'Just another crook,' Barry said.
'Aren't we all? Except you, Jack. A gallant freedom fighter for the glorious cause, that's you.'
'I'll kick your arse, Docherty.'
'No, you won't, because you can't fly planes.'
'So you'll get us there in spite of all this air traffic security?'
'When have I ever failed? Now let's get moving. It's got to be the Chieftain, by the way. The Cessna needs some spare parts.'
He opened the Navajo's Airstair door, dropped the steps and Barry followed him up. Docherty closed the door and locked it. 'There's a following wind, Jack, so it'll take two hours with luck. It's the usual March weather, lots of rain, but that's good. Don't wet your pants when I go hedge-hopping. That's to avoid the radar. Do you want to sit with me?'
'No, I'll read the paper.'
Docherty strapped himself in and started the engines, first port, then starboard. The Navajo moved out into the rain, coasted to the end of the strip and turned into the wind. He boosted power and they surged forward, lifted off and started to climb.
Docherty was as good as his word, for they hit Roundhay at only five minutes over two hours and came in under low cloud and heavy rain. A barn stood nearby, its doors opened, an old Ford Escort car outside. Docherty taxied inside and cut the engines.
'What about you?' Barry asked, as they got out.
'I'll be okay. I'll take a walk up to the farm and pay my debts.'
'You mean you'll give him a thousand in cash?'
'He's the kind of man you keep happy. I never know when I might need him again.'
He turned and walked away across the airstrip and Barry got into the Escort. The keys were in the ignition, but before he started the engine, he removed a Browning from the Gladstone bag, took out the clip, loaded the weapon, and pushed it inside his bomber jacket. Only then did he drive away.
He made good time, for as evening approached, traffic was coming out of London, not in. The car was no big deal, an old Ford Escort, but nice and anonymous. He thought about things on the way. The place to make the hit, for example. Well, that was obvious, since Cohan was staying at the Dorchester. Getting in was easy. All he needed were the right kind of clothes, and he had those in plenty.
For some years Barry had had a bolt-hole in London. Not an apartment, but a boat moored on the Thames close to St James's Stairs in Wapping. He had everything there: a wardrobe and arms stashed away. He had been careful never to mention it to anyone. He'd always remembered his old Ulster grandmother's saying, when she used to come over to the States to stay with them: Always remember, Jack, a secret is no longer a secret if one other person knows about it. She'd died badly of cancer during the early days when he'd first returned to Ulster. She'd been a patient at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast, the world's best on shotgun wounds, because they had to be.
He was on the most-wanted list at the time. When he said he was going to see her, the boys had told him he was crazy, and implored him not to. But none of that mattered to Barry. He'd gone on his own, got into the hospital's back entrance, and stolen a doctor's white robe and plastic identity tag from the rest room.
He'd found her room and, for a while, sat there holding her hand. She couldn't talk much, except to say, 'I'm glad you're here, Jack.'
'It's where I should be, Gran.'
And then her grip had tightened. 'Take care, be a good boy,' and she had slipped away.
The tears, the rage, had overwhelmed him then. He'd left, and against all advice, attended her funeral four days later, standing in the rain, a Browning in his pocket, wishing someone from the Security forces would try to take him.
And why should that be? The great Jack Barry, Lord Barry, Silver Star and bronze in ' Nam, Vietnamese Cross of Valor, a Purple Heart. How many Brit soldiers had he killed, how many Loyalists in bombings, although a Prod himself?
At the end of the day, the image that would not go away was of an old woman who had fiercely loved him. Even now, at the wheel of the Escort, his throat prickled and angry tears started to his eyes.
He was into London at five, worked his way through to Kilburn, parked and found what he was looking for, a pub called the Michael Collins. The painting on the wall – an Irish tricolour and Collins with a gun upraised – said it all. He didn't go in the bar, but walked round to the courtyard at the rear, opened the kitchen door and entered. A small grey-haired man was seated at a table in the sitting room, reading glasses on his nose, going over some accounts. His name was Liam Moran and he was a London organizer for Sinn Fein.
'Jesus, it's yourself, Jack.' His eyes bulged.
'As ever was.' Barry went to a sideboard, opened a bottle of whiskey and poured one. 'Is there much action at the moment?'
'Hell, no, not with the peace process. The Brits are playing it cool in London and so are the boys. What in the hell are you doing here, Jack?'
'Oh, no harm intended, just passing through. On my way to Germany ,' Barry lied. 'Just thought I'd check in and see how the general situation was.'
Moran was agitated. 'Dead calm, Jack, I promise you.' 'Peace, Liam.' Barry swallowed his whiskey. 'What a bore. I'll be in touch,' and he went out.
Chapter Eight
London's Kilburn district houses a mainly Irish population, both Republican and Loyalist, and sometimes you'd swear you were in Belfast . The Protestant pubs with William and Mary painted on the end wall were the spitting image of those in the Shankhill, as were the Republican pubs of those in the Falls Road.
Dillon, dressed in a black bomber jacket, scarf and jeans, faded into the drinking crowd of the latter, his Walther stuck into his waistband at the rear. That there were those who might recognize him could not be avoided, but he figured he would be all right. He was, after all, the great Sean Dillon, the living legend of the IRA, and as for anything else, it was rumours at most. But he had the Walther as insurance.
He learned nothing of any great interest, however, until he came out of the Green Tinker and paused in a doorway to light a cigarette beside the newspaper stand. The old man huddled inside was swallowing from a half bottle. His name was Tod Ahern. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and stared at Dillon in astonishment.
'Jesus, Sean, it's yourself.'
'And who else would it be?'
Tod was well drunk now. 'Are there big things doing? I saw Barry earlier. Are you and he here for some big plans?'
Dillon smiled gently. 'Now then, Tod, you shouldn't talk about such things. The word is hush.' He smiled. 'Jack would be furious if he knew you'd seen him. Where was it, by the way?'
'Going to the back of the Michael Collins. I thought he might be seeing Liam Moran. I'd just picked up my stand. I was wheeling it round.'
'Well, keep it to yourself, Tod.' Dillon passed him a five-pound note. 'Have a drink on me later.'
Sitting at his table, still going over his accounts, Liam Moran was aware of a slight draught of air that lifted the papers, looked up and found Dillon in the doorway, an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
'God bless all here.'
Moran almost had a bowel movement. 'Sean, it's you.'
'As ever was.' Dillon lit the cigarette with his old Zippo. 'I'm told you had a visitor earlier, Jack Barry?'
Moran managed a ghastly smile. 'And who's been selling you that kind of nonsense?'
Dillon sighed. 'We can do this the easy way or the hard way, Liam. What did he want and where is he?'
'Sean, this is a bad joke.'
Dillon's hand found the butt of the silenced Walther in his waistband, his hand swung, and the lobe of Moran's right ear disintegrated, the blood spurting as he grabbed it.
'Now, your right kneecap comes next. I'll put you on sticks, maybe for ever.'
'Jesus, no, Sean!' Moran was in agony. 'He told me he was just checking on how hot things were in London these days. Said he was on his way to Germany.'