On Dangerous Ground (5 page)

At the studio flat in Camden, Ahern stood in front of the bathroom mirror and rubbed brilliantine into his hair. He combed it back leaving a center parting, then carefully glued a dark moustache and fixed it in place. He picked up a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and put them on, then compared himself with the face on the security pass. As he turned, Norah came in the room. She wore a neat, black skirt and white blouse. Her hair was drawn back in a tight bun. Like him she wore spectacles, rather large ones with black rims. She looked totally different.

“How do I look?” she said.

“Bloody marvelous,” he told her. “What about me?”

“Great, Michael. First class.”

“Good.” He led the way out of the bathroom and crossed to a drinks cabinet. He produced a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses. “It’s not champagne, Norah Bell, but it’s good Irish whiskey.” He poured and raised his glass. “Our country too.”

“Our country too,” she replied, giving him that most ancient of loyalist toasts.

He emptied his glass. “Good. All I need is our box of cutlery and we’ll be on our way.”

It was around six-thirty when Ferguson left the Ministry of Defence with Hannah Bernstein and told his driver to take him to his flat in Cavendish Square. The door was opened by Kim, the ex-Ghurka Corporal who had been his manservant for years.

“Mr. Dillon has been waiting for you, Brigadier.”

“Thanks,” Ferguson said.

When they went into the living room Dillon was standing by the open French window, a glass in his hand. He turned. “Helped myself. Hope you don’t mind.”

“Where have you been?” Ferguson demanded.

“Checking my usual sources. You can discount the IRA on this one. It really is Ahern, and that’s what bothers me.”

“Can I ask why?” Hannah Bernstein said.

Dillon said, “Michael Ahern is one of the most brilliant organizers I ever knew. Very clever, very subtle, and very, very devious. As I told you, he doesn’t let his left hand know what his right is doing.”

“So you don’t think he’s simply shot his bolt on this one?” Ferguson said.

“Too easy. It may sound complicated to you, but I think everything from Quigley’s betrayal and death to the so-called accidental explosion of the Telecom van on the President’s route was meant to happen.”

“Are you serious?” Hannah demanded.

“Oh, yes. The attempt failed so we can all take it easy. Let me look at the President’s schedule.”

Hannah passed a copy across and Ferguson poured himself a drink. “For once I really do hope you’re wrong, Dillon.”

“Here it is,” Dillon said. “Cocktail party on the Thames riverboat
Jersey Lily
. The Prime Minister, the President and the Prime Minister of Israel. That’s where he’ll strike, that’s where he always intended; the rest was a smokescreen.”

“You’re mad, Dillon,” Ferguson said. “You must be,” and then he turned and saw Hannah Bernstein’s face. “Oh, my God,” he said.

She glanced at her watch. “Six-thirty, sir.”

“Right,” he said, “let’s get moving. We don’t have much time.”

At the same moment, Ahern and Norah were parking the Toyota in a side street off Cheyne Walk. They got out and walked down toward Cadogan Pier. There were police cars by the dozen, uniformed men all over the place, and at the boarding point a portable electronic arch that everyone had to pass through. Beside it were two large young men in blue suits.

Ahern said, “Secret Service, the President’s bodyguard. I think they get their suits from the same shop.”

He and Norah wore their identity cards on their lapels and he grinned and passed a plastic box to one of the Secret Servicemen as they reached the arch. “Sorry to be a nuisance, but there’s two hundred knives, spoons, and forks in there. It might blow a fuse on that thing.”

“Give it to me and you go through,” the Secret Serviceman said.

They negotiated the arch, and he opened the plastic box and riffled the cutlery with his hand. At that moment, several limousines drew up.

“For Christ’s sake, man, it’s the Israeli Prime Minister,” his colleague called.

The Secret Serviceman said to Ahern, “You’ll have to leave this box. On your way.”

“Suit yourself.” Ahern went up the gangplank followed by Norah. At the top he simply slipped through a door and, following a plan of the ship he had memorized, led the way to a toilet area.

“Wait here,” he told Norah and went into the men’s restroom marked number four.

There was a man washing his hands. Ahern started to wash his hands also. The moment the man left, he went to the red fire bucket in the corner, scrabbled in the sand, and found two Walthers wrapped in cling film, each with a silencer on the end. He slipped one into the waistband of his trousers at the rear and concealed the other inside his uniform blazer. When he went outside he checked that no one was around for the moment and passed the second Walther to Norah, who slipped it into the inside breast pocket of her blazer under the left armpit.

“Here we go,” he said.

At that moment a voice with a heavy Italian accent called. “You two, what are you doing?” When they turned, a gray-haired man in black coat and striped trousers was coming along the corridor. “Who sent you?”

Ahern, already sure of his facts, said, “Signor Orsini. We were supposed to be at the buffet at the French Embassy, but he told us to come here at the last minute. He thought you might be shorthanded.”

“And he’s right.” The Head Waiter turned to Norah. “Canapés for you. And wine for you,” he added to Ahern. “Up the stairs on the left. Now get moving,” and he turned and hurried away.

The Prime Minister and the President had already boarded and the crew were about to slip the gangway when Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah drew up in the Daimler. Ferguson led the way, hurrying up the gangway, and two Secret Servicemen moved to intercept him.

“Brigadier Ferguson. Is Colonel Candy here?”

A large, gray-haired man in a black suit and striped tie hurried along the deck. “It’s all right. Is there a problem, Brigadier?”

“These are aides of mine, Dillon and Chief Inspector Bernstein.” Behind him the gangway went down as the crew cast off and the
Jersey Lily
started to edge out into the Thames. “I’m afraid there could be. The explosion this morning? We now believe it to be a subterfuge. You’ve had a photo of this man Ahern. Please alert all your men. He could well be on the boat.”

“Right.” Candy didn’t argue and turned to the two Secret Servicemen. “Jack, you take the stern, George, go up front. I’ll handle the President. Alert everybody.”

They all turned and hurried away. Ferguson said, “Right, let’s try to be useful in our own small way, shall we?”

There was music on the night air provided by a jazz quartet up in the prow, people crowding around, mainly politicians and staff from the London Embassies, the President, the Prime Minister, and the Israeli Prime Minister moving among them, waiters and waitresses offering wine and canapés to everyone.

“It’s a nightmare,” Ferguson said.

Candy appeared, running down a companionway. “The big three will all say a few words in about ten minutes. After that we continue down past the Houses of Parliament and disembark at Westminster Pier.”

“Fine.” Ferguson turned to Dillon as the American hurried away. “This is hopeless.”

“Maybe he’s not here,” Hannah said. “Perhaps you’re wrong, Dillon.”

It was as if he wasn’t listening to her. “He’d have to have a way out.” He turned to Ferguson. “The stern, let’s look at the stern.”

He led the way to the rear of the ship quickly, pushing people out of the way, and leaned over the stern rail. After a moment, he turned. “He’s here.”

“How do you know?” Ferguson demanded.

Dillon reached over and hauled in a line, and an inflatable with an outboard motor came into view. “That’s his way out,” he said. “Or it was.” He reached over, opened the snap link that held the line, and the inflatable vanished into the darkness.

“Now what?” Hannah demanded.

At that moment, a voice over the tannoy system said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, the Prime Minister.”

Dillon said, “He isn’t the kind to commit suicide, so he wouldn’t walk up to him in the crowd.” He looked up at the wheelhouse perched on top of the ship, three levels of decks below it. “That’s it. It has to be.”

He ran for the steps leading up, Hannah at his heels, Ferguson struggling behind. He looked along the first deck which was deserted and started up the steps to the next. As he reached it, the Prime Minister said over the tannoy, “I’m proud to present to you the President of the United States.”

At the same moment as Dillon reached the deck he saw a waiter open the saloon door at the far end and enter followed by a waitress carrying a tray covered by a white napkin.

The saloon was deserted. Ahern moved forward and looked down through the windows to the forward deck where the President stood at the microphone, the British and Israeli Prime Ministers beside him. Ahern eased one of the windows open and took out his gun.

The door opened gently behind him and Dillon moved in, his Walther ready. “Jesus, Michael, but you never give up, do you.”

Ahern turned, the gun against his thigh. “Sean Dillon, you old bastard,” and then his hand swung up.

Dillon shot him twice in the heart, a double thud of the silenced pistol that drove him back against the bulkhead. Norah Bell stood there, frozen, clutching the tray.

Dillon said, “Now if there was a pistol under that napkin and you were thinking about reaching for it, I’d have to kill you, Norah, and neither of us would like that, you being a decent Irish girl. Just put the tray down.”

Very slowly, Norah Bell did as she was told and placed the tray on the nearest table. Dillon turned, the Walther swinging from his right hand, and said to Ferguson and Hannah, “There you go, all’s well that ends well.”

Behind him Norah hitched up her skirt, pulled the flick knife from her stocking and sprang the blade, plunging it into his back. Dillon reared up in agony and dropped his Walther.

“Bastard!” Norah cried, pulled out the knife, and thrust it into him again.

Dillon lurched against the table and hung there for a moment. Norah raised the knife to strike a third blow and Hannah Bernstein dropped to one knee, picked up Dillon’s Walther and shot her in the center of the forehead. At the same moment, Dillon slipped from the table and rolled onto his back.

It was around midnight at the London Clinic, one of the world’s greatest hospitals, and Hannah Bernstein sat in the first floor reception area close to Dillon’s room. She was tired which, under the circumstances, was hardly surprising, but a diet of black coffee and cigarettes had kept her going. The door at the end of the corridor swung open, and to her astonishment Ferguson entered followed by the President and Colonel Candy.

“The President was returning to the American Embassy,” Ferguson told her.

“But under the circumstances I felt I should look in. You’re Chief Inspector Bernstein, I understand.” The President took her hand. “I’m eternally grateful.”

“You owe more to Dillon, sir. He was the one who thought it through, he was the one who knew they were on board.”

The President moved to the window and peered in. Dillon, festooned with wires, lay on a hospital bed, a nurse beside him.

“How is he?”

“Intensive care, sir,” she said. “A four-hour operation. She stabbed him twice.”

“I brought in Professor Henry Bellamy of Guy’s Hospital, Mr. President,” Ferguson said. “The best surgeon in London.”

“Good.” The President nodded. “I owe you and your people for this, Brigadier, I’ll never forget.”

He walked away and Colonel Candy said, “Thank God it worked out the way it did, that way we can keep it under wraps.”

“I know,” Ferguson said. “It never happened.”

Candy walked away and Hannah Bernstein said, “I saw Professor Bellamy half an hour ago. He came to check on him.”

“And what did he say?” Ferguson frowned. “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”

“Oh, he’ll live, sir, if that’s what you mean. The trouble is Bellamy doesn’t think he’ll ever be the same again. She almost gutted him.”

Ferguson put an arm around her shoulder. “Are you all right, my dear?”

“You mean, am I upset because I killed someone tonight? Not at all, Brigadier. I’m really not the nice Jewish girl Dillon imagines. I’m a rather Old Testament Jewish girl. She was a murderous bitch. She deserved to die.” She took out a cigarette and lit it. “No, it’s Dillon I’m sorry for. He did a good job. He deserved better.”

“I thought you didn’t like him,” Ferguson said.

“Then you were wrong, Brigadier.” She looked in through the window at Dillon. “The trouble is I liked him too much and that never pays in our line of work.”

She turned and walked away. Ferguson hesitated, glanced once more at Dillon, then went after her.

THREE

AND TWO MONTHS LATER IN ANOTHER HOSPITAL, OUR Lady of Mercy in New York on the other side of the Atlantic, young Tony Jackson clocked in for night duty as darkness fell. He was a tall, handsome man of twenty-three who had qualified as a doctor at Harvard Medical School the year before. Our Lady of Mercy, a charity hospital mainly staffed by nuns, was not many young doctors’ idea of the ideal place to be an intern.

But Tony Jackson was an idealist. He wanted to practice real medicine and he could certainly do that at Our Lady of Mercy, which could not believe their luck at getting their hands on such a brilliant young man. He loved the nuns, found the vast range of patients fascinating. The money was poor, but in his case money was no object. His father, a successful Manhattan attorney, had died far too early from cancer, but he had left the family well provided for. In any case, his mother, Rosa, was from the Little Italy district of New York with a doting father big in the construction business.

Tony liked the night shift, that atmosphere peculiar to hospitals all over the world, and it gave him the opportunity to be in charge. For the first part of the evening he worked on the casualty shift, dealing with a variety of patients, stitching slashed faces, handling as best he could junkies who were coming apart because they couldn’t afford a fix. It was all pretty demanding, but slackened off after midnight.