Sean Dillon 3-Book Collection 1: Eye of the Storm, Thunder Point, On Dangerous Ground

‘Call it my innate caution or perhaps the wicked habits of a lifetime.’

A voice sounded through the box beside the door. ‘Is that you, Devlin?’

‘And who else, you stupid bugger. I’ve got Martin Brosnan with me and a lady-friend of his and we’re freezing in this damn cold so get the door open.’

‘You’re early. You said two o’clock.’

They could hear steps on the other side and then the door opened to reveal a tall, cadaverous man in his mid-sixties. He wore a heavy Aran pullover and baggy jeans and carried a Sterling sub-machine gun.

Devlin brushed past him, leading the way in. ‘What do you intend to do with that thing, start another war?’

McGuire closed the door and barred it. ‘Only if I have to.’ He looked them over suspiciously. ‘Martin?’ He held out a hand. ‘It’s been a long time. As for you, you old sod,’ he said to Devlin, ‘whatever’s keeping you out of your grave you should bottle it. We’d make a fortune.’ He looked Mary over. ‘And who might you be?’

‘A friend,’ Devlin told him. ‘So let’s get on with it.’

‘All right, this way.’

The interior of the warehouse was totally bare except for a van parked to one side. A steel staircase led to a landing high above with what had once been glass-fronted offices. McGuire went first and turned into the first office on the landing. There was a desk and a bank of television equipment, one screen showing the street, another the entrance. He put the Sterling on the desk.

Devlin said, ‘You live here?’

‘Upstairs. I’ve turned what used to be the storage loft into a flat. Now let’s get on with it, Devlin. What is it you want? You mentioned Sean Dillon.’

‘He’s on the loose again,’ Brosnan said.

‘I thought he must have come to a bad end. I mean, it’s been so long.’ McGuire lit a cigarette. ‘Anyway, what’s it to do with me?’

‘He tried to knock off Martin here in Paris. Killed his girlfriend instead.’

‘Jesus!’ McGuire said.

‘Now he’s on the loose in London and I want him,’ Brosnan told him.

McGuire looked at Mary again. ‘And where does she fit in?’

‘I’m a captain in the British Army,’ she said crisply. ‘Tanner’s the name.’

‘For God’s sake, Devlin, what is this?’ McGuire demanded.

‘It’s all right,’ Devlin told him. ‘She hasn’t come to arrest you although we all know that if Tommy McGuire was still in the land of the living he’d draw about twenty-five years.’

‘You bastard!’ McGuire said.

‘Be sensible,’ Devlin told him. ‘Just answer a few questions and you can go back to being George Kelly again.’

McGuire put a hand up defensively. ‘All right, I get the point. What do you want to know?’

‘Nineteen eighty-one, the London bombing campaign,’ Brosnan said. ‘You were Dillon’s control.’

McGuire glanced at Mary. ‘That’s right.’

‘We know Dillon would have experienced the usual problems as regards weapons and explosives, Mr McGuire,’ Mary said. ‘And I’ve been given to understand he always favours underworld contacts in that sort of situation. Is that so?’

‘Yes, he usually worked in that way,’ McGuire said reluctantly and sat down.

‘Have you any idea who he used in London in nineteen eighty-one?’ Mary persisted.

McGuire looked hunted. ‘How would I know? It could have been anybody.’

Devlin said, ‘You lying bastard, you know something, I can tell you do.’ His right hand came out of the pocket of the reefer holding an old Luger pistol and he touched McGuire between the eyes. ‘Quick now, tell us or I’ll …’