Jack Higgins - Angel Of Death

“Oh, I am. You see, I’ve had a rather ingenious idea. I’ve nothing against you, so I’ll have a message sent to Walid Khasan and the Chief Inspector offering to sell you back.”

“Now isn’t that kind of you,” Dillon said.

“Ah, there’s a catch. Once down there with Callaghan, you go to work on him. I don’t care how you do it, but you get him to tell us where Quinn may be found.”

“Is that all?” Dillon said.

Omar got up, came round, put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. “Enjoy it, Dillon, your last for some time, and be sensible. You see, if you don’t get Callaghan to talk, I won’t sell you back. I’ll have you shot.”

Dillon smiled at Anya. “See where an interest in good-looking women gets you? I should have listened to my aunt Mary.”

Anya laughed out loud and Omar smiled. “I like you, Dillon, but business is business.” He nodded to the two men. “Take him.”

They led Dillon along the passage, across the courtyard, and into the barn. They paused at the well while one of them removed his handcuffs, then slipped the loop over his head.

“Over you go,” he ordered.

Dillon climbed over the wall and they lowered him down into the darkness. He was aware of the water, cold and clammy, the stench, glanced up as he slipped out of the rope and saw them peering down. They pulled up the rope.

Dillon turned, aware of the other man against the wall. “Would you be Francis Callaghan?”

“Who in the hell are you?”

One of the men called in English, “Have a good night,” and the light was turned out, leaving only the darkness.

Dillon said, “I’m supposed to be Harry Gaunt, working for the United Nations and staying at the Al Bustan.”

“Supposed to be.”

“I’m Sean Dillon. Does that name mean anything to you?”

“My God, I can’t believe it. The big IRA gunman that turned sides and works for Brit Intelligence?”

“The same. I was following you.”

“And why would you do that?”

“I want Quinn, Francis me boy. We know all about this plutonium deal and Selim Rassi and Bikov, so don’t bother to deny it.”

“Screw you,” Callaghan said.

“Have you heard from Belfast lately? Daley, Jack Mullin, and four more of your lads, all dead, Francis. Six at one blow just like the tailor in the fairy tale, only his were flies on a slice of jam and bread.”

“You’re a bloody liar.”

“Sorry, old son, but it’s the truth. I stiffed five of them myself.”

There was a silence for a moment, then Callaghan said, “Jesus!”

“He can’t help and neither can I. You see, they don’t need me. They’re going to sell me back to my people. Turn the odd pound. But you,” Dillon said, “either you come up with the right answers or they’ll have your balls.”

“I’ve got to think this out.” Callaghan sounded desperate.

“Well you’ve got a long, cold night ahead of you to make a decision.” Dillon waded across the well, feeling at the wall. “My God, this place stinks.” There was a movement in the water. “Rats too. All the comforts of home.”

Callaghan said, “I hate rats.”

“Well, son, I think you’ll be used to them by morning.”

Dillon found a ledge, sat down, water up to his waist, and folded his arms.

It was perhaps an hour later that the light came on again above. Dillon glanced up and saw Walid Khasan peering over the wall.

“Are you there, Mr. Dillon?”

“Yes,” Dillon called. “And Callaghan’s with me.”

“I’m sorry, my friend. They picked me up when I returned to the cafe.”

“Are you joining us?” Dillon called.

“No. Omar, their leader, has decided he’ll ransom you for one hundred thousand English pounds. I’m being released to go back to the hotel to inform Chief Inspector Bernstein. I just wanted to assure myself you were alive and well.”

“I’m alive and in the well, as you can see,” Dillon told him. “I don’t know for how long. Double pneumonia coming up, I shouldn’t wonder. It’s rather cold down here.”

“Try and hang on. I’ll be back and don’t worry. I know this Omar. Whatever else, he’s a man of his word.”

“And Callaghan?”

“Out of our hands now. Omar has made it clear. Either he comes up with the information as to Quinn’s whereabouts by morning or he stays down there till he dies. Good-bye for the moment.”

The light went out and Callaghan said, “The bastards. All right for you, Dillon.”

“There’s always a choice, Francis. You can come clean and tell them what they want to know.”

“They’ll kill me anyway.”

“Maybe not. Quinn’s their business now, not mine, but you could still be of use to my boss, Brigadier Charles Ferguson, and you must know who he is.”

“Become an informer, you mean?”

“Absolutely. I’m sure you could tell him a great deal about all those friends of yours in the UFF and the UVF. You see, if a cease-fire comes with the IRA, it’s the Protestant Loyalists the British Government are going to have to worry about.”

“And so they should. We’ll give them hell for selling us out.”

“Not from the bottom of a well in Beirut. Tell me where Quinn can be found and I’ll see if we can do a deal with Omar. You’ll be of no further use to him, but to us… That’s a different story.”

“I’ll see you in hell first.”

“Suit yourself, son. You’ll be a long time dead.”

There was a swishing in the water. Callaghan said, “Oh, Christ, the rats are back.”

Hannah Bernstein had been worried for some time. It was taking too long. She sat in her room at the Al Bustan, gazing out to the bright lights of the city below.

“Damn you, Dillon, where are you?” she said softly.

Born into a wealthy upper-class Jewish family, her father a famous surgeon, her grandfather a rabbi, the best schools, then Cambridge, she had astounded everyone by joining the police, and her rise to Detective Chief Inspector in Special Branch had been meteoric. On two occasions she had shot people in the line of duty, so violence was not unknown to her, but her weakness was a rather rigid moral code that made it difficult for her to cope with the Dillon of the old days, the legendary IRA gunman. She could never see his slate as wiped clean no matter what he was doing now on the side of right. Having said that, the truth was she liked him too much.

The empty hotel room had begun to feel oppressive. She went downstairs to the bar, waved a waiter away, and went out on the terrace. Leaning on the balustrade, she looked down over the gardens to the brightly illuminated car park. At that moment, a taxi drove up and Walid Khasan got out.

He started up the steps to the terrace and she called, “Over here.”

He paused, glanced up, then hurried to join her. “We’ve got trouble, I’m afraid,” he said. “Serious trouble.”

Her stomach knotted. “Tell me.”

When he was finished, she said, “Can this Omar be trusted?”

“Oh yes, but judge for yourself.”

Walid turned and waved to the taxi. The rear door opened and Omar got out. He paused halfway up the steps to light a cigarette, then joined them, smiling pleasantly.

“Chief Inspector, what a pleasure.”

She became very formal, very much the police officer. “Can we rely on your good faith?”

“Absolutely. We of Dark Wind always keep our word.”

“See that you do.” She glanced at Walid Khasan. “I’ll speak to the Brigadier. Obviously you’ll act as our contact in this matter.”

“Of course.”

She turned to Omar. “We’ll be in touch then.”

“A pleasure meeting you, Chief Inspector,” he said, turned, and went down the steps.