Jack Higgins
Drink With The Devil
The fifth book in the Sean Dillon series, 1996
To Denise
Best of girls
BELFAST
1985
ONE
RAIN SWEPT IN from Belfast Lough, and as he turned the corner there was the rattle of small-arms fire somewhere in the darkness of the city center followed by the crump of an explosion. He didn’t even hesitate but started across the square, a small man, no more than five feet five, in jeans, reefer coat, and peaked cap, a seaman’s duffle bag hanging from one shoulder.
A sign said
There was another explosion in the distance. “Jesus!” he said. “The boys are active tonight.”
The small man said from the bottom of the steps, “I phoned earlier about a room. Keogh is the name.” His voice was more English than anything else, only a hint of the distinctive Belfast accent.
“Ah, yes – Mr. Keogh. Off a boat, are ye?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, come away in out of the rain and I’ll fix you up.”
At that moment, a Land Rover turned the corner followed by another. They were stripped down, three paratroopers crouched behind the driver, hard, young men in red berets and flak jackets, each one carrying a submachine gun. They vanished into the darkness and rain on the other side of the square.
“Jesus!” the old man said again, then went inside and Keogh followed him.
IT WAS A poor sort of a place, a square hall with a reception desk and a narrow staircase. The white paint had yellowed over the years and the wallpaper was badly faded, damp showing through here and there.
The old man pushed a register across the desk for Keogh to sign. “RUC regulations. Home address. Next port of call. The lot.”
“Fine by me.” Keogh quickly filled it in and pushed the register back across the desk.
“Martin Keogh, Wapping, London. I haven’t been to London in years.”
“A fine city.” Keogh took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.
The old man took a room key down from a board. “At least they don’t have Paras hurtling around the streets armed to the teeth. Crazy that, sitting out in the open, even in the rain. What a target. Suicide if you ask me.”
“Not really,” Keogh told him. “It’s an old Para trick developed years ago in Aden. They travel in twos to look after each other, and with no armor in the way they can respond instantly to any attack.”
“And how would you be knowing a thing like that?”
Keogh shrugged. “Common knowledge, Da. Now can I have my key?”
It was then that the old man noticed the eyes which were of no particular color and yet were the coldest he had ever seen, and for some unaccountable reason he knew fear. And at that moment Keogh smiled and his personality changed totally. He reached across and took the key.
“Someone told me there was a decent cafe near here. The Regent?”
“That’s right. Straight across the square, to Lurgen Street. It’s by the old docks.”
“I’ll find it,” and Keogh turned and went upstairs.
He found the room easily enough, opened the door, the lock of which had obviously been forced on numerous occasions, and went in. The room was very small and smelled of damp. There was a single bed, a hanging cupboard, and a chair. There was a washbasin in the corner, but no toilet. There wasn’t even a telephone. Still, with any luck, it would only be for the one night.
He put his duffle bag on the bed, opened it. There was a toilet bag, spare shirts, some books. He pulled them to one side and prized up the thick cardboard base of the bag disclosing a Walther PPK pistol, several clips of ammunition, and the new small Carswell silencer. He checked the weapon, loaded it, and screwed the silencer into place, then he slipped it inside his jeans against the small of his back.
“Regent, son,” he said softly and went out whistling a small, sad tune.
THERE WAS A public telephone by the reception desk of the old-fashioned kind in a booth. Keogh nodded to the old man, went inside, and closed the door. He found some pound coins and dialed a number.
JACK BARRY WAS a tall, pleasant-looking man whose horn-rimmed spectacles gave him a bookish look. He had the look also of the schoolmaster, which was exactly what he had once been. But not now – now, he was Chief of Staff of the Provisional IRA, and he was seated by the fire at his Dublin home reading the paper, his portable phone at his side when it rang.
He picked it up and his wife, Jean, called, “Now don’t be long. Your supper’s ready.”
“Barry here.”
Keogh said in Irish, “It’s me. I’ve booked in at the Albert Hotel under the name of Martin Keogh. Next step is to meet the girl.”
“Will that be difficult?”
“No, I’ve organized it. Trust me. I’m off to this Regent Cafe now. Her uncle owns it.”
“Good man. Keep me posted. Use the mobile number only.”
He switched off his phone and his wife called again, “Come away in. It’s getting cold.”
He got to his feet obediently and went into the kitchen.
KEOGH FOUND THE Regent Cafe with no trouble. One window was boarded up, obviously from bomb blast, but the other was intact, offering a clear view of the interior. There were hardly any customers, just three old men at one table, and a ravaged-looking middle-aged woman at another, who looked like a prostitute.
The girl sitting behind the counter was just sixteen; he knew that because he knew all about her. Her name was Kathleen Ryan, and she ran the cafe on behalf of her uncle, Michael Ryan, a Protestant gunman from his earliest youth. She was a small girl with black hair and angry eyes above pronounced cheekbones. Not pretty by any conventional standard. She wore a dark sweater, denim miniskirt, and boots and sat on a stool engrossed in a book when Keogh went in.
He leaned on the counter. “Is it good?”
She looked him over calmly, and that look told him of someone infinitely older than her years.
