Jack Higgins - Drink With The Devil

Ferguson would have let it go, but Carter’s look made him angry.

“Well, do you, Brigadier?” the Prime Minister asked.

“Seems all right on the surface of things, but to be frank, Prime Minister, Dillon doesn’t think much of it at all. He believes general security at the House of Commons to be very poor, indeed.”

“Dillon?” Carter’s eyes bulged. “That damned scoundrel. I really must protest, Prime Minister, that Brigadier Ferguson continues to employ a man once an IRA gunman, a man with a record in the general field of European terrorism that can only be described as infamous.”

“I protest in my turn,” Ferguson said. “Dillon has been of considerable service to the Crown as you well know, Prime Minister, not least to the Royal Family itself.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that.” The Prime Minister frowned. “But this is too important for personal bickering, gentlemen. My decision.” He sat back and said to Carter, “I’d like you to meet with the Brigadier and Dillon at the House of Commons. I’d like you to hear what he has to say.”

Carter controlled his anger with difficulty. “If you say so, Prime Minister.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do. And now you must excuse me. I have a Cabinet meeting.”

EVERYONE STANDS IN line to get into the House of Commons, not only tourists but constituents waiting to see Members of Parliament. Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah Bernstein waited their turn, Ferguson with some impatience.

“The grand place, this,” Dillon said. “They tell me they have twenty-six restaurants and bars and the food and drink subsidized by the taxpayer. A fine job being an MP.”

“Yes, well at least they don’t have to queue to get in the damn place,” Ferguson told him.

A very large police sergeant watching the line intently saw Hannah, stiffened to attention, and came forward. “Chief Inspector Bernstein. Nice to see you, ma’am. Here, let me pass you through. You won’t remember me.”

“Oh, but I recall you very well. Sergeant Hall, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am. I was first on the scene when you shot that bastard who held up the supermarket. You were on your way to the American Embassy.”

“Your wicked past catches up,” Dillon murmured.

“This is a colleague, Mr. Dillon, and my boss, Brigadier Ferguson,” she said.

Sergeant Hall became very military. “Let me pass you all through, Brigadier.”

“That’s very kind, Sergeant.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

He led them through the barrier and saluted and they walked on toward the Central Lobby. “How fortunate you were here, Chief Inspector,” Ferguson told her. “We could have stood in that wretched queue forever.”

“Humiliating, isn’t it?” Dillon said.

THEY MOVED ON through various corridors, and finally went out onto the Terrace overlooking the Thames, Westminster Bridge to the left and the Embankment on the far side of the river. A row of tall Victorian lamps ran along the parapet. There was quite a crowd, visitors as well as MPs, enjoying a drink from the Terrace Bar.

Dillon hailed a passing waiter. “Half a bottle of Krug non-vintage and three glasses.” He smiled. “On me, Brigadier.”

“How generous,” Ferguson said. “Though remembering how you made six hundred thousand pounds out of that Michael Aroun affair in ninety-one, Dillon, I’d say you can afford it.”

“True, Brigadier, true.” Dillon leaned over the parapet and looked down at the waters of the Thames flowing by. He said to Hannah, “You notice the rather synthetic carpet we’re standing on is green?”

“Yes.”

“Notice where it changes to red? That’s the House of Lords end, you see, just there where the scaffolding goes down into the water.”

“I see.”

“Great on tradition, you Brits.”

“I’m Jewish, Dillon, as you well know.”

“Oh, I do. Granddad a rabbi, your father a professor of surgery, and you an M.A. from Cambridge University. Now what could be more British?”

At that moment Carter appeared and approached them impatiently. “Right, Ferguson, please don’t waste my time. What have you got to say?”

“Dillon?” Ferguson said.

“I think your security is shot full of holes,” Dillon told Carter. “Too many people, twenty-six restaurants and bars, scores of entrances and exits not only for MPs but staff and workmen.”

“Come now, everyone has a security pass, everyone is checked.”

“Then there’s the river.”

“The river? What nonsense. It’s tidal, Dillon, and the current is lethal. Never less than three knots and sometimes five.”

“Is that so? Then I’m sorry.”

“I should think you would be.” Carter turned to Ferguson. “May I go?”

Ferguson looked at Dillon and the Irishman smiled wearily. “The great conceit of yourself you have, Mr. Carter. A little bet with the man, Brigadier. I’ll turn up on the Terrace on Friday morning when the President and the Prime Minister are here, and all quite illegal. Mr. Carter gets five hundred pounds if I fail, and a five-pound note if I succeed.”

“You’re on, damn you,” Carter told him and held out his hand to Ferguson. “Shake on it.” He started to laugh. “What an amusing little chap you are, Dillon,” and he walked away.

“Do you know what you’re doing, Dillon?” Ferguson demanded.

Dillon leaned over the parapet and looked at the water swirling fifteen feet below. “Oh, yes, I think so, especially if the Chief Inspector here can come up with the right information.”

FERGUSON’S SUITE OF offices was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence overlooking Horse Guards Avenue, and it was an hour later that Dillon and Hannah Bernstein went into her office.

She sat down at her desk. “All right, what do you want?”

“The biggest expert on the Thames River. Now who would that be? Someone in Customs and Excise or maybe the River Police.”

“I’ll try them both,” she said.

“Good. I’ll go and make the tea while you’re doing it.”

He went into the outer office whistling and put the kettle on. When it had boiled, he made the tea, arranged the cups and a milk jug on a tray, and took it in. Hannah was on the phone.

“Thank you, Inspector.” She put the phone down and sat back as Dillon poured the tea. “How domesticated. That was the River Police telling me who the greatest expert on the river Thames is.” She turned to her computer and tapped the keys. “Subject coming up, Dillon. Not River Police, not Customs, but a London gangster.”

Dillon started to laugh.

THE INFORMATION ROLLED on the screen. “Harry Salter, aged sixty-five, did seven years for bank robbery in his twenties, no prison time since,” Hannah said. “But look at his record from Criminal Intelligence. Owns pleasure boats on the river, the Dark Man pub at Wapping, and a warehouse development worth more than one million pounds.”

“The cunning one, him,” Dillon said.

“A smuggler, Dillon, every racket on the river. Cigarettes, booze, diamonds from Holland. Anything.”

“Not quite,” Dillon told her. “Look what it says. No drug connection, no prostitution, no strip clubs.” He sat back. “What we’ve got here is an old-fashioned gangster. He probably objects to men who swear in front of women.”

“He’s still a gangster, Dillon, suspected of killing other gangsters.”

“And where’s the harm in that if they leave the civilians alone? Let’s see his picture.”

It rolled around and Dillon studied the fleshy face intently. “Just as I expected. Fair enough.”

“Well he looks like Bill Sykes to me,” Hannah said.

“Known associates?”

“Billy Salter, age twenty-five, his nephew.” The information came up on the screen again. “Six months for assault, another six months for assault, twelve months for affray.”