Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

“Well?” the man asked Killen.

“It’s done.”

“Any problems?”

Killen shook his head. “Did you bring the money?”

The man took a brown envelope from his pocket and handed it to Killen. “Compliments of the boss.”

Killen slit the envelope open with his finger and looked inside. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

“I’ll be in touch,” the man said, climbing back into the Mercedes.

Paluzzi ducked down again as the car did a U-turn, momentarily illuminating the drums. Then it was gone. Killen returned to the warehouse, closing the door behind him.

Paluzzi looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. All he wanted to do was change out of his wet clothes and climb into a hot bath. But he couldn’t return to his hotel. Not now. He had to call New York. He patted his back pocket. At least his wallet was still there. He slowly got to his feet then looked around quickly before hurrying back to the fence and clambering through the opening he’d cut for himself earlier that evening. He shivered as a light wind cut across the deserted street. Was this really happening to him? Claudine was right. He had to be crazy to be in this line of work. He dismissed the thought. He had to find a payphone. He knew his best bet was to head back toward the town center: sooner or later he’d have to come across one. Well, in theory …

The telephone rang.

Graham turned over slowly in his bed and reached out in the darkness. His fingers touched the corner of the bedside table and he patted around its surface until he found the telephone. He lifted the receiver to his ear.

“Mike?”

“Yeah,” came the sleepy reply. “Who’s that?”

“It’s Keith Eastman. I think we’ve found Gallagher and her two cronies.”

Graham immediately sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. “Where?”

“At a boarding house in Cricklewood. I’m on my way over there now. I’ve sent a car for you. It should be at the hotel in ten minutes.”

“I’ll tell Sabrina,” Graham said, stifling a yawn. “Fine. See you in a bit.”

The line went dead. Graham picked up his watch. Two minutes past seven. He rang Sabrina’s room then scrambled out of bed and went through to the bathroom. He hated cold showers. Especially first thing in the morning. But it was the one sure way he knew to wake himself up. Fast. He stepped into the shower cubicle then gritted his teeth as he turned on the cold tap on the wall in front of him.

Eastman was waiting for Graham and Sabrina in a quiet side street in Cricklewood. “Morning,” he said with a quick smile, opening the back door of his car. “Get in, we can talk more privately in here.”

Inside the car, Eastman introduced the blond-haired man behind the wheel as his deputy, Sergeant John Marsh. He then took a Beretta from the glove compartment and handed it to Sabrina. “A replacement. You may need it this morning.”

She took the automatic from him, checked the magazine, then slipped it into the shoulder holster hidden under her fawn blouson. “Where’s the boarding house?”

“On the next block,” Eastman replied. “I thought it best if we approach it on foot.”

“How did you find them?” Graham asked.

“We don’t know it definitely is them,” Eastman corrected him, then took a copy of the Times from the dashboard and handed it to Graham.

Graham opened it. Mugshots of Kerrigan and Mullen had been displayed prominently on the front page. The headline underneath read: KILLER IRA UNIT. “Why weren’t we told that you were going public on this? Who authorized it?”

“Commander Palmer, head of the anti-terrorist squad, and your Mr. Kolchinsky,” Eastman told him.

“Sergei?” Sabrina said, taking the newspaper from Graham. “Why didn’t he say anything when I spoke to him last night?”

“They only agreed to go ahead with the story minutes before the papers went to press last night,” Eastman told them. “I was only told about it at midnight. I didn’t see any reason to ring you at the hotel. You both looked like you needed the sleep.”

“How very considerate,” Graham said sarcastically, folding up the newspaper and handing it back to Eastman. “We’re supposed to be working as a team. Remember that next time.”

“No harm’s done,” Marsh said.

“Not this time, fortunately,” Graham replied.

“Who raised the alarm?” Sabrina asked, breaking the tension.

“The manager,” Eastman said. “He had reason to go up to one of their rooms last night. He spoke to a man and a woman. And he’s certain the man was Mullen.”

“And Kerrigan?” Graham asked. “Where was he?”

“Unconscious on the floor,” Eastman replied. “She gave the manager some story about it being Kerrigan’s birthday and that he’d had too much to drink.”

“And Kerrigan’s known to be a heavy drinker,” Marsh added.

“What if they’ve already seen the papers?” Graham said.

“It’s doubtful,” Eastman told him. “I told the manager to keep all newspapers hidden until we got there. So the only other way they could have seen a paper is if someone had gone out and bought one. And none of them has been out of the hotel this morning.”

“You mean none of them has been past the reception desk,” Graham corrected him.

“Would you use the fire escape to go and buy a newspaper?” Eastman shot back.

“Depends on the circumstances,” Graham replied. “What about back-up?”

“I’ve got two men on the roof of a warehouse at the back of the boarding house. They’re both armed with sniper rifles.”

“And that’s it?” Graham said.

“We’ve got to take them by surprise. And we won’t do that if we’ve got policemen crawling all over the street. I’ve got a back-up team on standby a couple of blocks from here. I’ll bring them in once we’ve apprehended the cell. I’ve also let the local boys know what’s going on but they won’t come near the place unless we specifically ask for their help.” Eastman opened the passenger door. “Let’s go.”

The four of them got out of the car and walked the fifty yards to the front of the boarding house.

“Sabrina, you and John take the fire escape,” Eastman said. “Mike, you and I’ll go through the front. We’ll meet up outside their rooms.”

Sabrina nodded and followed Marsh around the back of the building. Eastman and Graham made their way up the narrow pathway to the front door. They went inside, closing the door silently behind them.

Eastman approached the woman behind the reception desk. “Morning, could I speak to Mr. Fields please?”

The woman nodded and disappeared into the back office. She returned moments later with the manager.

“Mr. Fields?” Eastman asked.

“Yes,” Fields replied suspiciously.

“I’m Inspector Keith Eastman. We spoke on the phone earlier about the photographs in the newspaper.”

“Do you have a warrant card?” Fields asked. Eastman held out his ID card to identify himself. Fields looked at Graham.

“He’s with me,” Eastman assured him.

Fields nodded then swallowed nervously. “I’m sure it’s them, Inspector. Especially the one called Mullen. I didn’t get a proper look at the one on the floor. Had I known they were terrorists I’d never have let them stay here.”

“You weren’t to know who they were,” Eastman said, trying to pacify him. “We’ll take it from here.”

“There won’t be any … shooting, will there?” Fields asked, glancing from Eastman to Graham.

“I hope not,” Eastman replied truthfully. “Thank you for calling us so promptly. We appreciate it.”

Fields wrung his hands nervously as he watched them cross to the stairs at the end of the corridor. Eastman waited until he reached the top of the stairs, out of sight of the reception area, then removed the Browning from his shoulder holster. He glanced at Graham then pivoted around, Browning extended, to fan the corridor. Marsh and Sabrina were already in position at the other end of the corridor and Marsh gave him a thumbs-up sign. Eastman beckoned Graham to follow him. He held up a hand when they reached the two doors.