A Season in Hell, page 25
“Sorry, sir.” Villiers turned, grim-faced. “There’s been a further development.”
Kim appeared with coffee and Ferguson accepted a cup gratefully. “All right, tell me the worst.”
“I’ve just been to the Cromwell Hospital. They’ve got Alan Crowther in intensive care.”
Ferguson was immediately alert. “What happened?”
“He was shot twice and fell into Camden Lock. Our friend Jago. Luckily a workman cycling to an early-morning shift along the towpath heard his cries. Found him hanging on to a ladder at the side of the canal.”
“And Jago did this?”
“Oh, yes, Alan’s just told me. He’s in a bad way, but able to talk. Jago wanted him to tell him where Sarah and Sean Egan have gone.”
“And did he?”
“No, but he told me. He decided things have gone too far. He escorted them to Lancaster last night. Jumped a freight train, would you believe that?”
“Oh, yes,” Ferguson assured him. “At this stage I can believe anything, Tony.”
“Anyway, they’ve hired a motor cruiser from that old rogue Sam Webster at Heysham. Sailing straight across to Ballycubbin.”
Ferguson nodded. “I told you young Sean would come up with something.”
Villiers said, “But what are we going to do?”
“Do?” Ferguson said. “Well, first, I shall shower, then Kim will provide a traditional English breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and tomatoes, with toast and marmalade and a large pot of Indian tea. We will consume this together, Tony, after which we will proceed as planned to Walsham and leave on the Lear at eight o’clock. You do have the helicopter arranged at Aldergrove?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good, and given what we now know, I’d like an escort waiting for us when we arrive at that army base at Donaghadee. One officer, captain rank, I think. Someone experienced, and six paratroopers. I always find it scares the hell out of people rather satisfactorily when they see those red berets.” Ferguson smiled. “See to it, Tony.”
He turned to the door and Villiers said, “But this could be dangerous, sir, very dangerous for Sarah and Egan. I mean, we’re letting them walk straight in on Leland Barry. There’s no knowing how he’ll react.”
“My dear Tony, there’s only one way he can react. You know it and so do I. He’s got to get rid of them, and that, of course, is the reaction we want, because once he makes that sort of move, we’ve got him.”
“Well, all I can say is we’ll be cutting it pretty fine,” Villiers remarked.
“Don’t we always, Tony?”
Just after eight, Sarah caught her first distant glimpse of the Ulster coast through heavy mist and rain. There was light by now, but very murky, gray and mysterious. Somewhere a foghorn sounded.
Egan shivered. “I hate November. It’s neither one thing nor the other. Just slap in the middle of autumn and winter.”
“I know,” she said. “What time will we get in?”
“About a quarter to nine. Here, take the wheel.”
She did as she was told. Egan’s holdall was on the chart table. He opened it, took out the Walther in its special holster, knelt down and strapped the holster into place just above his right boot. He tested the Walther for ease of movement and pulled down his jeans.
“You Yanks are great believers in an ace in the hole, aren’t you?” he said.
“I wouldn’t know,” she told him. “I don’t play cards.”
He brought out the Browning, tested it as well, then slipped it inside his leather jacket. He took the wheel back, and at that moment, the wind tore a curtain in the mist and Sarah saw, perhaps a mile away, a small harbor, whitewashed cottages above a jetty.
“Ballycubbin?” she asked.
“The circle of maximum danger,” Egan said, and he throttled back and took the Jenny B in.
FIFTEEN
There were few fishing boats in the harbor, but then they had passed most of them on their way in, sailing out to the fishing grounds in search of herring and mackerel.
“It’s usual to report to the harbormaster’s office when you come in,” Egan told Sarah, “but I doubt whether a place like this even has a harbormaster.”
He cut the engine as they bumped alongside the lower jetty, and Sarah jumped to the dock with a line. He followed her over the rail to assist and they tied up.
“Well, here we are,” she said. “Not much of a place.”
“Are you ready with your story?” he asked.
She nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good, then let’s do it.” And he went up the ladder ahead of her.
The Lear Jet landed at Aldergrove at about the same moment and taxied to an area at the far end of the airport that was reserved for military purposes. An Army Air Corps Lynx helicopter was waiting, the pilot already at the controls.
A young lieutenant stood at the bottom of the steps. He saluted. “Everything ready, sir.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Ferguson said and boarded the Lynx, quickly followed by Villiers.
Villiers leaned forward and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. “How long to Donaghadee?”
“Fifteen minutes, sir.”
“Didn’t I tell you, Tony?” Ferguson said as he strapped himself in. “You worry too much.” And the Lynx lifted off with a roar, drowning any more attempts at conversation.
The street along the front was deserted in the rain, no sign of life, only a small grocery store open. Egan opened its door. A bell tinkled and a young woman reading a magazine on the counter looked up. “Jesus, you startled me.”
“Sorry,” Egan said. “Just in with my boat. Is there a café? We could do with something to eat and a cup of tea.”
“You could try the pub. The Orange Drum. It’s a few doors down.”
“Isn’t it a bit early in the morning for them to be open?”
“Sure, but no one cares in a place like this. Murtagh’s always there, he’s the publican. He’ll see you all right.”
“Thanks.”
Egan and Sarah continued along the front and stopped under the pub sign. “The Orange Drum,” Egan commented. “They don’t leave you in any doubts about their politics, do they?”
The door opened to his touch and he led the way into a large, old-fashioned taproom with a low ceiling and a Victorian bar of polished mahogany. It reminded him very much of The Bargee.
The door behind the bar opened and a large, gray-haired man in waistcoat and shirt-sleeves came in, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. “Good morning,” he said genially. “And where did you two spring from?”
“We’re just in on a motor cruiser from Bangor,” Egan said. “The girl in the shop said you might manage some breakfast.”
“No problem.” He leaned over the bar and shook hands. “Ian Murtagh.”
“My name’s Egan.”
“Sarah Talbot.” She held out a hand. “It’s good of you to help us out.”
“American?” he said. “We don’t get many of your kind round here. The tourist trade isn’t what it used to be.”
“And isn’t that understandable?” Sean said, and to Sarah’s astonishment, his voice had changed and he was now speaking with the hard accent of Belfast.
“In the circumstances, one might just wonder why you’ve chosen Ballycubbin, Mrs. Talbot,” Murtagh said.
Egan looked at her. “Go on, tell him, why don’t you? He might be able to help.”
She leaned across the bar, pushed her knit cap up and turned the full charm of her gray-green eyes on him. “Well, this is in confidence of course, but despite the disguise I’m a journalist for Time magazine. There’s a man lives somewhere near here, a retired judge called Sir Leland Barry. The IRA tried to blow him up a year or so ago.”
“And killed his wife,” Murtagh told her, face impassive. “I know Sir Leland well. He’s a fine man.”
“I was hoping for an interview, but I’ve heard he doesn’t give them. I suppose he’s worried about his personal security.”
“And why would he have to worry about that in a place like this, with every man in the county on his side?” Murtagh asked. “And in any case, I’ve always found him a reasonable man. A perfect gentleman with the ladies. Would you like me to phone and explain the situation?”
“Oh, would you?” Sarah said breathlessly.
“No trouble. You make yourselves comfortable by the fire. I’ll put the kettle on—my wife’s away at her mother’s—then I’ll phone Sir Leland.”
He went out. Sarah stood in front of the fire, warming her hands. “What do you think?”
“Too easy,” Egan said. “Much too easy, but let’s wait and see.”
In the library at Rosemount, Sir Leland Barry sat at his desk. His estate manager, James Calder, stood at his side, a sheaf of papers in his hand. Sir Leland put down the phone.
“They’re here, the man Egan I told you about and the American woman.”
“We’re sure he’s IRA?” Calder asked.
“Oh, yes.” Barry nodded. “He’s been working with their so-called European battalion, killing unarmed British soldiers in Holland and Germany. She’s from some Irish-American organization in New York, and both of them are out to make a name for themselves by shooting me.”
“The bastards,” Calder said.
“Well, we’ll give them their chance, at least on paper. You go down to the village and pick them up. Take one of the gamekeepers with you. Flynn, I think.
He’s done well recently. I’m sure he’d like to finish off another Provo gunman. Murtagh can come back with you.”
“Fine, sir.”
Calder moved to the door. Sir Leland added, “Let’s get the timing right, because I’m calling in the RUC now, and we want our friends nicely dead when they arrive.”
He picked up the phone and quickly dialed the number of the local RUC headquarters.
The Lynx hovered for a few moments, then settled on the helicopter landing pad at the army base outside Donaghadee. There were three khaki-painted army Land Rovers waiting. The two at the rear of the small column were stripped down. Each one had a driver, three sitting behind, all paratroopers, hard young men in red berets and camouflaged jump jackets, armed with Sterling submachine guns. The front Land Rover still had its housing on. Two officers stood beside it, a paratroop captain and an Army Air Corps colonel. They came forward and saluted as Ferguson and Villiers got out.
“Brigadier Ferguson? Colonel Chalmers, sir, in command here. May I introduce Captain Richard Stacey, Two Para?”
Stacey saluted smartly. Ferguson said, “This is Colonel Villiers, my aide. Time is of the essence, Colonel. I’m obliged to you for your prompt assistance in this matter, but we must move and move quickly. I’ll give Captain Stacey his orders as we go.”
A few seconds later, Ferguson and Villiers were sitting in the rear of the lead Land Rover, Stacey up front beside the driver, as they led the small convoy toward the gate.
“You know Ballycubbin, Captain?” Ferguson asked as a bar was raised and they sped through.
“Yes, sir,” Stacey replied.
“That is our destination. In particular, the home of Sir Leland Barry. You realize, of course, that you are wholly bound by the provisions of the Official Secrets Act?”
“If you say so, sir,” Stacey said.
“Good. Then when we get there, you and your men will do exactly as I say, neither more nor less.” He turned and smiled at Villiers. “Don’t worry, Tony, we’ll make it, I promise you.”
Egan and Sarah finished the bacon sandwiches that Murtagh had brought them and were into a second cup of tea when he returned. He was wearing a hunter’s three-quarter-length parka and a rain hat.
“It’s your lucky day, Mrs. Talbot,” he said. “I told you Sir Leland was a decent man. He’s sent one of the estate cars to pick you up.”
“Really?” Sarah said.
“Aren’t I telling you? It’s waiting for you out back.” He lifted the flap of the bar counter. “This way.”
Sarah got up, slightly unsure, and Egan said, “Isn’t that wonderful, Mrs. Talbot?”
She walked through into the kitchen, and as Egan followed he pulled the zip of his leather jacket down slightly, ready to reach for the Browning if necessary. Murtagh passed them and opened the back door, leading the way into the cobbled yard. There was a large Peugeot estate car standing there, two men beside it.
Murtagh said, “This is Mr. Calder, Sir Leland’s factor at the estate, and Malcolm Flynn, head gamekeeper.”
Calder smiled charmingly and put out his hand. “A pleasure, Mrs. Talbot. Sir Leland’s asked me to take you straight up to the house.”
“That’s very kind of him,” Sarah said, and Calder opened the rear door and motioned her inside.
At the same moment, Murtagh produced an old American army-issue Colt and touched the muzzle to the back of Egan’s neck. “But before we go, bucko, let’s relieve you of whatever’s spoiling the shape of that pretty leather jacket.”
Flynn produced a Smith & Wesson thirty-eight revolver from the capacious poacher’s pocket of his jacket. Murtagh found the Browning and passed it to Calder.
Calder took it, examined it for a moment, then shook his head sorrowfully and put it in his pocket. “You really can’t trust anyone these days, and that means you, sweetheart, so over the car, both of you. Assume the position, isn’t that what they say on American TV?”
Sarah turned to Egan, angry and afraid. He said gently, “Just do as they say.”
He spread his legs and leaned on the car; she followed suit, aware of hands roughly searching her. Calder said, “Right, the rear seat, both of you.”
Flynn got behind the wheel, Calder beside him, and Murtagh sat in the center seat, his back to the door, covering them with the Colt.
“It’s not every day we have a couple of Shinners traveling with us and in such style.” He glanced at Calder. “Have you ever noticed how you can always tell a Catholic? They look different.”
Egan took Sarah’s hand and held it tight.
Sir Leland Barry was sitting at the desk in his study, writing, when Calder led the way into the room. He took off his spectacles, looked up and put down his pen. Egan and Sarah stood in front of the desk, Murtagh at the door. He had his gun in his hand as did Flynn, who stood on the opposite side of the room, his back to the library shelves. Calder took out Egan’s Browning and laid it on the desk.
“He had this.”
Sir Leland picked it up for a moment, weighed it in his hand and put it down. “A journalist, you say, Mrs. Talbot?”
Before she could reply, Egan took out his wallet. As he reached for it, Murtagh and Flynn raised their weapons threateningly. He put up a hand. “A minute only.” He tossed the wallet on the desk. “If you check that, you’ll find sufficient ID to prove that I’m a serving member of the SAS.”
Murtagh laughed harshly. “Bollocks.”
“Crude, but adequate.” Sir Leland sat back. “That kind of forgery is commonplace with you people.”
“And which people would that be?” Egan asked.
“Why, the Provisional IRA, and this lady, I’ve been given to understand, is an Irish American, a member of a New York-based organization whose sole aim is to cause as much havoc as possible in this province.”
“That’s nonsense.” Sarah leaned on the desk. “My name is Mrs. Sarah Talbot. My son, Eric, was murdered in Paris two weeks ago at the instigation of a man called Smith, with whom I have the best of reasons to believe you have business dealings.”
He frowned in apparent bewilderment. “Business dealings?”
“Yes, you’ve been engaged in the drug trade together.”
Flynn, outraged, said, “Jesus, would you listen to that?”
Calder said, “You can cut out the drivel, it’s too late for that. We know why you’re here. To gain access to this house and assassinate Sir Leland.”
“Only it won’t work,” Barry said, “because I was forewarned.” He shook his head gently. “I’m afraid it’s you who must pay the price, Mrs. Talbot.”
“But that’s crazy,” she said.
“Not at all. I’ve been in touch with the RUC. They should be here any moment. They’ll find you and Mr. Egan very dead, my life saved by my good friends here.”
Egan pushed her to one side. “You can’t do this, Barry, she’s telling the truth, you know she is.”
He made as if to reach across the desk and it provoked the action he’d hoped for. Calder grabbed him by the back of the neck and spun him round and Egan fell back against the couch.
Murtagh moved in and Flynn started across the room. “You bastard!” Murtagh said.
Egan’s right hand swung up with the Walther from the ankle holster. He shot Murtagh in the center of the forehead, was already on one knee, grabbing Sarah by the leg and pulled her down, turning and firing again, catching Flynn twice in the heart. Calder scrabbled for the Browning on the desk and was shot in the temple at close range. Egan stood there, very cool, very deadly, feet apart. It was the most terrible and destructive thing she had ever seen, no more than three seconds in the doing.
Sir Leland, still in his chair, said, “For God’s sake, no!”
Egan gave Sarah a hand up and pulled her behind him. “Now, I’ve very little time left before your RUC chums get here so we’ll make this brief. I’ve got three left in this thing.” He raised the Walther. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know I’ll give you all three in the belly. A painful way to go and very slow.”
“Anything,” Sir Leland said. “Anything you want.”
“All right. Smith—who is he? Where do we find him?”
“But I don’t know. I can’t answer either of those questions.” Egan raised the Walther threateningly and Barry cried hoarsely, “It’s true, I tell you. I phone a contact number and leave a message. He phones me. It’s always been that way.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true, I swear it.” There was sweat on Barry’s face, blind panic, and then it cleared. “Just a minute. There is something. Let me open the desk drawer.”
“All right, but very, very carefully.”
