Bad Company

“Yes. One of them was called Murphy, but the one in charge was called Derry. That’s what the other kept calling him and they spoke funny, Irish but not Irish.” He pointed at Dillon. “Come to think of it, they talked like him.”

Ferguson said, “ Derry, and talks like you, Dillon. Northern Irish.”

Hannah said, “Could that be Derry Gibson, the Red Hand of Ulster?”

“Back to haunt me. But why?” Dillon said.

“The Derry guy mentioned someone called Rossi?” old Wally put in.

The silence was astonishing. “I’ll kill him,” Harry said. “I’ll kill the bleeder.”

“No, you won’t, Harry, or not yet,” Ferguson said. “We’ll go back to The Dark Man. Thank you, Mr. Brown. That’s been most helpful. Did you hear anything else?”

They all sat in the corner booth. Dora, the barmaid, provided tea and coffee. Harry and Billy Salter, Ferguson, Hannah and Dillon sat at the table. Baxter and Sam Hall leaned against the wall.

“They’ve declared open warfare,” Harry said.

“True.” Dillon nodded. “But if you’ll excuse me, Harry, the most important thing is that Rossi has struck a deal to deliver arms to Derry Gibson.” Wally Brown was devouring bacon and eggs at a corner table.

“So, according to Wally, Murphy was unhappy about sinking the boat and Derry threatened him. He said the deal with Rossi, the final arms shipment, would be the one he could use to take on the IRA again.”

“So what do you suggest?” Ferguson said.

“I wouldn’t bother with the Baron or Rossi again. I’m going to have words with Pat Murphy.”

“You talk to that bastard, I’m going with you,” Harry Salter said.

Ferguson nodded. “Try not to leave him floating in the Thames, Dillon.”

“Don’t be silly, Charles, if he’s been fronting in London for Derry Gibson and the Red Hand, he’ll be far too valuable to waste.”

At South Audley Street, Marco sat with his father and told him what had happened. The Baron found it rather amusing.

“Oh, the great Harry Salter will not be pleased at all. But this other business. The Mona Lisa, the arms shipment. Is this wise?”

And Marco said exactly the right thing. “It was one of the last things Kate Rashid organized, Father. She’d worked with Derry Gibson before.” He pressed his point. “He was, and still is, an admirer. He thought her a great lady – he told me so.”

“Really? He has taste, at least. This Spanish trawler, the Mona Lisa, how many in the crew?”

“The captain, a man called Juan Martino, and five crew members, all villains of course.”

“And what will your part be in this?”

“On their way to Drumgoole, which is on the Down coast of Northern Ireland, they’ll come close to the west coast of the Isle of Man. I’ve arranged with our contacts there to provide a motorboat to take me out to join her.”

“Is this strictly necessary, Marco?”

“No, but it gets me away from the office.”

The old man laughed. “Go on, you rogue, but come back safe. I need you.”

The bar at The Orange George opened at nine in the morning, because it provided a full Irish breakfast. It was quiet enough when Dillon went in, Janet, the barmaid, reading a newspaper.

Dillon said, “Tell Patrick I’d like a word.”

At that moment, the door at the end of the bar opened and Murphy appeared. He saw Dillon and a look of horror appeared on his face.

Dillon went round the bar. “Patrick, my ould son, it’s me, Sean Dillon.”

He pushed him through to the hall. “Do as you’re told. Go on, unlock the back door,” which Murphy, terrified, did, and Harry and Billy crowded in. They shoved Murphy into the back parlor and closed the door.

Salter pushed him down into a chair at the table and slapped his face. “You sodding bastard, you sank my boat.”

“Not me, Mr. Salter, I swear.”

Billy pulled his uncle away. “Let me get at him,” but Dillon intervened.

“No, leave it to me.” He took a Walther out of his pocket, then produced a Carswell silencer from the other and screwed it in place. “This is much better. Hardly makes a sound. I’ll start with his left elbow, then vary it. The right knee, maybe. That’ll put him on sticks for six months.”

“Dear God, no.” Murphy really was terrified. “What do you want?”

“Derry Gibson,” Dillon said. “We’ll forget about you sinking Mr. Salter’s River Queen for the moment. Tell me about Derry ’s deal with Rossi, the arms shipment.”

“Jesus, he’ll kill me. He’s a sadist, that one.”

“No, that’s me,” Billy Salter said, and punched him twice in the stomach. “Now speak up and tell Mr. Dillon what he wants to know, or you’ll end up in concrete in the new extension to the North Circular Road.”

And Murphy, aware that he was in truly bad company, talked.

At Ferguson ’s apartment, Murphy stayed outside in the car with Baxter and Hall, while Harry and Billy sat with Dillon and Ferguson, Hannah hanging around at the back.

“This could be a disaster,” Ferguson said. “We all know the peace process has become a total shambles, the activities of IRA dissident groups prove that, but with this cargo of weapons, the Loyalists will be on a roll.”

Hannah said, “We must put it into the hands of the Northern Ireland police, sir.”

“We can’t afford to. If they make any kind of a move in the Drumgoole area,” Dillon said, “Derry Gibson will know. It’s not only his turf, his supporters have relatives in the police.”

“So what would you suggest?”

“Any stranger in the area would be a source of suspicion.”

“So what do we do, send in the SAS?”

“Nothing so official. The last time we did anything like this, we used a motor cruiser from Oban, from the RAF air sea rescue base there. There’s no reason we can’t do it again. Book the boat, give me the right diving gear and enough Semtex, and I’ll take it over by night and blow the Mona Lisa to hell.”

“On your own?” Ferguson asked.

“Why not? A totally black operation.”

“I don’t like it, Dillon,” Hannah said. “It’s just not legal.”

“What about me, Dillon?” Billy said. “Last time you played a gig like that, I went, too, and so did the superintendent.”

“The superintendent’s not up for it because it offends her conscience, and you’re not up for it because some months ago you had a bullet through the neck and two in the pelvis. As the Germans used to say when they took someone to prison camp, for you the war is over.”

“Stuff you, Dillon.”

Dillon turned to Ferguson. “Do you want it done or not? There’s an added benefit, you know. This could be just the thing we’ve been looking for to stir up von Berger, get him to make a mistake. We sink this boat, maybe something’ll happen that’ll give us a lead on that damned diary.”

Ferguson said, “You’re right, on both counts. Let’s do it.” He turned to Hannah. “Lock Murphy up at the St. John’s Wood safehouse. See he phones The Orange George and gives a reasonable excuse for his absence.”

“If that’s how you want it, sir.”

“Dillon will give you a list of the weaponry and explosives he needs. The quartermaster will see to that. Book the Gulfstream with Squadron Leader Lacey. What do you think, Dillon? One o’clock tomorrow?”

“Fine by me, Charles.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you there. I’m coming with you.”