Drink With The Devil

LONDON
THE LAKE DISTRICT
1985
TWO

IF THERE IS such a thing as an Irish quarter in London, it’s to be found in Kilburn along with a profusion of pubs to make any Irish Republican happy. But there are also the Protestant variety identical with anything to be found in Belfast. The William amp; Mary was one of those, its landlord, Hugh Bell, an Orange Protestant to the hilt, performing the same function in London for the Loyalist movement as Sinn Fein did for the IRA.

In the early evening of the day they had arrived in London, Ryan, Keogh, and Kathleen sat with him in a backroom, an assortment of handguns on the table. Bell, a large, jovial man with white hair, poured himself a whiskey.

“Anything you like, Michael, and there’s more where that came from.”

Ryan selected a Browning, hefted it, and put it in his pocket. Keogh found a Walther. “Would you have a Carswell for this?” he asked.

“A man of taste and discernment, I see,” Bell observed. He got up, went to a cupboard, rummaged inside, and came back. “There you go. The latest model.”

Keogh screwed it onto the end of the Walther. “Just the ticket.”

“And the young lady?” Bell asked.

“My niece doesn’t carry,” Ryan told him.

The girl bridled instantly. “I’m as good a shot as you, Uncle Michael, and you know it. How am I expected to protect myself? Kick them in the balls?”

Bell laughed. “I might have a solution.” He went back to the cupboard and returned with a small automatic. “Colt.25, quite rare. Slips in a lady’s handbag or stocking quite easily.”

“And no bloody stopping power,” Ryan told him.

“Enough if you’re close enough,” Bell said.

The girl took the weapon from him and smiled. “This will do me just fine.” She slipped it into her handbag.

Ryan said, “All right. What about the Irish Rose?”

“Siemens ferry, tied up in Wapping near the Pool of London. Captain Frank Tully, but you know that. The kind of rat who’ll do anything for money. The worst kind of drugs, anything that pays. He’s twice run arms for the IRA to the Republic.”

“What about his crew?”

“There’s four.” Bell opened a drawer and took out a piece of paper. He put reading spectacles on the end of his nose. “Mick Dolan and Jock Grant – they’re from Liverpool. Bert Fox from London, and a Kraut named Muller – Hans Muller. They’ve all got form – all been inside.”

“Well, at least we know what we’re dealing with,” Keogh observed.

“That’s right,” Ryan told him. “Just your average scum.”

Bell said, “These aren’t good people, Michael. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I usually do.” Ryan grinned and took a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “These are my requirements. See if you can fill the bill.”

Bell had a look. “Stun grenades, smoke grenades. That’s fine. Two AK assault rifles. Okay. Semtex? Is that essential?”

“I might have to blow my way into my target.”

“All right, I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s it, then.” Ryan smiled at his niece and Keogh. “Something to eat and then we’ll go and see Tully.”

IT WAS VERY cold on the Thames, Tower Bridge on the right and the floodlit Tower of London just beyond it. A couple of ships passed from the Pool of London, red and green lights clear in the evening darkness as the taxi stopped at the end of Cable Wharfe, and Ryan, Kathleen, and Keogh got out. The taxi moved away and they walked along the waterfront.

The ferry was moored at the far end, cables reaching to the pier. In the sickly yellow light of two lamps they could see the legend on the stern plain. Irish Rose.

“Enough to make a man feel at home,” Ryan said.

“I’m not sure that’s the right word for it,” Keogh told him.

They started up the gangway and a man in reefer coat and peaked cap appeared. “And where do you think you’re going?” he asked in a hard Liverpool voice.

“We’re expected,” Ryan said. “Tell Captain Tully.”

The man laughed out loud. “Captain Tully? Is that what he calls himself?” He laughed again. “All right, this way.”

The boat was very flat, the central section including the wheelhouse rising up from the deck three quarters of the way along. She was about five hundred feet in length.

“What do you think?” Ryan whispered to Keogh as they followed.

“That they weren’t designed for heavy weather,” Keogh told him.

They went up a ladder to the wheelhouse, stopped on the landing below. Their escort opened a door and stood to one side.

“Here we are, then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dolan.”

The man who sat behind the chart table wore a seagoing officer’s coat, had hair down to his shoulders, and a face that was so ravaged by drink and bad living that it was impossible to determine his age.

“Mr. Ryan, here we are again.” He stood up and extended his hand. “And who might this gorgeous young lady be?”

“My niece, Captain Tully. You might well remember that. This is my associate, Martin Keogh.”

“Mr. Keogh.” Tully shook his hand enthusiastically. “A real pleasure.”

“I’m sure it is,” Keogh told him.

“To business, then,” Tully said.

Ryan opened the briefcase he was holding and took out a folded chart. “There is your destination. Marsh End, south of Ravenglass on the Cumbrian coast. You have two days. Can you manage that?”

Tully unfolded the chart and examined it. “No problem. What then?”

“I’ll arrive by truck, which we’ll take across to Kilalla on the coast of County Down.” He took out another chart. “There’s a disused quarry pier there. We put the truck on shore and you sail away.”

“We do indeed, Mr. Ryan. There is, of course, the small matter of recompense.”

Ryan took a large envelope from the briefcase and passed it across. “Fifty thousand pounds there. Another fifty on the termination of the contract at Kilalla. Satisfactory?”

“Oh, very, Mr. Ryan. I can assure you of that.”

“Excellent. Then we’ll see you on Friday morning at Marsh End.”

“No problem,” Tully said. “We won’t let you down.”

“Good. We’ll be off, then.”

AS THEY WALKED along the waterfront, Kathleen Ryan said, “I didn’t like anything about that bowser.”

“You aren’t expected to.” Ryan turned to Keogh. “What about you?”

“He’ll cut your throat if he thinks there’s a pound in it.”

“Which is why I have you along, so let’s get back,” and Ryan walked to the corner and waved to a taxi.

THE MAN WHO had greeted them at the gangway was Dolan. When he went back into the chartroom he found Tully examining the charts Ryan had given him.

“What do you think?”

“It’s big,” Tully said. “Fifty thousand now and another fifty when we hit the Ulster coast. Whatever is in that truck must be worth more.”

“So?”

“The number he gave me to contact him. It’s a pub in Kilburn called the William and Mary. I think I’ll go up there and have a nose around.” He folded the charts. “You look after things here.” He moved to the door and turned. “This could be a big payday, Mick.”

“Well I’m with you on that,” Dolan said. “Whatever it takes.”

“Good man,” Tully said and went out.

THE SALOON BAR of the William amp; Mary was packed, men standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the bar as they drank. It was a cheerful enough scene and very noisy as Tully peered in through one of the windows.

He decided to take his chances round the back and followed a narrow alley that brought him to a high wall, a gate opening into a yard. There was a chink of light showing at a window, curtains partly drawn. He approached cautiously and peered inside.

Ryan, Bell, and Kathleen sat at a table, a map unfolded before them. Keogh stood by the fire. Ryan laughed as Bell said something to him, but Tully couldn’t hear what it was. It was then that he noticed the back door in the shadows. He tried the handle gingerly and the door opened to his touch.

He found himself in a narrow corridor. There was no light on and he groped his way forward, aware of coats hanging from a peg rack. At that moment a door opened, light flooding out, and Bell appeared. Tully froze, trying to bury himself in the hanging coats, and Bell called, “I’ll only be a minute.”

He went down the corridor, opened a door, and went inside. A few moments later there was the sound of a toilet flushing. He returned, went into the backroom, and closed the door. Tully went forward and put his ear to the door and was instantly aware of everything being said inside.

“RIGHT, THEN, CARDS on the table,” Ryan said. “It’s time you knew what the rest of us do, Martin.”

“I’m all in favor of that,” Keogh told him.

“I put this job together a year or so ago. Hugh here helped with the planning of the English end of things. Unfortunately, the Army Council turned it down flat, thought the whole thing too risky.”

“Bunch of old women,” Bell said.

“So what’s it all about?” Keogh demanded. “What’s on the meat transporter?”

It was Kathleen who answered. “Gold, Martin. Gold bullion. Fifty million pounds.”

“God save us.” Keogh managed to look astonished. “And why would it be transported in such a way?”

“Let me explain,” Ryan said. “Bullion used to be landed at London Docks on the Thames, but over the past twenty-five years the waterfront has been in decline. Shippers prefer Amsterdam. However, bullion deliveries were rerouted to Glasgow.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Five years. Ever since they built a new smelter at Barrow-in-Furness. See it there on the map right at the bottom of the Lake District? Mainly shipbuilding there. The latest atomic submarine came out of their yards.”

“So what’s the smelter got to do with things?”

“They melt the gold down and reprocess it into smaller ingots. The banks prefer it that way. Gold is heavy stuff.”

“I see,” Keogh said.

Ryan continued. “The transporter travels from Glasgow to Carlisle, then cuts across to Maryport on the coast and follows the coast road down to Barrow.”

“And we hit it somewhere on that road?”

“Exactly. This coming Friday.”

“But how do we stop it and, what’s more to the point, how do we get in?”

It was Bell who answered. “It’s no ordinary truck. There’s a driver and two armed security guards in the cabin behind him. The truck looks standard, but it’s reinforced in every possible way, and there’s a battery of electronic security devices, a first-class radio system.”

“And how do you handle that?” Keogh asked.

Bell opened a drawer in the table and took out a black hand-held computer with several rows of buttons and a read-out screen.

“I know this looks as if you use it to turn your television on and off, but it’s a bit of pure genius called a Howler. You see, privileged information again, we know the code for the security system of the truck. The Howler has already selected it. You press the red button three times and the entire security system in the truck, electronic door locks, radio, the lot, is neutralized. That means the doors are open.”

“And where in the hell did you get that?” Keogh asked.

“Oh, a young electronic whiz kid at Queen’s University in Belfast who is sympathetic to our cause.”

Keogh nodded slowly. “And the driver and the guards? What happens there?”

“A stun grenade should take care of them.” Ryan looked bleak for a moment. “Mind you, I’ll kill them if I have to. This is serious business.”

Keogh nodded. “All right, what happens after the heist?”

“We drive it to Marsh End where the Irish Rose will be waiting.” He smiled. “We’ll be well out to sea and on our way and the police running round in circles.”

There was a long silence while Keogh brooded. Finally he nodded. “You know, you’re right. It could work.”

Ryan laughed delightedly. “Good man yourself, Martin. Let’s have a drink on it.”

Bell got up, opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of Bushmills and three glasses, and at that moment there was a crash in the yard outside as a trashcan went over.

WHEN RYAN SUGGESTED the drink, Tully decided it was time to go. He opened the back door, closed it softly behind him, and started across the yard. It was then that he blundered into the trashcan, dislodging the metal lid which clanged as it fell to the stone flagging. He carried on, got the gate open, and ran along the alley. As he reached the far end, Keogh emerged into the alley, but by then it was too late as Tully crossed the busy main road and was lost in the evening crowd.

When Keogh returned, Bell had turned on the yard light and was standing at the back door with Ryan and the girl.

“Was there someone?” Ryan demanded.

“Oh, yes,” Keogh said. “And you’re not going to like it one little bit. I just caught a glimpse of him as he turned into the road. It looked remarkably like Tully to me.”

“The bastard was checking up on us,” Ryan said and led the way back into the parlour.

“So what do we do now?” Bell demanded. “This blows everything.”

“No, I don’t agree,” Keogh said. “He wants to see the affair go through because he wants the rest of his money.”

“That makes sense.” Ryan nodded.

“I’d say he was simply sniffing around to find out more.”

“Which means he’s a shifty swine,” Kathleen put in.

“Who knows more than he did if he overheard our discussion.” Keogh pulled on his reefer coat.

“Where are you going?” Ryan demanded.

“Back to the Irish Rose.” Keogh took out his Walther and checked it. “I’m going to do some sniffing around myself.”

“I’ll come with you,” Ryan told him.

“No need, I can handle it.” Keogh smiled. “After all, that’s what you’re paying me for.”

As he turned for the door, Kathleen Ryan said, “Take care, Martin.”

“Ah, but I always do, girl dear.” He smiled and went out; there was the sound of the yard gate opening and closing, and he was gone.

IT WAS RAINING again as Keogh paid off the taxi and turned along Cable Wharfe. It was a place of shadows, a touch of fog in the air. He kept to those shadows by the old disused warehouses and paused when he was close to the gangway. There was no sign of life. He thought about it for a while, then decided to take a chance and darted across to the stern of the ferry which at that point was lower than the wharf.

He dropped down to the deck, paused for a moment, then moved through the darkness to where the central section and the wheelhouse reared into the night. There was a light up there. Keogh went up an iron ladder to the landing below the wheelhouse, then approached, crouching. He could hear voices, smell cigarette smoke. They were all in there, Tully and his crew. Keogh stood, protected by a life raft, and listened.

He heard the man Dolan say, “Gold? Are you kidding us, Frank?”

“No. I’m bloody not. The truck that we pick up at Marsh End will be loaded with the stuff. They’re going to knock it off on its way to the smelters in Barrow-in-Furness.”

“But who are they?” Dolan demanded.

“Well, they’re Irish, that’s for certain. I’d have said IRA, but I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Two things. Our destination, Kilalla. That’s Ulster, not the Republic. Another thing. The William and Mary in Kilburn. That’s a Prod pub, not Catholic. I think they’re probably the other side.”

“Loyalists?” Dolan asked.

“Same difference as far as I’m concerned,” Tully told him. “I couldn’t care less which side they’re on. All I’m interested in is that gold.”

There was a stirring amongst the crew. Dolan said, “You mean we’re going to knock it off?”

“Who knows?” Tully laughed. “After all, lads, anything can happen at sea, but let’s get moving. Prepare to cast off. We’ve only got two days to get up there.”

Keogh crouched behind the life raft as the crew emerged and descended to the deck. He stayed there thinking about it, then stood up and moved to the wheelhouse door.

TULLY, LEANING OVER the table, was aware of a small wind that lifted the chart for the Cumbrian coast a little. He looked up and found Keogh leaning against the door lighting a cigarette.

“As they used to say in those old Agatha Christie plays, all is revealed. I was outside, old son, and I heard your little speech to that motley crew of yours.” Tully tried to open a door and Keogh’s hand came out of his pocket holding the Walther. “Don’t be stupid.”

Tully glowered at him. “What do you want?”

“Well, I know you were at the William and Mary. By rights I should put a bullet between your eyes, but I’ll settle for the fifty thousand pounds Ryan gave you earlier.”

“You can go to hell.”

Keogh raised the Walther and fired. There was the usual dull cough and the lobe of Tully’s right ear disintegrated. He cried out sharply and clutched at the ear, blood spurting.

“That was for starters,” Keogh said. “Come on, the envelope.”

Tully got the drawer open with his free hand, took out the envelope, and tossed it over. Keogh put it in his pocket. Tully took a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his ear.

“My God, look what you’ve done.”

“So what’s the difference?” Keogh said. “You couldn’t look worse than you do.”

“Fuck you.” Tully opened a cupboard one-handed, took out a bottle of Scotch, and pulled the cork with his teeth. He took a long swallow. “Now what?”

“Now nothing,” Keogh told him. “I’ll see you at Marsh End on Friday.”

Tully looked astonished. “You mean it’s still on?”

“Too late to get anyone else now,” Keogh told him. “This is what I call an I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know situation, so behave yourself and you’ll get this envelope back plus the other fifty thousand pounds when we reach Kilalla.”

“Sod you!” Tully said.

“Yes, I know that,” Keogh told him. “But you will be at Marsh End on Friday.”

“Yes, damn you, I will.”

“Good man yourself. Now you can escort me to the gangway and we’ll say goodnight.”

The engines rumbled into life at that moment. Tully led the way out, negotiating the ladder with difficulty, blood streaming from his ear. Only Dolan and the German, Muller, were working on deck. Muller was casting off and Dolan was about to haul in the gangway. He looked up in astonishment.

“Here, what’s going on?”

“What’s going on is that you leave the gangway alone until I’ve gone down it,” Keogh said.

Dolan tried to rush him and Keogh wiped him across the face with the Walther. Dolan staggered back with a cry of pain and Keogh went down the gangway. He turned at the bottom and smiled up at Tully.

“To our next merry meeting at Marsh End.”

“Bastard!” Tully called.

Keogh laughed and walked away through the rain.

JACK BARRY WAS sitting at the desk of his study when the portable phone rang.

Keogh said, “It’s me.”

Barry said, “Where are you?”

“Wapping High Street in old London Town.”

“So what’s happening?”

“You were right about the gold.”

“Is that a fact? Tell me.”

“It’s complicated, but here goes,” and Keogh went through the whole business step-by-step.

WHEN HE WAS finished, Barry said, “Christ, but it’s the ruthless bastard you are. Will Tully play?”

“He will. A hundred-thousand-pound payday. He isn’t going to turn that down.”

“Right. Let’s say everything works. What happens on board the Irish Rose once you put to sea? They’ll try to take you.”

“Of course, but we’ll be prepared.”

“You, Ryan, and his niece? God save us all.”

“Oh, He will, He will. What about the Kilalla end?”

“Oh, I think I can promise you an interesting reception. A considerable contribution to IRA funds. It could win us the war.”

“Just think of that,” Keogh told him. “And it’s only taken seven hundred years.”

Barry laughed. “Go on, dark hero, get on with it and keep in touch,” and he switched off his phone.

IN THE PARLOUR at the William amp; Mary, Ryan and Kathleen sat at the table and listened to what Keogh had to say. Keogh helped himself to a Bushmills on the side.

Bell said, “You shot him?”

“Only a little.” Keogh sipped his Bushmills. “The lobe of his right ear.”

Kathleen’s face was infused with excitement. “That taught the bastard a lesson.”

Ryan said, “You think he’ll still come?”

“Of course he will. He wants his hundred thousand pounds.”

“But he’ll try for more on the run to Ulster?”

“Yes, well, we know that, so we’ll just have to be prepared.”

“I suppose so.” Ryan took a deep breath. “We’ll catch the Glasgow Express in the morning. We’ll leave at Carnforth and take the local train to Barrow.”

“Then what?”

“We’ll be met,” Ryan told him. “Something else I didn’t tell you. I have a cousin who runs a sheep farm in the Lake District not far from Ravenglass. But enough of that now. I’m for bed. We’ll need an early start.”

AS THE IRISH ROSE moved down the Thames, Tully stood at the wheel, his head disembodied in the light of the binnacle. His right ear was covered by a taped bandage. The door of the wheelhouse opened and Dolan entered with a mug in one hand. He put it down by the wheel.

“Tea,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Tully told him.

“So what about that little bastard?”

“Oh, when the right time comes I’m going to cut his balls off.” Tully reached for the mug and drank some tea. “There’s an old Sinn Fein saying, ‘Our day will come.’ Well, mine certainly will where Keogh’s concerned.”

He swung the wheel and increased power.