Day of Reckoning (8 page)

in the square very close to Roper's place. They were, of
course, all attention.
'Stay here for the moment. This guy in the wheelchair?
You take him out, but make it look like an accident. You wait
if it takes all night. You wait if it takes until tomorrow, but
he's finished.
Capisce?'
'Anything you say,' Borsalino told him.
Falcone left then, went back to the Daimler. Fabio said,
'Back to the Dorchester?'
'No, I'm hungry. Find somewhere close by where we
can get something simple. You know, a bacon and egg
sandwich.'
'I know just the place, Signore.'
'Good. Then we'll come back and see what the situa
tion is.'
At the computer bank, Roper trawled all the way through
from Jack Fox to Brendan Murphy, the pride of the Provi
sional IRA. There were some fascinating facts there. Then
he tried the Jago brothers and found a litany of crime on a Dickensian level. He sat back.
Excellent.
He checked his watch. Eleven o'clock, and he felt hungry,
which was okay, because Ryan's Irish Restaurant on the
far side of the square stayed open until one and knew
him well.
He eased himself into a raincoat and then transferred to
his electric wheelchair and made for the front door.
Rain bounced down. He raised a small telescopic umbrella as he went down the ramp and started along the pavement. Falcone, sitting in the Mercedes, saw him go.
Fabio said, 'Signore?'
'Let's leave it to the boys.'
Roper coasted along, his umbrella raised, a slightly incon
gruous figure. In the Ford, Borsalino and Salvatore saw
him.
'Now what?' Salvatore demanded.
'We take him out,' Borsalino said. 'Come on.'
He was out of the Ford in a second, Salvatore on his heels, and ran after the wheelchair.
'Hey, Signore, you need a hand?'
Roper knew trouble when he saw it, but said, 'No, thanks, I'm fine.'
Salvatore was on one side of the chair, Borsalino the
other.
Borsalino said, 'No, really, I think you need some help –
like, into traffic. What do you think about that?'
'That really would be unfortunate,' Roper said.
Falcone, watching from the Mercedes, said to Fabio, 'You've
been around the family for a long time. What do you think?'
'That it stinks, Signore. Where do they find these kids?'
'I agree. Just coast along and let's see what happens.'
The end of the square before the main road was dark, and
at that moment deserted.
Borsalino said, 'Shit! There's no traffic here. What are we going to do?'
Salvatore said, 'Roll him down the block. We'll find it.
You having a good time, my friend?'
'Depends on your point of view.' Roper's hand came out
of the right-hand side pocket of his wheelchair, holding
a Walther PPK with a Carswell silencer on the end. He
jammed it into the back of Salvatore's left knee and pulled
the trigger. There was a muted cough, and the Italian cried
out and stumbled into the gutter.
Roper turned slightly in the chair, the gun raised, and
Borsalino jumped back. 'You really wouldn't have got by
in Belfast, old son,' Roper said. 'Not for a minute,' and
as Borsalino turned to run, shot him in the back of the
right thigh.
They lay together on the pavement. Roper paused and
looked down. He took out a mobile phone and dialled nine,
nine, nine. When the operator answered, he said, 'There are
two men down on the pavement in Regency Square. Looks
like a shooting.'
'Your name, sir?'
'Don't be stupid.'
He switched off his coded mobile and moved on.
In the Mercedes, Fabio said, 'My God, Signore, what do
we do?'
Already, in the distance, they could hear the sound of a
police siren.
'Nothing,' Falcone told him. 'We do nothing.' He watched
the two men trying to get up. 'Just get out of here.'
As they left the square, a police car turned in, and as they moved up the main road, an ambulance appeared.
In Ryan's Restaurant, Roper ordered Irish stew and a pint
of Guinness, phoned Ferguson on his mobile, and gave him
the bad news.
'Where are you?' Ferguson asked, and Roper told him.
'All right, stay where you are. We'll come for you.'
Ferguson put down the phone at his Cavendish Square
flat and turned to Hannah, Dillon and Blake. 'That was Roper. He went out for a late meal and two men of Italian
persuasion had a go. Told him they'd push him into the
late-night traffic.'
'What happened, sir?' Hannah asked.
'He shot them in the legs,' Ferguson said. 'Would you
believe that? Left them on the pavement.'
'Frankly, I don't have the slightest difficulty in believing
it,' Dillon told him. 'Jack Fox moved fast.'
'So now what?' Blake asked.
Ferguson turned to Hannah. 'Superintendent?'
'I doubt they'll talk, sir, not if they value their lives. And I doubt that this will be the last attempt that Jack Fox makes.'
'You're right,' said Ferguson. 'We'll move Roper to the
Holland Park safe house. Anything he wants, you know, all
his gadgets and so on, make sure he gets. I think we'll need
him. Will you take care of that, Superintendent?'
'As you say, sir.' Hannah went out.
Blake turned to Dillon. 'All right, we've taken care of the casino. What do we hit next?'
Blake turned to Dillon. 'The Jago brothers? The army
dump? Beirut?'
'Let's get Roper into the safe house. Once he's got his equipment in order, we'll see.'
At the Dorchester, Fox listened to Falcone's account of what had happened in Regency Square. He actually laughed.
'You mean this fuck in the wheelchair shot them both in
the legs?'
'Something like that, Signore.'
Fox shook his head. 'Mind you, with what I've learned
about him, I'm not surprised. You can check if he's at
his house, but if he's not there, leave it. We've got other
things to do.'
'Like what, Signore? I spoke to Mori. The Colosseum will
remain closed, as well as the betting shops, until the police
and the Director of Public Prosecutions decide what to do, which could take months.'
'We concentrate on other matters. There's the Lebanon connection that Murphy arranged.'
'Beirut, Signore?'
'No, Al Shariz to the south, I believe. Murphy is due
in Beirut next week. We'll meet and agree on the goods
we're supplying. Forget the casino. There's a fortune to be
made there, Aldo, and he pays in gold. I'll see you in the morning.'
Falcone left, went to his room, and phoned Don Marco.
The Don said, 'He's digging himself in deeper, isn't he?'
'Do you want me to do anything?'
'No. Just stay in touch.'
'Of course, Don Marco.'
The Holland Park safe house was an Edwardian town house
in an acre of gardens surrounded by huge walls. The notice
by the gate said Pine Grove Nursing Home, which it defi
nitely wasn't.
Roper was picked up by a contingency squad Hannah had
arranged, mostly ordinary-looking young men and women
who were actually Special Branch, and always available to Ferguson's demands. Two female sergeants packed Roper's clothes and three men moved equipment, according to his
instructions. By one o'clock in the morning, he was in
residence at Pine Grove, his various gadgets and computers plugged into sockets in what had been the sitting room.
The police departed, and a small, very pleasant woman
said, 'Is everything satisfactory, Major?'
Roper was puzzled. 'Captain.'
'Oh, no, sir. Brigadier Ferguson said Major.'
'And who might you be?'
'Helen Black, sir. Royal Military Police. Sergeant Major.'
'Good God,' Roper said. 'That's an Armani suit.'
'Well, my father left me rather well off.'
'I smell Oxford here.'
'No, Cambridge. New Hall. I worked for the Fourteenth
Intel undercover in Derry. You were a bit of a legend.'
'Look where it's got me. A bloody wheelchair, my bits
and pieces damaged.'
'Courage never goes out of fashion, sir, in a wheelchair or
not. As far as I'm concerned, you're one of the bravest men
I've ever met. Now, you're probably peckish. I'll arrange for some sandwiches.'
'Tell me, Sergeant Major, are you my bodyguard? Because there are some pretty bad people out there looking for me.'
'I'm aware of that, sir.' She opened her jacket and revealed
a holstered Colt automatic. 'Twenty-five millimetre, with hollowpoint bullets.'
'Well, that should do it.'
She smiled and went out.
Roper phoned Ferguson, in spite of the hour, and when
the Brigadier answered, said, 'What's this Major thing?'
'Well, you're still on the Army list. I thought it would give
you a bit more authority to promote you. You're established
at Holland Park?'
'Yes, with the redoubtable Sergeant Major Black.'
'Redoubtable is right. Inherited money, you know, so she's
fairly independent-minded. Her husband's a major in the
Blues and Royals. Refused a commission herself. One of the few women to hold the Military Cross. Shot two Provos in Derry. You're in good hands.'
Roper whistled. 'I'd say so. So, what's my next move?'
'I'll put Dillon on.'
There was a pause, and Dillon said, 'Billy the Kid, is that who you are now?'
'Hey, these guys didn't want to play nice, so I figured,
stuff them.'
'I'm with you there.'
'So what do you want me to do? Who's next?'
'Well, we've got two choices: the Jagos and Brendan Murphy. What do you know about the Jagos?'
'Not much. They like to knock off security vans. Really old-time stuff. Sawn-off shotguns, like some British gangster movie. The thing is, finding out about the future plans of such people is difficult,' Roper went on. 'Unless Fox committed his plans to the computer, how would I know?'
'It's all a question of inside information,' Dillon said.
And where do you get that?'
'The Jagos are gangsters, right?'
'And what does that prove?'
'Set a gangster to catch a gangster.'
'What in the hell are you talking about?'
'Harry Salter. He's a legendary name in London criminal
circles. Did seven years for bank robbery in the seventies,
never been inside since. He has warehouse developments,
property, pleasure boats on the Thames. Still owns his first
buy, a pub called the Dark Man at Wapping, by the river.'
'You sound as if you like him.'
'Well, he's saved me in the past and I've saved him.
He's a dinosaur, but a very wealthy dinosaur. Even the
cops have given up on him. Works with his nephew, Billy,
and a couple of minders, Baxter and Hall. All the rest are accountants.'
'So, you'll go and see him?'
'That's my plan.'
'Fine. Keep me posted. Meantime, I'll check out Mr Murphy.' Roper smiled. 'I like to keep occupied.'
'See you sometime tomorrow.'
Roper sat there thinking, then the door opened and Helen
Black came in with two toasted bacon sandwiches.
'Will these do?'
'Can't wait. Are you tired?'
'Not particularly.'
'Good, then would you like me to show you just how effective a computer can be if you know what you're doing?' 'What's the object of the exercise?'
'To hunt down a particularly obnoxious piece of Provi
sional IRA crap called Brendan Murphy.'
'Just a minute. I remember him. Derry, ninety-four.'
'And years before that.' Roper tried a sandwich. 'Excellent. Now, follow my instructions and I'll show you what to do.

7

They all came together at Ferguson's office the following
morning. When they were all settled, Ferguson said, 'Bring
me up to date, Superintendent.'
'The attackers were a couple of small-time hoods employed
at the kitchens at the Colosseum, named Borsalino and
Salvatore. They're at Westminster Hospital under super
vision. Salvatore has lost his left kneecap and Borsalino has
a bullet wound in one thigh.'
'My goodness, Major Roper doesn't play patty fingers,
does he?'
'Well, he wouldn't, would he, sir?' she said.
'What's their story?'
'They told the officers in charge of the case that they
were attacked by two very large black muggers as they
walked through the square. There was a struggle. The rest
you know.'
'Nobody's safe from crime today, it seems.' Ferguson
turned to Dillon. 'Now what?'
'Blake and I are going to see Harry Salter. I'll put him on to the Jagos, see if he can come up with anything. If there's a big
tickle being organized, Salter will get wind of it. He owes me
a favour. In fact, he owes Blake a favour. We saved his bacon on a pleasure boat called the
Lynda Jones
downriver from Wapping, when the Hooker mob were going to waste him.'
'Yes, I recall some such thing,' Ferguson said. 'Good. But meantime, what about Brendan Murphy? That's much more worrying.'
'Roper's been working on it,' Hannah said. 'But he says
it'd be a lot easier if he had some more information to go
on. Is there any way to find out more?'
'Well, I do have a suggestion,' Dillon said. 'While Blake
and I go and see Salter, why don't you phone Liam Devlin
in Kilrea?'
'Good God,' Ferguson said. 'Is he still with us?'
'He certainly is. Devlin is ageless. He liked you, Hannah,
when you met. Tell him the whole story, the works. Ask him
to find out what he can about Brendan Murphy. He's still the living legend of the IRA and the best source of information about anything regarding them.'
Hannah turned to Ferguson. 'Brigadier?'
'It makes sense. I have just one suggestion. Don't phone
him, do it face to face. Get yourself to Dublin today.'
'If you say so, sir.'
'Yes, I do. So, people, let's get on with it.'
Hannah went back to her office, with Blake and Dillon.
She picked up the phone, spoke to Farley Field, and booked
the plane.
Dillon said, 'You watch yourself over there, woman. Peace
process or no peace process, it's still the war zone.'
'Don't be patronizing, Dillon.'
'There are people there who'd shoot your eyes out if
they could.'
She took a deep breath. 'You're right. I'm sorry.'
'Yes. Well, make sure you're carrying.'
'I will.'
'We'll leave you to it.'
He and Blake left. She took her personal notebook from
her purse, found Devlin's phone number in the village of
Kilrea outside Dublin. It was answered instantly.
'And who would that be disturbing my morning?' 'Hannah Bernstein.'
'Jesus, girl, and what's all this? I hear you've made Superintendent.'
'Mr Devlin, we have a big problem, and we need your assistance.'
'Where's Dillon?'
'Employed elsewhere, together with Blake Johnson.'
'Is that the FBI man Dillon and I went down to Tullamore
with, to save Dermot Riley's hide? A good man. All right,
give. When can I expect you?'
'I'm leaving now. I could be with you by twelve noon.'
‘I'll look forward to it.'
He put the phone down, standing there in his kitchen,
and smiled.
Dillon drove down Horse Guards Avenue in the green Mini Cooper.
Blake said, 'So Harry's still working the rackets.'
'Oh, sure, it's in his blood. But like I was saying, it's
all smuggling – booze, diamonds, that kind of thing – no
drugs. He's an old-fashioned family man, in values, any
way.'
'Aren't we all?'
They reached Wapping and pulled up outside the Dark
Man. It was a typical London pub; the painted sign showed
a sinister individual in a black cloak.
It was early for the drink trade, noon an hour and a half
away, but it was open. They went into the main bar, which
was very Victorian, the bottles ranged against mirrors, an
enormous mahogany bar smelling of polish, the porcelain
beer handles waiting for action.
Three men were in the corner booth, drinking tea and
reading newspapers: Billy Salter, Harry's nephew, and Joe Baxter and Sam Hall.
'What's this, a thieves' kitchen?' Dillon asked.
Billy looked up, and a delighted smile appeared on his
wicked face. 'Dear God, it's you, Dillon, and our American friend, Mr Johnson. We remember you.'
Baxter and Hall laughed, and Billy said, 'Well, we're not in the nick, and I suppose that's one good thing. What brings you here?' He smiled eagerly. 'Could it be trouble?'
'Why, are you getting bored, Billy?' Dillon asked. 'Let's
see Harry and decide.'
'He's down at the boat.'
'The
Lynda Jones?'
'Sure. Refurbished. His pride and joy. I'll show you. Let's take a walk.'
They went along the wharf, passing a few boats, one or
two old barges sunk into the water. It started to rain as they reached the boat. Harry Salter was sitting at a table under an awning, reading
The Times.
Dora, the chief barmaid from the Dark Man, was pouring tea. He patted her ample rear.
'I've said it before, Dora, you've got a great arse.'
'Now, isn't that the poet in him?' Dillon said. 'Such a
majestic choice of language.'
Salter looked up and took off his reading glasses. 'Christ, Dillon, it's you.' He glanced at Blake. 'And the bleeding Yank again. Here, what's going on?' The blue eyes hardened in the well-lined face. 'Trouble?'
'Well, let's put it this way. You owe me, and this is payback time. You'd have been dead meat when the Hooker mob had you if Blake and I hadn't stuck an oar in.'
'No problem. I always pay my debts. Anyway, I like you,
Dillon. You remind me of Billy here. I mean, you don't give
a stuff. Mad as a hatter.'
'Seeking death, you mean,' Dillon asked.
'That's it,' Billy said. 'You and me both, Dillon, brothers
under the skin. Have we got a problem?'
'Well, if it is, its name is Jago.'
Billy's face turned pale. 'Harold and Tony, those two
bastards.'
'You don't like them?'
Salter said, 'Dillon, we're friends, right? I'm doing well on
the cigarette run from Europe. There are big profits, with the tax differential. But I've had three cargoes hijacked in
two months. I know it's the Jagos, but I can't prove it. So
what's your problem?'
A guy called Jack Fox fronts for the Solazzo family.'
'The Colosseum?' Billy said. 'Hey, we know about them.
The Jagos have been running with him. In-and-out jobs,
security trucks.'
'Always cash,' Salter said. 'What's your interest?'
'Fox had Blake's wife murdered. She was a reporter who
got close, too close, so he had her wasted.'
'Jesus,' Salter said. 'The fucking bastard.' He turned to
Blake. 'Look, what can I say?'
'That you'll help us, will do.'
'Well, you can bloody well count on that. What's going
on?'
'Fox needs cash flow. You won't have heard yet, but
we closed the Colosseum and the betting shops down last
night.'
'And how in the hell did you do that?'
Dillon said to Blake, 'Go on, tell him,' which Blake did,
and Salter and his boys fell about laughing.
'Dear God,' Billy said. 'I mean, that's beautiful.'
'Yes, but the Jagos were there, and we know Fox needs a big
tickle. Eyes and ears, Harry, see what you can find out.'
'We certainly will.' Salter rubbed his hands together. 'Life suddenly becomes interesting again, eh, Billy?'
Billy looked wolfish. 'It certainly does.' He turned to
Dillon. 'I'm reading this paperback on philosophy. Pinched it from the hairdresser. Better than a novel. This guy Heidegger. Have you heard of him, Dillon?'
'German. A great favourite of Heinrich Himmler, I believe.'
'Never mind that. This Heidegger says that life is action
and passion, and that a man fails to take part in the action and passion of his times at the peril of being judged not to
have lived.'
'That's really very erudite, Billy.'
'Don't take the piss out of me, Dillon. I didn't get much
schooling and I know I'm a tearaway, but I've got a brain. I like books and I know what erudite means, which is that
I'm a clever bastard.'
'I never doubted it.' Dillon took out a card and scribbled numbers. 'My house, my mobile, Ferguson at his Cavendish Square flat. Do what you can, Harry.'
'Sure will, my old son.'
Dillon and Blake went to the gangplank and Dillon noticed
some air bottles. 'Hey, Billy, you're still at the scuba diving?'
'Master diver now,' Billy said. 'Are you a master diver?'
'As a matter of fact, I am.'
'Oh, go and stuff yourself, Dillon. We'll be in touch,' and Billy went back to his uncle.
The Gulfstream did not carry RAF roundels, so when it
landed at Dublin Airport it was simply directed to an area
that handled private planes. Flight Sergeant Madoc got the
door open. Like Lacey and Parry, he wore the kind of navy
blue uniform used by flight crews throughout the world. He
put an umbrella up against the driving rain.
'There's a limousine by the hangar,' Madoc said, and led
the way towards a black Mercedes.
But there was another vehicle waiting there, a Garda police car, a uniformed officer at the wheel, a large man in
a
fawn Burberry trenchcoat and tweed cap sitting beside him.
He got out, smiling. 'Dan Malone, Special Branch, chief superintendent. We've never met.'
'Ah, you outrank me, sir.'
'Heard they've put you up to Super. I bet the boys at
Special Branch at Scotland Yard didn't like that.'
'Malone? That's a good Irish name. We have a Detective Sergeant Terry Malone in Special Branch.'
'My nephew. English mother, born in London. Can we
have words, away from the pride of the RAF here?'
They moved out of the rain into the hangar, and he
took a cigarette from a crumpled pack. 'Do you use these
things?'
'No.'
'Good for you. You'll live longer than me. Listen, we're all together these days, what with Europe and the peace process.
And I know all about you, Superintendent, just like most
of Dublin Special Branch. Your reputation precedes you. Ferguson's and Dillon's, too.'
'What are you trying to say?'
'That we're not looking the other way where the IRA is concerned. On the other hand, if Ferguson's sent you over,
something's up. I'll be honest with you. I leaned on your
driver, who told me he was to take you to Kilrea, and that
means only one thing. You're going to see Liam Devlin, the
old sod.'
'Ah, you like him, too?'
'Yes, damn you, I do. So — is there something I should
know about?'
'I'm seeking information.'
'Is this a hot one?'
'It could be.' She took a chance then. 'One cop to
another?'
'One cop to another.'
'Does Brendan Murphy mean anything to you?'
'That bastard? Dear God, is he in this?' He frowned. 'But
he wouldn't be in this jurisdiction. He's always stayed north
of the border. What is this ?'
'This is just a rumour right now. Could be an arms dump
in County Louth. Could be an Arab terrorist connection in Lebanon.'
'So that's why you've come to see Devlin?'
'That's right. If anyone will have heard a whisper, it'll
be him.'
'No doubt about that.' Malone frowned. 'You'll keep me informed?'
'Of course. We might even need your good offices.'
'Fine. I'll hear from you, then.' He walked her back to thelimousine and opened the door. 'And watch your back, peace or no peace.'
'What peace?' she asked, got in the limousine, and closed
the door.
It was just after noon when she reached Devlin's Victorian
cottage next to the convent in Kilrea village. She told the
driver to wait, went up the path, and knocked on the door. It opened and he stood there, an ageless figure in black Armani
slacks and shirt, his hair silver, his eyes very blue, a man