Eye of the Storm (26 page)

“Nice to do business with you.”

He placed the briefcase on top of the carton and picked it up and she went to open the door for him.

“What are you going to do with that, blow up the Houses of Parliament?”

“That was Guy Fawkes,” he said and moved along the passage and went downstairs.

The pavement was frosty as he walked along the street and turned the corner to the van. Billy, waiting anxiously in the shadows, manhandled his BMW up the street past the parked cars until he could see Dillon stop at the Morris van. Angel got the back door open and Dillon put the carton inside. She closed it and they went round and got in beside Fahy.

“Is that it, Sean?”

“That’s it, Danny, a fifty-pound box of Semtex with the factory stamp on it all the way from Prague. Now, let’s get out of here, we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”

Fahy drove through a couple of side streets and turned onto the main road, and as he joined the traffic stream, Billy went after him on the BMW.

F
OR TECHNICAL REASONS the Lear jet had not been able to get a flight slot out of Aldergrove Airport until five-thirty. It was a quarter-to-seven when Brosnan and Mary landed at Gatwick and a Ministry limousine was waiting. Mary checked on the car phone and found Ferguson at the Cavendish Square flat. He was standing by the fire warming himself when Kim showed them in.

“Beastly weather and a lot more snow on the way, I fear.” He sipped some of his tea. “Well, at least you’re in one piece, my dear, it must have been an enlivening exprience.”

“That’s one way of describing it.”

“You’re absolutely certain it was Dillon?”

“Well, let’s put it this way,” Brosnan said, “if it wasn’t, it was one hell of a coincidence that someone decided to choose that moment to shoot Tommy McGuire. And then there’s the bag lady act. Typical Dillon.”

“Yes, quite remarkable.”

“Admittedly he wasn’t on the London plane, sir, coming back,” Mary said.

“You mean you
think
he wasn’t on the plane,” Ferguson corrected her. “For all I know the damned man might have passed himself off as the pilot. He seems capable of anything.”

“There is another plane due out to London at eight-thirty, sir. Colonel McLeod said he’d have it thoroughly checked.”

“A waste of time.” Ferguson turned to Brosnan. “I suspect you agree, Martin?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Now, let’s go over the whole thing again. Tell me everything that happened.”

When Mary was finished, Ferguson said, “I checked the flight schedules out of Aldergrove a little while ago. There were planes available to Manchester, Birmingham, Glasgow. There was even a flight to Paris at six-thirty. No big deal to fly back to London from there. He’d be here tomorrow.”

“And there’s always the sea trip,” Brosnan reminded him. “The ferry from Larne to Stranraer in Scotland and a fast train from there to London.”

“Plus the fact that he could have crossed the Irish border, gone to Dublin and proceeded from there in a dozen different ways,” Mary said, “which doesn’t get us anywhere.”

“The interesting thing is the reason behind his trip,” Ferguson said. “He didn’t know of your intention to seek out McGuire until last night when Brown revealed the contents of that report to Novikova, and yet he went rushing off to Belfast at the earliest opportunity. Now why would that be?”

“To shut McGuire’s mouth,” Mary said. “It’s an interesting point that our meeting with McGuire was arranged for two o’clock, but we were nearly half an hour early. If we hadn’t been, Dillon would have got to him first.”

“Even so, he still can’t be certain what McGuire told you, if anything.”

“But the point was, sir, that Dillon
knew
McGuire had something on him, that’s why he went to such trouble to get to him, and it was obviously the information that this man Jack Harvey was his arms supplier in the London campaign of eighty-one.”

“Yes, well, when you spoke to me at Aldergrove before you left I ran a check. Detective Inspector Lane of Special Branch tells me that Harvey is a known gangster and on a big scale. Drugs, prostitution, the usual things. The police have been after him for years with little success. Unfortunately, he is now also a very established businessman. Property, clubs, betting shops and so forth.”

“What are you trying to say, sir?” Mary asked.

“That it isn’t as easy as you might think. We can’t just pull Harvey in for questioning because a dead man accused him of something that happened ten years ago. Be sensible, my dear. He’d sit still, keep his mouth shut and a team of the best lawyers in London would have him out on the pavement in record time.”

“In other words it would be laughed out of court?” Brosnan said.

“Exactly.” Ferguson sighed. “I’ve always had a great deal of sympathy for the idea that where the criminal classes are concerned, the only way we’re going to get any justice is to take all the lawyers out into the nearest square and shoot them.”

Brosnan peered out of the window at the lightly falling snow. “There is another way.”

“I presume you’re referring to your friend Flood?” Ferguson smiled tightly. “Nothing at all to stop you seeking his advice, but I’m sure you’ll stay within the bounds of legality.”

“Oh, we will, Brigadier, I promise you.” Brosnan picked up his coat. “Come on, Mary, let’s go and see Harry.”

 

Following the Morris wasn’t too much of a problem for Billy on his BMW. The snow was only lying on the sides of the road and the tarmac was wet. There was plenty of traffic all the way out of London and through Dorking. There wasn’t quite as much on the Horsham road but still enough to give him cover.

He was lucky when the Morris turned at the Grimethorpe sign because it had stopped snowing and the sky had cleared exposing a half-moon. Billy switched off his headlamp and followed the lights of the Morris at a distance, anonymous in the darkness. When it turned at the Doxley sign, he followed cautiously, pausing on the brow of the hill, watching the lights move in through the farm gate.

He switched off his engine and coasted down the hill, pulling in by the gate and the wooden sign that said Cadge End Farm. He walked along the track through the trees and could see into the lighted interior of the barn across the yard. Dillon, Fahy and Angel were standing beside the Morris. Dillon turned, came out and crossed the yard.

Billy beat a hasty retreat, got back on the BMW and rolled on down the hill, only switching on again when he was some distance from the farm. Five minutes later he was on the main road and returning to London.

 

In the sitting room Dillon called Makeev at the Paris apartment. “It’s me,” he said.

“I’ve been worried,” Makeev told him. “What with Tania ...”

“Tania took her own way out,” Dillon said. “I told you. It was her way of making sure they didn’t get anything out of her.”

“And this business you mentioned, the Belfast trip?”

“Taken care of. It’s all systems go, Josef.”

“When?”

“The War Cabinet meets at ten o’clock in the morning at Downing Street. That’s when we’ll hit.”

“But how?”

“You can read about it in the papers. The important thing now is for you to tell Michael Aroun to fly down to his Saint-Denis place in the morning. I hope to be flying in sometime in the afternoon.”

“As quickly as that?”

“Well I won’t be hanging about, will I? What about you, Josef?”

“I should think I might well make the flight from Paris to Saint-Denis with Aroun and Rashid myself.”

“Good. Till our next merry meeting, then, and remind Aroun about that second million.”

Dillon put the phone down, lit a cigarette, then picked up the phone again and called Grimethorpe airfield. After a while he got an answer.

“Bill Grant here.” He sounded slightly drunk.

“Peter Hilton, Mr. Grant.”

“Oh, yes,” Grant said, “and what can I do for you?”

“That trip I wanted to make to Land’s End, tomorrow, I think.”

“What time?”

“If you could be ready from noon onwards. Is that all right?”

“As long as the snow holds off. Much more and we could be in trouble.”

Grant put the phone down slowly, reached for the bottle of Scotch whisky at his hand and poured a generous measure, then opened the table drawer. There was an old Webley service revolver in there and a box of .38 cartridges. He loaded the weapon, then put it back in the drawer.

“Right, Mr. Hilton, we’ll just have to see what you’re about, won’t we?” and he swallowed the whisky down.

 

“Do I know Jack Harvey?” Harry Flood started to laugh, sitting there behind his desk, and looked up at Mordecai Fletcher. “Do I know him, Mordecai?”

The big man smiled at Brosnan and Mary who were standing there, still with their coats on. “Yes, I think you could say we know Mr. Harvey rather well.”

“Sit down, for God’s sake, and tell me what happened in Belfast,” Flood said.

Which they did, Mary giving him a rapid account of the entire affair. When she was finished, she said, “Do you think it’s possible that Harvey was Dillon’s weapons supplier in eighty-one?”

“Nothing would surprise me about Jack Harvey. He and his niece, Myra, run a tight little empire that includes every kind of criminal activity. Women, drugs, protection, big-scale armed robbery, you name it, but arms for the IRA?” He looked up at Mordecai. “What do you think?”

“He’d dig up his granny’s corpse and sell it if he thought there was a profit in it,” the big man said.

“Very apt.” Flood turned to Mary. “There’s your answer.”

“Fine,” Brosnan said, “and if Dillon used Harvey in eighty-one, the chances are he’s using him again.”

Flood said, “The police would never get anywhere with Harvey on the basis of your story, you must know that. He’d walk.”

“I should imagine the Professor was thinking of a more subtle approach, like beating it out of the bastard,” Mordecai said and slammed a fist into his palm.

Mary turned to Brosnan who shrugged. “What else would you suggest? Nobody’s going to get anywhere with a man like Harvey by being nice.”

“I have an idea,” Harry Flood said. “Harvey’s been putting a lot of pressure on me lately to form a partnership. What if I tell him I’d like to have a meeting to discuss things?”

“Fine,” Brosnan said, “but as soon as possible. We can’t hang around on this, Harry.”

 

Myra was sitting at her uncle’s desk going through club accounts when Flood called her.

“Harry,” she said, “what a nice surprise.”

“I was hoping for a word with Jack.”

“Not possible, Harry, he’s in Manchester at some sporting club function at the Midland.”

“When is he due back?”

“First thing. He’s got some business later in the morning, so he’s getting up early and catching the seven-thirty breakfast shuttle from Manchester.”

“So he should be with you about nine?”

“More like nine-thirty with the morning traffic into London. Look, what is this, Harry?”

“I’ve been thinking, Myra, maybe I’ve been stupid. About a partnership, I mean. Jack might have a point. There’s a lot we could do if we got together.”

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear that,” Myra said.

“I’ll see you then, nine-thirty sharp in the morning with my accountant,” Flood told her and rang off.

 

Myra sat there looking at the phone for a while, then she picked it up, rang the Midland in Manchester and asked for her uncle. Jack Harvey, champagne and more than one brandy inside him, was in excellent humor when he picked up the phone at the hotel’s front desk.

“Myra, my love, what’s up? A fire or something or a sudden rush of bodies?”

“Even more interesting. Harry Flood’s been on the phone.”

She told him what had happened and Harvey sobered up instantly. “So he wants to meet at nine-thirty?”

“That’s right. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a load of cobblers. Why should he suddenly change his mind just like that? No, I don’t like it.”

“Shall I phone him back and cancel?”

“No, not at all, I’ll meet him. We’ll just take precautions, that’s all.”

“Listen,” she said, “Hilton, or whatever his bloody name is, called and told me he wanted his stuff. He came round, paid cash and went on his way. Is that all right?”

“Good girl. Now as regards Flood, all I’m saying is be ready to give him the proper reception, just in case. Know what I mean?”

“I think so, Jack,” she said. “I think so.”

 

Harry Flood said, “We’ll meet outside the Harvey Funeral Emporium just before half-nine in the morning, then. I’ll bring Mordecai and you can play my accountant,” he told Brosnan.

“What about me?” Mary demanded.

“We’ll see.”

Brosnan got up and went and stood at the French windows looking at the river. “I wish I knew what the bastard was doing right now,” he said.

“Tomorrow, Martin,” Flood told him. “All things come to him who waits.”

 

It was around midnight when Billy parked the BMW in the yard at the rear of the Whitechapel premises and went in. He climbed the stairs wearily to Myra’s apartment. She heard him coming, got her door open and stood there, light flowing through her short nightdress.

“Hello, sunshine, you made it,” she said to Billy.

“I’m bloody frozen,” Billy told her.

She got him inside, sat him down and started to unzip his leathers. “Where did he go?”

He reached for a bottle of brandy, poured a large one and got it down. “Only an hour out of London, Myra, but the back of bloody beyond.”

He told her everything, Dorking, the Horsham Road, Grimethorpe, Doxley and Cadge End Farm.

“Brilliant, sunshine. What you need is a nice hot bath.”