Day of Reckoning sd-8

by Jack Higgins

  'They all came down in a Toyota van. We followed. They got out carrying a couple of canvas bags, went along the beach, the tide being out, and went along to the tunnel entrance. Sam's down there now, tucked behind that old wreck.'

  Billy took the binoculars, focused them, and at that moment Manchester Charlie Ford and the others came out of the tunnel and went back to the steps up to the dock.

  They all got in the Toyota and drove away. 'Give me the torch and let's take a look.'

  'Let them go,' Billy said.

  The tunnel was damp from the receding early morning tide, the brickwork green, as Billy switched on the torch. The rusting iron grille was there as before. The only difference was that the huge old lock had gone and the gate responded to a strong heave.

  'Well, well,' Billy said. 'Let's take a look.'

  They followed the tunnel, sloshing through two or three inches of water. It seemed to go on forever and there were side tunnels.

  'All right,' Billy said. 'Enough is enough. We're under the dock and there's nothing important. Let's go back.'

  They arrived back at the Dark Man at noon and found Salter in his usual booth. He listened and nodded.

  'Okay, it's on, and it's got to be the White Diamond Company. I'll check with Ferguson.'

  At that moment, Ferguson and Dillon walked in.

  'I can't believe it,' Billy said. 'We were just talking about you and here you are.'

  'Magic, Billy,' Dillon said. 'It's with me being from County Down.'

  'What are you after, Brigadier?' Salter asked.

  'Cottage pie for lunch and an indifferent red wine would do, for a start.'

  'Yes, well we've got news for you,' Billy said, and told

  him.

  Ferguson took out his mobile and called Roper at Pine Grove and relayed the information. 'I'm concerned with timing here. It's just occurred to me. If you could access the White Diamond Company, we might find something is going on.'

  'Leave it with me, Brigadier.'

  Ferguson put his phone down. 'So, we could be in business, gentlemen. It's an OBE for you, Harry, for services to the country.'

  'Fuck off, Brigadier.'

  Dora appeared. 'Cottage pie, love, and a bottle of that Krug champagne, as Dillon's here.'

  She walked away and Dillon said, 'It's the great man you are, Harry.'

  'What are you trying to do, you little Irish git, butter me up?'

  'Actually, yes. I need a favour.'

  'What favour?'

  'I need a master diver, and the only one I know on short notice is Billy.'

  Salter was totally shocked. 'You've got to be kidding.'

  'No. My American friend Blake took a bullet in the shoulder and won't be too fit. I'm taking a boat into a remote part of the Irish coast, where there's an underground bunker full of the wrong kind of weapons waiting to be used in the next round of the Irish troubles. I intend to blow it to hell, and as friend Fox has a financial interest, I'll get extra pleasure.' He turned to Billy. 'Listen, you young dog, it'll be a good deed in a naughty world. Are you with me?'

  Billy had an unholy light in his eyes. 'By God, I am, Dillon. These fucks come over and blow up London. Let's go and blow them up.'

  'Billy?' his uncle said.

  Ferguson's phone rang. He listened, then said, 'Fine. I'll talk later.' He drank a little champagne. 'That was Major Roper. He's accessed the White Diamond Company's computer. They're receiving a consignment of top-grade diamonds on Thursday. Ten million pounds' worth.'

  Dillon said, 'So we know where we are.' He turned. 'Harry?'

  Salter said, 'What the hell, we're with you.'

  'Excellent.' Dillon smiled. 'It's Scotland for you, Billy, and a nice sea voyage.'

  'Christ,' Billy said. 'I get seasick.'

  'We'll stop at a pharmacist and get you some pills on the way to Farley Field. That'll be three hours from now, after which you'll be winging your way north.'

  'I've never been to Scotland,' Billy said.

  'Well, we'll take care of that.' Dillon smiled as Dora brought plates of food to the table.

  'Cottage pie and Krug champagne, and God help Brendan Murphy.'

  11

  SCOTLAND

  IRELAND

  Blake was flat out when Dillon called at Rosedene to check on his condition. Hannah was with him. Daz was at the university, but Martha was there.

  'He'll be fine, but not particularly fit for a while,' she said, and frowned. 'He's not going to get up to any nonsense, I hope, Mr Dillon? I know what your lot are like, and he honestly isn't up to it.'

  'I know, Martha. I know. We'll take it as it comes. I'm flying off to Scotland, so keep the Superintendent here informed.' 'Trouble again?' she asked.

  Always is.' He kissed her cheek.

  'Oh, well,' she said, and gave him the ancient toast. 'May you die in Ireland.'

  'Oh, thanks very much.' Dillon laughed. 'See you soon.' He and Hannah left.

  On the way to the Dark Man, she said, 'It could be a hard one, Sean.'

  'I know, and Blake won't be up to it. Frankly, in his condition, he'd be a liability.'

  'What do you want me to do?'

  'Try and lose him. With luck, you won't have to do much. Maybe Martha could give him a pill.'

  'Always the practical one, aren't you.'

  'He's a good man, Hannah, I'm the bad one. I don't care about that, but I do care about him.'

  'I'll never understand you.'

  'I don't understand me. Join the club. I'm just passing through, Hannah, I'd have thought you'd have realized that by now.'

  Dillon phoned ahead, and Billy was waiting outside the Dark Man with his uncle, Baxter and Hall.

  Harry said, 'I actually care for this young bastard, so bringhim back in one piece, Dillon. Notice I didn't say try, so don't let me down, because if you come back alone. .'

  'I get the picture,' Dillon said. 'In you get, Billy.'

  The driver put the case in the boot and Billy sat in front, nervous and excited. 'Christ, Dillon, what have you got me into?'

  'High adventure, Billy. You'll come back and join the Marines.'

  'Like hell I will. Independent spirit, me.'

  At Farley Field, the department's quartermaster, a retired sergeant major, waited with his list.

  'All loaded, Mr Dillon. Walthers with Carswell silencers, three Uzi machine pistols with silencers. Stun grenades, and half a dozen of the fragmentation variety, in case you have trouble, plus the Semtex and timers.'

  'What about diving equipment?'

  'Standard suits and fins as issued to the Special Boat Service. Our local agent in Oban will put six air bottles in the stern rack. That should suffice.'

  'Excellent.' Lacey was already in the Gulfstream with Parry; Madoc waited at the bottom of the steps.

  Dillon kissed Hannah on the cheek. 'We who are about to die salute you.'

  'Don't be stupid. I'll see you tomorrow.'

  'I know, and watch Regan. He's a devious little sod.' 'I thought that was you.'

  It was such a stupid remark, and instantly regretted, but Dillon smiled. 'Ah, the hard woman you are.'

  He pushed Billy up the steps in front of him, Madoc followed and closed the door, and the Gulfstream moved away.

  'Why?' Hannah whispered. 'Why do I say things like that?' And yet she knew that, for his past condemned him. All those years as the Provisional IRA's most feared enforcer, all the killing.

  She looked up as the Gulfstream lifted. 'Damn you, Dillon,' she said. 'Damn you.'

  In his suite at Pine Grove, Roper trawled the computer and came up with results. He checked again, then phoned Ferguson.

  'Fox and his two goons are booked into the Dorchester for a week.'

  'Anything else?'

  'Murphy and Dermot Kelly are booked on an Air France flight from Paris, arriving in Dublin around what the Irish call tea time.'

  'Any idea of the onward destination?'

  'Come on, Brigadier, it must be Kil
beg. They think he's Robin Hood up there. If you want to check, why don't you call in a favour from that Chief Superintendent Malone at the Garda Special Branch?'

  'What an excellent idea,' Ferguson said.

  He thought about it, then rang through to Malone in Dublin. 'Charles Ferguson, Daniel.'

  Malone groaned. 'What in the hell do you want, Charles?' 'A favour.'

  At Dublin Airport, Murphy and Kelly landed at four-thirty, proceeded through customs with light luggage, went out of the concourse and approached an old Ford saloon car. The driver was named John Conolly, the man beside him Joseph Tomelty; both were hard-line Republicans and had been members of Murphy's group for many years, all boyhood friends. They shook hands with Murphy and Kelly.

  'Good to see you, Brendan,' Conolly said. 'Did it go well?'

  A total fuck-up,' Murphy said. 'Couldn't have been worse. Let's get out of it. Make for home and I'll tell you.'

  They all got in and drove away, and Malone, sitting in an unmarked car with a driver, said, 'Jesus. Conolly, Tomelty, plus Brendan and Dermot Kelly. The old Kilbeg Mafia. There's no doubt where they're going, but follow at a discreet distance and let's make sure they're taking the right road north.'

  Twenty minutes later and well outside Dublin, he tapped the driver on the arm. 'Turn back. It's got to be Kilbeg.'

  A few minutes later, as the car returned to Dublin, he called Ferguson on his mobile and told him what had happened.

  'So it's Kilbeg?' Ferguson said.

  'I'd say definitely. Are you going to give us trouble here, Charles?'

  'Don't be silly, Daniel, we're doing ourselves a favour and you a favour. Leave it alone and I'll keep you informed.'

  'One more question. Since you're running this, it means Dillon's involved.'

  'Obviously.'

  'Then God help Brendan Murphy.'

  Ferguson put down his phone and turned to Hannah, who had been listening. 'You heard? Murphy and company are on their way to Kilbeg.'

  I'll let Dillon know, sir, in case it affects his plans.'

  'It won't make much difference. You know what he's like.

  He'll go in tomorrow night anyway, Murphy or no Murphy. Just like a bad war movie.'

  'I know, sir. He has a kind of death wish.'

  'Why?'

  'God knows.'

  'You really have it in for him, Superintendent.'

  'You couldn't be more wrong, sir. Actually, I like him too much. He reminds me of Liam Devlin, that combination of scholar, actor, poet and absolutely cold-blooded killer.'

  'Just like Sir Walter Raleigh,' Ferguson said. 'Very bewildering, life, on occasion.'

  Dillon and Billy were delivered by an unmarked RAF car driven by two uniformed RAF sergeants named Smith and Brian.

  'Checked it out earlier,' Sergeant Brian said. 'That's the Highlander two hundred yards out.'

  'Well, it doesn't look much to me,' Billy told him.

  'Don't go by appearances. It's got twin screws, depth sounder, radar, automatic steering. Does twenty-five knots at full stretch.'

  'Good. Let's get cracking,' Dillon said.

  'Right, sir, we've got a whaleboat to take your gear out.'

  Forty minutes later, the gear was stowed, everything shipshape. Brian said, 'You've got the inflatable, with a good outboard motor. We'll get back now.'

  'Thanks for a good job,' Dillon told him.

  The sergeants departed in the whaleboat, and Dillon's mobile rang. It was Hannah Bernstein, bringing him up to date on the Kilbeg situation.

  'Murphy being there, will it give you a problem?'

  'Only if I can't shoot the bastard. How's Blake?'

  'Still on his back.'

  'Good, let's keep it that way. We'll see you tomorrow.'

  Oban was enveloped in mist, and a fine rain was driving across the water, pushed by a light wind. Above on the land, low clouds draped across mountain tops, but beyond Kerrera the waters of the Firth of Lorn looked troubled.

  'This is Scotland?' Billy said. 'What a bloody awful place. Why would anybody come here for a holiday?'

  'Don't tell the tourist board, Billy, they'd lynch you. Now, we've things to do. We can go ashore and eat later.'

  He laid out the diving equipment in the stern cabin. 'I don't need to explain this to you, you're an expert, but let's check over the arms.'

  They laid the Walthers, the Semtex, the Uzis and stun grenades on the main saloon table. 'Let's give you a quick course on the Uzi, Billy. The Walther is simple enough.'

  They spent half an hour going over things, then Dillon took one of the Walthers and led the way up to the wheelhouse. There was a flap to one side of the instrument board. He found a button, pressed, and inside was a fuse board. He cocked the Walther, slipped it inside, and closed the flap.

  'Ready for action with ten rounds, Billy. Remember it's there. It's what is called an ace in the hole.'

  'You think of everything, don't you?'

  'That's why I'm still here. Let's go ashore and eat.'

  He switched on the deck lights before they left and they coasted to the front at Oban on the inflatable and tied up. There was a pub close by that offered food. They went in, had a look at the menu, and opted for fish pie.

  Dillon ordered a Bushmills, but Billy shook his head. 'Not me. I never liked the booze, Dillon. There must be something wrong with me.'

  'Well, most things in life are in the Bible, and what the good book says is: wine is a mocker, strong drink raging.' He smiled. 'Having said that, I'll finish this and have another.'

  Later, back on the Highlander, it started to rain harder. They sat on the stern deck under the awning, and Dillon went through everything from Katherine Johnson's death in New York to Al Shariz.

  Billy said, 'These Mafia guys are fucks, Dillon, and Murphy's no better.'

  'That about sums it up.'

  'So we take them out?'

  'I hope so.'

  The rain drummed on the canvas awning and Dillon poured another whisky.

  Billy said, 'Listen, Dillon, I know a little bit about you, the IRA hard man who switched sides. But every time I ask my uncle how it all happened, he clams up. What's the story?'

  Maybe it was the rain, and maybe it was the whisky, but instead of giving him a hard look and telling him to mind his business, Dillon felt himself talking, the words coming slowly but steadily.

  'I was born in Ulster, my mother died giving birth to me — a heavy load to bear. My father took me to London. He was a good man. A small builder. Got me into St Paul's School.'

  'I thought that was for toffs?'

  'No, Billy, it's for brains. Anyway, I liked the acting. Went to the Royal Academy. Only did a year and joined the National Theatre. I was still only nineteen. My father went home to Belfast and got caught in a fire fight between IRA and Brit paratroopers.'

  'Jesus, that was a bastard.'

  Dillon poured another whisky, looking back into the past. 'Billy, I was a damn good actor, but I went back to Belfast and joined the IRA.'

  'Well, you would. I mean, they killed your old man.'

  'And I was nineteen, but they were nineteen, Billy, mostly a lot like you. Anyway, the IRA had access to camps in Libya. I was sent for training. Three months, and there wasn't a weapon I didn't know inside out. You wanted a bomb, I could make it, any bomb.' He hesitated. 'Only that side I never liked. Passersby, women, kids — that isn't war.'

  'That's how you saw it, war?'

  'For a long time, yes, then I moved on. I was a professional soldier, so I sold my services. ETA in Spain, Arabs, Palestinians, also the Israelis. Funny, Billy, the job I've just done in Lebanon, blowing up a ship with arms for Saddam. Back in ninety-one, I worked for them.'

  'You what?'

  'Gulf War. I did the mortar attack on Downing Street in the snow. You wouldn't remember that.'

  'I bleeding well do. I've read articles. They used a Ford Transit, then a guy on a motorbike picked up the bomber.'

  'That was me, B
illy.'

  'Dillon, you bastard. You nearly got the Prime Minister and the entire cabinet.'

  'Yes, almost, but not quite. I made a great deal of money out of it. I'm still rich, if you like. Later, I got into trouble in Bosnia. I was due to face a Serb firing squad, only Ferguson turned up, saved my miserable skin, and in return I had to work for him. You see, Billy, he wanted someone who was worse than the bad guys, and that was me.'

  There was a kind of infinite sadness, and Billy surprised himself by saying quietly, 'What the hell, sometimes life just rolls up on you.'

  'You could say that. The kid who was an actor at nineteen carried on acting just like in a bad movie, only he became the living legend of the IRA. You know those Westerns where they say Wyatt Earp killed twenty-one men? Billy, I couldn't tell you what my score is, except that it's a lot more.' He smiled gently. 'Do you ever get tired? I mean, really tired?'

  Billy Salter summoned up all his resources. 'Listen, Dillon, you need to go to bed.'

  'True. It's not much good when you don't sleep very well, but there's no harm in trying.'

  'You do that.'

  Dillon got up, rock steady. 'The trouble is, I don't really care whether I live or die any more, and when you're into the business of going into harm's way, that's not good.'

  'Yes, well, this time you've got me. Just go to bed.'

  Dillon went down the companionway. Billy sat there thinking about it, the rain beating down relentlessly, dripping off the awning. He'd never liked anyone as much as he liked Dillon, never admired anyone as much, outside of his uncle, anyway. He lit a cigarette and thought about it and suddenly saw a parallel. His uncle was a gangster, a right villain as they said in London, but there were things he wouldn't do, and Billy saw now that Dillon was the same.

  He looked at the bottle of Bushmills morosely. 'Screw you,' he said, then picked it up, and the glass, and tossed them over the rail.

  He sat there, the rain falling, feeling curiously relaxed, then remembered the paperback on philosophy, took it out of his pocket, and opened it at random. There were some pages about a man called Oliver Wendell Holmes, a famous American judge who'd also been an infantry officer in their Civil War: Between two groups of men that want to make inconsistent kinds of worlds, I see no remedy except force…It seems to me that every society rests on the death of men.