Dillon said, “Tell Patrick I’d like a word.”
At that moment, the door at the end of the bar opened and Murphy appeared. He saw Dillon and a look of horror appeared on his face.
Dillon went round the bar. “Patrick, my ould son, it’s me, Sean Dillon.”
He pushed him through to the hall. “Do as you’re told. Go on, unlock the back door,” which Murphy, terrified, did, and Harry and Billy crowded in. They shoved Murphy into the back parlor and closed the door.
Salter pushed him down into a chair at the table and slapped his face. “You sodding bastard, you sank my boat.”
“Not me, Mr. Salter, I swear.”
Billy pulled his uncle away. “Let me get at him,” but Dillon intervened.
“No, leave it to me.” He took a Walther out of his pocket, then produced a Carswell silencer from the other and screwed it in place. “This is much better. Hardly makes a sound. I’ll start with his left elbow, then vary it. The right knee, maybe. That’ll put him on sticks for six months.”
“Dear God, no.” Murphy really was terrified. “What do you want?”
“Derry Gibson,” Dillon said. “We’ll forget about you sinking Mr. Salter’s
River Queen
for the moment. Tell me about Derry ’s deal with Rossi, the arms shipment.”
“Jesus, he’ll kill me. He’s a sadist, that one.”
“No, that’s me,” Billy Salter said, and punched him twice in the stomach. “Now speak up and tell Mr. Dillon what he wants to know, or you’ll end up in concrete in the new extension to the North Circular Road.”
And Murphy, aware that he was in truly bad company, talked.
At Ferguson ’s apartment, Murphy stayed outside in the car with Baxter and Hall, while Harry and Billy sat with Dillon and Ferguson, Hannah hanging around at the back.
“This could be a disaster,” Ferguson said. “We all know the peace process has become a total shambles, the activities of IRA dissident groups prove that, but with this cargo of weapons, the Loyalists will be on a roll.”
Hannah said, “We must put it into the hands of the Northern Ireland police, sir.”
“We can’t afford to. If they make any kind of a move in the Drumgoole area,” Dillon said, “Derry Gibson will know. It’s not only his turf, his supporters have relatives in the police.”
“So what would you suggest?”
“Any stranger in the area would be a source of suspicion.”
“So what do we do, send in the SAS?”
“Nothing so official. The last time we did anything like this, we used a motor cruiser from Oban, from the RAF air sea rescue base there. There’s no reason we can’t do it again. Book the boat, give me the right diving gear and enough Semtex, and I’ll take it over by night and blow the
Mona Lisa
to hell.”
“On your own?” Ferguson asked.
“Why not? A totally black operation.”
“I don’t like it, Dillon,” Hannah said. “It’s just not legal.”
“What about me, Dillon?” Billy said. “Last time you played a gig like that, I went, too, and so did the superintendent.”
“The superintendent’s not up for it because it offends her conscience, and you’re not up for it because some months ago you had a bullet through the neck and two in the pelvis. As the Germans used to say when they took someone to prison camp, for you the war is over.”
“Stuff you, Dillon.”
Dillon turned to Ferguson. “Do you want it done or not? There’s an added benefit, you know. This could be just the thing we’ve been looking for to stir up von Berger, get him to make a mistake. We sink this boat, maybe something’ll happen that’ll give us a lead on that damned diary.”
Ferguson said, “You’re right, on both counts. Let’s do it.” He turned to Hannah. “Lock Murphy up at the St. John’s Wood safehouse. See he phones
The Orange George
and gives a reasonable excuse for his absence.”
“If that’s how you want it, sir.”
“Dillon will give you a list of the weaponry and explosives he needs. The quartermaster will see to that. Book the Gulfstream with Squadron Leader Lacey. What do you think, Dillon? One o’clock tomorrow?”
“Fine by me, Charles.”
“Excellent. I’ll see you there. I’m coming with you.”
Dillon said, “What? You must be crazy.”
“Not as crazy as a man who thinks he can make a run from Oban to the Down coast on his own in what is usually a very rough sea. Haven’t you ever heard of sleeping? I
am
something of a yachtsman, you know. I can actually navigate.”
“I surrender.” Dillon held up his hands.
At Farley Field the following day, Dillon reported to the quartermaster, a retired Guards sergeant major. He and Dillon had dealt together many times.
“Here you go, Mr. Dillon. Three Walthers, three Uzi machine pistols, stun grenades and the Semtex you wanted. Ten-minute timing pencils, thirty-minute and one hour.”
“Excellent. What about diving equipment?”
“You’ll find that on the boat at Oban, the
Highlander
– you’ve used it before. A couple of standard suits and fins, the usual extras.”
“Why two?”
“Always good to have backup, sir.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
At that moment, the Daimler arrived and Ferguson got out. His chauffeur took out a bag and delivered it to Parry, who took it up the steps and handed it to Sergeant Walters.
Dillon said, “You look quite sporty, Charles. Corduroys, a sweater. Nice.”
“Very amusing,” Ferguson said, and behind him, a Shogun drove up, Harry Salter at the wheel, Billy beside him. They got out, Billy in a black bomber jacket, a bag in one hand.
“Oh, now, what in the hell is this?” Dillon asked.
“I’m coming along for the ride, that’s what it is,” Billy said. “You two are older guys. You could need some help.” He grinned.
Dillon looked at Ferguson, who shrugged. “He was most insistent. I thought why not? He can go to hell in his own way.”
Harry said, “Just bring him back in one piece, Dillon, because if you don’t…”
“I get the picture, Harry.” Dillon turned to Billy, shaking his head. “Old guy, huh? All right. Up you go then.”
He let Ferguson follow, then went up himself.
10.
AT THE RAF air sea rescue base at Oban, the commanding officer himself met them in view of Ferguson’s rank. They were delivered in an unmarked car by two RAF sergeants named Smith and Brian.
“I think we met once before,” Dillon said.
Brian said, “Not according to any office record, sir.” He grinned as they pulled in at the quay. “You may recognize the
Highlander.
Two hundred yards out.”
“I can’t say I’m impressed,” Ferguson said.
“You’re not supposed to be,” Dillon told him, “but it’s got twin screws, a depth sounder, radar, automatic steering – and it does twenty-five knots.”
Sergeant Brian said, “We’ve got a whaleboat to take your gear out.”
It took forty minutes, and when it was all stowed, Brian said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but good luck. You’ve got a first-class inflatable with an outboard motor. It should serve you well. We’ll be getting back now.”
“Thanks,” Ferguson said.
The whaleboat departed and Dillon turned to Ferguson. “Billy’s been on board before. Let him show you around. I’ll contact Roper. See what his input is.”
Roper sat at his computer bank, examining the results of his latest hacking job into the Rashid computers.
Dillon said, “What’s the story on the
Mona Lisa?
”
“Operates from a small fishing port in northern Spain called San Miguel. The port’s a hotbed for illegal transactions, but it’s a bona fide Spanish deep-sea trawler, with a European license to fish off Cornwall, Wales and the Irish Sea.”
“What’s its course?”
“According to its logged passage with the coast guard, she’ll be close to the western coast of the Isle of Man tomorrow, then drift and fish toward the Down coast.”
“Very convenient. Anything else?”
“Not really. I’m sure, for instance, that you haven’t the slightest interest in a Berger International flight into the Isle of Man, carrying one Marco Rossi.”
Dillon laughed. “Well, imagine that.”
“If it’s a sea voyage he’s planning, he’s in for a rough ride. Tomorrow and tomorrow night, there’ll be rain squalls and high seas. You’ll know you’re out there!”
“Should be interesting.”
“Do you have a game plan, Sean?”
“Yeah, the game plan is to blow the hell out of the
Mona Lisa
and deposit two million quid’s worth of arms on the floor of the Irish Sea.”
“What about the crew? I’ve got a Captain Martino listed here and five others: Gomez, Fabio, Arturo somebody, an Enrico, a Sancho. You’re going to kill them all, Sean?”
“Why not? They’re a reasonable facsimile of scum. They’ve run everything from heroin to human beings, I’m told, and now arms. They shouldn’t have joined if they didn’t want the risk.”
“Fine by me. I’ll stay in touch. Speak to you tomorrow.”
“Good, but stay on the Berger case. I’m convinced Rossi was responsible for Sara Hesser’s death.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Oban was enveloped in mist and rain. Beyond Kerrara, the waters looked disturbed in the Firth of Lorne, and clouds draped across the mountaintops.
“I’ve said it before,” Billy moaned. “What a bloody awful place. I mean, it rains all the bleeding time.”
“No, Billy, it rains six days a week.” Dillon turned to Ferguson. “Am I right, General?”
“You usually are, Dillon.”
“Good. Please join me in the wheelhouse.”
There was a flap to one side of the instrument panel and he pressed a button. Inside was a fuse box and some clips screwed into place. He opened one of the weapons bags, took out a Browning with a twenty-one-round magazine protruding from its butt. He clipped it into place and added a Walther in the other clips.
“Ace in the hole.” He closed the flap.
“My goodness, you do mean business,” Ferguson said.
“I always did, Charles. Now let’s go ashore and eat.”
The early darkness of the far north was against them and he turned on the deck lights, then they coasted to the front at Oban in the inflatable and tied up. A pub close by offered food, and they went in. There was a meat and potato pie on the menu, which they all ordered.
“I’ll have a large Scotch, Dillon. Billy, what about you?”
“Billy doesn’t drink,” Dillon told Ferguson.
“I hate the taste of booze,” Billy said.
“It’s all in the Bible: Wine is a mocker, strong drink raging,” Dillon said.
“Well, you still do it.”
“True.” Dillon swallowed his Bushmills. “What’s more, I’ll have another.”
“I despair of you, Dillon,” Ferguson said, and then the pies arrived and killed conversation for a while.
Later, back on the
Highlander,
they sat on the stern deck under the canvas awning, rain bouncing off. Ferguson said, “So, what’s the plan?”
“Roper tells me the
Mona Lisa
’s due off the west coast of the Isle of Man tomorrow. And guess who’s flying up there in a Berger International plane? Marco Rossi.”
“You didn’t tell me,” Ferguson said.
“I’ve been saving it up for you. I think it means he fancies a passage by night to Drumgoole.”
“That could very well be. When we get there, what do you intend?”
“I told Roper, I’ll blow the damn boat up, and don’t ask me what about the crew. They’re all what the Italians would call
animali.
With any luck, Rossi could even be on board.”
“You really are yourself alone, Dillon. I wonder about Derry Gibson.”
“Wonder what?”
“He could give us a lot of trouble. This Red Hand of Ulster – where do they get their absurd names from?”
“It’s their simple Irish minds, Charles. I’d have thought you’d have recognized that, your sainted mother being a Cork woman.”
“All right, I take your point. But this Derry Gibson thing. It could lead to greater civil war than ever, Catholics and Protestants.”
“What would you like me to do? Shoot Gibson?”
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
“That’s good,” Billy said. “He’s Wyatt Earp, I’m Doc Holliday, and you’d like Derry Gibson and Rossi standing up in coffins in the undertaker’s window, like in Dodge City, hands folded, eyes closed.”
“You know something, Billy? I couldn’t have put it better myself.” Ferguson got up. “It’s me for an early night. I’ll see you in the morning. I just have one question. Getting in close to the Drumgoole area – won’t the locals wonder who we are?”
“Not if we take out the nets that are in the hold and drape them around the deck. There are lots of fishing boats off the Down coast.”
“Good enough,” Ferguson said, and went below.
Billy said, “He’s such a gent, but you know what? I reckon he’s harder than Harry, and that’s saying something.”
“He’s the kind of man who got us the Empire in the first place,” Dillon said. “Mind you, he’s right about Derry Gibson. I’ll give it some thought.”
“You mean you’d consider knocking him off?”
“Why not? I’ve killed for worse reasons. I once saved his life, you know. We were in a sewer in Londonderry, being hunted by Brit paratroopers, even though we were on different sides. I told him then to keep running and not come back or I’d kill him.”
“And now?”
“Looks like he’s come back. Come on, let’s go to bed,” and Dillon led the way below.
The following morning, rain drifting in, Ferguson went up on deck and discovered Dillon swimming in the sea, sporting with two seals, Billy leaning on the rail, watching.
“He’s mad,” Billy said.
“Yes, I’ve been aware of that for some years.”
“I mean, talk about freeze your balls off.”
Dillon swam to the ladder and hauled himself up. “The grand appetite it gives you, Charles.” The ship-to-shore radio crackled in the wheelhouse. “Take that, Charles, it could be Roper. I’ll get dressed.”