Jack Higgins - Dark Justice

He took off, and after a while, rays of light drifted through from above. “Airholes,” he said. “That means we’re under the road and into the gardens.”

A few minutes later, they came to the end and another iron ladder gave way to another iron grille. He mounted first and pushed the grille back, and they followed and found themselves in a copse of dense foliage. The house was clearly visible through the trees.

“You’ve got security lighting mounted on the house over the terrace. There’s a camera on the left and another on the right. More stuff like that on the drive. The real problem is the wall. Even if you got over it, there’s an electronic beam five foot inside. It should take care of anything.”

“Except for a tunnel that they never knew about,” Tod said.

“Exactly.”

They moved forward, paused behind a couple of statues and looked across at the terrace. Just then, the French windows opened and Selim walked out, Ferguson behind him.

Kelly said, “Christ, it’s them.”

At the same moment, it started to rain and Laker said, “Right, let’s get out of here,” and he turned and started back to the access grille to the tunnel.

Kelly grabbed at Tod’s arm as they went after him. “You saw who that was?”

“Of course I did.”

“Christ, Tod, if we’d had a gun between us, it would have been so simple. Not only Selim, but Ferguson as well.”

“And simple is what it will be,” Tod said. “We’ll be back, Kelly, ould son, never you fear,” and they went after the old man.

When they surfaced at the entrance, Laker was in high spirits. “Did I tell you or did I tell you?” he chorused as they went back through Witch Wood. “That’s a hundred quid for me.”

“You’re right, old son,” Kelly told him. “I was wrong and you were right. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself.”

They reached the trailer site, and Tod said, “You owe the man a hundred quid, Dermot, so get it out and we’ll have a drink on it.”

He led the way into their trailer, got one of the bottles of Scotch open and found three glasses. Kelly gave the old man the two fifty-pound notes and Tod handed him the glass of Scotch.

“Bottoms up, me ould son, you deserve it.”

Laker was thoroughly drunk now, and took the whiskey down in a long swallow. “Yes, I bloody well do.”

Tod gave him the bottle. “Go on, you’ve earned it. Get off and have a lie down and we’ll see you later.”

The old man clasped the bottle to his chest, lurched out of the door and staggered off toward the bungalow at the back of the garage.

“Now, there’s a happy man,” Kelly said and closed the door against the driving rain. “So, what do you think?”

“That we go back later in the day,” Tod said. “And we see if we get lucky. Only this time, we’ll be armed.”

Kelly grinned. “You know, I’m actually believing it’s going to work. I’m even believing we could call Smith up and have him back over here tonight.”

“And where would that leave Fahy and Regan?”

“We could give them a call, tell them to walk away from the London end of things, get a plane to Dublin.” Kelly grabbed Tod by his arm. “For God’s sake, Tod, Ashimov wanted Selim and he gets him with Ferguson. To hell with the others, even Dillon. You can’t do much better than that.”

“You’ve got a point, Dermot, but let’s see. We’ve still got to think of Regan and Fahy.”

“Fuck them,” Kelly said. “If they can’t see to themselves, that’s their problem. Now let’s have another drink on it and decide when we’re going back in.”

After a lunch that had contained considerably more than a single glass, Regan and Fahy wandered the streets for a while. Finally, rain coming down, Regan said to Fahy, “What now? Back to China Wharf?”

“To hell with that,” Fahy said. “Let’s try the Roper fella’s place again. I’m tired of just standing around doing nothing. Something might turn up.”

“I’m with you. Do we ring Dermot and Tod first?”

“All we’ll get is a bollocking again.”

“Then let’s just go,” and Regan stepped to the pavement and hailed a cab.

In Regency Square, Roper had been looking at computer screens too long and was opening his mouth for a yawn when his mobile rang.

“It’s Sean. What’s up?”

“I’m tired, stressed, and I’ve been sitting at this damn thing too long. I need a break,” Roper said.

“How about I come round and take you out for a drink or something?”

“Sounds good to me.”

Roper felt better already and reached in his pocket for cigarettes and found the pack was empty. He cursed. He’d been kept alive from his terrible injuries by a cocktail of drugs, and tobacco had become a mainstay. It was the same for a lot of soldiers in his situation, and the need was overpowering. He’d have to go out to the corner shop.

He made for the front door, got it open and found it was raining. He took an umbrella from the hall stand, pressed one of the electronic buttons on his wheelchair to close the door behind him, went down the ramp to the pavement and raised the umbrella. He sailed, in a way, down the pavement, strangely exhilarated, down to the shop on the corner, where Mr. Khan had installed a ramp at one of the doors especially to facilitate Roper’s comings and goings.

A large, bearded Muslim with a genial smile and a Cockney accent, Khan greeted Roper warmly. “What you run out of now, Major?”

“Cigarettes,” Roper said. “The old cancer sticks. I’ll take a carton of the usual.”

“Maybe you should try and give up,” Khan said, as he got the carton and took Roper’s money.

“And live longer, you mean, in my state?” Roper stowed the carton in a side pocket of the wheelchair. “Wouldn’t make much difference.”

Khan tried to keep smiling, because he liked Roper. “Now then, Major, it’s not like you to be gloomy.”

“You’re right. I’ll be Cheerful Charlie from now on.”

He turned his wheelchair, and Khan said, “There was a man in here this morning asking if I knew where you lived.”

“Oh, yes?”

“An Irish geezer, Ulster I’d say, you know what I mean? It’s a different kind of Irish accent, isn’t it?”

And Roper, veteran of the Irish troubles for twenty years, the finest bomb-disposal man in the business, stopped smiling. “It certainly is. What did he want?”

“Didn’t say. Just asked if I knew you. The thing is, I saw him again with another guy a little while ago, and he sounded the same as they walked past.”

“Thanks,” Roper said. “I’ll keep an eye out.”

He moved onto the pavement, put up his umbrella and took a Codex Four from his pocket and called Dillon.

“Where are you?”

“In a cab on my way. Traffic’s lousy.”

“The fact is, I could have a problem. My friendly local shopkeeper, Mr. Khan, you know him, tells me I’ve been inquired about.”

“And by whom would that be?” Dillon asked.

“Couple of men, Northern Irish accents. I’ve got a lot of history there, Sean.”

“Where are you now?”

“On the street, on my way home.”

“Take it easy, just get inside. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Are you carrying?”

“Of course.”

“Good man.”

He switched off, and Roper started along the pavement.

Regan and Fahy, standing in a doorway on the other side of the road, sheltering from the rain, saw him approach.

“The man himself,” Fahy said.

“What do we do?” Regan already had his hand on the butt of a Browning in his raincoat pocket.

“Wait,” Fahy said. “Not out here on the street. Let him get himself together, then we move very fast over the road and help him inside.”