You re so kind, Holley said. It s a real privilege to know you.
Oh, shut up, Ferguson told him. Miller is very impressed with her, and I m happy about the whole thing.
Well, we re happy if you re happy, Dillon told him.
We ve got to go now. Why don t you two clear off and do something useful. I ll see you tonight.
Dillon walked away through the downpour, the nightstick in his right hand. He turned left into an alley and Holley waited for a few moments, then took from his pocket a crumpled Burberry rain hat in which a spring clip held a Colt. 25. He eased it onto his head, got out of the truck, and walked quickly through the rain.
Dressed as he was as a beat cop, Dillon didn t need to show any particular caution, tried a door, which opened to his touch, and passed into a decaying kitchen, a broken sink in one corner, cupboards on the peeling walls, and a half-open door that indicated a toilet.
Holy Mother of God, he said softly. Whatever s going on here, there can t be money in it.
He opened the far door, discovered a corridor dimly lit by a single lightbulb, and heard voices somewhere ahead. He started forward, still grasping the nightstick in his right hand, his left clutching a Walther PPK with a Carswell silencer in the capacious pocket of his storm coat.
The voices were raised now as if in argument and someone said,
Well, I think you re a damn liar, so you d better tell me the truth quickly, mister, or Ivan here will be breaking your right arm. You won t be able to swim very far in the sewer after that, I m afraid.
There was no door, just an archway leading to a platform with iron stairs dropping down, and Dillon, peering out, saw a desk and two men confronting Holley, who was glancing wildly about him, or so it seemed. Dillon eased the Walther out of his pocket, stepped out, and started down the stairs.
When Holley had entered the warehouse he had found it dark and gloomy, a sad sort of place and crammed with a lot of rusting machinery. The roof seemed to be leaking, there were chain hoists here and there, and two old vans that had obviously seen better days were parked to one side. There was a light on farther ahead, suspended from the ceiling over a desk with a couple of chairs, no sign of people, iron stairs descending from the platform above.
He called out, Hello, is anyone there? I ve got an appointment with Patrick Murphy.
Would that be Mr. Grimshaw? a voice called Irish, not American.
The man who stepped into the light was middle-aged, with silver hair, and wore a dark suit over a turtleneck sweater. He produced a pack of cigarettes, shook one out, and lit it with an old lighter.
Yes, I m Daniel Grimshaw, Holley said.
Then come away in.
Thank you. Holley took a step forward, the rear door of the van on his right opened, and a man stepped out, a Makarov in his hand. He was badly in need of a shave, his dark unruly hair was at almost shoulder length, and he wore a bomber jacket. He moved in behind Holley and rammed the Makarov into his back.
Do you want me to kill him now? he asked in Russian, a language Holley understood.
Let s hear what his game is first, Murphy told him in the same language.
Now, that s what I like to hear, Holley said in Russian. A sensible man.
So you speak the lingo? Murphy was suddenly wary.
Arms for the Kosovans? Are the Serbs turning nasty again this year? Ivan here s on their side, being Russian, but I ll hear what you ve got to say. This was said in English, but now he added in Russian, Make sure he s clean.
Ivan s hands explored Holley thoroughly, particularly between the legs, and Holley said, It must be a big one you re looking for.
Ivan gave him a shove so violent that Holley went staggering, and his Burberry rain hat fell to the floor, disclosing the Colt, which the Russian picked up at once, throwing the hat across to the desk.
Now can I shoot him?
Murphy pulled the Colt from the clip in the rain hat and examined it. Very nice. I like it. He left the cap on the desk and slipped the Colt into his pocket.
Ivan said, Only a pro would use a shooter like that.
I know that, I m not a fool. Show him where he s going to end up if he doesn t answer a few questions.
Ivan leaned down, grasped a ring in the floor, and heaved back a trapdoor. There was the sound of running water, the smell of sewage.
Where the hell are you, Dillon? That was the only thought running through Holley s mind. He glanced about him wildly, trying to act like a man in panic.
He said to Murphy, What is this? What are you doing? I told you my name is Daniel Grimshaw.
Well, I think you re a damn liar, so you d better tell me the truth quickly, mister, or Ivan here will be breaking your right arm. You won t be able to swim very far in the sewer after that, I m afraid.
You re making a big mistake.
It s not my mistake, my friend. Murphy shook his head and said to Ivan in Russian, Break his arm.
Dillon called in the same language, I don t think so, and shot Ivan in his gun hand. Ivan cried out, dropped the Makarov, and slumped to one knee beside the open sewer.
Murphy took the whole thing surprisingly calmly. Remembering that he d slipped the Colt. 25 into his pocket, he watched Holley pick up the Makarov and realized there was still a chance things might go his way.
I assume I d be right in supposing that your fortunate arrival isn t coincidental, Officer. I congratulate you on your performance the NYPD would be proud of you.
I used to be an actor, Dillon said. But then I discovered the theater of the street had more appeal. Audience guaranteed, you see, especially in Belfast.
Murphy was immediately wary. Ah, that theater of the street? So which side did you play for? You couldn t be IRA, not the both of you.
Why not? Dillon asked.
Well, admittedly you ve got an Ulster accent, but your friend here is English.
Well, I d say you re a Dublin man myself, Dillon told him. And admittedly there s some strange people calling themselves IRA these days, and a world of difference between them. We, for example, are the Provo variety, and Mr. Holley s sainted mother being from Crossmaglen, the heart of what the British Army described as bandit country, his Yorkshire half doesn t count.
Murphy was beginning to look distinctly worried. What do you want?
Dillon smiled amiably. For a start, let s get that piece of shit on his feet. He s a disgrace to the Russian Federation. Putin wouldn t approve of him at all.
Holley pulled Ivan up to stand on the edge of the sewage pit. Following Dillon s lead, he said, Is this where you want him, Dillon? He might fall in, you know.
Dillon ignored him and said to Murphy, I m going to put a question to you. If you tell me the truth, I ll let you live. Of course, if you turn out to have lied, I ll have all the fuss of coming back and killing you, and that will annoy me very much, because I m a busy man.
Murphy laughed uneasily. That s a problem, I can see that, but how will you know?
By proving to you I mean business. He turned to where Ivan stood swaying on the edge of the pit, pulled Holley out of the way, and kicked the Russian s feet out from under him, sending him down with a cry into the fast-flowing sewage, to be swept away.
There he goes, Dillon said. With any luck, he could end up in the river, but I doubt it.
Murphy looked horrified. What kind of a man are you?
The stuff of nightmares, so don t fug with me, Patrick, Dillon told him. Last week a trawler named Amity was surprised by the Royal Navy as it attempted to land arms on the County Down coast. Our sources tell us the cargo originated with you. I m not interested in Irish clubs or whoever raised funds over here. I want to know who ordered the cargo in Northern Ireland. Tell me that and you re home free.
For a moment, Murphy seemed unable to speak, and Holley said,