Jack Higgins: Angel Of Death

The fourth book in the Sean Dillon series, 1995

A cold wind blew in from Belfast Lough, driving rain across the city. Sean Dillon moved along a narrow street between tall warehouses, relics of the Victorian era, mostly boarded up now. He stood on the corner, a small man, no more than five feet five, wearing a trench coat and an old rain hat.

He was on the waterfront now. There were ships out there at anchor, their riding lights moving up and down, for there was a heavy swell driving into the docks. There was a sound of gunfire in the distance. He glanced in the general direction, lit a cigarette in cupped hands, and moved on.

There was an air of desolation to the whole area, examples of the devastation caused by twenty-five years of war everywhere, and his feet crunched over broken glass. He found what he was looking for five minutes later, a warehouse with a peeling sign on the wall that said MURPHY & SON – IMPORT & EXPORT. There were large double doors with a small Judas gate for easy access. It opened with a slight creak and he stepped inside.

It was a place of shadows, empty except for an old Ford van and a jumble of packing cases. There was an office at the far end with glass walls, one or two panes broken, and a dim light shone there. Dillon removed his rain hat and ran a hand nervously over his hair which he’d dyed black. The dark moustache which he’d gummed into place on the upper lip completed the transformation.

He waited, still clutching the rain hat. It had to be the van, only reason for it being there, so he wasn’t surprised when the rear door opened and a rather large man, a Colt automatic in one hand, emerged.

“Slow and easy, my grand wee man,” he said in the distinctive Belfast accent.

“I say, old chap.” Dillon showed every sign of alarm and raised his hands. “No problem, I trust? I’m here in good faith.”

“Aren’t we all, Mr. Friar,” a voice called, and Dillon saw Daley appear in the doorway of the office. “Is he clean, Jack?”

The big man ran his hands over Dillon and felt between his legs. “All clear here, Curtis.”

“Bring him in.”

When Dillon entered the office, Daley was sitting in a chair behind the desk, a young man of twenty-five or so with an intense, white face.

“Curtis Daley, Mr. Friar, and this is Jack Mullin. We have to be careful, you understand?”

“Oh, perfectly, old chap.” Dillon rolled his rain hat and slipped it into his raincoat pocket. “May I smoke?”

Daley tossed a packet of Gallaghers across. “Try an Irish cigarette. I’m surprised to find you’re English. Jobert and Company; now that’s a French arms dealer. That’s why we chose him.”

Dillon lit a cigarette. “The arms business, especially at the level you wish to deal, isn’t exactly thriving in London these days. I’ve been in it for years ever since getting out of the Royal Artillery. I’ve worked as an agent for Monsieur Jobert all over the world.”

“That’s good.”

“Monsieur Jobert told me I’d be meeting your leader, Mr. Quinn?”

“Daniel? Why should he expect that? Any special reason?”

“Not really,” Dillon said hurriedly. “I did a tour with the Royal Artillery in Londonderry, nineteen eighty-two. Mr. Quinn was quite famous.”

“Notorious, you mean,” Daley said. “Everyone after him. The police, the Army, and the bloody IRA.”

“Yes, that does rather sum it up,” Dillon said.

“Loyal to the Crown, that’s what we Protestants are, Mr. Friar,” Daley said, genuine anger in his voice. “And what does it get us? A boot up the arse, interference from America, and a British Government that prefers to sell us out to damn Fenians like Gerry Adams.”

“I can appreciate your point of view.” Dillon managed to sound slightly alarmed.

“That’s why we call our group Sons of Ulster. We stand here or die here, no other route, and the sooner the British Government and the IRA realize that, the better. Now, what can Jobert offer?”

“Naturally I’ve put nothing on paper,” Dillon said, “but in view of the kind of money we’re talking about, a first consignment could be two hundred AK-47s in prime condition, fifty AKMs, a dozen general-purpose machine guns. Brownings. Not new, but in good order.”

“Ammunition?”

“No problem.”

“Anything else?”

“We had a consignment of Stinger missiles delivered to our Marseilles warehouse recently. Jobert says he could manage six, but that, of course, would be extra.”

Daley sat there frowning and tapping the desk with his fingers. Finally he said, “You’re at the Europa?”

“Where else in Belfast, old chap?”

“Right. I’ll be in touch.”

“Will I be meeting Mr. Quinn?”

“I can’t say. I’ll let you know.” He turned to Mullin. “Send him on his way, Jack.”

Mullin took Dillon back to the entrance, and as he opened the Judas gate there was a hollow booming sound in the distance.

“What was that?” Dillon said in alarm.

“Only a bomb, nothing to get alarmed about, my wee man. Did you wet your pants then?”

He laughed as Dillon stepped outside, was still laughing as he closed the door. Dillon paused on the corner. The first thing he did was peel away the moustache above his lip, then he removed the rain hat from his pocket, unrolled it, and took out a short-barrelled Smith & Wesson revolver, which he slipped into his waist band against the small of his back.

He put the hat on as the rain increased. “Amateurs,” he said softly. “What can you do with them?” and he walked rapidly away.

At that moment Daley was ringing a Dublin number. A woman answered. “Scott’s Hotel.”

“Mr. Brown.”

A moment later Daniel Quinn came on the line. “Yes?”

“Curtis here. I’m glad I caught you. I thought you might be on the way to Amsterdam tonight.”

“How did it go?”

“Jobert sent a man called Friar. English. Ex-army officer. He offered to meet all requirements, including some Stingers if you want them.”

“That’s good. What was he like, this Friar?”

“Second-rate English public school type. Black hair and moustache. Frightened to death. Said he thought he was meeting you.”

“Why should he think that?”

“Jobert told him he would. Apparently he did a tour with the Royal Artillery in Londonderry in eighty-two. Said you were quite famous.”

There was a moment’s pause, then Quinn said, “Take him out, Curtis, I smell stinking fish here.”

“But why?”

“Sure, I was in Londonderry in eighty-two, only not as Daniel Quinn. I used the name Frank Kelly.”

“Jesus!” Daley said.

“Take him out, Curtis, that’s an order. I’ll call you from Beirut.”

Dillon was staying at the Europa Hotel in Great Victoria Street by the railway station, the most bombed hotel in Belfast if not the world. He was still wearing the rain hat when he entered the suite.

The woman who sat reading a magazine was thirty years of age, wore a black trouser suit and horn-rimmed glasses. She had short red hair. Her name was Hannah Bernstein and she was a Detective Chief Inspector in the Special Branch at Scotland Yard.

She jumped up. “Everything work out?”