Rain on the Dead (11 page)

“Need assistance for that, but when I want to, I can summon
the whole world to my screens. As you see, I’ve been looking at our target for today, your cousin Tod Flynn.”

“So I notice,” Dillon said. “And that’s Aunt Meg with him, young Hannah when she was fourteen, his brother Peter and his wife.”

He turned away, poured tea into a mug, laced it with whiskey, then helped himself to one of Roper’s cigarettes.

“Poor old Sean,” Roper said. “Family is everything when you come down to it. You don’t like to think about what happened shortly after that photo was taken. The car bomb that killed your cousin Peter and his wife and crippled their daughter.”

Dillon showed no emotion. “It was Tod’s car they were in, the bomb obviously meant for him. He was a big name in his day and very important to the Provos. There would have been plenty of people with a score to settle.”

“And what do you know about this?”

The screen showed Tod’s brother standing before a pillared entrance, a neon sign above it that said
Flynn’s.

“Do you recognize that?”

“Only by the photo. Although he’d inherited Drumgoole Place, it was never enough for him. He left his wife and Aunt Meg in charge and made for Belfast, which was a wide-open town during the Troubles. He hadn’t the slightest interest in politics. Everything was business and making a buck.”

“Which was why he leased an old cinema and converted it into a ballroom?”

Dillon nodded. “It was also during the final two years of the peace process, which finally released men like Tod and Kelly from the Maze. I’d moved abroad by then to assist other people with their problems.”

“Yes, well, we won’t go into that,” Roper said. “Were you aware that the ballroom business was only a front for Peter Flynn, who controlled a mini drug empire from the premises, made a great deal of money, and got away with it?”

“No, I didn’t. I was too busy being chased by the Royal Ulster Constabulary and the British Army while I was still in Ulster.”

“Do you think Tod Flynn knew?”

“I’ve no idea. Life was confusion in those days. I heard that Peter closed down the ballroom and returned to Drumgoole, where he eventually offered a home to Tod and Kelly when they got out of prison. They worked on the stud farm and used the address to offer their services as security specialists.”

“So what do you think about what happened to Peter and his family?”

“I’ve told you. It was Tod’s car which Peter had borrowed. Whoever it was got the wrong target.”

“Which must have left Tod riddled with guilt and feeling somehow responsible, especially since he had to know others in the family saw it that way, too, including the niece.”

Dillon poured another cup of tea. “I’m sure that’s true, but what’s your point, Giles?”

“That my screens tell another story. Try this one.”

The film that appeared showed the Orange Drum, and was obviously a few years old and in black and white. An old Rover saloon appeared, braked to a halt, and Fergus Tully got out, followed by a teenage girl. Frank Bell came around from the other side to join them and they walked toward the camera, smiling and chatting.

“You’ll know these people, I presume?”

“Oh yes,” Dillon said. “The ugly bastard is Fergus Tully, known
to the press as the Shankhill Butcher, one of the most feared hit men in the UVF. The teenage girl is his daughter Myra, so that footage must have been taken many years ago. She’d be about forty now.”

“She is indeed. Has lived in London for some years, but we’ll leave her for the moment. What about the other?”

“Frank Barry, the brains of the duo, also UVF. But what’s the point of all this?”

“Peter Flynn had decided to return to the drug scene, but times had changed, there were others in the gang now, and he wasn’t wanted. At that time, most of the good stuff was coming in from Holland, where al-Qaeda had organized the delivery system very successfully. Now Peter was going to ruin everything by trying to muscle in, so AQ decided he had to go.”

“So that’s where Tully and Bell came in?” Dillon asked.

“I’m afraid so, Sean,” Roper said. “Who owned the car had nothing to do with it. Peter was the target, al-Qaeda behind it.”

“And the fact that his wife and fourteen-year-old daughter were with him didn’t bother those bastards in the slightest.” Dillon’s face was dark.

Roper said, “What goes around, comes around, but we’ve got other fish to fry today. We’ll think of something special for Tully and Bell another time.”

“You can count on that, I promise you. What were you going to say about Myra?”

“She went to London years ago and married a cousin, Brendan, so she’s still a Tully. He was more Cockney than Irish, a gangster from childhood. He’s working his way through a fifteen-year sentence for a failed gold robbery at Stansted Airport two years ago. They’ve got him in Belmarsh.”

“So what’s she up to?”

“Running the crew while he’s away, from a dockside development about half a mile downriver from the Salters. Irish Wharf. What used to be an old pub called the Sash.
She’s turned it into a nightclub.”

“God save us, with a name like that, it can only be a Protestant pub.” Dillon laughed. “Just like Belfast. Are you sending a digest of all that up to Ferguson’s office?”

“He isn’t there. He got a text at one o’clock to say the Prime Minister wanted a breakfast meeting at Downing Street, so he decided to clear off to Cavendish Place. I’ll send it to him there.”

“And do the same for Sara and Billy. Some of the facts you’ve uncovered do make the situation at Drumgoole rather difficult. I’d like them to know exactly what they are getting into.”

“That makes sense,” Roper said.

“I’ll see you later.”

—

In the kitchen of the Orange Drum, Fergus Tully made toast and tea with a shot of whiskey in it and stood at the kitchen window in pajamas and a robe, looking out at a gray morning which threatened rain, not that such a prospect bothered him. He liked rain, always had, and his daughter had been the same, and the thought made him decide to phone her, and he took out his mobile and did just that.

During her husband’s first year in prison, Myra Tully had taken the opportunity to completely refurbish the Sash,
and that had included a bedroom for herself, very luxurious although a touch gaudy.

She reached for her mobile and said, “It’s only six o’-bloody-clock. Who is this?”

“Sorry, my love, have I disturbed you?”

The Belfast accent alerted her at once. “What is it, Da? Is there a problem?”

“Not at all. I’ve got a busy day ahead and I just wanted a word.”

The man next to Myra was around forty, with a military mustache and a boxer’s face and a lot of muscle, an East End hard man of the finest vintage. “Stir yourself, Terry, and get me some coffee. It’s me da.”

Terry Harker made no complaint, simply rolled out of bed and made for the door. She pulled a pillow behind her, reached for a cigarette, lit it and sat up. She was handsome rather than beautiful, with jet-black hair framing a fierce face.

“Are you in trouble, Da?”

“Not at all, my love, just bringing you up to speed.”

At eight, she had lost her mother to pancreatic cancer, which had taken only three months to kill her. Fergus Tully, a monster to everyone else, was to her the perfect father and she was fiercely protective of him. There were no secrets between them, and they’d discussed his doings from an early age.

“Something’s happening. What is it?”

“Remember the job Frank and I did for al-Qaeda four years ago, where that Master fella rang up out of the blue?”

“Course I do. The car bombing. Peter Flynn.”

“Well, I’ve heard from them again, a different Master, that they want us to get rid of Tod Flynn, the brother. A damn Provo who was in the Maze same time as me and Frank.”

The door opened and Terry appeared in his underpants, with a
coffee and tray that he put down beside her. She waved him away and he went out. “So what’s the score, Da?”

“One hundred thousand dollars down and another hundred to come if we fix Tod Flynn and the girl, his niece.”

“Is that necessary?”

“He said she was a serious threat and if we didn’t want to do it, he’d go elsewhere. He only gave us three days to make up our mind, so we’re going today. It’s a horse farm in Drumgoole well over the border in the republic. Three or four hours’ drive if we’re lucky. Do I have your blessing?”

“You always have that, Da, and this is a big one, so take care.”

“One thing—believe it or not, but Tod Flynn’s cousin is Sean Dillon.”

“God in heaven, does that Provo bastard have anything to do with this?”

“Not that I know of, but I imagine he wouldn’t be pleased with what we’re about to do. I’ll stay in touch.”

He was gone, and she sat there thinking about it. A big payday, no doubt about that, and the girl’s involvement didn’t bother her in the slightest. The door opened and Terry entered.

“Everything okay?”

“Couldn’t be better, so get back in bed and find something useful to do.”

—

When Dillon reported to the computer room just before nine, he was wearing a dark blue Bugatti anorak, weatherproof country slacks in the same color, paratroop boots, and a tweed cap, Irish style.

Roper said, “You should offer yourself out to do whiskey adverts in the better magazines.”

“Very funny,” Dillon told him. “But the kind of country we’re visiting, and in this kind of weather, can be very unforgiving. I’ll need transport, so you’ll have to find me a driver.”

“Sara called in. She’s on her way now in your Mini. You’re carrying?”

“Of course.”

“Canvas holdall by the door. I spoke to the armorer. You’ll find two AK-47s, the silenced versions with the folding stock.”

“Do you think we’re going to war, then?” Dillon asked.

“I’d say Flynn’s too sensible to start one. All he’s got to do is stand his ground. After all, there’s nothing he and Kelly can be charged with.”

Dillon shrugged. “But we know differently, and no harm in making that clear.”

Sara walked in, wearing a French beret and a Gucci coat in black leather. She looked fresh and alive, as if last night hadn’t happened.

“I overslept, and Sadie left me to it. We’d better get a move on. Where’s Ferguson?”

“Breakfast at Number Ten,” Roper told her. “Did you get my message?”

“It was the sound of my laptop receiving it that woke me up. I must say it makes things even more interesting.”

“So let’s get moving.” Dillon was impatient. “Billy will be wondering where the hell we are.”

“Actually, Billy
and
Harry will be wondering,” Roper told him. “Apparently, the old sod read the stuff I sent Billy and decided he should join the party himself.”

“And what does Ferguson think about that?” Sara asked.

“Why bother the man and him breakfasting with the Prime Minister?” Dillon demanded.

Roper smiled wickedly. “Exactly, so off you go and enjoy yourselves. I’ll give him the good news at a more appropriate time.”

—

They found Harry and Billy waiting in the small departure lounge at Farley having a coffee. Billy, like Dillon, wore a tweed cap but a black bomber jacket and jeans. His uncle had preferred a brown county suit of Harris tweed, a Burberry mac, and a rain hat.

“Why, Harry, the complete country gentleman,” Dillon said. “I’d never have believed it.”

“Don’t mock,” Sara told him, and kissed Harry on the cheek. “I think you look terrific.”

“And so do you, darling, but Dillon here. How would he know any better? I mean, he’s bleeding Irish, isn’t he?” He tucked her hand in his arm. “So let’s get this show on the road,” and they led the way out and walked toward the Gulfstream.

At the Orange Drum, after his conversation with Myra, Tully went in search of Bell and found him in the garage in the back courtyard loading up the old and battered Jeep with the baskets and rods.

“So that’s our cover?” Tully asked. “Fly fishermen bent on a day out in the country?”

“Can you think of anything better when we’re venturing into a part of the Republic where strangers stand out like a sore thumb?” Bell asked. “So look the part of the tourist fisherman, wear your waterproofs, anorak, leggings, rain hat, the works. The way the weather’s shaping up, it will probably pour down at some stage anyway.”

“And what about weaponry? What have you decided?”

“Well, a car bomb is out. We’d never get close enough, and with the family history, I shouldn’t think any of them would get into any vehicle without giving it a thorough check.”

“So what do you intend?”

“Maybe I’ll go back to good old-fashioned sniping, and you know how good I am at that. I could use the weapon that got my dad through the Korean War with the Ulster Rifles.”

“Here we go again. The Lee Enfield bolt-action, standard-round, 303 rifle. Isn’t it time you moved on?”

“He killed a lot of Chinese with that weapon, and it saved his life on more than one occasion. You being such a lousy shot, I’ve got you a Mac 10 machine pistol. All you have to do is spray the target, but you’d never get close enough, so my way is better. If you look under the rear seat, there’s also a couple of British Army issue Browning pistols and plenty of ammo.”