“I shouldn’t imagine his mother would ever let him forget it.”
“Is there something wrong with that?” she asked.
“Not at all. For a ten-year-old child to see her father gunned down by masked intruders in front of her and her mother would, I imagine, be a memory that would last forever.”
Her face was surprisingly calm. “So you know about that? Exactly who are you, Daniel, this half Irishman who claims to have been a member of the Provisional IRA? You not only sound Yorkshire, you look like some prosperous businessman. What on earth would ever have made you join?”
So he told her all about Rosaleen Coogan.
Afterwards, she sat down
on the other side of the desk from him, her face like stone, her eyes burning, and it was obvious that she accepted the truth of what he had told her.
“Those foul creatures. God’s curse on them for what they did to that poor girl.”
“Some kind of curse on me ever since,” Daniel told her. “I’ve killed a number of times for the Provos and other times for myself.” He stood up, put his foot on the chair, and hitched his trousers up, revealing the ankle holster. “The way of the gun has become rather permanent in my life.”
“But you don’t regret what you did, you can’t!” She banged on the desk with her clenched fist. “Damn all of them.”
And now she was really upset, and Daniel said, “Take it easy. It’s not always good for us to let the past intrude.”
“You don’t understand. It’s brought it all back to me. The night the men with guns smashed their way in and murdered my father. They forced themselves on my mother, two of them. It was only my age saved me.”
Holley, aghast at the horror of it, could only say, “I’m so sorry, girl.”
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “What I need is a drink, and I don’t think it a sin in the circumstances to raid Monsignor Murphy’s cupboard in search of Communion wine.” She found a bottle and two coffee cups and poured a generous measure into each. She handed one to him and drank deeply herself. “Now, tell me everything properly, who you are really and what you’re doing here.”
“There’s a man named General Charles Ferguson who runs a special security outfit for the Prime Minister. His right-hand man is Sean Dillon, once a top enforcer for the PIRA, and a good one. In 1991, he was in a Serb prison when Ferguson turned up and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse: to join him or face a firing squad.”
“So Dillon chose the traitor’s path?”
“You could put it that way.”
She poured more wine for both of them. “There’s no other way of putting it. Tell me more—everything.”
“You’re quite a man, Daniel,”
she said an hour later when he was finished. “Probably the most remarkable one I’ve met in my entire life.”
“So what do you think about the Russians?”
“A means to an end. I’ve nothing against them. In the early years of the Troubles, they provided arms for the PIRA on more than one occasion. I know that for a fact.”
“And Charles Ferguson and company?”
“To hell with him. Over the years, as you tell it, he’s been responsible for the death of many of our comrades one way or the other. Major Giles Roper may look like a tragic and romantic hero in his wheelchair, but his exploits in bomb disposal did us great harm.”
“By God, but you’re a hard woman, Caitlin.”
“As for Dillon, a damn traitor, and I’ve no time for him. The fact that his own father was killed by British soldiers should have been bad enough for him.”
“He did great work for the cause for years until Ferguson appeared on the scene.”
“He’s the worst kind of turncoat, I can’t see it any other way, and these gangster friends of his, the Salters, they’ve done us great harm also.”
“And then we have Harry Miller?”
“The Prince of Darkness himself. He appears to have made a hobby out of murdering members of the PIRA for years.”
“His luck is obviously good. His wife’s wasn’t, but that’s the price you pay. What do you think of his sister?” Holley asked her.
“From what you tell me, she killed a Provo. The kind of upper-class English woman who thinks everything’s a jolly jape. She deserves to meet the same end as everyone else.”
“And you really mean that?”
It was as direct a challenge as he could make. She said, “I’m very old-fashioned, Daniel. I still believe in a United Ireland, and the Peace Process hasn’t given us that, so to hell with it. You and your problem, if I can put it that way, mean there’s a chance to go active once more and dispose of some very bad people who’ve done my side nothing but harm.”
“So you’re with me on this?”
“You can depend on it,” she said firmly.
“And what about the others? Can you talk them round?”
“I don’t think I’ll have much trouble. Pool has lived on his own since his mother died. Docherty is on his own. He served time as Costello, so I obtained an Irish passport for him as Docherty. He’s a drunkard every so often, so no woman will put up with him. Matthew Cochran lives in one lodging home after another since his wife died of breast cancer, and Patrick Murray is a long-distance truck driver. He’s never married. Just has one girl after the other. Barry and Flynn, I’ve already told you about, but, as they’re in New York, whatever you’re planning won’t concern them.”
“An assorted bunch.”
“But committed, Daniel, committed. The oath, our special prayer, the comradeship—all these things make us what we are—and going active again would only affirm it.”
Daniel said, “I’ll take your word on that.” He stood and took a Codex and its charger out of his raincoat pocket. “This is an encrypted mobile. I’ve stuck a tab on it with your number and mine. Memorize them and destroy. Call me anytime, and I’ll be in touch with you very soon. When will you speak to your people?”
“I’ll start phoning round tonight. Daniel, it’s been marvelous to see you again.” She meant it, her eyes shining, and actually shook hands.
Outside, it was pouring, so he raised his umbrella and walked down the path through the gravestones and effigies of the cemetery, pausing for a moment in the roofed gateway to the street.
“Dear God,” he said softly. “Am I out of my bloody mind or is she?” But there was no answer to that, and he walked down to the main road and hailed a cab.
It was nine o’clock,
and a thought struck him. The Salters and their pub, the Dark Man on Cable Wharf. This could be a good time to check it over. It’d be reasonably busy, so he would be able to blend in with the crowd. His knowledge of London, learned on many visits in the old days, stood him in good stead now. He told the driver to drop him off in Wapping High Street, found a lane with a sign that read “Cable Wharf,” and went down.
There was a new development of flats on one side, decaying warehouses on the other, eager for the builders, much of the area begging to be developed. He moved out of the darkness onto Cable Wharf, and it was interesting and attractive. The other side of the Thames was a panorama of streetlights, the Dark Man to his right, the sound of music drifting up. Beyond, there was what looked like a multistory luxury apartment development, the jetty of the old wharf running out into the river, several boats moored there. Things were busy at the Dark Man if the car park was anything to go by, and he ventured into the bar.
It was very crowded, a pretty mixed slice of humanity, all ages, men and women, the roar of voices coupled with taped music. It was like a Victorian-themed pub—mirrors, mahogany, and porcelain beer pumps.
Harry Salter and his nephew, Billy, were familiar to him from pictures, and he saw them sitting in a corner booth, seemingly oblivious to the noise. Holley stayed down at the end of the bar, squeezed against it by those standing around and indifferent to him.
A handsome blond arrived on the other side of the bar, and he ordered a beer and a whiskey chaser. She prompted back, “That will put hairs on your chest.”
He handed across a ten-pound note, and she tried to give him some change, which he waved away. The noise almost drowned her thanks, and somebody called, “Hey, Ruby, down here.”
“There must be a better way.” She smiled. “Roll on, eleven o’clock.”
“You could go on way after that, couldn’t you?” he said.
“Into the early hours if we want, but not in this pub, love. When I call time, out they go. I need to get a life even if they don’t.”
She turned away. Holley drank his beer, tossed down his whiskey, and left. He walked along the wharf and saw a shed with an old Ford van outside. The door on the driver’s side wasn’t locked, so he opened it. It smelt like a garage inside, and there was a key in the ignition. Probably used as a runabout on the riverside. He got out, walked to the end of the wharf, and stood looking at the lights for a while. He turned to the pub again, thinking how vulnerable it was, then he went back up through the darkness and hailed a cab in the High Street.
In his suite
at the Albany Regency, he checked the room safe in the wardrobe in which he had left the Walther and silencer and all his ammunition. Everything was in order, and he took off his jacket and tie, opened his laptop, and tapped in to some of his files, brain-storming in a way. Miller and Blake Johnson were in New York for the Putin appearance at the UN, that was a fact. That Frank Barry and Jack Flynn were in New York, too, seemed fortuitous. To be candid, it was as if it was ordained. Highly trained in weaponry over the years, “too handy with a gun,” Caitlin had said, fleeing to America to avoid the prospect of seven years in jail for armed robbery. A lot could be done with that. He considered it, then thought of his conversation with Max Chekhov about the Belov operation in New York, especially his head of security, Mikhail Potanin. From the sound of him, he’d been Moscow Mafia in his time, which meant he was capable of most things.
Before any final planning was possible, it was necessary for Caitlin Daly to sound out the cell and see what they thought, but the presence of Barry and Flynn together in New York titillated him. If they took care of Blake Johnson and Harry Miller on Friday . . .
He clicked on Charles Ferguson and saw that he was at a dinner at the Garrick Club that evening. Then he checked on Monica Starling and saw that she had a faculty dinner with Professor George Dunkley of Corpus Christi College that night at a country hotel called Raintree House. He looked it up and discovered it was six miles out of Cambridge.
The audacity of what he was thinking appealed to him. He thought some more about it, then sat by the window, looking out at the night and the rooftops of Shepherd’s Market, and called Caitlin Daly on his Codex.
She was deeply cautious, waiting for something to be said. “It’s Daniel, Caitlin.”
She laughed, relief in her voice. “Forgive me, I’ll need to get used to this phone. You got back okay, obviously. You didn’t tell me where you’re staying.”
“A nice, quiet, respectable hotel near Shepherd’s Market.”
“Ah, Mayfair, I like it there.”
“I’ll get right to the point. Two of the people on our list, Harry Miller and Blake Johnson, will be in New York on Friday, and I was thinking of your people, Barry and Flynn, who you helped to get out of London when prison was in view. ‘Too handy with a gun,’ you said. How do you think they’d react if you suggested they do the job on Miller and Johnson?”
“They could be up for it,” she said. “They’ve always been hard men. Lucky to stay out of prison years ago. The head of security at our place in New York has told me he’s sure that, on the side, they’re hoodlums for hire.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“I speak to them most weeks. Their membership in the cell still means a great deal to them. I’d be willing to put it to them.”
“I know it’s too late for you to speak to the other four tonight, but it’s only six in the evening in New York. I’m not trying to put any pressure on you, but time is of the essence. Could you speak to them tonight? No point in me calling, I’m nothing to them.”
“I was always the leader, Daniel, guiding them as I saw fit. As far as I’m concerned, though, the show of hands has to be one hundred percent and nothing less. I have only four to stand in front of now, and if we are to agree to your plan of campaign against Ferguson and his people, it is logical that I should speak to Barry and Flynn. But I must make one thing clear. If we agree and they don’t, all bets are off.”
“Yes, I can see that. I can also see that I’m in your hands on this. By the way, I haven’t asked about your weapons status.”
“We were well supplied with small arms, explosives, bomb-making parts. It was a while ago, of course, but it should all still be under lock and key in a large cupboard in the presbytery wine cellar. I’m going to go now, Daniel, think out my approach and speak to Barry and Flynn. If I’m lucky, I might even find them together. You must be tired. You were, after all, in Moscow this morning. I’ll speak to you tomorrow.”
And she was right. Suddenly, he felt bushed. He poured a whiskey for a nightcap, drank it while peering out of the window. So far, so good, but tomorrow was another day. And he went to bed.
The following day,
Chekhov phoned him just after breakfast. “Daniel, my friend, how goes it?”
“It goes very well. Where are you?”
“In my apartment. Infinitely preferable to Moscow, I’ll tell you. To look out of my window at Hyde Park warms my heart. I love this city.”
“Did Lermov say good-bye nicely?”
“Frankly, I think he’s more interested in his trip to New York than in your enterprise at the moment. I believe he takes it as a sign of great favor from the Prime Minister.”
“You surprise me. I would have imagined him above that sort of thing.”