Bad Company

London
Scotland
Ireland
9.

MEANWHILE, MARCO ROSSI, trawling the security files at Rashid Investments, had discovered the scale of Kate Rashid’s involvement, not only in southern Arabia, but nearer to home in Ireland. In fact, she’d had very active arms deals brewing with both dissident IRA and Protestant Loyalist groups. Kate had been very evenhanded.

There was one name in particular he knew, a man once big with the Ulster Defence Association who, after a very public row, had moved to the Red Hand of Ulster, probably the most extremist Loyalist organization of all.

The sums of money involved were quite staggering. No sense letting that all go to waste, he thought.

This explained why he was walking through Kilburn, the most Irish area of London, on a dark evening, in a black bomber jacket, a Walther PPK snug against his back, to meet one Patrick Murphy. Mr. Murphy was the landlord of a public house called The Orange George, its outside wall painted in a way reminiscent of a Protestant area in Belfast.

Marco listened to the Irish music, then went in. The pub was full, and an Irish band was playing. He stood at one end, and a good-looking, middle-aged woman came up.

“Patrick Murphy is expecting me.”

“Is that so.” She looked him over and smiled. “You’re not having me on?”

He reached over and stroked her cheek. “I’d love to, and maybe later, but Pat Murphy is expecting me. Just say Marco. What’s your name?”

“Janet.”

“Well, who knows, Janet?”

She flushed and went into the back, more excited than she had been in a long time.

Murphy was seated in the back room, a late-middle-aged man with a belly on him, an account book open on the table, when Janet showed Marco in.

“Ah, Mr. Rossi. You’d better sit down.” He nodded to Janet, who went out. He reached for a whiskey bottle and a couple of glasses and poured.

“Good health.” He drank his whiskey. Marco ignored his and lit a cigarette.

“So, where are we?”

Murphy said, “I was quite thrown to get your phone call. I mean, Derry Gibson. How would I be knowing a desperate character like that?”

Marco saw him for what he was, a small man, a go-between, useful in his small way, probably in love with the idea that he was some kind of rebel.

“You’d know him because you had dealings with Kate Rashid a year ago and brokered a meeting for her with Derry Gibson, who had money from the drug trade and wanted to buy arms. Two cargoes off-loaded in County Down earlier this year, and a third was arranged just before Kate Rashid’s unfortunate death. A two-million-pound deal was supposed to take place in a week.”

“I don’t know Derry Gibson.”

“Then I’m wasting my time here. I’ll have to find another buyer for those AK47s and Stinger missiles. Maybe the IRA.” Marco picked up the glass, swallowed the whiskey and stood up.

The rear door creaked open and a hard, tough-looking man of around forty-five walked in, with blond hair, wearing a jacket in Donegal tweed, and an open-necked black shirt. His voice had the distinctive Ulster accent. In a strange way, it reminded Marco of Dillon’s.

“Just hold it right there. I’m Derry Gibson.”

“Why, what a surprise,” Marco said. “And me thinking you were at Drumgoole on the Down Coast.”

“Well, I was, until this idiot phoned me yesterday, so you might say I’ve flown here in a hurry. What’s going on?”

“It’s simple. You used to deal with Kate Rashid. Now she’s dead, and my father, Baron Max von Berger, has taken over the firm. I’m Marco Rossi, as I’m sure you know, and I’m in charge of all security matters for Rashid and Berger.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, and some other affairs, as well. Though, to be frank, with all her money, I wonder why Kate bothered with little deals like this. Two million? She was a romantic, I suppose.”

And the strange thing was, Gibson’s face changed. “Damn you, don’t you put her down. She was a great lady.”

One hand went inside his jacket and Marco said, “Tell you what. Let’s put both our cards on the table. And everything else.” He put his hand behind him, found the Walther and put it on the table.

Derry Gibson hesitated, then took a Walther of his own from his right pocket and laid it on the table, as well. “You’ve got good taste in guns. Let’s talk.”

“I’ve got a Spanish deep-sea trawler, the Mona Lisa, that should do the trick,” Rossi said. “Italian registration. European fishery regulations allow it to be there. It can drop off at Drumgoole on the night indicated. No problem.” Marco smiled. “I’m not going to say hold out the cash as soon as we beach, because I know you know how to play the game. You’ll want to make more deals.”

“And you, Mr. Rossi. I wonder why you’re doing this. You’ve got money, too, I understand.”

“Yes, but it keeps things interesting. I like the action, Gibson, always did. In fact, when the Mona Lisa turns up in Drumgoole, I’ll be on board. I’ll go out from the Isle of Man by another boat and join her.”

“All right. We’ll have a whiskey on it,” and Gibson picked up the bottle.

Marco said, “No, there’s more. I require a favor, here in London. Would you happen to know a gangster called Harry Salter, and his nephew Billy?”

It was Murphy, standing by the back door, who exploded. “Real villains, those two. Harry Salter was one of the top guvnors in the East End, big as the Krays. He’s gone legit in the last few years, supposedly. Mind you, the whisper is that he’s into cigarette smuggling in a big way, from Holland. The profit is enormous.”

“It pays better than heroin,” Gibson said.

“You would know.”

“I might. What have you got against Salter?”

Marco said, “Have you ever heard of a fellow countryman of yours, once a big man with the IRA, called Sean Dillon?”

Gibson said, “Everyone in our business knows Dillon, that bloody Fenian bastard. Works for the Brits now.”

“You know about that?”

“Of course. Charles-bloody-Ferguson. He’s been the scourge of the IRA for years, but he doesn’t do the Loyalist side any favors, ould Charles, and with Sean as his good right hand, he’s a difficult man to deal with.”

“You sound like you know Dillon personally.”

“We’ve exchanged shots. We were once in the same sewer in Derry after a riot – the British army always had difficulty in telling the difference between the IRA and the Prods. It was Dillon who got me out to the river. He said, ‘Keep running. Only don’t run back to me or I’ll kill you.’” He poured another whiskey. “He kills everyone, that’s what they say about him.” He stared into his glass. “But he got me out of the sewer and I was the enemy. I’ve always wondered why he did that.”

“Don’t ask me, I’m not into philosophy. The thing is, Charles Ferguson and the Rashid family had a huge feud. You may have heard of how the three brothers came to a bad end? Dillon killed all of them.”

“And Kate Rashid?”

“Oh, he had something to do with that, too, and so did Ferguson and the Salters. Let’s put it this way. I’d like to cause them a lot of grief.”

“You mean of the permanent variety?”

“Not yet. First, a bit of mischief. I hear that Salter runs riverboats, amongst other things.”

“That’s right, up and down the river,” Murphy said. “ Westminster, Charing Cross piers, better than the bus.”

“Including a boat called the River Queen?”

“That’s his pride and joy. Originally built in the thirties. He’s spent a fortune refurbishing her,” Murphy said. “Lovely boat.”

“Excellent.” Marco turned to Gibson. “Sink her for me. Do that, and the deal arranged with Kate Rashid for your arms shipment goes through. Delivery at Drumgoole on the tenth.”

Derry looked astonished. “That’s only four days away.”

“The Mona Lisa’s already left Spain. I assumed you’d be a sensible man.”

Gibson laughed. “Oh, it’s a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Rossi. As for this business with the Salters, that’ll be a pleasure, too.”

It was past midnight when Gibson and Murphy drove down to Wapping in a Land Rover, past The Dark Man and along Cable Wharf, where the River Queen was berthed. It was an area still undeveloped, mainly decaying warehouses. It was dark, a few lights on the other side, but no traffic on the river because of the hour. No one was around, or so it seemed.

Unfortunately, life being as uncertain as usual, there was a movement from one of a stack of packing cases, where an old drunk, a street person named Wally Brown, habitually kipped with his few wretched possessions. Disturbed by the noise, he crept out and listened.

“Jesus, Derry, I don’t like it.”

“Murphy, it’s as simple as hell. I go down through the engine-room hatch and open the sea-cocks. Water pours in and the boat sinks. Now, do as you’re told and we’ll be out of here before you know it. Fuck me up and you’ll end up in the river, too.”

“There’s no need for that, Derry.”

“Yes, well, this arms deal with Rossi means a lot to me. With that final arms shipment, I’ll be ready to take on the IRA for real. It’ll be just like the old days, the great days.”

“I’m your man, Derry, I won’t let you down.”

“Then let’s get on with it.”

They went up the gangplank to the River Queen, and Wally Brown, having heard everything, crept back and cowered inside his packing case.

Murphy stayed on deck to stand guard, Gibson slid back the engine-room hatch, only switching on his light when he’d descended the steel ladder. The engines were beautiful, everything was beautiful, and as an Irish boy raised in a fishing port, he felt genuine regret.

“What a beauty,” he said softly. “Still…”

He knew there would be at least four sea-cocks and checked them out, sturdy circular wheels in bronze. The first one turned very smoothly, then clicked to a halt. He hurriedly moved to the second. By the time he was working on the fourth, water was already sloshing along the floor of the engine room and he was ankle-deep.

He came out and joined Murphy. “You cast off forward and I’ll see to the stern line, quick now, then get ashore.”

They did that, then pulled up the gangplank and stood back from the edge of the wharf and watched the River Queen drift out a little and settle.

“A sad sight,” Gibson said, as water poured across the deck. “But we’ve done our worst. It’s me for the early morning flight to Belfast. If I need you, I’ll be in touch.”

“I know one thing,” Murphy said, as he got into the Land Rover. “Harry Salter won’t be pleased.”

He wasn’t. Dillon, on his morning run, answered his mobile and heard Harry say, “Some damn bastard’s sunk the River Queen at her moorings.”

“What do you mean?” Dillon asked.

“Well, the bleeding boat didn’t just sink on her own! Billy’s got his scuba-diving gear out. He’s going down to take a look.”

“Ah, Harry, he shouldn’t be doing that, not after having been shot to hell in Hazar only a few months ago. I’ll come straight down.”

He switched off, thought about it and then rang Ferguson at Cavendish Place.

At the end of Cable Wharf, he found Harry, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall looking across at the part of the River Queen that was sticking out of the water. Billy’s Shogun was parked nearby, the rear door open to reveal various items of diving equipment and a couple of air bottles.

“Where’s Billy?” Dillon said, as he got out of the Mini.

“He’s been down there for fifteen minutes.”

“Dammit, Harry, he shouldn’t have gone down there. Leave it to the salvage experts.”

Then two things happened. Ferguson and Hannah arrived, and Billy surfaced. He slipped off his air bottle and Dillon reached for it. Billy started up the ladder to the wharf and Baxter and Hall pulled him up. Billy took off his mask, his face blue with cold.

“You bloody idiot,” Dillon said.

“Well, I learned it from you. It was the sea-cocks, all four of them were wide open. I’ve closed them. It was hard going.”

Dillon said, “The salvage people will need to pump her out. She’ll float again.”

“Which leaves us with the problem of who did this.”

There was a pause, and then a quavery old drink-sodden voice said, “I know, Mr. Salter. I saw them, I heard them.”

It was Joe Baxter who said, “Wally Brown. He dosses down in the packing cases.”

“And you heard them?” Harry demanded.

“Yes. One of them was called Murphy, but the one in charge was called Derry. That’s what the other kept calling him and they spoke funny, Irish but not Irish.” He pointed at Dillon. “Come to think of it, they talked like him.”

Ferguson said, “ Derry, and talks like you, Dillon. Northern Irish.”

Hannah said, “Could that be Derry Gibson, the Red Hand of Ulster?”

“Back to haunt me. But why?” Dillon said.

“The Derry guy mentioned someone called Rossi?” old Wally put in.

The silence was astonishing. “I’ll kill him,” Harry said. “I’ll kill the bleeder.”

“No, you won’t, Harry, or not yet,” Ferguson said. “We’ll go back to The Dark Man. Thank you, Mr. Brown. That’s been most helpful. Did you hear anything else?”

They all sat in the corner booth. Dora, the barmaid, provided tea and coffee. Harry and Billy Salter, Ferguson, Hannah and Dillon sat at the table. Baxter and Sam Hall leaned against the wall.

“They’ve declared open warfare,” Harry said.

“True.” Dillon nodded. “But if you’ll excuse me, Harry, the most important thing is that Rossi has struck a deal to deliver arms to Derry Gibson.” Wally Brown was devouring bacon and eggs at a corner table.

“So, according to Wally, Murphy was unhappy about sinking the boat and Derry threatened him. He said the deal with Rossi, the final arms shipment, would be the one he could use to take on the IRA again.”

“So what do you suggest?” Ferguson said.

“I wouldn’t bother with the Baron or Rossi again. I’m going to have words with Pat Murphy.”

“You talk to that bastard, I’m going with you,” Harry Salter said.

Ferguson nodded. “Try not to leave him floating in the Thames, Dillon.”

“Don’t be silly, Charles, if he’s been fronting in London for Derry Gibson and the Red Hand, he’ll be far too valuable to waste.”

At South Audley Street, Marco sat with his father and told him what had happened. The Baron found it rather amusing.

“Oh, the great Harry Salter will not be pleased at all. But this other business. The Mona Lisa, the arms shipment. Is this wise?”

And Marco said exactly the right thing. “It was one of the last things Kate Rashid organized, Father. She’d worked with Derry Gibson before.” He pressed his point. “He was, and still is, an admirer. He thought her a great lady – he told me so.”

“Really? He has taste, at least. This Spanish trawler, the Mona Lisa, how many in the crew?”

“The captain, a man called Juan Martino, and five crew members, all villains of course.”

“And what will your part be in this?”

“On their way to Drumgoole, which is on the Down coast of Northern Ireland, they’ll come close to the west coast of the Isle of Man. I’ve arranged with our contacts there to provide a motorboat to take me out to join her.”

“Is this strictly necessary, Marco?”

“No, but it gets me away from the office.”

The old man laughed. “Go on, you rogue, but come back safe. I need you.”

The bar at The Orange George opened at nine in the morning, because it provided a full Irish breakfast. It was quiet enough when Dillon went in, Janet, the barmaid, reading a newspaper.

Dillon said, “Tell Patrick I’d like a word.”

At that moment, the door at the end of the bar opened and Murphy appeared. He saw Dillon and a look of horror appeared on his face.

Dillon went round the bar. “Patrick, my ould son, it’s me, Sean Dillon.”

He pushed him through to the hall. “Do as you’re told. Go on, unlock the back door,” which Murphy, terrified, did, and Harry and Billy crowded in. They shoved Murphy into the back parlor and closed the door.

Salter pushed him down into a chair at the table and slapped his face. “You sodding bastard, you sank my boat.”

“Not me, Mr. Salter, I swear.”

Billy pulled his uncle away. “Let me get at him,” but Dillon intervened.

“No, leave it to me.” He took a Walther out of his pocket, then produced a Carswell silencer from the other and screwed it in place. “This is much better. Hardly makes a sound. I’ll start with his left elbow, then vary it. The right knee, maybe. That’ll put him on sticks for six months.”

“Dear God, no.” Murphy really was terrified. “What do you want?”

“Derry Gibson,” Dillon said. “We’ll forget about you sinking Mr. Salter’s River Queen for the moment. Tell me about Derry ’s deal with Rossi, the arms shipment.”

“Jesus, he’ll kill me. He’s a sadist, that one.”

“No, that’s me,” Billy Salter said, and punched him twice in the stomach. “Now speak up and tell Mr. Dillon what he wants to know, or you’ll end up in concrete in the new extension to the North Circular Road.”

And Murphy, aware that he was in truly bad company, talked.

At Ferguson ’s apartment, Murphy stayed outside in the car with Baxter and Hall, while Harry and Billy sat with Dillon and Ferguson, Hannah hanging around at the back.

“This could be a disaster,” Ferguson said. “We all know the peace process has become a total shambles, the activities of IRA dissident groups prove that, but with this cargo of weapons, the Loyalists will be on a roll.”

Hannah said, “We must put it into the hands of the Northern Ireland police, sir.”

“We can’t afford to. If they make any kind of a move in the Drumgoole area,” Dillon said, “Derry Gibson will know. It’s not only his turf, his supporters have relatives in the police.”

“So what would you suggest?”

“Any stranger in the area would be a source of suspicion.”

“So what do we do, send in the SAS?”

“Nothing so official. The last time we did anything like this, we used a motor cruiser from Oban, from the RAF air sea rescue base there. There’s no reason we can’t do it again. Book the boat, give me the right diving gear and enough Semtex, and I’ll take it over by night and blow the Mona Lisa to hell.”

“On your own?” Ferguson asked.

“Why not? A totally black operation.”

“I don’t like it, Dillon,” Hannah said. “It’s just not legal.”

“What about me, Dillon?” Billy said. “Last time you played a gig like that, I went, too, and so did the superintendent.”

“The superintendent’s not up for it because it offends her conscience, and you’re not up for it because some months ago you had a bullet through the neck and two in the pelvis. As the Germans used to say when they took someone to prison camp, for you the war is over.”

“Stuff you, Dillon.”

Dillon turned to Ferguson. “Do you want it done or not? There’s an added benefit, you know. This could be just the thing we’ve been looking for to stir up von Berger, get him to make a mistake. We sink this boat, maybe something’ll happen that’ll give us a lead on that damned diary.”

Ferguson said, “You’re right, on both counts. Let’s do it.” He turned to Hannah. “Lock Murphy up at the St. John’s Wood safehouse. See he phones The Orange George and gives a reasonable excuse for his absence.”

“If that’s how you want it, sir.”

“Dillon will give you a list of the weaponry and explosives he needs. The quartermaster will see to that. Book the Gulfstream with Squadron Leader Lacey. What do you think, Dillon? One o’clock tomorrow?”

“Fine by me, Charles.”

“Excellent. I’ll see you there. I’m coming with you.”

Dillon said, “What? You must be crazy.”

“Not as crazy as a man who thinks he can make a run from Oban to the Down coast on his own in what is usually a very rough sea. Haven’t you ever heard of sleeping? I am something of a yachtsman, you know. I can actually navigate.”

“I surrender.” Dillon held up his hands.

At Farley Field the following day, Dillon reported to the quartermaster, a retired Guards sergeant major. He and Dillon had dealt together many times.

“Here you go, Mr. Dillon. Three Walthers, three Uzi machine pistols, stun grenades and the Semtex you wanted. Ten-minute timing pencils, thirty-minute and one hour.”

“Excellent. What about diving equipment?”

“You’ll find that on the boat at Oban, the Highlander – you’ve used it before. A couple of standard suits and fins, the usual extras.”

“Why two?”

“Always good to have backup, sir.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

At that moment, the Daimler arrived and Ferguson got out. His chauffeur took out a bag and delivered it to Parry, who took it up the steps and handed it to Sergeant Walters.

Dillon said, “You look quite sporty, Charles. Corduroys, a sweater. Nice.”

“Very amusing,” Ferguson said, and behind him, a Shogun drove up, Harry Salter at the wheel, Billy beside him. They got out, Billy in a black bomber jacket, a bag in one hand.

“Oh, now, what in the hell is this?” Dillon asked.

“I’m coming along for the ride, that’s what it is,” Billy said. “You two are older guys. You could need some help.” He grinned.

Dillon looked at Ferguson, who shrugged. “He was most insistent. I thought why not? He can go to hell in his own way.”

Harry said, “Just bring him back in one piece, Dillon, because if you don’t…”

“I get the picture, Harry.” Dillon turned to Billy, shaking his head. “Old guy, huh? All right. Up you go then.”

He let Ferguson follow, then went up himself.