On Dangerous Ground

‘Oh, yes.’

He turned to Ali. ‘And you? You’re willing to take part?’

‘An honour, Mr Ahern.’

‘And you, Billy?’ Ahern turned to him.

‘They’ll be singing about us for years,’ Quigley said.

‘Good man yourself, Billy.’ Ahern looked at his watch. ‘Seven o’clock. I could do with a bite to eat. How about you, Norah?’

‘Fine,’ she said.

‘Good. I’m taking the Telecom van away now. I shan’t be returning to this place. I’ll pick you two up in the Mall at nine o’clock in the morning. You’ll arrive separately and wait at the park gates across from Marlborough Road. Norah will be behind me in a car. You two will take over and we’ll follow. Any questions?’

Ali Halabi was incredibly excited. ‘I can’t wait.’

‘Good, off you go now. We’ll leave separately.’ The Arab went out and Ahern turned to Quigley and held out his hand. ‘A big one this, eh, Billy?’

‘The biggest, Michael.’

‘Right, Norah and I will go now. Come and open the main gate for us. I’ll leave you to put out the lights and follow on.’

Norah climbed into the passenger seat, but Ahern shook his head. ‘Move into the rear out of sight and pass me one of those orange jackets. We’ve got to look right. If a copper sees you he might get curious.’

It said British Telecom across the back of the jacket. ‘It’ll never catch on,’ she told him.

He laughed and drove out into the street, waving at Quigley who closed the gate behind them. He travelled only a few yards then swung into a yard and switched off the engine.

‘What is it?’ she demanded.

‘You’ll see. Follow me and keep your mouth shut.’

He opened the Judas gate gently and stepped in. Quigley was in the office; they could hear his voice and, when they reached the bottom of the stairs, they could even hear what he was saying.

‘Yes, Brigadier Ferguson. Most urgent.’ There was a pause. ‘Then patch me through, you silly bugger, this is life or death.’

Ahern took a Walther from his pocket and screwed on a silencer as he went up, Norah behind him. The door was open and Quigley sat on the edge of the desk.

‘Brigadier Ferguson?’ he said suddenly. ‘It’s Billy Quigley. You said only to call you when it was big. Well this couldn’t be bigger. Michael Ahern and that bitch Norah Bell and some Iranian named Ali Halabi are going to try to blow up the American President tomorrow.’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, I’m supposed to be in on it. Well, this is the way of it.…’

‘Billy boy,’ Ahern said, ‘that’s really naughty of you.’ As Quigley turned he shot him between the eyes.

Quigley fell back over the desk and Ahern picked up the phone. ‘Are you there, Brigadier? Michael Ahern here. You’ll need a new man.’ He replaced the receiver, turned off the office light and turned to Norah. ‘Let’s go, my love.’

‘You knew he was an informer?’ she said.

‘Oh, yes, I think that’s why they let him out of the Maze prison early. He was serving life, remember. They must have offered him a deal.’

‘The dirty bastard,’ she said. ‘And now he’s screwed everything up.’

‘Not at all,’ Ahern said. ‘You see, Norah, it’s all worked out exactly as I planned.’ He opened the van door and handed her in. ‘We’ll go and get a bite to eat and then I’ll tell you how we’re really going to hit the President.’

In 1972, aware of the growing problem of terrorism, the British prime minister of the day ordered the setting up of a small élite intelligence unit which became known rather bitterly in intelligence circles as the Prime Minister’s private army, as it owed allegiance only to the office.

Brigadier Charles Ferguson had headed the unit since its inception, had served many prime ministers and had no political allegiance whatsoever. His office was on the third floor of the Ministry of Defence, overlooking Horseguards Avenue. He had been working late when Quigley’s call was patched through. He was a rather untidy looking man in a Guards tie and tweed suit and was standing looking out of his window when there was a knock at the door.

The woman who entered was in her late twenties and wore a fawn trouser suit of excellent cut and black horn-rimmed glasses that contrasted with close-cropped red hair. She could have been a top secretary or PA. She was in fact a Detective Chief Inspector of Police from Special Branch at Scotland Yard, borrowed by Ferguson as his assistant after the untimely death in the line of duty of her predecessor. Her name was Hannah Bernstein.

‘Was there something, Brigadier?’

‘You could say so. When you worked with antiterrorism at Scotland Yard did you ever come across a Michael Ahern?’

‘Irish terrorist, Orange Protestant variety. Wasn’t he Red Hand of Ulster?’

‘And Norah Bell?’

‘Oh, yes,’ Hannah Bernstein said. ‘A very bleak prospect, that one.’

‘I had an informer, Billy Quigley, in deep cover. He just phoned me to say that Ahern was masterminding a plot to blow up the American President tomorrow. He’d recruited Quigley. Bell is involved and an Iranian named Ali Halabi.’

‘Excuse me, sir, but I know who Halabi is. He belongs to the Army of God. That’s an extreme fundamentalist group very much opposed to the Israeli-Palestine accord.’

‘Really?’ Ferguson said. ‘That is interesting. Even more interesting is that Quigley was shot dead while filling me in. Ahern actually had the cheek to pick up the phone and speak to me. Told me it was him. Said I’d need a new man.’

‘A cool bastard, sir.’

‘Oh, he’s that all right. Anyway, notify everyone. Scotland Yard antiterrorist unit, MI5 and security at the American Embassy. Obviously the Secret Servicemen guarding the President will have a keen interest.’

‘Right, sir.’

She turned to the door and he said, ‘One more thing. I need Dillon on this.’

She turned. ‘Dillon, sir?’

‘Sean Dillon. Don’t pretend you don’t know who I mean.’

‘The only Sean Dillon I know, sir, was the most feared enforcer the IRA ever had and, if I’m right, he tried to blow up the Prime Minister and the War Cabinet in February nineteen ninety-one during the Gulf War.’

‘And nearly succeeded,’ Ferguson said; ‘but he works for this Department now, Chief Inspector, so get used to it. He only recently completed a most difficult assignment on the Prime Minister’s orders that saved the Royal Family considerable grief. I need Dillon, so find him. Now, on your way.’

Ahern had a studio flat in what had been a warehouse beside the canal in Camden. He parked the Telecom van in the garage then took Norah up in what had been the old freight hoist. The studio was simply furnished, the wooden floor sanded and varnished, a rug here and there, two or three large sofas. The paintings on the wall were very modern.

‘Nice,’ she said, ‘but it doesn’t seem you.’

‘It isn’t. I’m on a six months’ lease.’

He opened the drinks cabinet, found a bottle of Jameson Irish whiskey and poured some into two glasses. He offered her one, then opened a window and stepped out on to a small platform overlooking the canal.