The Midnight Bell

“You devious bastard, I don’t believe you,” Tad replied. “You’re lucky I allow you to leave this place still walking. Never show your face here again.”

Larry added, “Get back to Ulster while you still can. That’s sound advice. You’re not wanted here and never will be.”

“Then damn the lot of you and go to hell,” his father replied, pushing his way through the thickening crowd and disappearing.

Larry turned to Dillon and Hannah. “Is there any chance we could have supper together?”

“Another time,” Dillon said. “But my masters call, and like a good boy, I obey. Sorry I can’t explain.”

“Seriously? We’re not supposed to know you’ve been working for British Intelligence for years now?”

“Okay, but we’ve got a real crisis facing us, believe me. We’ll see you when we can, but for the moment, it’s all hands to the pumps.”

“Which includes me,” Hannah called, as she followed Dillon to the Mini, jumped in, and they drove away.

“I like that girl,” Larry said.

“So do I.” Tad nodded. “A very special lady.” He sighed. “Let’s get out of here.” And he led the way to where Molly waited in the limousine.

DILLON TURNED INTO PARK LANE, driving toward Marble Arch, and Hannah said, “When you were speaking at Holland Park about the Magees at Drumore, you said that the Maria Blanco was a big old launch tied up to the jetty and used by Cousin Eli to fish from. I get the feeling there’s more to it than that. Why don’t you tell me what all the fuss is about?”

“God help me, girl, why are women so persistent? You won’t leave me alone until I do, will you?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then shut up and listen. I was called to Belfast and told by the Army Council that I was needed in Algeria by the Gaddafi training camp to help with new recruits for the IRA. I’d trained there myself, and so had my good friend after me, Daniel Holley, who you’ve not had a chance to meet.”

“Is he a Provo?”

“Oh, yes, but of a special kind. A Protestant.”

“Sweet Jesus.” She was shocked. “And what kind of a Provo would a damn Prod be?”

“The kind whose sweet young Catholic cousin was raped and murdered by UVF scum, so he executed the four who had done it. There was nowhere for him to go except to join the IRA after that.”

“Mother of God,” she said.

“But enough of his background. He works for Ferguson like the rest of us do, so you’ll be meeting him one of these days. He’s partner in a shipping line out of Algiers. He’s half Irish, and his mother is a decent Catholic woman from Crossmaglen, but never mind that. Do you want the rest of the Maria Blanco story?”

“Of course I do.”

“Hugh Tulley got word from an informer that one of the Belfast banks was sending twenty-five million pounds in gold bullion to Dublin concealed in a meat wagon that would be passing his way. A common enough trick in those days to avoid holdups.”

“So he decided to have a go?” Hannah said.

“You could say that. A brisk gunfight on a country road with night falling that left three policemen in plainclothes dead, Tulley wounded, and two of their own dead. The alarm was raised all over County Down, and the RUC swung into action.”

“So what happened next?”

“Tulley thought of Eli, on his own at Drumore, Finbar being in the Maze, and the answer to his problem seemed obvious. Get to Drumore as fast as possible, transfer the bullion to the Maria Blanco, and take to the seas.”

“And did that work?” she asked.

“With difficulty, because of people’s wounds, but they made Eli, a man of enormous strength, help them. They intended to sail away, but it became obvious that Tulley and one of the other men were close to death and they were all bleeding.”

“What did you do?” Hannah asked.

“Well, you have to remember that the RUC did not know where they were, so if they took Eli’s Land Rover, there was hope for them at the cottage hospital nearby, where the nuns were kind.”

“And come back for the bullion later?” Hannah asked. “That seems a thin chance to me. What about Eli? What was he up to?”

“Not much. They found some old-fashioned shackles in the boathouse hanging on a peg with two keys, which they were careful to take with them when they left him chained.”

“And Tulley’s boys?”

“The first roadblock was enough, and they held their hands up.”

“And Eli?”

“The police found him, still shackled. He said he heard the boat’s engines and managed to peer through a crack in the wall planking and glimpsed a shadow in the wheelhouse as the Maria Blanco moved out to sea.”

“And Tulley and company?”

“He was crippled. They were in the Maze together with Finbar when the legend of the Maria Blanco and its cargo was born.” Dillon shrugged. “The RUC looked at every possibility, turned the criminal underworld in Ulster inside out, but never got a hint, and that’s the way it is to this day.”

“I bet it is. So what happened to Eli?”

“Well, as he’d been a victim, life went on, Finbar serving his time in the Maze for another year, obsessed with the knowledge of what had happened. I think it was the fact of it all having taken place in Drumore and, because of that, having it somehow slip through his fingers that got to him.”

Hannah nodded. “I can see that.” She was frowning. “Sean, I hope you don’t mind my saying that you seem incredibly knowledgeable about the whole business. Did you by chance have anything to do with it?”

“Thank God I didn’t,” he said cheerfully. “Booked out of Belfast on the afternoon plane to London Heathrow, which I left the following morning on the ten-thirty flight to Algiers.”

“You wouldn’t lie to me?” she said.

“Of course not. You can’t be in two places at the same time. So let’s leave the mystery of the Maria Blanco to continue to torment Finbar.”

“That’s all very well, cousin,” she replied. “But I think it will continue to torment a lot of people, including me. Twenty-five million in bullion, how much will that be now?”

“I wouldn’t think about that; it will ruin the rest of your day.”

Dillon laughed and turned into the safe house at Holland Park to find Ferguson’s Daimler parked there, and as he and Hannah got out of the Mini, Ferguson, Cazalet, and Blake emerged from the main entrance.

Ferguson said, “Everything go all right at the funeral?”

“Not really,” Dillon said. “The father turned up, drunk as usual, and distinctly not wanted.”

“Always bad news, Finbar,” Ferguson said. “But we’ve been having a further development here. The Master’s on the phone again. Roper will fill you in. Henry Frankel’s returned to Downing Street, and we’re off to join him and the Prime Minister.”