“Marvelous,” Billy said. “I’m hungry already.”
“Amazing what you can do with a microwave,” Helen told him. “God knows how they got on round the Horn.”
Dillon had his soup, then took a plate of sandwiches and joined Ferguson in the wheelhouse. “We’re really cracking on. When should we make Collyban?”
“About eleven-thirty. This thing flies. I’ve never known anything like it.”
“Excellent. Not much more than forty miles to the Belov complex and airstrip.”
“Always supposing that Roper’s prediction for when Volkov’s Falcon lands is accurate.”
“It’s been my experience that he’s never wrong.” Dillon’s plate was empty now, and he put it down. “Away you go and get yourself something to eat, and I’ll spell you for a while.”
Which Ferguson did, and Dillon sat, his hands on the wheel. Monica came in with a mug. “Tea,” she said. “And whiskey in it. I took a chance.”
“What a woman. I suspect you may turn out to be a treasure.” He drank some of the tea and put the mug on the ledge. “How are you doing? Seasick, by any chance?”
“Helen gave me a pill last night, and I’ve rung Rosedene on the Codex that Charles got me. The news is good, Sean, Harry’s stirring already.” Sitting beside him, she took his left hand in her two. “It’s such a relief, I can’t tell you.”
“You just did. I’m glad for you, and glad for Harry.” He stood up. “Slide into this seat and take the wheel. I’m going to say hello to Roper.”
She did as she was told and it proved easier than she thought. Dillon opened his old silver case, put two cigarettes in his mouth, lit them, and put one between her lips.
“So I’m Bette Davis and it’s
Now, Voyager.
What are you up to?”
“The last of the great romantics, that’s me.”
“That’ll be the day.” She sat there, one hand on the wheel, absurdly happy, as she smoked a cigarette in the company of this extraordinary man who had come into her life, this thoroughly dangerous man.
Dillon said to Roper, “How are you?”
“I’d rather be you out there on that boat like a bullfighter, moving into the circle of danger, and I’d rather you be me, squatting beside a bomb in a Belfast street, but that was then, this is now.”
“Ah, one of those days, is it? Hang in there. There’s an old Spanish saying: ‘It’s not the same to talk of bulls as to be in the bullring.’”
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s an existentialist kind of thing. Seek for it too hard and it won’t happen, but somewhere up ahead, something totally marvelous might come round the corner.”
“What in the hell’s got into you? Okay, you’ve even got Billy tuned into moral philosophy, but this is ridiculous. What are you doing right now?”
“I’m on what passes for a bridge in this boat, and letting Monica have a trick at the wheel.”
“I don’t believe it. She’s really touched a nerve, hasn’t she? You can’t afford it, not with what you’ve got on your plate. Volkov would be easy, but Grigorin and Makeev are Spetsnaz. What in the hell are you going to do about them?”
“Kill them,” Dillon told him.
“And you think that’s going to be easy?”
“I’ve got Holy Mother Church on my side and Father Martin Sharkey. There’s a saying where I come from: If you can’t trust a priest in Ireland, where can you trust him?”
“And what’s that pearl of wisdom supposed to mean?”
“That for Volkov and his minders, I’m just a priest, someone not to be taken seriously. Keep the faith, old lad, call me closer to the arrival time for the Falcon.” He switched off.
Monica shook her head. “Totally crazy.”
“Well, I’m from County Down, and we’re all supposed to be a little mad there.” He started to thumb a number.
“Who are you calling now?”
“My uncle at Collyban.” The phone was picked up instantly, and Dillon said, “It’s me, Mickeen, Sean. Are you ready for me?”
Mickeen had obviously been on the drink already. “Sean, me boy. I can’t believe it, but ready I am, plus a Ford saloon car.”
“An old saloon car, I imagine.”
“For one thousand pounds, what do you expect, but it’s a good runner, my word on it. When are ye arriving?”
“I said noon, and with luck, should keep my word. Is there anyone else at your place?”
“I only keep the one mechanic, Paddy O’Rourke, him who’s serviced the car, but I’ll give him the afternoon off.”
“Good man yourself, and don’t be too shocked by my appearance. I don’t want you dying on me.”
“SO EVERYTHING’S SET?”
Monica asked.
“It looks like it, and not long to go.” He held up the Codex. “The brilliance of these things is that nothing fazes them. I’m always there in a matter of seconds, and you’ll hear my voice. Once I leave the boat, you’ll move on to Drumore, anchor off the harbor, and wait.”
“For you to do what you have to do?”
“Something like that. Ferguson will sort things out, Billy is outstanding, believe me, and Helen is all soldier.”
She kept her right hand on the wheel and produced a Walther from the left-hand pocket of the yellow oilskin coat she was wearing. “I got Billy to give me a quick lesson in what to do with this.”
He was angry again. “He shouldn’t have done that, damn him, it’s not expected of you. I won’t have it.”
Her smile was instant, an inner glow that was remarkable. “Poor old Sean, I’ve caught you out, you do care.”
There was an edge of desperation in his voice. “This has gone too far, love, I’m not right for a woman like you, never could be.”
“You can be anything you want, so don’t talk nonsense. Go and change and tell Charles to come up and take the wheel.”
Her calmness, her certainty, totally defeated him. “I’ll do that and see you later.”
IT WAS LIKE
the acting, preparing for a performance. Black trousers and shoes, black shirt, the snow white band of the clerical collar. He put his right foot up on a stool, fastened the soft leather holster around his ankle, and slipped the Colt .25 hollow-point in place. His black jacket with wallet, a false passport in the name of Father Martin Sharkey, born in Ban-bridge, County Down, Northern Ireland, a wallet with two hundred pounds in it plus a false credit card from the Catholic Guild. The Zeiss glasses completed a satisfactory image; the velour trilby was just right and the black raincoat perfect. It certainly wasn’t the Dillon anyone could have seen on any previous visits to Drumore.
In the carpetbag was his violet stole, the Bible, Mickeen’s money, and on the narrow bed was an Uzi machine pistol, the stock folded, the sawn-off and a Walther PPK with silencer, and a fragmentation hand grenade. The door opened and Monica slipped in. She stood looking at him.
“My God.” She shook her head in disbelief. “We’re close.”
He put the Uzi and the sawn-off in the carpetbag with ammunition and slipped the Walther into his right raincoat pocket. “Will I do?”
“Well, I don’t know what they’d say at the National, but Hollywood would love you.”
He pulled on a pair of thin black gloves and picked up the bag. “That’s it, then. Let’s go.”
Her arms were around his neck in a moment. “You really
are
a bloody madman, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
She reached up and kissed him for a moment. “If you don’t come back, I’ll never forgive you. Now let’s go.” She opened the door and led the way out.
THEY WERE ALL
in the wheelhouse when Monica led Dillon in. Billy said, “Even Harry would be impressed.”
“Just right, Sean,” Ferguson told him. “And on time. Lots of rain and nicely misty. Collyban over to starboard, but can’t see it. Mountains of Mourne running down to the sea, or whatever the damn song says. I’m going to move in closer because, in spite of the weather, by the wonders of modern technology, the navigating screen gives a perfect picture. We’re easing in beside the point now, and there’s the disused workings in the cliff face and the stone jetty. I think we can ease in alongside, so no need to use the tender. Helen, you know the ropes, so take Billy with you. A few minutes only, mind you.”
Helen was already on her way, Billy behind her. A moment later, she was in the prow, a line in one hand and a folded umbrella in the other, ready to jump, and Billy was amidships. The jetty loomed out of the mist, great granite stones from another age. Helen already had bulky yellow fenders over the side, Billy the same, and then they touched close and both of them were across with their lines.
“God bless,” Monica called, but Dillon was out and making his way down to the deck.
He brushed past Helen, who said, “Take care.” She handed him the umbrella.
Billy called, “Look after yourself.”
They were back on board a moment later, and the Avenger moved away, increased power, faded into the rain. The only company he had were disturbed seagulls circling above him, calling angrily.
“Oh, get stuffed, why don’t you?” Dillon called, raised the umbrella, and moved along the jetty to the track curving up toward the clifftops.
Drumore Place
14
FLYNN’S GARAGE, AS THE SIGN SAID, WAS ON THE EDGE OF COLLYBAN, HAD
been home to Mickeen Oge these forty years, and the ancient pumps that stood in front of it bore witness to that fact. The garage doors were down, giving the place a rather desolate look, and the cottage that went with it and stood slightly up the hill behind looked a couple of hundred years old and had a small barn with the door open, two goats standing patiently looking out at the rain.
Mickeen Oge was in the office inside the garage, a small gnarled man of seventy-eight in a very old tweed suit, long gray hair falling almost to his collar. He was impatient and considerably excited, had drink taken and decided to have another, sloshing Irish whiskey into a glass. He went to the window, peering out as he drank it, and swore at the sight of the priest with an umbrella turning in to the forecourt.
He opened the Judas gate in the main door and stepped out. “I’m closed, Father, you’ll have to go to Malone’s down by the church.”
Dillon passed and stood for a moment looking at him, umbrella in one hand, carpetbag in the other, and the strange tint of the glasses under the velour hat.
“You’re not closed, you ould bastard, just stupid to be standing out here in the rain. It’s enough to give a man of your years pneumonia.”
Mickeen was astonished. “Sean, is that you?”
“No, it’s Father Martin Sharkey, so get in with you.”
The old man turned, stepped inside the Judas gate, and Dillon followed.
THERE WAS THE USUAL
garage smell, oil and petrol, and vehicles of one kind or another parked here and there. The office was an untidy clutter. Dillon sat on a chair by the desk and Mickeen took one on the other side, found a second glass, and poured for him.
“May you die in Ireland.”
“An excellent sentiment, and I very well might in the next few hours.”
“That bad?” Mickeen shook his head. “I mind well in the old days, twenty years or more ago, when you played Father Sharkey, it was always the hard time. You mentioned Drumore and those there who needed seeing to?”
“Remember Michael Quinn?”
“The one who was Chief of Staff in his day?”
“He runs security for Belov International, from Drumore Place in Louth.”
“Not much more than forty-five miles from here over the border. Look, Sean, is the Provisional IRA in this?”
“Those days are gone, Mickeen. Having said that, Quinn tried to have me and friends killed in London last year and failed. He also supplied an ex-Provo to knock off a friend of mine in London a few days ago.”
“And did he succeed?”
“The job turned sour, and my friend’s wife was killed by mistake.”
“Jesus, Sean.”
“So Quinn must pay for that, and the man who ordered Quinn, he must pay, and it’s never-ending. Didn’t we find that in the Troubles?”
“We surely did.”
Dillon reached for the whiskey and poured another. “I know, I shouldn’t, as I’m driving, but this is Ireland, and whoever heard of a policeman stopping a priest in his car to check if he’d been drinking?”
“I’ll remember that and start wearing a priest’s collar myself.” Mickeen drank it down. “To business.”
“Always that.” Dillon put the carpetbag on the table, produced the manila envelope, and took out the wad of notes. “One thousand pounds, ould son, in crisp fifties. Don’t spend it all at once.”
“Sure, and what would I spend it on? I was joking, Sean, this is family, after all. It’d be a blot on my soul to take a penny, so don’t argue with me.”
Dillon gave him a brief hug, put the money back in the envelope, and returned it to the carpetbag. “You sentimental old bastard.”
“Exactly,” Mickeen Oge said. “So now for your car.”
He led the way into the garage, pressed a button, and the door opened, creaking away, disclosing the pumps. He turned and walked to one of the cars and slapped it on the roof. It had recently been cleaned and was black as night.
“What is it?” Dillon asked.
“A Ford Anglia.”
“Did you find it on the Ark or what?”
“Don’t ask. Old but trustworthy. An excellent drive, Sean, my word on it, and it suits your disguise as a simple man of God. The tank’s full.”
Dillon put his carpetbag on the backseat and embraced Mickeen. “It’s been good to see you. At the end of the day, family’s everything, as you said.”
“Are you trying to make me cry? Go on, fug off.”
Dillon got behind the wheel and switched on the engine. He leaned out of the window. “Sounds perfect.”
“And didn’t I tell you? Away with you, and God help Michael Quinn.”
“So you still have faith in Father Sharkey?”
“In Sean Dillon, you idiot. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have sold you the car. Now, bugger off and do what must be done.”