Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 1: Eye of the Storm, Thunder Point, On Dangerous Ground

‘This is Mary Tanner,’ Brosnan said. ‘You’d better be nice. She’s an army captain.’

‘Well, this is a pleasure, miss.’ Mordecai shook her hand. ‘I did my National Service in the Grenadier Guards, but lance corporal was all I managed.’

He led them into the sitting room. Harry Flood was seated at the desk going over some accounts. He glanced up and jumped to his feet. ‘Martin.’ He rushed round the desk and embraced Brosnan, laughing in delight.

Brosnan said, ‘Mary Tanner. She’s army, Harry, a real hot-shot so watch your step. I’m working for Brigadier Charles Ferguson of British intelligence and she’s his aide.’

‘Then I’ll behave.’ Flood took her hand. ‘Now come over here and let’s have a drink and you tell me what all this is about, Martin.’

They sat in the sofa complex in the corner and Brosnan covered everything in finest detail. Mordecai leaned against the wall listening, no expression on his face.

When Brosnan was finished, Flood said, ‘So what do you want from me, Martin?’

‘He always works the underworld, Harry, that’s where he gets everything he needs. Not only physical help, but explosives, weaponry. He’ll work the same way now, I know he will.’

‘So what you want to know is who he’d go to?’

‘Exactly.’

Flood looked up at Mordecai. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know, Harry. I mean there are plenty of legit arms dealers, but what you need is someone who’s willing to supply the IRA.’

‘Any ideas?’ Flood asked.

‘Not really, guv. I mean, most of your real East End villains love Maggie Thatcher and wear Union Jack underpants. They don’t go for Irish geezers letting off bombs at Harrods. We could make enquiries, of course.’

‘Then do that,’ Flood said. ‘Put the word out now, but discreetly.’

Mordecai went out and Harry Flood reached for the champagne bottle. ‘You’re still not drinking?’ Brosnan said.

‘Not me, old buddy, but no reason you shouldn’t. You can fill me in with the events of recent years and then we’ll go along to the Embassy, one of my more respectable clubs, and have something to eat.’

At around the same time, Sean Dillon and Angel Fahy were driving along the dark country road from Cadge End to Grimethorpe. The lights of the car picked out light snow and frost on the hedgerows.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘I suppose so.’

‘I like it here, the countryside and all that. I like Uncle Danny, too. He’s been really good to me.’

‘That makes sense. You were raised in the country back there in Galway.’

‘It wasn’t the same. It was poor land there. It was hard work to make any kind of living and it showed in the people, my mother, for instance. It was as if they’d been to war and lost and there was nothing to look forward to.’

‘You’ve got a way with the words, girl,’ he told her.

‘My English teacher used to say that. She said if I worked hard and studied I could do anything.’

‘Well that must have been a comfort.’

‘It didn’t do me any good. My stepfather just saw me as an unpaid farm labourer. That’s why I left.’

The lights picked out a sign that said Grimethorpe Airfield, the paintwork peeling. Dillon turned into a narrow tarmac road that was badly potholed. A few moments later, they came to the airfield. There were three hangars, an old control tower, a couple of Nissen huts, a light at the windows of one of them. A Jeep was parked there and Dillon pulled in beside it. As they got out, the door of the Nissen hut opened and a man stood there.

‘Who is it?’

‘It’s me, Mr Grant, Angel Fahy. I’ve brought someone to see you.’

Grant, like most pilots, was small and wiry. He looked to be in his mid-forties, wore jeans and an old flying jacket of the kind used by American aircrews in the Second World War. ‘You’d better come in, then.’

The interior of the Nissen hut was warm, heated by a coke-burning stove, the pipe going up through the roof. Grant obviously used it as a living room. There was a table with the remains of a meal on it, an old easy chair by the stove facing a television set in the corner. Beneath the windows on the other side there was a long sloping desk with a few charts.

Angel said, ‘This is a friend of my uncle’s.’

‘Hilton,’ Dillon said, ‘Peter Hilton.’

Grant put his hand out, looking wary. ‘Bill Grant. I don’t owe you money, do I?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’ Dillon was back in his public school role.

‘Well that makes a nice change. What can I do for you?’

‘I want a charter in the next few days. Just wanted to check if you might be able to do something before I tried anywhere else.’

‘Well that depends.’

‘On what? You do have a plane, I take it?’

‘I’ve got two. The only problem is how long the bank lets me hang on to them. Do you want to have a look?’

‘Why not?’

They went out, crossed the apron to the end hangar and he opened a Judas so they could step through. He reached to one side, found a switch and lights came on. There were two planes there, side by side, both twin-engines.

Dillon walked up to the nearest. ‘I know this baby, a Cessna Conquest. What’s the other?’

‘Navajo Chieftain.’

‘If things are as tricky as you say, what about fuel?’

‘I always keep my planes juiced up, Mr Hilton, always full tanks. I’m too old a hand to do otherwise. You never know when a job might come up.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Mind you, I’ll be honest. What with the recession, there aren’t too many people looking for charters these days. Where would you like me to take you?’

‘Actually I was thinking of going for a spin myself one day,’ Dillon said. ‘I’m not sure when.’

‘You’re certified then?’ Grant looked dubious.

‘Oh, yes, fully.’ Dillon took out his pilot’s licence and passed it across.