A Season in Hell, page 26
Barry opened the drawer and hunted through. “He sent a courier once. She came on the ferry, the Glasgow ferry to Stranraer. Murtagh went to meet her.”
“A woman?”
“That’s right. She delivered a suitcase.”
“Heroin?”
Barry nodded. “Murtagh gave her one in return with the necessary cash and she went back on the next ferry.” He laughed in relief. “I’ve found it, see? Flynn drove Murtagh to Stranraer, stayed out of sight and took a photo of them together.” He shrugged. “I thought it might be useful at some stage.”
Egan looked down at the photo and Sarah moved forward. “Can I see?”
And then everything happened at once. Sir Leland Barry grabbed the Browning on the desk and got to his feet. Egan fired three times very fast, driving him back through the French windows to the terrace. In the same moment, the outer door burst open and several police constables in the green uniform of the Royal Ulster Constabulary stormed in, submachine guns at the ready. Egan just had time to slip the photo into his pocket before they swarmed all over him.
Egan lay face down on the floor of the Georgian drawing room, his wrists handcuffed behind him. Sarah sat at a table, head lowered. There was one constable on guard by the door, his Sterling ready in both hands. The door opened and a uniformed inspector came in, followed by a sergeant.
The inspector said, “It’s like a butcher’s shop in there.”
The sergeant walked over and kicked Egan in the ribs. “You dirty Provo swine. You killed Sir Leland, you and this Yank bitch.”
“Stop that, Carter,” the inspector said sharply.
“I’m not a Provo, I’m SAS,” Egan said. “And if you’re interested, your good friend Sir Leland Barry commanded the Sons of Ulster.”
There was a look of anger and disbelief on Carter’s face. “You lying bastard.”
He kicked him again and the inspector repeated, “Stop that!” He said to Egan, “Can you prove what you say?”
“My wallet’s on Barry’s desk. My ID is in it.”
The inspector said to Carter, “Watch them,” and went out.
Carter stood looking down at Egan, touched him gently with the toe of his boot, then he glanced at Sarah, put a hand on her chin and raised her head. “Wait for me outside, Murphy,” he told the police constable.
The door closed gently. Sarah said, “What Mr. Egan says is true. You’ll see.”
“True?” He said, “What do you people know about truth? You butchered Sir Leland’s wife, you blow up kids, and you bloody Irish Americans are the worst, coming over here, sticking your noses in what doesn’t concern you.” He pulled her up. “We’ll soon sort you out back at the station, but in the meantime, you need your inspection.” She started to struggle and Egan kicked out at him in vain. “Your body inspection. Every nook, every cranny. I mean, we don’t know what you’re carrying, do we?”
She was back across the table, his knee forced between her legs, his hands on her breasts. As waves of horror and disgust washed over her, she suddenly remembered Jock White’s instructions, saw her one chance, and pointed each hand into a perfect phoenix fist and jabbed into each side of his neck. He screamed in agony, and behind him the door was flung open and Ferguson entered, Tony Villiers at his shoulder. Captain Stacey and his paratroopers crowded in behind, weapons ready.
Sergeant Carter backed away, looking dazed, and Sarah sat up as the inspector pushed his way in. “What’s going on here?”
Tony Villiers took an ID card from his wallet. “Colonel Villiers, Group Four, and this is Brigadier Charles Ferguson. I think you know who he is.”
The inspector saluted at once. “Brigadier.”
“I’m assuming full control here under the special powers which, I’m sure you are aware, I hold. All was not what it seemed, Inspector, that’s all you need to know for the moment. Now kindly remove the handcuffs from this gentleman.”
“Sergeant Carter,” the inspector said.
Carter produced a key and released Egan. Villiers put an arm around Sarah. “Are you all right?”
“I am now,” she said.
“Let’s leave the greetings until later,” Ferguson said testily.
They moved to the door. Villiers said, “Excuse me a moment.” He turned, crossed the room in two quick strides, kicked Carter between the legs and, as the sergeant keeled over, raised a knee into his face. “When I see rubbish like you at work,” Villiers said, looking down at him, “it sometimes makes one think the IRA might have a point.”
It was early evening at Aldergrove, darkness falling, rain drifting across the apron where the Lear Jet waited. Sarah stood at the window of the waiting room, a cup of tea in her hand. Egan sat on a seat beside her. The afternoon had passed in a flurry of forms and statements. They hadn’t really had time to talk. She was about to speak when the door opened and Villiers and Ferguson entered.
“We’ll be off in a couple of minutes,” Villiers said.
Ferguson walked across the room and stood beside Sarah. “Are you all right now, Mrs. Talbot?”
“I think so,” she said.
“As regards the actions of Sergeant Carter back there, he’ll be dealt with appropriately, I can assure you of that. In every barrel there’s always at least one rotten apple. The RUC have been on the firing line in one of the dirtiest little wars in modern times for something like fourteen years now. Don’t condemn them all because of the actions of one man.”
“I’ll try not to,” Sarah told him.
“Having said that, you’ll never come closer to meeting a bad end. A good place to be leaving.” Ferguson looked out as rain drummed against the window. “What a bloody awful country. Sometimes I really think we should give it back to the Indians.”
SIXTEEN
Jago, standing at the window of his apartment on Lord North Street drinking a cup of coffee, saw the Daimler pull up outside Sarah’s house at eight o’clock that same evening, and he hurried to turn up the receiver.
In the car, Ferguson said, “I’d like a few words before I go, Mrs. Talbot. May we come in?”
“Is it necessary, Brigadier? I’m very tired.”
“Essential, I’m afraid.”
“Oh, very well,” she said reluctantly, got out of the Daimler, went up the steps and unlocked the front door. Ferguson, Villiers and Egan followed her.
Sarah switched on the light, led the way into the sitting room and turned to face them. “All right, Brigadier, what do you want to say?”
“Some of my superiors in Government will not be pleased,” Ferguson said. “But I got what I wanted, Leland Barry’s head, and I thank you for that.”
“But?” Sarah said.
“Alan Crowther is half-dead in hospital, thanks to our friend Jago, Mrs. Talbot. You didn’t know that, did you? Bodies strewn all over the place, Paris, Sicily, Ireland. It’s been a Cook’s Tour of unmitigated violence. You got everything you wanted, but at a rather heavy price.”
“Except Smith.”
“We may never know who he is now. If he has any sense, he’ll drop out of sight, but one thing is certain. You return to America tomorrow, and I’m prepared to make that a legal directive,” Ferguson told her. “It stops here, Mrs. Talbot.” He said to Villiers, “You will make yourself personally responsible for seeing Mrs. Talbot gets on that plane in the morning, Tony.”
“Yes, sir,” Villiers said.
“Good.” Ferguson turned to Egan. “And you, young Sean, will present yourself to my flat in Cavendish Place at eleven o’clock in the morning on the dot. We need to have words.” He didn’t wait for Egan to reply, simply said, “Goodnight, Mrs. Talbot,” and walked to the door.
Villiers put a hand on her arm. “I’ll see you in the morning, Sarah,” he said and went after Ferguson.
The outer door banged, the Daimler started up and drove away. There was silence. Sarah stood there in the old reefer and woolen cap, her face smudged with dirt.
“So that’s it?” Egan said.
“No it isn’t, Sean. I know it and so do you, but first I need a shower and some clean clothes.” She touched his cheek for a moment in genuine affection. “You know something? You’re a great guy, or should I say a smashing fella? Isn’t that what the cockney girls would say?”
“Something like that.”
“All right, smashing fella. Make some tea in the kitchen while I change, and then we’ll talk.”
She stood under a hot shower for five minutes, then toweled her hair, combed it, still damp, and tied it in a ponytail. She got fresh underwear from the drawer, a cream silk blouse. It was as if she had washed away all that had happened in Ireland, and she felt better already. When she came downstairs and entered the kitchen she was wearing the brown suede trouser suit and high-heeled boots.
“You look nice,” he said as he poured the tea.
“Well, I certainly feel better.” Rain hammered against the window, and they sat on opposite sides of the table, a curious intimacy between them. “Sean, there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve never mentioned any girl in your life.” She hesitated. “Was that because of Sally? After all, she wasn’t your real sister.”
“As far as I’m concerned, she was and always will be.” He lit a cigarette, coughed a little and paused. “What in the hell am I smoking this thing for?” He stubbed it out. “There was a girl back there in Belfast. Mary Costello. A nice Catholic girl. Naturally, her family didn’t approve. In fact, where she lived, nobody approved. It was a very Republican area.”
“But you are a Catholic yourself,” she pointed out.
“But I was also a soldier in the British Army. Anyway, one night the local women got her. Shaved head, tarred and feathered and left tied to a lamppost. Even her parents didn’t dare go out to her. She was found by an army patrol in the morning and taken to hospital.” Egan stood up and peered out the window. “She drowned herself in the River Liffey the day they discharged her.”
There were sudden hot tears in her eyes. “How could people be so cruel?”
“It’s not the people. It’s life and what it does to them,” Egan said. “The way it provides them with perfectly lousy situations and doesn’t give them any choice in the matter.”
His face, when he turned, was anguished, and she got up, went around the table and put her arms around him. “Is it that bad?”
“Couldn’t be worse,” he said.
“Then let’s get on with it.” She pulled him to the table and they sat down. “That photo Leland Barry gave you when you threatened him, the photo of the meeting at Stranraer. You were just about to show it to me when he grabbed for the gun and then the RUC burst in. You’ve still got it?”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t say anything about it to Tony and Ferguson. Why not?”
“Because it’s nothing to do with them, not any more. Now, it’s personal.”
“The courier Smith sent was a woman, isn’t that what Barry said?”
“Oh, yes.” Egan nodded. “It was a woman all right.”
He took the photo from his pocket and pushed it across the table. It showed Murtagh leaning against a post on the dock at Stranraer. A gray-haired woman in a winter coat talking to him. Ida Shelley.
“Oh, my God!” Sarah said.
Egan’s face was unnaturally calm. “She’s my cousin, really. Of course, I called her Aunty when I was a kid and she was always Aunty Ida to Sally.”
Sarah felt the hurt as much as he, and at the same time was aware of a deep and burning anger, a kind of rage that could become blinding if she let it. “Just take a good long breath, Sean.” She held both his hands tightly.
“Sally’s Aunty Ida.” There were tears in his eyes. “Sally’s lovely Aunty Ida.” He pulled one hand free and hammered it on the table. “Isn’t that the funniest thing you ever heard?”
“No,” she said, calm now. “Not really. Actually, I think it’s about the worst.” She got up. “Wait here for me. I’ll only be a minute.”
She walked into the sitting room, went to the desk and phoned for a cab, then she opened the drawer in the Sheraton bureau and took out the Walther PPK that Jock White had given her. She checked it very carefully, as he had shown her, then slipped it into her handbag and returned to the kitchen.
“Come on, Sean, I’ve called a cab. We’ll go and see Ida.” And she turned and led the way out.
Jago phoned the contact number, at the same time watching the cab move away in the street below. When the phone rang, he picked it up instantly.
“Now what?” Smith demanded.
“If you have tears, prepare to shed them now,” Jago said. “Shakespeare, old stick, but very applicable where you are concerned.”
“What in the hell are you going on about?” Smith demanded.
“Well, not only have they knocked off your friend Barry and returned in one piece. They also have a photo he gave them—with a little persuasion, I’m sure.”
“What photo?”
“Oh, a courier you sent to meet someone at Stranraer, and guess who? Ida Shelley.” Jago laughed. “Now don’t you think that’s rather astounding?”
“No,” Smith said. “What I actually think is that it’s time you and I got together.”
Jago didn’t have time to shower, but he did change his shirt for a clean one, crisp white cotton which set off his regimental tie to perfection. Then he opened one of his cases, lifted a false bottom and took out a curious garment. It was a waistcoat of nylon and titanium, manufactured by the Wilkinson Sword Company, and he’d had it for some years. It could stop a .45 bullet at almost point-blank range. He put it on, fastened it neatly, then added his jacket and finally the Burberry. He checked the Browning, slipped it into one pocket, the silencer in the other. He carefully ran a comb through his hair and smiled at his reflection in the mirror. “What a hell of a last act, and definitely not to be missed.”
He went out. The door closed softly behind him.
The Mini Cooper was still parked where Egan had left it in the yard at the side of The Bargee. It was busy inside. Through the window they could see the bar crowded with drinkers, Ida and three helpers going at it full blast.
Egan and Sarah slipped in through the kitchen door. He said, “Wait here, I’ll only be a minute.”
He went up to his bedroom, pulled back the carpet between the bed and the wall and lifted the floorboard. There was another Browning in there somewhere. He found it and a Carswell, got a couple of ammunition clips and went back downstairs.
As he went into the kitchen, the door to the bar opened and Ida hurried in, wiping her hands on a bar cloth. She stared at them in amazement. “Where did you spring from?”
“Just got back,” Egan told her.
“Jack was on the phone this afternoon asking after you. He’s out of the clinic now. Back at Hangman’s Wharf.”
“That’s good,” Egan said. “We met an acquaintance of yours while we were over there in Ulster, Ida, or maybe I should call him a business associate.”
She looked puzzled. “What are you on about?” Egan held the photo up in front of her. “This, Ida—this is what I’m talking about.” Her face was white, eyes staring. Suddenly she looked ten years older. She took the photo from him, hands trembling, and slumped down at the table. Then she started to cry.
Jago left the Spyder in Wapping High Street and walked the rest of the way in spite of the rain, which was quite heavy now. Finally he turned down the narrow street lined with old Victorian warehouses and came out onto Hangman’s Wharf. Smith was standing under a lamp looking out at the river. He was holding a large black umbrella, a raincoat slung over his shoulders.
Jago stood there, hands in pockets. “Mr. Smith? We meet at last.”
“And about bleeding time,” Jack Shelley said, and turned to face him, smiling, a curiously dashing figure, his left arm in a heavy black sling.
Ida remained at the kitchen table, aware of the roar of the Mini Cooper’s engine starting up outside and fading away. She’d stopped crying now; she took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. The bar door opened and one of the barmen looked in. “What you up to, Ida? We’re run off our feet in here, girl.”
“I’ll be right in, Bert.”
She walked to the mantelpiece and picked up the photo of Egan and Sally, the girl slightly profiled, looking up at him with such love.
“My little Sally,” Ida whispered. “I let you down, love, didn’t I? I was always too afraid, you see, but not any more.”
She put the picture down, picked up the card Tony Villiers had given her and went to the phone.
As the old freight elevator went up slowly, floor by floor, Shelley said, “You’ve done a great job on your appearance. I wouldn’t have known you.”
“You knew what I looked like before, then?” Jago asked.
“ ’Course I did. Don’t be bleeding stupid. I knew more about you than you know about yourself. That’s why I picked you.”
“But the way you handled things,” Jago said. “All those calls. That was brilliant.”
“Balls!” Shelley said. “It was easy. The great thing about the telephone is that as long as you’re the one making the call, you’re in charge. The bleeper alerted me if I was in range and if I wasn’t I only had to call the contact number at intervals to see if there was a message.”
“Clever,” Jago said.
“Not really. If someone phones you and says they’re in London, you believe them, but they could be in Paris. That’s how salesmen manage their dirty weekends away from home.” He laughed coarsely as the lift stopped and he stepped out. “Yes, I could phone you from anywhere and you didn’t know where it was coming from. Car phone, when I was lying in bed in that clinic, phone booths. Of course, what really covered my tracks was Paris. You shooting at me like that. Just enough to make it look like I was one of the good guys. I took a big chance on you there, but you handled it just right.”
He led the way down the corridor past the kitchen and opened the door into the main room. He reached for a bank of switches, made an adjustment so that there were only a couple of table lamps on at the other end, most of the room shrouded in darkness.
