Bad Company

11.

DILLON SPOKE TO Roper as the Highlander ploughed through heavy seas toward the Northern Irish coast.

“It’s rough,” Dillon said. “And getting rougher.”

“If the Mona Lisa’s off Drumgoole, try and make it to the entrance to the bay by the jetty to the old quarry. There’s a trough. Four hundred feet.”

“Thanks, that’s helpful.”

“And please watch it. Things are really moving out there. Don’t, for God’s sake, consider only the great Sean Dillon and his mission to save the world.”

The voice crackled over the ship-to-shore radio, and Dillon turned to Ferguson and Billy, who were listening.

He said, “Message received and understood, Roper. We who are about to die salute you, only I don’t plan to die just yet. This weather might be just what we need. Over and out.”

Dillon took a bottle of Lamb’s Navy rum out of the flare drawer, pulled the cork and swallowed deep. He passed the bottle to Ferguson. “You’re going to need it, Charles.”

Ferguson didn’t hesitate. He drank, wiped the neck and offered the bottle to Billy, who said, “No, I’ll manage. I’m so bleeding scared I don’t feel seasick anymore.”

Ferguson was at the wheel, which responded surprisingly well. “What happens now?” he demanded.

Dillon leaned over the chart table. “I don’t know. If the Mona Lisa ties up at that jetty, fine. If it puts its anchor down in the bay, I’ll go in underwater with Semtex and timer pencils. An in-and-out job. Blow the bottom out of her, and down she goes.”

“It won’t be too deep if she’s at the jetty.”

“We’ll have to see. The bay would be better. There’ll be a hell of a lot of confusion there. God help all the small harbor craft, the fishing boats.”

“So that’s it, then?” Ferguson said.

“That’s exactly it, Charles.” Dillon smiled. “We’re totally in the hands of the weather. I’ll go below and get into my wet suit.”

“Me too,” Billy said.

“Not in a million years. You can run the inflatable, take me close, but that’s it. Open the weapons bag and arm up, Billy, I won’t be long,” and he went below.

In Drumgoole harbor, the scene was total confusion, the wind coming in off the Irish Sea and gusting to storm force. Smaller craft were already being torn from their moorings and smashed against the harbor walls. Other craft were breaking free and being sucked out into the bay on the other side of the jetty. In the midst of all this, the Mona Lisa emerged, her deck lights on, a kind of ghost ship, very old-fashioned, her superstructure high, Martino and Rossi way up on the bridge.

Derry Gibson’s voice came over the ship-to-shore. “Don’t come in, you’ll smash up against the old jetty. Drop your hook, and if you’re lucky you’ll find it about sixty or seventy feet, but there’s a trough of four hundred feet, I can’t help you there.”

Rossi said, “No news of our friends?”

“Jesus, Marco, if they’re out there, they’ll be as much in harm’s way as the rest of us. I’ll join you. We’ve got an RNLI inshore inflatable lifeboat here. They can handle most things. I’ll see you.”

Way out in the bay, the Highlander hove to and Ferguson tossed out a sea anchor, and Dillon, in his wet suit, looked out toward the distant Mona Lisa through night binoculars. Billy was using another pair.

“Dillon, there are boats floating out of the harbor, bouncing off the Mona Lisa’s hull like rubber balls.”

“Only they’re splintering, Billy. I’ve counted at least three in a sinking condition, but the Mona Lisa’s got an anchor chain down.”

Dillon put the weapons bag on the chart table, took out an arm holster, a Browning with the same twenty-round magazine in it as the hidden one, put it on, then crossed a weapons bag over his shoulder, took out three Semtex blocks and inserted ten-minute pencil timers. He slipped an inflatable belt around his waist.

“Nothing bulletproof?” Ferguson said.

“A titanium waistcoat under my wet suit, Charles, the best I can afford.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Cross her stern. We’ll drift in like the other boats. I’ll go over and climb the anchor line.”

“With luck?”

“Oh, we all need that, Charles.”

“And me?” Billy asked.

“When I hopefully survive long enough to jump over the rail, you may need to bring the inflatable in and pick me up. Turn it on and the engine goes to forty knots. I’ll send a flare up.”

“Not in this weather,” Ferguson said.

A huge crosswind turned them half over, and they all staggered and grabbed. Billy said, “You can’t, Dillon, it’s madness.”

Dillon put an arm around him. “You’re a great guy, Billy, but I don’t care anymore. I’m going to blow the hell out of that boat and everybody on it, whether that’s Gibson, Rossi – or even me,” and he said it with great deliberation.

The Mona Lisa bucked on its anchor as one craft after another crashed against it. There was total confusion on deck; the crew, who had previously been at the ready with their AK47s, now panicked as the boat rolled from side to side.

The Highlander eased forward and Dillon slipped over the side as they passed the stern of the Mona Lisa. The waves sucked him in, tossed him over, and he grabbed the anchor line. He hung there, his rubber gloves giving him a grip as the Highlander sped away.

He started to haul himself up, waves washing over him, and then reached the hole at the top and slid in through to the stern. There were two of the crew there, Fabio and Gomez, utterly confused by the waves breaking over the rails, clutching their AK47s.

They saw Dillon get to his knees, and then he pulled out the Browning and shot both of them in the head.

High up on the bridge, it was Derry Gibson who recognized the sound for what it was. “He’s here, the bastard’s here.”

“Who is?” Martino asked.

“Dillon, you miserable idiot.”

Gibson went out, looked down and saw Fabio and Gomez rolling in the scuppers.

“There you are.”

Martino, at his side, was horrified. “I can’t believe it.”

At that moment, Arturo and Enrico came round the central area on the port side, grabbing for the rail in the heavy sea, and Dillon, crouched in the stern, shot them both.

He moved forward on the port side, heavy seas breaking over him, reached the prow of the boat, heaved the hatch back on the engine room, took out the three blocks of Semtex with the timer pencils and dropped them in.

Bullets ripped up the decks beside him. He turned and found the man, Sancho, standing there, firing an AK47, and up high on the wheelhouse deck, Martino, Rossi and Gibson at the rail. He seemed to be facing an inevitable death, and then bullets cut across the decks, Martino was hurled back, and Sancho went down. Gibson ducked and ran away. Dillon looked over and saw Billy at the wheel of the inflatable, Ferguson standing up and spraying the Mona Lisa with the Browning from the wheelhouse.

Dillon ran and vaulted over the rail, and as the inflatable went by, grabbed a line and was hauled away.

“Out, out, out,” Gibson called to Rossi.

He went down the side ladder, ended up in the bouncing inflatable, and had the engine revving as Rossi joined him. A moment only, and they sped away through the heavy sea. A moment later out of the gloom, the Highlander’s inflatable appeared, Ferguson standing up with the Browning, Dillon trailing behind. Ferguson had no chance to fire; they were away.

Rossi said, “Ferguson, young Salter.”

“And Dillon,” Gibson said.

Behind them, the three Semtex blocks Dillon had dropped into the engine room exploded one after the other. The Mona Lisa simply blew apart. Parts of her superstructure flew up and then rained down into the storm below. The boat tilted, the stern rose, the Mona Lisa slid over the edge of the trough and went all the way down. There was another muffled explosion, an enormous convulsion to the already-disturbed sea surface, boats thrown all over the place, and then a strange calm. The wind dropped just then, only the rain continued, hard and forceful. The inflatable reached the Highlander and drifted against the side.

Dillon pulled himself up the ladder, paused and turned. “You must have been fantastic when you were young, Charles, because you are indescribable now.”

“Don’t forget, Billy, and don’t try to butter me up, Dillon. Just get on board and let’s turn for Oban. We’ve done what we came here for.”

“Except that Marco Rossi and Derry Gibson are left standing.”

“We’ll sort them another day.”

Rossi phoned his father. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I want out of this damned country.”

“Why? What happened?”

Rossi explained, and his father actually found it rather funny. “Ferguson, at his age. You must admit, Marco, it’s rather admirable.”

“Well, I’ve got a boat with two million pounds of weaponry sent down to the bottom by your admirable Ferguson.”

“Come home and we’ll discuss it.”

Afterward, the Baron sat, smoking a cigarette and sipping a large brandy, and he was actually smiling.

The Highlander ploughed on, Ferguson at the wheel. Billy appeared with the bacon sandwiches.

“I’ll tell you what, you old bastard, you were great back there. Harry won’t believe it when I tell him.”

“You didn’t do badly yourself, Billy.”

Dillon came in, now changed, in jeans and a shirt. Ferguson said, “I’ll say it now. You were totally mad. Frankly, Dillon, you’ve got a death wish.”

“You’re right, General, but it got the job done.”

“I think you should visit Professor Susan Haden-Taylor again.”

“No, she’s washed her hands of me, and so has God. For the moment, we’ve succeeded in what we set out to achieve. Fewer arms for the conflict in Northern Ireland – and I’ll be willing to bet we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest with Rossi and von Berger. Now we wait and see where it leads – with luck, to the diary. By the way, I’ve phoned Harry, told him his nephew is still in the land of the living.”

“Thanks very much, Dillon,” Billy said.

“That’s all right, Billy, he worries about you. Now, would it be all right if I had a bacon sandwich?”