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The Wolf at the Door
Jack Higgins


Dillon and company are back in the ultimate blockbuster from the legend that is Jack Higgins…THE LEGEND IS BACKSomeone is targeting the members of the elite intelligence unit known as 'the Prime Minister's private army' and all those who work with them.On Long Island, a trusted operative for the President nudges his boat up to a pier, when a man materializes out of the rain and shoots him. In London, General Charles Ferguson, adviser to the Prime Minister, approaches his car on a side street, when there is a flash, and the car explodes. In New York a former British soldier takes a short walk when a man comes up fast behind him, a pistol in his hand.For Sean Dillon the hunt is on, a very well-connected old nemesis has clearly become tired of their interference in his schemes. But proving it is going to be a difficult task, and surviving it the hardest task of all…









Jack

Higgins

The Wolf

at the Door


















To Linda Van with my sincere thanks…


The wolf at the door is your greatest danger

and not only in Winter.

—Russian proverb




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#ua98a1e6c-9661-5c4b-88e1-0a898d8fbfbf)

Title Page (#u5303506c-eb3e-541a-acb6-ef568bf5f985)

Dedication (#ue124f7d4-9805-5f15-b6da-9b6e6029a1aa)

Epigraph (#ucf60d323-bf19-5344-a733-057e029a6aa4)

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3 (#u0d61a31e-aaed-5295-9a83-8520ea61bfec)

4 (#u5fe1789d-7ee0-5ac3-bfcc-dc0c7306b4f7)

IN THE BEGINNING (#litres_trial_promo)

5 (#litres_trial_promo)

6 (#litres_trial_promo)

7 (#litres_trial_promo)

DANIEL HOLLEY (#litres_trial_promo)

8 (#litres_trial_promo)

MOSCOW (#litres_trial_promo)

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10 (#litres_trial_promo)

LONDON (#litres_trial_promo)

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12 (#litres_trial_promo)

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END GAME (#litres_trial_promo)

14 (#litres_trial_promo)

ALSO BY JACK HIGGINS (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publsiher (#litres_trial_promo)




1 (#ulink_bee23dbd-b77b-5c39-b28e-4fd80a171504)


At fifty-eight, his black hair flecked with grey, Blake Johnson still had a kind of rugged charm, the air of a man capable of looking after himself. He certainly didn’t look old enough to have served in the Marines in Vietnam, though he had, with considerable honour and the medals to prove it. Johnson was personal security adviser to the President, and had been so for more years than he cared to remember. Presidents came and Presidents went, but he went on for ever, or so it seemed, Blake thought ruefully, as he stood in the wheelhouse of a sport fishing launch named Lively Jane, on the late afternoon it all began. He peered through the window at Long Island, a light rain blowing against the glass. It was almost six. He’d have to hurry.

He had a beach house in Quogue, supposedly for holidays, which hardly ever came, and this time looked to be no different. Vladimir Putin, Prime Minister of the Russian Federation, was speaking at the United Nations in New York, and the President wanted him to attend and report in, not only on the speech but on the general attitude of the Russian delegation.

The British Prime Minister wasn’t coming either, but interestingly he’d sent his personal troubleshooter Harry Miller to the speech, presumably to do the same thing Blake was doing. With him was Sean Dillon, once a feared enforcer with the Provisional IRA, now a security adviser himself, and a friend to Blake in good times and bad.

Dillon & Miller. Blake smiled. Dillon would have said it sounded like a cabaret act. He throttled back and coasted in between the boats, so that the Lively Jane nudged against the pier.

A man was on the pier in a yellow oilskin coat, the hood pulled up against the rain, which was driving down now. Blake emerged from the wheelhouse and picked up the line to throw it.

‘Can you give me a hand? Catch the line and tie her up and I’ll switch off.’

‘I don’t think so. I’ll be needing that engine to drop you into the sound,’ the man in the hood said.

His hand came out of his right pocket holding a Beretta, and Blake, his senses sharpened by years of hard living, was already hurling himself over the rail, aware of the muffled sound of the silenced weapon fired twice and a burning sensation in his right shoulder, and then he was diving down into twenty feet of murky water.

He swam under the boat, his back scraping the keel, and surfaced on the other side as she drifted, the engine still throbbing. He saw the man at the stern, leaning over the rail and emptying the Beretta into the water. He ejected the magazine and took another from his pocket.

Blake heaved himself over and scrambled into the wheelhouse. There was a flap under the instrument panel and it opened at his touch. Held by two clips inside was a short-barrelled Smith & Wesson .38, and he was holding it as he turned.

The man in the hood was frantically shoving the magazine up the butt of the Beretta. Blake said, ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s over.’

Not that it did any good. ‘Fug you!’ the man said, and his hand came up and Blake shot him between the eyes, knocking him back into the water.

It was very quiet, out of season, nobody around. Even the little café on the pier was closed, so he did the only thing he could, he switched off the engine, went along the deck and managed to loop a line to one of the pier rings, then went below.

His shoulder was hurting now, hurting bad. He sat down in the kitchen area and scrambled out his special mobile and called in. The familiar voice answered, the President’s favourite Secret Service man.

‘Clancy Smith.’

‘It’s Blake, Clancy. I just came in to the pier on the Lively Jane and a guy was waiting with a Beretta.’

‘For God’s sake, Blake, what happened?’

‘I’ve taken a bullet in the shoulder, but I put him over the rail.’ He was lightheaded now. ‘Hell, Clancy, there’s nobody here. Closed down for the season.’

‘Just hang in there, I’ll have the police there in no time. Hold on, Blake, hold on. I’ll call you back.’

Blake reached into a cupboard, pulled the cork from a bottle of very old brandy and swallowed deeply. ‘Hold on,’ he muttered, ‘that’s what the man said.’ He took another gulp from the bottle, fainted and slid to the floor.

At the same time in London, it was an hour before midnight at the Garrick Club, where a dinner for twenty ministers from various Commonwealth countries was drawing to a close. General Charles Ferguson, for his sins, had been asked to deliver a speech on the economic consequences of terrorism in the modern age, and he couldn’t wait to leave.

The affair had been expected to finish at ten, but it was now eleven, thanks to a certain amount of squabbling during the question and answer sessions and naturally, and to his great annoyance, Ferguson had been involved. He’d had to call his driver on three separate occasions until at last, the whole sorry business came to an end. He made his escape as fast as possible, found a string of limousines waiting, and his not among them. His beloved Daimler had suffered damage and was being refurbished and the Cabinet Office had provided an Amara and a driver named Pool, who now came forward anxiously.

‘And what’s this?’ Ferguson demanded ominously.

‘We kept getting moved on by security. I’m two streets away, in Venable Row.’ He had a cockney accent, but with a slight whine to it that Ferguson didn’t like.

‘For God’s sake, man, just lead the way. I want to get home to bed.’

Pool scuttled away. Ferguson sighed. Poor sod. It wasn’t his fault when you thought of it, but what a bloody evening. As Pool reached the end of the street a limousine came round the corner and ran through a large puddle, splashing the driver severely. It kept on going and he shouted after it.

‘Holy Mother of God, you’ve soaked me, you bastards.’ His voice was quite different, more Irish than anything else, and he turned to Ferguson and called hurriedly, ‘Sorry, sir,’ and disappeared round the corner.

‘What in the hell is going on?’ Ferguson asked softly and turned into Venable Row. There was some construction going on there, a cleared area and a round fence with an opening for an entrance, along with a couple of diggers and a pickup truck. It was dark in there, just a little light in the glare of a street lamp. The silver Amara was parked some yards inside, and Pool was standing beside it.

‘Here we are, sir.’

Ferguson moved closer, and as he approached, Pool turned and started to run away and the Amara blew up, the explosion echoing between the buildings on either side and setting off their fire alarms.

Ferguson was hurled backwards by the blast, lay there for a moment, then stood up, aware that he was in one piece, but that the Amara was burning furiously. The explosion had come from the boot, and Pool had been closer to the rear of the car. Ferguson lurched towards him, dropped to his knees and turned him over. There was a great deal of blood, and his face was gashed.

Pool’s eyes opened. Ferguson said, ‘Steady old son, you’ll be fine. Help coming.’

Pool’s voice was very weak. ‘I messed up. All my fault.’

‘Nonsense,’ Ferguson said. ‘The only person to blame is the bastard who put that bomb in my car.’

Not that Pool heard him, for he’d already stopped breathing, and Ferguson knelt there, a feeling of total desolation passing through him, aware of the sirens of the police and the emergency services approaching, holding a hand already turning cold.

‘Not your fault, old son,’ he said softly. ‘Not your fault at all.’ As he got to his feet, the first police car roared into the street.

In New York, Harry Miller and Sean Dillon were enjoying a drink in the wood-panelled Oak Bar of the Plaza Hotel, where they were sharing a suite.

‘I like this place,’ Dillon said. ‘The Edwardian splendour of it. They say it was Mark Twain’s home away from home. I had a drink in this very bar on my first trip to New York.’ The small Irishman was wearing trousers of black velvet corduroy and a black Armani shirt that seemed to complement the hair, so fair it was almost white. He looked calm and relaxed, with the half-smile of a man who couldn’t take the world seriously.

‘The IRA must have been generous with their expenses. I presume you were after some wretched informer on the run from Belfast?’

‘As a matter of fact, I was,’ Dillon said, still smiling. ‘Another one?’

‘Why not, but then you’d better get changed. You are, after all, representing the British Government at the UN. I think I’ll stretch my legs while you do.’

Miller was dressed formally in a navy-blue suit, a blue trenchcoat on the seat beside him. He was a little under six feet, with saturnine grey eyes, dark brown hair and a scar bisecting his left cheek.

‘God bless your honour for reminding me, the simple Irish boy I am. What do you think Putin’s up to?’

‘God knows,’ Miller said. ‘If he thought his presence at the UN was going to force the President and the Prime Minister to attend as well, he’s been sadly misinformed.’

The waiter provided two more Bushmills whiskeys and departed. Dillon said gloomily, ‘Sometimes I wonder what the UN is for any more. Not enough muscle, I suppose.’

‘Well, it has eighteen acres of land alongside the East River, and its own police force, fire department and post office,’ Miller said. ‘I suppose they’ll have to be content with that.’ He swallowed his whiskey, stood up, and pulled on his trench-coat. ‘I’m going across the street for a stroll in Central Park. The Embassy car will be here in an hour.’

‘Better take care. That place can be tricky.’

‘That was then, this is now, Sean. These days, New York is safer than London.’

‘If you say so, Major.’ Dillon toasted him. ‘See you later.’

Miller accepted the offer of an umbrella from the doorman, crossed to Central Park and entered. There were few people around in the fading light of late afternoon just before the early evening darkness.

He realized suddenly that he was alone, except for voices somewhere in the distance, a dog barking hollowly and then the footsteps of someone running up behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. A man in a dark green tracksuit wearing gloves and a knitted cap came up fast and swerved to one side. He said hello and kept on going, turning through the trees at the end of the path. A moment later, he reappeared, paused to look at Miller, then walked forward.

Miller dropped his umbrella as if by accident, and under cover of picking it up, reached down and found the Colt .25 in the ankle-holster. He straightened up, raised the umbrella again and turned to go.

The man called, ‘Hey, you, we’ve got business to discuss.’

He ran forward, then slowed, his right hand sliding into a pocket of his tracksuit.

‘And what would that be?’ Miller asked.

‘Wallet, cards, mobile phone. In any order you please.’ He was up close now, his right hand still in his pocket.

Miller took two quick steps so that the two of them were good and close, then held the silenced Colt almost touching the man’s left knee and fired. The man cried out, lurching back as Miller pushed him towards a park bench at the side of the path.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ the man cried, and Miller reached in the tracksuit pocket and found a silenced pistol, which he tossed into the bushes.

‘Wallet, cards, mobile phone, wasn’t that what you said?’

The man had grasped his knee with both hands, blood pumping through. ‘What have you done to me? They didn’t say it would be like this.’

‘I’ve crippled you, you bastard,’ Miller said. ‘Hollow-point cartridges. Now speak up or I’ll give it to you in the other knee as well. Who’s they?’

‘I don’t know. I’m a freelance. People contact me, I provide a service.’

‘You mean you’re a professional hitman?’

‘That’s it. I got a call. I don’t know who it was. There was a package, I don’t know who from. A photo of you staying at the Plaza, with instructions and two thousand dollars in hundreds.’

‘And you don’t know who the client was? That’s hard to believe. Why would they trust you?’

‘You mean trust me with the money? That’s the way it works. Take the money and run, and I’d be the target next time. Now for the love of God, man, help me.’

‘Where’s the money?’

‘In the bank.’

‘Well, there you go,’ Miller said. ‘I’ll keep your wallet and cards and leave you your mobile. Call an ambulance and say you’ve been mugged. No point in trying to involve me. For what you tried to pull, you’d get twenty years in Rikers, or maybe you’ve already done time there? Maybe you’re a three-time loser.’

‘Just fuck off,’ the man said.

‘Yes, I thought you’d say that.’ Miller turned and walked rapidly away, leaving him to make his call.

In the two-bedroom suite they were sharing at the Plaza, Dillon was standing at his bathroom mirror adjusting a tie as black as his shirt. His jacket, like his trousers, was black corduroy and he reached for it and pulled it on.

‘Will I do?’ he asked as Miller walked in the door.

‘In that outfit, Putin is going to think the undertaker’s come for him.’

‘Away with you. You hardly ever see ould Vladimir wearing anything but a black suit. It’s his personal statement.’

‘The hard man, you mean? Never mind that now. We need to talk.’

‘What about?’

Miller put his right foot on the edge of the bath, eased up the leg of his trousers and removed the ankle-holster.

‘What the hell is that for?’ Dillon said. ‘I’d like to remind you it’s the United Nations we’re going to. You wouldn’t have got inside the door wearing that.’

‘True, but I never intended to try. On the other hand, a walk in Central Park is quite another matter, it seems, so it’s a good thing I was carrying.’

As always with Dillon, it was as if a shadow passed across his face that in the briefest of moments changed his entire personality.

‘Tell me.’

Miller did, brief and succinct, because of the soldier in him, and when he was finished, he took out the wallet he’d taken from his assailant and offered it.

‘A folded computer photo of me, no credit cards, a Social Security card, plus a driver’s licence in the name of Frank Barry, with an address in Brooklyn. I doubt any of it is genuine, but there you are. I need a shower and a fresh shirt and we’re short on time.’

He cleared off to his own bedroom, and Dillon took the items from the wallet and unfolded the computer photo. It showed Miller walking on a relatively crowded pavement, one half of a truck in view and behind it, the side of a London cab. Now where had that come from? A long way from Central Park.

Dillon went to the sideboard and poured himself a whisky, thinking of Frank Barry, the hitman. Poor bastard, he hadn’t known what he was up against. Miller was hardly your usual politician. He’d served in the British Army during some of the worst years of the Irish Troubles, for some of that time an apparent desk man in the Intelligence Corps. But Dillon knew the truth. Miller had long ago decided that summary justice was the only way to fight terrorism. Since the death of his wife, the victim of a terrorist attack aimed at Miller himself, he had grown even more ruthless.

Dillon folded the computer photo and tried to slide it back into the wallet. It refused to go because there was something there. He fiddled about and managed to pull out a card that was rather ornate, gold round the edges, with a sentiment inscribed in curling type. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.

Miller came in, ready to go. ‘What have you got there?’

‘Something you missed in the wallet.’ The card was creased and obviously old, and Dillon held it to his nose. ‘Candles, incense and the holy water.’

‘What in hell do you mean?’ Miller held out his hand and examined the card. ‘So Barry is a Catholic, so what?’

‘Such cards are very rare. They go back in history to Michael Collins, the Easter Rising. The card begs the Virgin to pray for we who are ourselves alone. The Irish for “ourselves alone” is Sinn Fein.’

Miller stared at the card, frowning. ‘And you think that’s significant?’

‘Maybe not, but Barry is an Irish name, and you told me that after you shot him, he said, “They didn’t say it would be like this.”’

‘That’s true, but he claimed he didn’t know who’d hired him, even when I threatened to put one through his other knee.’

Dillon shrugged. ‘Maybe he lied in spite of the pain.’ He took the card from Miller’s fingers and replaced it in the wallet.

Miller said, ‘Are you saying there could be a smell of IRA here?’

Dillon smiled. ‘I suppose anything is possible in the worst of all possible worlds. You were right not to kill him, though. He’ll stick like glue to the story of being the victim of a mugging. He wouldn’t want the police to think anything else.’

‘And the IRA connection?’

‘If there was one, it’s done them no good at all.’ He put the wallet in his inside pocket. ‘An intriguing present for Roper when we get back to London. Now can we get moving? Putin awaits us.’

At the UN that evening, there was no sign of Blake Johnson, which surprised Dillon, because Blake had said he’d be there, but maybe he’d decided he just had better things to do. Vladimir Putin said nothing that he had not said before. The usual warning that if the US went ahead with a missile defence system, the Russians would have to deploy in kind and implying that the Russian invasion of Georgia was a warning shot. Delving deep into history, he warned the US about over-confidence in its military might. ‘Rome may have destroyed Carthage, but eventually it was destroyed by barbarians.’

‘That’s a good one,’ Miller murmured.

‘I know,’ Dillon said, ‘though I don’t know if equating Russia with the barbarians is really a good idea for him.’

Putin then moved on to Britain, turning to look at the British Ambassador to the UN as if addressing him personally. Britain was guilty of granting asylum to some who had been traitors to the Russian people. London had become a launching pad to fight Russia. In the end, it seemed impossible to have normal relations any more. And on and on.

Many people sitting there obviously agreed with him and there was applause. The British Ambassador answered robustly, pointing out that British Security Services had identified Russia as a menace to national safety, the third most serious threat facing the country, after Al Qaeda terrorism and Iranian nuclear proliferation.

At the champagne reception afterwards, Miller said, ‘The trouble is, Vladimir Putin is dangerously capable. Afghanistan, Iraq, Chechnya, not to mention his career with the KGB.’

‘I agree,’ Dillon nodded. ‘But in a way, the most significant thing about him is that he’s a patriot. He believes what he says. That’s what makes him the most dangerous of all.’ He nodded towards the Russian delegation, who were hanging on Putin’s every word as he spoke to a Hamas representative. ‘Anyone of special interest over there?’

‘Actually, there is,’ Miller said. ‘The scholarly-looking man with the rather weary face and auburn hair.’

‘Grey suit, about fifty?’

‘Colonel Josef Lermov, new Head of Station for the GRU at the London Embassy. At least that’s the whisper Ferguson’s heard. He only told me yesterday and pulled out Lermov’s photo.’

‘I see,’ Dillon said. ‘So they’ve given up on finding his predecessor, dear old Boris Luzhkov?’

‘It seems so.’

‘It’s hardly likely they would have succeeded, considering he went into the Thames with a bullet between the eyes. Ferguson had the disposal team fish him out the same day,’ Dillon told him.

‘Ashes to ashes?’ Miller said.

‘If he couldn’t take the consequences, he shouldn’t have joined. Lermov is coming this way.’

Lermov was. Even his smile seemed weary. ‘Major Miller, I believe? Josef Lermov.’ He turned to Dillon and held out his hand. ‘So nice to meet you, Mr Dillon.’

‘How flattering to be recognized,’ Dillon told him.

‘Oh, your reputation precedes you.’

Miller smiled. ‘How’s Luzhkov, still on holiday?’

Lermov gave no sign of being fazed. ‘I understand he is in Moscow, being considered for a new post as we speak.’

‘What a shame,’ Dillon said. ‘He loved London. He must regret leaving after all those years.’

‘Time to move on,’ Lermov told him.

‘And his number two man, Major Yuri Bounine? Was it time for him to move on?’ A loaded question from Miller if ever there was one, considering that said Yuri Bounine, having defected, was being held by Ferguson in a secure location in London.

Lermov said patiently, ‘He is on special assignment, that is all I can say. I can only speak for my own situation in London and not for Moscow. You spent enough time serving in British Army Intelligence to know what I mean.’

‘Oh, I do.’ Miller beckoned to a waiter. ‘Now join us in a glass of champagne, Josef? We could celebrate your London appointment.’

‘Most kind of you.’ A brief smile flickered, as if he was amused at Miller’s familiarity.

Dillon said, ‘It isn’t vodka, but it will do to take along.’ He raised his glass. ‘To Vladimir Putin. That was quite a speech.’

‘You think so?’ Lermov said.

‘A bit of a genius if you look at it,’ Dillon said.

Miller smiled. ‘Definitely a man to keep your eye on.’

Lermov said, ‘Your friend, Blake Johnson, I expected him to be here, too. I wonder what’s happened to him? Ah, well, I suppose he’s moved on also.’ He smiled that odd smile and walked away.

At Mercy Hospital on the Upper East Side, the man known as Frank Barry lay in a room on the fifth floor where he had been prepped to get the bullet out of his knee. His eyes were closed and he was hooked up to everything in sight, the only sounds electronic beepings. A young intern entered, dressed for the operating theatre, a nurse behind him. He raised the sheet over Barry’s left knee and shuddered.

‘Christ, that’s as bad as I’ve seen. This guy’s going to be crippled.’ Barry didn’t move. ‘He’s been thoroughly prepped, I take it.’

‘The anaesthetist on this one is Dr Hale. The guy was in such agony, he was begging for mercy. Mind you, I caught him making a phone call earlier in spite of the pain, so I confiscated it. It’s on the side there. He said his name was Frank Barry and he lived in the Village. Mugged in Central Park.’

‘Just when I thought it was safe to go there,’ Hale said. ‘The police have been notified?’

‘Nobody’s turned up yet, but they’ve been told he’s going into the O.R., so I suppose they think they can take their time.’

‘OK,’ the intern said. ‘Twenty minutes.’ He went out and the nurse followed him.

It was quiet in the corridor. The man who emerged from the lift at the far end wore green scrubs, a skullcap and a surgical mask. He took his time, checking the names on doors almost casually, found what he was looking for, and went in.

Barry was out, there was no doubt about that, as the man produced a hypo from his pocket ready charged, exposed the needle and injected its contents in the left arm. He stood there, looking down for a moment, noticed Barry’s mobile phone on the bedside table, picked it up and turned to dump the hypo in the bin. The door opened and the nurse came in.

She was immediately alarmed. ‘Who are you? What are you doing?’

He dropped the hypo in the bin and punched her brutally, knocking her to the floor. He went out, hurried along the corridor and, as an alarm sounded behind him, didn’t bother with the lift, but took the stairs, plunging down fast, finally reaching the basement parking area. A few moments later, he was driving out.

Upstairs, of course, it was pandemonium on the fifth floor with the discovery of the unconscious nurse, but it would be some time before she would be able to explain what had happened. The only certainty was that the man known as Frank Barry was dead.

It was just before midnight in London when Major Giles Roper of the bomb-scarred face, sitting at his computer at the Holland Park safe house, got the phone call from Ferguson.

‘Little late for you, General.’

‘Never mind that. Some bugger just tried to blow me up after I’d been to that do at the Garrick.’

Roper turned his wheelchair to the drinks table, poured a large Scotch, and said, ‘Tell me.’

Which Ferguson did, the whole affair, including the death of Pool. ‘I’m at Rosedene now,’ he said, naming the very private hospital he had created for his people in London, a place of absolute total privacy and security, headed by the finest general surgeon in London. ‘Bellamy’s insisting on checking me thoroughly. I was knocked over by the blast.’

‘You’ve been lucky,’ Roper said ruefully. ‘And I’m the expert.’

‘But not Pool.’

‘From what you’ve told me, there’s a story with him that bears investigation.’

‘You could be right. He wasn’t my usual man, and the Cabinet Office uses hire-car companies when it’s under pressure. I’ve told the anti-terrorism people at Scotland Yard to play it down as much as possible. Fault in the car, petrol explosion, that kind of thing. Don’t want the press leaping in and implying Muslim bombs.’

‘Maybe it was.’

‘Well, we don’t want another public panic. Bellamy’s had Pool’s body brought here, and George Langley will do the post-mortem. I’ll stay till he’s done.’

After hanging up, Roper sat there thinking about it, and Tony Doyle, the military police sergeant on night duty, came in. ‘Still at it, Major? What am I going to do with you?’

‘That was General Ferguson. He was going to his car when it blew up. The driver’s dead.’

‘My God,’ Doyle said softly. ‘Takes you back to Ireland in the Troubles. Like someone’s walked over my grave.’ He shivered. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘Sustenance, Tony, that’s what I need. Get me a bacon sandwich. I’d better get in touch with Miller and Dillon in New York.’

‘Christ, they’ll go berserk, those two.’

He went out. Roper poured another whisky, then phoned Miller on his Codex.




2 (#ulink_61606262-533d-5f4d-a188-b8ca170edbce)


Miller and Dillon were walking back to their limousine outside the UN, discussing where to go for dinner, when Miller took the call. He listened, his face grim, then said, ‘Tell Dillon.’

He handed his Codex over and Dillon listened, his face darkening. ‘You’re sure the old sod’s OK?’

‘So it would appear. Not the driver, though. Something fishy there, I think.’

‘Then you’d better investigate.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know, Harry’s in charge. I’m just his minder.’

‘As if he needs one.’

‘Certainly not on this trip. He went for a walk in Central Park and some bastard had a go.’

‘Mugged him, you mean?’

‘Not sure. There could have been a bit more to it than that.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Which Dillon did and afterwards Roper said, ‘Very strange, especially the prayer card. You’ve got a point, Sean, I’ll check it online. OK, talk things over and let me know what you decide.’

Dillon handed the Codex back. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘Let’s go back to the hotel and talk.’

But just as soon as they got back to the Plaza and reached the suite, the room telephone sounded. It was Clancy Smith. ‘I heard you were in town.’

‘Good to hear from you,’ Dillon said, and put the phone on speaker.

‘Not this time, Sean. I believe you and Major Miller were expecting to see Blake?’

‘We certainly were. He missed quite a speech.’

‘He’s in a hospital on Long Island, suffering from a gunshot wound. I’m with him now, but he’s just had surgery so he’s not exactly in top shape. The police recovered the body of his assailant, a man named Jack Flynn.’

‘An Irish name,’ Dillon said, his voice grim.

‘We’ve recovered his Social Security card and driver’s licence, and an American passport, and they look kosher to me. Place of birth New York. We’ll check to see if he’s got a record, which I expect he has. Something’s odd about all this. Blake rambled a lot to the receiving doctor and said the guy started to fire at him the moment he got on the boat. He seemed intent on killing him from the word go.’

‘I see.’ Dillon frowned. ‘Anything else, anything about this Flynn character that would help with his background?’

‘Not really,’ Clancy said. ‘Except for one thing. He appears to have been of a religious turn of mind. There was a sort of prayer card in his wallet.’

Dillon said, ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone?’

‘How in hell do you know that?’ Clancy was truly shocked.

‘The Irish for “ourselves alone” is Sinn Fein, Clancy.’

‘Are you saying this has got something to do with the IRA?’

‘Clancy, this is Miller,’ the major interrupted. ‘Early evening before we left for the UN, I took a walk in Central Park. I was carrying, a Colt .25 in an ankle-holster, and good job I was.’

‘OK,’ Clancy said. ‘Tell me the worst.’

Miller did. ‘I could have killed this Barry guy, but I didn’t. It seemed unlikely he’d want to make a police case out of it. It was only later, when Dillon was looking at the computer photo of me Barry had in his wallet that he discovered the prayer card. It seemed like a curio, but now that we have two of them, it gets more interesting.’

‘It sure does,’ Clancy said. ‘I’ll make careful enquiries with the NYPD and find out where this Barry guy ended up, then move him so we can get some answers. I can assure you that you will be kept out of it, Major.’

‘Well, that eases my mind,’ Miller told him. ‘You seem on top of your game, Clancy.’

‘I’d better get moving. When are you returning to London?’

‘Sooner than we’d expected,’ Miller said. ‘Because we’ve got more news for you. Just after eleven o’clock London time, General Ferguson was leaving a function to go home and his car blew up.’

Clancy was horrified. ‘What happened to him?’

‘He was blown over by the blast as he walked towards the limousine. They’ve been checking him out at Rosedene, and he seems all right.’

‘Unfortunately, the driver was killed. I think he was closer to the car and the bomb went off prematurely,’ Dillon said. ‘Ferguson’s going to play the whole thing down as some sort of engine failure leading to the explosion. No talk of bombs.’

‘Well, that makes sense. I can see where he’s going. But for this to happen to Charles Ferguson, on top of everything else tonight, is hardly a coincidence.’

‘Which is why I’m going to call our two pilots now. We’re leaving instantly.’

‘Well, don’t let me hold you, gentlemen. I’ll stay in touch.’

Perhaps an hour and a half later, their Gulfstream lifted out into the Atlantic, leaving the lights of New York behind and rose to thirty-thousand and headed east. Miller and Harry sat on either side in wide comfortable seats, and Parry, one of the pilots, entered the cabin.

‘If there’s anything you want, it’s in the kitchen area. You know where the drinks cabinet is, Sean.’

‘You’re too kind,’ Dillon told him. ‘How long?’

‘The weather in the mid-Atlantic isn’t perfect, but at the worst, I’d say we’ll make Farley Field in six hours.’

He went out and Dillon’s Codex sounded. It was Clancy. ‘Have I got news for you.’

Dillon put his phone on speaker and leaned towards Miller.

‘I traced Barry to Mercy Hospital, and get this. He was waiting to go into the operating room when some guy in scrubs turned up and stuck a hypodermic in him. A nurse discovered him, he knocked her out and ran for it. Long gone, my friends.’

‘Whoever was behind Barry didn’t trust him to keep his mouth shut,’ Dillon said. ‘But how did they find out where he was so quickly?’

‘I’ve seen the nurse’s statement. When he was in great pain and waiting to be prepped, she heard him call somebody on his mobile, very worked up, very agitated. He said, “It’s me, you bastard, I’m in Mercy Hospital with a bullet in my knee and you’d better do something about it or else.” She said she took the phone from him and put it on the side table.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Dillon said. ‘It’s gone.’

‘So no way of tracing who his employer was. No point in showing the nurse any faces. The guy was in green scrubs, a face mask, skullcap, the works. Oh, the police will go through the motions, but I’d say that’s it. You’re still out of it, Major, which is the main thing. Stay in touch, and if you make any sense out of the prayer card thing, let me know.’

Dillon switched off his phone. Got up, went to the kitchen, found a half-bottle of Krug champagne in the ice box, thumbed off the cork, took two glasses and returned to his seat. He filled one glass and handed it to Miller, then filled the other.

‘Are we celebrating something?’ Miller asked.

‘Not exactly, it’s just that champagne always concentrates my mind wonderfully. Drink up, and we’ll decide who’s going to call Roper.’

Roper listened with considerable calm under the circumstances, but then as the man constantly at the centre of the storm at the Holland Park safe house communication centre, he had long since stopped being surprised at anything.

‘So one prayer card is certainly interesting, and two, more than a coincidence.’

‘Exactly,’ Dillon said. ‘And three would be enemy action.’

‘George Langley’s doing the post-mortem now on Pool, so Ferguson’s still at Rosedene. I’ll give him a call and ask him to have a look in Pool’s wallet. I’ll be back.’

‘There you go,’ Dillon said to Miller. ‘Mystery piles on mystery.’

‘We’ll wait and see,’ Miller told him. ‘What about a little shut-eye?’

‘On a plane? Never.’ Dillon rose and picked up the empty half-bottle of Krug. ‘I’m sure there was another half-bottle in the kitchen. I’ll go and see.’

At Rosedene, Maggie Duncan, the matron, a no-nonsense Scot, produced Pool’s ravaged and bloodstained suit in the anteroom next to the theatre where Professor George Langley was performing the post-mortem on the corpse of the unfortunate chauffeur. She wore latex gloves, as did Ferguson, and gingerly emptied the pockets and laid the contents on a towel spread on a table.

A half-empty pack of cigarettes, a plastic lighter, what looked like house keys on a ring, a comb, a car key with a plastic black-and-gold tab with a telephone number, but no name.

‘Do you want to examine the wallet, General?’ she asked.

‘No, just take out what you find.’

She did. There was cash, forty-five pounds in banknotes, a driver’s licence, a national insurance card, a Premier credit card, a cheaply printed business card which she found in one of the pockets and handed over.

Ferguson examined it. ‘Henry Pool, Private Hire, 15 Green Street, Kilburn.’ He put it down on the towel and, as he did, she extracted another card.

‘This is interesting,’ she said. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.’ Ferguson took it from her. ‘Is it important?’ she asked.

‘It certainly is, my dear.’ Ferguson put the card down, took out his Codex and called Roper. ‘It’s here,’ he said, when the major answered,’ also a business card, Henry Pool, Private Hire, 15 Green Street, Kilburn. Check it out and let Dillon and Miller know. And here’s an interesting point that I just remembered. Pool had a slight cockney accent, but when I was following him along the pavement from the Garrick, a limousine drove past, splashing him. He got very angry and abused them. I remember what he said because his accent suddenly sounded a little Irish. He said “Holy Mother of God, you’ve soaked me, you bastards.” Then he turned to me as if embarrassed and said he was sorry—but with the cockney back again.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser, especially since his address is in Kilburn, the Irish quarter of our city since time immemorial. I’ll see you soon.’

Doyle brought Roper a mug of tea as the man in the wheelchair worked his keyboards. ‘Making progress, Major?’

‘I think so. Look at this: Henry Pool, born in London in nineteen forty-six, mother Irish, Mary Kennedy. She came to England in the Second World War, worked as a cook, married a Londoner named Ernest Pool who served in the army, was wounded in April forty-five, and received a medical discharge plus pension. They moved to Fifteen Green Street, Kilburn.’

‘He must have got down to work sharpish, old Ernest, for the baby to be produced in nineteen forty-six.’

‘The bad news is he died of a stroke two years later,’ Roper said. ‘The wound had been in the head.’

‘Poor sod,’ Tony said.

‘The mother never remarried. According to her Social Security records, she continued as a cook until her late sixties. Died four years ago, aged eighty. Lung cancer.’

‘And Henry?’

‘Worked as a driver of some sort, delivery vans, trucks, was a black-cab driver for years, then started being referred to as a chauffeur. Continued to live at the same address through all the years.’

‘Wife—family?’

‘No evidence of a marriage.’

‘It sounds like a bad play if you ask me,’ Tony said. ‘The old woman, widowed all those years, and the son, a right cosy couple, just like Norman Bates and his mum in the movie.’

‘Could be.’ Roper’s fingers moved over the keys again. ‘So, he’s been in the private-hire business for twelve years. On the Ministry’s approved list for the last six. Owned a first-class Amara limousine, approved by the Cabinet Office at Grade A level.’

‘Which explains somebody as important as the general getting him.’

‘And yet it just doesn’t add up. How long have you been in the military police, Tony?’

‘Seventeen years, you know that.’

‘Well, you don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes—what’s the most interesting thing here?’

‘Yes, tell us, Sergeant.’ They both glanced round and found Ferguson leaning in the doorway.

‘Aside from the cards, the nature of the targets,’ Doyle said. ‘Blake Johnson, Major Miller and you, General—you’ve all worked together on some very rough cases in the past.’

‘I agree, which means, Major,’ Ferguson said to Roper, ‘we need to take a look at the various matters we’ve been involved in recently.’

‘As you say, General. I’m still intrigued by the religious element in the prayer cards, though, and the IRA connection.’

His fingers moved over the keys again. The borough of Kilburn appeared on the screen, drifted into an enlargement. ‘There we are, Green Street,’ Roper said. ‘And the nearest Roman Catholic church would appear to be Holy Name, only three streets away, the priest in charge, Monsignor James Murphy. I think we should pay him a visit. It might be rewarding.’

‘In what way?’ said Ferguson.

‘Pool would have been a parishioner at this Holy Name place. The priest might be able to tell us where he comes into it.’

‘All right, go talk to him, but you know what Catholic priests are like. Seal of the confessional and all that stuff. He’ll never tell you anything.’

‘True,’ Roper said, ‘but he might talk to a fellow Irishman.’

‘Dillon? Yes, as I recall, he lived in Kilburn for a while in his youth, didn’t he? Have you spoken to him about what you just found out about Pool?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Well, get on with it, for heaven’s sake.’ Ferguson turned to Doyle. ‘Lead on to the kitchen, Sergeant. I need a pot of coffee, very hot and very strong.’

‘As you say, General.’

They went out and Roper sat there thinking about it, then called Dillon, who answered at once.’Any progress to report?’

‘I’m afraid you’ve got enemy action,’ Roper said. ‘Ferguson found a prayer card in the driver Pool’s wallet.’

Dillon reached over and shook Miller awake. ‘You’d better listen to this.’

Miller came awake instantly and listened to the call on speaker. ‘Can you explain anything more? I mean, the driver and so on.’

Roper went straight into Henry Pool, his background, the facts as known. When he was finished, Dillon said, ‘This notion you have about seeing the priest at Holy Name, I’ll handle that. I agree it could be useful.’

‘On the other hand, Pool was only half-Irish, through his mother.’

‘They’re sometimes the worst. De Valera had a Spanish father, and was born in New York, but his Irish mother was the making of him. We’ll be seeing you around breakfast time. We’d better have words with Blake, I promised to call him back.’

He switched off and Miller said, ‘Sean, you were a top enforcer with the IRA and you never got your collar felt once. Do you really think this is some kind of IRA hit?’

‘Not really. Most men of influence in the Provisional IRA are now serving in government and the community in one way or the other. Of course, there are splinter groups still in existence—that bunch called the Real IRA, and rumours that the Irish National Liberation Army still waits.’

‘INLA,’ Miller said. ‘The ones who probably killed Mountbatten and certainly assassinated Airey Neave coming out of the underground car park in the House of Commons.’

‘True,’ Dillon said, ‘and they were the great ones for using sleepers. Middle-class professional men, sometimes university-educated, accountants, lawyers, even doctors. People think there’s something new in the fact that Islamic terror is able to recruit from the professions, but the IRA was there long before them.’

‘Do you believe IRA sleepers still exist?’ Miller asked.

‘I guess we can’t take the chance they don’t. I’m going to call Clancy.’

Clancy said, ‘This really raises the game,’ once they reached him. ‘I’m sitting at Blake’s bedside now. I’ll let you talk to him, but don’t talk too long. By the way, we’ve established that Flynn’s American passport was a first-class forgery.’

Blake said, ‘That you, Sean?’

‘It sure is, old stick,’ Dillon said.

‘Clancy filled me in about Miller and me and some sort of possible IRA link with these prayer cards.’

‘And we’ve now discovered the same card in Ferguson’s driver’s wallet, and I hear the guy who tried to waste you, Flynn, had a false American passport.’

Blake laughed weakly. ‘I’ll tell you something funny about him, Sean. When I had him covered and told him to give up, he didn’t say, “Fuck you.” He said, “Fug you.” I only ever heard that when I was in Northern Ireland.’

‘Which shows you what gentlemen we are over there. Take care, ould son and sleep well.’ Dillon switched off and turned to Miller. ‘You heard all that, so there we are.’

Miller glanced at his watch. ‘Two hours to go. I’ll try to get some sleep.’ He closed his eyes and turned his head against the pillow behind him, reaching to switch off the light.

Dillon simply sat there staring into the shadows, the verse from the prayer card repeating endlessly in his brain, remembering a nineteen-year-old actor who had walked out of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art to accept an offer to work with the National Theatre, and the night when the local priest in Kilburn called to break the news to him that his father, on a visit to Belfast, had been caught in a firefight between PIRA activists and British troops and killed.

‘A casualty of war, Sean,’ Father James Murphy of the church named Holy Name had said. ‘You must say your prayers, not only the Hail Mary, but this special one on the prayer card I give you now. It is a comfort for all victims of a great cause. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.’

He tried closing his eyes, but it still went round and round in his brain and he opened them again, filled with despair just as he had felt it that day, desolation turning into rage, a need for revenge that had taken the nineteen-year-old on a violent path which had shaped his whole life, a path from which there could be no turning back. Yet as always, he was saved by that dark streak of gallows humour in him.

‘Jesus, Sean,’ he told himself softly. ‘What are you going to do, cut your throat? Well, you don’t have a razor, so let’s have a drink on it.’

They landed at Farley just past six in the morning, bad March weather, grey and rainy. Miller and Dillon went their separate ways for Miller had a Mercedes provided by the Cabinet Office, his driver, Arthur Fox, waiting. Tony Doyle had driven down from Holland Park, under Roper’s orders, in Dillon’s own Mini Cooper.

‘I’m going home, Sean, to see to my mail, knock out a report on my impressions of Putin and the Russian delegation at the UN, then take it to Downing Street. The Prime Minister will want to see me personally, but he likes things on paper, he’s very precise.’

‘Will you tell him of your exploits in Central Park?’

‘I’ve no reason not to. It happened to me, Sean, I didn’t happen to it, if you follow me. The way it’s being handled, there is no story, not for the press anyway. The whole thing is an intelligence matter that needs to be solved. He’ll understand. He’s a moralist by nature, but also very practical. He won’t be pleased at what’s happened and he’ll expect a result.’

‘Well, let’s see how quickly we can give him one.’

He got in the Mini beside Tony Doyle and they drove away. Miller got in the back of the Mercedes and discovered a bunch of mail.

‘Good man, Arthur.’ He opened the first letter.

‘Thought you’d like to get started, Major. Traffic’s building up already. Could take us an hour to get to Dover Street.’

‘No problem. I can save a lot of time here due to your usual efficiency.’

Dillon arrived at Holland Park just after seven. ‘I’m going to shower and change and then I’m going to partake of Maggie Hall’s Jamaican version of the great British breakfast.’

‘Hey, I could give you that,’ Doyle said, for born in the East End of London, he was of Jamaican stock.

Dillon went into the computer room, but there was no sign of Roper, and then Henderson, the other sergeant, entered in a tracksuit.

‘Good to see you back, sir. Major Roper’s in the wet room having a good soak. We’re also hosting General Ferguson. He’s in one of the first-floor suites, no sign of movement. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to the Major.’

‘Fine, I’m going to my room. Tell him I’ll join him for breakfast.’

At Dover Street, Miller told Arthur to get a breakfast at the local café and come back in an hour. Once inside the house, he went straight upstairs to the spare bedroom which was now his. It was a decent size for an eighteenth-century townhouse and had its own shower room. The magnificent master bedroom suite at the end of the landing, once shared with his wife, he had kept exactly as it was before her murder, but the door was locked and opened only once a week by the housekeeper seeing to the room and keeping it fresh.

He stripped his clothes off, left them in the laundry basket, showered and shaved, pulled on a terrycloth robe and went down to the kitchen. He ate two bananas, drank a glass of cold milk from the refrigerator, went into his study, sat at his computer and produced his report. Satisfied, he went upstairs and changed, ready for Arthur exactly on time as ordered.

He called in at Downing Street, showing his face at the Cabinet Office, where he was greeted with enthusiasm by Henry Frankel, a good friend who had smoothed the way for Miller in many ways in the terrible days following the death of his wife.

‘You look well, Harry. How was Vladimir?’

‘Worrying, Henry. To be honest, I think I find him rather impressive on occasion, and I’m not supposed to.’

‘Certainly not.’

Miller handed him his report. ‘All there, but I expect the PM saw it on television.’

‘Not the same, sweetheart,’ said Henry, his gayness breaking through occasionally. ‘Who believes in TV any more? You’ve got a genius for seeing things as they really are.’

‘Lermov was with Putin. I hear he’s the new Head of Station in Kensington.’

‘I believe he’s expected this weekend. I wonder what they’ve done with Boris Luzhkov?’

‘God knows,’ Miller said. There were few things Henry Frankel didn’t know about, but Boris Luzhkov ending up dead in the Thames was one of them.

‘The boss is in and he’s expecting this, so I’ll deliver it now. He said you’re to wait, so help yourself. Coffee, all kinds of tea, juices. We’ve got a miracle machine now. Just press the right button.’

Which Miller did and also glanced at The Times. Frankel was in and out several times, but it was thirty-five minutes before he came over to him and smiled.

‘Everything on the go this morning, but he’ll see you now.’ Miller followed him, Frankel opened the door of the office and stood to one side.

‘Come in, Harry.’ The PM was behind his desk. ‘Take a chair. First-class report.’

‘Thank you, Prime Minister. Putin didn’t say anything he hasn’t said before, but he does have this dangerous gift of sounding quite reasonable.’

‘As I know to my cost, but I must tell you that I’ve had Charles Ferguson on the phone. A terrible business, this incident with his car and the death of the driver.’

‘I don’t know what the general has told you, Prime Minister, but it now seems certain that the driver was party to the whole affair. It would seem likely that the device, whatever it was, exploded prematurely, unfortunately for him. General Ferguson is handling the matter as if it was an accident, not a bomb, so there should be no problem with the media.’

‘Yes, that’s the last thing we need. Ferguson’s also filled me in on the unfortunate business in Long Island, and on your own brush with death in Central Park.’ He sighed. ‘Trouble follows you everywhere I send you—Kosovo, Washington, Lebanon. You always end up shooting someone. You are the most irregular member of parliament I have ever known.’

‘Hardly my fault, Prime Minister, when you send me to places where people are liable to do a bit of shooting themselves.’

‘A valid point. All those years in the Intelligence Corps dealing with the wild men of Ulster made you spectacularly good at violent solutions. Your decision to leave the army on your father’s death and put yourself up for his seat in parliament has proved most fortuitous, although it would have been slightly more convenient if we’d both been members of the same political party.’

‘Well, you can’t have everything,’ Miller said.

‘I’m aware of that. No one in the Cabinet has any kind of military experience whatsoever, which is why I broke the rules and made you an under-secretary of state. You can be, on occasion, a thoroughly ruthless bastard, and there are times when that’s something that’s needed.’

‘But I am attached to you, Prime Minister, and that makes all the difference.’

‘Flattery gets you nowhere, Miller. I’m due in the House soon, so you’ve got fifteen minutes to explain this whole damn mess and what you and Ferguson intend to do about it.’

Which Miller did, rapidly and fluently, covering everything. ‘That’s it, I think.’

‘And quite enough. Prayer cards, killings, a bombing, and to top all that, this suggestion of an IRA link. That can’t be possible. I’ve enough on my plate with all these banks failing plus the worst recession in years. I know there are a few crackpot organizations out there still demanding a United Ireland, but enough is enough. Sort it, Harry, sort it—and quickly.’

He stood up, the door opened behind Miller as he rose, and Henry Frankel ushered him out.

‘How do you know when people are leaving?’ Miller asked. ‘Are you a magician or something?’

‘Absolutely, love. Take care.’

Miller went out, calling Arthur on his mobile. ‘As soon as you like, and we’ll make it Holland Park.’

Dillon, after a shower and change, went to the canteen, where he discovered Roper, hair still damp, sitting in his wheelchair in a blue tracksuit, enjoying breakfast and immensely cheerful. Ferguson was sitting opposite enjoying scrambled eggs.

‘There you are, you devil, what went on in New York then? You were supposed to be his minder. It’s a miracle he was wearing that ankle-holster.’

‘Which I knew nothing about.’

Maggie Hall entered with scrambled eggs, and withdrew.

‘Diplomatic immunity covered us when we landed in the Gulfstream obviously, but he couldn’t have worn it to the UN.’

‘Probably just a whim,’ Ferguson said. ‘There’s no question of him going into parliament with it, but I suspect he does in other places in London.’ He glanced at Dillon. ‘Do you agree?’

Dillon reached down to his right ankle and produced a Colt .25. ‘All the rage these days, I wouldn’t be without one.’

Roper said, ‘A damn good job he was carrying when he took that walk in the park.’

Dillon reached for toast and marmalade and said cheerfully, ‘Oh, I suspect he’d have thought of something ghastly as an alternative. A man of infinite resource and guile, our Harry.’

‘You can say that again.’ He took a piece of Dillon’s toast and his Codex sounded.

It was Billy Salter. ‘That you, Roper? I’m at the Dark Man. We’ve had a right old business down here. Some geezer tried a little arson in the early hours.’

Roper waved a hand at the others and turned his Codex on speaker. ‘Say again, Billy?’

‘We’d all gone to bed early—Ruby, Harry, me, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall,’ he continued, naming the Salters’ minders. ‘Joe was still dressed and watching a late-night movie on television when he heard a noise from the bar. He knocked on Sam’s door to alert him, then smelt petrol, so he moved into the bar, turned on the lights and found this guy emptying a can of petrol all over the place, the till rifled, cash drawers open.’

‘Who was it?’

‘How do I know? They’re just fishing him out of the Thames. He was wearing a black tracksuit and ski mask, Joe said, and he looked like a terrorist from central casting. Joe had his Smith & Wesson with him. He wasn’t keen on firing in case the petrol ignited, so the guy threw the can at him and legged it. Sam had joined Joe by then and they went after him.’

‘What happened?’

‘The old Ford van at the end of the wharf? It always has a key in it, it’s not worth stealing. I reckon he’d checked it out previously, because he ran straight for it, was in and driving off, but the wrong way. There was no place to turn, and he simply ran over the edge of the wharf in the dark.’

‘With him in it?’

‘The police are here now. They’ll have a recovery team get the van later, but a police diver’s been down and he’s found the guy. He’s gone down again with another diver to try and get him. Harry’s here and he’d like a word.’

The unmistakable cockney voice of Billy’s uncle echoed round the canteen. Harry Salter, a gangster for most of his life and now a property millionaire, said, ‘Well, this is nice, Roper, we could all have been roasted in our beds. What the hell was the bugger playing at? There was a grand in the till. Wasn’t that enough?’

It was Ferguson who said, ‘It’s me, Harry, and Dillon’s just back from New York with the strangest story you’ve heard in a long time.’ He turned to Roper. ‘You explain.’

Which Roper did.

Standing on the bank along from his beloved pub, the Dark Man on Cable Wharf in Wapping, Harry said, ‘Jesus Christ, Roper, this is incredible.’

‘But true, Harry. The guy who shot Blake, the one who attacked Miller, and then the general’s rogue driver last night, all were in possession of the same prayer card.’

‘Tell me again what it says.’

Roper did. ‘The police will search your arsonist’s body when they get him up. Billy can use some muscle by flashing his MI5 card. See where it gets you and call back.’

Ferguson said, ‘An interesting one, gentlemen.’

‘What is?’ Harry Miller entered at that moment.

‘Well, it goes something like this,’ Roper began.

At the end of Cable Wharf were three patrol cars and a medium-sized police truck, the sign on one side reading Salvage & Recovery. There were two divers down there in scuba gear, four uniformed policemen, and an inspector who had turned up and gone to examine the bar.

Harry and Billy were standing watching with Baxter and Hall and Ruby Moon, who was wearing a reefer jacket two sizes too large. The inspector emerged from the bar and approached.

‘Nasty business, Mr Salter. Stinks in there. You’ll have to close for a while. Could have been very nasty if he’d dropped a match.’

Harry had known him for years. ‘A real evil bastard, had to be to do a thing like that. We could have all ended up cooked for breakfast.’

‘Sure you haven’t been annoying anyone lately?’

‘On my life, Parky, those days are long gone. I own most of the developments round here, and my nephew Billy’s got an MI5 warrant card in his pocket.’

‘Yes, I heard they’d taken him on. I was impressed. I’d always understood they wouldn’t accept anyone with a record.’

‘True, Parky, it was the folly of youth where Billy was concerned, but all wiped clean now.’

‘You must have friends in high places these days, Billy.’

‘Oh, I do, Inspector,’ Billy said, ‘and here’s my warrant to prove it.’ He offered it. ‘As you know, I’m involved in cases where the highest security and the welfare of the nation is involved—so I’d like to check the identity of the man who’s being hauled up at this moment. It could explain the severity of his intentions.’

‘Are you saying you could have been his target?’

‘It’s possible,’ Billy said, and at that moment an ambulance rolled up, two paramedics emerged, opened the rear door and pulled out a stretcher, which they took forward to where four policemen were hauling up the drowned man in a sling.

Water poured from him as they laid him down on the stretcher, and one of the paramedics removed the balaclava, revealing the unshaven face, handsome enough, eyes closed in death, dark hair with silver streaks in it.

‘Good God, I know this one,’ Parky said. ‘He used to live round here when I was a young constable. Bagged him coming out of a booze shop he’d broken into on Wapping High Street. Costello, Fergus Costello. He went down the steps for two years. Petty criminal when he got out. Irish bloke, drunk and disorderly, that kind of thing, always getting arrested.’

‘Can you remember what happened to him?’ Billy asked.

‘Not really, it’s so long ago.’ They watched as a police officer went through the dead man’s pockets, producing a bunch of skeleton keys, a folded flick-knife and a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, which he handed to Parky.

‘He certainly meant business.’

A passport came next, which turned out to be Irish. ‘See, I was right,’ Parky said, but frowned when he opened it. ‘John Docherty, and there’s a Dublin address.’ He shook his head and handed the passport to Billy. ‘Even though he’s dead, you can see from the photo it’s the same man.’

‘You’re right,’ Billy gave it to Harry. ‘Must be a forgery. Let’s see what’s in the wallet.’

Parky went to his car, opened the wallet and took out the wet contents, a driver’s licence, a Social Security card, and a credit card. ‘All in the name of John Docherty and an address in Point Street, Kilburn.’

‘So he was living under a false name,’ Harry said.

Parky nodded. ‘You know, I remember now, it’s all coming back. He used to get in a lot of trouble over the drink and then there was a refuge opened, run by Catholics. They used to get visits from a priest, who had a big influence on the boozers there. I can’t remember his name, but as I recall, Docherty stopped getting into trouble and started churchgoing and then he cleared off.’

The officer who had been examining the wallet, searching the pockets said, ‘There’s this, sir, tucked away.’

He offered the damp card and Parky examined it. ‘I’ve seen something like this before. It’s a prayer card.’

Billy took it from him and read it aloud. ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and in the hour of our death.’

Harry said, ‘But what the hell does it mean?’

Parky smiled. ‘I told you he’d turned to religion, didn’t I, so I was right.’

‘You certainly were,’ Billy said. ‘I’ll hang on to this and the passport. You can keep the rest.’




3 (#ulink_2c558c79-5983-5196-b551-192c6beef9e3)


They met in the computer room at Holland Park, all of them, Ferguson presiding, and Harry Salter was a very angry man indeed.

‘I mean what in the hell is going on?’

‘It’s simple, Harry,’ said Dillon. ‘You’ve been targeted, you and Billy, just like Blake Johnson, General Ferguson, and Major Miller. Maybe somebody thinks it’s payback time.’

‘All very well,’ Harry pointed out, ‘but that bastard Costello or Docherty or whatever he called himself was prepared to torch everybody in the pub, just to get at Billy and me.’

‘Whoever these people are, they’re highly organized and totally ruthless. The would-be assassin in Central Park, Frank Barry, called somebody and told them where he was. The instant response was an executioner.’

‘Exactly,’ Miller put in. ‘And one professional enough to remember to snatch Barry’s mobile before departing, so details of that call couldn’t be traced.’

‘I’ve spoken to Clancy, brought him up to speed, including the arson attack on the pub,’ Roper said. ‘His people have established that Flynn’s passport was an extremely good forgery, as was his driver’s licence and Social Security card.’

‘So there’s no way of checking if he had a police record?’ Ferguson put in.

‘Exactly.’ Roper carried on. ‘His address in Greenwich Village is a one-room apartment, sparsely furnished, basic belongings, not much more than clothes. An old lady on the same floor said he was polite and kept himself to himself. She’d no idea what he did for a living, and was surprised to hear he had an American passport, as she’d always thought he was Irish. She’s a Catholic herself and often saw him at Mass at the local church.’

Miller said, ‘Interesting that Costello-cum-Docherty has a forged Irish passport, too, and his religion had been the saving of him, according to Inspector Parkinson.’

‘A passport which claims he was born in Dublin, yet we know from his other identity documents that his address is in Point Street, Kilburn,’ Dillon said.

‘And Henry Pool from Green Street, Kilburn,’ Ferguson said. ‘Too many connections here. This would appear to be a carefully mounted campaign.’

‘Another point worth remembering,’ Roper said. ‘I’ve processed the computer photo of Major Miller which was in Barry’s wallet.’ His fingers worked the keys and the photo came on screen. ‘Just a crowded street, but that’s definitely the side of a London black cab at the edge of the pavement. The photo was definitely taken in London, I’d say.’

‘Careful preparation beforehand by someone who knew I was going to New York,’ Miller said.

‘Yes, and remember that Blake was only visiting his place on Long Island because he was going to the UN.’ Roper shook his head. ‘It’s scary stuff when you think about it.’

Salter said, ‘But nobody had a go at you, Dillon, when you were in New York. Why not?’

‘Because I wasn’t supposed to be there. It was only decided at the last moment that I should join Harry.’

‘Nobody has had a go at me either,’ Roper told him. ‘But that doesn’t mean they’re not going to.’

‘Exactly,’ Ferguson said, ‘which raises the point again—what in the hell is this all about?’

‘Let’s face it,’ Billy said. ‘We’ve been up against a lot of very bad people in our day. Al Qaeda, a wide range of Islamic terrorists, Hamas, Hezbollah. We’ve been in Lebanon, Hazar, Bosnia, Kosovo. And you older guys talk about the Cold War, but the Cold War is back, it seems to me, so we can add in the Russians.’

‘Which adds up to a lot of enemies,’ Dillon put in. ‘Lermov, who’ll be the new Head of Station for the GRU here, was at the UN reception with Putin, and we were talking to him. Baited him, really. Asked after Boris Luzhkov, and was told he was in Moscow being considered for a new post.’

‘Six pounds of grey ash, that bastard,’ Billy said.

‘And when I asked after Yuri Bounine, he said he’d been given another assignment.’

‘He knew something,’ Miller said. ‘I’m sure of it.’

‘Well, if he knows that Bounine is guarding Alex Kurbsky at his Aunt Svetlana’s house in Belsize Park, we’re in trouble,’ Ferguson told him.

They were all silent at the mention of the famous Russian writer whose defection had caused so much mayhem recently, but of whom they’d all become unaccountably fond.

Dillon said, ‘We’re going to have to do something, General. They could be in harm’s way.’

‘I’m aware of that, Dillon,’ Ferguson snapped. ‘But you could widen the circle to include a lot of people who’ve been involved with us.’ He turned to Miller. ‘What about your sister, Major? She helped us out in that business involving the IRA in County Louth last year. She even shot one of them.’

Miller’s sister, Lady Monica Starling, an archaeologist and Cambridge don, had indeed proved her mettle—and in the process had become as close a friend to Dillon as a woman could.

Miller frowned and turned to Dillon. ‘He’s got a point, Sean, we should speak to her.’

Roper said, ‘If the rest of you can shut up for a moment, I’ll get her on the line.’ He was answered at once. She sounded fraught, her voice echoing through the speakers.

‘Who is this?’

‘No need to bite my head off, darling,’ said Miller. ‘It’s your big brother.’

‘It’s so good to hear from you, Harry, I was going to call. I thought you and Sean were still in New York.’

‘What’s happened? Where are you?’

‘I’m at the hospital here in Cambridge.’

‘For God’s sake, tell me, Monica.’

‘There was a faculty party at a hotel outside Cambridge last night. Dear old Professor George Dunkley was desperate to go. I volunteered to drive him there so he could enjoy his port and so on. Six miles out into the countryside, a bloody great truck started to follow us and just stayed on my tail. It didn’t matter what I did, it wouldn’t go away and then, when we came to a wider section of the road, it came alongside and swerved into us.’

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes, but George has his left arm broken. We were hurled into a grass verge and crashed against a wall. I called the police on my mobile and they were there in no time.’

‘And the truck?’

‘Oh, he crashed further on. They found the wreck, but the driver had cleared off. The police sergeant who’s been dealing with me says the truck was stolen from somewhere in London. George is going to be in hospital for a while. A terrible thing at his age.’

‘And you are coming to Dover Street to stay at the house with me?’

‘That’s sweet of you, Harry, but I’ve got seminars and there’s my book.’

‘To hell with your seminars and you can work on your book at Dover Street.’

‘Harry, what’s happening?’

Dillon cut in. ‘Monica, my love, listen to the man. It’s no coincidence what’s happened to you. Bad things have been happening to all of us. We need you safe and among friends.’

Her voice was quiet. ‘What’s going on, Sean?’

‘I’ll explain when I pick you up,’ Miller said. ‘We should be there in around two hours. Go straight back to your rooms, pack and don’t go out again.’

‘If you say so, Harry.’

The line cleared and everyone was silent for a moment. Miller said, ‘Sorry General, I must go.’

‘Of course you must, so get moving.’

Miller went out fast and Roper said, ‘Open warfare. They certainly mean business, whoever they are. Do you still think there’s an IRA touch to this?’

Dillon nodded. ‘Since the Peace Process, the IRA hands have fanned out, looking to make money,’ he said. ‘We’ve dealt with plenty of them in the past, desperate for work, who’ve offered their skills to various countries in the Russian Federation, worked with the PLO, Hamas, Hezbollah. Then there was Kosovo and Chechnya.’

‘Iraq,’ Roper said, ‘plenty of money to be made there, one way or another, for the kind of men who were members of the Provisional IRA, with all their military skills.’

‘Which is exactly the kind of thing I was doing for years, until the general here made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.’ Dillon shook his head. ‘That’s what this all smells like to me—IRA for hire. I’ll take myself off to Kilburn and see what I can find out.’

‘Would you care for some company?’ Billy said.

‘Why not? What about you, Harry?’

Salter got up. ‘You go with Dillon, Billy. I’ll take your Alfa and get back to the Dark Man and see how Ruby’s coping with the cleaning.’

He went out and Ferguson said, ‘On your way then, you two, I’m going to have a word with Clancy at the White House, then I’ll visit our Russian friends in Belsize Park.’ He turned to Roper. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Major, call Clancy on his personal line.’

Clancy answered at once, nine o’clock on a Washington morning. ‘General, how are things?’

‘They’ve moved at some speed, but before I fill you in, how is Blake?’

‘What would you expect from an old Vietnam hand? He’s being airlifted in a Medical Corps helicopter to a hospital in Washington this afternoon.’

‘Give him our best. Let me tell you what’s happened now.’

Which he did, and Clancy was horrified. ‘This is incredible. Whoever these people are, they certainly don’t take prisoners. Everything that’s already happened, and now the attempted arson attack on the Dark Man and the assault on Monica Starling, shows we’re up against truly ruthless people. And I take your point about who could be next.’

‘Exactly. Alexander Kurbsky, his Aunt Svetlana, and their friend, Katya Zorin. Kurbsky’s a marked man. He’s still posing as a leukaemia victim on chemotherapy, and the change in his physical appearance is remarkable—but if the Russians get wind of his location, that won’t hold them for long.’

Kurbsky had originally been sent in by the GRU to penetrate British Intelligence, but once he’d found out how his bosses had duped him, he’d had a change of heart. In particular, he’d saved Blake Johnson when he’d been kidnapped in London and then he and Bounine had saved the Vice-President’s life from a crazed Luzhkov.

‘As I recall,’ said Clancy, ‘there was a presidential promise of asylum in the US if Kurbsky ever wanted it. I’m sure that would be honoured, if you think it’s a good idea.’

‘What would you suggest?’

‘We have a list of facilities, but Heron Island off the Florida coast would be perfect. The Secret Service only use it for the most special cases. A hundred per cent security, the staff vetted in every possible way, decent climate, and the house I’m thinking of is spectacular.’

‘How soon could you arrange all this?’

‘Twenty-four hours. I assume you’ll handle your end. It may not be for ever, General, but I can promise they’ll be safe on Heron Island. With luck, we’ll take care of the threat between us in a few weeks and then we can think again.’

‘Thank you, old friend,’ Ferguson told him. ‘I’ll be back to you.’

Roper had, of course, heard everything. ‘Sounds good. Are you going up to see them now?’

‘Yes, I think so. One less problem if they agree,’ and Ferguson went out.

His Daimler was back and with it Martin, his usual driver, and they drove to Belsize Park. Ferguson, going through everything that had happened, still had not found a solution when Martin parked in the mews beside Chamber Court at the side entrance in the high stone wall. Ferguson announced himself through the speaker box and the gate buzzed and swung open.

The garden was beautiful—rhododendron bushes, cypress trees, plane trees, more bushes surrounding a lovely curving lawn. As he advanced towards the conservatory, Bounine stepped out of the bushes, wearing overalls, a baseball bat menacingly in his hand.

‘It’s General Ferguson, you idiot.’ Kurbsky emerged from the trees, a sad, gaunt figure with the skull and the haunted face of someone on chemotherapy, although in his case, he took drugs to make him look that way.

‘What’s up?’ Ferguson asked.

‘We’ve had an intruder,’ Kurbsky said. ‘Yesterday, after supper, we were going to watch television with the ladies. I stepped out of the conservatory to have a smoke and thought I heard something over by the garage, so I went to investigate. Someone jumped me, a man in a bomber jacket and jeans. It was closer to the garage and made the security lights come on.’

‘What happened?’

‘He pulled a flick-knife and sprang the blade, so I smacked him about a bit. He was on the ground after I took the knife, so I relieved him of his wallet and I moved over to the garage security lights to inspect it. Bounine came out on the terrace and called, which distracted me. The guy scrambled up, ran like hell and got over the wall.’

‘Were the ladies disturbed?’

‘Obviously. The security alarms sound inside the house. But they were easily reassured. Russian women are tough as nails.’

‘The wallet, were the contents interesting?’

‘Not particularly. Fifty-four pounds, a Social Security card and a credit card, all in the name of Matthew Cochran.’

‘Did he live in Kilburn?’

‘No, close though. Camden Town. Sixty Lower Church Street.’

‘And that’s it? Nothing like: Holy Mother of God, pray for us now, we who are ourselves alone?’

‘The prayer card,’ Bounine said to Kurbsky. ‘You forgot that.’

Kurbsky frowned and said, ‘Why, is it important?’

‘It means you are all in great danger. Let’s find the ladies and I’ll spell it out for you,’ and Ferguson led the way along to the terrace and the conservatory.

In the Victorian conservatory, crammed with plants, there was silence when Ferguson finished talking. Kurbsky had produced Cochran’s wallet and taken out the prayer card, which lay on a small iron table beside it.

Svetlana Kelly, Kurbsky’s aunt, sat in a wicker chair. Katya Zorin, Svetlana’s partner, a handsome forty-year-old with cropped hair, who was an artist and theatrical scene designer, sat close to her, holding the older woman’s right hand.

‘These are terrible things you tell us, General. Such violence is too much to bear.’

‘But it must be faced, my dear. The prayer card was involved with all these attacks I’ve just discussed, except for the business involving Monica Starling. It’s hardly a coincidence, and when I come here, I find this.’ He picked up the prayer card and held it high. ‘I repeat, you are in great danger if you stay here, or stay in London for that matter. I think you should take the Americans’ offer of sanctuary.’

‘To leave my home is a terrible prospect. All my beautiful things. The world is so untrustworthy these days.’ Svetlana was distressed.

Ferguson threw down the card. ‘You’ve heard the full story. Blake is in the hospital badly wounded, four of the cardholders are violently dead, the attempt to burn down Salter’s pub could have killed everybody in it.’ He turned to Kurbsky. ‘Please, Alex, just go, and take them with you, and leave us to hunt down whoever is behind this.’

Kurbsky bent down and kissed Svetlana on the head. ‘He’s right, babushka, my decision. We go and we go tonight, is this not so, General?’

‘You’ll take the Gulfstream from Farley Field. Nobody will know you have gone.’

Svetlana was weeping now and Katya kissed her on the cheek. ‘All will be well, my love. Alexander is right. We must go.’

Ferguson said, ‘I’ll make a deal with you, Svetlana. It’s important for Alex to go if there are strange and wicked people stirring, but you needn’t worry about your paintings or your antiques. I’ll arrange for a caretaker to live here and take care of them, all right? Now I must go.’

Kurbsky walked to the gate with him. Ferguson opened it and turned. ‘It really is the smart move until we get to the bottom of all this.’

Kurbsky said, ‘I’m sure you’re right. It’s just that I’ve never been very good at running away.’

‘On this occasion, you must think of the women. I’ll see you off from Farley. Roper will be in touch to confirm the timing.’

As Martin got out of the Daimler, Ferguson said, ‘I’ll sit beside you.’ Martin got the door open, it started to rain and Ferguson scrambled inside. The big man slid behind the wheel and drove away.

‘Thank God that’s sorted,’ Ferguson said.

‘Things looking a bit better, General?’ Martin enquired.

‘Not really,’ Ferguson said. ‘Actually the road ahead looks pretty bloody stony, but there it is.’ He leaned back, called Roper and filled him in. ‘So the intruder at Belsize Park definitely makes their departure a top priority.’

‘I’ll organize it at once. And that man Kurbsky tangled with, Matthew Cochran, wasn’t it? Camden Town, Sixty Lower Church Street. We should check on him, too.’

‘You’re right. See to it.’

When Roper made the call, Dillon and Billy were in a bar on Camden High Street. Dillon had suggested a luncheon sandwich, but the truth was he was thinking ahead, about what was waiting for him in Kilburn. Billy suspected that Dillon needed a drink and went along with the suggestion, though Billy never drank. He was a bit alarmed, though, when the Irishman downed his second large Bushmills. Then Roper called.

Dillon obviously couldn’t put it on speaker in the pub, so he listened, then said, ‘OK, we’ll handle it. We’re in Camden High Street now.’ He relayed to Billy what Roper had just told him. ‘We’ll go and look this guy Cochran up. Do you know the address?’

‘No, but the sat-nav will,’ Billy said. ‘So let’s move it.’

They twisted and turned through a number of side streets, finally reaching one called Church Street. There was no number sixty, and beyond the street was a vast empty site, obviously cleared for building. There was a convenience store on the corner called Patel’s, freshly painted, incongruous against the old decaying houses.

‘Wait for me,’ Dillon said, and got out of the Cooper.

The store was crammed with just about everything you would ever need and the stocky Indian in traditional clothes was welcoming. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘I was looking for an address—Sixty Lower Church Street.’

‘Ah, long gone. Many streets were knocked down last year and Lower Church Street was one of them. They are to build flats.’

‘I was looking for a man named Matthew Cochran who used that address.’

‘But I remember number sixty well, it was a lodging house.’

‘Thanks very much.’ Dillon returned to the Cooper.

‘No joy there. Lower Church Street was knocked down last year and the address was just a lodging house. Let’s move on.’

Like many areas of London, Kilburn was changing, new apartment blocks here and there, but much of it was still what it had always been: streets of terrace houses dating from Victorian and Edwardian times, even rows of back-to-back houses. It was the favoured Irish quarter of London and always had been.

‘It always reminds me of Northern Ireland, this place. We just passed a pub called the Green Tinker, so that’s Catholic, and we’re coming up to the Royal George, which has got to be Protestant. Just like Belfast when you think about it,’ Billy said.

‘Nothing’s changed,’ Dillon told him. He thought back again, to his mother dying when he was born, his father raising him with the help of relatives, mainly from her family, until his father, in need of work, moved to London and took Dillon with him. He was twelve years old and they did very well together right here in Kilburn. His father earned decent money because he was a cabinet-maker, the highest kind of carpenter. He was never short of work. Dillon went to a top Catholic grammar school, which led him to a scholarship at RADA at sixteen, on stage with the National Theatre at nineteen—and then came his father’s death, and nothing was ever the same again.

Billy said, ‘Where did you live? Near here?’

‘Lodge Lane, a Victorian back-to-back. He opened up the attic, my father, put a bathroom in. A little palace by the time he had finished with it.’

‘Do you ever go back?’

‘Nothing to go back to. The fella who tried to incinerate you, Costello/Docherty? His address was Point Street. We’ll take a look.’

‘Will you still know your way?’

‘Like the back of my hand, Billy, so just follow what I tell you.’

Which Billy did, ending up in a street of terrace houses, doors opening to the pavement. There were cars of one kind or another parked here and there, but it was remarkably quiet.

‘This is going back a few years,’ Billy said as he drew up.

The door of number five was interesting for two reasons. The first because there was a yellow police scene-of-crime band across it forbidding entrance, the second, the formal black mourning wreath hanging from the door knocker.

‘Interesting,’ Dillon said and got out, and Billy followed. The curtain twitched at the window of the next house. ‘Let’s have words. Knock them up.’ Billy did.

The door opened and a young woman in jeans and a smock, holding a baby, appeared. ‘What is it?’ she asked, with what Dillon easily recognized as a Derry accent.

Billy flashed his MI5 warrant card. ‘Police. We’re just checking that everything’s OK.’

‘Your lot have been and gone hours ago. They explained that Docherty had been killed in a car accident. I don’t know why they’ve sealed the door.’

‘To stop anyone getting in.’

‘He lived on his own, kept himself to himself.’

‘What, not even a girlfriend?’

‘I never even saw him with a boyfriend, though he was of that persuasion if you ask me.’

Dillon turned on his Belfast accent. ‘Is that a fact, girl dear, but one friend surely, to leave that mourning wreath?’

She warmed to him at once. ‘Ah, that’s Caitlin Daly for you. A heart of gold that woman, and goodness itself.’

‘Well, God bless her for that,’ Dillon told her. ‘A fine child you’ve got there.’

‘Why, thank you.’ She was beaming now.

They got in the Cooper and Billy drove away. ‘You don’t half turn it on when it suits you.’

‘Fifteen Green Street now. Just follow my directions.’

Billy did as he was told. ‘What’s the point? We know Pool lived on his own. I thought you wanted to go and look up the local priest?’

‘We’ll get to that, so just do as I say,’ and Dillon gave him his directions.

The houses in Green Street were substantial: Edwardian and semi-detached with a small garden in front and a narrow path round the side leading to a rear garden.

‘This is better,’ Billy said. ‘No garages, though.’

‘People who lived here in 1900 had no need for garages.’

Dillon opened a gate and walked up to the front door through the garden, followed by Billy. The door was exactly the same as the one in Point Street, with the police band across it and the black mourning wreath hanging from the knocker.

‘Caitlin Daly again, it would appear.’

The door of the adjacent house was within touching distance over the hedge. It opened now and a white-haired lady peered out. Dillon turned on the charm again, this time pulling out his own warrant card.

‘Police,’ he told her. ‘Just checking that all is well.’

The woman was very old, he could see that, and obviously distressed. ‘Such a tragedy. The police sergeant this morning told me he died in a terrible crash somewhere in central London. I can’t understand it. I’ve driven with him and he was so careful. A professional chauffeur.’

‘Yes, it’s very sad,’ Dillon told her.

‘I knew his mother, Mary, so well, a lovely Irish lady.’ She was rambling now. ‘Widowed for years, a nurse. It was a great blow to him when she died. Eighty-one she was. From Cork.’

Dillon said gently, ‘I know it well. Wasn’t Michael Collins himself a Cork man?

‘Who?’ she said.

‘I’m sorry, and me thinking you were Mrs Caitlin Daly?’ She looked bewildered. ‘The mourning wreath on the door.’

‘Oh, I’m not Caitlin, and I saw her leave it earlier. Her mother was a wonderful friend to me. Died last year from lung cancer. Only seventy-five. She was still living with Caitlin at the presbytery by the church. But Caitlin isn’t married, never was. She’s been housekeeper to Father Murphy for years. Used to teach at the Catholic School. Now she just looks after the presbytery and Father Murphy and two curates.’ She was very fey now. ‘Oh dear, I’ve got it wrong again. He’s Monsignor Murphy now. A wonderful man.’

Dillon gave her his best smile. ‘You’ve been very kind. God bless you.’

They went back to the Cooper, and Billy said as he settled behind the wheel, ‘Dillon, you’d talk the Devil into showing you the way out of hell. The information you got out of that old duck beggars belief.’

‘A gift, Billy,’ Dillon told him modestly. ‘You’ve got to be Irish to understand.’

‘Get stuffed.’ Billy told him.

‘Sticks and stones,’ Dillon said. ‘But everything that befuddled old lady told me was useful information.’

‘I heard. Pool was wonderful, so was his mother, this Caitlin bird is beyond rubies, and as for the good Monsignor Murphy, from the sound of it, they got him from central casting.’ He turned left on Dillon’s instructions. ‘Mind you, he must be good to get that kind of rank in a local church where he’s their priest-in-charge.’

‘Turn right now,’ Dillon told him. ‘And what would you be knowing about it?’

‘I’ve never talked much about my childhood, Dillon. My old man was a very violent man, killed in gang warfare when I was three. My mum was Harry’s sister and she was an exceptional lady who died of breast cancer when I was nineteen. I really went off the rails after that.’

‘Which is understandable.’

‘It was Harry who pulled me around and you, you bastard, when you entered our lives. You introduced me to philosophy, remember, gave me a sense of myself.’

‘So where is this leading?’ Dillon asked.

The Cooper turned another corner and pulled up outside their destination. The Church of the Holy Name, it said on the painted signboard beside the open gate, along with the times of confession and Mass. The church had a Victorian-Gothic look to it, which made sense because it was only in the Victorian era that Roman Catholics by law were allowed to build churches again. Dillon saw a tower, a porch, a vast wooden door bound in iron in a failed attempt to achieve a medieval look.

They stayed in the car for a few moments. Billy said, ‘The thing is, my mother was a strict Roman Catholic. Not our Harry. He doesn’t believe in anything he can’t put his hand on, but she really put me on stage. When I was a kid, I was an acolyte. I tell you, Dillon, it meant everything to her when it was my turn to serve at Mass.’

‘I know,’ Dillon said. ‘Scarlet cassock, white cotta.’

‘Don’t tell me you did that?’

‘I’m afraid so, and Billy, I’ve really got news for you. I did it in this very church we’re about to enter. I was twelve when my father brought me from Northern Ireland to live with him in Kilburn. That means it was thirty-seven years ago when I first entered this church, and the priest in charge is the same man, James Murphy. As I recall, he was born in 1929, which would make him eighty.’

‘But why didn’t you mention that to Ferguson and the others? What’s going on? I knew something was, Dillon. Talk to me.’

Dillon sat there for a moment longer, then took out his wallet and from one of the pockets produced a prayer card. It was old, creased, slightly curling at the golden edges. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.

‘Jesus, Dillon.’ Billy took it from him. ‘Where the hell did this come from?’

‘It was Father James Murphy, as he was then, who first received the news of my father’s death in that firefight in Belfast, an incident that turned me into what I am, shaped my whole life. A casualty of war, he told me, gave me the card and begged me to pray.’ He smiled bleakly, took the card and replaced it in the wallet. ‘So, here we are. Let’s go in, shall we? I see from the board someone’s hearing confessions in there, although it may not be the great man himself.’

He got out and Billy joined him, his face pale. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

They entered and walked through the cemetery, which was also Victorian-Gothic and rather pleasant, marble effigies, winged angels, engraved headstones and cypress trees to one side. ‘I used to like this when I was a boy, liked it more than I liked it inside the church in a way. It’s what we all come to, when you think of it,’ Dillon said.

‘For Christ’s sake, cut it out,’ Billy said. ‘You’re beginning to worry me.’

He turned the ring on the great door and Dillon followed him through. There was faint music playing, something subdued and soothing. The whole place was in a kind of half-darkness, but was unexpectedly warm, no doubt because of central heating. The usual church smell, so familiar from childhood, filled his nostrils. Dillon dipped his fingers in the bowl as he went past and crossed himself, and Billy, after hesitating, did the same.

The sanctuary lamp glowed through the gloom and to the left there was a Mary Chapel, the Virgin and Child floating in a sea of candlelight. The place had obviously had money spent on it in the past. Victorian stained glass abounded, carvings that looked like medieval copies, and a Christ on the Cross which was extremely striking. The altar and choir stalls, too, were ornate and, it had to be admitted, beautifully carved.

A woman was down there wearing a green overall, arranging flowers by the altar. A strong face with a good mouth, handsome in a Jane Austen kind of way, the hair fair and well-kept with no grey showing, although that was probably due more to the attentions of a good hairdresser than nature. She wore a white blouse and grey skirt under the overall, and half-heeled shoes. She held pruning scissors in one gloved hand, and she turned and glanced at them coolly for a moment, then returned to her flowers.

Dillon moved towards the confessional boxes on the far side. There were three of them, but the light was on in only one. Two middle-aged women were waiting, and Billy, sitting two pews behind them beside Dillon, leaned forward to decipher the name card in the slot on the confessional box doors.

‘You’re all right, it says Monsignor James Murphy.’

A man in a raincoat emerged from the box and walked away along the aisle, and one of the women went in. They sat there in silence and she was out in not much more than five minutes. She sat down and her friend went in. She was longer, more like fifteen minutes, then finally emerged, murmured to her friend, and they departed.

‘Here I go.’ Dillon whispered to Billy, got up, opened the door of the confessional box, entered and sat down.

‘Please bless me, Father,’ he said to the man on the other side of the grille, conscious of the strong, aquiline face in profile, the hair still long and silvery rather than grey.

Murphy said, ‘May our Lord Jesus bless you and help you to tell your sins.’

‘Oh, that would be impossible, for they are so many.’

The head turned slightly towards him. ‘When did you last make confession, my son?’

‘So long ago, I can’t remember.’

‘Are your sins so bad that you shrink from revealing them?’

‘Not at all. I know the secrets of the confessional are inviolate, but acknowledging the deaths of so many at my hands in no way releases me from the burden of them.’

Murphy seemed to straighten. ‘Ah, I think I see your problem. You are a soldier or have been a soldier, as with so many men these days.’

‘That’s true enough.’

‘Then you may certainly be absolved, but you must help by seeking comfort in prayer.’

‘Oh, I’ve tried that, Father, saying Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.’

There was a moment of silence, then Murphy turned full face, trying to peer through the grill. ‘Who are you?’

‘God bless you, Father, but isn’t that breaking the rules? Still, I’ll let it go for once and put you out of your misery. Sean Dillon, as ever was. Thirty years since you last saw me. I was nineteen and you were the man the police asked to break the news that my father was dead, killed accidentally while on a trip to Belfast. You told me he was a casualty of war.’

‘Sean,’ Murphy’s voice quavered. ‘I can’t believe it. What can I say?’

‘I think you said it all thirty years ago when you urged me to pray, particularly the special one on a prayer card you gave me, the prayer I’ve just quoted to you.’

‘Yes, I recollect now.’ The voice was unsteady. ‘A wonderful prayer to the Virgin Mary.’

‘I remember you saying it would be a comfort for all victims of a great cause. Which made sense, as the prayer is directed at we who are ourselves alone and “ourselves alone” in Irish is Sinn Fein. So, it had a definite political twist to it, urging a nineteen-year-old boy whose father had ended up dead on a pavement in the Falls Road, to get angry, clear off to Belfast and join the Provos to fight for the Glorious Cause. Now, aren’t you proud of me?’

The door to Dillon’s half of the confessional box was yanked open and the woman in the green overall was there, blazingly angry. ‘Come out of there,’ she shouted and grabbed at him. Behind her, Billy moved in to pull her off.

‘You got good and loud, Sean. Only her and me in the place and we heard most of what you said.’

She pulled away from Billy and glared at Dillon. ‘Get out of here before I call the police.’

Billy produced his warrant card. ‘Don’t waste your breath. MI5, and he’s got one, too.’

The other door opened and Murphy came out, an imposing figure at six feet with the silver hair, dressed in a full black cassock, an alb, violet stole draped over his shoulder.

‘Leave it, Caitlin, this is Sean Dillon. As a boy of nineteen, I had to tell him his father was murdered by British soldiers in Ulster. He left for Belfast for his father’s funeral and never returned. There were rumours that he had cast in his lot with the Provisional IRA. If so, I can’t see that it in any way concerns me. As to the prayer card which I gave him as a comfort, it may be found on the internet if you look carefully, Sean, and has been available to all since Easter 1916. We have a Hope of Mary hospice and refuge where the card is readily available.’ He put a hand on Dillon’s left shoulder. ‘You are deeply troubled, Sean, that is so obvious. Your dear father worked and did so much for the church in his spare time. The lectern in beechwood by the high altar was his work. If I can help you in any way, I am here.’

‘Not right now,’ Dillon said, ‘but before I go, the score for dead cardholders right now is four: Henry Pool, John Docherty, Frank Barry in New York, Jack Flynn in Long Island.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ Murphy looked shocked.

‘Don’t listen to him, he’s lost his wits entirely.’ Caitlin moved close to Dillon and slapped his face. ‘Get out.’

‘My, but you’re the hard woman. Come on, Billy, let’s go.’ Billy opened the great door and Dillon turned and they were standing close, Murphy with his head inclined while she whispered to him.

Dillon called, ‘If you know anybody named Cochran, tell him we found his wallet and the prayer card, too. God bless all here.’

And Caitlin Daly snapped completely. ‘Get out, you bastard.’ Her voice echoed around the church and Dillon followed Billy to the Cooper and they drove away.

‘Do you think there’s anything doing?’ Billy asked.

‘Oh, yes,’ Dillon said. ‘However bizarre it sounds, I think there’s something going on there.’

‘If that’s so, don’t you think you’ve given a lot away?’

‘I intended to. Back to Holland Park, Billy,’ and he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, thinking about it.

At the sacristy, Caitlin Daly leaned against the door and fumbled in her shoulder bag, pushed aside a .25 Belgian Leon semi-automatic pistol, produced an encrypted mobile phone and punched in a number. It was answered at once, a man’s voice, the slightest tinge of a Yorkshire accent.

‘Caitlin? And what brings you?’

‘Just listen,’ she said. ‘We’ve got trouble.’ She quickly told him what had taken place. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘How did Murphy take it?’

‘How do you expect? He’s too good for this bloody world. All he feels is pity for Dillon.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he? Leave it with me, I’ll handle it somehow.’ The church was very quiet now when she returned, and Murphy knelt before the altar, his head bowed in prayer, and she sat in a front pew and waited. When he stood up and walked to her, she said, ‘You’ve been praying for Dillon, haven’t you?’

‘Of course. So sad, that business of his father’s death in Belfast all those years ago. His life has so obviously been a hard and bitter one. What else can I do but pray for him?’

She stifled her anger with difficulty. ‘Sometimes, Monsignor, I think you’re much too forgiving. But take my arm and we’ll go back to the presbytery for tea.’

He did as he was told, and as they walked away, he said, ‘Poor boy, he seems completely unhinged.’




4 (#ulink_16798a58-b980-5701-be65-7d5070b441e3)


A little earlier, Miller and his sister had been on their way to Dover Street. Since becoming aware that her dearly loved brother was a man of dark secrets, Monica had also learned that anything he told her, however dangerous and extreme, was very probably true. For an academic like her, there was an undeniable thrill to it all, especially her involvement with Sean Dillon. When Miller picked her up at her rooms in Cambridge, she was already packed and waiting for him, and he filled her in on everything as he knew it, right up to that moment.




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