by Jack Higgins
“So what? There’s only one way to handle this.”
“You noticed the prison photos on Roper’s screen were about twenty years old. You wouldn’t even recognize them now.”
“Let’s just see.”
* * * *
THEY PARKED OUTSIDE the Green Tinker and went in the saloon bar. Three old men sat at a table by the window and played dominoes. An unshaven young man in a black T-shirt with short sleeves and lots of muscle stood behind the bar reading a newspaper. The snug door was open and old Fahy was filling a pipe. He took one look at them and an expression of horror appeared on his face. The barman glanced up. He wore a black patch over his right eye. From the expression on his face, he wasn’t impressed by what he saw.
“Yes?”
“I’ll have half a bottle of still water,” Billy told him.
“And a glass of your strongest for me.” Dillon smiled. “Bushmills, if you have it.”
“And we’d also like to see Nolan and Kelly,” Billy said.
The man put Dillon’s whiskey into a shot glass. He gave it to Dillon, pushed another glass at Billy and picked up a jug of water from behind the bar. “Will this do, sir?”
Billy reached for the glass. “Why not?” The man started to pour, then moved all the way up the sleeve of Billy’s trench coat.
Old Fahy called, “I wouldn’t do that, Michael,” but Billy was already reaching, pulling the man across the bar, punching him heavily in the face several times.
The old man stopped talking. Billy pulled Michael up, jerked the left arm out straight, the edge of his own right hand descending like a chopping axe. He eased him down into a chair.
“I think you’ll find I’ve broken it. Now, Nolan and Kelly? Who’s going to speak up?”
Old Fahy said, “You’d better come in the office. I expect you’ll force your way in anyway.”
They stood and looked at the display on the wall, read what was said about them, examined the photos.
“I think yours is quite good,” Dillon said. “I’m not sure about mine.”
“It’s called the older man look,” Billy said. “You know, been places, done things.”
“Is that it?” Dillon passed his glass to Fahy. “I’ll have the same again.”
“The Bushmills as usual, I know that well.”
He poured a large one. Dillon said, “And how would you know?”
“Because he heard you order one from the prick next door,” Billy said.
The old man shook his head. “I’m from Derry. I saw you three times with Martin McGuiness there. I had my moments with the IRA, but ten years inside finished me off and I came to Kilburn. Remember a pub called the Irish Guard? I was pot man there. Gerry Brady was the publican. Did me a favor and found me a job. I remember the first time you came in and asked for Gerry, only you weren’t calling yourself Sean Dillon.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be.”
“But I knew you. February ’ninety-one it was, the time somebody mounted a mortar attack on the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet at Downing Street.”
Dillon smiled.“We won’t get into that one. Have a Bushmills and tell us what you know about this lot on the wall.”
“And what bleeding Nolan and Kelly are up to,” Billy said.
Fahy poured himself the Bushmills. “Now do I look like an informer?”
“You’d look a damn sight worse if I put you on sticks,” Billy told him.
“For you, then, Mr. Dillon. Jimmy got all this stuff on his computer, photos, pages and so on, from a man called Flynn in Dublin.”
“You listened in?”
“The walls are terribly thin here. They were being offered a contract, that’s the upshot of it. A hundred thousand pounds. That’s why they put everything up on the board.”
“The bastards,” Billy said. “So they intend to do all of us.”
“The Ferguson fella and Harry Salter are the prime targets, that was the phrase used.”
“And how was this to be achieved?” Dillon asked.
“Nolan and his cousin Patrick run this place.”
“We know that,” Billy said. “Do they intend to do it themselves or put a crew together?”
“They’ve got Danny Delaney and a worm called Sol Flanagan: drugs, booze, they’re off their heads most of the time.”
“What’s their game?”
“Armed robbery, shops, particularly Muslim stores of any kind.
Delaney is crackers. He really hates those Pakistanis and he shoots without hesitation.”
“And Flanagan?”
“Cut from the same bolt of cloth.”
“And never been nailed for any of this?” Dillon asked.
“Oh, they’ve been pulled in, appeared in court on occasion, but you can’t get a conviction without witnesses, can you?”
“Who else?” Dillon asked.
“Different breed altogether. Jack Burke and Tim Cohan. London Irish, the kind who slipped off to Ulster to join the Provos when they were kids. They did the lot, including the Maze. They know you, Mr. Dillon, and were distressed to see you in bad company.”
“Who did they particularly dislike?”
“ Ferguson. Burke said he was lifted along with some others when Ferguson was a colonel in Derry. Cohan said that if he passed him on a wet night in the rain, he’d shoot him in the back without hesitation.”
“Never mind all this,” Billy said. “Where are Nolan and Kelly now?”
“They went out about forty minutes ago. They were both armed and they aren’t coming back. Their conversation was all about filling the time until this evening. They were going to drive past Ferguson ’s house, check out your place, Mr. Dillon, then later visit the Dark Man. Something about the movies was mentioned-maybe they intend to kill time there until it’s late enough.”
“So the bastards intend to show up at the pub?” Billy said.
“Well, it is Friday night, so don’t tell me you won’t be busy. He said the word was that most of you on that board had a habit of getting together at the Dark Man of an evening. The idea is they go along, familiarize themselves with the place, the surroundings. They’ve also been ordered to check out Ferguson ’s house, and yours, Mr. Dillon. Obviously, Jimmy and Patrick do the same.”
“And then what?” Billy demanded. “Who gets it first?”
“Jimmy said after they’ve done all that I’ve told you about, they’d speak again. Oh, there is something else. Burke and Cohan-they’re like a lot of the boys are, the great days gone.”
“And they don’t like it?” Dillon said.
“They don’t care for the company they have to keep. They once had pride and now it’s gone.” He tapped out his pipe. “Would there be anything else?”
“You’ve told us a lot,” Dillon said. “And I suspect it’s all true. Why?”
“I’ve always admired you, Mr. Dillon. A great man and great for the Cause, but I haven’t done it for you, my reasons are purely selfish. Your friend here looks like the kind of fella who’d have beaten it out of me one way or another, and I’m getting too old for that.”
“Yes, you are, you old bastard.” Billy turned to Dillon. “Stick him in the back of the Alfa and take him to Holland Park. Put him behind lock and key until this is over.”
“Good on you, Billy.” Dillon patted Fahy on the shoulder. “Does it suit you? A comfortable safe house?”
“Well, I certainly won’t be safe here.” He led the way through the snug, pausing to take his coat from behind the bar. “I’ll just check on Michael.”
He led the way into the saloon bar, which was empty. He called, but there was no reply. “Maybe he’s gone to get his arm fixed.”
“Not your problem,” Billy said. “It’s the safe house for you. You’ll love it. Better than a hotel.”
* * * *
DILLON REPORTED IN TO ROPER. “Are Harry and Ferguson still occupied elsewhere?”
“They haven’t contacted me yet. What have you discovered? Should we be
worried?”
“See what you think,” and Dillon gave him a brief account of what had happened.
When he had finished, Roper said, “I’ll put them all through my computer, pull out photos and general information. Anything I can find. It could be fun.”
“So you’re in favor of letting these six guys do some nosing around tonight and we don’t do anything about it.”
“I didn’t say that. From what your informant has told you, they are not supposed to do anything except size the situation up. What we’ve got to decide is what we do if things get out of hand. I’ll try and contact the General and Harry. After all, they are the main targets. I’d remind you the flight from Dublin is due in an hour. What do we do about that?”
“We’ll call in at Holland Park, drop Fahy off and take one of the People Travellers to Farley.”
“Greta got back an hour ago. She’s having a drink with me now. I think she’d like to greet her compatriots. It must be some Russian thing.”
* * * *
THERE HAD BEEN HEADWINDS, which had slowed them down, but the King Air had performed well, and Levin, Mary and Chomsky, having discovered a bottle of champagne in an icebox, had consumed it between them.
“So what do you fancy putting your hand to, Mary?” Chomsky asked her.
“I’m beyond caring. Mind you, I have a degree in business studies and computer technology.”
“Well, in the world of today, you’ll never starve,” Chomsky told her, and turned to Levin. “Don’t you agree?”
Levin nodded. “All you need are the right connections and you’ve certainly got those. You not only saved my life but that of Harry Salter, and considering how much of the Thames waterfront he’s developed, I think he’ll find you something.”
“As long as you don’t mind being employed by one of the most prominent gangsters in London,” Chomsky said.
“This is nonsense,” Levin told him. “A girl with her background would fit particularly well in Harry’s world.”
But now they were dropping through clouds, and there was London below, and they drifted across and then they were descending, and there was Farley Field and down they went to a perfect landing.
They rolled along the runway toward the terminal building, Magee following instructions. He switched off the engines and Murphy came and opened the door, and Magee followed. He said to Levin, “I was right about this place. Three RAF planes and two helicopters. You really are somebodies.”
“But you’ll never know who,” Chomsky said cheerfully, and followed Mary out.
The People Traveller stood beside the terminal building, Greta, Dillon, Billy beside it. Greta ran forward and flung her arms around Levin first and then Chomsky.
“You wonderful bastards,” she said and there were tears in her eyes. “I never knew it would be so good to see you.”
“And if it wasn’t for this girl, I wouldn’t even be here. Meet Mary O’Toole,” Levin told her. Billy moved in quickly. “I’m Billy Salter, Harry Salter’s nephew. I think you’ll find he’ll show you his gratitude big-time.”
Dillon took her hand. “Sean Dillon.”
Her eyes widened. “Mother Mary, that I should see the day. I’ve heard of you since I was a young girl.”
“Well, you’ve seen me now so let’s get in and we’ll be away.”
Billy was at the wheel and as they drove off, Levin said, “What’s happening?”
So Dillon told him.
* * * *
WHEN THEY REACHED Holland Park they found Harry and Ferguson had arrived. Mary was introduced and Harry said, “You’re coming back with me, love, to my pub, the Dark Man. Our Ruby can look after you for a while until you decide what you want to do. Lots of opportunities in my personal empire. We’ve just got a few things to sort out here.” He turned to those assembled in the computer room. “Let’s see it again, Roper.”
Roper paraded Flynn’s crew across the big screen. The photos had been obtained from police files, those of Burke and Cohan being several years old. They had a certain rugged dignity that came with men who had believed they were fighting for a cause.
Delaney and Flanagan were a different proposition, cocky, smirking and, in most photos, obviously on something, drugs, alcohol or probably both.
“Give us your lecture, Major,” Ferguson told Roper.
“Delaney and Flanagan, shoot at will. On store robberies, they’ve gotten away with it through intimidation of witnesses.”
“And Cohan and Burke?”
“IRA foot soldiers for years, total professionals, and that means damned good at killing. Any psychological profile would tell you they don’t like robbing convenience stores for a living, but when you’re pushing fifty, men like that don’t have much choice.”
“It’s a point of view,” Ferguson said. “But I have little sympathy for them. You play that kind of game, you take the consequences when all is lost. Having said that, I intend to get out my nylon and titanium waistcoat, which fit quite snugly under my shirt when I last wore it. Guaranteed to stop a forty-five-magnum round at point-blank range. I recommend those who have one to wear it until we have this matter sorted.”
“I agree,” Harry said. “It’s up to you, Dillon and Billy, of course. You can pull in Baxter and Hall as foot soldiers.”
“And as Captain Levin and Sergeant Chomsky have already been involved in the circumstances leading to all this, I’m sure they would be willing to assist.”
“No problem, General.”
“I’d like you and Chomsky to stay here for a few days for a thorough debriefing with Major Roper. After that, Harry’s suggested you move down to the warehouse development of his at Hangman’s Wharf, which you’ll remember from your visit last year.”
“I remember it well.” Levin smiled. “Quite convenient for the Dark Man.”
“Well, you would. I wouldn’t recommend you going for a swim in the Thames with your clothes on again. Wrong time of year.”
He went out briskly. Harry followed with Mary and Billy, who said, “I’ll hand her over to Ruby at the pub and join up with you later.”
“Fine,” Dillon said, left Levin and Chomsky to Sergeant Doyle and went back to Roper, who had Greta with him. Dillon helped himself to ascotch.
“You’ve got a problem,” Greta said. “I can tell.”
“What would it be?” Roper inquired.
“Bert Fahy, the old man I brought in. He gave me a good story and I’m prepared to accept that it was true, but only as far as it went. It was a bit too pat. I didn’t quite buy what he said Nolan and Kelly would be doing.”
“Really? Well, we can’t have that.” He called up Sergeant Henderson. “Bring our new guest in, Mr. Fahy.”
He was produced within five minutes, and the pleasant surprise the comfort of his quarters had given him disappeared rapidly when he found himself in a pool of light looking up to them.
“Fahy, you lied to me,” Dillon said. “The idea that Nolan and Kelly would go to the cinema before visiting us tonight is unbelievable.”
Roper broke in, “Which means you were concealing something else they intend to do.”
“God help me, sir, would I lie to Mr. Dillon?”
“All right, I won’t waste time. I will issue a warrant for your detention under the Anti-Terrorism Act, at Wormwood Scrubs Prison.”
Fahy almost had a bowel movement at the thought of incarceration in that dread institution. “No, sir, have pity on an old man, my memory plays tricks on me.”
“Try again.”
“Well, Major, there’s the bar called Grady’s close to the Pool of London.”
* * * *
WHEN HE WAS FINISHED, Henderson took him back to his quarters. Dillon said,“This could be a real break. I’m going to go and have a look. Are you busy?” he asked Greta.
“Not until tonight. Molly Rashid’s on a night shift and she asked me to keep Sara company. The girl’s having difficulty relating to her father.”
“Maybe
it’s the other way round. We’ll go in your Mini Cooper. I’ll see you in the car park and you later,” he shouted to Roper.
He went straight to his room, found his favorite Walther and went out to Greta, already at the wheel of the Mini Cooper.
“I remember all this when I was a kid with my father growing up in London,” he said as they made their way downriver. “The Pool of London, the docks, ships, crammed in everywhere, hundreds of enormous cranes. I don’t know if it was the biggest port in the world, but it should have been.”
“But you were Irish,” she said. “Why were you here at all?”
“My mother died, my father ran out of work in Ulster.” He shrugged. “The Irish always had a big connection with London. Michael Collins was a civil servant in the post office here before he decided to change the course of Irish history.”
“It seems all changed now,” she observed.
“That’s development for you. A lot of the warehouses are apartment blocks like that one of Harry’s on Hangman’s Wharf, but there are still some streets and buildings that haven’t been touched.”
She had entered Canal Street into the satellite navigator in the Cooper, and they soon arrived there. There was a section of the docks in decay, a canal flowing down quite fast into the river, an ironwork footbridge leading across it and decaying working-class terrace houses, mostly boarded up and awaiting demolition, and the pub on the corner with a sign that said Grady’s Bar. The door was half open and an old lady with very white hair and an apron over a long black dress was polishing a brass knocker. Over the door was the usual board with the license details of the publican. It said Margaret Grady. She was perhaps seventy-five, her voice faded as if she wasn’t really here, the merest hint of an Irish accent.
“Can I help you? I don’t open till six o’clock. We’re a free house.”
“Of course,” Dillon said. “We weren’t looking for a drink.”
Greta joined in. “We were searching for Canal Street, but we’ve obviously found the wrong one.”