“I see,” she said. “One of those.”
Dillon lit a cigarette, sat down, the briefcase on the floor beside him and Harvey said, “You went through London like bloody Attila the Hun last time. I should have charged you more for all that stuff.”
“You gave me a price, I paid it,” Dillon said. “What could be fairer?”
“And what is it this time?”
“I need a little Semtex, Jack. I could manage with forty pounds, but that’s the bottom line. Fifty would be better.”
“You don’t want much, do you? That stuff’s like gold. Very strict government controls.”
“Bollocks,” Dillon said. “It passes from Czechoslovakia to Italy, Greece, onwards to Libya. It’s everywhere, Jack, you know it and I know it, so don’t waste my time. Twenty thousand dollars.” He opened the briefcase on his knee and tossed the rest of the ten thousand packet by packet across the desk. “Ten now and ten on delivery.”
The Walther with the Carswell silencer screwed on the end of the barrel lay ready in the briefcase. He waited, the lid up, and then Harvey smiled. “All right, but it’ll cost you thirty.”
Dillon closed the briefcase. “No can do, Jack. Twenty-five I can manage, but no more.”
Harvey nodded. “All right. When do you want it?”
“Twenty-four hours.”
“I think I can manage that. Where can we reach you?”
“You’ve got it wrong way round, Jack. I contact you.”
Dillon stood up and Harvey said affably, “Anything else we can do for you?”
“Actually there is,” Dillon said. “Sign of goodwill, you might say. I could do with a spare handgun.”
“Be my guest, my old son.” Harvey pushed his chair back and opened the second drawer down on his right hand. “Take your pick.”
There was a Smith amp; Wesson.38 revolver, a Czech Cesca and an Italian Beretta, which was the one Dillon selected. He checked the clip and slipped the gun in his pocket. “This will do nicely.”
“Lady’s gun,” Harvey said, “but that’s your business. We’ll be seeing you, then, tomorrow.”
Myra opened the door. Dillon said, “A pleasure, Miss Harvey,” and he brushed past Billy and walked out.
Billy said, “I’d like to break that little bastard’s legs.”
Myra patted his cheek. “Never mind, sunshine, on your two feet you’re useless. It’s in the horizontal position you come into your own. Now go and play with your motorbike or something,” and she went back in her uncle’s office.
Dillon paused at the bottom of the stairs and slipped the Beretta inside the briefcase. The only thing better than one gun was two. It always gave you an ace in the hole and he walked back to the Mini-Cooper briskly.
Myra said, “I wouldn’t trust him an inch, that one.”
“A hard little bastard,” Harvey said. “When he was here for the IRA in nineteen eighty-one, I supplied him with arms, explosives, everything. You were at college then, not in the business, so you probably don’t remember.”
“Is Coogan his real name?”
“Course not.” He nodded. “Yes, hell on wheels. I was having a lot of hassle in those days from George Montoya down in Bermondsey, the one they called Spanish George. Coogan knocked him off for me one night, him and his brother, outside a bar called the Flamenco. Did it for free.”
“Really?” Myra said. “So where do we get him Semtex?”
He laughed, opened the top drawer and took out a bunch of keys. “I’ll show you.” He led the way out and along the corridor and unlocked a door. “Something even you didn’t know, darling.”
The room was lined with shelves of box files. He put his hand on the middle shelf of the rear wall and it swung open. He reached for a switch and turned on a light, revealing a treasure house of weapons of every description.
“My God!” she said.
“Whatever you want, it’s here,” he said. “Hand guns, AK assault rifles, M15s.” He chuckled. “And Semtex.” There were three cardboard boxes on a table. “Fifty pounds in each of those.”
“But why did you tell him it might take time?”
“Keep him dangling.” He led the way out and closed things up. “Might screw a few more bob out of him.”
As they went back into his office she said, “What do you think he’s up to?”
“I couldn’t care less. Anyway, why should you worry? You suddenly turned into a bleeding patriot or something?”
“It isn’t that, I’m just curious.”
He clipped another cigar. “Mind you, I have had a thought. Very convenient if I got the little bugger to knock off Harry Flood for me,” and he started to laugh.
It was just after six and Ferguson was just about to leave his office at the Ministry of Defence when his phone rang. It was Devlin. “Now then, you old sod, I’ve news for you.”
“Get on with it then,” Ferguson said.
“Dillon’s control in eighty-one in Belfast was a man called Tommy McGuire. Remember him?”
“I do indeed. Wasn’t he shot a few years ago? Some sort of IRA feud?”
“That was the story, but he’s still around up there using another identity.”
“And what would that be?”
“I’ve still to find that out. People to see in Belfast. I’m driving up there tonight. I take it, by the way, that involving myself in this way makes me an official agent of Group Four? I mean I wouldn’t like to end up in prison, not at my age.”
“You’ll be covered fully, you have my word on it. Now what do you want us to do?”
“I was thinking that if Brosnan and your Captain Tanner wanted to be in on the action, they could fly over in the morning in that Lear jet of yours, to Belfast, that is, and wait for me at the Europa Hotel, in the bar. Tell Brosnan to identify himself to the head porter. I’ll be in touch probably around noon.”
“I’ll see to it,” Ferguson said.
“Just one more thing. Don’t you think you and I are getting just a little geriatric for this sort of game?”
“You speak for yourself,” Ferguson said and put the phone down.
He sat thinking about it, then phoned through for a secretary. He also called Mary Tanner at the Lowndes Square flat. As he was talking to her, Alice Johnson came in with her notepad and pencil. Ferguson waved her down and carried on speaking to Mary.
“So, early start in the morning. Gatwick again, I think. You’ll be there in an hour in the Lear. Are you dining out tonight?”
“Henry Flood suggested the River Room at the Savoy, he likes the dance band.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Would you like to join us, sir?”
“Actually, I would,” Ferguson said.
“We’ll see you then. Eight o’clock.”
Ferguson put down the phone and turned to Alice Johnson. “A brief note, Eyes of the Prime Minister only, the special file.” He quickly dictated a report that brought everything up to date, including his conversation with Devlin. “One copy for the P.M. and alert a messenger. Usual copy for me and the file. Hurry it up and bring them along for my signature. I want to get away.”
She went down to the office quickly. Gordon Brown was standing at the copier as she sat behind the typewriter. “I thought he’d gone?” he said.
“So did I, but he’s just given me an extra. Another Eyes of the Prime Minister only.”
“Really.”
She started to type furiously, was finished in two minutes. She stood up. “He’ll have to hang on. I need to go to the toilet.”
“I’ll do the copying for you.”
“Thanks, Gordon.”
She went out and along the corridor, was opening the toilet door when she realized she’d left her handbag on the desk. She turned and hurried back to the office. The door was partially open and she could see Gordon standing at the copier reading a copy of the report. To her astonishment, he folded it, slipped it in his inside pocket and hurriedly did another.