Drink With The Devil

FOURTEEN

THE SIGN AT the entrance to the drive said Roselea Nursing Home. The station wagon turned in through the gates and Dillon in the Toyota stopped on the other side of the road.

“What in the hell is going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Devlin said, “but my impression is something nobody counted on.”

IN THE RECEPTION area, they sat waiting, Mori, Sollazo, Barry, and Kathleen. She was in a bad way and Barry had an arm round her.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be fine. The guy who runs this place, Dr. Ali Hassan, is a brilliant doctor.” He tried to make a joke. “An Egyptian Irishman. He’s patched up more bullet holes in more members of the IRA in the last twenty years than most doctors have had hot dinners.”

“It’s my fault,” she said. “You don’t understand.”

“Don’t be crazy, girl, your uncle has a history of heart trouble, you know that as well as I do.”

Hassan, a small brown-skinned Arab in a white coat, a stethoscope around his neck, appeared.

“How is he?” Barry demanded.

“Not good, not good at all.” Hassan turned to Kathleen. “Your uncle has a history of angina? That’s what he told me.”

“Yes.”

“But this attack is most extreme. I don’t understand. What is his medication?”

“Dazane.”

“Good God, there’s no chance he has overdosed?” She stared at him, her face bone white. He said urgently, “Could he have overdosed?”

She nodded slowly. “He took three of the pills at four o’clock.”

“Oh, my God.” Hassan turned and ran along the corridor. Kathleen went after him and Barry and Sollazo followed, leaving Mori in reception.

RYAN LAY TWITCHING on the bed in intensive care while Hassan and a male nurse worked on him. Kathleen, Barry, and Sollazo peered in through the window and Barry held the girl tight. Suddenly Ryan gave a terrible gurgle and reared up on the bed and then he relaxed, all life draining out of him.

Hassan came out. “I’m afraid he has gone.”

Kathleen struck out at him. “He can’t have. It’s not possible.”

Barry restrained her. “Hold on, girl, it’s not your fault.”

“But it is,” she said. “I’m a trained nurse, I’m supposed to know these things. I checked at my old hospital at Green Rapids. The doctor told me three Dazane would give him an angina attack, but not more than a couple of bad days. It was our way out, don’t you see? You’d have to take him to hospital and we’d have a chance to get free.”

She broke down entirely. Barry handed her over to Sollazo. “Take her to the station wagon. I’ll handle things here.”

Sollazo took her out and Barry turned to Hassan. “You’ve been a good friend to the IRA, Ali, and we appreciate it, so this is another special one.”

“I understand, Jack.”

“You get him up to the crematorium tonight and put him through the ovens. No name, no certificate.”

“Whatever you say.”

“Good man yourself,” Barry said, turned, and went out.

DILLON AND DEVLIN, sitting in the Toyota, watched the station wagon drive away. Dillon said, “Only the three of them and the girl and no Ryan. What goes on?”

“I know this place,” Devlin told him. “An IRA safe house. It’s run by a damn good surgeon, an Egyptian named Ali Hassan. Maybe we should pay him a visit?”

ALI HASSAN, SITTING in his office, only a desk light on, was aware of the door opening and glanced up to see Devlin, Dillon behind him.

Devlin said, “Hello, Ali. Remember me? Liam Devlin. You took a bullet out of me eighteen years ago.”

“Oh, my God, Mr. Devlin,” Hassan said.

“And this is a friend of mine, Sean Dillon, who’s done as much for the cause as I have.”

“Mr. Dillon,” Hassan said uncertainly.

“A few people we know were in earlier propping up a Mr. Ryan between them,” Dillon said. “They left without him. Why would that be?”

“I think you must be mistaken,” Hassan said desperately.

Dillon produced his Walther. “Well, this doesn’t agree with you, so think again.”

Which Ali Hassan did and told them all.

AT VICTORIA FARM, Kathleen was in the bedroom, still weeping. Barry, Sollazo, and Mori were in the sitting room drinking whiskey when the phone rang.

Stringer said, “Thank God you’re there, Jack. Something’s come up.”

He started to talk. When he was finished, Barry said, “Hold her tight, Kevin, we’re on our way. We’ll leave now.”

“I will, Jack.”

Barry put down the phone and turned to Sollazo. “Do you recall a woman in glasses having lunch in the Loyalist today?”

“Sure,” Sollazo said. “Good-looking lady in an Armani trouser suit.”

“She’s not only a Detective Chief Inspector, she also works for Brigadier Charles Ferguson, the Prime Minister’s special intelligence expert, and guess who his troubleshooter is, Sean Dillon.”

“Christ,” Sollazo said. “What do we do?”

“We get the hell out of here now. Don’t ask me what’s going on because I don’t know, but we leave now for Scotstown and we check Irish Rose out tomorrow morning.” Barry turned to Mori. “Get the girl.”

Mori glanced at his boss and Sollazo nodded. “Do as he says.”

DEVLIN AND DILLON, sitting in the Toyota, watched the station wagon leave. “There you go,” Devlin said. “Hot for Scotstown. I should imagine Ryan’s unfortunate demise has brought things forward.”

“We’d better get going, then,” Dillon said.

“No rush, Sean, we’ll go to my cottage first. After all, you know where they’re going.”

AT KILREA COTTAGE, Devlin sat by the fire with a Bushmills in his hand. Dillon bustled in, his Walther in one hand, his spare in the ankle holster in the other. He pulled up his trouser, put his foot on a chair, and fastened the ankle holster. He slipped the other Walther in his waistband against the small of his back.

Devlin said, “I always favored a Walther myself, Sean, there’s one in the desk drawer. Get it out.” Dillon did as he was told. “Now put it in your pocket.”

“But why?” Dillon said.

“Sean, lad, I’m too old. I’d only be a hindrance if the bullets start flying, so you’re on your own now. Only one thing I can do, which is to offer sound advice. You’ve a gun in your pocket. In a search Barry would find that easy enough. Then he’d check your back because he knows you favor that position. He’ll find the other Walther. That should satisfy him, give you a chance of getting away with the ankle gun.” Devlin smiled. “I mean, this is all supposition. Maybe Barry won’t have the chance of turning you over, but who knows?”

“God bless you, Liam, you’re the best,” Dillon said.

“Give them hell, Sean,” Liam Devlin said. “Now get on with you. I’ll phone Ferguson and bring him up to date.”

IT WAS FOUR o’clock in the morning and Hannah Bernstein was sleeping fitfully on the sofa in the small parlour at the back of the Loyalist. There were security bars on the window and Stringer had locked her in. She came awake to the sound of a vehicle drawing up in the yard. She sat up and listened to the sound of voices. After a while, the door opened and Stringer led the way in.

They were all there, Barry, Sollazo, Mori, and Kathleen, who looked pale and subdued from much weeping.

Stringer took Hannah’s Walther from his pocket and gave it to Barry. “This was in her shoulder bag.”

Barry weighed it in his hand, then put it in his pocket. “So, Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, and you work for that old dog Charlie Ferguson?”

“If you say so.”

“Oh, but I do. Careless of you making a telephone call like that with a nosey one like Kevin in the office to listen in.”

“We all make mistakes.”

“You mentioned Devlin and Sean Dillon? We can expect them nosing around, can we?”

“Look, Mr. Barry, it’s over, can’t you see that? American Intelligence is on to Mr. Sollazo here and at a White House level.”

“That’s a lie,” Sollazo said. “They can’t be.”

“They know everything. How do you think Brigadier Ferguson came into the picture?” She shook her head. “There’s no way either the White House or Downing Street will stand by and see that bullion fall into the wrong hands. You see, Mr. Barry, Sollazo is in this for greed, but not you. With those kind of resources, the Provisional IRA could keep going forever if it needed to.”

“Shoot the bitch,” Kathleen Ryan said dully.

“I can take care of it,” Mori said.

Barry shook his head. “She could still be useful as some kind of hostage.” He shook his head. “Fancy that old fox Liam Devlin making a fool of me, but why? Why Liam?”

“Peace, Mr. Barry, it’s very fashionable these days,” Hannah told him. “And most people want it.”

“To hell with polite conversation,” Sollazo said. “What happens now?”

“Maybe we should get the hell out of here while we can,” Mori said.

Barry shook his head. “My hunch is that Ferguson sent the Chief Inspector here and Dillon on a fishing expedition with Devlin supplying the local expertise. No Garda, no RUC, not at this stage. All they wanted was to know where the Irish Rose is lying. Once Ferguson knows that, then it would be a job for a Royal Navy salvage team.”

“We’ve had it anyway,” Sollazo said bitterly. “They know where we are.”

“Yes, but they still don’t know where the Irish Rose is. I say we go out at dawn and make the dive anyway. Dammit man, if that gold is reachable we could raise a few bars and be on our way. A million – two million – for a morning’s work.”

And suddenly Sollazo smiled. “What the hell, why not? I’ve been taking chances all my life. Too late to stop now, but what about Dillon and this guy Devlin?”

“Liam Devlin was the best in the business once, but he’s eighty-five years of age. Dillon’s the hard man.”

“Not to me he isn’t,” Mori said.

“Well, it would make an interesting encounter, but no need. The Chief Inspector makes a very satisfactory hostage if Dillon and Devlin turn up.” He turned to Stringer. “Right, Kevin, an early breakfast and we’ll leave at dawn. You’ll hold the fort here?”

FERGUSON ON HIS secure line finished talking to Blake Johnson. The American said, “What happens now that Ryan is dead? Would you say the location has died with him?”

“Definitely not, otherwise why would they have returned to Scotstown? My Chief Inspector, as I told you, is there undercover, Dillon in hot pursuit. A man of infinite resource and guile. He’ll sort it out, he always does. He’ll find out where that damn boat is.”

“And then?”

“Job for the Royal Navy’s salvage section. Something nice and discreet. Make it look like an exercise.” He laughed. “One thing is certain. There’s no way our friends can mount a proper salvage operation on that boat, not now.”

“The President will be pleased to hear that.”

“And so will the Prime Minister when I tell him in the morning. I’ll keep you up to date on future developments naturally.”

“I’d appreciate that, Brigadier.”

Ferguson, sitting by the fire at his flat, put the phone down and went to the drinks cabinet and poured a large whiskey.

“Come on, Dillon,” he said softly. “Sort the buggers out.”

DILLON AT THAT moment was on the hill outside the village, the Toyota parked in the shelter of the wood. He scanned the front of the Loyalist with his binoculars, then had a look at the Avenger at anchor out there in the harbor.

“And where will you be, Hannah my love? Still in bed at this time in the morning I shouldn’t wonder,” he said softly.

Dawn was coming up fast now and the morning was gray and grim, the damp clinging mist shrouding everything, and rain fell relentlessly. He lit a cigarette and wondered how he was going to play it, and then the front door of the Loyalist opened and they all came out, Jack Barry, Kathleen, Sollazo, and Mori with Hannah Bernstein between them. Stringer stood in the doorway talking to Barry, then went inside.

“Sweet Mother of God!” Dillon said and followed them with his binoculars as they walked down the slipway and got into the green inflatable and cast off. The outboard hammered into life and they moved away. Dillon got into the Toyota and started the engine.

KEVIN STRINGER, MAKING another pot of tea in the kitchen, was aware of a slight creaking as the back door opened. He turned and Dillon smiled at him.

“Dear God, it’s you, Sean,” and Stringer’s throat went dry.

“A long time, Kevin. So what’s been happening here?”

“What do you mean?”

Dillon took the Walther from his pocket. “This thing makes hardly a sound and you know me. I’ll put you on sticks, so tell me.”

“Please, Sean, I’m only a middleman on this. I listened in when the woman was on the phone. She identified herself as a Chief Inspector and spoke to a Brigadier Ferguson. Mentioned you and Liam Devlin.”

“So, as they say in bad movies, all is revealed.”

“Michael Ryan’s dead,” Stringer said. “A heart attack.”

“I know that,” Dillon said. “I know everything. So they’re going out to Irish Rose?”

“That’s right.”

“And the Chief Inspector?”

“Jack said she’d be a useful hostage if you turned up. The Ryan girl wanted to kill her. So did that bastard Mori.”

“Is that a fact? Well we can’t have that, so let’s get down to the jetty fast before they leave.”

ON THE AVENGER Barry was at the wheel, the two women sitting on the bench beside him. Sollazo was on the stern deck with Mori and starting to raise the anchor when Stringer’s voice boomed across the water.

“Jack, Dillon’s here.”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Jack Barry said and switched off the engine.

He went out on deck and Sollazo and Mori joined him at the rail. “Is that him?”

“As ever was.” He raised his voice. “Is it yourself, Sean?”

“And who else?” Dillon called back. “Let’s talk.”

“I’ll be over.” Barry turned to Mori. “Pull the inflatable in.” He shook his head. “The mad bastard.”

“You sound as if you like him,” Sollazo said.

“He was like a son to me. The great days we knew together in Derry in the old days leading British paratroopers a fine old dance.”

Mori shaded his eyes with a hand. “He doesn’t look much to me.”

Barry dropped into the inflatable and looked up. “On his worst day and your best he’d put you away without even thinking about it.”

He cast off and started the outboard.

DILLON LIT A cigarette as the inflatable coasted in. “You’re looking good, Jack, the years have been kind.”

“Kinder still to you, you young bastard. Where’s Liam Devlin?”

“Back in Kilrea. Eighty-five is a little old for gunplay.”

“The best of men in his day.”

“So here we are,” Dillon said. “And what’s to be done? You’ve had it, Jack, no point to it anymore.”

“Not quite true, Sean. If we find the wreck, which we will, and the gold bars waiting.” He shrugged. “A hard morning’s work could net one million, perhaps two. Not to be sniffed at.”

“Ah, you were always the practical man,” Dillon said. “Is Hannah Bernstein well?”

“Oh, yes. I like that one, a lady of parts.”

“And then some. Let her go. Take me.”

“And why should I?”

“Oh, I’ve been honing my talents since the old days. I can fly a plane, Jack, but I’m also the best damn diver you ever saw. I even blew up PLO boats in Beirut harbor for the Israelis.”

“You little rascal.” Barry laughed. “No, Sean, she’s too valuable to hand over just yet, too useful.”

“God help us then, I’ll just have to come along for the ride.”

“A nice thought, but let’s check you out first.” Barry prodded his Browning. “Check his pockets, Kevin.” Stringer did as he was told and found the Walther.

“Satisfied?” Dillon asked.

“When was I ever?” Barry smiled. “Under his jacket and against his back, Kevin, he always favored that position.”

Stringer found the second Walther. “You’re right, Jack,” and he handed it over.

“I usually am,” Barry told him. “You hold the fort, Kevin.” He smiled up at Dillon. “In you get, Sean. I think I’ll put you to work.”

DILLON WENT OVER the rail first and Barry handed the line to Mori and followed. The two women came out of the wheelhouse. Dillon said to Hannah, “Are you all right, girl dear?”

“I’m fine.”

Dillon glanced at Mori. “Christ, but he looks as if he just learned to walk erect this morning. If he gives you any trouble let me know and I’ll select two items on his person and break them.”

Mori erupted, but Sollazo got in between. “Leave it, Giovanni.” He turned to Barry. “Have you checked him out?”

“A Walther in his pocket and another in the back of his pants. A good job I remembered that, but I’ve got good news for you. Sean here is a Master diver. I mean, he’s made money out of blowing things up. Don’t you think we should put him to work?”

Sollazo smiled. “Why, that really makes my morning.”

“Good, then let’s have the anchor up.”

Kathleen Ryan had stood there staring at him and now she moved forward, a strange, dazed look on her face.

“Martin, it is you, isn’t it?”

There was something strange here, something not right. Dillon said gently, “As ever was, Kate, I’m sorry about Michael.”

“I killed him,” she said. “I persuaded him to overdose on his pills. Dr. Sieed said it would be all right, that he’d just have an angina attack.” She ran a hand over her face. “He died, Martin, and I killed him. Isn’t that the terrible thing?”

It was Hannah who put an arm around her. “Come on, love, let’s go down to the cabin,” and she led her away.

The engines rumbled into life as Barry took Avenger out to sea. Mori said, “That’s all we need, a crazy woman.”

Dillon said, “Tell me, son, do you work at being a shite or does it just come naturally?” and he turned and went and joined Barry in the wheelhouse.

TO GET THE Walther from his ankle holster and to kill Barry, Mori, and Sollazo in seconds was not impossible, but it required the right moment, and the fact that Hannah came up on deck didn’t help. Dillon smiled out at her as she stood under the deck canopy shielded from the rain.

He said to Barry, “The great pity we end up dealing with scum, Jack.”

“I know, son, but one thing hasn’t changed. Anything I get out of this goes to the Organization we both served for so many years. Money for arms.”

“Times have changed, Jack.”

“We can’t be sure.”

Dillon sighed. “All right, you’d better fill me in. Where are we going?”

“Just off Rathlin Island.”

“And the Master Navigator will home in on the position?”

Barry looked startled. “Is there nothing you don’t know?”

“We’ve really been on your case, Jack, thanks to Liam. Anyway, how deep will she be?”

“Well, off Rathlin Island according to Admiralty charts, anything between ninety and one hundred and twenty feet.”

“That’s not bad, not if you allow for the size of the vessel. Mind you, it’s how she’s lying that matters.”

Sollazo joined them. “How much further?”

“Half a mile,” Barry said. “I’m turning the Navigator on now.”

He handed it to Sollazo. There was a monotonous pinging at regular intervals. “Heh, it’s working,” Sollazo said.

“The closer we get, the more urgent the sound, and when we reach the final position, the pinging becomes continuous.”

“Let’s keep our fingers crossed.” Sollazo gave it back to him and turned to Dillon. “I was going to dive with Mori, but as you’re supposed to be such hot stuff-” He shrugged. “You’d better come and check the gear.”

“My pleasure,” Dillon said and followed him out.

RATHLIN ISLAND LOOMED out of the mist and Barry reduced power as they coasted onward through water which was extraordinarily calm. The pinging on the Master Navigator had increased in urgency and suddenly it changed into a long, single, high-pitched shriek.

“That’s it,” Barry called. “Get the anchor over.”

Mori and Sollazo hurried to comply. Kathleen was at the port rail and for a moment Dillon was at Hannah’s shoulder.

“I’m carrying,” he whispered. “Barry found two, but Devlin, the old fox, gave me a third. Ankle holster.”

“Careful,” she said. “Not now. It could be a blood bath.”

“Not to worry, girl dear, I’d like to go down and take a look at an old friend so to speak.”

The anchor rattled down, the Avenger stopped dead. There was silence, then Barry came out of the wheelhouse. “There you go, so let’s get on with it.”

Sollazo turned to Dillon. “Let’s get ready. I’ll go first,” and he went down to the saloon.

WHEN HE CAME back on deck he was wearing one of the diving suits and a weight belt and buoyancy jacket. “Your turn,” he said to Dillon.

Dillon went down the companionway to the saloon and undressed to his underpants, unstrapping the ankle holster. There was a cupboard marked Emergency Flares. He opened it and slipped the Walther inside. As he reached for the diving suit there was a step on the companionway and Sollazo looked in.

“Come on, let’s get moving.”

Dillon dragged on the suit awkwardly and the cowl over his head. He pulled on the socks, then picked up the other weight belt and fastened it around his waist with the velcro tabs. Then he reached for the diver’s knife in the sheath.

Sollazo said, “Leave it. You’re the last man in the world I want to see with a lethal weapon.”

“Suit yourself.”

Dillon picked up his inflatable, then took the other Orca computer and went up on deck to where the others waited, sheltering from the rain under the deck awning. Sollazo followed him.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “We’ve got to husband ourselves. We can only spend so much time down there, you know that, even less if it’s lying at a hundred and twenty. You go first, Dillon, and see what you find.”

It made sense and Dillon smiled. “My pleasure.”

With a skill born of long practice he lifted the inflatable and tank over his head, inserted his arms, and strapped the velcro tabs across his chest. He sat down to put his fins on and took the Halogen lamp Mori passed to him looping its cord round his left wrist. He leaned over the rail to swill out his mask, then pulled it down and turned, sitting on the rail.

He raised a thumb. “We who are about to die salute you and all that old Roman rubbish,” he said, put his mouthpiece in, checked that the air was flowing, and went over backwards.

HE PASSED UNDER the keel, found the anchor line and started down, pausing at fifteen feet to equalize the pressure in his ears. The water was extraordinarily clear yet strangely dark, and he pulled himself down the anchor line checking his Orca computer. Thirty, forty, then sixty feet and there it was looming out of the gloom, tilted to one side, quite visible even without the lamp being turned on.

He was at ninety feet and the ship lay on a smooth sandy bottom that sloped downwards. Here and there great fronds of seaweed undulated backwards and forwards in the current.

Dillon closed in on the prow and switched on his Halogen lamp, and there it was clearly visible in spite of being encrusted in barnacles, the ship’s name Irish Rose, and this was special because he’d been part of what had happened here.

He moved towards the stern, torn apart by the force of the explosion, and there was the truck to one side of the ship. Obviously the explosion had torn it free from the deck clamps and, incredibly, it had settled upright on all six wheels.

Dillon moved to the rear, raised the door clamp, and pulled. It refused to budge. He tried again, but got the same result. No point in wasting precious time at that depth so he made for the surface.

HE WENT UP the small side ladder to the deck, pushed up his mask, and spat out his mouthpiece. They all stood waiting.

“For Christ’s sake, Sean, tell us the worst,” Barry pleaded.

“Oh, it’s there,” Dillon said, “and at ninety feet, which is useful. Gives more bottom time.”

“And the truck?” Sollazo demanded.

“That’s there, too. It obviously became detached from the deck in the explosion, and it’s standing upright beside the ship.”

“Marvelous,” Sollazo said.

“Only one thing I don’t understand. When we grabbed the truck we used an electronic device called a Howler that screwed up the security system so everything unlocked.”

“So?” Sollazo said.

“I couldn’t open the rear door.”

“So the electronics got shook up in the explosion,” Sollazo told him, “or maybe the door jammed. We’ve got Semtex and pencil timers. Go down and blow it.”

“Yes, oh master,” Dillon said. “Just get me the necessary.”

Barry crouched beside him with a Semtex block. “Here you go, Sean, and a three-minute pencil timer.”

“Czechoslovakia’s contribution to world culture,” Dillon said.

“Can you manage?”

“Can a fish fly?”

Hannah called, “Take care, Sean.”

“Don’t I always?” He pulled down his mask, sat on the rail, and went over.

HE HAULED HIMSELF down the anchor line again, the quickest route, made for the truck and floated there, working the plastic block of Semtex around the door clamp. Then he broke the timer pencil. There was a gentle fizzing and he turned and made for the surface. Barry reached a hand down to help him up the ladder. Dillon sat down and the others moved to the rail. After a while, the sea boiled, turning over angrily, and a number of dead fish surfaced. Soon it was still again.

Dillon grinned up at Sollazo. “Don’t tell me, down I go again.”

THE TRUCK HAD moved to one side but was still upright and the rear doors had been blasted apart, one hanging on the hinges, the other lying some distance away where it had been thrown. Sand hovered in clouds. Dillon approached and switched on the Halogen light and experienced a considerable shock, for the truck was empty.

HE HUNG AT the bottom of the ladder, took out his mouthpiece, and looked up as they all leaned over the rail.

“You’re not going to like this one little bit, Jack,” Dillon said. “But there’s nothing there.”

“What do you mean there’s nothing there?” Barry demanded.

“I mean, the truck’s empty.”

“It can’t be empty,” Barry said. “You told me you looked in the back when you knocked it off on that road. It was there then.”

“Yes, it was,” Dillon said. “But it isn’t now.”

Kathleen Ryan’s face was burning, her eyes dark holes. “Someone must have been here before.”

“Not possible,” Dillon said. “The door was fast and no sign of blasting.”

“Mori, help me,” Sollazo said and reached for his inflatable and tank. “You’re going down again, Dillon, and I’m going with you. I think you’re lying.”

“Suit yourself,” Dillon told him and went under again, starting down the anchor line.

He hovered beside the wreckage of the stern of the Irish Rose hanging on to a rail, and Sollazo drifted down to join him. He poised there, then swam toward the truck. Dillon went after him.

Sollazo hung on the edge of the door and peered inside. He turned once to glance at Dillon, his face clear, then turned to the dark interior again. Dillon came up behind him, pulled the diver’s knife from Sollazo’s leg sheath, reached over and sliced open his air hose.

Bubbles spiraled at once, Sollazo swung round, eyes staring. His hands went to his throat and he started to rise. Dillon grabbed for an ankle and pulled him down. The kicking stopped surprisingly quickly, and finally, he hung there, arms outstretched. Dillon pulled off the mask and Sollazo stared right through him straight to eternity. The Irishman took him by the hand and started up.

IT WAS KATHLEEN Ryan who saw Sollazo’s body first as he surfaced to starboard. “Would you look at that,” she said.

Hannah joined her at the rail. “Oh, my God.”

Barry and Mori hurried over. The Sicilian, without hesitation, pulled off his jacket and shoes, jumped over the rail, and swam to Sollazo. He got an arm around him, paused, and turned and looked up.

“He’s dead.”

DILLON HAD RELEASED the body at ten feet and swam under the rail to the port side. He surfaced, unfastened his inflatable and tank and let them go, pulled off his mask and fins and peered cautiously on deck. Barry, Kathleen, and Hannah were at the rail and he could hear Mori calling. “Throw me a line.”

Dillon hauled himself over the rail and slipped down the companionway to the saloon. He got the Emergency Flares cupboard open, found the Walther, and went back up.

Barry was standing at one side of Hannah and Kathleen engaged in unfastening a lifebelt. As he threw it over, Dillon said, “Easy does it, Jack.”

He stood in the entrance to the companionway, a supremely menacing figure in the black diving suit, the Walther in his right hand.

“Get over here, Hannah.”

She did so. Barry still leaned over the rail, glancing back over his shoulder. “Still the eighth wonder of the world, aren’t you, Sean?”

“Don’t do it, Jack,” Dillon said gently.

But Barry did, half turning, Browning in hand, and Dillon shot him twice in the heart. Barry was hurled against the rail, the Browning skidding across the deck, and he toppled over into the sea.

Dillon ran to the rail, Walther extended. Mori stared up at him, an arm around Sollazo, and Dillon took deliberate aim and shot him between the eyes. There was silence, only seagulls calling, whirling above them in the mist. Dillon sat down against the rail.

“Jesus, but I could do with a cigarette.”

Hannah went down on one knee beside him. “Are you all right, Sean?”

Kathleen Ryan said, her voice strangely dead, “Martin, push the Walther over this way.”

Dillon had put it on the deck beside him. He looked up and Hannah turned and there she was, Barry’s Browning in one hand. The look on her face was that of the truly mad.

“Not there, Martin, not there in the first place. The cunning old bastard, my uncle. Only told me the other day, but clever, you must agree. It’s there waiting for me and I’ll fly in out of the sea to get it. Soon now, Martin, soon.”

“I know, Kate, I know.”

“Wouldn’t hurt you, Martin, my lovely Martin, so down you go, the both of you.”

“I think we’d better,” Hannah murmured.

“Anything you say, Kate.” Dillon smiled, stood up, and kicked the Walther across.

Hannah went down the companionway and Dillon followed. “Close the door,” Kathleen called.

He did as he was told, was aware of her footsteps on the companionway, the key turning in the door. It was only two or three minutes later that they heard the outboard motor start up.

“WHAT DO WE do?” Hannah asked.

“Simple,” Dillon told her, “now that she’s gone. These things have a forward deck hatch, always do. I’ll be back in a minute.”

He went out into the galley and saw the hatch at once above his head, stood on a stool, unclipped it, and pulled himself through. A moment later, Hannah heard him on the companionway and the door opened. She followed him out on deck and they saw the green inflatable disappearing into the mist. Dillon went into the wheelhouse and switched on the engines. He turned back toward Scotstown.

“Here, you take the wheel and I’ll go and change.”

When he returned, Hannah said, “She’s crazy, Sean, over the edge.”

“She always was a bit that way,” Dillon said. “Something there, something really heavy, and I never knew what. Now she thinks she killed her uncle. By the way, is that Jack Barry’s raincoat on the peg there? If so, I might just find those two Walthers he took off me.” He searched the pockets and turned. “There you are, one for you and one for me. I’ll take the wheel.”

“What did she mean that the gold wasn’t there in the first place?”

“Remember I told you I felt there was something wrong when I went through the files and the newspaper clippings.”

“Yes.”

“Now I know what it was. Michael Ryan had a replica truck at Folly’s End and Benny was to dump it on the coast road to put the police off for a while.”

“So?”

“It didn’t strike me at first, but there wasn’t a single mention of that truck in any police report or newspaper file. Now why would that be?”

“Oh, my God!” Hannah said.

“Exactly. After the robbery I took off for the Irish Rose on the motorcycle with Kathleen. Michael followed in the truck only he was late. Told us the automatic clutch was giving trouble.”

“Which it wasn’t.”

“Of course not. He was late because he called at Folly’s End and switched trucks. The bullion never went down with the Irish Rose because it was never on board. It’s locked away in that hidey hole at the back of the barn at the farm, at Folly’s End. Isn’t that the biggest laugh you’ve had in years?”