Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 2: Angel of Death, Drink With the Devil, The President’s Daughter

‘Not possible,’ Cohen said. He took a map from his pocket and unfolded it. ‘This is Beirut. Now, out there is the Alexandrine and here,’ he tapped a finger, ‘here are three yacht basins and two areas of high density for small craft. If Quinn has been alerted to Callaghan’s disappearance, the last thing he will do is take a speedboat from the area I first saw them.’

There was silence. Hannah spoke again. ‘Then what do we do? If the ship is protected by security lights, we couldn’t make an approach.’

‘Oh, yes we could,’ Ferguson said. ‘We could go in underwater.’

Dillon groaned. ‘You mean I could.’

‘He’s really too modest, Major,’ Ferguson said. ‘He actually blew up some PLO boats the other year in this very harbour and on behalf of your people.’

‘Yes, I’m very well aware of that fact,’ Cohen said. ‘I’ve studied the file.’ He smiled at the Irishman. ‘I’ll be honest, Dillon, none of my people are underwater specialists. You’d be on your own.’

‘Jesus!’ Dillon said. ‘Tell me something new.’

‘I can get you anything you want as regards Scuba equipment.’

‘How kind,’ Dillon said. ‘I’ll call again. Could you also get me a little Semtex and a few timer pencils?’

‘Yes, that would be no problem.’

‘What on earth is this, Dillon?’ Ferguson put in. ‘Semtex? We don’t need to blow the damn ship up.’

‘Maybe we do,’ Dillon said. ‘Maybe we do.’ He turned to Cohen. ‘Now, let’s see how we’re going to do this.’

It was already dark by six-fifteen when Ferguson, Dillon and Hannah Bernstein, on a small private dock next to a yachting marina, watched Cohen and Moshe Levy check the diving equipment. There were two air tanks, an inflatable jacket, a pair of nylon fins, an underwater torch and a dive bag.

Dillon was already wearing a black nylon diving suit and cowl. He opened the dive bag and took out a Browning Hi-Power. There was a Carswell silencer which he screwed on the end and a twenty-round clip.

‘You’re going to war again,’ Hannah said.

‘That’s right.’ He took a block of Semtex from the bag and two pencil timers. ‘Three minutes?’ he asked Cohen.

‘Yes,’ the Major said. ‘That’s what you asked for and that’s what I’ve done, but I think you’re crazy.’

‘I usually am.’

‘You’re sure you’ll recognize them?’ Hannah demanded.

‘Jesus, girl, I saw those fax pictures the Brigadier brought, didn’t I?’

Ferguson, who had been a silent observer, said, ‘Let him get on with it, Chief Inspector.’

‘And save the free world?’ Dillon laughed. ‘Isn’t it interesting that it’s always sods like me that have to do it, Brigadier?’ He turned to Cohen, who had finished loading the large inflatable that was tied to the dock. ‘You and me, Major,’ Dillon said and climbed down.

Levy untied the line securing them to the dock, and at that moment, Hannah stepped down.

‘Chief Inspector,’ Ferguson said. ‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going along for the ride, sir, just for once. I’m tired of being a bystander.’

Dillon laughed out loud and she nodded to Cohen. He started the twin outboard motors and they slipped away from the dock into the darkness.

All the security lights were on view as they coasted in towards the Alexandrine. Cohen cut the engines about a hundred yards out and they came to a halt and just floated, virtually motionless. The Israeli produced a night sight and had a look towards the general harbour.

‘Something coming. A motorboat.’

It appeared from the shadows into the pool of light surrounding the Alexandrine and coasted in to the ship’s ladder. Two men clambered over and started climbing up.

‘That’s them, Bikov and Rassi.’ He passed the sight to Dillon. ‘See for yourself.’

Dillon had only seconds to catch them before they reached the deck. He nodded. ‘Looks like them to me. Let’s do it.’

He passed the sight to Cohen, went and put on a weight belt, then clamped a tank to his inflatable and pulled it on, fastening the velcro tabs across his chest. He hooked the diving bag at his waist. He took out the Hi-Power, and slipped the weapon inside his jacket.

‘I don’t like it, this diving,’ Hannah whispered. ‘It’s not natural.’

‘The only danger is from going deep,’ he said. ‘The air we breathe is part oxygen and part nitrogen. The deeper I go the more nitrogen is absorbed and that’s when the trouble starts, only I’m not going deep. I’ll cross to the Alexandrine at fifteen or twenty feet. No sweat.’ He pulled on his mask. ‘Do you still love me?’

‘Go to hell, Dillon!’ she said.

‘I’ve been doing that for a long time now, dear girl,’ he said and fell back into the water.

Dillon’s approach took only a few moments. He surfaced by the platform at the bottom of the steel stairway at the side of the ship. He eased out of the inflatable and tank and clipped them to the rail beside the platform, then clambered up on to the platform. He opened his jacket and took out the Browning and cocked it. At that very moment, an Arab seaman holding an AK47 appeared at the top of the stairs and started down. He saw Dillon and tried to bring the gun to bear, but Dillon shot him instantly, the silenced weapon making a dull thud as it hit the Arab in the chest and knocked him over the rail into the water.

Dillon started up the stairway and a voice called in Arabic, ‘Achmed, where are you?’

Dillon paused. Another Arab appeared, also armed with an AK47. He stood there quite unconcerned and Dillon took careful aim and shot him in the head. The man dropped his rifle, and went over the rail into the water.

A hundred yards away in the darkness Hannah Bernstein, looking through the night sight, shuddered. ‘My God, there were guards, two of them.’

‘What did he do?’ Cohen asked.

‘He shot them both.’

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ and he took the night sight from her gently.

Dillon moved along the deck, keeping to the shadows. He heard laughter, peered through a porthole and found half-a-dozen sailors playing cards, smoking and drinking.

‘And merciful Allah wouldn’t be too pleased about that,’ he said softly and moved on.

He came to some sort of salon, glanced in through a square window and found Selim Rassi and Daniel Quinn sitting on either side of a table. There was a small briefcase between them. There was no sign of the Russian.

Dillon opened the salon door and stepped inside. Quinn had his back to him but the Arab saw him at once and reached inside his jacket. Dillon shot him twice in the heart, sending him backwards in his chair.

Quinn turned, his own chair going over, and Dillon said, ‘Easy, Danny boy, easy.’

‘Who in the hell are you?’ Quinn demanded.

‘Oh, we go back a long way, you and me – Derry in the old days. Sean Dillon, Danny, your worst nightmare.’