Jack Higgins - Day of Reckoning

'I'm part Irish, too, Dillon, from my father's mother's side. In spite of thirty years of war, it seems we're somehow inextricably mixed.'

'Eight million Irish in the UK, Sergeant Major, and the population of the Republic only three and a half million. It's a puzzle.'

'You and the Superintendent, that's a puzzle, too.'

'She's a hard woman, Hannah, a moralist. She finds it difficult to forgive my wicked past. You, on the other hand, understand perfectly. We've both been down the same road on different sides.'

'Yes. That's the problem, isn't it?' And she left.

Billy turned up an hour later with another mug of tea. 'Are you okay, Dillon?'

'I'm fine, but what about you?'

'The pills worked. It's Regan who's in trouble. You'd better give me some more of those pills.'

Dillon handed him the bottle. 'Take care of it, Billy. Let me know how he is.'

Perhaps half an hour later, Billy came back. 'He's lying down, but I think they're doing the job.'

'Good.'

Billy said, 'Dillon, on the White Diamond job. I've been thinking.'

'Go on.' Dillon turned to automatic pilot and lit a cigarette.

'So they've sliced through the grille entrance and we know those tunnels go right into the St Richard's Dock basement. Then all you need is a sledgehammer to break through those old brick walls.'

'So?'

'But the vaults. I still don't see how they get past the electronic security.'

'Neither do I. But there must be a sophisticated explanation. It's like computers, Billy. They're state of the art, too, but if you can get in, if you can access the files, then all is revealed.' Dillon smiled. 'Don't worry. Harry's on the case, and so is Roper. They'll come up with our answer. All I'm concerned with now is Kilbeg, and taking you back to the Dark Man in one piece, because if I don't Harry will want an explanation.'

'Hey, stuff that, Dillon. I'll do my thing.'

'Okay, time for truth, Billy. Since Blake isn't here, it's the women I'm leaving behind. I'll need you to go on shore with me. How do you feel about that?'

'Great.' Billy smiled. 'Never better. I'm with you, Dillon, all the way.' And he went out.

It was into early evening when the wheelhouse door opened and there was the smell of fried bacon sandwiches. 'And tea,' Hannah said.

'Now what's a nice Jewish girl doing, giving me bacon?' She ignored him. 'Where are we?'

'Islay to the east. Rain's a bit squally.'

'Can I take over?'

'No need. I'll go on automatic pilot.'

Dillon checked the course, then locked on. He attacked the sandwiches. 'Fabulous. Any word from London?'

'No.'

He finished the sandwiches and drank the tea. 'There you go. Thanks, love.'

'I really think you should go and lie down for a couple of hours, and let me take over.'

'Hell, what do women know about boats?'

The wheelhouse door swung open and Helen Black came in. 'Don't be a chauvinist pig, Mr Dillon. I don't know if the Superintendent knows boats, but I do. My husband and I race them as a hobby, so do shut up and go and rest. You're going to have a very hard night.'

Dillon raised his hands. 'I give in to this monstrous regiment of women. I'll leave you to it, ladies,' and he went below.

Hannah, too, went, and Helen Black took the wheel, enjoying it as she always had, increasing speed as heavy weather threatened from the east. She thought about her husband, Tony, serving in the hell of Bosnia with the Household Cavalry. It was a source of hurt that just because the Households were the Queen's personal bodyguard and rode round London in breastplates and helmets on horseback there were those who thought they were chocolate soldiers. In fact, they'd served in the Falklands, in the Gulf War, in Ireland, and in most of the rotten little wars in between.

Her trouble was that she was a woman and she was a soldier and she loved the army. Of course, Dillon had been a soldier too, to be fair. She rather liked him, although he'd been the worst of the enemy.

Against the early darkness she could see the outline of one of the Irish ferries, red and green navigation lights visible. She altered course a couple of points, then increased speed, racing the heavy weather that threatened from the east, and the waves grew rougher.

By now it really was dark, only a slight phosphorescent shining from the sea, and then the door opened and Dillon appeared.

'How are things?'

'A bit rough.'

He tapped the radio, got the weather channel, listened, and added, 'That's okay. The wind's going to drop soon. Why don't you go and get some coffee? I'll hang on, then I'll put her on automatic pilot and we can discuss what's going to happen. An hour, an hour and a half, we'll hit the Louth coast.'

'Fine.' She nodded and went out.

Half an hour later, Brendan Murphy, Dermot Kelly, Conolly and Tomelty arrived at Kilbeg and pulled up outside the Patriot public house. Murphy led the way in, running through torrential rain.

It was a typical Irish pub for either side of the border, with a bar, beer pumps, and a log fire in the hearth. There were only three old men at the fire and the landlord behind the bar, one Fergus Sullivan.

'Jesus, Brendan, and it's grand to see you.'

They shook hands. Brendan said, 'You're dying the death tonight.'

'Well, it's Monday night. What can I do for you?'

'Beds for me and Dermot. We've business elsewhere at the moment. We'll have a drink now and see you later.'

Sullivan poured four Irish whiskeys and a fifth for himself.

'Up the IRA.'

And confusion to the English,' Murphy said.

A short while later, inside the grounds of the ruins of Kilbeg Abbey, they entered an ancient hall and approached a dark old oaken door at one end banded with iron that looked as if it had been there for centuries. In fact it was a modern replica backed by steel plate of the finest quality. Murphy took a transceiver from his pocket and pressed the button. There was the murmur of a voice.

'Murphy,' he said. 'Open sesame.'

A moment later, one half of the door opened electronically. He and Kelly passed through into a short tunnel and went down a flight of concrete steps. There was electric light, another door opened, and in moments they were into a concrete corridor, painted white, very functional, and then into the main part of the bunker.

Two men stood waiting: Liam Brosnan, tall, heavily built, with hair to his shoulders, and Martin O'Neill, the direct opposite, small and red-haired. The only thing they had in common were the AK47assault rifles they carried.

'Well, at least you're on your toes,' Murphy said. 'Any problems?'

'Only one, Brendan,' Brosnan told him. 'Down at the entrance where the tunnel slopes to the steps, there's about a foot of water.'

'Show me.'

They led the way, and Murphy and Kelly followed. It was dark down there and, unlike the rest of the bunker, cold.

'Why is there no heat on, no light?' Murphy demanded.

'Well, that's the point, Brendan. The rest of the bunker's okay, but this part under the old farmhouse is on a separate system and the flooding must have screwed it up.'

'It's the rain,' O'Neill said. 'It's been terrible during the past two weeks.'

'I can tell it's the bloody rain, you eejit,' Murphy said. 'But if the electricity isn't working, that cocks up the entrance. There aren't any bars. They weren't necessary when it was electronic.'

'I've chained the handles and padlocked them,' Brosnan told him. 'I was waiting for you, Brendan. I know you would want someone reliable.'

'Exactly. Don't worry, there's that fella Patterson in Dundalk that builds the fancy houses. He knows which side his bread's buttered on.'

'I know who you mean.'

'You call him and tell him I'll see him at the Patriot for breakfast at eight-thirty tomorrow. Explain the flooding and tell him I expect miracles. He'll attend to it or he'll get a bullet in his left knee, and that's only for starters.'