Jack Higgins: Drink With The Devil

Devlin said, “I always favored a Walther myself, Sean, there’s one in the desk drawer. Get it out.” Dillon did as he was told. “Now put it in your pocket.”

“But why?” Dillon said.

“Sean, lad, I’m too old. I’d only be a hindrance if the bullets start flying, so you’re on your own now. Only one thing I can do, which is to offer sound advice. You’ve a gun in your pocket. In a search Barry would find that easy enough. Then he’d check your back because he knows you favor that position. He’ll find the other Walther. That should satisfy him, give you a chance of getting away with the ankle gun.” Devlin smiled. “I mean, this is all supposition. Maybe Barry won’t have the chance of turning you over, but who knows?”

“God bless you, Liam, you’re the best,” Dillon said.

“Give them hell, Sean,” Liam Devlin said. “Now get on with you. I’ll phone Ferguson and bring him up to date.”

IT WAS FOUR o’clock in the morning and Hannah Bernstein was sleeping fitfully on the sofa in the small parlour at the back of the Loyalist. There were security bars on the window and Stringer had locked her in. She came awake to the sound of a vehicle drawing up in the yard. She sat up and listened to the sound of voices. After a while, the door opened and Stringer led the way in.

They were all there, Barry, Sollazo, Mori, and Kathleen, who looked pale and subdued from much weeping.

Stringer took Hannah’s Walther from his pocket and gave it to Barry. “This was in her shoulder bag.”

Barry weighed it in his hand, then put it in his pocket. “So, Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, and you work for that old dog Charlie Ferguson?”

“If you say so.”

“Oh, but I do. Careless of you making a telephone call like that with a nosey one like Kevin in the office to listen in.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“You mentioned Devlin and Sean Dillon? We can expect them nosing around, can we?”

“Look, Mr. Barry, it’s over, can’t you see that? American Intelligence is on to Mr. Sollazo here and at a White House level.”

“That’s a lie,” Sollazo said. “They can’t be.”

“They know everything. How do you think Brigadier Ferguson came into the picture?” She shook her head. “There’s no way either the White House or Downing Street will stand by and see that bullion fall into the wrong hands. You see, Mr. Barry, Sollazo is in this for greed, but not you. With those kind of resources, the Provisional IRA could keep going forever if it needed to.”

“Shoot the bitch,” Kathleen Ryan said dully.

“I can take care of it,” Mori said.

Barry shook his head. “She could still be useful as some kind of hostage.” He shook his head. “Fancy that old fox Liam Devlin making a fool of me, but why? Why Liam?”

“Peace, Mr. Barry, it’s very fashionable these days,” Hannah told him. “And most people want it.”

“To hell with polite conversation,” Sollazo said. “What happens now?”

“Maybe we should get the hell out of here while we can,” Mori said.

Barry shook his head. “My hunch is that Ferguson sent the Chief Inspector here and Dillon on a fishing expedition with Devlin supplying the local expertise. No Garda, no RUC, not at this stage. All they wanted was to know where the Irish Rose is lying. Once Ferguson knows that, then it would be a job for a Royal Navy salvage team.”

“We’ve had it anyway,” Sollazo said bitterly. “They know where we are.”

“Yes, but they still don’t know where the Irish Rose is. I say we go out at dawn and make the dive anyway. Dammit man, if that gold is reachable we could raise a few bars and be on our way. A million – two million – for a morning’s work.”

And suddenly Sollazo smiled. “What the hell, why not? I’ve been taking chances all my life. Too late to stop now, but what about Dillon and this guy Devlin?”

“Liam Devlin was the best in the business once, but he’s eighty-five years of age. Dillon’s the hard man.”

“Not to me he isn’t,” Mori said.

“Well, it would make an interesting encounter, but no need. The Chief Inspector makes a very satisfactory hostage if Dillon and Devlin turn up.” He turned to Stringer. “Right, Kevin, an early breakfast and we’ll leave at dawn. You’ll hold the fort here?”

FERGUSON ON HIS secure line finished talking to Blake Johnson. The American said, “What happens now that Ryan is dead? Would you say the location has died with him?”

“Definitely not, otherwise why would they have returned to Scotstown? My Chief Inspector, as I told you, is there undercover, Dillon in hot pursuit. A man of infinite resource and guile. He’ll sort it out, he always does. He’ll find out where that damn boat is.”

“And then?”

“Job for the Royal Navy’s salvage section. Something nice and discreet. Make it look like an exercise.” He laughed. “One thing is certain. There’s no way our friends can mount a proper salvage operation on that boat, not now.”

“The President will be pleased to hear that.”

“And so will the Prime Minister when I tell him in the morning. I’ll keep you up to date on future developments naturally.”

“I’d appreciate that, Brigadier.”

Ferguson, sitting by the fire at his flat, put the phone down and went to the drinks cabinet and poured a large whiskey.

“Come on, Dillon,” he said softly. “Sort the buggers out.”

DILLON AT THAT moment was on the hill outside the village, the Toyota parked in the shelter of the wood. He scanned the front of the Loyalist with his binoculars, then had a look at the Avenger at anchor out there in the harbor.

“And where will you be, Hannah my love? Still in bed at this time in the morning I shouldn’t wonder,” he said softly.

Dawn was coming up fast now and the morning was gray and grim, the damp clinging mist shrouding everything, and rain fell relentlessly. He lit a cigarette and wondered how he was going to play it, and then the front door of the Loyalist opened and they all came out, Jack Barry, Kathleen, Sollazo, and Mori with Hannah Bernstein between them. Stringer stood in the doorway talking to Barry, then went inside.

“Sweet Mother of God!” Dillon said and followed them with his binoculars as they walked down the slipway and got into the green inflatable and cast off. The outboard hammered into life and they moved away. Dillon got into the Toyota and started the engine.

KEVIN STRINGER, MAKING another pot of tea in the kitchen, was aware of a slight creaking as the back door opened. He turned and Dillon smiled at him.

“Dear God, it’s you, Sean,” and Stringer’s throat went dry.

“A long time, Kevin. So what’s been happening here?”

“What do you mean?”

Dillon took the Walther from his pocket. “This thing makes hardly a sound and you know me. I’ll put you on sticks, so tell me.”

“Please, Sean, I’m only a middleman on this. I listened in when the woman was on the phone. She identified herself as a Chief Inspector and spoke to a Brigadier Ferguson. Mentioned you and Liam Devlin.”

“So, as they say in bad movies, all is revealed.”

“Michael Ryan’s dead,” Stringer said. “A heart attack.”

“I know that,” Dillon said. “I know everything. So they’re going out to Irish Rose ?”

“That’s right.”

“And the Chief Inspector?”

“Jack said she’d be a useful hostage if you turned up. The Ryan girl wanted to kill her. So did that bastard Mori.”

“Is that a fact? Well we can’t have that, so let’s get down to the jetty fast before they leave.”

ON THE AVENGER Barry was at the wheel, the two women sitting on the bench beside him. Sollazo was on the stern deck with Mori and starting to raise the anchor when Stringer’s voice boomed across the water.