Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

Billy Salter was talking. “What’s going on? This bird, this Mary Killane. What’s the connection?”

It was Roper who intervened. “An IRA connection from childhood. Her father was a Provo hard man. He died of cancer years ago in the Maze Prison. The mother took the girl to Dublin when she was very young.”

“You’ve checked out what happened to her thoroughly?”

“Charles, I could tell you the schools she went to, where she trained as a nurse. All that.”

“Have you checked whether she was a member of the IRA herself?”

“As well as I could, and she wasn’t.”

“Was she a member of any political groups, anything like that?”

“As far as I can tell, which is considerable, she’s not a member of any group connected to Sinn Fein, I can guarantee that.”

It was Dillon who cut in. “She wouldn’t be. Her worth would be her being in the Republic and uninvolved. Going by her age, she’d be a sleeper.”

“What in the hell is a bleeding ‘sleeper’?” Harry asked.

“The new wave, Harry. Nice, decent professional people who work in hospitals or offices or universities, a lot of them London Irish. Born here, English accents. A perfect cover – until they’re activated.”

“In a way, that applies to you, Sean,” Ferguson said. “Your father brought you here as a little boy. Your education was English.”

“True. You don’t need an Irish accent to be Irish. The IRA discovered that with me a long time ago, and these days, it’s even more important. If you think they’ve given up, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“So Mary Killane’s task was to give Hannah Bernstein an overdose,” Ferguson said. “But why?”

There was silence. Roper said, “As a Special Branch Officer, Hannah not only put members of the IRA away, she killed them.”

“So what are you saying?” Blake said. “Somebody in the hierarchy waits until she’s almost dying anyway before deciding to have her put down?”

“Like a dog.” Dillon’s voice was almost toneless, without feeling.

Billy went to the bar and ordered more drinks. They were still sitting in silence when he returned. “Revenge is the only thing that makes sense. Whoever it was wanted their own back. Because of the IRA connection, we’re assuming it’s the IRA. But could she have been doing it for somebody else?”

One of the waitresses brought the drinks. Dillon looked at his Bushmills and swallowed it down. “Whoa, Billy. A girl like her, her whole background smacks of decency. I bet she went to Mass twice a week. And she’s a nurse, she chose a caring profession. A girl like that wouldn’t kill a fly normally. She would need strong persuasion to do what she did. When I was a boy, the Jesuits at school right here in London taught me an important thing. ‘By the small things shall thou know them.’ ”

It was Billy, in many ways Dillon’s other self, who said, “And the small thing here is the fact that her father was an IRA activist.”

“Who died in a British prison,” Roper said.

“A girl like her would need to believe fervently,” Dillon said. “She’d have to believe it was the right thing to do. A girl who goes to Mass? So what would make her do such a thing? She would need to believe it was acceptable, if you like.”

“A political act, in a way?” Roper said.

Ferguson shook his head. “An act of war.”

“Which explains why the IRA connection is so important,” Harry Salter said. “But who would it be? Who put her up to it?”

Roper said, “And then was reckless enough to knock her off afterward?”

Ferguson said, “Well, the Murder Squad is working hard at it.”

“They’ll get nowhere,” Dillon said bleakly. “You leave this with me. I’ll find the truth here, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Nothing stupid, Dillon?”

“Oh, he’s always that,” Billy said.

Ferguson nodded. “Which leads us to a bit of business. The terrible thing that’s happened has left us shorthanded in my department. I could ask for someone from Special Branch to replace Hannah, but I’ve decided not to. Billy, you’ve impressed me, more than you know, in the past few years. You know what it entails, you’ve helped out enough, killed on many occasions.”

“Now you’re being nice to me. What is this?”

Ferguson took an envelope from his pocket. “In there you will find a warrant card making you an agent of the Secret Intelligence Service in my employ, filling the gap left by Superintendent Hannah Bernstein. The photo was easy. Blame Major Roper for obtaining the more complicated information.”

Harry Salter turned to Roper. “You conniving bastard.”

Billy said, “Shut up.” He took out the warrant card and opened it. He turned to Dillon, then back to Ferguson. “What is it the Yanks say? Proud to serve.”

“Excellent. Do remember one thing. When you present yourself at the Ministry of Defence, do wear one of your better suits. Dillon, of course, has his own standards. You don’t need to report at nine o’clock in the morning. I intend to be present at Golders Green at ten o’clock at Superintendent Bernstein’s interment. I’m sure I’ll see you there.”

Harry Salter said, “I think you’ll see us all there.” He turned to Roper. “Don’t worry about your wheelchair, old son. We’ve got a People Traveller thing. Takes eight. We’ll go together. What about you, Dillon?”

Dillon was very pale, his eyes dark holes. “I’ll see you there. I’ll make my own way.”

He went to the bar, got another drink and came back. Blake Johnson said, “I’d join you, but I’ve got a plane standing by. As I said before, my instincts tell me that some of the answers to the Belov affair might be found at Drumore Place. I was thinking of dropping in at Belfast Airport on my way back, hiring a car and driving down there, an American tourist on the way through to Dublin. How does that sound?”

“Jesus,” Billy said. “Are you sure?”

Dillon said, “Your plane is official, booked out by the Embassy?”

“Of course.”

“Right. We took out Kelly and his boys, but that still is IRA country. I’d take a Walther PPK for your armpit and a Colt twenty-five with hollow-point cartridges in an ankle holster. If they find the Walther, there’s a chance they’ll miss the Colt.”

“That bad?”

“I’ve said. It’s IRA country. Kelly’s gone, someone comes in to fill the vacuum.”

“Shall I go with him?” Billy asked.

“Don’t be silly. You’d spoil his American tourist image. We’ve got things to do here anyway. I’m leaving. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Dillon turned and left, and Levin, glancing up, caught his eye. Levin went back to his newspaper. Dillon, on his way out, frowned. There was something there, but he was tired and his brain wasn’t functioning as well as normal. There was a terrible pressure on him, his one thought Hannah and what had happened to her. All the violence, everything he’d done for Ferguson, the killings, the mayhem, and she had been thrown into it and Dillon, as he walked to the Mini Cooper, was left with the inescapable feeling that it had somehow been his fault.

Behind, as the rest of the group stirred, Levin got up and left. He went back to his Mercedes, got in and phoned Ashimov.

“Have I got news for you.”

Ashimov was sitting after dinner beside the open fire in the Great Hall of Drumore Place with Greta and Liam Bell. “Tell me,” he said, and listened. After a while, he said, “Excellent. You stay on in London and keep a close eye on Dillon. Leave Blake Johnson to me.”

He switched off, turned to Bell and Greta and said, “We’re going to have an interesting visitor. One of President Jake Cazalet’s most trusted associates.”