The Killing Ground (23 page)

R O P E R R E C E I V E D T H E C A L L from Killane at one-thirty. He was having a conference meeting with Ferguson, Dillon, Billy and Greta. Doyle and Henderson stood against the wall.

Ferguson had just said, “Right, people, I want to bring you all up to speed on the present situation.”

The phone went and Roper flicked it on to open transmission. Levin said, “Roper, it’s me, Levin. Can we talk?”

“If you don’t mind the entire firm hearing. Everybody’s here.”

“Fine by me. Very convenient, actually. Volkov tried to stitch me up royally, with the assistance of Michael Flynn.”

“Stitch you up how?” Ferguson demanded.

“Oh, the coffin lid being slammed down firmly. Would you be in-

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terested to know that Flynn is going to take over all security services at Belov International?”

“Yes, I damn well would,” Ferguson replied. “Tell me more.”

Which Levin did. Everything that Mary O’Toole had told him, the Popov betrayal, the shootings at Riley’s Bar.

Dillon broke in, “So you’ve two bodies lying there. Does that give you a problem?”

“No. It seems in Flynn’s original discussion with Riley, Flynn told him the usual people would pick my body up. Now they’ll have two. I always thought Popov would come to a bad end.”

“Damn Judas,” Dillon said. “Why do you think Mary O’Toole told you everything?”

“Interesting, that. She said that for a man who had been chief of staff of the Provisional IRA, he was a disgrace. Then I recalled Popov telling me once that her father was IRA and killed in a gunfight with Brit paratroopers in Ulster.”

“God save us, but that kind of Fenian female can be harder than an Orange Presbyterian. Make sure she’s safe. You owe her, big-time.”

“I will, be sure of that.”

Roper said, “So where are you now?”

“A flying club at Killane outside Dublin. Under the circumstances, Chomsky and I have decided to come over.”

It was Greta who broke in now. “Does that mean what it sounds like?”

“Greta, my love, I’m bored. Dublin is totally charming, one of the world’s great cities, but I pass my days in idle pleasure.”

“I would say that sounds unlikely, based on what you’ve told us,”

Ferguson said. “But if what you’re trying to say is that you and Sergeant Chomsky are seeking employment, I welcome you with open arms.”

“Are you sure of that, General?”

“All sins forgiven. You’re booking a plane from Killane?”

“That’s right.”

“Do bring your British passports. I know you have a selection, but

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I’d prefer it, and tell your pilot to call his details ahead and he’ll be welcomed at Farley Field.”

“We’ll see you soon, General.”

The deaths of Riley and Popov had not yet become known and Flynn had not returned to Scamrock Security. Mary O’Toole pulled on her coat, picked up her handbag and made for the door, when the phone rang on her desk.

She picked it up. “Mary O’Toole? It’s Levin.”

“I was just leaving, Flynn’s not back.”

“I trust you’re leaving for good? You saved my life, Miss O’Toole, but so long as you’ve gotten rid of any evidence of your involvement, you should be safe enough.”

“I’ve left my notice on his desk. To be honest with you, I think he’ll be glad to be shut of me. We had an affair, I was his leavings, but that wasn’t the reason I did what I did. When I think of my dad and what he stood for, and Flynn and his scheming and rottenness, I had to tell you.”

“Very quickly. Do you live alone?”

“Yes—I rent a flat only fifteen minutes’ walk from the office.”

“Do you have a passport?”

“Of course I have.”

“You have done me the greatest favor in my life and I must repay the debt. I’m at Killane, twenty minutes outside the city at the Aero Club.

Chomsky and I are going to fly to England in a private plane. I think you’d be better out of things for a while, just in case. You’re perfectly welcome to join us. London’s a big place. Easy to lose yourself.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Absolutely. Do you have cab fare?”

“Of course I do. There’s a rank outside the office. I’ll get a driver to take me home and wait for me.”

Levin put his mobile away and, standing at the counter of the small bar, Chomsky ordered two vodka shots. He raised his glass. “To a nice girl called Mary O’Toole, who did the right thing.”

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“And thank God for it,” Levin said.

They moved out into the entrance and found Magee, the chief pilot, standing under the canopy out of the rain, smoking a cigarette and chatting to a young pilot named Murphy. They stopped their conversation.

“Have you sorted it out yet?” Magee asked Levin.

“Three passengers—destination, Farley Field, in Kent, just outside London. It’s all fixed up. We’re expected.”

“I don’t know that one. Check it on the screen, Murphy.”

Murphy returned in a few moments. “It’s there, all right, and classified restricted.”

“Did you send our names?” Chomsky said, the efficient sergeant taking over. “Look again, I’ll come with you.” And it was there on the screen.

Captain Igor Levin and Sergeant Ivan Chomsky.

Magee looked. “My God, you must have some pull for a place like that. I think I’ll do the flight myself. You can come with me,” he told Murphy. “A couple of nights in London will do us good. We’ll take the King Air.” He turned to Levin, “Turbo prop, but it gets you there nearly as fast as the jet and the seats are bigger. What about the other passenger?”

“A lady. She’ll be here soon.”

“Is she on the classified list?”

“Thanks for reminding me. Are you?”

“As we both served in the RAF, I expect so.”

Roper answered at once. Levin said, “The girl, Mary O’Toole. I’ve de -

cided to get her out of here fast in case of any trouble from Flynn, so we’ll give her a lift. Will that be okay?”

“Certainly. I was talking to Harry. He says he really owes you one. If you hadn’t come up with the story, he could have had Jimmy Nolan and Patrick Kelly visiting with maybe a bomb and certainly guns.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t have known if it hadn’t been for the girl. If he wants to do anyone a favor, he can help her get a job.”

“Yes, that makes sense. I’ll see you at Holland Park.”

“You mean I can’t stay at the Dorchester anymore?”

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“Look on it as a debriefing. Anyway, the safe house is a bit like a hotel these days.”

A little later, Mary was delivered in her taxi. She had only one small suitcase and a handbag. She was excited. “I’m traveling light.”

“Any sign of Flynn?” Levin asked.

“Not when I left.”

“Let Ivan have your passport. He’ll put your details through.”

She went off with Chomsky, leaving her case by the door. Murphy picked it up. “That’s women for you. There could be a bomb in there.

They never learn.”

“No, they never do,” Levin said with some irony, took Mary’s case from him and went to join them.

Magee was finishing some sort of documentation at the desk and suddenly they were all together. “Okay, folks, follow Murphy. I’m right behind.”

They went out to the runway, and the King Air was there in the rain.

Murphy got a couple of golfing umbrellas from a stand by the door and they walked under their shelter together toward the plane. Levin was smiling, and so was Chomsky when he glanced at him. It was behind them, what had been. What was ahead was a new chapter, and that could mean anything.

C A L L E D B Y T W O of his collectors, as he thought of them, to Riley’s Bar, Michael Flynn was confronted by the bodies of Riley and Popov and couldn’t believe what he saw. Riley was a creature of almost Dickensian evil. He had murdered many times, both men and women, available to whoever was capable of paying him; a butcher, allowed to exist by the IRA in the hard times because of how useful he was. Even his presence had terrified people, and here he was with two bullets in him. His collectors were a couple on the same level as Riley. “Can’t believe it, Mr.

Flynn. Riley murdered. I never thought I’d see the day.”

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Flynn would hardly have described Riley’s death in quite that way.

“He’s finally dead and that’s it. Get him in the body bag.”

“And the other? His papers are here. Funny name.” One of them handed over Popov’s empty wallet.

Flynn said, “I’ve told you before. Keep the cash, but not credit cards or any identity stuff. I’ll dispose of those.”

The man gave them to him. “It’s lucky we had another body bag in the van.”

“Where will you put them?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to know that, Mr. Flynn.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” He took a bulging envelope from his pocket, stuffed with euros.

“It was supposed to be one, Mr. Flynn. Riley was extra.”

“So I’ll give you extra next time. Now get on with it,” and Flynn left them.

He found his car and drove away. It was unfortunate for Popov, but God alone knew what had happened to the man Levin. He’d have him checked out. He was annoyed with himself that his first attempt to do Volkov a good turn had ended in failure, but there was no need to tell the Russian for the moment.

A T T H E G R E E N T I N K E R at about two-thirty, the snug was down to old Bert Fahy behind the bar and two aging men enjoying a beer. Nolan and Kelly had been making calls, and the result was two cars turning up outside and four men entering the snug, one after the other.

They were all from Kilburn, the Irish quarter for over a hundred and fifty years, which is why its inhabitants were known as London Irish and hard men. Hard and wild where Danny Delaney and Sol Flanagan were concerned. They were the same age, twenty-five, wearing loose, flashy suits in the Italian style, their hair just a little too long. In both cases, drugs were a priority, and they had a mad, dangerous look to them and a history mainly involving armed robbery.

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Jack Burke and Tim Cohan were very different, members of the IRA since their youth, veterans of that long struggle of what the Irish had always called the Troubles. Both were in their late forties, hard, calm faces giving little away. It was the first time they’d met as a group and there was a hint of contempt in the way the older men looked at the younger.

One thing was certain. The days of the IRA holding London in thrall were over, there was no disguising that by brave talk.

Danny Delaney said, “Jimmy Nolan told me he was bringing you in on this. Burke and Cohan.” He laughed, the slightly nervous giggle of somebody who was on something. “Sounds like undertakers.”

Flanagan said, “I heard you were with the crew who knocked off that Muslim travel agency in Trenchard Street the other week. These Pakis have real cash in those places.”

Delaney said, “I heard twenty grand.”

The two older men didn’t say a word and Bert Fahy spoke up as the two aging men left their beers and made for the door. “What’s it to be, gents?”

“Let’s just make it Bushmills whiskey all round, large ones,” Delaney said. “If we’re talking business, I like to keep a clear head.” He put a line of coke on the bar in an abstracted way, whistling cheerfully, and sniffed it and drank the glass of Bushmills that Fahy offered him.

“Now that’s what I call good stuff, man. Go on, have a go.”

Flanagan did, also pausing to down his whiskey. “That’s so great, man, let’s do it again.”

Burke looked on with obvious disapproval. “Rots the inside of your nose, I hear.”

“If you indulge enough,” Cohan observed.

Delaney was really on a roll. “Your travel agency. Reminds me of that Paki store we turned over the other week in Bayswater. Big bastard with a beard. Wouldn’t open the safe. Young girl was serving, one of those things on her face with only the eyes showing. I pulled it off, the veil. Real good-looker. I mean, I’d have given her one if I’d had time.” He took a pistol from his pocket, a silencer on the end. “Put 194

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her over the counter and shot her in her right bum cheek. She never even screamed.”

“That was shock, you see,” Flanagan said.

“But he got the safe open bloody quick after that,” Delaney said. “And there was only eight hundred quid in it. Must have been to the bank. I’d have given him one, too, only we had to get moving.”

Burke turned to Cohan. “The great days are behind us indeed, Tim, if this is what we’ve come down to.”

“So it would appear.”

“You wouldn’t know how to have a laugh if you saw one,” Delaney told him.

“And you wouldn’t know how to handle serious business if it hit you in the face, sunshine.”

Delaney giggled again. “Last of the old brigade, a sort of Dad’s Army of the Provisional IRA.”

Burke grabbed him by the lapels. “Don’t take the piss out of the IRA, boy. I did a stretch at Long Kesh, the Maze Prison itself. In five minutes you’d have been on your knees in the shower room begging. And I’ve got one of these, too.”

He produced a silenced pistol from his pocket and held it up. Delaney pulled away, higher than ever. “But is it as big as mine?”

The door to the office opened and Nolan appeared. “Cut it out. Get in here.”

Kelly was sitting on one end of the desk. On the wall behind was the material Flynn had sent on the computer. A row of photos, an information sheet under each one.

Ferguson, Harry Salter, Billy, Dillon and Roper in his wheelchair.

There was nothing on Greta Novikova, but Harry’s minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, were represented.

“They look like nothing much to me,” Flanagan said.

“I agree.” Delaney nodded.

Burke said, “I recognize that bastard, Ferguson. Years ago, he was a colonel in Derry when they lifted a bunch of us.”