by Jack Higgins
"He must have got down to work sharpish, old Ernest, for the baby to be produced in 1946."
"The bad news is, he died of a stroke two years later," Roper said. "The wound had been in the head."
"Poor sod," Tony said.
"The mother never remarried. According to her Social Security records, she continued as a cook until her late sixties. Died four years ago, aged eighty. Lung cancer."
"And Henry?"
"Worked as a driver of some sort, delivery vans, trucks, was a black-cab driver for years, then started being referred to as 'a chauffeur. ' Continued to live at the same address through all the years."
"Wife… family?"
"No evidence of a marriage."
"It sounds like a bad play, if you ask me," Tony said. "The old woman, widowed all those years, and the son-a right cozy couple, just like Norman Bates and his mum in the movie."
"Could be." Roper's fingers moved over the keys again. "So he's been in the private-hire business for twelve years. On the Ministry's approved list for the last six. Owned a first-class Amara limousine, approved by the Cabinet Office at Grade A level."
"Which explains somebody as important as the General getting him."
"And yet it just doesn't add up. How long have you been in the military police, Tony?"
"Seventeen years, you know that."
"Well, you don't need to be Sherlock Holmes… What's the most interesting thing here?"
"Yes, tell us, Sergeant." They both glanced around and found Ferguson leaning in the doorway.
"Aside from the cards, the nature of the targets," Doyle said. "Blake Johnson, Major Miller, and you, General-you've all worked together on some very rough cases in the past."
"I agree, which means, Major," Ferguson said to Roper, "we need to take a look at the various matters we've been involved in recently."
"As you say, General. I'm still intrigued by the religious element in the prayer cards, though, and the IRA element."
His fingers moved over the keys again. The borough of Kilburn appeared on the screen, drifted into an enlargement. "There we are, Green Street," Roper said. "And the nearest Roman Catholic church would appear to be Holy Name, only three streets away, the priest in charge, Monsignor James Murphy. I think we should pay him a visit. It might be rewarding."
"In what way?" said Ferguson.
"Pool would have been a parishioner at this Holy Name place. The priest might be able to tell us where he comes into it."
"All right, go talk to him, but you know what Catholic priests are like. Seal of the Confessional and all that stuff. He'll never tell you anything."
"True," Roper said, "but he might talk to a fellow Irishman."
"Dillon? Yes, as I recall, he lived in Kilburn for a while in his youth, didn't he? Have you spoken to him about what you just found out about Pool?"
"Not yet."
"Well, get on with it, for heaven's sake." Ferguson turned to Doyle. "Lead on to the kitchen, Sergeant. I need a pot of coffee, very hot and very strong."
"As you say, General."
They went out and Roper sat there thinking about it, then called Dillon, who answered at once. "Any progress to report?"
"I'm afraid you've got enemy action," Roper said. "Ferguson found a prayer card in the driver Pool's wallet."
Dillon reached over and shook Miller awake. "You'd better listen to this."
Miller came awake instantly and listened to the call on speaker. "Can you explain anything more? I mean, the driver and so on."
Roper went straight into Henry Pool, his background, the facts as known. When he was finished, Dillon said, "This notion you have about seeing the priest at Holy Name, I'll handle that. I agree it could be useful."
"On the other hand, Pool was only half Irish, through his mother."
"They're sometimes the worst. De Valera had a Spanish father and was born in New York, but his Irish mother was the making of him. We'll be seeing you round breakfast time. We'd better have words with Clancy Smith, I promised to call him back."
He switched off, and Miller said, "Sean, you were a top enforcer with the IRA and you never got your collar felt once. Do you really think this is some kind of IRA hit?"
"Not really. Most men of influence in the Provisional IRA are now serving in government and the community in one way or the other. Of course, there are splinter groups still in existence-that bunch called the Real IRA, and rumors that the Irish National Liberation Army still waits."
"INLA," Miller said. "The ones who probably killed Mountbatten and certainly assassinated Airey Neave coming out of the underground car park in the House of Commons."
"True," Dillon said. "And they were the great ones for using sleepers. Middle-class professional men, sometimes university educated, accountants, lawyers, even doctors. People think there's something new in the fact that Islamic terror is able to recruit from the professions, but the IRA was there long before them."
"Do you believe IRA sleepers still exist?" Miller asked.
"I guess we can't take the chance they don't. I'm going to call Clancy."
Clancy said, "This really raises the game," once they reached him. "I'm sitting at Blake's bedside now. I'll let you talk to him, but don't talk too long. By the way, we've established that Flynn's American passport was a first-class forgery."
Blake said, "That you, Sean?"
"It sure is, old stick," Dillon said.
"Clancy filled me in about Miller and me and some sort of possible IRA link with these prayer cards."
"And we've now discovered the same card in Ferguson's driver's wallet, and I hear the guy who tried to waste you, Flynn, had a false American passport."
Blake laughed weakly. "I'll tell you something funny about him, Sean. When I had him covered and told him to give up, he didn't say 'Fuck you.' He said 'Fug you.' I only ever heard that when I was in Northern Ireland."
"Which shows you what gentlemen we are over there. Take care, old son, and sleep well." Dillon switched off, and turned to Miller. "You heard all that, so there we are."
Miller glanced at his watch. "Two hours to go. I'll try to get some sleep." He closed his eyes and turned his head against the pillow behind him, reaching to switch off the light.
Dillon simply sat there, staring into the shadows, the verse from the prayer card repeating endlessly in his brain, remembering a nineteen-year-old actor who had walked out of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art to accept an offer to work with the National Theatre, and the night when the local priest in Kilburn called to break the news to him that his father, on a visit to Belfast, had been caught in a firefight between PIRA activists and British troops and killed.
"A casualty of war, Sean," Father James Murphy of the Holy Name church had said. "You must say your prayers, not only the Hail Mary, but this special one on the prayer card I give you now. It is a comfort for all victims of a great cause. 'Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.' "
He tried closing his eyes, but it still went around and around in his brain, and he opened them again, filled with despair, just as he had felt it that day, desolation turning into rage, a need for revenge that had taken the nineteen-year-old on a violent path which had shaped his whole life, a path from which there could be no turning back. Yet, as always, he was saved by that dark streak of gallows humor in him.
"Jesus, Sean," he told himself softly. "What are you going to do, cut your throat? Well, you don't have a razor, so let's have a drink on it."
They landed at Farley just past six in the morning, bad winter weather, gray and rainy. Miller and Dillon went their separate ways, for Miller had a Mercedes provided by the Cabinet Office, his driver, Arthur Fox, waiting. Tony Doyle had driven down from Holland Park, under Roper's orders, in Dillon's own Mini Cooper.
"I'm going home, Sean, to see to my mail, knock out a report on my impressions of Putin and the Russian delegation at the UN, then take it to Downing Street. The Prime M
inister will want to see me personally, but he likes things on paper, he's very precise."
"Will you tell him of your exploits in Central Park?"
"I've no reason not to. It happened to me, Sean, I didn't happen to it, if you follow me. The way it's being handled, there is no story, not for the press anyway. The whole thing is an intelligence matter that needs to be solved. He'll understand. He's a moralist by nature but also very practical. He won't be pleased at what's happened, and he'll expect a result."
"Well, let's see how quickly we can give him one."
Dillon got in the Mini beside Tony Doyle, and they drove away. Miller got in the back of the Mercedes and discovered a bunch of mail.
"Good man, Arthur." He opened the first letter.
"Thought you'd like to get started, Major. Traffic's building up already. Could take us an hour to get to Dover Street."
"No problem. I can save a lot of time here due to your usual efficiency."
Dillon arrived at Holland Park just after seven. "I'm going to shower and change, and then I'm going to partake of Maggie Hall's Jamaican version of the great British breakfast."
"Hey, I could give you that," Doyle said, for he was of Jamaican stock, born in the East End of London.
Dillon went into the computer room, but there was no sign of Roper, and then Henderson, the other sergeant, entered wearing a tracksuit.
"Good to see you back, sir. Major Roper's in the wet room having a good soak. We're also hosting General Ferguson. He's in one of the second-floor suites, no sign of movement. If you'll excuse me, I'll get back to the Major."
"Fine, I'm going to my room. Tell him I'll join him for breakfast."
At Dover Street, Miller told Arthur to get a breakfast at the local cafe and come back in an hour. Once inside the house, he went straight upstairs to the spare bedroom, which was now his. It was a decent size for an eighteenth-century town house and had its own shower room. The magnificent master bedroom suite at the end of the landing, once shared with his wife, he had kept exactly as it was before her murder, but the door was locked and opened only once a week by the housekeeper, seeing to the room and keeping it fresh.
He stripped his clothes off, left them in the laundry basket, showered and shaved, pulled on a terry-cloth robe, and went down to the kitchen. He ate two bananas, drank a glass of cold milk from the refrigerator, went into his study, sat at his computer, and produced his report. Satisfied, he went upstairs and changed, ready for Arthur exactly on time as ordered.
He called in at Downing Street, showing his face at the Cabinet Office, where he was greeted with enthusiasm by Henry Frankel, a good friend who had smoothed the way for Miller in many ways in the terrible days following the death of his wife.
"You look well, Harry. How was Vladimir?"
"Worrying, Henry. To be honest, I think I find him rather impressive on occasion, and I'm not supposed to."
"Certainly not."
Miller handed him his report. "All there, but I expect the PM saw it on television."
"Not the same, sweetheart," said Henry, his gayness breaking through occasionally. "Who believes in TV anymore? You've got a genius for seeing things as they really are."
"Lermov was with Putin. I hear he's the new Head of Station in Kensington."
"I believe he's expected this weekend. I wonder what they've done with Boris Luzhkov?"
"God knows," Miller said. There were few things Henry Frankel didn't know about, but Boris Luzhkov ending up dead in the Thames was one of them.
"The boss is in, and he's expecting this, so I'll deliver it now. He said you're to wait, so help yourself. Coffee, all kinds of tea, juices. We've got a miracle machine now. Just press the right button."
Which Miller did and also glanced at the Times. Frankel was in and out several times, but it was thirty-five minutes before he came over to him and smiled.
"Everything on the go this morning, but he'll see you now." Miller followed him. Frankel opened the door of the office and stood to one side.
"Come in, Harry." The PM was behind his desk. "Take a chair. First-class report."
"Thank you, Prime Minister. Putin didn't say anything he hasn't said before, but he does have this dangerous gift of sounding quite reasonable."
"As I know, to my cost, but I must tell you that I've had Charles Ferguson on the phone. A terrible business, this incident with his car and the death of the driver."
"I don't know what the General has told you, Prime Minister, but it now seems certain that the driver was party to the whole affair. It would seem likely that the device, whatever it was, exploded prematurely, unfortunately for him. General Ferguson is handling the matter as if it was an accident, not a bomb, so there should be no problem with the media."
"Yes, that's the last thing we need. Ferguson's also filled me in on the unfortunate business on Long Island, and on your own brush with death in Central Park." He sighed. "Trouble follows you everywhere I send you-Kosovo, Washington, Lebanon. You always end up shooting someone. You are the most irregular Member of Parliament I have ever known."
"Hardly my fault, Prime Minister, when you send me to places where people are liable to do a bit of shooting themselves."
"A valid point. All those years in the Intelligence Corps dealing with the wild men of Ulster made you spectacularly good at violent solutions. Your decision to leave the army on your father's death and put yourself up for his seat in Parliament has proved most fortuitous, although it would have been slightly more convenient if we'd both been members of the same political party."
"Well, you can't have everything," Miller said.
"I'm aware of that. No one in the Cabinet has any kind of military experience whatsoever, which is why I broke the rules and made you an under-secretary of state. You can be, on occasion, a thoroughly ruthless bastard, and there are times when that's something that's needed."
"But I am attached to you, Prime Minister, and that makes all the difference."
"Flattery gets you nowhere, Miller. I'm due in the House soon, so you've got fifteen minutes to explain this whole damn mess and what you and Ferguson intend to do about it."
Which Miller did, rapidly and fluently, covering everything. "That's it, I think."
"And quite enough. Prayer cards, killings, a bombing, and, to top all that, this suggestion of an IRA link. That can't be possible. I've enough on my plate with all these banks failing, plus the worst recession in years. I know there are a few crackpot organizations out there still demanding a United Ireland, but enough is enough. Sort it, Harry, sort it-and quickly."
He stood up, the door opened behind Miller as he rose, and Henry Frankel ushered him out.
"How do you know when people are leaving?" Dillon asked. "Are you a magician or something?"
"Absolutely, love. Take care." Miller went out, calling Arthur on his mobile.
"As soon as you like, and we'll make it Holland Park."
Dillon, after a shower and change, went to the canteen, where he discovered Roper, hair still damp, sitting in his wheelchair in a blue tracksuit, enjoying breakfast and immensely cheerful. Ferguson was sitting opposite, enjoying scrambled eggs.
"There you are, you devil, what went on in New York, then? You were supposed to be his minder. It's a miracle he was wearing that ankle holster."
"Which I knew nothing about."
Maggie Hall entered with scrambled eggs, and withdrew.
"Diplomatic immunity covered us when we landed in the Gulfstream, obviously, but he couldn't have worn it to the UN."
"Probably just a whim," Ferguson said. "There's no question of him going into Parliament with it, but I suspect he does in other places in London." He glanced at Dillon. "Do you agree?"
Dillon reached down to his right ankle and produced a Colt.25. "All the rage, these days. I wouldn't be without one."
Roper said, "A damn good job he was carrying when he took that walk in the park."
Dillon reached for toast and marmalade, and said che
erfully, "Oh, I suspect he'd have thought of something ghastly as an alternative. A man of infinite resource and guile, our Harry."
"You can say that again." He took a piece of Dillon's toast, and his Codex sounded. It was Billy Salter. "That you, Roper? I'm at the Dark Man. We've had a right old business down here. Some geezer tried a little arson in the early hours."
Roper waved a hand at the others, and turned his Codex on speaker. "Say again, Billy?"
"We'd all gone to bed early-Ruby, Harry, me, Joe Baxter, and Sam Hall," he continued, naming the Salters' minders. "Joe was still dressed and watching a late-night movie on television when he heard a noise from the bar. He knocked on Sam's door to alert him, then smelt petrol, so he moved into the bar, turned on the lights, and found this guy emptying a can of petrol all over the place, the till rifled, cash drawers open."
"Who was it?"
"How do I know? They're just fishing him out of the Thames. He was wearing a black tracksuit and ski mask, Joe said, and he looked like a terrorist from central casting. Joe had his Smith and Wesson with him. He wasn't keen on firing, in case the petrol ignited, so the guy threw the can at him and legged it. Sam had joined Joe by then, and they went after him."
"What happened?"
"The old Ford van at the end of the wharf? It always has a key in it, not worth stealing. I reckon he'd checked it out previously, because he ran straight for it, was in and driving off, but the wrong way. There was no place to turn, and he simply ran over the edge of the wharf in the dark."
"With him in it?"
"The police are here now. They'll have a recovery team get the truck later, but a police diver's been down, and he's found the guy. He's gone down again with another diver to try and get him. Harry's here, and he'd like a word."
The unmistakable cockney voice of Billy's uncle echoed around the canteen. Harry Salter, a gangster for most of his life and now a property millionaire, said, "Well, this is nice, Roper, we could all have been roasted in our beds. What the hell was the bugger playing at? There was a grand in the till. Wasn't that enough?"