they tell me. Nothing but talk of peace.”
“Bloody nonsense,” she said. “Put Sinn Fein in the saddle and they’ll drive every Protestant in the land into the sea. It will be worse than Bosnia.”
“The fierce one, you are.”
“And good reason to be as no one knows better than you.”
He reached over and patted her hand. “Just one thing. We’ll have to box clever in Dublin, so hold your tongue and don’t vex Jack Barry when you meet him. Just bide your time till we see a chance to run for it.” He reached to the bar and got another whiskey miniature. “Money, that’s what we need.”
“Well, in that respect I’ve not been honest with you! I’ve saved for years, always putting money on one side against that mad hope that you would break free. So I cleared my account.”
“Jesus, girl, how much?”
“Fifty thousand, give or take a dollar.” She picked up her shoulder bag. “There’s a false bottom in here. It’s in there. Half hundred-dollar bills, the rest five hundreds.”
His face was pale with excitement. “God, but this is great.” He sat there thinking about it. “Money buys everything in this life. In the old days when I was on Army Council jobs I used to use that fella Tony McGuire and his air taxi firm and that was in Down, just outside Ladytown. It was the quick way to England if I wanted to avoid security at Aldergrove Airport.”
“Would he still be in business?”
“I don’t see why not. If not him, someone else. It would be a good way out if we did manage to make a run for it and the hounds hot on our heels.”
“What about approaching the Army Council in Belfast?”
“I don’t know. It’s been ten years, Kathleen, ten long years and everyone strong for peace, so they tell me. I wonder where it leaves people like Reid and Scully.”
“Long gone now with any luck,” she said.
“So how do we slip the leash?”
“I’ve had a thought.” She looked troubled. “But I’m not sure you should risk it.”
“Christ, girl, I’ll try anything. Tell me?”
WHEN SHE HAD finished, he sat there thinking about it. “Clever, I’ll say that.”
“And maybe it won’t be necessary. Maybe there’ll be another way?”
“Who knows.” He grinned. “What the hell, I think I’ll have another whiskey.”
IT WAS PERHAPS three hours later that Dillon, sitting at the computer screen, shouted, “Bingo! Give the man a cigar.”
Hannah rushed in. “What on earth is it?”
“The Great Dillon does it again. Worked my way through all the information the Garda have on Loyalists and drew a blank. Not a word on the
“So?”
“Then I tried the Sinn Fein and Provo connection.” He laughed. “Then I thought, why not go back to the Dinosaurs, the hard men from the old days, and that brought me to Jack Barry, once Chief of Staff, now retired.”
“And?”
“Peace being so fragile, the Garda still keep an eye on all the main players, and they pay for inside information. It’s an old Irish custom, what we call informing, touts all over the place.”
“Touts?”
“Informers who do it for money. That’s what we’ve got here.” He gestured to the screen.
“Tell me.”
“No, go and get the Brigadier and let’s all enjoy it.”
FERGUSON STOOD TO one side as Dillon tapped the keys again, Hannah sitting beside him. He sat back. “Right, here it is. Last week some lout called O’Leary was in Cohan’s Bar, which is not far from Jack Barry’s house. He said Barry came in with a very well dressed man, an American, because O’Leary caught a word or two. They sat in a booth, had a snack lunch and a drink. He said they had their heads together the whole time.”
“So where does this get us?” Ferguson demanded.
“They left and took to the park. Barry’s house is on the other side. O’Leary drove round there and saw a limousine with a driver parked outside. He waited until the American left in the limousine and followed it to Dublin airport.”
“And then?”
“The American left in a private plane, a Gulfstream. Its flight plan was to MacArthur Field in Long Island.” Dillon laughed. “No prizes for guessing who owns that plane.”
“I’ll get on to Johnson straight away,” Ferguson said, turned, and hurried into his office.
AT HIS DESK, Blake Johnson was working his way through a file when Alice Quarmby came in with her pad.
Johnson sat back. “All right, tell me.”
“The details on the Gulfstream Brigadier Ferguson got from the Garda were easily checked. It’s owned by the Russo Corporation and is usually based at MacArthur Airport in Long Island. According to airport records it logged out with two passengers last week. Marco Sollazo and Giovanni Mori.”
“God, that’s great,” Johnson said. “We’re getting somewhere.”
“Now comes the hard part. The same Gulfstream left MacArthur nine hours ago. Passengers as before with the addition of two Irish citizens, a Daniel and Nancy Forbes.”
“Damn!” Johnson said. “I must contact Ferguson.”
“A waste of time if you want to do anything,” Alice told him. “I’ve just checked. They landed at Dublin two hours ago.”
Johnson shook his head. “You know something, Alice, I think it’s time for another cigarette, and get me Brigadier Ferguson anyway.”
FERGUSON SAT WITH the phone in his hand and Dillon and Hannah waited. The Brigadier nodded. “Thank you, Superintendent.” He put down the phone. “That was Costello of Garda Special Branch. The Gulfstream landed, disgorged four passengers, refuelled, and left.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes, one bit of luck. An airport security officer, a retired Detective Sergeant in Special Branch, noticed them at the main entrance getting into a large shooting brake. He noticed them because Jack Barry was at the wheel and he recognized him.”
“So we know where we are,” Dillon said. “The Russos in cahoots with the Provisional IRA. I wonder how Michael Ryan likes that?”
“Not much, I suspect,” Hannah Bernstein said. “On the other hand, it’s totally obvious that the Russo family got him out and now he has to pay.”
“One thing is certain,” Dillon said. “No point in raiding Barry’s home or rubbish like that. He’ll have a safe house somewhere.”
They sat there thinking about it and suddenly Charles Ferguson laughed. “I know who we need, the greatest expert on the IRA in existence – Liam Devlin.”
He opened a drawer in his desk, took out a small black book, and leafed through it. Hannah Bernstein said, “Liam Devlin?”
“Scholar, poet, once a professor at Trinity College, gunman for the IRA who probably killed more men than I did. Living legend of the IRA,” Dillon told her.
Ferguson was talking. “Is that you, Devlin, you old rogue?”
