Drink With the Devil (3 page)

“You’re well informed. We drive on board and sail for Ulster. I’ve found a suitable spot on the coast where there’s a disused quarry pier. We drive the truck off the boat and disappear into the night. All beautifully simple.”

“So it would seem,” Keogh said. “And the crew of this Siemens ferry? What are they doing?”

“Earning their wages. As far as they are concerned, it’s just some sort of illegal traffic or other. They do it all the time. They’re those sort of people.”

“Crooks, you mean.”

“Exactly. The boat is tied up near Wapping at the moment. That’s why we’re going to London. To finalize things.”

There was a pause and then Kathleen Ryan said, “What do you think, Mr. Keogh?”

“That you’d better start calling me Martin as it seems we’re going to spend some time together.”

“But do you think it would work?”

“Its greatest virtue, as your uncle says, is its simplicity. It could work perfectly just like a Swiss watch. On the other hand, even Swiss watches break down sometimes.”

“O ye of little faith.” Ryan smiled. “Of course it will work. It’s got to. My organization needs the means to buy arms for our people. It’s essential. There’s a passage in the Koran that says there is more truth in one sword than ten thousand words.”

“I take your point.” Keogh stood up. “It’s late. I’d better get back to my hotel.”

“Join us here for breakfast in the morning,” Ryan told him. “We’ll catch the noon plane. I’ll take care of the tickets.”

“I’ll say goodnight, then.”

“The bar is closed. Kathleen will let you out. I’ll keep your Walther here. No way of passing through airport security with that, but it doesn’t matter. Our London connection will provide any weapons we need.” He held out his hand. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

T
HE GIRL OPENED
the door and rain drove in on the wind.

“A dirty old night,” she said.

“You can say that again.” Keogh turned up his collar. “An Ulster fry-up will do me fine for breakfast especially if you cook it yourself. Two eggs and don’t forget the sausage.”

“Go on, get on your way.” She pushed him out and laughed that distinctive harsh laugh of hers and closed the door.

K
EOGH HAD DIFFICULTY
finding a phone box. Most of them seemed to be vandalized. He finally struck luck when he was quite close to the hotel. He closed the glass door to keep out the rain and rang the Dublin number. Barry was seated at the desk of his small study with his Chief of Intelligence for Ulster, a man named John Cassidy, when he took the call.

“It’s me,” Keogh said. “Worked like a charm. I’m in it up to my neck. Ryan’s taken me on board.”

“Tell me everything.”

Which Keogh did in a few brief sentences. Finally, he said, “What could be in this meat transporter?”

“Gold bullion if it’s the job I’m thinking of. It was put to the Loyalist Army Council about a year ago and thrown out as being too risky.”

“So Ryan has decided to do it on his own initiative.”

“Exactly, but then he always was the wild one. That’s why I wanted you in there when I got the whisper through an informer that he was up to something.”

“Up to something big,” Keogh told him.

“That’s right. Stay in close touch. You’ve got those alternate numbers for the mobile phone, and watch your back.”

B
ARRY LEANED BACK
thoughtfully and lit a cigarette. Cassidy said, “Trouble?”

“Michael Ryan up to his old tricks.” He ran through what Keogh had told him.

Cassidy said, “My God, if it is gold bullion, the bastards would have enough money to arm for a civil war. What are you going to do?”

“I don’t need to do a thing except have a suitable reception committee waiting when that boat delivers the truck somewhere on the Ulster coast. Then we’ll have enough money to start a civil war.”

“And you’re certain of knowing the time and place?”

“Oh, yes. The man on the other end of the phone just now is one of our own. He’s infiltrated under a false identity. He’ll be going along for the ride every step of the way.”

“A good man?”

“The best.”

“Would I be knowing him?”

Barry told him Keogh’s real name.

Cassidy laughed out loud. “God save us, the Devil himself, so God help Michael Ryan.”

T
HERE WAS NO
one at the reception desk when Keogh entered the hotel. He went up the stairs quickly and unlocked the door to his room. It was unbelievably depressing and he looked around with distaste. It certainly wasn’t worth taking off his clothes. He switched off the light, lit a cigarette, lay on the bed, and went over the whole affair.

The astonishing thing was, as had been said, the simplicity of it. He’d have to consider that again once Ryan had taken him fully into his confidence, of course. Not a bad fella, Ryan, a man hard to dislike. And then there was the girl. So much hate there in one so young and all blamed on the bomb which had killed her family. He shook his head. There was more to it than that, had to be, and finally he drifted into sleep.

K
ATHLEEN
R
YAN TOOK
a cup of tea in to her uncle just before she went to bed. Ryan was sitting by the fire smoking his pipe and brooding.

“You think it will work?” she asked.

“I’ve never been more certain and with Keogh along—” He shrugged. “Fifty million pounds in gold bullion, Kathleen. Just think of that.”

“A strange one,” she said. “Can you trust him?”

“I’ve never trusted anyone in my life,” he said cheerfully. “Not even you. No, don’t you fret over Keogh. I’ll have my eye on him.”

“But can you be sure?”

“Of course I can. I know him like I know myself, Kathleen, my love. We’re cut from the same bolt of cloth. Like me he’s got brains, that’s obvious. He’s also a killer. It’s his nature. He can do no other, just like me.” He reached up to kiss her cheek. “Now off to bed with you.”

She went out and he sat back, sipping his tea and thinking of a lonely road in the Lake District, a road that not even his niece knew he had visited.

I
F THERE IS
such a thing as an Irish quarter in London, it’s to be found in Kilburn along with a profusion of pubs to make any Irish Republican happy. But there are also the Protestant variety identical with anything to be found in Belfast. The William & Mary was one of those, its landlord, Hugh Bell, an Orange Protestant to the hilt, performing the same function in London for the Loyalist movement as Sinn Fein did for the IRA.

In the early evening of the day they had arrived in London, Ryan, Keogh, and Kathleen sat with him in a backroom, an assortment of handguns on the table. Bell, a large, jovial man with white hair, poured himself a whiskey.

“Anything you like, Michael, and there’s more where that came from.”

Ryan selected a Browning, hefted it, and put it in his pocket. Keogh found a Walther. “Would you have a Carswell for this?” he asked.

“A man of taste and discernment, I see,” Bell observed. He got up, went to a cupboard, rummaged inside, and came back. “There you go. The latest model.”

Keogh screwed it onto the end of the Walther. “Just the ticket.”

“And the young lady?” Bell asked.

“My niece doesn’t carry,” Ryan told him.

The girl bridled instantly. “I’m as good a shot as you, Uncle Michael, and you know it. How am I expected to protect myself? Kick them in the balls?”

Bell laughed. “I might have a solution.” He went back to the cupboard and returned with a small automatic. “Colt .25, quite rare. Slips in a lady’s handbag or stocking quite easily.”

“And no bloody stopping power,” Ryan told him.

“Enough if you’re close enough,” Bell said.

The girl took the weapon from him and smiled. “This will do me just fine.” She slipped it into her handbag.

Ryan said, “All right. What about the
Irish Rose
?”

“Siemens ferry, tied up in Wapping near the Pool of London. Captain Frank Tully, but you know that. The kind of rat who’ll do anything for money. The worst kind of drugs, anything that pays. He’s twice run arms for the IRA to the Republic.”

“What about his crew?”

“There’s four.” Bell opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper. He put reading spectacles on the end of his nose. “Mick Dolan and Jock Grant — they’re from Liverpool. Bert Fox from London, and a Kraut named Muller — Hans Muller. They’ve all got form — all been inside.”

“Well, at least we know what we’re dealing with,” Keogh observed.

“That’s right,” Ryan told him. “Just your average scum.”

Bell said, “These aren’t good people, Michael. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I usually do.” Ryan grinned and took a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “These are my requirements. See if you can fill the bill.”

Bell had a look. “Stun grenades, smoke grenades. That’s fine. Two AK assault rifles. Okay. Semtex? Is that essential?”

“I might have to blow my way into my target.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s it, then.” Ryan smiled at his niece and Keogh. “Something to eat and then we’ll go and see Tully.”

I
T WAS VERY
cold on the Thames, Tower Bridge on the right and the floodlit Tower of London just beyond it. A couple of ships passed from the Pool of London, red and green lights clear in the evening darkness as the taxi stopped at the end of Cable Wharfe, and Ryan, Kathleen, and Keogh got out. The taxi moved away and they walked along the waterfront.

The ferry was moored at the far end, cables reaching to the pier. In the sickly yellow light of two lamps they could see the legend on the stern plain.
Irish Rose
.

“Enough to make a man feel at home,” Ryan said.

“I’m not sure that’s the right word for it,” Keogh told him.

They started up the gangway and a man in reefer coat and peaked cap appeared. “And where do you think you’re going?” he asked in a hard Liverpool voice.

“We’re expected,” Ryan said. “Tell Captain Tully.”

The man laughed out loud. “Captain Tully? Is that what he calls himself?” He laughed again. “All right, this way.”

The boat was very flat, the central section including the wheelhouse rising up from the deck three quarters of the way along. She was about five hundred feet in length.

“What do you think?” Ryan whispered to Keogh as they followed.

“That they weren’t designed for heavy weather,” Keogh told him.

They went up a ladder to the wheelhouse, stopped on the landing below. Their escort opened a door and stood to one side.

“Here we are, then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dolan.”

The man who sat behind the chart table wore a seagoing officer’s coat, had hair down to his shoulders, and a face that was so ravaged by drink and bad living that it was impossible to determine his age.

“Mr. Ryan, here we are again.” He stood up and extended his hand. “And who might this gorgeous young lady be?”

“My niece, Captain Tully. You might well remember that. This is my associate, Martin Keogh.”

“Mr. Keogh.” Tully shook his hand enthusiastically. “A real pleasure.”

“I’m sure it is,” Keogh told him.

“To business, then,” Tully said.

Ryan opened the briefcase he was holding and took out a folded chart. “There is your destination. Marsh End, south of Ravenglass on the Cumbrian coast. You have two days. Can you manage that?”

Tully unfolded the chart and examined it. “No problem. What then?”

“I’ll arrive by truck, which we’ll take across to Kilalla on the coast of County Down.” He took out another chart. “There’s a disused quarry pier there. We put the truck on shore and you sail away.”

“We do indeed, Mr. Ryan. There is, of course, the small matter of recompense.”

Ryan took a large envelope from the briefcase and passed it across. “Fifty thousand pounds there. Another fifty on the termination of the contract at Kilalla. Satisfactory?”

“Oh, very, Mr. Ryan. I can assure you of that.”

“Excellent. Then we’ll see you on Friday morning at Marsh End.”

“No problem,” Tully said. “We won’t let you down.”

“Good. We’ll be off, then.”

A
S THEY WALKED
along the waterfront, Kathleen Ryan said, “I didn’t like anything about that bowser.”

“You aren’t expected to.” Ryan turned to Keogh. “What about you?”

“He’ll cut your throat if he thinks there’s a pound in it.”

“Which is why I have you along, so let’s get back,” and Ryan walked to the corner and waved to a taxi.

T
HE MAN WHO
had greeted them at the gangway was Dolan. When he went back into the chartroom he found Tully examining the charts Ryan had given him.

“What do you think?”

“It’s big,” Tully said. “Fifty thousand now and another fifty when we hit the Ulster coast. Whatever is in that truck must be worth more.”

“So?”

“The number he gave me to contact him. It’s a pub in Kilburn called the William and Mary. I think I’ll go up there and have a nose around.” He folded the charts. “You look after things here.” He moved to the door and turned. “This could be a big payday, Mick.”

“Well I’m with you on that,” Dolan said. “Whatever it takes.”

“Good man,” Tully said and went out.

T
HE SALOON BAR
of the William & Mary was packed, men standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar as they drank. It was a cheerful enough scene and very noisy as Tully peered in through one of the windows.

He decided to take his chances round the back and followed a narrow alley that brought him to a high wall, a gate opening into a yard. There was a chink of light showing at a window, curtains partly drawn. He approached cautiously and peered inside.