“You bastard!” McGuire said.
“Be sensible,” Devlin told him. “Just answer a few questions and you can go back to being George Kelly again.”
McGuire put a hand up defensively. “All right, I get the point. What do you want to know?”
“Nineteen eighty-one, the London bombing campaign,” Brosnan said. “You were Dillon’s control.”
McGuire glanced at Mary. “That’s right.”
“We know Dillon would have experienced the usual problems as regards weapons and explosives, Mr. McGuire,” Mary said. “And I’ve been given to understand he always favors underworld contacts in that sort of situation. Is that so?”
“Yes, he usually worked in that way,” McGuire said reluctantly and sat down.
“Have you any idea who he used in London in nineteen eighty-one?” Mary persisted.
McGuire looked hunted. “How would I know? It could have been anybody.”
Devlin said, “You lying bastard, you know something, I can tell you do.” His right hand came out of the pocket of the reefer holding an old Luger pistol and he touched McGuire between the eyes. “Quick now, tell us or I’ll…”
McGuire pushed the gun to one side. “All right, Devlin, you win.” He lit another cigarette. “He dealt with a man in London called Jack Harvey, a big operator, a real gangster.”
“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Devlin said.
There was a thunderous knocking on the door below and they all looked at the television screen to see an old bag lady on the front step. Her voice came clearly through the speaker. “The lovely man you are, Mr. Kelly. Could you spare a poor soul a quid?”
McGuire said into the microphone, “Piss off, you old bag.”
“Oh, Jesus, Mr. Kelly, I’ll die here on your step in this terrible cold, so I will for the whole world to see.”
McGuire got up. “I’ll go and get rid of her. I’ll only be a minute.”
He hurried down the stairs and extracted a five-pound note from an old wallet as he approached the door. He got it open and held it out. “Take this and clear off.”
Dillon’s hand came up out of the plastic shopping bag holding the Colt. “A fiver, Tommy boy. You’re getting generous in your old age. Inside.”
He pushed him through and closed the door. McGuire was terrified. “Look, what is this?”
“Nemesis,” Dillon said. “You pay for your sins in this life, Tommy, we all do. Remember that night in seventy-two, you, me and Patrick when we shot the Stewarts as they ran out of the fire?”
“Dillon?” McGuire whispered. “It’s you?” He started to turn and raised his voice. “Devlin!” he called.
Dillon shot him twice in the back breaking his spine, driving him on his face. As he got the door open behind him, Devlin appeared on the landing, the Luger in his hand, already firing. Dillon fired three times rapidly, shattering the office window, then was outside, slamming the door behind him.
As he started up the street, two stripped-down Land-Rovers, four soldiers in each, turned out of the main road, attracted by the sound of the firing and came toward him. The worst kind of luck, but Dillon didn’t hesitate. As he came to a drain in the gutter, he pretended to slip and dropped the Colt through the bars.
As he got up someone called, “Stay where you are.”
They were paratroopers in camouflage uniforms, flak jackets and red berets, each man with his rifle ready and Dillon gave them the performance of his life. He staggered forward, moaning and crying and clutching at the young lieutenant in charge.
“Jesus, sir, there’s terrible things going on back there in that warehouse. There’s me sheltering from the cold and these fellas come on and start shooting each other.”
The young officer smelled the whisky and pushed him away. “Check what’s in the carrier, Sergeant.”
The Sergeant rifled through. “Bottle of hooch and some newspapers, sir.”
“Right, go and wait over there.” The officer pushed Dillon along the pavement behind the patrol and got a loudhailer from one of the Land-Rovers. “You inside,” he called. “Throw your weapons out through the door, then follow them with your hands up. Two minutes or we’ll come in to get you.”
All members of the patrol were in a readiness posture, intent only on the entrance. Dillon eased back into the courtyard, turned and hurried past Devlin’s taxi, finding what he was seeking in seconds, a manhole cover. He got it up and went down a steel ladder, pulling the cover behind him. It had been a way in which he had evaded the British Army on many occasions in the old days and he knew the system in the Falls Road area perfectly.
The tunnel was small and very dark. He crawled along it, aware of the sound of rushing water, and came out on the sloping side of a larger tunnel, the main sewer. There were outlets to the canal that ran down to Belfast Lough, he knew that. He pulled off the skirt and the wig and threw them in the water using the headscarf to wipe his lips and face vigorously, then he hurried along the side until he came to another steel ladder. He started up toward the rays of light beaming in through the holes in the cast iron, waited a moment, then eased it up. He was on a cobbled pathway beside the Canal, the backs of decaying, boarded-up houses on the other side. He put the manhole back in place and made for the Falls Road as fast as possible.
In the warehouse, the young officer stood beside McGuire’s body and examined Mary Tanner’s ID card. “It’s perfectly genuine,” she said. “You can check.”
“And these two?”
“They’re with me. Look, Lieutenant, you’ll get a full explanation from my boss. That’s Brigadier Charles Ferguson at the Ministry of Defence.”
“All right, Captain,” he said defensively. “I’m only doing my job. It’s not like the old days here, you know. We have the RUC on our backs. Every death has to be investigated fully, otherwise there’s the devil to pay.”
The sergeant came in. “The Colonel’s on the wire, boss.”
“Fine,” the young lieutenant said and went out.
Brosnan said to Devlin, “Do you think it was Dillon?”
“A hell of a coincidence if it wasn’t. A bag woman?” Devlin shook his head. “Who’d have thought it?”
“Only Dillon would be capable.”
“Are you trying to say he came over from London specially?” Mary demanded.
“He knew what we were about thanks to Gordon Brown, and how long is the scheduled flight from London to Belfast?” Brosnan asked. “An hour and a quarter?”
“Which means he’s got to go back,” she said.
“Perhaps,” Liam Devlin nodded. “But nothing’s absolute in this life, girl, you’ll learn that, and you’re dealing with a man who’s kept out of police hands for twenty years or more, all over Europe.”
“Well it’s time we got the bastard.” She looked down at McGuire. “Not too nice, is it?”
“The violence, the killing. Drink with the devil and this is what it comes down to,” Devlin told her.
Dillon went in through the back door of the hotel at exactly two-fifteen and hurried up to his room. He stripped off the jeans and jumper, put them in the case and shoved them up into a cupboard above the wardrobe. He washed his face quickly, then dressed in white shirt and tie, dark suit and blue Burberry. He was out of the room and descending the back stairs, briefcase in hand, within five minutes of having entered. He went up the alley, turned into the Falls Road and started to walk briskly. Within five minutes he managed to hail a taxi and told the driver to take him to the airport.
The officer in charge of Army Intelligence for the Belfast city area was a Colonel McLeod and he was not the least bit pleased with the situation with which he was confronted.
“It really isn’t good enough, Captain Tanner,” he said. “We can’t have you people coming in here like cowboys and acting on your own initiative.” He turned to look at Devlin and Brosnan. “And with people of very dubious background into the bargain. There is a delicate situation here these days and we do have the Royal Ulster Constabulary to placate. They see this as their turf.”