The President’s Daughter

‘Ferguson is certain to want to see you. There’s been a series of small doorstep bombs in Hampstead and Camden during the past two weeks. It’s a known fact that the IRA have at least three Active Service Units operating in London at the moment.’ He took a piece of paper from a wallet and passed it across. ‘You tell Ferguson he’ll find an Active Service Unit at that address plus a supply of Semtex and fuses and so forth.’

Riley looked at the paper. ‘Holland Park.’ He looked up. ‘Is this kosher?’

‘No ASU, just the Semtex and timers, enough to show you were telling the truth. Not your fault if there’s no one there.’

‘And you expect Ferguson to get my sentence squashed for that?’ Riley shook his head. ‘Maybe if he’d been able to nick an ASU.’ He shrugged. ‘It won’t do.’

‘Yes, he’ll want more and you’re going to give it to him. Two years ago, an Arab terrorist group called the Army of God blew up a jumbo jet as it was lifting off from Manchester. More than two hundred people killed.’

‘So?’

‘Their leader was a man called Hakim al-Sharif. I know where he’s been hiding. I’ll tell you and you tell Ferguson. There’s nothing he’d like better than to get his hands on that bastard and he’s certain to use Dillon to pull the job off.’

‘And what do I do?’

‘You offer to go with him, to prove you’re genuine in this thing.’ Brown smiled. ‘It will work, Mr Riley, but only if you do exactly as I tell you, so listen carefully.’

Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence, overlooking Horse Guards Avenue. He sat at his desk, a large, untidy man with a shock of grey hair, wearing a crumpled fawn suit and a Guards Brigade tie. He was frowning slightly as he pressed his intercom.

‘Brigadier?’

‘Is Dillon there, Chief Inspector?’

‘Just arrived.’

‘I’ll see the both of you. Something’s come up.’

The woman who led the way was around thirty and wore a fawn Armani trouser suit. She had close-cropped red hair and black horn-rimmed spectacles. She was not so much beautiful as someone you would look at twice. She could have been a top secretary, a company director, and yet this was Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, product of an orthodox Jewish family, MA in Psychology from Cambridge, father a professor of surgery, grandfather a rabbi, both hugely shocked when she had elected to join the police. A fast-track career had taken her to Special Branch, from where Ferguson had procured her secondment as his assistant. In spite of her appearance and the crisp English upper-class voice, she had killed in the line of duty on three occasions to his knowledge, and had taken a bullet herself.

The man behind her, Sean Dillon, was small, no more than five feet five, with the kind of fair hair that was almost white. He wore dark cords and an old black leather flying jacket, a white scarf at his throat. His eyes seemed to lack any kind of colour and were very clear and he was handsome enough, a restless, animal vitality to him. The left corner of his mouth was permanently lifted into the kind of smile that said he didn’t take life too seriously, perhaps never had.

‘God save the good work, Brigadier,’ he said cheerfully in the distinctive accent that was Ulster Irish.

Ferguson laid down his pen and removed his reading glasses. ‘Dermot Riley. He ring a bell for you, Dillon?’

Dillon took out an old silver case, selected a cigarette and lit it with a Zippo lighter. ‘You could say that. We were not much more than boys fighting together in the hard days in the seventies in the Derry Brigade of the Provisional IRA.’

‘Shooting British soldiers,’ Hannah Bernstein said.

‘Well, they shouldn’t have joined,’ Dillon told her cheerfully and turned back to Ferguson. ‘He was lifted last year by Scotland Yard’s Anti-Terrorist Squad right here in London. Supposed to have been a member of one of the Active Service Units.’

‘As I recall, they found Semtex at his lodgings and assorted weaponry.’

‘True,’ Dillon said. ‘But when they stood him up at the Old Bailey, he wouldn’t cough. They sent him down for fifteen years.’

‘And good riddance,’ Hannah said.

‘Ah, well now, everyone has their own point of view,’ Dillon told her. ‘To you he’s a terrorist, whereas Dermot sees himself as a gallant soldier fighting a just cause.’

‘Not any more he doesn’t,’ Ferguson said. ‘I’ve just had a call from the governor at Wandsworth Prison. Riley wants to do a deal.’

‘Really?’ Dillon had stopped smiling, a slight frown on his face. ‘Now why would he want to do that?’

‘Have you ever been inside Wandsworth, Dillon? If you had, you’d know why. Hell on earth, and Riley’s had six months to sample it and has another fourteen and a half years to go, so let’s see what he’s got to say.’

‘And you want me?’ Dillon said.

‘Of course. After all, you knew the damn man. You, Chief Inspector, I’d like your input.’ He pushed back his chair and stood. ‘The Daimler is waiting, so let’s be off,’ and he led the way out.

They waited in the interview room at Wandsworth, and after a while, the door opened and Jackson pushed Riley into the room and closed the door.

Riley said. ‘Sean, is that you?’

‘As ever was, Dermot.’ Dillon lit a cigarette, inhaled and passed it to him.

Riley grinned. ‘You used to do that in the old days in Derry. Remember when we ran rings round the Brits?’

‘We did indeed, old son, but times change.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly changed,’ Riley said. ‘And from one side to the other.’

‘All right,’ Ferguson broke in. ‘So you’ve had the old-pals act. Now let’s get down to business. What do you want, Riley?’

‘Out, Brigadier.’ Riley sat on one of the chairs at the table. ‘Six months is enough. I can’t face any more, I’d rather be dead.’

‘Like all those people you killed,’ Hannah said.

‘And who might you be?’

‘A DCI from Special Branch,’ Dillon told him, ‘so mind your manners.’

‘I was fighting a war, woman,’ Riley began, and Ferguson cut in.

‘And now you’ve had enough of the glorious cause,’ Ferguson said. ‘So what have you got for me?’

Riley appeared to hesitate and Dillon said, ‘Hard as nails this old bugger, Dermot, but very old-fashioned. A man of honour, so tell him.’

‘All right.’ Riley raised a hand. ‘You people always thought there were three Active Service Units operating in London. There was a fourth and a different kind of set-up. Nice house in Holland Park. Three guys and a woman, all with good jobs in the City. Another thing – all handpicked because they’d been born in England or raised here. Perfect for deep cover.’

‘Names?’ Ferguson demanded.

‘It won’t do you any good. Not one of them has a police record of any kind, but here goes.’

He rattled off four names, which Hannah Bernstein wrote down in her notebook. Dillon watched impassively.

Ferguson said, ‘Address?’

‘Park Villa, Palace Square. It’s on old Victoria Place in a nice garden.’