Angel of Death (14 page)

“He’s in trouble.” Cohen dropped the night sight, picked up an Uzi, cocked it and gave it to her. “I hope you can pull a trigger, because we’re going in to get him.”

As the first seaman emerged at the top of the ladder behind him, Dillon turned and fired twice, knocking him down, then he simply vaulted over the stern rail into the water. As he surfaced, the inflatable surged forward, Cohen at the tiller, Hannah Bernstein spraying the deck above with the Uzi.

“Hang on!” Cohen cried and threw a line.

They sped away into the darkness, the odd, angry shot pursuing them, and finally slowed. Cohen leaned over. “Did you get it?”

“Oh yes, it’s here in the dive bag.”

Cohen gave him a hand on board, and at that moment, the
Alexandrine
blew up in a great eruption of orange flames, the sound echoing toward the land.

“Oh, my God!” Hannah Bernstein said.

“They must have had trouble in the engine room.” Dillon shook his head. “And the Sons of Ulster are going to need a new leader. Just shows you can’t depend on anything in this wicked old life.”

It was exactly two hours later that the Lear lifted off the runway at Beirut International Airport and started a steady climb to thirty thousand feet. Callaghan, dressed in slacks and a polo neck sweater, sat by himself looking decidedly unhappy. Ferguson, Hannah Bernstein, and Dillon were grouped together.

“You did well, Chief Inspector,” the Brigadier told her.

“Better than well,” Dillon said. “When Cohen came in to get me, she stood up in that boat and gave us covering fire with an Uzi. Annie Oakley come back to haunt us. Time you made her Superintendent, Brigadier.”

“Out of my hands, a Scotland Yard matter.”

“And you with no influence,” Dillon mocked.

“And what about Dillon, sir?” Hannah demanded. “If anyone did well, it was he.”

“Yes, well I had every confidence in him as usual, which was why I brought this.” Ferguson opened the small ice box in one of the cupboards and produced a bottle of Krug. “You open it, dear boy.”

“You old sod,” Dillon said and eased off the cork while Hannah got out the glasses. He turned to Callaghan. “Will you join us in a glass, Francis?”

“Go stuff yourselves, the lot of you,” Callaghan said.

The Prime Minister at the debriefing the following morning was absolutely delighted. “So Dillon’s done it again.” He turned to Carter. “I know you don’t like him, but you must admit he gets results.”

“Yes, the little swine manages that all right.”

“Oh, come on, Simon,” Rupert Lang told him. “It’s results that count. The Protestant terrorist movements have been dealt a crippling blow. Ferguson’s unit has not only foiled the worst bomb threat possible, a threat that would have added an entirely new dimension to the Irish problem, they’ve also got rid of one of the most dangerous leaders there was.”

“And that is of crucial importance,” the Prime Minister told them. “President Clinton is giving us all his support in an effort to produce a final and lasting peace in Ireland. Senator Edward Kennedy has brought his considerable influence to bear in Congress, and several other prominent Irish Americans, such as Senator Patrick Keogh and former Congressman Bruce Morrison, have been working behind the scenes for months to persuade the IRA to come to the peace table.”

“I’ll believe it when it happens,” Carter snorted. “I mean, how can we deal with people who’ve bombed the hell out of us for twenty-five years?”

“We dealt with Kenyata in Kenya after the Mau Mau rebellion and gave them independence,” Ferguson told him. “Same thing in Cyprus with Archbishop Makarios.”

“I think Ferguson’s right,” Rupert Lang said. “We have to travel hopefully.”

“Quite right,” the Prime Minister said. “Look, gentlemen, I’m the last person to look favorably on the IRA. I don’t forget the Brighton Bombing when they almost got the entire Government, but twenty-five years is long enough. The chance for peace is overwhelming and we must seize it, but it does mean keeping the lid on the Protestant hard men. It’s the most volatile of situations. Let me put it this way. I don’t want us on the very brink of peace to see it all destroyed by the wrong kind of incident.”

“I think we’re all agreed on that,” Ferguson told him.

“I intend a flying visit to Washington quite soon to see President Clinton. The Irish Prime Minister, Mr. Reynolds, will be joining us. This is all very hush-hush and you gentlemen will respect my confidence.”

“Of course, Prime Minister,” Carter said and they all nodded.

“One other matter. You may have heard of Mr. Liam Bell?”

“I know him,” Rupert Lang said. “Met him in Washington when he was a Senator before he gave up politics and became president of some huge electronics firm.”

“He’s also Irish American and was much involved with fund-raising for the IRA through NORAID, the Northern Ireland Aid Committee.”

“Yes, well he’s seen the error of his ways there. He’s genuinely committed himself to achieving peace. He’s coming over on a fact-finding mission on behalf of President Clinton on Thursday. He’ll spend one night in London at his house in Vance Square, then proceed to Belfast. He’ll be coming in by private jet.”

“Do you want us to look after him, Prime Minister?” Carter asked.

“No publicity, that’s essential. As it happens, there’s a Conservative Party fund-raiser on Thursday night at the Dorchester. Six o’clock for drinks, you know the sort of thing? I’ll have to show my face and I’ve seen that Mr. Bell has an invitation so that I can have a private word with him.” He turned to Ferguson. “I’d like you to keep an eye out for him, Brigadier.”

“Of course, Prime Minister.”

John Major stood up. “Hard times, gentlemen, dangerous times.” He smiled. “But we shall come through. We must.”

Rupert Lang and Yuri Belov had lunch in the pub opposite Kensington Gardens. Shepherd’s Pie washed down with lager.

“So civilized, London,” Belov said. “You English are unique. The French say you can’t cook, but your pub grub is wonderful.”

“They’ve never forgiven us for Waterloo,” Lang said.

Belov sat back. “Ferguson and Dillon are a rare combination.”

“You can say that again, and this Bernstein girl is pretty hot stuff too.”

Belov nodded. “So where do we stand? The Sons of Ulster destroyed, Daniel Quinn eliminated, the plutonium threat taken care of . . .”

“And Francis Callaghan singing like a bird.” Lang smiled. “So where does that leave us?”

“With the prospect of peace looming up in Ireland, and that doesn’t suit.”

“I see. You mean you and your people would prefer another Bosnia? A civil war?”

“I’ve told you before, Rupert, out of chaos comes order.”

“And the kind of Ireland you’d like to see, based on sound Marxist principles?”

“Something like that, but the most important factor in the equation will be how well the Protestants react to the peace proposals.”

“I think there’s a fair chance they might react violently,” Lang said.

“It’s essential,” Belov told him. “To provoke not so much the IRA, but the Catholics.”

“Yes, I see the logic in that, so what are you thinking of?”

“That perhaps we should do it for them. After all, January 30 have hit the IRA before this.”

“And the Prods.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s consequences that are important. For example, this Irish American, Liam Bell, here on behalf of Clinton. What if something unpleasant happened while he was here in London?”

“There’d be hell to pay.”

“Exactly. I mean, never mind President Clinton — I don’t think the great American public would be pleased.”

“So where is this leading to?”

“What’s Grace doing at the moment?”

“A Noel Coward thing,
Private Lives
, at the King’s Head. That’s a pub theatre. You know the sort of thing — fringe.”

“What time does she go on stage?”

“Eight-fifteen. I went last night.”

“Excellent. Speak to her and Tom. Get them invitations for this affair at the Dorchester on Thursday. Let’s see what we can come up with.”

When Dillon called at Ferguson’s office at the Ministry of Defence just after lunch on Thursday, the Brigadier was busy, but Hannah came to the outer office to greet him. Dillon wore a bomber jacket, navy-blue sweater, and jeans.

He said, “How is he? Your message on my answer machine said urgent.”

“It is. He’ll speak to you in a moment.”

Dillon lit a cigarette and she sat down at her desk, her tan wrapover skirt opening. “I love that fashion,” he said. “Let’s a fella see what grand legs you’ve got.”

“Well get used to it,” she said, “because that’s all you’re going to see.”

“The hard woman you are. Have we got far with Francis Callaghan?”

“Oh yes, he’s behaved himself. The trouble is most of his hard-core information concerns the Sons of Ulster, so it’s out of date. The other stuff concerning the UVF, the UFF, and the Red Hand of Ulster is very generalized. He’s not told us much that we didn’t know.”

“What about January 30?”

She shook her head. “He seems as much in the dark as the rest of us.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Our interrogation team does and they haven’t left it to chance. They’ve used a pretty advanced lie detector test and it certainly shows he was telling the truth.”

“Another dead end there then.” He walked to the window. “Strange, that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. It could simply indicate a terrorist group operating very privately on a cell system.”

“Good sound Marxist principles, that.”

She frowned. “That’s an interesting point. You could be right.”

The buzzer sounded. She got up and Dillon followed her into Ferguson’s office, where they found him seated at his desk.

“Ah, there you are so we can get on,” he said as if Dillon had kept him waiting.

“ ’Tis sorry I am,” Dillon said, doing his stage Irishman. “Ten miles I’ve walked from the Castledown Bridge in my bare feet, my boots tied round my neck to save the leather, but an honor it is to serve a grand Englishman like yourself. In what way may I be of service?”

“There are times, Dillon, when I think you’re quite mad, but never mind that now. I see you’re dressed in your usual careless way. Well it won’t do. Decent suit, collar and tie, and be at the Dorchester ballroom for six.” He pushed an engraved card across his desk. “That gets you in. You as well, Chief Inspector. I’ll meet you there. I want you both armed, by the way.”

It was Hannah who said, “Do we get to know why, sir?”

“Of course. As you can see from the card, fund-raiser for the Conservative Party. The Prime Minister will be looking in. There will be one unexpected guest.”

“And who would that be, sir?”

He told them about Liam Bell. When he was finished he said, “He’ll just be a face in the crowd. Highly unlikely anyone would recognize him.” He pushed a photo across. “There he is. No press release. He’ll arrive at six-fifteen. I’ll greet him when he comes in and take him to a private room where he and the PM will have a little chat. He has a house in Vance Square. I presume he’ll return there afterwards. He has an onward journey by private jet in the morning at seven o’clock from Gatwick, so he’s hardly likely to go out on the town.”

“And what would you like us to do, sir?”

“Keep an eye on him, that’s all.”

“Fine, sir,” Hannah said. “We’ll see you there then.”

She and Dillon went out and Ferguson opened a file and started to go through some papers.

Dillon arrived at the Park Lane entrance to the Dorchester at ten minutes to six. There was quite a crowd pressing to get in and he pushed his way through, taking off his navy-blue Burberry trench coat to reveal a rather smart gray flannel suit by Yves St. Laurent, with blue silk shirt and dark blue tie. He saw Hannah Bernstein standing beside the uniformed security guards and she waved.

“Here, give me your coat. I’ll put it with mine. Don’t use the cloakroom. It would take an hour to get it back.” She turned to the head security guard. “He’s with me. Ministry of Defence.”

Dillon produced his ID card and the man nodded. “That’s fine, sir.”

They moved toward the entrance to the ballroom and found Ferguson standing, talking to Rupert Lang.

“Ah, there you are,” Ferguson said and turned to Lang. “Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein and Sean Dillon. This is Rupert Lang, an Under Secretary of State at the Northern Ireland Office.”

“A pleasure, Chief Inspector.” Lang took in her black silk trouser suit with obvious approval. “Mr. Dillon.” He didn’t hold out his hand. “Your fame precedes you.”

“What you really mean is ill-fame,” Dillon said cheerfully.

“For God’s sake, Dillon, I can’t take you anywhere,” Ferguson said. “Clear off and get yourself a drink while the going’s good and be back here in fifteen minutes.”

Dillon and Hannah pushed through the crowd to the champagne bar. “Not for me,” she said.

“Good God, girl, is it the Sabbath or something?” He reached for one of the glasses of champagne and drank it down. “Of course, I was forgetting. You only drink kosher wine.”

“I shall kick you very hard if you don’t behave yourself,” she told him.

At that moment there was a flurry of movement at the entrance and they turned to see the Prime Minister enter. The crowd parted and started to applaud. He smiled his acknowledgment, most of the cabinet behind him, and waved.

“The great and the good and the not so good,” Dillon said. “They’re all here.”

He turned to reach for another glass of champagne and saw Grace Browning and Tom Curry at the other end of the bar.

“Jesus!” he said. “Would you look who’s here?”

“Who?” Hannah asked.

“Grace Browning and that professor fella from the Europa. I told you I spoke to her after you’d gone to bed. I’ll have a word with her.”

“No you will not. It’s just on six-fifteen. We’re needed,” and she turned and moved toward the entrance.