Jack Higgins: Drink With The Devil

Barry told him Keogh’s real name.

Cassidy laughed out loud. “God save us, the Devil himself, so God help Michael Ryan.”

THERE WAS NO one at the reception desk when Keogh entered the hotel. He went up the stairs quickly and unlocked the door to his room. It was unbelievably depressing and he looked around with distaste. It certainly wasn’t worth taking off his clothes. He switched off the light, lit a cigarette, lay on the bed, and went over the whole affair.

The astonishing thing was, as had been said, the simplicity of it. He’d have to consider that again once Ryan had taken him fully into his confidence, of course. Not a bad fella, Ryan, a man hard to dislike. And then there was the girl. So much hate there in one so young and all blamed on the bomb which had killed her family. He shook his head. There was more to it than that, had to be, and finally he drifted into sleep.

KATHLEEN RYAN TOOK a cup of tea in to her uncle just before she went to bed. Ryan was sitting by the fire smoking his pipe and brooding.

“You think it will work?” she asked.

“I’ve never been more certain and with Keogh along-” He shrugged. “Fifty million pounds in gold bullion, Kathleen. Just think of that.”

“A strange one,” she said. “Can you trust him?”

“I’ve never trusted anyone in my life,” he said cheerfully. “Not even you. No, don’t you fret over Keogh. I’ll have my eye on him.”

“But can you be sure?”

“Of course I can. I know him like I know myself, Kathleen, my love. We’re cut from the same bolt of cloth. Like me he’s got brains, that’s obvious. He’s also a killer. It’s his nature. He can do no other, just like me.” He reached up to kiss her cheek. “Now off to bed with you.”

She went out and he sat back, sipping his tea and thinking of a lonely road in the Lake District, a road that not even his niece knew he had visited.

IF THERE IS such a thing as an Irish quarter in London, it’s to be found in Kilburn along with a profusion of pubs to make any Irish Republican happy. But there are also the Protestant variety identical with anything to be found in Belfast. The William amp; Mary was one of those, its landlord, Hugh Bell, an Orange Protestant to the hilt, performing the same function in London for the Loyalist movement as Sinn Fein did for the IRA.

In the early evening of the day they had arrived in London, Ryan, Keogh, and Kathleen sat with him in a backroom, an assortment of handguns on the table. Bell, a large, jovial man with white hair, poured himself a whiskey.

“Anything you like, Michael, and there’s more where that came from.”

Ryan selected a Browning, hefted it, and put it in his pocket. Keogh found a Walther. “Would you have a Carswell for this?” he asked.

“A man of taste and discernment, I see,” Bell observed. He got up, went to a cupboard, rummaged inside, and came back. “There you go. The latest model.”

Keogh screwed it onto the end of the Walther. “Just the ticket.”

“And the young lady?” Bell asked.

“My niece doesn’t carry,” Ryan told him.

The girl bridled instantly. “I’m as good a shot as you, Uncle Michael, and you know it. How am I expected to protect myself? Kick them in the balls?”

Bell laughed. “I might have a solution.” He went back to the cupboard and returned with a small automatic. “Colt.25, quite rare. Slips in a lady’s handbag or stocking quite easily.”

“And no bloody stopping power,” Ryan told him.

“Enough if you’re close enough,” Bell said.

The girl took the weapon from him and smiled. “This will do me just fine.” She slipped it into her handbag.

Ryan said, “All right. What about the Irish Rose ?”

“Siemens ferry, tied up in Wapping near the Pool of London. Captain Frank Tully, but you know that. The kind of rat who’ll do anything for money. The worst kind of drugs, anything that pays. He’s twice run arms for the IRA to the Republic.”

“What about his crew?”

“There’s four.” Bell opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper. He put reading spectacles on the end of his nose. “Mick Dolan and Jock Grant – they’re from Liverpool. Bert Fox from London, and a Kraut named Muller – Hans Muller. They’ve all got form – all been inside.”

“Well, at least we know what we’re dealing with,” Keogh observed.

“That’s right,” Ryan told him. “Just your average scum.”

Bell said, “These aren’t good people, Michael. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I usually do.” Ryan grinned and took a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “These are my requirements. See if you can fill the bill.”

Bell had a look. “Stun grenades, smoke grenades. That’s fine. Two AK assault rifles. Okay. Semtex? Is that essential?”

“I might have to blow my way into my target.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s it, then.” Ryan smiled at his niece and Keogh. “Something to eat and then we’ll go and see Tully.”

IT WAS VERY cold on the Thames, Tower Bridge on the right and the floodlit Tower of London just beyond it. A couple of ships passed from the Pool of London, red and green lights clear in the evening darkness as the taxi stopped at the end of Cable Wharfe, and Ryan, Kathleen, and Keogh got out. The taxi moved away and they walked along the waterfront.

The ferry was moored at the far end, cables reaching to the pier. In the sickly yellow light of two lamps they could see the legend on the stern plain. Irish Rose .

“Enough to make a man feel at home,” Ryan said.

“I’m not sure that’s the right word for it,” Keogh told him.

They started up the gangway and a man in reefer coat and peaked cap appeared. “And where do you think you’re going?” he asked in a hard Liverpool voice.

“We’re expected,” Ryan said. “Tell Captain Tully.”

The man laughed out loud. “Captain Tully? Is that what he calls himself?” He laughed again. “All right, this way.”

The boat was very flat, the central section including the wheelhouse rising up from the deck three quarters of the way along. She was about five hundred feet in length.

“What do you think?” Ryan whispered to Keogh as they followed.

“That they weren’t designed for heavy weather,” Keogh told him.

They went up a ladder to the wheelhouse, stopped on the landing below. Their escort opened a door and stood to one side.

“Here we are, then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dolan.”

The man who sat behind the chart table wore a seagoing officer’s coat, had hair down to his shoulders, and a face that was so ravaged by drink and bad living that it was impossible to determine his age.

“Mr. Ryan, here we are again.” He stood up and extended his hand. “And who might this gorgeous young lady be?”

“My niece, Captain Tully. You might well remember that. This is my associate, Martin Keogh.”

“Mr. Keogh.” Tully shook his hand enthusiastically. “A real pleasure.”

“I’m sure it is,” Keogh told him.

“To business, then,” Tully said.

Ryan opened the briefcase he was holding and took out a folded chart. “There is your destination. Marsh End, south of Ravenglass on the Cumbrian coast. You have two days. Can you manage that?”

Tully unfolded the chart and examined it. “No problem. What then?”

“I’ll arrive by truck, which we’ll take across to Kilalla on the coast of County Down.” He took out another chart. “There’s a disused quarry pier there. We put the truck on shore and you sail away.”

“We do indeed, Mr. Ryan. There is, of course, the small matter of recompense.”