Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 2: Angel of Death, Drink With the Devil, The President’s Daughter

She shook her head. ‘You’re quite mad. And what about this man, Mullin, and Curtis Daley? Did you have to kill them?’

‘It’s the business we’re in, girl dear. Twenty-five years of war.’

‘And for many of those years you fought for the IRA yourself.’

‘True. I wasn’t much more than a boy when my father was killed by British soldiers. Joining made sense to me then, but the years go by, Hannah, long weary years of slaughter, and to what end? That was then and this is now. Something clicked in my head one day. Put it any way you want.’ He found himself another miniature of Scotch. ‘As for Daley, three months ago he and Quinn stopped a truckload of Catholic roadworkers at Glasshill. Lined them up on the edge of a ditch, all twelve of them, and machine-gunned them.’

‘So it’s an eye for an eye?’

He smiled gently. ‘Straight out of the Old Testament. I’d have thought a nice Jewish girl like you would have approved.’ He reached for the phone. ‘And now I’d better report in on the secure line. Ferguson always likes to hear bad news as soon as possible.’

It was no more than an hour and a half later that Ferguson was ushered into the Prime Minister’s study at Downing Street. Simon Carter and Rupert Lang were already seated.

‘You used words like urgent and gravest national importance, Brigadier, so what have you got for us?’ John Major demanded.

Ferguson brought them up to date, in finest detail. When he was finished there was silence. It was Rupert Lang who spoke first.

‘How extraordinary that January 30 have claimed responsibility.’

‘Terrorist groups habitually claim credit for someone else’s hit,’ Ferguson said. ‘And there is the business of the gunman on the motorcycle.’

‘Yes, strange, that,’ Carter said. ‘And yet you had no backup whatsoever, did you?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Ferguson told him.

‘None of which is relevant now,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘The really important thing that Dillon has come up with is this possibility of the Sons of Ulster getting their hands on plutonium.’

‘With the greatest respect, Prime Minister,’ Simon Carter said, ‘having plutonium is one thing, producing some sort of nuclear device from it is quite another.’

‘Perhaps, but if you have the money and the right kind of connections anything is possible.’ Ferguson shrugged. ‘You know as well as I that terrorist groups on the international circuit help each other out, and since the breakdown of things in Russia there’s plenty of the right kind of technical assistance available on the world market.’

There was another silence, broken only by the Prime Minister drumming on the desk with his fingers. Finally he said, ‘The Anglo-Irish Agreement and the Downing Street Declaration are achieving results and President Clinton is behind us fully. Twenty-five years of bloodshed, gentlemen. It’s time to stop.’

‘If I may be a devil’s advocate,’ Rupert Lang suggested, ‘that’s all very well for Sinn Fein and the IRA, but the Protestant Loyalist factions will feel they’ve been sold out.’

‘I know that, but they’ll have to make some sort of accommodation like everyone else.’

‘They’ll continue the fight, Prime Minister,’ Carter said gravely.

‘I accept that. We’ll just have to do our best to handle it. Machine guns by night are one thing, even the Semtex bomb, but not plutonium. That would add a totally new dimension.’

‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ Carter said.

The Prime Minister turned to Ferguson. ‘So it would appear to be Beirut next stop for Dillon, Brigadier.’

‘So it would.’

‘If I recall the details on his file, Arabic is one of the numerous languages he speaks. He should feel quite at home there.’ He stood up. ‘That’s all for now, gentlemen. Keep me posted, Brigadier.’

When Ferguson reached his Cavendish Square flat the door was opened by his manservant Kim, an ex-Ghurka corporal who had been with him for years.

‘Mr Dillon and the Chief Inspector have just arrived, Brigadier.’

Ferguson went into the elegant drawing room and found Hannah Bernstein sitting by the fire, drinking coffee. Dillon was helping himself to a Bushmills from the drinks tray on the sideboard.

‘Feel free with my whiskey by all means,’ Ferguson told him.

‘Oh I will, Brigadier, and me knowing you to be the decent old stick that you are.’

‘Drop the stage Irishman act, boy, we’ve got work to do. Now, let’s go over everything in detail again.’

‘I suppose the strangest thing was the mystery motorcyclist,’ Dillon said as he finished.

‘No mystery there,’ Ferguson told him. ‘January 30 have claimed responsibility for the whole thing. Someone phoned the Belfast Telegraph. It’s already on all the TV news programmes.’

‘The dogs,’ Dillon said. ‘But how would they have known about the meet?’

‘Never mind that now, we’ve more important things to consider. It’s Beirut for you, my lad, and you, Chief Inspector.’

‘Not the easiest of places to operate in,’ Dillon said.

‘As I recall, you managed it with perfect ease during the more unsavoury part of your career.’

‘True. I also sank some PLO boats in the harbour for the Israelis and the PLO have long memories. Anyway, what would our excuse be for being there?’

‘The United Nations Humanitarian Division will do nicely. Irish and English delegates. You’ll have to use aliases, naturally.’

‘And where will we stay?’ Hannah asked.

‘Me darling, there is only one decent hotel to stay these days in Beirut,’ Dillon told her. ‘Especially if you’re a foreigner and want a drink at the bar. It’s the place Daley told me Francis Callaghan was staying. The Al Bustan. It overlooks the city near Deirelkalaa and the Roman ruins. You’ll find it very cultural.’

‘Do you think Quinn will be there, too?’ she asked.

‘Very convenient if he is.’ He turned to Ferguson. ‘You’ll be able to arrange hardware for me?’

‘No problem. I’ve got an excellent contact. Man called Walid Khasan.’

‘Arab, I presume, not Christian.’ Dillon turned to Hannah Bernstein. ‘Lots of Christians in Beirut.’

‘Yes, Walid Khasan is a Muslim. His mother was French. The kind of man I like to deal with, Dillon. He’s only interested in the money.’

‘Aren’t we all, Brigadier, aren’t we all.’ Dillon smiled. ‘So let’s get down to it and work out how we’re going to handle this thing.’

It was just after eleven at the Europa Hotel when Grace Browning and Tom Curry finished their late supper in the dining room and went into the bar. It was quite deserted and the barman, watching television, came round to serve them.

‘What can I get you, Miss Browning?’

‘Brandy, I think, two brandies.’