Eye of the storm Page 0,76
the desk. “A right bloody weight. What is it?”
“It’s money, Billy, that’s all that concerns you. Now listen and listen good. That small guy, the one who roughed you up yesterday.”
“What about him?”
“He’s turning up here at seven forty-five to pay me a lot of money for what’s in that box.”
“So?”
“I want you waiting outside from seven-thirty in those nice black leathers of yours with your BMW handy. When he leaves, you follow him, Billy, to bloody Cardiff if necessary.” She patted his face. “And if you lose him, sunshine, don’t bother coming back.”
It was snowing lightly at Heathrow as Dillon came through at Terminal One. Angel was waiting for him and waved excitedly.
“Glasgow,” she said. “What were you doing there?”
“Finding out what Scotsmen wear under their kilts.”
She laughed and hung onto his arm. “Terrible, you are.”
They went out through the snow and joined Fahy in the Morris van. “Good to see you, Sean. Where to?”
“My hotel in Bayswater,” Dillon said. “I want to book out.”
“You’re moving in with us?” Angel asked.
“Yes,” Dillon nodded, “but I’ve a present to pick up for Danny first at an undertaker’s in Whitechapel.”
“And what would that be, Sean?” Fahy demanded.
“Oh, about fifty pounds of Semtex.”
The van swerved and skidded slightly, Fahy fighting to control it. “Holy Mother of God!” he said.
At the undertaker’s, the night porter admitted Dillon at the front entrance.
“Mr. Hilton, is it? Miss Myra’s expecting you, sir.”
“I know where to go.”
Dillon went up the stairs, along the corridor and opened the door of the outer office. Myra was waiting for him. “Come in,” she said.
She was wearing a black trouser suit and smoking a cigarette. She went and sat behind the desk and tapped the carton with one hand. “There it is. Where’s the money?”
Dillon put the briefcase on top of the carton and opened it. He took out fifteen thousand, packet by packet, and dropped it in front of her. That left five thousand dollars in the briefcase, the Walther with the Carswell silencer and the Beretta. He closed the case and smiled.
“Nice to do business with you.”
He placed the briefcase on top of the carton and picked it up and she went to open the door for him.
“What are you going to do with that, blow up the Houses of Parliament?”
“That was Guy Fawkes,” he said and moved along the passage and went downstairs.
The pavement was frosty as he walked along the street and turned the corner to the van. Billy, waiting anxiously in the shadows, manhandled his BMW up the street past the parked cars until he could see Dillon stop at the Morris van. Angel got the back door open and Dillon put the carton inside. She closed it and they went round and got in beside Fahy.
“Is that it, Sean?”
“That’s it, Danny, a fifty-pound box of Semtex with the factory stamp on it all the way from Prague. Now, let’s get out of here, we’ve got a long night ahead of us.”
Fahy drove through a couple of side streets and turned onto the main road, and as he joined the traffic stream, Billy went after him on the BMW.
TWELVE
FOR TECHNICAL REASONS the Lear jet had not been able to get a flight slot out of Aldergrove Airport until five-thirty. It was a quarter-to-seven when Brosnan and Mary landed at Gatwick and a Ministry limousine was waiting. Mary checked on the car phone and found Ferguson at the Cavendish Square flat. He was standing by the fire warming himself when Kim showed them in.
“Beastly weather and a lot more snow on the way, I fear.” He sipped some of his tea. “Well, at least you’re in one piece, my dear, it must have been an enlivening exprience.”
“That’s one way of describing it.”
“You’re absolutely certain it was Dillon?”
“Well, let’s put it this way,” Brosnan said, “if it wasn’t, it was one hell of a coincidence that someone decided to choose that moment to shoot Tommy McGuire. And then there’s the bag lady act. Typical Dillon.”
“Yes, quite remarkable.”
“Admittedly he wasn’t on the London plane, sir, coming back,” Mary said.
“You mean you think he wasn’t on the plane,” Ferguson corrected her. “For all I know the damned man might have passed himself off as the pilot. He seems capable of anything.”
“There is another plane due out to London at eight-thirty, sir. Colonel McLeod said he’d have it thoroughly checked.”
“A waste of time.” Ferguson turned to Brosnan. “I suspect you agree, Martin?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Now, let’s go over the whole thing again.