Bad Company

12.

IN DRUMGOOLE, THERE was a certain amount of chaos, but Northern Ireland had been used to chaos for almost thirty-five years. Nevertheless, Derry Gibson was in the market to move on.

“We’ll have the Peelers all over the place for a while,” he said to Rossi in the pub after the Mona Lisa went down. “I’ll lie low.” He was having a whiskey, and shook his head as he drank it down. “Sean Dillon – what a bastard he is, and Ferguson.”

“Yes, you should never underestimate your opponent. I’ll be out of this pesthole first thing in the morning. As far as I’m concerned, you can give Northern Ireland back to the Indians.”

“I think you’re being a bit rough.”

“I could be a damn sight rougher. I could point out, for instance, that you haven’t paid anything on the Mona Lisa contract. She’s gone down and Rashid doesn’t get a penny.”

“What happened, happened, Rossi. You were screwed and I was screwed. By Dillon and Ferguson.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. It’s time we did something about Dillon and Ferguson.”

“Can I help?”

“Well, it would be a way of writing off your debt.” He thought for a moment. “Where do you think Murphy is?”

“Ferguson’s got him in some safehouse,” said Gibson. “The only reason those bastards were here was because Murphy talked.”

“Yes. Tell you what, Gibson. Don’t go back to The Orange George. Call that woman, Janet, and tell her she’s in charge for a little while more.”

“And where do I stay?”

“In one of our staff flats on South Audley Street.”

“Until when?”

“Until I’ve worked out how I’m going to do it.”

“Do what? Something with Dillon?”

“Eventually, but not yet. First, I think it’ll be Ferguson, the great man himself.”

Gibson was delighted. “What in the hell are you up to?”

“You’ll have to wait, Derry. I’ll let you know in good time.”

He lit a cigarette. Derry said, “You’re enjoying all this. You should have been crushed by the loss of the Mona Lisa. Instead, you don’t give a stuff. Two million.”

“It’s only money, Derry, and money is only a medium of exchange. No, the game’s the thing.”

“That sounds like Shakespeare.”

“Close. But it’s what you and me are all about, as well as Dillon, Ferguson, even the Salters. It’s the game that makes you feel alive. It’s worth everything.”

As soon as he got back to London, Ferguson requested a meeting with the Prime Minister, on a one-to-one basis, no other security people present, not even Scotland Yard. When he was ushered into the Prime Minister’s study, he found him signing various documents for the Foreign Secretary, who had never approved of Ferguson.

“I’ve heard a rumor you’ve been up to some kind of nonsense again, General,” he said.

“Me, Foreign Secretary? Can’t imagine what. I’ve been up to my neck in things at the Ministry of Defence for the past few days.”

“Really?” the Foreign Secretary said dryly.

The Prime Minister passed across the documents. “There you go. No feuding, you two, you’re both far too important.”

“Pax,” Ferguson said. The Foreign Secretary smiled reluctantly and departed.

The Prime Minister said, “Right, General, you’d better sit down and tell me the worst.”

Afterward he said, “That’s the deepest black operation I’ve ever heard of. No wonder you didn’t want anyone else present. There are rumors, of course, already. God help us if this kind of thing ever reached the ears of the public.”

“It’s too fantastic. No one would believe it.”

The Prime Minister nodded. “When I won my election and was presented with knowledge of your department, a secret passed from one PM to another about an organization responding only to the PM’s will. It made me feel uneasy, and yet on so many occasions, you, Dillon and company have saved the day. The peace process in Northern Ireland is in tatters, but we’re still trying. If the Red Hand of Ulster had got hold of the Mona Lisa’s weaponry, it could have been civil war.”

“Exactly, sir.”

“So, a good job well done. There’s only one thing that bothers me. Dillon and young Salter, I can understand, but you, Charles? Exchanging shot for shot at your age? It’s not only undignified, it’s also damned dangerous. You’ve got your medals, Charles. No more sorties going into harm’s way, all right?”

“I promise, Prime Minister.”

“Yes, well, I think I’m going to make sure. You know about the Omega Program, don’t you, Charles?”

“Yes, sir, it’s an implant containing a computer chip that tracks a person’s whereabouts.”

“Exactly. I’ve got one. So do the cabinet ministers. And I’ve decided you should have it, too.”

“Must I, Prime Minister?”

“Yes, Charles, you’re too valuable to lose.” He picked up a card and handed it over. “Professor Henry Merriman, Harley Street. Be there at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. It only takes half an hour or so. Doesn’t hurt.”

“Would Dillon be a candidate?”

“No. It’s only for very senior political figures – and frankly, Charles, I don’t think I want to know where Dillon is all the time.”

“Two American presidents owe him their lives.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“And yet Dillon has no medals at all.”

“Yes, life can be a bitch, General.”

Ferguson was silent. “Yes, well, I will, of course, present myself at the Harley Street clinic, as you wish, Prime Minister.”

He moved to the door, and the Prime Minister said, “And von Berger, Charles, don’t forget von Berger.”

Ferguson turned and said, “Sir?”

“Can’t have him threatening the President and me. It won’t do. Bring him down, Charles, any way it takes.”

“Of course, sir.” Ferguson brushed past the aide, went downstairs and out to the Daimler, where Dillon and Hannah waited.

Dillon moved to one of the jump seats and closed the glass partition. “How did it go?”

Ferguson told them, and Hannah said, “I think Omega is a good idea and you are important.”

“A damn sight more important than most of the half-baked cabinet ministers around at the moment,” Dillon said.

“Why, thank you, Dillon.”

“It’s a fact of life. I won’t remind you of how many years you’ve been around in the intelligence game, but I can’t think of anyone else in the Western world with your experience.”

“You should be my press agent.”

“Glad to. So, von Berger – did he come up?”

“The PM was explicit. Bring him down.”

“Easier said than done. Unless you’d like me to shoot him for you?”

Hannah said, “For God’s sake, Dillon.”

He opened the side window and lit a cigarette. “As I’ve said before, the Almighty has got little to do with it. I could take out Rossi quite cheerfully. Would that be okay?”

“You’re being stupid.”

Ferguson said, “Cut it out, you two. What about Rossi’s movements, Superintendent?”

“He left Belfast this morning.”

Ferguson turned to Dillon. “Call Roper. See if he’s got anything.”

Roper had, of course. “Landed at Gatwick, one pilot, two passengers.”

“You need two pilots for those things, it’s the law.”

“Of course, but Marco Rossi’s fully rated, he was the other one.”

“Who was the passenger?”

“One Charles Mackenzie, carrying a U.K. Northern Irish passport, an accountant apparently.”

“Apparently?”

“I went into the new visual system they have at check-in now and had a look at him. Derry Gibson.”

“I might have known.”

“You don’t know anything, Sean. What he’s doing here, for instance. Neither of them have any reason to be pleased with you.”

“So I should be looking over my shoulder?”

“He is Red Hand of Ulster, old son.”

“I’m frightened to death, Roper,” Dillon said. “Goodbye.”

“What was that all about?” Ferguson asked.

Dillon told him.

“Hmm,” Ferguson said. “You know, I’ve been thinking. Blowing up that ship was good, but why should we wait for them to make the next move? Why not stay on the offensive? We should know more about von Berger’s setup in Germany. Schloss Adler, Neustadt, the Darker Place, whatever the hell they call it.” He turned to Hannah. “Have a word with Roper, ask him to do a quick computer analysis of the area. See if we’ve got any intelligence sources there. Tell him to meet us at that restaurant of Salter’s, Harry’s Place. We’ll have a meal and listen to what he has to say. We’ll call at The Dark Man first.”

Two car lengths back, Newton and Cook followed.

It was early evening, The Dark Man quiet, Salter and Billy as usual in the corner booth, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall hanging around, when Ferguson and the others walked in.

Harry said, “This is a nice surprise, General, sit down, all of you.” He said to Dillon, “And you listened to me – brought Billy back in one piece.”

“After covering himself with glory.”

“No, that was the general,” Billy said.

Harry turned to Dillon. “And you, of course, did the usual.”

“More or less.”

“So what gives?”

“Rossi flew in from Belfast this morning, with a passenger named Charles Mackenzie on his passport.”

“But in fact, Derry Gibson, according to Roper,” Hannah put in.

Harry said, “And what would that bastard be doing here?”

“Yes, that’s the thing,” Ferguson said.

“Well, I’d say it’s bleeding obvious,” Billy put in. “He’s out for you, Dillon.”

Dillon lit a cigarette. “He could be out for any one of us.”

“Well, just let him try,” Harry said. “He sank my boat. I’ll have him for that.”

“The important thing is to find out what the Baron and Rossi plan to do next,” said Ferguson. “I’ve got Roper doing one of his searches on von Berger’s place in Germany. I suggested he meet us at your restaurant, Harry, if that suits you.”

“Absolutely.”

Newton phoned Rossi again. “We’ve followed them to this restaurant in Wapping, Harry’s Place. They’ve gone in, and Roper’s turned up in his wheelchair.”

“Stay there.” Rossi turned to the Baron.

“Interesting,” von Berger said, and then, with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll tell you what, Marco, let’s go meet them. Oh! And go and get Mr. Gibson. We’ll all go together. We’ll stir the pot! Won’t that be amusing?”

“Infinitely,” Marco said.

Harry’s Place was another of Salter’s warehouse conversions on Hangman’s Wharf. The whole place had been revitalized, its brickwork cleaned, new windows in mahogany. There was always a line, mainly of young people trying to get into the bar, which had become a smart place to be seen. Steps had been added to make the entrance more imposing, and there was a ramp beside it, which Roper used when his black cab arrived.

Joe Baxter and Sam Hall were on the entrance in black tie, controlling the line. They came down and got Roper out of his cab.

“Great to see you, Major,” Joe said, and pushed him up the ramp.

There was a young punk in a silk bomber jacket standing with two girls at the front of the line. “You’ve got to be a bloody cripple to get service here.”

Sam Hall, almost casually, slapped him backhanded across the face, then grabbed him by the front of the jacket. “That man is probably the biggest hero you ever set eyes on, sunshine. So you get to go to the back of the line. Alternatively, you could just sod off.”

The youth put his hands up. “Okay.” He pulled the girls away and went.

Joe Baxter said, “Sorry about that, Major.”

“Sticks and stones, Joe, I couldn’t care less. I’m lucky to be here.”

They went inside and the headwaiter, a dark energetic Portuguese named Fernando, came forward. “Major Roper, a pleasure. I’ll lead the way.”

With Baxter at the helm, they followed Fernando into the restaurant, which was beautifully designed in Art Deco. There was a small dance floor, a four-piece band and cocktail bar straight out of the thirties. The waiters wore cruise ship monkey jackets. The Salters, Ferguson and his people were all in the largest booth. Harry got up and roughed Roper’s shoulder-length hair.

“You still go round like a bloody hippie.”

“I express my individuality, Harry.”

Salter looked down into that burned, ravaged face and gave him a hug. “You’re a real piece of work, Roper.”

“Now don’t take pity on me, Harry. If that gets out in the East End, you’ll be finished.” He turned to Ferguson. “Okay. Most of this you know, some you don’t. The whole thing with Holstein Heath, of course, is that due to an error, it was never East German nor West. If anything, it was neo-Nazi, even though von Berger never belonged to the party. He’s kept the flame alight. For years after the war, all the police there were former SS, and so on.”

He took a drink of whiskey. “Von Berger frequently visits Schloss Adler, often with Rossi. They come in by helicopter at a landing area close to the Schloss, but it’s a huge meadow and they can actually land a plane on it, too.”

“Do we have any kind of connection there?” Ferguson asked.

“It’s a tight-knit community. As a matter of interest, though, about forty kilometers from Neustadt, on the edge of the Schwarze Platz, is a small village called Arnheim. There’s a handful of houses, but an old Luftwaffe base from the Second World War. It’s dilapidated, but it has a landing strip that can take most things, and it’s used by a man called Max Kubel.” He turned to Ferguson. “He’s been on your list out there for a number of years. A smuggler of most things, including people to the West, flies an old Storch plane on special jobs. His father was Luftwaffe in the war. He knows Neustadt very well. I’ve spoken to him.”

“Yes, well, knowing is one thing and being able to access the place is something else,” Dillon said.

“He does a lot of cigarette smuggling, uses people. He has one guy named Hans Klein in Neustadt, who was forced off his farm by the Baron and hates him. He could be a useful source of information.”

At that moment, Fernando appeared and said to Salter, “I’m so sorry. A Baron von Berger and a Signor Rossi are at the entrance to see you?”

Salter looked at Ferguson, and Ferguson nodded. Fernando went off, and Ferguson said, “Everyone, just go with the flow.”

The Baron came down the steps, followed by Rossi and Derry Gibson. “Why, what a surprise, General,” he said to Ferguson.

“I doubt it,” Ferguson said.

Dillon grinned up at Gibson. “Derry, you were lucky not to get wet.”

Gibson smiled reluctantly. “Damn you, Sean.”

“Oh, that’s already taken care of.”

Salter said, “Would you like a table, Baron? I think we can manage that.”

“Thank you, but Art Deco has never appealed. I just wanted to say hello.” He smiled. “And that I’m thinking of you all.” He turned to Rossi and Gibson. “We can go now.” He looked back at Ferguson and Dillon. “Take care now. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

They walked out. Harry said, “I don’t know what that was all about.” He shook his head at Dillon. “Let the old bastard do his worst.”

“That was the point, Harry. He’s daring us to do our worst.”

Outside, the three of them drove away, and Rossi leaned forward and closed the divider.

The Baron said, “So you’ve made a decision?”

“Yes. It’s Ferguson first. I’m going to kidnap him.”

“I love it,” Gibson said.

“What’s the point of that?” the Baron asked Marco.

“I’m going to take him to Schloss Adler and… explore the market, shall we say. With all Ferguson’s experience, I’m sure everyone would love to have a piece of him. The Russians, the Arabs, you name it.”

“Come on, Marco, you can’t fool me. The only reason you want to get your hands on Ferguson in this way would be to pull in Dillon – because you know very well that Dillon would come to his rescue.”

Marco smiled happily. “Let him try.”

“I think you underestimate Dillon, Marco. You’ve underestimated him from the beginning. Never play with a tiger. Finish him off – before he turns on you. But it’s your play. If you want to do this, I won’t give you my blessing, but I won’t stand in your way.”

“Thank you, Father.”

“Give me a cigarette.” Rossi did, and the Baron sat back to smoke it, thinking of his son, his handsome son, Yale University, the war hero with the medals, and yet, in the end, so stupid.