Rough Justice (34 page)

“And with the Avenger homing in, he’s between a rock and a hard place. If he only knew what’s coming from our side: two gorgeous ladies, one a decorated war hero with a penchant for carrying a pistol in her right boot, an East End gangster who’s Billy the Kid for real, and a crusty old warrior.”

“And Monica?”

“She’ll find something to do, I’ve every faith.”

“Just like I do in a certain man of the cloth who was once the most feared enforcer in the Provisional IRA. Though God alone knows what he’ll get up to.”

“One thing’s certain,” Roper said. “He’ll preach one hell of a sermon.”
SOME OF THE CLOTHING
the owner had left on board was being examined in the saloon. There were crew jerseys in navy blue, three-quarter-length yellow oilskin coats with
Avenger
stamped across the back. Monica and Helen tried one each.

“Very fetching,” Ferguson told them. “You’ll do nicely. Those crew jerseys for the men will make us look very professional.”

“Well, I’m all for showing ourselves off,” Monica said. “We’ve checked the kitchen and there’s enough food in there for an Atlantic crossing.”

“And the booze would keep you drunk for a year,” said Dillon. “But I don’t feel like eating on board tonight. I can’t see how the rain is going to do us any harm in all this wonderful gear, so why don’t we go ashore and find a decent meal?”

“Why not?” Ferguson said. “A splendid idea.”

 
 
HALF AN HOUR LATER,
they coasted into the jetty in the tender, tied up, and went ashore, choosing a nearby pub that turned out to boast an extensive restaurant. There weren’t many customers, it was the wrong time of year for that, but the wine flowed and the food was magnificent and a good time was had by all. It was Helen who tried to get down to business.

“Have you worked out a plan of action yet, Charles?”

“A frontal attack.”

“Which could lead to a rather heavy exchange of fire.”

“Not could,
will
lead to a rather heavy exchange of fire,” Dillon said.

“And kill them all?”

“Quinn knows the game, he’s been playing it for long enough,” Billy said. “The other year, he put me and Dillon and a good friend of ours in harm’s way down the London Dockland, brokered a deal for a group of old IRA hands to knock off the General here, among other things.”

“I presume they didn’t, as the General is obviously with us.”

“Floating downriver last I saw of them, but Quinn got away with it.”

“But not this time,” Dillon said.

“You’re that certain?”

“As the coffin lid closing.”

There seemed a sudden chill in the air. Monica seemed a little thrown. Ferguson called for the bill. “Back we go, people, early start in the morning.” They started to move.

 
 
LATER, MUCH LATER,
when it was really dark, the Avenger swayed at anchor, the tide flooding in from the harbor entrance, only her deck lights on, and it was time to retire for the night. Dillon, restless, found himself alone and went out on the stern deck, where the canopy offered shelter from the rain, silver in the yellow light. Way beyond the harbor entrance, he saw the red and green navigating lights of a ship passing down the Firth of Lorn. He was suddenly aware of one of those what’s-it-all-about feelings, sat down, produced his silver case, and lit a cigarette.

The door behind him creaked, and Monica said, “Could I have one of those?”

“Bad for your health, girl.” He passed his cigarette to her and lit another. She sat in one of the swivel chairs, and he found her.

“It’s nice like this,” she said. “The rain, the sea, ships at anchor with riding lights. Are you a rain man?”

“It’s bred in the bones if you’re from Northern Ireland. I’m a rain walker, yes, and I’ve always liked it, the city at night, wet streets stretching into autumnal darkness as you walk enclosed in your own private world, a feeling that something absolutely marvelous is going to come round the next corner.”

“I would have thought it would most likely be a mugger these days.”

“It’s a cynic you are, but maybe you’re right, perhaps I see it through the eyes of youth. London by night, I loved that.”

“But you’re Irish.”

“My mother passed away when I was born, so after a few years my father came to London for the work. We lived in Kilburn. I went to a school with a good drama department, and that led me to trying for a scholarship at RADA, as you’ve heard.”

“But you moved on quickly. What happened, Sean?”

“I’d managed to ignore the first few years of the Troubles. Then my father went home to Belfast on a trip, got caught in a firefight, and was killed by British paratroopers.”

“And you went back and joined the glorious cause?”

“That’s it. Was sent to Algeria to a training camp that processed young idealists like me who needed to know how to kill people successfully.”

There was silence for a moment. Finally, she said, “It’s what you would expect from a young boy, his father killed and so on.”

He lit another cigarette. “I turned out to be too good at it. Don’t have any illusions about me, Monica. As someone once said, Wyatt Earp killed seventeen men. I haven’t the slightest idea what my score is, except that it’s more. Don’t make me a hero figure with an Irish tricolor in one hand and a pistol in the other, like some Easter Rising painting on the wall of a Dublin bar. When I tried to blow up John Major and the War Cabinet in February 1991, I was being well paid, just as I was when I worked for the Israelis and also the PLO. I’m very even-handed. That’s what Ferguson liked about me when he blackmailed me into joining him.”

“No redeeming features at all?”

“An acceptable barroom piano, I suppose.”

They sat in silence in the yellow light, rain dripping from the roof. “You can’t make me hate you, Sean, because of what you’ve done. It would mean I’d have to hate my brother, and I can’t do that. You’re a good man, Sean Dillon, in spite of yourself, I think.”

The pain he felt was intense, for it was one of the last things that Hannah Bernstein, Ferguson’s strong right hand, had said to him as she lay close to death in Rosedene. He struggled for breath for a moment.

Monica grabbed his arm. “What is it?”

“Someone very close who could never forgive me the past said the same words before her death. It was at Rosedene, and painful to discuss.”

“I’m sorry.”

He pulled himself together. “Nonsense, girl, I’m fine. Let me give you a lesson.” Between them was a flap on the cabin wall. “Watch me.” He pulled a ring and opened it to reveal a battery of fuses. He produced a pistol from his pocket. “Walther PPK and ready to serve you. Just point and pull the trigger.” It fitted in beside the fuses, and he closed the flap. “Useful if someone tries to climb over the rail to get at you.”

“Thanks very much.”

“Naturally, I’ll do exactly the same in the wheelhouse. I’ll show you.” He pulled her up. “You’re in the death business now, love.”

“Really?” Suddenly, she slipped her right hand round his neck and kissed him fiercely and for a long moment, then pulled away. “And that, Mr. Dillon, is life. Think about it.”

“I certainly will.”

“Good. I’m tired now, so you can take me to the bar, get me a nightcap, and I’ll go to bed for a while, only don’t keep telling me what a terrible man you are. It gets boring.”

She opened the door and went in. He hesitated, then followed, more surprised than he had been in years.

 
 
LATER,
Dillon occupied himself checking the weaponry, particularly the sawn-off, loading it with two shells, seeing that everything worked. It had been a long time since he’d had a shotgun, a murderous weapon, especially with steel-ball shot. The
Lupara,
Sicilians called it, and much favored by the Mafia.

Ferguson appeared in the saloon. “My word, that should do the job.” “It’s been known to. Everything else in stock. You’ll know it like the back of your hand.”

“You’ve got your nylon-and-titanium waistcoat?”

“Wouldn’t be without it. I brought two, gave Monica the other, just in case she was anywhere near the odd angry shot. We had a nightcap. She’s gone to bed.”

“Very decent of you. She’s a lovely lady.” He hesitated, as if about to say something, but changed his mind. “I’m going to check the wheelhouse. The others all seem to have their heads down.”

“I’ll join you, but I’m going to have a drink first. Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee.” Ferguson grinned. “With a touch of whiskey in it.”

 
 
DILLON JOINED HIM
a little later and found him in one of the two swing seats close to the steering wheel, checking the controls. Dillon passed a mug to him and sat down. Ferguson was more than satisfied, sat back, and sipped his coffee.

“Try the bottom flat. Full of fuses.” Ferguson did so and found a Walther.

“You?” he said.

“Yes. All the comforts of home. Monica joined me up here for a nightcap, was here when I put it in place. I’d already shown her the Walther in the similar flap on the stern deck next to the chairs.”

“Useful information, I suppose, but you’d never expect her to be able to use one, a Cambridge don.”

“Well, the only other Cambridge don I know is your cousin, Hal Stone, who’s been up to scratch for you on several occasions.”

“True.” Ferguson sipped his coffee, and Dillon decided to put him out of his misery.

“I know what you’re trying to say, Charles. She’s gone through hell of late, including discovering incredible things about her brother. She has enough trouble coming to terms with all that without a wretch like me entering her life.”

“You have a way with the words, Dillon, something I’ve always admired.”

“I should also point out that all those doctorates indicate a lady with the kind of intellect that enables her to see through any false romantic image attached to a man like me.”

He swallowed his whiskey, and Ferguson said, “Good God, I always thought you a man of intelligence, but I see now I was wrong in my assumption. You obviously know nothing at all about women.” He shook his head. “Let’s turn in. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

So they did just that.

THEY DIDN’T LEAVE
until seven, and Ferguson was at the wheel as they moved out of the harbor. A gray, bitter morning, a headwind pushing rain toward them, and once out of the harbor entrance, the sea started to heave, and he throttled back the powerful engines, enjoying the whole business.

Helen and Monica had found him, while Dillon and Billy stayed below, checking each weapon carefully, loading the pistols and Uzi machine pistols. The Colt .25 hollow-points weren’t forgotten, laid out with their ankle holsters on the saloon table with the other weapons. Billy examined the sawn-off.

“A real killer, this one.”

“It’s supposed to be,” Dillon said.

Billy shook his head. “We’re really going to war this time.”

“I thought that was the idea.”

Monica appeared and sat down, watching. Billy said, “What are you taking for yourself?”

Dillon lifted up an old-fashioned carpetbag and opened it. He held up a Bible and a violet stole. “In case I have to hear confession. Black shirt, white clerical collar, and how about this?” He produced a soft black trilby hat in velour and put it on. Then he took out a pair of Zeiss-tinted glasses and put them on also. “Very popular item at the Vatican this year. What do you think?”

Monica cut in. “Put all that together with a black suit and you’ll look like the devil himself.”

“Now you wound me, but I’ll be in Ireland, remember, where a priest receives instant respect more than anywhere else in the world.” He produced a manila envelope. “One thousand pounds in fifties for Mickeen Oge Flynn. I was forgetting.”

She said, “Just look at you. Acting again. It’s meat and drink to you, isn’t it?”

“So you’ve found me out?” It was as if they were alone. “Very clever, but the performance isn’t on stage, love, it’s for real.”

“And don’t you think I know that?” She shook her head. “To hell with it. I’ll see what’s happening on deck.”

She went out, and Billy said, “I don’t think she’s happy.”

“I can see that.”

”You might be getting in a bit deep here.”

“Oh, really?” Dillon said. “Well, thanks for telling me. I’m going to my cabin to check my suit and things.”

He took the carpetbag and went out, and Billy said softly, “I can’t believe it—Dillon in love?”

A moment later, Monica returned. “Has he gone?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I wonder if you’d do me a favor.” She picked up a Walther from the table. “Could you show me how to handle one of these?”

Billy smiled. “My pleasure, Lady Starling.”

 
 
IN THE WHEELHOUSE,
things were getting interesting. Ferguson started to increase speed, racing the heavy weather that threatened from the east, and the waves grew rougher. Helen Black had had considerable experience of yachting in her time.

“Is it hard going?”

“Not at all, handles like a dream.” He got up, still holding the wheel. “Take over. I’m going to get a coffee. Just put your foot down and let’s see some speed.”

She did just that, and the Avenger surged forward suddenly into a curtain of mist and rain until she saw, to her astonishment, that they were racing ahead at forty-five knots. Suddenly she was happy, really happy, for the first time since her husband’s death.

 
 
SHE STAYED
at the wheel for an hour and a half, then handed it back to Ferguson and went below and joined Monica in the kitchen, where they devised a prelunch break together timed for ten o’clock. There was minestrone soup direct from the can, a selection of sandwiches ranging from salad, to ham, corned beef, and a cheese, tomato and onion pizza. Everything was laid out at one end of the saloon table.