“I’ll take my chances,” he told Bridget, who was looking worried. “Don’t fret.”
HE OPENED
the front door of the pub, stepped inside, and found himself in a bar typical of the kind to be found on the Belfast waterfront and dating from the beginning of the nineteenth century. There were mahogany cubicles for privacy, iron tables with tiled tops, a long bar with a brass rail to put a foot on, ornate mirrors of the Victorian period. Behind the bar, bottles of every kind of drink ranged before the pub’s patrons.
There were perhaps a couple of dozen men propping up the bar, talking, laughing, sailors and dockworkers. Kelly stood at the end with Flannery, enjoying the wine.
Father Starkey sat in a window seat, reading the
Belfast Telegraph
and smoking a cigarette. He had no drink in front of him.
“Hello, Father,” Miller said. “Can I get you something?”
Sharkey looked up and smiled. “That’s kind of you. A Guinness wouldn’t be a burden.”
There was something of a silence, and men turned to stare with unfriendly looks as Miller approached the bar. The barman had cropped hair and a hard face. He wore a black waistcoat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up above muscular arms.
Miller said cheerfully, “Guinness twice, please.”
The barman said, “English, is it?”
“That’s right. I’m working at the priory.”
“The wrong part of the waterfront for you, Sunshine,” the barman told him. “The English aren’t exactly popular here.”
Kelly intervened. “Now then, Dolan, don’t let’s be hard on the young man. It’s not his fault his mother spawned a Brit. Give him his Guinness now and serve it properly in a bottle. How many times do I have to tell you? Manners, boy, manners.”
“I see what you mean, Mr. Kelly, I do indeed.” Dolan produced a bottle, flicked off the cap, walked all the way around the bar, and approached Miller. “Your drink, sir.”
He started pouring it on Miller’s left shoulder, then down the front of his raincoat. He was smiling as he said, “Would that be satisfactory?”
Somebody cheered, and there was genuine laughter. Miller was trapped. The character he was playing was not supposed to be able to handle a brute like Dolan. As it happened, he didn’t need to. Father Sharkey was on his feet and approaching.
“You’ll excuse me, Mr. Kelly, if I have words with your man here.” He smiled at Dolan. “Did I ever tell you my uncle was a bare-knuckle boxer? I was up to Belfast from County Down for my schooling, and I came home the worse for wear after what they did to me in the yard. Timing and hitting, that’s what you must learn, he said, like this.”
He drove his left into Dolan’s stomach, his right into the side of the barman’s face as the man keeled over, turned him around to fall across the bar, delivered a double blow to the kidneys, then bent and grabbed an ankle and heaved him over headfirst.
It was like an execution, the sheer brutal savagery almost beyond belief. The bar was reduced to total silence. Sharkey turned to Kelly and Flannery.
“My God, you see, is a God of wrath. Think about that, Mr. Kelly, I’d strongly advise it. As for Mr. Blunt, remember he works for the Church. I’d see to your man if I was you, he doesn’t look too well. We’ll dine at Molly Malone’s place today. Her Irish stew is better than yours anyway.”
LATER,
sitting at a window table in the café along the front after the meal, sharing a pot of tea, Miller said, “A hard lot, Kelly’s people.”
“A hard life for them here, the Troubles year after year and things never getting any better. Where do you live in London?”
The lies again, the deceit. “Highbury,” Miller told him. “It’s near Islington.”
“I know where it is. I lived in London for years when I was at college. Kilburn.”
“Why was that?”
“There was no work here when I was a boy, and my mother died when I was born, so we crossed the water, lived there for years, and then my father died in an accident. So I came home, back to my uncle, and the religious life beckoned.” He took out a packet of Gallaghers and lit one. “The only trouble is I have a terrible temper.”
“Well, you certainly don’t mess about,” Miller said.
“I have a personal philosophy, a kind of existential thing. Life should be lived to the full. If you feel it, then do it, it’s quite simple. You create your own values.”
“It sounds great, but I think there are times when that wouldn’t be very practical.”
“O ye, of little faith. We’d better get back. I have another session in the confessional box and then a mass.”
FOR THE REST
of the day, he tried to look busy, starting on the top floor, always with one of Frobisher’s plans under his arm and a note board at the ready. Life carried on around him, the nuns busying themselves with their nursing duties on the second floor. There was a brooding atmosphere there, the thought of death waiting in the wings, the occasional moan of pain. And one macabre sight: Fallon with the cancer-ravaged face, out of his room in a cardigan and trousers, taking a turn along the long corridor in slow motion, leaning on a walking stick. It was like something out of a horror movie, the decay of flesh under the plaster of Paris, and the smell as Miller eased past, sickly sweet like rotting flowers.
It made him feel desperately uneasy, and he went downstairs to his room. He’d washed his raincoat in the shower to remove the Guinness and hung it over a central heating radiator to dry, so it wasn’t available when he decided to go out and explore the waterfront. Raining it was, but there were some umbrellas in a stand next to the door, and he took one and went out. It was early evening now, darkness not far away.
There were boats of every description, large ferryboats lined up in the outer harbor with freighters and cargo ships. Closer to home lay a variety of smaller craft and several trawlers, plus a couple of rust-streaked freighters with Glasgow registrations.
He walked along slowly, thinking. According to Kelly, there was a fair chance the
Lost Hope
would dock tomorrow evening, but Glover’s orders had been explicit. On no account was he to use his contact number for backup unless Kelly and Ryan were in the frame together. So the boat was due in, the Stingers on board, but where was Ryan?
He paused to light a cigarette under the umbrella. There was a small supermarket beside a warehouse on the other side of the road, and Sister Bridget emerged with a grocery cart and paused to put up an umbrella.
“Just doing my chores,” she called. “How are you?”
“Fine,” he replied.
She crossed the road, her umbrella in one hand shielding the groceries. “Having a look round, are you? Do you like the boats?”
“I suppose so.”
“I grew up in a fishing village in Galway. My father and three brothers were all fishermen. I used to love the trawlers, drifting into harbor when they’d been away a few days, like that one there.”
Miller turned, and sure enough there was a large deep-sea trawler nosing in, festooned with nets, men in oilskins working the decks.
“The
Lost Hope,
” she said. “I like that name. I don’t know why.” Her face was shining. “It’s been in several times since I’ve been at the priory.”
“Is that a fact?” Miller said calmly.
“I must be getting back, they’re waiting for these things in the kitchen. I’ll see you later.”
“Of course.”
He watched as the
Lost Hope
eased in toward a berth where a couple of dockworkers waited on the quay to catch thrown lines, and for a moment there was a flurry of movement from the men on deck. Only one thing was certain now. The early arrival changed everything. But whatever he did had to be carefully considered. He was aware of a woman’s raised voice, and turned. On the other side of the quay a little farther along, a white van had stopped. Flannery was beside it, the driver’s door open and Sister Bridget’s trolley on its side, her packages spilling as she wrestled with him.
“Would you leave me alone?” There was anger in her voice.
Miller arrived on the run, pulled Flannery away, and swung him around. The stink of alcohol permeated everything and the man was obviously drunk.
Miller shoved him back against the van. “Leave her.”
“Put your hands on me, would you?” Flannery swung at him. “I’ll show you, you English bastard.”
The Sergeant-Major in charge of what the Intelligence Corps called the self-defense with extreme prejudice course would have been proud of him. Miller kicked Flannery with precision under his left kneecap, jabbed the knuckles of his right hand into the stomach, and when Flannery doubled over, raised a knee into his face, breaking his nose, then turned him and ran him headfirst into the cab.
Suddenly, there was Kelly running toward him from the pub door and, beyond, Father Sharkey outside the priory, watching. Miller gathered Sister Bridget’s groceries and packages and put them in her trolley.
“There you go, Sister.”
Kelly arrived. “What in the hell’s going on?”
“Oh, just teaching your man here some manners.” Miller turned to the girl. “I’ll see you back.”
“I’m so grateful. He won’t leave me alone.”
As they neared the priory, Sharkey moved toward them. “Are you all right, Bridget?
“Thanks to Mr. Blunt, I am.” She went in.
“I’m impressed,” Sharkey said.
“Yes, well, I’m like you, Father. I lose my temper.”
“Strange, I didn’t get that impression. It seemed to me you knew exactly what you were doing. Kelly won’t be pleased. I’d take care from now on. You’re certainly an interesting kind of surveyor.”
“Thanks for the advice, Father.”
Miller followed Bridget inside, cursing silently. What a stupid thing to do. In a way, he’d blown his cover. There had been a question in Sharkey’s eyes, and he’d put it there, and then he suddenly thought of the girl and decided he didn’t give a damn.
HE WENT
to his room, sat on the bed thinking about it, and went outside and looked out along the quay at the
Lost Hope,
lights all over her as darkness eased in. No speaking to his contact unless he could guarantee a meet between Kelly and Ryan: Those were his orders. On the other hand, there was the
Lost Hope,
which he knew from the overheard conversation in the cellar with Kelly and Flannery definitely had the Stingers on board. Perhaps half a loaf was better than none?
He opened his locker, lifted a piece of plywood in the bottom, and took out the box. He’d loaded the Colt earlier, and now he strapped the holster around his right ankle, screwed on the silencer and seated the Colt in the holster. His raincoat was dry now, so he put it on and went out. Bridget wasn’t at the reception desk. He could hear voices in the chapel, and he eased the door open and listened. It was Father Sharkey talking to some young woman.
“I’ll have words with the Mother Superior in the morning and see if we can help.”
Miller took his chance, opened the sacristy door, stepped inside, and reached for the phone on Sharkey’s desk. He dialed the contact number, and the answer was instantaneous.
“Who is this?” The voice was calm, controlled.
“Lieutenant Harry Miller. The
Lost Hope
has arrived early. I can confirm Stinger missiles are on board. I can also confirm AK47s in Kelly’s pub cellar.”
“And Ryan?”
“I’ve no idea. No sign of him. I thought something was better than nothing. What do I do? I’m in the priory.”
“Go outside, keep the
Lost Hope
under observation, and we’ll come quickly. That means not in uniform.”
Miller replaced the receiver, opened the door carefully, and stepped out to find Bridget at her desk.
“Oh, it’s you, Mr. Blunt. I thought the Father was in there.”
“No, he’s in the chapel. I was just borrowing the phone.” He walked to the door, which stood open for the street people who would be there for their supper later on.
He stood outside for a moment, there was a strange clicking, and Mr. Fallon appeared from the shadows leaning on his walking stick. Miller said, “Taking some exercise, Mr. Fallon?”
“Not really,” Fallon told him. “What I’m doing is checking up on you, you bastard.” He produced a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver from his left raincoat pocket.
Flannery slipped up behind him, his face battered, the nose broken. He was clutching a sawn-off shotgun. “There’s him, Mr. Ryan, and you can see what he did to me.”
He ran his hand over Miller, checked the pockets. “Nothing, Mr. Ryan.” He slapped Miller across the face. “Who are you?”
“More important, what are you?” Ryan said. “All that clever unarmed-combat stuff.”
“Maybe he’s SAS,” Flannery said.
“Whatever he is, through the side door of the pub with him and down to the cellars, where he’ll talk fast enough. I’ve got my cutters with me.”
Flannery jammed his sawn-off in Miller’s back and urged him to the pub, and Ryan followed.
INSIDE,
flattened against the wall by the open door, Bridget had heard everything and was terrified. That bad things happened was a way of life in Belfast, but Sharkey solved it for her, following the young woman he’d been talking to out of the chapel. He was still wearing his violet stole from confession.
“Good night to you,” he told the woman, who brushed past Bridget and went out.
Sharkey was smiling as he came to Bridget, but he stopped when he saw her face. “What is it, girl?”
“It’s Mr. Blunt,” she said. “Mr. Fallon isn’t called that at all. His real name is Ryan, and he and Flannery have taken Mr. Blunt down to the cellars next door. I believe something terrible is going to happen to him.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Sharkey’s face was completely calm. He opened the sacristy door, led her inside. “Sit down, there’s a good girl.”
She did as she was told, and he put a Gladstone bag on the table, took out a Walther, and quickly fitted a silencer on the end. He slipped it into the right-hand pocket of his cassock with another magazine.