Without Mercy (8 page)

Billy Salter was talking. “What’s going on? This bird, this Mary Killane. What’s the connection?”

It was Roper who intervened. “An IRA connection from childhood. Her father was a Provo hard man. He died of cancer years ago in the Maze Prison. The mother took the girl to Dublin when she was very young.”

“You’ve checked out what happened to her thoroughly?”

“Charles, I could tell you the schools she went to, where she trained as a nurse. All that.”

“Have you checked whether she was a member of the IRA herself?”

“As well as I could, and she wasn’t.”

“Was she a member of any political groups, anything like that?”

“As far as I can tell, which is considerable, she’s not a member of any group connected to Sinn Fein, I can guarantee that.”

It was Dillon who cut in. “She wouldn’t be. Her worth would be her being in the Republic and uninvolved. Going by her age, she’d be a sleeper.”

“What in the hell is a bleeding ‘sleeper’?” Harry asked.

“The new wave, Harry. Nice, decent professional people who work in hospitals or offices or universities, a lot of them London Irish. Born here, English accents. A perfect cover—until they’re activated.”

“In a way, that applies to you, Sean,” Ferguson said. “Your father brought you here as a little boy. Your education was English.”

“True. You don’t need an Irish accent to be Irish. The IRA discovered that with me a long time ago, and these days, it’s even more important. If you think they’ve given up, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“So Mary Killane’s task was to give Hannah Bernstein an overdose,” Ferguson said. “But why?”

There was silence. Roper said, “As a Special Branch Officer, Hannah not only put members of the IRA away, she killed them.”

“So what are you saying?” Blake said. “Somebody in the hierarchy waits until she’s almost dying anyway before deciding to have her put down?”

“Like a dog.” Dillon’s voice was almost toneless, without feeling.

Billy went to the bar and ordered more drinks. They were still sitting in silence when he returned. “Revenge is the only thing that makes sense. Whoever it was wanted their own back. Because of the IRA connection, we’re assuming it’s the IRA. But could she have been doing it for somebody else?”

One of the waitresses brought the drinks. Dillon looked at his Bushmills and swallowed it down. “Whoa, Billy. A girl like her, her whole background smacks of decency. I bet she went to Mass twice a week. And she’s a nurse, she chose a caring profession. A girl like that wouldn’t kill a fly normally. She would need strong persuasion to do what she did. When I was a boy, the Jesuits at school right here in London taught me an important thing. ‘By the small things shall thou know them.’ ”

It was Billy, in many ways Dillon’s other self, who said, “And the small thing here is the fact that her father was an IRA activist.”

“Who died in a British prison,” Roper said.

“A girl like her would need to believe fervently,” Dillon said. “She’d have to believe it was the right thing to do. A girl who goes to Mass? So what would make her do such a thing? She would need to believe it was acceptable, if you like.”

“A political act, in a way?” Roper said.

Ferguson shook his head. “An act of war.”

“Which explains why the IRA connection is so important,” Harry Salter said. “But who would it be? Who put her up to it?”

Roper said, “And then was reckless enough to knock her off afterward?”

Ferguson said, “Well, the Murder Squad is working hard at it.”

“They’ll get nowhere,” Dillon said bleakly. “You leave this with me. I’ll find the truth here, if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Nothing stupid, Dillon?”

“Oh, he’s always that,” Billy said.

Ferguson nodded. “Which leads us to a bit of business. The terrible thing that’s happened has left us shorthanded in my department. I could ask for someone from Special Branch to replace Hannah, but I’ve decided not to. Billy, you’ve impressed me, more than you know, in the past few years. You know what it entails, you’ve helped out enough, killed on many occasions.”

“Now you’re being nice to me. What is this?”

Ferguson took an envelope from his pocket. “In there you will find a warrant card making you an agent of the Secret Intelligence Service in my employ, filling the gap left by Superintendent Hannah Bernstein. The photo was easy. Blame Major Roper for obtaining the more complicated information.”

Harry Salter turned to Roper. “You conniving bastard.”

Billy said, “Shut up.” He took out the warrant card and opened it. He turned to Dillon, then back to Ferguson. “What is it the Yanks say? Proud to serve.”

“Excellent. Do remember one thing. When you present yourself at the Ministry of Defence, do wear one of your better suits. Dillon, of course, has his own standards. You don’t need to report at nine o’clock in the morning. I intend to be present at Golders Green at ten o’clock at Superintendent Bernstein’s interment. I’m sure I’ll see you there.”

Harry Salter said, “I think you’ll see us all there.” He turned to Roper. “Don’t worry about your wheelchair, old son. We’ve got a People Traveller thing. Takes eight. We’ll go together. What about you, Dillon?”

Dillon was very pale, his eyes dark holes. “I’ll see you there. I’ll make my own way.”

He went to the bar, got another drink and came back. Blake Johnson said, “I’d join you, but I’ve got a plane standing by. As I said before, my instincts tell me that some of the answers to the Belov affair might be found at Drumore Place. I was thinking of dropping in at Belfast Airport on my way back, hiring a car and driving down there, an American tourist on the way through to Dublin. How does that sound?”

“Jesus,” Billy said. “Are you sure?”

Dillon said, “Your plane is official, booked out by the Embassy?”

“Of course.”

“Right. We took out Kelly and his boys, but that still is IRA country. I’d take a Walther PPK for your armpit and a Colt twenty-five with hollow-point cartridges in an ankle holster. If they find the Walther, there’s a chance they’ll miss the Colt.”

“That bad?”

“I’ve said. It’s IRA country. Kelly’s gone, someone comes in to fill the vacuum.”

“Shall I go with him?” Billy asked.

“Don’t be silly. You’d spoil his American tourist image. We’ve got things to do here anyway. I’m leaving. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Dillon turned and left, and Levin, glancing up, caught his eye. Levin went back to his newspaper. Dillon, on his way out, frowned. There was something there, but he was tired and his brain wasn’t functioning as well as normal. There was a terrible pressure on him, his one thought Hannah and what had happened to her. All the violence, everything he’d done for Ferguson, the killings, the mayhem, and she had been thrown into it and Dillon, as he walked to the Mini Cooper, was left with the inescapable feeling that it had somehow been his fault.

Behind, as the rest of the group stirred, Levin got up and left. He went back to his Mercedes, got in and phoned Ashimov.

“Have I got news for you.”

Ashimov was sitting after dinner beside the open fire in the Great Hall of Drumore Place with Greta and Liam Bell. “Tell me,” he said, and listened. After a while, he said, “Excellent. You stay on in London and keep a close eye on Dillon. Leave Blake Johnson to me.”

He switched off, turned to Bell and Greta and said, “We’re going to have an interesting visitor. One of President Jake Cazalet’s most trusted associates.”

“What’s he coming for?” Greta asked.

“To find out what’s happened here since Kelly and the rest of us faded from the scene.”

He told her what Levin had heard. “He’s good—damn good, but so is Blake Johnson. I’ll pull his photo out of the computer for you,” he told Bell. “A war hero in Vietnam, then the FBI, now the President’s most trusted security man.”

“We’ll give him a warm welcome,” Bell said.

Greta put in, “If he sniffs around and finds nothing, wouldn’t that be better?”

“Possibly.” But Ashimov’s eyes were glittering. “All right, we’ve seen off Bernstein, but what a coup to get Johnson. That would really hurt Cazalet, hurt all of them.” He turned to Bell. “We’ll make a decision when he turns up tomorrow.”

“I’m your man,” Bell said, and finished his drink.

IRELAND - LONDON

Chapter 5

For Blake, it started early the following morning. His first stop was the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square to call on the Ambassador, as a matter of protocol.

The Ambassador was all cordiality. “I appreciate we haven’t been able to do much for you this time, Blake. It’s a matter of security, I understand.”

“Absolutely,” Blake told him. “A matter under presidential warrant.”

“With you, that usually means dealings with Charles Ferguson. I notice your Gulfstream is using Farley Field, that small RAF base Ferguson uses for his special operations.”

“That’s right.”

“Enough said. My transport people tell me you have a stopover in Belfast.”

“A visit to make. I’ll only be on the ground a few hours.”

“Blake, we first knew each other in Saigon thirty-five years ago. I know what kind of visit you make.” He came round the desk and embraced Blake warmly. “God bless, my friend, and take care. My regards to the President.”

An Embassy Mercedes and a chauffeur took him from there to the chapel in a very short space of time. It stood on the edge of the cemetery and there were a number of limousines parked outside, drivers in uniform standing around. A large notice at the door said “Private Bereavement.” Blake went in and found a modest company assembled. Rabbi Bernstein was being helped by another rabbi who was wearing black ribbons and handing them out to people who were obviously family members up at the front, who pinned them to their clothes. The coffin was very plain, in accordance with Jewish custom, and closed.

Ferguson, the Salters and Roper stood at the back of the pews, Dillon slightly apart, though Billy Salter stood close to him. They both wore black suits and ties and crisp white shirts, and looked like the Devil’s henchmen. In a strange way it was as if they were brothers, faces bone white, skin stretching taut over cheekbones.

A eulogy was made. The other rabbi whispered to Bernstein, who made a hand motion. He said to the assembly, “My grief speaks for itself that my beloved granddaughter is taken too early. There is one person who knows her worth more than most.” Billy turned to look at Dillon, but Bernstein carried on, “Major General Charles Ferguson, for whom she worked, on secondment from Special Branch, for a number of years.”

Ferguson walked down the aisle and joined the two rabbis. “What can I say about this truly remarkable and gifted human being? A scholar of Oxford University who chose the life of a police officer, who placed her life at risk, who was wounded more than once, who rose to the rank of Detective Superintendent in Special Branch—these are extraordinary achievements.”

Dillon took a step back, Blake was aware of that. Ferguson turned to Bernstein and said, “Rabbi, excuse me if I preempt your role, but I must quote, with your permission, from Proverbs.”

“With my permission and my blessing,” Julian Bernstein told him.

In a strong voice, Ferguson said, “A woman of worth who can find; for her price is far above rubies.”

Dillon took a huge, choking breath, stepped even farther back, turned and went out, and Billy went after him.

Dillon was standing by the Mini Cooper. It had started to rain. He took a trench coat out and pulled it on. Billy waved to Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, who were standing by the People Traveller, and Hall produced a large black umbrella and hurried over, opening it. Dillon lit a cigarette, hands shaking.

Billy held the umbrella over him and said to Baxter, “Get the flask out.” Baxter did and Billy said, “Bushmills. Get it down.” Dillon stared at him vacantly. “She’d expect you to.”

Dillon swallowed. He paused, then had another swallow. He shook his head, face flushed. “Tell me, Billy, why does it always rain at funerals?”

“I’d say it’s because the script demands it. It’s life imitating art. You want another one?”

“Maybe just one.”

At that moment, Igor Levin arrived late. He parked and went forward to the entrance, glanced briefly at Dillon, then went on. There was something more, Dillon was aware of that, but his emotion was too great. He drank a little more Bushmills and returned the flask to Joe Baxter, and a moment later people emerged from the chapel.

There was a family plot, the open grave ready. People huddled round, a festoon of umbrellas against the rain. Dillon and Billy stood at the rear, Ferguson and company on the other side, Levin hidden amongst a group of friends, the umbrellas concealing everything.

As the coffin was lowered, the other rabbi put an arm around Julian Bernstein and said in a loud voice, “May she come to her place in peace.”

Dillon turned to Billy. “I’m out of it. The rest is for family. The Kaddish, the prayer for the dead, I’ve no business with it. I’m not sure if I was even a friend.”

“Come off it, Dillon, she thought the world of you.”

“Not really, Billy. I brought her too much grief. I can’t get that out of my head. I dragged her into one lousy job after another.”

“No place she did not willingly go, Dillon.”

“So why do I feel so bloody guilty?” He got in the Mini Cooper. “I’ll be in touch, Billy.”

Blake Johnson hurried over and leaned down. “Sean, are you okay?”

“See you, Blake. Take care in bandit country.”

He drove away. Blake said, “What do you think?”

“A volcano waiting to explode.”

“I thought so. Anyway, I have to go now.”

“Take care in Ireland.”

“I will.”

Blake went to his limousine and was driven away. Levin, standing nearby, anonymous in the umbrellaed crowd, had heard the exchange between Blake and Billy. Now he returned to his Mercedes and phoned Ashimov, telling him of events at the funeral.

“So, he’s on his way?” Ashimov asked.

“So it seems.”

“Well, we’ve passed a computer printout of his photo to the lads. I think he’s assured of a warm welcome.”