On Dangerous Ground (4 page)

“Does it matter? The Serbs had him, and his prospects, to put it mildly, looked bleak. I did a deal with them which saved him from a firing squad. In return he came to work for me, slate wiped clean.”

“Excuse me, sir, but that’s a slate that will never wipe clean.”

“My dear Chief Inspector, there are many occasions in this line of work when it’s useful to be able to set a thief to catch one. If you are to continue to work for me, you’ll have to get used to the idea.” He peered out as they turned into Grafton Street. “Are you sure he’s at this place?”

“So they tell me, sir. His favorite restaurant.”

“Excellent,” Ferguson said. “I could do with a bite to eat myself.”

Sean Dillon sat in the upstairs bar of Mulligan’s Irish Restaurant and worked his way through a dozen oysters and half a bottle of Krug champagne to help things along as he read the evening paper. He was a small man, no more than five-feet-five, with hair so fair that it was almost white. He wore dark cord jeans, an old black leather flying jacket, a white scarf at his throat. The eyes were his strangest feature, like water over a stone, clear, no color, and there was a permanent, slight ironic quirk to the corner of his mouth, the look of a man who no longer took life too seriously.

“So there you are,” Charles Ferguson said and Dillon glanced up and groaned. “No place to hide, not tonight. I’ll have a dozen of those and a pint of Guinness.”

A young waitress standing by had heard. Dillon said to her in Irish, “A fine lordly Englishman,
a colleen
, but his mother, God rest her, was Irish, so give him what he wants.”

The girl gave him a smile of true devotion and went away. Ferguson sat down and Dillon looked up at Hannah Bernstein. “And who might you be, girl?”

“This is Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, Special Branch, my new assistant, and I don’t want you corrupting her. Now where’s my Guinness?”

It was then that she received her first shock, for as Dillon stood, he smiled, and it was like no smile she had ever seen before, warm and immensely charming, changing his personality completely. She had come here wanting to dislike this man, but now . . .

He took her hand. “And what would a nice Jewish girl like you be doing in such bad company? Will you have a glass of champagne?”

“I don’t think so, I’m on duty.” She was slightly uncertain now and took a seat.

Dillon went to the bar, returned with another glass, and poured Krug into it. “When you’re tired of champagne, you’re tired of life.”

“What a load of cobblers,” she said, but took the glass.

Ferguson roared with laughter. “Beware this one, Dillon. She ran across a hoodlum emerging from a supermarket with a sawed-off shotgun last year. Unfortunately for him she was working the American Embassy detail that week and had a Smith and Wesson in her handbag.”

“So you convinced him of his wicked ways?” Dillon said.

She nodded. “Something like that.”

Ferguson’s Guinness and oysters appeared. “We’ve got trouble, Dillon, bad trouble. Tell him, Chief Inspector.”

Which she did in a few brief sentences. When she was finished, Dillon took a cigarette from a silver case and lit it with an old-fashioned Zippo lighter.

“So what do you think?” she asked.

“Well, all we know for certain is that Billy Quigley is dead.”

“But he did manage to speak to the Brigadier,” Hannah said. “Which surely means Ahern will abort the mission.”

“Why should he?” Dillon said. “You’ve got nothing except the word that he intends to try and blow up the President sometime tomorrow. Where? When? Have you even the slightest idea, and I’ll bet his schedule is extensive!”

“It certainly is,” Ferguson said. “Downing Street in the morning with the P.M. and the Israeli Prime Minister. Cocktail party on a river steamer tomorrow night and most things in between.”

“None of which he’s willing to cancel?”

“I’m afraid not.” Ferguson shook his head. “I’ve already had a call from Downing Street. The President refuses to change a thing.”

Hannah Bernstein said, “Do you know Ahern personally?”

“Oh, yes,” Dillon told her. “He tried to kill me a couple of times and then we met for face-to-face negotiations during a truce in Derry.”

“And his girlfriend?”

Dillon shook his head. “Whatever else Norah Bell is, she isn’t that. Sex isn’t her bag. She was just an ordinary working-class girl until her family was obliterated by an IRA bomb. These days she’d kill the Pope if she could.”

“And Ahern?”

“He’s a strange one. It’s always been like a game to him. He’s a brilliant manipulator. I recall his favorite saying. That he didn’t like his left hand to know what his right hand was doing.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Ferguson demanded.

“Just that nothing’s ever what it seems with Ahern.”

There was a small silence, then Ferguson said, “Everyone is on this case. We’ve got them pumping out a not very good photo of the man himself.”

“And an even more inferior one of the girl,” Hannah Bernstein said.

Ferguson swallowed an oyster. “Any ideas on finding him?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Dillon said. “There’s a Protestant pub in Kilburn, the William of Orange. I could have words there.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Ferguson swallowed his last oyster and stood up. “Let’s go.”

The William of Orange in Kilburn had a surprising look of Belfast about it with the fresco of King William victorious at the Battle of the Boyne on the whitewashed wall at one side. It could have been any Orange pub in the Shankhill.

“You wouldn’t exactly fit in at the bar, you two,” Dillon said as he sat in the back of the Daimler. “I need to speak to a man called Paddy Driscoll.”

“What is he, UVF?” Ferguson asked.

“Let’s say he’s a fund-raiser. Wait here. I’m going ’round the back.”

“Go with him, Chief Inspector,” Ferguson ordered.

Dillon sighed. “All right, Brigadier, but I’m in charge.”

Ferguson nodded. “Do as he says.”

Dillon got out and started along the pavement. “Are you carrying?” he asked.

“Of course.”

“Good. You never know what will happen next in this wicked old world.”

He paused in the entrance to a yard, took a Walther from his waistband at the rear, produced a Carswell silencer and screwed it into place, then he slipped it inside his flying jacket. They crossed the cobbled yard through the rain, aware of music from the bar area where some loyalist band thumped out “The Sash my Father Wore.” Through the rear window was a view of an extensive kitchen, a small, gray-haired man seated at a table doing accounts.

“That’s Driscoll,” Dillon whispered. “In we go.” Driscoll, at the table, was aware of some of his papers fluttering in a sudden draft of wind, looked up, and found Dillon entering the room, Hannah Bernstein behind him.

“God bless all here,” Dillon said, “and the best of the night yet to come, Paddy, me old son.”

“Dear God, Sean Dillon.” There was naked fear on Driscoll’s face.

“Plus your very own Detective Chief Inspector. We
are
treating you well tonight.”

“What do you want?”

Hannah leaned against the door and Dillon pulled a chair over and sat across the table from Driscoll. He took out a cigarette and lit it. “Michael Ahern. Where might he be?”

“Jesus, Sean, I haven’t seen that one in years.”

“Billy Quigley? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen Billy because I happen to know he drinks here regularly.”

Driscoll tried to tough it out. “Sure, Billy comes in all the time, but as for Ahern . . .” He shrugged. “He’s bad news that one, Sean.”

“Yes, but I’m worse.” In one swift movement Dillon pulled the Walther from inside his flying jacket, leveled it, and fired. There was a dull thud, the lower half of Driscoll’s left ear disintegrated and he moaned, a hand to the ear, blood spurting.

“Dillon, for God’s sake!” Hannah cried.

“I don’t think He’s got much to do with it.” Dillon raised the Walther. “Now the other one.”

“No, I’ll tell you,” Driscoll moaned. “Ahern did phone here yesterday. He left a message for Billy. I gave it to him around five o’clock when he came in for a drink.”

“What was it?”

“He was to meet him at a place off Wapping High Street, a warehouse called Olivers. Brick Wharf.”

Driscoll fumbled for a handkerchief, sobbing with pain. Dillon slipped the gun inside his flying jacket and got up. “There you are,” he said. “That didn’t take long.”

“You’re a bastard, Dillon,” Hannah Bernstein said as she opened the door.

“It’s been said before.” Dillon turned in the doorway. “One more thing, Paddy, Michael Ahern killed Billy Quigley earlier tonight. We know that for a fact.”

“Dear God!” Driscoll said.

“That’s right. I’d stay out of it if I were you,” Dillon said and closed the door gently.

“Shall I call for backup, sir?” Hannah Bernstein said as the Daimler eased into Brick Wharf beside the Thames.

Ferguson put his window down and looked out. “I shouldn’t think it matters, Chief Inspector, if he was here, he’s long gone. Let’s go and see.”

It was Dillon who led the way in, the Walther ready in his left hand, stepping through the Judas gate, feeling for the switch on the wall, flooding the place with light. At the bottom of the steps he found the office switch and led the way up. Billy Quigley lay on his back on the other side of the desk. Dillon stood to one side, shoving the Walther back inside his flying jacket, and Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein moved forward.

“Is that him, sir?” she asked.

“I’m afraid so.” Ferguson sighed. “Take care of it, Chief Inspector.”

She started to call in on her mobile phone and he turned and went down the stairs followed by Dillon. He went out into the street and stood by a rail overlooking the Thames. As Dillon joined him, Hannah Bernstein appeared. Ferguson said, “Well, what do you think?”

“I can’t believe he didn’t know that Billy was an informer,” Dillon said.

Ferguson turned to Hannah. “Which means?”

“If Dillon’s right, sir, Ahern is playing some sort of game with us.”

“But what?” Ferguson demanded.

“There are times for waiting, Brigadier, and this is one of them,” Dillon said. “If you want my thoughts on the matter, it’s simple. We’re in Ahern’s hands. There will be a move tomorrow, sooner rather than later. Based on that, I might have some thoughts, but not before.”

Dillon lit a cigarette with his old Zippo, turned, and walked back to the Daimler.

It was just before nine the following morning when Ahern drove the Telecom van along the Mall, stopping at the park gates opposite Marlborough Road. Norah followed him in a Toyota sedan. Ali Halabi was standing by the gates dressed in a green anorak and jeans. He hurried forward.

“No sign of Quigley.”

“Get in.” The Arab did as he was told, and Ahern passed him one of the orange Telecom jackets. “He’s ill. Suffers from chronic asthma and the stress has brought on an attack.” He shrugged. “Not that it matters. All you have to do is drive the van. Norah and I will lead you to your position. Just get out, lift the manhole cover, then walk away through the park. Are you still on?”

“Absolutely,” Halabi said.

“Good. Then follow us and everything will be all right.”

Ahern got out. Halabi slid behind the wheel. “God is great.”

“He certainly is, my old son,” Ahern said and he turned and walked back to Norah parked at the curb in the Toyota.

Norah went all the way ’round passing Buckingham Palace, turning up Grosvenor Place, and back along Constitution Hill by the park. On Ahern’s instructions she pulled in at the curb opposite the beech tree and paused. Ahern put his arm out of the window and raised a thumb. As they moved away, the Telecom van eased into the curb. There was a steady flow of traffic. Ahern let her drive about fifty yards, then told her to pull in. They could see Halabi get out. He went ’round to the back of the van and opened the doors. He returned with a clamp, leaned down, and prised up the manhole cover.

“He’s working well, is the boy,” Ahern said.

He took a small plastic remote control unit from his pocket and pressed a button. Behind them the van fireballed and two cars passing it, caught in the blast, were blown across the road.

“That’s what dedication gets for you.” Ahern tapped Norah on the shoulder. “Right, girl dear. Billy told them they’d get an explosion and they’ve got one.”

“An expensive gesture. With Halabi gone we won’t get the other half of the money.”

“Two and a half million pounds on deposit in Switzerland, Norah, not a bad pay day, so don’t be greedy. Now let’s get out of here.”

It was late in the afternoon with Ferguson still at his desk at the Ministry of Defence when Hannah Bernstein came in.

“Anything new?” he asked.

“Not a thing, sir. Improbable though it sounds, there was enough of Halabi left to identify, his fingerprints anyway. It seems he must have been on the pavement, not in the van.”

“And the others?”

“Two cars caught in the blast. Driver of the front one was a woman doctor, killed instantly. The man and woman in the other were going to a sales conference. They’re both in intensive care.” She put the report on his desk. “Quigley was right, but at least Ahern’s shot his bolt.”

“You think so?”

“Sir, you’ve seen the President’s schedule. He was due to pass along Constitution Hill at about ten o’clock on the way to Downing Street. Ahern must have known that.”

“And the explosion?”

“Premature. That kind of thing happens all the time, you know that, sir. Halabi was just an amateur. I’ve looked at his file in depth. He had an accountancy degree from the London School of Economics.”

“Yes, it all makes sense — at least to me.”

“But not to Dillon. Where is he?”

“Out and about. Nosing around.”

“He wouldn’t trust his own grandmother, that one.”

“I suppose that’s why he’s still alive,” Ferguson told her. “Help yourself to coffee, Chief Inspector.”