Jack Higgins - Angel Of Death

“You’re going to war again,” Hannah said.

“That’s right.” He took a block of Semtex from the bag and two pencil timers. “Three minutes?” he asked Cohen.

“Yes,” the Major said. “That’s what you asked for and that’s what I’ve done, but I think you’re crazy.”

“I usually am.”

“You’re sure you’ll recognize them?” Hannah demanded.

“Jesus, girl, I saw those fax pictures the Brigadier brought, didn’t I?”

Ferguson, who had been a silent observer, said, “Let him get on with it, Chief Inspector.”

“And save the free world?” Dillon laughed. “Isn’t it interesting that it’s always sods like me that have to do it, Brigadier?” He turned to Cohen, who had finished loading the large inflatable tied to the dock, helped by Levy.

“You and me, Major,” Dillon said and climbed down.

Levy untied the line securing them to the dock and at that moment, Hannah stepped down.

“Chief Inspector,” Ferguson said. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going along for the ride, sir, just for once. I’m tired of being a bystander.”

Dillon laughed out loud and she nodded to Cohen, who started the twin outboard motors, and they slipped away from the dock into the darkness.

All the security lights were on view as they coasted in toward the Alexandrine . Cohen cut the engines about a hundred yards out and they came to a halt and just floated, virtually motionless. The Israeli produced a night sight and had a look toward the general harbor.

“Something coming. A motor boat.”

It appeared from the shadows into the pool of light surrounding the Alexandrine and coasted in to the ship’s ladder. Two men clambered over and started up.

“That’s them, Bikov and Rassi.” He passed the sight to Dillon. “See for yourself.”

Dillon had only seconds to catch them before they reached the deck. He nodded. “Looks like them to me. Let’s do it.”

He passed the sight to Cohen, went and put on a weight belt, then clamped a tank to his inflatable and pulled it on, fastening the Velcro tabs across his chest. He hooked the diving bag at his waist. He took out the Hi-Power and slipped the weapon inside his jacket.

“I don’t like it, this diving,” Hannah whispered. “It’s not natural.”

“The only danger is from going deep,” he said. “The air we breathe is part oxygen and nitrogen. The deeper I go, the more nitrogen is absorbed, and that’s when the trouble starts, only I’m not going deep. I’ll cross to the Alexandrine at fifteen or twenty feet. No sweat.” He pulled on his mask. “Do you still love me?”

“Go to hell, Dillon!” she said.

“I’ve been doing that for a long time now, dear girl,” he said and fell back into the water.

Dillon's approach took only a few moments. He surfaced by the platform at the bottom of the steel stairway at the side of the ship. He eased out of the inflatable and tank and clipped them to the rail beside the platform, then clambered up onto the platform. He opened his jacket and took out the Browning and cocked it. At that very moment, an Arab seaman holding an AK-47 appeared at the top of the stairs and started down. He saw Dillon and tried to bring the gun to bear, but Dillon shot him instantly, the silenced weapon making a dull thud as it hit the Arab in the chest and knocked him over the rail into the water.

Dillon started up the stairway and a voice called in Arabic, “Achmed, where are you?”

Dillon paused. Another Arab appeared, also armed with an AK-47. He stood there, quite unconcerned, and Dillon took careful aim and shot him in the head. The man dropped his rifle and went over the rail into the water.

A hundred yards away in the darkness Hannah Bernstein, looking through the night sight, shuddered. “My God, there were guards, two of them.”

“What did he do?” Cohen asked.

“He shot them both.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?” and he took the night sight from her gently.

Dillon moved along the deck, keeping to the shadows. He heard laughter, peered through a porthole, and found half a dozen sailors playing cards, smoking and drinking.

“And merciful Allah wouldn’t be too pleased about that,” he said softly and moved on.

He came to some sort of salon, glanced in through a square window, and found Selim Rassi and Daniel Quinn sitting on either side of a table. There was a small briefcase between them. There was no sign of the Russian.

Dillon opened the salon door and stepped inside. Quinn had his back to him, but the Arab saw him at once and reached inside his jacket. Dillon shot him twice in the heart, sending him backwards in his chair.

Quinn turned, his own chair going over, and Dillon said, “Easy, Danny boy, easy.”

“Who in the hell are you?” Quinn demanded.

“Oh, we go back a long way, you and me – Derry in the old days. Sean Dillon, Danny, your worst nightmare.”

“Dillon.” Quinn’s face was pale. “You fucking bastard. Working for the Brits now.”

“But I thought that was your side, Danny? Make your mind up. Now open the case.”

“You go to hell.”

Dillon’s hand came up, he fired, and part of Quinn’s right ear disintegrated. He lurched against the table, a hand to his ear.

Dillon said, “Open it!”

Quinn unclipped the briefcase. Inside were two objects resembling thermos flasks. Dillon picked one up and slipped it in his dive bag. He did the same with the other.

“What have I got here?”

“Plutonium 239. Three hundred grams.”

Dillon said, “That could take out half of Dublin.”

“For God’s sake, Dillon, you’re not with the IRA anymore. We can show the fucking Fenians we mean business.”

“It’s finished, Danny,” Dillon said. “Peace coming whether you like it or not. We’ve got Callaghan. He’ll sing like a bird. I killed Daley in Belfast and five of your foot soldiers. You’re finished, me ould son.”

The door opened behind him, he turned, dropping to one knee, and found Bikov there. Dillon fired twice, knocking him out to the deck, and behind him Quinn dropped behind the desk, drew a pistol, and fired at the same time, shouting at the top of his voice.

Dillon went out, crouching low in time to catch the seamen emerging onto the deck farther along. Several of them were armed, and when they saw him they fired.

He darted to the other side of the ship, paused beside the engine room, and took out the Semtex block. He activated both three-minute timers, raised the engine room hatch and dropped them in, then he went up a ladder to the top deck.

Cohen had been watching through the night sight. As gunfire cracked, Hannah said, “What is it?”

“He’s in trouble.” Cohen dropped the night sight, picked up an Uzi, cocked it and gave it to her. “I hope you can pull a trigger, because we’re going in to get him.”

As the first seaman emerged at the top of the ladder behind him, Dillon turned and fired twice, knocking him down, then he simply vaulted over the stern rail into the water. As he surfaced, the inflatable surged forward, Cohen at the tiller, Hannah Bernstein spraying the deck above with the Uzi.

“Hang on!” Cohen cried and threw a line.

They sped away into the darkness, the odd, angry shot pursuing them, and finally slowed. Cohen leaned over. “Did you get it?”

“Oh yes, it’s here in the dive bag.”

Cohen gave him a hand on board, and at that moment, the Alexandrine blew up in a great eruption of orange flames, the sound echoing toward the land.

“Oh, my God!” Hannah Bernstein said.

“They must have had trouble in the engine room.” Dillon shook his head. “And the Sons of Ulster are going to need a new leader. Just shows you can’t depend on anything in this wicked old life.”