Dead Halt

Chapter Fifteen

Tillman was sweating as he made his way through customs at John F. Kennedy Airport. He wasn’t stopped, which surprised him. If anyone looked nervous, he did. His luck seemed to be holding. He looked anxiously around him as he strode briskly through the concourse. Once outside he made for the nearest yellow cab and told the driver to take him to Grand Central Station. The driver finished the Hershey bar he was eating then switched on the meter and started the engine.

Tony Varese had tailed Tillman discreetly through the airport from the moment he was cleared through customs. He climbed into the back of another yellow cab and told the driver to follow Tillman. The driver, an expatriate Italian who regularly worked for the Germino family, put the cab into gear then pulled out into the road and followed the quarry at a safe distance.

Tillman told the driver to wait for him once they reached Grand Central Station. He wouldn’t be long. When he returned he had a pale blue holdall with him. He thought momentarily about going back to his apartment to collect a few personal things but quickly dismissed the idea. It would be too dangerous. He couldn’t afford to take any unnecessary risks. He still hadn’t decided on his ultimate destination. El Salvador? Guatemala? Honduras? It didn’t matter. He could decide that later. All that mattered now was getting out of the country. He knew he couldn’t use any of the major airlines. How would he explain away the five hundred thousand dollars in the holdall? No, it was time to call in a favor. He told the driver where he wanted to go.

Judd Miller’s boast was that if it had wings and an engine, he could fly it. He had yet to be proved wrong. He had flown helicopter gunships in Vietnam in the sixties, Hercules transport planes in war-torn Africa in the seventies and a variety of light aircraft in Central America in the eighties. During that time he had also served a total of fourteen years in prisons around the world on a variety of charges ranging from gun-running to attempted murder.

He had returned to the States in the late eighties and opened a small flying school outside New York, but a costly divorce a year later and mounting debts had taken the company to the brink of bankruptcy. He had been forced to sell one of his planes earlier in the year to pay off some of his creditors and then the previous month had laid off his secretary and two of his three mechanics because he couldn’t afford to pay their wages anymore. He knew it would only be a matter of time before the company was wound up. Not that it bothered him. He’d had enough of teaching anyway. It was time to move on again. He knew he could get a job in any number of countries. He’d already put out feelers and now all he had to do was wait until the right offer came along …

He was sitting in his office, his feet on the desk, when the yellow cab pulled up outside the door. The driver removed a suitcase from the trunk and dumped it on the ground. Miller cursed angrily. He wasn’t running a charter service. He was about to swing his legs off the desk and go outside when Tillman got out of the cab. Miller recognized him straight away. He raked his fingers through his greasy hair. What the hell was going on?

He had first met Tillman in the early eighties. He had been serving a three-year sentence in a Nicaraguan jail for running arms to the Contras; Tillman had been a highly respected foreign correspondent with the New York Times. Even though they had little in common, apart from a mutual hatred of international communism, their paths had crossed several times over the next few years. Then Tillman had returned to the States and Miller hadn’t heard of him again until a recent NBC special about Jack Scoby’s historic victory in New York State. Tillman was there. The brains behind the campaign. The puppeteer. But now it seemed that the strings had suddenly been cut from underneath him …

Tillman paid the driver then waited until the taxi had left before entering the small office. “You remember me, don’t you?”

Miller nodded slowly. “Sure. The smart-assed journalist turned political manipulator. You did a good job on Scoby. You even got me to vote for him. And I’ve never voted before in my life. Pity it turned out to have been a wasted vote though.”

“Then you know what happened?”

“It’s all they’ve been reporting on the radio this morning.” Miller clasped his hands behind his head. “I’d have thought you’d have been big news right now. There must be journalists out there who’d sell their children to get an exclusive with you. So what the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m calling in the favor you owe me,” Tillman replied sharply.

“And which favor would that be?”

“Don’t screw me about, Miller. You know damn well what I’m talking about. I got you out of Honduras after your plane had been shot down by the guerrillas. If they’d have got hold of you, you wouldn’t be here today.”

“Oh, that favor? I guess I do owe you something for bailing out my ass. What do you want?”

“I want you to fly me to Central America. It doesn’t matter where at the moment. Just get me out of the States.”

A look of disbelief crossed Miller’s face. “Fly you out to Central America? Just like that?”

Tillman cleared a space on the desk for the holdall then opened it and removed two packs of ten thousand dollars and tossed them into Miller’s lap. “That’s for the hire of the plane, all fuel expenses and for your time. I think you’d agree that twenty grand is a more than reasonable amount.”

Miller picked up one of the packs and fanned the money with his thumb. “I’m intrigued. Scoby’s assassinated and suddenly you have to flee the country in a hurry. What the hell’s going on, Tillman?”

Tillman tossed another ten thousand dollars on the table. “Thirty grand. No questions asked.”

“How much blood money have you got in there?”

“I said no questions asked,” Tillman snapped.

“You must have quite a bit there if you can afford to throw around thirty Gs. Let’s say fifty Gs and you pay for the fuel as well. Deal?”

“Deal,” Tillman replied tersely.

“How can you make a deal with money that doesn’t belong to you?” Varese said, appearing in the doorway. He had a silenced Heckler & Koch automatic in his hand.

“Who the hell are you?” Miller snapped, swinging his legs off the desk.

Varese eyed Miller disdainfully then raised the automatic and shot him. Tillman stumbled backward against the wall, the holdall clasped to his chest as if it would somehow shield him from the next bullet.

“Fifty grand to take you to Central America?” Varese said, glancing down at Miller’s body. “I’d say he was dealing you from the bottom of the deck on that one.”

“We can make a deal, Varese,” Tillman said in desperation, stuffing the thirty thousand dollars back into the holdall. “You can say you never found me. That way you’d get to keep all the money for yourself. Half a million. It’s a lot of money. I won’t talk. You know that. I’m in this just as deep as you are. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a prison cell. Take the money. Take it all. Just let me go.”

“I know you wouldn’t sing to the authorities but what if the Colombians got hold of you? They’d certainly torture you and you’d end up telling them all about Mr. Navarro. And then they’d be sure to retaliate against the family. The Colombians are particularly bad losers. And then we’d have to retaliate so as not to lose face. It could all turn very nasty. And all because I let you go.”

“They could torture me, I wouldn’t talk,” Tillman replied, using his cuff to wipe the sweat from his forehead.

“The Colombians are masters of torture. I know I’d talk rather than have to endure that kind of agony. And so would you. You’d tell them everything they wanted to know. And more. Just to make them stop.” Varese levelled the automatic at Tillman’s head. “This way there can’t be any misunderstandings. And you’ll be spared an agonizing death at the hands of the Colombians.”

Tillman lashed out with the holdall, catching Varese full in the face. The bullet smashed harmlessly into the wall behind the desk. Tillman darted past Varese and out through the open doorway. Cursing angrily, Varese moved to the door. Tillman was making for the hangar a couple of hundred yards away from the office. Varese raised the automatic, steadied his aim, then fired. The bullet took Tillman in the leg. He stumbled and fell heavily to the ground. He looked around in horror as Varese walked toward him. He tried to get up but a sharp pain speared through his leg. He gritted his teeth in agony and finally managed to get up onto his one good leg. But after a couple of unsteady steps he overbalanced and fell to the ground again. He clawed at the ground, dragging himself toward the hangar. When Varese caught up with him he raised the automatic and shot him through the back of the head. He used his foot to roll Tillman over onto his back. Satisfied Tillman was dead, he picked up the holdall and walked back to the taxi which had been parked out of sight at the back of the hangar. He told the driver to take him to West Side Electronics. He wanted to break the news personally to Navarro. Their troubles were over …

Kolchinsky punched a code into the bellpush then opened the door and entered the room. Sarah wasn’t behind her desk. And the sliding door leading into the Director’s office was open. Although she had access to the spare miniature transmitter which was kept in the wall safe behind her desk, she knew she was only to use it in an emergency if either he or Whitlock wasn’t in the office. Those were the rules. So why was she in there? Was it an emergency? Another crisis? He hurried into the room and froze when he saw Malcolm Philpott seated behind the desk.

“Afternoon, Sergei,” Philpott said, looking up at him. He turned back to Sarah who was standing in front of the desk. “Thanks for doing those photocopies for me.”

She smiled at him and left the room.

Philpott used the spare miniature transmitter to close the door again behind her. “Sit down and I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

“I would but you’re sitting in my chair.”

“This is the Director’s chair.” Philpott took the envelope containing Kolchinsky’s letter of resignation from his pocket and placed it on the desk. “I believe you gave this to the Secretary-General this morning?”

Kolchinsky sat down slowly on one of the black leather sofas, his eyes never leaving Philpott’s face. “This smacks of an old-style Soviet coup. The ink isn’t even dry on my letter of resignation and already the bureaucrats have moved me out.”

“You haven’t been moved out, Sergei.” Philpott picked up his pipe and turned it around thoughtfully in his hands. He hadn’t used it since he suffered the heart attack earlier in the year. Now it was just a memento. He put it down again. “The Secretary-General called me this morning after you’d handed in your letter of resignation and asked if I’d consider returning to UNACO. It was a bolt out of the blue. Not that I needed any persuading. As you already know, the boredom’s been driving me mad. But I haven’t come back to wind UNACO down. On the contrary, I intend to fight tooth and nail to ensure it survives. I’ve spent most of the morning studying the reports of the Scoby case. There’s no use fooling ourselves. UNACO is in a lot of trouble. But there are loopholes. And I intend to exploit them to the full to get UNACO back on an even keel. But I’m going to need support on this. And I hope you’ll be there to give me that support, old friend. Of course you’re going to take some flak from the politicians. It’s only to be expected. But that doesn’t mean you were to blame for what’s happened. It would still have happened even if I’d been here. None of us is infallible. But my main concern at the moment is that UNACO will fragment at the top. A point borne out by your resignation this morning. That’s why I’m asking you to reconsider your decision. I can understand why you did it. But I don’t think it’s the answer. At least not at the moment. If we appear solid then it’s going to be that much harder for our critics to find the chinks in our armor.

“I’ve already spoken to C.W. and he’s indicated that he wants to stay with UNACO on the condition that he can return to the field. I’ve certainly got no problem with that. He’s one of the best field operatives we’ve ever had. He’s obviously never settled properly on the management side.” Philpott held up the envelope. “We’ve always been honest with each other, Sergei. If you still want to stick by your decision, I won’t try and change your mind. I respect you too much for that. It’s entirely up to you.”

Kolchinsky stared at the carpet for some time then sat back on the sofa and clasped his hands in his lap. “In retrospect, what you say makes sense. The organization does need to stand together at a time like this. Perhaps I was a bit hasty in tendering my resignation this morning. But I still intend to reconsider my position again once all the hubbub has died down.”

“Then I’d better hang on to this,” Philpott said, slipping the envelope into the drawer in front of him.

“Why didn’t the Secretary-General tell me you were coming back? I’ve been with him for the last three hours.”

“I asked him not to say anything. I thought it would be better if I told you myself.”

“It’s good to have you back again, Malcolm,” Kolchinsky said at length. “I only wish it were under different circumstances.”

“The cards have been dealt. It’s now up to us to play our hand as best we can.”

“Some hand,” Kolchinsky retorted.

“We’ve still got an ace to play,” Philpott replied, tapping the folder in front of him. “Jack Scoby left instructions with his wife to forward an envelope to C.W. if anything happened to him while they were in Ireland. C.W. faxed the contents through to the office while you were still in conference with the Secretary-General. It makes chilling reading. The question now is how best to play it for maximum effect.”

“What was in the envelope?” Kolchinsky asked, his interest stimulated.

Philpott briefly outlined the five pages of handwritten text in which Scoby had explained, in meticulous detail, the agreement he’d made with the Colombians, later to be hijacked by the Mafia, to import cocaine into the United States using New York State as the port of entry.

“Tillman’s obviously the key to this now that Scoby’s dead,” Kolchinsky said. “Has he been arrested yet?”

“Tillman fled the hotel in London as soon as he found out that Scoby was dead. By the time this came through he’d already arrived back in New York. The DEA have staked out his apartment and there’s an APB out on him as well but so far there’s been no sign of him. He seems to have vanished.”

“I’m not surprised. He must know it’ll only be a matter of time before both the Colombians and the Mafia catch up with him. But why would he come back here? If I was in his shoes I’d have fled as far away from the States as I possibly could.”

“We’ll only know that after he’s been arrested,” Philpott replied.

“Did Scoby give any reason for leaving such a damaging confession behind?”

“To protect his wife. It’s possible that the Colombians or the Mafia might put a contract out on her if they believed Scoby had let her in on the deal as well. But Scoby was very insistent in his notes that she knew nothing about it. If these allegations were made public then everything would be out in the open. It’s the best protection she could have.”

“It’s going to damage the image of the Republican Party enormously if these allegations reach the Press,” Kolchinsky said. “They could lose the next election with a skeleton like this in their closet.”

“Which is why the President’s sending one of his senior aides down from Washington tomorrow morning. And I intend to use this situation to its fullest advantage.”

“You mean you’d actually blackmail the President?” Kolchinsky said in amazement.

“Perish the thought,” Philpott replied in mock horror. “Let’s just say I intend to negotiate a deal in our favor.”

“What’s the deal?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Philpott replied, pushing the folder to one side. “Now tell me about your meeting with the Secretary-General.”

After Whitlock had settled the accounts at the hotel, the three of them had taken a taxi to Heathrow Airport where they checked in for their flight back to New York then went through to the cafeteria for a coffee.

“I’ll be glad to get back home,” Sabrina said after they’d sat down.

“Me too,” Graham said, adding milk to his coffee. “The Giants are playing at Meadowlands tomorrow night. Should be a great game.”.

“I know I’m going to regret asking this, but who are they playing?” Sabrina said.

“The Washington Redskins. It should be a really tight game. I reckon it could even be decided on a single touchdown.”

“I’m regretting it already,” Sabrina said with a despairing look in Whitlock’s direction.

“Why don’t you come along?” Graham said. “You might learn something. I’ve got a few contacts in the game. I should be able to get another ticket even at this late stage.”

“You know I don’t know the first thing about football, Mike,” she replied. “You’d just be wasting your money.”

“OK, I’ll make a deal with you. For the price of a cheap exercise book I’ll teach you the basics of the game on the flight back home. And if you still don’t understand the plays by the time we reach JFK, then I’ll concede defeat. But I guarantee that you’ll want to come to Meadowlands tomorrow night. Is it a deal?”

“Me and my big mouth.” She shrugged. “It’s not as if I’ve got much else to do for the next couple of hours.”

“We’ll make a Giants fan out of you yet.”

“I can hardly wait,” she replied, pulling a face.

“What do you think, C.W.?” Graham’s smile faded when he saw the consternation etched on Whitlock’s face. “C.W.?”

Whitlock snapped out of his reverie and grinned ruefully at Graham. “Sorry, Mike, I was far away. What was that you said?”

“It doesn’t matter. Are you OK?”

“Sure,” Whitlock replied. But he knew he hadn’t fooled either of them. He exhaled deeply and sat back in his chair. “When I spoke to the Colonel earlier on the phone I told him that I wanted to be transferred back into the field. I’m just not cut out for management. He was great about it. He said we could finalize the details once I got back to New York. But I haven’t told Carmen yet. She’s going to throw a fit when she finds out.”

“Don’t judge her too quickly, C.W.”

“Come on, Sabrina, you know how she feels about all this. She wanted me out of the field because she feared for my safety. It got to a point where she threatened to leave because she couldn’t bear the anxiety every time I went off on another assignment. Why else do you think I took a management job? It was the one chance to save the marriage. And it’s worked. So far.” Whitlock indicated Graham beside him. “Mike and I discussed this over the weekend. And he was right. It was a short-term solution. I can’t be unhappy at work and happy at home. Sooner or later something would have to give. And I could feel the tension rising these last few days. The three of you were in the thick of the action while I was stuck by the phone writing God knows how many reports to fax through to the UN. I’m not cut out to be a desk jockey. I can’t live the lie anymore. But how am I going to convince Carmen?”

“Tell her what you’ve just told us,” Graham said. “From what you’ve told me about her I’m pretty sure she’ll understand the dilemma you’ve been in since you left the field. The main thing is you’ve tried management but you just couldn’t hack it. And you did it for her. What else can she ask of you? That you grin and bear it for the sake of your marriage? That’s no formula to save a marriage. You’ve got to be honest with her, C.W. It’s the only way.

“I know what you’re going through,” Graham continued. “Carrie and I went through exactly the same thing. She also wanted me out of the field when I was with Delta. And every time she raised the subject, I would refuse to talk about it. There wasn’t anything to talk about as far as I was concerned. It was my life. My decision. And I was damned if I was going to push a pen for the rest of my days. Well, it finally got to the point where we had to confront our feelings. And we did. No holds barred. And I’ll tell you something, we learned more about each other that day than we had in the previous four years of marriage. It sure cleared the air. And it also saved our marriage, I’ve no doubt of that.”

“Thanks,” Whitlock said at length. “I feel better for having talked this through.”

“I’ll bill you,” Graham said with a smile.

Sabrina suddenly noticed Marsh standing in the entrance of the cafeteria. “Don’t look now, but we’ve got company.”

Marsh greeted them then pulled up a chair and sat down. “You should have given me a bell at the Yard, I’d have brought you over here myself.”

“I think we’ve caused enough trouble as it is,” Whitlock replied. “We thought it best if we just slipped out quietly and went back to the States.”

“I’m glad I caught you anyway. I just wanted to thank you for what you did for me.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Whitlock said. “Eastman was the one who cleared your name.”

“What’s the latest on the son-of-a-bitch?” Graham asked.

“He’s still being held at Brixton Remand but it’s my guess he’ll walk, especially in light of Scoby’s drug activities.”

“Any more news on Brady?” Whitlock asked.

Marsh shook his head. “Nothing’s been seen of him since he left the hotel.”

“So it’s conceivable that the IRA could already have killed him and dumped his body in a ditch somewhere?” Graham said.

“It’s possible, yes. But I think Keith’s seriously underestimated Brady’s support inside the Army Council. Sure, this whole operation’s damaged the IRA’s standing abroad and it’s going to take a lot of hard talking by the Army Council to reassure their supporters, especially those over in America, but it’s far from being the mortal blow the Press are maintaining in the papers this morning. The IRA will bounce back from it. They always do. And I believe there’s even a chance that Brady might come out of this unscathed.

“But if he is killed then I’d be more inclined to think that the order would have come from dissatisfied members within the Army Council rather than from the body as a whole. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”

The flight was announced over the public address system. They shook hands with Marsh then picked up their overnight bags and made for the boarding gate. Marsh waited until they had disappeared from view then headed back across the foyer to the main doors. His work wasn’t over yet …

Seamus Finnegan had been the landlord of the Castle Tavern in Carrickfergus for over twenty-five years. He was a staunch Republican who listed prominent Sinn Fein councillors and senior members of the IRA amongst his close friends. Although the premises were used regularly for Republican meetings and for harboring wanted men from the authorities, he had never been convicted of anything more serious than a speeding offense. Such was the frustration amongst the local RUC that they now regularly raided the pub, claiming to have received an anonymous tip-off that there was a fugitive on the premises. And they invariably chose Saturday nights when the pub was full. The previous night had been no exception. And, as on all the other occasions, they had gone away empty-handed.

Sunday mornings were always quiet. The regulars would converge on the pub after lunch for their customary pint and a game of dominoes. Finnegan glanced at the clock on the wall behind him. It would be another half hour before the first of the regulars began to arrive. There were only four customers in the pub, all seated at the bar watching a recorded game of football on the television. Their glasses were full. His wife had called down five minutes earlier to tell him that his lunch was ready. He decided to go upstairs and fetch it before it went cold. As he turned away from the television screen the door opened and a figure entered the room, his head bowed against the driving rain which had been lashing Carrickfergus since the early hours of the morning. He closed the door behind him and looked up slowly at Finnegan.

“Dear mother of God,” Finnegan muttered in disbelief.

Kevin Brady turned down the lapels of his leather jacket and crossed to the far end of the counter, out of earshot of the other customers. “Good to see you, Seamus,” he announced in his deadpan voice.

Finnegan pumped Brady’s hand vigorously. “And you, lad. How are you?”

“Bearing up,” Brady replied, running his fingers through his matted hair.

“The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since that American senator was assassinated in Dugaill yesterday afternoon. The Army Council were asking after you. I suppose they assumed that as you grew up in this neighborhood, you’d probably come back here sooner or later. You want to talk to them, lad. Put their minds at ease.”

“I will,” Brady replied.

“Why not come upstairs? There’s a hot meal on the table. You look like you could use it.”

“No, but thanks anyway. I’ll settle for a pint of Guinness and a cheese roll. I need to get my thoughts together before I call the Army Council.”

Finnegan poured a pint of draft Guinness and placed it on the counter. “There’s been talk around these parts that you were involved in that shooting yesterday. It’s not true, is it, lad?”

“No.”

“That’s what I said.” Finnegan took a cheese roll from a basket at the back of the bar and handed it to Brady. “I still can’t believe that Fiona pulled the trigger. I can’t remember the number of times she came in here with Sean for a few drinks and a game of pool. I honestly thought she was one of us.”

“We all did.”

“Are you sure you won’t eat something hot, lad? I can bring you down a plate.”

Brady shook his head then crossed to a corner table and sat down. He had always prided himself before on his ability to operate single-handedly but he had never felt so isolated and alone as he had in the last twenty-four hours. Not only was Kane in custody but his plan to publicly discredit the authorities had backfired badly on him. They now had the tapes. But that was nothing compared to the death of Jack Scoby. As a cell leader, Fiona was theoretically under his command. And every Sunday newspaper had fingered him as the mastermind behind the assassination. He knew the authorities wouldn’t stop searching until they had found him. It would be the only way they could hope to stem the international outcry. But what worried him more was the reaction of the Army Council. Would they stand by him or would they use him as a scapegoat to appease their supporters abroad? He knew he had strong support in the Army Council but would it be enough to save him? He couldn’t keep running. He had to face the truth sooner or later …

He looked up when the door opened and instantly recognized the tall, gangly figure of Kieran O’Connell, his fiercest critic on the Army Council. O’Connell brushed his windswept hair away from his face as he crossed the room to where Brady was sitting. His eyes were cold and malicious.

“Have you come to take me back to face the wrath of the Army Council?” Brady asked, holding O’Connell’s penetrating stare.

“The Army Council have voted overwhelmingly to stand by you until an internal investigation has been carried out. And now I’m facing expulsion from the Council because of my friendship with Fiona. There’s nothing left for me anymore.”

Brady had always loathed O’Connell for his wishy-washy liberal views. How many times had O’Connell’s veto wiped out one of his meticulously planned operations to hit at the very heart of the British forces? The Army Council were obviously going to take a tougher stance in the future. And Brady knew he was the man to spearhead that campaign. Revenge was sweet.

O’Connell suddenly stepped back and pulled a Browning Mk1 from his overcoat pocket. Brady kicked back the chair, looking wildly around him for a means of escape. O’Connell fired. The bullet took Brady in the stomach, punching him back against the wall. Brady clutched his stomach and stared in horror as the blood seeped through his fingers. He looked up slowly at O’Connell but as he tried to open his mouth to speak, three more bullets were pumped into him. The blood trickled from the corners of Brady’s mouth and the disbelief was still mirrored in his eyes when he fell forward onto the table, toppling it sideways, as his body crashed to the floor.

Finnegan, who had been alerted by the sound of the first shot, had grabbed his revolver from the bedroom and bounded downstairs, but by the time he burst through the door behind the counter Brady was already dead. He was momentarily taken aback by the sight of O’Connell. Another regular. Another friend.

“Put down the gun, Kieran,” he ordered, levelling the revolver at O’Connell.

O’Connell looked around slowly at Finnegan. There was no recognition in his eyes. Then, almost as if in slow motion, O’Connell pushed the barrel against the roof of his mouth and pulled the trigger.