When Shadows Fall (25 page)

“Larry Mulligan?” Adam asked tentatively. “I was told to ask for Mulligan.”

“You’ve found him,” answered the face, heavy-jawed on a squat neck. “Stop standing there like a moron and come in.”

Adam stepped inside. It was deathly cold.

“The big fellow says you need guns,” Mulligan grumbled, looking like someone with an eternal grudge against the world. “It seems nobody can organise their own shit without raiding the Wicklow brigade. Just as well for you all that I’m so damned good at acquiring the stuff.”

“I’m sure everyone is much obliged,” Adam murmured, already developing a strong dislike for the man.

Mulligan blinked suspiciously. “I don’t recognise you. Name?”

“Bowen.”

“A Dub, are you? Aye, and a posh one too, from the sounds of your accent.”

Adam shrugged. “So what about those weapons?”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Mulligan smirked. “Ever handled a gun before? I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I’m sure the big fellow wouldn’t have sent me here if I couldn’t handle a gun.”

“What brigade are you in?”

“None. I report directly to Collins.”

“And where did the weapons experience come from? Grouse shoots on Sundays?”

Adam hesitated. “I served in France.” With increasing resentment towards Britain’s activities in Ireland, ex-servicemen were becoming ever more unpopular.

“The British Army.” Mulligan spat in disgust. “The king’s lickspittle. And so why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t, I suppose. But as I understand, Mick Collins gives the orders.”

“Does he now? We’ll see about that. What job is he sending you on?”

“You know Mick. It’s all confidential.”

Mulligan cleared his throat noisily and took out a box of Woodbines. “You’re too cocky for my liking, boyo. Where’s the other pup? I was led to believe that I was providing guns for two.”

“I haven’t been introduced to him yet, but you can give me the information.’

Mulligan didn’t speak further until he had the lighted cigarette clamped between his lips. “I don’t exactly carry an arsenal around in my back pocket. Come back here tomorrow evening. The weapons and ammo will be ready for collection. And mind you take care of them, for they stay my property. Understand?”

“I do.” Adam blinked against the cloud of tobacco smoke blown into his face. “Many thanks. It’s been an honour.”

He was glad to leave the company of the loathsome Mulligan, and he walked back up Sackville Street, into Gardiner Street, and found a house with a blue door and a brass plate that said “Wolverington Taxidermist.” Collins had wanted to introduce him to his partner for the London operation, and Adam was curious to meet the man now, aware that the two of them would be fairly close bedfellows for a week or so.

“Adam Bowen, sir!” Mick Collins greeted him with his usual daunting enthusiasm, practically bounding across the room to pump his hand. “Thanks for making it over on short notice. Did you find Larry Mulligan?”

“I did.” Adam nodded wryly. “Not exactly a people person, is he?”

“Oh, Larry’s a bit on the hard-boiled side, but don’t mind that. He’s the man with the guns and that’s all that counts. You’ll have tea, Adam? Come into the kitchen, Liam’s inside.”

Liam Clancy was the second man picked by Collins to carry out the hit on Ripley. He was short and skinny, about twenty-two, with an intent but friendly expression. He shook Adam’s hand. “Heard we’re going on holidays together.”

“All expenses paid,” Adam agreed.

“Now, boys, let me go over a few things.” Collins yanked a chair to the kitchen table. “A sea crossing has been arranged, for which the captain has already been paid. Give him no other money. If he gets stroppy, stick a pistol between his teeth and tell him Mick says hello. I also have the address of a safehouse in London where you’ll stay. I want you in place before the target reaches the city. This is the itinerary for all the Irish attendees that my Castle source copied.”

He produced a sheet of times and places, evidently scribbled down in haste. “They’ll take the passenger liner to Liverpool and then a train to Victoria Station in London. It’s at the station that you must execute the operation, for you’ll not get another chance.”

“It’s a busy station,” Adam pointed out. “How will we spot him?”

“You’ll know the expected time of the train’s arrival. The entourage will have their own private compartments. You simply look for the one with all the military brass getting off, and from your photographs you’ll know Ripley.”

“Won’t there be security at the station?” Liam asked. “Coppers and such. How do we get away?”

“The map I’m providing you with has an escape route traced back to the docks, which should allow you to disappear before the bells and whistles arrive. You’re to familiarise yourself with the route in the days before the operation. That’s why I’m sending you over early.”

“How far away is the safehouse?”

“It’s in South Hampstead. A decent walk but manageable enough for young bucks like you. Don’t return there after the hit, though. Get back to the boat and lie low.”

“The boat,” Adam muttered. “I take it we’re not getting a fancy passenger liner like our friends. What’s the transport?”

Collins grinned. “You didn’t sign up for the glamour, did you, boys? She’s a private merchant vessel, taking whelk and blue mussel to London. The
Freya Angelica
—a romantic name for a rather ugly mistress. You’ll find her at Kingstown port and a Welsh captain by the name of Jackson.”

“Lovely.”

“Jackson’s done runs for us before. You won’t get much conversation out of him, but he’ll have you there on time.” Collins rose up. “I have to be going. The boat sails at eight Saturday morning, lads. Make sure you collect the gear from Larry Mulligan first. Major Ripley arrives in London on Tuesday, so let’s not make a pig’s ear of this. Here, don’t forget the paperwork.”

He threw them a map, photos of Ripley, an address for the safehouse, the copied itinerary, and a pouch of cash. Adam counted over one hundred pounds.

“That’s for your food and some contingency funds in case of emergency,” Collins told him. “Any leftover change, and I’d be mightily glad to see it.”

Liam studied Adam. “You ever done this kind of thing before?”

“Bowen’s killed plenty men before,” Collins answered for him. “You’ll be fine, gentlemen. Christ, try not to look so miserable about it.”

Following another charmless meeting with Larry Mulligan, Adam was entrusted with two Webley revolvers and two derringers for backup, along with their respective ammunition. He carried the lot in a haversack that, with his woollen fisherman’s garb, looked perfectly innocuous.

It was a little after dawn on Saturday when the hackney dropped him to the wharves at Kingstown port. A blue-grey mist hung above the waters of the bay and the cold air pinched his cheeks. It was quiet but for a group of fishermen in salt-encrusted jerseys packing crates of herring and bass, and out from the foggy quay Liam Clancy emerged with a small bag of clothes and spare boots.

“How goes it, Bowen? Got the gear?”

Adam indicated the sack in his hand. “Money, maps, guns, and bath soap. Where’s our lady?”

“That’s her, I reckon.” Liam pointed down the quay to where an old fishing boat with a blackened smokestack rode the high tide. The name
Freya Angelica
was just about discernible on the peeling hull.

“I’ve got first call on the executive suite,” Adam declared. “Come on, let’s go introduce ourselves.”

“Wait. Did Mulligan give us much ammo?”

“No. He said it doesn’t grow on
fucking trees
and that we were to be wise with its usage.”

“Typical brigade commandant. Tighter than a Scottish pawnbroker.”

“It doesn’t matter. Ripley is only one man, and if we do it properly, we’ll have bullets to spare.”

“Whatever you say.”

The grossly overweight Captain Jackson greeted them with a scowl and a blast of whiskey breath. He directed them gruffly below decks to a tiny cabin and told them to stay out of the crew’s way. There were no bunks, just two mouldering mattresses squeezed between the bulkheads.

“Think he’ll bring down the cheese tray and chardonnay soon?” Liam enquired.

“Why don’t you go up and ask him?”

The
Freya Angelica
left with the departing tide, leaving a long, smoky trail in her wake. There was a light swell once out on the open sea, but they made brisk progress down the flank of Leinster and across the channel towards the Cornish coast.

After a few hours Liam was looking decidedly pale. “I’m no sailor. Damn it, but I’m hobbled. Where’s the latrine on this filthy bucket?”

“Just follow the smell,” Adam advised him. “And quickly now, before you spew all over me.”

They rested poorly in the squalid confines of their cabin as the vessel steamed east for England. Dinner that evening was ham sandwiches and the very foulest home-brewed ale. Adam pored over the map, in particular the sketched line through the streets that traced their escape route. Eventually, bleary-eyed, he rolled up his coat and placed it under his head as a pillow. “What about you? Ever done anything like this?”

“I’ve put a few bullets in a few cops and soldiers,” Liam said. “Nothing like this, though.”

“A rather ugly business,” Adam said.

“It’s supposed to be ugly, though, isn’t it? And effective. We’re sending a message. To all of them.”

“Indeed.” Adam pictured a crowded railway platform, the echo of gunfire, commuters scattering in panic. He adjusted the coat under his head. “Maybe we’ll take in a theatre show and all.”

The
Lady Charlotte
steamship of the British and Irish Steam Packet Company had been rolled out of Belfast’s shipyards only a month before. Her newly painted, six-hundred-foot lines gleamed brilliantly in the sunset and the twin smokestacks rose high enough to dwarf the dock cranes on the quay. With a crew of four hundred and berthing for over a thousand passengers, she had ushered in a lavish new era for cross-channel travel.

As it was a late crossing, James instructed Tara to book them each a cabin for rest. “Take advantage of the department dibs,” he insisted, “and enjoy a taste of luxury.”

Her cabin, when she eventually found it through the maze of carpeted corridors, was warm and spacious with panelled walls, a mahogany writing desk, and a queen-sized bed. There was even a liquor cabinet stocked with wines and spirits.

James’s cabin was around the next passage. He told her, “Don’t be too long. When you’re ready we’ll go up to the lounge for an evening meal and a nightcap, and I’ll introduce you to the rest of the entourage.”

It was past ten o’clock when the lights of Dublin receded into the night and the ship entered open sea. On the top deck the restaurant was in full swing, waiters in black waistcoats scurrying between the tables while a pianist played soft airs in the background. A scent of fish and sauces wafted from the kitchen as James procured a table underneath a giant crystal chandelier.

“Oh, lobster,” he hummed in approval. “Excellent. That’ll go down well with some decent Chablis. How about you, Tara? Shall I order for both of us?”

The main course exceeded her expectation, and she followed it with a rather spectacular chocolate fudge cake. Over coffees James introduced her to the others—secret service men, diplomats, and secretaries, prim folk in the main but made merry by the wine and cuisine. The bar remained open, and laughter was soon echoing into the tall ceiling.

By midnight Tara longed for the cool sanctuary of her cabin.

“Quite right,” James agreed. “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. Best get some sleep.”

He followed her below, a little unsteady on his feet from the wine and the gentle tilt of the ship.

“Docking at five,” he told her, as she fumbled for the key to unlock her door. “Don’t sleep in. It’s straight on the London train once we’re ashore.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bryant. It was a fun night. See you in the morning.”

He peered over her shoulder into the interior of her cabin. “Everything all right in there? Got everything you need?” For a moment he looked as though he would step inside to inspect himself.