Burke and Cohan being several years old. They had a certain rugged dignity that came with men who had believed they were fighting for a cause.
Delaney and Flanagan were a different proposition, cocky, smirking and, in most photos, obviously on something, drugs, alcohol or probably both.
“Give us your lecture, Major,” Ferguson told Roper.
“Delaney and Flanagan, shoot at will. On store robberies, they’ve gotten away with it through intimidation of witnesses.”
“And Cohan and Burke?”
“IRA foot soldiers for years, total professionals, and that means damned good at killing. Any psychological profile would tell you they don’t like robbing convenience stores for a living, but when you’re pushing fifty, men like that don’t have much choice.”
“It’s a point of view,” Ferguson said. “But I have little sympathy for them. You play that kind of game, you take the consequences when all is lost. Having said that, I intend to get out my nylon and titanium waistcoat, which fit quite snugly under my shirt when I last wore it. Guaranteed to stop a forty-five-magnum round at point-blank range. I recommend those who have one to wear it until we have this matter sorted.”
“I agree,” Harry said. “It’s up to you, Dillon and Billy, of course. You can pull in Baxter and Hall as foot soldiers.”
“And as Captain Levin and Sergeant Chomsky have already been involved in the circumstances leading to all this, I’m sure they would be willing to assist.”
“No problem, General.”
“I’d like you and Chomsky to stay here for a few days for a thorough debriefing with Major Roper. After that, Harry’s suggested you move down to the warehouse development of his at Hangman’s Wharf, which you’ll remember from your visit last year.”
“I remember it well.” Levin smiled. “Quite convenient for the Dark Man.”
“Well, you would. I wouldn’t recommend you going for a swim in the Thames with your clothes on again. Wrong time of year.”
He went out briskly. Harry followed with Mary and Billy, who said, “I’ll hand her over to Ruby at the pub and join up with you later.”
“Fine,” Dillon said, left Levin and Chomsky to Sergeant Doyle and went back to Roper, who had Greta with him. Dillon helped himself to ascotch.
“You’ve got a problem,” Greta said. “I can tell.”
“What would it be?” Roper inquired.
“Bert Fahy, the old man I brought in. He gave me a good story and I’m prepared to accept that it was true, but only as far as it went. It was a bit too pat. I didn’t quite buy what he said Nolan and Kelly would be doing.”
“Really? Well, we can’t have that.” He called up Sergeant Henderson. “Bring our new guest in, Mr. Fahy.”
He was produced within five minutes, and the pleasant surprise the comfort of his quarters had given him disappeared rapidly when he found himself in a pool of light looking up to them.
“Fahy, you lied to me,” Dillon said. “The idea that Nolan and Kelly would go to the cinema before visiting us tonight is unbelievable.”
Roper broke in, “Which means you were concealing something else they intend to do.”
“God help me, sir, would I lie to Mr. Dillon?”
“All right, I won’t waste time. I will issue a warrant for your detention under the Anti-Terrorism Act, at Wormwood Scrubs Prison.”
Fahy almost had a bowel movement at the thought of incarceration in that dread institution. “No, sir, have pity on an old man, my memory plays tricks on me.”
“Try again.”
“Well, Major, there’s the bar called Grady’s close to the Pool of London.”
WHEN HE WAS FINISHED, Henderson took him back to his quarters. Dillon said,“This could be a real break. I’m going to go and have a look. Are you busy?” he asked Greta.
“Not until tonight. Molly Rashid’s on a night shift and she asked me to keep Sara company. The girl’s having difficulty relating to her father.”
“Maybe it’s the other way round. We’ll go in your Mini Cooper. I’ll see you in the car park and you later,” he shouted to Roper.
He went straight to his room, found his favorite Walther and went out to Greta, already at the wheel of the Mini Cooper.
“I remember all this when I was a kid with my father growing up in London,” he said as they made their way downriver. “The Pool of London, the docks, ships, crammed in everywhere, hundreds of enormous cranes. I don’t know if it was the biggest port in the world, but it should have been.”
“But you were Irish,” she said. “Why were you here at all?”
“My mother died, my father ran out of work in Ulster.” He shrugged. “The Irish always had a big connection with London. Michael Collins was a civil servant in the post office here before he decided to change the course of Irish history.”
“It seems all changed now,” she observed.
“That’s development for you. A lot of the warehouses are apartment blocks like that one of Harry’s on Hangman’s Wharf, but there are still some streets and buildings that haven’t been touched.”
She had entered Canal Street into the satellite navigator in the Cooper, and they soon arrived there. There was a section of the docks in decay, a canal flowing down quite fast into the river, an ironwork footbridge leading across it and decaying working-class terrace houses, mostly boarded up and awaiting demolition, and the pub on the corner with a sign that said Grady’s Bar. The door was half open and an old lady with very white hair and an apron over a long black dress was polishing a brass knocker. Over the door was the usual board with the license details of the publican. It said Margaret Grady. She was perhaps seventy-five, her voice faded as if she wasn’t really here, the merest hint of an Irish accent.
“Can I help you? I don’t open till six o’clock. We’re a free house.”
“Of course,” Dillon said. “We weren’t looking for a drink.”
Greta joined in. “We were searching for Canal Street, but we’ve obviously found the wrong one.”
“Oh, there must be a lot in the telephone directory.”
“An interesting place,” Dillon said.
“In the old days it was quite thriving, with the ships and so on, but when they went, the life went out of everything. They’ve pulled down all the properties up there. We’re like an oasis. Another six months and that’s it. We were a lodging house for years.”
“I’m very sorry,” Greta said. “Do you get any customers?”
“Now and then, but there are days when there’s nobody. Still, the Council have promised me a place in an old folks’ home.”
There really wasn’t much to say. “We won’t hold you up anymore.” Dillon smiled, and he and Greta went back across the bridge, down to the car and drove away.
“Back to Holland Park, quick as you like.”
“So you’re going to trace them, are you?” she asked.
“No, Greta, if things work out, I hope to dispose of them. A few old IRA hands who’ve met a bad end, and Scotland Yard will close the files with quiet satisfaction.”
“But Volkov will get the message.”
“And the Broker, which means al-Qaeda and Army of God. Greta, we’ve gone beyond negotiation. In the world of tomorrow that’s emerged in the last few years, we fight fire with fire or go under. You may think that strange coming from a man who was once an IRA enforcer, but that’s the way it is.”
“I don’t think it’s strange-I think it’s ironic, that’s all.”
“Excellent, so keep driving and I’ll fill Roper in.”
