Drink With the Devil (16 page)

He zipped the bag up again and Billy fell about laughing. “Dillon, I like you, I really do. You’re crazy, you don’t give a stuff, just like me.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Dillon stood up and looked down at his gear. “That’s it, then.” He turned. “I’m in your hands now, Harry.”

“All right, my old son, let’s go over it.”

T
HERE WAS A
very large scale map on the table and they all gathered round it. “Here we go. House of Commons, Embankment opposite, and there’s Westminster Bridge. Now I’m telling you, this is one of the worst times of the year. A very high tide, turning around three o’clock in the morning, and to float you in I need the tide on the turn and driving down river, but it’s an abnormal speed. A good five knots. Maybe you should consider that.”

“I have,” Dillon told him.

“There’s no way you can control that current by swimming. It’s too strong. But if you’re hanging on the stern as I approach and I drop you at just the right moment, you could have a chance.”

“Fine,” Dillon said. “It’ll do me.”

“Crazy.” Salter shook his head. “Crazy.”

Dillon grinned, found a packet of cigarettes, and went out on deck, standing under the canopy and looked at the rain. Salter joined him.

“I love this old river.” He leaned against the bulkhead. “I was a river rat when I was a kid. My old man did a runner and my mum did bits of cleaning to keep body and soul together. Anything I could nick I did, fags, booze, anything.”

“And progressed from there.”

“I’ve never done drugs, never done women, that’s filth as far as I’m concerned. Mind you, I’ve always been a hard bastard. I’ve killed in my time, but only some sod who was out to kill me.”

“I see.”

“And you?”

“Oh, I’ve been at war with the world for more than twenty years.”

“With that accent, does that mean what I think it does?”

Dillon said, “Not any longer, Harry, I do work for a rather shadowy branch of the Security Services. Let’s leave it at that.”

“All right, my old son.” Salter grinned. “But with what you’ve got ahead of you, you’re going to need food in your belly. We’ll all go up to Wapping High Street. Best fish-and-chips shop in London, there.”

J
UST BEFORE THREE
the
River Queen
passed under Westminster Bridge and turned, fighting the surging tide. The deck lights were out, only a subdued light in the wheelhouse. Dillon’s gear was laid out in the stern and Salter stood there with him.

“I’m going to take over from Billy at the wheel. When he comes down here he’ll have a two-way radio. You hang off at the stern. You’ll be okay as far as the propellers go. With the design of this boat they’re well underneath.”

“Then what?”

“At what I consider the right moment I’ll call Billy on the radio, and when he gives you the shout, you go. If I get it right, the current should bang you against the Terrace. If I don’t, God help you.”

“Thanks, Harry.” Dillon grinned. “You’re a hell of a fella.”

“Get stuffed, you bloody lunatic,” Salter told him and walked away.

Dillon turned to Hall and Baxter, who stood waiting. “All right, lads, let’s get this lot on.”

T
EN MINUTES LATER
, he hung on a line from the stern rail, his two equipment bags trailing from his belt, aware of Billy leaning over the rail above him. They were in the shadows, the water very turbulent, and Dillon was conscious of the fierceness of the current. And then Billy called down to him and he let go the line.

H
E WENT DOWN
five or six feet and the force of the current was incredible, like a great hand seizing him in a relentless grip. He was thrown to the surface, was aware of the
River Queen
disappearing into the dark, of the lights of the Victorian lamps on the terrace, and then he went under again. A moment later he banged against the stonework of the Terrace, surfaced, and cannoned into the scaffolding that dropped down into the water at the division of the Lords and Commons.

He hung there for a long moment and then unbuckled his inflatable and air tank and let the current take them. He did the same with his fins and mask, paused, then started to climb. He went over the parapet, trailing his two equipment bags, and crouched in the shadows.

A door opened further along the Terrace and a security guard appeared. He walked forward, stood at the parapet, and lit a cigarette, the smoke pungent on the damp air. Dillon waited for five agonizing minutes until finally the man tossed the stub of his cigarette into the river, turned, and went back inside.

Dillon unfastened the lines of his equipment bags, then unzipped his diving suit and stood there naked except for swimming trunks. He dropped the diving suit into the river, then picked up the equipment bags and went to the side of the Terrace Bar where there were storerooms. He opened the small equipment bag, took out the Halogen lamp, and opened the purse containing the picklocks. He switched on the lamp and went to work. It took him less than five minutes and the door opened.

He made a quick exploration. There were stacks of towels and tablecloths, cartons of wine glasses. There were also two toilets and a washbasin in another room at the rear. He opened the larger equipment bag, took out the clothes it contained, and a towel he had put in. He dried himself thoroughly, took off the swimming trunks, and dressed in the waiter’s clothes he had brought.

He checked his watch. It was now a quarter to four. Depending on what time the Terrace staff started, he had about four to five hours to kill. There was a sizeable stock cupboard with various kinds of linen inside. There was no key in the door so he locked it from the inside, arranged some piles of towels into a rough bed. It was surprising how cheerful he felt.

“Harry will be pleased,” he thought and fell almost instantly asleep.

H
E CAME AWAKE
with a start, aware of the door handle rattling. He glanced at his watch and saw it was almost nine o’clock. He heard a voice call, “The bloody door’s locked. I’ll go and see if I can find a key.”

Footsteps retreated, the outer door opened and closed. Dillon opened the door in seconds, moved into one of the toilet stalls, and locked it. He waited, and after a while the outer door opened and someone entered. There were two of them, because after the door was opened a man said, “Right, take those tablecloths and get cracking.”

A woman said, “All right, Mr. Smith.”

The door banged and the man started whistling and moving around. After a while he moved into the next toilet stall and sat down and lit a cigarette. Dillon flushed the toilet and went out. The man’s white jacket hung on a peg by the basin, a plastic identity card on the jacket. Dillon unpinned it and fastened it to his own jacket so that it was half obscured by his lapel.

When he went outside, the Terrace was already a scene of activity, waiters everywhere at work in the bar and making up tables. Dillon picked up a napkin from a table, draped it over one arm, and reached for a tray. He went straight out past two security guards and up the steps.

F
OR AN HOUR
he went walkabout, visiting restaurants, not only in the Commons but the House of Lords, keeping constantly on the move, his tray at the ready. Not once was he challenged. God knows what Ferguson would make of that. As for Carter . . .

It was just after ten that he made his way back to the Terrace. It was a hive of activity. He went in past the security guards and paused. A gray-haired man in black coat and striped trousers was ordering waiters here and there, telling them what to do. He didn’t even give Dillon a second glance when he spoke to him.

“You — canapés from the rear table.”

“Yes, sir,” Dillon said.

He stood against the wall with other waiters, and a few moments later Members of Parliament started to flood in. It was amazing how quickly the Terrace filled up, and the waiters got to work and served refreshments. Dillon did his bit, taking a tray of canapés around, and then he caught sight of Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Carter entering.

Dillon turned away but stood close enough to hear Carter say, “Sorry for you, Ferguson, that little bastard’s left you with egg on your face.”

“If you say so,” Ferguson said.

A moment later, an announcement sounded over the Tannoy. “Ladies and gentlemen, the Prime Minister and the President of the United States.”

They came through the entrance and stood there and the crowd broke into spontaneous applause. Dillon crossed to the table, picked up a canapé dish with a lid, hovered over it for a moment, then turned. The President and the Prime Minister were moving through the crowd, pausing to speak to people. They reached Simon Carter, Ferguson, and Hannah Bernstein and stopped.

Dillon heard the President say, “Brigadier Ferguson. Good to see you again.” He greeted Carter, then Hannah.

Dillon walked forward. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

He was aware of the look of amazement on Hannah’s face, of Ferguson’s incredulous frown, and on Carter’s face nothing but shock. Dillon lifted the lid of the canapé dish disclosing a five-pound note nestling on top.

“Your fiver, sir.”

Carter was incandescent with rage, but the most interesting reaction was from President Clinton. “Why, Mr. Dillon, is that you?” he said.

I
T WAS THE
middle of the afternoon and they were together in Ferguson’s office, the three of them.

There was a look of unholy joy on Ferguson’s face. “You cunning Irish bastard.”

“And you a half one.”

“The look on Carter’s face. Delicious. I had to explain to the President and the Prime Minister, of course, which didn’t help Carter. The President thought it was fantastic. I must tell you that after our previous help to him with the peace process in Ireland last year he had a high opinion of you, Dillon. It’s now even higher. So, how did you do it?”

“From the river, Brigadier, but I’d rather not get into details.”

Ferguson turned to Hannah Bernstein. “Do you know, Chief Inspector?”

“I’m afraid I do, sir.”

“As bad as that, is it?”

“Let’s put it this way. The background to it is so criminal that if I were still working for Special Branch at Scotland Yard I’d have no other choice but to read Dillon his rights and arrest him. However, under the peculiar circumstances of my employment with you, such considerations do not apply.”

“Good God.” Ferguson shook his head. “Still, I knew what I was taking on when I recruited you, Dillon, only myself to blame. Go about your business, the both of you,” and he opened a file in front of him.

A
T THE SAME
time at Green Rapids Detention Center Kathleen Ryan and her uncle walked through the park. There were as usual, thanks to the warden’s liberal visitation policy, a large number of visitors. Paolo Salamone walked some little distance behind. He had received a phone call from Sollazo as his lawyer just after breakfast.

It had been brief and to the point. “Regarding the matter we discussed the other day and the individual concerned, any further information would certainly help your case.”

Salamone hadn’t known such excitement in a long time. There was a real chance now, with Sollazo and the Don on his side, that he might get some review of his sentence and anything was worth that, which was why he kept an eye out for the Kelly girl. He knew from talking to her uncle that she mainly worked the night shift at the hospital, which was why she was able to visit three, sometimes four times a week.

They didn’t seem to be talking much and he saw them stroll toward one of the small rustic shelters beside the lake. Salamone hurried through a small plantation of trees behind the hut and stood at the back. He could hear them talking quite plainly.

“You seem depressed today, girl.”

“And why shouldn’t I be, you in here like a caged animal.”

“Little I can do about that, little anyone can do.”

“You know, when they transferred you here I was full of hope. That’s why I saw that fella Cassidy you shared a cell with once at Ossining and got the forged passports. I thought there would be a chance of making a break,” Kathleen said.

“Not from here. You know why the regime here is so liberal. Because the security is so tight. Every modern electronic marvel on these walls, cameras scrutinizing every move. I’m going to die here, Kathleen, and that’s the truth of it. Time we talked about your future, time you moved on, and when you decide to go, I’ve things to say.”

“Such as?”

“It can wait.”

“Then don’t talk rubbish. How’s your health?”

“Not bad. I take the pills, do as I’m told. They’ll be taking me down to Green Rapids General Hospital on Tuesday morning for another heart scan.”

“I’m on the night shift, but I’ll go in and look out for you. I’ll see you again tomorrow anyway, I’ve got the time in the morning. Around eleven.”

“That’s nice.”

They got up and walked away and Salamone went back up through the trees.

As they approached the security gates, Kathleen said, “Are you still on the same pills?”

“No, a new one.” He took a plastic bottle from his shirt pocket. “There you go.”

She checked it. “Dazane?” That’s a new one on me. I’ll check it out at the hospital.” She gave the bottle back to him and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be seeing you.”

S
ALAMONE PHONED THROUGH
to Sollazo’s office using one of the prisoners’ call boxes. The secretary was dubious. Mr. Sollazo was busy, but she finally gave in to Salamone’s persistence and put him through.

“What have you got?” Sollazo asked. “It better be good.”

“I overheard Kelly and his niece talking. She talked about how she’d hoped he’d be able to make a break when he transferred from Ossining to Green Rapids. Some chance. Nobody’s crashed out of here since it opened.”

“So why should this interest me?”

“She was talking about false passports she’d got from some forger called Cassidy, who used to share a cell with Kelly at Ossining.”