Day of Reckoning (17 page)

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.
Billy was transfixed. 'Jesus,' he said softly, 'maybe that explains Dillon,' and he read on.
He awoke in the morning in the aft cabin, and was lying there,
adjusting, when he was aware of a loud cry. He threw aside
his blankets and went up the companionway in his shorts.
It was still raining relentlessly and mist draped the whole of
Oban harbour. As he looked over the rail, Dillon surfaced a
few yards away.
'Come on, the water's wonderful.'
'You must be bloody mad,' and then Billy cried out.
'Behind you, for Christ's sake.'
Dillon turned to look. 'Those are seals, Billy. No prob
lem. They're intelligent and curious. You get them a lot
around here.'
He struck out for the ladder and climbed it, his shorts
clinging to him. There was a towel on the table under the
awning and he picked it up.
'What a bleeding place.' Billy looked out across the har
bour. 'Does it always rain like this?'
'Six days out of seven. Never mind. Get dressed and we'll
take the inflatable and go back to that pub. We'll get an
all-day breakfast, just like in London.'
'Well, I'm with you there.'
Hannah Bernstein called in at Rosedene around nine-thirty
and found Martha in reception.
'How is he?'
'Not wonderful. The bullet gouged deep. We thought
twenty stitches and ended up with thirty. Look, I don't
know what's going on, but he isn't fit to go anywhere.
The professor is checking him out now. I'll go and see how
he's doing.'
Hannah helped herself to coffee from the machine and was sipping it when Daz appeared.
'Listen, tell me the truth,' he said. 'He's as woozy as hell,
yet he keeps trying to tell me he's got important things to do, and I presume by that he means the usual kinds of things you, Dillon and the Brigadier get up to.'
Absolutely, only this time it's something so dangerous
that there's no way he can be involved in his condition.
Dillon will handle it.'
'Yes, well, he would, wouldn't he? What do you want
from me?'
'I know it sounds unethical, but couldn't you sedate him?'
'Hmm. That might be the best solution.' He turned to
Martha. 'He really needs a sound sleep. You know what to
do.' He smiled at Hannah. 'If you want to see him, better
do it now.'
Blake was propped up, his right shoulder and arm ban
daged, and looked awful, his face haggard. Hannah leaned
over and kissed his cheek.
'How are you, Blake?'
'Terrible. I just need a rest. A couple of hours, and I'll be fine. When are we leaving?'
'Later this afternoon, but take it easy for now.'
'Christ, it hurts.'
Martha, lurking in the background, came forward with a
glass of water and a couple of pills in a plastic cup. 'Here
you go,' she said to Blake.
'What are these?'
'Painkillers. You'll feel a lot better soon.'
Hannah held his hand for a while, and slowly it relaxed
and slipped away, as he stared blankly at her.
'There he goes,' Martha whispered. 'He'll be asleep for
hours.'
They went out and found Daz at reception signing a few letters. He looked up. 'All right?'
'On his way to dreamland,' Martha told him.
'Good. I must go. I've got an operation scheduled at
Guy's Hospital.' He smiled at Hannah. 'You'll monitor the situation?'
'The Brigadier will. I'm needed elsewhere.' She nodded to Martha and went out with him to where the Daimler waited. 'Can I give you a lift?'
'I was going to get a taxi, but, yes, a lift would help.'
'Ministry of Defence first, then you belong to Professor
Daz,' she told the driver, and they drove away. 'I hate March weather,' she said. 'Bloody rain.'
'Oh, dear, it's like that, is it?' Daz smiled. 'As may not
have escaped your attention, I'm a Hindu, Hannah. Personal vibrations are important to me, and I sense you're up to your neck in trouble again, the Dillon kind of trouble.'
'Something like that.'
'When will you learn?'
'I know. I'm a nice Jewish girl, unmarried, with no kids,
but very good at shooting people.'
He took her hand. 'Hannah.'
'No, don't say a thing. Dillon and I will go off and
save the world again, only increasingly, I wonder what
for.'
In Ferguson's office, she said, 'So what's the situation? Dillon and Billy Salter are fine. They're both master divers and
Dillon is an expert boat handler. That leaves me and Sean
Regan.'
'And without Blake, you're one short.'
'Exactly, sir.'
Ferguson got up, went to the window, and looked out. He
turned. 'This kind of black operation works best without
official special forces intervention. That's why I haven't
given the Kilbeg bunker to the SAS. It has to be the kind
of job that never happened.'
'Yes, I see that, sir. On the other hand, we could do with
another gun, just to be on the boat when Dillon and Billy
are doing their thing on shore.'
'It's a difficult one. Do you have any thoughts?'
'Yes, I do actually. An excellent gun.'
'And who would that be?'
She told him.
Dillon and Billy were sitting in the window seat at a pub in Oban, just finishing a superb Scottish breakfast of kippers,
poached eggs and bacon, washed down with hot steaming
tea, when Dillon's mobile rang.
Hannah said, 'Blake isn't good. They've sedated him. He'll
be out for hours.'
'So you'll be on your way with Regan?'
'Yes, but Sean, we've got a problem. With you and Billy
on land, and me with Regan on the boat, we need another
gun. No big deal, just somebody reliable who really knows what he's doing.'
'And who would that be?'
She told him what she'd suggested to Ferguson, and Dillon
laughed. 'Why not? There's nothing like a professional sol
dier. When will you leave?'
'Two o'clock. Be with you about four-thirty.'
'I look forward to it.' Dillon closed his phone and smiled.
'There you go, Billy, you'll have to mind your manners.'
'What do you mean?'
So Dillon explained.
Ferguson accompanied Hannah to Pine Grove when she went to pick up Regan. He was in Roper's suite again, going over a few points, and Helen Black stood by, with Miller.
Roper said, 'Well, I think the bastard's told the truth, or
his version of it, anyway.'
'I damn well have,' Regan said.
'You'd better.' Ferguson smiled coldly. 'If not, I'll see you stand in the dock, Regan. Fifteen years.' He nodded
to Miller. 'Take him and prepare him to move out. Put the manacles on.'
Miller complied, and Ferguson said, 'Get on with it, Superintendent.'
Hannah said, 'We've got a problem, Sergeant Major. You
are aware of most of the facts, but let me summarize. We're
sailing to County Louth from Oban late this afternoon.
There'll be Dillon and Billy Salter, and me to guard Regan. Blake Johnson is unwell after the treatment for his gunshot wound. We're short a gun.'
'I see.' Helen Black smiled. 'How long have I got to pack?' 'Half an hour.'
'Then I'd better get moving.' She was out of the door
instantly.
Later, at the main entrance, Hannah led Regan down the steps and eased him into the Daimler onto one of the extra
seats. The driver had put the luggage in the boot and Ferguson
stood at the top of the steps with Helen Black, who wore a
khaki jumpsuit. They were alone for a moment.
'I'm grateful, Helen.'
'Tony's in Bosnia at the moment,' she said, referring to her
husband. 'The Household Cavalry has two troops there.'
'I know, my love.'
'There's no need to worry him, but you'll obviously see
to things if anything goes wrong.'
'My dear Helen.' He kissed her cheek. 'Just believe in
Sean Dillon. He is a bastard of the first order, but my God,
he's good.'
'You didn't need to tell me, not with the years I spent
in Ulster. See you, Charles, and thanks for asking me to
the party.'
At Farley Field, the Gulfstream was ready. Madoc loaded
the luggage, then took them in. As Parry and Lacey came
on board, Hannah made the introductions.
Lacey said, 'There's a bit of a headwind. It'll be an hour
and forty-five minutes, but could run to two.'
He joined Parry in the cockpit, the engines started, and
they moved away, taking off very quickly and climbing
steeply.
Regan held out his manacled wrists. 'Can I have these off? I'm not going anywhere.'
Helen Black laughed. 'That's true.' She took out a key and unlocked him.
Madoc appeared from the galley. 'Tea, ladies.'
'An excellent idea,' Hannah said.
'Personally, I'd like an Irish whiskey,' Regan told him.
Madoc looked at Hannah, who nodded. 'Give him what
he wants, Sergeant.'
Helen Black turned to her. 'Well, here I go, into the war
zone again.'
As they returned to the
Highlander,
Billy said, 'Jesus, Dillon, not only two women, but both coppers.'
'Yes, Scotland Yard Special Branch variety and Royal
Military Police. But remember one thing, Billy: they've
both killed more than once in the course of duty. They
both know what they're doing.'
'What have I got myself into?'
'Well, as Heidegger said, and you quoted him to me, life
is action and passion . . .'
Billy cut in. 'Okay, so it's going to be bleeding active and terribly exciting.'
'You'll love it, Billy,' Dillon said, as they coasted in and
he reached for the
Highlander's
ladder

.
12

The rain continued relentlessly. Billy was coiling a rope
under the awning when a voice called,
'Highlander,
ahoy.'
Hannah, Helen Black and Regan were standing on the
jetty beside a Range Rover, the driver in plain clothes but obviously RAF.
Billy called down the companionway, 'They're here, Dillon.'
Dillon came up on deck and looked across. 'Fine. I'll go
and get them.'
The inflatable coasted in at the bottom of the steps and Hannah called. 'Everything okay?'
'Absolutely. Let's have the luggage.'
There were only three bags and the driver brought them
down. Regan followed, hands manacled again. He held up
his wrists to Dillon. 'I might as well be on a Georgia
chain gang.'
'You deserve to be, you shite.' Dillon shoved him into the boat. 'Go on, get in there.' He turned to greet the women.
'Sergeant Major, Superintendent. A fast boat and a passage
by night. Action, passion, we've got it all here.'
'How riveting,' Helen Black said. 'I can't wait,' and she
stepped into the inflatable.
Dillon handed the luggage up to Billy, and Helen climbed
in, followed by Hannah. Hannah looked around the
High
lander. 'My
God, I must say it looks pretty basic.'
'Underneath its lack of a good paint job, it's superb, so
don't worry,' Dillon said. 'Just get settled in, stick Sean in
the saloon, and let's get on with it.' He turned to Regan.
'Just remember one thing, we're back with the old movies
again: one false move and you're dead.'
'Come on, Dillon, you're going to kill me anyway.'
'Not if you're good.'
They put Regan in the saloon, the two women settled into the aft cabin, and Dillon made ready for sea. He took Billy, Hannah and Helen into the wheelhouse and went over the
controls, then showed the women the Walther in the fuse
box beside the wheel.
'Just in case.'
The sea was starting to flood in through the entrance to the harbour, and the
Highlander
was rocking from side to side.
Billy said, 'Jesus, I feel terrible,' and he turned, went out
on deck, and vomited over the side.
Dillon followed, took a plastic pill bottle from a pocket of his reefer jacket, shook the pills out, and offered them. 'Get them down, Billy. They'll make a difference.'
Hannah said, 'Kindness and consideration from the great
Sean Dillon?'
Dillon smiled. 'Sticks and stones, Hannah, not that it matters. We've got to leave if we're to make tonight's schedule,
so I've other things to worry about. We'll discuss the plan
of attack later. The wind's force five to six at the moment,
but it should ease later.'
They left at three, and ploughed out into the turbulent waters, the sea running heavily. Dillon stood at the wheel
alone. After a while, Helen Black came in with a mug.
'Tea,' she said. 'I believe that's your preference.'
'It's the grand woman you are.'
'I'm part Irish, too, Dillon, from my father's mother's
side. In spite of thirty years of war, it seems we're somehow inextricably mixed.'
'Eight million Irish in the UK, Sergeant Major, and the
population of the Republic only three and a half million. It's
a puzzle.'
'You and the Superintendent, that's a puzzle, too.'
'She's a hard woman, Hannah, a moralist. She finds it
difficult to forgive my wicked past. You, on the other hand,
understand perfectly. We've both been down the same road
on different sides.'
'Yes. That's the problem, isn't it?' And she left.
Billy turned up an hour later with another mug of tea.
'Are you okay, Dillon?'
'I'm fine, but what about you?'
'The pills worked. It's Regan who's in trouble. You'd
better give me some more of those pills.'
Dillon handed him the bottle. 'Take care of it, Billy. Let me know how he is.'
Perhaps half an hour later, Billy came back. 'He's lying down, but I think they're doing the job.'
'Good.'
Billy said, 'Dillon, on the White Diamond job. I've been thinking.'
'Go on.' Dillon turned to automatic pilot and lit a cigarette.
'So they've sliced through the grille entrance and we know
those tunnels go right into the St Richard's Dock basement.
Then all you need is a sledgehammer to break through those
old brick walls.'
'So?'
'But the vaults. I still don't see how they get past the electronic security.'
'Neither do I. But there must be a sophisticated explanation. It's like computers, Billy. They're state of the art, too, but if you can get in, if you can access the files, then all is revealed.' Dillon smiled. 'Don't worry. Harry's on the case, and so is Roper. They'll come up with our answer. All I'm concerned with now is Kilbeg, and taking you back to the
Dark Man in one piece, because if I don't Harry will want
an explanation.'
'Hey, stuff that, Dillon. I'll do my thing.'
'Okay, time for truth, Billy. Since Blake isn't here, it's
the women I'm leaving behind. I'll need you to go on shore with me. How do you feel about that?'
'Great.' Billy smiled. 'Never better. I'm with you, Dillon, all the way.' And he went out.
It was into early evening when the wheelhouse door opened
and there was the smell of fried bacon sandwiches.
'And tea,' Hannah said.
'Now what's a nice Jewish girl doing, giving me bacon?' She ignored him. 'Where are we?'
'Islay to the east. Rain's a bit squally.'
'Can I take over?'
'No need. I'll go on automatic pilot.'
Dillon checked the course, then locked on. He attacked the
sandwiches. 'Fabulous. Any word from London?'
'No.'
He finished the sandwiches and drank the tea. 'There you
go. Thanks, love.'
'I really think you should go and lie down for a couple of hours, and let me take over.'
'Hell, what do women know about boats?'
The wheelhouse door swung open and Helen Black came in. 'Don't be a chauvinist pig, Mr Dillon. I don't know if the
Superintendent knows boats, but I do. My husband and I race
them as a hobby, so do shut up and go and rest. You're going
to have a very hard night.'
Dillon raised his hands. 'I give in to this monstrous
regiment of women. I'll leave you to it, ladies,' and he
went below.
Hannah, too, went, and Helen Black took the wheel,
enjoying it as she always had, increasing speed as heavy
weather threatened from the east. She thought about her
husband, Tony, serving in the hell of Bosnia with the
Household Cavalry. It was a source of hurt that just because
the Households were the Queen's personal bodyguard and
rode round London in breastplates and helmets on horseback
there were those who thought they were chocolate soldiers.
In fact, they'd served in the Falklands, in the Gulf War, in Ireland, and in most of the rotten little wars in between.
Her trouble was that she was a woman and she was a
soldier and she loved the army. Of course, Dillon had been a soldier too, to be fair. She rather liked him, although he'd
been the worst of the enemy.
Against the early darkness she could see the outline of one
of the Irish ferries, red and green navigation lights visible.
She altered course a couple of points, then increased speed,
racing the heavy weather that threatened from the east, and
the waves grew rougher.
By now it really was dark, only a slight phosphorescent shining from the sea, and then the door opened and Dillon appeared.
'How are things?'
'A bit rough.'
He tapped the radio, got the weather channel, listened,
and added, 'That's okay. The wind's going to drop soon.
Why don't you go and get some coffee? I'll hang on, then
I'll put her on automatic pilot and we can discuss what's
going to happen. An hour, an hour and a half, we'll hit the
Louth coast.'
'Fine.' She nodded and went out.
Half an hour later, Brendan Murphy, Dermot Kelly, Conolly
and Tomelty arrived at Kilbeg and pulled up outside the
Patriot public house. Murphy led the way in, running
through torrential rain.
It was a typical Irish pub for either side of the border,
with a bar, beer pumps, and a log fire in the hearth. There
were only three old men at the fire and the landlord behind
the bar, one Fergus Sullivan.
'Jesus, Brendan, and it's grand to see you.'
They shook hands. Brendan said, 'You're dying the death tonight.'
'Well, it's Monday night. What can I do for you?'
'Beds for me and Dermot. We've business elsewhere at
the moment. We'll have a drink now and see you later.'
Sullivan poured four Irish whiskeys and a fifth for him
self.
'Up the IRA.'
And confusion to the English,' Murphy said.
A short while later, inside the grounds of the ruins of
Kilbeg Abbey, they entered an ancient hall and approached
a dark old oaken door at one end banded with iron that looked as if it had been there for centuries. In fact it was a modern
replica backed by steel plate of the finest quality. Murphy took a transceiver from his pocket and pressed the button.
There was the murmur of a voice.
'Murphy,' he said. 'Open sesame.'
A moment later, one half of the door opened electronically.
He and Kelly passed through into a short tunnel and went
down a flight of concrete steps. There was electric light,
another door opened, and in moments they were into a
concrete corridor, painted white, very functional, and then
into the main part of the bunker.
Two men stood waiting: Liam Brosnan, tall, heavily built,
with hair to his shoulders, and Martin O'Neill, the direct
opposite, small and red-haired. The only thing they had in common were the
AK47
assault rifles they carried.
'Well, at least you're on your toes,' Murphy said. 'Any
problems ?'
'Only one, Brendan,' Brosnan told him. 'Down at the
entrance where the tunnel slopes to the steps, there's about
a foot of water.'
'Show me.'
They led the way, and Murphy and Kelly followed. It was dark down there and, unlike the rest of the bunker, cold.
'Why is there no heat on, no light?' Murphy demanded.
'Well, that's the point, Brendan. The rest of the bunker's
okay, but this part under the old farmhouse is on a separate system and the flooding must have screwed it up.'
'It's the rain,' O'Neill said. 'It's been terrible during the
past two weeks.'
'I can tell it's the bloody rain, you eejit,' Murphy said. 'But
if the electricity isn't working, that cocks up the entrance.
There aren't any bars. They weren't necessary when it was electronic.'
'I've chained the handles and padlocked them,' Brosnan told him. 'I was waiting for you, Brendan. I know you would want someone reliable.'
'Exactly. Don't worry, there's that fella Patterson in
Dundalk that builds the fancy houses. He knows which
side his bread's buttered on.'
'I know who you mean.'
'You call him and tell him I'll see him at the Patriot for
breakfast at eight-thirty tomorrow. Explain the flooding and
tell him I expect miracles. He'll attend to it or he'll get a bullet in his left knee, and that's only for starters.'
They walked back through the storage areas. Mortars
stacked neatly, the kind of missiles and heavy machine guns that could shoot down a helicopter,
AK47
_s
and Armalites still greased and brand new from the factory. Cases of Semtex.
Murphy lit a cigarette and said to Kelly, 'Look at it,
Dermot. Just waiting to be used, and those old women in
London talk peace.'
'You're right, Brendan.'
'Our day will come. I'll just check the office.'
It was at the end of the tunnel, small, functional, with
filing cabinets, a computer system and a desk. He said to
Brosnan and O'Neill, 'Wait outside.'
Kelly closed the door. Murphy knelt behind the desk and lifted a section of carpet. Underneath, set into the concrete
floor, was an old-fashioned safe with a simple keyhole. He
felt under the desk, found a key on a magnetic block, and
opened the flap.
Inside were packets of currency, sterling and dollars, all wrapped in transparent plastic bags. He handled a few.