The Killing Ground

IRELAND
LONDON
Chapter 10

IT HAD BEEN THE PREVIOUS DAY, TWENTY-FOUR HOURS before Hussein and Khazid reached Majorca, when Roper had astonished Boris Lhuzkov with his candid conversation. Obviously, Lhuzkov couldn’t speak to the Broker, but Volkov was a different matter. He phoned him on his secure line at the Kremlin.

“I’ve got something for you-rather interesting.”

“Well, that makes a change.”

“I’ve just had a conversation with Roper at Holland Park.”

“Have you, by God? Tell me everything.”

IT COULDN’T BE QUITE EVERYTHING, for at that stage of the game, Hussein had just buried his uncle and his two friends. Admittedly, the photo planted by Roper in the British newspapers had just appeared, but the Broker hadn’t made any mention to Volkov of Hussein’s determination still to travel to England.

“What do you think?” Lhuzkov said. “Is Roper a loose cannon?”

“No, everything he does has a purpose. So he tells you Greta is working for Charles Ferguson. We suspected that anyway. He talks of Levin in Dublin. We know very well that Levin is in Dublin, and his sergeants. This Rashid business, the girl in Hazar, is interesting, though hardly surprising with Dillon and that wretched Salter involved. Personally, the idea that Hussein would for any reason come to England now confirms to me that it would be stupid. In my opinion, any hopes of using his services for any of our own problems must go out the window. But we’ve still got to do something about Ferguson. This unholy alliance with Dillon and Harry Salter and all his criminal connections is unacceptable.”

“And so we see even the Moscow Mafia confounded.” Lhuzkov laughed. “Now that Chekov is out of the picture for a while, what do you intend to do?”

“I’m not certain, but it must be something, and soon.”

“It needs to be something to make people sit up and take notice,” Lhuzkov told him. “Physical violence may be old-fashioned, but Stransky and Chekov certainly got the point.”

“A great many people, not only in our line of work but in the criminal underworld, got the message that Harry Salter is back in business.”

“If he ever went away.”

“He’s doing a very clever thing, Boris, and even the police reluctantly approve. The things he does, he does to bad people, unpopular people.”

“Like Russians in London,” Lhuzkov said. “Billionaire oligarchs and foot soldiers in the Mafia. So they got a rough passage. Why should ordinary Londoners care?”

“I’d love to take Salter down,” Volkov said.

“You’d never get near him, just the way you’d never get near Ferguson.”

“I don’t know,”Volkov said. “I’ve always believed if you want to shoot someone, it’s perfectly possible. Look at that idiot who shot President Reagan.”

“Honey, I forgot to duck, he said to his wife.”

“Yes, he had a great sense of humor.”

“For a man intent on destroying Communism and the Soviet Union.”

“Thank you for reminding me. Let me remind you that when Igor Levin was given the job of disposing of that Chechnyan general, he got close enough to cut his throat in the hotel they were using as command headquarters.”

“Yes, Levin was a true artist.”

“Roper, of course, only talked to you so that you would talk to me. I wonder why?”

“Stirring the pot perhaps.”

And with that, they hung up.

AND WHO IS HE ringing now? Lhuzkov wondered, and indeed Volkov was already calling Igor Levin. It was eleven o’clock on as wet a morning as Dublin could provide. Levin was at his apartment, with his great view of the Liffey obscured by the gray curtain of rain outside.

Levin answered, always aware that a call on his encoded phone meant someone important, and was surprised to find Volkov on the other end, considering how short a time it had been since the last one.

“General, what a surprise. What can I do for you?”

“I won’t beat about the bush. When I spoke to you from Paris the other day, I told you I wanted you back. I also said I’d spoken to President Putin and he told me to tell you that Russia needs you and that he needs you.”

Levin burst out laughing. “What a load of balls. Who do you want killed?” He laughed again. “There are plenty of killers in Dublin. Shall I find you one?”

Volkov was furious and frustrated. “You Jewish ingrate,” he shouted.

“Only half-Jewish, my mother of blessed memory. And may I remind you that in his time my father was a much-decorated colonel in the Red Army.” He wasn’t seething at the slur, he wasn’t even angry. “Hey, General, I’ve served Russia well.”

At the other end, Volkov breathed deeply a couple of times and moderated his tone. “My dear Levin, forgive me for what I have said. As for your father, he was indeed a great man. And you’ve just given me an idea. Excuse me.”

HE HUNG UP and immediately phoned Michael Flynn at Scamrock Security, who was farther along the Liffey, sitting at his desk, dictating to his secretary, Mary O’Toole, the young woman Popov had been taking out recently.

“Mr. Flynn, it’s Volkov. We need to talk.”

“Certainly. Is it important?”

“Vitally-to both of us.”

“Just a moment,” Flynn said. “Mary, take your tea break. I’ll call you later.”

“Certainly, Mr. Flynn.”

What transpired was unfortunate for Flynn. Mary had received the kind of attention a man in his late fifties may well give a pretty girl in her twenties. As usual, the affair hadn’t lasted, leaving Mary, as girls often will in such cases, feeling aggrieved, especially as she was from a Fenian family and had been proud of her association with a pillar of the original Provisional IRA. Being a security specialist, Flynn had a number of recording devices servicing the room, some operated from the secretary’s office outside. It was only recently that Mary had taken to listening in. She did so now.

“ Drumore Place and the Belov International complex. Are you still interested in the security job there?” Volkov asked.

“By God, I am.”

“Then it’s yours. I’ll see your firm gets an official contract. You’ll be responsible for all the security at the house and complex. You’ve heard of Max Chekov’s unfortunate problem in London?”

“Bad news travels fast. We know how to handle that sort of thing in Dublin. A damn shame.”

“I’m taking over. Frankly, I’m wondering if you might be the one I am looking for to take over all the security services for Belov International.”

Flynn couldn’t believe it. “By God, I’m your man, General.”

“You are, of course, able to recruit old comrades from your days in the Provisional IRA?”

“You mean you’re after mercenaries?”

“Call them what you like. Men who are used to the gun and won’t flinch at using it. Don’t let’s beat about the bush. You know exactly what I am and I know what you were. Say I had work for you in London. Would you be able to provide suitable people?”

“To do what?”

“There’s a General Charles Ferguson who heads a special intelligence unit and is a great thorn in my side. I know you’re already familiar with some of his associates, like Sean Dillon and Harry and Billy Salter.”

“I’ve known Ferguson for nearly thirty years. Dillon as well, though differently in those days. A good comrade, but if he got in my way now, I’d shoot him without hesitation. Where is all this leading?”

“Would you accept contracts on Ferguson and on Harry Salter, who is responsible for what happened to Chekov?” Volkov asked.

“Absolutely. Believe me, there are old IRA hands in London who can still do the business, bomb or bullet. The Irish quarter, Kilburn, never goes away. You want sleepers working in the city or in publishing or on some newspapers? I can supply them. The Muslims think they invented it-they only discovered it. When do you want it sorted?”

“Tonight would be fine.”

“Good God.”

“But not absolutely necessary. There is one thing you could do as soon as you like. Kill someone in Dublin. He’s an ex-agent of mine called Igor Levin. Your man Popov was his sergeant. I should warn you, he’s a highly dangerous man.”

“We eat dangerous men for breakfast.”

“Terms to be agreed in all cases.”

“Levin will be my gift to you, General, this very day.”

“I expected nothing less. We’ll do great things together.”

Flynn hadn’t been so excited in years. He spoke on the intercom to Popov and called him in. Mary watched the Russian brush past her, face flushed, and continued to listen.

“I’m taking over all security services at Belov International, so you’ll be working for General Volkov again. He’s in charge of things now. Max Chekov had an unfortunate accident.”

“That’s marvelous, the General, I mean. Is there any way I can be of help?”

“You can help right now. This friend of yours, Igor Levin?”

“Ah, yes, we worked together in the GRU.”

“I’d like to have words with him. It’s a confidential matter. I might be able to throw a bit of work his way.”

“I don’t know about that. I should tell you he’s quite rich. A bit difficult.”

“Well, you know what they say in the Mafia: I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

Popov agreed reluctantly. “What do I do?”

“Tell him I’d like to see him on business. Take him down to Riley’s Bar in Crown Street by the river. It’ll be closed, but just knock on the door and tell him I’ll be waiting. Have him there and you clear off. Say you’ll be at the café at the end of the street. Call him now. Go, use your mobile. I’ll see you later. I’ve things to do.” Popov gone, he murmured into his own mobile, “That you, Riley? I’m sending a disposal. Deal with him. The usual people will pick the body up.”

ALONE IN THE COMPUTER ROOM, Flynn called the Green Tinker, a good Fenian pub in Kilburn in Irish Lane run by Jimmy Nolan and his cousin Patrick Kelly, both comrades from the old days who’d served time with Flynn in the Maze Prison. He enjoyed a businesslike chat with Jimmy, which was received with great enthusiasm.

“Ah, we know that bastard Ferguson from the old days in Belfast, Dillon too, though what the hell he’s doing mixed up with bowsers like Ferguson I’ll never know. Salter’s your average gangster. He probably started off sticking up grocery stores as a kid, then graduated to a gun in his pocket and thought he was a big man. People like that are criminals, Michael, not like us at all.”

“I’m just tapping some photos and background info into your computer. There you are. Call me when you come up with something.

There’s real money in this. A hundred thousand pounds, my word on it. Don’t screw up, Jimmy.”

LEVIN GOT THE CALL that changed everything from Mary O’Toole before Popov arrived at his apartment. She was determined to do what was right. Yes, Flynn had used her, but it wasn’t just that. From a fiercely Irish Republican family, her father shot dead by British paratroopers when she was seven years of age, she was proud of her connection with the IRA, and Flynn, whom she had worshipped in the past when he was chief of staff, had let her down spectacularly. So, she phoned Igor Levin, whom she had met a time or two when she was with Popov, told him what had happened and what she could remember.

Levin was not only grateful, he believed her. He immediately phoned Chomsky and found him in his car in the city center and told him everything.

“Are you going to go? You’re being set up, that’s obvious. And this stuff she’s told you about Dillon, the Salters, Ferguson -this is serious business,” Chomsky told him.

“As we who served in Afghanistan and Chechnya know, Sergeant, and isn’t it great? I’ve been sitting on my backside too long.” The bell went for the front door. “Sounds like Popov now,” Levin said.

“I’m in my car only five minutes away. I’ll crash the party.”

Levin opened the door and expressed surprise on seeing Popov and listened to his story with simulated interest. “I wonder what he wants? Maybe it’s something to do with a job in the firm.”

Popov said, “I told him I didn’t think you’d be interested. I mean, you know, not with your money.”

“Come in, let me finish dressing.” Levin led the way into the sitting room. “Get yourself a drink.”

He went into his bedroom, found a tie and tweed jacket, then went to his desk, standing in the bow window with the river view, opened a drawer, felt in the back and produced first one Walther, then two, both with silencers. He put one in each pocket and went back to the sitting room as the doorbell rang again, and opened the door to Chomsky, who stood there in his raincoat. Levin slipped a Walther into one of Chomsky’s pockets.

“Hello, there, you’ve just caught us. Popov and I have to meet a man called Riley-Riley’s Bar, Crown Street.”

“I was just passing, so I thought I’d check to see if you were free for lunch.”

Popov looked put out. “I’m not sure.”

“Oh, come on, it’ll be good,” Levin told him. “We can talk over old times after I’m finished with Flynn,” and he took his arm and led him out. They got in the car and Chomsky drove away. “We think I might be getting a job offer. Security work,” Levin said.

They were already down by the river, turned into a maze of streets with what looked like old warehouses lining them and came to Crown Street. Chomsky parked behind a truck. There wasn’t much choice.

“The café must be at the other end,” Levin said.

“I’m supposed to wait down there,” Popov protested.

“But we’d miss you,” Levin told him. “And here we are.”

There was a wooden door, paint peeling, shutters at the windows, a narrow alley down one side. Chomsky said, “Excuse me.” He disappeared down it.

Levin said, “Go on, open the door.”

Popov said, in a panic, “It’s locked.”

“No, it isn’t.” Levin turned the knob, opened the door and pushed Popov in.

Halfway along the alley, Chomsky found a door, opened it into a kitchen with a table, chairs, another door. He pushed it gently. Farther along at the bottom of some stairs, a man in blue overalls was holding a silenced pistol and looking toward a green curtain at the far end. There was the sound of a voice and the man fired twice, a dull thud each time. Popov came through the curtain headlong and fell on his face.

Chomsky shot the man in the left shoulder, spinning him around, then shot him in the heart and he went down. He jerked twice, then went still.

Levin checked Popov. “Our old friend seems to be dead.”

“No old friend of mine. This bastard’s had it, too. What do we do?”

“Unfortunately, shootings are common occurrence in Dublin these days. People think because of old IRA hands who can’t get out of the habit. So this, alas, will be just two more. Off we go, nice and steady up the street, and away.”

It was absolutely pouring. They got in the car, and Chomsky drove off. “Now what?”

“Back to my house to pick up a few things and dispose of the weapons.”

“Why?”

“Well, we can’t take them to London. I mean, the security people don’t like that these days, even if you fly in privately.”

“Is that what we’re going to do?”

“I’d say so. There’s a flying club I know at Killane, executive planes, just right for millionaires like me. We’ll call at your place, too. Don’t forget your passport,” and he leaned back.

ROPER RECEIVED THE CALL from Killane at one-thirty. He was having a conference meeting with Ferguson, Dillon, Billy and Greta. Doyle and Henderson stood against the wall.

Ferguson had just said, “Right, people, I want to bring you all up to speed on the present situation.”

The phone went and Roper flicked it on to open transmission. Levin said, “Roper, it’s me, Levin. Can we talk?”

“If you don’t mind the entire firm hearing. Everybody’s here.”

“Fine by me. Very convenient, actually. Volkov tried to stitch me up royally, with the assistance of Michael Flynn.”

“Stitch you up how?” Ferguson demanded.

“Oh, the coffin lid being slammed down firmly. Would you be interested to know that Flynn is going to take over all security services at

Belov International?”

“Yes, I damn well would,” Ferguson replied. “Tell me more.”

Which Levin did. Everything that Mary O’Toole had told him, the Popov betrayal, the shootings at Riley’s Bar.

Dillon broke in, “So you’ve two bodies lying there. Does that give you a problem?”

“No. It seems in Flynn’s original discussion with Riley, Flynn told him the usual people would pick my body up. Now they’ll have two. I always thought Popov would come to a bad end.”

“Damn Judas,” Dillon said. “Why do you think Mary O’Toole told you everything?”

“Interesting, that. She said that for a man who had been chief of staff of the Provisional IRA, he was a disgrace. Then I recalled Popov telling me once that her father was IRA and killed in a gunfight with Brit paratroopers in Ulster.”

“God save us, but that kind of Fenian female can be harder than an Orange Presbyterian. Make sure she’s safe. You owe her, big-time.”

“I will, be sure of that.”

Roper said, “So where are you now?”

“A flying club at Killane outside Dublin. Under the circumstances, Chomsky and I have decided to come over.”

It was Greta who broke in now. “Does that mean what it sounds like?”

“Greta, my love, I’m bored. Dublin is totally charming, one of the world’s great cities, but I pass my days in idle pleasure.”

“I would say that sounds unlikely, based on what you’ve told us,” Ferguson said. “But if what you’re trying to say is that you and Sergeant Chomsky are seeking employment, I welcome you with open arms.”

“Are you sure of that, General?”

“All sins forgiven. You’re booking a plane from Killane?”

“That’s right.”

“Do bring your British passports. I know you have a selection, but I’d prefer it, and tell your pilot to call his details ahead and he’ll be welcomed at Farley Field.”

“We’ll see you soon, General.”

The deaths of Riley and Popov had not yet become known and Flynn had not returned to Scamrock Security. Mary O’Toole pulled on her coat, picked up her handbag and made for the door, when the phone rang on her desk.

She picked it up. “Mary O’Toole? It’s Levin.”

“I was just leaving, Flynn’s not back.”

“I trust you’re leaving for good? You saved my life, Miss O’Toole, but so long as you’ve gotten rid of any evidence of your involvement, you should be safe enough.”

“I’ve left my notice on his desk. To be honest with you, I think he’ll be glad to be shut of me. We had an affair, I was his leavings, but that wasn’t the reason I did what I did. When I think of my dad and what he stood for, and Flynn and his scheming and rottenness, I had to tell you.”

“Very quickly. Do you live alone?”

“Yes-I rent a flat only fifteen minutes’ walk from the office.”

“Do you have a passport?”

“Of course I have.”

“You have done me the greatest favor in my life and I must repay the debt. I’m at Killane, twenty minutes outside the city at the Aero Club. Chomsky and I are going to fly to England in a private plane. I think you’d be better out of things for a while, just in case. You’re perfectly welcome to join us. London ’s a big place. Easy to lose yourself.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“Absolutely. Do you have cab fare?”

“Of course I do. There’s a rank outside the office. I’ll get a driver to take me home and wait for me.”

Levin put his mobile away and, standing at the counter of the small bar, Chomsky ordered two vodka shots. He raised his glass. “To a nice girl called Mary O’Toole, who did the right thing.”

“And thank God for it,” Levin said.

They moved out into the entrance and found Magee, the chief pilot, standing under the canopy out of the rain, smoking a cigarette and chatting to a young pilot named Murphy. They stopped their conversation.

“Have you sorted it out yet?” Magee asked Levin.

“Three passengers-destination, Farley Field, in Kent, just outside London. It’s all fixed up. We’re expected.”

“I don’t know that one. Check it on the screen, Murphy.”

Murphy returned in a few moments. “It’s there, all right, and classified restricted.”

“Did you send our names?” Chomsky said, the efficient sergeant taking over. “Look again, I’ll come with you.”And it was there on the screen. Captain Igor Levin and Sergeant Ivan Chomsky.

Magee looked. “My God, you must have some pull for a place like that. I think I’ll do the flight myself. You can come with me,” he told Murphy. “A couple of nights in London will do us good. We’ll take the King Air.” He turned to Levin, “Turbo prop, but it gets you there nearly as fast as the jet and the seats are bigger. What about the other passenger?”

“A lady. She’ll be here soon.”

“Is she on the classified list?”

“Thanks for reminding me. Are you?”

“As we both served in the RAF, I expect so.”

Roper answered at once. Levin said, “The girl, Mary O’Toole. I’ve decided to get her out of here fast in case of any trouble from Flynn, so we’ll give her a lift. Will that be okay?”

“Certainly. I was talking to Harry. He says he really owes you one. If you hadn’t come up with the story, he could have had Jimmy Nolan and Patrick Kelly visiting with maybe a bomb and certainly guns.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t have known if it hadn’t been for the girl. If he wants to do anyone a favor, he can help her get a job.”

“Yes, that makes sense. I’ll see you at Holland Park.”

“You mean I can’t stay at the Dorchester anymore?”

“Look on it as a debriefing. Anyway, the safe house is a bit like a hotel these days.”

A little later, Mary was delivered in her taxi. She had only one small suitcase and a handbag. She was excited. “I’m traveling light.”

“Any sign of Flynn?” Levin asked.

“Not when I left.”

“Let Ivan have your passport. He’ll put your details through.”

She went off with Chomsky, leaving her case by the door. Murphy picked it up. “That’s women for you. There could be a bomb in there. They never learn.”

“No, they never do,” Levin said with some irony, took Mary’s case from him and went to join them.

Magee was finishing some sort of documentation at the desk and suddenly they were all together. “Okay, folks, follow Murphy. I’m right behind.”

They went out to the runway, and the King Air was there in the rain. Murphy got a couple of golfing umbrellas from a stand by the door and they walked under their shelter together toward the plane. Levin was smiling, and so was Chomsky when he glanced at him. It was behind them, what had been. What was ahead was a new chapter, and that could mean anything.

CALLED BY TWO of his collectors, as he thought of them, to Riley’s Bar, Michael Flynn was confronted by the bodies of Riley and Popov and couldn’t believe what he saw. Riley was a creature of almost Dickensian evil. He had murdered many times, both men and women, available to whoever was capable of paying him; a butcher, allowed to exist by the IRA in the hard times because of how useful he was. Even his presence had terrified people, and here he was with two bullets in him. His collectors were a couple on the same level as Riley. “Can’t believe it, Mr. Flynn. Riley murdered. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Flynn would hardly have described Riley’s death in quite that way. “He’s finally dead and that’s it. Get him in the body bag.”

“And the other? His papers are here. Funny name.” One of them handed over Popov’s empty wallet.

Flynn said, “I’ve told you before. Keep the cash, but not credit cards or any identity stuff. I’ll dispose of those.”

The man gave them to him. “It’s lucky we had another body bag in the van.”

“Where will you put them?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to know that, Mr. Flynn.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” He took a bulging envelope from his pocket, stuffed with euros.

“It was supposed to be one, Mr. Flynn. Riley was extra.”

“So I’ll give you extra next time. Now get on with it,” and Flynn left them.

He found his car and drove away. It was unfortunate for Popov, but God alone knew what had happened to the man Levin. He’d have him checked out. He was annoyed with himself that his first attempt to do Volkov a good turn had ended in failure, but there was no need to tell the Russian for the moment.

AT THE GREEN TINKER at about two-thirty, the snug was down to old Bert Fahy behind the bar and two aging men enjoying a beer. Nolan and Kelly had been making calls, and the result was two cars turning up outside and four men entering the snug, one after the other.

They were all from Kilburn, the Irish quarter for over a hundred and fifty years, which is why its inhabitants were known as London Irish and hard men. Hard and wild where Danny Delaney and Sol Flanagan were concerned. They were the same age, twenty-five, wearing loose, flashy suits in the Italian style, their hair just a little too long. In both cases, drugs were a priority, and they had a mad, dangerous look to them and a history mainly involving armed robbery.

Jack Burke and Tim Cohan were very different, members of the IRA since their youth, veterans of that long struggle of what the Irish had always called the Troubles. Both were in their late forties, hard, calm faces giving little away. It was the first time they’d met as a group and there was a hint of contempt in the way the older men looked at the younger. One thing was certain. The days of the IRA holding London in thrall were over, there was no disguising that by brave talk.

Danny Delaney said, “Jimmy Nolan told me he was bringing you in on this. Burke and Cohan.” He laughed, the slightly nervous giggle of somebody who was on something. “Sounds like undertakers.”

Flanagan said, “I heard you were with the crew who knocked off that Muslim travel agency in Trenchard Street the other week. These Pakis have real cash in those places.”

Delaney said, “I heard twenty grand.”

The two older men didn’t say a word and Bert Fahy spoke up as the two aging men left their beers and made for the door. “What’s it to be, gents?”

“Let’s just make it Bushmills whiskey all round, large ones,” Delaney said. “If we’re talking business, I like to keep a clear head.” He put a line of coke on the bar in an abstracted way, whistling cheerfully, and sniffed it and drank the glass of Bushmills that Fahy offered him.

“Now that’s what I call good stuff, man. Go on, have a go.”

Flanagan did, also pausing to down his whiskey. “That’s so great, man, let’s do it again.”

Burke looked on with obvious disapproval. “Rots the inside of your nose, I hear.”

“If you indulge enough,” Cohan observed.

Delaney was really on a roll. “Your travel agency. Reminds me of that Paki store we turned over the other week in Bayswater. Big bastard with a beard. Wouldn’t open the safe. Young girl was serving, one of those things on her face with only the eyes showing. I pulled it off, the veil. Real good-looker. I mean, I’d have given her one if I’d had time.” He took a pistol from his pocket, a silencer on the end. “Put her over the counter and shot her in her right bum cheek. She never even screamed.”

“That was shock, you see,” Flanagan said.

“But he got the safe open bloody quick after that,” Delaney said. “And there was only eight hundred quid in it. Must have been to the bank. I’d have given him one, too, only we had to get moving.”

Burke turned to Cohan. “The great days are behind us indeed, Tim, if this is what we’ve come down to.”

“So it would appear.”

“You wouldn’t know how to have a laugh if you saw one,” Delaney told him.

“And you wouldn’t know how to handle serious business if it hit you in the face, sunshine.”

Delaney giggled again. “Last of the old brigade, a sort of Dad’s Army of the Provisional IRA.”

Burke grabbed him by the lapels. “Don’t take the piss out of the IRA, boy. I did a stretch at Long Kesh, the Maze Prison itself. In five minutes you’d have been on your knees in the shower room begging. And I’ve got one of these, too.”

He produced a silenced pistol from his pocket and held it up. Delaney pulled away, higher than ever. “But is it as big as mine?”

The door to the office opened and Nolan appeared. “Cut it out. Get in here.”

Kelly was sitting on one end of the desk. On the wall behind was the material Flynn had sent on the computer. A row of photos, an information sheet under each one.

Ferguson, Harry Salter, Billy, Dillon and Roper in his wheelchair. There was nothing on Greta Novikova, but Harry’s minders, Joe Baxter and Sam Hall, were represented.

“They look like nothing much to me,” Flanagan said.

“I agree.” Delaney nodded.

Burke said, “I recognize that bastard, Ferguson. Years ago, he was a colonel in Derry when they lifted a bunch of us.”

“Major General now. He’s the prime target, and I can tell you boys there is big money in this for all of us, you have my word on it.”

Cohan said, “How much?”

“A hundred grand, and my client is good for it, believe me.”

“But we’ve got to deliver the goods before we see any of that?” Delaney frowned.

Kelly, who had been silent, said, “So we do. Let’s have some plain speaking, I hate time wasting. If the terms aren’t satisfactory, there’s the door.”

“No need to be so butch,” Delaney said. “We might as well have a go. Nothing else on at the moment.”

Cohan said, “So what are we talking about?”

“The main targets are Harry Salter, and a lot of people will heave a sigh of relief if you manage to kill that one, and Charles Ferguson. The others are minders, back-up people, but Salter and Ferguson go down any way we can.”

“Any suggestions?” Burke asked.

“A bullet in the head is as good as anything.” Cohan nodded. “I wouldn’t hesitate to shoot Ferguson in the back if I saw him in the street on a wet night.” He looked at the photos again. “God save us, Sean Dillon himself, the Small Man some called him.”

“Looks like rubbish to me,” Delaney said.

“Chief enforcer in the movement for twenty years. Killed more men than you could imagine, boy.”

Cohan said, “He never got his collar felt once by the Army or the RUC.”

Delaney said, “You knew him then?”

“Only by reputation.”

Nolan cut in. “Have any of you been to the Dark Man, Salter’s pub at Wapping?” Nobody had. “That’s okay then. It’s Friday night so it should be busy. Go down there, mingle, get the feel of the place, the area. It’s on Cable Wharf. The pub is the first place Salter owned. There’s a development next door. It seems he’s turned an old warehouse into luxury apartments. He even keeps a boat along the wharf.”

“Anything else?” Cohan asked.

“Drive past Ferguson ’s pad in Cavendish Place, just to have a look, and Dillon’s at Stable Mews. That’s walking distance from Cavendish Place. Feel it all out, but carefully at this stage. We’ll speak again.”

Delaney said impatiently, “So what’s the point?”

Burke said, “To use the military term, so you’re familiar with the killing ground, stupid, and know what we’re talking about.”

“All the people on the board meet at the Dark Man on a regular basis. I’m betting most of them will be there tonight,” Nolan pointed out.

Kelly said, “And so will we. See that you are. Now away with you.”

“Thank God for that,” Delaney said. “Come on, Sol,” and Flanagan followed him.

Cohan said, “Are those two for real? Is this what we’ve come down to, working with scum?”

“They kill without hesitation,” Nolan told him.

“It’s the only point in their favor.”

“And have to be drugged up to the eyeballs to be able to do it,” Burke said.

Cohan shook his head. “Not Delaney, he’s naturally evil, that one, and born that way.” As he followed Burke out, he paused at the door. “Christ, is this what it was all about? The great days we knew and it comes down to this?”

“Those days have gone,” Nolan said, “and won’t come back ever.”

“Enough bloody nostalgia,” Kelly put in. He opened a drawer in the desk and took out a pistol and silencer and three clips, which he pushed across to Nolan, then took out the same for himself. “We’ll go for a drive, check out Ferguson ’s gaff and Dillon’s.”

Nolan loaded his weapon, a Colt automatic, and Burke and Cohan watched him. “That sounds sensible. Do it like the movies.”

“To hell with that. I remember when we were the movies. The biggest bombing campaign seen in London since the Luftwaffe,” Burke said.

“The bowsers had to virtually wall off the city, the Bank of England, the lot. God, you had to keep your head down at that time.”

“There was a bar called Grady’s in Canal Street. A leftover from the Victorian times. There was a canal running down to the pool with a bridge over it. I stayed there more than once in the great days when I was on the run.” Kelly nodded as if to himself. “Grady died years ago, but a fella told me the other week his wife, Maggie, still runs it. She must be seventy-five if she’s a day.” He turned to Nolan. “Let’s check out Grady’s, for old times’ sake.”

Nolan said, “That’s a great idea. Spend some time there before the Dark Man.”

Kelly turned to Burke and Cohan. “Why not join us, say about six, give the Dark Man the chance to warm up? We’ll have a couple of glasses to start the evening off.”

“And why not?” Cohan said. “We’ll see you there. Come on, Jack.”

Nolan took down a reefer coat from a peg, whistling tunelessly. He loaded his Colt, screwed on the silencer, and Kelly said, “Come on then, Jimmy.”

And Nolan swung to look at him, eyes wild, and from somewhere deep inside, it all burst out. “What in the hell happened to us, Patrick?”

“It’s simple, Jimmy, we lost the war.” Kelly patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s go, old son, and make the best of it.”

They went out to the snug, where Fahy, who had been listening at the door to all the comings and goings, was suddenly busy polishing glasses behind the door.

“We’ll be out for the day,” Nolan said.

“That’s fine, Jimmy. I’ll see to things.”

They went out, and Fahy, his face grave, poured himself a whiskey and filled his pipe.