Day of Reckoning

8

Dillon and Blake listened as Ferguson related Hannah Bernstein's adventures. When he was finished, Blake said, 'This is surely unacceptable, one major intelligence department hugging secrets to itself that could be of possible crucial importance to others.'

'Yes, well, Carter's always been good at doing his own thing, and to hell with anyone else.'

'Seems to me it's time to remind Carter,' Ferguson said, 'that the particular circumstances of my position as head of the Prime Minister's personal security service give me extraordinary powers. Including over him.'

'That I'd love to see,' Dillon told him.

Ferguson smiled, picked up his phone, and dialled a number.

'Ah, that you, Carter? Look, something's come up and I need to see you. I want your input on something before I speak to the Prime Minister… Yes? Good. I'll see you at the Grenadier in St James's in thirty minutes.'

'Nothing like being decisive,' Blake said.

'Well, as you Yanks say, you ain't seen nothing yet. Order the car, Dillon, I'll find a warrant or two, and we'll be on our way.'

The Grenadier was a pleasant traditional London pub, with old-fashioned dark oak booths. Carter was already there in a corner, sipping a glass of sherry. A small, pale-faced man with white hair, he reacted angrily at the sight of Dillon.

'Really, Ferguson, I've told you before. I object to this murderous swine's presence.'

'Well, take it up with the Prime Minister. He employs him.'

'God save your honour,' Dillon said cheerfully. 'It's a blessing, the grand man like yourself allows me in the same room.'

'Oh, go to hell.'

Ferguson said, 'You'll remember Blake Johnson.'

'Yes, the American.' Carter offered a reluctant hand and turned to Ferguson. 'So what is this?'

'An IRA renegade named Brendan Murphy's up to no good, and I need to know what it is.'

'Nonsense, that's old hat, Ferguson. Murphy isn't a problem any longer, not since the peace process overwhelmed the land.'

'It's the great liar you are,' Dillon told him, and turned to Blake. 'This is the Deputy Director of the Security Services, a faceless man who never worked in the field himself.'

'Damn you, you Irish swine.' Carter was furious.

'Now, that's a racist remark,' Dillon said. 'I could take you to the tribunal.'

'Exactly,' Ferguson agreed. 'And as my sainted mother was Irish, then as a half-Irishman I take it very personally.'

'I'd say you've just insulted his mother's memory,' Blake put in.

'Could we get on with it?' Dillon asked. 'You lifted a man named Sean Regan at Heathrow three weeks ago, when his plane to Dublin was diverted because of fog. Why?'

'Don't be stupid, Dillon. He shot a military policeman in Londonderry a couple of years ago and fled. The policeman nearly died.'

'So you're going to stand Regan up on trial at the Old Bailey?' Ferguson asked.

'We might.'

'But you won't, because of the peace process. We're letting them out of prison now, not banging them up.'

Carter was strangely confused. 'Come on, Ferguson, we're in the hands of our political masters.'

'Not as far as I'm concerned. We're in the hands of the law. The truth is, you're holding Regan to squeeze anything you can out of him in case it may be of future use.'

'So what?'

'Not any more. Where are you holding him?' 'Wandsworth.' Carter answered as a reflex.

'Not any longer.' Ferguson produced a paper from his inside pocket. 'That's a warrant from me as head of the PM's security squad, authorizing me to, as quaint legal language has it, take possession of one Sean Regan.'

Carter was outraged. 'Now, look here, Ferguson.'

'No, you look here. The difference is that I did serve in the field. I was an eighteen-year-old second lieutenant in the Hook in Korea in fifty-two, and I've seen more villains here than you've had breakfasts. So don't argue. Just countersign the order. Here's my pen.'

He offered it and Carter took it, hand shaking, and signed the document. 'My turn will come, Ferguson.'

'I don't think so.' Ferguson blew on the ink. 'Now go away.'

Carter suddenly looked helpless, got up, and stumbled out. Blake said, 'Why is it I don't feel sorry for him?'

'Because he isn't worth it,' Ferguson said. 'So, gentlemen, Wandsworth Prison next stop.'

Ferguson, Dillon and Blake waited in the interview room at Wandsworth until the door was opened, and the kind of prison officer who looked as if he'd been a sergeant in a Guards regiment pushed Regan in.

Dillon said, 'Good man yourself, Sean.' He turned to the others. Always gave us a problem, the two of us being Sean.'

Regan said, 'Jesus, is that you, Dillon?'

'As ever was. Come to take you away from your cell and the stench of the lavatory buckets. This is Brigadier Charles Ferguson, your new boss. The other fella is a Yank, and FBI, so watch it.'

'What in the hell is going on?'

Ferguson turned to the prison officer. 'Give us a moment.' 'Certainly, sir.'

The man went out, and Dillon said, 'Brendan Murphy. We know you've been part of his outfit.'

Regan was thrown, but tried to brazen it out. 'I haven't seen Brendan in years.'

'So Carter didn't manage to wheedle anything out of you?'

'I've said I don't know what you're talking about.' 'Don't waste my time,' Ferguson told him. 'You shot a military policeman in Derry two years ago and fled to the States. Since then, you've worked for Murphy in Europe.'

'It's a lie.'

Dillon said, 'Don't be stupid. You shot a peeler. All right, he didn't die, but at the Old Bailey you'll pull ten years for attempted murder. Imagine Wandsworth or maybe Parkhurst, year after year. You'd be afraid to take a shower.'

'No.' Regan was shaken. 'Mr Carter said if I cooperated I wouldn't do time.'

'Yes, well, unfortunately, I'm in charge now,' Ferguson told him. 'Now make your mind up. A comfortable safe house where you'll fill us in on Brendan Murphy's doings, or a very unpleasant future.'

Regan, in despair, said, 'Brendan would cut me to pieces. He's a sadist.'

'Which is why we'll have to take good care of you.'

He nodded to Dillon, who knocked on the door, which opened and the prison officer appeared. Ferguson took his warrant out.

'Take this prisoner to his cell, allow him to collect his belongings, then present this document to the Governor, authorizing his release into my custody.'

'Certainly, Brigadier.'

Regan was pushed out, and Ferguson turned to Dillon and Blake. 'So, we take him to Holland Park, where you, Dillon, will squeeze out the last drop of juice.'

'My pleasure, Brigadier,' Dillon said.

They delivered Regan to Holland Park and drove in through the electronic gates. The security guards wore neat navy blue blazers and flannel slacks.

'Nursing home? What is this?' Regan asked.

'It's a fortress,' Ferguson told him. 'And the gentlemen in blazers are all military police. There's no way out of here, as you'll find for yourself.' He turned to Dillon. 'Let Helen settle him in and feed him. You and Blake stay. I'll be back.'

His Daimler drove away. They took Regan up the steps between them, his wrists still manacled. The door opened and a very large man appeared.

'Mr Dillon, sir.'

'Another one for you, Sergeant Miller, one Sean Regan. He shot a Royal Military Policeman in Derry two years ago.'

'That would be Fred Dalton.' Miller's face was like stone. 'He survived, but had to take a medical discharge. Oh, I'll take good care of you, Mr Regan.'

He reached for Regan's left shoulder with a hand the size of a meat plate, and Helen Black came down the hall stairs. 'Is this the prisoner, Sergeant Miller?'

Miller got his feet together. 'Yes, ma'am.'

'Good. Room ten, unpack him, then we'll have sandwiches and tea in the parlour.'

'As you say, ma'am.'

Regan turned. 'What is this? Who's she?'

'Sergeant Major Black, and don't be a male chauvinist, Regan,' Dillon said. 'She shot two Provos in Derry and holds the Military Cross.'

'Fuck you, Dillon.'

'That's bad language in front of a lady. We can't have that, can we, sergeant?' he asked Miller.

'We certainly can't, sir.' Miller squeezed Regan's left arm very hard. 'Up we go, there's a good gentleman.'

Blake said, 'Now what?'

'Oh, they have a canteen, a kitchen. We won't starve.' Dillon smiled. 'We'll sort Regan out later.'

Upstairs, Regan was astounded. He had a decent bedroom, a bathroom, a view of the garden, even if it was through barred windows. He even had a fresh shirt, blazer and slacks, like the guards'. Miller took him downstairs to a small sitting room, a gas fire flickering in the hearth. There was soup, ham sandwiches and a glass of dry white wine. Miller stood by the wall, enigmatic. Regan, slightly euphoric at the difference from Wandsworth, said, 'Could I have another glass of wine?'

'Of course, sir.'

Miller poured the glass of Chablis, and behind the mirror Ferguson, Dillon, Hannah — who had just arrived — and Helen Black watched.

Ferguson said, 'You all know the story by now. This is a bad business, so we make sure he talks. I'd like you to go in, Sergeant Major, and you, Dillon. Facts, that's what I need.'

'Certainly, sir.' Helen Black nodded to Sean. 'Good guy, bad guy, suit you, Sean?'

'Nothing better. Takes me back to my days at the National Theatre.'

'Yes, you have told us that one before. Let's do it.' She led the way out. 'But follow my lead.'

'Shall I leave, ma'am?' Miller asked, as they stepped into the room.

'No, I might need you, Sergeant.' Her voice was different and very hard. 'This is a Provisional IRA gunman. He crippled Fred Dalton. Do you think Fred was his first?'

'I doubt it, ma'am,' Miller said coldly.

'Right, but I'd like you to manacle him, Sergeant. Once a killer, always a killer.'

'Certainly, ma'am.'

'Now, look here,' Regan protested.

'Just hold out your wrists and be a good boy.'

Regan was sweating and very, very worried. He'd had three weeks in Wandsworth, with the lavatory bucket, — the twice-a-week showers, the unwelcome attentions of certain wild-eyed prisoners, and others: basic English criminals who didn't like the IRA. The contrast of his treatment at the safe house spoke for itself. In a way, he'd thought he was going to be all right, but now he had this woman who looked like his elder sister, acting like the Gestapo.

She unbuttoned her jacket, revealing the holstered Colt. 'Now then, let's get started.'

Roper had joined the group on the other side of the mirror. 'She's really very good.'

'Outstanding,' Blake agreed.

'And still won't take a commission,' Ferguson said. 'You can't buy her, sir,' Hannah put in.

'I know,' Ferguson sighed. 'Very depressing.'

And then, Helen Black started to work.

The change was astonishing. This pleasant, decent Englishwoman seemed to take on a new persona.

'I've been fighting people like you for years. The bomb and the bullet, women and kids — you couldn't care less. I shot dead two of your bastards in Derry. They were parking a van with fifty pounds of Semtex on board outside a nurses' hostel. Well, we couldn't have that, could we? I took a bullet in the left thigh, got the bastard who did it, then sat up and got his friend in the back as he ran away.'

Regan was terrified. 'For Christ's sake, what kind of woman are you?'

She grabbed his jaw and shook his head painfully from side to side. 'The Apache Indians used to give their prisoners to their women to go to work on. I'm that kind of woman.'

'Excellent,' Ferguson said. 'She should be at the National Theatre herself.'

'You crippled a comrade of mine. Fred Dalton.' She took out her Colt and touched him between the eyes. 'These are hollowpoints, you scum. I pull this trigger and your brains are on the wall.'

'For God's sake, no,' Regan cried.

Dillon caught her wrist and turned the gun. 'No. Sergeant Major, this isn't the way.'

She turned, as if in fury. 'I'll be back.' She walked out. Regan was shaking. Dillon said to Miller, 'Uncuff him, Sergeant, he isn't going anywhere.'

'As you say, sir.' Miller got out a key and unlocked the manacles. Dillon opened his old silver cigarette case, took out two cigarettes, lit them, and gave Regan one.

'There you go, just like in Now Voyager.'

Regan was shaking. 'What in the hell are you talking about?'

'Never mind, Sean, I've a weakness for old movies. Now listen. Me, I got smart. I could have faced a Serb firing squad, but Ferguson is an extraordinarily powerful man. He saved my life, and in return I dropped working for the glorious cause and work for him instead. Which means I'm alive.' Regan was trembling, and Dillon turned to Miller. 'A large brandy, Sergeant.'

'Certainly, sir.'

Miller opened a cupboard and returned with a glass, which Regan emptied at one throw. He looked up at Dillon. 'What do you want?'

'What's best for you. Look, Ferguson's in charge now, and you did shoot that fella, Dalton. Peace process or not, he'll make you stand up in court if he wants to.'

On the other side of the mirror, Ferguson said, 'In you go, Sergeant Major.'

Helen Black went back into the sitting room, a document in one hand. 'All right, I've had enough. It's back to Wandsworth for you, you bastard.'

Regan simply fell apart. 'For God's sake, tell me what you want, just tell me.'

'Excellent,' Roper said. 'Pure Gestapo. They used physical abuse much less than people realized. Didn't need to. They just messed with their heads.'

Ferguson said to Hannah, 'We won't overwhelm him.' He turned to Roper. 'You and Blake stay here. You come in with me and do your Scotland Yard bit, Superintendent.'

Ferguson walked in with Hannah and said to Miller, 'Give him another brandy, Sergeant.'

'Sir.' Miller did as he was told, and Regan took the glass with shaking hands and drained it.

'Do I have a deal?'

'That depends on what you have for me.'

Regan looked at Dillon, who said, 'The Brigadier's a hard man, Sean, but a moralist. If he says it, he means it.'

Hannah said, 'Mr Regan, I'm Detective Superintendent Bernstein of Special Branch. I'd be interested to know if you can assist us in our inquiries regarding the activities of one Brendan Murphy.'

Regan said, 'What do you want to know?'

'I understand there's an underground concrete bunker somewhere in County Louth.'

'Semtex, machine guns, mortars,' Dillon said. 'Enough to start a civil war. Where is it, Sean?'

Regan said, 'Close to Kilbeg.'

'Jesus, son, there are Kilbegs all over Ireland.'

'Well, this one is in Louth, like the Superintendent says, just south of the border in the Republic and south of Dundalk Bay. Near Dunany Point. Very remote.'

'I know that area,' Dillon said.

'You wouldn't last long, Dillon. They're a funny lot. Strangers stand out like a sore thumb.'

Ferguson said, 'Let's be specific.'

'When I fled to the States, I was helped by a wealthy Irish American group who were a bit radical. Didn't approve of peace. I brokered a big financial deal for Brendan. The idea was to prepare for the future, the next war.'

'Which explains the bunker,' Ferguson said.

'But where did the arms come from?' Dillon asked. Behind the mirror, Roper was making notes.

'Oh, that was a Mafia connection. Brendan had worked with them in Europe. A fella called Jack Fox.'

'Fronting for the Solazzo family?' Hannah said.

'Well, I always figured he was fronting for himself. He supplied the arms.'

'Anything else?' Hannah asked. 'Lebanon, for example?' 'Christ, is there nothing you don't know?'

'Get on with it,' Dillon said.

'Murphy was trained in Libya years ago, has strong Arab contacts, can even get by with the language, enough to order a meal, anyway.'

'So?' Ferguson asked.

'Well, Fox controls the Solazzos' drug operations in Russia, so he has big contacts. Murphy has the Arab link.' 'Which Arab link?'

Regan hesitated. 'Saddam. Iraq.'

'That's nice,' Dillon said. 'What's intended?'

'There's a freighter down from the Black Sea next week. Called the Fortuna. If it's on time, it's due at a place called Al Shariz, south of Beirut, next Tuesday.'

Dillon took over. 'Russian crew?'

'No, Arab. All Army of God.'

'And the cargo?' Regan hesitated. 'Come on, what's the bloody cargo?'

'Hammerheads.'

There was a pause, and Hannah turned to Ferguson. 'Hammerheads, sir?'

The door opened and Blake entered. 'Sorry, Brigadier, but I know all about those. They're short-range missiles mounted on a tripod that only take two minutes to erect. Their range is three hundred miles. Nuclear-tipped. They wouldn't take out Israel or Jordan completely, but Tel Aviv wouldn't look too good.'

Ferguson turned to Regan. 'Have you told me the truth, told me everything?'

Regan hesitated again. 'When the boat gets in, the Fortuna, Brendan will be on board. Fox meets them, gets paid in gold. Five million.'

'Dollars or pounds?' Dillon asked.

'How the fuck would I know? Paid on the boat is what I heard, because they want to arrange another consignment a

month later.'

'And all this is true?' Ferguson asked.

'Yes, damn you.'

Ferguson turned to Helen Black and Miller. 'Send him

back to his room.'

They took Regan out between them, and Roper came in

after they left.

'I've had a thought,' he said. 'I've got details of Fox's Gulfstream. It's parked at Heathrow, as I recall. Let me

check its movements.'

They followed him to his ground floor suite, where all his equipment had been set up. Roper started on the computer,

fingers deft on the keys.

He grunted. 'Fox has a slot booked out of Heathrow for Monday morning, destination Beirut.'

'Wonderful,' Dillon said. 'Regan was telling the truth.' 'So what now, sir?' Hannah asked.

Ferguson said, 'We can't send in the SAS, and we do have other business with Fox. Something more subtle is

needed.'

Hannah said, 'The Israelis wouldn't like this, Brigadier.'

'Exactly what I was thinking.' Ferguson turned to Dillon. 'You went to Beirut the other year with the Superintendent here. Stayed at the Al Bustan.'

'How could I forget it? It overlooks some excellent Roman

ruins.'

'You remember my man there, Walid Khasan?'

'Very well. Lebanese Christian. He and the Superintendent

got on rather well. Which is not surprising, considering that

he was actually Major Gideon Cohen of Mossad.' 'Lieutenant colonel, now.'

'Had a nice sister, Anya, I remember. A lieutenant.' 'Captain, now.'

'And there was another one — what was his name? Captain Moshe Levy?'

'Major. Everything goes up in the world, Dillon. Yes, I think Colonel Cohen might be interested. I'll give him a call.'

Lieutenant Colonel Gideon Cohen wore uniform only on occasion. Sitting in his office now at the top of a secluded building in Tel Aviv, he was wearing a white shirt and linen Slacks, all very unmilitary for a Mossad colonel. Forty-nine years of age, he had olive skin, and hair that was still black and down to his shoulders.

His sister, Captain Anya Shamir, sat at a corner desk, working a computer. She'd been a widow since her husband's death on the Golan Heights.

In the other corner, Major Moshe Levy sat at a second computer. He was in uniform because he'd had a report to make at Army headquarters, and wore khaki shirt and slacks, paratroopers' wings and decorations. The phone on Gideon Cohen's desk rang.

A voice said, 'This is Ferguson. Are you coded? I am.'

'My dear Charles, of course I am.' Cohen waved to Anya and Moshe. 'Ferguson from London.'

He pressed the audio button on his telephone. 'Charles, old boy.'

'Don't call me old boy just because you went to Sandhurst. I'm glad to say I still outrank you.'

'Something special, Charles?'

'Something rotten in the state of Lebanon.'

'Tell me.'

Which Ferguson did.

When he was finished, Cohen said, 'Hammerheads. We can't have that.'

'Jerusalem wouldn't look too good after one of those.' 'Exactly. Charles, I need to consider this.'

'What you mean is, you need to talk to the general, your uncle.'

'I'm afraid so.'

'That's no problem. But this is a black one, Gideon. Keep it close.'

In his penthouse office, General Arnold Cohen, head of Mossad's Section One, the group with special responsibility for activities in Arab areas, listened gravely.

When his nephew was finished, he said, 'Hammerheads. This is very serious.'

'So what do we do? Call an air strike on this boat, the Fortuna?'

'In Lebanese waters? Come on, Gideon, we're supposed to be nice at the moment while our British and American cousins castigate Saddam.'

'And he's going to send Hammerhead strikes up our backside.'

His sister, Anya, standing with Levy by the window, said, 'Can I make a point, Uncle?'

'Of course you can. You've gotten away with murder with me ever since you learned to speak, so why should this time be different?'

'Why don't we use Dillon, uncle? He's hell on wheels, that one — remember that job with him in Beirut the other year? He was incredible.'

'She's right,' Levy put in. 'What's important here is disposing of this Fortuna boat and its cargo with a minimum of fuss, right?'

'So?'

'So we make it a small-scale operation. With Dillon to call on, the three of us — Anya, Moshe, me — can handle it in Al Shariz. The right equipment, and we can blow the damn boat to hell.'

'He's right,' Gideon Cohen said. 'No adverse publicity. No air strikes.'

'I like it,' the general said. 'Get on with it.'

Ferguson said, 'Fine, Gideon. I'll send over Dillon. Also an American colleague, Blake Johnson, who works directly for the President. You'll find him most useful. I'll put Dillon on.'

A moment later, Dillon said in bad Hebrew, 'How are you, you lying dog?'

'Dillon, we seem to have business together.'

They switched into English. 'I'm not sure how we'll do this,' Dillon said. 'If we're to blow this Fortuna out of the water, we'll need mines, Semtex, some scuba equipment.'

'We'll take care of it. We'll keep it low-key. Myself, Levy, my sister. With you and this American, that's five. We don't want to draw attention, although things have changed since you operated in Beirut, my friend. It's not quite the war zone it used to be. People are trying to build up the infrastructure again, tourism and so on.'

'Where would Fox stay. Beirut?'

'No, there's an old Moorish palace in Al Shariz which has been refurbished as a hotel. I'd say he'll be there. It's called the Golden House.'

'No good for us, then.'

'No problem. We'll come up on a motor yacht, like tourists. You and your friends can stay on board.'

'We can't exactly sit in the bar at the Golden House, though. We don't want Fox to know it's us. It'd be much better if he thought it was an Israeli job.'

'Do you recall my sister Anya?'

'How could I forget? She played a lady of the night better than a lady of the night.'

'Enough to ensnare this Fox.'

Dillon laughed. 'Enough to ensnare friend Fox.'

'You and Johnson, Levy and myself, we'll stay on our boat, the Pamir, well out of the way. Anya can squeeze what she can out of the guy. We'll send the Fortuna down when we're ready.'

'You Israelis are such morally committed people,' Dillon said. 'But you'll sink that boat, crew and all, without a flicker.'

'Not even half a flicker,' Cohen said. 'See you soon.' Dillon hung up, and Ferguson said, 'So, here we go again.' Hannah Bernstein said, 'What about me, Sir?'

'Not this one, Superintendent. Dillon and Blake, plus our friends from Mossad, are enough. What I'd like you to do is get a little more basic with friend Regan as regards the bunker in County Louth.' He turned to Roper. 'I'm sure the Major here will be more than willing to help.'

'A pleasure, Sir,' Roper said.

'Sorry, Hannah, I'll have to love you and leave you.' Dillon turned to Blake and smiled, a strange excitement there. 'Here we go, old buddy, back to the war zone again.'