'What about you?' Barry asked, as they got out.
'I'll be okay. I'll take a walk up to the farm and pay my debts.'
'You mean you'll give him a thousand in cash?'
'He's the kind of man you keep happy. I never know when I might need him again.'
He turned and walked away across the airstrip and Barry got into the Escort. The keys were in the ignition, but before he started the engine, he removed a Browning from the Gladstone bag, took out the clip, loaded the weapon, and pushed it inside his bomber jacket. Only then did he drive away.
He made good time, for as evening approached, traffic was coming out of London, not in. The car was no big deal, an old Ford Escort, but nice and anonymous. He thought about things on the way. The place to make the hit, for example. Well, that was obvious, since Cohan was staying at the Dorchester. Getting in was easy. All he needed were the right kind of clothes, and he had those in plenty.
For some years Barry had had a bolt-hole in London. Not an apartment, but a boat moored on the Thames close to St James's Stairs in Wapping. He had everything there: a wardrobe and arms stashed away. He had been careful never to mention it to anyone. He'd always remembered his old Ulster grandmother's saying, when she used to come over to the States to stay with them: Always remember, Jack, a secret is no longer a secret if one other person knows about it. She'd died badly of cancer during the early days when he'd first returned to Ulster. She'd been a patient at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast, the world's best on shotgun wounds, because they had to be.
He was on the most-wanted list at the time. When he said he was going to see her, the boys had told him he was crazy, and implored him not to. But none of that mattered to Barry. He'd gone on his own, got into the hospital's back entrance, and stolen a doctor's white robe and plastic identity tag from the rest room.
He'd found her room and, for a while, sat there holding her hand. She couldn't talk much, except to say, 'I'm glad you're here, Jack.'
'It's where I should be, Gran.'
And then her grip had tightened. 'Take care, be a good boy,' and she had slipped away.
The tears, the rage, had overwhelmed him then. He'd left, and against all advice, attended her funeral four days later, standing in the rain, a Browning in his pocket, wishing someone from the Security forces would try to take him.
And why should that be? The great Jack Barry, Lord Barry, Silver Star and bronze in 'Nam, Vietnamese Cross of Valor, a Purple Heart. How many Brit soldiers had he killed, how many Loyalists in bombings, although a Prod himself?
At the end of the day, the image that would not go away was of an old woman who had fiercely loved him. Even now, at the wheel of the Escort, his throat prickled and angry tears started to his eyes.
He was into London at five, worked his way through to Kilburn, parked and found what he was looking for, a pub called the Michael Collins. The painting on the wall - an Irish tricolour and Collins with a gun upraised — said it all. He didn't go in the bar, but walked round to the courtyard at the rear, opened the kitchen door and entered. A small grey-haired man was seated at a table in the sitting room, reading glasses on his nose, going over some accounts. His name was Liam Moran and he was a London organizer for Sinn Fein.
'Jesus, it's yourself, Jack.' His eyes bulged.
'As ever was.' Barry went to a sideboard, opened a bottle of whiskey and poured one. 'Is there much action at the moment?'
'Hell, no, not with the peace process. The Brits are playing it cool in London and so are the boys. What in the hell are you doing here, Jack?'
'Oh, no harm intended, just passing through. On my way to Germany,' Barry lied. 'Just thought I'd check in and see how the general situation was.'
Moran was agitated. 'Dead calm, Jack, I promise you.' 'Peace, Liam.' Barry swallowed his whiskey. 'What a bore. I'll be in touch,' and he went out.
EIGHT
London's Kilburn district houses a mainly Irish population, both Republican and Loyalist, and sometimes you'd swear you were in Belfast. The Protestant pubs with William and Mary painted on the end wall were the spitting image of those in the Shankhill, as were the Republican pubs of those in the Falls Road.
Dillon, dressed in a black bomber jacket, scarf and jeans, faded into the drinking crowd of the latter, his Walther stuck into his waistband at the rear. That there were those who might recognize him could not be avoided, but he figured he would be all right. He was, after all, the great Sean Dillon, the living legend of the IRA, and as for anything else, it was rumours at most. But he had the Walther as insurance.
He learned nothing of any great interest, however, until he came out of the Green Tinker and paused in a doorway to light a cigarette beside the newspaper stand. The old man huddled inside was swallowing from a half bottle. His name was Tod Ahern. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and stared at Dillon in astonishment.
'Jesus, Sean, it's yourself.'
'And who else would it be?'
Tod was well drunk now. 'Are there big things doing? I saw Barry earlier. Are you and he here for some big plans?'
Dillon smiled gently. 'Now then, Tod, you shouldn't talk about such things. The word is hush.' He smiled. 'Jack would
be furious if he knew you'd seen him. Where was it, by the way?'
'Going to the back of the Michael Collins. I thought he might be seeing Liam Moran. I'd just picked up my stand. I was wheeling it round.'
'Well, keep it to yourself, Tod.' Dillon passed him a five-pound note. 'Have a drink on me later.'
Sitting at his table, still going over his accounts, Liam Moran was aware of a slight draught of air that lifted the papers, looked up and found Dillon in the doorway, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
'God bless all here.'
Moran almost had a bowel movement. 'Sean, it's you.'
'As ever was.' Dillon lit the cigarette with his old Zippo. 'I'm told you had a visitor earlier, Jack Barry?'
Moran managed a ghastly smile. 'And who's been selling you that kind of nonsense?'
Dillon sighed. 'We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Liam. What did he want and where is he?'
'Sean, this is a bad joke.'
Dillon's hand found the butt of the silenced Walther in his waistband, his hand swung, and the lobe of Moran's right ear disintegrated, the blood spurting as he grabbed it.
'Now, your right kneecap comes next. I'll put you on sticks, maybe for ever.'
'Jesus, no, Sean!' Moran was in agony. 'He told me he was just checking on how hot things were in London these days. Said he was on his way to Germany.'
'My arse he is,' Dillon said. 'He'll have a hidey-hole here in London. Where would that be?'
'And how would I be knowing that, Sean?'
'What a shame. Here goes the kneecap.'
Dillon took aim and Moran cried out, 'St James's Stairs,
up from Wapping. There are some houseboats. His is called Griselda.'
'Good man yourself Dillon put the Walther away. 'Do you want me to come back?'
'Jesus, no.'
'Then keep your mouth shut. I'm sure you know someone who can fix that ear.' Dillon went out.
Back in his Mini Cooper, he phoned Ferguson, and when the Brigadier answered, said, 'I may have struck gold.'
'Tell me.'
Dillon did. When he was finished, he said, 'I think it's too much of a coincidence he's here. What do you want me to do? Take him out? On the other hand, you could call in Scotland Yard's Anti-Terrorist Unit. They'd turn it into the Third World War.'
'That's the last thing we need. Where are you?' Dillon told him. 'Meet me at St James's Stairs,' Ferguson said.
'You've got to be joking.'
'Dillon, when I was nineteen years old, I was in the Hook of Korea, where I shot five Chinese with a Browning pistol. I do tend to get bored polishing the seat of my desk at the Ministry of Defence.'
'Oh, my, what would Bernstein say?'
'I can take political correctness so far, Dillon. I don't particularly wish to employ her on a desperate venture in rain and darkness on the Thames in an attempt to take out one of the wont specimens the IRA has on offer.'
'So you think he's here for Cohan?'
'Dillon, a few days ago he was in Ulster, now he's here. What other reason could he have? Wait for me on the corner of Wapping High Street and Chalk Lane,' and Ferguson put the phone down.
Barry parked the Escort at the end of Chalk Lane in a side turning and walked down towards St James's Stairs. It was dark now, with lights on the river, more on the river side, traffic moving in the darkness. He turned at the end and walked along the line of an old jetty, passing what looked like a couple of disused lighters.
There was a basin at the end, some old cranes standing above it, disused warehouses standing behind. Only one houseboat was on that side, the Griselda, with four on the other, two with a light that showed some sort of habitation. There was a connection with the shore, an electric cable and water pipe.
Barry had used the boat for three years now, had last been there six months before. He'd always expected the place to be vandalized each time he'd returned, but it had never happened. For one thing, it was remote and tucked away and then the presence of the other houseboats afforded some sort of protection.
He went across the gangplank, found the key hidden in the cabin gutter, got the steel door open and stepped inside. There was a switch to the left. The light came on, disclosing a flight of stairs. It also brought on deck lights, one in the stern, one on the prow.
He went down, and at the bottom switched on a light, revealing the cabin. It was surprisingly spacious, with portholes on each side. There were bench seats, a table, a kitchenette at one end with an electric cooker and a basin. He paused to fill the kettle, then carried on into the bedroom.
He placed the Gladstone bag on the bed, took out a toilet bag and a carton of cigarettes. He opened a pack, lit a cigarette and checked the closet. There were clothes in there in plastic zip-up bags, shoes, new shirts in Marks & Spencer bags, underwear, socks, everything he would need. The kettle was whistling. He went in, switched it off, sat down at the table and phoned the Dorchester with his mobile.
'Senator Cohan,' he asked, when the switchboard replied.
'May I say who's calling, sir?'
'George Harrison, American Embassy.'
A moment later, Cohan answered. 'Mr Harrison?'
Barry laughed. 'It's me, you daft bastard, Barry.'
'Jack?' Cohan laughed back. 'Where are you?'
'Still in Ulster,' Barry lied. 'I spoke to the Connection. He told me all the bad news. Though I suppose it's good news for the undertakers.'
Cohan shuddered. 'You always see a joke in everything.'
'As we used to say in Vietnam, if you can't see the joke, you shouldn't have joined. Look on the good side. You're in luxury at the Dorchester, your every need taken care of. You're well out of New York at the moment.'
'The Connection said he'd take care of things. Can you imagine this suggestion that a woman got to Ryan? Is that crazy?'
'Well, the good news is I'm leaving for New York myself in an hour. That's why I thought I'd call you. The Connection wants me there to help clean this mess up.'
'Is that a fact?'
Barry was lying smoothly now. 'I'm driving down to Shannon. I'll catch the New York plane from there.'
'Let's hope you can sort things out.'
'I'll keep in touch. Let you know where I'm staying. What's your room number?' Cohan gave it to him. 'Good. You going out tonight?'
'No, I'll take it easy. Big night tomorrow.'
'Sounds right to me. Stay well.'
Cohan put the phone down, aware of a feeling of considerable relief. He opened the bottle of complimentary champagne and poured a glass. If anyone could handle this whole sorry mess, it was Barry.
Barry took out an excellently tailored black suit, white shirt and a striped tie. He laid them down on the bed, went back into the saloon, reheated the kettle and made coffee in a mug. When it was ready, he went up the companionway and stood on the deck at the rail thinking about things.
How to do it was the thing. Access to the Dorchester was no problem. After all, he'd be dressed like a whiskey advert and he had Cohan's room number. All he needed to do was knock on the door, drop him and be on his way. If he left the do-not-disturb card on the door, they wouldn't find him for hours, possibly not until the morning.
Feeling suddenly quite cheerful about it, he went back below. He took off his bomber jacket, pushed the Browning into his waistband and put the kettle on again. He checked out the clothes, took the shirt out of its plastic envelope and unfolded it. The kettle whistled again and he changed his mind about more coffee. He switched it off, found a bottle of Scotch in a cupboard, poured one into a paper cup and went back on deck.