On Dangerous Ground

‘He was to meet him at a place off Wapping High Street, a warehouse called Olivers. Brick Wharf.’

Driscoll fumbled for a handkerchief, sobbing with pain. Dillon slipped the gun inside his flying jacket and got up. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘That didn’t take long.’

‘You’re a bastard, Dillon,’ Hannah Bernstein said as she opened the door.

‘It’s been said before.’ Dillon turned in the doorway. ‘One more thing, Paddy, Michael Ahern killed Billy Quigley earlier tonight. We know that for a fact.’

‘Dear God!’ Driscoll said.

‘That’s right. I’d stay out of it if I were you,’ and Dillon closed the door gently.

‘Shall I call for back-up, sir?’ Hannah Bernstein said as the Daimler eased into Brick Wharf beside the Thames.

Ferguson put his window down and looked out. ‘I shouldn’t think it matters, Chief Inspector. If he was here, he’s long gone. Let’s go and see.’

It was Dillon who led the way in, the Walther ready in his left hand, stepping through the Judas gate, feeling for the switch on the wall, flooding the place with light. At the bottom of the steps he found the office switch and led the way up. Billy Quigley lay on his back on the other side of the desk. Dillon stood to one side, shoving the Walther back inside his flying jacket, and Ferguson and Hannah Bernstein moved forward.

‘Is that him, sir?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid so,’ Ferguson sighed. ‘Take care of it, Chief Inspector.’

She started to call in on her mobile phone and Ferguson turned and went down the stairs followed by Dillon. He went out into the street and stood by a rail overlooking the Thames. As Dillon joined him, Hannah Bernstein appeared. Ferguson said, ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘I can’t believe he didn’t know that Billy was an informer,’ Dillon said.

Ferguson turned to Hannah. ‘Which means?’

‘If Dillon’s right, sir, Ahern is playing some sort of game with us.’

‘But what?’ Ferguson demanded.

‘There are times for waiting, Brigadier, and this is one of them,’ Dillon said. ‘If you want my thoughts on the matter, it’s simple. We’re in Ahern’s hands. There will be a move tomorrow, sooner rather than later. Based on that, I might have some thoughts, but not before.’

Dillon lit a cigarette with his old Zippo, turned and walked back to the Daimler.

It was just before nine the following morning when Ahern drove the Telecom van along the Mall, stopping at the park gates opposite Marlborough Road. Norah followed him in a Toyota saloon. Ali Halabi was standing by the gates dressed in a green anorak and jeans. He hurried forward.

‘No sign of Quigley.’

‘Get in.’ The Arab did as he was told and Ahern passed him one of the orange Telecom jackets. ‘He’s ill. Suffers from chronic asthma and the stress has brought on an attack.’ He shrugged. ‘Not that it matters. All you have to do is drive the van. Norah and I will lead you to your position. Just get out, lift the manhole cover then walk away through the park. Are you still on?’

‘Absolutely,’ Halabi said.

‘Good. Then follow us and everything will be all right.’

Ahern got out. Halabi slid behind the wheel. ‘God is great,’ he said.

‘He certainly is, my old son.’ Ahern turned and walked back to Norah parked at the kerb in the Toyota.

Norah went all the way round, passing Buckingham Palace, turning up Grosvenor Place and back along Constitution Hill by the park. On Ahern’s instructions she pulled in at the kerb opposite the beech tree and paused. Ahern put his arm out of the window and raised a thumb. As they moved away, the Telecom van eased into the kerb. There was a steady flow of traffic. Ahern let her drive about fifty yards then told her to pull in. They could see Halabi get out. He went round to the back of the van and opened the doors. He returned with a clamp, leaned down and prised up the manhole cover.

‘He’s working well, is the boy,’ Ahern said.

He took a small plastic remote-control unit from his pocket and pressed a button. Behind them the van fireballed and two cars passing it, caught in the blast, were blown across the road.

‘That’s what dedication gets for you.’ Ahern tapped Norah on the shoulder. ‘Right, girl dear. Billy told them they’d get an explosion and they’ve got one.’

‘An expensive gesture. With Halabi gone we won’t get the other half of the money.’

‘Two and a half million pounds on deposit in Switzerland, Norah, not a bad pay day, so don’t be greedy. Now let’s get out of here.’

It was late in the afternoon, with Ferguson still at his desk at the Ministry of Defence, when Hannah Bernstein came in.

‘Anything new?’ he asked.

‘Not a thing, sir. Improbable though it sounds, there was enough of Halabi left to identify, his fingerprints anyway. It seems he must have been on the pavement, not in the van.’

‘And the others?’

‘Two cars caught in the blast. Driver of the front one was a woman doctor, killed instantly. The man and woman in the other were going to a sales conference. They’re both in intensive care.’ She put the report on his desk. ‘Quigley was right, but at least Ahern’s shot his bolt.’

‘You think so?’

‘Sir, you’ve seen the President’s schedule. He was due to pass along Constitution Hill at about ten o’clock on the way to Downing Street. Ahern must have known that.’

‘And the explosion?’

‘Premature. That kind of thing happens all the time, you know that, sir. Halabi was just an amateur. I’ve looked at his file in depth. He had an accountancy degree from the London School of Economics.’

‘Yes, it all makes sense – at least to me.’

‘But not to Dillon. Where is he?’

‘Out and about. Nosing around.’

‘He wouldn’t trust his own grandmother, that one.’

‘I suppose that’s why he’s still alive,’ Ferguson told her. ‘Help yourself to coffee, Chief Inspector.’

At the studio flat in Camden Ahern stood in front of the bathroom mirror and rubbed brilliantine into his hair. He combed it back, leaving a centre parting, then carefully glued a dark moustache and fixed it in place. He picked up a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and put them on, then compared himself with the face on the security pass. As he turned, Norah came in the room. She wore a neat black skirt and white blouse. Her hair was drawn back in a tight bun. Like him she wore spectacles, rather large ones with black rims. She looked totally different.’

‘How do I look?’ she said.

‘Bloody marvellous,’ he told her. ‘What about me?’

‘Great, Michael. First class.’

‘Good.’ He led the way out of the bathroom and crossed to a drinks cabinet. He produced a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses. ‘It’s not champagne, Norah Bell, but it’s good Irish whiskey.’ He poured and raised his glass. ‘Our country too.’