Jack Higgins - Dillon 01 - Eye of the Storm (Midnight Man)

by Eye of the Storm (Midnight Man)(lit)

  'But how?' Rashid demanded. 'Where will you find a plane?'

  'Plenty of flying clubs, old son, and planes to hire. I'll simply fly off the map. Disappear, put it any way you like. As a pilot yourself you must know that one of the biggest headaches the authorities have is the vast amount of uncontrolled air space. Once I land at St Denis, you can torch the bloody thing up.' He looked from Rashid to Aroun. 'Are we agreed?'

  It was Aroun who said, 'Absolutely, and if there is anything else we can do.'

  'Makeev will let you know. I'll be going now.' Dillon turned to the door.

  Outside, he stood on the pavement beside Makeev's car, the snow falling lightly. 'That's it then. We shan't be seeing each other, not for a while anyway.'

  Makeev passed him an envelope. 'Tania's home address and telephone number.' He glanced at his watch. 'I couldn't get her earlier this morning. I left a message to say I wanted to speak to her at noon.'

  'Fine,' Dillon said. 'I'll speak to you from St Malo before I get the hydrofoil for Jersey, just to make sure everything is all right.'

  'I'll drop you off,' Makeev told him.

  'No thanks. I feel like the exercise.' Dillon held out his hand. 'To our next merry meeting.'

  'Good luck, Sean.'

  Dillon smiled. 'Oh, you always need that as well,' and he turned and walked away.

  Makeev spoke to Tania on the scrambler at noon. 'I have a friend calling to see you,' he said. 'Possibly late this evening. The one we've spoken of.'

  'I'll take care of him, Colonel.'

  'You've never handled a more important business transaction,' he said, 'believe me. He'll need alternative accommodation, by the way. Make it convenient to your own place.'

  'Of course.'

  'And I want you to put a trace out on this man.'

  He gave her Danny Fahy's details. When he was finished, she said, 'There should be no problem. Anything else?'

  'Yes, he likes Walthers. Take care, my dear, I'll be in touch.'

  When Mary Tanner went into the suite at the Ritz, Ferguson was having afternoon tea by the window.

  'Ah, there you are,' he said. 'Wondered what was keeping you. We've got to get moving.'

  'To where?' she demanded.

  'Back to London.'

  She took a deep breath. 'Not me, Brigadier, I'm staying.'

  'Staying?' he said.

  'For the funeral at Chateau Vercors at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning. After all, he's going to do what you want him to. Don't we owe him some support?'

  Ferguson put up a hand defensively. 'All right, you've made your point. However, I need to go back to London

  now. You can stay if you want and follow tomorrow afternoon. I'll arrange for the Lear jet to pick you up, both of you. Will that suffice?'

  'I don't see why not.' She smiled brightly and reached for the teapot. 'Another cup, Brigadier?'

  Sean Dillon caught the express to Rennes and changed trains for St Malo at three o'clock. There wasn't much tourist traffic, the wrong time of the year for that and the atrocious weather all over Europe had killed whatever there was. There couldn't have been more than twenty passengers on the hydrofoil to Jersey. He disembarked in St Helier just before six o'clock on the Albert Quay and caught a cab to the airport.

  He knew he was in trouble before he arrived, for the closer they got, the thicker the fog was. It was an old story in Jersey, but not the end of the world. He confirmed that both evening flights to London were cancelled, went out of the airport building, caught another taxi and told the driver d take him to a convenient hotel.

  It was thirty minutes later that he phoned Makeev in Paris. 'Sorry I didn't have a chance to phone from St Malo. The train was late. I might have missed the hydrofoil. Did you contact Novikova?' "Oh, yes,' Makeev told him. 'Everything is in order.

  Looking forward to meeting you. Where are you?' "A place called Hotel L'Horizon in Jersey. There was fog at the airport. I'm hoping to get out in the morning.' "I"m sure you will. Stay in touch.' 'I'll do that.'

  Dilllon put down the phone, then he put on his jacket and went downstairs to the bar. He'd heard somewhere that the hotel's grill was a quite exceptional restaurant. After a while he was approached by a handsome, energetic

  Italian who introduced himself as the head waiter, Augusto. Dillon took a menu from him gratefully, ordered a bottle of Krug and relaxed.

  It was at roughly the same time that the doorbell sounded at Brosnan's apartment on the Quai de Montebello. When he opened the door, a large glass of Scotch in one hand, Mary Tanner stood there.

  'Hello,' he said. 'This is unexpected.'

  She took the glass of Scotch and emptied it into the potted plant that stood by the door. 'That won't do you any good at all.'

  'If you say so. What do you want?'

  'I thought you'd be alone. I didn't think that was a good idea. Ferguson spoke to you before he left?'

  'Yes, he said you were staying over. Suggested we followed him tomorrow afternoon.'

  'Yes, well that doesn't take care of tonight. I expect you haven't eaten a thing all day so I suggest we go out for a meal and don't start saying no.'

  'I wouldn't dream of it, Captain.' He saluted.

  'Don't fool around. There must be somewhere close by that you like.'

  'There is indeed. Let me get a coat and I'll be right with you.'

  It was a typical little side-street bistro, simple and unpretentious, booths to give privacy and cooking smells from the kitchen that were out of this world. Brosnan ordered champagne.

  'Krug?' she said when the bottle came.

  'They know me here.'

  'Always champagne with you?'

  'I was shot in the stomach years ago. It gave me problems. The doctors said no spirits under any circumstances, no red wine. Champagne was okay. Did you notice the name of this place?'

  'La Belle Aurore.'

  'Same as the cafe in Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart? Ingrid Bergman?' He raised his glass. 'Here's looking at you, kid.'

  They sat there in companionable silence for a while and then she said, 'Can we talk business?'

  'Why not? What do you have in mind?'

  'What happens next? I mean, Dillon just fades into the woodwork, you said that yourself. How on earth do you hope to find him?'

  'One weakness,' Brosnan said. 'He won't go near any IRA contacts for fear of betrayal. That leaves him with only one choice. The usual one he makes. The underworld. Anything he needs, weaponry, explosives, even physical help, he'll go to the obvious place and you know where that is?'

  'The East End of London?'

  'Yes, just about as romantic as Little Italy in New York or the Bronx. The Kray brothers, the nearest thing England ever had to cinema gangsters, the Richardson gang. Do you know much about the East End?'

  'I thought all that was history.'

  'Not at all. A lot of the big men, the governors as they call them, have gone legitimate to a certain degree, but all the old-fashioned crimes, hold-ups, banks, security vans, are committed by roughly the same group. All family men, who just look upon it as business, but they'll shoot you if you get in the way.'

  'How nice.'

  'Everyone knows who they are, including the police. It's in that fraternity Dillon will look for help.'

  'Forgive me,' she said. 'But that must be rather a close-knit community.'

  'You're absolutely right, but as it happens, I've got what you might call the entree.'

  'And how on earth do you have that?' He poured her another glass of champagne. 'Back in Viet Nam in nineteen sixty-eight, during my wild and foolish youth, I was a paratrooper, Airborne Rangers. I formed part of a Special Forces detachment to operate in Cambodia, entirely illegally, I might add. It was recruited from all branches of the services. People with specialist qualifications. We even had a few Marines and that's how I met Harry Flood.'

  'Harry Flood?' she said and frowned. 'For some reason, that name's familiar.'

  'Could be. I'll explain. Harry's
the same age as me. Born in Brooklyn. His mother died when he was born. He grew up with his father who died when Harry was eighteen. He joined the Marines for something to do, went to Nam which is where I met him.' He laughed. 'I'll never forget the first time. Up to our necks in a stinking swamp in the Mekong Delta.'

  'He sounds quite interesting.'

  'Oh, that and more. Silver Star, Navy Cross. In sixty-nine when I was getting out, Harry still had a year of his enlistment to do. They posted him to London. Embassy Guard duty. He was a sergeant then and that's when it happened.' 'What did?'

  'He met a girl at the old Lyceum Ballroom one night, a girl called Jean Dark. Just a nice, pretty twenty-year-old in a cotton frock only there was one difference. The Dark family were gangsters, what they call in the East End real villains. Her old man had his own little empire down by the river, was in his own way as famous as the Kray brothers. He died later that year.'

  'What happened?' She was totally fascinated.

  'Jean's mother tried to take over. Ma Dark everyone called her. There were differences. Rival gangs. That sort of thing. Harry and Jean got married, he took his papers in London, stayed on and just got sucked in. Sorted the rivals out and so on.'

  'You mean he became a gangster?'

  'Not to put too fine a point on it, yes, but more than that, much more. He became one of the biggest governors in the East End of London.'

  'My God, now I remember. He has all those casinos. He's the man doing all that riverside development on the Thames.'

  'That's right. Jean died of cancer about five or six years ago. Her mother died ages before that. He just carried on.'

  'Is he British now?'

  'No, never gave up his American nationality. The authorities could never toss him out because he has no criminal record. Never served a single day in gaol.'

  'And he's still a gangster?'

  'That depends on your definition of the term. There's plenty he got away with, or his people did, in the old days. What you might call old-fashioned crime.'

  'Oh, you mean nothing nasty like drugs or prostitution?

  Just armed robbery, protection, that sort of thing?'

  'Don't be bitter. He has the casinos, business interests

  in electronics and property development. He owns half of Wapping. Nearly all the river frontage. He's extremely legitimate.' And still a gangster?'

  'Let's say, he's still the governor to a lot of East Enders. The Yank, that's what they call him. You'll like him.' Will I?' She looked surprised. 'And when are we going to meet?' 'As soon as I can arrange it. Anything that moves in the

  East End and Harry or his people know about it. If anyone can help me catch Sean Dillon, he can.' The waiter appeared and placed bowls of French onion soup before them. 'Good,' he said. 'Now let's eat, I'm starving.'

  Harry Flood crouched in one corner of the pit, arms folded to conserve his body heat. He was naked to the waist, barefooted, clad only in a pair of camouflage pants. The pit was only a few feet square and rain poured down relentlessly through the bamboo grid high above his head. Sometimes the Viet Cong would peer down at him, visitors being shown the Yankee dog who squatted in his own foulness although he'd long since grown used to the stench.

  It seemed as if he'd been therefor ever and time no longer had any meaning. He had never felt such total despair. It was raining faster now, pouring over the edge of the pit in a kind of waterfall, the water rising rapidly. He was on his feet and yet suddenly it was up to his chest and he was struggling. It poured over his head relentlessly and he no longer had a footing and struggled and kicked to keep afloat, fighting for breath, clawing at the side of the pit. Suddenly a hand grabbed his, a strong hand, and it pulled him up through the water and he started to breathe again.

  He came awake with a start and sat upright. He'd had that dream for years on and off, ever since Viet Nam and that was a hell of a long time ago. It usually ended with him drowning. The hand pulling him out was something new.

  He reached for his watch. It was almost ten. He always had a nap early evening before visiting one of the clubs later, but this time he'd overslept. He put his watch on, hurried into the bathroom, and had a quick shower. There was grey in his black hair now, he noticed that as he shaved.

  'Comes to us all, Harry,' he said softly and smiled.

  In fact he smiled most of the time, although anyone who

  observed closely would have noticed a certain world-weariness to it. The smile of a man who had found life on the whole, disappointing. He was handsome enough in a rather hard way, muscular with good shoulders. In fact not bad for forty-six which he usually told himself at least once a day if only for encouragement. He dressed in a black silk shirt buttoned at the neck without a tie and a loose-fitting Armani suit in dark brown raw silk. He checked his appearance in the mirror.

  'Here we go again, baby,' he said and went out.

  His apartment was enormous, part of a warehouse development on Cable Wharf. The brick walls of the sitting room were painted white, the wooden floor lacquered, Indian rugs scattered everywhere. Comfortable sofas, a bar, bottles of every conceivable kind ranged behind. Only for guests. He never drank alcohol. There was a large desk in front of the rear wall and the wall itself was lined with books.

  He opened French windows and went onto the balcony overlooking the river. It was very cold. Tower Bridge was to his right, the Tower of London just beyond it. floodlit. A ship passed down from the Pool of London in front of him, its lights clear in the darkness so that he could see crew members working on deck. It always gave him a lift and he took a great lungful of that cold air.

  The door opened at the far end of the sitting room and Mordecai Fletcher came in. He was six feet tall with iron-grey hair and a clipped moustache and wore a well-cut, double-breasted blazer and a Guards tie. The edge was rather taken off his conventional appearance by the scar tissue round the eyes and the flattened nose that had been broken more than once.

  'You're up,' he said flatly.

  'Isn't that what it looks like?' Flood asked.

  Mordecai had been his strong right arm for the best part

  of fifteen years, a useful heavy-weight boxer who'd had the sense to get out of the ring before his brains were scrambled. He went behind the bar, poured a Perrier water, added ice and lemon and brought it over.

  Flood took it without thanking him. 'God, how I love this old river. Anything come up?'

  'Your accountant called. Some papers to sign on that market development. I told him to leave them till the morning.'

  'Was that all?'

  'Maurice was on the phone from the Embassy. He says Jack Harvey was in for a bite to eat with that bitch of a niece of his.'

  'Myra?' Flood nodded. 'Anything happen?'

  'Maurice said Harvey asked if you'd be in later. Said he'd come back and have a go at the tables.' He hesitated. 'You know what the bastard's after, Harry, and you've been avoiding him.'

  'We aren't selling, Mordecai, and we certainly aren't going into partnership. Jack Harvey's the worst hood in the East End. He makes the Kray brothers look like kindergarten stuff.'

  'I thought that was you, Harry.'

  'I never did drugs, Mordecai, didn't run girls, you know that. Okay, I was a right villain for a few years, we both were.' He walked into the sitting room to the desk and picked up the photo in its silver frame that always stood there. 'When Jean was dying, for all those lousy months.' He shook his head. 'Nothing seemed important and you know the promise she made me give her towards the end. To get out.'

  Mordecai closed the window. 'I know, Harry. She was a woman and a half, Jean.'

  'That's why I made us legitimate, and wasn't I right? You know what the firm's net worth is? Nearly fifty

  million. Fifty million.' He grinned. 'So let Jack Harvey and others like him keep dirtying their hands if they want.'

  'Yes, but to most people in the East End you're still the governor, Harry, you're still the Yank.'

  'I'm not
complaining.' Flood opened a cupboard and took out a dark overcoat. 'There's times when it helps a deal along, I know that. Now let's get moving. Who's driving tonight?'

  'Charlie Salter.'

  'Good.'

  Mordecai hesitated. 'Shall I carry a shooter, Harry?'

  'For God's sake, Mordecai, we're legit now, I keep telling you.'

  'But Jack Harvey isn't, that's the trouble.'