Without Mercy (3 page)

“Well, it would be nice to think so, because at least you can pronounce it,” Harry replied. “Not like most Russian names. Anyway, it’s clear that they’re staying mum about this. And obviously, Ferguson can’t say publicly that he’s got a few wild men going round knocking off the opposition on behalf of the Prime Minister.”

“So it’s a stalemate,” Roper said. “A kind of you-know-that-we-know-and-we-know-that-you-know situation. I still wish I knew why.”

“To hell with it,” Billy said. “This is what I do know. Dillon and I went up to Drumore Place and took them on. I personally shot Ashimov in the shoulder, turned him round and gave it to him in the back. Murphy, Novikova and Belov fled out to sea, but then Dillon pointed his Howler, pressed the button and blew them to hell. I saw it with my own eyes. Now, can we all have a drink on it, before Dillon works his way through the bar stock?”

At Rosedene in late afternoon, Rabbi Bernstein had left and Professor Bellamy had given him a lift. It was quiet in the corridor as the young nurse Dillon had spoken to earlier pushed her trolley along. Her name was Mary Killane. And he’d been right. Her accent was Dublin, although she was born in Londonderry in the north of Ireland in 1980. She’d been taken to Dublin at an early age because her father, an IRA activist, had been condemned to the Maze Prison on five life sentences for murder and had died there of cancer, something for which she had never forgiven the British government. At the earliest opportunity, she had joined the Provisional IRA and in spite of a respectable professional life, remained a sleeper, available when required.

The call to her present assignment had been out of the blue. It had come from Liam Bell, once chief of staff of the Provisional IRA, now retired to Dublin to lecture in English at the university, and write a book or two, for after all, things were different with the Peace Process—except that nothing had really changed. That was the fault of the bloody Brits, and people like Liam Bell were still needed to carry on the fight, just in a different way.

She was instructed to book with a nursing agency in London, where a friend to the organization would see that she was allocated to the Rosedene in St. John’s Wood. There she would await orders.

But she didn’t have to wait long. Returning to her small flat in Kilburn one night, she’d unlocked the door, walked in and to her astonishment found Liam Bell himself sitting, smoking a cigarette, and a hard young man in a black bomber jacket, dark hair curling down to his neck, lounging by the window. He was a dangerous-looking man, with the air of a medieval bravo about him. The shock she experienced was sexual in its intensity.

“No need to worry, girl dear,” Bell reassured her. “There’s work to be done of great importance to the Movement, and I know you can be relied on to do it. No one has a greater right than you to strike back.”

She was filled with emotion. “Anything, Mr. Bell, I’d give my life.”

“No need of that. I’m back to Dublin in the morning, but Dermot here, Dermot Fitzgerald, will look out for you. He’s a scholar and a gentleman.”

“A pleasure,” Fitzgerald said.

“The thing is,” Bell told her, “there’s a patient at the Rosedene dangerous to our cause. She’s a Special Branch Superintendent and responsible for the death or imprisonment of many of your comrades. You can take my word for it.”

“Oh, I do.”

“She’s been at the Cromwell. We’ve friends there, and I understand she’ll be transferred back to the Rosedene tomorrow.” He took a small envelope from an inner pocket and offered it to her. “This is something to help her on her way. Put her out of her suffering, if you like. It’s called Dazone. A special drug from the States. If the heart’s bad, it helps. That’s one pill, but three”—he shrugged—“it’s good night, Vienna. Are you up to this? You’ve powerful memories concerning your father, but say the word . . .”

She took the envelope. “Of course I will. It’s a wonderful chance to serve.”

“Good girl.” He patted her hand and got up. “I’ll be on my way. Look after her, Dermot.”

“I will, Mr. Bell.”

“And at the hospital, you watch out for a man called Sean Dillon. A damned traitor to us all.”

He left, and walked along the street to a Mercedes, where a man in a dark trench coat sat behind the wheel. His name was Igor Levin, and he was a commercial attaché at the Russian Embassy, or claimed to be.

“Taken care of?”

“Oh yes,” Bell said. “You got a good look at her, Mary Killane?”

“Naturally.”

“Keep a close eye, just in case anything goes wrong.”

“The man, Fitzgerald. Do you want anything to happen to him afterwards?”

“Jesus, no. He’s too valuable. He’ll be away out of it. Probably Ibiza. It’ll be a big payday for him.”

Levin said, “Well, we’ll get you back to Ballykelly, then. You won’t have trouble at the airfield? You’ve served time in the Maze Prison, surely?”

“I have a false passport. There are people in this town who’d love to know what I’m up to.”

“Always the old fox.”

“It’s what’s kept me ahead of the game all these years.”

So what happens now?” Mary Killane had asked after Bell had gone.

Dermot had kissed her boldly, which thrilled her to her toes. She’d known there was something between them, she’d felt it.

“We could start with that,” he said, “or we could go around the corner and have a drink and a bit to eat first. What’s your pleasure, lass?”

They ended up having the drink first, and then Dermot had bedded her, and the whole thing felt like the most special time in her life.

Now, pushing the trolley up the corridor to Hannah’s room, the moment of truth had arrived. She felt surprisingly calm, remembering what had been done to her father and to so many others, and that this woman, this Police Superintendent, had been responsible for so much of it. She opened the door and pushed the trolley in.

She’d checked up on Dazone. It took half an hour to kick in, which was why she’d left it to the end of her shift. The curtains were drawn, the small bed light the only illumination. Hannah Bernstein looked pale, almost skeletal, eyes closed. Mary Killane had the pills ready in a small plastic cup, a little water in another one.

Hannah’s eyes flickered open. She said drowsily, “What is it?”

“Your medication,” the woman said. Surprising how easy it was. “There you go. I’ll help you drink.” And then it was over. “You’ll sleep now.”

“Thank you,” came the murmur, and Mary Killane pushed the trolley out.

In the staff room, she didn’t change out of her uniform, simply pulled on a raincoat, got her handbag from her locker and went out. As she reached the entrance foyer, Maggie Duncan emerged from her office.

“Another shift over, Mary.”

“That’s right, Matron.”

“Have you given any thought to what I said? We’d like to have you with us full-time. Agency work is no way to live.”

“I’m thinking about it.”

“You do that. Is the Superintendent all right?”

“I’ve seen to her.”

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

Mary Killane hurried across the car park, speaking into her mobile at the same time. “It’s done.”

“Good girl,” Dermot Fitzgerald replied. “I’ll be with you as arranged.”

She hurried on, excited now, turned a corner and moved along a dark road, a small bridge at the end crossing a canal. There was only a single old-fashioned gas lamp giving any light, but she felt no fear. There was a footfall behind her, and she turned to see him emerging out of the shadows, a smile on his face.

“Jesus, Dermot, we’ll have to move it if we’re to get to the airport in time for the Dublin plane.”

He kissed her on the cheek lightly. “Don’t fret. Everything’s fine. You’re sure you gave her the pills?”

“Absolutely. They kick in in half an hour, but it will be quite a while before anyone twigs there’s something wrong. It’s her heart they’ve been worried about anyway.”

“Excellent. You’ve done an amazing job. Pity it has to end this way.”

“What are you talking about?” she said, bewildered.

His right hand came out of the pocket of his reefer coat clutching a silenced Colt .38 pistol. He rammed it into her, fired twice and pushed with his left hand so that she went backward over the rail into the canal below.

He walked to the end of the street and the lights of a Mercedes switched on. He got into the passenger seat and Igor Levin said, “That’s it, then?”

“Mission accomplished.”

“Your bag is in the back. I’ll drop you at Heathrow.”

“Ibiza next stop.” Fitzgerald lit a cigarette. “I can’t wait to get in the water.”

At Rosedene, Hannah Bernstein sighed gently and stopped breathing. The alarm sounded, a jarring, ugly sound. A young probationer nurse was nearest and got to her first, followed by Maggie Duncan, then Bellamy. Within seconds, the entire crash team was swinging into action, not that it did any kind of good. They finally switched off. Maggie was crying, Bellamy’s face was bleak.

“Time of death, five thirty-five. Agreed, Matron?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Strange the turns of life,” he said. “So many people loved her, yet at the end not one of them was here.” He shook his head. “I’d better make some phone calls. I’m not looking forward to that.”

“Especially Dillon.”

“All of them, really.”

The Gulfstream was an hour late due to bad headwinds. It was just descending into the lights of Farley Field when Ferguson got the call. He listened, his face grave.

“I’m desperately sorry. Have you spoken to everybody?”

“Yes.”

“How awful for her father and grandfather. And Dillon? How was he?”

“I don’t think he could take it in. He was at the Dark Man with Roper and the others. He passed the phone to Roper and apparently rushed out. Roper said he and the Salters would go after him. He’s probably gone to Rosedene.”

“You know her religion will have an impact here. I’m not sure they’ll allow an autopsy. Find out, would you? Thank you, Doctor, and we’ll talk again.”

Ferguson sat there, face grave as the Gulfstream rolled to a halt, then told Blake the bad news.

Blake was shocked. “How terrible.” He raised the inevitable question. “You mentioned an autopsy?”

“That’s not certain. Generally, they’re not allowed. The Jewish body is considered sacred, and the corpse must be buried within twenty-four hours. However, if it can be argued that an autopsy could save another life, for instance by helping to apprehend a killer and prevent him killing again, then there are exceptions. You’d need an expert rabbi to determine that.”

“Sounds complicated.”

“Particularly as she worked for me under the Official Secrets Act.”

They disembarked, and as they walked toward the small terminal, Ferguson’s Daimler drew up and Dillon got out from behind the wheel. He leaned against the Daimler and lit a Marlboro. His face was curiously expressionless.

“Blake, Charles. Good flight? Thought I’d come myself.”

Ferguson said, “I’m damn sorry, Sean, damn sorry.”

“You’ll be sorry yourself when you hear my news. Get in and we’ll move out.”

They did, sitting in the rear while Dillon drove. “What have you got for me, then?” Ferguson asked.

“The last person to see Hannah alive was a Dublin girl, an agency nurse named Mary Killane. Maggie Duncan spoke to her when she finished her shift. Half an hour later, the alarm went off in Hannah’s room and she died in spite of the crash team.”

“What’s your point, Sean?” Ferguson was gentle.

“An hour and a half ago, a man walking his dog by the canal some ten minutes from Rosedene found a dead woman half-in, half-out of the water. Her handbag was still caught around one wrist. It was Mary Killane.”

“My God,” Blake said. “That’s a strange coincidence. And you know I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Especially with two bullets in her,” Dillon told him. “George Langley’s going to do the autopsy tonight. He’s at the scene of the crime now.”

They traveled in silence for a while, and it was Blake who said, “It smells to high heaven. Hannah dies, and then someone wastes the last nurse to deal with her.”

“And somehow a dead Belov is walking around in Siberia,” Ferguson said. “I’ve got an uneasy feeling they’re all related.”

“But like Billy said earlier,” Dillon told him, “if there’s one certainty in the matter, it’s that Belov is dead.”

“And what if he isn’t?” Blake put in.

“I know what I did.”

“Maybe something else happened, something you weren’t aware of.”

“In your dreams,” Dillon told him.

“Maybe. But I’ll tell you what I think. I was with the FBI for a long time, and any good cop will tell you that experience tells you to go with your instincts. And my instincts tell me that everything is linked to what happened at Drumore Place. That’s where we’ve got to begin.”

And he was right, of course.

DRUMORE PLACE DUBLIN - MOSCOW

Chapter 3

Three weeks earlier, Sean Dillon and Billy Salter were at Drumore Place, that great house that was Josef Belov’s pride and joy, engaged in a desperate firefight while the villagers kept their heads down inside their cottages.

At the Royal George, Patrick Ryan had the shutters up while his mother, who was the cook at Drumore Place, and old Hamilton, the butler, cowered in the kitchen, where Ryan joined them.

“Mother Mary, it’s just like the old days,” she moaned.

“Sure, and they never went away,” he told her, which was true, for this was still Provisional IRA country to the core. He splashed whiskey into three glasses. “Get that down you and shut up. It’s none of our affair. The nearest police are twenty miles up the coast. One sergeant and three men, and they’d drive the other way if they knew. God save the good work.” He swallowed his whiskey down and crossed himself as sporadic shooting continued.

There was silence for a while and then they heard a boat engine start in to life down in the harbor. It increased in power, and Ryan hurried through the bar, opened the door and peered out. It had left the tiny harbor and moved beyond the point when the explosion took place. There was a momentary ball of fire, and as it cleared, he saw the boat half under the water, the stern raised, and it looked as if someone was scrambling over, but he could not be certain for a cloud passed over the moon.