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.”
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 am something of a yachtsman, you know. I can actually navigate.”
“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 Highlander – you’ve used it before. A couple of standard suits and fins, the usual extras.”
“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.