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‘I’ll manage.’
‘Dillon, I’ve been sailing boats for years.’
‘Then if it gets rough, you can give me a hand.’
As the Aran moved out to sea, the tide was still running in. Visibility was poor, rain drifting. Kate stood beside Dillon in the wheelhouse, with only the light over the chart table.
‘Rain squalls and maybe fog in the morning,’ he said. ‘Are you okay? There are sea-sickness pills in that drawer.’
‘I told you, Dillon, I’ve sailed before. I’ll make some tea and perhaps a sandwich.’
Not long afterwards, he smelled bacon, and she came into the wheelhouse with a thermos flask of tea and three sandwiches.
‘Two for you, one for me.’
‘And you half Bedu, eating bacon.’
‘Islam is a wonderful moral faith, Dillon.’
‘And how does that sit with those twelfth-century Dauncey Christians?’
‘Oh, they were hard people and their beliefs were very similar in some ways. You know something, Dillon? I’m half Bedu, but my God, I’m proud of my Dauncey roots. There are a lot of great ancestors there.’
Dillon finished his second bacon sandwich. ‘It’s an unusual situation, I can see that. I’m not sure about the aristocracy, Kate, but I like you. What about George and Kelly?’
‘Last seen getting their heads down.’
‘Good. I’ll do the same, and since you keep boasting of your sailing prowess, I’ll hand it over.’
When he returned four hours later, it was to a rolling motion. He had been lying on one of the bench seats in the saloon, come awake slowly and gone up the companionway. He opened the door of the wheelhouse to the sight of dawn, a grey light, heavy mist and rain, and the Down coast a couple of miles away. Kate stood there, hands steady on the wheel.
‘Good man yourself,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll take over.’ He eased her aside. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine. I haven’t enjoyed anything so much in years. I’ll make some tea. Would you like some more sandwiches?’
‘See what the deckhands want. I’d say we’ll arrive at Drumcree in about an hour. I know the place from the old days. There’s a pub called the Royal George. Don’t be misled by the name. It’s a hotbed of Republicanism. We’ll call in and ask for Bell.’
‘Surprise him, is that your tactic?’
‘Oh, you could say that. Let me be sure I’ve got this straight, Kate Rashid. You don’t want me there when you meet him, am I right?’
‘It’s business, Dillon, private company business. George can come with me.’
‘Fine,’ Sean Dillon told her and turned the wheel. ‘Now what about that tea?’
George and Kelly joined them eventually in the wheelhouse, drank mugs of tea, and listened to Dillon.
‘The pub, the Royal George, is a good Fenian institution and right on the jetty. You’ve both done Ulster time, so you know the kind of place.’
‘Should we be carrying?’ Kelly asked.
‘Feel under the chart table. There’s a catch.’
A flap fell down, Kelly pulled out a drawer and there was an assortment of handguns inside. ‘I’ll take the Walther in my pocket, so when I’m searched they’ll discover it,’ Dillon said. ‘You’ll find three ankle holsters with short-barrelled two-twos. One for each of us.’
‘You think we’ll need them?’ George asked him.
‘This is Indian territory and I’m one of the Indians.’ Dillon smiled. ‘Keep the faith, people. Slow and easy.’
Drumcree was a small place, with a tiny harbour, a jetty, a scattering of houses in grey stone and a few fishing boats. They coasted in, Dillon eased to the jetty, and George jumped over the rail and tied up. It was very quiet, no one about.
‘There you go, Kate,’ Dillon pointed. ‘The Royal George.’
It was obviously eighteenth-century, but the roof looked sound and the sign was in green, with black lettering and what looked like fresh gilding.
‘So what do we do?’ Kate demanded.
‘Well, like any decent pub in these parts, they’ll do an Irish breakfast. I’d say let’s partake and I’ll tell mine host to inform Aidan Bell we’re here.’
‘And that will do it?’
‘Absolutely. We’re already on their screen, as they say.’ He turned to the other two. ‘You stay with the boat, Kelly, and be prepared for anything.’
A bell tinkled as they went in the bar. Dillon and George were in jerseys and reefer coats, Kate wore a black jumpsuit and carried a briefcase. There were three men sitting in the window seat eating breakfast; one was middle-aged with a beard, the other two were younger. They turned to stare, men of a rough persuasion with hard faces. A man appeared behind the bar, thickset, white-haired.
‘Can I help you?’
‘We’d like breakfast,’ Kate said.
The well-bred English voice sliced through the quiet like a knife, and the men at the window continued to stare.
‘Breakfast?’ the man said.
Dillon cut in, making his Belfast accent even more pronounced. ‘That’s it, me ould son, three Ulster fry-ups. We’ve just sailed in from Magee. Then phone Aidan Bell and tell him Lady Kate Rashid is here.’
‘Phone Aidan Bell?’ the man said.
‘What’s your name?’ Dillon asked.
‘Patrick Murphy,’ the man replied, as a reflex.
‘Good man yourself, Patrick, now breakfast and Bell, in whatever order you want.’
Murphy hesitated and then said, ‘Take a seat.’
Which they did, on the opposite side from the three men. Dillon lit a cigarette, there was a murmur of conversation, then the bearded man got up and crossed to the table. He stood there looking at them.
‘English, is it?’ he said to Kate, then leaned down and brushed her face. ‘Still, I suppose anything’s better than nothing where a woman’s concerned. Come on, English bitch, let’s see what you’ve got.’
There was a large bottle of brown sauce on the table. George tried to get up, but Dillon pushed him down, picked up the bottle and smashed it across the side of the man’s head, sending him to his knees. The man knelt, blood and sauce on his cheek, and Dillon stamped on his face, sending him sprawling.
Patrick Murphy appeared at that moment and was totally shocked as the two young men jumped up and Dillon produced his Walther.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ the barman said. ‘What are you doing? They’re Provisional IRA.’
‘Once in, never out, I was told,’ Dillon said. ‘And I’ve been a member since I was nineteen. I’ll tell you what, Martin McGuinness wouldn’t approve of this lot. I mean, he’s a family man.’ He turned to the two young men and nodded to the floor. ‘Get this piece of dung out of here.’
Their rage was plain, but they got the bearded man to his feet. Behind them, the door swung open and a man almost as small as Dillon strode in, dark hair tousled, needing a shave, wearing a Barbour jacket against the rain, with a large red-haired man behind.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Is that you, Quinn, and in a damn bad way?’ He laughed out loud. ‘And whose toes did you stand on?’
‘Mine,’ Dillon said.
Bell turned in astonishment and his expression was close to awe. ‘Dear God, is it you?’
‘As ever was. A long time ago it was: Derry, and those Brit paratroopers chasing us through the sewers.’
‘You saved my life once.’ Bell held out his hand.
‘You tried to kill me twice.’
‘Ah, well, so we had a falling out.’ Bell turned to the two men supporting Quinn. ‘Get him out of my sight.’
They took the bearded man out of the door and Bell said, ‘What in the hell goes on, Dillon?’
‘This is Lady Kate Rashid. I believe you have a meeting arranged.’
Bell didn’t even look surprised. ‘I should have known. Take me unawares, is that it? And where does this bastard fit in?’ he asked her.
‘Mr Dillon is acting in a private capacity. I wanted his expertise on County Down, and he’s been provided with ten thousand pounds to supply it.’
‘Flew into Aldergrove yesterday. Boated out overnight, back to Magee in an hour or two. Money for old rope,’ Dillon said.
‘Come off it, you still work for Ferguson, you turncoat.’ He took a Browning from his pocket. ‘Hands high. See to him, Liam.’
The red-haired man ran his hands over Dillon and found the Walther. He turned to Kate. ‘Now you, darling.’
It was Bell who said, ‘Mind your manners, Casey, a lady this.’ He gestured to the briefcase. ‘See what’s in there.’
‘No, Mr Bell,’ Kate told him. ‘What’s in there is between you and me.’
‘I see.’ He turned to George as Liam Casey checked him. ‘This would be the younger brother? One Para.’
‘You’re well informed,’ said Kate.
‘I always am, and if your head of security is on that boat, he’s also One Para and a damned Prod.’
‘Which you are yourself,’ Dillon reminded him and shrugged to Kate. ‘One of the few in the IRA.’
‘So what am I doing here?’ Bell asked.
‘Business, Mr Bell. As you’re so well informed, you’ll know I am Executive Chairman of Rashid Investments, and you’ll know we have big plans for development in Ulster.’
‘I had heard.’
‘Can we talk?’
Bell nodded to the barman. ‘We’ll use the snug.’ He led the way to a door, opened it to usher her through, and turned to Dillon. ‘Sean?’
‘You still don’t understand,’ Kate told him. ‘Dillon is here only as a minder. My business is with you, and you alone, on behalf of Rashid Investments.’ She turned and nodded to her brother. ‘George, join us.’
The door closed. Dillon turned and said to the barman, ‘I know it’s early in the day, but it’s cold out there and pouring with rain, and I’m County Down myself, so let’s celebrate and get the Bushmills out.’
There was a fire in the open hearth of the snug, chairs on each side and a small coffee table in between. Kate Rashid sat down, her brother standing behind; Bell sat opposite and lit a cigarette, Liam Casey stood behind.
‘So, the word is that Rashid Investments are having problems with their plans in Northern Ireland, and need a little protection.’
‘Not really, Mr Bell. That’s a story even Dillon believes. No, I don’t need you to guard the door, as it were; you’re far too talented for that.’
‘Really? Then what do you need me for?’
‘Last year you killed General Petrovsky in Chechnya, and also blew up most of his staff. The world in general thought the Chechen freedom fighters had scored a great coup, but I know that you were paid one million pounds by Chechen sources in exile in Paris.’
‘Do you now?’
‘Oh, yes.’
His face was calm. ‘You or your famous brother, the Earl, isn’t it? A man to reckon with, and all the money in the world, I hear.’
‘Not quite, but close. You’ve never met, of course.’
‘Almost. He was a lieutenant in the Grenadier Guards. Crossmaglen in South Armagh. I was with one of my best snipers. Your brother and a small patrol were moving in. My man had him in his sights, then a helicopter dropped in with another twenty Guardsmen and we had to run for it.’
‘If you’d shot him, you’d have missed a big payday.’ She pushed the briefcase across. ‘Have a look.’
He flicked the catches and lifted the lid. Inside were rows of fifty-pound notes. ‘How much?’ he asked.
‘A hundred thousand pounds as evidence of good faith. You keep it, whatever happens. My brother’s gift to you.’
‘And what do I have to do?’
‘You may or may not know about this, but the Americans and Russians intend to prospect for oil in Hazar. The Sultan brokered a deal for them. It involved assassinating my brother.’
‘The Sultan’s dead. It was in the papers.’
‘Exactly. One of his assassins almost killed me. My brother shot him dead. He’s that kind of man.’
