Day of Reckoning (10 page)

'I seem to recall that your younger brother, Fergus, was
one.'
'We don't talk about that.'
'As I said, the Irish Hussar.' Devlin smiled. 'It will do my reputation no end of good being seen in the company of the police. A great comfort to me.'
The Gulfstream climbed steadily out over the Irish Sea, and Hannah called Ferguson on her Codex Four.
'Ah, there you are. How did it go?'
She brought him up to date, Regan included. 'So there
you are, sir. We should have been told. There is supposed
to be interdepartmental cooperation.'
'Not with the Secret Intelligence Service, as long as Simon Carter is Deputy Director. Leave it with me.'
He sat there at his desk, thinking about it, then picked up
the phone and spoke to Dillon, who was in the outer office
with Blake.
'Get in here. I've had the Superintendent on the line and
we could have a problem.'

8

Dillon and Blake listened as Ferguson related Hannah
Bernstein's adventures. When he was finished, Blake said, 'This is surely unacceptable, one major intelligence depart
ment hugging secrets to itself that could be of possible crucial importance to others.'
'Yes, well, Carter's always been good at doing his own
thing, and to hell with anyone else.'
'Seems to me it's time to remind Carter,' Ferguson said,
'that the particular circumstances of my position as head
of the Prime Minister's personal security service give me extraordinary powers. Including over him.'
'That I'd love to see,' Dillon told him.
Ferguson smiled, picked up his phone, and dialled a number.
'Ah, that you, Carter? Look, something's come up and I need
to see you. I want your input on something before I speak
to the Prime Minister ... Yes? Good. I'll see you at the
Grenadier in St James's in thirty minutes.'
'Nothing like being decisive,' Blake said.
'Well, as you Yanks say, you ain't seen nothing yet. Order
the car, Dillon, I'll find a warrant or two, and we'll be on
our way.'
The Grenadier was a pleasant traditional London pub, with
old-fashioned dark oak booths. Carter was already there in
a corner, sipping a glass of sherry. A small, pale-faced man with white hair, he reacted angrily at the sight of Dillon.
'Really, Ferguson, I've told you before. I object to this murderous swine's presence.'
'Well, take it up with the Prime Minister. He employs
him.'
'God save your honour,' Dillon said cheerfully. 'It's a
blessing, the grand man like yourself allows me in the
same room.'
'Oh, go to hell.'
Ferguson said, 'You'll remember Blake Johnson.'
'Yes, the American.' Carter offered a reluctant hand and turned to Ferguson. 'So what is this?'
'An IRA renegade named Brendan Murphy's up to no
good, and I need to know what it is.'
'Nonsense, that's old hat, Ferguson. Murphy isn't a problem
any longer, not since the peace process overwhelmed the land.'
'It's the great liar you are,' Dillon told him, and turned to
Blake. 'This is the Deputy Director of the Security Services,
a faceless man who never worked in the field himself.'
'Damn you, you Irish swine.' Carter was furious.
'Now, that's a racist remark,' Dillon said. 'I could take you
to the tribunal.'
'Exactly,' Ferguson agreed. 'And as my sainted mother was Irish, then as a half-Irishman I take it very personally.'
'I'd say you've just insulted his mother's memory,' Blake
put in.
'Could we get on with it?' Dillon asked. 'You lifted a man named Sean Regan at Heathrow three weeks ago, when his plane to Dublin was diverted because of fog. Why?'
'Don't be stupid, Dillon. He shot a military policeman in Londonderry a couple of years ago and fled. The policeman nearly died.'
'So you're going to stand Regan up on trial at the Old
Bailey?' Ferguson asked.
'We might.'
'But you won't, because of the peace process. We're letting them out of prison now, not banging them up.'
Carter was strangely confused. 'Come on, Ferguson, we're
in the hands of our political masters.'
'Not as far as I'm concerned. We're in the hands of the
law. The truth is, you're holding Regan to squeeze anything
you can out of him in case it may be of future use.'
'So what?'
'Not any more. Where are you holding him?' 'Wandsworth.' Carter answered as a reflex.
'Not any longer.' Ferguson produced a paper from his
inside pocket. 'That's a warrant from me as head of the PM's
security squad, authorizing me to, as quaint legal language
has it, take possession of one Sean Regan.'
Carter was outraged. 'Now, look here, Ferguson.'
'No, you look here. The difference is that I
did
serve in
the field. I was an eighteen-year-old second lieutenant in the Hook in Korea in fifty-two, and I've seen more villains here
than you've had breakfasts. So don't argue. Just countersign
the order. Here's my pen.'
He offered it and Carter took it, hand shaking, and signed
the document. 'My turn will come, Ferguson.'
'I don't think so.' Ferguson blew on the ink. 'Now go
away.'
Carter suddenly looked helpless, got up, and stumbled out. Blake said, 'Why is it I don't feel sorry for him?'
'Because he isn't worth it,' Ferguson said. 'So, gentlemen, Wandsworth Prison next stop.'
Ferguson, Dillon and Blake waited in the interview room
at Wandsworth until the door was opened, and the kind
of prison officer who looked as if he'd been a sergeant in
a Guards regiment pushed Regan in.
Dillon said, 'Good man yourself, Sean.' He turned to the
others. Always gave us a problem, the two of us being
Sean.'
Regan said, 'Jesus, is that you, Dillon?'
'As ever was. Come to take you away from your cell and the stench of the lavatory buckets. This is Brigadier Charles Ferguson, your new boss. The other fella is a Yank, and FBI, so watch it.'
'What in the hell is going on?'
Ferguson turned to the prison officer. 'Give us a moment.' 'Certainly, sir.'
The man went out, and Dillon said, 'Brendan Murphy.
We know you've been part of his outfit.'
Regan was thrown, but tried to brazen it out. 'I haven't
seen Brendan in years.'
'So Carter didn't manage to wheedle anything out of
you?'
'I've said I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Don't waste my time,' Ferguson told him. 'You shot a military policeman in Derry two years ago and fled to the
States. Since then, you've worked for Murphy in Europe.'
'It's a lie.'
Dillon said, 'Don't be stupid. You shot a peeler. All
right, he didn't die, but at the Old Bailey you'll pull ten
years for attempted murder. Imagine Wandsworth or maybe Parkhurst, year after year. You'd be afraid to take a shower.'
'No.' Regan was shaken. 'Mr Carter said if I cooperated
I wouldn't do time.'
'Yes, well, unfortunately, I'm in charge now,' Ferguson
told him. 'Now make your mind up. A comfortable safe
house where you'll fill us in on Brendan Murphy's doings,
or a very unpleasant future.'
Regan, in despair, said, 'Brendan would cut me to pieces. He's a sadist.'
'Which is why we'll have to take good care of you.'
He nodded to Dillon, who knocked on the door, which
opened and the prison officer appeared. Ferguson took his warrant out.
'Take this prisoner to his cell, allow him to collect his belongings, then present this document to the Governor, authorizing his release into my custody.'
'Certainly, Brigadier.'
Regan was pushed out, and Ferguson turned to Dillon and Blake. 'So, we take him to Holland Park, where you, Dillon, will squeeze out the last drop of juice.'
'My pleasure, Brigadier,' Dillon said.
They delivered Regan to Holland Park and drove in through
the electronic gates. The security guards wore neat navy blue blazers and flannel slacks.
'Nursing home? What is this?' Regan asked.
'It's a fortress,' Ferguson told him. 'And the gentlemen
in blazers are all military police. There's no way out of
here, as you'll find for yourself.' He turned to Dillon. 'Let Helen settle him in and feed him. You and Blake stay. I'll
be back.'
His Daimler drove away. They took Regan up the steps
between them, his wrists still manacled. The door opened
and a very large man appeared.
'Mr Dillon, sir.'
'Another one for you, Sergeant Miller, one Sean Regan. He shot a Royal Military Policeman in Derry two years ago.'
'That would be Fred Dalton.' Miller's face was like stone.
'He survived, but had to take a medical discharge. Oh, I'll
take good care of you, Mr Regan.'
He reached for Regan's left shoulder with a hand the size of a meat plate, and Helen Black came down the hall stairs.
'Is this the prisoner, Sergeant Miller?'
Miller got his feet together. 'Yes, ma'am.'
'Good. Room ten, unpack him, then we'll have sandwiches and tea in the parlour.'
'As you say, ma'am.'
Regan turned. 'What is this? Who's she?'
'Sergeant Major Black, and don't be a male chauvinist,
Regan,' Dillon said. 'She shot two Provos in Derry and holds the Military Cross.'
'Fuck you, Dillon.'
'That's bad language in front of a lady. We can't have that, can we, sergeant?' he asked Miller.
'We certainly can't, sir.' Miller squeezed Regan's left arm very hard. 'Up we go, there's a good gentleman.'
Blake said, 'Now what?'
'Oh, they have a canteen, a kitchen. We won't starve.'
Dillon smiled. 'We'll sort Regan out later.'
Upstairs, Regan was astounded. He had a decent bedroom,
a bathroom, a view of the garden, even if it was through
barred windows. He even had a fresh shirt, blazer and slacks, like the guards'. Miller took him downstairs to a small sitting room, a gas fire flickering in the hearth. There was soup, ham sandwiches and a glass of dry white wine. Miller stood by the wall, enigmatic.
Regan, slightly euphoric at the difference from Wandsworth,
said, 'Could I have another glass of wine?'
'Of course, sir.'
Miller poured the glass of Chablis, and behind the mirror Ferguson, Dillon, Hannah – who had just arrived – and Helen Black watched.
Ferguson said, 'You all know the story by now. This is
a bad business, so we make sure he talks. I'd like you to
go in, Sergeant Major, and you, Dillon. Facts, that's what
I need.'
'Certainly, sir.' Helen Black nodded to Sean. 'Good guy,
bad guy, suit you, Sean?'
'Nothing better. Takes me back to my days at the National Theatre.'
'Yes, you
have
told us that one before. Let's do it.' She
led the way out. 'But follow my lead.'
'Shall I leave, ma'am?' Miller asked, as they stepped into
the room.
'No, I might need you, Sergeant.' Her voice was differ
ent and very hard. 'This is a Provisional IRA gunman. He crippled Fred Dalton. Do you think Fred was his first?'
'I doubt it, ma'am,' Miller said coldly.
'Right, but I'd like you to manacle him, Sergeant. Once a killer, always a killer.'
'Certainly, ma'am.'
'Now, look here,' Regan protested.
'Just hold out your wrists and be a good boy.'
Regan was sweating and very, very worried. He'd had
three weeks in Wandsworth, with the lavatory bucket,- the twice-a-week showers, the unwelcome attentions of certain wild-eyed prisoners, and others: basic English criminals who didn't like the IRA. The contrast of his treatment at the safe
house spoke for itself. In a way, he'd thought he was going
to be all right, but now he had this woman who looked like
his elder sister, acting like the Gestapo.
She unbuttoned her jacket, revealing the holstered Colt.
'Now then, let's get started.'
Roper had joined the group on the other side of the mirror. 'She's really very good.'
'Outstanding,' Blake agreed.
'And still won't take a commission,' Ferguson said. 'You can't buy her, sir,' Hannah put in.
'I know,' Ferguson sighed. 'Very depressing.'
And then, Helen Black started to work.
The change was astonishing. This pleasant, decent Englishwoman seemed to take on a new persona.
'I've been fighting people like you for years. The bomb and the bullet, women and kids – you couldn't care less. I
shot dead two of your bastards in Derry. They were parking
a van with fifty pounds of Semtex on board outside a nurses'
hostel. Well, we couldn't have that, could we? I took a bullet
in the left thigh, got the bastard who did it, then sat up and
got his friend in the back as he ran away.'
Regan was terrified. 'For Christ's sake, what kind of woman are you?'
She grabbed his jaw and shook his head painfully from side
to side. 'The Apache Indians used to give their prisoners to
their women to go to work on. I'm
that
kind of woman.'
'Excellent,' Ferguson said. 'She should be at the National Theatre herself.'
'You crippled a comrade of mine. Fred Dalton.' She took
out her Colt and touched him between the eyes. 'These are
hollow-points, you scum. I pull this trigger and your brains
are on the wall.'
'For God's sake, no,' Regan cried.
Dillon caught her wrist and turned the gun. 'No. Sergeant Major, this isn't the way.'