Jack Higgins - Drink With The Devil

He zipped the bag up again and Billy fell about laughing. “Dillon, I like you, I really do. You’re crazy, you don’t give a stuff, just like me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Dillon stood up and looked down at his gear. “That’s it, then.” He turned. “I’m in your hands now, Harry.”

“All right, my old son, let’s go over it.”

THERE WAS A very large scale map on the table and they all gathered round it. “Here we go. House of Commons, Embankment opposite, and there’s Westminster Bridge. Now I’m telling you, this is one of the worst times of the year. A very high tide, turning around three o’clock in the morning, and to float you in I need the tide on the turn and driving down river, but it’s an abnormal speed. A good five knots. Maybe you should consider that.”

“I have,” Dillon told him.

“There’s no way you can control that current by swimming. It’s too strong. But if you’re hanging on the stern as I approach and I drop you at just the right moment, you could have a chance.”

“Fine,” Dillon said. “It’ll do me.”

“Crazy.” Salter shook his head. “Crazy.”

Dillon grinned, found a packet of cigarettes, and went out on deck, standing under the canopy and looked at the rain. Salter joined him.

“I love this old river.” He leaned against the bulkhead. “I was a river rat when I was a kid. My old man did a runner and my mum did bits of cleaning to keep body and soul together. Anything I could nick I did, fags, booze, anything.”

“And progressed from there.”

“I’ve never done drugs, never done women, that’s filth as far as I’m concerned. Mind you, I’ve always been a hard bastard. I’ve killed in my time, but only some sod who was out to kill me.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I’ve been at war with the world for more than twenty years.”

“With that accent, does that mean what I think it does?”

Dillon said, “Not any longer, Harry, I do work for a rather shadowy branch of the Security Services. Let’s leave it at that.”

“All right, my old son.” Salter grinned. “But with what you’ve got ahead of you, you’re going to need food in your belly. We’ll all go up to Wapping High Street. Best fish-and-chips shop in London, there.”

JUST BEFORE THREE the River Queen passed under Westminster Bridge and turned, fighting the surging tide. The deck lights were out, only a subdued light in the wheelhouse. Dillon’s gear was laid out in the stern and Salter stood there with him.

“I’m going to take over from Billy at the wheel. When he comes down here he’ll have a two-way radio. You hang off at the stern. You’ll be okay as far as the propellers go. With the design of this boat they’re well underneath.”

“Then what?”

“At what I consider the right moment I’ll call Billy on the radio, and when he gives you the shout, you go. If I get it right, the current should bang you against the Terrace. If I don’t, God help you.”

“Thanks, Harry.” Dillon grinned. “You’re a hell of a fella.”

“Get stuffed, you bloody lunatic,” Salter told him and walked away.

Dillon turned to Hall and Baxter, who stood waiting. “All right, lads, let’s get this lot on.”

TEN MINUTES LATER, he hung on a line from the stern rail, his two equipment bags trailing from his belt, aware of Billy leaning over the rail above him. They were in the shadows, the water very turbulent, and Dillon was conscious of the fierceness of the current. And then Billy called down to him and he let go the line.

HE WENT DOWN five or six feet and the force of the current was incredible, like a great hand seizing him in a relentless grip. He was thrown to the surface, was aware of the River Queen disappearing into the dark, of the lights of the Victorian lamps on the terrace, and then he went under again. A moment later he banged against the stonework of the Terrace, surfaced, and cannoned into the scaffolding that dropped down into the water at the division of the Lords and Commons.

He hung there for a long moment and then unbuckled his inflatable and air tank and let the current take them. He did the same with his fins and mask, paused, then started to climb. He went over the parapet, trailing his two equipment bags, and crouched in the shadows.

A door opened further along the Terrace and a security guard appeared. He walked forward, stood at the parapet, and lit a cigarette, the smoke pungent on the damp air. Dillon waited for five agonizing minutes until finally the man tossed the stub of his cigarette into the river, turned, and went back inside.

Dillon unfastened the lines of his equipment bags, then unzipped his diving suit and stood there naked except for swimming trunks. He dropped the diving suit into the river, then picked up the equipment bags and went to the side of the Terrace Bar where there were storerooms. He opened the small equipment bag, took out the Halogen lamp, and opened the purse containing the picklocks. He switched on the lamp and went to work. It took him less than five minutes and the door opened.

He made a quick exploration. There were stacks of towels and tablecloths, cartons of wine glasses. There were also two toilets and a washbasin in another room at the rear. He opened the larger equipment bag, took out the clothes it contained, and a towel he had put in. He dried himself thoroughly, took off the swimming trunks, and dressed in the waiter’s clothes he had brought.

He checked his watch. It was now a quarter to four. Depending on what time the Terrace staff started, he had about four to five hours to kill. There was a sizeable stock cupboard with various kinds of linen inside. There was no key in the door so he locked it from the inside, arranged some piles of towels into a rough bed. It was surprising how cheerful he felt.

“Harry will be pleased,” he thought and fell almost instantly asleep.

HE CAME AWAKE with a start, aware of the door handle rattling. He glanced at his watch and saw it was almost nine o’clock. He heard a voice call, “The bloody door’s locked. I’ll go and see if I can find a key.”

Footsteps retreated, the outer door opened and closed. Dillon opened the door in seconds, moved into one of the toilet stalls, and locked it. He waited, and after a while the outer door opened and someone entered. There were two of them, because after the door was opened a man said, “Right, take those tablecloths and get cracking.”

A woman said, “All right, Mr. Smith.”

The door banged and the man started whistling and moving around. After a while he moved into the next toilet stall and sat down and lit a cigarette. Dillon flushed the toilet and went out. The man’s white jacket hung on a peg by the basin, a plastic identity card on the jacket. Dillon unpinned it and fastened it to his own jacket so that it was half obscured by his lapel.

When he went outside, the Terrace was already a scene of activity, waiters everywhere at work in the bar and making up tables. Dillon picked up a napkin from a table, draped it over one arm, and reached for a tray. He went straight out past two security guards and up the steps.

FOR AN HOUR he went walkabout, visiting restaurants, not only in the Commons but the House of Lords, keeping constantly on the move, his tray at the ready. Not once was he challenged. God knows what Ferguson would make of that. As for Carter…

It was just after ten that he made his way back to the Terrace. It was a hive of activity. He went in past the security guards and paused. A gray-haired man in black coat and striped trousers was ordering waiters here and there, telling them what to do. He didn’t even give Dillon a second glance when he spoke to him.

“You – canapés from the rear table.”