Dillon said, “What? You must be crazy.”
“Not as crazy as a man who thinks he can make a run from Oban to the Down coast on his own in what is usually a very rough sea. Haven’t you ever heard of sleeping? I
“I surrender.” Dillon held up his hands.
At Farley Field the following day, Dillon reported to the quartermaster, a retired Guards sergeant major. He and Dillon had dealt together many times.
“Here you go, Mr. Dillon. Three Walthers, three Uzi machine pistols, stun grenades and the Semtex you wanted. Ten-minute timing pencils, thirty-minute and one hour.”
“Excellent. What about diving equipment?”
“You’ll find that on the boat at Oban, the
“Why two?”
“Always good to have backup, sir.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
At that moment, the Daimler arrived and Ferguson got out. His chauffeur took out a bag and delivered it to Parry, who took it up the steps and handed it to Sergeant Walters.
Dillon said, “You look quite sporty, Charles. Corduroys, a sweater. Nice.”
“Very amusing,” Ferguson said, and behind him, a Shogun drove up, Harry Salter at the wheel, Billy beside him. They got out, Billy in a black bomber jacket, a bag in one hand.
“Oh, now, what in the hell is this?” Dillon asked.
“I’m coming along for the ride, that’s what it is,” Billy said. “You two are older guys. You could need some help.” He grinned.
Dillon looked at Ferguson, who shrugged. “He was most insistent. I thought why not? He can go to hell in his own way.”
Harry said, “Just bring him back in one piece, Dillon, because if you don’t…”
“I get the picture, Harry.” Dillon turned to Billy, shaking his head. “Old guy, huh? All right. Up you go then.”
He let Ferguson follow, then went up himself.
10.
AT THE RAF air sea rescue base at Oban, the commanding officer himself met them in view of Ferguson’s rank. They were delivered in an unmarked car by two RAF sergeants named Smith and Brian.
“I think we met once before,” Dillon said.
Brian said, “Not according to any office record, sir.” He grinned as they pulled in at the quay. “You may recognize the
“I can’t say I’m impressed,” Ferguson said.
“You’re not supposed to be,” Dillon told him, “but it’s got twin screws, a depth sounder, radar, automatic steering – and it does twenty-five knots.”
Sergeant Brian said, “We’ve got a whaleboat to take your gear out.”
It took forty minutes, and when it was all stowed, Brian said, “I don’t know what you’re up to, but good luck. You’ve got a first-class inflatable with an outboard motor. It should serve you well. We’ll be getting back now.”
“Thanks,” Ferguson said.
The whaleboat departed and Dillon turned to Ferguson. “Billy’s been on board before. Let him show you around. I’ll contact Roper. See what his input is.”
Roper sat at his computer bank, examining the results of his latest hacking job into the Rashid computers.
Dillon said, “What’s the story on the
“Operates from a small fishing port in northern Spain called San Miguel. The port’s a hotbed for illegal transactions, but it’s a bona fide Spanish deep-sea trawler, with a European license to fish off Cornwall, Wales and the Irish Sea.”
“What’s its course?”
“According to its logged passage with the coast guard, she’ll be close to the western coast of the Isle of Man tomorrow, then drift and fish toward the Down coast.”
“Very convenient. Anything else?”
“Not really. I’m sure, for instance, that you haven’t the slightest interest in a Berger International flight into the Isle of Man, carrying one Marco Rossi.”
Dillon laughed. “Well, imagine that.”
“If it’s a sea voyage he’s planning, he’s in for a rough ride. Tomorrow and tomorrow night, there’ll be rain squalls and high seas. You’ll know you’re out there!”
“Should be interesting.”
“Do you have a game plan, Sean?”
“Yeah, the game plan is to blow the hell out of the
“What about the crew? I’ve got a Captain Martino listed here and five others: Gomez, Fabio, Arturo somebody, an Enrico, a Sancho. You’re going to kill them all, Sean?”
“Why not? They’re a reasonable facsimile of scum. They’ve run everything from heroin to human beings, I’m told, and now arms. They shouldn’t have joined if they didn’t want the risk.”
“Fine by me. I’ll stay in touch. Speak to you tomorrow.”
“Good, but stay on the Berger case. I’m convinced Rossi was responsible for Sara Hesser’s death.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Oban was enveloped in mist and rain. Beyond Kerrara, the waters looked disturbed in the Firth of Lorne, and clouds draped across the mountaintops.
“I’ve said it before,” Billy moaned. “What a bloody awful place. I mean, it rains all the bleeding time.”
“No, Billy, it rains six days a week.” Dillon turned to Ferguson. “Am I right, General?”
“You usually are, Dillon.”
“Good. Please join me in the wheelhouse.”
There was a flap to one side of the instrument panel and he pressed a button. Inside was a fuse box and some clips screwed into place. He opened one of the weapons bags, took out a Browning with a twenty-one-round magazine protruding from its butt. He clipped it into place and added a Walther in the other clips.
“Ace in the hole.” He closed the flap.
“My goodness, you do mean business,” Ferguson said.
“I always did, Charles. Now let’s go ashore and eat.”
The early darkness of the far north was against them and he turned on the deck lights, then they coasted to the front at Oban in the inflatable and tied up. A pub close by offered food, and they went in. There was a meat and potato pie on the menu, which they all ordered.
“I’ll have a large Scotch, Dillon. Billy, what about you?”
“Billy doesn’t drink,” Dillon told Ferguson.
“I hate the taste of booze,” Billy said.
“It’s all in the Bible: Wine is a mocker, strong drink raging,” Dillon said.
“Well, you still do it.”
“True.” Dillon swallowed his Bushmills. “What’s more, I’ll have another.”
“I despair of you, Dillon,” Ferguson said, and then the pies arrived and killed conversation for a while.
