Bad Company

that.”

“Well, they would, wouldn’t they? What about the local Peelers?”

“They’ve closed the police station down, Derry. Some trouble up in Castleton, so they’ve gone up there to help out.”

“Excellent. They know which side their bread’s buttered on.”

At that moment, the phone sounded and Adair passed it to him.

“Mr. Gibson, it’s Janet from The Orange George.”

“I know who you are, Janet. What’s the problem?”

“Well, I was wondering if you knew where Patrick is? It’s been a couple of days. He phoned once and said his uncle Arthur had died unexpectedly and I was to carry on running the pub, only we got cut off and I’ve got bills coming in and I can’t write the checks, so I thought I’d speak to you, knowing you’re the real owner.”

“Just a minute,” Derry told her. “He doesn’t have an uncle Arthur.”

“Well, that’s what he said.”

And years of bad living made Derry Gibson sit up very straight. He nodded to Adair and switched the phone to speaker.

“When did you last see him, Janet?”

“Later in the morning when you went off for the plane to Belfast. I was doing breakfasts. This small man came in. Black bomber jacket, jeans and that funny kind of fair hair, almost white. He asked for Patrick, and at that moment Patrick came in by the rear door.”

“And what happened?”

“Well, the little guy said, ‘Patrick, my old son, it’s me, Sean Dillon.’ He had one of those kind of Belfast accents like yours, Mr. Gibson.”

Derry Gibson went cold. “And what happened?”

“That was it. Nothing until the phone call, and then today, I was talking to that old Kelly guy who sells the newspapers outside, and he said he was surprised to see Patrick getting in a Shogun with three guys, because he knew two of them well, Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy. Big gangsters.”

It was enough. Derry Gibson said, “There’s a lot going on here you don’t know about, Janet. Just keep things going. If you look in the right-hand top drawer of Patrick’s desk, you’ll find a company credit card. Use it to pay bills. I’ll be in touch.”

He switched off and turned to Adair. “Sean Dillon and those Salter guys. That means Ferguson.”

“Jesus, they’ll have squeezed Murphy dry,” Adair said. “We’re up the creek.”

“No, not the way Ferguson and Dillon work.” Gibson’s face was hard. “Every job is a black operation to them. No police, no SAS, just Dillon and whatever he comes up with. It’s always been the way he plays the game.”

“Which means?”

Gibson laughed and it was as if he was enjoying it. “He’s at sea already, homing on the Mona Lisa.”

“So what do we do?”

“Give him a welcome, his last on this earth. I’ll phone Rossi and let him know what to expect.”

On the bridge of the Mona Lisa, Martino was at the wheel, Rossi at one side, the boat pounding through heavy weather as darkness really descended. The ship-to-shore sounded, and Martino answered. He turned to Rossi.

“It’s for you.”

Rossi took it and listened to what Gibson had to say. “In Sean Dillon’s hands, Murphy will spill his guts.” Rossi felt strangely calm, not in the least put out. “Dillon really is a piece of work.”

“So what do we do?”

“Well, it’s up to the captain in this weather. If he can come in and make the jetty, fine,” Gibson said. “If it’s too rough, drop the anchor in the bay. I’ll have suitable backup here in Drumgoole, but you break out your weapons on board and keep a weather eye out for any likely craft.”

“You really think Dillon is actually at sea?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. He and Ferguson will see the Mona Lisa as a prime target and they’ll do it their way. Look, all this rubbish about Northern Ireland and peace initiatives. It’s crap, because the IRA and Sinn Fein have abused the system, and the British government has let them do it. I’m a good Orange Prod and I know it, because someone like Ferguson classes me with the IRA.”

“So what are you saying?”

“That Ferguson doesn’t play by the rules, because he knows the justice system doesn’t work. That’s why he has Sean Dillon. He’ll come in the hard way.”

He hung up.

Rossi stood there thinking, and turned to Martino.

“Break out the weapons and tell everyone to keep watch. Any other boat, we approach with caution.”

“Why, senor?”

Rossi smiled grimly. “We’re about to have company, Captain.”

11.

DILLON SPOKE TO Roper as the Highlander ploughed through heavy seas toward the Northern Irish coast.

“It’s rough,” Dillon said. “And getting rougher.”

“If the Mona Lisa’s off Drumgoole, try and make it to the entrance to the bay by the jetty to the old quarry. There’s a trough. Four hundred feet.”

“Thanks, that’s helpful.”

“And please watch it. Things are really moving out there. Don’t, for God’s sake, consider only the great Sean Dillon and his mission to save the world.”

The voice crackled over the ship-to-shore radio, and Dillon turned to Ferguson and Billy, who were listening.

He said, “Message received and understood, Roper. We who are about to die salute you, only I don’t plan to die just yet. This weather might be just what we need. Over and out.”

Dillon took a bottle of Lamb’s Navy rum out of the flare drawer, pulled the cork and swallowed deep. He passed the bottle to Ferguson. “You’re going to need it, Charles.”

Ferguson didn’t hesitate. He drank, wiped the neck and offered the bottle to Billy, who said, “No, I’ll manage. I’m so bleeding scared I don’t feel seasick anymore.”

Ferguson was at the wheel, which responded surprisingly well. “What happens now?” he demanded.

Dillon leaned over the chart table. “I don’t know. If the Mona Lisa ties up at that jetty, fine. If it puts its anchor down in the bay, I’ll go in underwater with Semtex and timer pencils. An in-and-out job. Blow the bottom out of her, and down she goes.”

“It won’t be too deep if she’s at the jetty.”

“We’ll have to see. The bay would be better. There’ll be a hell of a lot of confusion there. God help all the small harbor craft, the fishing boats.”

“So that’s it, then?” Ferguson said.

“That’s exactly it, Charles.” Dillon smiled. “We’re totally in the hands of the weather. I’ll go below and get into my wet suit.”

“Me too,” Billy said.

“Not in a million years. You can run the inflatable, take me close, but that’s it. Open the weapons bag and arm up, Billy, I won’t be long,” and he went below.

In Drumgoole harbor, the scene was total confusion, the wind coming in off the Irish Sea and gusting to storm