“Do you know why?”
“There is a KGB involvement, but I believe it’s a rather nefarious one. Some connection with gangsters from Moscow. What you call the Russian Mafia. I understand an Arab faction, the Party of God, are also involved. They make Hezbolla look like a primary school outing.”
“But what could it be? Arms?”
“Plenty of ways of getting arms these days. Something big, that’s all I know.”
“All right,” Lang said. “Let’s look at this thing. This man Daley has arranged a meeting for Dillon to-morrow to meet Quinn, only we know Quinn won’t be there. What does that tell you?”
“That Dillon’s cover is blown. They intend to kill him, my friend.”
“Is that what you think will happen?”
“Dillon’s reputation goes before him. He’s the original survivor. In fact, I would imagine he knows what he’s doing.”
“Which means you think he’ll survive this meeting?”
“Possibly, but more than that. Dillon is extremely astute. What he wants is Quinn. Now if he expects skulduggery, he will also expect not only to survive it but to come out of it knowing Quinn’s whereabouts.”
“ Beirut?”
“Which is where Charles Ferguson will send him.” Belov got up, reached for the bottle of Scotch, and replenished the glasses. “And that would suit me. We of the GRU and the KGB don’t hit it off too well these days. They have a disturbing tendency to associate with the wrong people, the Moscow Mafia for example, which doesn’t sit well with me. I’d like to know what they’re up to with Quinn in Beirut. I’d like to know very much.”
“Which means it would suit you to have Dillon on their case.”
“Unquestionably.”
“Then you’d better pray he survives this meeting tomorrow night.”
“Exactly.” Belov nodded. “A great inconvenience if he didn’t, but I get the impression you have thoughts on this?”
Lang said, “You have your associates in Belfast who could provide backup when necessary, equipment and so on?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“Tom Curry is in Belfast at the moment doing his monthly two or three days as a visiting professor at Queens University. By coincidence, Grace Browning has been there doing her one-woman show at the Lyric Theatre.”
“How convenient.”
“Isn’t it. Dillon could have an invisible support system, a phantom minder watching his back.”
“My dear Rupert, what a splendid idea.”
“Only one thing. If he’s to be followed from the hotel, they need to know what he looks like.”
“No problem. I have his file at the Embassy. I can fax Tom Curry at his office at Queens tonight. He only needs to know it’s on its way.”
“And I’ll take care of that.” Rupert Lang raised his glass. “Cheers, old sport.”
Half an hour later, Professor Tom Curry, at his office at Queens University and working his way through a mass of papers, cursed as his phone rang.
“Curry here,” he said angrily.
“Rupert. Are you alone?”
“Well, I would be, old lad, considering it’s ten o’clock at night. I’ve been hacking my way through exam papers, but what brings you on? I’ll be with you on Sunday evening.”
“I know, but this is important, Tom. Very important, so listen well.”
About half an hour later Dillon and Hannah Bernstein returned to the Europa. They got their keys at the desk and she turned to him. “I really enjoyed that, Dillon. She was wonderful, but I’m tired. I think I’ll go straight up.”
“Sleep well.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I think I’ll have a nightcap.”
She went to the lift and he went into the Library Bar, which was reasonably busy, and ordered a Bushmills. A moment later Grace Browning walked in with a man in an open-necked shirt, tweed jacket and slacks. He looked in his forties, had brown hair and a pleasant, rather amiable face. They sat down at a corner table and were immediately approached by a woman who’d been to the show. Dillon recognized the program. Grace Browning signed it with a pleasant smile, which she managed to retain even when a number of other people did the same thing.
Finally the intrusions stopped and the waiter took a half bottle of champagne over and uncorked it. Dillon swallowed his Bushmills, crossed the room, and paused.
“Not only a great actress, but a woman of taste and discernment, I see. Krug nonvintage, the best champagne in the world.”
She laughed. “Really?”
“It’s the grape mix.”
She hesitated, then said, “This is my friend Professor Tom Curry, and you…?”
“God save us, that doesn’t matter one damn bit. Our only connection is that like you I went to RADA and did the odd thing for the National.” He laughed. “About a thousand years ago. I just wanted to say thank you. You were magnificent tonight.”
He walked out. She said, “What a charmer.”
“He’s that all right,” Curry said. “Just have a look at the color fax Belov sent me.”
He opened an envelope, took out a sheet, and passed it across. Her eyes widened as she examined it. “Good God.”
“Yes, staying here under the name of Friar, but in actuality Sean Dillon, a thoroughly dangerous man. Let me tell you about him and, more to the point, what we’re going to do.”
The following evening just after Half-five Dillon stood at the window of his suite drinking tea and looking out across the city. Rain was driving in and it was already dusk, lights gleaming out there. There was a knock on the door and he went and opened it. Hannah Bernstein entered.
“How are you?”
“Fine. The grand cup of tea they give you here.”
“Can’t you ever take anything seriously?”
“I could never see the point, girl dear.” He opened a drawer, took out a 9-millimeter Browning pistol with a silencer on the muzzle, and slammed in a twenty-round magazine.
“Dear God, Dillon, you really are going to war.”
“Exactly.”
He slipped the Browning into the waistband of his slacks at the rear, pulled on a tweed jacket and his rain hat, took another twenty-round clip from the drawer, and put it in his pocket. He smiled and put his hands on her shoulders.
“We who are about to die salute you. A fella called Suetonius wrote that about two thousand years ago.”
“You’re forgetting I went to Cambridge, Dillon. I could give you the quote in Latin.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Try and come back in one piece.”
“Jesus,” he said. “You mean you care? There’s still hope for me?”
She punched him in the chest. “Get out of here.”
He walked to the door, opened it, and went out.
The rush-hour traffic was already in place as he turned out of the Europa car park and moved along Victoria Avenue. He expected to be followed, although monitored would be a better description. It was difficult, of course, with all those cars, but he’d seen the motorcyclist in the black helmet and leathers turn out of the car park quite close behind him, noticed the same machine keeping well back. It was only when he turned down toward the waterfront through deserted streets of warehouses that he realized he was on his own. Ah, well, perhaps he’d been mistaken.
“You sometimes are, old son,” he said and then a Rover saloon turned out of a side turning and followed him.
“Here we go, then,” Dillon said softly.
At that moment, a Toyota saloon emerged from a lane in front of him and blocked the way. Dillon braked to a halt. The man at the wheel of the Rover stayed where he was. The two men in the Toyota jumped out carrying Armalites.
“Out, Friar, out!” one of them shouted.
Dillon’s hand slipped under his coat and found the butt of the Browning. “Isn’t that you, Martin McGurk?” he said, getting out of the car. “Jesus, and haven’t you got the wrong man? Remember me from Derry in the old days?” He pulled off the rain hat to reveal his blond hair. “Dillon – Sean Dillon.”