Dark Justice

15

At Rosedene, Ferguson woke up to find Roper seated at his bedside in his wheelchair reading the Evening Standard. Ferguson took a deep, shuddering breath and Roper, alerted, pulled the alarm button. It was the matron herself who hurried in.

“Now then, General.” She raised him, plumped up the pillows and eased him back. “A little water.”

She passed the container, he sucked on the straw. “How was it?”

“Some of the best work I’ve seen Sir Henry do. Twenty-two stitches and the bone was chipped.” She had known him many years and used the privilege. “If I may say so, you’re a bloody old fool to put yourself in such situations at your age.”

“I consider myself reprimanded. What about Superintendent Bernstein?”

“Sir Henry’s gone over to the Cromwell. Professor Dawson’s in charge now. She couldn’t be in better hands.”

“Excellent. Will you be serving supper later? It’s always so good here.”

“Well, we’ll see. The best I can manage for the moment is a nice cup of tea.” She turned to Roper. “And you, Major?”

“It’s better than penicillin, and I’m proof of that.”

She went out, and Ferguson said, “Fill me in. He’s gone, I suppose?”

“He certainly has, General, and taken young Billy Salter with him.”

“Tell me.” Roper did, and afterward Ferguson said, “It’s a kind of madness that gets into Dillon. He and Billy against at least four IRA old hands, plus Ashimov and the woman – and she can pull a trigger with the best of them – and Belov himself. He’s capable of anything.”

“I know, sir.”

A young nurse brought tea on a tray and poured it. Ferguson went on, “There could be more. It’s an old-fashioned IRA area, Major, that sort of place.”

Roper sipped his tea. “Don’t forget, though, sir – Sean Dillon is a legend to many of those people.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Still, I’d feel easier if I could talk to him. Is that possible?”

Roper lifted a kind of handbag. “I have a Codex Four in here. As you know, you can use it even on an aircraft in flight.”

“Then get Dillon for me.”

Roper said, “It’s me. Where are you?”

“Halfway across the Irish Sea. How’s Ferguson?” Roper told him. “I’m putting him on.”

Dillon said, “I’m glad you’re in one piece, Charles.”

“Oh, never mind me. It was worse on the Hook in Korea when I was eighteen.”

“Which would mean you’re past your sell-by date, Charles. Time to consider.”

“Cheeky bugger. You’re hardly a spring chicken yourself, and you’re going into harm’s way again.”

“Can’t help it, it’s my nature.”

“Then think of the boy. Young Salter’s been through the mill if anyone has.”

“It’s his nature, too, Charles. He’s a warrior.”

“Only the two of you,” Ferguson said. “It’s not on, Sean.”

“Well, it will be in about fifteen minutes. What about Hannah?”

“In good hands. But about her future in our line of work – I don’t know.”

“Well, there you go. Give me Roper.”

Ferguson did. “Sean?”

“Fifteen minutes. Almost a full moon, as it happens, but sea fog below. Lacey will make one pass at six hundred.”

Roper felt a shiver go through him. “Take care, Sean.”

Dillon laughed. “Nobody lives forever. I’ll be in touch. Sounding off.”

In the Great Hall, Belov, Greta and Ashimov sat at the huge dining table and worked their way through a roast duck, old Hamilton standing by as the wine waiter.

“Excellent,” Belov said. “Mrs. Ryan has just served me a better duck than the Ritz Hotel. Will you tell her that, Hamilton?”

“She’s gone, sir, home to the village, leaving strawberries and cream for your afters.”

“So you’re the only person left in the castle?”

“Well, all the daily staff have gone, sir. They’d rather be out of it. It’s a feeling people get. Dermot, Tod and two of their boys are here, finishing off Mrs. Ryan’s leftovers in the kitchen.”

“Would you like to go home?”

“I think I would, sir. It’s like the old days. They’re sitting eating and drinking with rifles all over the place.”

“Well, off you go, then. Check in at breakfast time and tell Murphy to come and see me.” Hamilton scurried out, and Belov said, “Now, why would things be so disturbed? Have you got a theory, Major?”

Greta said, “Not really, sir.”

Belov poured a glass of port and lit a Russian cigarette. “It’s as if Kelly and company are expecting somebody. Do you think they know something?”

Tod Murphy came in, an AK over one shoulder.

“Good, I’m glad to see you’re prepared,” Belov said.

“For what, sir?”

“Don’t fool with me, Mr. Murphy. It could only be for one man.”

At that very moment, they heard the sound of a plane passing very low. They all looked up instinctively. Belov said, “Why, there he is.”

Tod turned and ran out, and Ashimov said, “No, it can’t be.”

It was Greta who said, “You only had to read the files. I kept saying that, but nobody would listen.”

On the Lear, Parry had left the cockpit and helped Dillon and Billy to put their parachutes on and rearm themselves. “Seven minutes,” he said. “We’ll still stick to six hundred. There’s heavy ground fog but clear beach below, and the tide is well out.”

He turned as Lacey throttled back to almost stalling speed, opened the door and dropped the steps. There was a huge rush of wind.

Dillon moved forward and turned to Billy. “We should do this more often.”

Billy said, “Get the hell out of it,” pushed and dived after him.

They descended, the moon above, into the fog at six hundred, then swung clear at two hundred and there was the sea, the beach, the harbor in swirling fog, a handful of boats and Kelly’s Kathleen tied to the end of the jetty in the channel.

Dillon made a perfect landing, punched his quick release, didn’t even have to roll, glanced over and saw the other parachute billowing, just clear of the tidal surge. Dillon stamped on it, and Billy unclipped and stood up.

“It’s coming in,” he said. “We’d better get moving.”

Dillon said, “Toward the jetty.”

“Why?” Billy demanded.

“I want to check that boat of Kelly’s,” and he led the way, half running, the jump bag in his left hand.

The fog swirled, half obscuring the village, a few lights gleaming through from the Royal George. The Kathleen was tied up at the end of the jetty. Dillon said to Billy, “Just keep an eye out. I’ll only be a minute.”

“What are you up to?”

“Never mind.”

Dillon went over the rail, checked the wheelhouse, then went aft, carrying the jump bag with him. He got what he wanted from it, then took off the engine hatch and did what he had to do inside. He replaced the hatch.

“Come on, Dillon,” Billy hissed. “What in hell are you doing?”

“Just immobilizing the engine,” Dillon said. “Now let’s get moving.”

They started up through the village.

On the terrace, Kelly and Tod, Ashimov and Belov stood in the darkness, Greta behind them. Belov searched the bay through night glasses and caught the two pale mushrooms descending out of the fog.

“Parachutes – two.”

He passed the glasses to Ashimov, who looked for a few moments, then caught a clear glimpse of Dillon’s face when he and Billy moved to the end of the jetty.

“Dillon.” He passed the glasses to Tod.

“We’ll take the bastard now,” Kelly said.

“No.” It was Belov who spoke. “An old rule, Mr. Kelly. Let the enemy come to you.”

Which was fine except for the fact that Dillon had produced a pair of night glasses himself and caught them on the terrace.

“They’re there, Billy – Tod, Kelly, Belov, Ashimov and the girl – and they’ve seen us.”

“You think that’s the lot?”

“No, at the least there would be McGuire and O’Neill, maybe more.”

“Is that all?” Billy laughed. “Let’s get on with it.”

They moved out from the jetty, turned into a narrow cobbled street and started up the slope toward the castle.

In the hall, Tod Murphy took charge. “We’ll draw them in by leaving the French windows of the library at the east end of the grand terrace open, also the windows at the western end, that’s the drawing-room end, open. You take the library, Danny,” he said to McGuire. “There’s a trellised summerhouse there. You wait and try to get them from the back as they pass, making for the windows. You, Patrick,” he said to O’Neill, “do the same thing at the other end by the dining room.”

“And what about us?” Ashimov demanded.

“You wait in the library and you in the dining room, Dermot,” he said to Kelly. “Catch them in cross fire.”

“And me and Major Novikova?” Belov asked.

“I’ll stand back with you as guard at the rear of the Great Hall until it’s all over.”

“Well, let’s get on with it,” Kelly said. “Sort the bastards out once and for all,” and they dispersed.

Billy and Dillon crouched together, fog swirling, a slight drizzle falling. Dillon looked at the terrace through his night glasses. “Not very bright. They’ve left the windows open to draw us in. Have a look. There’s a movement in that trellised summerhouse, and look at the one to the right.”

“Very naïve,” Billy said. “What do you want to do?”

“I think there’s someone waiting inside the house as well. We’ll do it our way,” and he quickly explained.

McGuire, waiting nervously in the little summerhouse, peering out, didn’t hear a thing, and was aware only of an AK nudging him in the back.

Billy said, “Make a sound and I’ll blow your spine apart. Now, be good and tell me who’s in the library and who’s wherever else.”

“The Russian, Ashimov,” McGuire said. “Kelly’s in the dining room and Tod’s in the Great Hall with Belov and the woman.”

“Good man,” and Billy rammed the stock of his AK into the base of McGuire’s skull.

A moment later, Dillon rejoined him. “I got O’Neill. It seems Kelly’s in the dining room. I’ll try and trace him.”

“Are you sure?”

“We’ll see.”

They moved cautiously toward the other end of the terrace. Dillon crouched at the balustrade and called softly, “Are you there, Dermot? It’s me, Patrick. We’ve got a problem.”

He intensified the distinctive Northern Irish accent even more, and it produced a result. “What is it, you stupid eejit?” Kelly whispered back and moved into the open windows, where Dillon immediately shot him, the silenced AK making only a muted cough. Billy moved in close.

“Now what?”

“Leave Ashimov and go in through the dining room. I know this place. They keep the cars at the front of the house in the courtyard. I’ll go round, make sure they can’t be used, then enter by the front door. I’ll kick up the kind of fuss that will flush Ashimov out, and you can get him from the rear.”

“I’m your man.”

Billy stepped over Kelly’s dead body and Dillon faded into the darkness.

Tod, in the shadowed archway at the end of the Great Hall, stood between Greta and Belov, a Browning in his hand with a twenty-round magazine protruding from the butt.

“It’s too quiet,” Greta said.

“It always is,” Belov told her.

“I knew this was bad news from the start,” Tod said. “I think we should get out now, grab one of the cars and go for Ballykelly.”

“A man after my own heart,” Belov said.

Greta panicked and called out, “Yuri, where are you?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Tod told her and opened the front door.

Dillon, who was removing the ignition key from the last of the four cars, swung and put a short burst into the brickwork at the side of the door.

“Is it yourself, Tod? No way out here.”

“Damn you, Dillon,” Belov called, and Tod kicked the door closed.

“Follow me,” he said. “We’ll get out through the kitchen tunnel.”

“And then what?” Belov demanded.

“The boat, the Kathleen down at the jetty. Come on, this way.”

“But what about Yuri?” Greta demanded.

“He’ll have to look after himself,” Belov said. “Now, get moving.”

Ashimov, alerted by the noise at the front of the house, moved cautiously into the corridor from the library. At the same moment, Dillon kicked in the front door, went in low, straight through the archway to the Great Hall, and called out.

“Billy?”

Ashimov erupted, firing his pistol, plucking at Dillon’s sleeve, a second round catching the stock of his AK, sending it hurtling from his hands. At the same moment, Billy shot Ashimov in the left shoulder, spinning him around, and then shot him again in the heart.

“Are you okay?” he called to Dillon.

“Thanks to you.”

“Have Tod and the others cleared off by car?”

“No, I’ve got all the keys. I’ve an idea he’s banking on another form of transportation. Let’s see.”

He led the way through the Great Hall to the library and the terrace beyond. There were only wisps of fog now and the moon was incredibly bright, the village below, the houses, the inn, like cardboard cutouts. Tod, Belov and Greta had emerged from the walled garden and were hurrying down the lane.

“What’s going on?” Billy demanded.

“They’re making for the Kathleen. It’s always ready for sea, that’s been the way of it with Kelly for years.”

“But they’re getting away,” Billy said, as he saw them scramble over the rail of the boat. Belov and Greta cast off and Tod went into the wheelhouse. The engine coughed into life, and the Kathleen started down the channel.

“Not really. Haven’t you observed, Billy, that you never really get away from anything in this life?”

The Kathleen passed the point, and produced a bow wave as Tod increased speed. Dillon took a Howler from his pocket, pointed and pressed the button. There seemed to be a moment of hesitation, and then the whole vessel split apart in a huge ball of fire. What was left went down like a stone.

“Christ Almighty.” Billy turned to him. “Semtex?”

“It was Roper’s idea.”

“Pity about Greta Novikova.”

“She shouldn’t have joined, Billy, if she wasn’t willing to take the risks. Maybe I shouldn’t have joined either, maybe you shouldn’t have. I expect our day will come.” Dillon smiled wearily. “For the moment, let’s get out of here. There are four vehicles in the courtyard and I have all the keys. Two hours to Belfast, and then to home.”

Three or four minutes later, they were driving out of the main gate in a Land Rover, leaving Drumore Place, dark and somber, behind them.