“Sounds good to me.”
They made inquiries to a man at the newspaper stand on a corner, who directed them a couple of streets along to the left. They walked down between the old warehouses, came out on the wharf beside the Thames, and there was the Dark Man, a few cars parked nearby.
“The very place,” Fahy said. “Shall we go in?”
“Let’s take it slowly,” Regan told him, and at that moment, lights approached down toward the wharf and they stepped back into shadows. A Range Rover stopped. Billy Salter got out and went into the pub.
“It’s Salter,” Fahy said. “Let’s take a look.”
They peered in through one of the windows. The bar was busy, but Billy was talking to Dillon at the counter.
Regan said, “Jesus, it’s Dillon.”
Fahy said, “Are you carrying?”
“No, mine’s back in the weapon bag.”
“So’s mine. Christ. We could have taken a pop at him from the shadows.”
“That’s a fact,” Regan said, although there was a certain relief in his voice.
“Well, there’s one thing I can do.” Fahy took out a switchblade knife and pushed the button. He jabbed it into the two front tires, which started to deflate. “That’ll give Salter and bloody Dillon something to think about.”
They were laughing like schoolboys as they cleared off. There was a final hiss of air from the tires and then an old and ravaged bag lady in layers of clothes, a woolen hat pulled over her head, stepped out of the darkness and took a look. She turned, put down her bags and went into the bar. She tapped Billy on the shoulder.
He turned. “Now then, Gladys, not in the bar.”
“You’d better come outside, Billy, it’s the big car of yours.”
Billy frowned and Dillon swallowed his drink and went after him.
“The bastards,” Billy said outside. “Who was it, Gladys?”
“Couple of men in raincoats. It is raining, Billy. One of them had one of those funny knives where the blade springs up, and he stuck it in the tires. They were laughing. They said, ‘That will give Salter and bloody Dillon something to think about.’ ”
“Christ, if I get my hands on them.” Billy kicked one of the tires.
“They were Irish,” she said.
“Irish?” Billy said. “Bleeding Irish?”
“Hold it,” Dillon told him. “You’re sure, Gladys?”
“Oh, yes, they didn’t speak like you. I mean, you’re funny Irish. It was the other way.”
“Who in the hell’s got it in for me?” Billy said. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Maybe it’s something to do with me,” Dillon said. “I know many Irishmen who could get very personal where I’m concerned. You’d better call the garage and see to the Range Rover. I’ve got to make a few inquiries. I’ll see you later.”
He hailed a cab on the High Street and told the driver to take him to Kilburn, where he started his rounds, working from pub to pub, talking to barmen, not that anything came up, but then it wouldn’t. The IRA weren’t operating in London. Those days had gone. And then, finally, there was the Green Man.
He went up the alley at the side, paused and peered in through the window. There he was, Danny Malone, a good comrade in the old days, but that was a long, long time ago. Danny was obviously going over his accounts, so Dillon tried the back door. It eased to his touch and he moved along the small hall, opened the door to the back room and went in.
Malone had been thinking about Dillon extremely uneasily since Kelly had mentioned him. In a sense, it had made him face up to what he was getting involved in, the kind of thing that had sent him to prison for fifteen years, and the fact that Dillon was involved made it worse. Now, he looked up and his face sagged.
“Sean, it’s you.”
“God save the good work, Danny,” Dillon said and added, when Malone said nothing, “God save you kindly was the response to that. You’re forgetting your manners.”
“I’m sorry, Sean, I was so shocked. I mean, it’s been years.”
“Oh, I’ve had you in mind always, Danny.”
Dillon lit a cigarette, and Malone’s smile was ghastly. “So you work for Ferguson and the Prime Minister now.”
“Oh, you know me, always the practical one. It got me out of a Serb prison. I was glad to hear they’d released you, Danny. Lucky for you the Peace Process came along when it did.”
Malone was terrified, realizing just how stupid he’d been to get involved in the way he had, took a deep breath, and fought to keep control.
“Was there something you wanted, Sean?”
“Oh, just a word, Danny. My friend Billy Salter left his Range Rover outside the Dark Man at Wapping tonight. Two Irish guys came along, one of whom stuck a flick knife in two tires. They cleared off, laughing and saying it would give me and Billy something to think about.”
Dillon reached under his coat, produced a Walther from his rear waistband, laid it on the table and lit another cigarette. “Any ideas, Danny, anyone in town from over the water?”
And Malone gave the performance of his life. “From over the water, Sean? You know yourself there’s been nothing in London since the Peace Process. We all got early release. Take me. Fifteen years, but I only served five and the full sentence is still on the books. Any kind of involvement and I’m back inside to serve my full time. Do you think I’m mad? Who would be that crazy?”
Dillon said, “No, I suppose they’d have to be very stupid. I mean, what about that wife of yours, Jean? You wouldn’t want to do anything to hurt her.”
“She’s hurting enough, Sean. Breast cancer.”
“That’s a damn shame,” Dillon said, and meant it. He took a card from his pocket and dropped it on the table. “My mobile number is on there. Anything comes up, let me know.”
He put the Walther back in his waistband and went out.
Malone went into the small toilet next door and was sick. He rinsed his face, then went back, found a bottle of whiskey and poured a large one. He was sweating and desperate to keep control. Boredom, a yearning for some action again, had made him respond to Kelly’s phone call in the way he had. So foolish. Dillon had believed him, that was the important thing. But what to do about Kelly? If he left it, there was the chance that whatever the job was would fail anyway. On the other hand, it struck him that if he told Kelly of Dillon’s appearance, it might be enough to make him abort the mission. He took a deep breath, picked up the phone and called Kelly at China Wharf.
“And you’re sure, absolutely sure, that Dillon bought your performance?”
“It would have got me work at the National Theatre. The business about my wife helped.”
“Yes, that was a good ploy.”
“Not a ploy, Dermot, true.”
“Dammit, man, I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. What does is that I don’t know what you’re up to and I don’t want to. On the other hand, the Dark Man is only a quarter of a mile away from China Wharf on the riverfront. If you want the two Irishmen who attended to Billy Salter’s Range Rover, I think you know who they are, but it’s your problem, not mine. I’m out of the whole damn business. I’ve got a nice little villa in Spain where my wife is right now, resting in the sun, and I think I’ll leave my bar staff in charge and go and join her.”
He put the phone down, opened the office safe, found his passport, a checkbook and two thousand in mad money and phoned for a taxi to Heathrow. Then he ran upstairs and packed.
Fahy was first in through the door over at China Wharf, was tripped by Tod, went headfirst on his hands and knees, and received a severe kicking in the ribs from Kelly.
“Mind his face,” Tod said, holding Regan still, an arm up his back.
At the appropriate moment, he released Regan and shoved him down to receive the same treatment. Finally, Tod heaved them to their feet and Kelly explained exactly what they’d done.