On Dangerous Ground (3 page)

Quigley’s face was pale. “The American President? You wouldn’t dare, not even you.”

Norah laughed that distinctive harsh laugh, “Oh, yes he would.”

Ahern turned to her. “Are you with me, girl?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“And you, Billy?” Quigley licked dry lips and hesitated. Ahern put a hand on his shoulder. “In or out, Billy?”

Quigley smiled suddenly. “Why not. A man can only die once. How do we do it?”

“Come down below and I’ll show you.”

Ahern led the way down the steps and switched on a light at the bottom. There was a vehicle parked in a corner covered by a dust sheet which he pulled away revealing a British Telecom truck.

“Where in the hell did you get that?” Quigley demanded.

“Someone knocked it off for me months ago. I was going to leave it outside one of those Catholic pubs in Kilburn with five hundred pounds of Semtex inside and blow the hell out of some Sinn Fein bastards, but I decided to hang on to it until something really important turned up.” Ahern smiled cheerfully. “And now it has.”

“But how do you intend to pull it off?” Ali demanded.

“Hundreds of these things all over London. They can park anywhere without being interfered with because they usually have a manhole cover up while the engineers do what they have to do.”

“So?” Quigley said.

“Don’t ask me how, but I have access through sources to the President’s schedule. Tomorrow he leaves the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square at ten o’clock in the morning to go to Number Ten Downing Street. They take the Park Lane route turning into Constitution Hill beside Green Park.”

“Can you be sure of that?” Norah asked.

“They always do, love, believe me.” He turned to Quigley and Ali. “You two, dressed in Telecom overalls which are inside the van, will park halfway along Constitution Hill. There’s a huge beech tree. You can’t miss it. As I say, you park, lift the manhole cover, put up your signs and so on. You’ll be there at nine-thirty. At nine-forty-five you walk away through Green Park to Piccadilly. There are some men’s toilets. You can get rid of your overalls there.”

“And then what?” Ali demanded.

“I’ll be in a car waiting with Norah for the golden moment. As the President’s cavalcade reaches the Telecom truck, I’ll detonate by remote control.” He smiled. “It’ll work, I promise you. We’ll probably kill everyone in the cavalcade.”

There was silence, a kind of awe on Quigley’s face, and Norah was excited, face pale. “You bastard,” she said.

“You think it will work?”

“Oh, yes.”

He turned to Ali. “And you? You’re willing to take part?”

“An honor, Mr. Ahern.”

“And you, Billy?” Ahern turned to him.

“They’ll be singing about us for years,” Quigley said.

“Good man yourself, Billy.” Ahern looked at his watch. “Seven o’clock. I could do with a bite to eat. How about you, Norah?”

“Fine,” she said.

“Good. I’m taking the Telecom van away now. I shan’t be returning to this place. I’ll pick you two up in the Mall at nine o’clock in the morning. You’ll arrive separately and wait at the park gates across from Marlborough Road. Norah will be behind me in a car. You two will take over and we’ll follow. Any questions?”

Ali Halabi was incredibly excited. “I can’t wait.”

“Good, off you go now. We’ll leave separately.” The Arab went out and Ahern turned to Quigley and held out his hand. “A big one this, eh, Billy?”

“The biggest, Michael.”

“Right, Norah and I will go now. Come and open the main gate for us. I’ll leave you to put out the lights and follow on.”

They went downstairs. Norah climbed into the passenger seat, but Ahern shook his head. “Move into the rear out of sight and pass me one of those orange jackets. We’ve got to look right. If a copper sees you he might get curious.”

It said “British Telecom” across the back of the jacket. “It’ll never catch on,” she told him.

He laughed and drove out into the street, waving at Quigley, who closed the gate behind them. He traveled only a few yards, then swung into a yard and switched off the engine.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“You’ll see. Follow me and keep your mouth shut.”

He opened the Judas gate gently and stepped in. Quigley was in the office, they could hear his voice and when they reached the bottom of the stairs, they could even hear what he was saying.

“Yes, Brigadier Ferguson. Most urgent.” There was a pause. “Then patch me through, you silly bugger, this is life or death.”

Ahern took a Walther from his pocket and screwed on a silencer as he went up, Norah behind him. The door was open and Quigley sat on the edge of the desk.

“Brigadier Ferguson?” he said suddenly. “It’s Billy Quigley. You said only to call you when it was big. Well this couldn’t be bigger. Michael Ahern and that bitch Norah Bell and some Iranian named Ali Halabi are going to try to blow up the American President tomorrow.” There was a pause. “Yes, I’m supposed to be in on it. Well this is the way of it.”

“Billy boy,” Ahern said, “that’s really naughty of you.” As Quigley turned he shot him between the eyes.

Quigley went back over the desk and Ahern picked up the phone. “Are you there, Brigadier? Michael Ahern here. You’ll need a new man.” He replaced the receiver, turned off the office light, and turned to Norah. “Let’s go, my love.”

“You knew he was an informer?” she said.

“Oh, yes, I think that’s why they let him out of the Maze prison early. He was serving life, remember. They must have offered him a deal.”

“The dirty bastard,” she said. “And now he’s screwed everything up.”

“Not at all,” Ahern said. “You see, Norah, it’s all worked out exactly as I planned.” He opened the van door and handed her in. “We’ll go and get a bite to eat and then I’ll tell you how we’re really going to hit the President.”

In 1972, aware of the growing problem of terrorism, the British Prime Minister of the day ordered the setting up of a small elite intelligence unit which became known rather bitterly in intelligence circles as the Prime Minister’s private army, as it owed allegiance only to that office.

Brigadier Charles Ferguson had headed the unit since its inception, had served many Prime Ministers, but had no political allegiance whatsoever. His office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence overlooking Horse Guards Avenue. He had been working late when Quigley’s call was patched through. He was a rather untidy-looking man in a Guards tie and tweed suit and was standing looking out of his window when there was a knock at the door.

The woman who entered was in her late twenties and wore a fawn trouser suit of excellent cut and black horn-rimmed glasses that contrasted with close-cropped red hair. She could have been a top secretary or P.A. She was, in fact, a Detective Chief Inspector of Police from Special Branch at Scotland Yard borrowed by Ferguson as his assistant after the untimely death in the line of duty of her predecessor. Her name was Hannah Bernstein.

“Was there something, Brigadier?”

“You could say so. When you worked with antiterrorism at Scotland Yard, did you ever come across a Michael Ahern?”

“Irish terrorist, Orange Protestant variety. Wasn’t he Red Hand of Ulster?”

“And Norah Bell?”

“Oh, yes,” Hannah Bernstein said. “A very bleak prospect, that one.”

“I had an informer, Billy Quigley, in deep cover. He just phoned me to say that Ahern was masterminding a plot to blow up the American President tomorrow. He’d recruited Quigley. Bell is involved and an Iranian named Ali Halabi.”

“Excuse me, sir, but I know who Halabi is. He belongs to the Army of God. That’s an extreme fundamentalist group very much opposed to the Israeli-Palestine accord.”

“Really?” Ferguson said. “That is interesting. Even more interesting is that Quigley was shot dead while filling me in. Ahern actually had the cheek to pick up the phone and speak to me. Told me it was him. Said I’d need a new man.”

“A cool bastard, sir.”

“Oh, he’s that all right. Anyway, notify everyone. Scotland Yard antiterrorist unit, MI Five, and security at the American Embassy. Obviously the Secret Servicemen guarding the President will have a keen interest.”

“Right, sir.”

She turned to the door and he said, “One more thing. I need Dillon on this.”

She turned. “Dillon, sir?”

“Sean Dillon. Don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean.”

“The only Sean Dillon I know, sir, was the most feared enforcer the IRA ever had, and if I’m right, he tried to blow up the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet in February, nineteen ninety-one during the Gulf War.”

“And nearly succeeded,” Ferguson said, “but he works for this Department now, Chief Inspector, so get used to it. He only recently completed a most difficult assignment on the Prime Minister’s orders that saved the Royal Family considerable grief. I need Dillon, so find him. Now on your way.”

Ahern had a studio flat in what had been a warehouse beside the canal in Camden. He parked the Telecom van in the garage, then took Norah up in what had been the old freight hoist. The studio was simply furnished, the wooden floor sanded and varnished, a rug here and there, two or three large sofas. The paintings on the wall were very modern.

“Nice,” she said, “but it doesn’t seem you.”

“It isn’t. I’m on a six months’ lease.”

He opened the drinks cabinet, found a bottle of Jameson Irish Whiskey, and poured some into two glasses. He offered her one, then opened a window and stepped out onto a small platform overlooking the canal.

“What’s going on, Michael?” she said. “I mean, we don’t really stand much of a chance of blowing up the President on Constitution Hill, not now.”

“I never thought for a moment that I could. You should remember, Norah, that I never let my left hand know what my right is doing.”

“Explain,” she said.

“Because of Quigley’s phone call, wherever the President goes tomorrow they’ll be on tenterhooks. Now follow my reasoning. If there is an abortive explosion on his intended route to Number Ten Downing Street, everyone heaves a sigh of relief, especially if they find what’s left of Halabi there.”

“Go on.”

“They won’t expect another attempt the same day in an entirely different context.”

“My God,” she said. “You planned this all along, you used Quigley.”

“Poor sod.” Ahern brushed past her and helped himself to more whiskey. “Once they have their explosion, they’ll think that’s it, but it won’t be. You see, tomorrow night at seven-thirty, the American President, the Prime Minister, and selected guests board the riverboat
Jersey Lily
at Cadogan Pier on the Chelsea Embankment for an evening of frivolity and cocktails, cruising the Thames past the Houses of Parliament, ending up at Westminster Pier. The catering is in the hands of Orsini and Co. of whom you and I are employed as waiters.” He opened a drawer and took out two security cards. “My name is Harry Smith, nice and innocuous. You’ll note the false moustache and horn-rimmed glasses. I’ll add those later.”

“Mary Hunt,” Norah said. “That does sound prim. Where did you get my photo?”

“An old one I had. I got a photographer friend to touch it up and add the spectacles. They intend a cocktail party on the forward deck, weather permitting.”

“What about weapons? How would we get through security?”

“Taken care of. An associate of mine was working as a crew member until yesterday. He’s left two silenced Walthers wrapped in cling film at the bottom of the sand in a fire bucket in one of the men’s restrooms, and that was after the security people did their checks.”

“Very clever.”

“I’m no kamikaze, Norah, I intend to survive this. We hit from the upper decks. With silenced weapons, he’ll go down as if he’s having a heart attack.”

“And what happens to us?”

“The ship has an inflatable tender on a line at the stern. My associate checked it out. It has an outboard motor. In the confusion, we’ll drop in and head for the other side of the river.”

“As long as the confusion is confusion enough.”

“Nothing’s perfect in this life. Are you with me?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “To the final end, Michael, whatever comes.”

“Good girl.” He put an arm round her and squeezed. “Now could we go and get something to eat? I’m starving.”

TWO

“A STRANGE MAN, SEAN DILLON,” FERGUSON SAID.

“I’d say that was an understatement, sir,” Hannah Bernstein told him.

They were sitting in the rear of Ferguson’s Daimler threading their way through the West End traffic.

“He was born in Belfast, but his mother died in childbirth. His father came to work in London, so the boy went to school here. Incredible talent for acting. He did a year at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and one or two roles at the National Theatre. He also has a flair for languages, everything from Irish to Russian.”

“All very impressive, sir, but he still ended up shooting people for the Provisional IRA.”

“Yes, well that was because his father, on a trip home to Belfast, got caught in some crossfire and was killed by a British Army patrol. Dillon took the oath, did a fast course on weaponry in Libya, and never looked back.”

“Why the switch from the IRA to the international scene?”

“Disenchantment with the glorious cause. Dillon is a thoroughly ruthless man when he has to be. He’s killed many times in his career, but the random bomb that kills women and children? Let’s say that’s not his style.”

“Are you trying to tell me he actually has some notion of morality?”

Ferguson laughed. “Well he certainly never played favorites. Worked for the PLO, but also as an underwater specialist for the Israelis.”

“For money, of course.”

“Naturally. Our Sean does like the good things in life. The attempt to blow up Downing Street, that was for money. Saddam Hussein was behind that. And yet eighteen months later he flies a light plane loaded with medical supplies for children into Bosnia and no payment involved.”

“What happened, did God speak down through the clouds to him or something?”