Day of Reckoning

She took out her silenced Colt, and Miller, playing his part, caught her wrist. 'No, ma'am, that's not the way.'

The Colt discharged into the ceiling and Regan cried out in terror.

'All right, anything — anything you want.'

Dillon shoved him down into a chair.

'Okay, we've got Kilbeg, the bunker, the village, even the old granite quarry pier below the cliff. But what did you leave out?'

Regan hesitated, and Helen Black said, 'Oh, this is a waste of time. Let's send him back to Wandsworth.'

'No, for God's sake.'

'There's something. What is iff Dillon demanded.

'It's the money. Brendan has one of those safes in the floor of the bunker office. He's supposed to have a million pounds in there, proceeds of bank raids, exploitation, that kind of thing.'

'So?' Helen Black demanded.

'He owes that to Fox for arms supplies.'

'Really,' Dillon said.

'Only he's lying. He keeps fobbing Fox off. He's got nearly three million in there.'

Dillon almost fell about laughing. 'Jesus, you mean you're telling me that if we blow the place up, we'll not only be stiffing Murphy, but also Fox? That's beautiful.' He turned to the mirror. 'Isn't that a joy, Brigadier? Come on in.'

Ferguson came in, with Hannah and Blake. 'Very naughty, Regan. Still playing stupid games.'

'Yes, he's an untrustworthy sod,' Dillon said. 'In the circumstances, I think I'd like to take him along.'

'Really?'

'Just in case of problems. What if there's more he hasn't told us?'

Ferguson nodded. 'Yes, I take your point. Would you agree, Superintendent?'

'Well, she'll need to, as she'll have to take care of the bastard.'

'What are you getting aff Hannah asked.

'There's no sense in wasting time. If you get the quartermaster to fill my order and have the boat ready, Blake and I will fly up later this afternoon. There is an RAF base near Oban. We'll get things shipshape. They'll fly back and pick you up in the morning and do the return journey. We'll do the trip tomorrow afternoon and hit Kilbeg tomorrow night.'

'You're not wasting time, are you?' Ferguson said.

'Can't see much point, Brigadier.'

'Fine by me.'

'There's just one thing,' Dillon said. 'Blake took a bullet at Al Shariz.'

'Hell, it's a crease only. Anya fixed it.' Blake was indignant.

'Blake, if we do have to go in underwater, it isn't on.'

'So what you're saying is you want another diver?' Ferguson said. 'It's a bit short notice, but if I phone Marine Headquarters they could possibly find someone from the Special Boat Squadron.'

'No good. They cut their those boys, they'd never pass for locals. Now, SAS at Hereford have plenty of lads who haven't seen a barber in months. That's so they can go undercover in Belfast at a moment's notice and look like they're off a building site.' Dillon smiled.

'That makes sense,' Blake said. 'When you put me in there

undercover the other year, I recall it was dicey as hell.' 'So,' Dillon said. 'I've got another diver in mind.' 'Who?' Ferguson demanded.

Dillon told him.

The Brigadier laughed helplessly. 'Oh, I like it. I really do. Do you mind if I come with you and hear him turn you down?'

'No problem, Brigadier, it'll be the best pub grub in London. Meanwhile, though, I want Blake's shoulder checked out by Daz at Rosedene.'

'Rosedene?' Blake asked.

A private clinic we use near Pine Grove. We have a very nice man, a professor of surgery at London University, who, shall we say, helps us out.'

Ferguson said to Regan, 'Fancy a sea trip to Ireland, do you?'

'I don't have much choice, do 1?' But already, his mind was racing.

Ferguson turned to Helen Black and Miller. 'Take him away. The Superintendent will pick him up tomorrow.'

'Fine, sir.' Miller took Regan by the arm and she followed them out.

Ferguson said, 'All right, Dillon, take Blake to Rosedene. The Superintendent will phone ahead and make sure Daz is there. We'll go back to the office. I'll meet you for lunch.' He laughed. 'I can't wait to get his reaction. Hope he's a patriot.'

'People like him usually are, Brigadier.'

Rosedene was an exclusive town house in its own grounds. The receptionist greeted Dillon like an old friend, spoke on the phone, and a pleasant, middle-aged woman in matron's blue came out of her office. She had the accent of Ulster, like Dillon, and kissed him on the cheek.

'Have you been in the wars again, Sean?'

'No, Martha, but he has,' and he introduced Blake. 'Well, let's get on with it. Mr Daz is waiting.'

'Mister?' Blake was puzzled.

'In England, ordinary physicians are 'doctor', but surgeons are 'mister'.' Dillon smiled. 'And only the English could explain that to you. In his case, he's also 'professor'.'

She took them along a corridor and opened the door into a well-equipped operating theatre. Daz, in a white coat, was sitting at a desk reading some papers, a tall, cadaverous Indian with a ready smile.

He got up and took Dillon's hand. 'Sean, it's not you this time. What a change.'

'No, it's my friend, Blake Johnson.'

'Mr Johnson, a pleasure. And what is the problem?'

A superficial gunshot wound. I mean, it's nothing.'

'It never is, my friend.' Daz turned to the matron. 'Under the circumstances, Martha, I'd rather not have one of the girls in. Would you be kind enough to assist?'

'Of course, Professor. I'll get ready.'

Daz said, 'Stay if you want, Sean.'

Blake, stripped to his waist, stood while Daz and Martha, suitably robed, got to work.

'My goodness, you have been to the wars.' Daz probed

under the left ribs. 'Bullet scars are always distinctive.' Another here,' Martha said. 'Under the left shoulder.' 'Vietnam,' Blake said. 'A long time ago.'

'But not this, I think,' Daz said, as Martha cut away the pad on the right shoulder. He made a face. 'Nasty.' 'Hell, it's nothing,' Blake told him.

Daz ignored him. 'Yes, well, nothing requires some very careful stitching. How many would you say, Martha? Fifteen? Perhaps twenty. In the circumstances, I don't think a local anaesthetic will do. We'll need a general. Get Doctor Hamed for me. I know he's here. He can assist.'

'Now, look here, I don't want to be on my back,' Blake said. 'I've got things to do.'

'Not if you have a crippled shoulder for the rest of your life.'

Martha said, 'Do as you're told, Mr Johnson. You're not a stupid man.' She turned to Dillon. 'Leave him to it. Check in this afternoon.'

'For God's sake, Sean,' Blake said.

'No problem. If you're not fit, you can come up to Oban tomorrow with Hannah and Regan.'

At that moment, Billy Salter drove up to St Richard's Dock in the Range Rover and parked. He got out and walked along the embankment to where an old Ford van was parked, opened the door, and got in beside Joe Baxter, who was looking down at the shingle beach through a pair of old binoculars. He lowered them.