explosives, weaponry. He’ll work the same way now, I know he will.”
“So what you want to know is who he’d go to?”
“Exactly.”
Flood looked up at Mordecai. “What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Harry. I mean there are plenty of legit arms dealers, but what you need is someone who’s willing to supply the IRA.”
“Any ideas?” Flood asked.
“Not really, guv. I mean, most of your real East End villains love Maggie Thatcher and wear Union Jack underpants. They don’t go for Irish geezers letting off bombs at Harrods. We could make enquiries, of course.”
“Then do that,” Flood said. “Put the word out now, but discreetly.”
Mordecai went out and Harry Flood reached for the champagne bottle. “You’re still not drinking?” Brosnan said.
“Not me, old buddy, but no reason you shouldn’t. You can fill me in with the events of recent years, and then we’ll go along to the
At around the same time, Sean Dillon and Angel Fahy were driving along the dark country road from Cadge End to Grimethorpe. The lights of the car picked out light snow and frost on the hedgerows.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said.
“I suppose so.”
“I like it here, the countryside and all that. I like Uncle Danny, too. He’s been really good to me.”
“That makes sense. You were raised in the country back there in Galway.”
“It wasn’t the same. It was poor land there. It was hard work to make any kind of a living and it showed in the people, my mother, for instance. It was as if they’d been to war and lost and there was nothing to look forward to.”
“You’ve got a way with the words, girl,” he told her.
“My English teacher used to say that. She said if I worked hard and studied I could do anything.”
“Well that must have been a comfort.”
“It didn’t do me any good. My stepfather just saw me as an unpaid farm laborer. That’s why I left.”
The lights picked out a sign that said Grimethorpe airfield, the paintwork peeling. Dillon turned into a narrow tarmac road that was badly potholed. A few moments later, they came to the airfield. There were three hangars, an old control tower, a couple of Nissen huts, a light at the windows of one of them. A jeep was parked there and Dillon pulled in beside it. As they got out, the door of the Nissen hut opened and a man stood there.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Mr. Grant, Angel Fahy. I’ve brought someone to see you.”
Grant, like most pilots, was small and wiry. He looked to be in his mid-forties, wore jeans and an old flying jacket of the kind used by American aircrew in the Second World War. “You’d better come in, then.”
The interior of the Nissen hut was warm, heated by a coke-burning stove, the pipe going up through the roof. Grant obviously used it as a living room. There was a table with the remains of a meal on it, an old easy chair by the stove facing a television set in the corner. Beneath the windows on the other side there was a long, sloping desk with a few charts.
Angel said, “This is a friend of my uncle’s.”
“Hilton,” Dillon said. “Peter Hilton.”
Grant put his hand out, looking wary. “Bill Grant. I don’t owe you money, do I?”
“Not to my knowledge.” Dillon was back in his public-school role.
“Well, that makes a nice change. What can I do for you?”
“I want a charter in the next few days. Just wanted to check if you might be able to do something before I tried anywhere else.”
“Well, that depends.”
“On what? You do have a plane, I take it?”
“I’ve got two. The only problem is how long the bank lets me hang onto them. Do you want to have a look?”
“Why not?”
They went out, crossed the apron to the end hangar, and he opened a Judas so they could step through. He reached to one side, found a switch and lights came on. There were two planes there, side by side, both twin engines.
Dillon walked up to the nearest. “I know this baby, a Cessna Conquest. What’s the other?”
“Navajo Chieftain.”
“If things are as tricky as you say, what about fuel?”
“I always keep my planes juiced up, Mr. Hilton, always full tanks. I’m too old a hand to do otherwise. You never know when a job might come up.” He smiled ruefully. “Mind you, I’ll be honest. What with the recession, there aren’t too many people looking for charters these days. Where would you like me to take you?”
“Actually I was thinking of going for a spin myself one day,” Dillon said. “I’m not sure when.”
“You’re certified, then?” Grant looked dubious.
“Oh, yes, fully.” Dillon took out his pilot’s license and passed it across.
Grant examined it quickly and handed it back. “You could handle either of these two, but I’d rather come myself, just to make sure.”
“No problem,” Dillon said smoothly. “It’s the West Country I was thinking of. Cornwall. There’s an airfield at Land’s End.”
“I know it well. Grass runway.”
“I’ve got friends near there. I’d probably want to stay overnight.”
“That’s fine by me.” Grant switched off the lights and they walked back to the Nissen hut. “What line are you in, Mr. Hilton?”
“Oh, finance, accountancy, that sort of thing,” Dillon said.
“Have you any idea when you might want to go? I should point out that kind of charter’s going to be expensive. Around two thousand five hundred pounds. With half a dozen passengers that’s not so bad, but on your own…”
“That’s fine,” Dillon said.
“Then there would be my overnight expenses. A hotel and so on.”
“No problem.” Dillon took ten fifty-pound notes from his wallet and put them on the table. “There’s five hundred down. It’s a definite booking for some time in the next four or five days. I’ll phone you here to let you know when.”
Grant’s face brightened as he picked up the bank notes. “That’s fine. Can I get you a coffee or something before you go?”
“Why not?” Dillon said.
Grant went into the kitchen at the far end of the Nissen hut. They heard him filling a kettle. Dillon put a finger to his lips, made a face at Angel and crossed to the charts on the desk. He went through them quickly, found the one for the general English Channel area and the French coast. Angel stood beside him watching as he traced his finger along the Normandy coast. He found Cherbourg and moved south. There it was, Saint-Denis, with the landing strip clearly marked, and he pushed the charts back together. Grant in the kitchen had been watching through the half-open door. As the kettle boiled, he quickly made coffee in three mugs and took them in.
“Is this weather giving you much trouble?” Dillon said. “The snow?”
“It will if it really starts to stick,” Grant said. “It could make it difficult for that grass runway at Land’s End.”
“We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed.” Dillon put down his mug. “We’d better be getting back.”
Grant went to the door to see them off. They got in the Mini and drove away. He waved, closed the door and went to the desk and examined the charts. It was the third or fourth down, he was sure of that.
He frowned and said softly, “And what’s your game, mister, I wonder?”
