He would, wouldnt he? Everythings a joke.
So what do you want me to do, sir?
You do nothing, Chief Inspector. Dillon wants to do things his own way as usual, get close enough to Quinn to put a bullet between his eyes. Let him get on with it, but I wont have you in the line of fire. You provide back-up at the Europa only. If he pulls this thing off tomorrow night, get him straight to Aldergrove airport. Ill have the Lear jet waiting to fly you to Gatwick.
Very well, sir.
Ill have to go. Ive got my weekly meeting with the Prime Minister at Downing Street in an hour.
Hannah Bernstein checked her make-up and hair, then left her room and took the lift downstairs. She went into the bar, but there was no sign of Dillon so she sat at a corner table. He came in a few minutes later wearing a roll-neck sweater, Donegal tweed jacket and dark slacks, his hair, washed clean of the black dye now, so fair as to be almost white.
Half a bottle of Krug, he called to the barman and joined her, taking out an old silver case and lighting a cigarette.
Still determined to take a few years off your life, she said.
You never give up, do you, sweetheart. His voice was Humphrey Bogart to perfection. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world she walks into mine.
Damn you! she laughed as the waiter brought the Krug and opened it.
You could have a Guinness instead. After all, youre in Ireland.
No, Ill force a little champagne down.
Good for you. Did you speak to Ferguson?
Oh, yes. I brought him right up to date.
And?
You can go to hell in your own way. If it works, the Lear will be waiting at Aldergrove and I get you straight out.
Good. He raised his glass. Heres to us. Are you free for dinner?
I cant think of anything else to do.
At that moment he noticed a poster by the bar. Good God, Grace Browning. He went over to inspect it and turned to the barman. Is it still playing? he asked, reverting to his English accent.
Last night tomorrow, sir.
Could you get me a couple of tickets for tonights performance?
I think so, but youll have to be sharp. Curtain up in forty minutes. Mind you, the Lyric isnt too far.
Good man. Ring the box office for me.
I will, Mr Friar.
Dillon went back to Hannah. There you go, girl dear, Grace Brownings one-woman show. Shakespeares Heroines. Shes brilliant.
I know. Ive seen her at the National Theatre. Tell me, Dillon, dont you ever get confused? One minute sounding like youve been to Eton, the next Belfast-Irish?
Ah, youre forgetting my true vocation was the theatre. I went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art before Grace Browning did. In fact, I played the National Theatre before she did. Lyngstrand in Lady from the Sea. Ibsen, that was.
Youve mentioned it several times since Ive known you, Dillon. She stood up. Lets get moving before that monumental ego of yours surfaces again.
Fergusons Daimler was admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street and the front door of the most famous address in the world was opened to him instantly. An aide took his coat and led the way up the stairs, knocking on a door and ushering him into the study.
John Major, the British Prime Minister, looked up and smiled. Ah, there you are, Brigadier. The week seems to have gone quickly. Ive asked Simon Carter, Deputy Director of the Security Services, to join us, and Rupert Lang. You know him, I take it? As an Under-Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office I thought he might have a useful contribution to make to our weekly consultation. He serves on a number of Government committees.
I have met Mr Lang, Prime Minister. Like myself, Grenadier Guards until he transferred to the Parachute Regiment.
Yes, fine record. I know you dont care for Simon Carter, and the Security Services dont care for you. You know what they call you? The Prime Ministers private army.
So I believe.
Try and get along, if only for my sake. There was a knock at the door and two men entered. Ah, come in, gentlemen, the Prime Minister said. I believe you all know each other.
Hello, Ferguson, Carter said frostily. He was a small man in his fifties with snow white hair.
Rupert Lang was tall and elegant in a navy-blue striped suit and Guards tie, hair rather long, an intelligent, aquiline face, a restless air to him.
Nice to see you again, Brigadier.
And you.
Good. Sit down and lets get started, the Prime Minister said.
They worked their way through a variety of intelligence matters for some forty minutes with particular reference to terrorist groups of various kinds and the new menace of Arab fundamentalism in London.
The Prime Minister said, Im sure everyone tries, but look at this group January 30. How many have they killed in the last few years, Mr Carter?
Ten that we know of, Prime Minister, but theres a particular difficulty. Other groups have specific aims and targets. January 30 kill everybody. KGB, a CIA man, IRA both here and in Belfast. Even a notorious East End gangster.
All with the same weapon, Ferguson put in.
Could that indicate just one individual?
It could, but I doubt it, Carter said. And the name is no help. January 30 was the date of Bloody Sunday, but they kill, amongst others, members of the IRA.
A puzzle, the Prime Minister said, which brings me to the Downing Street Declaration. He spoke about the Governments discussions with Sinn Fein and the efforts, so far unsuccessful, to achieve a ceasefire.
It was Rupert Lang who said, Im afraid were going to have as many problems with the Protestant factions from now on, Prime Minister.
True, Carter said. Theyre killing just as many as the IRA.
Can we do anything about that? the Prime Minister queried. He turned to Ferguson. Brigadier?
Ferguson shrugged. Yes, Im conscious of the Protestant Loyalist problem.
Yes, but are your people doing anything about it? Carter said with some malice.
Ferguson was nettled. Actually Ive got Dillon taking care of something rather special in that direction at this precise moment in time.
So were back to that little IRA swine? Carter said.
Rupert Lang frowned. Dillon? Whos he?
Ferguson hesitated. Go on, tell him, the Prime Minister said, but this is top secret, Rupert.
Of course, Prime Minister.
Sean Dillon was born in Belfast and went to school in London when his father came to work here, Ferguson said. He had a remarkable talent for acting and a flair for languages. He went to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art for a year and then joined the National Theatre.
Ive never heard of him, Lang said.
You wouldnt. Dillons father went back to Belfast on a visit and got caught in the middle of a firefight. He was shot dead by paratroops. Dillon joined the IRA and never looked back. He became the most feared enforcer they had.
Then what?
He became disenchanted with the glorious cause and switched to the international scene. Worked for everybody. Not only the PLO, but the Israelis.
For money, I presume?
Oh yes. He was behind the mortar attack on Downing Street during the Gulf War. That was for the Iraqis.
Good God!
Carter broke in. And he employs this man.
He also flew drugs into Bosnia, medical supplies for children. The Serbs held him under death sentence. I did a deal with them and him. He came to me, slate wiped clean.
Good heavens, Lang said faintly.
Set a thief to catch a thief, the Prime Minister said. Hes been more than useful, Rupert. Saved the Royal Family from a dreadful scandal involving the Duke of Windsors involvement with the Nazis. Then there was a rather tricky business involving Hong Kong, but never mind that. Whats he up to now, Brigadier?
Ferguson hesitated. Actually hes in Belfast.
Doing what? Ferguson hesitated again and the Prime Minister said impatiently, Come on, man, if you can tell anyone, you can tell us.
All right, Ferguson said. The Deputy Director wanted to know what were doing about Protestant terrorism. As you know there are numerous factions. One of the worst call themselves the Sons of Ulster. Their leader is undoubtedly the most dangerous man on the Loyalist side of things. Daniel Quinn. Hes killed many times, soldiers as well as IRA.
And dares to use the word Loyalist, Carter said. Yes, I know about Quinn.
The trouble is that he isnt just another thug, Ferguson replied. Hes astute, cunning and a first-class organizer. Dillon has been staying at the Europa under the name of Barry Friar with my assistant, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein. He posed as an arms dealer for a Paris outfit and met with Quinns right-hand man, Curtis Daley, tonight.
I know that name too, Carter said.
Whats the point of all this? the Prime Minister asked.
To draw Quinn into the open and deal with him, Ferguson said.
You mean shoot him?
That is correct, Prime Minister. Dillon has a meeting with Quinn tomorrow at six. All he would tell Chief Inspector Bernstein was that he was to drive there alone. Wouldnt say where because he knew shed tell me and thought I might send in the heavy brigade.
Arrogant bastard, Carter commented.
Perhaps. The Prime Minister nodded. But he does seem to get results. He closed the file in front of him. Youll keep me informed, Brigadier. He stood up. Good night, gentlemen.
As Ferguson went to his Daimler outside Number Ten, Carter paused on his way to his own car. Hell get you into trouble one of these days, Ferguson.
Very probably, Ferguson said and turned to Lang. Have you got a car or would you like a lift?
No thanks, I feel like the exercise. Ill walk.
Lang went out through the security gates and walked along Whitehall. He stopped at the first phone box and made a call. After a while the phone was picked up at the other end.
Belov.
Oh, good, Yuri. Glad I caught you at home. Rupert here. Somethings come up. Ill be straight round.
He put the phone down and hailed the first cab that came along.