Алистер Маклин: Dead Halt

“No, but thanks anyway. I’ll settle for a pint of Guinness and a cheese roll. I need to get my thoughts together before I call the Army Council.”

Finnegan poured a pint of draft Guinness and placed it on the counter. “There’s been talk around these parts that you were involved in that shooting yesterday. It’s not true, is it, lad?”

“No.”

“That’s what I said.” Finnegan took a cheese roll from a basket at the back of the bar and handed it to Brady. “I still can’t believe that Fiona pulled the trigger. I can’t remember the number of times she came in here with Sean for a few drinks and a game of pool. I honestly thought she was one of us.”

“We all did.”

“Are you sure you won’t eat something hot, lad? I can bring you down a plate.”

Brady shook his head then crossed to a corner table and sat down. He had always prided himself before on his ability to operate single-handedly but he had never felt so isolated and alone as he had in the last twenty-four hours. Not only was Kane in custody but his plan to publicly discredit the authorities had backfired badly on him. They now had the tapes. But that was nothing compared to the death of Jack Scoby. As a cell leader, Fiona was theoretically under his command. And every Sunday newspaper had fingered him as the mastermind behind the assassination. He knew the authorities wouldn’t stop searching until they had found him. It would be the only way they could hope to stem the international outcry. But what worried him more was the reaction of the Army Council. Would they stand by him or would they use him as a scapegoat to appease their supporters abroad? He knew he had strong support in the Army Council but would it be enough to save him? He couldn’t keep running. He had to face the truth sooner or later …

He looked up when the door opened and instantly recognized the tall, gangly figure of Kieran O’Connell, his fiercest critic on the Army Council. O’Connell brushed his windswept hair away from his face as he crossed the room to where Brady was sitting. His eyes were cold and malicious.

“Have you come to take me back to face the wrath of the Army Council?” Brady asked, holding O’Connell’s penetrating stare.

“The Army Council have voted overwhelmingly to stand by you until an internal investigation has been carried out. And now I’m facing expulsion from the Council because of my friendship with Fiona. There’s nothing left for me anymore.”

Brady had always loathed O’Connell for his wishy-washy liberal views. How many times had O’Connell’s veto wiped out one of his meticulously planned operations to hit at the very heart of the British forces? The Army Council were obviously going to take a tougher stance in the future. And Brady knew he was the man to spearhead that campaign. Revenge was sweet.

O’Connell suddenly stepped back and pulled a Browning Mk1 from his overcoat pocket. Brady kicked back the chair, looking wildly around him for a means of escape. O’Connell fired. The bullet took Brady in the stomach, punching him back against the wall. Brady clutched his stomach and stared in horror as the blood seeped through his fingers. He looked up slowly at O’Connell but as he tried to open his mouth to speak, three more bullets were pumped into him. The blood trickled from the corners of Brady’s mouth and the disbelief was still mirrored in his eyes when he fell forward onto the table, toppling it sideways, as his body crashed to the floor.

Finnegan, who had been alerted by the sound of the first shot, had grabbed his revolver from the bedroom and bounded downstairs, but by the time he burst through the door behind the counter Brady was already dead. He was momentarily taken aback by the sight of O’Connell. Another regular. Another friend.

“Put down the gun, Kieran,” he ordered, levelling the revolver at O’Connell.

O’Connell looked around slowly at Finnegan. There was no recognition in his eyes. Then, almost as if in slow motion, O’Connell pushed the barrel against the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger.

It was nine o’clock on Monday morning when Whitlock pulled up behind the white Ford which was parked a block away from West Side Electronics. As he climbed out of the car the Ford’s passenger door swung open and a man got out. Thirty-eight-year-old Frank Grecco had been one of the Drug Enforcement Agency’s top UCs, undercover cops, in New York for over twelve years before his cover was blown by an overzealous journalist out for a scoop. He had to be withdrawn from the field for his own protection and after a successful stint as the Assistant Division Chief in Los Angeles he returned to New York as its youngest ever Division Chief.

Whitlock locked the driver’s door and smiled as Grecco approached him. He had worked with Grecco on a number of joint DEA-UNACO operations over the years and it was hard to believe that it was the same man he had come to regard as one of the best UCs he’d ever encountered outside UNACO. Gone was the shoulder-length hair, the stubble and the dirty jeans. Now Grecco sported a short back and sides, a neatly trimmed black moustache and an expensive Armani double-breasted suit.

“Hey, goombah, long time no see,” Grecco said with a wide grin as he pumped Whitlock’s hand. “How you doing?”

It was the same old Frank Grecco. No frills, no graces. And that was why his return to New York two months earlier had been greeted so enthusiastically by his former colleagues.

“I’m fine, Frankie. How’s the new job going?”

“It’s days like these that make it all worth while,” Grecco replied. “I still can’t believe that we’ve finally got the chance to take Navarro down. All these years and we haven’t been able to get close to him. Every time we’ve brought him in for questioning we’ve never been able to make anything stick. I tell you, I haven’t been this excited since Scott Norwood missed that field goal for the Bills with eight seconds left of Superbowl Twenty-Five. That was a hell of a night for the Giants.”

“So Mike constantly reminds me.”

“How is that lunatic?”

“As ever,” Whitlock replied.

“And how’s my favorite UC?” Grecco said with a knowing grin.

“Sabrina’s fine. They both send their regards.”

“Thanks. Where are they?” Grecco asked.

“They had some business to attend to out of town.”

“Tell Mike I’ll call him sometime. I haven’t been to a game with him for a while.” Grecco rapped on the Ford’s rear window and gave the occupants a thumbs-up sign. Two men emerged from the back of the car. The rear doors of a second white Ford in front of it also swung open and two more plainclothes men got out. Grecco turned back to Whitlock. “I didn’t want to take any chances. Not when we’re dealing with a slippery customer like Navarro. If he does try anything, we’ve got the backup to deal with it.”

“Well, are you ready?”

“I’ve been ready for this for years,” Grecco replied with a grin.

The brunette looked up from her computer and gave Whitlock and Grecco a warm smile when they entered the room. “Good morning. May I help you?”

“We’re here to see Martin Navarro,” Grecco told her.

“Do you have an appointment, sir?” she asked, feeding a code into the computer to call up a list of Navarro’s appointments for the day.

“You won’t find our names on there, sweetheart,” Grecco told her, holding up his warrant card. “DEA. We try not to make appointments. That way we can catch the scumbags by surprise.”

“Mr. Navarro’s not due in until later this morning.”

“Your loyalty’s touching, sweetheart, but we saw him arrive half an hour ago with his hatchet man, Varese,” Grecco told her. “Don’t worry, we’ll see ourselves in.”