Jack Higgins: Drink With The Devil

“Which would bring us to Drumdonald and Scotstown, the area where we landed after the Irish Rose went down,” Dillon observed.

“What was the name of the pub you went to in Scotstown?” Hannah said.

“The Loyalist,” Dillon laughed. “The wrong name entirely. Kevin Stringer, who runs it, worked for Barry for years.” He frowned and turned to Devlin. “What do you think?”

“That it sounds promising. We’ll see. Now I’ll take a little nap and you young ones keep alert.”

AFTER WARRENPOINT, THE traffic thinned out, but there were still vehicles on the road, private cars and the occasional truck, enough to give cover if Dillon stayed well back. It started to rain, sweeping in from the Mourne Mountains.

“Sweeping down to the sea as the song says,” Devlin commented. “A grand sight.”

“It certainly is,” Hannah said.

There were two cars and a large farm truck ahead of them and the station wagon in front. Devlin said, “One thing, if we are going to end up in Scotstown or some such place, we have a problem. Fishing villages only on this coast, a jetty, a harbor, a few boats. Strangers stick out like a sore thumb.”

“We’ll have to go gently,” Dillon said. “Wait and see.”

THE RAIN INCREASED into a solid downpour, and Barry, at the wheel of the station wagon, swore softly. “The curse of this country.”

“You can say that again,” Sollazo said.

“Kilkeel coming up. There’s a grand cafe on the road just before we go through. I don’t know about you, but a cup of tea and a bacon sandwich would go down fine.”

“Suits me,” Sollazo told him.

A few moments later, they came to the very place and Barry turned into the car park. There were several trucks, a few cars, and he parked beside them. There was a filling station and garage with a sign that said Patrick Murphy amp; Son . The cafe was at the other end of the car park. They ran through the rain and went in.

Dillon pulled the Toyota in between two trucks and switched off the engine. Hannah said, “I’ll go and see what’s happening. I need the toilet anyway.”

She got out and hurried away through the rain. “A darling girl,” Devlin said.

“She saved my life once and took a bullet in the doing,” Dillon told him.

“Jesus,” Devlin said. “A nice Jewish girl like that.”

“I remember what Ferguson told me she said once,” Dillon said. “It was after she shot Norah Bell, the bitch had stabbed me in the back twice. She said I’m not a nice Jewish girl at all. I’m a very Old Testament Jewish girl.”

Devlin laughed. “God save us, if I wasn’t seventy-five years of age I’d fall in love with her.”

“Seventy-five?” Dillon said. “It’s the great liar you are.”

Hannah came back and leaned down. “They look settled. I saw Barry give the waitress an order. Look, I’m thinking about what you said, Liam, about us standing out like a sore thumb whenever we get where we’re going. That might apply to you more than me. I mean, if it turns out to be Scotstown, for example, this Kevin Stringer would know you, Sean, even you, Liam.”

“He could recognize me,” Devlin said. “I was well known in these parts, mainly because I was born in the country.” He grimaced. “Sometimes it’s hell being a living legend.”

Hannah said, “Not me. I’m just an English tourist or I could be. That garage has a car hire sign. Pass me my shoulder bag and I’ll go and see what I can get. If our friends leave before I’m ready, just go. I’ll follow the coast road Drumdonald and Scotstown way. I’ll find you.”

Devlin handed her the bag. “On your way, girl.”

THERE WAS A mechanic working on a car in the garage, a small man in a tweed suit and cap sitting in a glass office. He got up and came out.

“Patrick Murphy,” he said. “And what can I do for you, Miss?”

“I’ve been touring with some friends, but they’re going back to Belfast. They dropped me here because someone in Warrenpoint said you hired cars.”

“I do, indeed. How long would it be for?”

“Two or three days. I want to roam the Down coast. Just take time off. Can you help?”

“Well, it’s not the fancy stuff I can manage, but I’ve a Renault saloon over here if you’ve nothing against the French.”

“Nothing at all.”

She followed him across the garage and had a look. “Newly checked and the tank is full,” he told her.

“Wonderful.” She embellished her story a little. “When I come back, I’ll be wanting to return to Belfast.”

“No problem. I run a taxi service. We’ll take you to Warrenpoint. You can catch the train. Now, if you’ll give me your licence, we’ll get on with it. How would you be paying, by the way?”

She opened her purse, took out the licence, and checked her cards. “Would American Express be all right?”

He smiled. “Well, as they say on the television, that will do nicely.”

SHE DROVE OUT of the garage as Barry and Sollazo walked toward the station wagon. She pulled in behind the Toyota and briefly punched the horn. Dillon turned, raised a hand, and gestured her forward. She pulled out between the trucks as the station wagon turned into the road and followed it, and the Toyota came on behind.

SCOTSTOWN WAS DESOLATE in the rain, thirty or forty houses, the jetty, a dozen or so fishing boats in the harbor all enveloped in a damp, clinging mist. There was a wood at the top of the hill overlooking the village. Hannah pulled in at the side of the road looking down and saw the station wagon turn into the car park of the public house. The Toyota stopped behind her and Dillon and Devlin got out.

“A long time since I was here,” Dillon said. “But I was right, though. That’s the Loyalist down there, and if Kevin Stringer’s still there, he’s Jack Barry’s man.”

“Let’s take a look at the harbor.” Devlin raised the binoculars. “Not much, just fishing boats. No, wait a minute. There’s some sort of motor launch anchored out there. Thirty- or forty-footer, painted gray. Looks like serious business to me. Take a look.”

Dillon peered through the binoculars. “You could be right.”

“I’ve got to be.”

Hannah took the binoculars from Dillon and checked for herself. She nodded. “I agree, Liam, but what this needs is a closer look. I’ll go and play the tourist. I could do with a nice cup of tea and a sandwich, anyway. I’ll try the Loyalist.”

“While we starve?” Dillon said.

“That’s just your hard luck, Dillon,” she told him, went to the Renault, got in, and drove away.

IN THE BACK parlour of the Loyalist, Kevin Stringer embraced Barry. “Jack, I can’t tell you how great it is to see you again.”

“And you, Kevin. This is my associate, Mr. Sollazo from New York. You’ve found a boat?”

“Indeed I have. Avenger , a motor launch a friend of mine up the coast bought for the shark fishing only the sharks went away.”

Sollazo laughed out loud. “That I like.”

“How far would you be going?” Stringer asked.

“Rathlin Island,” Barry said. “Does anyone live there these days?”

“Not in years.”

“How far?”

“Only three or four miles.”

“Good, we can take a look.”

“Fine,” Stringer said. “But come and have a drink and something to eat.”

“So you’re doing food these days?” Barry said.

“We all need to make a living, Jack, and times are changing with the peace process. Tourists flooding back, Americans like Mr. Sollazo. I have seven rooms here. In the summer I was full most weeks. But come and eat. Best Irish stew in the country.”

THERE WERE A few regulars in the bar having a drink. Barry and Sollazo sat at the table in the bow window, ate rabbit pie and drank Guinness. On the other side of the bar, Hannah Bernstein did a good nervous act to the barman.