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 Highlander. Two hundred yards out.”

“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 Mona Lisa?”

“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 Mona Lisa and deposit two million quid’s worth of arms on the floor of the Irish Sea.”

“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.

Later, back on the Highlander, they sat on the stern deck under the canvas awning, rain bouncing off. Ferguson said, “So, what’s the plan?”

“Roper tells me the Mona Lisa’s due off the west coast of the Isle of Man tomorrow. And guess who’s flying up there in a Berger International plane? Marco Rossi.”

“You didn’t tell me,” Ferguson said.

“I’ve been saving it up for you. I think it means he fancies a passage by night to Drumgoole.”

“That could very well be. When we get there, what do you intend?”

“I told Roper, I’ll blow the damn boat up, and don’t ask me what about the crew. They’re all what the Italians would call animali. With any luck, Rossi could even be on board.”

“You really are yourself alone, Dillon. I wonder about Derry Gibson.”

“Wonder what?”

“He could give us a lot of trouble. This Red Hand of Ulster – where do they get their absurd names from?”

“It’s their simple Irish minds, Charles. I’d have thought you’d have recognized that, your sainted mother being a Cork woman.”

“All right, I take your point. But this Derry Gibson thing. It could lead to greater civil war than ever, Catholics and Protestants.”

“What would you like me to do? Shoot Gibson?”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea.”

“That’s good,” Billy said. “He’s Wyatt Earp, I’m Doc Holliday, and you’d like Derry Gibson and Rossi standing up in coffins in the undertaker’s window, like in Dodge City, hands folded, eyes closed.”

“You know something, Billy? I couldn’t have put it better myself.” Ferguson got up. “It’s me for an early night. I’ll see you in the morning. I just have one question. Getting in close to the Drumgoole area – won’t the locals wonder who we are?”

“Not if we take out the nets that are in the hold and drape them around the deck. There are lots of fishing boats off the Down coast.”

“Good enough,” Ferguson said, and went below.

Billy said, “He’s such a gent, but you know what? I reckon he’s harder than Harry, and that’s saying something.”

“He’s the kind of man who got us the Empire in the first place,” Dillon said. “Mind you, he’s right about Derry Gibson. I’ll give it some thought.”

“You mean you’d consider knocking him off?”

“Why not? I’ve killed for worse reasons. I once saved his life, you know. We were in a sewer in Londonderry, being hunted by Brit paratroopers, even though we were on different sides. I told him then to keep running and not come back or I’d kill him.”

“And now?”

“Looks like he’s come back. Come on, let’s go to bed,” and Dillon led the way below.

The following morning, rain drifting in, Ferguson went up on deck and discovered Dillon swimming in the sea, sporting with two seals, Billy leaning on the rail, watching.

“He’s mad,” Billy said.

“Yes, I’ve been aware of that for some years.”

“I mean, talk about freeze your balls off.”

Dillon swam to the ladder and hauled himself up. “The grand appetite it gives you, Charles.” The ship-to-shore radio crackled in the wheelhouse. “Take that, Charles, it could be Roper. I’ll get dressed.”

It was Roper. “Ah, it’s you, General. Just updating you. Rossi’s plane lands at Ronaldsway on the Isle of Man at eleven this morning. The Mona Lisa is five miles out and scheduled to move to the Down coastal area later this afternoon. The weather isn’t good, so I’d say it wouldn’t be in the Drumgoole area until tonight. I don’t know. The weather makes it uncertain.”