The Mona Lisa bucked on its anchor as one craft after another crashed against it. There was total confusion on deck; the crew, who had previously been at the ready with their AK47s, now panicked as the boat rolled from side to side.
The Highlander eased forward and Dillon slipped over the side as they passed the stern of the Mona Lisa. The waves sucked him in, tossed him over, and he grabbed the anchor line. He hung there, his rubber gloves giving him a grip as the Highlander sped away.
He started to haul himself up, waves washing over him, and then reached the hole at the top and slid in through to the stern. There were two of the crew there, Fabio and Gomez, utterly confused by the waves breaking over the rails, clutching their AK47s.
They saw Dillon get to his knees, and then he pulled out the Browning and shot both of them in the head.
High up on the bridge, it was Derry Gibson who recognized the sound for what it was. “He’s here, the bastard’s here.”
“Who is?” Martino asked.
“Dillon, you miserable idiot.”
Gibson went out, looked down and saw Fabio and Gomez rolling in the scuppers.
“There you are.”
Martino, at his side, was horrified. “I can’t believe it.”
At that moment, Arturo and Enrico came round the central area on the port side, grabbing for the rail in the heavy sea, and Dillon, crouched in the stern, shot them both.
He moved forward on the port side, heavy seas breaking over him, reached the prow of the boat, heaved the hatch back on the engine room, took out the three blocks of Semtex with the timer pencils and dropped them in.
Bullets ripped up the decks beside him. He turned and found the man, Sancho, standing there, firing an AK47, and up high on the wheelhouse deck, Martino, Rossi and Gibson at the rail. He seemed to be facing an inevitable death, and then bullets cut across the decks, Martino was hurled back, and Sancho went down. Gibson ducked and ran away. Dillon looked over and saw Billy at the wheel of the inflatable, Ferguson standing up and spraying the Mona Lisa with the Browning from the wheelhouse.
Dillon ran and vaulted over the rail, and as the inflatable went by, grabbed a line and was hauled away.
“Out, out, out,” Gibson called to Rossi.
He went down the side ladder, ended up in the bouncing inflatable, and had the engine revving as Rossi joined him. A moment only, and they sped away through the heavy sea. A moment later out of the gloom, the Highlander’s inflatable appeared, Ferguson standing up with the Browning, Dillon trailing behind. Ferguson had no chance to fire; they were away.
Rossi said, “Ferguson, young Salter.”
“And Dillon,” Gibson said.
Behind them, the three Semtex blocks Dillon had dropped into the engine room exploded one after the other. The Mona Lisa simply blew apart. Parts of her superstructure flew up and then rained down into the storm below. The boat tilted, the stern rose, the Mona Lisa slid over the edge of the trough and went all the way down. There was another muffled explosion, an enormous convulsion to the already-disturbed sea surface, boats thrown all over the place, and then a strange calm. The wind dropped just then, only the rain continued, hard and forceful. The inflatable reached the Highlander and drifted against the side.
Dillon pulled himself up the ladder, paused and turned. “You must have been fantastic when you were young, Charles, because you are indescribable now.”
“Don’t forget, Billy, and don’t try to butter me up, Dillon. Just get on board and let’s turn for Oban. We’ve done what we came here for.”
“Except that Marco Rossi and Derry Gibson are left standing.”
“We’ll sort them another day.”
Rossi phoned his father. “I’ll be back tomorrow. I want out of this damned country.”
“Why? What happened?”
Rossi explained, and his father actually found it rather funny. “Ferguson, at his age. You must admit, Marco, it’s rather admirable.”
“Well, I’ve got a boat with two million pounds of weaponry sent down to the bottom by your admirable Ferguson.”
“Come home and we’ll discuss it.”
Afterward, the Baron sat, smoking a cigarette and sipping a large brandy, and he was actually smiling.
The Highlander ploughed on, Ferguson at the wheel. Billy appeared with the bacon sandwiches.
“I’ll tell you what, you old bastard, you were great back there. Harry won’t believe it when I tell him.”
“You didn’t do badly yourself, Billy.”
Dillon came in, now changed, in jeans and a shirt. Ferguson said, “I’ll say it now. You were totally mad. Frankly, Dillon, you’ve got a death wish.”
“You’re right, General, but it got the job done.”
“I think you should visit Professor Susan Haden-Taylor again.”
“No, she’s washed her hands of me, and so has God. For the moment, we’ve succeeded in what we set out to achieve. Fewer arms for the conflict in Northern Ireland – and I’ll be willing to bet we’ve stirred up a hornet’s nest with Rossi and von Berger. Now we wait and see where it leads – with luck, to the diary. By the way, I’ve phoned Harry, told him his nephew is still in the land of the living.”
“Thanks very much, Dillon,” Billy said.
“That’s all right, Billy, he worries about you. Now, would it be all right if I had a bacon sandwich?”
12.
IN DRUMGOOLE, THERE was a certain amount of chaos, but Northern Ireland had been used to chaos for almost thirty-five years. Nevertheless, Derry Gibson was in the market to move on.
“We’ll have the Peelers all over the place for a while,” he said to Rossi in the pub after the Mona Lisa went down. “I’ll lie low.” He was having a whiskey, and shook his head as he drank it down. “Sean Dillon – what a bastard he is, and Ferguson.”
“Yes, you should never underestimate your opponent. I’ll be out of this pesthole first thing in the morning. As far as I’m concerned, you can give Northern Ireland back to the Indians.”
“I think you’re being a bit rough.”
“I could be a damn sight rougher. I could point out, for instance, that you haven’t paid anything on the Mona Lisa contract. She’s gone down and Rashid doesn’t get a penny.”
“What happened, happened, Rossi. You were screwed and I was screwed. By Dillon and Ferguson.”
“Yes, I’ve been thinking about that. It’s time we did something about Dillon and Ferguson.”
“Can I help?”
“Well, it would be a way of writing off your debt.” He thought for a moment. “Where do you think Murphy is?”
“Ferguson’s got him in some safehouse,” said Gibson. “The only reason those bastards were here was because Murphy talked.”
“Yes. Tell you what, Gibson. Don’t go back to The Orange George. Call that woman, Janet, and tell her she’s in charge for a little while more.”
“And where do I stay?”
“In one of our staff flats on South Audley Street.”
“Until when?”
“Until I’ve worked out how I’m going to do it.”
“Do what? Something with Dillon?”
“Eventually, but not yet. First, I think it’ll be Ferguson, the great man himself.”
Gibson was delighted. “What in the hell are you up to?”
“You’ll have to wait, Derry. I’ll let you know in good time.”
He lit a cigarette. Derry said, “You’re enjoying all this. You should have been crushed by the loss of the Mona Lisa. Instead, you don’t give a stuff. Two million.”