Authors: Jack Higgins
“Dillon?” she said. “Stay there. I’ll pick you up.”
He got himself a Bushmills and moved to the door giving access to the theatre section. The young girl on duty had the door half open and was peering inside herself.
She half-turned as Dillon appeared at her shoulder. “It’s a sellout, I’m afraid.”
“That’s all right, I just wanted a peek. I happen to know Grace Browning.”
He looked over her shoulder across the darkened room, the audience seated at the tables, to the brightly lit stage area. Grace Browning, dressed in a costume from the nineteen thirties, was vigorously denouncing her leading man. She turned and stormed off and the audience applauded.
The young girl said, “Isn’t she wonderful?”
“You could say that,” Dillon said and smiled. “Yes, I think you could.”
He turned away as the intermission crowd started to come out to the bar and saw Hannah enter. He went to her, draining his glass and putting it on the bar.
“I might have known. I meant you to wait outside, not inside,” she said. “Let’s get going.”
“Jesus, girl, the bad mood you’re in.”
“I got both barrels from the Brigadier. In his opinion you and I have fallen down on the job rather badly.” They got into her car and drove away. “Now what happened back there?”
“She stepped out from a mausoleum doorway on the other side of Bell. There wasn’t much light and she had the scarf around her head. I shouted to Bell to get down, but she shot him twice, silenced weapon of course. As I fired in return, she faded away.”
“And then?”
“Rather stupid. I emptied my gun, hoping for a lucky hit. While I was reloading she stepped into the path, leveled her gun, and called to me.”
“What did she say?”
Dillon told her. “And the accent was very Pakistani, no doubt about that. When she made off, I opened fire again, which was when you arrived.”
“So we’re looking for a Muslim woman?”
“Or someone pretending to be one.” Dillon took the Harrod’s shopping bag from inside his trench coat and opened it. “A pair of muslin trousers and one chador.”
“Good,” she said. “You can get good fingerprints from a plastic bag, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“But why didn’t she shoot you?” Hannah shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. And how did she know who you were?”
He lit a cigarette. “Oh, that’s easy. You see, I think we’ve met before.”
Ferguson was sitting by the fire, the telephone in his hand, when Kim showed them in. He waved them to sit.
“Yes, Prime Minister, of course, I’ll be there in an hour.” He nodded. “We’ll have a complete update for you.” He put the phone down. “What a balls-up. God knows what President Clinton’s going to say.”
“Yes, it’s bad news, I’m afraid,” Hannah said.
“Bad news?” His face was purple. “It’s bloody disastrous. I mean, you two were supposed to watch out for him.”
It was Dillon who said, “She was ahead of him, waiting in ambush in the cemetery. It was only chance that I noticed her as we drove off.”
“What happened? Tell me everything.”
Which Dillon did. When he was finished he said, “A bit of luck finding the muslin trousers and the chador, not that they’ll help much in my opinion.”
“Which doesn’t count for very much at the moment,” Ferguson told him.
Hannah said, “Dillon has a theory that January 30 will claim this one, sir.”
Ferguson, in the act of taking a cigarette from a silver box, paused, frowning a little. “But they just have. Phoned the BBC about an hour ago. That’s one of the things the Prime Minister wants to see me about.” He lit his cigarette. “All right, Dillon, let’s have it.”
“I think we’ve met before. That’s why she knew me.”
“Where?”
“Belfast, when the Sons of Ulster set me up, the lone motorcyclist in black leathers who took out the lookout man. I said at the time, if you recall, that he made a strange gesture. Raised an arm in salute before riding off.”
“And?”
“She did exactly the same tonight. So it was no man on that motorcycle in Belfast; it was her.”
“Another thing, sir,” Hannah said. “The night she saved Dillon in Belfast she used an AK, but all the other hits have been with the same weapon, the Beretta. I’ve a hunch that the rounds that come out of Mr. Bell will match.”
“I’m not sure that makes sense to me,” Ferguson said, “but we’ll wait and see what the lab report shows. Anyway, I’ve got to go and see the PM now to discuss this whole unfortunate affair and the possible repercussions. You two will just have to wait here until I get back. Not much sleep for anyone tonight, but that’s the way it is.”
Simon Carter and Rupert Lang were waiting downstairs when Ferguson arrived at Downing Street.
“Good God, Ferguson, what went wrong?” Carter demanded.
“I’ll explain that to the Prime Minister,” Ferguson said as an aide took them upstairs. “Are you thoroughly briefed on all this?” he asked Rupert.
Lang nodded. “I’m afraid so. Terrible business.” He was, in fact, more up-to-date than any of them, for he had been at Cheyne Walk after the show discussing the night’s events with Grace, Curry, and Belov when the call on his Cellnet phone had summoned him to Downing Street.
The aide showed them into the study. The Prime Minister didn’t bother with the courtesies. “Sit down and let’s get on with it, gentlemen. Brigadier, what went wrong?”
Ferguson explained exactly what had happened. When he was finished, Carter snorted angrily. “So Dillon failed this time?”
“Nonsense.” It was the Prime Minister who had spoken. “There was nothing more that Dillon or Chief Inspector Bernstein could have done, that’s obvious. This woman was ahead of them, waiting to ambush Mr. Bell. What I’d like to know is how she knew about him, knew he was here, knew his whereabouts.”
“Yes, a mystery that, Prime Minister,” Ferguson said, “and Dillon has supplied another.” He explained briefly Dillon’s theory that the motorcyclist in Belfast and the Muslim woman were one and the same person. “And it may not be just a theory,” he concluded. “ Dillon predicted who would claim responsibility before we heard about the call to the BBC.”
“January 30,” the Prime Minister said. “Surely to God we can do something about these people? Brigadier, I would be obliged if you’d mount a special investigation, go over everything they’ve ever been connected with. There must be something, some clue or other. There must be.”
“If there is, we’ll find it,” Ferguson told him. “ Perhaps the Deputy Director’s people can do the same. Two separate approaches might turn something up.”
“Of course, Prime Minister,” Carter told him. “And I’d particularly like to find out why this woman didn’t shoot Dillon when she had the chance.”
The Prime Minister stood up and warmed his hands at the fire. “Events in Ireland are moving faster than I would have thought possible. Because of this, I intend to make my flying visit to see President Clinton to-morrow. With luck I’ll be back before anyone knows I’ve gone. I do not, I repeat, do not want this on the front page of the
Daily Express
.”
“We understand, Prime Minister,” Carter said.
“But I stress again how worried I am that the Protestant factions may get out of hand and ruin all hopes of peace at the most crucial stage. This January 30 business tonight will hardly help. I know they’ve operated across the board, appear to kill willy-nilly, but Bell was not only a good man, he was a Catholic, and this won’t sit well with Sinn Fein and the IRA.”
“I’m afraid you’re right,” Rupert Lang said.
The Prime Minister nodded. “Another thing. As you know, President Clinton appointed Mrs. Jean Kennedy Smith American Ambassador in Dublin last year. I understand from reports from your people, Mr. Carter, that there have been threats to her life from Loyalist terrorists.”
“A lunatic fringe only, Prime Minister.”
“Perhaps,” John Major nodded. “But I need hardly point out the disastrous consequences of anything happening to the sister of the most revered American President of the century.”
At the Cavendish Square flat, Kim provided sandwiches and tea while Ferguson went over the proceedings at Downing Street with Dillon and Hannah Bernstein.
“So what does he want us to do?” Dillon asked. “We’ve already eradicated one of the worst Protestant factions and saved Ireland from nuclear threat. Do we work our way through the leadership of the UFF and UVF, one-by-one?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Ferguson told him. “But coming up with an answer on January 30 would be more than helpful. I want you and the Chief Inspector to get straight on with it tomorrow. Go back in all the old files since they first struck. Check everything again. Ask the computer for answers.” He stood up. “Good God, two o’clock. I’m for bed,” and he walked out.
“All right for him,” Dillon said as they went downstairs. “Ten paces to his bedroom, that’s all.”
“Come off it, Dillon, it’s only five minutes’ walk to your place in Stable Mews,” Hannah said.
“True, but a lot further for you. I was thinking, how about a glass of something to warm you up on this cold night, and as you say, my place is just around the corner.”
“Well you can think again.” She got in her car and switched on the engine. “Night, Dillon, sleep tight.”
She drove off without waiting for his response.
They were waiting for Rupert Lang when he got back to Cheyne Walk. Grace opened the door for him and led the way into the drawing room, where the others were sitting by the fire.
“Foul night,” Lang said. “Any coffee?”
“Tea.” She nodded at the table. “Freshly made. Much better for you at this time of night.”
“So, my friend, what happened?” Yuri demanded.
“Considerable agitation, as you may imagine. The Prime Minister went through the roof. Carter got stuck into Ferguson — Dillon and Bernstein being supposed to keep an eye on Liam Bell on his way home. He felt they’d fallen down on the job.”
“And?”
“The PM pointed out that as Grace was waiting ahead of Bell in the cemetery to ambush him, it was rather unfair to blame Dillon. The thing is, Carter hates his guts.”
“Well he would,” Belov said. “What was Ferguson’s reaction?”
“Oh, he agreed with the Prime Minister that Dillon couldn’t be blamed, especially as Dillon had actually forecast that January 30 would claim credit for the killing.”
“He what?” Tom Curry said. “But how could he know?”
Lang turned to Grace. “You, I’m afraid, my sweet. That Sons of Ulster thing. He said that before riding away you raised your arm in a kind of salute.”
“So?” Grace Browning said calmly.
“It seems you spoke to him tonight.”
“Quite deliberately in a very Pakistani accent,” she said. “To use your favorite phrase, Rupert, it muddies the waters.”
“Fine, but you could have shot him and didn’t.”
“But if he was dead, darling, nobody would know that the Muslim even existed, never mind had a Pakistani accent. Bernstein was too far away to see anything.”
“But according to the report, the old priest at the church saw you run past.”
“That was chance, Rupert. I didn’t know I’d be seeing the priest when I confronted Dillon.”
“I follow your logic,” Belov told her. “But the arm raised in salute. A trifle theatrical.”
“But then I am,” she said simply.
“Anyway,” Lang said. “The Prime Minister has ordered Ferguson to mount a special investigation into January 30. Go right through the files. See what the computer comes up with. He’s asked Carter to get his people to come up with something similar.”
“I don’t think we need to worry about that,” Belov said. “An old story. They’ve tried before and gotten nowhere.”
“I agree,” Tom Curry said.
Lang shrugged. “If you say so.”
Belov said, “Anything more?”
“Yes, actually.” Lang smiled. “I was saving the best till last. The Prime Minister is flying out tomorrow in secret to Washington. The Irish Prime Minister will join him there.”
“And the purpose of the meeting?”
“To discuss the final negotiations leading to Sinn Fein persuading the IRA to call a truce of some sort. You know how it goes. Come to the peace table. All is forgiven. He’ll be back in twenty-four hours.”
“Now that is interesting,” Belov said. “You really must keep me informed on that one, Rupert.” He stood up. “We’d better let you get to bed, Grace.”
She nodded. “Yes, I could do with it. It’s been a heavy night.”
She took them to the door and got their coats. Rupert kissed her on the cheek. “How about lunch tomorrow? The Caprice suit you?”
“Marvelous.”
“Not me, I’m afraid,” Belov said. “Too conspicuous.”
“I’ll be there,” Curry told her. “You can count on it.”
They stood for a moment on the pavement, waiting for Belov to adjust his collapsible umbrella. “I’ll get a taxi at the Albert Bridge,” Belov said. “And you?”
“Going the other way. We could always walk, only a mile and a half to Dean Close.”
Belov hesitated. “A pity she did what she did. I mean, alerting Dillon like that. Why on earth this business of the arm raised in salute?”
“One brave acknowledging another,” Curry said.
“Well it worries me,” Belov said. “Smacks of unbalance.”
“She never guaranteed you sanity, old sport,” Rupert Lang said, “only a performance. It’s theatre to Grace, an exciting game, that’s all, and you’ll just have to put up with that.”
“I take your point. Still . . .” Belov shrugged. “I’d better get off.”
They parted and Grace Browning watched them go from the parted curtains of her bedroom. She turned and moved through the quiet dark and got into bed. When she closed her eyes, the shadow man was there again, the gun raised, but only for a split second, then he disappeared. She smiled and drifted into sleep.
“But why didn’t she shoot you?” Hannah asked.
It was the following morning and she and Dillon worked in one of the side offices of Ferguson’s suite at the Ministry of Defence.