champagne now, only make sure they open a decent bottle.'
'At your command.'
He joined Ferguson at the bar. 'Lady Helen,' he said. 'Quite a woman.
'And then some.'
The barman poured the champagne into two glasses. 'There's something about her, something special. Can't put my finger on it.'
'Don't try, Dillon,' Ferguson told him. 'She's far too good for you.'
It was a week later that they flew from Gatwick to New York in one of her company's Gulfstreams, and stayed at the Plaza. By that time, she knew the file backwards, every facet of every individual in it, and had also used every facility available in the company's computer. She had the Colt. 25 with her. In all her years flying in the Gulfstreams, she had never been checked by security once.
She knew everything. For example, that Martin Brady, the Teamsters' Union official, attended a union gym near the New York docks three times a week, and usually left around ten in the evening. Hedley took her to a place a block away, then she walked. Brady had a red Mercedes, a distinctive automobile. She waited in an alley next to where he had parked it, and slipped out only to shoot him in the back of the neck as he leaned over to unlock the Mercedes.
That had been Hedfey's suggestion. He'd heard that the mob preferred such executions with a small calibre pistol, usually a. 22, but a. 25 would do, and this would make the police think they had a mob-versus-union problem.
Thomas Cassidy, with a fortune in Irish theme pubs, was easy. He'd recently opened a new place in the Bronx and parked in an alley at the rear. She checked it out two nights running and got him on the third, at one in the morning, once again as he unlocked his car. According to The New York Times, there had been a protection racket operating in the area and the police thought Cassidy a victim. She'd known about all that and his complaints to the police from the computer.
Patrick Kelly, the boss of the construction firm, was even easier. He had a house in Ossining, with countryside all around. His habit was to rise at six in th
e morning and run five miles. She checked out his usual route, then caught him on the third morning, running with the hood of his track suit up against heavy rain. She stood under a tree as he approached, shot him twice in the heart, then removed the gold Rolex watch from his wrist and the chain from around his neck, again at Hedley's suggestion. A simple mugging, was all.
So, everything worked perfectly. She hadn't needed the pills as much, and Hedley, in spite of his doubts, had proved a rock. Am I truly wicked, she would ask herself, really evil? And then recalled reading that in Judaism, Jehovah was not personally responsible for many actions. He employed angels, an Angel of Death, for example.
Is that me? she asked herself. But needing justice, she could not be sorry. So she continued until that rainy night in Manhattan, when she waited for Senator Michael Cohan to come home from the Pierre and was sidetracked.
At the same time that Helen Lang was returning to the Plaza, consoling herself with the thought that she would get Cohan in London, other events were taking place there that would prove to have a profound influence not only on her, but on others she already knew.
A few hours after Lady Helen went to bed, Hannah Bernstein entered Charles Ferguson's office at the Ministry of Defence, Dillon behind her.
'Sorry to bother you, sir, but we've got a hot one.'
'Really?' He smiled. 'Tell me.'
She nodded to Dillon, who said, 'There's an old mate of mine, Tommy McGuire, Irish-American. Been into arms dealing for years. He was caught with a defective brake light in Kilburn last night, and a rather keen young woman probationer insisted on checking the boot of his car.'
'Surprise, surprise,' Hannah Bernstein said. 'Fifty pounds of Semtex and two AK47S.'
'How delicious,' Ferguson replied. 'With his record, which I'm sure he has, that should draw ten years.'
'Except for one thing,' Hannah told him. 'He says he wants a deal.'
'Really.'
'He says he can give us Jack Barry,' Dillon told him.
Ferguson went very still, frowning. 'Where is McGuire?' ' Wandsworth,' Hannah said, naming one of London 's bleaker prisons.
'Then let's go and see what he has to say,' and Charles Ferguson stood up.