Bad Company

“I’ll tell you what, you old bastard, you were great back there. Harry won’t believe it when I tell him.”

“You didn’t do badly yourself, Billy.”

Dillon came in, now changed, in jeans and a shirt. Ferguson said, “I’ll say it now. You were totally mad. Frankly, Dillon, you’ve got a death wish.”

“You’re right, General, but it got the job done.”

“I think you should visit Professor Susan Haden-Taylor again.”

“No, she’s washed her hands of me, and so has God. For the moment, we’ve succeeded in what we set out to achieve. Fewer arms for the conflict in Northern Ireland – and I’ll be willing to bet we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest with Rossi and von Berger. Now we wait and see where it leads – with luck, to the diary. By the way, I’ve phoned Harry, told him his nephew is still in the land of the living.”

“Thanks very much, Dillon,” Billy said.

“That’s all right, Billy, he worries about you. Now, would it be all right if I had a bacon sandwich?”

12.

IN DRUMGOOLE, THERE was a certain amount of chaos, but Northern Ireland had been used to chaos for almost thirty-five years. Nevertheless, Derry Gibson was in the market to move on.

“We’ll have the Peelers all over the place for a while,” he said to Rossi in the pub after the Mona Lisa went down. “I’ll lie low.” He was having a whiskey, and shook his head as he drank it down. “Sean Dillon – what a bastard he is, and Ferguson.”

“Yes, you should never underestimate your opponent. I’ll be out of this pesthole first thing in the morning. As far as I’m concerned, you can give Northern Ireland back to the Indians.”

“I think you’re being a bit rough.”

“I could be a damn sight rougher. I could point out, for instance, that you haven’t paid anything on the Mona Lisa contract. She’s gone down and Rashid doesn’t get a penny.”

“What happened, happened, Rossi. You were screwed and I was screwed. By Dillon and Ferguson.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. It’s time we did something about Dillon and Ferguson.”

“Can I help?”

“Well, it would be a way of writing off your debt.” He thought for a moment. “Where do you think Murphy is?”

“Ferguson’s got him in some safehouse,” said Gibson. “The only reason those bastards were here was because Murphy talked.”

“Yes. Tell you what, Gibson. Don’t go back to The Orange George. Call that woman, Janet, and tell her she’s in charge for a little while more.”

“And where do I stay?”

“In one of our staff flats on South Audley Street.”

“Until when?”

“Until I’ve worked out how I’m going to do it.”

“Do what? Something with Dillon?”

“Eventually, but not yet. First, I think it’ll be Ferguson, the great man himself.”

Gibson was delighted. “What in the hell are you up to?”

“You’ll have to wait, Derry. I’ll let you know in good time.”

He lit a cigarette. Derry said, “You’re enjoying all this. You should have been crushed by the loss of the Mona Lisa. Instead, you don’t give a stuff. Two million.”

“It’s only money, Derry, and money is only a medium of exchange. No, the game’s the thing.”

“That sounds like Shakespeare.”

“Close. But it’s what you and me are all about, as well as Dillon, Ferguson, even the Salters. It’s the game that makes you feel alive. It’s worth everything.”

As soon as he got back to London, Ferguson requested a meeting with the Prime Minister, on a one-to-one basis, no other security people present, not even Scotland Yard. When he was ushered into the Prime Minister’s study, he found him signing various documents for the Foreign Secretary, who had never approved of Ferguson.

“I’ve heard a rumor you’ve been up to some kind of nonsense again, General,” he said.

“Me, Foreign Secretary? Can’t imagine what. I’ve been up to my neck in things at the Ministry of Defence for the past few days.”

“Really?” the Foreign Secretary said dryly.

The Prime Minister passed across the documents. “There you go. No feuding, you two, you’re both far too important.”

“Pax,” Ferguson said. The Foreign Secretary smiled reluctantly and departed.

The Prime Minister said, “Right, General, you’d better sit down and tell me the worst.”

Afterward he said, “That’s the deepest black operation I’ve ever heard of. No wonder you didn’t want anyone else present. There are rumors, of course, already. God help us if this kind of thing ever reached the ears of the public.”

“It’s too fantastic. No one would believe it.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “When I won my election and was presented with knowledge of your department, a secret passed from one PM to another about an organization responding only to the PM’s will. It made me feel uneasy, and yet on so many occasions, you, Dillon and company have saved the day. The peace process in Northern Ireland is in tatters, but we’re still trying. If the Red Hand of Ulster had got hold of the Mona Lisa’s weaponry, it could have been civil war.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“So, a good job well done. There’s only one thing that bothers me. Dillon and young Salter, I can understand, but you, Charles? Exchanging shot for shot at your age? It’s not only undignified, it’s also damned dangerous. You’ve got your medals, Charles. No more sorties going into harm’s way, all right?”

“I promise, Prime Minister.”

“Yes, well, I think I’m going to make sure. You know about the Omega Program, don’t you, Charles?”

“Yes, sir, it’s an implant containing a computer chip that tracks a person’s whereabouts.”

“Exactly. I’ve got one. So do the cabinet ministers. And I’ve decided you should have it, too.”

“Must I, Prime Minister?”

“Yes, Charles, you’re too valuable to lose.” He picked up a card and handed it over. “Professor Henry Merriman, Harley Street. Be there at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. It only takes half an hour or so. Doesn’t hurt.”

“Would Dillon be a candidate?”

“No. It’s only for very senior political figures – and frankly, Charles, I don’t think I want to know where Dillon is all the time.”

“Two American presidents owe him their lives.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“And yet Dillon has no medals at all.”

“Yes, life can be a bitch, General.”

Ferguson was silent. “Yes, well, I will, of course, present myself at the Harley Street clinic, as you wish, Prime Minister.”

He moved to the door, and the Prime Minister said, “And von Berger, Charles, don’t forget von Berger.”

Ferguson turned and said, “Sir?”

“Can’t have him threatening the President and me. It won’t do. Bring him down, Charles, any way it takes.”

“Of course, sir.” Ferguson brushed past the aide, went downstairs and out to the Daimler, where Dillon and Hannah waited.