“That’s right. Sean was nineteen, as I remember. He went home, joined the Movement, and never looked back. At one time he was the most feared enforcer the Provisional IRA had.”
“So what went wrong?”
“He never liked the bombing, though they say he was behind that mortar attack on Ten Downing Street during the Gulf War. After that, he cleared off to Europe and offered himself as a sort of gun for hire to anybody who’d pay, and he was even-handed. One minute he’d be working for the PLO, the next blowing up Palestinian gunboats in Beirut.”
“And where did Ferguson come in? I’ve heard the story, but I’d like it confirmed.”
“Well, among his other talents, our Sean can fly just about anything that can fly. He was running medicine for children into Bosnia and got shot down. It seems the Serbs were going to shoot him and Ferguson turned up and did a deal of some sort, blackmailed Sean into going to work for him.”
“Set a thief to catch a thief,” Brown said.
“That’s about it. It hasn’t made him too popular with the Provos back home.”
“Well, it wouldn’t, would it?”
There was a pause. Finally, Riley said, “Look, what do you want?”
“Sean Dillon, actually.” Brown smiled and offered him another cigarette. “Or to put it another way, the people I represent want him.”
“And who might they be?”
“None of your business, Mr. Riley, but I think I can guarantee that if you do exactly as I say, you’ll have your freedom and we’ll have Dillon. Does that give you a problem?”
“Not in the slightest.” Riley smiled. “What do I have to do?”
“To start, you apply to see the Governor and ask for Ferguson. Say you have important information for his ears only.”
“Then what?”
“Ferguson is certain to want to see you. There’s been a series of small doorstep bombs in Hampstead and Camden during the past two weeks. It’s a known fact that the IRA have at least three Active Service Units operating in London at the moment.” He took a piece of paper from a wallet and passed it across. “You tell Ferguson he’ll find an Active Service Unit at that address plus a supply of Semtex and fuses and so forth.”
Riley looked at the paper. “Holland Park.” He looked up. “Is this kosher?”
“No ASU, just the Semtex and timers, enough to show you were telling the truth. Not your fault if there’s no one there.”
“And you expect Ferguson to get my sentence squashed for that?” Riley shook his head. “Maybe if he’d been able to nick an ASU.” He shrugged. “It won’t do.”
“Yes, he’ll want more and you’re going to give it to him. Two years ago, an Arab terrorist group called the Army of God blew up a Jumbo as it was lifting off from Manchester. More than two hundred people killed.”
“So.”
“Their leader was a man called Hakim al Sharif. I know where he’s been hiding. I’ll tell you and you tell Ferguson. There’s nothing he’d like better than to get his hands on that bastard, and he’s certain to use Dillon to pull the job off.”
“And what do I do?”
“You offer to go with him, to prove you’re genuine in this thing.” Brown smiled. “It will work, Mr. Riley, but only if you do exactly as I tell you, so listen carefully.”
Brigadier Charles Ferguson’s office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defense overlooking Horse Guards Avenue. He sat at his desk, a large, untidy man with a shock of gray hair, wearing a crumpled fawn suit and a Guards Brigade tie. He was frowning slightly as he pressed his intercom.
“Brigadier?”
“Is Dillon there, Chief Inspector?”
“Just arrived.”
“I’ll see the both of you. Something’s come up.”
The woman who led the way was around thirty and wore a fawn Armani trouser suit. She had close-cropped red hair and black horn-rimmed spectacles. She was not so much beautiful as someone you would look at twice. She could have been a top secretary, a company director, and yet this was Detective Chief Inspector Hannah Bernstein, product of an orthodox Jewish family, M.A. in Psychology from Cambridge, father a professor of surgery, grandfather a rabbi, both hugely shocked when she had elected to join the police. A fast-track career had taken her to Special Branch, from where Ferguson had procured her secondment as his assistant. In spite of her appearance and the crisp English upper-class voice, she had killed in the line of duty on three occasions to his knowledge, had taken a bullet herself.
The man behind her, Sean Dillon, was small, no more than five feet five, with the kind of fair hair that was almost white. He wore dark cords and an old black leather flying jacket, a white scarf at his throat. His eyes seemed to lack any kind of color and were very clear and he was handsome enough, a restless, animal vitality to him. The left corner of his mouth was permanently lifted into the kind of smile that said he didn’t take life too seriously, perhaps never had.
“God save the good work, Brigadier,” he said cheerfully in the distinctive accent that was Ulster Irish.
Ferguson laid down his pen and removed his reading glasses. “Dermot Riley. He ring a bell for you, Dillon?”
Dillon took out an old silver case, selected a cigarette, and lit it with a Zippo lighter. “You could say that. We were not much more than boys fighting together in the hard days in the seventies in the Derry Brigade of the Provisional IRA.”
“Shooting British soldiers,” Hannah Bernstein said.
“Well, they shouldn’t have joined,” Dillon told her cheerfully and turned back to Ferguson. “He was lifted last year by Scotland Yard’s Antiterrorist Squad right here in London. Supposed to have been a member of one of the Active Service Units.”
“As I recall, they found Semtex at his lodgings and assorted weaponry.”
“True,” Dillon said, “but when they stood him up at the Old Bailey, he wouldn’t cough. They sent him down for fifteen years.”
“And good riddance,” Hannah said.
“Ah, well, now, everyone has their own point of view,” Dillon told her. “To you he’s a terrorist, whereas Dermot sees himself as a gallant soldier fighting a just cause.”
“Not anymore he doesn’t,” Ferguson said. “I’ve just had a call from the Governor at Wandsworth Prison. Riley wants to do a deal.”
“Really?” Dillon had stopped smiling, a slight frown on his face. “Now why would he want to do that?”
“Have you ever been inside Wandsworth, Dillon? If you had, you’d know why. Hell on earth, and Riley’s had six months to sample it and another fourteen and a half years to go, so let’s see what he’s got to say.”
“And you want me?” Dillon said.
“Of course. After all, you knew the damn man. You, too, Chief Inspector. I’d like your input.” He pushed back his chair and stood. “The Daimler is waiting, so let’s be off,” and he led the way out.
They waited in the interview room at Wandsworth, and after a while, the door opened and Jackson pushed Riley into the room and closed the door.
Riley said, “Sean, is that you?”
“As ever was, Dermot.” Dillon lit a cigarette, inhaled, and passed it to him.
Riley grinned. “You used to do that in the old days in Derry. Remember when we ran rings round the Brits?”
“We did indeed, old son, but times change.”
“Well, you’ve certainly changed,” Riley said. “And from one side to the other.”
“All right,” Ferguson broke in. “So you’ve had the old pals act. Now let’s get down to business. What do you want, Riley?”
“Out, Brigadier.” Riley sat on one of the chairs at the table. “Six months is enough. I can’t face anymore, I’d rather be dead.”
“Like all those people you killed,” Hannah said.
“And who might you be?”
“A Detective Chief Inspector, Special Branch,” Dillon told him, “so mind your manners.”
“I was fighting a war, woman,” Riley began, and Ferguson cut in.