Jack Higgins - Day of Reckoning

'For God's sake, no,' Regan cried.

Dillon caught her wrist and turned the gun. 'No. Sergeant Major, this isn't the way.'

She turned, as if in fury. 'I'll be back.' She walked out. Regan was shaking. Dillon said to Miller, 'Uncuff him, Sergeant, he isn't going anywhere.'

'As you say, sir.' Miller got out a key and unlocked the manacles. Dillon opened his old silver cigarette case, took out two cigarettes, lit them, and gave Regan one.

'There you go, just like in Now Voyager.'

Regan was shaking. 'What in the hell are you talking about?'

'Never mind, Sean, I've a weakness for old movies. Now listen. Me, I got smart. I could have faced a Serb firing squad, but Ferguson is an extraordinarily powerful man. He saved my life, and in return I dropped working for the glorious cause and work for him instead. Which means I'm alive.' Regan was trembling, and Dillon turned to Miller. 'A large brandy, Sergeant.'

'Certainly, sir.'

Miller opened a cupboard and returned with a glass, which Regan emptied at one throw. He looked up at Dillon. 'What do you want?'

'What's best for you. Look, Ferguson's in charge now, and you did shoot that fella, Dalton. Peace process or not, he'll make you stand up in court if he wants to.'

On the other side of the mirror, Ferguson said, 'In you go, Sergeant Major.'

Helen Black went back into the sitting room, a document in one hand. 'All right, I've had enough. It's back to Wandsworth for you, you bastard.'

Regan simply fell apart. 'For God's sake, tell me what you want, just tell me.'

'Excellent,' Roper said. 'Pure Gestapo. They used physical abuse much less than people realized. Didn't need to. They just messed with their heads.'

Ferguson said to Hannah, 'We won't overwhelm him.' He turned to Roper. 'You and Blake stay here. You come in with me and do your Scotland Yard bit, Superintendent.'

Ferguson walked in with Hannah and said to Miller, 'Give him another brandy, Sergeant.'

'Sir.' Miller did as he was told, and Regan took the glass with shaking hands and drained it.

'Do I have a deal?'

'That depends on what you have for me.'

Regan looked at Dillon, who said, 'The Brigadier's a hard man, Sean, but a moralist. If he says it, he means it.'

Hannah said, 'Mr Regan, I'm Detective Superintendent Bernstein of Special Branch. I'd be interested to know if you can assist us in our inquiries regarding the activities of one Brendan Murphy.'

Regan said, 'What do you want to know?'

'I understand there's an underground concrete bunker somewhere in County Louth.'

'Semtex, machine guns, mortars,' Dillon said. 'Enough to start a civil war. Where is it, Sean?'

Regan said, 'Close to Kilbeg.'

'Jesus, son, there are Kilbegs all over Ireland.'

'Well, this one is in Louth, like the Superintendent says, just south of the border in the Republic and south of Dundalk Bay. Near Dunany Point. Very remote.'

'I know that area,' Dillon said.

'You wouldn't last long, Dillon. They're a funny lot. Strangers stand out like a sore thumb.'

Ferguson said, 'Let's be specific.'

'When I fled to the States, I was helped by a wealthy Irish American group who were a bit radical. Didn't approve of peace. I brokered a big financial deal for Brendan. The idea was to prepare for the future, the next war.'

'Which explains the bunker,' Ferguson said.

'But where did the arms come from?' Dillon asked. Behind the mirror, Roper was making notes.

'Oh, that was a Mafia connection. Brendan had worked with them in Europe. A fella called Jack Fox.'

'Fronting for the Solazzo family?' Hannah said.

'Well, I always figured he was fronting for himself. He supplied the arms.'

'Anything else?' Hannah asked. 'Lebanon, for example?' 'Christ, is there nothing you don't know?'

'Get on with it,' Dillon said.

'Murphy was trained in Libya years ago, has strong Arab contacts, can even get by with the language, enough to order a meal, anyway.'

'So?' Ferguson asked.

'Well, Fox controls the Solazzos' drug operations in Russia, so he has big contacts. Murphy has the Arab link.' 'Which Arab link?'

Regan hesitated. 'Saddam. Iraq.'

'That's nice,' Dillon said. 'What's intended?'

'There's a freighter down from the Black Sea next week. Called the Fortuna. If it's on time, it's due at a place called Al Shariz, south of Beirut, next Tuesday.'

Dillon took over. 'Russian crew?'

'No, Arab. All Army of God.'

'And the cargo?' Regan hesitated. 'Come on, what's the bloody cargo?'

'Hammerheads.'

There was a pause, and Hannah turned to Ferguson. 'Hammerheads, sir?'

The door opened and Blake entered. 'Sorry, Brigadier, but I know all about those. They're short-range missiles mounted on a tripod that only take two minutes to erect. Their range is three hundred miles. Nuclear-tipped. They wouldn't take out Israel or Jordan completely, but Tel Aviv wouldn't look too good.'

Ferguson turned to Regan. 'Have you told me the truth, told me everything?'

Regan hesitated again. 'When the boat gets in, the Fortuna, Brendan will be on board. Fox meets them, gets paid in gold. Five million.'

'Dollars or pounds?' Dillon asked.

'How the fuck would I know? Paid on the boat is what I heard, because they want to arrange another consignment a

month later.'

'And all this is true?' Ferguson asked.

'Yes, damn you.'

Ferguson turned to Helen Black and Miller. 'Send him

back to his room.'

They took Regan out between them, and Roper came in

after they left.

'I've had a thought,' he said. 'I've got details of Fox's Gulfstream. It's parked at Heathrow, as I recall. Let me

check its movements.'

They followed him to his ground floor suite, where all his equipment had been set up. Roper started on the computer,

fingers deft on the keys.

He grunted. 'Fox has a slot booked out of Heathrow for Monday morning, destination Beirut.'

'Wonderful,' Dillon said. 'Regan was telling the truth.' 'So what now, sir?' Hannah asked.

Ferguson said, 'We can't send in the SAS, and we do have other business with Fox. Something more subtle is

needed.'

Hannah said, 'The Israelis wouldn't like this, Brigadier.'

'Exactly what I was thinking.' Ferguson turned to Dillon. 'You went to Beirut the other year with the Superintendent here. Stayed at the Al Bustan.'

'How could I forget it? It overlooks some excellent Roman

ruins.'

'You remember my man there, Walid Khasan?'

'Very well. Lebanese Christian. He and the Superintendent

got on rather well. Which is not surprising, considering that

he was actually Major Gideon Cohen of Mossad.' 'Lieutenant colonel, now.'

'Had a nice sister, Anya, I remember. A lieutenant.' 'Captain, now.'

'And there was another one — what was his name? Captain Moshe Levy?'

'Major. Everything goes up in the world, Dillon. Yes, I think Colonel Cohen might be interested. I'll give him a call.'

Lieutenant Colonel Gideon Cohen wore uniform only on occasion. Sitting in his office now at the top of a secluded building in Tel Aviv, he was wearing a white shirt and linen Slacks, all very unmilitary for a Mossad colonel. Forty-nine years of age, he had olive skin, and hair that was still black and down to his shoulders.

His sister, Captain Anya Shamir, sat at a corner desk, working a computer. She'd been a widow since her husband's death on the Golan Heights.

In the other corner, Major Moshe Levy sat at a second computer. He was in uniform because he'd had a report to make at Army headquarters, and wore khaki shirt and slacks, paratroopers' wings and decorations. The phone on Gideon Cohen's desk rang.

A voice said, 'This is Ferguson. Are you coded? I am.'