‘I remember them opening this place in seventy-one,’ Brosnan said to Mary. He was standing at the window of the sixth-floor room of the Europa Hotel in Great Victoria Street next to the railway station. ‘For a while it was a prime target for IRA bombers, the kind who’d rather blow up anything rather than nothing.’
‘Not you, of course.’
There was a slight, sarcastic edge which he ignored. ‘Certainly not. Devlin and I appreciated the bar too much. We came in all the time.’
She laughed in astonishment. ‘What nonsense. Are you seriously asking me to believe that with the British Army chasing you all over Belfast you and Devlin sat in the Europa’s bar?’
‘Also the restaurant on occasion. Come on, I’ll show you. Better take our coats, just in case we get a message while we’re down there.’
As they were descending in the lift, she said, ‘You’re not armed, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Good, I’d rather keep it that way.’
‘How about you?’
‘Yes,’ she said calmly. ‘But that’s different. I’m a serving officer of Crown forces in an active service zone.’
‘What are you carrying?’
She opened her handbag and gave him a brief glimpse of the weapon. It was not much larger than the inside of her hand, a small automatic.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Rather rare. An old Colt .25. I picked it up in Africa.’
‘Hardly an elephant gun.’
‘No, but it does the job.’ She smiled bleakly. ‘As long as you can shoot, that is.’
The lift doors parted and they went across the lounge.
Dillon walked briskly along the Falls Road. Nothing had changed, nothing at all. It was just like the old days. He twice saw RUC patrols backed up by soldiers and once, two armoured troop carriers went by, but no one paid any attention. He finally found what he wanted in Craig Street about a mile from the hotel. It was a small, double-fronted shop with steel shutters on the windows. The three brass balls of a pawnbroker hung over the entrance with the sign ‘Patrick Macey’.
Dillon opened the door and walked into musty silence. The dimly lit shop was crammed with a variety of items. Television sets, video recorders, clocks. There was even a gas cooker and a stuffed bear in one corner.
There was a mesh screen running along the counter and the man who sat on a stool behind it was working on a watch, a jeweller’s magnifying glass in one eye. He glanced up, a wasted-looking individual in his sixties, his face grey and pallid.
‘And what can I do for you?’
Dillon said, ‘Nothing ever changes, Patrick. This place still smells exactly the same.’
Macey took the magnifying glass from his eye and frowned. ‘Do I know you?’
‘And why wouldn’t you, Patrick? Remember that hot night in June of seventy-two when we set fire to that Orangeman Stewart’s warehouse and shot him and his two nephews as they ran out. Let me see, there were the three of us.’ Dillon put a cigarette in his mouth and lit it carefully. ‘There was you and your half-brother, Tommy McGuire, and me.’
‘Holy Mother of God, Sean Dillon, is that you?’ Macey said.
‘As ever was, Patrick.’
‘Jesus, Sean, I never thought to see you in Belfast City again. I thought you were …’
He paused and Dillon said, ‘Thought I was where, Patrick?’
‘London,’ Patrick Macey said. ‘Somewhere like that,’ he added lamely.
‘And where would you have got that idea from?’ Dillon went to the door, locking it and pulled down the blind.
‘What are you doing?’ Macey demanded in alarm.
‘I just want a nice private talk, Patrick, me old son.’
‘No, Sean, none of that. I’m not involved with the IRA, not any more.’
‘You know what they say, Patrick, once in never out. How is Tommy these days, by the way?’
‘Ah, Sean, I’d have thought you’d know. Poor Tommy’s been dead these five years. Shot by one of his own. A stupid row between the Provos and one of the splinter groups. INLA were suspected.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Dillon nodded. ‘Do you see any of the other old hands these days? Liam Devlin for instance?’
And he had him there for Macey was unable to keep the look of alarm from his face. ‘Liam? I haven’t seen him since the seventies.’
‘Really?’ Dillon lifted the flap at the end of the counter and walked round. ‘It’s a terrible liar you are.’ He slapped him across the face. ‘Now get in there,’ and pushed him through the curtain that led to the office at the rear.
Macey was terrified. ‘I don’t know a thing.’
‘About what? I haven’t asked you anything yet, but I’m going to tell you a few things. Tommy McGuire isn’t dead. He’s living somewhere else in this fair city under another name and you’re going to tell me where. Secondly, Liam Devlin has been to see you. Now I’m right on both counts, aren’t I?’ Macey was frozen with fear, terrified and Dillon slapped him again. ‘Aren’t I?’
The other man broke then. ‘Please, Sean, please. It’s my heart. I could have an attack.’
‘You will if you don’t speak up, I promise you.’
‘All right. Devlin was here a little earlier this morning enquiring about Tommy.’
‘And shall I tell you what he said?’
‘Please, Sean.’ Macey was shaking. ‘I’m ill.’
‘He said that bad old Sean Dillon was on the loose in London Town and that he wanted to help run him down and who could be a better source of information than Dillon’s old chum, Tommy McGuire. Am I right?’
Macey nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘Good, now we’re getting somewhere.’ Dillon lit another cigarette and nodded at the large old-fashioned safe in the corner. ‘Is that where the guns are?’
‘What guns, Sean?’
‘Come on, don’t muck me about. You’re been dealing in handguns for years. Get it open.’
Macey took a key from his desk drawer, went and opened the safe. Dillon pulled him to one side. There were several weapons in there. An old Webley, a couple of Smith & Wesson revolvers. The one that really caught his eyes was an American Army Colt .45 automatic. He hefted it in his hand and checked the magazine.
‘Wonderful, Patrick. I knew I could depend on you.’ He put the gun on the desk and sat down opposite Macey. ‘So what happened?’
Macey’s face was very strange in colour now. ‘I don’t feel well.’
‘You’ll feel better when you’ve told me. Get on with it.’
‘Tommy lives on his own about half a mile from here in Canal Street. He’s done up the old warehouse at the end. Calls himself Kelly, George Kelly.’
‘I know that area well, every stick and stone.’
‘Devlin asked for Tommy’s phone number and called him there and then. He said it was essential to see him. That it was to do with Sean Dillon. Tommy agreed to see him at two o’clock.’
‘Fine,’ Dillon said. ‘See how easy it was? Now I can call on him myself before Devlin does and discuss old times only I won’t bother to phone. I think I’ll surprise him. Much more fun.’
‘You’ll never get in to see him,’ Macey said. ‘You can only get in at the front, all the other doors are welded. He’s been paranoid for years. Terrified someone’s going to knock him off. You’d never get in the front door. It’s all TV security cameras and that kind of stuff.’
‘There’s always a way,’ Dillon said.
‘There always was for you.’ Macey tore at his shirt collar, choking. ‘Pills,’ he moaned and got the drawer in front of him open. The bottle he took fell from his hands.
He lay back on the chair and Dillon got up and went round and picked up the bottle. ‘Trouble is, Patrick, the moment I go out of the door you’ll be on the phone to Tommy and that wouldn’t do, would it?’
He walked across to the fireplace and dropped the pill bottle into the gleaming coals. There was a crash behind him and he turned to find Macey had tumbled from the chair to the floor. Dillon stood over him for a moment. Macey’s face was very suffused with purple now and his legs were jerking. Suddenly, he gave a great gasp like air escaping, his head turned to one side and he went completely still.
Dillon put the Colt in his pocket, went through the shop and opened the door, locking it with the Yale, leaving the blind down. A moment later he turned the corner into the Falls Road and walked back towards the hotel as fast as he could.
He laid the contents of the case on the bed in the shabby hotel room, then he undressed. First of all he put on the jeans, the old runners and a heavy jumper. Then came the wig. He sat in front of the mirror at the small dressing-table, combing the grey hair until it looked wild and unkempt. He tied the headscarf over it and studied himself. Then he pulled on the skirt that reached his ankles. The old raincoat that was far too large completed the outfit.
He stood in front of the wardrobe examining himself in the mirror. He closed his eyes, thinking the role and when he opened them again it wasn’t Dillon any more, it was a decrepit, broken, bag lady.
He hardly needed any make-up, just a foundation to give him the sallow look and the slash of scarlet lipstick for the mouth. All wrong, of course, but totally right for the character. He took a half-bottle of whiskey from a pouch in the briefcase and poured some into his cupped hands, slapping it over his face, then he splashed some more over the front of the raincoat. He put the Colt, a couple of newspapers and the whiskey bottle into a plastic bag and was ready to leave.
He glanced in the mirror at that strange, nightmarish old woman. ‘Showtime,’ he whispered and let himself out.
All was quiet as he went down the backstairs and went out into the yard. He closed the door behind him carefully and crossed to the door which led to the alley. As he reached it, the hotel door opened behind him.
A voice called, ‘Here, what do you think you’re doing?’
Dillon turned and saw a kitchen porter in a soiled white apron putting a cardboard box in the dustbin.
‘Go fuck yourself,’ Dillon croaked.
‘Go on, get out of it, you old bag!’ the porter shouted.
Dillon closed the door behind him. ‘Ten out of ten, Sean,’ he said softly and went up the alley.
He turned into the Falls Road and started to shuffle along the pavement, acting so strangely that people stepped out of the way to avoid him.
It was almost one and Brosnan and Mary Tanner at the bar of the Europa were thinking about lunch when a young porter approached. ‘Mr Brosnan?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Your taxi is here, sir.’
‘Taxi?’ Mary said. ‘But we didn’t order one.’
‘Yes we did,’ Brosnan said.
He helped her on with her coat and they followed the young porter through the foyer, down the steps at the front entrance to the black cab waiting at the kerb. Brosnan gave the porter a pound and they got in. The driver on the other side of the glass wore a tweed cap and an old reefer coat. Mary Tanner pulled the sliding glass partition to one side.
‘I presume you know where we’re going?’ she said.
‘Oh, I certainly do, my love.’ Liam Devlin smiled at her over his shoulder, moved into gear and drove away.
It was just after one-thirty when Devlin turned the taxi into Canal Street. ‘That’s the place at the end,’ he said. ‘We’ll park in the yard at the side.’ They got out and moved back into the street and approached the entrance. ‘Be on your best behaviour, we’re on television,’ he said and reached to a bell push beside the massive ironbound door.
‘Not very homelike,’ Mary commented.
‘Yes, well with Tommy McGuire’s background he needs a fortress rather than a cosy semi-detached on some desirable estate.’ Devlin turned to Brosnan. ‘Are you carrying, son?’
‘No,’ Brosnan said. ‘But she is. You are, I suppose?’
‘Call it my innate caution or perhaps the wicked habits of a lifetime.’
A voice sounded through the box beside the door. ‘Is that you, Devlin?’
‘And who else, you stupid bugger. I’ve got Martin Brosnan with me and a lady-friend of his and we’re freezing in this damn cold so get the door open.’
‘You’re early. You said two o’clock.’
They could hear steps on the other side and then the door opened to reveal a tall, cadaverous man in his mid-sixties. He wore a heavy Aran pullover and baggy jeans and carried a Sterling sub-machine gun.
Devlin brushed past him, leading the way in. ‘What do you intend to do with that thing, start another war?’
McGuire closed the door and barred it. ‘Only if I have to.’ He looked them over suspiciously. ‘Martin?’ He held out a hand. ‘It’s been a long time. As for you, you old sod,’ he said to Devlin, ‘whatever’s keeping you out of your grave you should bottle it. We’d make a fortune.’ He looked Mary over. ‘And who might you be?’
‘A friend,’ Devlin told him. ‘So let’s get on with it.’
‘All right, this way.’
The interior of the warehouse was totally bare except for a van parked to one side. A steel staircase led to a landing high above with what had once been glass-fronted offices. McGuire went first and turned into the first office on the landing. There was a desk and a bank of television equipment, one screen showing the street, another the entrance. He put the Sterling on the desk.
Devlin said, ‘You live here?’
‘Upstairs. I’ve turned what used to be the storage loft into a flat. Now let’s get on with it, Devlin. What is it you want? You mentioned Sean Dillon.’
‘He’s on the loose again,’ Brosnan said.
‘I thought he must have come to a bad end. I mean, it’s been so long.’ McGuire lit a cigarette. ‘Anyway, what’s it to do with me?’
‘He tried to knock off Martin here in Paris. Killed his girlfriend instead.’
‘Jesus!’ McGuire said.
‘Now he’s on the loose in London and I want him,’ Brosnan told him.
McGuire looked at Mary again. ‘And where does she fit in?’
‘I’m a captain in the British Army,’ she said crisply. ‘Tanner’s the name.’
‘For God’s sake, Devlin, what is this?’ McGuire demanded.
‘It’s all right,’ Devlin told him. ‘She hasn’t come to arrest you although we all know that if Tommy McGuire was still in the land of the living he’d draw about twenty-five years.’
‘You bastard!’ McGuire said.
‘Be sensible,’ Devlin told him. ‘Just answer a few questions and you can go back to being George Kelly again.’
McGuire put a hand up defensively. ‘All right, I get the point. What do you want to know?’
‘Nineteen eighty-one, the London bombing campaign,’ Brosnan said. ‘You were Dillon’s control.’
McGuire glanced at Mary. ‘That’s right.’
‘We know Dillon would have experienced the usual problems as regards weapons and explosives, Mr McGuire,’ Mary said. ‘And I’ve been given to understand he always favours underworld contacts in that sort of situation. Is that so?’
‘Yes, he usually worked in that way,’ McGuire said reluctantly and sat down.
‘Have you any idea who he used in London in nineteen eighty-one?’ Mary persisted.
McGuire looked hunted. ‘How would I know? It could have been anybody.’
Devlin said, ‘You lying bastard, you know something, I can tell you do.’ His right hand came out of the pocket of the reefer holding an old Luger pistol and he touched McGuire between the eyes. ‘Quick now, tell us or I’ll …’
McGuire pushed the gun to one side. ‘All right, Devlin, you win.’ He lit another cigarette. ‘He dealt with a man in London called Jack Harvey, a big operator, a real gangster.’
‘There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’ Devlin said.
There was a thunderous knocking on the door below and they all looked at the television screen to see an old bag lady on the front step. Her voice came clearly through the speaker. ‘The lovely man you are, Mr Kelly. Could you spare a poor soul a quid?’
McGuire said into the microphone, ‘Piss off, you old bag.’
‘Oh Jesus, Mr Kelly, I’ll die here on your step in this terrible cold so I will for the whole world to see.’
McGuire got up. ‘I’ll go and get rid of her. I’ll only be a minute.’
He hurried down the stairs and extracted a five-pound note from an old wallet as he approached the door. He got it open and held it out. ‘Take this and clear off.’
Dillon’s hand came up out of the plastic shopping bag holding the Colt. ‘A fiver, Tommy boy. You’re getting generous in your old age. Inside.’
He pushed him through and closed the door. McGuire was terrified. ‘Look, what is this?’
‘Nemesis,’ Dillon said. ‘You pay for your sins in this life, Tommy, we all do. Remember that night in seventy-two, you, me and Patrick when we shot the Stewarts as they ran out of the fire?’
‘Dillon?’ McGuire whispered. ‘It’s you?’ He started to turn and raised his voice. ‘Devlin!’ he called.
Dillon shot him twice in the back breaking his spine, driving him on his face. As he got the door open behind him, Devlin appeared on the landing, the Luger in his hand, already firing. Dillon fired three times rapidly, shattering the office window, then was outside, slamming the door behind him.
As he started up the street, two stripped-down Land Rovers, four soldiers in each, turned out of the main road, attracted by the sound of the firing and came towards him. The worst kind of luck, but Dillon didn’t hesitate. As he came to a drain in the gutter, he pretended to slip and dropped the Colt through the bars.
As he got up someone called, ‘Stay where you are.’
They were paratroopers in camouflage uniforms, flak jackets and red berets, each man with his rifle ready and Dillon gave them the performance of his life. He staggered forward, moaning and crying and clutching at the young lieutenant in charge.
‘Jesus, sir, there’s terrible things going on back there in that warehouse. There’s me sheltering from the cold and these fellas come on and start shooting each other.’
The young officer smelt the whiskey and pushed him away. ‘Check what’s in the carrier, Sergeant.’
The sergeant riffled through. ‘Bottle of hooch and some newspapers, sir.’
‘Right, go and wait over there.’ The officer pushed Dillon along the pavement behind the patrol and got a loud-hailer from one of the Land Rovers. ‘You inside,’ he called. ‘Throw your weapons out through the door then follow them with your hands up. Two minutes or we’ll come in to get you.’
All members of the patrol were in a readiness posture, intent only on the entrance. Dillon eased back into the courtyard, turned and hurried past Devlin’s taxi, finding what he was seeking in seconds, a manhole cover. He got it up and went down a steel ladder, pulling the cover behind him. It had been a way in which he had evaded the British Army on many occasions in the old days and he knew the system in the Falls Road area perfectly.
The tunnel was small and very dark. He crawled along it, aware of the sound of rushing water and came out on the sloping side of a larger tunnel, the main sewer. There were outlets to the canal that ran down to Belfast Lough, he knew that. He pulled off the skirt, the wig and threw them in the water using the headscarf to wipe his lips and face vigorously, then he hurried along the side until he came to another steel ladder. He started up towards the rays of light beaming in through the holes in the cast iron, waited a moment, then eased it up. He was on a cobbled pathway beside the canal, the backs of decaying, boarded-up houses on the other side. He put the manhole cover back in place and made for the Falls Road as fast as possible.
In the warehouse, the young officer stood beside McGuire’s body and examined Mary Tanner’s ID card. ‘It’s perfectly genuine,’ she said. ‘You can check.’
‘And these two?’
‘They’re with me. Look, Lieutenant, you’ll get a full explanation from my boss. That’s Brigadier Charles Ferguson at the Ministry of Defence.’
‘All right, Captain,’ he said defensively. ‘I’m only doing my job. It’s not like the old days here, you know. We have the RUC on our backs. Every death has to be investigated fully otherwise there’s the Devil to pay.’
The sergeant came in. ‘The colonel’s on the wire, boss.’
‘Fine,’ the young lieutenant said and went out.
Brosnan said to Devlin, ‘Do you think it was Dillon?’
‘A hell of a coincidence if it wasn’t. A bag lady?’ Devlin shook his head. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
‘Only Dillon would be capable.’
‘Are you trying to say he came over from London specially?’ Mary demanded.
‘He knew what we were about thanks to Gordon Brown and how long is the scheduled flight from London to Belfast?’ Brosnan asked. ‘An hour and a quarter?’
‘Which means he’s got to go back,’ she said.
‘Perhaps,’ Liam Devlin nodded. ‘But nothing’s absolute in this life, girl, you’ll learn that and you’re dealing with a man who’s kept out of police hands for twenty years or more, all over Europe.’
‘Well, it’s time we got the bastard.’ She looked down at McGuire. ‘Not too nice, is it?’
‘The violence, the killing. Drink with the Devil and this is what it comes down to,’ Devlin told her.
Dillon went in through the back door of the hotel at exactly two-fifteen and hurried up to his room. He stripped off the jeans and jumper, put them in the case and shoved them up into a cupboard above the wardrobe. He washed his face quickly, then dressed in white shirt and tie, dark suit and blue Burberry. He was out of the room and descending the backstairs, briefcase in hand, within five minutes of having entered. He went up the alley, turned into the Falls Road and started to walk briskly. Within five minutes he managed to hail a taxi and told the driver to take him to the airport.
The officer in charge of Army Intelligence for the Belfast city area was a Colonel McLeod and he was not best pleased with the situation with which he was confronted.
‘It really isn’t good enough, Captain Tanner,’ he said. ‘We can’t have you people coming in here like cowboys and acting on your own initiative.’ He turned to look at Devlin and Brosnan. ‘And with people of very dubious background into the bargain. There is a delicate situation here these days and we do have the Royal Ulster Constabulary to placate. They see this as their turf.’
‘Yes, well, that’s as may be,’ Mary told him. ‘But your sergeant outside was kind enough to check on flights to London for me. There’s one at four-thirty and another at six-thirty. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to check out the passengers rather thoroughly?’
‘We’re not entirely stupid, Captain. I’ve already put that in hand, but I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that we are not an army of occupation. There is no such thing as martial law here. It’s impossible for me to close down the airport, I don’t have the authority. All I can do is notify the police and airport security in the usual way and as you’ve been at pains to explain, where this man Dillon is concerned, we don’t have much to tell them.’ His phone went. He picked it up and said, ‘Brigadier Ferguson? Sorry to bother you, sir. Colonel McLeod, Belfast HQ. We appear to have a problem.’
But Dillon, at the airport, had no intention of returning on the London flight. Perhaps he could get away with it, but madness to try when there were other alternatives. It was just after three as he searched the departure board. He’d just missed the Manchester flight, but there was a flight to Glasgow due out at three-fifteen and it was delayed.
He crossed to the booking desk. ‘I was hoping to catch the Glasgow flight,’ he told the young woman booking clerk, ‘but got here too late. Now I see it’s delayed.’
She punched details up on her screen. ‘Yes, half-hour delay, sir, and there’s plenty of space. Would you like to try for it?’
‘I certainly would,’ he said gratefully and got the money from his wallet as she made out the ticket.
There was no trouble with security and the contents of his briefcase were innocuous enough. Passengers had already been called and he boarded the plane and sat in a seat at the rear. Very satisfactory. Only one thing had gone wrong. Devlin, Brosnan and the woman had got to McGuire first. A pity, that, because it raised the question of what he’d told them. Harvey, for example. He’d have to move fast there, just in case.
He smiled charmingly when the stewardess asked him if he’d like a drink. ‘A cup of tea would be just fine,’ he said and took a newspaper from his briefcase.
McLeod had Brosnan, Mary and Devlin taken up to the airport and they arrived just before the passengers were called for the four-thirty London flight. An RUC police inspector took them through to the departure lounge.
‘Only thirty passengers as you can see and we’ve checked them all thoroughly.’
‘I’ve an idea we’re on a wild goose chase,’ McLeod said.
The passengers were called and Brosnan and Devlin stood by the door and looked each person over as they went through. When they’d passed, Devlin said, ‘The old nun, Martin, you didn’t think of doing a strip search?’
McLeod said impatiently, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, let’s get moving.’
‘An angry man,’ Devlin said as the colonel went ahead. ‘They must have laid the cane on something fierce at his public school. It’s back to London for you two then?’
‘Yes, we’d better get on with it,’ Brosnan said.
‘And you, Mr Devlin?’ Mary asked. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘Ah, Ferguson, to be fair, secured me a clean bill of health years ago for services rendered to Brit intelligence. I’ll be fine.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘A real pleasure, my love.’
‘And for me.’
‘Watch out for the boy here. Dillon’s the original tricky one.’
They had reached the concourse. He smiled and suddenly was gone, disappeared into the crowd.
Brosnan took a deep breath. ‘Right, then, London. Let’s get moving,’ and he took her arm and moved through the throng.
The flight to Glasgow was only forty-five minutes. Dillon landed at four-thirty. There was a shuttle service plane to London at five-fifteen. He got a ticket at the desk, hurried through to the departure lounge where the first thing he did was phone Danny Fahy at Cadge End. It was Angel who answered.
‘Put your Uncle Danny on, it’s Dillon,’ he told her.
Danny said, ‘Is that you, Sean?’
‘As ever was. I’m in Glasgow waiting for a plane. I’ll be arriving at Heathrow Terminal One at six-thirty. Can you come and meet me? You’ll just have time.’
‘No problem, Sean. I’ll bring Angel for the company.’
‘That’s fine and, Danny, be prepared to work through the night. Tomorrow could be the big one.’
‘Jesus, Sean,’ but Dillon put the phone down before Fahy could say anything more.
Next, he phoned Harvey’s office at the undertakers in Whitechapel. It was Myra who answered.
‘This is Peter Hilton here, we met yesterday. I’d like a word with your uncle.’
‘He isn’t here. He’s gone up to Manchester for a function. Won’t be back until tomorrow morning.’
‘That’s no good to me,’ Dillon said. ‘He promised me my stuff in twenty-four hours.’
‘Oh, it’s here,’ Myra said. ‘But I’d expect cash on delivery.’
‘You’ve got it.’ He looked at his watch and allowed for the time it would take to drive from Heathrow to Bayswater to get the money. ‘I’ll be there about seven forty-five.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
As Dillon put the phone down, the flight was called and he joined the crowd of passengers hurrying through.
Myra, standing by the fire in her uncle’s office, came to a decision. She got the key of the secret room from his desk drawer and then went out to the head of the stairs.
‘Billy, are you down there?’
He came up a moment later. ‘Here I am.’
‘Been in the coffin room again, have you? Come on, I need you.’ She went along the corridor to the end door, opened it and pulled back the false wall. She indicated one of the boxes of Semtex. ‘Take that to the office.’
When she rejoined him, he’d put the box on the desk. ‘A right bloody weight. What is it?’
‘It’s money, Billy, that’s all that concerns you. Now listen and listen good. That small guy, the one who roughed you up yesterday.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s turning up here at seven forty-five to pay me a lot of money for what’s in that box.’
‘So?’
‘I want you waiting outside from seven-thirty in those nice black leathers of yours with your BMW handy. When he leaves, you follow him, Billy, to bloody Cardiff if necessary.’ She patted his face, ‘And if you lose him, sunshine, don’t bother coming back.’
It was snowing lightly at Heathrow as Dillon came through at Terminal One. Angel was waiting for him and waved excitedly.
‘Glasgow,’ she said. ‘What were you doing there?’
‘Finding out what Scotsmen wear under their kilts.’
She laughed and hung on to his arm. ‘Terrible, you are.’
They went out through the snow and joined Fahy in the Morris van. ‘Good to see you, Sean. Where to?’
‘My hotel in Bayswater,’ Dillon said. ‘I want to book out.’
‘You’re moving in with us?’ Angel asked.
‘Yes,’ Dillon nodded, ‘but I’ve a present to pick up for Danny first at an undertakers in Whitechapel.’
‘And what would that be, Sean?’ Fahy demanded.
‘Oh, about fifty pounds of Semtex.’
The van swerved and skidded slightly, Fahy fighting to control it. ‘Holy Mother of God!’ he said.
At the undertakers, the night porter admitted Dillon at the front entrance.
‘Mr Hilton, is it? Miss Myra’s expecting you, sir.’
‘I know where to go.’
Dillon went up the stairs, along the corridor and opened the door of the outer office. Myra was waiting for him. ‘Come in,’ she said.
She was wearing a black trouser suit and smoking a cigarette. She went and sat behind the desk and tapped the carton with one hand. ‘There it is. Where’s the money?’
Dillon put the briefcase on top of the carton and opened it. He took out fifteen thousand, packet by packet, and dropped it in front of her. That left five thousand dollars in the briefcase, the Walther with the Carswell silencer and the Beretta. He closed the case and smiled.
‘Nice to do business with you.’
He placed the briefcase on top of the carton and picked it up and she went to open the door for him.
‘What are you going to do with that, blow up the Houses of Parliament?’
‘That was Guy Fawkes,’ he said and moved along the passage and went downstairs.
The pavement was frosty as he walked along the street and turned the corner to the van. Billy, waiting anxiously in the shadows, manhandled his BMW up the street past the parked cars until he could see Dillon stop at the Morris van. Angel got the back door open and Dillon put the carton inside. She closed it and they went round and got in beside Fahy.
‘Is that it, Sean?’
‘That’s it, Danny, a fifty-pound box of Semtex with the factory stamp on it all the way from Prague. Now let’s get out of here, we’ve got a long night ahead of us.’
Fahy drove through a couple of side streets and turned onto the main road and as he joined the traffic stream, Billy went after him on the BMW.