Dead Halt

Chapter Five

The flying time by Concorde between New York and London is three and three-quarter hours.

Graham and Sabrina had spent the first hour of the flight assimilating the contents of the dossiers which Whitlock had given to them at the United Nations. Graham had then replaced the dossier in his overnight bag and promptly fallen asleep. Although tired, Sabrina had decided against trying to catch a couple of hours’ sleep as well. She knew from experience that she would only wake up feeling even more tired. She spent the remainder of the flight reading a paperback she had bought at JFK.

The rain splattered the window beside her as the Concorde began its final descent toward the runway at Heathrow Airport. She closed the paperback and looked out over the illuminated London skyline. It brought back so many memories. Good memories. Her father had been appointed to the Court of St. James’s as the US ambassador to Britain when she was ten years old and the family had spent eight happy years in London before returning to the States.

New York was unquestionably her favorite city. But London ran a close second. A home from home …

She turned to Graham and smiled faintly to herself. He looked so peaceful with his head nestled against her arm. She shook him gently. He stirred, muttered something under his breath, but his eyes remained closed. She shook him again. His eyes opened. He immediately sat up and glanced guiltily at her arm. She bit her lip to stop herself smiling at his obvious discomfort. He noticed the gesture and, to her surprise, gave her a wry grin. She could remember a time when he would have bitten her head off for less. He now seemed more at ease with those around him. But, more importantly, he seemed more at ease with himself. She sensed that he was beginning to come to terms with the guilt he’d felt over the loss of his family …

It was nine-fifteen p.m. by the time they were cleared through customs but there was still no sign of their contact, Inspector Keith Eastman of Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad. Graham went to collect their suitcases, leaving Sabrina to wait for Eastman. By the time Graham returned, Eastman had arrived. He was a tall, gangly man in his early forties with a pale complexion and short brown hair. Sabrina introduced him to Graham.

“You’ll have to excuse my not shaking hands, Mr. Graham,” Eastman apologized, holding up his black-gloved right hand. “An IED, an improvised explosive device, blew up while I was trying to defuse it. It cost me two fingers and part of my thumb.”

“Yeah, I read about it in your file,” Graham said. “You used to be a bomb-disposal man before you joined Scotland Yard’s anti-terrorist squad.”

“We prefer to call ourselves ATOs. Ammunition Technical Officers. I was with the Royal Army Ordnance Corps for five years, which included three tours of Northern Ireland. I came to know IRA tactics pretty well in that time. That’s why the anti-terrorist squad recruited me after I was retired from the army.”

“Is there any news of McGuire?” Sabrina asked as they walked toward the exit.

“His car was found abandoned in Dover this afternoon. My sergeant, John Marsh, has taken a team down there to check it out. It could be a decoy to make the IRA think he’s fled to the continent. We won’t know any more until John gets back.”

“When’s he due back?” Graham asked.

Eastman shrugged. “It all depends on what they find down there. That’s my car over there.”

They crossed to a white Ford Sierra and loaded the suitcases into the boot.

“I’d like to make a stop before I take you to your hotel,” Eastman said. “The pub McGuire frequents is in Soho. I’ve had it staked out all day but there’s been no sign of him. Not that I thought he’d show anyway. I’m more interested in the two friends he drinks with there, Frank Roche and Martin Grogan. They’re both expatriate Irishmen with strong Republican links. They won’t talk to me or any of my men, not with so many other villains in the pub. But they might talk to you.”

“And they might not,” Graham retorted.

“It’s worth a try,” Eastman said, glancing at Graham in the rearview mirror. He started up the car and headed toward the exit.

It had stopped raining by the time they reached Soho.

Eastman opened the glove compartment and removed two Beretta 92FS. “I was asked to get these for you. The shoulder holsters will be delivered to my office in the morning.”

“Are Grogan and Roche dangerous?” Graham asked, taking one of the Berettas from Eastman.

“Grogan’s been inside for armed robbery but I doubt he’d try anything,” Eastman replied. “But it’s best not to take any chances.”

“Agreed,” Sabrina said, pushing the Beretta into the pocket of her leather jacket.

“Do you want to take another look at their mugshots before you go in?” Eastman asked, indicating the envelope on the dashboard.

They shook their heads.

“OK, I’ll wait out here for you,” Eastman replied. “I’ve got a team staked out around the pub so if either Roche or Grogan try and make a run for it, they’ll be on hand to grab them.”

Graham and Sabrina climbed out of the car.

“You watch the back door,” Graham told Sabrina. He noticed her scowl. “You heard what Eastman said, the place is full of ex-cons. If you go in there they’ll be all over you, offering you drinks and God knows what else. What chance will you get to talk to Grogan and Roche in private?”

She knew he was right. “OK, I’ll take the rear door.”

“I’ll call you when I’m through.”

She disappeared up the alleyway at the side of the pub. Graham zipped up his jacket to conceal the Beretta tucked into his belt and entered the pub. The jukebox, situated near the door, was blaring out an old Robert Palmer hit. He slowly looked around the room. It was packed. He eased his way through the customers to the bar.

A barmaid immediately approached him. “What’ll it be, luv?”

Graham rarely touched alcohol. But considering the situation, and his surroundings, he asked for a beer.

“You’re an American,” the barmaid said with a quick smile.

“Yeah,” Graham muttered.

“We sell Budweiser if you want it.”

“Sure,” Graham replied absently as he scanned the faces around him. No sign of either Grogan or Roche.

“Where you from?” she asked, returning with a glass and a bottle of Budweiser.

“New York. I’m looking for a couple of guys. Martin Grogan and Frank Roche. Do you know if they’re here?”

“Martin didn’t come in tonight. Frank’s at his usual table over there,” she said, pointing into a crowd of customers.

“What does he drink?”

“Guinness,” came the quick reply.

“A pint of Guinness then.”

He paid for the drinks then made his way carefully through the crowd until he spotted Roche at a table in the corner of the room.

“Frank Roche?” Graham said when he reached the table.

Roche looked up sharply. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m a friend of Gerard McGuire’s,” Graham replied then placed the Guinness in front of Roche. He pulled up a chair and sat down.

Roche’s body tensed and his eyes automatically flickered toward the door.

“I have both the front and back doors covered,” Graham said, opening his jacket just enough for Roche to see the Beretta. “And you’d have to get past me first.”

“What do you want?” Roche asked, wiping a drop of sweat from his forehead.

“I’ve got five hundred pounds in my pocket for you. But how I give it to you is entirely up to you.”

“What do you mean?” Roche replied suspiciously.

“Well, if you cooperate I’ll pass it to you under the table. If not, I’ll make sure enough people around here know it’s for information you passed on to the cops. I don’t think they’d take too kindly to having a snitch in their midst, do you?”

“I ain’t no tout, mister,” Roche shot back, using the IRA’s term for an informer.

“Try explaining that to them,” Graham said, gesturing around him.

“You say you’re a friend of Gerry’s. How come I don’t know you?”

“I guess we just move in different circles,” Graham replied. “Where is he?”

Roche shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I hope not, for your sake.”

“Look, I don’t know where he is.”

“It’s your funeral,” Graham said, reaching into his jacket pocket.

“Wait!” Roche hissed. “I haven’t seen Gerry for a couple of days. I heard a rumor that he left town in a hurry last night. But I don’t know why or where he’s gone.”

“Has he got any close friends on the continent?”

“I don’t know all his close friends. I don’t know you, do I?”

“We were never that close,” Graham replied, then pushed aside his Budweiser and leaned forward on the table. “You didn’t answer my question. Is there anyone he’d go to if he were in trouble?”

“Is he?” Roche countered.

“Yeah.”

“Who with? The law?”

“The IRA,” Graham said.

“Jesus,” Roche muttered and rubbed his hands over his face. He looked up at Graham. “I’ve got nothing more to say to you, mister. I don’t want no trouble with the Provos.”

“It’s a bit late for that now. If word leaks back to them that you’ve been touting–”

“That’s a lie,” Roche cut in sharply.

“That’s not how they’d hear it.”

Roche was sweating. “OK, I’ll tell you what you want to know. Then you leave me alone.”

“Suits me,” Graham replied.

“He has a sister living somewhere in Belgium,” Roche said at length. “I don’t know where. He’s also got a couple of friends in France.”

“Names?”

“I don’t know. One of them lives near Paris. He’s a builder. That’s all I know about him.”

“And the other one?”

Roche shrugged. “I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t.”

“What about here in Britain?”

“Martin was his closest friend.”

“Martin Grogan?”

“Yes. They’re like brothers.”

“So I believe,” Graham replied.

“He lives in Stroud Green. Granville Road.” Roche looked around him nervously. “OK, I’ve kept to my side of the bargain. Now you keep yours. Get out of here and leave me alone.”

“One last question,” Graham said, remembering what Eastman had told him in the car. “Where’s this so-called safe house that only the three of you know about?”

Roche went pale. “How do you know about that?”

“I have my sources. But like everyone else, they don’t know where it is.”

“We’ve managed to keep its location a secret for the past six months. From the law and from the Provos. And I intend to keep it that way.”

“Fair enough. I’ll get on to my contact in Belfast. He’s just waiting for the word to stitch you up. You’ll be lucky to see out the week by the time the Provos have finished with you,” Graham said, making to get up.

“It’s a flat in Leyton,” Roche blurted out. “Fifty-six Mews Heights. Langthorne Road. Close to the cemetery.”

“That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Graham said, reaching for the money in his pocket.

“I don’t want your money, mister,” Roche spat indignantly.

“I know you won’t let on to the IRA about our little chat. You’d have too much explaining to do. But you might think about warning Grogan. If I find out you have contacted him, the Provos will receive an anonymous call tonight telling them that you’re a police tout.”

“Get out,” Roche snarled, stressing each word carefully.

Graham got to his feet, snaking his way through the crowd and out into the street. Eastman was talking to someone in the shadows of the alleyway across the street. Graham was curious as to who it might be but first he headed up the alley to find Sabrina. She was perched on the edge of a dustbin outside the back door.

“Well?” she asked, standing up.

“I spoke to Roche. It’s possible that Grogan may know where McGuire’s hiding out.”

“Was Grogan there?”

“No, but I’ve got the address.” They crossed the street to where the Ford was parked. “Who was that you were talking to when I came out of the bar?” he asked Eastman as they got back into the car.

“One of my colleagues. As I said, I’ve had a team watching the pub all day. They’re cold, tired and well pissed off that McGuire didn’t show.” Eastman started the car. “Any luck with the safe house?”

As Graham gave the address Eastman immediately set off for Leyton.

Martin Grogan was drunk. A bottle of whiskey stood on the table beside his chair. It was almost empty. He poured himself another measure then picked up the remote control and flicked through the channels on the television set. As usual, nothing worth watching. He cursed loudly but settled on a pop concert on Channel 4. Though he hated pop music the noise seemed strangely comforting.

He had been drinking steadily for most of the day in an attempt to forget. He was torn between two loyalties. A friendship and a cause. McGuire had been his best friend for over thirty years. They had grown up together in the slums of Belfast. A tough, uncompromising childhood. They had joined the IRA in their late teens and served in the same unit for eight years in their twenties. When McGuire decided to head for London five years earlier, it had seemed only natural for Grogan to go with him. Those were the good times …

Then McGuire had called him the previous evening. Distraught, agitated, and clearly in fear for his life. An IRA cell had just tried to kill him. Grogan didn’t believe it. Well, at least not at first. Why would the IRA want to kill one of their most trusted operatives on the British mainland? Then McGuire had told him. He had been a tout for the past two years. And now the IRA had found out about his deception. He begged Grogan to help him. He was his last chance. Although devastated by McGuire’s admission, Grogan had reluctantly agreed to take him some money and a change of clothing. But after that he was on his own. The friendship was over …

There was a knock at the door.

Grogan cursed angrily and got unsteadily to his feet. He tossed the remote control onto the chair and crossed the room to the door. “Who is it?” he demanded, his words slurred.

“Frank, Frank Roche,” came the reply.

“God, Frank, what do you want at this hour?”

“Open the door, Martin!”

Grogan fumbled with the latch and unlocked the door. The moment he opened the door it was kicked hard from the outside, sending him sprawling to the carpet. Kerrigan burst into the room and hauled him to his feet, punching him savagely in the stomach and forcing him to his knees. Grogan was retching convulsively, his hands clasped over his belly, his eyes unfocused and his expression bewildered. Kerrigan grabbed him by the hair, jerked back his head, and was aiming a punch at his exposed face when Fiona appeared in the doorway.

“That’s enough!” She looked the length of the deserted corridor then entered the flat and closed the door behind her.

“He’s pissed out of his mind,” Kerrigan said angrily, letting go of Grogan’s hair.

“Get him up.”

Kerrigan yanked Grogan to his feet.

“Where’s Gerry McGuire?” she snapped without looking around at Grogan.

“Gone,” Grogan muttered. He shook his head, desperately trying to clear his thoughts.

“Where?” Fiona asked.

“Far away from you,” Grogan replied with a sneer.

Kerrigan grabbed the whiskey bottle off the table and smashed it across the side of Grogan’s head. Grogan cried out in agony and clasped his hand over his ear. The blood seeped out between his fingers.

“Where?” she repeated calmly.

“I don’t know,” he whimpered. “Jesus, I don’t know.”

The two-way radio on Fiona’s belt crackled into life. She unhooked it and put it to her lips. “What is it, Hugh?”

“We’ve got company,” Mullen announced. “It could be the cops.”

“OK, we’re on our way. Drive round the back and wait for us there.” She clipped the radio back onto her belt. “McGuire must have said something about where he was going.”

“He didn’t,” Grogan replied in desperation. “All I did was bring him two hundred pounds and a change of clothes. He left straight away.”

“Describe the clothes,” Kerrigan snapped.

“Jeans. A white shirt. Leather jacket.”

“Color?” Kerrigan prompted.

“Brown.”

Kerrigan glanced at Fiona. She nodded. He hit Grogan in the stomach again and shoved him backward into the chair. Then, taking a Walther P88 from his pocket, he attached a silencer to the barrel and shot Grogan once through the heart.

“Let’s go,” she snapped, opening the door and peering out into the corridor. It was still deserted. Kerrigan pocketed the automatic and hurried after her.

The bell for the lift sounded at the end of the corridor just as Kerrigan closed the door behind him.

“Masks,” Fiona snapped, already pulling the balaclava from her pocket. She tugged it over her head then took a Heckler & Koch automatic from her pocket and hurried toward the fire exit. Donning his balaclava, Kerrigan followed her.

Sabrina was the first to emerge from the lift. Kerrigan fired then ducked through the doorway after Fiona. The bullet chipped the wall several feet wide of Sabrina. Pulling the Beretta from her pocket, she gave chase, Graham and Eastman running after her. Reaching the fire exit, she took up a position beside the door, then, slowly reaching out a hand, pulled the door open and swiveled around to fan the stairs with the Beretta. They were deserted. She ran through the doorway.

“You check the apartment,” Graham called to Eastman as he followed Sabrina down the stairs.

They reached the third-floor landing and Sabrina paused at the emergency door which was still closing slowly. They exchanged glances. Had the two masked figures fled along the third-floor corridor? Or was it a trick just to make Graham and Sabrina think they had gone that way? Graham pointed to the door. He would check it out.

Sabrina continued down the stairs. She heard the footsteps as she neared the first-floor landing. They were coming from the stairs below her. Then she heard the sound of a door being slammed back against a wall. She bounded down the stairs just as Kerrigan was about to disappear through the doorway.

“Freeze!” she ordered, levelling the Beretta at Kerrigan’s back.

Kerrigan stopped in his tracks and the door slowly closed in front of him.

“Drop the gun, now!” Sabrina ordered, slowly descending the stairs. “And get up against the wall, hands outstretched.”

Kerrigan made a show of releasing the Walther and it clattered noisily to the floor.

Fiona Gallagher, who seconds earlier had ducked through the door leading onto the first floor, appeared on the landing behind Sabrina. “Now you drop your gun,” she commanded, levelling her Heckler & Koch at Sabrina’s back. “And don’t try anything stupid. I wouldn’t miss from this range.”

Sabrina cursed angrily under her breath. She reluctantly let the Beretta fall from her fingers. Kerrigan quickly retrieved his Walther and pushed the Beretta into his belt. Fiona eased past Sabrina, the Heckler & Koch still trained on her. She reached the foot of the stairs and levelled the handgun at Sabrina. Suddenly the door at the top of the stairs was kicked open and Graham dived low onto the landing, the Beretta gripped in both hands. But he couldn’t get in a clear shot for fear of hitting Sabrina. Kerrigan got off two shots at Graham before Fiona grabbed his arm and bundled him through the doorway behind them. They clambered into the getaway car and the tires shrieked in protest as Mullen pulled away from the building. By the time Graham had got to the door the car was already out of range. He cursed furiously and holstered his Beretta again.

“You OK?” Graham asked, turning back to Sabrina.

“Sure.”

“Did they get your gun?”

She nodded grimly. “I can’t believe I allowed myself to be drawn into their trap so easily. Dammit!”

“Don’t blame yourself,” Graham said, putting a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “We have to take those kinds of risks. It’s all part of the job. You know that. Come on, we can’t do anything more here.”

They made for Grogan’s flat. Sabrina’s mind was racing. Why hadn’t Fiona Gallagher put a bullet in her when she had the chance? Had she intended to use her as a hostage? Or would she have killed her if Graham hadn’t showed when he did? There was a third possibility. One which seemed quite bizarre. Had she purposely let her live? The authorities have always been legitimate targets for the IRA. No, it didn’t make any sense. She couldn’t shrug off the lingering doubts in her mind but she decided against voicing her thoughts. They were best kept to herself.

Eastman was on the phone when they entered the flat. A blanket had been draped over Grogan’s body. Graham crouched beside the body and lifted the edge of the blanket. It had been a professional hit. He let the blanket drop back over Grogan’s face and stood up again.

Moments later Eastman replaced the handset. “Well, what happened?”

They told him.

Eastman moved to the window and looked down onto the courtyard below. “I’ll have to wait here and straighten things out with the local CID. I’ll arrange to have you taken back to your hotel.”

“Who else knew we were coming here tonight?” Graham asked.

Eastman frowned. “Just the three of us.”

“You didn’t mention it to any of your surveillance team?” Graham asked.

“What was the point? I had no way of knowing whether you’d find out about this place when you went into the pub tonight. It was a long shot that paid off. Unfortunately we got here just too late.”

“Exactly,” Graham agreed. “Only McGuire, Roche and Grogan knew about this flat. That much Roche told me. So don’t you think it a little strange that the IRA arrived on the scene only minutes before we did?”

“What are you getting at?” Eastman demanded.

“Well, if you didn’t tell any of your people we were coming out here, it only leaves us with two possible explanations. Either someone overheard me talking to Roche in the bar, which I doubt, or else your car’s been bugged.”

“That’s preposterous,” Eastman shot back. “Our cars are checked every morning by a team of specialists. It’s a security precaution.”

“And that includes debugging?”

“Everything,” Eastman retorted, holding Graham’s stare. “We’re a tightly knit team, Mr. Graham. We trust each other.”

“I’m glad to hear it. But it still doesn’t answer the question of how the IRA found out about this place within minutes of my telling you.”

“We’ll bring Roche in for questioning first thing tomorrow morning,” Eastman said at length.

“And have the car checked.”

“I’ll do it myself,” Eastman replied coldly then held out a hand toward Graham. “Or better still, we can have it checked out together. Would that satisfy you?”

“Mike’s not saying that any of your men are necessarily in league with the IRA,” Sabrina said, trying to defuse the sudden tension between the two men. “But let’s face it, it wouldn’t have been very difficult for the IRA to find out who was leading the murder investigation, would it? So if the car has been bugged, it’s more than likely that the transmitter was put in place after the car was checked this morning.”

“I’m not out to antagonize you, Inspector,” Graham assured him. “I’m just trying to look at the situation from a practical point of view.”

Eastman sighed deeply. “I know. I’m sorry if I got a bit edgy just now. I get very protective of my team. They’re a great bunch. And I know they’re all fiercely loyal to the unit.”

“I don’t doubt it for a minute,” Graham was quick to add.

“I’ll have the car put in the pound this evening. Nobody will be allowed near it until I get there in the morning.” Eastman crossed to the telephone again. “Well, I’d better ring for a car to take you over to your hotel. There isn’t much else either of you can do here tonight.”

Fiona Gallagher took a long hot shower after they returned to the boarding house in Cricklewood. Then, slipping on her robe, she wound the towel around her head and returned to her room. She closed the door behind her then sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed her hands slowly over her face. The Army Council, who were responsible for directing the IRA’s military operations, had put her in temporary charge of the unit while Farrell was in detention. They had put their trust in her. Their directive had been simple: silence McGuire. She wouldn’t let them down. And she knew she wouldn’t have any qualms about killing him either. He knew too much …

There was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” she asked.

“Liam,” came the curt reply.

Kerrigan. The man revolted her. She sometimes wondered just how she’d managed to stand him for so long. “What is it? I’m about to get ready for bed.”

“I want to talk to you, Fiona,” Kerrigan called out loudly. She could hear from his voice that he’d been drinking. He was known to be a heavy drinker but the Army Council had never cautioned him about it. He could hold his tongue when he drank and that’s all they were worried about. She knew he wouldn’t go away until he’d spoken to her. She tied the robe tightly around her waist then crossed to the door and opened it.

He pushed past her into the room. He had a bottle of brandy in his hand. She found it strange that a fiercely patriotic Irishman like Kerrigan loathed the taste of whiskey. Farrell had given him some stick about it in the past. But he was the only one who could get away with it. Nobody else dared, at least not to his face.

“What do you want, Liam?” she demanded, closing the door behind him. “It’s late and I want to get some sleep.”

“You want a drink?” he asked, holding out the bottle toward her.

“Just say your piece then get out!” she snapped angrily.

“My piece?” Kerrigan said, then sat down on the wooden chair by the window. “Why didn’t you kill that bitch tonight?”

Fiona controlled her anger. Kerrigan was trying to bait her. But she was damned if she would bite.

“Because it wasn’t necessary,” she replied matter-of-factly. “We’ve been given a directive by the Army Council. Find McGuire before the authorities do. And that’s what we’re going to do. With the minimum amount of bloodshed in the process.”

“I always thought you were spineless. This proves it.”

“I’d mind my tongue if I were you, Liam. You’ve already disobeyed orders when you shot those two undercover cops last night. It wasn’t part of the operation. You can be sure that will be in my report to the Army Council. And you’d have killed that couple as well if I hadn’t stopped you. You’re psychopathic, Liam, do you know that? Why do you think the Army Council turned you down when you put in a request to lead the cell in Sean’s absence? Because they couldn’t trust you to carry out their orders objectively and with the minimum amount of bloodshed.”

“I know Sean wouldn’t have chickened out like you did. He’d have put a bullet in her back without a second thought.”

“I’m not Sean,” she said softly. “But I am in charge of his cell and until he gets back you’ll do exactly as you’re told or else you’ll find yourself up in front of the Army Council on a disciplinary charge. And I don’t have to tell you how the Army Council views mutiny in the ranks. Now get out of here.”

Kerrigan’s hands were trembling with rage as he slowly got to his feet. He stood directly in front of her. “You think you’ve got it made, don’t you? Cute face. University degree. Screwing the Army Council’s blue-eyed boy. You may have taken Sean in, but your kind doesn’t fool me. Not for one minute.”

“My kind?”

“What would you call someone who’s slept their way into favor with senior management? In my books that’s a whore.”

She suddenly brought her knee up savagely into his groin. As he buckled over, groaning in agony, she brought her elbow up sharply against the side of his face. He crashed into the chest of drawers and the bottle slipped from his fingers as he fell to the floor.

Mullen heard the noise from the adjoining room. He dashed out into the corridor, burst into the room, brushed past Fiona and crossed to where Kerrigan lay.

“He’s out cold,” he said, looking up at her. “What happened?”

She told him.

Mullen sat down slowly on a chair and bit his lip anxiously. “What are you going to do? Have him replaced?”

She shook her head. “You know the orders. We’re only to contact the Army Council in an emergency. I don’t think they’d be too pleased to hear about this, do you? No, I’ll ask to have him replaced once we’ve seen this through.”

There was a knock at the door.

Mullen’s eyes flickered nervously from Kerrigan to Fiona. She crossed to the door and opened it. It was the manager of the boarding house.

“What’s going on in here?” he demanded, trying to peer over her shoulder into the room. “We’ve received several complaints from other guests about a loud noise coming from this room.”

She gave him a sheepish smile then stepped aside and pointed to Kerrigan. “We were having a few drinks in the room to celebrate his birthday. He had a little too much and passed out. He fell against the chest of drawers. Don’t worry though, the party’s over. I’m sorry if we disturbed the other guests.”

“Will he be all right?” the manager asked, looking over at Kerrigan.

She nodded. “He’s got a head like a Challenger tank. He’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you kept the noise down,” the manager said, glancing in Mullen’s direction. “There are other guests to consider as well.”

“We will,” Mullen promised him.

Fiona closed the door and looked around at Mullen. “Wake him up and get him out of here.”

Mullen filled a plastic cup with water from the sink in the corner of the room and splashed it over Kerrigan’s face. It took another minute before Kerrigan was finally able to sit up. A discolored bruise had already formed on his cheek where Fiona had caught him with her elbow.

“Let’s go,” Mullen said, reaching out a hand to help Kerrigan to his feet.

“I can manage,” Kerrigan snapped, but when he tried to get up a stabbing pain shot through his groin. He inhaled sharply then slowly got to his feet and moved gingerly to the door. He paused, his fingers curled around the handle, and looked around at Fiona. “This isn’t over, not by a long way.”

“It is for tonight,” she replied. “Now get out!”

She locked the door behind the two men then took the Heckler & Koch from her holdall. She paused briefly in thought. Kerrigan was a professional, surely he wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the operation? But could she be so certain? Her decision made, she put the automatic under the pillow. It made her feel more secure. She couldn’t afford to take any chances …

Paluzzi parked the car out of sight of the dockyard. He took the Beretta from the glove compartment, pushed it into his holster, then picked up the black holdall from the passenger seat and got out of the car. He glanced at his luminous watch. Eleven seventeen p.m. He was in good time. He avoided the main entrance, which was patrolled by an armed guard, and followed the perimeter fence until he reached a point opposite the back of the warehouse on Wharf Three. He opened the holdall and removed a pair of wire-cutters. It only took him a few seconds to cut a hole in the fence big enough for him to slip through. He left the wire-cutters in a clump of overgrown weeds by the fence then eased the Beretta from his shoulder holster and moved cautiously toward the warehouse. A car turned into the road behind him and he instinctively ducked down as it drove past. He waited until the engine had faded into the distance then got to his feet again and covered the remaining ten yards to the back of the warehouse. He peered around the side of the wall. The fishing trawler which had been berthed at the wharf that afternoon was gone. He kept close to the wall as he made his way slowly toward the front of the warehouse. A single security light above the closed warehouse doors illuminated the deserted loading bay. He looked at his watch again. Eleven twenty-two. Well, all he could do was wait.

He was about to return to the rear of the warehouse when he heard a rustling sound somewhere behind him. He turned sharply, Beretta extended, but he couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Slowly he edged his way back along the wall. He reached the end of the wall and pivoted around, fanning the area with the Beretta. Nothing. Nerves. He cursed himself silently. Get a hold of yourself. He put the holdall down. Then he heard another noise, this time a branch snapping underfoot. He swung the Beretta toward the bushes on his right.

“Come out slowly,” he commanded. “I’m armed, so don’t try anything foolish.”

A figure emerged from the bushes. The face was hidden in the shadows. But Paluzzi recognized the physique straight away. Jess Killen.

“Good evening,” Killen said, stepping from the shadows. He smiled faintly, seemingly unaffected by the Beretta aimed at his chest. “Don’t tell me, you were out taking a walk and you lost your way.”

“Take your hands out of your pockets, very slowly, and place them on your head. Do it now!”

Killen shrugged then eased his gloved hands out of his pockets and held them up to show Paluzzi he wasn’t armed. “Now it’s your turn. If you look behind you, very slowly, you’ll see that Tom and Randy are both armed. You remember Tom and Randy, don’t you?”

Paluzzi’s stomach was churning as he slowly looked over his shoulder. Tom and Randy were standing twenty yards behind him, both armed with Mini-Uzis. Like Killen, both men were wearing leather gloves.

“If you fancy your chances, you could try and take them out on the turn,” Killen told him. “If not, I’d be obliged if you’d throw down the gun.”

Paluzzi knew he could take out one of them on the turn. But both? Armed with Mini-Uzis, each with a twenty-round magazine? He’d have to be fast. And suicidal. He tossed the Beretta onto the ground.

“Wise move,” Killen said. “If you’d like to follow Randy, he’ll show you to the warehouse. We can talk in there.”

Randy stepped back and gestured with the Mini-Uzi for Paluzzi to move ahead of him. Paluzzi did as he was instructed. Tom retrieved the holdall and the Beretta, handed them to Killen, then went ahead to open the warehouse doors. Paluzzi was ushered into the dimly lit warehouse and Randy gestured to the wooden chair in the middle of the concrete floor. Paluzzi sat down, his eyes constantly flickering between Tom and Randy. Both Mini-Uzis were trained on him. Killen appeared, tossed the holdall onto the floor, then closed the door behind him. He took a packet of cigarettes from his inside pocket, pushed one between his lips, and lit it.

“Cigarette?” he said, offering the packet to Paluzzi.

Paluzzi remained silent.

Killen shrugged and tossed the packet to Randy who helped himself to a cigarette. “So, your name’s Pasconi. Franco Pasconi, a freelance reporter for La Repubblica. Correct?”

Paluzzi still said nothing.

Tom stepped forward to strike him with the Mini-Uzi but Killen waved him away. “Well, I know that already. I had you checked out earlier this afternoon. But what troubles me is why a reporter would be carrying this.” He held up the Beretta. “Hardly standard issue for a foreign correspondent, is it?”

“I’d say that depends on the story you’re running,” Paluzzi replied coldly.

“The story? Of course. I believe Billy was going to tell you everything for five grand. A bargain at the price. But then you were dealing with Billy. I presume that’s the money in there.” Killen gestured to the holdall. “Well, Billy’s already here but he won’t be telling you about the Ventura.”

“Who’s Billy?” Paluzzi said, holding Killen’s stare.

Killen turned the Beretta around thoughtfully in his hands. “Tell me, how did you know about Rory Milne?”

Paluzzi was silent.

“Do you have a contact in Noraid?” Killen prompted.

Silence.

“I don’t particularly want to let Tom and Randy work you over. I’ve seen them do it before. It’s certainly not for the faint-hearted.” Killen glanced at Tom and Randy. “Get Billy.”

The two men went to a small office at the far end of the warehouse. When they re-emerged they were half-carrying, half-dragging the unconscious Billy between them. His hands had been tied behind his back. They dumped Billy onto the floor in front of Paluzzi. Killen crouched down, grabbed Billy’s hair, and jerked his head back. Paluzzi winced at the sight of Billy’s face. His nose had been broken, several of his teeth had been knocked out and he could make out several discolored bruises under the mask of blood. Paluzzi couldn’t look at him for more than a few seconds.

“It’s not a pleasant sight, is it?” Killen removed a bloodstained handkerchief from one of Billy’s pockets and opened it. Paluzzi recoiled in horror. Inside was a tongue. “If you have a loose tooth, you take it out. So surely the same principle should apply to a loose tongue?”

Paluzzi clasped his hands over his face as he struggled not to throw up. When he was finally able to look up again Killen had stuffed the handkerchief back into Billy’s pocket.

“Now, perhaps we can get a little cooperation from you,” Killen said, getting to his feet. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am,” Paluzzi retorted.

“I know who you say you are,” Killen replied. “There is a Franco Pasconi working for La Repubblica. He’s abroad, that’s all we could find out about him.”

“I am Pasconi,” Paluzzi insisted.

“I might have believed that before you pulled this on me,” Killen said, holding up the Beretta.

“I’m Franco Pasconi, freelance reporter for La Repubblica,” Paluzzi told him.

“OK, let’s say for argument’s sake that you are Pasconi. How did you know about Milne?”

Paluzzi’s mind was racing. He had to make up a believable story. But what? He wasn’t quick enough. Killen nodded to Tom who stepped forward and brought the butt of the Mini-Uzi down hard onto Paluzzi’s shoulder, knocking him off the chair. He landed inches away from where Billy lay. Killen kicked him savagely in the stomach, catching him agonizingly in the kidneys.

Killen looked down at Paluzzi. “Now, let’s try that again. How did you know about Milne?”

“Go to hell,” Paluzzi hissed through gritted teeth.

Killen grabbed Paluzzi’s hair, jerked back his head then placed the Beretta’s barrel in the center of his forehead. “Next wrong answer and I pull the trigger.”

Paluzzi stared in horror at Killen.

“How did you know about Milne?”

“I have a contact in Noraid,” Paluzzi replied quickly.

“Name,” Killen said.

“I don’t know his name,” Paluzzi replied.

“Wrong answer–”

“Wait!” Paluzzi yelled in desperation. “I only know him by a codename. That’s how it’s been for the last five years.”

“Five years?” Killen spat angrily. “What’s his codename?”

“Havana,” Paluzzi said, using the first word that came to mind. Havana? Why had he thought of that? He’d never been there in his life.

“Why Havana?” Killen asked suspiciously.

“How should I know? It was his choice, not mine,” Paluzzi shot back.

“Where’s he from?”

“New York as far as I know. That’s where I contact him.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“No, we use a locker at the Grand Central. We each have a key. I put the money there and when he collects it he leaves an envelope in its place. He knew Milne was on board the Ventura but he didn’t know who was behind the arms shipment. That’s why I came here, looking for a story.”

“You’ve just found one,” Killen replied then turned the Beretta on Billy and shot him through the head.

Paluzzi wiped a fleck of blood off his cheek then stared at Killen in disbelief. “You’re mad. You’re all mad.”

“On the contrary,” Killen replied with a smile. “We’re actually very clever. Billy’s dead. Your gun was used. It has your fingerprints on it, not mine. So, if the cops do ever find your bodies, they’ll deduce that you shot Billy over an argument about the money. He was behind the wheel of his car at the time which then careered off the edge of the pier and you were drowned when it sank. The perfect scenario.”

“And what about the state of Billy’s face? And the fact that he’s got no tongue? The police aren’t going to turn a blind eye to that, are they?”

“He could have bitten through his tongue when the car hit the water. And the bruises, hell, he could have hit his face on the windscreen. But it doesn’t matter what the cops make of it. The main thing is that there’s nothing to link the three of us to any of this. And that’s the beauty of it.”

Paluzzi made a desperate grab for the Beretta in Killen’s hand. Then everything went black

Tom, who had knocked Paluzzi out, shouldered his Mini-Uzi and glanced at his watch. “Pete should be here by now with Billy’s car. Christ, it was only parked a couple of hundred yards away.”

“Relax,” Killen told him, then took his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.

The bell rang and Randy opened the door. “What kept you, Pete?”

“Someone stopped at the gate to ask for directions just as I was about to fetch the car.”

Randy took the keys from the guard.

“OK, put them in the car,” Killen ordered.

Billy’s body was bundled into the front of the battered Ford Cadillac and Paluzzi was stretched out on the backseat. Killen dropped the Beretta onto the seat beside Paluzzi and Randy tossed the holdall onto the passenger seat. Satisfied, Killen slammed the back door shut then nodded to Tom who climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. It spluttered and died. He tried again. The same result. Cursing angrily, Killen moved around to the driver’s side and peered through the window. Tom shrugged helplessly as he continued to turn the key in the ignition.

“Nothing,” Tom snapped, banging his fist angrily on the dashboard.

“We’ll have to push it off here,” Killen said, beckoning Randy toward the car.

“Here?” Tom asked anxiously, looking up at Killen. “I thought we were going to sink it further down the pier.”

“So did I,” Killen retorted sarcastically. “Now get out and push.”

Tom released the handbrake then climbed out. Slowly they eased the car toward the edge of the wharf. It toppled, bonnet-first, over the side and began to sink slowly into the murky water. The water bubbled angrily as the tail section finally disappeared under the water. Randy unhooked a flashlight from his belt and began to play it across the water.

Killen waited a couple of minutes then patted Randy on the shoulder. “He’s dead. Come on, let’s go back to the warehouse. We never did finish that hand of poker we were playing, did we?”

Randy switched off the flashlight then followed Killen and Tom back to the warehouse, closing the door behind him.

Paluzzi had regained consciousness as the water flooded through the open windows. It was pitch-black. And the water was freezing cold. He forced himself not to panic. That would be fatal. He fumbled for the door handle. Where was it? Billy’s hand brushed across his face. Then his arm. Paluzzi lashed out in the darkness, frantically trying to keep the body away from him. Don’t panic, he said to himself. He had to stay calm, conserve the air in his lungs. He reached out his hand again, this time feeling for the door. If he could find that, he could locate the handle. After what seemed an eternity his fingers finally touched the door’s wooden panel. Feeling his way across the panel, he finally reached the metal handle. He jerked hard on it then pushed on the door with his feet, desperately trying to force it open. How much longer could he last underwater? The door inched open slowly. Forcing himself feet first through the opening, he propelled himself upward. As he neared the surface he saw the beam of light playing across the water. They were still there, waiting. His lungs were bursting. His only chance was to make for the pier. If he could get underneath it then he would be safe. He swam until he felt himself getting dizzy from lack of oxygen. But had he reached the safety of the pier? He couldn’t see the light on the surface of the water anymore. He had to chance it and go up for air. He pushed himself upward and silently broke the surface of the water. He’d made it. He clung on to one of the wooden beams under the pier as he struggled to catch his breath. He had a splitting headache and when he touched the back of his head he could feel the blood on his fingers. He remained where he was until they returned to the warehouse then made his way cautiously to a metal ladder and climbed up onto the wharf. He paused again to make sure he was alone then ran, doubled-over, to a row of metal drums twenty yards away from the ladder and, slumping down behind them, exhaled deeply. What now? He was supposed to be dead and had no intention of letting Killen and his cronies think otherwise. Which meant he couldn’t use his car again. He had to get to a payphone and call UNACO headquarters. They would send a car down for him. He’d probably have caught pneumonia by then, but what else could he do?

He was about to discard his jacket when a pair of headlights swept across the wharf. He ducked down quickly but the black Mercedes stopped before the headlights reached the drums. The driver dimmed the lights then climbed out and opened the back door. Paluzzi squinted through an aperture between the drums to see the face of the man who got out. It was too dark. Then, suddenly, the warehouse door opened, illuminating the face. Paluzzi had never seen him before: mid-thirties, collar-length black hair, deep-set eyes. He was wearing a brown suit and a cream shirt open at the neck.

“Well?” the man asked Killen.

“It’s done.”

“Any problems?”

Killen shook his head. “Did you bring the money?”

The man took a brown envelope from his pocket and handed it to Killen. “Compliments of the boss.”

Killen slit the envelope open with his finger and looked inside. “It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”

“I’ll be in touch,” the man said, climbing back into the Mercedes.

Paluzzi ducked down again as the car did a U-turn, momentarily illuminating the drums. Then it was gone. Killen returned to the warehouse, closing the door behind him.

Paluzzi looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. All he wanted to do was change out of his wet clothes and climb into a hot bath. But he couldn’t return to his hotel. Not now. He had to call New York. He patted his back pocket. At least his wallet was still there. He slowly got to his feet then looked around quickly before hurrying back to the fence and clambering through the opening he’d cut for himself earlier that evening. He shivered as a light wind cut across the deserted street. Was this really happening to him? Claudine was right. He had to be crazy to be in this line of work. He dismissed the thought. He had to find a payphone. He knew his best bet was to head back toward the town center: sooner or later he’d have to come across one. Well, in theory …