Drink With The Devil

EIGHT

DON ANTONIO WAS right, for in London the most important matter on the Prime Minister’s agenda was his meeting due with the President of the United States at the end of the week. It was Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s sole concern. He was agitated and showed it as his Daimler languished in heavy traffic.

“Sometimes I think this whole damned city has ground to a halt.”

“Sure and sometimes it has,” Sean Dillon said sitting on the jump seat opposite.

He was a small man, no more than five feet five with hair so fair that it was almost white, handsome enough with a slight perpetual smile on his mouth as if mocking the world he saw about him. He wore an easy-fitting blue flannel suit, the jacket single-breasted, and a dark blue silk polo.

“I’d like to remind you that my appointment is with the Prime Minister, Dillon. I can hardly be late for that.”

“He’s a decent enough stick,” Dillon said. “He’ll see you right.”

The woman sitting next to Ferguson wore a fawn Armani trouser suit and black horn-rimmed glasses that contrasted with her red hair. She was in her late twenties and attractive enough to be worth a page or two in Vogue. She was, in fact, Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein from Special Branch at Scotland Yard, on loan to Ferguson as his assistant.

“You’re hopeless, Dillon,” she said. “No respect for anyone, you Irish.”

“It’s all that rain, girl dear,” he said.

“Don’t waste your time on him,” Ferguson told her. “A hopeless case.”

The Daimler was admitted through the security gates at the end of Downing Street and drew up at the door of Number Ten. “I shan’t be more than twenty minutes,” Ferguson told them.

“Will that old bowser Simon Carter be there?” Dillon asked.

“That is no way to refer to the Deputy Director of Security Services,” Ferguson said.

“Yes, well don’t forget to tell him I think his security plans for the American President’s visit stink.”

“Hardly appropriate, Dillon. Try and possess yourself in patience until I return.”

He crossed the pavement, the policeman on duty saluted, the door opened, and he went in.

“The grand gentleman that he is. Sure and the empire is in safe hands.” Dillon took a cigarette from his old silver case and lit it.

“We don’t have an empire any longer, Dillon,” she said.

“Is that a fact, and does the Government know that?”

She shook her head. “Hopeless, Dillon, that’s what you are, and you’ll kill yourself if you keep on smoking those things.”

“True, but then I always knew I’d come to a bad end.”

WHEN FERGUSON WAS shown into the Prime Minister’s study, Simon Carter was already seated. A small man in his early fifties with snow-white hair, he had once been a professor of history. Never an agent in the field himself, he was one of the faceless men who controlled Britain’s security system. He disliked Ferguson, had for years, and resented the Brigadier’s privileged position and the fact that he was answerable to the Prime Minister only.

“Sorry I’m late, Prime Minister.”

He made no excuses and the Prime Minister smiled. “That’s all right.” He picked up a file. “The security plans the Deputy Director and his people have planned for the President’s visit. You’ve read this?”

“Naturally.”

“I’m particularly anxious that his visit to the House of Commons goes well on Friday morning. Refreshments on the Terrace at ten-thirty.”

“No problems there, Prime Minister,” Carter said. “The one place during his whole trip which will provide no security problem at all is the House of Commons.” He turned to the Brigadier, the usual arrogant look on his face. “Don’t you agree, Ferguson.”

Ferguson would have let it go, but Carter’s look made him angry.

“Well, do you, Brigadier?” the Prime Minister asked.

“Seems all right on the surface of things, but to be frank, Prime Minister, Dillon doesn’t think much of it at all. He believes general security at the House of Commons to be very poor, indeed.”

“Dillon?” Carter’s eyes bulged. “That damned scoundrel. I really must protest, Prime Minister, that Brigadier Ferguson continues to employ a man once an IRA gunman, a man with a record in the general field of European terrorism that can only be described as infamous.”

“I protest in my turn,” Ferguson said. “Dillon has been of considerable service to the Crown as you well know, Prime Minister, not least to the Royal Family itself.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that.” The Prime Minister frowned. “But this is too important for personal bickering, gentlemen. My decision.” He sat back and said to Carter, “I’d like you to meet with the Brigadier and Dillon at the House of Commons. I’d like you to hear what he has to say.”

Carter controlled his anger with difficulty. “If you say so, Prime Minister.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I do. And now you must excuse me. I have a Cabinet meeting.”

EVERYONE STANDS IN line to get into the House of Commons, not only tourists but constituents waiting to see Members of Parliament. Ferguson, Dillon, and Hannah Bernstein waited their turn, Ferguson with some impatience.

“The grand place, this,” Dillon said. “They tell me they have twenty-six restaurants and bars and the food and drink subsidized by the taxpayer. A fine job being an MP.”

“Yes, well at least they don’t have to queue to get in the damn place,” Ferguson told him.

A very large police sergeant watching the line intently saw Hannah, stiffened to attention, and came forward. “Chief Inspector Bernstein. Nice to see you, ma’am. Here, let me pass you through. You won’t remember me.”

“Oh, but I recall you very well. Sergeant Hall, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am. I was first on the scene when you shot that bastard who held up the supermarket. You were on your way to the American Embassy.”

“Your wicked past catches up,” Dillon murmured.

“This is a colleague, Mr. Dillon, and my boss, Brigadier Ferguson,” she said.

Sergeant Hall became very military. “Let me pass you all through, Brigadier.”

“That’s very kind, Sergeant.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

He led them through the barrier and saluted and they walked on toward the Central Lobby. “How fortunate you were here, Chief Inspector,” Ferguson told her. “We could have stood in that wretched queue forever.”

“Humiliating, isn’t it?” Dillon said.

THEY MOVED ON through various corridors, and finally went out onto the Terrace overlooking the Thames, Westminster Bridge to the left and the Embankment on the far side of the river. A row of tall Victorian lamps ran along the parapet. There was quite a crowd, visitors as well as MPs, enjoying a drink from the Terrace Bar.

Dillon hailed a passing waiter. “Half a bottle of Krug non-vintage and three glasses.” He smiled. “On me, Brigadier.”

“How generous,” Ferguson said. “Though remembering how you made six hundred thousand pounds out of that Michael Aroun affair in ninety-one, Dillon, I’d say you can afford it.”

“True, Brigadier, true.” Dillon leaned over the parapet and looked down at the waters of the Thames flowing by. He said to Hannah, “You notice the rather synthetic carpet we’re standing on is green?”

“Yes.”

“Notice where it changes to red? That’s the House of Lords end, you see, just there where the scaffolding goes down into the water.”

“I see.”

“Great on tradition, you Brits.”

“I’m Jewish, Dillon, as you well know.”

“Oh, I do. Granddad a rabbi, your father a professor of surgery, and you an M.A. from Cambridge University. Now what could be more British?”

At that moment Carter appeared and approached them impatiently. “Right, Ferguson, please don’t waste my time. What have you got to say?”

“Dillon?” Ferguson said.

“I think your security is shot full of holes,” Dillon told Carter. “Too many people, twenty-six restaurants and bars, scores of entrances and exits not only for MPs but staff and workmen.”

“Come now, everyone has a security pass, everyone is checked.”

“Then there’s the river.”

“The river? What nonsense. It’s tidal, Dillon, and the current is lethal. Never less than three knots and sometimes five.”

“Is that so? Then I’m sorry.”

“I should think you would be.” Carter turned to Ferguson. “May I go?”

Ferguson looked at Dillon and the Irishman smiled wearily. “The great conceit of yourself you have, Mr. Carter. A little bet with the man, Brigadier. I’ll turn up on the Terrace on Friday morning when the President and the Prime Minister are here, and all quite illegal. Mr. Carter gets five hundred pounds if I fail, and a five-pound note if I succeed.”

“You’re on, damn you,” Carter told him and held out his hand to Ferguson. “Shake on it.” He started to laugh. “What an amusing little chap you are, Dillon,” and he walked away.

“Do you know what you’re doing, Dillon?” Ferguson demanded.

Dillon leaned over the parapet and looked at the water swirling fifteen feet below. “Oh, yes, I think so, especially if the Chief Inspector here can come up with the right information.”

FERGUSON’S SUITE OF offices was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence overlooking Horse Guards Avenue, and it was an hour later that Dillon and Hannah Bernstein went into her office.

She sat down at her desk. “All right, what do you want?”

“The biggest expert on the Thames River. Now who would that be? Someone in Customs and Excise or maybe the River Police.”

“I’ll try them both,” she said.

“Good. I’ll go and make the tea while you’re doing it.”

He went into the outer office whistling and put the kettle on. When it had boiled, he made the tea, arranged the cups and a milk jug on a tray, and took it in. Hannah was on the phone.

“Thank you, Inspector.” She put the phone down and sat back as Dillon poured the tea. “How domesticated. That was the River Police telling me who the greatest expert on the river Thames is.” She turned to her computer and tapped the keys. “Subject coming up, Dillon. Not River Police, not Customs, but a London gangster.”

Dillon started to laugh.

THE INFORMATION ROLLED on the screen. “Harry Salter, aged sixty-five, did seven years for bank robbery in his twenties, no prison time since,” Hannah said. “But look at his record from Criminal Intelligence. Owns pleasure boats on the river, the Dark Man pub at Wapping, and a warehouse development worth more than one million pounds.”

“The cunning one, him,” Dillon said.

“A smuggler, Dillon, every racket on the river. Cigarettes, booze, diamonds from Holland. Anything.”

“Not quite,” Dillon told her. “Look what it says. No drug connection, no prostitution, no strip clubs.” He sat back. “What we’ve got here is an old-fashioned gangster. He probably objects to men who swear in front of women.”

“He’s still a gangster, Dillon, suspected of killing other gangsters.”

“And where’s the harm in that if they leave the civilians alone? Let’s see his picture.”

It rolled around and Dillon studied the fleshy face intently. “Just as I expected. Fair enough.”

“Well he looks like Bill Sykes to me,” Hannah said.

“Known associates?”

“Billy Salter, age twenty-five, his nephew.” The information came up on the screen again. “Six months for assault, another six months for assault, twelve months for affray.”

“A hot-tempered lad.”

“And these two, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, more of the same, Dillon. A very unsavory bunch.”

“Who might just suit my purposes.”

“Except for one thing.”

“And what would that be?”

“The River Police had a tip-off. Salter and his gang will be down river tonight at nine in one of his pleasure boats, the River Queen. There’s a Dutch boat coming in called the Amsterdam. The River Queen will be at anchor off Harley Dock. As the Amsterdam goes past, one of the stewards throws a package across. Uncut diamonds. Two hundred thousand pounds.”

“And the River Police waiting to pounce?”

“Not at all. They’ll be waiting for the River Queen to berth at Cable Wharfe by Salter’s pub, the Dark Man, at Wapping. They’ll pick him up there.”

“What a shame. It could have been such a lovely relationship.”

“Anything else I can do for you?” Hannah Bernstein demanded.

“Not really. I can see you’ve shafted me pretty thoroughly and taken pleasure in it. I’ll just go away and think again.”

AT EIGHT-THIRTY, DILLON was waiting on Harley Dock in an ancient and inconspicuous Toyota van he had borrowed from the vehicle pool at the Ministry of Defence. He was already wearing a black diving suit, the cowl up over his head. Occasionally a boat passed on the river and he sat behind the wheel of the Toyota and watched through a pair of infrared night glasses as the River Queen arrived and anchored. There was movement on deck, two men and two more on the upper deck wheelhouse.

He waited and then there was a noise of engines down river and the Amsterdam appeared, a medium-sized freighter. With his night glasses, he could actually see the man at the rail and the bundle he hurled. It landed on the pleasure boat’s canopy.

The freighter moved on and Dillon was already clamping a tank to his inflatable. He picked up his fins, moved to the edge of the dock, and pulled them on. Then he pulled on his mask, reached for his mouthpiece, and jumped.

HE SURFACED BY the anchor line, pulled off his inflatable and the tank, then his fins, and fastened them to the line. He waited for a moment, then went up hand-over-hand.

He went in through the anchor chain port and crouched on deck, listening. There was the sound of laughter coming from the deck cabin and he went forward, stood and peered through a port hole. Salter was there, his nephew Billy, Baxter, and Hall. Salter was cutting open a yellow life jacket at the table. He took out the cloth bundle.

“Two hundred grand.”

Dillon unzipped his diving suit and took out the silenced Walther. He went to the door, paused, then threw it open and stepped inside.

“God bless all here.”

There was silence, the four of them grouped around the table like some tableau, Harry Salter and his nephew seated, Baxter and Hall standing, beer glasses in their hands.

Salter said, “And what’s your game, then?”

“Open the bundle.”

“I’m fucked if I will. I don’t think you’ve got the bottle to use that thing.”

Dillon fired on the instant, shattering the whiskey glass on the table at Salter’s right hand, doing the same thing to the beer glass Baxter was holding. Billy Salter cried out sharply as a jagged splinter of glass cut his right cheek.

There was silence and so then Dillon said, “More?”

“Okay, you made your point,” Salter said. “What do you want?”

“The diamonds – show me.”

“Tell him to get stuffed,” Billy said, a hand to his cheek where blood flowed.

“Then what?” Salter asked him.

He unfastened the cloth bundle. Inside was a yellow oilskin pouch with a zip fastener. “Open it,” Dillon ordered.

Salter did as he was told and tossed the pouch across where it fell at Dillon’s feet. He picked it up, unzipped the front of his diving suit, and stowed it away. He half turned and took the key out of the door.

Salter said, “I’ll find you. Nobody does this to Harry Salter and gets away with it.”

“And didn’t I hear James Cagney saying that in an old gangster film on the Midnight Movie show on television last week?” Dillon grinned. “I know it doesn’t look it right now, but I’ve actually done you a good turn. Maybe you can do me one sometime.”

He slipped out and closed the door. Hall and Baxter rushed it but too late as Dillon turned the key in the lock. He vaulted over the stern down into the water, retrieved his inflatable jack, air tank, and fins and pulled them on. Then he went under the surface and swam back to Harley Dock.

On board the River Queen in the saloon Baxter stood on the table and unclipped the deck hatch above his head. When it was open, Harry Salter and Hall gave him a push up. A few moments later and he was outside the saloon door and opening it.

“Here, how’s my face?” Billy asked his uncle.

Salter inspected it. “You’ll live. It’s only a scratch. There’s sticking plaster in the medical kit in the wheelhouse.”

“So what are we going to do?” Billy demanded.

“Find out who shopped us,” Salter said. “Let’s face it, only a limited range of people knew about this job. So the sooner I run that bastard to earth, the sooner I’ll find our friend.” He turned to Baxter and Hall. “Haul up the anchor and let’s get out of here and back to Wapping.”

DILLON HAD STRIPPED his diving suit, dressed in shirt, jeans, and his old reefer and was already making his way to Wapping. It was ten-thirty as he drove along streets that were deserted and lined by decaying warehouses of what had once been the greatest port in the world. Eventually he cut through a part of the city that was considerably more busy and eventually passed the Tower of London and reached Wapping High Street.

He parked the Toyota at the curb and proceeded on foot to Cable Wharfe. He had already checked out Salter’s pub, the Dark Man, earlier. It was almost eleven o’clock and closing time. A drink would give him an excuse to be in the area, so he walked along the wharf openly and went into the saloon bar. There were two old women at a marble-topped table drinking stout and three men at the end of the bar with beer in front of them, who looked as if they might be seamen, but only just.

The barmaid was in her forties, blonde hair swept back from a face that was heavily made up. “What’s your pleasure, sunshine?” she asked Dillon.

Dillon smiled that special smile of his, nothing but warmth and immense charm. “Well, if it’s only drink we’re talking about, let’s make it Bushmills.”

“Sorry, but you’ll have to drink up fast,” she told him as she gave him the Bushmills. “Closing time and I’ve got to think of my license with coppers around.”

“And where would they be?”

“The three at the end of the bar. They’re no more seamen than my arse.”

“So what are they up to?”

“God knows.”

“Then I’ll get out of it.” Dillon swallowed his Bushmills. “I’ll say goodnight to you.”

The two old women were leaving and Dillon followed them along the wharf aware of a police van parked in a courtyard to the left, a police car across the road.

“A trifle conspicuous,” he said softly, reached Wapping High Street, and doubled back. He found what he wanted, another disused warehouse, carefully negotiated stairs leading to the first floor, and crouched on one of the old loading platforms beneath a crane. He had a perfect view of the river, the wharf, and the Dark Man. He took out his infrared night glasses, focused them, and the River Queen came into view.

AS THE RIVER QUEEN docked all hell broke loose. The police van and car that Dillon had noticed earlier drove onto the wharf and at the same time two River Police patrol boats moved out of the shadows where they had been waiting and pulled alongside. As uniformed police came over the rail, they found Hall and Baxter tying up. Salter and Billy came out of the saloon and looked up at the half dozen policemen on the wharf. The line parted and a tall man in his fifties in the uniform of a Superintendent came forward.

“Why it’s Superintendent Brown, our old friend, Billy,” Salter said. “And how are you, Tony?”

Brown smiled. “Permission to come aboard, Harry,” and he climbed down followed by the other police officers.

“So what’s all this?” Salter demanded.

“Well, Harry, I know there wouldn’t be anything in the pub. You’re too smart for that and we’ve turned you over often enough. However, I’ve reason to believe you’re carrying an illegal shipment of diamonds on this vessel to the amount of two hundred thousand pounds. Very silly, Harry, to slip like that after all these years.” Brown turned to the sergeant at his elbow. “Read him his rights, and the rest of you, start looking.”

“Diamonds on the River Queen.” Salter laughed out loud. “Tony, my old son, you really have got it wrong this time.”

IT WAS ALMOST ONE o’clock in the morning when they finished. Salter and his crew were sitting at the table in the saloon playing gin rummy when the Superintendent looked in.

“A word, Harry.”

The police had finished their fruitless task and were getting into the van. The two patrol boats started up and moved away. It was raining now and Salter and Brown stood under the canopy on deck.

“So what gives?” Salter asked.

“Harry, I don’t know what happened tonight, but I had what seemed like the hottest tip in my life.”

“Well, whoever your snout was, I hope you didn’t pay the bastard.”

Brown shook his head. “You’re getting old, Harry, too old to do ten years in Parkhurst. Think about it.”

“I will, Tony.”

Brown clambered up onto the wharf and turned. “We’ve known each other a long time, Harry, so I’ll do you a favor. I’d be very careful in future about the Dutch end of things.” He got in the police car beside his driver and they moved away.

“Jesus,” Billy said. “We could all have gone down the steps for a long time. That bastard back there when he took the stones, what was it he said? That he’d done you a good turn.”

“That’s right, quite a coincidence,” Salter said. “Only I don’t believe in them. Anyway, let’s go up to the pub and get a drink.”

DILLON WAITED UNTIL all was quiet, then went back down the stairs of the old warehouse and walked to the pub. There was a light on in the saloon, and when he looked in he saw Salter sitting on a stool at the end of the bar. Billy, sticking plaster on his face, sat drinking at one of the tables with Baxter and Hall. Dillon moved on, turned up the side alley, and looked in the kitchen. The barmaid was drinking a cup of tea and reading a newspaper.

He opened the kitchen door. She looked up in alarm. “I see the peelers have gone,” Dillon said.

“Christ, who are you?”

“Old friend of Harry’s. If he’s as bright as I think he is he might even be expecting me. I’ll go through to the bar.”

HARRY SALTER DRANK his Scotch and waited, looking at his reflection in the old Victorian mirror behind the bar. A small wind touched his cheek as the door opened, there was a sliding sound as the yellow oilskin bag slid along the bar and stopped in front of him.

“There you go,” Dillon said.

The other three stopped talking and Salter lifted the bag in one hand, then turned to look at Dillon standing there at the end of the bar in his old reefer coat. Dillon took out a cigarette and lit it, and Salter, a crook from the age of fifteen, knew trouble when he saw it.

“And what’s your game, my old son?” he asked.

“It’s him,” Billy cried. “The fucking bastard.”

“Leave off, Billy,” Salter told him.

“After what he did? Look at my bleeding face.” Billy picked up the Lager bottle in front of him, smashed it on the edge of the table, and hurled himself at Dillon, the broken bottle extended. Dillon swayed to one side, caught the wrist, and hammered Billy’s arm against the bar so that he howled with pain and dropped the bottle. Dillon held him face-down on the bar, Billy’s arm tight as an iron bar.

“God, Mr. Salter, but he never learns, this nephew of yours.”

“Don’t be a silly boy, Billy,” Salter said. “If he hadn’t nicked the stones down river we’d be booking in at Tower Bridge Division Police Station with the prospect of going down the steps for ten years. All I want to know is the reason for all this.” He smiled at Dillon. “You’ve got a name, my old son?”

“Dillon – Sean Dillon.”

Salter went behind the bar and Dillon released Billy, who stood there massaging his arm, then went and sat down with Baxter and Hall, his face sullen.

Salter said, “You’re no copper, I can smell one of those a mile off.”

“God save us,” Dillon said, “I’ve had enough trouble with those bowsers to last me a lifetime. Let’s put it this way, Mr. Salter. I work for one of those Government organizations that isn’t supposed to exist.”

Salter stood there looking at him for a long moment, then said, “What’s your pleasure?”

“Bushmills whiskey if you don’t have Krug champagne.”

Salter laughed out loud. “I like it, I really do. Bushmills I can manage right now. Krug I’ll supply next time.” He took a bottle down from the shelf and poured a generous measure. “So what’s it about?”

“Cheers.” Dillon toasted him. “Well, the thing is I wanted to meet the greatest expert on the Thames River, and when I accessed the police computer it turned out to be you. The trouble was that no sooner did I find you than I discovered I was going to lose you. Someone I work with, very big at Special Branch, found out the River Police were going to stiff you.”

“Very inconvenient,” Salter said.

“Well, it would have been, so I decided to do something about it.” Dillon smiled. “The rest you know.”

Salter poured himself another drink. “You want something from me, that’s it, isn’t it? Some sort of kickback?”

“Your expertise, Mr. Salter, your knowledge of the river.”

“What for?”

“You may have read in the papers that the President of the United States and the Prime Minister are to meet on the Terrace at the House of Commons on Friday morning.”

“So what?”

“I think the security stinks and I have to prove it, so sometime after midnight on Friday morning I want you to help me float in to the Terrace. I’ll hide out in one of the storerooms behind the Terrace Bar and give them a nice surprise at the appropriate moment.”

Salter stared at him in amazement. “You must be raving bloody mad. Are you a lunatic or something?”

“It’s been suggested before.”

Salter turned to the other three. “Did you hear that? We’ve got a bleeding loony here.” He turned back to Dillon. “But I like you. Not only will I do it, you can call me Harry.”

“Terrific,” Dillon said. “Could I have another Bushmills?”

“I can do better, much better.” Salter opened the fridge at the back of the bar, took out a bottle, and turned. “Krug champagne, my old son. How does that suit you?”