Rough Justice (38 page)

“I know one of them, for Christ’s sake. Lady bloody Starling, sister to that damn Harry Miller and no friend of ours.”

“But how do you know her, Mr. Quinn?” Nolan asked.

“From the television, you idiot. There was a funeral the other day, Miller’s wife. It was a big do. The Prime Minister was there. This woman here was mentioned by the TV reporter as Monica, Lady Starling, and he said she was Miller’s sister.”

Nolan said, “That’s the one who fired the pistol. What would she be doing here?”

“God knows. I don’t know who the other one is, but this is definitely Miller’s sister.”

Nolan said, “But what are they here for?”

“Up to no good, that’s for sure.”

“Did you recognize anyone else in that TV report?”

“It was only a minute on the evening news. They didn’t trawl the crowd.”

“The thing is, they aren’t going to be on that boat on their own,” Nolan said. “Perhaps we should take a look?”

Quinn nodded. “See what you can do, you three, and I’ll alert a couple more of the boys. Make sure you’re armed to the teeth, but if you could get your hands on that particular woman, it could be more than useful. There could be a big bonus for you. Let’s say five thousand.”

“Okay, I’ll get my hands on her, all right,” Nolan said. “Come on, boys.”

They went out, and Quinn rang a bell and the butler entered. “What can I get you, sir?”

“Not a bloody thing. I want you to take my mother right now to my aunt Kitty’s for the night.” She started to protest, and he said, “Shut up. I’ve enough on my mind and I want you out of it.” He gave her a shove toward the door, and they departed.

He went to the sideboard, opened a drawer, and found an old Browning pistol. It was loaded, of course, and it made him feel secure just to hold it. Whom did he have to fear? That bastard Ferguson, and Dillon, who was a good comrade in the old days. Who could it be with the women on the boat? He suddenly thought of the obvious and searched for Volkov on his coded mobile, but there was nothing, no helping hand or reassurance, just a resounding silence as he went to the door and called for Riley at the top of his voice.

A small, energetic man with red hair came from the kitchen on the run. “Mr. Quinn, what is it?”

“Nolan, Tone, and Logan are away down to the harbor. We could have trouble. I want you, Hagen, McGuire, and Brown, back door, front, terrace, French windows. No messing, AK47s, so get moving.”

Riley went out on the run and Quinn went to the sideboard. When he poured another very large whiskey, his hand shook.

 
 
AVENGER WAS A PLACE
of shadows as darkness fell. Billy was on the flybridge, had discarded the yellow oilskin coat as being too good a target. In fact, they all had, scouring the boat for anything darker and more sensible. Ferguson was in the wheelhouse with an Uzi machine pistol, Helen and Monica on the stern deck. There was the riding light, but nothing more.

“I can’t see much,” Monica said.

“At least the shadows give some kind of protection.”

In fact, Nolan, a veteran of the Iraq War, had night glasses through which he could see a kind of green world, Billy on the flybridge, a vague impression of Ferguson in the wheelhouse, but the two women in the stern deck were plain.

“Right,” he said, and passed the glasses to the others. “The two women should be available without much trouble. We’ll use the two small inflatables and paddle. You take one, Tone and Logan and I will use the other. Nice and quiet from the side of the jetty and just drift in.”

 
 
DILLON WAS JUST OUTSIDE
Drumore, close to a garage that was closed, a few parking places free in the forecourt. He eased into one of them, got out with his carpetbag, and called Ferguson. “Everything all right with you?”

“So it would appear. Where are you?”

“On the edge of the village. I’ve parked at a garage that’s closed. I’ll walk down to join you. I’ll call in when I’m there.”

“Good man. We’ll be expecting you.”

 
 
TONE DRIFTED IN
amidships, bumped silently against the boat, and slipped up under the rail. He stood up, a Smith & Wesson in his hand, and stumbled. In the stern, Helen turned at once and shot him with her silenced Walther. He fell backward over the rail, alerting Billy on the flybridge.

Monica, Walther in hand, standing by the stern rail, turned to see what was happening, but behind her, Logan and Nolan had drifted in silently and Logan reached up and caught her leg. She struggled frantically, half turning and firing down into him, the silenced Walther making a dull thud, but as he released her and fell back, Nolan reached up and pulled her.

“Get down here, you bitch.”

She catapulted over into the inflatable beside him, Logan half in the water, and Nolan tossed him out and punched her on the side of the jaw.

“That should settle you,” he told her, and pushed the inflatable away, swallowed by the darkness, as Helen peered over and Billy arrived too late.

Ferguson switched on the wheelhouse searchlight and swept the harbor, but there was nothing, because Nolan, suspecting something of the sort would take place, had paddled into the shelter of the fishing boats moored for the night, emerging on the beach side where there were steps up to the seawall. Monica had fainted. He had her over his left shoulder, carrying her through the streets easily enough. Logan and Tone dead, so that five thousand pounds would be all his. Once he had that, there was also the question of what happened to the woman. He was filled with excitement as he went up the hill.

 
 
DILLON HAD JUST REACHED
the harbor when the tender came out of the darkness and nosed onto the beach. Billy closed down the outboard and climbed out after Ferguson and Helen. They each had an Uzi on display.

Dillon said, “What’s happened?”

So Ferguson told him. “It must be Quinn’s people, has to be.”

“I agree.” Dillon nodded. “And two down already? That’s a good start.”

“What do you suggest?” Helen asked. “We can’t just go walking in.”

“I can,” Dillon said calmly. “But you three would be better employed elsewhere.”

“What the hell do you mean?” Ferguson demanded.

“I presume Monica had her Codex with her?”

“Yes, she did,” Helen said. “I was with her when we changed into dark clothes. She had it in her left shirt pocket.”

“Good. If I punch in the return code, her number will come up automatically.”

“Yes, but if she’s in Quinn’s hands, he’ll have found the phone or hear it if he hasn’t.”

“That’s exactly what I want. Come on, we’re wasting time.” He led the way as they went up the hill. “I’ll tell Quinn I want a deal, any deal to get her safely back, I’ll come alone.”

“He’ll kill you,” Billy said.

“Not straightaway. He’ll want something out of it, anything that’s going, so he’ll want to know what I’m up to.”

“So you go straight in the front door?” Ferguson said.

“Bag in hand, yes. I’ll tell him I’m there to make him an offer he can’t refuse, if I might steal the phrase.”

“And us?” Helen demanded.

“Billy here knows the house and grounds like the back of his hand. He and myself went through it like a dose of salts the other year and even saw off the great Josef Belov himself on that occasion. You remember, Billy, get to it, and fast as you can.” He thumbed in the right signal, and in a few seconds it was received and Helen, Ferguson, and Billy rushed away.

 
 
IN THE GREAT HALL,
Monica, pale and wan, sat on the sofa wrapped in a gray blanket. Nolan stood behind her, and Riley to one side of Quinn with an AK47. Monica was shaking, her face swollen, a glass of brandy in her hands.

“Drink it up, Lady Starling, it’ll stop you getting pneumonia.”

Nolan said, “You promised five thousand, Mr. Quinn. Now Tone and Logan are gone, by rights I should get the lot.”

“All right, I hear you,” Quinn said.

“And her?”

“God, you’re like some bloody great dog straining at the leash. So, what’s going on?” he demanded of Monica. “Who are the men in the boat?”

“I’ve got nothing to say to you except that you’re a murdering swine, responsible as much as anybody for the death of my sister-in-law.”

“Jesus, woman, that was a mistake. It was intended for your brother, that business, and he richly deserved it.”

The Codex he’d taken from her pocket was impervious to water and was on the table. Suddenly, it sounded. “Now, there’s a thing.” Quinn switched it on.

Dillon said, “Would that be you, Quinn?”

“That’s right, and who might you be?”

“Sean Dillon. We once crawled through a sewer together in Derry to get away from Brit paratroops.”

“Happy days, Sean, and what would you be wanting?”

“Lady Starling, and don’t tell me you haven’t got her.”

“Ah, you mean Monica? Yes, she’s here, very wet, but wrapped in a blanket and sitting on my sofa. What do you want with her?”

“A deal, that’s what I want.”

“A deal?”

Monica shouted, “Don’t do it, Sean.”

Quinn said, “Now, what could you possibly offer me that I’d want? I’ve got Lady Starling, I hold all the cards.”

“We’re wasting time here. When there’s a knock on the front door, you’ll find me standing there. What you do is up to you.” Dillon started to walk up to the house.

 
 
AT THE SAME MOMENT,
the kitchen door at the rear opened and McGuire stepped out and looked around the courtyard. All was quiet. He turned to go back, and Billy Salter shot him with the silenced Uzi, driving him inside. He stepped over the body, closing the door behind him, went out and, remembering the back stairs, ascended cautiously.

Ferguson went through shrubbery, crouching, Helen by his side. “I’m getting too bloody old for this,” he whispered.

French windows extended to the left; one of them was open and a velvet curtain stirred in the wind. They could hear voices faintly.

“I’ll go in. You stay here and cover me,” Ferguson said.

He moved up some steps to the terrace and started toward the open window. Brown came around the corner on the left, holding his AK across his body. Helen stood up and shot him with the Uzi several times in the silenced mode, and he lurched back over the balustrade.

Ferguson returned and whispered, “How many more, God alone knows. We’ll check down to the conservatory, covering each other. Dillon must be inside now.”

“If they let him in at all,” Helen whispered, and they moved into the shrubbery again.

 
 
BUT DILLON
had rung the bell at the front door a good ten minutes before, bringing Quinn to his feet. “That must be the bastard now,” he said. “Answer the door, Riley, and you watch the woman,” he said to Nolan, walked to the sideboard, and picked up the Browning.

“Oh, I will.” Nolan ran his hand over Monica’s head, and she tried to pull away.

Quinn had slopped whiskey into a glass, tossed it down, and crossed to the archway leading into the great hall. He could see the outside door wide open, Dillon framed in the entrance on the other side of Riley, the carpetbag in his left hand.

“Hands up, damn you.” Riley thrust the end of the AK into his stomach. “Hand over your gun.”

“Which one?” Dillon said, playing one of the greatest bluffs of his life.

“Is that you, Sean?” Quinn called.

“As ever was, Michael, and if it’s guns your man here wants, he can take his choice. There’s an Uzi for starters.” He took it from the carpetbag, pushed Riley’s AK to one side, and thrust the Uzi at him. “And a PPK complete with silencer. Will that do to be going on with?”

He elbowed Riley away and walked straight to Quinn and held up the bag. “And plenty of other goodies in here. You’d be surprised, so let’s go in and see if the lady’s in one piece.”

There was astonishment on Quinn’s face, but he was frowning also and followed, the Browning ready. “No tricks now, I know you of old.” Dillon walked to the table and put the bag down on it.

Monica tried to stand, and Nolan, a revolver in one hand now, shoved her down and she was angry in a strange kind of way. “You bloody fool. They’ll kill you, Sean.”

“Not Michael, my love, curiosity always got the better of him. Before he kills me, he’ll want to know what I’m doing here committing suicide like this, and he’ll want me to tell him before I go.”

Billy from the top of the back stairs had made his way along to the gallery above the great hall. It was dark up there and he was perfectly concealed, but there was Riley, who had discarded his AK for the Uzi, Quinn with the Browning, and Nolan, now holding Monica up on her feet and back against him, his left hand on her face, the barrel of his revolver resting on her shoulder. It was too risky to attempt a shot, certainly from her point of view, and he knew Dillon and waited.

“For my next trick, see what we’ve got here.” Dillon produced the manila envelope containing the cash intended for Mickeen Oge Flynn, took out the wad, tore off the paper band around it, and tossed the notes high in the air in a shower. “Did you ever see the like? Fifty pounds each, every one.”

As was intended, it was a considerable shock. Riley said, “Mother Mary,” and took several steps forward, dropping to one knee, trying to pick up notes in his right hand, still clutching the Uzi in his left.

“Here there, none of that.” Quinn stepped close, reached down and picked a fifty up himself, and looked at it. “What’s your game?”

Outside, Ferguson had reached the end of the terrace and peered through the window of the conservatory. Satisfied, he turned away and Hagen came around the back of the conservatory, AK raised. Helen erupted from the bushes firing her Uzi and he fell back, discharging the AK, which was not silenced.

In the great hall, the sound was clearly heard. Quinn turned and glanced at the archway leading to the hall. “What in the hell was that?”