“I won’t hold you up,” Teddy said. “I’ve been looking for a handbook on Israeli Army units, divisional signs, shoulder flashes.”
“Just a minute.” The old man went to a shelf, searched it, and returned with a small paperback. “It’s a series this company does. Armies of the World. They’re quite popular. In fact, I’ve only got volumes for the Russian and Israeli armies left. I must reorder.”
“How much?” Teddy said.
“Fifteen-fifty.”
Teddy got the cash out. “No need for a bag, and many thanks for your help.”
He walked back to the sedan in the rain, feeling elated, got in, switched on the light, and opened the book. It was mainly text with about twelve pages in color covering the shoulder flashes of various Israeli units. He closed the book. There was nothing remotely resembling the raven.
He sat there, frustrated, and for some reason angry. He lit a cigarette and started to go over the day’s events, culminating in the attempted killing of Dillon. That Mark Gold had to be left untouched made sense, but Harker, an animal who had killed many times for money? That didn’t sit well with Teddy at all.
“I mean, what was it all for, Vietnam?” he asked himself softly. “Did it produce a better society? Hell, no. Downhill all the way.”
He opened the glove compartment, found his silencer, and clipped it on the end of the Colt and replaced it in his pocket. What was it Blake had said about Harker? That guys like that could get it on the street any night. Teddy smiled tightly and drove away.
When Nelson Harker turned onto Flower Street, he was more than a little drunk and soaked to the skin in the heavy rain. With cash in his pocket, he’d really hung one on and had also paid for the services of two prostitutes right off the street, just the way he liked it. He stumbled on the uneven pavement and paused, swaying.
“Excuse me.”
He turned and found a small one-armed man in a raincoat staring intently. Harker peered at him. “What do you want, you little creep?”
Teddy’s hand was on the butt of the Colt in his raincoat pocket. With all his being he wanted to pull it out and shoot the bastard – but suddenly he couldn’t. Some providential second sight had filtered in through the rage. It was not a question of morality. In Vietnam he had killed for poorer reasons, but if this all went wrong and he ended up in police hands, the ensuing scandal would bring down the President himself, the one human being he valued most. Jesus, what had he been thinking?
He took a deep breath. “Well, excuse me. I was only going to ask the way to Central.”
“Go on, fuck off,” Harker said and lurched drunkenly away.
Teddy walked off briskly, turning from one street to another until he reached the sedan. A mile further on, he had to cross the river. He paused halfway, got out, and dropped the Colt into dark waters. It was unregistered, untraceable, but that didn’t matter. It would sink in the mud and be there for all time, a memorial to what had almost been the stupidest action in his entire life.
“Damn fool,” he said softly. “What did you think you were playing at?” and he got in the sedan and drove away.
Dillon was enormously impressed with the Gulfstream. It was so quiet as to be unbelievable. There were enormous club chairs that tilted for sleep, a settee at one side, and the tables were maple wood veneer. He’d already noticed the galley and the crew-rest quarters, and there was even a stand-up shower.
“You do yourself well,” he said to Johnson.
“It’s the best,” Blake said. “The best in the world, and that’s what I need. It can even use runways half the length of those required for commercial airliners.”
“I like the way they’ve done the five after Gulfstream,” Dillon said. “Roman with a V.”
“That’s style for you,” Blake told him. “We also have a state-of-the-art satellite communications system.”
“I’ll try that right now.”
Captain Vernon’s voice came over the speaker. “We’re cruising at fifty thousand feet and we have a brisk tail wind. By the way, Ireland is five hours ahead of us, so I suggest you adjust your watches.”
Kersey brought coffee, and tea for Dillon. “There you go, gentlemen. Sing out if you want anything. I’ll serve dinner in an hour if that suits.”
“Well, a large Bushmills whiskey would go down fine right now,” Dillon told him. “If you have such a thing.”
“We’ve got everything.” Kersey was back with the Bushmills in seconds. “Okay, sir?”
“Very okay,” Dillon said.
After Kersey had gone, closing the door to the galley, Blake said, “You wanted to make a call?”
“Yes, to my old friend Liam Devlin, the greatest expert on the IRA alive. He helped us out considerably with the Irish Rose affair, remember?”
“I surely do.” Blake was adjusting his watch. “But it’s two-thirty in the morning over there.”
“So I’ll wake him,” and Dillon picked up the phone.
In bed at his cottage in the village of Kilrea outside Dublin, Liam Devlin was aware of the phone’s incessant ringing. He cursed, switched on the light, and picked up the phone, checking the time on the bedside clock.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, do you know what time it is, whoever you are?”
“Oh, shut up, you old rogue, and listen, will you? It’s Sean – Sean Dillon.”
Devlin pushed himself up. “You young devil. Where are you calling from?”
“A Gulfstream making its way across the Atlantic, Liam. I’ve a friend with me and we need you.”
“Is this an IRA thing?” Devlin asked.
“Worse, much worse, but Dermot Riley’s involved, only not on IRA business.”
“Sure, and he’s doing fifteen years in Wandsworth Prison.”
“He was until he offered Ferguson a deal, the whereabouts of another Active Service Unit in London and an arms dump.”
“And you believed him?” Devlin laughed out loud. “And he did a runner on you?”
“Something like that, but much more complicated, and like I said, not IRA business. I need to get to him, Liam. It’s desperately important. Nose around and see what you can find out.”
“Well, there’s always his cousin, Bridget O’Malley down at Tullamore. Her farm’s near the Blackwater River.”
“Could be or he might think that too obvious. We’ll see you at Kilrea around nine-thirty. He was using the name Thomas O’Malley, by the way.”
“Fine. Can I go back to sleep now?” Devlin asked.
“Sure, and when have you ever done anything except what you wanted to do?” Dillon asked and put the phone down.
Devlin sat there thinking about it. From what Dillon had said, this was special, very special, and at his age that excited him. He reached for a cigarette and lit it. His doctor had tried to get him to cut down, but what the hell did it matter at his age? He got up, found a robe, went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
“Is that you, Michael?” he asked. “Liam Devlin here.”
“Jesus, Liam, you’re up late.”
“And you.”
“Well, you know I’ve taken to the novel-writing, and I like to work through the night.”
“I heard that and I also heard you have breakfast at the Irish Hussar around seven o’clock most mornings.”
“That’s true.”
“I’ll join you. I need to pick your brains.”
“And I know what that means, you old sod. I’ll see you then and we’ll have a crack.”
Devlin put the phone down, switched off the kettle, and made a pot of tea, whistling softly.
On the Gulfstream, they had an excellent meal of fillets of lemon sole with potatoes and a mixed salad followed by Italian ice cream with hazelnuts. They shared a bottle of Chablis.
Afterwards, Dillon said, “I wonder what the poor sods in first-class are getting tonight on the commercial flights. That was great.”