LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

so with an intense white face.

      ‘Curtis Daley, Mr Friar, and this is Jack Mullin. We have to be careful, you understand?’

      ‘Oh, perfectly, old chap.’ Dillon rolled his rain hat and slipped it into his raincoat pocket. ‘May I smoke?’

      Daley tossed a packet of Gallaghers across. ‘Try an Irish cigarette. I’m surprised to find you’re English. Jobert & Company; now, that’s a French arms dealer. That’s why we chose him.’

      Dillon lit a cigarette. ‘The arms business, especially at the level you wish to deal, isn’t exactly thriving in London these days. I’ve been in it for years ever since getting out of the Royal Artillery. I’ve worked as an agent for Monsieur Jobert all over the world.’

      ‘That’s good.’

      ‘Monsieur Jobert told me I’d be meeting your leader, Mr Quinn?’

      ‘Daniel? Why should he expect that? Any special reason?’

      ‘Not really,’ Dillon said hurriedly. ‘I did a tour with the Royal Artillery in Londonderry, nineteen eighty-two. Mr Quinn was quite famous.’

      ‘Notorious, you mean,’ Daley said. ‘Everyone after him. The police, the Army and the bloody IRA.’

      ‘Yes, that does rather sum it up,’ Dillon said.

      ‘Loyal to the Crown, that’s what we Protestants are, Mr Friar,’ Daley said, genuine anger in his voice. ‘And what does it get us? A boot up the arse, interference from America and a British Government that prefers to sell us out to damn Fenians like Gerry Adams.’

      ‘I can appreciate your point of view.’ Dillon managed to sound slightly alarmed.

      ‘That’s why we call our group Sons of Ulster. We stand here or die here, no other route, and the sooner the British Government and the IRA realize that the better. Now, what can Jobert offer?’

      ‘Naturally I’ve put nothing on paper,’ Dillon said, ‘but in view of the kind of money we’re talking about a first consignment could be two hundred AK47s in prime condition, fifty AKMs, a dozen general-purpose machine guns. Brownings. Not new, but in good order.’

      ‘Ammunition?’

      ‘No problem.’

      ‘Anything else?’

      ‘We had a consignment of Stinger missiles delivered to our Marseilles warehouse recently. Jobert says he could manage six, but that, of course, would be extra.’

      Daley sat there frowning, and tapping the desk with his fingers. Finally he said, ‘You’re at the Europa?’

      ‘Where else in Belfast, old chap?’

      ‘Right. I’ll be in touch.’

      ‘Will I be meeting Mr Quinn?’

      ‘I can’t say. I’ll let you know.’ He turned to Mullin. ‘Send him on his way, Jack.’

      Mullin took Dillon back to the entrance and as he opened the Judas gate there was a hollow booming sound in the distance.

      ‘What was that?’ Dillon said nervously.

      ‘Only a bomb, nothing to get alarmed about, my wee man. Did you wet your pants, then?’

      He laughed as Dillon stepped outside, was still laughing as he closed the door. Dillon paused on the corner. The first thing he did was peel away the moustache above his lip, then he removed the rain hat from his pocket, unrolled it and took out a short-barrelled Smith & Wesson revolver which he slipped into his waistband against the small of his back.

      He put the hat on as the rain increased. ‘Amateurs,’ he said softly. ‘What can you do with them?’ and he walked rapidly away.

      At that moment Daley was ringing a Dublin number. A woman answered. ‘Scott’s Hotel.’

      ‘Mr Brown.’

      A moment later Daniel Quinn came on the line. ‘Yes?’

      ‘Curtis here. I’m glad I caught you. I thought you might be on the way to Amsterdam tonight.’

      ‘How did it go?’

      ‘Jobert sent a man called Friar. English. Ex-army officer. He offered to meet all requirements, including some Stingers if you want them.’

      ‘That’s good. What was he like, this Friar?’

      ‘Second-rate English public school type. Black hair and moustache. Frightened to death. Said he thought he was meeting you.’

      ‘Why should he think that?’

      ‘Jobert told him he would. Apparently he did a tour with the Royal Artillery in Londonderry in eighty-two. Said you were quite famous.’

      There was a moment’s pause, then Quinn said, ‘Take him out, Curtis. I smell stinking fish here.’

      ‘But why?’

      ‘Sure, I was in Londonderry in eighty-two, only not as Daniel Quinn. I used the name Frank Kelly.’

      ‘Jesus!’ Daley said.

      ‘Take him out, Curtis, that’s an order. I’ll call you from Beirut.’

      Dillon was staying at the Europa Hotel in Great Victoria Street by the railway station, the most bombed hotel in Belfast if not the world. He was still wearing the rain hat when he entered the suite.

      The woman who sat reading a magazine was thirty years of age, wore a black trouser suit and horn-rimmed glasses. She had short red hair. Her name was Hannah Bernstein and she was a Detective Chief Inspector in the Special Branch at Scotland Yard.

      She jumped up. ‘Everything work out?’

      ‘So far. Have you heard from Ferguson?’

      ‘Not yet. When do you make your move?’

      ‘Daley said he’d get back to me.’ He took off his hat. ‘I need a shower. I want to get rid of this hair dye.’

      She made a face. ‘Yes, it’s just not you, Dillon.’

      He took off his coat and jacket and made for the bathroom. At that moment the phone rang. He raised a hand – ‘Leave it to me,’ – and picked the phone up.

      ‘Barry Friar,’ he said, putting on the public school accent.

      ‘Daley. Mr Quinn will see you tomorrow night at six.’

      ‘Same place?’ Dillon asked.

      ‘No, drive from the Europa to Garth Dock. It’s close to where you were tonight. I know you have a hire car, so use that – and make sure you come alone. You’ll be picked up. Mr Quinn will be there.’

      The phone went dead. Hannah Bernstein said, ‘Now what?’

      ‘Daley. The next meeting is tomorrow evening at six to meet Quinn. I’m to drive there alone.’

      ‘It worked,’ she said. ‘You were right.’

      ‘I usually am.’

      ‘Where’s the meeting?’

      ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I tell you, you’ll tell Ferguson and he’ll have some SAS hit squad on my case. No go, Hannah.’ He smiled. ‘I’ll be all right, girl dear. Go and do your bit with Ferguson and I’ll have a shower.’

      ‘Damn you, Dillon!’ But she knew better than to waste her breath in argument. She left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

      He stripped and went into the bathroom, whistling cheerfully as he turned on the shower, stood under it and watched the black dye run from his hair.

      In most places in the world by the early seventies, terrorism was a growing problem, especially in Britain because of the IRA and in spite of the activities of the Security Services

Скачать книгу