Jack Higgins: Without Mercy

Roper in his state-of-the-art wheelchair wore a reefer coat, his hair down to his shoulders, his face a mass of scar tissue. Once a highly decorated bomb-disposal expert, his career had been terminated by one IRA bomb too many in Belfast. Soon, a new career had beckoned, and in the world of cyberspace he was already a legend.

“So there you are,” Roper said.

“And twice as handsome,” Harry Salter put in.

Dillon went to the bar and said to Dora, “The usual.” She poured a large Bushmills, which he took down in a single swallow. He put the glass down and she refilled it.

Roper said to the others, “Ferguson’s on his way back from Washington after seeing Cazalet about Belov International. The President wants answers, so he’s sent Blake with him to help out.”

Dillon took down his second drink. “Have you shared the news about Belov’s miraculous rebirth, his appearance in Siberia at Station Gorky?”

“I have.”

“Rebirth, my arse,” Billy said. “Come off it, Dillon, all this talk of some double is rubbish. The photo on the Web site could have been taken anytime.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Harry said. “Look at the Second World War. Doubles all over the place. Hitler, Churchill, even Rommel.”

“I’d say the double story is genuine,” Roper said. “That time in Venezuela and Paris, he couldn’t have been in two places at once.”

“Yes, but the important question isn’t whether they have a fake Belov out there,” Harry said. “The question is why. But never mind that for now. I hear you’ve been to see the Superintendent, Dillon. How was she?”

“Not good.”

“I never was very fond of coppers, but Bernstein is special,” Harry Salter said.

Billy nodded. “A lovely lady. If it hadn’t been for her, we’d never have got together with you, Dillon.”

Roper said, “How was that?”

“Really? You never heard that story?” Billy carried on, “Well, Prime Minister John Major was hosting a function for President Clinton at the House of Commons. There was a question of security. Dillon said it was crap and that he could make it onto the terrace dressed as a waiter.”

“He what?” Roper was incredulous.

“But it could only be done from the river, see? He conned Bernstein into finding him the biggest expert on the River Thames, only it wasn’t anyone in Customs or the River Police.”

“It was me,” Harry said. He smiled. “God bless her, she never forgave Dillon.”

“And why would that be?”

“We’d a little bit of business. Diamonds on a boat from Amsterdam coming upriver. There was an informer at work. Bernstein knew we were going to be nicked that night here on the wharf. We’d have gone down the steps for ten years each, only Dillon here decided to be a naughty boy again, which meant the police didn’t catch us with the loot.”

Roper turned to Dillon. “You dog.”

Dillon reached for the third Bushmills Dora had poured. “It’s been said before.”

“The Superintendent wasn’t pleased at all. Since she works for Ferguson, she’s covered by the Official Secrets Act, which meant she couldn’t open her mouth.” Salter shook his head. “So, as I said, I don’t think she ever forgave Dillon for that, especially as, with our assistance, he did indeed make it to the terrace at the House of Commons dressed as a waiter, and served canapés to President Clinton, the Prime Minister, Ferguson…”

“And let me guess,” Roper said, “Superintendent Hannah Bernstein.”

“To be accurate, Chief Inspector, as she was then,” Billy said.

His uncle nodded. “And still a lovely girl.” He shook his head. “However, if we were capable of getting Dillon onto the terrace at the House of Commons to serve canapés to the President of the United States, we ought to be able to come up with an answer to this present puzzle.”

“And that’s what it is,” Roper said. “We all know what happened at Drumore. So what’s all this business with Belov International?”

“The thing is,” Dillon said, “we know, but for obvious reasons we can’t advertise the fact. Belov International could be banking on that.”

“But for what purpose?” Roper demanded. “Life goes on, even where big business is concerned.”

“ Especially where big business is concerned,” Dillon said. “Especially international companies worth six or seven billion with powerful government forces behind them.”

“And the bleeding Cold War starting all over again,” Harry said. “Or so I was reading in the Times last week.” There was a slightly stunned silence, as they all looked at him and he shrugged. “So I read the Times now and again. That’s where you learn about these things.”

“So what you’re saying is that the new president of Belov International might just be Putin himself.”

“Well, it would be nice to think so, because at least you can pronounce it,” Harry replied. “Not like most Russian names. Anyway, it’s clear that they’re staying mum about this. And obviously, Ferguson can’t say publicly that he’s got a few wild men going round knocking off the opposition on behalf of the Prime Minister.”

“So it’s a stalemate,” Roper said. “A kind of you-know-that-we-know-and-we-know-that-you-know situation. I still wish I knew why.”

“To hell with it,” Billy said. “This is what I do know. Dillon and I went up to Drumore Place and took them on. I personally shot Ashimov in the shoulder, turned him round and gave it to him in the back. Murphy, Novikova and Belov fled out to sea, but then Dillon pointed his Howler, pressed the button and blew them to hell. I saw it with my own eyes. Now, can we all have a drink on it, before Dillon works his way through the bar stock?”

At Rosedene in late afternoon, Rabbi Bernstein had left and Professor Bellamy had given him a lift. It was quiet in the corridor as the young nurse Dillon had spoken to earlier pushed her trolley along. Her name was Mary Killane. And he’d been right. Her accent was Dublin, although she was born in Londonderry in the north of Ireland in 1980. She’d been taken to Dublin at an early age because her father, an IRA activist, had been condemned to the Maze Prison on five life sentences for murder and had died there of cancer, something for which she had never forgiven the British government. At the earliest opportunity, she had joined the Provisional IRA and in spite of a respectable professional life, remained a sleeper, available when required.

The call to her present assignment had been out of the blue. It had come from Liam Bell, once chief of staff of the Provisional IRA, now retired to Dublin to lecture in English at the university, and write a book or two, for after all, things were different with the Peace Process – except that nothing had really changed. That was the fault of the bloody Brits, and people like Liam Bell were still needed to carry on the fight, just in a different way.

She was instructed to book with a nursing agency in London, where a friend to the organization would see that she was allocated to the Rosedene in St. John’s Wood. There she would await orders.

But she didn’t have to wait long. Returning to her small flat in Kilburn one night, she’d unlocked the door, walked in and to her astonishment found Liam Bell himself sitting, smoking a cigarette, and a hard young man in a black bomber jacket, dark hair curling down to his neck, lounging by the window. He was a dangerous-looking man, with the air of a medieval bravo about him. The shock she experienced was sexual in its intensity.

“No need to worry, girl dear,” Bell reassured her. “There’s work to be done of great importance to the Movement, and I know you can be relied on to do it. No one has a greater right than you to strike back.”