Алистер Маклин - Dead Halt

“That’s pretty ingenious,” Whitlock said after a moment’s thought.

“There’s one thing that I still don’t understand,” Sabrina said, breaking the sudden silence. “Why didn’t Gallagher kill me after they’d taken out Grogan?”

Eastman leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his clenched fists. “I told you, our plan was to discredit the IRA; it was never our intention to kill those working against them. Fiona seemed to admire you for what you’d managed to achieve with UNACO. I guess you could say that she saw in you a mirror image of what she would have liked to be, had things turned out differently for her. But that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t have killed you had you threatened either her or the success of the operation. It’s all irrelevant now though, isn’t it?”

Whitlock switched off the tape recorder. He recalled the two Special Branch detectives and Eastman was handcuffed again and escorted from the room. He then ejected the two cassettes from the machine. “I’m going to get this transcribed for Sergei as soon as possible. I’ll fax the text through to him as soon as it’s finished. In the meantime I’ll take this one over to Commander Palmer.”

“Do you think Eastman will ever stand trial?” Sabrina asked Whitlock as he crossed to the door.

“What do you think?” Whitlock replied contemptuously before leaving the room.

Sabrina turned back to Graham. “Gallagher took us down to the wire, didn’t she? She anticipated our every move and countered them with moves of her own. And she so nearly outfoxed us at the finish. Eastman was right. She could have been me.”

“She was good. Granted. But she was never in your league. If she was, she’d still be alive, wouldn’t she?”

“Flatterer,” Sabrina said with a grin.

“I’m just stating the obvious, that’s all,” Graham replied matter-of-factly.

“Thanks, Mike,” she said with a resigned sigh as she left the room.

Graham frowned. She knew he wasn’t into flattery or any of that kind of ingratiating nonsense. Surely honesty was a compliment in itself? He shrugged to himself then went after her.

Melissa Scoby woke to find herself in a hospital bed. It was obviously a private ward. She had been undressed and was now wearing a white nightgown. She tried to sit up but the effects of the sedative administered to her in Dugaill made her feel giddy and light-headed. She lay back on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.

Then it all came flooding back to her. The shot. The blood. Jack being knocked off his feet. Falling. Falling …

The tears came quickly but she made no attempt to wipe them away. They streamed down the side of her face and onto the pillow. She had known Jack was dead even before Whitlock had gently helped her to her feet. She had struggled fiercely with him, wanting to stay with her husband. Then the paramedics had arrived. They had gone over to where her husband lay sprawled on the ground, the grass around his head already soaked in blood. So much blood. It had stained her jacket. Her blouse. Her skirt. She remembered wiping her hand across her face. Her palm was streaked with blood. She had screamed and her legs had gone from underneath her. Someone had caught her. Whitlock? She didn’t know. Then one of the paramedics had appeared beside her. She didn’t want a sedative. No sedative. She had tried to tell him. But her throat was dry. She couldn’t speak. Then she had felt the needle prick her skin. She had initially fought against the drowsiness. But within seconds it had taken effect and she had felt herself going.

She struggled again to sit up. She took a tissue from the box on the bedside table and wiped her eyes. Still the tears came. Tears of disbelief. Tears of sorrow. Tears of loss. Tears of guilt …

She knew their marriage had been far from perfect but, despite that, she had never been unfaithful to her husband. Her flirtations had been harmless enough, just an attempt to attract his attention. But he’d never noticed, he had been too busy with his career. It had always come first. And it had ultimately cost him his life. Suddenly all those dreams were gone. The Presidency. The White House. Everything he’d ever wanted. Everything she’d ever wanted …

“Mrs. Scoby?” A nurse stood in the doorway. She smiled gently. “How are you feeling?”

“Numb,” came the reply.

“Yes, I can understand that,” the nurse replied, entering the room.

“Can you?” Melissa Scoby bit her lip as she fought back the tears. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the Armagh County Hospital. It’s the nearest hospital to Dugaill. The American embassy is sending someone over to take you back to London. They should be here within the next hour.”

Melissa Scoby dabbed her eyes with the tissue. “Please, just leave me alone.”

“Would you like anything to drink. Tea? Coffee?”

“No.”

The nurse left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Melissa Scoby propped the two pillows against the headboard then leaned her head against them and closed her eyes. She suddenly saw her husband’s face in her mind. It was so clear. So real. Then she remembered what he had said to her at the airport before they set out for Belfast. I’ve left an envelope in the safe in our room back at the hotel. If anything should happen to me in Dugaill today, it’s imperative that you give it to Whitlock as soon as possible. Promise me you’ll do that, Melissa. You must promise me.

She had promised him. She sat up abruptly in bed and lifted the telephone off the bedside table and placed it in her lap. She picked up the receiver, dialed the switchboard, and asked the operator to ring the Grosvenor House Hotel in London.

Tillman was sweating as he made his way through customs at John F. Kennedy Airport. He wasn’t stopped, which surprised him. If anyone looked nervous, he did. His luck seemed to be holding. He looked anxiously around him as he strode briskly through the concourse. Once outside he made for the nearest yellow cab and told the driver to take him to Grand Central Station. The driver finished the Hershey bar he was eating then switched on the meter and started the engine.

Tony Varese had tailed Tillman discreetly through the airport from the moment he was cleared through customs. He climbed into the back of another yellow cab and told the driver to follow Tillman. The driver, an expatriate Italian who regularly worked for the Germino family, put the cab into gear then pulled out into the road and followed the quarry at a safe distance.

Tillman told the driver to wait for him once they reached Grand Central Station. He wouldn’t be long. When he returned he had a pale blue holdall with him. He thought momentarily about going back to his apartment to collect a few personal things but quickly dismissed the idea. It would be too dangerous. He couldn’t afford to take any unnecessary risks. He still hadn’t decided on his ultimate destination. El Salvador? Guatemala? Honduras? It didn’t matter. He could decide that later. All that mattered now was getting out of the country. He knew he couldn’t use any of the major airlines. How would he explain away the five hundred thousand dollars in the holdall? No, it was time to call in a favor. He told the driver where he wanted to go.

Judd Miller’s boast was that if it had wings and an engine, he could fly it. He had yet to be proved wrong. He had flown helicopter gunships in Vietnam in the sixties, Hercules transport planes in war-torn Africa in the seventies and a variety of light aircraft in Central America in the eighties. During that time he had also served a total of fourteen years in prisons around the world on a variety of charges ranging from gun-running to attempted murder.