by Jack Higgins
“I’m afraid so.”
“Then she definitely can’t go in. Leave it to me. I’ll handle it when we get there. See you soon.”
Brosnan put the phone down and went back to the kitchen where Mary had put out the eggs and toast and was pouring tea. “What did he have to say?” she asked.
“Nothing special. He was just wondering what the best approach would be.”
“And I suppose you think that would be to batter Harvey over the head with a very large club?”
“Something like that.”
“Why not thumbscrews, Martin?”
“Why not, indeed?” He reached for the toast. “If that’s what it takes.”
The early morning traffic on the Horsham road to Dorking and onwards to London was slower than usual because of the weather. Angel and Dillon led the way in the Morris, Fahy close behind in the Ford Transit. The girl was obviously tense, her knuckles white as she gripped the wheel too tightly, but she drove extremely well. Epsom then Kingston and on toward the river, crossing the Thames at Putney Bridge. It was already nine-fifteen as they moved along the Bayswater Road toward the hotel.
“Over there,” Dillon said. “There’s the supermarket. The entrance to the car park is down the side.” She turned in, changing to the lowest gear, crawling along as she went into the car park, which was already quite full. “There at the far end,” Dillon said, “just the spot.”
There was a huge trailer parked there, protected by a plastic sheet that was itself covered by snow. She parked on the other side of it and Fahy stopped nearby. Dillon jumped out, pulling on his crash helmet, went round and opened the doors. He put the duckboard in the right position, got inside and eased the BSA out, Angel helping. As he threw a leg over the seat she shoved the duckboard back inside the van and closed the doors. Dillon switched on and the BSA responded sweetly, roaring into life. He glanced at his watch. It was nine-twenty. He pulled the machine up on its stand and went over to Fahy in the Ford.
“Remember, the timing is crucial and we can’t go round and round in circles at Whitehall, somebody might get suspicious. If we’re too early, try and delay things on the Victoria Embankment. Pretend you’ve broken down and I’ll stop as if I’m assisting, but from the Embankment up Horse Guards Avenue to the corner with Whitehall will only a take a minute, remember that.”
“Jesus, Sean.” Fahy looked terrified.
“Easy, Danny, easy,” Dillon said. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see. Now get moving.”
He swung a leg over the BSA again and Angel said, “I prayed for you last night, Mr. Dillon.”
“Well, that’s all right, then. See you soon,” and he rode away and joined up behind the Ford.
THIRTEEN
HARRY FLOOD AND Mordecai were waiting in the Mercedes, Salter at the wheel, when a taxi drew up outside the undertaker’s in Whitechapel and Brosnan and Mary got out. They picked their way carefully through the snow on the pavement and Flood opened the door for them to get in.
He glanced at his watch. “Just coming up to nine-thirty. We might as well go straight in.”
He took a Walther from his breast pocket and checked the slider. “You want something, Martin?” he asked.
Brosnan nodded. “It’s a thought.”
Mordecai opened the glove compartment, took out a Browning and passed it over the seat. “That suit you, Professor?”
Mary said, “For God’s sake, anybody would think you were trying to start the Third World War.”
“Or prevent it starting,” Brosnan said. “Have you ever thought of that?”
“Let’s move,” Flood said. Brosnan followed him out and Mordecai emerged from the other side. As Mary tried to follow, Flood said, “Not this time, lover. I told Myra I’d be bringing my accountant, which takes care of Martin, and Mordecai goes everywhere with me. That’s all they’re expecting.”
“Now look here,” she said. “I’m the case officer on this, the official representative of the Ministry.”
“Well, bully for you. Take care of her, Charlie,” Flood told Salter and he turned to the entrance where Mordecai was already ringing the bell.
The porter who admitted them smiled obsequiously. “Morning, Mr. Flood. Mr. Harvey presents his compliments and wonders whether you’d mind stepping into the waiting room for a few moments. He’s only just arrived from Heathrow.”
“That’s fine,” Flood said and followed him through.
The waiting room was suitably subdued, with dark leather chairs, rust-colored walls and carpet. The lighting was mainly provided by fake candles, and music suitable to the establishment played softly over a speaker system.
“What do you think?” Brosnan asked.
“I think he’s just in from Heathrow,” Flood said. “Don’t worry.”
Mordecai peered out through the entrance and across to one of the Chapels of Rest. “Flowers, that’s what I find funny about these places. I always associate death with flowers.”
“I’ll remember that when your turn comes to go,” Flood said. “ ‘No flowers by request.’ ”
It was approximately nine-forty as the Ford Transit pulled into a lay-by on the Victoria Embankment, and Fahy’s hands were sweating. In the rear mirror, he saw Dillon pull the BSA up on its stand and walk toward him. He leaned in the window.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine, Sean.”
“We’ll stay here for as long as we can get away with it. Fifteen minutes would be ideal. If a traffic warden comes, just pull away and I’ll follow you. We’ll drive along the Embankment for half a mile, turn and come back.”
“Right, Sean.” Fahy’s teeth were chattering.
Dillon took out a packet of cigarettes, put two in his mouth, lit them and passed one to Fahy. “Just to show you what a romantic fool I am,” and he started to laugh.
When Harry Flood, Brosnan and Mordecai went into the outer office, Myra was waiting for them. She was wearing the black trouser suit and boots and carried a sheaf of documents in one hand.
“You look very businesslike, Myra,” Flood told her.
“So I should, Harry, the amount of work I do around here.” She kissed him on the cheek and nodded to Mordecai. “Hello, muscles.” Then she looked Brosnan over. “And this is?”
“My new accountant, Mr. Smith.”
“Really?” She nodded. “Jack’s waiting.” She opened the door and led the way into the office.
The fire burned brightly in the grate; it was warm and comfortable. Harvey sat behind the desk smoking his usual cigar. Billy was over to the left sitting on the arm of the sofa, his raincoat casually draped across his knee.
“Jack,” Harry Flood said. “Nice to see you.”
“Is that so?” Harvey looked Brosnan over. “Who’s this?”
“Harry’s new accountant, Uncle Jack.” Myra moved round the desk and stood beside him. “This is Mr. Smith.”
Harvey shook his head. “I’ve never seen an accountant that looked like Mr. Smith, have you, Myra?” He turned back to Flood. “My time’s valuable, Harry, what do you want?”
“Dillon,” Harry Flood said. “Sean Dillon.”
“Dillon?” Harvey looked totally mystified. “And who the Christ is Dillon?”
“Small man,” Brosnan said. “Irish, although he can pass as anything he wants. You sold him guns and explosives in nineteen eighty-one.”
“Very naughty of you, that, Jack,” Harry Flood said. “He blew up large parts of London and now we think he’s at it again.”
“And where else would he go for his equipment except his old chum, Jack Harvey?” Brosnan said. “I mean, that’s logical, isn’t it?”
Myra’s grip tightened on her uncle’s shoulder and Harvey, his face flushed, said, “Billy!”
Flood put up a hand. “I’d just like to say that if that’s a sawed-off he’s got under the coat, I hope it’s cocked.”
Billy fired instantly through the raincoat, catching Mordecai in the left thigh as the big man drew his pis
tol. Flood’s Walther came out of his pocket in one smooth motion and he hit Billy in the chest, sending him back over the sofa, the other barrel discharging, some of the shot catching Flood in the left arm.
Jack Harvey had the desk drawer open, his hand came up clutching a Smith & Wesson and Brosnan shot him very deliberately through the shoulder. There was chaos for a moment, the room full of smoke and the stench of cordite.
Myra leaned over her uncle, who sank back into the chair, moaning. Her face was set and angry. “You bastards!” she said.
Flood turned to Mordecai. “You okay?”
“I will be when Dr. Aziz has finished with me, Harry. The little bastard was quick.”
Flood, still holding the Walther, clutched his left arm, blood seeping between his fingers. He glanced at Brosnan. “Okay, let’s finish this.”
He took two paces to the desk and raised the Walther directly at Harvey. “I’ll give it to you right between the eyes if you don’t tell us what we want to know. What about Sean Dillon?”
“Screw you!” Jack Harvey said.
Flood lowered the Walther for a moment and then took deliberate aim and Myra screamed. “No, for God’s sake, leave him alone. The man you want calls himself Peter Hilton. He was the one Uncle Jack dealt with in eighty-one. He used another name then. Michael Coogan.”
“And more recently?”
“He bought fifty pounds of Semtex. Picked it up last night and paid cash. I had Billy follow him home on his BMW.”
“And where would that be?”
“Here.” She picked a sheet of paper up from the desk. “I’d written it all down for Jack.”
Flood looked it over and passed it to Brosnan, managing a smile in spite of the pain. “Cadge End Farm, Martin. Sounds promising. Let’s get out of here.”
He walked to the door and Mordecai limped out ahead of him, dripping blood. Myra had crossed to Billy, who started to groan loudly. She turned and said harshly, “I’ll get you for this, the lot of you.”
“No, you won’t, Myra,” Harry Flood told her. “If you’re sensible you’ll put it all down to experience and give your personal doctor a call,” and he turned and went out followed by Brosnan.
It was just before ten as they got into the Mercedes. Charlie Salter said, “Jesus, Harry, we’re getting blood all over the carpets.”
“Just drive, Charlie, you know where to go.”
Mary looked grim. “What happened in there?”
“This happened.” Brosnan held up the sheet of paper with the directions to Cadge End Farm.
“My God,” Mary said as she read it. “I’d better call the Brigadier.”
“No, you don’t,” Flood said. “I figure this is our baby, considering the trouble we’ve gone to and the wear and tear; wouldn’t you agree, Martin?”
“Definitely.”
“So, the first thing we do is call at the quiet little nursing home in Wapping run by my good friend Dr. Aziz so he can take care of Mordecai and see to my arm. After that, Cadge End.”
As Fahy turned out of the traffic on the Victoria Embankment into Horse Guards Avenue past the Ministry of Defence building he was sweating in spite of the cold. The road itself was clear and wet from the constant traffic, but there was snow on the pavements and the trees and the buildings on either hand. He could see Dillon in his rear-view mirror, a sinister figure in his black leathers on the BSA, and then it was the moment of truth and everything seemed to happen at once.
He pulled in at the junction of Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall on the angle he’d worked out. On the other side of the road at Horse Guards Parade there were two troopers of the Household Cavalry, mounted as usual, with drawn sabres.
Some distance away, a policeman turned and saw the van. Fahy turned off the engine, switched on the timers and pulled on his crash helmet. As he got out and locked the door the policeman called to him and hurried forward. Dillon swerved in on the BSA, Fahy swung a leg over the pillion seat and they were away, sliding past the astonished policeman in a half-circle and moving fast up toward Trafalgar Square. As Dillon joined the traffic around the square, the first explosion sounded. There was another, perhaps two, and then it all seemed to become one with the greater explosion of the Ford Transit self-destructing.
Dillon kept on going, not too fast, through Admiralty Arch and along the Mall. He was at Marble Arch and turning along the Bayswater Road within ten minutes and rode into the car park of the supermarket soon after. As soon as she saw them, Angel was out of the van. She got the doors open and put the duckboard in place. Dillon and Fahy shoved the bike inside and slammed the doors.
“Did it work?” Angel demanded. “Did everything go all right?”
“Just leave it for now. Get in and drive,” Dillon told her. She did as she was told and he and Fahy got in beside her. A minute later and they were turning into the Bayswater Road. “Just go back the way we came and not too fast,” Dillon said.
Fahy switched on the radio, fiddling his way through the various BBC stations. “Nothing,” he said. “Bloody music and chat.”
“Leave it on,” Dillon told him. “And just be patient. You’ll hear all about it soon enough.”
He lit a cigarette and sat back, whistling softly.
In the small theater at the nursing home just off Wapping High Street, Mordecai Fletcher lay on the operating table while Dr. Aziz, a gray-haired Indian in round steel spectacles, examined his thigh.
“Harry, my friend, I thought you’d given this kind of thing up,” he said. “But here we are again like a bad Saturday night in Bombay.”
Flood was sitting in a chair, jacket off, while a young Indian nurse attended to his arm. She had cut the shirt sleeve off and was swabbing the wound. Brosnan and Mary stood watching.
Flood said to Aziz, “How is he?”
“He’ll have to stay in for two or three days. I can only get some of this shot out under anaesthetic, and an artery is severed. Now let’s look at you.”
He held Flood’s arm and probed gently with a pair of small pincers. The nurse held an enamel bowl. Aziz dropped one piece of shot in it, then two. Flood winced with pain. The Indian found another. “That could be it, Harry, but we’ll need an X ray.”
“Just bandage it up for now and give me a sling,” Flood said. “I’ll be back later.”
“If that’s what you want.”
He bandaged the arm skillfully, assisted by the nurse, then opened a cupboard and found a pack of morphine ampules. He jabbed one in Flood’s arm.
“Just like Vietnam, Harry,” Brosnan said.
“It will help with the pain,” Aziz told Flood, as the nurse eased him into his jacket. “I’d advise you to be back no later than this evening, though.”
The nurse fastened a sling behind Flood’s neck. As she put his overcoat across his shoulders, the door burst open and Charlie Salter came in. “All hell’s broken loose, just heard it on the radio. Mortar attack on Ten Downing Street.”
“Oh, my God!” Mary Tanner said.
Flood showed her through the door and she turned to Brosnan. “Come on, Martin, at least we know where the bastard’s gone.”
The War Cabinet had been larger than usual that morning, fifteen including the Prime Minister. It had just begun its meeting in the Cabinet Room at the back of Number Ten Downing Street when the first mortar, curving in a great arc of some two hundred yards from the Ford Transit van at the corner of Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall, landed. There was a huge explosion, so loud that it was clearly audible in the office of Brigadier Charles Ferguson at the Ministry of Defence overlooking Horse Guards Avenue.
“Christ!” Ferguson said, and like most people in the Ministry, rushed to the nearest window.
At Downing Street in the Cabinet Room the specially strengthened windows cracked, but most of the blast was absorbed by the special blast-proof net curtains. The first bomb left a crater in the garden, uprooting a cherry tree. The other two landed further off-target in Mountbatten Green, where some
outside broadcast vehicles were parked. Only one of those exploded, but at the same moment, the van blew up as Fahy’s self-destruct device went into action. There was surprisingly little panic in the Cabinet Room. Everyone crouched, some seeking the protection of the table. There was a draught of cold air from shattered windows, voices in the distance.
The Prime Minister stood up and actually managed a smile. With incredible calm he said, “Gentlemen, I think we had better start again somewhere else,” and he led the way out of the room.
Mary and Brosnan were in the back of the Mercedes, Harry Flood in the passenger seat beside Charlie Salter, who was making the best time he could through heavy traffic.
Mary said, “Look, I need to speak to Brigadier Ferguson. It’s essential.”
They were crossing Putney Bridge. Flood turned and looked at Brosnan, who nodded. “Okay,” Flood said. “Do what you like.”
She used her car phone, ringing the Ministry of Defence, but Ferguson wasn’t there. There was some confusion as to his whereabouts. She left the car phone number with the control room and put the phone down.
“He’ll be running round half-demented like everyone else,” Brosnan said and lit a cigarette.
Flood said to Salter, “Okay, Charlie, Epsom, then Dorking and the Horsham Road beyond that, and step on it.”
The BBC newsflash which came over the radio in the Morris van was delivered in the usual calm and unemotional way. There had been a bomb attack on Number Ten Downing Street at approximately ten A.M. The building had sustained some damage, but the Prime Minister and members of the War Cabinet meeting together at that time were all safe.
The van swerved as Angel sobbed. “Oh, God, no!”
Dillon put a hand on the wheel. “Steady girl,” he said calmly. “Just stick to your driving.”
Fahy looked as if he was going to be sick. “If I’d had time to put those fins on the cylinders it would have made all the difference. You were in too much of a hurry, Sean. You let Brosnan rattle you and that was fatal.”