by Jack Higgins
A moment later, an RAF Land Rover drove into the courtyard with Charles Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein.
Dillon worked his way from one body to another. Quinn, shot several times, was only just alive. Dillon said, 'Jesus, Quinn, I haven't seen you in years.'
'Dillon?'
'All down, your mates finished.'
'And Jack?'
'Oh, the Devil always looks after his own. He's away out of it as usual.'
'Bastard.'
'Where would he be going?'
Quinn managed a ghastly smile. 'It'll cost you a cigarette.'
Dillon got his silver case out. The cigarettes inside were still dry in spite of his ducking. He gave Quinn one and a light from his Zippo.
Quinn said, 'We flew from Doonreigh in a Chieftain with Docherty. Remember him from the old days?'
'Surely.'
'Landed on an old airstrip not far from here. Shankley Down, run by a man called Clarke. Docherty was to wait.' His voice was tired. 'A bastard, Jack, he always thought of number one. Flying back to Ulster and to hell with the rest of us.' He was wandering now. 'Back to Spanish Head. Always his bolt-hole.'
He was going fast. Dillon said, 'Hang on, Quinn, I could still get him. Remember that special thing about me? I can fly anything with wings. This Shankley Down. Was there another plane there?'
Quinn nodded. 'Small plane, but two engines. The kind where you walk over the wing to get in.'
'Cessna 310,' Dillon said.
'Get him, Dillon, fuck the bastard.' The cigarette fell from Quinn's fingers and his head lolled to one side.
Dillon went to Ferguson, who was speaking into his mobile. He switched off. 'I've sent for a disposal unit. I shouldn't think they'll make it in this weather in less than four hours. What about him?'
He nodded to Quinn and Dillon said, 'Dead, all four dead.'
'Anyone I should know?'
'Oh, you'll be delighted. Four to cross off your most-wanted list.'
Hannah Bernstein had got the medical kit from the RAF Land Rover. She had wrapped a field service bandage round Blake's arm. Hedley was holding another to his shoulder as he crouched beside Lady Helen. Dillon dropped to one knee and she smiled.
'So he got away, Mr Dillon, what a pity.'
Dillon took her hand, never so cold, never so calm. 'He only thinks he has. I'll get him for you, my love, I swear it.' He stood up and helped her to her feet. 'Take her inside,' he said to Ferguson.
They stood there, Hedley and Blake, Ferguson and Lady Helen, Hannah with an arm around her. Blake was obviously in considerable pain and Hedley didn't look good.
'Terrible mess, all this, Charles,' Lady Helen said. 'It won't look good in the papers.'
'It won't be in the papers,' Ferguson said. 'My disposal unit will take this trash back to London where they will be processed in a certain crematorium. They'll be several pounds of grey ash each by the morning, and they can dump it in the Thames as far as I'm concerned.'
'And you have the power to do that, Charles.'
He took her from Hannah and put an arm around her. 'I can do anything.'
Dillon said, 'I'll leave you to it. I'll be away. I'll take the Land Rover.'
Ferguson said, 'What is this?'
'Quinn told me they flew into a place called Shankley Down in a Chieftain piloted by an old acquaintance of mine called Docherty. I should imagine Jack's taking off about now, if he hasn't already.'
'But what can you do?'
'The place is run by a man called Clarke and there's a Cessna 310 there. I'm going to chase Jack Barry to the hob of hell. Oh, the 310 is a bit slower than a Chieftain, but I think I can take care of that. You see, I know his ultimate destination.'
And it was Blake who saw it. 'Spanish Head?'
'Got it in one.'
'But it would be crazy for him to go there.'
'He is crazy.'
'But where can you land, Sean?'
'I know the place well from the old days. Great beaches off the Head with the tide out.'
'In weather like this?' Ferguson said. 'You're mad.'
'I always was, Brigadier.'
Hannah Bernstein said, 'In the circumstances, I'd better go with him, sir.'
'Like hell you will,' Dillon told her.
'Let me tell you something, Dillon. To leave here in the Land Rover, you need the keys and I have them. Secondly, you have no authority to proceed without a police presence, which as a Detective Superintendent of Special Branch I will provide, Northern Ireland being part of the United Kingdom.'
'Jesus, but you're a hard woman.'
'I'd have thought you'd have realized that before now,' Ferguson said. 'All I can say is stay in touch.'
When Barry arrived at Shankley Down, Docherty and Clarke were standing inside one of the two hangars, smoking. The Transit braked to a halt and Barry got out, face bleeding where Dillon's bullet had creased him.
'Right, let's be moving,' he said.
'What about the others?' Docherty asked.
'They won't be coming,' Barry said. 'All dead.'
Clarke said, 'Just a minute. What are we into here?'
Barry took out his Beretta and shot him between the eyes, then he leaned over him, searched in his bomber jacket and found the envelope with the two thousand pounds. When he looked up, Docherty's face was haggard.
'Jack?'
'It went wrong. Load of shite. Now let's get moving,' and he pushed Docherty towards the Chieftain.
A moment later, they roared down the runway and took off into the fading light.
It was forty minutes later that Dillon and Hannah arrived in the Land Rover, Dillon driving. They pulled up beside Clarke's body and got out.
'He certainly passed this way,' Dillon told her. 'Call Ferguson on your mobile and tell him you've got another candidate for his disposal unit.'
He went into the second hangar, mounted the wing of the Cessna, climbed over to the left-hand seat and checked the instruments. She joined him a few moments later and followed him in.
'Everything okay?'
'The tanks are full, if that's what you mean. Look, he's on his way and the Chieftain is a lot faster than we are. Docherty's place at Doonreigh is about forty miles from Spanish Head and Quinn thought that's where the bastard will go. I'll catch up with him by making that beach landing below the cliffs I spoke about.'
'Is the tide out or in?'
'We'll check on the way.' He switched on. 'If you're not happy, leave me to it.'
'Go to hell, Dillon.' She closed the cabin door and buckled her seat belt and reached for the spare headphones.
'Just turn that dial to five,' he said. 'That's UK weather, then trawl through it for Ulster.'
He put his own headphones on, started first the port engine, then starboard and taxied out into the rain, moving to the end of the runway. She spoke to him over the mike.
'How long?'
'An hour and a half with a tailwind, two if it's the other way. Why?'
'According to the weather report, the tide is turning on that coast in just over an hour from now. Fog clearing, half moon.'
'Sounds interesting.' He smiled at her, boosted power and roared down the runway.
The Chieftain turned in to land at Doonreigh, darkness falling, and taxied up to the hangars and Nissen hut. Barry had been into Docheity's bar box and had demolished half a bottle of
Paddy whiskey on the way, sitting on his own in the cabin. He hadn't taped his face with anything from the medical box, had simply swabbed it with raw whiskey. When the Chieftain rolled to a halt, he unlocked the Airstair door and went down the steps. The fog had cleared, but it was raining hard.
'Back on the old sod,' he said.
Docherty, getting out behind him, said, 'Ten thousand pounds cash in a supermarket bag you promised, Jack.'
'And me forgetting. Isn't that the terrible thing?' Barry pulled out his Beretta and shot him twice in the heart. A few moments later, he was driving away.
As
darkness descended, the sky cleared and there was the light of the moon, as Dillon flew over the Irish sea.
Hannah said, 'Will we make it, Sean?'
'Ah, keep the faith, girl.' There was strange intimacy between them.
He was low now, no more than fifteen hundred and there was the coast, the cliffs of Northern Ireland, black in the moonlight, and Dillon checked the chart book on his knee and turned slightly to port.
'That's it. Dead ahead now.' He descended to six hundred. 'Only one problem. The tide's coming in fast down there.'
He crossed the cliffs, the castle below. 'Is that it?' she asked.
'Spanish Head as ever was.'
He turned out to sea again, banked and dropped his undercarriage. 'Here we go. Try praying. It might help.'
Whitecaps were pounding into the surf and there wasn't much beach left there. Dillon levelled, no more than fifty feet above the water, then dropped her in. The wheels bit into wet sand no more than two feet below the water, the Cessna careered forward, then nosed up to the strip of beach left.
It was very quiet when he switched off and removed the headphones. From that position, the sea looked relatively calm in the moonlight. Dillon smiled. 'Nice view.'
'Don't do that to me again,' Hannah Bernstein said. 'Not ever. Can we get out?'
'It's a thought. Any minute now and you'll get your feet wet, so let's go.'
They crossed the beach and found a path that climbed up between two cliffs. When they reached the top, the castle was quite close.
'What now?' Hannah asked.
'I'd have thought that was obvious,' Dillon said. 'We'll make for the lodge,' and he led the way.
Old John Harker was in the kitchen at the lodge, waiting for the kettle to boil, when there was a sudden draught on his cheek. He turned and found the door open and Dillon there, Hannah at his shoulder.
'Remember me?' Dillon said.
'My God!' Harker said.
'Has his lordship turned up?'
'Ten minutes ago. How did you know?'
'I know everything. Now this is how it is. Get your lantern and take us up through the garden. I'll decide what to do when we reach the castle.'
'Whatever you say.' Harker hesitated. 'Is this the end of him?'
'If I have anything to do with it.'
'Thank God for that.' Harker took an electric lantern from a peg. 'That secret passage from the panel in the library. It comes out in the front hall. Let's get to it then.'
Barry, in the study off the main entrance hall, helped himself to a large whiskey, then went upstairs to the library. He stood, drinking the whiskey and glanced up at the portraits of his ancestors. All Francis, but not himself. He looked at the one in Confederate uniform. He seemed to be smiling in a kind of amusement.
'Bastard,' Barry said. 'Arrogant bastard, but a good soldier.'
He toasted the portrait and behind him the door opened and Dillon and Hannah entered. Dillon was unarmed, but she carried a Walther in her left hand.
'Sean, is the Devil on your side?'
'Only some of the time.'
Barry smiled. 'God knows how you got here.'
'Just like you, only I landed on the beach.'
'And how did you leave things at Compton Place?'
'All dead, your lot, Blake and Hedley Jackson a little damaged, that's all.'
'And Lady Helen?' Dillon shrugged, and Barry said with a strange kind of urgency, 'She's all right, isn't she?'
'Her heart isn't good. She had an attack.'
'Christ, Jesus,' Barry said. 'She had me dead to rights, my gun jammed and she sort of fell down.'
Hannah Bernstein said, 'I am Detective Superintendent Hannah Bernstein of Special Branch of Scotland Yard and I must warn you that. ..'
Barry flung his glass at her, ducked as she fired, and was through the panel and away.
'Let's go,' Dillon said, and ran across to the door and she followed.
They reached the entrance hall and the front door stood open, Harker on the porch, the lantern in his hand.
'He ran past me. Took the path down through the trees towards the cliffs.'
Dillon went off on the run, Hannah following, and Harker went after them.
Barry ran, head down, through the trees, the Beretta in his left hand, not really knowing where he was going any more. The sky was overcast, there was a rumble of thunder on the horizon, and lightning flickered.
Helen Lang. He couldn't get her out of his head and why was that? He came to the track leading down to the Soak Hole. Dillon followed, Hannah behind him and old Harker with the lantern.
The sheet lightning flickered, the water raged below on the beach, the Cessna engulfed. Barry stumbled on and then he was at the Soak Hole, white spray exploding in a hollow roar. He paused at the steps down, turned and levelled the Beretta as Dillon arrived on the run.
Dillon swept Barry's arm to one side and met him breast-to-breast. 'A long time coming, you dog,' Dillon cried, grabbed his right wrist and twisted it up like a steel bar. Barry screamed as the bone cracked and Dillon ran him headfirst down the steps and let go. There was a last desperate cry, then the Soak Hole fountained again.
Old Harker held the lantern high. 'God help us, but what kind of a man are ye?'
'I sometimes wonder myself Dillon turned to Hannah. 'Access Ferguson on your mobile. Tell him to arrange for Lacey and Parry to pick us up in the Lear jet.'
'Of course.' She put a hand on his arm. 'Are you all right, Dillon?'
'Never better.' The Soak Hole fountained again. 'He was a bad bastard, Jack, and the sea's taken him, so there's an end to it,' and he turned and followed Harker up the track.
The following afternoon, he sat with Hannah and Ferguson outside a private room at the London Clinic. Hedley came out, smart in his chauffeur's uniform and wearing a sling.
'How is she?' Ferguson asked.
'Not good. She's asked for Mr Dillon.'
Dillon got up, paused, then went into the room. She was propped up in bed. There was a drip into her left arm, various other wires attached to electronic equipment. A nurse was sitting close by.
Dillon moved to the bed. 'Lady Helen.'
She opened her eyes. 'You got him, I hear? So Charles told me.'
'That's right.'
'So, the end of the Sons of Erin, all of them, even the Connection, and you know what?' She closed her eyes and opened them again. 'It hasn't brought Peter back.'
He took her hand. 'I know.'
She smiled again. ' Mr Dillon, you think you're such a bad man, and you know what? I think you're one of the most moral men I've ever known. Hang on to that thought.'
Her eyes closed, her hand slipped away, and one of the machines made a strange noise. The nurse took over and Dillon walked out.
Ferguson and Hannah stood up. The Brigadier said, 'She's gone?'
'But not forgotten,' Dillon said. 'Never forgotten.' He put a hand on Hedley's shoulder. 'Let's take a walk in the garden. I could do with a cigarette.'
Epilogue
They drove up from London to Compton Place a week later, Ferguson , Hannah and Dillon, in the Daimler. The weather was terrible, heavy, driving rain.
'What did the Prime Minister have to say at the end of the day?' Dillon asked.
'Extremely sorry about Lady Helen, of course.'
'Aren't we all?'
'But content with the outcome. I mean, it could have been bloody awful.'
'Instead of which, it didn't happen, sir, is that what we're saying?' Hannah Bernstein, in black coat and trouser suit, sounded cold, forbidding.
'Now look, Superintendent, sometimes we have to think of the good of the cause.'
'That's what the IRA say,' Dillon told him. 'Drummed into me from the age of nineteen.' He put the window down and lit a cigarette. 'Sorry, my love,' he said to Hannah.
She put a hand on his knee. 'Feel free, Sean.'
He said, 'So, the Prime Minister and the President heave a heavy sigh of relief and thank God
for the foot soldiers. You appointed me public executioner again, only this time Hannah and Blake had to play their part.'
'It's the name of the game, Dillon,' Ferguson said.
Dillon turned to Hannah. 'Do you ever wonder what it's all about? Because I do.'
They were entering the village now. The parking lot of St Mary and All the Saints was almost full, and there were cars parked along the village street.
'My goodness, but they are giving her a send-off,' Ferguson said.
'Well, they would. I've learned enough about her to know she was greatly loved.' Dillon checked his watch. 'Forty minutes to the service. I don't know about you, but I need a drink. Pull in at the pub. If you don't want to join me, I'll see you at the church.'
'No, I think a drink might be appropriate.' Ferguson glanced at Hannah. 'If you agree, Superintendent.'
'Of course, sir.'
The Daimler dropped them at the pub entrance and drove away. They moved inside and found it already full, not only with villagers in their best suits and dresses, but many visitors. Hetty Armsby in a black suit served the bar, helped by two village girls. Old Armsby sat on the end stool, also in black suit, neck scrawny in a stiff collar.
'Good Lord,' Ferguson said. 'Two Earls, a Duchess, and damn me if that's not the Commanding Officer of the Scots Guards over there and the Commanding General of the Household Brigade. I'd better say hello.'
'Good old British class system,' Dillon said, turning to Hannah. 'I'm going to force my way to the bar. Wait for me here.'
He made it and said to Hetty, 'Would you happen to have any champagne in your fridge there?'
'There might be a half-bottle.' She frowned. ' Champagne?'
'At a funeral?' He lit a cigarette. 'I want to drink a toast to probably the greatest lady I've ever known.'
Her smile was instant and, impulsively, she reached over and kissed him on the cheek and there were tears in her eyes. 'She was the best, right enough.'
She produced the champagne. 'Two glasses,' he said.
A familiar voice said, 'Make that three.'
Dillon turned and there was Blake Johnson, his left arm in a sling. 'My God,' Dillon said. 'Where in the hell did you spring from?'
'There's still an American air base up here at Crockley. It was a last-minute decision of the President's. Sent me over to carry his personal wreath.'