Retribution (8 page)

The rear side window was rolled down all the way. As they came nearly opposite the courthouse, Naim stuck out the barrel and
loaded suction cup through the window to take a shot through traffic passing in the opposite direction. No sooner had the
shotgun barrel protruded from the car window than they were hit with a hail of fire. Bullets scraped off the car roof and
punctured its side. They flew in the open windows. Naim felt the wind of one bullet on his cheek before he ducked down out
of sight.

Hasan accelerated and Ali kept close behind them. The security men stopped firing for fear of hitting Ali, whom they yet had
no reason to suspect of involvement. It was true that he was traveling fast close behind
the getaway car, but every other driver who could was also getting away as fast as he could from the gunfire.

As Hasan made the left onto Holborn Viaduct, two cars pulled in on the courthouse side, crossed traffic, and tried to cut
him off. A second too late, the lead car scraped its left front wing along their side and had to be content to try to get
in behind them. The driver cut in sharply in front of Ali. Instead of braking, Ali gave his car the gas and hit the intruding
car on its front door. The force of Ali’s impact and continuing acceleration knocked the security car out of their lane and
into oncoming traffic on Holborn Viaduct.

The security car was hit head-on by a van. Its rear end swung around and hit the second security car, which was on Ali’s tail.
These two wrecked cars blocked all traffic westbound, and the van with its cracked windshield and steaming radiator completed
the barrier. The two attack cars made good time to High Holborn with no one in pursuit, left down Kingsway, right at Aldwych
into the Strand, and then into the Mall, which had comparatively light traffic.

Naim and Hasan did not speak. There was nothing to say now. Naim had not listened to the more experienced Hasan. Hasan had
been right. But then Naim had been right at Oxford, which Hasan hadn’t liked either. They hàd escaped unhurt. That was enough.
Ali was still close behind them.

At the western end of the Mall, as they swung around the Queen Victoria Memorial, they saw a large
crowd of people streaming out the gates of Buckingham Palace.

“This is it!” Naim yelled to Hasan, excitedly winding down the left side window. “Slow down a bit! Give me time to get the
gun.”

He poked the barrel and plunger cup out the car window and aimed for a stone pier of the gate. If he hit someone with the
missile, its impact against soft flesh would probably not be strong enough to set off the detonators in the explosive. He
aimed for solid stone.

A bright flash, a loud bang, people falling, others running… Hasan drove along Constitution Hill. They dumped the cars a minute
later at St. George’s Hospital and went into the Hyde Park Corner Underground station. There they took the Piccadilly Line
four stops to Earl’s Court and walked to the Redcliffe Square apartment.

“They have our fingerprints,” Ali said.

“But they don’t have our balls,” Hasan answered. He was very pleased by their day’s work, regarding Buckingham Palace as a
more prestigious hit than the Old Bailey and having been proved right in his warning against alert security. He asked in a
voice almost purring with satisfaction, “What do we do now, Naím?

Naim crossed the room. “We turn on the television.”

General Gerritt van Gilder and Group-Captain Godfrey Bradshaw were still inside the palace railings near the gates when they
saw the flash and heard the
explosion. They rushed through the crowd of people, most of whom were too stunned or bewildered to do anything.

Bradshaw stopped over the first victim they came to, a man about thirty in a morning coat and striped pants, who was lying
on his side lifeless and smeared with blood. Bradshaw pointed to the head of a steel nail protruding from the side of his
head, behind his left eye.

The blast had been about nine feet high against the gate pier, well above head level, and consequently much of its power and
many of the nails had been dissipated harmlessly into the air. But those who were hit were struck on the head and upper parts
of the body. Seven were dead. Two more looked bad. The rest of the casualties were not seriously injured, apart from one man
with extensive burns.

“Considering the crowd here, things are not so bad,” Bradshaw said in a low voice. “If it had been the same mode of operation
as at Oxford, we’d have had thirty or forty killed. All the same, those bastards get to chalk this up as a success, I’m afraid.”

The Dutchman looked after the departing ambulances. “We came closer to meeting them today than I thought we would.”

Dartley was sitting in a pub with an untouched glass of Coca-Cola in front of him when a special newscast came over the television.
The barman turned the sound up, and conversation died as everyone watched and listened to a description of this new terrorist
attack.

“Should hang these buggers, that’s what I say,” the barman announced in his broad Yorkshire accent. “The rope’s too good for
scum like that.”

Capital punishment had long been discontinued in Britain. Immediately after camera coverage of the carnage scene, the newsman
said that the government denied that these atrocities had anything to do with the upcoming announcement of Britain’s intention
to sign the Ostend Concordance. He added, almost as an afterthought, sources in Dublin earlier today said that the Irish government
had agreed to sign and would shortly announce their intention to do so.

Dartley left the pub, took the Underground to
South Kensington, and walked down to the Fulham Road. He looked for a pub of which he had forgotten the name and exact location.
He would know it when he saw it. And he did. Finch’s. In the back bar he ordered another Coca-Cola, which he also left untouched.
He asked the barman if Frankie Grady had been in lately.

“That man doesn’t come in here anymore,” the Irishman responded in tones that hinted there were good reasons why he didn’t.

Another Irish voice by Dartley’s side said truculently, “Frankie Grady’s a pain in the arse.”

Dartley looked at him, a grim-looking individual with sunken eyes and lantern jaws about to raise an imperial pint of Guinness
stout to his mouth. The man took a huge draft of the thick brew and Dartley motioned to the barman to draw him another.

“Frankie has done some dumb things,” Dartley said.

“You a Yank?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

That seemed as much as the man was willing to say for the time being, so Dartley let him be. When the fresh pint was served
up, Dartley paid for it.

The man picked up the glass, shot Dartley a look, and said,
“Slan teat.”

“Slainte”
Dartley said, which along with
“Erin go breagh”
comprised his total knowledge of Gaelic.

“An bfhuil an Gaeilge agat?”

“I’m afraid I don’t speak: Irish,” Dartley said.

“There’s many a decent Irishman who doesn’t either,” the man said in a friendlier way than he had spoken before. Then abruptly
his manner changed. “I was just thinking that Frankie Grady is a stupid son of a bitch.”

“You probably know him better than I do,” Dartley said.

“No, I don’t. Last I saw of him was about three months ago up in Walthamstow, in a place called the Stag and Hounds. He was
working behind the bar there, though he wasn’t answering to the name of Frankie Grady. I forget now what he was calling himself.”

“Where’s Walthamstow?”

“It’s a northern suburb, by the Epping Forest. What do you want to see him for? If you take my advice, you’ll stay away from
him. Unless of course you’re involved with that side of things?”

Dartley pretended not to understand what he was talking about, and the man asked no more question’s. He had been referring
guardedly to Grady’s ties to the IRA provisionals, curious to know if Dartley too was involved. He might be a police informer
and he might not.

Frankie Grady’s name at the Stag and Hounds was Tom Boyd. He dropped an empty glass when he saw Richard Dartley walk in, and
it shattered on the floor.

“I’m glad to see that your memory is in good
working order,” Dartley said to him pleasantly as Grady swept up the broken glass.

The Irishman had good reason to be startled at Dartley’s sudden appearance in this out-of-the-way part of London. Last time
he had seen him the American had been looking down the barrel of a rifle at him. Grady knew that the only reason he had been
spared was that he had held back an ambush in order to let two children escape from the line of fire. The American had seen
him do that and had later spared his life in recognition of it.

But Dartley didn’t bother to chitchat about old times. The big pub was nearly empty, and no one could hear them.

Dartley said, “I don’t suppose the Provos are too happy about Britain and Ireland signing this concordance.”

“I suppose not.”

“They could be badly affected by it.”

“I imagine so,” Grady replied, as if he had no special knowledge on which to have an opinion.

“Frankie—”

“Tom Boyd, sir. Tom’s my name here.”

“Tom, I think there’s a good chance that three or more Palestinians are on their way to Ireland right now or in the very near
future. I also think there’s a good chance that a certain illegal organization in Ireland might decide to help them, since
all of them oppose the concordance. Do you think that at all likely?”

Grady pointed the neck of a whiskey bottle at Dartley, who shook his head, then poured a generous
measure for himself, which he downed in a single gulp. He said, “I’ll have to ask.”

“Fair enough. There are a few pros and cons about this situation which I think they may not know about. I’ll stick with the
cons. The first is that the British intend to blame the Provos for the Oxford and Buckingham Palace killings—that’s plain
already from the slant of newspaper and television reports. They’ll use this mainly to alienate Provo sympathizers throughout
Europe. If the Provos did these things here, they must have done them in Holland too. And next in Ireland. The IRA will lose
a lot of sympathizers. But that’s only the first disadvantage of being associated with these Palestinians. The second is that
the British army and police will have total public support no matter what they do in retaliation against the IRA. These are
not isolated incidents. This is just the beginning. The Provos have no choice now. It’s in their own backyard. They have to
come down on one side or the other. If they have helped these Palestinians in any way, and it can be traced to them, it will
set back their movement several years.”

“You think they ask me to make their decisions?” Grady asked.

“Some of the people who make decisions might be willing to listen to you.”

“What do you want?”

Dartley took his time. “I only need to locate the Palestinians. Tell me where they will be at a certain time.”

“That’s a tall order.”

“I can make it worth your while.”

A look of anger crossed Grady’s face. “Keep your filthy dollars. I’m not in any of this for money.”

“When will you know?”

“Come back tomorrow.”

“I need to know before then.”

“Well, you’ll have to find out some other way.” Grady went down the long bar to serve a customer and stayed down at that end
until Dartley left.

Traveling separately but all on the same train, Naim, Hasan, and Ali left Paddington Station for Swansea, Wales. They reached
Swansea shortly after eleven at night. The red Opel Kadet was where it was supposed to be, the left front door was unlocked,
and the keys were in the dashboard ashtray. The three men got in quickly and Hasan drove.

“Where to?” he asked.

“Camarthen,” Naim said. “Watch for signs.”

Swansea was bigger and more heavily industrialized than they had expected. Naim saw the wisdom of having three foreigners
get off the train there instead of in some rural town full of curious idlers. They finally found the road to Camarthen, and
from there they went north to Llandyssul and New Quay. It was after one in the morning when they arrived in the little seaport.
A fine rain was falling and they could hear waves breaking in the darkness. Nothing stirred in the town, and probably hadn’t
since about nine the previous night. They saw some lights on the deck of a trawler, parked
the car, and walked down the dock toward the ship. The name on the fishing boat’s stem was
Pride of Aberystwyth.
Naim hailed a man in yellow oilskins on the deck.

They waited for more than an hour below decks in a filthy fish-smelling cabin before the boat got underway and headed out
to sea. After a couple of hours at sea they were called up on deck. Another boat was approaching them. They could see its
green starboard light. The boats heaved about on the water and the decks were slick in the fine rain. As the trawler came
alongside, a man waited until the two decks were about even and jumped aboard. He shook their hands and told them to jump
also. It had looked not too difficult when he did it, but only Hasan managed it with any kind of dignity. Both Naim and Ali
fell on the other deck, and Naim would have fallen between the boats if he had not been caught and hauled on deck by his coat.