Jack Higgins - Without Mercy

“Like you asked, sir, hollow point, and the ankle holster you ordered. Will you be all right with this lot in Belfast, sir?”

“Diplomatic immunity, Sergeant Major.”

“I was wondering about the shoulder holster, sir. Is that wise?”

“Yes. If things go that way with the people I’m dealing with, they’ll think they’ve disarmed me, only I’ll still have the ankle holster.”

“If your luck is good, sir.”

“Oh, it always is, Sergeant Major.”

He went out to the Gulfstream, where he found a stewardess, a young sergeant named Mary, who was there to cater to his needs onward to Washington. They took off and climbed to thirty thousand feet and she came and offered him refreshment.

All he had was a brandy and ginger ale. Funny, as he sipped it he remembered the British Navy Commander who’d introduced him to it in Saigon back in good old Vietnam all those years ago. Of course, the Brits weren’t supposed to be there, but their Navy, with Borneo experience, had offered considerable expertise for American swift boats in the Mekong Delta. To the Royal Navy, this drink had been called a Horse’s Neck since time immemorial, and Blake, especially when confronted with stress, loved that mixture of brandy, ice and ginger ale beyond most things. It was the kind of thing that made life worth living. He savored every drop and thought of the present situation, which inevitably brought him back to his dear friend Sean Dillon. So many things they’d accomplished together. In various ways, Dillon had been part of saving two American presidents from an untimely end, and in the affair with President Clinton and the Prime Minister, Major, he’d taken wounds that had come close to ending his life.

But he was still here. It was Hannah Bernstein who had gone, and Blake, surprised at his own emotion, waved to Mary and ordered another brandy and ginger ale. It was one too many, but this was Ireland after all.

So what awaited him in Ballykelly and Drumore? To his surprise he found that he didn’t really care. He’d survived Vietnam, the curse of most of his generation, and had medals to prove it. He’d survived the worst the FBI could offer, had taken a bullet to save his President’s life, had survived even worse things since.

“What can these IRA clowns do to me?” He finished his Horse’s Neck, opened his briefcase and took out a small miracle of modern technology that clipped low down behind the belt. A backup if his mobile phone went, which it well might.

“To hell with the IRA, time to move on,” he said. “What will be, will be.”

The Gulfstream descended, landed and taxied all the way round to the Special Affairs arrivals. Mary opened the door and he got up.

“Okay, son, let’s get it done,” he breathed.

It was what his old unit commander used to say in Vietnam. It was amazing how everything that ever touched you in your life stayed with you until the end.

“See you later, Mary,” he said, and went down the Airstairs door.

His Air Force pilots were right. It was raining as he drove out of the airport in a BMW. He’d already tasted the difference in the way people spoke. He’d certainly experienced an Irish accent on many occasions, but the Northern Irish one was totally different. He switched on his route-finder and punched in his destination. The details of where to go and how flowed through, and he followed them.

And what a wonderful and beautiful place it was, he thought, as he drove through the mountains and then crossed the border into the Irish Republic and followed the coast road into County Louth toward Drumore.

An hour and a half later, he came to Ballykelly, rain driving in, came to the development and airstrip with a huge sign saying “Belov International.” He paused by the main entrance, got out and looked. A man in a security uniform came out of the gate hut and walked across.

“Can I help you?”

Blake said, “No, I’m driving down to Dublin from Belfast. I was surprised to see Belov International. I didn’t know they were in Ireland. Back home in Texas, they’re huge. Is Drumore down the road?”

“It is, sir. Eight or ten minutes.”

Blake nodded and drove away. The security guard went back to his hut and phoned Liam Bell.

“The American’s just been here. He’s on his way to Drumore now.”

“Good man.” Bell switched off his mobile and turned to Ashimov and Greta as they stood outside Drumore Place. “He’s here. What do you want to do?”

Ashimov glanced at Greta. He was very worked up. “All right, let’s see how he behaves.”

Greta said, “Yuri, let him nose around and then go. There’s no you, no me, and Josef Belov is supposedly a couple of thousand miles away. He’ll find nothing and do no harm.”

“You don’t see it, Greta. This is one of our prime targets, the American President’s right-hand man.”

“If he dies here, it will send a message,” she said.

Ashimov appeared to struggle with himself. “All right.” He turned to Bell. “We’ll just go and observe him. Greta and I will stay out of the way, see what happens. But if he says or does anything suspicious – take care of it.”

“Good man yourself,” Bell said. “Leave it to me.”

Blake came down in the BMW and there was Drumore Place up on the hill and the village below, the small port, no more than half a dozen fishing boats, perhaps thirty cottages and houses, the pub, the Royal George, and a fine view out to sea and a strong coastline. Blake took the car down, went through the main street and ended up in the car park in front of the Royal George.

He got out of his BMW and went toward the low wall and looked down at the harbor. Behind, up on the hillside in the copse, Ashimov and Greta were watching. He passed her the glasses.

“It’s him.” She looked and Bell came forward. “So, what do you want?”

“Let’s see what he does.”

Below, Blake went toward the Royal George. There was a strangeness to the village, he’d noticed that, a lack of people, which said a great deal. He opened the door and went in.

Patrick Ryan was behind the bar, and over by the window, two of Bell’s men, Casey and Magee, sat at a window table enjoying Irish stew. Blake went to the bar and Ryan said, “And what can I do for you, sir?”

“I’m passing through on my way to Dublin.” Blake accentuated his American accent. “Lovely harbor. Thought I could have some lunch.”

“Indeed you can, sir.”

Blake turned and glanced at Casey and Magee. “Maybe I’ll have what those guys are having, and a beer to go with it.”

Ryan gave him that, returned from the kitchen and said, “It’s on its way, sir.”

Blake said, “You know, I’m from Texas and one of our biggest firms is Belov International. I was amazed, when I passed through Ballykelly, up the road, to see they have a branch there.”

A girl came through with his stew and put it on a nearby table. Blake sat down and Ryan said, “A grand man, Mr. Belov. Done wonders for the community, the village.”

Blake said brightly, “Oh, he comes here, does he?”

“Owns the big house, Drumore Place. We see him now and then, but he goes around the world, if you see what I mean. Was here recently, but I believe he’s in Russia at the moment.”

Blake was already working his way through the Irish stew. He was aware of the two men by the window, lighting up cigarettes, sitting there, staring at him. It occurred to him that he could be in trouble here. He wolfed down the stew, finished his beer and went to the bar.

“What do I owe you?”

Ryan said, “Have it on the house, sir. We don’t get many tourists this time of the year. You’re our first.”

“Well, that’s damn nice of you,” Blake said, and went out.