And at half past seven the following morning, the Navajo, fully loaded, took off in spite of Smith’s reluctance.
“There’s a lot of bad weather out there, a front moving in over the Irish Sea.”
“Then we’ll rely on the ham sandwiches and good Irish whiskey to keep our spirits up,” Dermot told him. “Jesus, Tod, we’ve done this run at night in the old days and black as the hob of hell, so let’s get on with it.”
Which they did, and the whiskey flowed as the Navajo was pushed by a fierce tailwind over the Irish Sea, dampening the spirits of Kelly’s men. They crossed the English coast over Morecambe. It was raining even harder now, a front advancing as they turned down toward the south country.
As Smith adjusted his course, Kelly, sitting beside him, said, “Everything okay?”
“It should start to quiet down. If it doesn’t, we could always turn back.”
“You wouldn’t want to do that. Then I’d have to break your legs, wouldn’t I?” Dermot smiled, looking terrible. “Just get on with it,” and he got up and joined the others in the cabin.
It was raining in London, too, a short time later, as Billy got out of a cab at Professor Merriman’s office in Harley Street and went inside. Dillon and Hannah Bernstein were already in Reception.
The young nurse behind the desk said, “Who’s first?”
“That’ll be me,” Hannah told her. “I’ve got another appointment.”
“Then follow me, please.”
In his office, Merriman greeted her warmly while the nurse busied herself with items on a side table.
“It only takes a moment, Superintendent, but you’ll have to remove your blouse. You can keep your bra on. I only need an armpit.”
“Will it hurt?” Hannah asked as she took off her blouse.
“Not with this. An excellent anesthetic.” The nurse handed him a plastic ampule. There was a slight prick on her arm and the skin went numb. “It’s instant,” he said, and the nurse handed him a sort of aluminum pistol. He placed the muzzle into her right armpit and pulled the trigger. She didn’t feel a thing.
“Is that it?” she asked, as she pulled her blouse on.
“Absolutely. Your implant is already code indexed into the Omega computer. Where you go, it goes.”
“I’m not sure I’m happy about that.”
“It’s a tool, Superintendent, that’s all. A reflection of the world we live in.”
She pulled on her jacket and coat. “That’s one way of looking at it,” she said. “Tell me, St. Paul’s Church is near here, I believe?”
“End of the street and turn left.”
“Thank you and good morning.”
She went out and was followed by the nurse, who called Billy in. Dillon stood up.
“On your way already?”
“I have an appointment.”
“At St. Paul’s. She’s a remarkable lady and good at extracting confessions. I should know.”
“I’ll see you later, then, back at the office.”
She left, and Billy emerged. “No big deal.”
“Good. I hate needles.”
Billy said, “I’ll see you later. I’ve got a bit of business back at the Dark Man.”
“You’re an idiot, Billy. Smuggled cigarettes from Amsterdam and you don’t even need the money. You’ll be back behind bars at Wandsworth.”
“That’ll be the day,” Billy said and left.
When Dillon emerged into Harley Street, it was still raining. He lit a cigarette, looked down the pavement in the direction Hannah had gone and walked the same way. St. Paul’s Church was on the other side of the street when he turned the corner, a notice board in front with the times of services and the name of the priest. He went up the steps, eased open the small Judas gate in the main door and stepped inside.
It was Victorian, a half-dark sort of place, and there was the smell of damp, candles and incense. He noticed a statue of the Virgin and Child, more candles flickering there, all very old-fashioned Church of England, except for the newer fashion that allowed women priests.
Susan Haden-Taylor was a calm, pleasant woman in a clerical collar and cassock. She was sitting on the opposite side of the aisle from Hannah, two pews away, but facing her.
“Yes,” she was saying. “Charles Ferguson has spoken to me of your dilemma. And his.”
“And his?” Hannah was astonished and showed it.
“Yes. There are always two sides to everything, however simplistic that may sound. Charles tells me you read psychology at Cambridge.”
“That’s right.”
“And that your father is Arnold Bernstein. I know his work. One of the finest general surgeons in London.”
“And my grandfather is Rabbi Julian Bernstein.”
“Leaving you totally walled in by morality.”
“Something like that.”
At the back of the church, Dillon sat on a chair behind a pillar in the corner and listened.
“During my time with the police,” said Hannah, “I’ve killed when I had no choice and I’ve been wounded myself. I even killed a woman once, a truly evil person who was trying to kill a friend. I could accept all this as somehow being part of the job.”
“So what is the problem now? You know you can speak freely. As both a priest and a psychiatrist, I must keep your confidence.”
Hannah told her. When she was done, Susan Haden-Taylor said, “I’m not taking sides, just examining the situation. In spite of what he’s been responsible for, you want Selim to have a legal representative, which means due process of law and an eventual trial, which will probably take six months to come to court, if not longer.”
“I know all the difficulties.”
“Whereas Ferguson wants the details of all those who’ve passed through this Wrath of Allah organization before they have time to set more bombs off. In pursuit of that aim, he obviously feels that giving Selim a hard time is worth it. Don’t you?”
“Dammit.” Hannah was extremely frustrated. “It makes me sound so bloody unreasonable. I’ve been raised on the law, I believe in the law. It’s all we’ve got.”
“So do I, but the times are changing very rapidly and we must face that. Global terrorism provides a whole new perspective. It’s not that you’re wrong, Hannah, but it’s not that Ferguson is wrong either. And one final point. As in all things, each of us has personal choice.”
“Which means?”
“If you really feel strongly about this matter, it would be better if you resigned. Better for yourself. In fact, better for everyone.”
“How strange,” Hannah said. “That makes me feel as if I’d be running away.”
“It’s the best I can do, I’m afraid. Can I offer you a cup of tea?”
“No, thanks, I’d better get on.”
Dillon got up at once and slipped out through the Judas gate, where he lit a cigarette and stood waiting. She came out a few minutes later.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I thought I’d hang around outside and see how you got on.”
“You were right. She is a remarkable woman.”
They started along Harley Street. “Are you still with us, then?”
“I suppose so. I’ll give it another week or two and see. As I was leaving, she said the strangest thing.”
“And what was that?”
“That when Christ told us to turn the other cheek, he didn’t tell us to do it twice. What on earth is that supposed to mean?”
Dillon grinned. “It makes perfect sense to me,” and he hailed a cab.
