In the BT van, the man at the directional microphone nodded to his friend, then turned off the tape recorder.
“I got everything. You close the manhole cover and clear up while I call in.”
A moment later, he was speaking to the man called Brown. “Right, see you soon.”
He switched off the phone and got out of the van and went round to the driver’s seat. A moment later, his friend joined him.
“Perfect,” the one behind the wheel said. “Couldn’t be better. Our people are already waiting in Salinas, and Riley and Dillon will be there tomorrow evening.”
“What happened?”
The driver eased out into the square and told him. When he was finished, his friend said, “Special Boat Squadron. They’re hot stuff.”
“It will be taken care of. All in the plan, exactly as Judas envisaged. He’s a genius, that man – a genius.”
He turned out of the square into the main stream of traffic and drove away.
THREE
The Lear jet they were using stood on the apron in front of one of the hangars. It was very official-looking, with RAF rondels, and the two pilots who stood waiting by the cabin door wore RAF overalls with rank insignia.
As the Daimler stopped, Ferguson said, “All nice and official. It should make things easy at Malta.” He took a small leather case from his pocket and gave it to Hannah Bernstein. “You’ll find a hypodermic in there, ready charged. Just give our friend Hakim a shot in the arm. He’ll stay on his feet, but he won’t know what time of day it is, and here’s a passport I got Forgery to make up for him. Abdul Krym, British citizen.” He took another from his inside pocket and passed it to Riley. “There’s yours, Irish variety. I thought it would go better with the accent. Thomas O’Malley.”
“Now isn’t that the strange thing,” Riley told him. “And me with a cousin once removed called Bridget O’Malley.”
“I haven’t the slightest interest in your family connections,” Ferguson told him. “Just get on board, there’s a good chap, and try doing as you’re told.”
They all got out and approached the Lear. Flight Lieutenant Lacey, in command, was an old hand and had been attached to Ferguson’s section for two years now. He introduced his fellow pilot, a Flight Lieutenant Parry.
Ferguson said, “How long to Sicily, then, Flight Lieutenant?”
“Headwinds all the way today, Brigadier. Can’t see it taking less than a good five hours.”
“Do your best.” Ferguson turned to the others. “Right, on you go and good luck.”
They went up the steps, one by one, the door closed. Ferguson stepped back as the engines started and the Lear taxied away to the far end of the field. It thundered along the runway and lifted.
“Up to you now, Dillon,” he said softly, turned, and walked back to the Daimler.
It was all a dream, Riley decided, and he might wake up in his cell at Wandsworth instead of sitting here on the leather club seat in the quiet elegance of the Lear. It had all worked out as Brown had promised.
He watched Hannah Bernstein, glasses removed, take some papers from her briefcase and start to read them. A strange one, but a hell of a copper from what he had heard, and hadn’t she shot dead that Protestant bitch, No-rah Bell, when she and Michael Ahern had tried to assassinate the American President on his London visit?
Dillon came through from the cockpit area, slid into the chair opposite. He opened the bar cupboard. “Would you fancy a drink, Dermot? Scotch whiskey, not Irish, I’m afraid.”
“It’ll do to take along.”
Dillon found a half bottle of Bell’s and splashed some into a couple of glasses. He passed one to Riley and offered him a cigarette.
“Cigarettes and whiskey and wild, wild women, isn’t that what the song says, only not for the Chief Inspector. She thinks I’m taking years off my life.”
She glanced up. “And so you are, Dillon, but you go to hell in your own way.”
She went back to her work and Dillon turned to Riley. “The hard woman, but she loves me dearly. Tell me, was that a fact about you having a cousin called O’Malley?”
“Jesus, yes,” Riley said. “Didn’t I ever mention her? My mother died when I was five. Derry, that was, and I had a ten-year-old sister, Kathleen. My old man couldn’t cope, so he sent for my mother’s niece, Bridget O’Malley, from a village called Tullamore between the Blackwater River and the Knockmealdown Mountains. A drop of the real old Ireland that place, I can tell you.”
“And she raised you?”
“Until I was eighteen.”
“And never married?”
“She couldn’t have children, so she could never see the point.”
“What happened to her?”
“Her father was a widower. Her eldest brother had died fighting for the Brit army in the Far East somewhere, so when her father passed away, she inherited the farm outside Tullamore.”
“So she went back?”
“A small place, but her own.”
“Did you keep in touch?”
“She put me up more than once when I was on the run, Sean, though she doesn’t approve of the IRA. Mass three times a week, that’s Bridget. It’s only a small farm, forty cows, a few pigs, goats, a small herd of sheep on the mountainside.”
“And you liked it when you were laying low there?”
“Liked it?” Riley’s face was pale. “She always said she’d leave it to me. She only has a couple of retired old boys from the village to help out, so there was plenty to do. There I was, the stench of the war zone still in my nose, up the mountain to see to the sheep in the rain with that Alsatian of hers, Karl, snapping at my heels. And you know what, Sean? I loved it, every minute of it. Isn’t that the strange thing?”
“Not really. Roots, Dermot, that’s what we all need, and your roots are in her.”
“And what about you, Sean, where are your roots?”
“Maybe nowhere, nowhere at all. A few cousins scattered here and there that I haven’t seen in years and probably frightened to death of me.” He smiled. “Take my advice, old son. Once out of this, get back to Ireland and that farm outside Tullamore. You’ve been offered a miracle. From death in life at Wandsworth Prison to your present situation.”
“I know,” Riley said. “It’s like the stone being rolled aside from the mouth of the grave on the third day.”
“Exactly.” Dillon yawned. “I’ll have a little snooze now. Give me a push in an hour,” and he closed his eyes.
Riley watched him for a while. A good stick, Sean, one hell of a comrade in the old days fighting the Brits in Derry. On one memorable occasion when Riley had taken a bullet in the left leg, Dillon had refused to leave him, had hauled him to safety through the sewers of the city.
He glanced at Dillon, sleeping now. Sorry, Sean, he wanted to say, but what would have been the point? He couldn’t face going back to Wandsworth and another fourteen and a half years of living hell, so he closed his eyes and tried to sleep himself.
At around two o’clock in the afternoon they came in over the sea, Palermo to one side, and landed at Punta Raisi. Lacey obeyed orders from the tower and taxied to a remote area at the far end of the airport, where a number of private planes were parked. There was a small man in a cloth cap and old flying jacket standing in front of the hangar, and a Peugeot was parked to one side.
“And who might he be?” Riley asked.
“Don’t let appearances deceive you, Mr. Riley,” Hannah said. “That’s Colonel Paolo Gagini of the Italian Secret Intelligence Service. He’s put more Mafia godfathers inside than anyone I know, and he’s an old friend of ours.”
Parry got the door open and Lacey went after him, the rest of them following.
Gagini came forward. “Chief Inspector, nice to see you again, and you, Dillon. Still around and still in one piece? Amazing.”
Dillon took his hand. “This is Tom O’Malley, a colleague.”