The Killing Ground (25 page)

“So the bastards intend to show up at the pub?” Billy said.

“Well, it is Friday night, so don’t tell me you won’t be busy. He said the word was that most of you on that board had a habit of getting together at the Dark Man of an evening. The idea is they go along, famil-iarize themselves with the place, the surroundings. They’ve also been ordered to check out Ferguson’s house, and yours, Mr. Dillon. Obviously, Jimmy and Patrick do the same.”

“And then what?” Billy demanded. “Who gets it first?”

“Jimmy said after they’ve done all that I’ve told you about, they’d

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speak again. Oh, there is something else. Burke and Cohan—they’re like a lot of the boys are, the great days gone.”

“And they don’t like it?” Dillon said.

“They don’t care for the company they have to keep. They once had pride and now it’s gone.” He tapped out his pipe. “Would there be anything else?”

“You’ve told us a lot,” Dillon said. “And I suspect it’s all true. Why?”

“I’ve always admired you, Mr. Dillon. A great man and great for the Cause, but I haven’t done it for you, my reasons are purely selfish. Your friend here looks like the kind of fella who’d have beaten it out of me one way or another, and I’m getting too old for that.”

“Yes, you are, you old bastard.” Billy turned to Dillon. “Stick him in the back of the Alfa and take him to Holland Park. Put him behind lock and key until this is over.”

“Good on you, Billy.” Dillon patted Fahy on the shoulder. “Does it suit you? A comfortable safe house?”

“Well, I certainly won’t be safe here.” He led the way through the snug, pausing to take his coat from behind the bar. “I’ll just check on Michael.”

He led the way into the saloon bar, which was empty. He called, but there was no reply. “Maybe he’s gone to get his arm fixed.”

“Not your problem,” Billy said. “It’s the safe house for you. You’ll love it. Better than a hotel.”

D I L L O N R E P O R T E D I N T O R O P E R . “Are Harry and Ferguson still occu-pied elsewhere?”

“They haven’t contacted me yet. What have you discovered? Should we be worried?”

“See what you think,” and Dillon gave him a brief account of what had happened.

When he had finished, Roper said, “I’ll put them all through my 204

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computer, pull out photos and general information. Anything I can find.

It could be fun.”

“So you’re in favor of letting these six guys do some nosing around tonight and we don’t do anything about it.”

“I didn’t say that. From what your informant has told you, they are not supposed to do anything except size the situation up. What we’ve got to decide is what we do if things get out of hand. I’ll try and contact the General and Harry. After all, they are the main targets. I’d remind you the flight from Dublin is due in an hour. What do we do about that?”

“We’ll call in at Holland Park, drop Fahy off and take one of the People Travellers to Farley.”

“Greta got back an hour ago. She’s having a drink with me now. I think she’d like to greet her compatriots. It must be some Russian thing.”

T H E R E H A D B E E N H E A D W I N D S , which had slowed them down, but the King Air had performed well, and Levin, Mary and Chomsky, having discovered a bottle of champagne in an icebox, had consumed it between them.

“So what do you fancy putting your hand to, Mary?” Chomsky asked her.

“I’m beyond caring. Mind you, I have a degree in business studies and computer technology.”

“Well, in the world of today, you’ll never starve,” Chomsky told her, and turned to Levin. “Don’t you agree?”

Levin nodded. “All you need are the right connections and you’ve certainly got those. You not only saved my life but that of Harry Salter, and considering how much of the Thames waterfront he’s developed, I think he’ll find you something.”

“As long as you don’t mind being employed by one of the most prominent gangsters in London,” Chomsky said.

“This is nonsense,” Levin told him. “A girl with her background would fit particularly well in Harry’s world.”

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But now they were dropping through clouds, and there was London below, and they drifted across and then they were descending, and there was Farley Field and down they went to a perfect landing.

They rolled along the runway toward the terminal building, Magee following instructions. He switched off the engines and Murphy came and opened the door, and Magee followed. He said to Levin, “I was right about this place. Three RAF planes and two helicopters. You really are somebodies.”

“But you’ll never know who,” Chomsky said cheerfully, and followed Mary out.

The People Traveller stood beside the terminal building, Greta, Dillon, Billy beside it. Greta ran forward and flung her arms around Levin first and then Chomsky.

“You wonderful bastards,” she said and there were tears in her eyes.

“I never knew it would be so good to see you.”

“And if it wasn’t for this girl, I wouldn’t even be here. Meet Mary O’Toole,” Levin told her. Billy moved in quickly. “I’m Billy Salter, Harry Salter’s nephew. I think you’ll find he’ll show you his gratitude big-time.”

Dillon took her hand. “Sean Dillon.”

Her eyes widened. “Mother Mary, that I should see the day. I’ve heard of you since I was a young girl.”

“Well, you’ve seen me now so let’s get in and we’ll be away.”

Billy was at the wheel and as they drove off, Levin said, “What’s happening?”

So Dillon told him.

W H E N T H E Y R E A C H E D Holland Park they found Harry and Ferguson had arrived. Mary was introduced and Harry said, “You’re coming back with me, love, to my pub, the Dark Man. Our Ruby can look after you for a while until you decide what you want to do. Lots of opportunities in my personal empire. We’ve just got a few things to sort out here.” He 206

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turned to those assembled in the computer room. “Let’s see it again, Roper.”

Roper paraded Flynn’s crew across the big screen. The photos had been obtained from police files, those of Burke and Cohan being several years old. They had a certain rugged dignity that came with men who had believed they were fighting for a cause.

Delaney and Flanagan were a different proposition, cocky, smirking and, in most photos, obviously on something, drugs, alcohol or probably both.

“Give us your lecture, Major,” Ferguson told Roper.

“Delaney and Flanagan, shoot at will. On store robberies, they’ve gotten away with it through intimidation of witnesses.”

“And Cohan and Burke?”

“IRA foot soldiers for years, total professionals, and that means damned good at killing. Any psychological profile would tell you they don’t like robbing convenience stores for a living, but when you’re pushing fifty, men like that don’t have much choice.”

“It’s a point of view,” Ferguson said. “But I have little sympathy for them. You play that kind of game, you take the consequences when all is lost. Having said that, I intend to get out my nylon and titanium waistcoat, which fit quite snugly under my shirt when I last wore it.

Guaranteed to stop a forty-five-magnum round at point-blank range. I recommend those who have one to wear it until we have this matter sorted.”

“I agree,” Harry said. “It’s up to you, Dillon and Billy, of course. You can pull in Baxter and Hall as foot soldiers.”

“And as Captain Levin and Sergeant Chomsky have already been involved in the circumstances leading to all this, I’m sure they would be willing to assist.”

“No problem, General.”

“I’d like you and Chomsky to stay here for a few days for a thorough debriefing with Major Roper. After that, Harry’s suggested you move

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down to the warehouse development of his at Hangman’s Wharf, which you’ll remember from your visit last year.”

“I remember it well.” Levin smiled. “Quite convenient for the Dark Man.”

“Well, you would. I wouldn’t recommend you going for a swim in the Thames with your clothes on again. Wrong time of year.”

He went out briskly. Harry followed with Mary and Billy, who said,

“I’ll hand her over to Ruby at the pub and join up with you later.”

“Fine,” Dillon said, left Levin and Chomsky to Sergeant Doyle and went back to Roper, who had Greta with him. Dillon helped himself to a scotch.

“You’ve got a problem,” Greta said. “I can tell.”

“What would it be?” Roper inquired.

“Bert Fahy, the old man I brought in. He gave me a good story and I’m prepared to accept that it was true, but only as far as it went. It was a bit too pat. I didn’t quite buy what he said Nolan and Kelly would be doing.”

“Really? Well, we can’t have that.” He called up Sergeant Henderson.

“Bring our new guest in, Mr. Fahy.”

He was produced within five minutes, and the pleasant surprise the comfort of his quarters had given him disappeared rapidly when he found himself in a pool of light looking up to them.

“Fahy, you lied to me,” Dillon said. “The idea that Nolan and Kelly would go to the cinema before visiting us tonight is unbelievable.”

Roper broke in, “Which means you were concealing something else they intend to do.”

“God help me, sir, would I lie to Mr. Dillon?”

“All right, I won’t waste time. I will issue a warrant for your detention under the Anti-Terrorism Act, at Wormwood Scrubs Prison.”

Fahy almost had a bowel movement at the thought of incarceration in that dread institution. “No, sir, have pity on an old man, my memory plays tricks on me.”

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“Try again.”

“Well, Major, there’s the bar called Grady’s close to the Pool of London.”

W H E N H E W A S F I N I S H E D , Henderson took him back to his quarters.

Dillon said, “This could be a real break. I’m going to go and have a look.

Are you busy?” he asked Greta.

“Not until tonight. Molly Rashid’s on a night shift and she asked me to keep Sara company. The girl’s having difficulty relating to her father.”

“Maybe it’s the other way round. We’ll go in your Mini Cooper. I’ll see you in the car park and you later,” he shouted to Roper.

He went straight to his room, found his favorite Walther and went out to Greta, already at the wheel of the Mini Cooper.

“I remember all this when I was a kid with my father growing up in London,” he said as they made their way downriver. “The Pool of London, the docks, ships, crammed in everywhere, hundreds of enormous cranes. I don’t know if it was the biggest port in the world, but it should have been.”

“But you were Irish,” she said. “Why were you here at all?”

“My mother died, my father ran out of work in Ulster.” He shrugged.

“The Irish always had a big connection with London. Michael Collins was a civil servant in the post office here before he decided to change the course of Irish history.”

“It seems all changed now,” she observed.

“That’s development for you. A lot of the warehouses are apartment blocks like that one of Harry’s on Hangman’s Wharf, but there are still some streets and buildings that haven’t been touched.”

She had entered Canal Street into the satellite navigator in the Cooper, and they soon arrived there. There was a section of the docks in decay, a canal flowing down quite fast into the river, an ironwork footbridge leading across it and decaying working-class terrace houses, mostly boarded up and awaiting demolition, and the pub on the corner

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with a sign that said Grady’s Bar. The door was half open and an old lady with very white hair and an apron over a long black dress was polishing a brass knocker. Over the door was the usual board with the license details of the publican. It said Margaret Grady. She was perhaps seventy-five, her voice faded as if she wasn’t really here, the merest hint of an Irish accent.

“Can I help you? I don’t open till six o’clock. We’re a free house.”

“Of course,” Dillon said. “We weren’t looking for a drink.”

Greta joined in. “We were searching for Canal Street, but we’ve obviously found the wrong one.”

“Oh, there must be a lot in the telephone directory.”

“An interesting place,” Dillon said.

“In the old days it was quite thriving, with the ships and so on, but when they went, the life went out of everything. They’ve pulled down all the properties up there. We’re like an oasis. Another six months and that’s it. We were a lodging house for years.”

“I’m very sorry,” Greta said. “Do you get any customers?”

“Now and then, but there are days when there’s nobody. Still, the Council have promised me a place in an old folks’ home.”

There really wasn’t much to say. “We won’t hold you up anymore.”

Dillon smiled, and he and Greta went back across the bridge, down to the car and drove away.

“Back to Holland Park, quick as you like.”

“So you’re going to trace them, are you?” she asked.

“No, Greta, if things work out, I hope to dispose of them. A few old IRA hands who’ve met a bad end, and Scotland Yard will close the files with quiet satisfaction.”

“But Volkov will get the message.”

“And the Broker, which means al-Qaeda and Army of God. Greta, we’ve gone beyond negotiation. In the world of tomorrow that’s emerged in the last few years, we fight fire with fire or go under. You may think that strange coming from a man who was once an IRA enforcer, but that’s the way it is.”

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“I don’t think it’s strange—I think it’s ironic, that’s all.”

“Excellent, so keep driving and I’ll fill Roper in.”

B Y T H E T I M E they got back to Holland Park, it was just after five o’clock.

Roper had called in Billy, Levin and Chomsky. Greta said to Roper, “I’ve got this thing with the Rashids. I’ll call in later.”