CHARLES FERGUSON SAT quietly, a grave expression on his face, as the Prime Minister gave him the facts on the matter. When he was finished, he said, “I want this stopped, Brigadier. There’s no way I want to see such huge funds going to either of the two sides in Ireland. We’ve had enough bloodshed. We can’t afford a civil war.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Prime Minister.”
“I want Dillon on this, Brigadier,” John Major said. “All right, I do not approve of his IRA and terrorist background, which is why I distance myself, but there is no doubt of the man’s extraordinary capabilities. He saved the Royal Family considerable anxiety over the Windsor affair the other year. All that nonsense over the Nazis. Then the attack on the Peace Process by the terrorist group January 30. He saved the life of Senator Patrick Keogh when he had the courage to address Sinn Fein and the IRA in Ireland and beg for peace. No, I know that Dillon is a totally ruthless man, but he’s what we need for this business.”
“I agree, Prime Minister.”
John Major looked up at him as Ferguson stood. “They call your people the Prime Minister’s Private Army, so it gives you extraordinary powers. Use them, Brigadier, use them.”
WHEN HANNAH BERNSTEIN and Sean Dillon were summoned to Ferguson’s office, they found him standing by the window. He turned, very serious.
“Absolutely top priority. Everything else stops. I have direct orders from the Prime Minister to expedite a current problem to the utmost. There is a file there on my desk marked
HANNAH BERNSTEIN WORKED her way through the file, reading the old news clippings, the details of Ryan’s activities, then Salamone’s account of what had happened at Green Rapids. Dillon leaned over her shoulder and read it, too.
She said, “All right, we have a very nasty Prod activist, Michael Ryan, and his vicious little niece, Kathleen. What do we know? The gold bullion heist in the Lake District, the
“Then we have Salamone. For Ryan read Kelly, who robs a bank in New York State, kills a copper, and gets twenty-five years. In the sweat of his fever he discloses that he’s the only one who knows where the
“So Ryan and the girl are on the loose aided by the Russo family. So what? We know nothing, Dillon.”
“Except that logically, all roads lead to Ireland, girl dear, and there’s more. I’ve a terrible confession to make. Let’s go in and see the man, and I’ll tell you both at the same time.”
FERGUSON SAT BEHIND the desk, Hannah Bernstein facing him. Dillon lounged by the window, hands in his pockets.
“Well, what do you think?” Ferguson said. “Putting all things together including informer’s tittle-tattle and rumors plus information from the swine Reid, back in nineteen eighty-five, one hell of a slick job was pulled by Michael Ryan, his niece Kathleen, and some mystery man called Martin Keogh. That is confirmed in an obscure Royal Ulster Constabulary report of a raid they made on Ryan’s pub in Belfast, the Orange Drum. Some wretched one-armed barman named Ivor somebody remembers the girl being saved from gang rape by some Catholic youths, saved by this Keogh. This was only a day or two before he saw them for the last time. He said they left together in a taxi for the airport and he understood they were going to London.”
“That’s right, Brigadier,” Hannah said. “Reid mentioned their contact, a Protestant organizer called Hugh Bell, who ran a pub in Kilburn called the William and Mary. Killed in a road accident.”
“Was he bollocks. Too convenient, that,” Dillon said. “He was seen off by Reid and his minder, a bastard called Scully.”
They both stared at him. “But that isn’t in the file. How would you know?”
“Because I was Martin Keogh,” Dillon said and turned to Ferguson. “I’ll just help myself to your whiskey, Brigadier, and then I’ll reveal all.”
FERGUSON SAID, “DEAR God, Dillon, you never cease to amaze me.”
“I had a past, Brigadier. You knew that when you took me on.”
“Yes, a past is one way of describing it. An IRA activist for something like twenty years.”
“British paratroopers killed my father, Brigadier, I was trying to make someone pay. When you’re nineteen you look at things that way.”
“And the PLO. Was that for political belief or money?”
“A man has to earn a living, Brigadier.” Dillon smiled. “I’d remind you I worked for the Israelis, too.”
“But now you work here,” Hannah said. “Don’t you feel any duty of disclosure as to your past activities?”
“If that means selling out old friends in the IRA, no. I was Jack Barry’s right hand for years, then let’s say I got disenchanted with the glorious cause and left, and don’t forget how I came to be here. It was either a Serb firing squad or an agreement to work for his highness here, and don’t kid yourself. He was willing to leave me to the firing squad. Don’t let’s be hypocritical – the pot calling the kettle black.” He shrugged. “How clean are your hands, girl dear, after working for this office?”
And that hurt. “Damn you, Dillon!”
Ferguson said, “Cut it out. You’ve got work to do. Go through this thing with a fine tooth comb. Everything. Access all intelligence information computers, not only MI5 and 6 but Scotland Yard, the RUC in Ulster, and the Garda in Dublin. I want a result, so get on with it.”
They went out to Hannah’s office. Dillon said, “Still friends?”
She glared at him, then suddenly smiled grudgingly. “I’ve said it before. You’re an absolute bastard, Dillon, but I like you.”
STANDING IN HIS shirtsleeves with a cup of tea in the computer room, Dillon watched as Hannah scanned the screen, then sat back with an angry sigh.
“Not a thing on the RUC computer from Ulster, only Ryan’s previous history and that stops ten years ago.”
“Well, it would, wouldn’t it, he’s been in the Nick since then. Nothing special when I tried Scotland Yard Intelligence records and nothing with Carter’s bunch,” Dillon said.
“My eyes are falling out from looking at that damn screen,” she told him. “I’m going to take a break and make some coffee. How about you?”
“I’ll make a start on Garda Intelligence from Dublin.”
As she got up he frowned and shook his head. “I’ve gone over it again and again. The truck heist, the farm at Folly’s End, Marsh End, the voyage, and then the sinking and that early morning in County Down. Michael and Kathleen taking the road to Drumdonald and me turning for Scotstown.”
“What is it?” she asked.
“I’m missing something. I’ve gone through my own memories and reread all the newspaper clippings and there’s something I’m missing.”
“That happens sometimes.”
“Not to the Great Dillon.”
He sat at the computer and she paused in the doorway. “You could have killed Ryan on the road that morning and taken that Master Navigator. You would have had the position of the ship to give Barry.”
“I know.” He grinned. “Aren’t I the complicated one?”
She went out and he started to tap into Garda files.
AT THAT PRECISE moment the Gulfstream was halfway across the Atlantic. Sollazo was up front and appeared to be sleeping. Mori was on the other side of the aisle from him. Ryan and Kathleen sat on either side of the aisle at the back. He’d discovered the small bar and had poured himself a large whiskey.
“Dublin’s fair city next stop. Old Ireland.” He shook his head. “A long time to be away, and it’s all changed, so
