by Jack Higgins
'Don't be flippant, Dillon. What do you intend?'
'I haven't the slightest idea. Are you carrying?'
'What would you expect?' Ferguson asked wearily, and produced an old. 38 Smith amp; Wesson automatic. 'I also have these.' He took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket.
'You are hopeful, old man.'
'All right, let's get on with it,' and Ferguson got out and put up his umbrella.
They walked down Chalk Lane side by side, the Brigadier's umbrella protecting them. When they reached the basin, they paused in the doorway of one of the old warehouses.
'One houseboat on this side, four on the other,' Ferguson whispered. 'Lights in the nearest and two of the others. Which is which?'
Dillon took a small pair of binoculars from his pocket. ' Nightstalkers. Miracle of modern science.' He focused them on the first houseboat and passed them to Ferguson. 'Take a look.'
Ferguson did so and the houseboat emerged in every detail, although in a greenish tint, the name Griselda clear on the prow. 'Excellent. I could have done with those in the trenches on the Hook. What's your plan?'
'I'm a simple man, and the lights being on, I presume it is Barry.'
'So?'
Dillon examined the Griselda again. 'I don't think we'll get anywhere by stepping on board and shouting down the companionway, "Come out with your hands up." I noticed there's a stern hatch.'
'Yes, well, I'd like to point out that there could be a certain amount of noise in doing that, Dillon. Lifting the hatch, I mean, which could also be locked on the inside.'
'Brigadier, you've got to travel hopefully. I'll have a go and you wait here for me.'
'Oh, I see, keeping the old man safe, are we?'
Dillon didn't bother to answer, simply handed him the Night-stalker and faded into the darkness beside the warehouse wall. Ferguson focused the night sight, saw Dillon slide over the stern rail and move to the hatch. It lifted and Dillon slipped inside.
As Ferguson lowered the Nightstalker, Jack Barry emerged from the companionway. Ferguson checked him out, the paper cup in one hand, the butt of the Browning sticking out of his waistband. Ferguson thought of Dillon down there trying to make his way through unfamiliar territory, and made his decision. He put the Nightstalker in his pocket, took out the Smith amp; Wesson, and held it against his back in his left hand. He walked along the quay, and paused at the gangway, umbrella held high.
'We haven't met face-to-face, Mr Barry, but the name's Ferguson.'
Ferguson started down the gangplank and his left hand emerged holding the Smith amp; Wesson.
Wyatt Earp, the great American marshal, once said that what had made his reputation as a gunfighter was when a young cowboy had tried to shoot him in the back in the darkness of Dodge City at fifty paces. Earp had turned and fired as a reflex, without taking aim, and shot the gun from the boy's hand, a total fluke.
Jack Barry did the same now, pulling the silenced Browning out, firing from the hip, catching the Smith amp; Wesson in Charles Ferguson's hand and blowing it away. Dillon, easing in through the hatch above the shower room, had heard Ferguson, took out his Walther, dashed through the kitchen and saloon, and went out headfirst into Barry, as Ferguson fell back to the deck.
Dillon rammed the Walther into Barry's back. 'Drop it, Jack, or I'll blow your spine in two.'
Barry froze. 'Why, Sean, it's you.'
Ferguson got to his feet. Dillon said, 'Are you okay, Brigadier?'
Ferguson was holding his wrist, which was bleeding. 'Just a scratch. I'm fine.'
Barry leaned over and placed the Browning on the deck, then as he straightened, he lifted his right elbow into Dillon's face, turning sideways so that Dillon's reflex shot went into the deck. Dillon dropped the Walther and they closed together, Barry staggering back as they struggled furiously. When they went over the rail, it was still together.
And it was cold, the kind of shock that numbed the brain, and the current was fierce. Dillon kicked Barry away as he surfaced, felt himself swept against the stern anchor chain and grabbed at it. As he turned, he saw Barry being carried away.
'Fuck you, Dillon!' he called, and was gone.
Dillon hung on, then hauled himself along the chain to the other side of the Griselda and reached for a ring bolt on the wall.
'Dillon?' Ferguson called.
'Here.' Dillon pulled himself to a ladder.
He sat on the old quay, streaming water, and Ferguson said, "Do you think he's gone?'
'Only elsewhere, Brigadier. I'll confirm he's gone when I've shot him between the eyes at very close quarters, but not before.'
'What now?'
'Let's go below. I'm wet through and I could do with some dry clothes.'
In the shower room, Dillon stripped and towelled. In the small bedroom he helped himself to underwear and jeans and a sweater far too large, then joined Ferguson in the saloon. He nodded to the black suit, white shirt and tie.
'Nice gear, Brigadier. I mean, if you were going to circulate at a great hotel like the Dorchester, you'd really pass dressed like that.'
'You don't think he's at the bottom of the Thames?'
'No, probably on the other side by now, but he won't be turning up at the Dorchester. You see, Jack isn't a patriot, he's a very practical man, and a British prison is the last thing he needs. He came, he failed.'
'I know. Strange, Dillon. When you told me he was here, I said it had to be for Cohan. I couldn't think of any reason that could bring him here from Ulster. But why? Barry runs the Sons of Erin. Why would he want to eradicate the last member of the New York branch?'
'Because that's exactly what Cohan is. He's a problem to you, he's a problem to the President. Maybe he's a problem to the Connection, too.'
Ferguson was suddenly cheerful. 'My dear boy, you sometimes have a perfect facility for hitting the nail on the head. Let's go.'
Dillon said, 'And the boat?'
'Wherever he goes, if he's still on the planet, he won't come back here. Just turn the lights out. I'll have a recovery team check it out tomorrow.'
But Ferguson was wrong. Barry surfaced at St James's Stairs. He hauled himself up a ladder and started back to the basin. The lights were still on in the boat. He crouched there in the darkness, wet and cold. After a while, the lights went out below and Ferguson and Dillon appeared. The deck lights went out, they came up the gangway and walked away, talking.
When the sound of the voices had faded, he hurried across, went below and stripped hurriedly. He towelled, found fresh clothes and dressed. Then he pulled on the bomber jacket, which still had his mobile in one of the pockets. He reached under one of the benches, pulled up a plank, rummaged inside and took out a Smith amp; Wesson revolver. He slipped it in a pocket and left, switching off the lights.
He walked away through the rain, not at all depressed, actually laughing out loud. What a bastard Dillon was, and it was nice to have a face to put on Ferguson 's name after all these years. It was all a game, after all. He understood that, so did Dillon and Ferguson, but did the Connection? He reached the Escort, got in and drove away.
Dillon pulled up outside Ferguson 's flat in Cavendish Square. 'I suppose it means we don't have to worry about Cohan for the rest of his stay.'
'How can you be so sure?'
'He's no samurai, our Jack, he has no intention of committing suicide. Now that he knows we're on to him, if he was here for Cohan, he's on his way.'
'You say if
'Let's wait and see.'
'And our mystery assassin – your woman?'
'Let's wait and see there also.'
Ferguson nodded. 'Nine o'clock. My office.' He got out and Dillon leaned through the window.
'Charles? You will have that wrist seen to, won't you? None of that British stoicism, I hope.'
Ferguson smiled. 'Don't worry, Sean, I'm not daft. Now be off with you.'
Dillon drove away.
The weather was terrible as Barry drove out of London. Heavy, h
eavy rain. For some reason though, he still felt incredibly cheerful, as he stopped on the motorway at a Little Chef, had an all-day English breakfast and bought half a bottle of Scotch in the shop.
He drank a quarter of it on his way down to Roundhay, where he found the little airstrip dark and quiet, except for a light in the barn. He drove in beside the Chieftain and found Docherty sitting on a stool reading a newspaper.
'Did it go well, Jack?' he asked.
'Don't ask. Just get me out of here. Can you do it?'
'I'm your man.'
Ten minutes later, the Chieftain lifted into the night, Barry sat back, opened the half-bottle of whiskey again and drank. Then he took out his mobile and rang the Connection.
'It's me, Barry.'
'Where are you?'
'On my way from England to Ireland in a small plane and lucky to be here.'
'Tell me.'
Which Barry did.
Thornton said, 'How would they know about your houseboat, for God's sake?'
'I don't know. All I know is that they did and I'm lucky to be getting the hell out of it.'
'And Cohan?'
'He can take his chances, as far as I'm concerned,' and Barry rang off.
Chapter Nine
Dillon,in the office at ten o'clock, woke Blake in bed at five a.m. in Washington.
'For God's sake, Sean, look at the time!'
'I'm doing you a favour, Blake. My story is better than the midnight movie. You'll come dangerously alive, go down to the kitchen in your track suit, drink fresh orange juice and contemplate a five-mile run.'
'Like hell I will.'
'Just listen.'
When Dillon was finished, Blake said, 'God help us, it gets worse.'
'Don't tell me. I'll keep in touch,' and Dillon rang off".
Lady Helen Lang jogged through Hyde Park. It was ten-thirty the following morning. She sat on a bench by the pond and rested. She wasn't breathless, she felt fine. The prospect of the evening at the Dorchester was strangely like going into battle. She was determined on her course of action, no question of that. It was fitting that Cohan should go the same way as the rest of the club. She was realistic enough to realize that the prospect of ever facing Jack Barry or the Connection just wasn't likely. However, she would have exacted a considerable amount of justice, as she saw it. It would comfort her next time she placed flowers on her son's monument.
Her name was called and she looked up and saw Hedley walking towards her. 'Thought I'd see how you were getting on.'
'That was nice of you.' She stood up and suddenly was struggling for breath. She clutched her chest, then sat down again, fumbled for the plastic bottle of pills in her pocket and dropped it.
He picked it up, and sat beside her and opened it. 'Is it bad?'
She lied, of course. 'No, no, I was just a little dizzy for a moment.' He passed her two pills in his palm. She picked them up and swallowed them down. 'That's better.'
'This ain't good, Lady Helen.'
She patted his knee. 'A nice cup of tea and I can go on for ever, Hedley. Now take me across to the cafe.'
They stood up and she took his arm.
In his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson was going over the previous night's events with Hannah Bernstein and Dillon.
'What a load of male macho nonsense,' Hannah said, outraged. 'And at your age, Brigadier.'
Ferguson, who was wearing an elastic bandage on his gun hand, said, 'I stand corrected, Chief Inspector.'
'God, but you look grand when you're angry, girl,' Dillon told her. 'The eyes sparkle and there's a flush to the cheeks.'
'Oh, go to hell,' she said. 'It should have been a major anti-terrorist squad operation. If the place had been flooded with armed officers, we'd have had him. One of the most wanted Irish terrorists.'
'We'd also have been on the front page of every tabloid newspaper and I didn't want that.' Ferguson told her. 'My decision.'
At that moment, the phone rang. His secretary said, 'Reception has a call from Ulster. A Jack Barry?'
Ferguson pressed his audio button so that Dillon and Hannah could hear the conversation. 'Jack Barry. Have them trace it.'
'They can't, Brigadier, it's a coded mobile,' his secretary said.
'All right, then just put him through.'
The call was surprisingly clear. 'Is that you, Ferguson?'
'And who else would it be?'
'I just wanted to let you know I didn't drown in the Thames and I'm safe home. You're a lucky man. I thought I'd got you.'
'Well, you didn't. You shot the gun out of my hand, mind you. That was pretty good.'
'Is Dillon there?'
'Naturally.'
'To our next merry meeting in hell, Sean.' Barry laughed and the phone went dead.
Hannah Bernstein said, 'What a fiend. What's he playing at, making stupid phone calls? Now we know for sure he's alive. We didn't before.'
'It's a game to Jack, the lot of it,' Dillon told her. 'I could also idd that some say he's as mad as a hatter, that he'll never do the sensible thing, only the crazy thing.'
Hannah said, 'I suppose the only good thing is that Senator Cohan won't die on us here.'
'You really think so?' Ferguson shook his head. 'There has never been a suggestion that Barry killed the others. The only logical reason for his presence here, if Cohan was a target, would be because the Senator had become an inconvenience. No, we've deposed of one danger, at least temporarily. The other one – our mysterious second assassin – is still out there.' He picked up the phone. 'Get me Senator Michael Cohan at the Dorchester.'
He kept the audio button down. A moment later, Cohan said, "Michael Cohan. Who is this?'
'Charles Ferguson. I believe you know who I am.'
'Yes, I do, and I don't wish to speak to you.'
'Senator, believe me, I only have your best interests at heart.'
'I am a US Senator on a visit on behalf of the President,' Cohan lied. 'If you continue to harass me, I'll complain to the Prime Minister's office,' and he slammed down the phone.
'An angry man,' Dillon said. 'So what do we do now?'
'Why, we adjourn for lunch, of course.'
Giuliano, the manager of the Dorchester Piano Bar, greeted them with enthusiasm. Ferguson had been using the place for twenty years or more, Dillon comparatively recently, but he did appear on a regular basis. Hannah Bernstein, of course, was no problem. Like any Italian male, Giuliano appreciated beauty combined with brains, and Hannah certainly had that. The fact that she was also a Detective Chief Inspector of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard was a bonus. The additional fact that she had killed in the line of duty gave an extra frisson. Giuliano remembered the newspaper story. A couple of years previously, she had been passing a street on her way to Grosvenor Square when a woman had emerged screaming that an armed hold-up was taking place. As she was on American Embassy duty that day, Bernstein had been armed, and had seriously embarrassed the villains by shooting one man armed with a sawn-off shotgun, dead.
Giuliano kissed her on each cheek with style, then presented his suggestions for lunch. Homemade cannelloni with mozzarella cheese and ham stuffing. Then there was gnocchi di patate al pesto, potato dumplings in garlic and basil sauce. They made their choice, and Dillon ordered Krug non-vintage champagne.
'One thing,' Ferguson said to Giuliano. 'I understand that Senator Michael Cohan has a table reserved for one o'clock?'
'That's true,' Giuliano said, looking startled.
'Well, then, put him at the next table, there's a good chap,' Ferguson said.
Giuliano smiled. 'Here we go again, Brigadier. I should write a book. All these years. The Cold War, English public school men who were communists under the skin, and then the Irish.' He smiled at Dillon. 'Forgive me, my friend…'
'I know, I'm a terrible man,' Dillon told him.
Giuliano said, 'So the American gets the next table. I wish you joy.'
He went away, the Krug came, and Di
llon insisted on pouring. He said, 'How did you know Cohan would be here?'
Ferguson grunted. 'The telephone, Dillon. It's a wonderful instrument. You should try it sometime.'
Hannah said, 'How do we handle it?'
'Head on, my dear, head on.' Ferguson raised his glass. 'To lrfe and love and happiness.'
'Well, if you add peace in Ulster, I'll drink to that,' Dillon said, and Cohan appeared at the head of the steps.
Giuliano greeted him, brought him down to the next table, took an order for a dry martini and went away.
Ferguson said, 'Senator Michael Cohan? Brigadier Charles Ferguson.'
Cohan was outraged. 'This is harassment of the worst kind. I warned you I would complain to the Prime Minister's office. I certainly will after this.'
Two things happened. He started to get up and a waiter arrived with the dry martini. It was Dillon who took over.
'I don't mind you being a politician, Senator. We have them in Ireland, too, although I remember one saying, "Don't tell my mother I'm a Senator in the Dail, she thinks I play piano in a whorehouse.'"
'How dare you!'
"Oh, shut your face,' Dillon said. 'Try not to be stupid, because that's what you're being. Now if you want to live, listen to the man.'
Ferguson said, 'Just hear me, Senator. Let's discuss the Sons of Erin and see if you can make any Connection' – he emphasized the word – 'with your own experience.'
When he was finished, Cohan sat there, very pale. 'This has nothing to do with me.'
'Listen, you shite,' Dillon told him. 'Jack Barry was here in London last night, and why? To pick the meat off your bones.'
Cohan was really worried now, but tried to bluster. 'I know nothing of this.'
'The Sons of Erin are all dead, Senator. Now, maybe somebody just doesn't like dining clubs,' Dillon said. 'But our theory is that Jack Barry came over on a hasty trip to tidy things up, which meant stiffing you.'
It was Hannah who put in, 'But that still leaves, somewhere out there, the individual who got rid of your friends.'
'Nonsense,' Cohan told her. 'It's all rubbish. Now I demand that you leave me alone!' He swallowed the dry martini.
Ferguson said, 'So you won't cooperate. All right, Senator, have it your way. The Prime Minister and the President will be so informed. However, my instructions are to keep you alive if possible while you're in London, so we'll be there tonight at the Forum for Irish Peace doing our best to achieve that aim, whether you cooperate or not.'