Jack Higgins - Drink With The Devil

“Such a vast sum of money devoted to arms for that cause?” The President shook his head. “Peace right out of the window. It is a prospect too bitter to contemplate. All my work and the work of Mr. John Major to go for nothing.”

“Exactly, Mr. President, so it seems to me that putting Don Antonio Russo or his nephew in a cell is of secondary significance. The only important thing would be to prevent that gold or part of it from falling into Loyalist hands. Quite frankly, it would enable them to tool up for a civil war.”

“No, we can’t have that. What’s your best guess as to the next step?”

“They’ll take Ryan and the girl to Ireland. Then, they’ll try to locate the ship. Probably a relatively simple operation at first, a boat, a diver. Once located, some sort of salvage operation.”

“I want this stopped at all costs.” The President frowned and then suddenly smiled. “I think this could be a job for Dillon.”

“Dillon, Mr. President?”

“You remember what happened when I met Prime Minister John Major on the Terrace at the House of Commons the other week? The bogus waiter? Sean Dillon, originally the most feared enforcer the IRA had, now troubleshooter for Brigadier Charles Ferguson, your British counterpart, Blake.”

“Of course, Mr. President.”

“Fine. So to start with, get me the Prime Minister on the secure line.”

IN HIS STUDY at Number Ten Downing Street, John Major listened. When the President had finished, he said, “I totally agree, Mr. President, we can’t allow this to happen. I’ll empower Brigadier Ferguson to intervene at once, and I’m sure Dillon will play his usual part. Leave it with me.”

He put the phone down, sat there thinking about it, then lifted the phone again and spoke to his aide. “Brigadier Charles Ferguson. I want him here at the earliest moment.”

He sat back frowning. Ireland, goddamnit. It never went away, in spite of everything he’d done, even to the extent of putting his political career on the line.

CHARLES FERGUSON SAT quietly, a grave expression on his face, as the Prime Minister gave him the facts on the matter. When he was finished, he said, “I want this stopped, Brigadier. There’s no way I want to see such huge funds going to either of the two sides in Ireland. We’ve had enough bloodshed. We can’t afford a civil war.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Prime Minister.”

“I want Dillon on this, Brigadier,” John Major said. “All right, I do not approve of his IRA and terrorist background, which is why I distance myself, but there is no doubt of the man’s extraordinary capabilities. He saved the Royal Family considerable anxiety over the Windsor affair the other year. All that nonsense over the Nazis. Then the attack on the Peace Process by the terrorist group January 30. He saved the life of Senator Patrick Keogh when he had the courage to address Sinn Fein and the IRA in Ireland and beg for peace. No, I know that Dillon is a totally ruthless man, but he’s what we need for this business.”

“I agree, Prime Minister.”

John Major looked up at him as Ferguson stood. “They call your people the Prime Minister’s Private Army, so it gives you extraordinary powers. Use them, Brigadier, use them.”

WHEN HANNAH BERNSTEIN and Sean Dillon were summoned to Ferguson’s office, they found him standing by the window. He turned, very serious.

“Absolutely top priority. Everything else stops. I have direct orders from the Prime Minister to expedite a current problem to the utmost. There is a file there on my desk marked IRISH ROSE . Take it to your office, Chief Inspector. Read it, the both of you, then come back.”

HANNAH BERNSTEIN WORKED her way through the file, reading the old news clippings, the details of Ryan’s activities, then Salamone’s account of what had happened at Green Rapids. Dillon leaned over her shoulder and read it, too.

She said, “All right, we have a very nasty Prod activist, Michael Ryan, and his vicious little niece, Kathleen. What do we know? The gold bullion heist in the Lake District, the Irish Rose seen, according to the police, by a young boy and his dog out fishing at Marsh End. So we presume the truck went on board – presume. Next fact. Lifebelts and bits from the Irish Rose wash up on the Down coast.”

“Then we have Salamone. For Ryan read Kelly, who robs a bank in New York State, kills a copper, and gets twenty-five years. In the sweat of his fever he discloses that he’s the only one who knows where the Irish Rose is. The rest we know.”

“So Ryan and the girl are on the loose aided by the Russo family. So what? We know nothing, Dillon.”

“Except that logically, all roads lead to Ireland, girl dear, and there’s more. I’ve a terrible confession to make. Let’s go in and see the man, and I’ll tell you both at the same time.”

FERGUSON SAT BEHIND the desk, Hannah Bernstein facing him. Dillon lounged by the window, hands in his pockets.

“Well, what do you think?” Ferguson said. “Putting all things together including informer’s tittle-tattle and rumors plus information from the swine Reid, back in nineteen eighty-five, one hell of a slick job was pulled by Michael Ryan, his niece Kathleen, and some mystery man called Martin Keogh. That is confirmed in an obscure Royal Ulster Constabulary report of a raid they made on Ryan’s pub in Belfast, the Orange Drum. Some wretched one-armed barman named Ivor somebody remembers the girl being saved from gang rape by some Catholic youths, saved by this Keogh. This was only a day or two before he saw them for the last time. He said they left together in a taxi for the airport and he understood they were going to London.”

“That’s right, Brigadier,” Hannah said. “Reid mentioned their contact, a Protestant organizer called Hugh Bell, who ran a pub in Kilburn called the William and Mary. Killed in a road accident.”

“Was he bollocks. Too convenient, that,” Dillon said. “He was seen off by Reid and his minder, a bastard called Scully.”

They both stared at him. “But that isn’t in the file. How would you know?”

“Because I was Martin Keogh,” Dillon said and turned to Ferguson. “I’ll just help myself to your whiskey, Brigadier, and then I’ll reveal all.”

FERGUSON SAID, “DEAR God, Dillon, you never cease to amaze me.”

“I had a past, Brigadier. You knew that when you took me on.”

“Yes, a past is one way of describing it. An IRA activist for something like twenty years.”

“British paratroopers killed my father, Brigadier, I was trying to make someone pay. When you’re nineteen you look at things that way.”

“And the PLO. Was that for political belief or money?”

“A man has to earn a living, Brigadier.” Dillon smiled. “I’d remind you I worked for the Israelis, too.”

“But now you work here,” Hannah said. “Don’t you feel any duty of disclosure as to your past activities?”

“If that means selling out old friends in the IRA, no. I was Jack Barry’s right hand for years, then let’s say I got disenchanted with the glorious cause and left, and don’t forget how I came to be here. It was either a Serb firing squad or an agreement to work for his highness here, and don’t kid yourself. He was willing to leave me to the firing squad. Don’t let’s be hypocritical – the pot calling the kettle black.” He shrugged. “How clean are your hands, girl dear, after working for this office?”

And that hurt. “Damn you, Dillon!”

Ferguson said, “Cut it out. You’ve got work to do. Go through this thing with a fine tooth comb. Everything. Access all intelligence information computers, not only MI5 and 6 but Scotland Yard, the RUC in Ulster, and the Garda in Dublin. I want a result, so get on with it.”