a man who’s kept out of police hands for twenty years or more, all over Europe.”
“Well it’s time we got the bastard.” She looked down at McGuire. “Not too nice, is it?”
“The violence, the killing. Drink with the devil and this is what it comes down to,” Devlin told her.
Dillon went in through the back door of the hotel at exactly two-fifteen and hurried up to his room. He stripped off the jeans and jumper, put them in the case and shoved them up into a cupboard above the wardrobe. He washed his face quickly, then dressed in white shirt and tie, dark suit and blue Burberry. He was out of the room and descending the back stairs, briefcase in hand, within five minutes of having entered. He went up the alley, turned into the Falls Road and started to walk briskly. Within five minutes he managed to hail a taxi and told the driver to take him to the airport.
The officer in charge of Army Intelligence for the Belfast city area was a Colonel McLeod and he was not the least bit pleased with the situation with which he was confronted.
“It really isn’t good enough, Captain Tanner,” he said. “We can’t have you people coming in here like cowboys and acting on your own initiative.” He turned to look at Devlin and Brosnan. “And with people of very dubious background into the bargain. There is a delicate situation here these days and we do have the Royal Ulster Constabulary to placate. They see this as their turf.”
“Yes, well, that’s as may be,” Mary told him. “But your sergeant outside was kind enough to check on flights to London for me. There’s one at four-thirty and another at six-thirty. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to check out the passengers rather thoroughly?”
“We’re not entirely stupid, Captain, I’ve already put that in hand, but I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that we are not an army of occupation. There is no such thing as martial law here. It’s impossible for me to close down the airport, I don’t have the authority. All I can do is notify the police and airport security in the usual way and as you’ve been at pains to explain, where this man Dillon is concerned, we don’t have much to tell them.” His phone went. He picked it up and said, “Brigadier Ferguson? Sorry to bother you, sir. Colonel McLeod, Belfast HQ. We appear to have a problem.”
But Dillon, at the airport, had no intention of returning on the London flight. Perhaps he could get away with it, but madness to try when there were other alternatives. It was just after three as he searched the departure board. He’d just missed the Manchester flight, but there was a flight to Glasgow due out at three-fifteen and it was delayed.