Drink With the Devil (2 page)

As Keogh entered, Mary said, “She told me what you did for her. God bless you.”

Keogh sat on the edge of a table and lit a cigarette. The girl was still talking. “No, I’ll be fine now. I’ll be at the Drum in twenty minutes. Don’t fret.” She put the phone down and turned, her face calm. “My uncle Michael. He worries about me.”

“And why not?” Keogh said. “Desperate times.”

“You don’t take prisoners, do you?”

“I could never see the point.”

“And you’re carrying. A Walther from what I saw.”

“Very knowledgeable for one so young.”

“Oh, I know guns, mister, I was raised on them. What did you do after I left?”

“I sent them on their way.”

“Home was it with a pat on the head?”

“No, the nearest casualty department. They needed a lesson. They got one. The one who seemed to be in charge will be on sticks for a while if that’s a comfort to you.”

She frowned, her eyes dark. “What’s your game?”

“No game. I didn’t like what was going on, that’s all.” He stood up and stubbed out his cigarette. “Still, you seem fine now so I’ll be on my way.”

He got the door open. She said quickly, “No, hang on.” He turned and she added, “You can walk me to my uncle’s pub. That’s the Orange Drum on Connor’s Wharf. It’s about a quarter of a mile. My name is Kathleen Ryan. What’s yours?”

“Martin Keogh.”

“Wait for me outside.”

He did as he was told and saw her go to the phone again. Probably speaking to her uncle, he thought. A few moments later, she joined him, this time carrying a large umbrella.

As she put it up against the driving rain, he said, “And wouldn’t a taxi be safer?”

“I like the city at night,” she told him. “I like the rain. I’ve a right to go my own way and to hell with those Fenian bastards.”

“A point of view,” he replied as they started to walk.

“Here, get under this,” she said, pulling him under the umbrella and took his arm. “A sailor, you said?”

“Just for the past couple of years.”

“A sailor from Belfast raised in London who carries a Walther.”

There was a question in her voice. “A dangerous place this old town as you saw tonight.”

“Dangerous for you, you mean, and that’s why you’re carrying.” She frowned. “You’re not a Fenian or you wouldn’t have done what you did to that lot.”

“I’m not anybody’s, girl dear.” He paused to light a cigarette.

She said, “Give me one.”

“I will not, you with your green years ahead of you. God, but you’re one for the questions, Kate.”

She turned to glance at him. “Why do you call me that? No one else does.”

“Oh, it seems to suit.”

They were walking along the waterfront now, container ships anchored at the quay and further out, the red and green lights of a freighter moving out to sea.

Kathleen Ryan said, “So, the gun? Why are you carrying?”

“Jesus, it’s the persistent one you are. A long time ago I was a soldier. Did three tours of duty in this very town, and there’s always the chance of someone with a long memory and a grudge to work off.”

“What regiment?”

“One Para.”

“Don’t tell me you were at Bloody Sunday in Londonderry?”

“That’s right. Like I said, a long time ago.”

Her hand tightened on his arm. “God, but you lads gave those Fenians a roasting that day. How many did you kill? Thirteen, wasn’t it?”

The lights of the pub were plain across a cobbled quay now. Keogh said, “How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“So young and so full of hate.”

“I told you. The IRA killed my father, my mother, and my wee sister. That only leaves Uncle Michael.”

The sign said
The Orange Drum
and one was painted on the brick wall beside it with the legend
Our Country Too
. The girl put the umbrella down, opened the door, and led the way in.

T
HE INTERIOR WAS
a typical Belfast pub with several booths, a few tables and chairs, and a long mahogany bar. Bottles of every kind of drink were ranged on shelves against a mirrored wall. There were only half a dozen customers, all old men, four of them playing cards by an open fire, two others talking softly to each other. A hard-looking young man with one arm sat behind the bar reading the
Belfast Telegraph
.

He glanced up and put the paper down. “Are you okay, Kathleen? Michael told me what happened.”

“I’m fine, Ivor. Thanks to Mr. Keogh here. Is Uncle Michael in the back?”

At that moment a door opened and a man walked through. Keogh knew him at once from the photos Barry had supplied at his briefing in Dublin. Michael Ryan, aged fifty-five, a Loyalist of the first order who had served in the UVF and Red Hand of Ulster, the most extreme Protestant group of all, a man who had killed for his beliefs many times. He was of medium height, hair graying slightly at the temples, eyes very blue, and there was an energy to him.

“This is Martin Keogh,” the girl said.

Ryan came round the bar and held out his hand. “You did me a good turn tonight. I shan’t forget.”

“Lucky I was there.”

“That’s as may be. I owe you a drink, anyway.”

“Bushmills whiskey would be fine,” Keogh told him.

“Over here.” Ryan indicated a booth in the corner.

The girl took off her raincoat and beret and eased behind the table. Her uncle sat beside her and Keogh was opposite. Ivor brought a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses.

“Can I get you anything, Kathleen?”

“No, I’m okay, Ivor.”

He plainly worshiped her but nodded and walked away. Ryan said, “I’ve checked with a contact at the Royal Victoria. They just received three very damaged young men. One with a bullet in the thigh.”

“Is that a fact?” Keogh said.

Kathleen Ryan stared at him. “You didn’t tell me.”

“No need.”

“Let’s see what you’re carrying,” Ryan asked. “No need to worry. All friends here.”

Keogh shrugged, took the Walther from his pocket, and passed it across. Ryan examined it expertly. “Carswell silencer, the new job. Very nice.” He took a Browning from his pocket and passed it over. “Still my personal favorite.”

“Preferred weapon of the SAS,” Keogh said, lifting the Browning in one hand. “And the Parachute Regiment.”

“He served with One Para,” the girl said. “Bloody Sunday.”

“Is that a fact?” Michael Ryan said.

“A long time ago. Lately I’ve been at sea.”

“Belfast, but raised in London, Kathleen tells me?”

“My mother died in childbirth. My father went to London in search of work. He’s dead now.”

Ryan had ejected the magazine from the butt of the Walther. “And a good Prod. You must be because of what you did for Kathleen.”

“To be honest with you religion doesn’t mean a thing to me,” Keogh told him. “But let’s say I know which side I’m on.”

At that moment, the door was flung open and a man in a cloth cap and raincoat rushed in, a revolver in one hand.

“Michael Ryan, you bastard, I’ve got you now,” he cried and raised the revolver.

Ryan was caught, the magazine from the Walther on the table beside it. Keogh said, “What do I do, shoot him? All right. Bang, you’re dead.” He picked up the Browning and fired once. The man dropped the hand holding the revolver to one side. Keogh said, “Blanks, Mr. Ryan, I could tell by the weight. What kind of a game are we playing here?”

Ryan was laughing now. “Go on, Joseph, and get yourself a drink at the bar.”

The supposed gunman turned away. The old men by the fire continued their card game as if nothing had happened.

Michael Ryan stood up. “Just a test, my old son, in a manner of speaking. Let’s adjourn to the parlour and talk some more.”

T
HERE WAS A
fire in the grate of the small parlour, curtains drawn as rain drummed against the window. It was warm and comfortable and Ryan and Keogh sat opposite each other. The girl came in from the kitchen with a teapot, milk, and cups on a tray.

Ryan said, “If you’re a seaman, you’ll have your papers.”

“Of course,” Keogh said.

Ryan held out his hand and Keogh shrugged, opened his reefer, and took a wallet from his inside pocket.

“There you go. Ships’ papers, union card, the lot.”

The girl poured tea and Ryan examined everything closely. “Paid off the
Ventura
two weeks ago. Deck hand and diver. What’s all that?”

“The
Ventura
’s a supply ship in the North Sea oilfields. Besides general ship’s duties I did some diving. Not the really deep stuff. Just underwater maintenance, welding when necessary. That sort of thing.”

“Interesting. A man of parts. Any special skills from the Parachute Regiment?”

“Just how to kill people. The usual weaponry skills. A considerable knowledge of explosives.” Keogh lit a cigarette. “But where’s all this leading?”

Ryan persisted. “Can you ride a motorcycle?”

“Since I was sixteen, and that’s a long time ago. So what?”

Ryan leaned back, took out a pipe, and filled it from an old pouch. “Visiting relatives, are you?”

“Not that I know of,” Keogh said. “A few cousins scattered here and there. I came back on a whim. Nostalgia, if you like. A bad idea really, but I can always go back and get another berth.”

“I could offer you a job,” Ryan said, and the girl brought a taper from the fire to light his pipe.

“What, here in Belfast?”

“No, in England.”

“Doing what?”

“Why, the kind of thing you did tonight. The kind of thing you’re good at.”

It was very quiet. Keogh was aware of the girl watching him eagerly. “Do I smell politics here?”

“Since nineteen sixty-nine I’ve worked for the Loyalist cause,” Ryan said. “Served six years in the Maze prison. I hate Fenians. I hate the bloody Sinn Fein, because if they win they’ll drive us all out, every Protestant in the country. Ethnic cleansing to the hilt. Now if things get that bad I’ll take as many of them to hell with me as I can.”

“So where’s this leading?”

“A job in England. A very lucrative job. Funds for our organization.”

“In other words we steal from someone,” Keogh said.

“We need money, Keogh,” Ryan said. “Money for arms. The bloody IRA have their Irish-American sympathizers providing funds. We don’t.” He leaned forward. “I’m not asking you for patriotism. I’ll settle for greed. Fifty thousand pounds.”

There was a long pause and Ryan and the girl waited, her face somber as if she expected him to say no.

Keogh smiled. “That’s a lot of money, Mr. Ryan, so you’ll be expecting a lot in return.”

“Backup is what I expect from a man who can handle anything, and from the way you’ve carried yourself tonight you would seem to be that kind of man.”

Keogh said, “What about your own people? You’ve as many gunmen out on the street as the IRA. More even. I know that from army days.” He lit a cigarette and leaned back. “Unless there’s another truth here. That you’re in it for the money, you’re in it for yourself.”

Kathleen Ryan jumped up. “Damn you for saying that. My uncle has given more for our people than anyone I know. Better you get out of here while you can.”

Ryan held up a hand. “Softly, child, any intelligent man would see it as a possibility. It’s happened before, God knows, and on both sides.”

“So?” Keogh said.

“I can be as hungry as the next man where money is concerned, but my cause is a just one, the one certainty in my life. Any money that passes through my hands goes to the Protestant cause. That’s what my life is about.”

“Then why not use some of your own men?”

“Because people talk too much, a weakness in all revolutionary movements. The IRA have the same problem. I’ve always preferred to use what I call hired help, and for that I go to the underworld. An honest thief who is working for wages is a sounder proposition than some revolutionary hothead.”

“So that’s where I come in?” Keogh said. “Hired help, just like anyone else you need?”

“Exactly. So, are you in or out? If it’s no, then say so. After what you did for Kathleen tonight you’ll come to no harm from me.”

“Well that’s nice to know.” Keogh shrugged. “Oh, what the hell, I might as well give it a try. A change from the North Sea. Terrible weather there at this time of the year.”

“Good man yourself.” Ryan smiled. “A couple of Bushmills, Kathleen, and we’ll drink to it.”

“W
HERE ARE YOU
staying?” Ryan asked.

“A fleapit called the Albert Hotel,” Keogh told him.

“Fleapit, indeed,” Ryan toasted him. “Our country too.”

“May you die in Ireland,” Keogh replied.

“An excellent sentiment.” Ryan swallowed his Bushmills in a single gulp.

“So what happens now?”

“I’ll tell you in London. We’ll fly there, you, me, and Kathleen. There’s someone I have to see.”

Keogh turned to the girl. “An activist is it? A little young I would have thought.”

“I bloody told you, they blew up my family when I was ten years old, Mr. Keogh,” she said fiercely. “I grew up fast after that.”

“A hard world.”

“And I’ll make it harder for the other side, believe me.”

“You hate well, I’ll say that.” Keogh turned back to her uncle. “So that’s it, then?” He shook his hand. “What am I really getting into? I should know more.”

“All right, a taster only. How well do you know the northwest of England? The Lake District?”

“I’ve never been there.”

“A wild and lonely area at this time of the year with the tourists gone.”

“So?”

“A certain truck will be passing through there, a meat transporter. You and I will hijack it. Very simple, very fast. A five-minute job.”

“You did say meat transporter?”

Ryan smiled. “That’s what this truck is. What’s inside is another matter. You find that out later.”

“And what happens afterwards?”

“We drive to a place on the Cumbrian coast where there’s an old disused jetty. There will be a boat waiting, a Siemens ferry. Do you know what that is?”

“The Germans used them in World War Two to transport heavy equipment and men in coastal attacks.”