Jack Higgins: Eye Of The Storm aka Midnight Man

“Go fuck yourself,” Dillon croaked.

“Go on, get out of it, you old bag!” the porter shouted.

Dillon closed the door behind him. “Ten out of ten, Sean,” he said softly and went up the alley.

He turned into the Falls Road and started to shuffle along the pavement, acting so strangely that people stepped out of the way to avoid him.

It was almost one and Brosnan and Mary Tanner at the bar of the Europa were thinking about lunch when a young porter approached. “Mr Brosnan?”

“That’s right.”

“Your taxi is here, sir.”

“Taxi?” Mary said. “But we didn’t order one.”

“Yes we did,” Brosnan said.

He helped her on with her coat and they followed the young porter through the foyer, down the steps at the front entrance to the black cab waiting at the curb. Brosnan gave the porter a pound and they got in. The driver on the other side of the glass wore a tweed cap and an old reefer coat. Mary Tanner pulled the sliding glass partition to one side.

“I presume you know where we’re going?” she said.

“Oh, I certainly do, my love.” Liam Devlin smiled at her over his shoulder, moved into gear and drove away.

It was just after one-thirty when Devlin turned the taxi into Canal Street. “That’s the place at the end,” he said. “We’ll park in the yard at the side.” They got out and moved back into the street and approached the entrance. “Be on your best behavior, we’re on television,” he said and reached to a bell push beside the massive, iron-bound door.

“Not very homelike,” Mary commented.

“Yes, well, with Tommy McGuire’s background he needs a fortress rather than a cozy semidetached on some desirable estate.” Devlin turned to Brosnan. “Are you carrying, son?”

“No,” Brosnan said. “But she is. You are, I suppose?”

“Call it my innate caution or perhaps the wicked habits of a lifetime.”

A voice sounded through the box beside the door. “Is that you, Devlin?”

“And who else, you stupid bugger. I’ve got Martin Brosnan with me and a lady friend of his and we’re freezing in this damn cold, so get the door open.”

“You’re early. You said two o’clock.”

They could hear steps on the other side and then the door opened to reveal a tall, cadaverous man in his mid-sixties. He wore a heavy Arran pullover and baggy jeans and carried a Sterling sub-machine gun.

Devlin brushed past him, leading the way in. “What do you intend to do with that thing, start another war?”

McGuire closed the door and barred it. “Only if I have to.” He looked them over suspiciously. “Martin?” He held out a hand. “It’s been a long time. As for you, you old sod,” he said to Devlin, “whatever’s keeping you out of your grave you should bottle it. We’d make a fortune.” He looked Mary over. “And who might you be?”

“A friend,” Devlin told him. “So let’s get on with it.”

“All right, this way.”

The interior of the warehouse was totally bare except for a van parked to one side. A steel staircase led to a landing high above with what had once been glass-fronted offices. McGuire went first and turned into the first office on the landing. There was a desk and a bank of television equipment, one screen showing the street, another the entrance. He put the Sterling on the desk.

Devlin said, “You live here?”

“Upstairs. I’ve turned what used to be the storage loft into a flat. Now let’s get on with it, Devlin. What is it you want? You mentioned Sean Dillon.”

“He’s on the loose again,” Brosnan said.

“I thought he must have come to a bad end. I mean, it’s been so long.” McGuire lit a cigarette. “Anyway, what’s it to do with me?”

“He tried to knock off Martin here in Paris. Killed his girlfriend instead.”

“Jesus!” McGuire said.

“Now he’s on the loose in London and I want him,” Brosnan told him.

McGuire looked at Mary again. “And where does she fit in?”

“I’m a captain in the British Army,” she said crisply. “Tanner’s the name.”

“For God’s sake, Devlin, what is this?” McGuire demanded.

“It’s all right,” Devlin told him. “She hasn’t come to arrest you, although we all know that if Tommy McGuire was still in the land of the living he’d draw about twenty-five years.”

“You bastard!” McGuire said.

“Be sensible,” Devlin told him. “Just answer a few questions and you can go back to being George Kelly again.”

McGuire put a hand up defensively. “All right, I get the point. What do you want to know?”

“Nineteen eighty-one, the London bombing campaign,” Brosnan said. “You were Dillon’s control.”

McGuire glanced at Mary. “That’s right.”

“We know Dillon would have experienced the usual problems as regards weapons and explosives, Mr. McGuire,” Mary said. “And I’ve been given to understand he always favors underworld contacts in that sort of situation. Is that so?”

“Yes, he usually worked in that way,” McGuire said reluctantly and sat down.

“Have you any idea who he used in London in nineteen eighty-one?” Mary persisted.

McGuire looked hunted. “How would I know? It could have been anybody.”

Devlin said, “You lying bastard, you know something, I can tell you do.” His right hand came out of the pocket of the reefer holding an old Luger pistol and he touched McGuire between the eyes. “Quick now, tell us or I’ll…”

McGuire pushed the gun to one side. “All right, Devlin, you win.” He lit another cigarette. “He dealt with a man in London called Jack Harvey, a big operator, a real gangster.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Devlin said.

There was a thunderous knocking on the door below and they all looked at the television screen to see an old bag lady on the front step. Her voice came clearly through the speaker. “The lovely man you are, Mr. Kelly. Could you spare a poor soul a quid?”

McGuire said into the microphone, “Piss off, you old bag.”

“Oh, Jesus, Mr. Kelly, I’ll die here on your step in this terrible cold, so I will for the whole world to see.”

McGuire got up. “I’ll go and get rid of her. I’ll only be a minute.”

He hurried down the stairs and extracted a five-pound note from an old wallet as he approached the door. He got it open and held it out. “Take this and clear off.”

Dillon’s hand came up out of the plastic shopping bag holding the Colt. “A fiver, Tommy boy. You’re getting generous in your old age. Inside.”

He pushed him through and closed the door. McGuire was terrified. “Look, what is this?”

“Nemesis,” Dillon said. “You pay for your sins in this life, Tommy, we all do. Remember that night in seventy-two, you, me and Patrick when we shot the Stewarts as they ran out of the fire?”

“Dillon?” McGuire whispered. “It’s you?” He started to turn and raised his voice. “Devlin!” he called.

Dillon shot him twice in the back breaking his spine, driving him on his face. As he got the door open behind him, Devlin appeared on the landing, the Luger in his hand, already firing. Dillon fired three times rapidly, shattering the office window, then was outside, slamming the door behind him.

As he started up the street, two stripped-down Land-Rovers, four soldiers in each, turned out of the main road, attracted by the sound of the firing and came toward him. The worst kind of luck, but Dillon didn’t hesitate. As he came to a drain in the gutter, he pretended to slip and dropped the Colt through the bars.

As he got up someone called, “Stay where you are.”

They were paratroopers in camouflage uniforms, flak jackets and red berets, each man with his rifle ready and Dillon gave them the performance of his life. He staggered forward, moaning and crying and clutching at the young lieutenant in charge.