“I got him,” Kelly said. “Clear in my sight, right between the eyes.”
They stowed the rifles in the bag and hurried along the tunnel. “Not Ferguson,” Tod said. “I hit him, that’s a fact, but he moved at the last minute. I think I clipped his shoulder.”
“Never mind, it’s a grand day’s work, that’s the truth of it,” Kelly said. “Come on, let’s get out of here and make for Dunkley and that Navajo. We’ve made our bonus for our Russian friends on this one. Belov will pay us in gold bars.”
They were back at the village in fifteen minutes, put their belongings together and stowed them in the Transit. Tod went to the kiosk by the fuel pumps and found Betty.
He got his wallet out. “I’ve just had a phone call. We’re needed in London, like yesterday.”
“That’s a shame,” she said.
“What do I owe you?”
She told him, and he paid her. “It’s a smashing place, and we’ll be back.”
He jumped in the Transit, got behind the wheel and drove away. Kelly was on a high, produced a bottle of whiskey and swallowed. “Jesus, but we did it.” He got his mobile out. “I’ll ring Fahy, tell him that he and Regan should move it.”
He tapped out the number, and when it connected, said, “It’s Dermot, Brendan.”
“And it’s Dillon here, you bastard, what do you think about that?”
At Roper’s place, after Fahy had drawn the Browning from his pocket, things had not gone as he and Regan had expected. Roper hadn’t seemed to care, had stayed incredibly calm.
“What do I get, summary execution, IRA-style? You gentlemen have tried to shoot me and blow me up many times, and I’m still here. I need a smoke.”
He took the carton of Marlboros from the side pocket of his wheelchair, pulled a pack out and extracted a cigarette. “Anyone got a light?” he asked, as he replaced the pack in the side pocket, only this time when his hand came out, it clutched a Walther, which he jammed against Fahy’s knee and pulled the trigger. Fahy cried out and fell back, dropping his Browning.
At the same moment, Dillon’s voice echoed over the voice box. “Roper, it’s me.”
Regan, confused, stood over Fahy, who was being noisy.
Roper called, “They’re here, Sean, one down, one to get.” He pressed the electronic door button and raised his Walther to Regan, who ducked out into the corridor and ran for the rear of the house.
Dillon burst in, gun in hand, and found Fahy groaning, Roper leaning over him. “There was Regan, Sean, and he cleared off through the kitchen.”
“Call Rosedene,” Dillon said. “Get the paramedics in. I’ll be back.”
He got to the front door and saw Regan hurrying down the pavement. Regan glanced over his shoulder and started to run. Dillon went after him, past the corner shop. Regan kept running headlong, scattering a few people on the pavement, then lurched into the main road as a red London double-decker bus came along and bounced him into the air.
Traffic came to a halt, and people milled around as the driver got out of the bus. A police car turned out of the traffic stream and eased beside the bus. Dillon paused and listened, saw one of the policemen drop to one knee and examine Regan. He shook his head.
“He’s dead.”
The driver was shocked. “It wasn’t my fault.”
More than one person called out, “That’s right. He ran into the road, head down.”
Dillon turned discreetly and walked away.
When he rejoined Roper, he found him holding the Walther on Fahy, who was clutching his trousered knee with both hands, groaning. Dillon went into the kitchen, found a couple of towels, went back, knelt and tied them tightly around Fahy’s knee.
“You always were a stupid bastard, Brendan, so stop moaning and listen. We use a private clinic called Rosedene. They’re on their way, so you won’t bleed to death. However, this isn’t a public hospital. It’s high security, so you belong to Ferguson now. Understand?”
“Yes,” Fahy moaned.
“Play ball and you could stay out of prison. You understand that, too?”
“Yes.”
“So tell me the whole story, and make it quick or I might put one in the other knee.”
And talk Fahy did. It was just as he finished that the mobile in his pocket sounded.
“It’s Dermot, Brendan.”
“And it’s Dillon here, you bastard, what do you think about that? Regan’s dead and Fahy’s in a poor way. He’s spilled his guts, too. I know everything.”
“Like hell you do,” Kelly said wildly. “We got Selim and Ferguson. I bet you don’t know that. It was a good payday, Sean. Go to hell.”
He switched off and said to Tod, “Put your foot down.”
Tod did as he was told. “What’s happened?”
Kelly told him.
Tod said, “What now?”
“We get to Dunkley and move the hell out of here.”
“As long as Smith’s there.”
“He’ll be there,” Kelly said grimly. “He wouldn’t dare not to be.”
“You’d better let Ashimov know.”
“I suppose so. I’d like to leave him to rot in hell, but there’s Belov to consider. He’s got a long arm, that one.”
After a lengthy afternoon at the Ivy, Ashimov and Greta had called in at the Old Red Lion in Farley Street and were sitting in a booth by the fire when his phone sounded. They’d been laughing over a shared joke, and he was still laughing when he put the phone to his ear.
“Ashimov.”
As he listened, the smile vanished and his face was terrible to see. “So that’s it? You’re not even sure about Ferguson? And Fahy’s spilling his guts to Dillon?”
“Jesus, man, we got Selim for you. He was the main priority, and Ferguson’s damaged, I swear.”
“And now you’re running for it?”
“Flying for it, and if you’ve got any sense, you’ll do the same. We’ll see you at Drumore.”
“Oh, you’ll see me at Drumore, all right.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Ashimov. Drumore is my patch. You need me and you need my friends. Since the Peace Process, the Brits haven’t been able to lay a finger on us in the Irish Republic. You’d do well to remember that. You need us!”
He rang off, and Greta demanded, “For God’s sake, what is it?”
He explained. When he was finished, she said, “It could be bad, right?”
“Could be? How the hell do you think Belov’s going to take it? Especially after what Fahy’s no doubt blurted out to Dillon? My career, my association with Belov, are on the line.” He punched a number into his phone. “Archbury? Connect me with Captain Kelso.”
“You’re going?” she said.
“I think it would be the smart thing if we both went.” Kelso’s voice came on. “It’s me,” Ashimov told him. “I’ve got Major Novikova with me. We should be with you in forty-five minutes. Immediate takeoff, destination Ballykelly.”
“What about Belov?” she said. “We’d best get it over with.”
“I suppose so.” He called Belov at the castle on his private mobile and was answered at once.
“Yuri, I’ve been waiting. How are things?”
“Good news and bad news.”
He went over events very briefly. There was a long pause, and Belov switched off without a word.
The rage in Ashimov was obvious. “Ferguson’s people, his whole enterprise, have been nothing but trouble ever since Manhattan, and this Dillon has been a stone in my shoe. It’s all gone down the toilet, the years of kowtowing to Belov, doing his dirty work. He doesn’t make allowances, Greta, it’s how he is.” He rose, took her arm roughly. “Come on, let’s get moving.”
“To the embassy?”
“No way. Straight to Archbury. I’m taking no chances. I’m not even calling in at my place.”