'Seems to me it's time to remind Carter,' Ferguson said, 'that the particular circumstances of my position as head of the Prime Minister's personal security service give me extraordinary powers. Including over him.'
'That I'd love to see,' Dillon told him.
Ferguson smiled, picked up his phone, and dialled a number.
'Ah, that you, Carter? Look, something's come up and I need to see you. I want your input on something before I speak to the Prime Minister Yes? Good. I'll see you at the Grenadier in St James's in thirty minutes.'
'Nothing like being decisive,' Blake said.
'Well, as you Yanks say, you ain't seen nothing yet. Order the car, Dillon, I'll find a warrant or two, and we'll be on our way.'
The Grenadier was a pleasant traditional London pub, with old-fashioned dark oak booths. Carter was already there in a corner, sipping a glass of sherry. A small, pale-faced man with white hair, he reacted angrily at the sight of Dillon.
'Really, Ferguson, I've told you before. I object to this murderous swine's presence.'
'Well, take it up with the Prime Minister. He employs him.'
'God save your honour,' Dillon said cheerfully. 'It's a blessing, the grand man like yourself allows me in the same room.'
'Oh, go to hell.'
Ferguson said, 'You'll remember Blake Johnson.'
'Yes, the American.' Carter offered a reluctant hand and turned to Ferguson. 'So what is this?'
'An IRA renegade named Brendan Murphy's up to no good, and I need to know what it is.'
'Nonsense, that's old hat, Ferguson. Murphy isn't a problem any longer, not since the peace process overwhelmed the land.'
'It's the great liar you are,' Dillon told him, and turned to Blake. 'This is the Deputy Director of the Security Services, a faceless man who never worked in the field himself.'
'Damn you, you Irish swine.' Carter was furious.
'Now, that's a racist remark,' Dillon said. 'I could take you to the tribunal.'
'Exactly,' Ferguson agreed. 'And as my sainted mother was Irish, then as a half-Irishman I take it very personally.'
'I'd say you've just insulted his mother's memory,' Blake put in.
'I'd say you've just insulted his mother's memory,' Blake put in.
'Could we get on with it?' Dillon asked. 'You lifted a man named Sean Regan at Heathrow three weeks ago, when his plane to Dublin was diverted because of fog. Why?'
'Don't be stupid, Dillon. He shot a military policeman in Londonderry a couple of years ago and fled. The policeman nearly died.'
'So you're going to stand Regan up on trial at the Old Bailey?' Ferguson asked.
'We might.'
'But you won't, because of the peace process. We're letting them out of prison now, not banging them up.'
Carter was strangely confused. 'Come on, Ferguson, we're in the hands of our political masters.'
'Not as far as I'm concerned. We're in the hands of the law. The truth is, you're holding Regan to squeeze anything you can out of him in case it may be of future use.'
'So what?'
'Not any more. Where are you holding him?' 'Wandsworth.' Carter answered as a reflex.
'Not any longer.' Ferguson produced a paper from his inside pocket. 'That's a warrant from me as head of the PM's security squad, authorizing me to, as quaint legal language has it, take possession of one Sean Regan.'
Carter was outraged. 'Now, look here, Ferguson.'
'No, you look here. The difference is that I did serve in the field. I was an eighteen-year-old second lieutenant in the Hook in Korea in fifty-two, and I've seen more villains here than you've had breakfasts. So don't argue. Just countersign the order. Here's my pen.'
He offered it and Carter took it, hand shaking, and signed the document. 'My turn will come, Ferguson.'
'I don't think so.' Ferguson blew on the ink. 'Now go away.'
Carter suddenly looked helpless, got up, and stumbled out. Blake said, 'Why is it I don't feel sorry for him?'
'Because he isn't worth it,' Ferguson said. 'So, gentlemen, Wandsworth Prison next stop.'
Ferguson, Dillon and Blake waited in the interview room at Wandsworth until the door was opened, and the kind of prison officer who looked as if he'd been a sergeant in a Guards regiment pushed Regan in.
Dillon said, 'Good man yourself, Sean.' He turned to the others. Always gave us a problem, the two of us being Sean.'
Regan said, 'Jesus, is that you, Dillon?'
'As ever was. Come to take you away from your cell and the stench of the lavatory buckets. This is Brigadier Charles Ferguson, your new boss. The other fella is a Yank, and FBI, so watch it.'
'What in the hell is going on?'
Ferguson turned to the prison officer. 'Give us a moment.' 'Certainly, sir.'
The man went out, and Dillon said, 'Brendan Murphy. We know you've been part of his outfit.'
Regan was thrown, but tried to brazen it out. 'I haven't seen Brendan in years.'
'So Carter didn't manage to wheedle anything out of you?'
'I've said I don't know what you're talking about.' 'Don't waste my time,' Ferguson told him. 'You shot a military policeman in Derry two years ago and fled to the States. Since then, you've worked for Murphy in Europe.'
'It's a lie.'
Dillon said, 'Don't be stupid. You shot a peeler. All right, he didn't die, but at the Old Bailey you'll pull ten years for attempted murder. Imagine Wandsworth or maybe Parkhurst, year after year. You'd be afraid to take a shower.'
'No.' Regan was shaken. 'Mr Carter said if I cooperated I wouldn't do time.'
'Yes, well, unfortunately, I'm in charge now,' Ferguson told him. 'Now make your mind up. A comfortable safe house where you'll fill us in on Brendan Murphy's doings, or a very unpleasant future.'
Regan, in despair, said, 'Brendan would cut me to pieces. He's a sadist.'
'Which is why we'll have to take good care of you.'
He nodded to Dillon, who knocked on the door, which opened and the prison officer appeared. Ferguson took his warrant out.
'Take this prisoner to his cell, allow him to collect his belongings, then present this document to the Governor, authorizing his release into my custody.'
'Certainly, Brigadier.'
Regan was pushed out, and Ferguson turned to Dillon and Blake. 'So, we take him to Holland Park, where you, Dillon, will squeeze out the last drop of juice.'
'My pleasure, Brigadier,' Dillon said.
They delivered Regan to Holland Park and drove in through the electronic gates. The security guards wore neat navy blue blazers and flannel slacks.
'Nursing home? What is this?' Regan asked.
'It's a fortress,' Ferguson told him. 'And the gentlemen in blazers are all military police. There's no way out of here, as you'll find for yourself.' He turned to Dillon. 'Let Helen settle him in and feed him. You and Blake stay. I'll be back.'
His Daimler drove away. They took Regan up the steps between them, his wrists still manacled. The door opened and a very large man appeared.
'Mr Dillon, sir.'
'Another one for you, Sergeant Miller, one Sean Regan. He shot a Royal Military Policeman in Derry two years ago.'
'That would be Fred Dalton.' Miller's face was like stone. 'He survived, but had to take a medical discharge. Oh, I'll take good care of you, Mr Regan.'
He reached for Regan's left shoulder with a hand the size of a meat plate, and Helen Black came down the hall stairs. 'Is this the prisoner, Sergeant Miller?'
Miller got his feet together. 'Yes, ma'am.'
'Good. Room ten, unpack him, then we'll have sandwiches and tea in the parlour.'
'As you say, ma'am.'
Regan turned. 'What is this? Who's she?'
'Sergeant Major Black, and don't be a male chauvinist, Regan,' Dillon said. 'She shot two Provos in Derry and holds the Military Cross.'
'Fuck you, Dillon.'
'That's bad language in front of a lady. We can't have that, can we, sergeant?' he asked Miller.
'We certainly can't, sir.' Miller squeezed Regan's left arm very hard. 'Up we go, there's a good gentleman.'
Blake said, 'Now what?'
'Oh, they have a canteen, a kitchen. We won't starve.' Dillon smiled. 'We'll sort Regan out later.'
Upstairs, Regan was astounded. He had a decent bedroom, a bathroom, a view of the garden, even if it was through barred windows. He even had a fresh shirt, blazer and slacks, like the guards'. Miller took him downstairs to a small sitting room, a gas fire flickering in the hearth. There was soup, ham sandwiches and a glass of dry white wine. Miller stood by the wall, enigmatic. Regan, slightly euphoric at the difference from Wandsworth, said, 'Could I have another glass of wine?'
'Of course, sir.'
Miller poured the glass of Chablis, and behind the mirror Ferguson, Dillon, Hannah who had just arrived and Helen Black watched.
Ferguson said, 'You all know the story by now. This is a bad business, so we make sure he talks. I'd like you to go in, Sergeant Major, and you, Dillon. Facts, that's what I need.'
'Certainly, sir.' Helen Black nodded to Sean. 'Good guy, bad guy, suit you, Sean?'
'Nothing better. Takes me back to my days at the National Theatre.'
'Yes, you have told us that one before. Let's do it.' She led the way out. 'But follow my lead.'
'Shall I leave, ma'am?' Miller asked, as they stepped into the room.
'No, I might need you, Sergeant.' Her voice was different and very hard. 'This is a Provisional IRA gunman. He crippled Fred Dalton. Do you think Fred was his first?'
'I doubt it, ma'am,' Miller said coldly.
'Right, but I'd like you to manacle him, Sergeant. Once a killer, always a killer.'
'Right, but I'd like you to manacle him, Sergeant. Once a killer, always a killer.'
'Certainly, ma'am.'
'Now, look here,' Regan protested.
'Just hold out your wrists and be a good boy.'
Regan was sweating and very, very worried. He'd had three weeks in Wandsworth, with the lavatory bucket, the twice-a-week showers, the unwelcome attentions of certain wild-eyed prisoners, and others: basic English criminals who didn't like the IRA. The contrast of his treatment at the safe house spoke for itself. In a way, he'd thought he was going to be all right, but now he had this woman who looked like his elder sister, acting like the Gestapo.
She unbuttoned her jacket, revealing the holstered Colt. 'Now then, let's get started.'
Roper had joined the group on the other side of the mirror. 'She's really very good.'