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Roper went straight into Henry Pool, his background, the facts as known. When he was finished, Dillon said, ‘This notion you have about seeing the priest at Holy Name, I’ll handle that. I agree it could be useful.’
‘On the other hand, Pool was only half-Irish, through his mother.’
‘They’re sometimes the worst. De Valera had a Spanish father, and was born in New York, but his Irish mother was the making of him. We’ll be seeing you around breakfast time. We’d better have words with Blake, I promised to call him back.’
He switched off and Miller said, ‘Sean, you were a top enforcer with the IRA and you never got your collar felt once. Do you really think this is some kind of IRA hit?’
‘Not really. Most men of influence in the Provisional IRA are now serving in government and the community in one way or the other. Of course, there are splinter groups still in existence—that bunch called the Real IRA, and rumours that the Irish National Liberation Army still waits.’
‘INLA,’ Miller said. ‘The ones who probably killed Mountbatten and certainly assassinated Airey Neave coming out of the underground car park in the House of Commons.’
‘True,’ Dillon said, ‘and they were the great ones for using sleepers. Middle-class professional men, sometimes university-educated, accountants, lawyers, even doctors. People think there’s something new in the fact that Islamic terror is able to recruit from the professions, but the IRA was there long before them.’
‘Do you believe IRA sleepers still exist?’ Miller asked.
‘I guess we can’t take the chance they don’t. I’m going to call Clancy.’
Clancy said, ‘This really raises the game,’ once they reached him. ‘I’m sitting at Blake’s bedside now. I’ll let you talk to him, but don’t talk too long. By the way, we’ve established that Flynn’s American passport was a first-class forgery.’
Blake said, ‘That you, Sean?’
‘It sure is, old stick,’ Dillon said.
‘Clancy filled me in about Miller and me and some sort of possible IRA link with these prayer cards.’
‘And we’ve now discovered the same card in Ferguson’s driver’s wallet, and I hear the guy who tried to waste you, Flynn, had a false American passport.’
Blake laughed weakly. ‘I’ll tell you something funny about him, Sean. When I had him covered and told him to give up, he didn’t say, “Fuck you.” He said, “Fug you.” I only ever heard that when I was in Northern Ireland.’
‘Which shows you what gentlemen we are over there. Take care, ould son and sleep well.’ Dillon switched off and turned to Miller. ‘You heard all that, so there we are.’
Miller glanced at his watch. ‘Two hours to go. I’ll try to get some sleep.’ He closed his eyes and turned his head against the pillow behind him, reaching to switch off the light.
Dillon simply sat there staring into the shadows, the verse from the prayer card repeating endlessly in his brain, remembering a nineteen-year-old actor who had walked out of the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art to accept an offer to work with the National Theatre, and the night when the local priest in Kilburn called to break the news to him that his father, on a visit to Belfast, had been caught in a firefight between PIRA activists and British troops and killed.
‘A casualty of war, Sean,’ Father James Murphy of the church named Holy Name had said. ‘You must say your prayers, not only the Hail Mary, but this special one on the prayer card I give you now. It is a comfort for all victims of a great cause. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death, we who are ourselves alone.’
He tried closing his eyes, but it still went round and round in his brain and he opened them again, filled with despair just as he had felt it that day, desolation turning into rage, a need for revenge that had taken the nineteen-year-old on a violent path which had shaped his whole life, a path from which there could be no turning back. Yet as always, he was saved by that dark streak of gallows humour in him.
‘Jesus, Sean,’ he told himself softly. ‘What are you going to do, cut your throat? Well, you don’t have a razor, so let’s have a drink on it.’
They landed at Farley just past six in the morning, bad March weather, grey and rainy. Miller and Dillon went their separate ways for Miller had a Mercedes provided by the Cabinet Office, his driver, Arthur Fox, waiting. Tony Doyle had driven down from Holland Park, under Roper’s orders, in Dillon’s own Mini Cooper.
‘I’m going home, Sean, to see to my mail, knock out a report on my impressions of Putin and the Russian delegation at the UN, then take it to Downing Street. The Prime Minister will want to see me personally, but he likes things on paper, he’s very precise.’
‘Will you tell him of your exploits in Central Park?’
‘I’ve no reason not to. It happened to me, Sean, I didn’t happen to it, if you follow me. The way it’s being handled, there is no story, not for the press anyway. The whole thing is an intelligence matter that needs to be solved. He’ll understand. He’s a moralist by nature, but also very practical. He won’t be pleased at what’s happened and he’ll expect a result.’
‘Well, let’s see how quickly we can give him one.’
He got in the Mini beside Tony Doyle and they drove away. Miller got in the back of the Mercedes and discovered a bunch of mail.
‘Good man, Arthur.’ He opened the first letter.
‘Thought you’d like to get started, Major. Traffic’s building up already. Could take us an hour to get to Dover Street.’
‘No problem. I can save a lot of time here due to your usual efficiency.’
Dillon arrived at Holland Park just after seven. ‘I’m going to shower and change and then I’m going to partake of Maggie Hall’s Jamaican version of the great British breakfast.’
‘Hey, I could give you that,’ Doyle said, for born in the East End of London, he was of Jamaican stock.
Dillon went into the computer room, but there was no sign of Roper, and then Henderson, the other sergeant, entered in a tracksuit.
‘Good to see you back, sir. Major Roper’s in the wet room having a good soak. We’re also hosting General Ferguson. He’s in one of the first-floor suites, no sign of movement. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to the Major.’
‘Fine, I’m going to my room. Tell him I’ll join him for breakfast.’
At Dover Street, Miller told Arthur to get a breakfast at the local café and come back in an hour. Once inside the house, he went straight upstairs to the spare bedroom which was now his. It was a decent size for an eighteenth-century townhouse and had its own shower room. The magnificent master bedroom suite at the end of the landing, once shared with his wife, he had kept exactly as it was before her murder, but the door was locked and opened only once a week by the housekeeper seeing to the room and keeping it fresh.
He stripped his clothes off, left them in the laundry basket, showered and shaved, pulled on a terrycloth robe and went down to the kitchen. He ate two bananas, drank a glass of cold milk from the refrigerator, went into his study, sat at his computer and produced his report. Satisfied, he went upstairs and changed, ready for Arthur exactly on time as ordered.
He called in at Downing Street, showing his face at the Cabinet Office, where he was greeted with enthusiasm by Henry Frankel, a good friend who had smoothed the way for Miller in many ways in the terrible days following the death of his wife.
‘You look well, Harry. How was Vladimir?’
‘Worrying, Henry. To be honest, I think I find him rather impressive on occasion, and I’m not supposed to.’
‘Certainly not.’
Miller handed him his report. ‘All there, but I expect the PM saw it on television.’
‘Not the same, sweetheart,’ said Henry, his gayness breaking through occasionally. ‘Who believes in TV any more? You’ve got a genius for seeing things as they really are.’
‘Lermov was with Putin. I hear he’s the new Head of Station in Kensington.’
‘I believe he’s expected this weekend. I wonder what they’ve done with Boris Luzhkov?’
‘God knows,’ Miller said. There were few things Henry Frankel didn’t know about, but Boris Luzhkov ending up dead in the Thames was one of them.
‘The boss is in and he’s expecting this, so I’ll deliver it now. He said you’re to wait, so help yourself. Coffee, all kinds of tea, juices. We’ve got a miracle machine now. Just press the right button.’
Which Miller did and also glanced at The Times. Frankel was in and out several times, but it was thirty-five minutes before he came over to him and smiled.
‘Everything on the go this morning, but he’ll see you now.’ Miller followed him, Frankel opened the door of the office and stood to one side.
‘Come in, Harry.’ The PM was behind his desk. ‘Take a chair. First-class report.’
‘Thank you, Prime Minister. Putin didn’t say anything he hasn’t said before, but he does have this dangerous gift of sounding quite reasonable.’
‘As I know to my cost, but I must tell you that I’ve had Charles Ferguson on the phone. A terrible business, this incident with his car and the death of the driver.’
‘I don’t know what the general has told you, Prime Minister, but it now seems certain that the driver was party to the whole affair. It would seem likely that the device, whatever it was, exploded prematurely, unfortunately for him. General Ferguson is handling the matter as if it was an accident, not a bomb, so there should be no problem with the media.’
‘Yes, that’s the last thing we need. Ferguson’s also filled me in on the unfortunate business in Long Island, and on your own brush with death in Central Park.’ He sighed. ‘Trouble follows you everywhere I send you—Kosovo, Washington, Lebanon. You always end up shooting someone. You are the most irregular member of parliament I have ever known.’
‘Hardly my fault, Prime Minister, when you send me to places where people are liable to do a bit of shooting themselves.’
‘A valid point. All those years in the Intelligence Corps dealing with the wild men of Ulster made you spectacularly good at violent solutions. Your decision to leave the army on your father’s death and put yourself up for his seat in parliament has proved most fortuitous, although it would have been slightly more convenient if we’d both been members of the same political party.’
‘Well, you can’t have everything,’ Miller said.
‘I’m aware of that. No one in the Cabinet has any kind of military experience whatsoever, which is why I broke the rules and made you an under-secretary of state. You can be, on occasion, a thoroughly ruthless bastard, and there are times when that’s something that’s needed.’
‘But I am attached to you, Prime Minister, and that makes all the difference.’
‘Flattery gets you nowhere, Miller. I’m due in the House soon, so you’ve got fifteen minutes to explain this whole damn mess and what you and Ferguson intend to do about it.’
Which Miller did, rapidly and fluently, covering everything. ‘That’s it, I think.’
‘And quite enough. Prayer cards, killings, a bombing, and to top all that, this suggestion of an IRA link. That can’t be possible. I’ve enough on my plate with all these banks failing plus the worst recession in years. I know there are a few crackpot organizations out there still demanding a United Ireland, but enough is enough. Sort it, Harry, sort it—and quickly.’
He stood up, the door opened behind Miller as he rose, and Henry Frankel ushered him out.
‘How do you know when people are leaving?’ Miller asked. ‘Are you a magician or something?’
‘Absolutely, love. Take care.’
Miller went out, calling Arthur on his mobile. ‘As soon as you like, and we’ll make it Holland Park.’
Dillon, after a shower and change, went to the canteen, where he discovered Roper, hair still damp, sitting in his wheelchair in a blue tracksuit, enjoying breakfast and immensely cheerful. Ferguson was sitting opposite enjoying scrambled eggs.
‘There you are, you devil, what went on in New York then? You were supposed to be his minder. It’s a miracle he was wearing that ankle-holster.’
‘Which I knew nothing about.’
Maggie Hall entered with scrambled eggs, and withdrew.
‘Diplomatic immunity covered us when we landed in the Gulfstream obviously, but he couldn’t have worn it to the UN.’
‘Probably just a whim,’ Ferguson said. ‘There’s no question of him going into parliament with it, but I suspect he does in other places in London.’ He glanced at Dillon. ‘Do you agree?’
Dillon reached down to his right ankle and produced a Colt .25. ‘All the rage these days, I wouldn’t be without one.’
Roper said, ‘A damn good job he was carrying when he took that walk in the park.’
Dillon reached for toast and marmalade and said cheerfully, ‘Oh, I suspect he’d have thought of something ghastly as an alternative. A man of infinite resource and guile, our Harry.’
‘You can say that again.’ He took a piece of Dillon’s toast and his Codex sounded.
It was Billy Salter. ‘That you, Roper? I’m at the Dark Man. We’ve had a right old business down here. Some geezer tried a little arson in the early hours.’
Roper waved a hand at the others and turned his Codex on speaker. ‘Say again, Billy?’
‘We’d all gone to bed early—Ruby, Harry, me, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall,’ he continued, naming the Salters’ minders. ‘Joe was still dressed and watching a late-night movie on television when he heard a noise from the bar. He knocked on Sam’s door to alert him, then smelt petrol, so he moved into the bar, turned on the lights and found this guy emptying a can of petrol all over the place, the till rifled, cash drawers open.’
‘Who was it?’
‘How do I know? They’re just fishing him out of the Thames. He was wearing a black tracksuit and ski mask, Joe said, and he looked like a terrorist from central casting. Joe had his Smith & Wesson with him. He wasn’t keen on firing in case the petrol ignited, so the guy threw the can at him and legged it. Sam had joined Joe by then and they went after him.’
‘What happened?’
‘The old Ford van at the end of the wharf? It always has a key in it, it’s not worth stealing. I reckon he’d checked it out previously, because he ran straight for it, was in and driving off, but the wrong way. There was no place to turn, and he simply ran over the edge of the wharf in the dark.’
‘With him in it?’
‘The police are here now. They’ll have a recovery team get the van later, but a police diver’s been down and he’s found the guy. He’s gone down again with another diver to try and get him. Harry’s here and he’d like a word.’
The unmistakable cockney voice of Billy’s uncle echoed round the canteen. Harry Salter, a gangster for most of his life and now a property millionaire, said, ‘Well, this is nice, Roper, we could all have been roasted in our beds. What the hell was the bugger playing at? There was a grand in the till. Wasn’t that enough?’
It was Ferguson who said, ‘It’s me, Harry, and Dillon’s just back from New York with the strangest story you’ve heard in a long time.’ He turned to Roper. ‘You explain.’
Which Roper did.
Standing on the bank along from his beloved pub, the Dark Man on Cable Wharf in Wapping, Harry said, ‘Jesus Christ, Roper, this is incredible.’
‘But true, Harry. The guy who shot Blake, the one who attacked Miller, and then the general’s rogue driver last night, all were in possession of the same prayer card.’
‘Tell me again what it says.’
Roper did. ‘The police will search your arsonist’s body when they get him up. Billy can use some muscle by flashing his MI5 card. See where it gets you and call back.’
Ferguson said, ‘An interesting one, gentlemen.’
‘What is?’ Harry Miller entered at that moment.
‘Well, it goes something like this,’ Roper began.
At the end of Cable Wharf were three patrol cars and a medium-sized police truck, the sign on one side reading Salvage & Recovery. There were two divers down there in scuba gear, four uniformed policemen, and an inspector who had turned up and gone to examine the bar.
Harry and Billy were standing watching with Baxter and Hall and Ruby Moon, who was wearing a reefer jacket two sizes too large. The inspector emerged from the bar and approached.
‘Nasty business, Mr Salter. Stinks in there. You’ll have to close for a while. Could have been very nasty if he’d dropped a match.’
Harry had known him for years. ‘A real evil bastard, had to be to do a thing like that. We could have all ended up cooked for breakfast.’
‘Sure you haven’t been annoying anyone lately?’
