The President’s Daughter

by Jack Higgins

  “Will you help us, Mr. Devlin?”

  “Liam, son, Liam. Actually, I’ve already tried.” He went on to tell them of his breakfast with Leary.

  When he finished, Dillon said, “So Bell and Barry are still around?”

  “Are they special?” Blake asked.

  “The worst. If they get to work on her, she’ll know about it.” He took out his Walther and checked it. “Are you carrying?” he asked Blake.

  “Sure, my Beretta. Will I need it?”

  “Could be. Leary will tell the Chief of Staff and he’ll send them back to see her.”

  “I know. I thought it would help to stir the pot, Sean,” Devlin said.

  “You certainly have. We’ll get going now.”

  “Not without me.” Devlin smiled at Blake. “Lovely country where Bridget has the farm. Tullamore, between the Blackwater River and the Knockmealdown Mountains. A grand day out in the country. What could be better?”

  At the same time, in Ferguson’s office at the Ministry of Defense, Hannah was phoning through to security of Wandsworth. She spoke to a chief officer and outlined her request, then she knocked on Ferguson’s door.

  “I’ve spoken to someone responsible for surveillance tapes, Brigadier. He’s digging out what they have now, and I’ve told him I’ll be there directly.”

  “Take my car and driver,” Ferguson said.

  “I’ve been thinking. I don’t think Judas can have violated the integrity of the Department as such. If he’d had a plant here, surely his people wouldn’t have needed to eavesdrop on Dillon’s cottage with directional microphones.”

  “A point which had occurred to me, Chief Inspector.”

  “That still leaves us with the fact that there would seem to be a Maccabee at work in the computer section of both MI5 and the SIS.”

  “We’ll have to leave hunting that person down until this unhappy affair is resolved one way or the other.”

  “Good, sir.”

  “As it happens, the first thing I did on getting to the office was to check the CV of every member of the Department on my computer.”

  “For religious orientation, Brigadier?”

  “God forgive me, but yes.”

  “And I was the only Jew.” She smiled. “When is a Maccabee not a Maccabee?” She smiled again. “I’ll see you later, sir,” and went out.

  “And how far did you say?” Blake Johnson asked Devlin.

  “Well, we’ve come thirty miles or so. Maybe another hundred or a hundred and twenty. It’s the country roads that twist and turn. No superhighways or turnpikes here.”

  Dillon said, “I’ll give Ferguson a call and see what he’s up to.”

  He pressed the Codex button on his mobile, then called Ferguson. “It’s me,” he said, and in spite of the coded nature of the call added, “Martin Keogh.”

  “No need for that,” Ferguson said. “The machine indicator is on green. Where are you?”

  “Driving down from Dublin to Carlow, and Waterford after that.”

  “You’re going to see the O’Malley woman?”

  “Yes. Devlin found out from an IRA source that Riley passed through Dublin airport three days ago using the O’Malley passport. The thing is, the Provos would like to have words with him, too. The Chief of Staff sent a couple of heavies to Tullamore to try and find him, but they got nowhere.”

  “I see.”

  “Devlin stirred the pot nicely with his contact. We think it will make the Chief of Staff send his goons down there again. They may even be ahead of us.”

  “Watch yourself,” Ferguson told him, “and do keep Johnson in one piece. You’re expendable, Dillon, but his demise would make for an international incident.”

  “Thanks very much.” Dillon switched off his mobile, sat back, and started to laugh helplessly.

  NINE

  At the farm outside Tullamore, Dermot Riley finished milking the last cow. He carried the churns of milk over to the tractor, lifted them into the trailer, then drove out of the barn and down the track a quarter of a mile to leave the milk churns on the platform by the gate to be picked up by the truck from the dairy in the village.

  He drove back up to the barn, parked inside and lit a cigarette, and stood in the entrance, the slopes of the Knockmealdown Mountains looming above him. He wore a cap and an old donkey jacket and Wellington boots, and he had never been happier. Karl, the German Alsatian, lay on a bale of hay watching him, tongue hanging out.

  “This is the life, dog, isn’t it?” Riley said, “the only bloody life.”

  The dog whined and Bridget called across the yard, “Come away in, Dermot.”

  She was in her early sixties and looked older, a stout, motherly looking woman with the red cheeks that came from country living, and white hair. When Dermot had arrived on her doorstep by night she had been overjoyed. The shock of seeing him in the flesh when she had thought him in prison was almost too much to bear. Of course, he’d told her his presence had to be kept a secret for the time being until he got himself sorted out with the IRA. She’d found blankets and pillows and driven him half a mile up the track in her old jeep to the barn at High Meadow, where they dealt with the sheep in lambing season. There was a room with a secret door above the loft and Riley had used it often in the old days when on the run.

  “You manage here until I see old Colin and Peter and tell them to take a week off,” she said, referring to the two pensioners who worked at the farm part-time.

  But in the morning, Bell and Barry had arrived from Dublin in a silver BMW, truly frightening men who had asked about Dermot. She’d lied through her teeth, which was a thing she didn’t like to do as a good Catholic, had insisted Dermot was in prison. Two things had helped. When they interrogated Colin and Peter, the two old men were genuinely bewildered, had also insisted that Dermot was away in prison in England, and were patently telling the truth. Secondly, Bridget had been able to produce a letter written by Dermot in Wandsworth only ten days before.

  The two men had insisted on searching the house and farm buildings. Barry, who was six feet three and built like a wall, told her in a low, dangerous voice as they were leaving, “You know who to phone in Dublin if he turns up, you’ve done it over the years. He has nothing to worry about. The Chief wants words, that’s all.”

  Not that she’d believed him, not for a moment.

  In the kitchen, she passed him an egg sandwich and a mug of tea. “You’re spoiling me,” Dermot said.

  “Ah, you’re worth spoiling.” She sat at the table and drank tea herself. “What happens now, Dermot? Bad enough to be on the run from the police, but the IRA is something else.”

  “I’ll make my peace. All I need is a chance to tell my side of the story. It’s going to be fine, you’ll see.”

  “And you’ll stay?”

  “I’m never going to leave again.” He grinned. “Find me a nice girl in the village and I’ll settle down.”

  At that moment, Bell and Barry were approaching Tullamore in the BMW. Their meeting with the Chief of Staff had been brief.

  “I’m concerned Riley’s been up to no good. He was last heard of leaving Wandsworth in the company of Brigadier Charles Ferguson, and we all know what that means. I want the bastard, so go back and get him for me.”

  As they entered the village, it was Bell who noticed Colin and Peter emerging from the post office. “That’s interesting,” he said. “The two old men from the farm. Why aren’t they working?”

  “Maybe they’re part-timers,” Barry said.

  “But they’d still work mornings, that’s when all the hard work’s done,” Bell said. “Driving in the cows, milking, and so on. I know about these things, I was raised on a farm. I’m going to have words.”

  Colin and Peter had vanished into Murphy’s Select Bar, and Bell followed them. At that time in the morning, there was only Murphy, the two old men with a pint of stout in front of each of them already, and a hard-looking young man in cloth cap, jacket, and jeans at
the bar.

  The old men stopped talking, frozen with fear, and Murphy, who knew very well who Bell was, turned pale. The young man drank some of his ale and frowned.

  “Now then, you old bastards,” Bell said, “I don’t think you were telling the truth when we spoke yesterday.”

  “Jesus, mister, I swear we were.”

  “Then tell me one thing. Why aren’t you working?”

  “It was the missus wanted to give us the day off,” Peter said.

  “Hey, you,” the young man at the bar called. “Let them alone.”

  Murphy put a hand on his arm. “Leave it, Patrick, this is IRA business.”

  Bell ignored him. “So you haven’t seen Riley?”

  “I swear to God I haven’t.”

  Patrick moved in and tapped Bell on the shoulder. “I said leave them alone.”

  Bell swung his right elbow backwards, catching him full in the mouth, and as Patrick staggered back, Barry, who had appeared in the doorway, gave him a vicious punch to the kidneys, which sent him on his knees. He stayed there until Bell pushed him over.

  “Silly boy,” he called to Murphy. “Tell him to mind his manners in future,” and they left.

  Barry took the wheel and drove out to the farm. He paused at the entrance where the truck from the dairy was parked, two men manhandling Bridget’s milk churns on board.

  “Interesting,” Bell said. “She’s given her laborers a holiday, so how in the hell did that old woman manage those milk churns?”

  “Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Barry told him and drove along the track.

  Bridget happened to be in the storeroom at the back when they arrived, so she didn’t hear them, and the Alsatian was up at the barn at High Meadow where Dermot was checking on some ewes. She came into the kitchen carrying a bag of flour and stopped dead in her tracks. Barry and Bell were standing just inside the kitchen door.

  “You’re back,” she whispered and placed the bag of flour on the table.

  “Yes, we are, you lying old bitch,” Barry said. He took a pace forward and slapped her across the face. “Now where is he?”

  She was terrified out of her mind. “I don’t know, truly I don’t, Mr. Barry.”

  “You’re a bad liar.” He slapped her again. Blood ran from her nose and he grabbed her hair and nodded to Bell, who lit a cigarette.

  She started to struggle. He pushed her down across the table and Bell blew on his cigarette until it was red hot and touched her right cheek.

  She screamed, writhing in agony. “No – please! I’ll tell you.”

  Barry let her get up. “You see, everything comes to he who waits,” he said to Bell and turned to Bridget, who was sobbing bitterly. “Where is he?”

  “Half a mile up the track, the barn at High Meadow. There’s a room with a secret door above the loft. He sleeps there.”

  Barry smiled. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?” and he and Bell walked out.

  “Oh, Dermot, what have I done?” Bridget said and started to cry bitterly.

  At High Meadow with the ewes, Dermot saw the flash of silver on the track below and knew he was in trouble. He hurried into the barn, Karl following. He couldn’t take the dog with him to the secret room, for any kind of a whine would give him away, never mind barking.

  “Off you go, boy, home to Bridget.” Karl hovered uncertainly. “Go on, get moving!” Dermot told him.

  This time, the Alsatian did as he was told. Dermot climbed the ladder to the loft, then clambered over bales of hay and got the secret door in the wood paneling open. He climbed inside. It was dark, just the odd chink of light, and he waited.

  When Barry and Bell got out of the BMW, the Alsatian sat looking at them. “Get rid of that for starters,” Barry said, and Bell took out a Smith & Wesson revolver.

  The moment he pointed it, Karl took off, scattering the sheep, making for the valley below. Bell laughed and put the revolver back in his pocket.

  “A smart bugger, that dog.”

  “Well, let’s see if Dermot is,” Barry said and led the way inside.

  They stood looking up at the loft crammed with the bales of hay and Barry called, “We know you’re there, Dermot, so you might as well come out. Bridget was very forthcoming after a little persuasion.”

  Dermot, in the darkness, almost choked with rage, but he didn’t have a gun, that was the thing, couldn’t take them on.

  It was Bell who spoke now. “There’s a lot of straw in here, Dermot, not to say hay. If I drop a match, you’ll be in serious trouble. Of course, if you want to end up like a well-done side of beef, that’s your affair.”

  A moment later, the secret door opened and Dermot scrambled out. He made his way to the edge of the loft and stood looking at them.

  “You bloody bastards,” he said, “if you’ve hurt Bridget, I’ll do for you.” Then he climbed down the ladder.

  Barry grabbed his arms from the rear. “You shouldn’t talk like that, you really shouldn’t.” He nodded to Bell. “Just his body. I want his face to look normal when he’s sitting in the back of the car on the way back to Dublin.”

  “My pleasure,” Bell said and punched Riley very hard beneath the ribs.

  When the rental car pulled up in the farm yard, Blake Johnson was at the wheel. The kitchen door was open and Karl erupted, jumping up at the car, growling fiercely. Dillon opened a window and whistled, a low and eerie sound that put the teeth on edge. Karl subsided, his ears flattening.

  “Jesus, but I taught you how to do that well,” Devlin said.

  As they got out of the car, Bridget appeared in the doorway. She looked terrible as she tried to staunch the blood from her nose with a tea towel.

  “Liam Devlin, is that you?”

  “As ever was,” Devlin said and put an arm around her shoulders. “Who did this to you?”

  “Barry and Bell. They were here yesterday seeking Dermot. I told them he wasn’t here.”

  “But he was,” Dillon said and put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m Sean Dillon. I fought with Dermot in Derry in the old days.”

  She nodded vacantly. “They turned up a little while ago, beat me and burned me with a cigarette.”

  “The bastards,” Devlin said.

  “The thing is, I told them where Dermot’s hiding. Half a mile up the track. The barn at High Meadow.” She was crying now. “I couldn’t help it, the pain was terrible.”

  “Go in, make yourself a cup of tea. We’ll be back with Dermot, I promise you.”

  She did as she was told, and Devlin said grimly, “I think a lesson is in order here.”

  The three men got in the car, Blake taking the wheel again. Dillon took out his Walther, checked it, and screwed on the silencer.

  “Take it nice and easy and let’s see the lay of the land. It could be a hot one. They’ll be carrying, and they’re good. What about you, Liam?”

  Devlin grinned. “And what would I be needing with a shooter, with a couple of desperate individuals like you two to look after me?”

  They climbed up toward the crest of a hill, Blake choosing a low gear. There were trees along the edge of the track and a row of trees bordering the meadow, the barn beyond them.

  “They’ll see us coming,” Blake said.

  “Which is why I’m going to bail out on the bend and take to the trees,” Dillon told him, “so slow down for me. You take care of the confrontation, Liam, and don’t worry. A hard man, this one with all that FBI training. He’ll manage, especially with me coming in the back door.”

  “Well, that’s a comforting thought,” Blake said and slowed on the bend.

  Dillon opened the door and made for the ditch as Devlin closed the door behind him. The car picked up speed and Dillon hurried through the trees.

  Aware of the sound of the engine as the car approached, Bell left Barry clutching Riley and went to the door, drawing his revolver.

  “What is it?” Barry demanded.

  “Don’t know. Black saloon car, driver and one passeng
er.”

  “Get in the loft.” Bell did as he was told, climbing the ladder, and Barry dropped Riley to the ground and kicked him. “Stay still.” He moved behind the open door.

  He heard the car stop outside and steps approaching. Devlin appeared in the doorway, Blake Johnson at his back. He paused, then came forward.

  “Well, now, Dermot, you don’t look too good.”

  “Watch yourself, Mr. Devlin, the bastard’s behind the door,” Riley told him.

  Barry stepped out, holding his revolver. “Easy, the both of you, or I’ll blow your spines out.” He rammed the barrel into Blake’s back, patted his pockets and found the Beretta. “Would you look at that now? And what about you, Devlin?”

  “Don’t be daft. Would a seventy-five-year-old man like myself be carrying a pistol?”

  “Add ten years to that, you lying old bugger.”

  Devlin sighed and said to Blake, “Neanderthal man come back to haunt us. He only learned to walk erect this morning.”

  “I’ll do for you, you old sod.” Barry was furiously angry. “You’ve had your day. You’ve been due for the knacker’s yard for years.”

  “Well, it comes to us all.” Devlin gave Riley a hand. “Up you get, Dermot. Don’t let bastards like this grind you down.”

  Barry exploded in rage. “I warned you. I’ll put you on sticks.”

  “And why would you want to do that, I wonder?” Sean Dillon called.

  He stood just inside the other door to the barn, rain increasing in a great rush at that moment. His left hand was behind him holding the Walther against his back. With his right, he shook a cigarette from his pack, put one in his mouth, and lit it with his old Zippo.

  Barry was totally thrown by the change in Dillon’s appearance. “Sean Dillon, is that you?”

  “Your worst nightmare,” Dillon said.

  “The loft, watch the loft, Sean,” Riley croaked.

  Barry kicked him. “Take him!” he cried.

  Bell stood up on the edge of the loft, gun ready, and Dillon’s hand came round in one smooth motion. He fired twice, catching Bell in the heart, the sound of the silenced weapon flat on the damp air. Bell fell headfirst.