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‘But no Active Service Unit?’
‘I’m afraid not, Brigadier.’
‘I told you,’ Dillon said. ‘Probably long gone.’
‘Sod it!’ Ferguson told him. ‘I wanted them, Dillon.’
Riley said, ‘Well, I kept my side of the bargain. Not my fault.’
‘Yes, but not enough,’ Ferguson told him.
Riley was really working very well. He added a little anxiety to his voice. ‘Here, you won’t send me back, not to Wandsworth?’
‘I don’t really have much choice.’
Riley switched to panic. ‘No, not that. I’ll do anything. Lots of things I could tell you, and not just about the IRA.’
‘Such as?’
‘Two years ago. The jumbo from Manchester that blew up over the Irish Sea. Two hundred and twenty dead. That Arab fundamentalist lot, the Army of God, were behind that and you know who was in charge.’
Ferguson’s face had gone very pale. ‘Hakim al-Sharif.’
‘I can get him for you.’
‘You mean you know where that murderous bastard is?’
‘I spoke with him last year. He was also supplying arms for the IRA.’
Ferguson raised a hand. ‘That’s enough.’ He looked up at Hannah. ‘Get in, Chief Inspector. We’ll go to Dillon’s cottage and pursue this further.’
The kettle in Dillon’s kitchen was the old-fashioned kind that whistled when it boiled. Ferguson was on the telephone, checking in to the office, and Riley was on the couch by the fireplace, Hannah Bernstein at the window.
She got up as the kettle sounded, and Dillon said, ‘None of that. It wouldn’t be politically correct. I’ll make the tea.’
‘Fool, Dillon,’ she told him.
He made a large pot, put it on a tray with milk and sugar and four mugs and took it in. ‘Barry’s Tea, Dermot,’ he said, naming one of Ireland’s favourite brands. ‘You’ll feel right at home.’
Hannah poured and Ferguson put the phone down. He took the tea Hannah offered and said. ‘All right, let’s start again.’
Riley said, ‘Before I was lifted here in London last year, I was pulled in by the chief of staff in Dublin as a courier. I had to fly to Paris, visit a certain bank where there was a briefcase in a safe deposit. All I know is it was a lot of money in American dollars. I never knew how much. I understood it was a down-payment against an arms shipment to Ireland.’
‘And then?’
‘I had exact instructions and I followed them. Flew to Palermo in Sicily, where I hired a car and drove across to the south coast of the island, a fishing port called Salinas, a real nothing of a place. I was told to phone a certain number and simply say: “The Irishman is here.”’
‘Go on,’ Ferguson urged.
‘Then I was to wait at this bar on the waterfront called the English Café.’
The story was so good that Riley was almost believing in it himself, and it was Dillon who said, ‘And they came?’
‘Two men in a Range Rover. Arabs. They took me to this villa by the sea about six or seven miles out of Salinas. Nothing else around. There was a jetty, some sort of motor boat.’
‘And Hakim al-Sharif?’ Hannah asked.
‘Oh, yes. Very hospitable. He checked out the cash, gave me a sealed letter for the chief of staff in Dublin and made me stay the night.’
‘How many people?’ Dillon asked.
‘The two fellas that picked me up were obviously his minders, then there was an Arab couple in a small cottage next door. The woman cooked and her husband was a general handyman. It seemed as if they looked after the place when he was away.’ He drank some of his tea. ‘Oh, and there was a younger Arab woman who lived with them. I think she was there to make Hakim happy on occasions. That’s how it seemed, anyway.’
‘Anything else of interest?’ Ferguson asked.
‘Well, he wasn’t your ordinary Muslim. Drank a great deal of Scotch whisky.’
‘So he opened up?’ Dillon said.
‘Only to the extent that his tongue loosened. Kept going on about the jobs he’d pulled and how he’d made fools of the intelligence services of a dozen countries. Oh, and he told me he’d had the villa for six years. Said it was the safest base he’d ever had, because all the local Sicilians were crooks of one sort or another and everybody minded their own business.’
‘And he’s still there?’ Hannah asked.
Riley managed to sound reluctant. ‘I don’t see why not, but I couldn’t swear to it.’
There was silence. Ferguson said, ‘God, I’d love to get my hands on him.’
‘Well, if he is there, and I think there’s a fair chance he is,’ Riley said, ‘you could get what you want. I mean, it’s another country, but you knock people off from other countries all the time, don’t tell me you don’t.’
‘It’s certainly a thought.’ Ferguson nodded.
‘Look, send Dillon,’ Riley said. ‘Send whoever you want and I’ll go with them, put myself on the line every step of the way.’
‘And make a run for it first chance you get, Dermot boy,’ Dillon said.
‘Jesus, Sean, how many times do I have to tell you? I want out of this clean. I don’t want to be on the run for the rest of my life.’ He turned to Ferguson. ‘Brigadier?’
Ferguson made his decision. ‘Take him out for a meal or something, Dillon. I’ll phone you in two hours.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Right, Chief Inspector, we have work to do.’
He went out, she raised her eyebrows at Dillon and followed.
Dillon went to a drawer in the sideboard, opened it and took out a silenced Walther, which he tucked into the waistband of his cords at the rear under his coat.
‘Like they say in those bad movies, Dermot, one false move and I’ll kill you.’
‘No, you won’t, Sean, because I’m not going to make one.’
‘Good, then it’s the King’s Head on the other side of the square. Great pub grub. They do a shepherd’s pie like your mother used to make, and after six months in Wandsworth, I’d say you could do with.’
Riley groaned. ‘Just show me the way.’
They hadn’t been back at the cottage for more than five minutes when the phone went. Dillon picked it up.
‘Ferguson,’ the Brigadier said. ‘This is the way of it.’
Dillon listened intently, then nodded. ‘Fine. We’ll expect you at nine o’clock in the morning.’
He put the phone down and lit a cigarette. Riley said, ‘Is it on?’
Dillon nodded. ‘Ferguson’s been in touch with the Marine Commando Special Boat Squadron at Akrotiri, in Cyprus. A Captain Carter and four men have been given the job. They’ll leave for Sicily by boat, posing as fishermen. Weather permitting, they should make it to Salinas by early evening tomorrow.’
‘And you and me?’
‘Ferguson will pick us up at nine with Hannah Bernstein and take us out to Farley Field. That’s an RAF proving ground. You and I, plus Bernstein, fly in the department’s Lear jet to Sicily. We drive to Salinas. Carter will make himself known on arrival. The Lear will fly on to Malta.’
‘Why Malta?’
‘Because that’s where we go after Carter and his boys snatch Hakim. You and I go in with them, by the way.’
‘Just like old times.’
‘Short sea voyage. Do you good after Wandsworth.’
Riley nodded. ‘Would you anticipate any problem with Hakim at Malta?’
‘None at all. They’re on our side. I mean, it isn’t Bosnia. A shot of something to subdue him, and the Lear, after all, bears RAF roundels. By the time Hakim has stopped being sick, he’ll be in London.’
In the BT van, the man at the directional microphone nodded to his friend, then turned off the tape recorder.
‘I got everything. You close the manhole cover and clear up while I call in.’
A moment later, he was speaking to the man called Brown. ‘Right, see you soon.’
He switched off the phone and got out of the van and went round to the driving seat. A moment later, his colleague joined him.
‘Perfect,’ the one behind the wheel said. ‘Couldn’t be better. Our people are already waiting in Salinas, and Riley and Dillon will be there tomorrow evening.’
‘What happened?’
The driver eased out into the square and told him. When he was finished the other man said, ‘Special Boat Squadron. They’re hot stuff.’
‘It will be taken care of. All in the plan, exactly as Judas envisaged. He’s a genius, that man – a genius.’
He turned out of the square into the main stream of traffic and drove away.
3 (#ulink_16f5d530-dd15-5267-8e9e-f1417878614b)
The Lear jet they were using stood on the apron in front of one of the hangars. It was very official-looking, with RAF roundels, and the two pilots who stood waiting by the cabin door wore RAF overalls with rank insignia.
As the Daimler stopped, Ferguson said, ‘All nice and official. It should make things easy at Malta.’ He took a small leather case from his pocket and gave it to Hannah Bernstein. ‘You’ll find a hypodermic in there, ready charged. Just give our friend Hakim a shot in the arm. He’ll stay on his feet, but he won’t know what time of day it is, and here’s a passport I got Forgery to make up for him. Abdul Krym, British citizen.’ He took another from his inside pocket and passed it to Riley. ‘There’s yours, Irish variety. I thought it would go better with the accent. Thomas O’Malley.’
‘Now isn’t that the strange thing?’ Riley said. ‘And me with a cousin once removed called Bridget O’Malley.’
‘I haven’t the slightest interest in your family connections,’ Ferguson told him. ‘Just get on board, there’s a good chap, and try doing as you’re told.’
They all got out and approached the Lear. Flight Lieutenant Lacey, in command, was an old hand and had been attached to Ferguson’s section for two years now. He introduced his fellow pilot, Flight Lieutenant Parry.
Ferguson said, ‘How long to Sicily, then, Flight Lieutenant?’
‘Headwinds all the way today, Brigadier. Can’t see it taking less than a good five hours.’
‘Do your best.’ Ferguson turned to the others. ‘Right, on you go and good luck.’
The Brigadier watched as they went up the steps, one by one. The door closed. Ferguson stepped back as the engines started and the Lear taxied away to the far end of the field. It thundered along the runway and lifted.
‘Up to you now, Dillon,’ he said softly, then turned and walked back to the Daimler.
It was all a dream, Riley decided, and he might wake up in his cell at Wandsworth instead of sitting here on the leather club seat in the quiet elegance of the Lear. It had all worked out as Brown had promised.
He watched Hannah Bernstein, glasses removed, take some papers from her briefcase and start to read them. A strange one, but a hell of a copper from what he had heard, and hadn’t she shot dead that Protestant bitch, Norah Bell, when she and Michael Ahern had tried to assassinate the American President on his London visit?
Dillon came through from the cockpit area, slid into the chair opposite. He opened the bar cupboard. ‘Would you fancy a drink, Dermot? Scotch whisky, not Irish, I’m afraid.’
‘It’ll do to take along.’
Dillon found a half-bottle of Bell’s and splashed some into a couple of glasses. He passed one to Riley and offered him a cigarette.
‘Cigarettes and whisky and wild, wild women, isn’t that what the song says, only not for the Chief Inspector. She thinks I’m taking years off my life.’
She glanced up. ‘And so you are, Dillon, but you go to hell in your own way.’
She went back to her work and Dillon turned to Riley. ‘The hard woman, but she loves me dearly. Tell me, was that a fact about you having a cousin called O’Malley?’
‘Jesus, yes,’ Riley said. ‘Didn’t I ever mention her? My mother died when I was five. Derry, that was, and I had a ten-year-old sister, Kathleen. My old man couldn’t cope, so he sent for my mother’s niece, Bridget O’Malley, from a village called Tullamore between the Blackwater river and the Knockmealdown Mountains. A drop of the real old Ireland that place, I can tell you.’
‘And she raised you?’
‘Until I was eighteen.’
‘And never married?’
‘She couldn’t have children, so she could never see the point.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘Her father was a widower. Her eldest brother had died fighting for the Brit army in the Far East somewhere, so when her father passed away, she inherited the farm outside Tullamore.’
‘So she went back?’
