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Drink with the Devil
Jack Higgins
Ten years ago, a fortune in gold bullion was stolen, only to disappear beneath the Irish Sea. Now it’s been found, and Sean Dillon must face ghosts from his past in the race to get to it first.A fortune in stolen British gold, brutally hijacked by Irish Protestant paramilitaries in the 1980s, lies shipwrecked at the bottom of the Irish Sea. Now the Irish Rose, and her precious cargo, have been found. The race is on to recover the bullion.Irish militant Michael Ryan wants to finance war in his homeland – and a sinister pact with the New York Mafia will make his dreams a savage reality. To stop him, the British and American authorities must call in the best: Sean Dillon, once the most feared IRA enforcer, now working for British Intelligence.His mission: to retrieve the gold and stop Ryan by any means necessary. With millions of pounds, and countless innocent lives hanging in the balance, the two men become locked in a furious race. Pursued by ghosts from his past, Dillon must fight for his own survival in this brutally thrilling game of cat and mouse.





Drink with the Devil



Copyright (#u6717ba6e-5e66-5711-9f47-3fcc98d9fec4)
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by Michael Joseph 1996
Copyright © Harry Patterson 1996
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Photography and illustration © Nik Keevil
Harry Patterson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebook
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780008124830
Ebook Edition © JANUARY 2011 ISBN: 9780007352296
Version: 2016-08-25

Dedication (#u6717ba6e-5e66-5711-9f47-3fcc98d9fec4)
To Denise Best of girls


Contents
Cover (#u9fc08526-4ef0-51c5-9d13-9b1dc9635f66)
Title Page (#u29fd3576-3d31-5cc2-bc89-1b573b612f07)
Copyright (#u3348af87-800b-5dc8-8c8f-4bcae1e933b1)
Dedication (#ufacc4edc-d2ac-5138-956a-1ec07db45514)
Irish Sea Map (#u4abd7815-2a53-5a8b-9bda-efae44240ac6)
BELFAST 1985 (#u4ecc8f6c-9422-5892-8c39-401fe22ffe29)
Chapter 1 (#uf257c59e-808c-5f1e-a6b9-7f55d2fd9dd2)
LONDON THE LAKE DISTRICT 1985 (#ucdb955ac-a248-5750-b684-00e7fa50c5f0)

Chapter 2 (#u374cd7f4-6782-5d8b-b338-2607fa6f20d7)

Chapter 3 (#u747e3c77-cadc-5a01-a77f-1e1626ccfe91)

Chapter 4 (#ubfda3ed1-0df3-5f02-bf3a-3f85a1f2bdcc)

Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)

NEW YORK STATE IRELAND LONDON WASHINGTON IRELAND 1995 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)

THE LAKE DISTRICT 1995 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Jack Higgins (#litres_trial_promo)

Further Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

BELFAST (#u6717ba6e-5e66-5711-9f47-3fcc98d9fec4)

1 (#u6717ba6e-5e66-5711-9f47-3fcc98d9fec4)
Rain swept in from Belfast Lough and, as he turned the corner, there was the rattle of small-arms fire somewhere in the darkness of the city centre followed by the crump of an explosion. He didn’t hesitate, but started across the square, a small man, no more than five feet five, in jeans, reefer coat and peaked cap, a seaman’s duffel bag hanging from one shoulder.
A sign said Albert Hotel, but it was more a lodging house than anything else, of a type used by sailors and constructed originally by the simple expedient of knocking three Victorian terrace houses together. The front door stood open and a small, balding man peered out, a newspaper in one hand.
There was another explosion in the distance. ‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘The boys are active tonight.’
The small man said from the bottom of the steps, ‘I phoned earlier about a room. Keogh is the name.’ His voice was more English than anything else, only a hint of the distinctive Belfast accent.
‘Ah, yes – Mr Keogh. Off a boat are ye?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, come away in out of the rain and I’ll fix you up.’
At that moment a Land Rover turned the corner followed by another. They were stripped down, three paratroopers crouched behind the driver, hard young men in red berets and flak jackets, each one carrying a sub-machine gun. They vanished into the darkness and rain on the other side of the square.
‘Jesus!’ the old man said again then went inside and Keogh followed him.
It was a poor sort of a place, a square hall with a reception desk and a narrow staircase. The white paint had yellowed over the years and the wallpaper was badly faded, damp showing through here and there.
The old man pushed a register across the desk for Keogh to sign. ‘RUC regulations. Home address. Next port of call. The lot.’
‘Fine by me.’ Keogh quickly filled it in and pushed the register back across the desk.
‘Martin Keogh, Wapping, London. I haven’t been to London in years.’
‘A fine city.’ Keogh took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.
The old man took a room key down from a board. ‘At least they don’t have Paras hurtling around the streets armed to the teeth. Crazy that, sitting out in the open, even in the rain. What a target. Suicide, if you ask me.’
‘Not really,’ Keogh told him. ‘It’s an old Para trick developed years ago in Aden. They travel in twos to look after each other and, with no armour in the way, they can respond instantly to any attack.’
‘And how would you be knowing a thing like that?’
Keogh shrugged, ‘Common knowledge, Da. Now, can I have my key?’
It was then that the old man noticed the eyes, which were of no particular colour and yet were the coldest he had ever seen, and for some unaccountable reason he knew fear. And at that moment Keogh smiled and his personality changed totally. He reached across and took the key.
‘Someone told me there was a decent café near here. The Regent?’
‘That’s right. Straight across the square to Lurgen Street. It’s by the old docks.’
‘I’ll find it,’ and Keogh turned and went upstairs.
He found the room easily enough, opened the door, the lock of which had obviously been forced on numerous occasions, and went in. The room was very small and smelled of damp. There was a single bed, a hanging cupboard and a chair. There was a washbasin in the corner, but no toilet. There wasn’t even a telephone; still, with any luck, it would only be for one night.
He put his duffel bag on the bed, opened it. There was a toilet bag, spare shirts, some books. He pulled them to one side and prised up the thick cardboard base of the bag, disclosing a Walther PPK pistol, several clips of ammunition and the new small Carswell silencer. He checked the weapon, loaded it and screwed the silencer into place then he slipped it inside his jeans against the small of his back.
‘Regent, son,’ he said softly and went out whistling a small sad tune.
There was a public telephone by the reception desk, of the old-fashioned kind in a booth. Keogh nodded to the man, went inside and closed the door. He found some pound coins and dialled a number.
Jack Barry was a tall, pleasant-looking man whose horn-rimmed spectacles gave him a bookish look. He had the look also of the schoolmaster, which was exactly what he had once been. But not now – now he was Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA and he was seated by the fire at his Dublin home reading the paper, his portable phone at his side, when it rang.
He picked it up and his wife, Jean, called, ‘Now don’t be long. Your supper’s ready.’
‘Barry here.’
Keogh said in Irish, ‘It’s me. I’ve booked in at the Albert Hotel under the name of Martin Keogh. Next step is to meet the girl.’
‘Will that be difficult?’
‘No, I’ve organized it. Trust me. I’m off to this Regent Café now. Her uncle owns it.’
‘Good man. Keep me posted. Use the mobile number only.’
He switched off his phone and his wife called again, ‘Come away in. It’s getting cold.’
He got to his feet obediently and went into the kitchen.
Keogh found the Regent Café with no trouble. One window was boarded up, obviously from the bomb blast, but the other was intact, offering a clear view of the interior. There were hardly any customers, just three old men at one table and a ravaged-looking middle-aged woman at another who looked like a prostitute.
The girl sitting behind the counter was just sixteen; he knew that because he knew all about her. Her name was Kathleen Ryan and she ran the café on behalf of her uncle, Michael Ryan, a Protestant, and a gunman from his earliest youth. She was a small girl with black hair and angry eyes above pronounced cheekbones. Not pretty by any conventional standard. She wore a dark sweater, denim miniskirt and boots and sat on a stool engrossed in a book when Keogh went in.
He leaned on the counter. ‘Is it good?’
She looked him over calmly and that look told him of someone infinitely older than her years.
‘Very good. The Midnight Court.’
‘But that’s in Irish, surely?’ Keogh reached for the book and saw that he was right.
‘And why shouldn’t it be? You think a Protestant shouldn’t read Irish? Why not? It’s our country too, mister, and if you’re Sinn Fein or any of that old rubbish I’d prefer you went elsewhere. Catholics aren’t welcome. An IRA street bomb killed my father, my mother and my wee sister.’
‘Girl, dear.’ Keogh held up his hands defensively. ‘I’m a Belfast boy home from the sea who’s just come in for a cup of tea.’
‘You don’t sound Belfast to me. English, I’d say.’
‘And that’s because my father took me to live there when I was a boy.’
She frowned for a moment then shrugged. ‘All right.’ She raised her voice. ‘Tea for one, Mary.’ She said to Keogh, ‘No more cooking. We’re closing soon.’
‘The tea will do just fine.’
A moment later, a grey-haired woman in an apron brought tea in a mug and placed it on the counter. ‘Milk and sugar over there. Help yourself.’
Keogh did as he was told and pushed a pound coin across. The woman gave him some change. The girl ignored him, reached for her book and stood up. ‘I’ll be away now, Mary. Give it another hour then you can take an early night.’ And she went through to the back.
Keogh took his tea to a table by the door, sat down and lit a cigarette. Five minutes later Kathleen Ryan emerged wearing a beret and an old trench-coat. She went out without looking at him. Keogh sipped some more tea, then got up and left.
It was raining harder now as she turned on to the waterfront and she increased her pace, head down. The three youths standing in the doorway of a disused warehouse saw her coming as she passed under the light of a street lamp. They were of a type to be found in any city in the world. Vicious young animals in bomber jackets and jeans.
‘That’s her, Pat,’ the one wearing a baseball cap said. ‘That’s her. The Ryan bitch from the café.’
‘I can tell for myself, you fool,’ the one called Pat said. ‘Now hold still and grab her on the way past.’
Kathleen Ryan was totally unaware of their existence as they stayed back in the shadows. It was only the quick rush of feet that alerted her and by then it was too late, one arm round her neck half choking her.
Pat walked round in front and tilted her chin. ‘Well, now, what have we got here? A little Prod bitch. Ryan, isn’t it?’
She kicked back, catching the youth in the baseball cap on the shin. ‘Leave me be, you Taig bastard.’
‘Taig bastard, is it,’ Pat said. ‘And us decent Catholic boys!’ He slapped her face. ‘Up the alley with her. Time she learned her manners.’
She didn’t scream for it was not in her nature, but cried out in rage and bit the hand that fastened on her mouth.
‘Bitch!’ Baseball Cap called out and punched her in the back and then they ran her along the alley through the rain. There was a stack of packing cases clear under an old-fashioned gas street lamp. As she struggled, two of them pulled her across a packing case and Pat moved up behind and racked her skirt up.
‘Time you learned,’ he said.
‘No, time you learned!’ a voice called. Pat turned and Martin Keogh walked up the alley, hands in the pockets of his reefer. ‘Put her down. I mean, she doesn’t know where you’ve been, does she?’
‘Stuff you, wee man,’ the one in the baseball cap said, released his hold on the girl and swung a punch at Keogh who caught the wrist, twisted and ran him face-first into the wall.
‘You bastard!’ the third youth cried and rushed him.
Keogh’s left hand came out of his pocket, holding the Walther, and he slashed the youth across the face, splitting the cheek from the left eye to the corner of the mouth. He raised the gun and fired, the distinctive muted cough of the silenced weapon flat in the rain.
Baseball Cap was on his knees, the other clutching his cheek, blood pouring through his fingers. Pat stood there, rage on his face.
‘You bloody swine!’
‘It’s been said before.’ Keogh touched him between the eyes with the silenced end of the Walther. ‘Not another word or I’ll kill you.’
The youth froze. Kathleen Ryan was pulling her skirt down. Keogh said, ‘Back to that café of yours, girl. I’ll see you soon.’
She hesitated, staring at him, then turned and ran away along the alley.
There was only the rain now and the groans of the injured. Pat said wildly, ‘We did what you told us to do. Why this?’
‘Oh, no,’ Keogh said. ‘I told you to frighten the girl a little and then I’d come and save her.’ He found a cigarette one-handed and lit it. ‘And what were we into? Gang rape.’
‘She’s a dirty little Prod. Who cares?’
‘I do,’ Keogh told him. ‘And I’m a Catholic. You give us a bad name.’
Pat rushed him. Keogh swayed to one side, tripping him with his right foot and dropped one knee down hard in his back. Pat lay there sobbing in the rain.
Keogh said, ‘You need a lesson, son.’
He jammed the muzzle of the Walther against the youth’s thigh and pulled the trigger. There was a muted report and Pat cried out.
Keogh stood up. ‘Only a flesh wound. It could have been your kneecap.’
Pat was sobbing now. ‘Damn you!’
‘Taken care of a long time ago.’ Keogh took an envelope from his pocket and dropped it down. ‘Five hundred quid, that was the price. Now get yourself to the Royal Victoria Casualty Department. Best in the world for gunshot wounds, but then they get a lot of experience.’
He walked away, whistling the same eerie little tune, and left them there in the rain.
When he reached the café there were no longer any customers, but he could see Kathleen Ryan and the woman Mary standing behind the counter. The girl was on the telephone. Keogh tried the door, but it was locked. Kathleen Ryan turned as the door rattled and nodded to Mary who came from behind the counter and unlocked it.
As Keogh entered Mary said, ‘She told me what you did for her. God bless you.’
Keogh sat on the edge of a table and lit a cigarette. The girl was still talking. ‘No, I’ll be fine now. I’ll be at the Drum in twenty minutes. Don’t fret.’ She put the phone down and turned, her face calm. ‘My Uncle Michael. He worries about me.’
‘And why not?’ Keogh said. ‘Desperate times.’
‘You don’t take prisoners, do you?’
‘I could never see the point.’
‘And you’re carrying. A Walther, from what I saw.’
‘Very knowledgeable for one so young.’
‘Oh, I know guns, mister, I was raised on them. What did you do after I left?’
‘I sent them on their way.’
‘Home, was it, with a pat on the head?’
‘No, the nearest casualty department. They needed a lesson. They got one. The one who seemed to be in charge will be on sticks for a while, if that’s a comfort to you.’
She frowned, her eyes dark. ‘What’s your game?’
‘No game. I didn’t like what was going on, that’s all.’ He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Still, you seem fine now so I’ll be on my way.’
He got the door open. She said quickly, ‘No, hang on.’ He turned and she added, ‘You can walk me to my uncle’s pub. That’s the Orange Drum on Connor’s Wharf. It’s about a quarter of a mile. My name is Kathleen Ryan. What’s yours?’
‘Martin Keogh.’
‘Wait for me outside.’
He did as he was told and saw her go to the phone again. Probably speaking to her uncle, he thought. A few moments later she joined him, this time carrying a large umbrella.
As she put it up against the driving rain he said, ‘And wouldn’t a taxi be safer?’
‘I like the city at night,’ she told him. ‘I like the rain. I’ve got a right to go my own way and to hell with those Fenian bastards.’
‘A point of view,’ he replied as they started to walk.
‘Here, get under this,’ she said, pulling him under the umbrella and taking his arm. ‘A sailor, you said?’
‘Just for the past couple of years.’
‘A sailor from Belfast raised in London who carries a Walther.’ There was a question in her voice.
‘A dangerous place, this old town, as you saw tonight.’
‘Dangerous for you, you mean, and that’s why you’re carrying.’ She frowned. ‘You’re not a Fenian or you wouldn’t have done what you did to that lot.’
‘I’m not anybody’s, girl dear.’ He paused to light a cigarette.
She said, ‘Give me one.’
‘I will not and you with your green years ahead of you. God, but you’re one for the questions, Kate.’
She turned to glance at him. ‘Why do you call me that? No one else does.’
‘Oh, it seems to suit.’
They were walking along the waterfront now, container ships anchored at the Quay and, further out, the red and green lights of a freighter moving out to sea.
Kathleen Ryan said, ‘So, the gun? Why are you carrying?’
‘Jesus, it’s the persistent one you are. A long time ago I was a soldier. Did three tours of duty in this very town and there’s always the chance of someone with a long memory and a grudge to work off.’
‘What regiment?’
‘1 Para.’
‘Don’t tell me you were at Bloody Sunday in Londonderry?’
‘That’s right. Like I said, a long time ago.’
Her hand tightened on his arm. ‘God, but you lads gave those Fenians a roasting that day. How many did you kill? Thirteen wasn’t it?’
The lights of the pub were plain across a cobbled quay now. Keogh said, ‘How old are you?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘So young and so full of hate.’
‘I told you. The IRA killed my father, my mother and my wee sister. That only leaves Uncle Michael.’
The sign said The Orange Drum and one was painted on the brick wall beside it with the legend Our Country Too. The girl put the umbrella down, opened the door and led the way in.
The interior was a typical Belfast pub with several booths, a few tables and chairs and a long mahogany bar. Bottles of every kind of drink were ranged on shelves against a mirrored wall. There were only half-a-dozen customers, all old men, four of them playing cards by an open fire, two others talking softly to each other. A hard-looking young man with one arm sat behind the bar reading the Belfast Telegraph.
He glanced up and put the paper down. ‘Are you OK, Kathleen? Michael told me what happened.’
‘I’m fine, Ivor. Thanks to Mr Keogh here. Is Uncle Michael in the back?’
At that moment a door opened and a man walked through. Keogh knew him at once from the photos Barry had supplied at his briefing in Dublin. Michael Ryan, aged fifty-five, a Loyalist of the first order who had served in the UVF and Red Hand of Ulster, the most extreme Protestant group of all, a man who had killed for his beliefs many times. He was of medium height, hair greying slightly at the temples, eyes very blue, and there was an energy to him.
‘This is Martin Keogh,’ the girl said.
Ryan came round the bar and held out his hand. ‘You did me a good turn tonight. I shan’t forget.’
‘Lucky I was there.’
‘That’s as may be. I owe you a drink anyway.’
‘Bushmills whiskey would be fine,’ Keogh told him.
‘Over here.’ Ryan indicated a booth in the corner.
The girl took off her raincoat and beret and eased behind the table. Her uncle sat beside her and Keogh was opposite. Ivor brought a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses.
‘Can I get you anything, Kathleen?’
‘No, I’m OK, Ivor.’
He plainly worshipped her, but nodded and walked away. Ryan said, ‘I’ve checked with a contact at the Royal Victoria. They just received three very damaged young men. One with a bullet in the thigh.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Keogh said.
Kathleen Ryan stared at him. ‘You didn’t tell me.’
‘No need.’
‘Let’s see what you’re carrying,’ Ryan asked. ‘No need to worry. All friends here.’
Keogh shrugged, took the Walther from his pocket and passed it across. Ryan examined it expertly. ‘Carswell silencer, the new job. Very nice.’ He took a Browning from his pocket and passed it over. ‘Still my personal favourite.’
‘Preferred weapon of the SAS.’ Keogh lifted the Browning in one hand. ‘And the Parachute Regiment.’
‘He served with 1 Para,’ the girl said. ‘Bloody Sunday.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Michael Ryan said.
‘A long time ago. Lately I’ve been at sea.’
‘Belfast, but raised in London, Kathleen tells me?’
‘My mother died in childbirth. My father went to London in search of work. He’s dead now.’
Ryan had ejected the magazine from the butt of the Walther. ‘And a good Prod. You must be because of what you did for Kathleen.’
‘To be honest with you, religion doesn’t mean a thing to me,’ Keogh told him. ‘But let’s say I know which side I’m on.’
At that moment, the door was flung open and a man in a cloth cap and raincoat rushed in, a revolver in one hand.
‘Michael Ryan, you bastard, I’ve got you now,’ he cried and raised the revolver.
Ryan was caught, the magazine from the Walther on the table beside it. Keogh said, ‘What do I do, shoot him? All right. Bang, you’re dead.’ He picked up the Browning and fired once. The man dropped the hand holding the revolver to one side. Keogh said, ‘Blanks, Mr Ryan, I could tell by the weight. What kind of a game are we playing here?’
Ryan was laughing now. ‘Go on, Joseph, and get yourself a drink at the bar.’
The supposed gunman turned away. The old men by the fire continued their card game as if nothing had happened.
Michael Ryan stood up. ‘Just a test, my old son, in a manner of speaking. Let’s adjourn to the parlour and talk some more.’
There was a fire in the grate of the small parlour, curtains drawn as rain drummed against the window. It was warm and comfortable and Ryan and Keogh sat opposite each other. The girl came in from the kitchen with a teapot, milk and cups on a tray.
Ryan said, ‘If you’re a seaman you’ll have your papers.’
‘Of course,’ Keogh said.
Ryan held out his hand and Keogh shrugged, opened his reefer and took a wallet from his inside pocket.
‘There you go. Ships’ papers, union card, the lot.’
The girl poured tea and Ryan examined everything closely. ‘Paid off the Ventura two weeks ago. Deck hand and diver. What’s all that?’
‘The Ventura’s a supply ship in the North Sea oilfields. Besides general ship’s duties, I did some diving. Not the really deep stuff. Just underwater maintenance, welding when necessary. That sort of thing.’
‘Interesting. A man of parts. Any special skills from the Parachute Regiment?’
‘Just how to kill people. The usual weaponry skills. A considerable knowledge of explosives.’ Keogh lit a cigarette. ‘But where’s all this leading?’
Ryan persisted. ‘Can you ride a motorcycle?’
‘Since I was sixteen and that’s a long time ago. So what?’
Ryan leaned back, took out a pipe and filled it from an old pouch. ‘Visiting relatives, are you?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Keogh said. ‘A few cousins scattered here and there. I came back on a whim. Nostalgia if you like. A bad idea really, but I can always go back and get another berth.’
‘I could offer you a job,’ Ryan said and the girl brought a taper from the fire to light his pipe.
‘What, here in Belfast?’
‘No, in England.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Why, the kind of thing you did tonight. The kind of thing you’re good at.’
It was very quiet. Keogh was aware of the girl watching him eagerly. ‘Do I smell politics here?’
‘Since nineteen sixty-nine I’ve worked for the Loyalist cause,’ Ryan said. ‘Served six years in the Maze prison. I hate Fenians. I hate the bloody Sinn Fein because if they win they’ll drive us all out, every Protestant in the country. Ethnic cleansing to the hilt. Now if things get that bad I’ll take as many of them to hell with me as I can.’
‘So where’s this leading?’
‘A job in England. A very lucrative job. Funds for our organization.’
‘In other words we steal from someone,’ Keogh said.
‘We need money, Keogh,’ Ryan said. ‘Money for arms. The bloody IRA have their Irish American sympathizers providing funds. We don’t.’ He leaned forward. ‘I’m not asking you for patriotism. I’ll settle for greed. Fifty thousand pounds.’
There was a long pause and Ryan and the girl waited, her face sombre as if she expected him to say no.
Keogh smiled. ‘That’s a lot of money, Mr Ryan, so you’ll be expecting a lot in return.’
‘Back-up is what I expect from a man who can handle anything and, from the way you’ve carried yourself tonight, you would seem to be that kind of man.’
Keogh said, ‘What about your own people? You’ve as many gunmen out on the street as the IRA. More, even. I know that from army days.’ He lit a cigarette and leaned back. ‘Unless there’s another truth here. That you’re in it for the money, you’re in it for yourself.’
Kathleen Ryan jumped up. ‘Damn you for saying that. My uncle has given more for our people than anyone I know. Better you get out of here while you can.’
Ryan held up a hand. ‘Softly, child, any intelligent man would see it as a possibility. It’s happened before, God knows, and on both sides.’
‘So?’ Keogh said.
‘I can be as hungry as the next man where money is concerned, but my cause is a just one, the one certainty in my life. Any money that passes through my hands goes to the Protestant cause. That’s what my life is about.’
‘Then why not use some of your own men?’
‘Because people talk too much, a weakness in all revolutionary movements. The IRA have the same problem. I’ve always preferred to use what I call hired help and for that I go to the underworld. An honest thief who is working for wages is a sounder proposition than some revolutionary hothead.’
‘So that’s where I come in?’ Keogh said. ‘Hired help, just like anyone else you need?’
‘Exactly. So, are you in or out? If it’s no then say no. After what you did for Kathleen tonight you’ll come to no harm from me.’
‘Well, that’s nice to know.’ Keogh shrugged. ‘Oh, what the hell, I might as well give it a try. A change from the North Sea. Terrible weather there at this time of the year.’
‘Good man yourself,’ Ryan smiled. ‘A couple of Bushmills, Kathleen, and we’ll drink to it.’
‘Where are you staying?’ Ryan asked.
‘A fleapit called the Albert Hotel,’ Keogh told him.
‘Fleapit indeed,’ Ryan toasted him. ‘Our country too.’
‘May you die in Ireland,’ Keogh replied.
‘An excellent sentiment.’ Ryan swallowed his Bushmills in a single gulp.
‘So what happens now?’
‘I’ll tell you in London. We’ll fly there – you, me and Kathleen. There’s someone I have to see.’
Keogh turned to the girl. ‘An activist, is it? A little young, I would have thought.’
‘They blew up my family when I was ten years old, Mr Keogh,’ she said fiercely. ‘I grew up fast after that.’
‘A hard world.’
‘And I’ll make it harder for the other side, believe me.’
‘You hate well, I’ll say that.’ Keogh turned back to her uncle. ‘So that’s it, then?’ He shook his hand. ‘What am I really getting into? I should know more.’
‘All right, a taster only. How well do you know the north-west of England? The Lake District?’
‘I’ve never been there.’
‘A wild and lonely area at this time of the year with the tourists gone.’
‘So?’
‘A certain truck will be passing through there, a meat transporter. You and I will hijack it. Very simple, very fast. A five-minute job.’
‘You did say meat transporter?’
Ryan smiled. ‘That’s what this truck is. What’s inside is another matter. You find that out later.’
‘And what happens afterwards?’
‘We drive to a place on the Cumbrian coast where there’s an old disused jetty. There will be a boat waiting, a Siemens ferry. Do you know what that is?’
‘The Germans used them in the Second World War to transport heavy equipment and men in coastal attacks.’
‘You’re well informed. We drive on board and sail for Ulster. I’ve found a suitable spot on the coast where there’s a disused quarry pier. We drive the truck off the boat and disappear into the night. All beautifully simple.’
‘So it would seem,’ Keogh said. ‘And the crew of this Siemens ferry? What are they doing?’
‘Earning their wages. As far as they are concerned it’s just some sort of illegal traffic or other. They do it all the time. They’re those sort of people.’
‘Crooks, you mean.’
‘Exactly. The boat is tied up near Wapping at the moment. That’s why we’re going to London. To finalize things.’
There was a pause and then Kathleen Ryan said, ‘What do you think, Mr Keogh?’
‘That you’d better start calling me Martin as it seems we’re going to spend some time together.’
‘But do you think it would work?’
‘Its greatest virtue, as your uncle says, is its simplicity. It could work perfectly, just like a Swiss watch. On the other hand, even Swiss watches break down sometimes.’
‘Oh ye of little faith.’ Ryan smiled. ‘Of course it will work. It’s got to. My organization needs the means to buy arms for our people. It’s essential. There’s a passage in the Koran that says there is more truth in one sword than ten thousand words.’
‘I take your point.’ Keogh stood up. ‘It’s late. I’d better get back to my hotel.’
‘Join us here for breakfast in the morning,’ Ryan told him. ‘We’ll catch the noon plane. I’ll take care of the tickets.’
‘I’ll say goodnight, then.’
‘The bar is closed. Kathleen will let you out. I’ll keep your Walther here. No way of passing through airport security with that, but it doesn’t matter. Our London connection will provide any weapons we need.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
The girl opened the door and rain drove in on the wind.
‘A dirty old night,’ she said.
‘You can say that again.’ Keogh turned up his collar. ‘An Ulster fry-up will do me fine for breakfast especially if you cook it yourself. Two eggs and don’t forget the sausage.’
‘Go on, get on your way.’ She pushed him out and laughed that distinctive laugh of hers and closed the door.
Keogh had difficulty finding a phone box. Most of them seemed to be vandalized. He finally struck lucky when he was quite close to the hotel. He closed the glass door to keep out the rain and rang the Dublin number. Barry was seated at the desk of his small study with his Chief of Intelligence for Ulster, a man named John Cassidy, when he took the call.
‘It’s me,’ Keogh said. ‘Worked like a charm. I’m in it up to my neck. Ryan’s taken me on board.’
‘Tell me everything.’
Which Keogh did in a few brief sentences. Finally, he said, ‘What could be in this meat transporter?’
‘Gold bullion if it’s the job I’m thinking of. It was put to the Loyalist Army Council about a year ago and thrown out as being too risky.’
‘So Ryan has decided to do it on his own initiative.’
‘Exactly, but then he always was the wild one. That’s why I wanted you in there when I got the whisper through an informer that he was up to something.’
‘Up to something big,’ Keogh told him.
‘That’s right. Stay in close touch. You’ve got those alternate numbers for the mobile phone and watch your back.’
Barry leaned back thoughtfully and lit a cigarette. Cassidy said, ‘Trouble?’
‘Michael Ryan up to his old tricks.’ He ran through what Keogh had told him.
Cassidy said, ‘My God, if it is gold bullion, the bastards would have enough money to arm for a civil war. What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t need to do a thing except have a suitable reception committee waiting when that boat delivers the truck somewhere on the Ulster coast. Then we’ll have enough money to start a civil war.’
‘And you’re certain of knowing the time and place?’
‘Oh, yes. The man on the other end of the phone just now is one of our own. He’s infiltrated under a false identity. He’ll be going along for the ride every step of the way.’
‘A good man?’
‘The best.’
‘Would I be knowing him?’
Barry told him Keogh’s real name.
Cassidy laughed out loud. ‘God save us, the Devil himself, so God help Michael Ryan.’
There was no one at the reception desk when Keogh entered the hotel. He went up the stairs quickly and unlocked the door to his room. It was unbelievably depressing and he looked around with distaste. It certainly wasn’t worth taking off his clothes. He switched off the light, lit a cigarette, lay on the bed and went over the whole affair.
The astonishing thing was, as had been said, the simplicity of it. He’d have to consider that again once Ryan had taken him fully into his confidence, of course. Not a bad fella, Ryan; a man hard to dislike. And then there was the girl. So much hate there in one so young and all blamed on the bomb which had killed her family. He shook his head. There was more to it than that, had to be, and, finally, he drifted into sleep.
Kathleen Ryan took a cup of tea in to her uncle just before she went to bed. Ryan was sitting by the fire smoking his pipe and brooding.
‘You think it will work?’ she asked.
‘I’ve never been more certain, and with Keogh along…’ He shrugged. ‘Fifty million pounds in gold bullion, Kathleen. Just think of that.’
‘A strange one,’ she said. ‘Can you trust him?’
‘I’ve never trusted anyone in my life,’ he said cheerfully, ‘not even you. No, don’t you fret over Keogh. I’ll have my eye on him.’
‘But can you be sure?’
‘Of course I can. I know him like I know myself, Kathleen, my love. We’re cut from the same bolt of cloth. Like me he’s got brains, that’s obvious. He’s also a killer. It’s his nature. He can do no other, just like me.’ He reached up to kiss her cheek. ‘Now off to bed with you.’
She went out and he sat back, sipping his tea and thinking of a lonely road in the Lake District, a road that not even his niece knew he had visited.

LONDON (#u6717ba6e-5e66-5711-9f47-3fcc98d9fec4)

2 (#ulink_a85c0ee0-5521-572f-bc25-7baa2059a1d9)
If there is such a thing as an Irish quarter in London it’s to be found in Kilburn along with a profusion of pubs to make any Irish Republican happy. But there are also the Protestant variety, identical with anything to be found in Belfast. The William & Mary was one of those, its landlord, Hugh Bell, an Orange Protestant to the hilt, performing the same function in London for the Loyalist movement as Sinn Fein did for the IRA.
In the early evening of the day they had arrived in London, Ryan, Keogh and Kathleen sat with him in a back room, an assortment of handguns on the table. Bell, a large, jovial man with white hair, poured himself a whiskey.
‘Anything you like, Michael and there’s more where that came from.’
Ryan selected a Browning, hefted it and put it in his pocket. Keogh found a Walther. ‘Would you have a Carswell for this?’ he asked.
‘A man of taste and discernment I see,’ Bell observed. He got up, went to a cupboard, rummaged inside and came back. ‘There you go. The latest model.’
Keogh screwed it on to the end of the Walther. ‘Just the ticket.’
‘And the young lady?’ Bell asked.
‘My niece doesn’t carry,’ Ryan told him.
The girl bridled instantly. ‘I’m as good a shot as you, Uncle Michael, and you know it. How am I expected to protect myself? Kick them in the balls?’
Bell laughed. ‘I might have a solution.’ He went back to the cupboard and returned with a small automatic. ‘Colt .25, quite rare. Slips in a lady’s handbag or stocking quite easily.’
‘And no bloody stopping power,’ Ryan told him.
‘Enough if you’re close enough,’ Bell said.
The girl took the weapon from him and smiled. ‘This will do me just fine.’ She slipped it into her handbag.
Ryan said, ‘All right. What about the Irish Rose?’
‘Siemens ferry, tied up in Wapping near the Pool of London. Captain Frank Tully, but you know that. The kind of rat who’ll do anything for money. The worst kind of drugs, anything that pays. He’s twice run arms for the IRA to the Republic.’
‘What about his crew?’
‘There’s four.’ Bell opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper. He put reading spectacles on the end of his nose. ‘Mick Dolan and Jock Grant – they’re from Liverpool. Bert Fox from London and a Kraut named Muller – Hans Muller. They’ve all got form – all been inside.’
‘Well at least we know what we’re dealing with,’ Keogh observed.
‘That’s right,’ Ryan told him. ‘Just your average scum.’
Bell said, ‘These aren’t good people, Michael. I hope you know what you’re doing.’
‘I usually do.’ Ryan grinned and took a folded piece of paper from his pocket. ‘These are my requirements. See if you can fill the bill.’
Bell had a look. ‘Stun grenades, smoke grenades. That’s fine. Two AK assault rifles. OK. Semtex? Is that essential?’
‘I might have to blow my way into my target.’
‘All right, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘That’s it, then.’ Ryan smiled at his niece and Keogh. ‘Something to eat and then we’ll go and see Tully.’
It was very cold on the Thames, Tower Bridge on the right and the floodlit Tower of London just beyond it. A couple of ships passed from the Pool of London, red and green lights clear in the evening darkness as the taxi stopped at the end of Cable Wharf and Ryan, Kathleen and Keogh got out. The taxi moved away and they walked along the waterfront.
The ferry was moored at the far end, cables reaching to the pier and in the sickly yellow light of two lamps they could see the legend on the stern plain. Irish Rose.
‘Enough to make a man feel at home,’ Ryan said.
‘I’m not sure that’s the right word for it,’ Keogh told him.
They started up the gangway and a man in reefer coat and peaked cap appeared. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ he asked in a hard Liverpool voice.
‘We’re expected,’ Ryan said. ‘Tell Captain Tully.’
The man laughed out loud. ‘Captain Tully? Is that what he calls himself?’ He laughed again. ‘All right, this way.’
The boat was very flat, the central section including the wheelhouse rising up from the deck three quarters of the way along. She was about five hundred feet in length.
‘What do you think?’ Ryan whispered to Keogh as they followed.
‘That they weren’t designed for heavy weather,’ Keogh told him.
They went up a ladder to the wheelhouse, stopped on the landing below. Their escort opened a door and stood to one side.
‘Here we are then.’
‘Thank you, Mr Dolan.’
The man who sat behind the chart table wore a seagoing officer’s coat, had hair down to his shoulders and a face that was so ravaged by drink and bad living that it was impossible to determine his age.
‘Mr Ryan, here we are again.’ He stood up and extended his hand. ‘And who might this gorgeous young lady be?’
‘My niece, Captain Tully. You might well remember that. This is my associate, Martin Keogh.’
‘Mr Keogh.’ Tully shook his hand enthusiastically. ‘A real pleasure.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ Keogh told him.
‘To business then,’ Tully said.
Ryan opened the briefcase he was holding and took out a folded chart. ‘There is your destination. Marsh End, south of Ravenglass on the Cumbrian coast. You have two days. Can you manage that?’
Tully unfolded the chart and examined it. ‘No problem. What then?’
‘I’ll arrive by truck which we’ll take across to Kilalla on the coast of County Down.’ He took out another chart. ‘There’s a disused quarry pier there. We put the truck on shore and you sail away.’
‘We do indeed, Mr Ryan. There is, of course, the small matter of recompense.’
Ryan took a large envelope from the briefcase and passed it across. ‘Fifty thousand pounds there. Another fifty on the termination of the contract at Kilalla. Satisfactory?’
‘Oh, very, Mr Ryan, I can assure you of that.’
‘Excellent, then we’ll see you on Friday morning at Marsh End.’
‘No problem,’ Tully said. ‘We won’t let you down.’
‘Good. We’ll be off then.’
As they walked along the waterfront Kathleen Ryan said, ‘I didn’t like anything about that bowser.’
‘You aren’t expected to.’ Ryan turned to Keogh. ‘What about you?’
‘He’ll cut your throat if he thinks there’s a pound in it.’
‘Which is why I have you along, so let’s get back,’ and Ryan walked to the corner and waved to a taxi.
The man who had greeted them at the gangway was Dolan. When he went back into the chartroom he found Tully examining the charts Ryan had given him.
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s big,’ Tully said. ‘Fifty thousand now and another fifty when we hit the Ulster coast. Whatever is in that truck must be worth more.’
‘So?’
‘The number he gave me to contact him. It’s a pub in Kilburn called the William & Mary, I think I’ll go up there and have a nose around.’ He folded the charts. ‘You look after things here.’ He moved to the door and turned. ‘This could be a big pay day, Mick.’
‘Well I’m with you on that,’ Dolan said. ‘Whatever it takes.’
‘Good man,’ Tully said and went out.
The saloon bar of the William & Mary was packed, men standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar as they drank. It was a cheerful enough scene and very noisy as Tully peered in through one of the windows.
He decided to take his chances round the back and followed a narrow alley that brought him to a high wall, a gate opening into a yard. There was a chink of light showing at a window, curtains partly drawn. He approached cautiously and peered inside.
Ryan, Bell and Kathleen sat at a table, a map unfolded before them. Keogh stood by the fire. Ryan laughed as Bell said something to him, but Tully couldn’t hear what it was. It was then that he noticed the back door in the shadows. He tried the handle gingerly and the door opened to his touch.
He found himself in a narrow corridor. There was no light on and he groped his way forward, aware of coats hanging from a peg rack. At that moment a door opened, light flooding out, and Bell appeared. Tully froze, trying to bury himself in the hanging coats and Bell called, ‘I’ll only be a minute.’
He went down the corridor, opened a door and went inside. A few moments later there was the sound of a toilet flushing. He returned, went into the back room and closed the door. Tully went forward and put his ear to the door and was instantly aware of everything being said inside.
‘Right, then, cards on the table,’ Ryan said. ‘It’s time you knew what the rest of us do, Martin.’
‘I’m all in favour of that,’ Keogh told him.
‘I put this job together a year or so ago. Hugh here helped with the planning of the English end of things. Unfortunately the Army Council turned it down flat, thought the whole thing too risky.’
‘Bunch of old women,’ Bell said.
‘So what’s it all about?’ Keogh demanded. ‘What’s on the meat transporter?’
It was Kathleen who answered. ‘Gold, Martin. Gold bullion. Fifty million pounds.’
‘God save us,’ Keogh managed to look astonished. ‘And why would it be transported in such a way?’
‘Let me explain,’ Ryan said. ‘Bullion used to be landed at London Docks on the Thames, but over the past twenty-five years the waterfront has been in decline. Shippers prefer Amsterdam. However bullion deliveries were rerouted to Glasgow.’
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘Five years. Ever since they built a new smelter at Barrow-in-Furness. See it there on the map right at the bottom of the Lake District? Mainly shipbuilding there. The latest atomic submarine came out of their yards.’
‘So what’s the smelter got to do with things?’
‘They melt the gold down and re-process it into smaller ingots. The banks prefer it that way. Gold is heavy stuff.’
‘I see,’ Keogh said.
Ryan continued. ‘The transporter travels from Glasgow to Carlisle then cuts across to Maryport on the coast and follows the coast road down to Barrow.’
‘And we hit it somewhere on that road?’
‘Exactly. This coming Friday.’
‘But how do we stop it and, what’s more to the point, how do we get in?’
It was Bell who answered. ‘It’s no ordinary truck. There’s a driver and two armed security guards in the cabin behind him. The truck looks standard, but it’s reinforced in every possible way and there’s a battery of electronic security devices and a first-class radio system.’
‘And how do you handle that?’ Keogh asked.
Bell opened a drawer in the table and took out a black hand-held computer with several rows of buttons and a read-out screen.
‘I know this looks as if you use it to turn your television on and off, but it’s a bit of pure genius called a Howler. You see, privileged information again, we know the code for the security system of the truck. The Howler has already selected it. You press the red button three times and the entire security system in the truck, electronic door locks, radio, the lot, are neutralized. That means the doors are open.’
‘And where in the hell did you get that?’ Keogh asked.
‘Oh, a young electronic whiz kid at Queen’s University in Belfast who is sympathetic to our cause.’
Keogh nodded slowly. ‘And the driver and the guards? What happens there?’
‘A stun grenade should take care of them.’ Ryan looked bleak for a moment. ‘Mind you, I’ll kill them if I have to. This is serious business.’
Keogh nodded. ‘All right, what happens after the heist?’
‘We drive it to Marsh End where the Irish Rose will be waiting.’ He smiled. ‘We’ll be well out to sea and on our way and the police running round in circles.’
There was a long silence while Keogh brooded. Finally he nodded. ‘You know, you’re right. It could work.’
Ryan laughed delightedly. ‘Good man yourself, Martin. Let’s have a drink on it.’
Bell got up, opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of Bushmills and three glasses and at that moment there was a crash in the yard outside as a trash can went over.
When Ryan suggested the drink, Tully decided it was time to go. He opened the back door, closed it softly behind him and started across the yard. It was then that he blundered into the trash can, dislodging the metal lid which clanged as it fell to the stone flagging. He carried on, got the gate open and ran along the alley. As he reached the far end Keogh emerged into the alley but by then it was too late as Tully crossed the busy main road and was lost in the evening crowd.
When Keogh returned, Bell had turned on the yard light and was standing at the back door with Ryan and the girl.
‘Was there someone?’ Ryan demanded.
‘Oh, yes,’ Keogh said. ‘And you’re not going to like it one little bit. I just caught a glimpse of him as he turned into the road. It looked remarkably like Tully to me.’
‘The bastard was checking up on us,’ Ryan said and led the way back into the parlour.
‘So what do we do now?’ Bell demanded. ‘This blows everything.’
‘No, I don’t agree,’ Keogh said. ‘He wants to see the affair go through because he wants the rest of his money.’
‘That makes sense.’ Ryan nodded.
‘I’d say he was simply sniffing around to find out more.’
‘Which means he’s a shifty swine,’ Kathleen put in.
‘Who now knows more than he did before, if he overheard our discussion.’ Keogh pulled on his reefer coat.
‘Where are you going?’ Ryan demanded.
‘Back to the Irish Rose.’ Keogh took out his Walther and checked it. ‘I’m going to do some sniffing around myself.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ Ryan told him.
‘No need, I can handle it.’ Keogh smiled. ‘After all, that’s what you’re paying me for.’
As he turned for the door, Kathleen Ryan said, ‘Take care, Martin.’
‘Ah, but I always do, girl dear.’ He smiled and went out, there was the sound of the yard gate opening and closing and he was gone.
It was raining again as Keogh paid off the taxi and turned along Cable Wharf. It was a place of shadows, a touch of fog in the air. He kept to those shadows by the old disused warehouses and paused when he was close to the gangway. There was no sign of life. He thought about it for a while then decided to take a chance and darted across to the stern of the ferry which at that point was lower than the wharf.
He dropped down to the deck, paused for a moment, then moved through the darkness to where the central section and the wheelhouse reared into the night. There was a light up there. Keogh went up an iron ladder to the landing below the wheelhouse, then approached, crouching. He could hear voices, smell cigarette smoke. They were all in there, Tully and his crew. Keogh stood, protected by a life raft, and listened.
He heard the man Dolan say, ‘Gold? Are you kidding us, Frank?’
‘No. I’m bloody not. The truck that we pick up at Marsh End will be loaded with the stuff. They’re going to knock it off on its way to the smelters in Barrow-in-Furness.’
‘But who are they?’ Dolan demanded.
‘Well, they’re Irish, that’s for certain. I’d have said IRA, but I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘Two things. Our destination, Kilalla. That’s Ulster, not the Republic. Another thing. The William & Mary in Kilburn. That’s a Prod pub, not Catholic. I think they’re probably the other side.’
‘Loyalists?’ Dolan asked.
‘Same difference, as far as I’m concerned,’ Tully told him. ‘I couldn’t care less which side they’re on. All I’m interested in is that gold.’
There was a stirring amongst the crew. Dolan said, ‘You mean we’re going to knock it off?’
‘Who knows?’ Tully laughed. ‘After all, lads, anything can happen at sea, but let’s get moving. Prepare to cast off. We’ve only got two days to get up there.’
Keogh crouched behind the life raft as the crew emerged and descended to the deck. He stayed there thinking about it then stood up and moved to the wheelhouse door.
Tully, leaning over the table, was aware of a small wind that lifted the chart for the Cumbrian coast a little. He looked up and found Keogh leaning against the door lighting a cigarette.
‘As they used to say in those old Agatha Christie plays, all is revealed. I was outside, old son, and I heard your little speech to that motley crew of yours.’ Tully tried to open a drawer and Keogh’s hand came out of his pocket holding the Walther. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
Tully glowered at him. ‘What do you want?’
‘Well, I know you were at the William & Mary. By rights I should put a bullet between your eyes, but I’ll settle for the fifty thousand pounds Ryan gave you earlier.’
‘You can go to hell.’
Keogh raised the Walther and fired. There was the usual dull cough and the lobe of Tully’s right ear disintegrated. He cried out sharply and clutched at the ear, blood spurting.
‘That was for starters,’ Keogh said. ‘Come on, the envelope.’
Tully got the drawer open with his free hand, took out the envelope and tossed it over. Keogh put it in his pocket. Tully took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his ear.
‘My God, look what you’ve done.’
‘So what’s the difference?’ Keogh said. ‘You couldn’t look worse than you do.’
‘Fuck you.’ Tully opened a cupboard one-handed, took out a bottle of Scotch and pulled the cork with his teeth. He took a long swallow. ‘Now what?’
‘Now nothing,’ Keogh told him. ‘I’ll see you at Marsh End on Friday.’
Tully looked astonished. ‘You mean it’s still on?’
‘Too late to get anyone else now,’ Keogh told him. ‘This is what I call an “I know that you know that I know” situation, so behave yourself and you’ll get this envelope back plus the other fifty thousand pounds when we reach Kilalla.’
‘Sod you!’ Tully said.
‘Yes, I know that,’ Keogh told him, ‘but you will be at Marsh End on Friday.’
‘Yes, damn you, I will.’
‘Good man yourself. Now you can escort me to the gangway and we’ll say goodnight.’
The engines rumbled into life at that moment. Tully led the way out, negotiating the ladder with difficulty, blood streaming from his ear. Only Dolan and the German, Muller, were working on deck. Muller was casting off and Dolan was about to haul in the gangway. He looked up in astonishment.
‘Here, what’s going on?’
‘What’s going on is that you leave the gangway alone until I’ve gone down it,’ Keogh said.
Dolan tried to rush him and Keogh swiped him across the face with the Walther. Dolan staggered back with a cry of pain and Keogh went down the gangway. He turned at the bottom and smiled up at Tully.
‘To our next merry meeting at Marsh End.’
‘Bastard!’ Tully called.
Keogh laughed and walked away through the rain.
Jack Barry was sitting at the desk of his study when the portable phone went.
Keogh said, ‘It’s me.’
Barry said, ‘Where are you?’
‘Wapping High Street in old London Town.’
‘So what’s happening?’
‘You were right about the gold.’
‘Is that a fact? Tell me.’
‘It’s complicated, but here goes,’ and Keogh went through the whole business step-by-step.
When he was finished, Barry said, ‘Christ, but it’s the ruthless bastard you are. Will Tully play?’
‘He will. A hundred thousand pound pay day. He isn’t going to turn that down.’
‘Right. Let’s say everything works. What happens on board the Irish Rose once you put to sea? They’ll try to take you.’
‘Of course, but we’ll be prepared.’
‘You, Ryan and his niece? God save us all.’
‘Oh, He will, He will. What about the Kilalla end?’
‘Oh, I think I can promise you an interesting reception. A considerable contribution to IRA funds. It could win us the war.’
‘Just think of that,’ Keogh told him, ‘and it’s only taken seven hundred years.’
Barry laughed. ‘Go on, dark hero, get on with it and keep in touch,’ and he switched off his phone.
In the parlour at the William & Mary, Ryan and Kathleen sat at the table and listened to what Keogh had to say. Keogh helped himself to a Bushmills on the side.
Bell said, ‘You shot him?’
‘Only a little.’ Keogh sipped a little Bushmills. ‘The lobe of his right ear.’
Kathleen’s face was infused with excitement. ‘That taught the bastard a lesson.’
Ryan said, ‘You think he’ll still come?’
‘Of course he will. He wants his hundred thousand pounds.’
‘But he’ll try for more on the run to Ulster?’
‘Yes, well we know that so we’ll just have to be prepared, won’t we?’
‘I suppose so.’ Ryan took a deep breath. ‘We’ll catch the Glasgow Express in the morning. We’ll leave at Carnforth and take the local train to Barrow.’
‘Then what?’
‘We’ll be met,’ Ryan told him. ‘Something else I didn’t tell you. I have a cousin who runs a sheep farm in the Lake District not far from Ravenglass. But enough of that now. I’m for bed. We’ll need an early start.’
As the Irish Rose moved down the Thames, Tully stood at the wheel, his head disembodied in the light of the binnacle. His right ear was covered by a taped bandage. The door of the wheelhouse opened and Dolan entered with a mug in one hand. He put it down by the wheel.
‘Tea,’ he said. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine,’ Tully told him.
‘So what about that little bastard?’
‘Oh, when the right time comes I’m going to cut his balls off.’ Tully reached for the mug and drank some tea. ‘There’s an old Sinn Fein saying: Our day will come. Well mine certainly will where Keogh’s concerned.’
He swung the wheel and increased power.

3 (#ulink_c1b7edd0-ce7f-5868-86b0-da5d8bbbe64f)
The Glasgow Express wasn’t particularly busy. Keogh sat opposite Kathleen at a corner table. Ryan took the one opposite. Almost immediately he opened his briefcase and took out a file. He started to work his way through it, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
The girl took the copy of The Midnight Court from her carrying bag and an Irish dictionary which she put on one side. A strange one, Keogh thought, a strange one indeed. He sat there gazing out of the window wondering what she would say, what her reaction would be if she knew he was everything she hated. A Roman Catholic and an IRA enforcer. God, but the fat would be in the fire the day that got out.
About an hour out of London an attendant appeared pushing a trolley with tea, coffee, sandwiches and newspapers. Ryan stopped working and took a coffee. The girl asked for tea and so did Keogh. He also bought The Times and the Daily Mail and spent the next hour catching up on the news.
There wasn’t much on the Irish situation. A bomb in Derry which had taken out six shops in one street, a tit-for-tat killing of two Catholics on the Falls Road, retaliation for the shooting of a Protestant in the Shankill and an Army Air Corps helicopter flying in to the command post at Crossmaglen had come under machine-gun fire. Just another day, they’d say in Ulster.
And then, half-way through The Times, he came to an article entitled HOW LONG, OH LORD, HOW LONG? It was written by a retired Member of Parliament, once a Minister at the Northern Ireland Office, who not unreasonably felt that sixteen years of bloody war in Ireland was enough. His preferred solution was an independent Ulster as a member of the British Commonwealth. Incredible how naive on the subject even politicians could be.
Keogh closed the paper, lit a cigarette and sat back, watching the girl. To his amusement he saw that she frequently consulted the dictionary. She glanced up and saw him smile.
She frowned. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Not much. You just seem to be having some difficulty with that.’
‘It’s not easy. I only started learning three months ago. There’s a phrase here that’s damned difficult to work out.’
Keogh, a fluent Irish speaker, could have helped, but to disclose the fact would have been a serious error. People who spoke Irish were Catholics and Nationalists, it was as simple as that.
Ryan had finished the file, put it back in his briefcase and leaned back in the corner, closing his eyes.
‘He seems tired,’ Keogh observed.
‘He does too much, almost burns himself out. He’s a believer, you see. Our cause is everything to him. Meat and drink.’
‘You too, I think.’
‘You have to have something to believe in in this life.’
‘In your case, the death of your family gave you that?’
‘The murder of my family, Martin, the murder.’
There was no answer to that, could never be. Her face was white and intense, eyes filled with rage.
Keogh said, ‘Peace, girl dear, peace. Go on, read your book,’ and he picked up the Daily Mail and started on that.
Another half hour and the attendant returned. They had more tea, and ham sandwiches. Ryan was still asleep.
‘We’ll leave him be,’ the girl said.
They ate in companionable silence. When they were finished Keogh lit another cigarette. ‘Sixteen, Kate, and the whole of life ahead of you. And what would you like to do with it if peace ever comes to Ireland?’
‘Oh, I know that well enough. I always wanted to be a nurse, ever since my time in hospital after the bomb. I was at the Royal Victoria for three months. The nurses were great.’
‘Nursing, is it? Well, for that you need to pass your exams and you not even at school.’
She laughed that distinctive harsh laugh of hers. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong, mister. Most people do their ordinary level exams at sixteen. I did mine at fourteen. Most people do the advanced levels at eighteen. I did mine four months ago in English Literature, French and Spanish. I have a thing for languages, you see.’ There was a kind of bravado in her voice. ‘I’m qualified to go to university if I’m so minded and I’m only sixteen.’
‘And are you?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ve more important things to do. For the moment, our struggle is all that matters. Now shut up, Martin, and let me get on with my book,’ and she returned to The Midnight Court.
They got off the train at Carnforth. It was desolate enough, hardly anyone about, rain drifting across the platform.
Ryan checked his watch. ‘There’s a local train to Barrow-in-Furness leaving in forty minutes. We’ll get a cup of tea. I need to talk to you both.’
The café was deserted, only an ageing woman serving behind the bar. Kathleen Ryan went and got the tea and brought it back on a tray.
‘I mind the time when this station was open for business twenty-four hours,’ Ryan said. ‘Steam engines thundering through one after another.’ He shook his head. ‘Everything changes.’
‘You know the area well?’ Keogh asked.
‘Oh, yes, I’ve visited the Lake District a number of times over the years. I was up this way only four weeks ago.’
His niece said in genuine surprise, ‘I didn’t know that, Uncle Michael.’
‘You thought I’d gone to Dublin,’ Ryan said. ‘Well I didn’t. I was up here arranging things, and there’s a lot more you don’t know and now is the time for the telling.’
‘Go on,’ Keogh told him.
Ryan produced the Ordnance Survey map of the area which they had consulted in London and unfolded it.
‘There’s Ravenglass on the coast. A bit of a winding road from Barrow to get there. Maybe thirty-five miles. Marsh End is about five miles south of Ravenglass.’
‘So?’ Keogh said.
‘See here, to one side of Ravenglass, the valley running up into the mountains? Eskdale, it’s called. I’ve got what you might call friends there.’
‘But you never told me that,’ Kathleen Ryan said in astonishment.
‘I’m telling you now, am I not? Now, this is the way of it. My own cousin, Colin Power, had an English wife, a farmer’s daughter from Eskdale. Colin was a tenant farmer in County Down, but when her parents died, the farm in Eskdale was left to his wife, Mary.’
‘So they moved over?’
‘Exactly. This was twenty years ago. They brought with them a young boy, Colin’s nephew, Benny. He had brain damage from birth. His parents wanted to put him in a home, but Mary, having no child of her own, took him on and raised him.’
‘And they’re up there now in Eskdale?’ Kathleen demanded.
‘Right at the head of the valley. A remote, desolate place. Folly’s End, it’s called, and that’s an apt name for it. Too much rain, too much wind. The sheep don’t thrive.’ Ryan shrugged. ‘It was too much for Colin. He died of a heart attack five years ago. Only Mary and Benny to run the place.’
‘A lot of work for two people, I would have thought,’ Keogh said.
Ryan laughed out loud. ‘Just wait till you see Benny.’ At that moment the local train pulled in at the platform and he glanced through the window. ‘That’s us. Let’s get moving,’ and he stood up and led the way out.
There were only a handful of passengers getting off the train at Barrow-in-Furness. They went through the ticket barrier, passed into the concourse and stood outside.
A voice called, ‘Uncle Michael, it’s me,’ the words heavy and slurred.
There was an old Land Rover parked on the other side and the man standing beside it was quite extraordinary. He was at least six feet four in height and built like an ox with enormous shoulders. He wore a tweed cap and a shabby tweed suit with patches on the elbows. He rushed forward eagerly, a childlike expression on his fleshy face.
‘It’s me, Uncle Michael,’ he said again.
Michael gave him a brief hug. ‘Good man yourself, Benny. Is your aunt well?’
‘Very well. Looking forward to seeing you.’
The words came out with difficulty, slow and measured.
Ryan said, ‘My niece, Kathleen. You and she will be second cousins.’
Benny pulled off his cap revealing a shock of untidy yellowing hair. He nodded, beaming with pleasure. ‘Kathleen.’
She reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘It’s good to meet you.’
He was overcome, nodding eagerly and Ryan introduced Keogh who held out his hand. Benny’s grasp was so strong that Keogh grimaced with pain.
‘Easy, son – easy does it.’ He turned to Ryan. ‘I see what you mean about running the farm. This lad must be up to the work of ten men.’
‘At least,’ Ryan said. ‘Anyway, let’s get going.’
Benny took Kathleen’s suitcase and Ryan’s and raced ahead to the Land Rover. Ryan said to Keogh and Kathleen, ‘He could beat five men in any bar-room brawl but in the heart of him he’s a child. Mind that well and give him time when he speaks. Sometimes he has difficulty getting the words out.’
Benny put the luggage in the back and Keogh slung his duffel in. Benny ran round to open the front passenger door. He pulled off his cap and nodded eagerly again to Kathleen.
‘In you go, Kate,’ Keogh told her. ‘Make the big fella’s day. We’ll sit behind.’
They all got in and Benny ran round and climbed behind the wheel. He started the engine and Ryan said, ‘A great driver, this lad, make no mistake:’ He patted Benny on the shoulder. ‘Away we go, Benny. Is the truck all right?’
Benny nodded. ‘Oh, yes.’
He turned into the main road and Ryan’s niece said, ‘What truck would that be?’
‘Later girl, later. Just sit back and admire the scenery. Some of the best in England.’
When they reached the coast road it started to rain. Ryan said, ‘It does that a lot up here. I suppose it’s the mountains.’
They lifted up on the right, a spectacular sight, the peaks covered by low cloud. On the left the sea was angry, rolling in fast, whitecaps everywhere, a heavy sea mist following.
‘The Isle of Man out there and then dear old Ireland,’ Ryan told them.
Keogh said, ‘I don’t know whether you’ve had a forward weather forecast for Friday, but one thing’s for sure. If it’s rough weather that Siemens ferry is in for one hell of a ride.’
‘We’ll just have to see, won’t we?’ Ryan told him.
About forty-five minutes out of Barrow they came to an area where there were marshes on their left stretching out to sea, vanishing into the mist. There was a sign up ahead and Ryan touched Benny on the shoulder.
The big man slowed down and Ryan said, ‘Marsh End. Let’s take a quick look, Benny.’
Benny turned down a track and drove slowly along a causeway through a landscape of total desolation, reeds marching into the mist. There was an old cottage to the right and then a jetty about one hundred yards long stretching out into the sea. Benny cut the engine.
‘So that’s it?’ Keogh said.
‘That’s it.’ Ryan nodded. ‘Only something like the Siemens with its shallow draught could get in.’
‘You can say that again. When the tide’s out I’d say it’s nothing but marsh and mud flats.’
Ryan tapped Benny on the shoulder. ‘Off we go, Benny,’ and the big man nodded obediently and reversed.
Towards the upper end of Eskdale Valley, mountains rearing before them, Benny turned into a broad track and dropped down into a low gear. There were grey stone walls on either hand, sheep huddled together in the rain.
‘A desolate sort of place,’ Keogh said.
Ryan nodded. ‘A hard way to make a living.’
They came to a wooden signpost that bore the legend Folly’s End. ‘And that just about sums it up,’ Ryan observed.
A moment later and they came to farm gates wide open and beyond it the farm, two large barns, the farmhouse itself, all built in weathered grey stone. Benny turned off the engine and got out. As they followed, the front door opened and a black and white sheepdog bounded out. A moment later a woman appeared. She wore a heavy knitted sweater, men’s trousers and green Wellington boots. Her hair was iron grey, the face strangely young looking. Ryan went forward as she held her arms open. They embraced warmly and he turned.
‘Here you are then, my cousin, Mary Power.’
The beamed kitchen had a stone-flagged floor, a wood fire burning in an open hearth. She served them herself, ladling lamb and potato stew from a large pot, moving round the table, then sat at the end.
‘It’s good to see you, girl,’ she said to Kathleen. ‘When you reach my age relatives are hard to come by.’
‘And it’s good to meet you,’ Kathleen told her.
‘And you, Mr Keogh, what would your speciality be?’ Mary Power asked.
‘Well, I like to think I can turn my hand to most things.’ Keogh spooned some stew to his mouth and smiled. ‘But I’ll never be the cook you are.’
Ryan pushed his plate away. Mary Power said, ‘More?’
He shook his head. ‘Tea would be fine.’
She got up and started to clear the plates and Kathleen helped her. Keogh said, ‘Could we all know where we stand here?’
‘You mean where Mary stands?’ Ryan said. ‘Simple. She’s backing me to the hilt on this. If things go well, she gets a hundred thousand pounds. That means she can kiss this place goodbye and go back to County Down.’
She showed no response at all, simply took plates to the sink then reached for the kettle and made tea. ‘Everything’s in order. The truck is in the back barn. I’ve aired the cottage at Marsh End and there’s a fire in the stove. Somebody will have to stay there.’
Ryan nodded and accepted a mug of strong tea. ‘Perhaps Kathleen could stay with you and Martin and myself could make out at the cottage.’
‘Fine.’ She opened a tin box and took out a cake. ‘Try this. I made it myself,’ and she reached for a knife and cut it into slices.
There was a motorcycle on its stand just inside the barn, a black leather biker’s jacket draped across it, and there was a helmet. Keogh recognized it at once. ‘Heh, where did you get this beauty, Benny, a Montesa dirt bike?’
‘You know this model?’ Ryan asked.
‘Of course. Spanish. They’ll do half a mile an hour over very rough ground if you want them to.’
‘And is that good?’ Kathleen asked.
‘It is if you’re a shepherd operating in hill country,’ Keogh told her. ‘These things will go anywhere.’ He turned to Ryan. ‘You bought this for Benny?’
‘Not really. A bit small for him. I thought it might suit our circumstances. I’ll explain later.’ He said to Mary, ‘Let’s have a look at the truck.’
She turned to Benny. ‘Show us, Benny.’
He nodded eagerly, almost ran to the back of the barn, tossed some bales of hay to one side then felt for a hidden catch. The wooden wall swung open. Inside in an extension of the barn stood a large truck painted green and white.
The legend on the side of the truck read SHELBY MEAT IMPORTERS. Keogh said, ‘Is this what I think it is?’
‘An exact replica of the truck we’re going to heist.’
‘So what’s the point?’
‘A decoy, that’s all. Benny will dump this down on the coast road, all doors locked and so on. That should hold the police up nicely while they try to get inside. It’ll give us extra time, if we need it, to get away with the real McCoy.’
‘Very ingenious. And Benny can handle this?’
‘Benny can handle anything with an engine, like you wouldn’t believe. Benny should be a Formula One driver only he’s too big.’ Benny nodded delightedly.
‘Right, let’s go back inside and have a cup of tea and then Benny can take us to the front line, so to speak.’
The coast road was down below, a secondary road joining it at the side of a wood. The Land Rover pulled in and Ryan got out with Keogh and Kathleen and Benny followed.
‘So this is it?’ Keogh asked.
‘That’s right,’ Ryan told him. ‘Four o’clock, Friday afternoon, give or take fifteen minutes, and the transporter reaches this junction. Take my word for it, all carefully checked.’
‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ Keogh said. ‘It’s all right saying the Howler takes out the truck’s security system, but how do you get the damn thing to stop in the first place?’
‘A good point, but that’s where Kathleen comes in.’ Ryan put an arm around her. ‘I’ll explain when we get back.’
The second barn was filled with farm machinery. There was also an old Ford van.
Ryan said, ‘Now if you were driving along a country road and you saw that van burning and a young girl lying in the road, blood on her face, would you stop?’
‘I’d have to say I would,’ Keogh said.
‘And so will they.’ Ryan put an arm around Kathleen. ‘A chance to earn your Oscar, girl.’
‘I won’t let you down.’
‘I know you won’t. Now let’s go in and we’ll take it step-by-step.’
‘As I told you, the transporter reaches the junction at approximately four o’clock on Friday.’
They were all there in the kitchen. Mary and Kathleen at the table with Ryan, Benny at the door and Keogh by the fire.
Ryan said, ‘Kathleen and I will drive to the scene of the action in the Ford van. You follow on the Montesa. I’ve got a couple of two-way radios in the case. You’ll have one with you. You’ll carry on a couple of miles and wait for the transporter. When you see it you call me. Use Eagle One as a call sign, I’ll use Eagle Two.’
‘What do I do then?’
‘Overtake the truck and join us. We’ll set fire to the Ford and Kathleen lies down in the road and does her thing. I’ve some of that false blood actors use. She’ll put it on her face.’
‘Then they stop, or we hope they do, and you use the Howler to screw up the transporter’s whole security system.’
‘They’ll be cut off from the world.’
‘And if they fight?’
‘No problem. I’ve got two AK rifles in my case, stun grenades and gas grenades. Even Semtex and pencil timers, but the doors will be unlocked anyway thanks to the Howler. Fifteen minutes after we leave the farm, Benny will drive the replica transporter down to the coast road where he’ll dump it and clear off back to the farm on foot.’
‘So, we neutralize the guards. What then?’
‘You and Kathleen get the hell out of it on the Montesa, all the way to the jetty at Marsh End. I’ll follow in the truck.’
‘But why can’t we all go together in the truck?’ Keogh asked.
Ryan put an arm around Kathleen again. ‘Because the truck’s the vulnerable end of things. If anything goes sour that’s where it will. I want her out of it. If things do go wrong then, as long as you and Kathleen get to the Irish Rose, there’s always the chance of getting away.’
Kathleen said, ‘What do you think, Martin?’
Keogh said, ‘That it’s going to be one hell of a Friday.’
In Kilburn, just before evening, Hugh Bell was sitting at the desk in his office when the door opened and the barman looked in.
‘Some gentlemen to see you, sir.’
He was pulled to one side and a very large man in a navy blue raincoat entered, hands in pockets.
‘So there you are, you old bastard.’
‘Scully. What do you want?’ and Bell knew fear.
‘I’ve brought an old friend to see you.’
He stood to one side and a small man entered. His face was thin and wasted, he wore wire spectacles beneath an old trilby hat and a fawn raincoat.
‘Mr Reid,’ Bell said, his mouth dry.
‘Nice to see you, Hugh.’ The Belfast accent was very pronounced. ‘A word would seem to be in order.’
‘A word?’ Bell said. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You don’t?’ Reid took off his hat and sat at the table. ‘And me all the way from Belfast on behalf of the Army Council.’
‘But what would they want with me?’
Reid took out an old silver case and selected a cigarette. Scully lit it for him with his lighter. ‘Don’t fence with me, Hugh. The other year Michael Ryan put up a hare-brained scheme to knock off some bullion truck up in the north-west of England. Don’t deny it because you were involved. The Army Council turned it down.’
‘That’s true,’ Bell said lamely. ‘I do recall something of that.’
‘Don’t bullshit me, Hugh. Things get out as things always do and the whisper is that Michael is going ahead with this job on his own initiative right now.’ He smiled thinly. ‘It would seem obvious that you would be the man to know the truth of the matter.’ He turned. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Scully?’
‘Oh, I would indeed, Mr Reid.’ And Scully’s smile was terrible.
He was in deep trouble, Bell knew that, but also knew that disclosing what he did know would do him no good at all. When Scully was brought in, it always meant a bad end to things. He was not known as the Shankill Butcher for nothing. Bell made his decision and took a deep breath.
‘Sure and I can’t deny I know something of the matter, Mr Reid. Michael did come to me the other day and discussed certain aspects.’
‘The word I got was that a bullion truck would be heisted, is that true?’
‘Well, it was in the original plan submitted to the Army Council.’
‘And trans-shipped to somewhere in County Down. Do you know where?’
‘God save us, but I don’t.’
‘Scully!’ Reid said.
The big man took a Browning from his pocket and advanced. Bell said hurriedly, ‘No need for that. I know where Ryan is staying here in London. I’ll take you there now.’
Scully relaxed and Reid smiled. ‘Very sensible, Hugh.’
‘I’ll get my coat.’
Bell went into the bedroom, picking up his jacket, put it on, then, quickly opening the opposite door, darted along the corridor, exited into the alley at the side of the pub and ran for the main road.
When the phone in the hall rang at Folly’s End it was Mary Power who answered it. She came into the kitchen and said to Ryan, ‘It’s for you. Mr Bell.’
Ryan went out to the hall and picked up the phone. ‘Yes, Hugh?’
‘We’re in trouble. Reid turned up from the Army Council with that sod Scully. They know, Michael, they’ve heard a whisper.’
‘Did you tell them anything?’
‘Did I hell. I ran for my life, but they knew the plan. I mean they would, wouldn’t they? You submitted it to them originally.’
‘The original plan was sketchy, Hugh. No mention of Folly’s End or the precise target and, at that stage, the boat was only an idea. Did you tell them about the Irish Rose? Did you tell them we’d be putting in at Kilalla?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Good. Then we’ll get on with it. Keep your head down and mind your back, Hugh. Go to ground for a while.’
After replacing the phone he stood there in the hall, lighting a cigarette and thinking about it. No point in alarming anyone. No point at all.
He returned to the kitchen. ‘Hugh Bell. Nothing important.’ He smiled at Keogh. ‘I’ll stay up here in case there are any more calls from Hugh. You’ll have to spend the night at the cottage down at Marsh End on your own. No room here. Take the Ford van.’
‘I’ll be on my way then.’ Keogh swallowed his tea and got up. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
Bell didn’t know where he was going. He hesitated and started across Kilburn High Road. At that moment, an old Mercedes limousine turned out of a side-street, Scully at the wheel, Reid beside him.
‘He’s there,’ Reid said, ‘crossing the road. Get him.’
Scully gunned the motor. Bell, alarmed at the sound, turned. He tried to run and slipped in the rain. The Mercedes hit him at fifty miles an hour, bounced him into the gutter and moved on.
A woman screamed as a crowd converged. A uniformed Woman Police Officer pushed her way through, but by the time she knelt down beside Hugh Bell he was very dead indeed.

4 (#ulink_9578990c-0a37-5719-bfa6-b4a51d6adc85)
The morning was bleak, heavy clouds draped across the mountains. After breakfast, Ryan sat at the table drinking tea and thinking about things, wondering about Bell and Reid and that bastard Scully. On the other hand, there shouldn’t be any danger from them as long as Bell kept out of their clutches. The original plan submitted to the Army Council had been simply the idea of the thing. That he knew of a truck somewhere in the north-west of England that carried bullion, that he thought it could be lifted and taken to Ulster by boat. So Reid was at a dead end without Bell.
He decided to take a chance, went out into the hall and phoned the William & Mary. The barman answered at once.
Ryan said, ‘Ryan here, Angus. I was wanting a word with Hugh. Is he there?’
‘He’s dead, Mr Ryan. Killed in Kilburn High Road last night.’
‘What happened?’ Ryan said.
‘He was knocked down crossing the road. Hit-and-run accident. The police found the car that did it abandoned a few streets away.’
‘Have they traced who was in it?’
‘The police sergeant who called earlier said it had been stolen in Hampstead a year ago. He thinks it must have been standing in some garage.’
‘All very unfortunate,’ Ryan said.
‘Indeed it is, Mr Ryan. Will you be coming in?’
‘No, I’ve got business to attend to.’
‘Well if you let me know where you are and give me a phone number I’ll keep you posted.’
It was enough. Ryan smiled softly. ‘I’m away now, but just one more thing, Angus. Put Mr Reid on the phone.’
‘Mr Reid? I don’t understand,’ Angus said.
‘Stop arsing around and put him on.’
Reid, who had been standing beside Angus listening in, took the phone from him and shoved the barman across to Scully.
‘Michael, old son. Don’t you think it’s time to be reasonable?’
‘Was it you or Scully at the wheel? Not that it matters. When the time comes you’re my meat.’
‘You always did have a touch of the theatrical about you, Michael. So you intend to carry out that hare-brained scheme of yours?’
‘Goodbye, Reid,’ Michael Ryan said and put down the phone.
He opened the back door, lit a cigarette and stared into the rain thinking of Hugh Bell, good friend and comrade in arms for so many years. At least Scully hadn’t had the chance to squeeze the truth out of him. There was some comfort in that.
The kitchen door opened and Kathleen looked out. ‘There you are. Is everything all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘I thought I’d take Martin something to eat down at the cottage. Benny says he’ll drive me.’
‘That’s fine. I want to go over the planning again so don’t mind me.’
‘I’ll see you later then.’
She went back into the kitchen and Ryan stayed there, looking at the rain, thinking about Reid and Scully. They would have to go back home now, nothing else for it. There would be a confrontation eventually, had to be, but he would handle that when the time came.
He thought of Reid, the skull-like face and wire spectacles and his smile was terrible to see. ‘You little bastard,’ he said softly. ‘You want it all yourself, don’t you? Well I’ll see you in hell before I allow that to happen.’
Keogh hadn’t bothered with the bedroom of the small cottage at Marsh End, simply built up the fire and lay on the couch. He slept surprisingly well, got up at seven and put the kettle on.
He stood at the open door looking out at the rain and noticed the creek on his right hand. On impulse, he went back inside, stripped, found a towel in the small bathroom and ran naked across the yard.
He draped the towel over a bush and plunged into the creek, swimming strongly to the other side, passing into the reeds for a while, disturbing wildfowl and birds of every description which rose in clouds into the rain, calling angrily. The salt water was cold and invigorating.
‘What a grand way to start the day,’ he said softly as he emerged from the creek and reached for the towel.
He went back to the cottage, towelling himself vigorously, then he dressed and made a cup of tea. There was milk, bread, eggs and bacon in the larder. He stood there, sipping tea, wondering whether to leave. He looked out and saw the Land Rover with Benny and Kathleen.
In London at the William & Mary Reid and Scully were getting ready to leave. Their search of Bell’s small office had yielded no clues.
Scully said, ‘Nothing, Mr Reid; what do we do?’
‘We go back to Belfast,’ Reid said. ‘Don’t worry. Ryan has got to come home and no place for him to hide. We’ll bide our time, but we’ll get the bastard in the end.’ He raised his voice. ‘Angus, get in here.’
Angus stumbled through the door. ‘Yes, Mr Reid.’
‘Anything – anything at all you can tell me?’
‘They took a train, that’s all I know. I did hear the Glasgow Express mentioned.’
‘Glasgow?’ Scully said. ‘Why would they go there?’
‘Not Glasgow, you fool. That line goes up through the north-west. They’ll get off somewhere.’ He turned back to Angus. ‘Anything else?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Angus brightened. ‘Oh, yes. The other week I overheard Mr Bell on the phone. It must have been a shipping office because he said he needed to charter a flat bottom ferry. The kind that could transport vehicles. After a while I heard him say the Irish Rose, Captain Tully and it’s here in London.’ Angus nodded. ‘Yes, that’s what he said.’
‘Did you hear him mention that name again?’
Angus nodded. ‘Just before they left I was in the stillroom checking bottles. I heard Ryan say to Mr Bell the Irish Rose is well on her way by now so we’ll see her Friday morning.’
‘But he didn’t say where?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘All right,’ Reid said. ‘You’ve got my number. You phone me in Belfast if you hear anything.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Another thing. Keep your mouth shut. Give me any trouble and I’ll send Scully to give you a seeing to. They’ll find you in the Thames with your balls cut off.’
Reid went through the door and Angus, plainly terrified, stood back. Scully patted his face. ‘You mind what Mr Reid says, there’s a good boy,’ and he went out.
Keogh ate the ham sandwiches Kathleen had brought, sitting at the end of the table, and she sat opposite, a mug of tea in her hands. Benny had gone back to the farm. Keogh finished it and lit a cigarette.
‘How are you? How do you feel?’
‘About the job, you mean?’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve done things for Uncle Michael before; dangerous things. I can look after myself.’
‘At your age you shouldn’t have to.’ He stood up. ‘Come on. We’ll get a breath of air.’
The mist drifted in, creating a strange and sombre world. Reeds lifted on either side of the creek, water gurgled in the mud flats and as they walked along the broad track, birds lifted in protest on either hand.
‘A strange place this,’ Keogh observed.
‘Yes, I’m not sure that I like it.’ She frowned. ‘It makes me feel uneasy.’
‘I know what you mean.’
They reached the jetty and paused. The tide was out and iron girders were exposed, corroded by rust.
‘I wonder what it was built for?’ she said.
‘God knows. Been here for years. Victorian from the look of it, but it still looks substantial enough.’
They walked along it, waves lapping around the girders below with a hollow booming sound. There was no rail at the end, only at the sides. Keogh peered over and noticed a jumble of granite blocks in the shallows.
‘There’s your answer,’ he said. ‘They must have shipped granite from here in the old days.’
‘I see.’
She stood to one side, hands gripping the rail, and looked out to sea, a strangely forlorn figure in her raincoat and beret.
Keogh leaned on the rail beside her. ‘What do you want, Kate? What do you really want out of life?’
‘God knows. All I’ve ever known was the Troubles. I was born the year they started. All I know is the bombing and the killing. My family, friends, all gone.’ Her face was bleak. ‘Life is supposed to be for the living but all I see is death. Does that make any sense to you?’
‘Perfect sense.’ Keogh nodded. ‘The terrible thing and you so young.’
She laughed. ‘You’re not exactly a greybeard yourself.’
‘A very old thirty-two,’ he said and he laughed.
Steps boomed along the jetty and they turned and saw Ryan coming towards them. ‘God, what a lousy day,’ he said.
Keogh pointed down into the water. ‘It’s to be hoped the tide is in at the right time tomorrow.’
‘It will be, I’ve double-checked and it’s a high one.’ He took out a cigarette. ‘One more thing. Hugh Bell is dead.’
‘My God,’ Kathleen said, ‘how did that happen?’
So Ryan told them.
As they walked back along the jetty Keogh said, ‘Reid can’t touch you once you’re back home with that transporter. All right, maybe your Army Council don’t like people going their own way and acting without orders, but you’ll be a bloody hero to them. They’ll welcome you with open arms when they hear about the bullion.’
‘Let’s hope so. It’s Reid I’m concerned about. Unless I miss my guess he’d like to have it all for himself.’
‘Well fuck him,’ Kathleen said angrily.
‘You mind your tongue, girl,’ Ryan told her.
‘But if he doesn’t know about Kilalla he isn’t a threat,’ Keogh said.
‘Not when we land, but later,’ Ryan shrugged. ‘Who knows? Anyway, let’s go back to the farm. I’ve got the Land Rover at the cottage.’
Mary Power provided a simple meal at one o’clock – vegetable soup, a cheese salad and the inevitable tea. Afterwards, as she cleared the table, she said to Benny, ‘Mind your chores now. The sheep in North Meadow need seeing to.’
He nodded eagerly, got his cap and went out. A moment later Keogh, standing at the window, saw him cross the yard, a sack across his shoulders against the rain, the dog at his heels.
‘He’s a worker, that lad, I’ll say that for him.’
‘And in the mind still a child,’ she said. ‘He has to be told everything.’
Ryan finished his tea and stood up. ‘I want to look at the ambush site again. We’ll go in the Ford van, me and Kathleen. You follow on the Montesa. I’ll give you one of the radios. When we get there you carry on up the road a mile or two then contact me. Use the call sign Eagle One, like I said. I’ll be Eagle Two.’
‘Fine by me,’ Keogh told him.
As the Ford turned into the track towards the road leading down Eskdale, the girl was at the wheel. She glanced at her uncle.

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